Gerrity'S Bride

by Carolyn Davidson

  “Ceremony?” she asked unbelievingly. “You call that a ceremony? It was a farce.”

  “It was legal. You’re my wife, Emmaline Gerrity,” he told her stubbornly.

  “I don’t feel legal,” she admitted glumly.

  “Would you feel better if the preacher said the words?” He took three steps toward her and raised one hand, palm up, as if he were begging for alms.

  Her eyes fastened on that callused hand, and she recognized the significance of his gesture. He was asking her compliance. He was willing to find the preacher and make it easier for her to accept.

  Once more he’d surprised her with a degree of understanding she’d not credited him with. Lifting her hand, she offered it to him, allowing him to draw her to his side.

  “Let’s go do it again, Mrs. Gerrity,” he said in a whispering, rasping invitation that brought a wistful smile to her lips.

  “I don’t have a wedding dress,” she said ruefully.

  “No, but you’re getting married in something borrowed and old, and you’ve got a blue ribbon tied in your hair back here.” His fingers circled the nape of her neck and rubbed with gentle comfort. Then, turning, his hand brushed in a lingering caress over the hair hanging down her back, and his fingers tangled in the curls that clung tenaciously to his rough skin.

  “But nothing new.” Her lips trembled as she looked up at him.

  “Maybe that can be arranged,” he told her, allowing the bright ringlets to slide free from his touch. His gaze held hers for a moment, and then he bent to drop warm kisses across her forehead, closing his eyes to better savor the silken texture of her skin. It would be so easy to claim her now, he thought. To melt the last shreds of resistance she was clutching so fiercely.

  “Arranged how?” she asked, her voice slurred with the warmth of passion that had begun to stir within her. The old restraints drilled into her by a vigilant Delilah over the past years had begun to fall away during the past days. Until the mere touch of his hands against her laid siege to her barriers, and she was vulnerable in strange new ways to this man who held her future in his keeping.

  “Secrets,” he murmured against her temple. “Let’s just call it a surprise. We’ll hold things up here for another hour or so, all right?” Hopefully his earlier trip from the dining room would bring about the desired results. “Are you sure you won’t mind the wait?”

  Mind? With his arms about her and his lips warm against her face, she was tempted to agree to almost anything. Just being here was surprise aplenty, she thought with dark humor. Certainly nothing more could shock her on this day of strange happenings. She shook her head slowly.

  “No...I don’t mind waiting,” she answered, wondering at his grin as he stepped back from her, releasing her reluctantly.

  “I’m expecting a package to be delivered pretty soon now. Why don’t I order you a nice bath brought up and give you a chance to fix your hair, and when the package comes, I’ll bring it up to you?”

  * * *

  The bath had been warm, comforting, and of necessity cramped, given the short length of the tub he’d had delivered to their door. She stood in front of the oval mirror that hung over the washstand and inspected herself in the wavy glass. Her skin gleamed, shining from the scented soap he’d managed to find for her. Her mouth curved as she remembered.

  “Thought you’d like this,” he’d said diffidently, holding out the wrapped bar as the hot water was carried past them, behind the tall screen, where the tub awaited.

  “Thank you,” she’d said simply, accepting his offering, aware that it was somehow a turning point, this giving and receiving of a simple bar of soap. He’d done it for her pleasure and comfort, and she acknowledged it with a tremulous smile.

  Still wrapped in the length of white toweling, she brushed at her hair, twisting it and looping it in various ways, aware that her final choice must be simple. She had only a few hairpins in her possession, and a short length of blue ribbon.

  A quick rapping at the door caught her attention, and the turning of the key scraping in the lock assured her of the identity of her visitor.

  “Matt?” she called hopefully from her hiding place behind the screen.

  “Yeah, it’s me.” He closed the door behind himself and looked about the empty room. “Where are you, Emmaline? Still in the tub?”

  “No, I’m trying to fix my hair,” she answered, watching the expanse of wall visible from where she stood.

  “I brought you something,” he said from across the room. “Want to see it?”

