High Country Bride (4 page)

“I don’t guess there is,” the man said, and smiled slightly, though his eyes were sad.“More whiskey?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Emmeline said. She’d been possessed by some mischievous spirit—that was the only explanation for her present behavior. If Becky caught her at this game, there would be hell to pay.

Still, they talked, Emmeline and the Texan, and drank more whiskey, and the man said his name was Holt, though she couldn’t recall, afterward, whether that was his first name or his last. He’d been raised near San Antonio, by an aunt and uncle, and he owned part interest in the herd of cattle Emmeline had seen clogging the street earlier. In time, though how long it was, she couldn’t have sad, he took her hand, helped her to her feet, and led her up the stairs and into the quiet shadows of the corridor.

There, he kissed her, and though it was pleasant indeed, Emmeline was mildly disappointed. Her reading, and her fantasies, had led her to expect something more, though she couldn’t have said precisely what that something was. She sagged against the wall, when it ended, and sighed, causing him to chuckle.

“I thought so,” he said wryly.

“Hmm?” she asked, and burped delicately. Her knees seemed a little weak, and she started to slide down the wall, but he caught her, lifted her easily into his arms.

“Your room,” he prompted.“Where is it?”

The vague thrill she felt then was neither alarm nor anticipation, but something different, something she didn’t recognize. She rubbed one temple, trying to will her thoughts into some semblance of order. “I think you should put me down,” she said. “I’m sure this is quite improper.”

He chortled at that. “That may be true,” he agreed, “but you’re in no shape to be wandering around a brothel by yourself.”

She sighed again.“I live here,” she said.

“So you say,” he replied.

Emmeline thought fast, and it wasn’t easy, given the fog whirling in her brain. Then she gestured toward the door of a room she knew was empty—only a few days before, Chloe Barker had left Becky’s employ, and Kansas City, for good, taking a train west. Emmeline felt a sharp and sudden stab of envy over that, an uncharitable emotion that she’d been able to subvert when she was sober.

“In there,” she said. If she could just lie down for a few moments, close her eyes, recover her equilibrium, well, she’d be fine.

The Texan opened the door with a motion of his foot. The ghost scents of lavender water and talcum lingered faintly in the still air, dust motes floating like fragments of stars in the pale gaslight pouring in from the hallway. The bedstead was iron, painted white, and the coverlet was cream-colored sateen, threadbare but still pretty.

Emmeline yawned widely, and the man called Holt laid her down on the mattress, causing the bedsprings to creak. She tried to sit up, remembering that she was still wearing her shoes, aware that there were other, more important matters of concern as well, but he put a hand to her shoulder and she settled deeper into the pillows. She felt a merciful loosening sensation around her ankles as he undid her laces.

That, alas, was the last thing she remembered, for she was caught in a backwash of shadows then, and sent spinning into a place too dark and deep for dreams. When she awakened, the sun was up, and her head ached as though she’d laid it on the railroad track just before the 10:03 came through. The first thing that came to her awareness was that she was alone in the borrowed bed, wearing nothing but her skimpies.

Her eyes went wide as memory returned; bile surged into the back of her throat. Disjointed recollections traipsed one by one through her mind—the red dress, the man from Texas—what was his name?—the whiskey. She stumbled to the washstand next to the window, blinking against the harsh light, bent her head over the porcelain basin, and was violently ill. Then, with frantic motions of her hands, she touched her breasts, her belly, her thighs. She didn’t
feel
different. She wasn’t sore anywhere, and when she tossed back the bedclothes, holding her breath, there was no blood.

Maybe—
please God
—nothing had happened.

She sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, breathing slowly and deeply, both hands clasped to her stomach, lest it rebel again. And that was when she saw the gold pieces stacked neatly on the bedside table, next to the oil lamp. Emmeline gasped, then fell back on the pillows, yanked the covers up over her head, and wept, for she was surely ruined.

How would she ever explain her foolishness to Becky? Her aunt had spared no effort to make sure Emmeline’s life turned out differently from her own. In point of fact, Emmeline would have been sent away to convent school, long ago, if she hadn’t begged to stay in Kansas City, and Becky, always tenderhearted, had reluctantly given in. She would regret that decision now.

