Charming Jo

by Laura Drewry

  “I love you, Joanna McCaine. I love you more than anything else in the whole world. More than I ever imagined a man could love a woman.”

  He looked so serious, she couldn’t help herself. “Even more than the Pacific Ocean?”

  “Will you shut up and let me do this?”

  She laughed out loud, then bit the inside of her cheek when he glared at her.

  “You make me want to be a better man.” He inhaled what must have been four lungfuls. “You make me want to be more than who I am.”

  Jo’s smile died completely away, leaving her lips to tremble uncontrollably. He really was serious!

  “You make me want to be a husband – a good husband - your husband. And more than that, you make me want to be a father.”

  “A fa. . .you mean. . .” she gaped.

  “Yup.” Now he grinned. Waits until he’s scared the life half out of her, and then he grins. She could have smacked him. “Kids, Joanna. Lots of them, too.”

  “Not lots.”

  “Oh yeah,” he chuckled. “Lots.”

  “I can’t have lots of kids,” she gasped. “I don’t know how.”

  He laughed. “You can do anything, Joanna. Besides, I want to see your belly all big and beautiful and know it’s my baby growing inside you.”

  She couldn’t stand it any longer. She threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and sobbing against his shoulder.

  “I’m not done,” he mumbled. “Stand up and let me finish.”

  “No,” she cried, then, “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “Yes.”

  “What d’you mean ‘yes’? I haven’t asked you anything yet.” He tried to pry her arms away, but she clung tighter.

  “Then ask for God’s sake!”

  “Joanna,” he began, giving up on trying to pull her off. Instead, he smoothed his hands up and down her back and pressed his face into her neck, his voice a husky whisper against her neck. “Will you marry me?”

  “Yes, you idiot.” She wiped her nose and eyes against his shirt, then snorted. “Took you long enough.”

  Travers’s laughter echoed through the still night air as he held her tighter against his chest.

  “Um, Travers?” she whispered. “There’s something you need to know about me, too.”

  “Don’t tell me,” he chuckled softly. “You really want to sit in the house and plan tea parties.”

  “Lord no.” She pinched his arm hard.

  “What is it, then?”

  “Well, you’re going to find out sooner or later, so I might as well be the one to tell you.” Without releasing him, she eased back just far enough so she could look up into the growing worry clouding his eyes. For a smart man, he could sure be gullible. “The thing is. . .and I hope this doesn’t change your mind about me.”

  “What?” His eyes flicked over her face, as though he could find the answer there somewhere.

  “There’s something I can’t do, no matter how much I want to. No matter how much you want me to.” Jo swallowed the laughter rising in her throat and nodded as stone-faced as she could. She slipped her fingers beneath his shirt and slid them over the hard planes of his belly and chest. “God knows I wish I could, because I’ve heard others get a lot of enjoyment doing it.”

  Another low groan. “Joanna.” He grabbed her hands through the material of his shirt and held them still. “If it’s what I think it is, we can practice until you’re an expert.”

  She pressed closer to him, until her hip was pressed against his hardness.

  “It scares me,” she whispered, barely able to contain her laughter now.

  “What is it?” his voice came out low and raspy. “I swear, woman, if you don’t say it right now--”

  “I can’t rope.”

  Silence.

  She looked up into his face, giving him her best Carrie imitation, with the fluttering lashes and everything. A low growl began deep in his throat and grew louder the more she smiled at him.

  “Rope?” he ground out through gritted teeth. “You can’t rope? That’s your big secret?”

  She shrugged through her laughter. “Hardly a secret, Travers. Even Lefty knows. But since you didn’t know, I thought I should tell you.” She backed up a step, then two.

  “And you--” he narrowed his eyes at her, but light twinkled in them as he lunged, caught her back in his arms and rolled her to the ground.

  Jo struggled to get away, but was laughing too hard to get very far.

  Travers pressed her down onto the grass, holding her hands above her head and then straddled her hips, but kept his weight from crushing her. He lowered his face closer to hers, breathing kisses over her eyes, then around to her ears.