  “I’m not dressed,” she answered primly, blushing as she spoke the words.

  “Wrap up in something and come on out,” he told her. “I want to show you this. I just had it brought in from the ranch.”

  She peeked around the corner at him and caught him unawares. One hand was running through his dark hair, the other was weighted down by the large package he carried. The same package he’d brought home last night.

  Her eyes were curious as they fastened on the bundle. “What is it?” she asked cautiously.

  “Come take a look.” He coaxed her softly, his eyes lured by a bare shoulder that edged beyond the screen.

  She clutched the towel well above her breasts and, with the other hand, held it in place at her waist. From there it draped her slender form to well below her knees. Still, she hesitated, looking down at herself doubtfully. She was quite presentable, she decided, bearing in mind that she was legally married to the man who waited across the room.

  But by the time she’d taken three steps, she no longer felt the least bit presentable. His burning gaze had glittered over every inch of bare skin exposed. Over rounded shoulders and naked, slender arms. Past discreetly covered inches of her body, to where her curved calves and slim feet were uncovered and open to his scrutiny.

  He’d seen her bare feet before, had admired the high arches and straight toes that were even now curled into the carpet covering the floor. But the satin-smoothness of her shoulders held him enthralled, and his fingers itched to touch the skin glowing from her bath. Aware of her innocence, he forbade his lustful fingers the delights they yearned to sample. Certain of her unworldliness, he sought to temper his own needs in order to gently persuade her closer.

  “Come see what I have for you,” he said with casual ease, turning to place the bundle on the bed. Bending, he pulled his knife from his boot and, with a quick motion, cut the string holding the paper wrapped about his gift. With deft movements, he unwrapped the things he had purchased the day before. Was it only yesterday that he’d chosen the dress?

  He held it up and watched her intently. She stepped closer, forgetting her unease for a moment as she reached to touch the fine cotton fabric he held for her inspection. The flowers were blue against a field of white, with green leaves and stems traced delicately between them.

  “It’s lovely,” she said finally, her eyes misting with tears. She drew in a shuddering breath and relaxed her grip on the towel at her waist, allowing it to hang loosely about her. Matt draped the dress over her arm and she received his gift with a murmur of thanks.

  “You chose it?”

  Matt nodded and cleared his throat as he stepped back, away from her, tempted almost beyond the edge of his endurance. She was a vision, wrapped in a simple length of toweling, her hair in total disarray about her face and spilling across her shoulders. Her eyes were shiny, her mouth was soft and smiling, and she was the most alluring female he’d ever laid eyes on.

  On top of that, she was his wife, and unless he turned and walked out of the room right this minute, he would be likely to mess up his whole wedding day. His hands trembled with the urge to touch her, and he shoved them into his pockets before he gave in to the temptation that beguiled him. Before he carried her to the wide bed that beckoned, and took her like a stallion in the breeding barn.

  Before he took her without giving the preacher a chance to speak the words that would satisfy her woman’s heart.

  Ch
apter Nine

  The knot was well tied. And try as she might, Emmaline could not fathom how such a day had come to be.

  We’ve managed to get ourselves married, well and good, she thought mournfully. Not only that, but we’re about to spend our wedding night right here in Forbes Junction.

  She shot a furtive glance at the man who sat across the table from her, calmly cutting an enormous beefsteak into pieces. He looked up unexpectedly, grinned with humor and proceeded to lustfully make short work of the meal on his plate.

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” she asked accusingly.

  “Ummm...you bet.” He swallowed, wiping his mouth with a gleaming white napkin.

  “I don’t mean the meal, I mean the whole day. I mean staying here—” she gestured toward the lobby, visible through the wide archway “—where everyone in town knows that we just got married.”

  He looked up at her, chewing another bite of steak, and his eyes lit with delight. “Twice,” he said succinctly, and reached for a thick slice of bread. “I’d bet my bottom dollar that we’re about as well married as any two ever were.” His fork speared another piece of meat and delivered it to his mouth. “Twice,” he repeated with unrepentant glee.

