Lessie: Bride of Utah (American Mail-Order Bride 45) (17 page)

With a strike of sudden clarity she understood what she
could
do.
She
had Richard Cannon’s ear. If anyone had a hope of persuading him to try something different, to open his heart and his mind to the possibilities, it was she.

A rush of excitement tingled from her innards clear to her fingertips and toes… and she could see it, all of it. Perhaps this was why an unknown person or persons had struck back in blind fury against Cannon Mining, to hurt the giant machine that wore men threadbare and kept all of the money within the company.

Money
.

Richard had it, his employees did not.

She’d reached out to him, a carefully worded telegram, asking him to advance the funds necessary to travel from the Atlantic seaboard very nearly across the North American continent.

And he’d said yes.

Perhaps she had whatever it took to convince him to say yes once more.

She had to try.

Lessie sat beside her husband on the wagon bench, nearly vibrating with excitement. She’d had hours on their return trip to Ogden City to consider everything she wanted to say, how she’d approach her requests, how to phrase things… after all, Mr. Bob Brown, owner of the burned-out Brown Textile Mill, had never parted with a penny.

She’d overheard the gossip, knew how much Roberta had struggled as the factory manager.

Evidently, wealthy men didn’t remain wealthy by parting with coin easily.

But Lessie believed in her cause. And in her husband. By light of day, her reasoning looked just as solid, just as credible.

She’d started, a good half-dozen times, to broach the subject of changing things at Big Ezra, but hadn’t worked up the courage.

Traffic on Ogden City streets was heavy. Richard’s attention was on the roads, other teamsters, so she waited until they made it through the worst of the congestion and onto a residential street.

He yawned wide and deep, weariness showing. He was dirty, his beard had grown in, and he looked like he belonged more in her world than his own. He hardly resembled the man she’d met at the Union Station.

Would it be better to approach this now, while they were on an even playing field? Once he’d bathed, shaved, dressed in his businessman’s clothing…
or not…

What if he intended to follow through on his promise to end their waiting period? What if he didn’t want to talk business?

She couldn’t risk allowing him time to fill their early evening with anything but this all-important business conversation. She believed these changes to be precisely what Cannon Mining
needed…

Perhaps
she
held the key to salvaging his business.

Lessie put her hand, almost possessively, on Richard’s knee. Broad and strong, hard and warm, beneath his denims. She’d meant it only as a conversation-starter, a way to claim a portion of his attention from the road, but he quickly covered her hand with his, slid her a grin that belied his tiredness.

Oh, the man definitely had evening plans on his mind.

She blurted, “I want a serious conversation with you.”

“Sweetheart, if you’re planning to hold out on me again, be prepared for kisses you until you give in.”

A nervous giggle spilled out in a throaty sound so unlike herself. “No, no. I’m fine with… that. This is about business.”

“Business can wait. We’ve dealt with nothing but business for the past five days straight. Tonight, this is just about you and me.”

Part of her wanted to laugh aloud, to boldly kiss him right here on the street where anyone and everyone could see.

This beautiful man, whose heart was so much larger than even he understood, was
hers
.

Would she be wiser to wait and address the proposed business changes until tomorrow? He might be far more willing to bend to her will, more eager to accommodate her wishes… or at least to listen.

Wouldn’t he?

If she insisted they speak of business first, she ran the risk of him assuming she’d lost interest in him… and if she wasn’t interested in being his loving wife, then he’d be less concerned about keeping her happy.

No, this conversation needed to wait. But just until tomorrow.

Chapter Fourteen

When they finally arrived home, Richard wanted nothing more than to see his wife inside, but the horses needed to be dried, combed, their hooves cleaned, watered, fed.

So he unlocked the house for her and urged her inside. “You go ahead, Sweetheart. Have a bath and make yourself comfortable. I’ll be along as quickly as I take care of the team.”

If she felt the least bit nervous at all that would soon pass between them, she didn’t show it. In fact, she quickly kissed him on the mouth, stroked his cheek, and slipped inside.

It took more self-mastery than he’d have thought to take the horses in and start the chores.

Why had he ever thought he’d somehow found himself stuck with the less-sweet and pleasant of the identical sisters? He couldn’t say he knew Josie, his sister-in-law, at all, but he’d come to know much about Lessie, and the more he knew her, the more he loved her.

