Cowboy Daddy

by Hannah McBride

  The bluejays must have considered that angle, as well; several were strutting across the lawn, stabbing sharp beaks into the sod for whatever little critters might be hibernating there, and several others had decided to take advantage of this giant birdbath so thoughtfully provided by humans.

  “And what was your opinion?”

  “Didn’t see where he was goin’ with it, at first, and that’s a fact. He’s had his pick of lovelies around ever since—for years, and never showed an interest in marryin’ any of ’em. But he explained that he needed a mama for that little girl, and you, Miss Finch, seemed t’ fit the bill.”

  “I was desperate,” Caroline finally admitted, very softly. “I had nowhere else to turn.”

  Tom was eyeing her with sympathy. “Yes, ma’am. There are some tough times in life.”

  From enjoying a comfortable, if not extravagant, lifestyle—with a lovely little home all her own, a good job teaching at the nearby private school, and the respect of her peers—Caroline Finch had been catapulted into a world of physical pain, emotional suffering, and creeping, alarming poverty. All due to the long-distance trucker aiming to beat a red light. The fact that the Prius which she was driving, and in which her father was riding as passenger, happened to be in the intersection at the time, made for a spectacular collision.

  She was months recovering from her injuries. At least she’d gotten the chance to recover. Her father hadn’t. He had died of his massive wounds in the ambulance, en route to the hospital.

  Christmas came and went, as did most of her colleagues and few friends, along with her post at Blakely Bridges College Prep. With employment eliminated, so, of course, was her insurance to pay for mounting medical bills. Nothing was left of her Prius to recover financially, nor had her blue-collar father left an estate. First to be sold was her laughably small stock portfolio; then it was necessary to cash in her pension. Last to go was the condo she had loved.

  She might, of course, have sought reparations in some way. Plenty of attorneys existed for the sole purpose of helping workers regain their rights. In this case, her job. But she hadn’t pursued it. After so many months of turmoil, she was too tired to continue fighting, and the prospect of more conflict left her feeling even more exhausted.

  Someone had jokingly suggested that she check out the want ads, since everything seemed to be falling apart in a big way. She’d done better. She’d found a special section with a list of men (via post office boxes, naturally) seeking mail order brides.

  The rest, as they say, was history.

  Her agreement to marry Benjamin Taggart, and raise his motherless daughter, had provided her with purse strings open for all contingencies.

  It was that, or bankruptcy. Or worse.

  “You musta been feelin’ like someone up above was out to getcha,” said Tom, after another sip of his cooling coffee.

  “It was—very hard…” Even now, Caroline was hard-pressed to choke back tears. “I couldn’t even attend Dad’s funeral, because I was still only half-conscious in a hospital bed. By then, I felt that—there was—no way…out…”

  Again, that gentle hand laid upon her forearm. “Sounds t’ me like you left a lotta bad stuff back there in Vermont. And that you’re ready now for a new beginnin’. A better life.”

  Lashes wet, Caroline sent him a grateful glance. “I do believe you’re right, Tom.”

  His smile held all the sweetness of a guardian angel “From what Ben tells me, you two have got a weddin’ scheduled in the next few days. Miss Finch, ma’am, I hope you will do me the supreme honor of lettin’ me walk you down the aisle.”

  The tears no longer threatened; they were falling. Somehow, Caroline managed to smile, like sunshine after rain. “Mr. Sinclair, the honor would be all mine.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Dearly beloved,” began the litany familiar to anyone who has ever attended a wedding. “We are gathered together here…”

  “Here” was in front of the altar of Marigold’s Divine Richness Church of God, at 2:00 p.m. on a warm and humid late May afternoon.

  The small church—fitting by comparison, since the bridal party itself was small, and the ceremony too would be small—but beautiful enough, in a modest way, had been decorated with urns of pink and yellow roses and pew bows formed from satin in the same vibrant hues.