Just then, the door opened, and Becky stood on the threshold. Her hair was down, brushed to a rich ebony shine, and she wore a silk dressing gown of palest green. “I thought I heard—” she began, and then gasped, her eyes going from Emmeline to the shimmering stack of coins and back again.“Good God, Emmeline,” she rasped,
“what have you done?”

Emmeline bit her lower lip. She was at once too proud and too ashamed to weep before her aunt, and she had no explanation or even an excuse on hand. She merely sat there, wishing she were dead, staring at her aunt’s horrified face.

“Who was it?” Becky whispered, white faced and trembling.“I’ll shoot the bastard myself—”

Emmeline merely shook her head. Having shifted her gaze to the floor, she found it too heavy to lift again.

Becky hesitated for a few wretched moments, then stormed into the room and slapped Emmeline hard across the face. “You fool, you stupid—ungrateful—little trollop!” she cried, nearly choking on her rage.

Emmeline put a hand to her cheek. Defiance was all that held her together; without it, she would have collapsed, like a building torn from its foundation. “You raised me in a whorehouse,” she said. “Did you really think I’d ever be a lady?”

Becky moved as if to strike Emmeline again, then stopped her hand in midair. “Get out of my sight,” she whispered.“I can’t bear to look at you.”

E
MMELINE PEERED
,
through tear-swollen eyes, at the lavish advertisement on the third page of the
Kansas City Star.
She’d been awake all night, weeping and raging by turns, and it could have been said that she wasn’t in her right mind that sunny morning.

BRIDES WANTED
was the headline, printed in bold type with exclamation points aplenty.

Emmeline sniffled, her imagination stirred, buzzing like a hive full of excited bees. Five minutes later, she pressed a cold rag to her face, donned her best bonnet and her most becoming dress, which was dove gray with black piping around the collar, cuffs, and hem, and marched herself down to the corner, where she stepped aboard the streetcar, paid the one-cent fare, and resolutely took her seat.

She had begun that fateful morning in proud disgrace. When she returned to the boardinghouse, after two hours spent at the Happy Home Matrimonial Service, she was riding in a hansom cab, and she had vouchers for train and stagecoach fare in her drawstring bag, along with a marriage license, signed by a judge and duly recorded at the courthouse.

She was Mrs. Rafe McKettrick, in the eyes of God and man.

She stood stiff-shouldered in the doorway of Becky’s office, her trunks hastily packed and waiting on the porch, and announced that she was a married woman now and was leaving to make a new start in the Arizona Territory.

Becky went white at the news. “Good God,” she gasped, trying to rise from her desk chair and failing. “You’re not serious!”

Emmeline raised her chin a notch. “I have a train to catch,” she said.

“This is utter nonsense,” Becky said. “You can’t just marry yourself to some stranger and take off for the wilderness!”

“I can,” Emmeline told her stiffly, holding up the marriage license.“It’s quite legal.”

“I’ll have it annulled!” Becky pleaded, on her feet now, groping around the edge of the desk to face her niece. “Emmeline, I know I was angry—I struck you and I said things—”

Emmeline shook her head slowly. “None of that matters,” she said, somewhat dully. She had a strange, dreamlike feeling, as though she’d fallen into an unseen river and been borne away on the current. There was no going back.“I can’t stay here anymore. Not after—” She paused, swallowed hard.“I just can’t stay, that’s all.”

Becky took a desperate, almost bruising hold on her shoulders. “Don’t be an idiot, Emmeline! The west is a cruel, uncivilized place, and you can’t know what that man is like. Suppose he mistreats you?”

“He won’t,” Emmeline said. She didn’t feel as certain as she sounded, but she probably had Becky fooled. “If he does, I’ll leave him.”

“And do what? How will you support yourself if this ‘husband’ of yours turns out to be something less than a prince?” Tears glimmered in Becky’s eyes.

“I can teach school,” Emmeline replied. “Or maybe dance in a saloon.”

Becky’s face tightened, filled with grief. “That wasn’t funny,” she said.

“I didn’t mean it to be,” Emmeline answered. Then she kissed Becky’s cheek, albeit stiffly. “Goodbye,” she said. “And thank you for—for everything.”

“Emmeline!” Bcky called after her.

