The Wedding of the Century & Other Stories (12 page)

Amy's heart began to beat faster. She had never received a proposal, but she had heard about several of them secondhand from Corinne and some of her friends, and this sounded suspiciously like one. However, she could hardly believe that Charles Whitaker would actually be making an offer of marriage to
her!

“Amy—my love makes me bold to call you that—”

“It's all right,” Amy reassured him softly.

Annoyance flickered in his eyes for an instant at her interruption, but was quickly gone, replaced by a look of melting love.

“Amy, my dearest, I cannot hold back my feelings any longer. I have fallen deeply, desperately, in love with you. I want you for my wife. Say you'll marry me, and you'll make me a happy man.” He smiled down into her face.

Amy gazed at him in amazement and uncertainty.
She had finally had a proposal of marriage!
No one could ever again say that she had been utterly unwanted. Her heart swelled with feeling. Charles Whitaker was everything a woman could want in a man—handsome, courteous, sophisticated. It would be very easy to fall in love with him; in fact, already she thought she was halfway to that point—aflutter with nerves whenever he was around, dreamily imagining him as the hero of her stories. The only problem was…

“But I don't know you!” she blurted out.

His expectant face fell, and Amy realized how graceless her response had been.

“I'm sorry. It's not that I don't have a—a great deal of regard for you, Mr. Whitaker. But, well, I haven't known you long. And marriage is such a major step. A lifetime, in fact.” It occurred to her that she sounded deadly dull and sensible. Corinne, she knew, would have groaned at such a practical response.

Charles took her hands in his, squeezing them and saying passionately, “Love can happen in an instant! I cannot stop thinking about you, dreaming about you.”

He raised her hands to his mouth and began to press his lips feverishly against them. Amy stared at him, feeling ridiculous and embarrassed. She had imagined many times a man saying words such as this to her, and now, when it was actually happening, it sounded rather absurd.

“Mr. Whitaker, please…” Amy tugged her hands out of his grasp. “I think it's time we returned to the house.”

Charles grabbed her shoulders. “Please!” he exclaimed passionately. “Tell me that you return my feelings! I burn for you!”

He jerked her to him and kissed her hard. Amy, shocked, froze for a moment, unable to move or even think. Then his tongue thrust against her lips, wet and disgusting, and she began to struggle, twisting her face away.

“No! Stop!” She wriggled and squirmed, trying to break the bond of his arms around her, but he was stronger than she. Strangely, he seemed to enjoy her struggles.

“Ah!” he said, the loverlike tone gone from his voice, replaced by a coarse quality. “Maybe this won't be such a chore after all. You might be a little interesting.”

“What!” Amy went still, all the color leaving her face. “What do you mean?”

He grinned, one hand coming up to crudely encircle
her breast. “Just that there's some fire in you, after all. I think I may enjoy ‘compromising' you.”

Hurt and rage surged through her, and Amy brought her foot down with all her might on his instep, wishing that her dancing slippers had higher heels.

What they did have proved quite enough. Whitaker let out a howl of pain, and his arms slackened around her.

Amy tore out of his grasp and darted off.

W
HITAKER STOOD BETWEEN
Amy and the buggy, so when she ran away from him, she ran away from it, too. Instinctively she headed toward the only shelter within reach: the decaying sheepherder's hut. She knew that even though she had gotten a head start on Whitaker, he would soon catch up with her, hampered as she was by her dress and petticoats, her flimsy dancing slippers and the stays that fashionably bound her waist. Her only hope was to reach the hut before he did and somehow bar it against him.

But before she could reach the shack, Whitaker caught her. He grasped the back of her dress, pulling her to a stop. Her dress ripped, tearing down to her waist in back. Amy twisted, trying to pull loose, but she succeeded only in tearing her bodice further, so that it slid down her arms, exposing her chest, which was clad in only her chemise and stays.

Whitaker threw her to the ground, knocking the breath out of her. He dropped down to his knees, straddling her prone body, and began to rip at the laces of her stays. Amy struggled, but her arms were hampered by her fallen bodice. He grabbed the bodice, twisting it around her wrists and jerking them up above her head, immobilizing her arms.

Amy bucked and struggled impotently, sobbing, but Whitaker only leered down at her, his grin widening. She realized with horror that her movements were arousing
him. She let out a scream of rage, and he slapped her, almost casually, then chuckled.

“Who do you think's going to hear you out here?”

“My father will kill you!” she spat.

“I doubt it,” he retorted cheerfully. “More likely he'll insist that I marry you.”

Fury surged through Amy. She hated him, and she hated herself for letting him trick her so. She redoubled her efforts to escape, twisting and kicking. Her pulse hammered in her ears, so hard that for a moment she thought the drumming she heard was merely that. Then it registered that it was hoofbeats, bearing down on them fast.

She turned her head, hope dawning on her face. A horse was thundering toward them, and a man leaned low over its neck. Amy recognized both horse and man in the bright moonlight.

“Jesse!”

