by West, Everly
“Sammie!” Kelly squealed. “I thought you said you weren’t coming to the party.”
“I did. That’s why I’m mad,” Sammie announced as she flounced onto the floral-print settee positioned under Kelly’s windowsill. “I want to rip off his head and spit in the hole.”
“Samantha Wortham! Ladies do not speak as such.”
Sammie spun toward the sharp bark of reprimand from the other side of the room. Kelly’s mother stood with her hands on her hips and disapproval sparking in her eyes. “Mrs. Quincy, I didn’t see you there.”
“Obviously.” Mrs. Quincy moved farther into the room. “First of all, ladies don’t spit. Secondly, people get angry not mad. Mad means crazy.”
Sammie nodded respectfully. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I know it’s difficult without your mother to guide you, God rest her soul.” Fiona said as she stepped closer and cupped Sammie’s cheek in her hand. “This ball is precisely what you need, my dear. Why, if you’re not blossoming with femininity by the first waltz, I’ll eat my hat.”
Laughing, Mrs. Quincy headed to the door. “I’ll leave you girls alone to get ready. Now, don’t tarry.”
They all watched as she left and shut the door behind her.
“I spit,” Sammie proclaimed to the closed door. “And I’m angry enough to do bodily harm, which is just a hairsbreadth away from certifiable crazy. So, it counts.” Sammie crossed her arms under her breasts and huffed. “And I’ve never claimed to be a lady.”
“Yes, you are,” Jane insisted. “You’re the kindest, most loving person I know—when you think no one is watching. You're aware what is socially acceptable and what is not.”
“I don’t give a flying fig about society or its rules of etiquette.”
“Clearly.” Kelly laughed. “Now, tell me, who is the soon-to-be headless person?”
“My father.” Sammie crossed her legs Indian-style under the yards of purple chiffon of her party dress. “And stop patronizing me. You sound like one of those meddling mamas.”
“The ladies of the Club of Laramie?” Kelly grinned. “According to Mama, they meet for tea and discuss social events and charities.”
Sammie cocked her head to the side. Surely, Kelly wasn’t so naïve as to believe such hogwash. “If social events and charities translates to matchmaking and weddings, then yes, that ladies’ club.”
“They are a force to be reckoned with when they decide they know best.” Kelly laughed. “At least, the ladies club hasn’t put you in the cross hairs of their meddling matchmaking.”
“I should be so lucky,” Cora declared. “If my mama keeps trying to push me to find a husband at tonight’s ball, I refuse to stick around and be humiliated.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine, Cora,” Jane said.
“Well, I’m not,” Cora went on. “I’ll be out the door and on the first horse back to town if things go south.”
Sammie picked at the frilly ruffles of her low-cut neckline. Perhaps, she’d overreacted. At least no one was pushing her to find a husband tonight. If Mrs. O’Brian got her wish, Cora would be married before sunrise tomorrow. Poor Cora.
Marriage? Would she ever marry? Maybe. But it wouldn’t be because someone interfered in her life.
No, she wouldn’t settle for anything less than a Shakespearean Romeo and Juliet kind of love—only with a happily-ever-after ending.
She would only marry someone she truly, deeply loved; someone who loved her just as deeply and unconditionally. Sammie grimaced at her romantic silliness. Who would want her as a wife with all her eccentric ways?
With a sigh, Sammie refocused her attention on their conversation.
“Did you come with your parents?” Kelly asked, checking her reflection in the mirror.
“Yes,” Cora answered. “They’re downstairs talking to the governor.”
Kelly snapped straight. “The governor is here already?”
Before Cora could answer Kelly, Mrs. Quincy rushed through the door. “He’s here, my darling, he’s here.”
“I know.” Kelly crossed to the door. “Cora just told me the governor is here.”
“Not the governor,” Kelly’s mother said, waving away the idea. “His son. Mr. August Moonlit. He’s here, and he’s looking so handsome.”