  No guests had been invited, which seemed to indicate that the ceremony was some sort of hole-and-corner affair, hastily arranged and hastily assembled. As promised, Tom Sinclair had tucked Caroline’s trembling hand into the crook of his black-suited elbow, escorted her forward, and then taken his place beside Ben, as witness; Marilou stood next to the bride, as second witness. Of everyone in attendance, only Sophie, looking like a happy little butterfly in sunny yellow lace, seemed completely at her ease. And excited.

  Capable Marilou, with the wheels already set in motion way before this, had needed merely to finish off last-minute details. Thus the flowers, and the chosen colors, and the genial Rev. Paul Lawton to officiate, and her own filmy carnation bridesmaid’s frock.

  As for Caroline, she had purchased her wedding gown several months ago, without benefit of Marilou’s advice or interference. This much she wanted—needed!—to do on her own. Given the admiration showing on various expressions when she appeared, Caroline had chosen well.

  A simple floor-length design, with straight bodice and softly shirred waist, the silk charmeuse A-line skirt displayed a narrow panel of lace to match its sheer cap sleeves. Flat in front, drawn back into the hint of a bustle in back, the dress fit her slender figure with panache and elegance. No veil; only a small headpiece of pearls, rhinestones, and white silk roses.

  The traditional rites began: listen to this, make promises to that; words and movements that flowed by as a blur. One flash, and it was over, even the quick public peck by her groom that gave away nothing.

  Somewhat dazed, Caroline stood looking down at the tasteful diamond band he had placed on her finger. For better or for worse, she was married. She was a wife.

  Congratulations and hugs and felicitations swirled around her, seeming to lift her up like thistledown and swirl her into the midst, as well. But Tom’s reassuring wink helped bring her back to earth, and reality6.

  Afterward, she couldn’t help asking, in the limo designated for the bridal couple’s use, how her new husband had managed to put aside business cares long enough to attend his own wedding.

  “Oh ho. I detect a touch of sarcasm there,” he chortled, in perfect good humor. “Listen, Marilou has arranged a reception at the Sherman Club. That okay with you? I like that dress, by the way. Fetching. Although you could’ve gotten one that showed more skin.”

  “It’s a bit late to be asking if arrangements are okay, isn’t it? I mean, everything’s already set? Or would you consider changing her plans at the last minute?”

  One word description for her new husband: Cocky. Correction. Three word description: Cocky as hell. She sighed, wondering if Ben would continue to assign Marilou every task concerning “arrangements” for her marriage, as he had done for their wedding.

  No, by God. She would not allow it. Just let her settle in, take hold of the reins, and continue. Managing this house, this coupling, this child, was her business, and hers alone. Not one iota for some outsider.

  At the Sherman Club, an exclusive and opulent place on the outskirts of Austin whose décor ran to silver and mirrors and cold black marble, a few dozen of Ben’s closest friends were gathered. One of whom was Lila Sampson, who lightly but determinedly rapped the circulating bridegroom on his shoulder.

  “You sly fox,” she complained. “Never lettin’ on one mention about gettin’ married. Hey, you two have somethin’ goin’ on for years here, or what?”

  “Well, now, Lila, not that I would plan on telling you all my secrets, but this took us by surprise, too. Last-minute decision, and all. Here, have some champagne.”

  During the peak of the revelry—clearly most of these guest
s were prepared to celebrate any gala occasion, at any time, especially if liquor were involved—Caroline managed to escape to the sanctuary of a beautiful ladies’ room. There, propped onto a round divan that reminded her of Miss Muffet’s tuffet, she could steal a moment to breathe.

  She had arrived at the Ten Buck on Thursday. Today was Saturday, a full week and two days later. In that time she had been honored by Ben’s presence exactly twice: once for half an hour, in a formal little sitting room, while he skimmed through correspondence; once at supper, in between a trip from here to there and back again.

