by Karen Kirst
Her Inconvenient Husband
When a riding accident strands socialite Caroline Turner overnight with the new stable manager, she gets the one thing she never wanted—a husband! Marrying the infuriatingly stubborn Duncan McKenna wouldn’t have been her first choice, but with her reputation damaged, it’s her only option. Still, there’s something about the brash, rugged Scotsman that fascinates Caroline.
If Duncan wanted to wed a society girl, he would have stayed in Boston with his family and his fortune. He expects Caroline to balk at her new modest lifestyle, but instead the strong-willed beauty seems determined to prove him wrong, making her all the more irksome...and irresistible. The marriage of convenience isn’t what Caroline and Duncan planned, but could they be a perfect match?
“This is your fault,” she spat after getting up from her overturned canoe. “If you hadn’t been spying on me, this wouldn’t have happened.”
“I wasn’t spying on you.” Water lapped at his thighs and seeped into his boots as Duncan stood near her. Even so, his temperature ratcheted up a notch. Would she run to her father with this, too? “Since you neglected to show me this part of the property, I decided to have a look for myself. I didnae ken you were here.”
“We had a deal.” She poked his chest. “This isn’t what I’d call abiding by your word.”
“Do you not know when a man is teasing you? I haven’t the time or the inclination to stand around and watch you sleep.”
Her features pinched and, with a groan of frustration, she pushed past him. She slogged through the muck. Mud clung to the fine peach fabric. By the time he reached the bank, she was already marching through the meadow, boots squelching with each step, outrage obvious in her rigid posture.
A smile lifted the corners of his mouth. He knew it was wrong, but he kind of liked seeing Caroline with her hackles up.
Karen Kirst was born and raised in East Tennessee near the Great Smoky Mountains. She’s a lifelong lover of books, but it wasn’t until after college that she had the grand idea to write one herself. Now she divides her time between being a wife, homeschooling mom and romance writer. Her favorite pastimes are reading, visiting tearooms and watching romantic comedies.
Books by Karen Kirst
Love Inspired Historical
Smoky Mountain Matches
The Reluctant Outlaw
The Bridal Swap
The Gift of Family
“Smoky Mountain Christmas”
His Mountain Miss
The Husband Hunt
Married by Christmas
From Boss to Bridegroom
The Bachelor’s Homecoming
Reclaiming His Past
The Sheriff’s Christmas Twins
Wed by Neccessity
Cowboy Creek
Bride by Arrangement
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KAREN KIRST
Wed by Necessity
Not that I speak in respect of want: for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.
—Philippians 4:11
To my readers. Your letters, emails and messages are a huge source of encouragement. You inspire me to strive to write emotional reads you won’t want to put down. Thank you for supporting my dream job.
Acknowledgments
A huge thank you to Stephanie White for her insight into horse wounds and care and for introducing me to her beautiful horses.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
Dear Reader
Excerpt from The Outlaw’s Secret by Stacy Henrie
Chapter One
Gatlinburg, Tennessee
July 1887
As a holiday, Independence Day left a lot to be desired. Independence was a dream Caroline Turner wasn’t likely to ever attain. Crumpling the note in her hand, she surveyed the crowd of people gathered to watch the fireworks display. Her blackmailer could be here tonight. He could be watching her every move.
The fireworks’ blue-green light flickered over the sea of faces, followed by red, white and gold. She tried to shake the sinister feeling. Stuffing the wrinkled paper into the pocket hidden deep in the folds of her skirt, she schooled her features and made her way along the edge of the field to where the musicians were playing patriotic tunes. She wasn’t about to give her tormentor the satisfaction of knowing he’d rattled her.
“Caroline, we’re running low on lemonade.”
“Then make more,” she snapped at eighteen-year-old Wanda Smith. Surely the volunteers serving refreshments didn’t need her input in every decision.
“We’ve misplaced the lemon crates.”
At the distress in the younger girl’s countenance, Caroline relented. “Fine. I’ll look for them. You may return to your station.”
It took her a quarter of an hour to locate the missing lemons. By then, the last of the fireworks had been shot off and attendees were ready for more food and drink. The celebration was far from over, yet she wished she could return home to her bedroom and solitude. The prospect of having to dole out more money to a stranger made her stomach churn.
She diverted to the drink table and helped serve the press of thirsty folks. The line eventually dwindled, and Caroline drifted over to watch couples dancing to lively music. The summer night air enveloped her, ripe with the scents of fried chicken, honeysuckle and cologne.
A trio of young women approached and engaged her in conversation. As usual, they wanted to know about her outfit, whether she’d had it made by a local seamstress or her mother had had it shipped from New York. Before they’d exhausted their talk of fashion, a stranger inserted himself into their group.
“Excuse me.”