Kelly rolled her eyes in obvious exasperation. Luckily, her mother was too excited to notice. Sammie swallowed hard against the giggle threatening to escape her lips. She was already in Mrs. Quincy’s bad graces. She didn’t need another mark against her tonight.
Kelly’s mother grabbed her hand and tugged her to the door. Kelly didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye before she disappeared down the hallway.
All three girls stared at the empty doorway then at each other. Then giggles erupted.
“Lordy, I needed that,” Cora wiped tears from the corners of her eyes.
“Looks like you’re not the only one with a matchmaking mama,” Jane said.
“I might be safer tonight than I thought. Mama has her mind set on me catching the governor’s son. But Mrs. Quincy looks fiercely determined Kelly will reel in that catch.”
Sammie sat quietly on the settee. Her friends didn’t know how lucky they were to still have their mothers in their lives.
Jane, her most tender-hearted friend, must’ve noticed Sammie’s withdrawal from the conversation. “So, what did your father do to deserve beheading?”
Suddenly, Sammie remembered her anger. “He made me come to this stupid party.”
Cora’s eyes widened. “Made you? No one makes you do anything.”
Sammie grinned. “Maybe ‘made’ was the wrong word. It was more like guilted me into coming.”
“Guilted?” Jane echoed.
“He said Mama would’ve wanted me to come. He reminded me how much she loved parties and how important this one was because the governor and his family would be attending.” Sammie paused, hoping to smother the wave of grief threatening to overtake her.
Her mother had died over six months ago. She still fought tears when someone mentioned her. An affliction her papa also suffered.
Which meant he knew exactly what he was doing when he asked her to honor her mother and accompany him to the Quincy’s Valentine Ball.
“Papa said he’d always arrived at parties with the prettiest girl in town on his arm. Now, he wanted to arrive at the Quincy’s with her beautiful daughter by his side.”
“Aww, that’s so sweet,” Jane whispered with a sad smile.
Sammie slapped the floral-print seat cushion beside her and hissed, “No, it’s playing dirty.”
They sat in silence a moment. Probably her friends’ way of giving her time to calm her temper.
“I see your point.” Cora replied. A moment later, she grinned. “All your father asked was that you enter the party on his arm, right?”
Sammie nodded.
“And you accommodated his request, right?”
“Yes.” Excitement washed over Sammie. Had Cora come up with a plan? “Yes, I did.”
“I bet that headache of yours is getting worse by the minute.”
“Headache? I don’t ha—”
“Of course, you do. That’s why you came up to Kelly’s room after arriving. To find peace and quiet until you felt better.”
“Oh! Right.” Sammie didn’t bother to hide her grin as she pressed her hand to her “aching” forehead. “You’re right. The throbbing pain is getting worse.”
All three girls burst into laughter.
A knock of the door just as quickly silenced them. A heartbeat later, Jane called, “Who is it?”
“Edna, ma’am,” the maid answered through the closed door. “Miss Kelly asked me to find out how much longer you’ll be before coming down to the party.”
Cora glanced at Sammie and winked. “We’ll be down in one minute.”
“Very good, ma’am.” Footsteps echoed away from Kelly’s door.
“I’ll find your father and tell him about your headache.
” Cora, pulling Jane with her, stepped to the door. “Wait thirty minutes then come down and use your ‘headache’ as an excuse to leave the party.”
Sammie nodded as she watched a swirl of red and yellow skirts duck around the barely opened door and left.
Oh yeah, Papa could play dirty.
But then, so could she.
* * *
Bo Quincy’s main hall had been transformed into a smaller version of a lavish ballroom. Spiffed-up gentlemen and dressed-to-the-nines ladies chatted in groups of five or six. Every few minutes, a cackling high-pitched laughter pierced the air, sending a slither of revulsion down Mason’s spine.
Good gawd, he hoped Miss Wortham had better manners than to laugh like that. It sounded like a squealing pig stuck under a gate, and at such volume. He’d worked too hard to rebuild the Mayfield’s good name and coffers to be lashed to an uncouth woman.
