The Rocky Mountain Heiress Collection (43 page)

She stared at him. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking.

“Gennie, I can’t propose because we’re already married,” he said. “But I can promise you a Wild West adventure every day of your life.”

She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

“No, thank you?”

Gennie rose up on her toes, her lips near his. “Not every day, please. I don’t think I could stand it.” She met his gaze. “Wait. We’re married.”

“Yes,” he managed.

She came torturously closer. “Legally wed.”

He could only nod.

“Husband and wife.”

Daniel scooped her into his arms, ignoring the twinge in his wounded leg, and carried her back inside.

“No, Daniel, not through the ballroom,” she cried as he stepped through the open doors.

“Oh my,” Mrs. Vanowen said as Gennie’s foot nearly connected with a suspiciously familiar jeweled bird in the center of the buffet table. “This is quite irregular.”

“Bravo, Daniel. Well done!” Papa called while Mama fanned herself and Charlotte and the earl clapped.

“Gennie!” Hester Vanowen called. “Where are you going?”

“My honeymoon.” Daniel’s wife pressed her lips against his ear. “And hurry. We’ve got two months of marriage to catch up on.”

Daniel grinned. “Technically it’s two and a half, but who’s counting?”

“I will be,” she whispered.

He set her on her feet and stole a kiss. “More of that later.” He nodded to the houseman, who brought out an elegantly wrapped package of large dimensions. “A wedding present.”

“What have you done?” She shook her head and unwrapped the gift, then squealed when she revealed the buckskin jacket. “This looks exactly like—”

“It is.” He helped her shrug into it. “I had a feeling you’d have need of it again someday.”

She gasped. “And my boots.”

Daniel swept up the package and ushered Gennie to the stairs. “Might I help you put these on?”

Gennie looked around. “Daniel, people are watching.”

He tried not to wince as he bent to one knee and lifted the edge of his wife’s House of Worth dress—the one he’d personally picked from the three drawings the empress had sent. Gennie’s shoes, chosen for their ease of removal, he tossed behind him, much to the delight of the watching crowd.

One by one, he slipped her boots into place, then, with a flourish, helped her stand. He looked up at the gallery and caught Charlotte watching, her hand solidly entwined with her grandfather’s. He winked at his daughter, and she blew him a kiss. His father nodded, then straightened his back and gave Daniel a smart salute.

If ever he’d been a man given to tears, now would have been the time to shed them. Perhaps someday, when he and Gennie recalled this moment to their children’s children, but not now. “One more surprise.”

“No more, Daniel. It’s too much.”

Another kiss, in full view of anyone still shameless enough to stare. “It will never be enough,” he whispered. “Never.”

“Daniel.”

On her lips, his name was a word, a name, and an invitation of such promise that he cut short the speech he’d prepared for the occasion.

“Close your eyes and take my hand.”

She did as he asked, and he led her forward until the grand front doors of the Vanowen mansion opened to reveal the best part of tonight’s plan.

“Look.”

Gennie laughed when she saw Blossom, her mane braided with roses and ribbons.

“I had to bribe her to do that,” Daniel said, “so you’d better appreciate it. Cost me plenty of carrots, I don’t mind telling you.” He followed his wife through the doors, tipping his hat at the doorman. “Oh,” he said as if he’d forgotten, “there’s one more thing.”

“Daniel, really! You’re spoiling me.”

“Hold that opinion for later, darling.” He leaned close. “You know how we brand our wives out west, don’t you?”

Her blue eyes widened, then narrowed. “You’re teasing me again.”

Daniel grasped her left hand and brought her fingers to his lips. From his pocket he pulled the ring he’d picked up this morning, the one Mr. Tiffany himself had designed from a unique and very out-of-the-ordinary piece of material: a hairpin.

The blush his wife wore as she allowed him to slip it on her finger was worth what it took to convince the jeweler his participation in the creation would be a secret both took to the grave. The exquisite diamond ring matched the silly bauble Mr. Tiffany proudly took credit for, but Gennie would not see that until she looked under her pillow.

“Darling, I mentioned something about making up for lost time?” Gennie asked.

Her slow smile almost made him change his honeymoon plans and carry her across the street to the chamber where she woke that morning. Instead, he climbed onto the horse, then hauled his wife on in front of him.

