Gerrity'S Bride

by Carolyn Davidson

  “I’m surely surprised to hear that,” he said slowly. “But I can’t think of any way offhand that you can squeeze out of a wedding, Miss Emmaline.”

  “No loopholes?” she asked hopefully, as if she must pursue any chance of success.

  “Well, let me tell you this,” he said brightly as a thought occurred to him. “The circuit judge came into town last evening. He knew your pa and he knew about the will. Old Samuel talked it over with him a year or so back. It may be that he’d know something that I don’t about the law in a case like this.” He gestured toward the hotel across the dusty expanse of the road that ran through the middle of town. “He may still be over there, in the dining room.”

  Emmaline took a deep breath, snatching at this final straw. “Thank you, Mr. Hooper. I’ll just take a chance on catching him.”

  She looped the reins of her horse over the rail provided in front of the office building and hurried across the road, waiting impatiently for several riders to pass midway across.

  In a moment she was stepping up onto the wooden porch of the hotel, where early-morning loafers were assembled. Nodding, she passed them as she made her way inside. The open doorway of the dining room beckoned across the lobby, and she moved quickly in that direction.

  “Do you want a table for breakfast?” a young woman asked her from just beyond the archway. Garbed in a prim uniform of black, with a heavily starched white apron pinned to her bosom, the girl watched her with sharp interest.

  “No, thank you.” Emmaline glanced about the almost empty room quickly, wondering as she did just what a circuit judge would look like. Surely not that rotund gentleman with a bowler hat plopped next to his plate. Or either of the two dusty, denim-clad men who were shoveling biscuits and gravy down their throats with indecent haste.

  She turned from the distasteful sight and centered her attention on the young hostess. “Has the judge had his breakfast yet?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. He’s long gone over to Katy Klein’s place.” The girl flushed. “I mean to say, the Golden Garter, ma’am. There’s gonna be court this morning. Those two over there—” she nodded her head in the direction of the busily eating cowhands “—they’re witnesses to a shoot-out. Probably be a big crowd there for the hearing.”

  Only two words had stuck in Emmaline’s mind. “Golden Garter?”

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s the biggest building in town. Till the courthouse gets built, that’s where they hold circuit hearings.” She nodded for emphasis, her curls bobbing about her face.

  “Yes...well, thank you,” Emmaline said distractedly, turning about to cross the wide lobby once more. “Holding court in a saloon,” she muttered beneath her breath. “I’ve never heard such a thing!”

  Once more on the porch, she looked up and down the street, her eyes drawn to the brightly painted signs that designated the two favorite haunts of the local menfolk. The Silver Bullet was at one end of the main street, the Golden Garter at the other. Over each establishment hung a colorful depiction of those more-than-colorful titles.

  It was to the latter building that she headed, her eyes drawn by the glittering golden garter painted in minute detail on a wooden sign over the doors. Her booted feet kicked up small puffs of dust as she hurried to her destination, and her hair caught fire in the bright sunshine.

  The doors were painted a bright red and hung just high enough that she could not see over them into the dim recesses of the saloon. If she bent just about double, she could look beneath them, but the indignity of that position erased the thought almost immediately from her mind.

  Instead, she pushed with one palm against the center of the two doors, and they obligingly swung back as she shouldered her way between them. It was rather dark, she realized, only the shuttered light from the door and the two windows in front of the building spreading dim rays of sunshine across the cluttered room.

  Tables and chairs were scattered about, the legs of the chairs poking into the air from atop the tables, while a young man energetically swept the floor. Motes of dust flew in profusion in the wake of his endeavors, and Emmaline squinted as she sought to locate the man who would make this barroom into a courtroom sometime today.

  “Miss?” From behind the long, polished bar at one side of the room, a white-shirted man caught her attention. “Can I do something for you?” he asked gruffly as she turned to face him.