But Emmeline kept walking.

“Don’t think you can ever come back here!” Becky cried.“You leave, and you’d better stay gone for good!”

Tears sprang to Emmeline’s eyes, but she didn’t reply, didn’t look back.

The carriage driver was already loading her trunks into the boot of his cab when she reached the porch, where she stood for a few moments, struggling to recover her composure, watching the shadows of a million leaves dance over the lawn and the stone walkway.

“I’ll write,” Emmeline said, without turning around, because she knew if she faced her aunt now, she would surely lose her courage and stay. If that happened, she might as well join the business.

Becky didn’t speak.

Emmeline descended the porch steps, proceeded down the walk and through the gate. The driver handed her up into the cab, where she arranged her skirts on the cushioned leather seat and kept her eyes straight ahead.

There was a raw spring wind blowing when Emmeline Harding McKettrick finally stepped down off the stagecoach in Indian Rock, Arizona Territory, clutching a satchel in one hand and all her brave, foolish dreams in the other. She pulled her cloak tightly around her shoulders ders and looked around for a welcoming face amid the rowdy-looking strangers, but it soon became apparent that no one had come to meet her.

Battling the tears she’d been able to hold back throughout more than two weeks of grueling travel, she straightened her spine and glanced up at the crudely carved sign nailed above the door of the stage depot, thinking perhaps she’d alighted at the wrong stop.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t.

“Miss?” A young, fair-haired man came across the muddy road, his blue eyes alight with kindness and a sort of good-humored mischief that she sensed was as much a part of his makeup as the beat of his heart and the breath in his lungs. His build was lean, agile, and there was a quiet confidence about him that Emmeline found very reassuring.“Isn’t anybody meeting you?”

All the weariness, all the fretting, all the jolting and jostling over countless rough miles very nearly caught up with her when he asked that simple question, despite a staunch effort at shoring up her spirits. She swayed a little, blinked rapidly. “My—my husband,” she said. “The agency was supposed to send a telegram—”

The cowboy grasped her elbow quickly. “Here, now,” he said.“Have a seat on the edge of this water trough. Get your bearings.”

Before Emmeline could protest that she’d been sitting down quite long enough, between the trains, stagecoaches, and even freight wagons she’d ridden to reach this wilderness outpost, and wished to stand instead, raucous shouts of glee erupted from the saloon next door to the depot. The team of dusty horses hitched to the stagecoach nickered and fretted in their harnesses, and the driver, busy unloading Emmeline’s trunks, shouted a profane reprimand at the poor creatures and then spat copiously for emphasis.

Just then, the swinging doors of the drinking establishment parted with a reverberating crash, and a man burst through them, hurtling backward through the air, almost flying, then landing in a graceful roll from shoulder to hip to back. He lay supine for a few moments instead of coming directly to his feet, shaking his head once. Then he swore and raised himself onto his elbows.

Emmeline’s eyes widened as a truly terrible premonition struck her.“Who is that?” she asked.

“That,” said the cowboy, with affectionate resignation, “is my brother, Rafe McKettrick.”

Emmeline’s knees sagged; she nearly fell into the water trough.“No,” she said.

“Yes,” said the cowboy, regretfully.

She stood, took one step toward the man lying in the street, then another, until she was standing over him.

“Mr. McKettrick?” she inquired, in profoundest despair.

He looked up at her, squinting against the bright midafternoon sunshine, shook his head again, as though he believed he’d imagined the encounter, then scrambled to his feet and catapulted himself back through the saloon doors, where he was greeted by a round of jeers and huzzahs.

“Oh, no,” she said.

The fair-haired man, her self-appointed knight in shining armor, came to her side and gently guided her out of the street. “I’m afraid so,” he said. “Do you have business with my brother?”

She gave a little cry, pressing one hand to her mouth, and turned to face the beneficent stranger. “Yes,” she replied.“He’s my husband.”

“Well, hell,” said the cowboy, flinging his hat to the ground.

Emmeline took a step back, wide-eyed.

“I’m sorry if I startled you,” the man said, bending to reclaim his hat and slapping it against one thigh as he straightened. A small muscle pulsed at the edge of his jaw, and he plunked the hat back on his head before putting out a hand. “Welcome to Indian Rock, Mrs. McKettrick,” he told her, without smiling.“My name’s Jeb and I’m your brother-in-law.”