  All laughter died from Jo’s lips. God he smelled good. And those lips. . .

  He nibbled her earlobe, then moved down her neck, nuzzling, nipping and tasting. She arched into him, offering everything she had, if only he’d take it.

  But dammit if he hadn’t gone and turned respectable on her.

  “Joanna,” he said on a sigh. “You gotta know I want to make love with you right here.”

  “And you gotta know I wish you would.” Her whole body ached for his touch, his smell and his taste.

  “Not here, Joanna. I told you before when we make love, it’ll be in my bed where I can take my time with you. Not out here in the middle of the yard.”

  “You’re just afraid Mac’ll find us,” she teased.

  “No,” he answered, with a hint of laughter in his voice. “When I think about making love to you, Joanna – and believe me, I‘ve thought about it plenty - Mac doesn’t factor into the picture at all.”

  He pulled her into his arms and rolled over, so she lay on top of him, with her head resting against his chest and his rock-hard desire pressing against her thigh.

  They lay in each other’s embrace, hearts slamming against each other, and both trembling slightly. Travers pressed kisses against her hair while his hands moved slowly up and down her back, drawing small circles as they moved. Jo toyed with his buttons – she just couldn’t get them undone fast enough – until she could finally slide her hand beneath the fabric and feel his skin against hers again.

  “Ah, Joanna,” he sighed. “You might not be able to rope cattle, but you sure as hell roped me in good and proper.”

  “Yeah?” she whispered against his chest. “Does that mean I can brand you, too?”

  “Hell, darlin’, I was branded the first time I clapped eyes on you.”

  “Good answer, Travers.” She wiggled against him just to torture them both a little more. “Now, answer me this. How much longer am I going to have to wait?”

  “For what?” he pressed up against her, sucking in a deep breath at the same time.

  “For that,” she smiled, knowing he ached as badly as she did.

  “Depends,” he rasped. “How soon can we be married?”

  “Sooner the better, I say.” She pressed her lips against his, loving the way he tasted against her mouth.

  “That’s what I’m thinkin’, too.” He smiled against her mouth.

  “You know Mac’s gonna kill both of us,” she laughed, settling back on his chest. Nothing in the world had ever felt better than lying under the stars wrapped in his arms.

  “Not before I get you married and in my bed.” He kissed her hair again. “You can mark my words on that, sweetheart.”

  “Oh, I will,” she laughed. “I will.”

  CHAPTER 12

  The day of the fundraiser dawned clear and beautiful just as Carrie said it would. Jo had been up since dawn and was doing her best to think of anything but the dance that night. She had other things to do besides wonder what her dress might have looked like; whether it would have had lace and ruffles or intricate beadwork on the bodice. And she certainly didn’t have time to wonder about the color.

  It was nonsense anyway, because in the last ten days, Travers hadn’t mentioned one more word about it and a dre
ss had never arrived. Not for her, anyway.

  Carrie’s dress had been hanging in her room for almost a week. Pale pink silk with two lavender silk orchids pinned at the waist, and yards of lace. No doubt she would be the belle of the ball. Again. Men would be lined up from the front door to the next county waiting for a dance with her.

  Jo was glad she didn’t have to worry about that problem. Glad she didn’t have to wonder anymore what it would feel like to have Travers’s arms around her all night while they danced under a blanket of stars; glad she could watch it all from the quiet comfort of the loft like she did every year.

  She and Travers had their entire lives to dance, one night wouldn’t make much difference.

  Maybe Travers would join her in the loft this year – that’d make it all worthwhile.

  She collected the last of the eggs from under the hens and left the basket in the kitchen. The sweet aromas of fresh baking lingered throughout the house. Cakes, breads and pies covered every inch of table space in the kitchen and parlor and a huge pot of stew simmered on the stove.

  Thanks to Ginny and the other ladies in town, there would be more than enough food, and then some. Flowers from every garden in the county adorned the yard and not a speck of dust could be found anywhere in the house.

