“I would prefer not to wait,” she replied crisply. “After all, you say we are betrothed. Why should I hear that only from you? Unless, of course, you are quite mad and this entire scenario is a figment of your imagination.”
He slowed the horses. “I’m not crazy.”
“Well, then.” She settled herself against the back of the seat. “Tell me.”
He sighed. This was not his strong suit. Confession didn’t come easily to him; nor did asking for help. Telling Miss Westmore that he needed her in order to win his daughter back from his autocratic father-in-law was humiliating and humbling. There was no way to beg her assistance nicely, which was why he’d depended on Pearl to do it for him. Even when he had married for love, as he’d done with Emily, he was not the type to say flowery things to a lady. When he was a green young man, he would have at least tried to court a lady. But he was twenty-six and, thanks to his life experiences, jaded beyond his years. If only they could already be married, with him out working the ranch and Miss Westmore at home making things cozy. Laura would be there, his sweet little girl. She was the only reason he had agreed to this outlandish scheme.
“It’s like this,” he began, hesitantly. “I need a wife.”
“Well, I don’t need a husband,” she shot back. “I can function quite well without one, thank you.”
“I’ve known your aunt for many years,” he went on, ignoring her. “When she got your letter, she came over and talked to me. I have the ranch next to hers. Anyway, she said that your family was pretty nigh desperate...” He trailed off. It was true that Mrs. Colgan had revealed that, but not, perhaps, the nicest thing to say aloud.
“So my aunt agreed to sell me into servitude, like a mail-order bride?” Miss Westmore’s voice had grown dangerously high, and two bright spots of color appeared on her cheeks. He gazed at her. Mrs. Colgan had been right. She was a very pretty girl, even if she was a termagant. “I don’t want to hear another word, Mr. Burnett.”
“Well, all right, but you do deserve an explanation,” he began. He’d be angry, too, come to think of it, if he came out to a new place and his whole life had been rearranged for him. “Sounds like Mrs. Colgan’s letter never did reach you.”
“Not another word,” she breathed, her eyes snapping. “I need to speak to my aunt.”
“I understand,” he replied. “The justice of the peace is likely to be waiting there, anyway.”
She shot him a look of pure loathing, and he was hard-pressed to keep from smiling. She certainly wasn’t dull, and that was refreshing. Emily would have sweetly gone along with the plan and then gotten little digs in here and there. He preferred a woman who was direct. A man knew where he stood with someone like Miss Westmore.
He whipped up the horses with a click of his tongue and a flick of the reins. Anyone would have a hard time adjusting to life in Texas after a life of comfort back east. To come to Texas so quickly—and after such tough times—would be even more difficult. Miss Westmore had shown gumption, and that was a prized commodity out here. Besides which, she was very pretty. He had a marked weakness for large blue eyes ringed with long dark lashes.
As he adjusted in his seat, the letter in his pocket crackled. When he’d arrived at the station, a note from Laura had been waiting for him. She was now ten years old, and her handwriting had improved to the point that she had been allowed to write the address on the outside of the envelope. That was good. Her boarding school was all right for the time being, but soon enough he would bring her home and he’d have a family again, once he was married to Miss Westmore.
If she would agree to it.
Mrs. Colgan would surely help with that, wouldn’t she?
He was so close to having his daughter home. What if Miss Westmore refused? She was really the perfect candidate for the job—wellborn, educated, cultured and refined. Without her help, everything would be just as it had been, with his wife’s father controlling everything regarding his daughter from the St. Clair estate in Charleston. It didn’t matter that Emily had died, or that the last few years of their marriage had been a sham. The St. Clairs were such an autocratic bunch. What a shame he’d married into them. At least he had gotten Laura out of the deal.
He clenched his jaw reflexively, as he always did when thinking about his daughter. He knew to the second when he’d last seen her. It was this past Christmas when he’d made the trip to St. Louis.
Miss Westmore was still stubbornly silent, staring fixedly at a point just in front of them. Pearl had said she would write to her niece and make the necessary arrangements. Either Pearl had failed to do so, which was unlikely, or her letter had somehow missed Miss Westmore. There was nothing to do now but wait until everything could be sorted out. It was a mighty strange ride, all told. At last, the large iron gates of the Colgan ranch loomed ahead. He let the horses bound through and then slowed them to a respectable pace as they neared the ranch house.
Sure enough, the justice of the peace’s carriage was parked out front.
Miss Westmore gasped as they drew close enough that she could read the lettering on the carriage door.
“See? I told you.” He couldn’t resist reminding her. “They are probably ready to start the ceremony right now. Still think I’ve gone ’round the bend?”
She glowered at him and jumped down from the carriage, without waiting for help. Then she flounced inside the house, slamming the door shut behind her.
He stared after her. Maybe it would be better to leave her alone with her aunt for a while. He drove the horses around to Mrs. Colgan’s stable, where they would be more sheltered from the wind and sun. He unhitched them and took a seat on a nearby bale of hay. Then he took Laura’s letter out of his pocket.
“Thank you for the hair riben, Pa.” It was written in her large, childish handwriting. Then Pa had been crossed out, and Father scribbled over it. For some strange reason, that hurt. Now, away from home, she was learning to call him Father, when all he could remember was her tiny, sweet voice saying “Pa.” He had insisted that his daughter would call him Pa, which had made Emily roll her eyes. “I suppose she’ll use suitable Western slang,” she’d said, as soon as Laura’s infant burbling had matured to recognizable speech. “But I prefer to be known as ‘Mother’ to her.”
He folded the letter back up. No sense in going on until he knew whether or not he’d get to bring her home soon. It was painful to read, wondering if he would hear her call him anything again.
If he was a praying man, this would be a good time to raise his voice in prayer. But he had finished with the Lord a long time ago when his marriage had soured, and then his wife died and his only child was taken away.
There was nothing to do but wait a little longer and see if his betrothed would agree to be his bride.
* * *
Ada stared at Aunt Pearl. She had not seen her aunt since childhood, and those memories had long ago blurred to almost nothing. The tall, stern woman before her bore a strong resemblance to Father, especially in the way her every glance was a challenge. “So what Mr. Burnett said is true. You did sell me into servitude.”
Aunt Pearl threw back her head and laughed, a hearty sound that made one feel utterly ridiculous. “I doubt Jack said that. Come, now. Have a little common sense. He needs a wife in order for his daughter to come home. You need a livelihood. The arrangement is simple. A marriage in name only, and you would be paid to make the kind of home that suits his in-laws. I’m sorry my letter didn’t reach you in time, but there it is. Sometimes our best-laid plans get derailed.”
Ada sank into a tufted velvet chair that had been recently—and hastily—vacated by the justice of the peace the moment she had hurtled into her aunt’s parlor. Her head ached, pounding in her ears. Her breath came in short gasps. She was thousands of miles away from