  Emmaline approached slowly, uncertain now as to whether or not she should have ventured into this establishment. Grandmother would have a hissy fit if she could see me, she thought with trepidation. Although surely it was safe enough at this hour of the day, she decided stoutly. Later, the menfolk who patronized this place would make it hazardous for a decent woman to enter the door, she was certain.

  The thought of the judge who might be able to answer her questions firmed her steps, and she stood before the bar with resolution in her gaze.

  “Is the circuit judge here?” she asked quietly.

  The barkeep nodded to a corner table just beyond the path of light that was shed through the doorway. “Over there, ma’am,” he directed her. “Judge Whitley’s his name.” His smile brightened suddenly. “Say, aren’t you old Sam Carruthers’s girl, from back east?” He leaned forward, his broad face easing into a friendly smile.

  She nodded in answer, her eyes intent on the shadowy corner, where a lone man sat at a square table.

  “Heard tell you were in town. ‘Course, I could tell by the red curls anyway, ma’am. You sure have the look of yer pa about you,” he continued as she turned her back and made her way across the room.

  “They’re not red, just bright auburn,” she whispered, and her hands clenched, her nails biting into her palms as she skirted the table in her path.

  The man was dressed in black, with a glistening white shirt that buttoned up to the collar, and was bedecked with a black string tie. His hat was wide and cocked low over his brow, so that his eyes were shadowed beneath the brim. He was big, she could see that much. Even sitting down, he was a giant of a man, and she stopped before the table where he sat, unsure now, as his gimlet eyes took her measure.

  “Judge Whitley?” She was proud of the firm tone she was able to produce.

  He nodded once.

  “I need to talk to you,” she said, unsure of her welcome, but determined to accomplish her task.

  “Talk away, young lady,” he growled from the other side of the table, where one hand clutched a full glass of some sort of liquid.

  Surely he wasn’t partaking of hard liquor so early in the day, she thought distractedly. Yet, even as she considered him, that big, fleshy hand lifted the glass to his mouth and he tipped his head back as he drained it of its contents.

  “Be quick about it, girl,” he said harshly. “I’m holding court in a few minutes.”

  “I’m Emmaline Carruthers,” she said carefully, wondering how to begin her quest.

  “I figured that already, what with that headful of red hair, and that Carruthers look you’re wearing,” he said gruffly. He leaned forward a bit, and his gaze was searching.

  Emmaline stiffened. “I beg your pardon? What is the ‘Carruthers look’ if I may ask?”

  “You’re a lot better-lookin’ than your daddy, but you’ve got that same determined chin he had.” The judge’s eyes narrowed and his lips pursed as he surveyed her. “I suppose you’re wondering about the will he wrote, aren’t you?”

  Emmaline nodded vigorously. “Yes, I am. I want to know if there’s any way it can be broken. I want my sister, but I don’t know if I want to get married right now. I’d like to maybe wait awhile.”

  This is all Gerrity’s fault, she decided with an irritated toss of her head. If he weren’t so pushy, so bossy, so... She couldn’t come up with a word that described him best. That masculine, hard-edged attitude that irritated her so. The aggravating way he’d maneuvered her last night that had spurred her into this morning’s mission.

  And yet there was the softer side of the
man. The side that appealed to her, that had caused her to be acquiescent to his bid for marriage. Not to mention the power he held over her when he touched her and held her and—

  She shook her head distractedly. Her mind was made up. If this wedding could be postponed without her losing the chance to have her sister with her, she’d surely be better off.

  The night spent with the memory of him had convinced her. He would capture her heart if she let him. He’d hold her in the palm of his big, callused hand, like so much booty acquired from the reading of the will, if she allowed it. Already she was halfway in his thrall, and he’d accomplished it with a few kisses and a little sweet talk.

  “Not any way to circumvent that will, Miss Carruthers. Your daddy sewed it up tight as an old maid’s pucker.” Judge Whitley made the pronouncement and leaned forward, his hands folded on the table before him.