He wasn’t a snob, far from it. He remembered all too well the social snubbing his father received after losing Whispering Pines. Which was why he craved Laramie’s social acceptance again. He wanted to show them what a mistake they’d made.
Once ensconced in their ranks, he would figure out a way to make them pay for their condescending behavior toward his father. Then he’d walk away from their haughty collective. But first, he had to be welcomed back into their fold.
Music and the buzz of many conversations faded from Mason’s awareness. He let himself wander what the future might bring him. He’d always envisioned Whispering Pines filled with laughter and children.
His thoughts turned to what he wanted in a wife—and what he'd probably get instead.
Mason needed an impeccable woman of grace and refinement to help him reestablish his place in Laramie’s high society. He sought a comely, passionate woman to warm his bed. He craved a gentle soul waiting for him at home every evening. And above all else, he wished for a loving mother to raise their children.
Damn it, he wanted a woman he could be proud to call his wife. Only, he didn’t think that was in the cards for him.
In the cards. What a pathetic turn of phrase.
Mason had tried to discreetly inquire about Samantha Wortham all day. According to the little bit of information he could gather, she was a unique woman with uncommon interests.
That insight did little to calm his anxiety.
Visions of walnut-size warts, gapping yellow-toothed smiles and matted greasy hair filled his dreams last night. Or worse, the nightmare that still haunted him this evening, his wife would be a cold-hearted, bitter witch who ate small children for breakfast.
Deep down, he knew his worries of warts and bad hygiene were probably unrealistic. And the children of Laramie were probably safe. But the fear his future wife’s temperament might be unbearable had him shaking in his boots.
How bad did it have to get for a father to throw his daughter into a poker pot? Loser gets the girl.
Mason groaned when he spotted Seth making his way toward him. Was the bastard part of Wortham’s plan to ensnare him?
Seth stepped to Mason’s side. “I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”
“Didn’t you?” Mason growled between clenched teeth.
“I don’t remember you mentioning it.” Seth shrugged a shoulder. “But I’ve had a lot on my mind lately and probably just forgot.”
Mason glared at his friend and remained silent. Most liars squirmed under intense scrutiny. Seth didn’t. Didn’t so much as wiggle his pinky.
If Seth knew the outcome of last night’s game, he didn’t show it. The man could just be a good actor, but Mason didn’t think so. Maybe…
Seth leaned closer and asked, “How did last night go?”
Sighing, Mason shook his head. “Not well.”
“Well, hell. I’m sorry,” Seth whispered. “I promise we’ll get Whispering Pines back to you if I have to forge my father’s signature on the damned deed to do it.”
Seth crossed his arms over his chest, his black evening jacket straining against his broad shoulders. Determination and contempt chiseled into his expression. “My father is an as—”
“I got what I went after last night.” Mason gazed around the crowded room. “But it was more costly than I expected.”
A vision in purple descending the grand staircase caught his attention. The woman was stunning.
Glossy red hair cascaded down her back. He imagined running his fingers through the thick curls. Were they as soft as they looked? Big blue eyes dominated her heart-shaped face. Determination, or was that anger, shimmered in their indigo depths. But somehow, he knew they’d twinkle even brighter with laughter. Or become dark, blue embers smoldering with passion.
Who was she?
Her gaze scanned the room, coming to a stop on Seth.
Without taking his gaze off her, Mason asked, “Do you know her?”
“Who?” Seth asked.
Mason nodded toward the sweeping staircase. “Her.”
“Oh, that’s just—”
Suddenly, the woman pitched forward, lost her balance and tumbled headfirst down the last third of the staircase. Mason rushed forward.
“—Sammie!” Seth yelled, reaching the bottom of the stairs a half-step behind Mason.
The woman laid in a twisted knot of arms, legs and purple ruffles. And rolled-up denim jeans?
She wore denims under her ballgown? Why in blue blazes would she do that?
Mason kneeled beside her, Seth on her other side. When he reached to check for injuries, she slapped his hand away and blew a piece of her skirt’s hem out of her mouth.