  “The preacher was expecting us,” she reminded him primly. “It was only right to be married by a man of the cloth.”

  “Whatever you say, Emmaline.”

  She squirmed in her chair, lifted a bite of baked potato on her fork, then dropped it back on her plate. “Anyway, you know what I mean. They all know that when we go upstairs, it will be our wedding night.” Her cheeks were flushed with a pink stain that had hardly left her all day, and now it deepened, until her throat, too, was painted a delightful shade of color.

  Matt watched her blush, saw the shimmer of tears glistening from her wide-set eyes, and wanted nothing more than to hustle her up those stairs and begin the wedding night she was referring to.

  “Emmaline, my dear,” he said in a low voice, leaning over the table, “there isn’t a married couple in this town who haven’t shared a wedding night.”

  At the look of dismay on her face, he decided his words were small comfort.

  “That’s what I mean,” she whispered, wiping at her hands with the napkin she held. “They’ll all know!”

  Matt picked up his cup and sipped at the coffee that had grown cool while he enjoyed his steak. He pointed one long finger at her plate, and she looked automatically to where he directed her attention.

  “What? What’s wrong?” she asked, peering at the perfect specimen of beef she’d been served and managed only to cut up into small pieces. It lay next to the baked potato she’d cut in half and carefully forked about in distraction. The carrots were barely disturbed, and her slice of bread, though torn asunder, waited patiently for her to take the first bite.

  “You need to eat, Emmaline,” he said quietly. “You haven’t touched your supper and, to my knowledge, you didn’t eat any noon meal. The only thing that’s passed your lips today, besides a lot of argument, was the bread and butter you managed to call breakfast.”

  “That was well past breakfasttime,” she said politely. “And besides, I’m not hungry.” Placing her fork down, she folded her hands in her lap.

  “Well, don’t come crying to me at midnight, complaining your stomach’s growling,” he admonished her, scraping the last of his potato onto his fork.

  “I don’t plan on complaining to you about anything,” she vowed in a tight little voice, casting another glance about the dining room.

  “No one is looking at you, Emmaline.” He struggled to be patient. “No one is going to pay any attention to us at all.”

  “Oh, no? Deborah Hopkins just came in the door with a man. And she’s headed this way.”

  “Try to look happy,” he ordered her quickly, as he reached across the table to filch a piece of her steak.

  Obediently she managed a cool, polite smile and lifted her fork once more, spearing a bit of carrot.

  “Well, so this is the bride,” Clyde Hopkins announced heartily, stopping just inches from the table.

  “Hullo, Clyde,” Matt said jovially, rising in deference to Deborah. “You’re right. This is Emmaline, my wife. My brand-new bride.”

  His voice registered the proper degree of pride, Emmaline decided as she added her own discreet greeting. Her smile widened until she was sure every tooth in her mouth was on display, then she managed to blush even deeper at Clyde’s all-encompassing survey of her.

  “Yessir, she’s quite a little charmer, I’d say. Wouldn’t you, Deborah? Managed to haul you off to the altar, did he, Mrs. Gerrity?”

  Emmaline looked about distractedly, aware they were now definitely the center of attention. Almost every eye in the dining room was directed at them, and she wondered desperately if she could just rise and leave with some semblance of dignity.

  “The altar?” she asked, fumbling for a reply.

  Clyde grinned deviously. “Well, I understand you had to settle for a tabletop in the saloon, but then, a wedding’s a wedding, I always say.”

  “I’ve always said that Matt was full of surprises,” Deborah put in mildly. “I’m sure his decision to marry his bride in the Golden Garter was just one of the many he has in store for her.”

  She smiled benignly at Emmaline, then smoothed down her already perfectly coiffed hair. Just in case everyone in the room hadn’t already tuned in on the conversation, she leaned closer to Emmaline. Guaranteed to carry to the farthest corner, her words warbled sweetly: “Maybe he’ll take you to the Silver Bullet for a honeymoon.”

