Bowing to Betsy (The Matchmaker's Ball Book 11)

by Amelia C. Adams

  Bowing to Betsy

  The Matchmaker’s Ball Book Eleven

  by Amelia C. Adams

  With thanks to my beta readers—Amy, Barbara, Cindy, Joseph, Meisje, Robin, Shelby, Suzy, Teresa, and Theresa.

  Cover design by EDH Professionals

  Click here to join my reader group on Facebook!

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Creede, Colorado

  Bradley Larson drove the last nail securing the final section of roofing in place, then climbed down the ladder. He was glad to have that task done. It had taken a couple of weeks to repair the fire damage done to this outbuilding. Now everything was set to rights, and all that remained was one more good sweeping.

  “Joey?” he called, looking around for his towheaded son. “Joey, do you know where the broom is?”

  The boy peered around the door of the building. “It’s right here, Papa. I was just cleanin’ up a little.”

  From the smudges all over his face, it looked like more dirt had gotten on Joey than had landed in the dustpan. “Thank you,” Bradley told him. “Why don’t you let me finish that up while you run and tell Mr. Stratton we’re done? Mrs. Stratton probably has some cookies ready for you—she was mixing something in her big bowl when I was up there earlier.”

  Joey sighed as though that assignment was too much for his little shoulders to carry. “I don’t know what she’d do with all those cookies if I wasn’t around to eat them for her.” He handed the broom to his father, then paused. “It’s gonna be confusing around here when Mr. Stratton gets married, won’t it, Pa? ’Cause then we’ll have two Mrs. Strattons, and we won’t know if we’re talkin’ about the new one or the old one.”

  Bradley chuckled. “Well, I’m not sure this Mrs. Stratton wants to be called old . . .”

  “But she is, Papa,” Joey replied earnestly. “She has skin on her neck that sort of flops around like a turkey’s, and . . .”

  “Be respectful, son.”

  “Oh, I’m not bein’ sassy, Pa. I’m just sayin’ what she looks like. I think turkeys are nice old birds, don’t you, Pa? And there’s nothin’ wrong with lookin’ like one, is there, Pa?”

  Bradley put a hand on Joey’s shoulder. “We’ll figure out a way to tell the two Mrs. Strattons apart, and I’m sure we won’t have to mention turkey necks or anything like that. Just let Mr. Stratton know that we’re done, all right?”

  “All right, Papa.”

  Joey took off across the grass toward the main house, and Bradley chuckled ruefully. That boy . . . He couldn’t keep up with him half the time. Moving out here to the Bar S Ranch had been a blessing for sure—Joey had all the room he needed to get his wiggles out, and Bradley was finally making a decent income to support his son. He’d forever be grateful to James Stratton and his mother, the older Mrs. Stratton . . . er, the most senior Mrs. Stratton . . . Hmm. Joey had a point. After the wedding, this was going to get confusing.

  Bradley moved the ladder back into the equipment shed, then gave the floor of the outbuilding its last needed sweep. It had taken longer than he’d anticipated to rebuild the custom shelves along the walls, but he was satisfied with a job well done.

  As he washed up at the pump, Joey came running back across the lawn, a cookie in each hand. “Mr. Stratton says he and his mama are on their way to visit Miss Romano at her restaurant, so he’ll come see everything later. Oh, and here, Papa!” he said, holding out one of the cookies. “Mrs. Stratton said that yes, she did make the cookies for me, but I have to share because you’ve been working hard too.”

  Bradley took the offering with a smile. “She did, huh?”

  “Yes. And she also told me I need a bath.”

  “She’s a smart woman.”

  Joey’s smile dropped. “Why do little boys always need baths, Pa?”

  “Because little boys are always getting themselves dirty.”

  “If I had a mama, would she make me take baths?”

  A pang shot through Bradley’s heart. “You do have a mama, Joey,” he reminded his son gently.