  When it came to companionship, Marilou had actually provided more than Caroline’s own husband-to-be. Along with so much necessary information. A tour of the whole house, and an introduction to the household staff, and a quick cool meeting with Mrs. Wyeth that established boundaries (i.e. who was boss; who wasn’t). A notebook listing the names and telephone numbers (land and cell) of neighbors, friends, family members, employees, business associates, medical professionals, repairmen, and the like. Another notebook detailing all the ingredients of Sophie’s brief life, from birth records to her current first grade at Marigold Elementary, and a schedule of all her current activities.

  In fact, Marilou had generously put herself and her office, a much smaller and simpler room adjoining Ben’s lair, at Caroline’s complete disposal.

  In this way, the new mistress of the Ten Buck learned a few more facts about Ben’s personal life that hadn’t shown up in his dossier: both his parents were gone, killed in a plane crash about ten years ago; his only brother, the family black sheep, had disappeared some time before that, and no one had seen or heard of him since.

  Of Ben’s first, deceased wife, no mention had been made—not even to identify her by name— and Caroline had felt it neither the time nor the place to ask. Amongst a rank of photographs scattered about the family room, on the mantel and side tables and a shining grand piano, not one showed her face. Had he been too overcome by grief to allow such evidence of her existence?

  Ben had no hobbies of which anyone was aware, other than the very lucrative one of making money. Likes? Dislikes? Mainly, that honor and integrity must rule, in every aspect of life. Laudable.

  What on earth had she gotten herself into? She had silently asked that very question a few dozen times since her arrival, and, no doubt, she would continue asking it from now into forever. So many uncertainties left dangling in mid-air, without resolution; so many details up for grabs. All because she had been unable, so far, to pin her elusive groom down to discuss and determine those important issues.

  That must change. She was not about to sit on the sidelines. She would take on her own share of responsibilities in this marriage, and run with them.

  “There she is,” hallooed several voices, when Caroline at last emerged once more into the glare of the public eye. “C’mon, Miz Taggart, we’re waitin’ to drink some toasts in your honor.”

  She managed a feeble smile. All these last-minute guests were trying to make this a true celebration, without knowing any background details; and she appreciated their effort.

  Meanwhile, Ben, who had deliberately parked himself beside her, was putting on quite a show. Which didn’t fool her for an instant. Strange, how the mere feel of his arm around her waist seemed not so much support as entrapment. Oh, yes, he beamed his sunny grin all around the room, and occasionally even let a ray or two overflow upon her. As if he were the happiest man on earth, and this his happiest day.

  For the future, Caroline would make sure she remembered how casually and how easily he managed to pull the wool over so many pairs of eyes.

  A world-class photographer, who had already gotten his formal shots, was now wandering around, snapping candids. Guests willingly posed for the wedding album everyone realized could only be superlative.

  After an elaborate dinner, which Caroline felt almost too keyed-up to sample, and a variety of wines, mixed drinks, and the requisite champagne, the party began breaking up. With polite farewells —or, with a more boisterous leavetaking from those happily in their cups—the room slowly emptied.

  The easy Texas twilight was giving way to full dark, pinpricked by low-set landscaping lights, garish neon lights, sodium street lights, and the colored lights of restaurants or store fronts. Seen at a distance, from the Sherman Club’s third-story dining room, it was a magical fairyland sight, and Sophie was entranced.

  Or would have been, if she and little Becca Sampson weren’t yawning in tandem.

  By eight o’clock, Lila approached the bridal couple with both girls in tow.

  “Time to be off,” she informed her hosts. “Billy and I will settle these two in bed once we get home. Although they’re both tired enough they’ll prob’ly fall asleep on the way.” At Caroline’s look of surprise, Lila’s brows raised. “Oh, you didn’t know? Good ole Ben here asked if Sophie could spend the weekend with us. Some honeymoon privacy for the newlyweds, wink wink.”

  Caroline’s hands, with the spiffy new diamond band that attached her to the Ten Buck as surely as any of its branded livestock, clenched into fists behind the skirt of her charmeuse dress. “Thank you, Lila,” she managed a fast recovery. “That’s very kind of you and—Billy?”

