Almost a Bride (Wyoming Wildflowers Book 1)

by Patricia McLinn

  So chemistry clearly hadn't been enough for him then, and she'd be a fool to think that might have changed.

  Because one thing had changed in the past six years–she was no longer a lovesick fool.

  * * * *

  They had the morning routine down by now. Dave got up first, started the coffee and read the paper, leaving Matty the bathroom. Since she often showered at night after working all day at the Flying W, she was quick in the mornings. He headed into the bathroom as soon as she got out.

  There'd been no more kisses.

  That was probably for the best. It certainly seemed to suit Matty, who had taken to treating him with absent cordiality, as if she had her mind filled with other things. She worked long hours at the Flying W. At least from her comments it seemed her work was beginning to pay off–not financially yet, but in improved efficiency around her ranch.

  And it was definitely best for his peace of mind, too. He couldn't think of much worse than living with Matty over the next two years with it clear that he wanted more and just as clear that she didn't–unless it was not seeing her at all.

  So he'd accepted the status quo.

  There was one snag. When he went in, the bathroom would still have that Matty smell in it. Even without the steam from a shower, the enclosed area was redolent with her soap, her lotion. Oh, he knew they weren't anything special, but they seemed to mix with an essence of Matty, and become something entirely different. Entirely impossible for his body to ignore, no matter what his mind said.

  He was finding that it took him longer to get ready himself than it ever had before.

  He also found that a lot of his showers were tending toward the chilly side.

  Those two factors had combined to make him short on time and temper most mornings.

  Maybe Matty took pity on him. Or maybe it really was what she said–that it was as easy to fix breakfast for one as two. But either way, the other part of their morning routine was that Matty would cook a real ranch breakfast–some combination of eggs, bacon, sausage, ham, cheese, biscuits, toast, and, various kinds of jams and jellies.

  He'd eat till he thought he might bust out of his clothes–lawyer clothes or ranch clothes depending on the day–and then his duty was to clean up, while Matty rode to the Flying W.

  Only this day, instead of heading toward the corral where she'd left Juno out overnight, she started poking in cabinets and jotting notes on a sheet of paper. He twisted around to watch her while he loaded the dishwasher.

  "Taking inventory, Matty?"

  "Sort of. We're running low on some things. I'm making a list, and thought you could swing by the store on your way back to the ranch tonight. I thought about pancakes this morning, but you don't have the makings for them."

  "Never knew you could make pancakes."

  "You never knew a lot of things I can make now."

  If she'd said those words before she'd gone off to the wide world, it would have been in a sticking-out-her-tongue-at-him tone. But now it was matter of fact. So, why did that get under his skin more than the other?

  He had no answer, but the fact that it did get under his skin was the reason he gave her a certain kind of look and used a certain kind of tone when he said, "Yeah? You gonna show me more of those things you learned, or you gonna stop at pancakes?"

  Her gaze snapped to him, color sparked across her cheeks, and he even thought something hotter than a spark showed deep in her eyes in the second before she looked away.

  "Oh," she started, so laid-back she should have fallen over, "I might stretch it as far as waffles. If you're good."

  "I'm very good."

  But now she wasn't listening to his certain tone or paying attention to his certain look. Matty had opened the cupboard by the back door, and after a low whistle, she was too busy gawking.

  "Marriage driving you to drink, Currick?"

  Wiping his wet hands on a dishtowel, he moved next to her to peer around the edge of the cupboard door. His arm brushed hers. He felt the response in the fine hairs exposed by the rolled-back cuff of his shirt. Maybe he wasn't entirely alone; she stepped back and put her opposite hand over a patch of her skin where he could see goosebumps blooming.

  He bit back the pleasure, because goosebumps didn't prove anything, and drawled. "Oh, that. Beer was on sale. Thought I'd stock up."

  "For what? A year? Or are you planning a party I don't know about?"

  "Not exactly a party."