  “Oh, I know that. I mean, if she was here right now.” The child couldn’t understand how deeply his innocent question stung. He had been so young when Bradley’s wife died, so very young. He talked about her as though she was a character from a fairy tale, and Bradley supposed that made sense—when Joey had no real memories of her, she wouldn’t seem like an actual person to him.

  “She would probably make you take twice as many baths,” Bradley said, reaching out to smooth a flyaway tuft of hair on the boy’s head.

  “Then maybe it’s a good thing it’s just us at our house.” Again, Joey’s comment was so innocent, but it echoed through Bradley’s chest like a bell in a mausoleum.

  Images of Selina rose in his mind—her sweet face, the way she laughed when something delighted her, swaying back and forth to put Joey to sleep. Bradley didn’t dwell on those thoughts very often because he had to stay focused on the here and now, but just for that moment, he granted himself the memory, and he smiled.

  And not for the first time, he wondered if he should be looking for another mother for his son.

  He knew he’d never find a replacement for Selina, but that’s not what he wanted anyway. If he were to remarry, he’d want a woman who didn’t remind him of his former life, but would help him create a new one for Joey. Bradley didn’t think he’d ever fall in love again, not after what he’d had and then lost, but he could be a good companion to a wife, couldn’t he?

  Maybe.

  Or he could continue on as he was, working hard and teaching Joey everything he knew along the way. A wife would be nice, but considering that he’d just started running the Bar S, she might be more of a distraction than anything. He should wait until his feet were under him—and there was the question of fixing up his cabin so it would suit a wife.

  Too much to think about. He’d leave the question alone for now. There was no rush.

  But a little voice in the back of his head spoke up. If you don’t think about it now, then when? You’ve put this off far too long already.

  He passed his hand down his face as he warred with himself. Choosing a wife would be so much easier if she’d just show up one day instead of needing to be found. The idea of sifting through all the eligible young women in town was overwhelming, and he didn’t have time for what was sure to be a lengthy and frustrating process. If she walked up to him and said, “Hello. I’m your new wife,” he’d sure appreciate it, but things didn’t work like that.

  Except . . . maybe they did.

  He’d pay a call to Mrs. Morgan the next time he was out that way. She enjoyed matchmaking, and she did a good job of it. She’d had a hand in bringing Mr. Stratton together with his soon-to-be bride, even though they’d actually done most of it themselves, and Bradley thought he could trust her to help him out of this rut too. He’d be fine with her choice as long as his wife loved Joey and cooked decently well. Romance wasn’t necessary—and he didn’t think it was possible. He’d set his sights on friendship, and that would be enough for him.

  ***

  Betsy Walters shook her head and smiled as she listened to the voices coming from the corner of the dining room. As a waitress in a bustling restaurant, she was used to loud customers, but these weren’t customers she was hearing this time
—it was the owner and his family as they discussed plans for the upcoming wedding.

  “Flowers everywhere,” Maria Romano said, gesturing wildly. “All kinds, all colors—red, yellow . . .”

  “Mama, where would we get all those flowers?” Francine asked. “We don’t need so many—just enough for my bouquet.”

  “Whoever heard of a wedding with just a bouquet?” Maria scoffed. “No, they must be everywhere.”

  “I know where to find several varieties of wildflowers,” James Stratton, the groom, offered. “I’ve spent a lot of time exploring the meadows and the mountains in this area.”

  “You see?” Maria nodded. “We can find flowers. Flowers aren’t hard, Francesca.”

  Betsy moved around their table, refilling their water glasses. It was more of an excuse to eavesdrop than anything—she found their passionate Italian discussions highly entertaining.

  “Flowers, no flowers—who cares? It’s the food we need to talk about.” Bruno folded his hands across his wide stomach. “My daughter will be married surrounded by food!”

  “Well, of course she will be,” Mrs. Stratton replied. “As long as you’re the cook, Bruno—I’ll have you know, your spaghetti is why I approved of this marriage in the first place.”