A look of such dismay crossed Whitaker's face that Amy would have laughed in any other circumstances. He scrambled to his feet and started to run, but the horse was upon them now, and Jesse leaped off the horse onto him. The men tumbled onto the ground and rolled. Quickly Jesse was on top, his fists pummeling Whitaker. Amy scrambled to her feet, impatiently disentangling her torn bodice from her wrists. She stumbled toward the men.

“Jesse! No! Please! Stop! You'll kill him!” The rage drained from her at the sickening sounds of his fists thudding into flesh. She ran to Jesse and tugged at his arm.

He turned and looked up at her. His pale eyes were bright, close to madness, and Amy drew in a quick breath, almost afraid of him. Then reason returned to his face, and he was once again the Jesse she knew well. He rose to his feet, brushing back his hair with his hand. His eyes ran down her body, and then he averted his head.

Amy realized then that she was embarrassingly close to nakedness. Her bodice was completely gone, and her stays, with their laces halfway undone, sagged open, exposing her chest almost to her waist in only the thin covering of her chemise. She looked down at herself. The dark circles of her nipples showed through the thin cloth, plainly visible to Jesse, and as the breeze brushed over her naked shoulders and arms, she shivered and her nipples tightened, turning into hard little buds.

Thoroughly humiliated, Amy crossed her arms over her chest, huddling into herself, as a burning blush spread over her throat and face. Tears sprang into her eyes, and she struggled not to cry in front of Jesse, feeling that somehow that would be the final humiliation.
Whatever must he think of her?
Somehow it seemed the worst of the whole mess that she should be humiliated in front of a man who had for many years been her friend.

“I'm sorry,” she mumbled miserably, tears leaking out of her eyes.

“Sorry!” Jesse exclaimed, impulsively going to her and curling his arm protectively around her shoulders. “What in the blue blazes do you have to be sorry for? That scoundrel over there's the one who ought to feel sorry, and, by God, he will by the time I get through with him.”

“No!” Amy leaned against Jesse, grateful for his strength and reassurance, her hand clenching in the front of his shirt. “Please, don't do anything else. It'll only make it worse! I've created such a scandal. Oh, what will Mama and Papa say?”

She burst into sobs at the thought, and Jesse held her, murmuring soft words of sympathy and stroking her hair awkwardly. He couldn't help but be aware of Amy's nearly naked chest against his. Her breasts pressed into him, the nipples pointing, and he could feel the warmth of her
skin beneath his arms. Her hair, tumbling down from its elegant roll, was sweet-smelling, and soft as satin. He could feel his own body hardening. He was a scoundrel himself to respond to her that way, he thought, when she was in such distress from the lustful pawings of another man.

But he could not help it. Holding Amy in his arms was something he had wanted to do for years, though under normal circumstances he would never have allowed himself to. He knew it was hopeless, but he had loved Amy for years—from the first moment he'd seen her, when he was fifteen and she was thirteen, and she'd come charging in like a wildcat to save him.

Jesse had been an orphan, and had made his way in the world since he was ten years old, when he went to work for a brutal man named Olen Sprague. Amy and her father had come to Sprague to purchase a horse from him, and they had arrived just as Sprague was whipping Jesse for yet another infraction. Amy, horrified, had run in between Sprague's belt and Jesse, and had commanded him to stop, her usual shyness and reserve melted by her anger. Mr. McAlister had wound up offering Jesse a job at his ranch, and they had left, without the horse for Amy, but with Jesse.

He had remained with them ever since, and had become one of Mr. McAlister's most trusted employees, breaking and training cow ponies. He held McAlister responsible for changing his life, and there was nothing he would not do for the man—or for Amy. Amy, he thought, was pure gold, clever and sweet, worth ten of her prettier sister. She was far out of the reach of most men, though, including himself. She was an innocent, a child, and it made him burn with rage to think what Charles Whitaker had tried to do to her—and made him feel ashamed of himself that
he could have such a basic masculine response to the feel of her in his arms.

“Come, I'll take you back to the house,” he said quickly to cover his discomfort. He looked down at her state of undress. He couldn't take her back this way. Quickly he stripped off his jacket and handed it to her. “Here, put this on.”

Gratefully Amy slipped into his jacket. It looked ludicrous, of course, and its buttons started so far down that one could easily see that she had no dress on beneath it, but at least she was decently covered. She clung to Jesse, still sniffling, as he led her to his horse and helped her up onto it. Then he swung up behind her and, cradling Amy in his arms, turned the animal toward home.

Amy snuggled into Jesse's chest, grateful for his strength—and his silence. She was unbearably humiliated, and knew she could not answer any questions or face a lecture right now. Jesse, however, was comforting and uncensorious. He had long been one of the few people to whom she could talk easily; he was quiet and undemanding, the only man she knew besides her father who seemed to pay any attention to her. She often sat out on the corral fence and watched him break a horse, and it was easy to smile at him and chat with him when he took a break for a drink of water. He had even sat, his fingers busy cleaning and polishing the tack and saddles, and listened to her talk about the exciting things she discovered in books, something that even her father usually didn't have time for.

Thank God it was Jesse who had found her in that awful situation, and not someone else.