  Yes, if there was one thing Carrie was good at, it was organizing people. Maybe she’d be willing to organize someone else to do the milking.

  Jo turned an empty pail upside down and perched on it, holding a second one beneath a very full udder. There was work to be done – dance or no dance – and she’d just as soon be out in the barn than in the house surrounded by all that party excitement.

  By mid-day, with only a quick stop to eat the jerky and bread from her saddle bag, she was out at the corral, mending the broken slats and readying it for the branding and castrating they’d do next week.

  Thanks to Mac’s direction, Simon and Jimmy had managed to round up most of the herd while Jo and Travers strung the fence, so it was quick work to get them all accounted for and inside the fence.

  If she’d had time to think on it, and if she didn’t love the idiot so much, she probably would have cursed Travers for being such a skunk. A real man would have at least told her he’d been unable to find a dress, or come up with some other excuse to weasel out of taking her to the dance – especially since he claimed to love her. But he’d done neither. He’d gotten her hopes up and then left her to wonder. So it was a good thing she was too busy to think about.

  The sound of feet pounding the dirt pulled her attention away from the plank she’d just split in half by pounding the nail in too far. Clay raced toward her, a look of fierce determination on his grubby face.

  “Miss Ginny sent me to fetch you and she tol’ me I wasn’t t’come back without you.”

  Jo pushed her hat back and swiped her arm across her forehead. “What’s wrong?”

  “Dunno, Miss Joanna. But she made me promise.”

  Ginny never sent for her unless it was something important. Something bad. Was someone hurt? Mac? Travers?

  She dropped the hammer and nails, clambered over the rails and sprinted across the yards, leaving Clay to catch up.

  Ginny stood on the front porch, one hand fisted on her hip, the other shielding her eyes from the bright afternoon sun.

  Jo took the steps two at a time. “What’s wrong?”

  Ginny clicked her tongue and waved Jo through the open door.

  “What?” Jo repeated. “Who’s hurt?” Did she really want to know?

  “Hurt?” Ginny’s brow puckered. “No one’s hurt, for goodness sake. Now come along, we have a lot of work to do.”

  “Work?” Jo released the breath she hadn’t known she was holding. “For the love of God, Ginny, I thought someone was dying.”

  Ginny half-pushed Jo up the stairs toward her bedroom.

  “Stop pushing me, Ginny. What do you need? And can I at least have some water first?”

  “Nothing and no.” Ginny opened the bedroom door and stood back, giving Jo a clear view of the room.

  A deep green taffeta gown, with matching ribbon sash and tiny shoulder bows, shimmered on her bed. No silk, no lace, no pearls; just a simple gown made of the most beautiful fabric Jo had ever seen.

  It was nothing like Carrie’s gown.

  It was perfect.

  “Oh my,” she breathed, taking a hesitant step toward the bed. “It’s better than I ever imagined.”

  “And there’s more.” Ginny ducked back into the hall for a moment, then hurried back in, carrying a pile of crinolines and other underthings.

  Heat raced up Jo’s neck. “He didn’t. . .”

  “No,” Ginny smiled. “I picked these out. But he did choose these.” Beneath the heap of crinolines, she pulled out two mother-of-pearl hair combs. She handed them to Jo and fished out a pair of emerald satin evening shoes. “And these.”

  “Oh my,” Jo repeated. “But I thought. . .”

  “Wait,” Ginny said. “One more thing.” She reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out a bar of soap.

  Jo’s heart sank. “Soap? He thinks I stink?”

  Her aunt’s face split into a sympathetic smile. “Oh, Joanna. You poor dear.” She patted Jo on the cheek and set the armload down on the bed. “He doesn’t think you stink. I do.”

  They laughed together, but a lump began to form in Jo’s throat. She’d cried more in the last two months than she’d cried in ten years.

  “It’s not often you get dressed up,” Ginny said. “So when you do, I want you to feel – and smell - as pretty as you’ll look.”

  “Oh, Ginny.” Tears choked Jo’s words. “You don’t think I’ll make a fool of myself again?”