  Behind her, the doors flapped open again, and she realized that it was not for the first time. Gradually the room had been infiltrated by several men, who stood about as if fascinated by her presence here. Now heavy-booted footsteps approached, and the flesh on the back of her neck shivered as a chill of foreboding passed over her body.

  Before she heard his voice, she knew who it was at her back. Before she felt his hands on her waist, she knew whose touch would burn through the layers of cotton and leather to sear the flesh of her body.

  “You’ve met my bride, Judge,” Matt said gently as he gripped her and held her immobile. He spoke over her head to the magistrate, and was met with a look of devilish delight.

  “This young lady is less than eager to marry you, young man,” Judge Whitley intoned.

  Matt’s mouth twisted in a wry grin. “She’s hard to persuade,” he allowed as his hands tightened imperceptibly against her.

  “Let go of me,” she whispered through unmoving lips.

  “Not a chance.” His voice was a murmur in her ear, his mouth brushing against her vibrant hair.

  “Now, let’s just settle this thing, once and for all, and then I’ll get on with my business,” the judge announced, rising to his feet and towering over the table.

  Emmaline swallowed. He was even bigger, taller and wider, than she’d thought. More than formidable, he filled her vision, and she found herself sheltering against the firm body of the man who stood behind her.

  “Matthew Gerrity, do you understand that you must marry this woman in order to gain custody of your sister and ownership of the Carrutherses’ holdings? Are you agreeable to that?”

  His words carried over the whole room, vibrating in Emmaline’s ears even as she heard the answer that came firmly from Matt.

  “Yes, I do.”

  Emmaline heard his voice resound in her ear. It was a confirmation of the desires of her father, and Matt was more than agreeable. She was fully aware of that.

  “And you, Emmaline Carruthers,” the judge continued. “Are you aware that in order to inherit from your father and hold custody of your sister, you must marry this man and live with him and bear his child? Do you understand that?”

  Emmaline was silent. Of course she understood the terms of the will, and so did half the population of this town, thanks to the judge’s booming voice. She sighed. So much for privacy. And if this man was certain there was no way out of it, she’d have to abide by those terms. A sense of relief swam through her as she realized the whole thing was out of her hands. The choice was made.

  “Miss Emmaline?” The judge was prodding her for an answer.

  What had he asked her? Did she understand the terms of the will? Would she marry Matthew?

  “Yes, of course,” she said succinctly, aware of the firm grip of strong hands about her waist, the heated length of Matt’s body against her back. Then she felt the whoosh of air that escaped his lungs, even as the judge thumped once on the table with his fist.

  “Well then, according to the laws of the territory of Arizona, and by your own agreement, I pronounce you man and wife. Kiss your bride, Matt.”

  A buzzing not unlike that of a hundred bumblebees clouded her hearing and a haze surrounded her, threatening her vision. Her feet stumbled against the wooden floor as she was turned within his grasp. Then Matt’s hand was beneath her chin, tipping her head up. As if from afar, she saw his mouth widen in a grin and his eyes narrow with tiny creases at the corners. But it wasn’t until his head bent, his lips lowering to rest against hers, that she allowed the darkness to overtake her, and she collapsed in his arms with a tiny muffled moan of protest.

  * * *

  He’d lifted her and carried her out of the saloon, whistles and whoops of laughter following in their wake. Faintly she remembered the shouts of encouragement from the onlookers who’d witnessed her defeat at the hands of this man, and she squeezed her eyes shut at the memory.

  She felt one strong arm about her back, the other beneath her knees, and she sensed the security of his embrace as he held her tightly to his chest. The sunlight burned against her closed eyelids, and she caught the scent of horses and dust and the man who held her.

  “Might’s well open those eyes, Emmaline. I know you’re awake,” he said teasingly as he strode with her toward the hotel.

  She opened them just enough to peer at him through her lashes, and her teeth gritted at the look of triumph lighting his features.

  “I was just faking,” she announced with brittle precision. “I’ve never fainted in my life.”