“Hold on, Mrs. Beck. You’re about to have the adventure of your life.”

With a flourish, he spurred the horse on, pointing her west toward home.

Manhattan Miss Flees Soiree on Horseback with Surprise

NEW YORK CITY, September 22, 1880—A large company of ladies and gentlemen of quality gathered in the home of our city’s premier host and hostess for a night of entertainment that will likely not be forgotten for some time. None were more surprised at last evening’s Vanowen soiree than those in attendance.

Thinking to be part of a gathering honoring visiting royalty, the Earl of Framingham, they were instead forced to watch one Eugenia Flora Cooper of Fifth Avenue Manhattan flee the festivities atop an oddly festooned horse along with one Daniel Beck of Denver, Colorado. Adorned in a gown of the most exquisite quality, Miss Cooper presented herself to society as a young woman of good breeding and refinement. Indeed her father, one John Abbot Cooper of our city, is very well thought of in banking circles. Her mother keeps excellent company and was, before her marriage, at home among the elite of Boston and Newport.

While neither Mrs. Vanowen or her husband would comment on the shocking turn of events visited upon their evening, it is an established fact that the music was furnished by Lander and the supper by Delmonico. The many invited guests included Ex-Mayor Wickham, Dr. and Mrs. Agnew, Mr. Latham Fish, Mr. and Mrs. Malcomb Graham, Mr. Chandler Dodd and his parents, the elder Dodds, as well as many other local, national, and international dignitaries.

In response to the debacle, Miss Cooper’s father offered the news that indeed his daughter had been wed to Mr. Beck for some months. When asked why the marriage had been
held in confidence, the banker had no comment on the matter. Nor could he offer any information on why someone formerly known as a docile and amenable woman would don what appeared to be boots and some sort of woodsman’s jacket for her humiliating ride up Fifth Avenue.

Thankfully the couple will reside in the West, where they both obviously will be more at home. As an aside to this, it has been learned that the Earl of Framingham will amend his tour of New York to board the Cooper railcar tomorrow at dawn in order to visit Denver and Leadville, where his son has considerable mining interests.

Becks Return From Wedding Tour Back East

DENVER, October 1, 1880—Delightful news from our own British royal Daniel Beck, who has wed the lovely Miss Eugenia Flora Cooper of Manhattan, New York. While in Leadville on a trip formerly explained as business, the pair said their vows with Mr. Beck’s daughter Charlotte and much of the better citizens of the city in attendance.

Indeed it appears the silver magnate and his wife will live happily ever after, as witnessed by the round of receptions, suppers, and parties already planned for them as news arrived of their wedding. When asked at the train station why their nuptials had been kept secret, Mr. Beck was mum on the matter. Mrs. Beck, however, expressed her happiness at returning to the city she once only dreamed of.

“Daniel is my husband and Denver is now my home,” the blushing bride said, accompanied by her handsome spouse. “A happier ending to a story has not been written than ours.”

Of all the misadventures our fair heroine Mae Winslow had found herself a part of, today’s was without question the most dangerous. The maiden stood unarmed and unable to defend herself, her very life in the gravest of danger.

For if the seamstress trying to make a wedding frock out of yards of satin and lace missed her target by the tiniest amount, the pointed weapon in her hand would surely plunge into Mae’s heart and kill her on the spot. Her proper, Boston-born Mama offered no protection, as she had fallen into soft snores in the chair nearest the shuttered window.

As if she discerned the direction of Mae’s thoughts, the designing damsel lifted a perfectly sculpted brow. “Something amiss, miss?” she inquired in a thick Irish brogue. Then, obviously thinking herself quite clever, she repeated the question before falling into a fit of giggles and going back to her murderous ways. “A few more tucks here and a seam there, and this masterpiece will be delivered to your hotel,” she said. “Though I do wonder whether you ought to have one last fitting this afternoon once I complete the work.”

The door knob rattled before Mae could offer a protest.

“A telegram for Miss Winslow,” came a feeble voice that failed to awaken Mama or cease the seamstresses’ pervasive pinning. Whether
lad or aged lady, there seemed little to recommend whomever carried the telegram. Still, it seemed someone should respond.