  “That’s enough, Deborah,” Matt growled. His teeth were clenched, his eyes were narrowed and dark, and he clamped his hand over her fingers, which waved dangerously close to Emmaline’s face. “You’ve just insulted my bride, and if you were a man, I’d drag you out in the street and shoot you down.”

  Deborah’s face whitened at his words—not to mention the pain his clenched fist was delivering to her fingers. As if the touch of her flesh were repugnant to him, he dropped her hand and sat down once more, his eyes fastened on Clyde Hopkins this time.

  “Take your daughter and get out of here,” Matt said quietly. Determinedly, he reached across to where Emmaline sat and scooped up her plate in one hand. Holding it inches above the table, he nodded to the door.

  “Leave now, or Deborah will be setting a new style when this food decorates the front of her frock.”

  Eyes gleaming with pure hatred seared Emmaline as Clyde glanced once in her direction. Then, with as much dignity as he had available, he led his daughter from the quiet dining room.

  “Please, let’s leave,” Emmaline pleaded beneath her breath.

  “We’ll go in a minute,” Matt assured her. “Just drink some water, Emmie. Take a bite of your bread or something. I’m not letting them chase you out of here.”

  “They won’t be chasing me. I was ready to run for it before they ever got here,” she admitted with grudging humor.

  His eyes were tender as he assimilated her confession. “You don’t have to run from me, sweetheart,” he said softly. Leaning closer, his elbows rested against the pristine tablecloth. “And if you do, I’ll be right behind you.”

  It’s going to take some doing to get her in a wedding-night mood, he thought, aware of the skittish condition of her emotions. It had been bad enough before Clyde got here, and now he had to start all over again.

  “Please?” The whispered plea announced her intention to depart, and Matt nodded agreeably.

  “Sure, let’s go.”

  With his hand pressed firmly against her waist, he guided her from the dining room, relieved that the others present tended to their own business. Once they were in the lobby, he steered her to the wide stairway that led to the upper story, where their room awaited them.

  Her feet dragged against the carpeted stairs, her palm was damp with moisture against the curved walnut banister, and her heart thumped unmercifully against he
r breastbone. Emmaline was in the midst of being seized by pure, unadulterated panic by the time Matt unlocked the door of room 209 and ushered her within.

  “I don’t have a nightgown,” she blurted out as the bed loomed into view. Turning on her heel, she faced him, her eyes wide with hope. “We’ll have to go home, out to the ranch, Matt. I can’t go to bed without a gown.”

  The temptation to smile was almost more than he could resist. But resist it he did. That he make Emmaline any more upset than she was at this moment was not to be considered.

  “That’s all right, honey. You can sleep in your petticoat or something. Maybe that silky thing that was in the stuff I bought for you.”

  “My chemise? You want me to sleep in that? It’s almost transparent!” she said distractedly, squeezing her hands together at her waist.

  “Yeah, I know,” he muttered, remembering the scrap of soft fabric he’d seen for just seconds at Abraham Guismann’s dry goods store. A vision of Emmaline garbed in the sheer garment filled his fertile mind, and he sensed a heaviness in his groin that threatened to expose his manliness before the time was right.

  “We can’t just go back to the ranch, can we?” she asked hopefully, already knowing the answer, but willing to try once more for clemency. Surely she would die tomorrow morning if she had to walk back into that dining room and face those people, who would know she had just survived a wedding night.

  “Emmaline, just what are you so dang scared of?” It wasn’t what he’d intended asking her. The words had been blurted out before he could halt their progress. Oh, well, better to know than to wonder, he decided, lifting his hands to rest them on her slender shoulders. “Surely you know I won’t do anything to hurt you, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know what I’m afraid of, Matt. That’s the whole thing. I just don’t know...anything,” she admitted. “Oh, I know the general idea. You know, I’m aware of using a stallion to breed a mare, and I know how puppies are born, and I’ve seen the birds in the springtime flutter around, and I think they were—you know...” She stopped, suddenly aware she was discussing this forbidden subject with her husband.