An Improper Proposal Read online

  She stiffened, no hint of relief or gratitude. “I am not in need of your sympathy, sir.”

  Ah, pride. He smiled to himself. “But you are in need of a husband, as you so aptly stated a moment ago.”

  She hesitated, then placed her hand in the crook of his arm.

  He covered it with his. “Your name?”

  “Mae Ann. Mae Ann Remington.”

  “Well, then, Miss Remington. Shall we be on our way?”

  Lord, help him. Loco didn’t even come close.

  CHAPTER 2

  Who had asked whom?

  Mae Ann still stung from Mr. Parker’s earlier refusal, yet here she was, on his arm, headed for a white clapboard church at the end of Main Street.

  Had male pride insisted he reject her offer and then make his own for the very same thing? Humph. She regarded him from the corner of her eye. He could be the sort of man who must be in control at all times, at any cost. A penchant for domination was a characteristic not so easily observed during a bank robbery when others held the guns.

  But if he were that sort, theirs would be a tenuous arrangement at best. Submission was one thing. Kowtowing quite another.

  Regardless, she was about to be bound to Cade Parker in lieu of poor Henry Reiker. After months of praying and fretting in equal parts over the risks associated with becoming a mail-order bride, she would forever think of her original groom as poor Henry—a man shot for his ill-placed chivalry.

  At least she’d had Henry’s letters alerting her to what she was getting herself into, or so she had thought. Now—and she stole another glance at her escort—she knew only what she had surmised in the bank. At her conjecture that he might be a farmer, he had neither assured nor corrected her, but merely given an odd twitch to his mouth that suggested humor.

  She rolled her lips. If he were the type of man to make light of a woman and ridicule her ways, then he was indeed a gambler with no idea of what was about to befall him.

  On the other hand, certain things suggested he was not a farmer, at least not in the sense that Henry had been. His bearing was not bent from following the plow. He carried himself with a hint of dignity, and his hat bore a thin braided band that looked to be made of horsehair.

  But more than anything, the thud-clink of his angled boot heels informed her. A jingle of sorts. The man wore spurs.

  And the shooter had called him cowboy.

  She’d read about cowboys, but Mr. Parker did not have the swagger associated with the dime-novel breed.

  In spite of the odd looks she encountered from passersby, Mae Ann held her head high, taking in the late-afternoon shadows that stretched low along the storefronts. The church stood mutely in its fenced yard, its front door ajar as if waiting to announce her arrival.

  The train whistle called from a distant canyon, such a lonesome sound trailing its passage to the next town. The hopefulness that had accompanied it as the train delivered her to the station earlier had departed long ago. Had she accepted Mr. Parker’s charity, she could be on that train at its next passing, but headed where? She’d left St. Louis for good, and nothing there bade her return. Better to face the fate of her own choosing than the unknown.

  Besides, she’d not take anyone’s charity, especially Mr. Parker’s. She would pay her own way with a fair trade of her talents, just as she had done in St. Louis.

  She glanced his way again, but this time he caught her eye and worked his lips in that jerking fashion. A spark lit his expression—a spark of what, she could not tell, though she suspected she would soon enough know.

  Her neck warmed and again she fingered the torn collar. Earlier she’d wished for a photograph of her wedding day, but she now felt great relief that no such record would mark her sudden decision and scandalous appearance. No wonder the few women they passed looked askance at her. She’d had no opportunity to freshen herself after alighting from the train mere hours before. She must look a sight.

  She reached to adjust her hat, though without both hands and the benefit of a mirror or window glass, it was a useless gesture. But she dare not stop and preen in a storefront window. The thought sent flame into her cheeks, just what she did not want—an unseemly flush at the moment of her marriage to an even more peculiar man than her earlier intended.

  What had she been thinking?

  They stepped from the boardwalk into the street. Closer now, she saw a figure standing inside the open church door. The preacher, judging by his frock coat. Henry said the minister had agreed to marry them that afternoon after arrangements at the bank. Her breath snagged and she reached again for her torn collar, an irritating reflex. Snatching her hand away, she attracted Mr. Parker’s concerned frown, and he turned aside at the low fence framing the churchyard and drew her behind a large cottonwood tree.