  She looked up, a flash of something vulnerable in her face making him want to touch her. But he held off, because she crossed her arms over her waist in a definite don't-touch message and asked, "What exactly, then?"

  "A bunch of lawyers getting together to talk shop. It's our answer to the good old boy network that was in place when we started practicing around here."

  "And you supply the beer?"

  "Yup. The beer and the place. They come here because I'm–because I was–unattached. Most of the rest of 'em have families who'd object to having their place taken over for a full day by a horde of ravenous lawyers. This year's date was already set, and you usually work every day, so I decided to go ahead and have it here."

  "A full day? That's a lot of shop you guys talk."

  "Well, we do a project, too." She'd relaxed, all sign of vulnerability long gone and her crossed arms easing from their clench. But he could no more figure why she'd relaxed than he'd known why she'd gone tense.

  "A project? Like a legal project? That you all work on?"

  Now, this reaction he recognized from the Matty of old. She had a scheme going. He could practically see the wheels turning in her head, though what they were chewing over, he had absolutely no idea.

  "Yeah, a legal project. We work up a paper or prepare a brief on a hot new topic–or an old cold one–then we send it off to the bar association. They make us show up in Cheyenne for their re-certification rigmarole now and then, but this keeps 'em off our back in between."

  "Oh. Something theoretical?"

  "Most times. There aren't a lot of hot new legal topics with practical applications around here."

  He grinned. The ends of her mouth tilted up, too, but he had the feeling it was automatic.

  Abruptly, she asked, "Who all comes?"

  He reeled off about a dozen names from the surrounding three counties, most of whom she knew at least by name.

  "Bob Brathenwaite?" She repeated absently. "He's in the state house now, isn't he?"

  "Yeah, elected year before last. But he's still practicing regularly. Why the interest?"

  "And Taylor, will she come?"

  "She came last year for the first time; I expect she'll come again."

  "You know, Dave," Matty turned to him with an earnest expression. "This is a great opportunity. I mean for me to really play the role of wife. I think you should let me make all the arrangements. Give me the date and a list of who to ask and I'll do the inviting, the food and all the rest."

  "It's not anything fancy. There's no need–"

  "It's like you said before, Dave. We've got to pay attention to appearances if we want people to believe this. And wouldn't people expect a new bride to want to make something special of the first time she entertained guests?"

  "Not the ones who've known you since you were a kid." He stepped back from the not entirely playful punch she'd aimed at his stomach.

  He supposed her interest in this was Matty wanting to keep up the illusion that they were a normal newly-married couple. That's what he'd agreed to, and he couldn't see any possible harm.

  "All right, all right. If you want to do this, great. Saves me having to remember to cool down all this beer."

  * * * *

  Dave had just come out of the Knighton Bank's safe deposit box vault when Joyce Arbedick waylaid him. He'd stopped by the bank before lunch to put his and Matty's marriage certificate in the safe deposit box.

  He'd found himself looking at it a couple times a day when he began to doubt this whole thing was real
, so he decided that before he wore the thing to tatters he better put it somewhere safe.

  "Oh, Dave, it's good to finally see you! I've been keeping an eye out, but I guess you've been keeping close to the ranch."

  Her obvious visions of continuous connubial bliss must have been contagious, because Dave felt a heat pulsing through his body as if it had immediate memories of things that hadn't happened in more than half a decade. Worse, the heat must have been visible somehow, because Joyce grinned and rapped him on the arm with a thick wad of something in a bag.

  "I didn't mean to make you blush, Dave. No need now–you're legal, remember?" She gave a tinkling laugh.

  Dave produced a passable smile and ignored everything except her first comment.

  "Was there something you needed to see me about, Joyce?"

  "Oh, yes, I want to give you copies of these pictures I took at the reception. I know you didn't have a professional photographer or anything, so I thought you might like them. Not that there are any prize winners," she giggled. "But at least you'll have a few memories."