Caroline didn’t recognize the hulking figure. Well over six feet tall, he was as broad and solid as an oak tree and looked as if he hadn’t seen civilization in months. He was dressed in common clothing; his shirt and pants were clean but wrinkled. Dirt caked the heels of his sturdy brown boots. His thick reddish-brown hair was tied back with a strip of leather. If left unbound, it would likely skim the bottom of his collar. While he appeared to have a strong facial structure, his mustache and beard obscured the lower half of his face. His mouth was wide and generous. Sparkling blue eyes assessed her.
“Would you care to dance?” He spoke in a rolling brogue that identified him as a foreigner.
The other girls had fallen silent and were watching him in awed stupor.
“Are you speaking to me, Irishman?” Caroline r
aised her brows.
He flashed a lopsided grin. “I’m no Irishman. I hail from Aberdeen, Scotland. And yes, I’m wantin’ to know if you’d like to dance.”
The way he pronounced his o’s teased her ears. Interest stirred to life, and she considered accepting his invitation. Then reason prevailed. As a member of one of Gatlinburg’s most prominent families, she couldn’t allow her reputation to become tarnished. In the Turner family, missteps were frowned upon.
“I don’t associate with drifters.”
“I take it your answer is no then?”
Regret sharpened her tone. “I believe I made myself clear.”
His gaze turned mocking as he sketched a bow. “Forgive me for intruding upon your time, fair lass.”
“I’ll dance with you,” Vivian Lowe practically purred.
Caroline and the others gaped at her.
“Will ya now? I’m a fortunate man.”
Then, to Caroline’s chagrin, he shucked the large pack from his back and thrust it at her. “Watch this for me, will ya?”
She struggled beneath its unwieldy weight, glaring as he led Vivian in a routine with the form and grace of an accomplished dancer.
“Caroline Grace Turner, what are you doing standing here dillydallying?” Her mother marched to her side. “You’re supposed to be overseeing the stations. Ida has run out of potato salad and the Jackson sisters spilled a gallon jar of tea on Mr. Williams.” Louise’s upper lip curled. “What is that?”
“Nothing, Mother.” Letting the pack thunk to the dry grass, she shot one last disgruntled glance in the direction of the dancers and trailed behind her mother like the dutiful daughter she was supposed to be.
* * *
Duncan McKenna should’ve known better than to ask the cool blonde to dance, but full of relief that his long journey was at an end, he’d given in to a spurt of optimism. He should’ve guessed that the alluring mystery in her navy-hued eyes and the sweet curve of her mouth were too good to be true. He watched her dump his belongings, her haughty features registering distaste, and march off with the silver-haired matron.
Lanterns suspended from stakes throughout the fields emitted soft light. As she passed one, the diamonds draped around her neck and wrists glittered and the silken, pearl-like fabric of her billowing skirts shimmered. The elegant dress displayed her statuesque, pleasing figure to perfection. A shame her attitude didn’t match her outward beauty.
“Was Caroline right? Are you just passing through?”
Duncan switched his attention to the coy brunette in his arms. “Your friend was mistaken. I’m plannin’ on stickin’ around for a bit.”
Her face brightened. “That’s wonderful news. I’m Vivian Lowe, by the way.”
“Duncan McKenna.”
The music came to an end, and she made no effort to hide her disappointment. “I’m free for the next dance.” Her shining hazel eyes implored him to extend their time together.
“If I hadn’t ridden fifteen miles today, I would be honored to be your partner again.” He smiled to soften the blow.
Her gloved hand latching on to his forearm, she leaned closer than good manners dictated. “Let me purchase you a lemonade then. You must be parched after so long a journey.”
“Maybe another time.”
Vivian accepted his excuse with a barely concealed pout. “I look forward to seeing you again, Duncan McKenna.”
Bidding her goodnight, Duncan went to reclaim his belongings. He’d met forward young ladies in almost every town he’d sojourned in and had avoided them like the plague. The woman he desired for a wife and helpmeet wouldn’t be so desperate for male company that she latched onto random strangers.
A young lawman waited beside Duncan’s pack, boots planted wide and arms crossed beneath a glinting silver star, no doubt bent on interrogating him. Caroline’s assessment wasn’t far-fetched. Small towns tended to be suspicious of strangers.
“Good evenin’ to ya.” He held out his hand. “Duncan McKenna’s the name.”
“Ben MacGregor.” With hair more deeply red than his own, and green eyes that seemed inclined to mischief, the man could’ve hailed from the same bonny isle as Duncan. His accent bore an easy Southern cadence, however. “I don’t recall seeing you around these parts before. Family in the area?”
Resettling his pack on his shoulders, he shook his head. “I’m here for work. Albert Turner hired me to care for his horses.”