  Bruno laughed heartily. “We’re going to get along just fine, Mama Stratton. Just fine.”

  It warmed Betsy’s heart to see Francine surrounded by so many people who loved her. Coming to America with her parents and starting a new business had been difficult for her, and she deserved all the happiness in the world. Most of all, though, Betsy appreciated the open and sincere friendship Francine had shown her in the months they’d known each other. Not many others had been that kind.

  A few minutes later, four more customers walked into the restaurant. Betsy took their orders, then approached the table where the Romanos were still seated with their guests. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. Romano, but I need four plates of ravioli.”

  “You do, do you?” Bruno laughed. “Well, I suppose if I’m going to pay for a wedding, I should take care of my business. Excuse me, everyone. The ravioli is calling me. I trust you’ll make all the right choices without me, eh?”

  “Of course,” Maria said. “And we won’t spend any more money than we have to. Now, about those flowers . . .”

  Bruno laughed again as he went into the kitchen. “Women!”

  Betsy turned to fetch some water glasses for the new table, but Mrs. Stratton lifted a hand. “Wait a moment, young lady.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Stratton? What may I bring you?”

  “Bend down a little bit, please, and open your eyes wide.”

  Well, if that wasn’t the strangest request . . . “All right,” Betsy said slowly, doing as she’d been told.

  Mrs. Stratton peered into her face. “Hmm. I can see what you mean, Maria. That does make it harder to decide.”

  Maria nodded. “I thought it might.”

  “Or we could just ask Betsy what she thinks,” Francine said. “She should have some say in the matter.”

  Betsy straightened, uncomfortable with the close scrutiny. “What are you talking about? My goodness, I feel like a museum display!”

  “I’m sorry, my dear,” Mrs. Stratton said. “I was just trying to decide what color your eyes are. Maria told me they were somewhat of a mix between green and blue, and she’s exactly right, so now we’ll need to choose.”

  “You’ll need to choose what?” Betsy took a step back.

  “The color of your bridesmaid’s dress,” Francine explained. “We all agreed that it should match your eyes, but since they’re both blue and green . . .”

  “My bridesmaid’s dress?” Betsy looked around at the three women. “You . . . you want me to be a bridesmaid?”

  “Of course.” Francine seemed surprised that she would even question it. “I can’t get married without my best friend beside me.” She hesitated. “Is something wrong? Don’t you want . . .?”

  “No, that’s not it.” Betsy struggled to pull in a deep breath, but she found it difficult. “I’m just . . . startled. I should get some water for that table—please excuse me.”

  She fetched four clean glasses and a fresh pitcher of water, her mind whirling. Francine wanted her to be a bridesmaid? It was a compliment, of course, and Betsy felt flattered by it, but it just didn’t seem real. No bride wanted a girl like Betsy standing there in front of everyone on her special day to be seen and whispered about.

  More customers came in, and Francine put on her apron and helped Betsy deliver the food. Everything was in chaos for several minutes as they carried spaghetti back and forth and wiped up spilled marinara sauce—just an ordinary day at the restaurant.

  Once they had a quiet minute, Francine tugged Betsy’s elbow and guided her over to the corner.

  “I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” she said, her voice soft. “It never occurred to me that you might not want to be part of the wedding.”

  “I do want to be part of it,” Betsy rushed to explain. “I truly do, and I’m honored that you thought of me. It’s just . . . I’m not the kind of girl who gets to be a bridesmaid. I’m the kind . . . Well, I stay in the kitchen and stir the punch.”

  “Oh, Betsy.” Francine shook her head. “That’s just ridiculous.”

  “It’s ridiculous, but it’s also the truth,” Betsy said.

  Francine wrapped her arm around Betsy’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “You don’t have any idea how beautiful you are, do you? All you can see are the lies people have told you your entire life.”