  She held out the bag. From the impact it had had against his arm, he knew it was a darn sight more than "a few" photos. As it was, he already had enough pictures in his head of Matty on that day to ensure he'd never run out of memories. But Joyce meant well.

  He took the bag and thanked her, including Matty in the thanks.

  "Oh, yes, I'm sure she'll like having them," Joyce said. "A girl likes to have photos from her wedding, no matter how fast it happens. And here's something else I'm sure Matty will be glad to see."

  He automatically accepted the manila envelope she handed to him.

  "What's this?"

  "The confirmations on her closing out her retirement accounts and the papers showing the money's in the ranch account now. Just a minute," she told another employee who'd called her name. "I do wish she'd kept at least one IRA, but you know Matty–when she makes her mind up, there's no budging her."

  Joyce laughed gaily at that and waved good-bye as she headed toward her co-worker. Dave mumbled a farewell and left the bank.

  The path back to his office, on the second floor above the Van Hopft Pharmacy, was so familiar he didn't have to think about where he was going. So he could set his entire mind on what Matty had done. Someone who'd known her most of her life should have expected this: She'd sunk every last bit of her savings into running the ranch.

  What if she didn't get the grant? What if she did but it wasn't enough to turn around the Flying W?

  She'd lose not only her sole inheritance, but whatever nest egg she'd built up working away from the ranch.

  Then she'd have to stay married to him.

  The thought stopped him dead on the second step of the narrow stairway to his office.

  Disgust hit him first. What sort of man would want to win a woman that way–by default, by destitution?

  Practicality came second, and in the form of an answer to his first question: Not the kind of man who loved a woman like Matty. Because it wouldn't work. Destitution would drive her away. She'd stand on her own two feet if she had to crawl.

  He half smiled at that phrase–it sounded just like Matty–as he continued up the stairs toward the old-fashioned wooden and frosted-glass door with "David E. Currick, Attorney at Law" painted on it.

  No, Matty losing the Flying W wasn't an option. Because if she did, he'd lose her.

  He didn't know yet what he would do, but he'd do something to make sure this turned out right for her. Only then would there be any chance that things could turn out right for them.

  As he passed the desk of Ruth Moski, his long-time office manager, he automatically asked, "Ruth, would you get me a burger and fries from the café for lunch?"

  "No."

  He'd taken two more steps before her answer sank in. He turned back to the white-haired woman who could have been a TV ad exec's image of a cozy grandmother type except for her penchant for wearing dangly earrings with feathers, rocks, lacquered leaves and other bits of nature.

  "No?"

  "No. You've hidden in your office long enough."

  This was the downside of having someone who has known you since you were a baby–and had the embarrassing pictures to prove it–as your office manager. It had taken him a couple years to get over his mother's training and feel comfortable calling her Ruth instead of Mrs. Moski. But it could have been worse; he could have had the only other qualified person around as his office assistant–his sister, Lisa. She had even less compunction about telling him her opinion than Ruth did.

  "I'm not hiding, Ruth," he said with great reasonableness. "I have a lot of work to do."

  "Baloney. You don't want to face the joshin' you know you're going to get from that crew at the café, startin' with my Hugh. It's childish, but it's their way of saying you're important to 'em, part of the group. Bonding. Sort of like a bunch of athletes patting each other on the butt, only with words."

  He closed his eyes. Lord, he wished Lisa hadn't talked Ruth into taking that sociology class with her last semester.

  "As much as I appreciate—"

  "It's the God's honest truth and you know it. And it's high time you stopped hidin' in here. You're going to have to face up to it sooner or later. The longer you wait, the worse it's going to be."

  "Ruth, I appreciate your good intentions," he tried again, "but I don't think the joshing from the Counter Crew is going to reach some critical mass if I eat lunch at my desk and catch up on work today."

  "I meant your stomach. I'm not getting your lunch anymore, and last I heard the Café's not deliverin', so the longer you wait the hungrier you're going to get."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Dave had a big grin ready to go when he stepped into the Knighton Café, and produced it as soon as the first voice called out to him.