“You’re the new stable manager? I heard he found someone to replace old George. Welcome to Gatlinburg.” His smile turned rueful. “I see you’ve already met Albert’s daughter.”
Duncan surveyed the milling crowd. “Who? Vivian?”
“Ah, no. Caroline Turner.” Ben jerked his chin in the direction of the refreshment tables. The blonde was there in what appeared to be a supervisory role. The girls enduring her instructions clustered together, their expressions reminiscent of those in the presence of royalty.
The exhaustion he’d been keeping at bay poured through him. His body begged for a dark room and a soft mattress where he could stretch out and sleep without having to listen for wild animals on the prowl or two-legged creatures up to no good. The anticipation over his new employment waned. He would have to cross paths with the snooty socialite on a regular basis.
“Does Mr. Turner have any more daughters I should be aware of?”
Ben tucked his thumbs in his pockets. “No, and we should count ourselves fortunate on that score.” At Duncan’s continued scowl, he chuckled. “Caroline’s not so bad once you get to know her.”
Before leaving Boston and his family behind, he’d known scores of women exactly like her. He had no wish to associate with more.
“Come with me,” Ben said. “I’ll help you locate Albert.”
They wove their way through the throng of youngsters and adults. As they neared the table Caroline was stationed behind, her almond-shaped eyes lit on his and with a disapproving frown, she turned away. Duncan could well imagine her reaction when she learned the news of his employment and hoped he was around to witness it.
* * *
Caroline descended the stairs much later than usual the next morning. Disturbing dreams had troubled her sleep. Lack of rest wasn’t the only reason she’d lingered in bed. Today she would make yet another trip to the bank, enduring the clerk’s censorious stare as she made up another false story about an expensive bauble she wished to purchase. Then she’d ride out to the north side of the property, where she’d leave the demanded amount. She wondered how long this would continue. Eventually she’d run out of money, and then what?
As she neared the dining room, the rich aroma of hot coffee mixed with chicory wrapped around her. Her father had gone to New Orleans last month and purchased multiple tins. Her anticipation vanished the moment she crossed the threshold. The hulking Scotsman from last night’s festivities was seated at her table. A china plate piled high with Cook’s usual breakfast offerings was in front of him.
“You.”
He appeared marginally tamer this morning, with the charcoal-gray shirt molded to the impressive breadth of his shoulders looking clean and pressed. In the light streaming through the windows, his hair had the rich sheen of mahogany. Once again, he’d restrained it with a strip of leather. He looked like a man who spent much of his time apart from society, nothing like the distinguished Charleston businessmen who usually used her home for a mountain retreat.
Shockingly, it was his untamed quality that appealed to her. Caroline’s world was constructed of rigid rules and expectations. Duncan McKenna seemed to live to please himself. A heady prospect. The fact that she’d never partake in such personal freedom stoked her bad mood.
Lifting his head, he did a lazy inspection of her with his cobalt blue gaze.
“Good mornin’, Car
oline.” His voice was deep and thick. The way he pronounced her name, with a slight roll of the r, sounded like music.
She advanced to the table and gripped the top rung of the chair opposite him. “I want you to leave.”
He took a long draw of coffee, then plucked a sausage link from his plate and bit off half. Grinning as he chewed, he said, “’Tisna your house, is it, but your father’s. I’m here on his approval.”
“My father doesn’t make a habit of inviting drifters to share our table. What did you do? Follow me here last night? Did you sleep in the woods and wait for your opportunity?”
His grin faded. “I’m no’ a drifter.”
Her nails dug into the polished wood. Her mother would throttle her if she marred the furniture. Inhaling deeply, she lowered her arms to her sides. She would not allow him to provoke her. Dealing with irritating people and situations was commonplace.
“Who are you then?”
Determined footsteps echoed in the hall and her father entered, newspaper rolled and tucked beneath his arm. His salt-and-pepper hair was combed off his high forehead. Dressed in a severe black suit, a gold tack pinned into his red tie, he’d long ago perfected the image of a successful businessman.
Caroline used to be in awe of him, of his accomplishments and the respect he had commanded in their former home of Charleston, the state of South Carolina and beyond. Now, whenever she was in the same room with him, she questioned if his character was as sterling as she’d thought. Was his success based on honest practices? Or was he, like other kings of industry she’d read about, pursuing wealth at the expense of integrity? The documents the blackmailer had provided as an impetus to meet his demands were upstairs in her room. Copies, of course, in case she was tempted to destroy the evidence. But were they copies of authentic documents or were they falsified?
Albert spared her a brief glance. “Ah, Caroline, I see you’ve met Duncan. He’s taking George’s place.” Striding over to the silver urn, he dispensed coffee into his cup and stirred in a generous portion of cream. “How did you fare last night, Duncan? Does the cabin suit you?”