Thoughts of his bride filled his mind as he rushed from chore to chore and when at last he’d completed all that must be done, he took the back stairs two at a time, slipped through the door, and locked it behind himself.

The house was quiet. Lessie wasn’t anywhere downstairs, and he pictured her sitting at the dressing table in their bedroom, combing out her wet hair. He’d watched her brushing her hair in that very spot only once, as they’d spent more nights on the floor than in their bed.

If he had his way, that would change.

He didn’t care to spend more time in Big Ezra. He liked the comforts of home, and wanted to spoil Lessie with everything he could provide. Running water. Indoor plumbing. A coal furnace. Solid, sturdy furniture. A new gown, every day of the week. Soft, feminine, lacy undergarments.

But the bathroom door was shut. No footfalls came from the second floor.

He listened intently outside the bath. No sounds of water, no hint of movement. He knocked lightly. “Lessie?”

Starkly reminded of the last time he’d stood outside this door, ready to eat his words… only to discover she’d relished a chance to soak in hot water, he wondered if he’d always find her baths took hours.

He rapped again. “Lessie?” The door must not have been latched tightly because it slipped open. And there she was, lying in the tub, her head resting back against the edge upon a rolled towel.

She must’ve fallen asleep before she’d washed her hair because her long, dark hair remained dry.

Poor girl. Weariness from travel, from nights cut short by arising well before dawn and often retiring way too late, it all must have caught up with her. Not to mention the vigorous exercise of following miners all over camp and moving from building to building on her quest to help him.

Love for his beautiful wife welled within him. Warm, precious, and new.

He’d been falling in love with her nature, her strength, her resilience… so he really shouldn’t be surprised he found himself fully in love with her.

Amazing, this chest-expanding sensation, so warm and unexpected.

Is this what Aunt Anna-Lisa and Uncle Noah felt for one another? What his own parents had known?

How much sweeter would it become, when fully reciprocated?

To have Lessie look at him with unabashed affection, with her heart in her eyes… the blessed idea nearly knocked him to his knees.

Just how would he ensure his bride fell in love with him, too?

He hadn’t any idea. None at all.

He really ought to wake her. Let her finish her bath and climb between the cool sheets and sleep. A more selfish man would wash her hair for her, hoping that highly intimate favor would naturally develop into much more.

Either way, he couldn’t allow her to sleep in the tub in cooling water. She’d awake with a crick in her neck, pulled muscles, and a chill from sleeping in cold water.

No. He certainly couldn’t allow her to sleep all night in the tub.

So the only question remained: did he call to her to wake her, or did he approach the tub, perhaps kiss her awake?

Which would his innocent bride find most appealing?

Which might nudge her down the path of coming to love him in return?

“Lessie.” Richard waited at the doorway, watching for any sign of her stirring. He’d wake her and allow her to finish her bath.

Maybe, if he asked nicely, she’d allow him to wash her hair. If not… would she allow him to comb her hair?

When she didn’t so much as stir, he knocked on the door frame. “Lessie, honey, wake up.”

Even, slow, and deep breaths showed above the rim of the tub in the rise and fall of her shoulder. Her face, so relaxed in sleep, had become so very dear.

Her features, so relaxed in sleep, had been one of his most highly focused points of study in the past many days. He found it difficult to believe so much fire and energy and passion hid behind such a childlike, gentle expression in sleep.

“Lessie?” How much harder should he try? He shut the door, none too gently, then opened it right back up. Nothing. No response.

Disappointment crowded in. So much for everything he had planned.

Her need for rest trumped everything else.

As his hopeful plans tiptoed out, he saw so clearly what he needed to do.

He hurried to the bedroom, turned down the bed covers on her side, then back to the bathroom, to wake his bride, dry her off, see her dressed in a clean nightdress and into bed.

How to do this? He couldn’t just pick her up out of the water. Nor could he hold a towel out to safeguard her sense of modesty, not both at the same time.

Soapy water, barely transparent, covered her form. Tempting outlines showed in the waning daylight but not much else. But this was no longer a seduction, just the task of moving his bride into bed
to sleep
.

He rolled up his sleeve, plunged a hand into the water and pulled the stopper from the drain. Water began swirling into the pipes.

Lessie awoke suddenly, shrieked, and curled her arms and legs up as a screen.