  "So, how's married life treating you, Dave?"

  "Just fine."

  "Early days yet," said one wag from the counter.

  "Yeah, it's still the honeeeymooooon," crooned another.

  "Surprised you made it to town at all, what with all the things you got to tend to at the Slash-C," said Hugh with a lascivious grin.

  "Dave! Over here. Come sit here."

  It was Lisa. She was sitting at her usual booth in the back corner–the quietest spot–with her usual set of books fanned around her.

  He supposed he should be honored. Lisa rarely allowed anyone to interrupt her lunchtime study routine.

  But instead of honored, he felt wary. Of all the people in Knighton, Lisa posed the most danger to this charade with Matty. With his parents away, Lisa knew him and Matty better than anybody else. She'd always been sharper than any tack he'd ever come across, and since she'd returned after attending college in New York, she stood for no nonsense from anyone. Add that to her no-holds-barred tendency to tell him what she thought, and this could spell trouble.

  "How's Matty?"

  "Oh, you know Matty. Just like she's always been. She'll never change."

  "Don't be an idiot, of course she's changed. Nobody can leave a place to go to college, come back years later to find themselves facing the task of digging out of a mudslide with a teaspoon and not change. Good lord, I thought you had more sense than that. I guess that was too much to hope for from a man."

  "You don't think much of men, do you, Lisa? How come? What happened to give you such a poor opinion of half the human race? Something in New York?" He'd asked this before, and she'd never given him a real answer. And he knew perfectly well that she wouldn't answer now. So the question was actually a diversion, a fact he wasn't too proud to admit–even to himself.

  "Less than half the human race," she corrected immediately. "And I'm open-minded enough to see there might be exceptions. Are you going to straighten up and prove to be one of those exceptions?"

  He raised his hands in surrender, bestowing on her his most successful smile.

  "Don't shoot, Lisa, I'm unarmed."

  "Hmmf. That might wo
rk on Judge Halloran, but it won't work on me, big brother."

  "How did this shooting war start, anyway?"

  "I asked a straightforward question about Matty and you gave an inane answer. There's something strange about all this. I saw how you looked at Matty at Henry Brennan's funeral, and how she didn't look at you. And then before a month's passed, you up and get married–practically in secret, in front of a judge, without a real wedding."

  Lisa's eyes bored into him, and he used all his discipline to return her look without squirming.

  "If I hadn't seen how the two of you were together at the reception," she added, "I'd really be suspicious."

  Heaven protect him from really suspicious Currick females!

  "But what I want to know now," his sister continued, "is what's this I hear about Matty handling the arrangements for your get together of the tri-county's legal brain trust?"

  "Matty wanted to do a little entertaining."

  Lisa snorted. "Entertaining? With most of that group, tearing open the bag of chips before tossing it on a table could pass as fine dining. Did you talk her into this, Dave?"

  He laughed. "Lisa, you malign the both of us–me that I'd be dumb enough to try to talk Matty into anything and her that she'd ever listen if I tried."

  "You wouldn't come at it direct, I'll give you that much, but you always were leading Matty to do things your way."

  His laugh faded as her expression remained serious. "You're kidding, right?"

  She shook her head. "You got so used to being the leader and having her as your faithful follower when you were little kids that you never adjusted when she caught up to you."

  "When did you add psychology to your degrees," he grumbled.

  She ignored that. "You're more subtle, but you still do a lot of bossing. Don't look like I've popped your last balloon, Dave. The way things were doesn't mean they have to stay that way now. As long as you've grown up, and have the smarts to see she has, too."

  The usually acute Lisa was so far off on this one, he couldn't respond without hurting her feelings.

  Lisa continued studying him as if he had words printed across his forehead. He wasn't uncomfortable, just ready for a new topic, that's all, so he said, "So, you're closing in on another degree, aren't you, Lisa?"

  She waited while he ate two French fries from her plate, then looked down at the spread of books as if she'd forgotten about them.