Suddenly the saloon doors sprang open and Rafe came flying through them again. He got up, without so much as a glance in her direction, and rushed back into the fray.

“That sneaking, low-down skunk,” Jeb muttered. Then he rallied to his former good cheer, gave a low whistle of exclamation, and turned a wicked grin on Emmeline. “Well, now,” he said, smooth as buttered taffy. “It looks like my brother has other things besides his new bride on his mind at the moment. Suppose we load up your things—that’s my buckboard right over there—and head for the Triple M. My pa’s going to be real pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Emmeline had neither the means nor the strength to get back on the stagecoach and travel on in hopes of finding herself in a better situation, which meant that her options were severely limited. Jeb McKettrick seemed polite enough, and he
was
her husband’s brother, which made him family, for all practical intents and purposes. She decided to trust him, and hoped her instincts about him were reliable.

“Thank you,” she acquiesced, hiding her reluctance as best she could, and ducked her head a little.

Jeb curved a finger under her chin, lifted her face, smiled down at her. She was cheered by the warmth and humor she saw in his eyes. “You’re safe wit me,” he said. “I promise you that.” He offered his arm, and she laid a hand on the inside of his elbow. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “There’s a dining room inside the hotel if you need something to eat. The food’s nothing special, but it’ll hold you until we get home.” Before she could answer, he went on.“The mercantile down the street carries a few ladies’ things. Is there anything you need before we set out?”

Emmeline blushed. “I couldn’t eat a thing,” she said honestly.“I’d like to—to freshen up a little, though.”

He smiled his understanding. Pointing to the alleyway between the saloon and the stage depot, he said, “There’s a privy out back. You’ll find water and soap for washing up on the bench around the side.”

Emmeline’s heart sank. She’d tried to prepare herself for the frontier, during the long trip west, giving due consideration to all manner of possibilities, both cheerful and sobering, but not once, in all those flights of fancy, had she reflected upon the probable state of the plumbing.

She hesitated, then collected herself and marched into the alley.

The privy was a true abomination, built of weathered wood and tilting distinctly to one side, but nature would not be denied. Holding her breath against the stench, Emmeline entered beneath a sign that read
CLOZ THE DOR
, worked the latch, and attended to her business with all possible haste. She came out gasping, and perhaps a little green, minutes later, and hastily washed at the community bucket.

When she gained the main street again, still shuddering a little, she saw that Jeb or the stagecoach driver had loaded her belongings into the bed of a small wagon, drawn by two sturdy black horses. She checked to make sure everything was secure, cast a look of resignation toward the saloon, where her bridegroom evidently preferred to pass his time, and turned to Jeb, who helped her up into the box, rounded the wagon, and climbed deftly up beside her.

I will not cry,
she promised herself sternly.

Jeb indicated the freight in back with a toss of his head. “Looks like you’re pretty well outfitted,” he said, probably to make conversation.“That’s good, since you’d have to send to San Francisco if you wanted anything fancy.”

She smoothed her skirts, patted her hair. Nodded to let him know she was listening. She didn’t trust herself to speak just then, for she seemed to be wearing her emotions on her sleeve. She did not wish to make a poor impression on her new family.

“You’re sure you don’t want something to eat before we leave?” Jeb persisted gently. “It’s more than two hours to the ranch, and that’s if we don’t run into any kind of trouble along the way.”

She shook her head, straightened her spine, and fixed her eyes on the road ahead.“I’ll be just fine,” she said, and tried with all her might to believe it.

The fight over, and his opponent snoozing on the billiard table, Rafe watched as Charlie Biggam, the stagecoach driver, stepped into the saloon and started toward the bar.

“Evenin’, Rafe,” Charlie said.

Rafe nodded.“Evenin’.”

Charlie glanced toward the billiard tale, where Jake Fink was starting to come around, groaning a little. “You and him get to bickering over fencing off the open range again?” he asked.

Rafe set his jaw, swirled his beer around in the mug. “Damn sodbuster,” he said.“If Jake had his way, the whole territory would be crisscrossed with barbed wire.”