  Ginny’s smile faded. She took Jo’s hands in hers and looked straight into her eyes. “Now you listen to me, Joanna McCaine. That Peter Carlson has been an imbecile since the day God set him on this earth. No one else paid him any mind that day, so you shouldn’t have, either.”

  “But. . .”

  “No but’s. I can’t believe you let a ninny like him scare you off.”

  Why did people keep saying that?

  “I wasn’t scared off.” The lie fell flat. “I prefer the word humiliated.”

  Ginny sniffed. “Choose whichever word you like. The fact of the matter is you are a beautiful, strong woman who has more sense than to let one person’s opinion scare – sorry, humiliate – you like that.”

  “I don’t know, Ginny.”

  “Well I do.” She squeezed Jo’s fingers. “It’s time you realize how very precious you are. And it’s long past time you let other people see it too.”

  “I’m not precious,” she snorted. “I’m crankier than Mac most days.”

  Ginny shrugged, her eyes crinkling against her smile. “I wouldn’t suggest you let on to your uncle about any of this,” she said. “He assumes I picked it all out for you and I haven’t felt the need to tell him differently.”

  Ginny was lying to Mac? Holy Lord, she must really like Travers.

  “I’d hate to get Mac all riled up again.” Jo grinned. A tiny light sparked deep in her heart. “Especially since Travers went through so much trouble.”

  “Oy.” Ginny’s eyes rolled heavenward. “You don’t know the half of it, young lady. That there’s a man in love.”

  The light in Jo’s heart grew brighter. He loved her, he really did. And as soon as LeeAnna’s baby was born, they’d get married. But until then, they had to pretend nothing was going on, even if it killed them. If LeeAnna’s father thought for one second that Travers was messing with another girl, he’d for sure hunt Travers down and start shooting.

  “Oh, Ginny – this is all wrong.” Jo slumped against the wall and covered her face with her hands.

  “What do you mean? He thought you’d love this.”

  “I do.” She reached for the silk stockings and rubbed them between her fingers. “But how will it look when people find out Travers bought all of it for me? Th
ey’ll think – well, you know exactly what they’ll think.”

  “Does it matter?” Ginny’s voice was soft, soothing, but questioning.

  “Yes, it matters,” Jo cried. “He’s done nothing wrong, Ginny – not with me, anyway.”

  Her aunt’s smile pushed Jo on.

  “Believe me, Ginny, I’ve been the one pushing for more, but Travers won’t let. . .anything happen. Not until we’re married.”

  Ginny pressed her hands against her heart and sighed. “It’s been a long time since there’s been any romance in this house,” she sighed. “He’s a good man, Joanna, no matter what Mac thinks. He might have had some troubles in the past, but now. . .”

  They both smiled. Now was a whole different story. Still, unease nibbled at Jo’s conscience.

  “But once people find out that he went to all this trouble for me, they’re going to think he’s still the same old Travers.”

  “And who’s going to tell them?” Ginny stood with her small hands bunched on her hips, her brow arched in a challenge. “The only ones who know are you, me and Levi. We both know you and I won’t say anything, and I certainly don’t believe he’ll tell, either. After all, he has enough to worry about, doesn’t he, without starting any more rumors.”

  “But he picked it all out,” Jo said. “Surely that must have caused a few raised eyebrows in Mrs. Lloyd’s shop.”

  Ginny’s smile returned. “I’m not supposed to tell you this, because he wants you to think he did it all himself, but. . .” she paused.

  “What?” Jo reached for her aunt’s hands and stared into her twinkling eyes. “Tell me.”

  “He knew there’d be talk if he went into the store himself, so I went with him on the premise that I was doing some shopping and he had the bad luck of having to drive me into town.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “We did.” Her aunt’s eyes gleamed. “So while he went about gathering supplies, I looked through the catalogue, turning pages whenever he walked by. Then, when no one was looking, he flipped to the page he liked. Didn’t even have to think about it, either. He told me as soon as he saw it, he knew it was the one for you.”