  Her heart pounded beneath his pointed scrutiny. First her hat, then her face. Her throat, her jacket—dusty from her trip. Her skirt, blotted with dirt from crossing the street. She’d not held it high enough. Finally, her shoes, which she tucked beneath her hem, the only part of herself she could truly hide.

  Without a word, he drew a knife from his pocket, opened it, and reached for her.

  A gasp stuck in her throat and all the blood rushed to her feet. Would he murder her here in the shadow of the church steeple?

  He stopped, and his lips twitched in that curious way. “Do not fear me, Miss Remington. I’m after that torn piece at your throat.” His brows drew down. “Your neck.” Farther down, until a scowl marred his otherwise pleasant features. “I mean, let me cut away the flap that troubles you. Later you can mend it. Or add lace. Or do whatever it is womenfolk do.”

  He appeared flustered by his small speech, and she froze like one of the silent shadows, risking that perhaps he spoke truthfully. If not, what had she to lose other than her lifeblood on the roadside as Henry had lost his to the bank floor?

  Mr. Parker moved closer, his back to the street, shielding her from onlookers. His molasses-brown eyes were clear and quick as the blade that sliced the fabric dangling at her throat. He closed the knife, slipped it into his pocket, and took her hand, into which he placed the remnant and folded her fingers upon it.

  Warmth and strength seeped into her from his touch and slight smile.

  “Keep this for later repair.”

  He stepped back, tugged on his brown vest, and adjusted the silk neckerchief that hung low about his neck. “I apologize for not being dressed more appropriately, Miss Remington, but I did not expect to attend a wedding today. Especially my own.”

  Again, that spark of something in his eyes. She glanced at her traveling suit and brushed a spot high on her skirt.

  “But you.” He took both her hands in his. “You make a most becoming bride.”

  Her pulse fluttered at his words. Unaccustomed to compliments, she scarcely knew how to respond.

  With a light pressure to her fingers, he released them and offered his elbow again. “Shall we?”

  Shall we what? Take vows before God that she fully intended to break if this man were a ruffian? Was that what it meant to pledge her troth—to keep a promise if it suited her? Troubled by doubt and his flattering words, she took Mr. Parker’s arm and focused on the duty at hand. And right now marrying Cade Parker was the only duty she could find.

  ~

  Cade had not attended many weddings. Out here, shoved up against Colorado’s imposing mountain wall, such affairs were mostly private and among family. With no family nearby for his own spur-of-the-moment ceremony, he figured it’d be just the parson and Mrs. Bittman.

  The church door opened farther, and the couple stepped out. Clearly in the family way, Mrs. Bittman greeted them with a smile. A puzzled frown marred the parson’s face.

  “Cade.” Bittman extended his hand. “I heard the commotion at the bank took Henry Reiker’s …” He flashed a regretful look at Miss Remington. “My apologies, miss.” In a pastorly way, he reached for her hand. “I take it you are, or were, the bride from S
t. Louis.”

  She met the question straight-on. “Mae Ann Remington.”

  That’s my girl. Cade’s gut clenched at his reaction. Whoa there.

  Mrs. Bittman led her inside the church, and the tightness in his chest let up. He breathed a mite easier.

  “So why are you here, Cade?”

  He was asking himself the very same thing. Clearing his throat, he took off his hat. “We’d like you to go ahead with the wedding.”

  The preacher’s brows steepled and he pulled his chin back. “She wants to marry a dead man?”

  What kind of fool question was that? Cade cleared his throat again. “No, she wants to marry me.” He met the parson’s dumbfounded stare. “Or rather, I want to marry her. I mean, we have agreed to marry each other. That it’s for the best.”

  Any fair-minded man would understand the situation. Any fair-minded man who didn’t stand gawking with his mouth hanging open like an empty bucket.