Mae attempted to step toward the door, but felt a hand grasp her elbow with a steely grip.

“You’ll ruin my work. Do not move.” With distinct displeasure, the seamstress made her way to the door. “Why, there’s no one here. Only this letter.” She turned, eyes wide. “I was told you were a woman of some importance back East come to wed the new governor. But this says your name is…” She shook her head. “Are you really…?”

Mae sighed. This sort of reaction had become all too frequent. Perhaps it was time to forever leave the name of Mae Winslow behind.

“Mae Winslow. Yes, I’m afraid so,” Mama said, having revived from her rest. “She never would answer to the name her papa and I gave her. Practically since birth, she’s ignored the proper and taken up with whatever suited her. It’s a wonder dear Henry is willing to be yoked to her tonight.”

Our fair one might have protested had Mae not been consumed with reading what was, in actuality, not a telegram but a cry for help. While the women prattled on, Mae made good on her ability to escape even the most dangerous situation undetected.

By the time Mama and the seamstress noticed her absence, Mae Winslow, Woman of the West, had divested herself of the horrid gown and found her way out the back. Around the corner of the building, trouble awaited in the form of dear Henry’s harried houseman.

“I knew I could count on you,” he said. “You must find the ring.”

Mae shook her head, looking around for Henry, who had likely planned the elaborate ruse. “Tell your employer I find great pleasure in being released from the clutches of that awful seamstress, but I’ll not be made sport of.”

“I jest not,” said the poor man, whose wringing hands spoke of the truth. “I was sent to fetch the ring you’re to be given tonight.” He mustered up a tear as he told of a thump on the head followed by a galloping horse. “When I awoke, the ring was no longer in my pocket. The thief said to tell you it had been taken by Dakota Dan.”

A name she knew all too well.

Mae formed a plan. Purloining a mare from those assembled in the livery plagued her conscience only for a moment. She’d return the beast along with a hefty payment once her deed was done.

For she knew where to find Dakota Dan.

Rounding the bend at Forked Trail, she came upon the man she sought. Her horse, while not tried and true, was brave and bore the upward rise of the treacherous trail with vigor. Atop the bluff, she found a better view of the valley and Dakota Dan, seemingly oblivious to her presence.

Lacking any way to hobble the mare, Mae led it along behind her. Better to have the means to escape should such an exit be required. That the animal might alert Dan to her proximity was a risk she would have to take. And yet the man from the Dakotas seemed too preoccupied with his endeavors to pay her any heed. He raised some sort of weapon, something that glinted in the sun as he lifted it, then brought it down against the hard-packed earth.

He was digging a hole. The rogue.

Creeping ever nearer, Mae reached for the pistol hidden in her
skirts, only to realize she’d removed it, along with her knife, before the fitting.

“So be it,” she whispered to the mare. “I’ve wit enough to accomplish this.”

And wit she called upon as she used her heel to cut a green vine from the brush to tie up the horse. With a promise to return, she moved through the thicket, inching closer to her prey. Soon only the space of a few feet remained between her and the man who’d stolen her wedding ring.

Dan stood with his back to her. Under other circumstances, Mae might have admired the cut of his jacket and the breadth of his shoulders, or the strength in his arms as he wielded the shovel.

But not now. Her purpose was not admiration but justice.

Her finely tuned senses took her within reach of the site where Dakota Dan, his efforts complete, tossed a leather sack into the hole. That done, the outlaw hastened to remove all signs of having buried his loot.

And then he did the most dastardly thing of all. Right there, practically within reach of Mae, Dakota Dan sat on a rock and pulled out a box lunch and a book.

Sighing, Mae crouched in the brush until her knees quaked, and yet the man seemed in no hurry to vacate the scene of his crime. Without weapons, she could hardly subdue such a man, so she vowed to wait him out. Surely he would soon leave.

The sun traveled across the sky, and Dakota Dan showed no interest in moving. From the length of the shadows, Mae knew she would soon be missed at the chapel. She hoped dear Henry would forgive her for arriving late to her own wedding. She was, after all, the bride and surely entitled to such things.

Time continued to pass, and good intentions aside, she somehow allowed her eyelids to fall, for soon she jerked awake. Dakota Dan stood above her.