Tears started to leak from her eyes again as she thought about what had happened, but after a while they subsided. It was so comfortable leaning against Jesse. She began to feel calmer. She had been a fool, she thought wearily. She
should have known that no man would truly be interested in her, as Charles Whitaker had pretended to be. She had doubtlessly mired her family in an awful scandal. Just thinking of that man's hands and mouth on her made her shudder. Jesse had rescued her from the horror of what Charles had tried to do, and she was enormously grateful to him, but that would not prevent a scandal. All she could do was pray that somehow she could keep all the people at the party from finding out what had happened.

Jesse was thinking the same thing. He hoped that if he rode quietly into the yard and left his horse by the corral, perhaps he could get Amy in the back door without anyone seeing her. Then he could find Mr. McAlister and explain to him what had happened and trust in him to hush the matter up.

Unfortunately, there was no possibility of entering the ranch house secretly. When they were still some distance from the house, Jesse caught sight of the bobbing lights of lanterns and torches all around the yard and outbuildings and even beyond.

He slowed down, wondering how he could manage to evade the well-meaning searchers, but just then a man's voice cried, “There! Miss Amy! Is that you?”

A rider moved out of the shadow of the trees and trotted toward them. It was Hank Westruther, a neighboring rancher, and the husband of one of the biggest gossips in the county. Grimly Jesse pulled up.

“Mr. Westruther, please, could you—”

He interrupted gleefully. “Miss Amy! It is you!” The man turned, waving his lantern wildly, and shouted in the direction of the house, “I've found her! Here! McAlister!”

He turned his attention back to Jesse and Amy. “You're one of Lawrence's men, aren't you? What happened?”

“Yes, sir, I'm Jesse Tyler.”

“Of course. The wizard with horses.” Westruther peered at Amy, who kept her face turned into Jesse's chest. “Is she all right? What happened to the girl? Don't seem like that little Amy to go wandering off like this.”

“She's fine,” Jesse replied, ignoring Westruther's other questions. He touched his heels to his horse's sides, urging him into a trot. The best thing he could do now was get Amy into McAlister's hands as quickly as possible.

But as they rode into the yard, people on foot and horseback seemed to converge on them from all directions. The yard was soon full of lights and people, babbling questions. McAlister and his wife came out onto the porch, their faces white and worried, followed by their daughter Corinne, who looked sulky. They stopped when they saw Jesse and Amy and stared at them. Corinne's mouth fell open.

Amy, in an agony of embarrassment, hid her face against Jesse's chest. He had to dismount and help her down, however, and when he did so, she was fully exposed to everyone in her state of deshabille—hair tumbling down to her shoulders and a man's coat over her almost bare chest.

Amy wrapped Jesse's jacket tightly around her and ducked her head. The crowd pressed in on her from all sides, and she whirled back to Jesse. “Jesse…”

“Stand back,” he ordered the people around them, then swept Amy up into his arms to carry her up the steps to her parents.

“Oh, Amy!” Mrs. McAlister reached out her hand to her daughter's head. “Are you all right, honey?”

“Take her into the back parlor, Jesse,” her father ordered gruffly. Mrs. McAlister followed Jesse, leaving her husband to reassure all the guests, and Corinne trotted behind her, her face alight with curiosity.

“What happened?” Corinne asked breathlessly. “Amy, what did you do?”

“Is she hurt?” Mrs. McAlister's forehead was knotted with worry. “Corinne, honey, stop asking questions and go get a wet cloth for your sister.”

Corinne grimaced, but turned and went off to the kitchen. Mrs. McAlister gripped Jesse's arm, pulling him to a stop. “What happened, Jesse? Where's that Whitaker fellow? Pat Spielman said they left the house together. Did he—”

“
Nothing
happened,” Jesse stated firmly. “I found them and I took care of the son—of Whitaker. I don't think he really hurt her, only scared her.”

“Oh, thank God.”

“I'm all right,” Amy said, turning her head and looking at her mother for the first time. “I'm so sorry, Mama.”

Unlike Jesse, Mrs. McAlister was not at all surprised at her daughter's apology, and she understood very well why she offered it. Tears began to pour afresh from Mrs. McAlister's eyes. “Oh, Amy! What are we going to do?”

Jesse carried Amy into the parlor and carefully set her on the sofa. Amy took his hand, reluctant to let him go. His quiet strength had been so reassuring.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“No need to thank me.” He squeezed her hand.

Corinne hurried into the room, carrying a wet cloth, and handed it to her mother, who began to bathe Amy's face. She stepped back, looking down at her sister. “Everybody's been running around like chickens with their heads cut off,” she announced, looking rather put out.

“I'm sorry,” Amy murmured again.

Mr. McAlister came into the room and shut the door firmly behind him, turning the key in the lock. “Damned busybodies,” he growled. “I wouldn't put it past that Mrs.
Bowen to come bustling in here on some excuse or other.” He strode over to the sofa and shook Jesse's hand firmly. “Thank you, Jesse. I could never repay you for what you've done.”

Jesse looked embarrassed and shook his head. “There's no need to thank me, sir. Anyone would have done the same. When I saw Whitaker take her off like that, I figured he was up to no good. I'm just sorry I didn't get after them any quicker. I had to go back and saddle my horse. I hadn't figured on him having a horse and buggy hidden.”