  The parson’s jaw clapped shut. “I see. Well, this is a bit out of the ordinary.” He looked over his shoulder into the church. If the man dallied much longer, daylight would be gone and they’d have to light the lamps so he could see who he was marrying.

  “If you don’t mind, we’d like to do this today. Before tonight.”

  Bittman stroked his chin and looked Cade up and down. “Well, you are an upstanding citizen. And both of you are of legal age.”

  That last part was the only thing Cade knew for certain. That and the fact that Reiker was dead. Mae Ann Remington could be lying through her teeth about her name and everything else. Though there wasn’t much else.

  The parson drew himself up and stepped aside. “Then a wedding it is.” He indicated the door and waited for Cade to pass through.

  “Nothing long or drawn out. I’d like to get back to the ranch before dark.” Wishful thinking if ever there was.

  Bittman nodded. “I understand.”

  The women sat in the first pew. Cade followed the preacher, doubt nipping at his heels. He’d gotten himself into some fine fixes in his day, but this pretty much beat ’em all. The first bride he’d picked turned out to be the wrong one. Now he was hitching up with one who picked him. The closer he got to the front of the church, the crazier he felt. But what else should he have done—left her in the barbershop alone and penniless?

  He stopped next to the front pew and fumbled with his hat. If he backed out now, it’d be worse than if he hadn’t agreed to this fool idea in the first place. He wouldn’t humiliate any woman like that.

  “Millie, dear.” Bittman helped his wife to her feet and steered her to a spot at the head of the aisle. “You and Miss Remington stand here, please.” Then he looked at Cade. “And you here, to Miss Remington’s right.”

  Cade swallowed what felt like a horseshoe and set his hat on the pew. Then he took his place next to the woman he was about to marry and prayed that the good Lord wouldn’t let him buck and run.

  Bittman stayed true to his word and kept things short, but when he got to the part about the ring, he paused. Cade gave a slight shake of his head. Miss Remington gripped her folded hands even tighter.

  “Very well. Cade, will you please take the bride’s right hand in yours.”

  He’d already touched her, but this was different. She placed her trembling fingers in his, an act of faith that shot him through with dread over the future but also a strange desire to protect her. Could he make a solemn vow that, on pain of shame and dishonor, must not be broken?

  The parson placed his hand atop theirs and offered a final word on the matter. “‘The Lord bless thee, and keep thee: The Lord make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee: The Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.’ Amen.”

  Smiling as if pleased with himself, Bittman completed the brief ceremony. “I now pronounce you man and wife. You may—”

  Miss Remington withdrew her hand and dropped her head. A clear sign she had no desire to seal their business arrangement with a nuptial kiss.

  Tamping down sudden disappointment, Cade offered his arm. She took it and again he covered her hand with his own. He’d done more handholding in the last hour than he had in the last five years.

  The four of them exited the church house into the last dregs of daylight.

  Mrs. Bittman linked arms with his new bride and led her away with a flurry of female camaraderie.

  His bride. Words he hadn’t expected to ever use after his close shave with Alexandra. They made his collar tight and it wasn’t even buttoned.

  Mae Ann smiled briefly at Millie Bittman, her posture as unyielding as the gatepost ahead of her. Lord, would the woman not relax? She’d be stiff as a barrel band in the morning if she slept …

  His collar tightened again. He wouldn’t put her in his old room. He’d take it, and give her his parents’ room, where he’d been sleeping the last five years. It was only right. He couldn’t ask her to take anything less than the best he had when she was willing to work and cook and—

  “Cade?”

  He turned from his worries and faced the parson, who tapped his head. “You forget something?”

  “Right.” He hurried inside and returned with his hat. “I’ll square up with you next time I’m in town.”

  “About that.” Bittman lowered his voice and turned his back to the women. “They’ll be burying Henry Reiker tomorrow, and since he has no kin around here, do you think he should be buried in the town cemetery or out on his farm?”

  Cade shoved his hat on and tugged down the brim. He’d told the undertaker to bury Reiker in the cemetery, but Mae Ann might want him on the farm. He glanced at her standing next to the road. “I suppose we should come back for the funeral. Or drive in to pick him up, if that’s what she wants.”