  “Well then, you did a pretty good imitation of it back there,” he said, laughing at her pouting belligerence.

  Reaching the porch of the hotel, he allowed her to slide to her feet and held her with careful hands until she caught her balance.

  “Are you all right now?” He kept his grip firm, plainly unwilling to let her go until he was sure she was steady.

  She twitched away from him, lifting her head and biting at her lip as she looked about her. Across the street and down a ways, in front of the saloon they’d just left, was a scattering of men, all intent on watching the entertainment of the morning. Several ladies were in front of the dry goods store, next door to the hotel, busily taking note of Emmaline’s dishevelment. She smoothed her shirtwaist and brushed with little success at her hair. More than one admiring glance was aimed at the man beside her, and she glared her disapproval at the boldness of the daring females. Foolish women were all over him every time he showed his face. No wonder he was so confounded cocky.

  And to top it all, they were giving her the once-over, too, as if she were on display for everyone’s amusement—and all of it was Matthew’s fault.

  “I hope you’re satisfied, Gerrity,” she spouted with fervent anger. “You’ve managed to make me the laughingstock of the whole town.”

  He looked about with interest, and tipped his hat to the ladies who watched. “Not quite the whole town, Emmie,” he said with good humor.

  “Maybe not, but it’ll be all over town before the day’s through.”

  He grasped her elbow and guided her toward the doorway of the hotel and ushered her within.

  “You didn’t have breakfast, my dear wife,” he said briskly. “That’s probably why you passed out back there.”

  “I just lost my breath for a minute,” she argued, unwilling to concede him the battle.

  “Well, before we go any farther, you’re going to eat something.” He grasped her elbow, aiming for the doorway of the dining room, where the same white-aproned girl stood guard.

  The growl that rumbled beneath her pleated shirtwaist was in full agreement with him, and Emmaline nodded. “I could use a piece of bread and butter, I suppose,” she said grudgingly.

  “You’ll eat breakfast, and then we’ll decide where to go from there,” he told her as they were shown to a table near the front window. He held her chair for her to be seated, then bent low to whisper in her ear.

  “I’ll be back in just a minute. You can order, if you like. Just coffee for me, though.” He turned and made his way quickly through the tables
to the doorway, and Emmaline watched him go, caught up in the sheer bewilderment of the day.

  * * *

  The hotel room was large, the best in the house, the desk clerk had assured them.

  The bed was large, at least, Emmaline decided as she finally allowed her gaze to fasten on that enormous piece of furniture. She’d ignored it studiously since Matt had guided her into this room, still sputtering from her outrage at his insistence that they spend their wedding day and night here.

  Rather than make a fuss in the lobby, in full view of the clerk and the assorted guests who had been amused by the sotto voce arguing, she had clamped her lips together until they should achieve some degree of privacy.

  Unwilling to look at him, sure his face would reflect the triumph of his victory, she glanced instead about the room. It was heavy with crimson velvet and gold braid, lavishly draping every window and hanging in rich folds from the canopy over the bed. The walls were covered with a flocked wallpaper of flowers of some sort and, as if that were not enough, had been garnished with ornately framed pictures. She pretended interest in the landscapes and walked about from one to the other, aware all the time of the man who watched her from near the door.

  “You might as well look at me and have your say, Emmaline,” he said finally. “We’re going to stay right here in this room till we make peace of some sort between us.”

  “I didn’t know I was allowed to say anything. Seems to me you’ve had it all your own way up to this point.”

  “It was your choice to go to the saloon,” he reminded her. “I was intending to speak my vows in front of the preacher.”

  She spun to face him. “That judge tricked me, and you know it.”

  His face softened and his smile faded. “I know it, Emmaline. Believe me, that wasn’t what I had planned. But you never can count on old Judge Whitley to do what you expect. I reckon he just thought to get the deed done and send us on our way. He was a good friend of your pa’s, you know. Maybe he just wanted to perform the ceremony himself, sorta for old times’ sake.”