  “Yeah, as in husband. Here he comes now.” Introductions flowed back and forth: a pale, too-slender bride, and a tall, lanky redhead whose whipcord frame probably gave the lie to any perception of laziness.

  Bending down, Caroline enveloped Sophie in a good-night hug and thanked her for being such a vital part of this special day. Even half-asleep, the little girl beamed. It took so little to make her happy—merely love, attention, and approval. Just like a tropical plant, waiting to bloom.

  The room was nearly empty when Ben finally turned to look at his bride, full-on, straight and square, with a little quirk to his mouth.

  “Well, now,” he said softly.

  At the almost insulting purr of his voice, the hair actually began to rise on Caroline’s arms.

  “I hope you’re not too tired. Thought I’d treat you to a real nice hotel, over in downtown Austin. Come on, the limo is waiting for us. And I’m anxious to see what exactly you’ve got under that dress.”

  Chapter Eight

  It was not what she expected.

  But, then, whatever was, when it came to this man and his behind-the-scene machinations that no one could read in advance, nor understand?

  They had entered a splendiferous room, on the sixth floor of a splendiferous hotel, far enough above the busy streets to provide the view of a twinkle of moving lights. While Ben busied himself at the bar, Caroline eased out of her white satin slippers and padded barefoot to the window.

  “What d’ you think of the place?” he invited, turning to survey her with watchful eyes.

  Had she noticed, just then, she would have silently reflected that those watchful eyes made up his usual expression. Although humor seemed to be his typical way of dealing with any stressful situation, the humor that engaged his wide mouth never quite reached his eyes. Watchful, careful eyes. Did such caution come from an issue of trust?

  “What do I think? Luxurious, of course. Thank you, Ben; it’s far more than I’m used to.” She would give him that much, at least, since he seemed to be waiting for it.

  Silken moss green and old rose framed every window, covered several chairs, draped the bed and bench. Cool, restful, comforting. How was that color scheme to fit everyone’s accepted idea of a wedding night, when passionate reds and blacks ought to dominate?

  “Want something to drink?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve about had my quota for the day.”

  “Huh.” He raised his glass to her, took a few hasty swallows, then set it aside. Liquid courage, for what lay ahead? “I’m no great shakes as a lady’s maid, but how about some help with whatever you’re trying to do?”

  She had raised both arms to reach for something to unfasten at the back of her dress, without success. Her involuntary wriggles tra
nslated into a sexy little dance, as she struggled to grasp hold, that would have attracted the attention of the most hardened of men. And Ben Taggart was hardened in only one way.

  “I would appreciate that, very much,” she was forced to admit.

  Caroline emitted a little gasp as she felt him instantly behind her, quick to take advantage. Pressed against her upper shoulders, his fingers, as they sought and smoothly moved the concealed zipper downward; pressed against her lower backside, that very hardness, ripe and ready for use.

  Bending his head, he blew a warm breath to the nape of her neck. Then touched his lips to the spot. Then took a light but possessive nip at her skin. Caroline gave another gasp and shivered.

  “The valet put our bags in the bathrooms—one for each of us,” he told her huskily. “Why don’t you go get gussied up in that fancy rig you bought and join me in bed?”

  She fled.

  When she returned to the main suite, some time later, the lights had been dimmed, music was playing softly in the background from some built-in apparatus, and Ben was lying stretched out naked upon the king-size frame. At least, she assumed he was naked, but he had been thoughtful enough of her sensibilities to at least pull a sheet of rich Egyptian cotton up to his middle.

  Caroline was no prude, nor was she some shy virgin who might faint at the sight of male nudity. She was, however, principled. To fall into bed with a man in whose company she had spent so little time seemed somehow very wrong—even though she had agreed to it; even though that man was her legal spouse. She was finding it quite difficult to reconcile reality with the absurd.

  Meanwhile, she must admit this was a fine-looking specimen, indeed. Tough, and muscular, as befits a cowboy who spends much of his life in the saddle, with whorls of brown hair across his chest that trailed down impressive abs to where bare skin stopped and the sheet began.