“Don’t touch me.” She demanded as she swatted at the frilly dress wrapped around her waist and upper body. “This wretched dress is attacking me!”
“Get a doctor, Seth!” Mason ordered. “She hit her head so hard she’s out of her mind.”
“No, that’s just Sammie. She has a flare for dramatics.” Seth stood and held out of hand. “Any broken bones, sister? You need help getting up?”
Sister? She’s Seth’s sister? That meant she was—
“Samantha!” JP Wortham shouted, pushing his way through the growing crowd around them. He shoved Mason aside then crouched and wrapped his arm around the woman’s shoulders. His hand shook as he pushed a length of her hair away from her face. “Are you hurt?”
She patted him on his chest. “I’m fi—I mean, I have a headache, Papa. I’d like to go home now.”
JP nodded as his gaze skimmed down his daughter’s body, clearly searching for injuries. A second later, his face turned molten red. “You’re wearing pants!”
Getting to her feet, her skirt floated into place over her legs. She huffed and crossed her arms. “Yes, or everyone would have seen my drawers.”
“Samantha!” JP blustered.
Seth laughed.
Mason scraped his hand over his face and groaned. His future wife was about as subtle as a goat in a perfume shop.
“I’m glad you’re all right.” Seth pecked a kiss against her forehead then turned to their father. “I’ll have the carriage brought around for us.”
“As soon as we say goodnight to Bo and Fiona, we’ll be right behind you.” JP cupped Samantha’s elbow in his hand. “Are you sure you’re unhurt? Doc Johnson is here. Maybe we should have him look at you before we leave?”
No maybe to it, Mason thought. People have died from injuries suffered while falling down stairs.
“No, really, I’m fine. I had a headache before I took the tumble.”
Mason watched as JP considered his daughter’s reassurances before nodding in agreement.
If she’d been his daughter, he’d had the doctor examine her before he’d allowed her to stand. Children—and in this case, future wives—should be handled with a firm hand.
JP turned to Mason. “I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk tonight. Perhaps, you’d like to come by the house later?”
Mason gritted his teeth against the reminder of his circumstances. “Since this is a t
ime-sensitive issue, would tomorrow be convenient?”
“That’s fine. Say six o’clock and stay for dinner?”
Mason nodded.
“Come along, sweetie.” JP cooed, “Let’s get you home and comfortable.”
Samantha pouted. “May I burn this dress?”
JP laughed as he and Samantha walked away. “We’ll see, pumpkin, we’ll see.”
Mason groaned again.
Samantha Wortham was beautiful—and as spoiled as milk left out in the July heat.
Chapter 3
The cold, biting winter storm raging outside could have been a spring shower on its warmest day compared to the brisk frostiness of the JP Wortham’s drawing room. He glanced across
at the man who’d soon be his son-in-law.
Mason stood leaning against the massive oak mantle. He didn’t pace the floor or gulp his drink to calm his nerves as most men would in his situation. He didn’t fidget with the sleeves of his black evening jacket or tug on his tied neckcloth. Nor did he chatter to JP.
On the other hand, he didn’t sulk or show any sign of resentment or anger either. He simply stood gazing around the well-furnished study with bland indifference.
JP sat in his over-stuffed leather chair, contemplating the wisdom of his recent actions. He told himself he was righting a wrong long overdue needing rectified. He’d watched Mason grow from boyhood to become the man who stood before him now; strong yet gentle, a well-respected man with self-assurance and determination forged in steel. He was just the man Samantha needed to marry. A man who could bridle her strong willfulness without breaking her free spirit.
JP saw his daughter as a fountain of love and tenderness just waiting for someone to shower. And if there was ever a man in need of a good dousing, it was Mason Mayfield. Still, doubts stung at JP’s logical thinking until he was now questioning himself and his decision.
“Perhaps, I was over zeal—” JP began, but stopped short of completing his statement when he caught sight of his daughter opening the drawing room door.
At the sound of his voice, Mason turned to glare at JP. Indifference vanished as loathsome contempt boiled to the surface. Did Mason think a mere glower would stop him in mid-sentence?