  If Francine wanted to think this was solely about Betsy’s weight, maybe that was for the best—Betsy didn’t feel comfortable sharing her whole story. At least, not in the middle of a meal. That would be dinner entertainment the customers weren’t expecting. “It’s hard to see myself any other way,” she replied truthfully. She’d tell Francine the rest later.

  “Then you’ll have to trust me. You’re stunning.” Francine smiled again. “So, what do you think? Blue or green? Or shall we be daring and use an entirely different color altogether?”

  Betsy laughed. “Blue, I guess.”

  “Blue it shall be.” Francine looked over at the sound of a glass hitting the floor. “Back to work.”

  Francine swept up shards of glass while Betsy cleared tables, her mind still churning. Was it possible that Francine looked at her and didn’t see her weight—or the other things she was dragging around with her? Did this mean she really could move forward and put everything in the past? She hadn’t thought it was possible, but now she was beginning to wonder. What would it be like to face each day full of optimism and not shame?

  It would feel as though she had finally been set free.

  And now that she’d begun to examine that possibility, she wanted it more than anything she’d ever wanted in her life.

  Chapter Two

  “This is good work,” James said, looking around with satisfaction. “Thank you, Bradley. I was worried that it couldn’t be repaired.”

  “Most things can be repaired if you don’t give up on them,” Bradley replied, relieved that James was pleased with the outcome.

  “And you’re not the giving-up kind,” James said.

  “Oh, no, sir,” Joey piped up. “My papa never gives up on anything. He’s no quitter.”

  “That’s obvious to me, and I’m grateful for it.” James smiled at the boy, then turned back to Bradley. “Now, about tomorrow—I have a shipment waiting at the train depot. Sal Medina was kind enough to store it for me until this was finished—I didn’t want to stack it all in another shed just to move it again later. Will you come with me to pick it up?”

  “Of course,” Bradley replied. “What time do you want the wagon ready?”

  “Let’s say ten o’clock.”

  “What about me, Mr. Stratton? Will you need me?” Joey asked, jumping up and down a little bit.

  “Of course I’ll need you. What if I get into town and I nee
d someone to deliver a message?”

  “Then you’d ask me!” Joey puffed out his chest.

  “Exactly! And if you’re not there . . .”

  “Well, your message wouldn’t get delivered, would it?” Joey frowned. “I think it’s safest if you just take me with you everywhere, Mr. Stratton. When a man’s got business to do, he needs all the help he can get.”

  James threw back his head and laughed. “You’re absolutely right. From now on, I’ll take you everywhere I go . . . if I can.”

  Joey nodded as though a very important understanding had been reached. “But you and Miss Romano . . . I mean, Mrs. Stratton, the new one . . . well, you might have a little boy of your own someday, and you might want him to take your messages instead of me. That’s all right. I promise I’ll understand.”

  James put his hand on Joey’s shoulder. “I’ll tell you what. If I do have a son someday, and if he wants to take my messages, I’ll make sure to give you a much more important job first.”

  Joey’s eyes got big. “Thanks, Mr. Stratton!”

  Bradley watched the exchange with amusement. He’d always encouraged Joey to work hard for what he wanted, and he supposed this was just the fruits of those lessons. Now he’d have to figure out a way to teach his son subtlety.

  As they were cleaning up after dinner, Bradley glanced around and tried to imagine the place from a woman’s perspective. This cabin had been built especially to house the foreman of the Bar S ranch as part of his wages, and the previous foreman had all but destroyed it with his carelessness. Bradley and James had worked hard to make it livable again. It suited Bradley and Joey just fine, but it was so simple, so stark. Would a woman even consider living here?

  “Hey, Joey,” he said as he wiped off the table. “What do you think of our house?”

  Joey looked up from the plate he was drying. “It’s sure better than it was when we first got here, and it’s a whole lot better than where we were livin’ before. I like it.”

  “If you were to change anything about it, what would that be?”