  Bittman nodded slowly. “She’s the next thing to family that he’s got. Would be fitting, though awkward for her, I imagine.”

  Cade rubbed the back of his neck. Of all the blasted predicaments, this beat everything. Asking a woman on her wedding night where she wanted to bury her intended. Cade didn’t know about Reiker’s private affairs other than the fact that all his scrape-by outfit had going for it was water that Reiker apparently didn’t know what to do with. Cade sure did, but richer men than he had tried to buy Reiker out, namely that scoundrel Sean MacGrath. In his refusal to sell, Reiker had bitten down like a coyote on a chicken neck.

  “I’ll talk to her. Either way, I’ll be back tomorrow. Still have affairs at the bank to take care of.”

  Bittman’s wife did her best to draw Mae Ann out, chattering away. But his new bride stood resistant and rigid. If that was her natural way, he’d as soon sleep in the barn. His chest cinched. He wasn’t ready for a woman. Neither was his house. He ran a finger under his collar and found it unchanged—open, but still choking him.

  When had he last scrubbed the sideboard and table? Or changed the tick as his ma used to? Or cleared boot dirt away from the door?

  He held his hand out to the preacher. “Thank you for helping us. Her. I mean Miss, er, Mrs.—”

  Bittman shook his hand and gripped his shoulder. “You did an honorable thing today.” He paused but didn’t release Cade’s hand, suggesting more than the surface value of his words.

  “A very wise man once said, ‘Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour of the LORD.’”

  Cade held in a snort. Trouble was he hadn’t been looking for a wife, a fact he’d mentioned earlier at the undertaker’s.

  With a quick nod, he broke free and covered the cobbled path to the fence, where he closed the gate behind him. No, he hadn’t been looking for a wife, and he’d argue the honorable part with the preacher on another day. But if the Lord’s favor was part of this harebrained deal, Cade would sure enough take his share.

  CHAPTER 3

  “Wasn’t that Henry’s rig in front of the bank?”

  Mae Ann flinched at the sound of her near-husband’s name on her new husband’s li
ps. His deep tone sent shivers over her skin and she wondered if his voice would forever take her back to the bank lobby and the holdup. Her former confidence had fled the moment she said “I do” and she flicked a look at Mr. Parker. “Yes. My trunk is in it.”

  “I’ll tie my horse to the back, and we’ll take the wagon to the ranch.”

  Ranch? She nodded and turned away.

  “Wait.” He touched her arm.

  She flinched, then tried to relax. He must think her a nervous twit.

  “It’s near dark. Stay close to me, Miss—”

  “Mae Ann,” she interrupted. “You should call me by my given name now. Mae Ann.”

  “As you wish.”

  She slipped her fingers into the crook of his arm again, the only familiar thing from the entire day. Drawing comfort from it, she allowed a semblance of security to seep into her hunger-weakened constitution. Far be it from her to ask him for food.

  Again, his hand covered hers, and its warmth reinforced her resolve. Dare she hope that her so-called business arrangement might result in a pleasant situation? She took her skirt in her left hand as they stepped into the street, clenching the heavy fabric as well as her jaw.

  The entire thoroughfare lay in shadow. Daylight had fled the town and skulked low along the mountain ridge like light beneath a drawn shade. She would not see her new home from afar, nor have opportunity to spin daydreams as they approached the house. Or shack. Or campfire. She’d no idea what awaited her as a rancher’s wife and no way of knowing until she stepped from Henry’s wagon. Without Henry.

  Mr. Parker stopped by the shadowy contraption and handed her up. She arranged her skirts on the narrow bench as he walked to the other side. He checked the harness, patted the horse’s neck, and mumbled something at its ear.

  His mount waited ahead of them, and he led it to the back of the wagon, where Mae Ann assumed he was tying the reins. She refused to follow his every move as if she were a frightened child, and instead focused on the bench. A rather narrow bench for a wagon seat, now that she considered it.