by Jo Grafford
Jasmine looked up from rummaging in their shared dresser. “However did you acquire them, Bertie?” She sounded more amused than scandalized.
“Beans,” Bert admitted. “I patched up a few pairs for him, and he agreed to let me keep one as payment.”
Abigail smiled and lowered her arms. “It’s no wonder you’re always so concerned about staying on his good side. It appears you have a little bartering business going on behind our backs, don’t you?” She caught the brush Jasmine sailed her direction with one hand, tossed her book on the bed, and started to unbraid Bert’s hair.
It was true. Bert guiltily kept her silence. In exchange for her skill in repairing his various tools and appliances, Beans had proven himself a master in helping her acquire things. He’d supplied her with a great number of cast-off items, like the hammer with the broken handle she’d replaced.
To her intense misery, Jasmine and Abigail spent the rest of the afternoon redressing and primping her for their outing.
“There you are!” Jasmine finally announced in satisfaction. “A right and proper Miss Bertha Langston, for once.” She spun Bert around on their dresser stool to face the vanity mirror.
She gave a yelp of alarm at the stylish stranger staring back at her. She’d allowed her thoughts to wander while the young women had worked, so she’d entirely missed the fact they’d left her hair down.
It spilled in dark auburn waves down her shoulders, providing a shocking contrast to the all-white dress and jacket they’d bade her step into. A matching, gauzy white hat perched atop her head, lending her an air of sass.
“What you do you think?” Jasmine gave a small bounce in her dress shoes. Somehow she and Abigail had managed to dress and prepare for the party themselves while fussing over Bert. She wore a pale pink gown with petticoats that puffed down from her slender waist like a pink cloud.
“I…I don’t know what to say.” Bert was amazed at the transformation. Gone was her faded poplin dress and mussed braids. Jasmine was right. She looked like a real lady now.
“We’ll settle for a thank you when that beau of yours stutters out an offer for your hand this evening,” Abigail assured. Her dress was a riot of sky blue ruffles and lace. She smoothed a hand over Bert’s hair, tucking in a stray lock. “Rafe is going to be stunned when he sees you.”
Then again, Rafe always looked a bit dazed and disconcerted.
When he arrived at the front door to escort her to the town square, he stood riveted. “M-Miss B-Bert. Y-you l-l-look s-so p-p-pretty.”
Bert tried to console herself with the fact that at least he didn’t appear afraid of her this evening like he normally did.
“Thank you, Rafe.” She forced a smile. “You don’t look so bad yourself.” Not that his looks had ever been a problem. She simply wasn’t interested in him as a potential husband.
He grinned and crooked an arm at her. “M-may I?”
She took his arm without comment and allowed him to escort her down Main Street. She recognized the two gentlemen escorting Jasmine and Abigail but couldn’t remember their names. A widow from the Ladies Auxiliary wordlessly joined them at the bottom of the church stairs as they strolled past. Her dark hair was piled so high that Bert wondered if it was giving her a headache. She also wondered how the woman managed to keep it from tumbling down. Extra pins? Hidden globs of glue? Annabelle Bradshaw was a fashionably dressed woman in her late thirties, if a body didn’t object to the fact her entire wardrobe seemed to consist of solid black. She was the youngest of the widows, still in mourning, and the most recent addition to their ranks.
“A good afternoon to you, Mrs. Bradshaw.” Jasmine trilled and fluttered her hand in a wave.
“If you say so, my dear,” the woman returned in a soft, weary voice that indicated she was having trouble finding anything good about it. “Are you on your way to the picnic?”
“We are, ma’am. And you?” Abigail inquired politely.
Bert gritted her teeth at the question. Of course, we’re heading to the picnic! But you already knew that, didn’t you? Chance Redburn was forever enlisting the aid of the widows in town to help him chaperone his young brides-to-be. She doubted their encounter was an accident.
Mrs. Bradshaw raised and lowered delicate shoulders. “I am, unless there is anything else more exciting going on in town today. I do so love the opera,” she sighed.
Bert snorted. An opera, indeed! There were no operas in Bent, Colorado, but she opted to let someone else break the news to the uppity little woman from Atlanta.
A small crowd was gathered at the town square when they arrived. Temporary tables had been raised to hold the mountains of sandwiches prepared by the Ladies Auxiliary. Plus, there were trays of diced fruits, vegetables, and cheeses arranged amidst tall pitchers of lemonade and tea dripping with condensation.
The dance was already in full swing with a good dozen or more couples twirling their way around the wide gazebo that marked town square. A quartet of violin players provided an upbeat backdrop of music. No doubt the lovely instruments were from Joseph Penella’s shop, since he was one of the musicians up there spinning the lively tune. He was Myrakle’s husband, the second bride in their group to find her perfect match.
“C-c-come on B-Bert.” Rafe swung her gallantly into the dance. “L-let’s dance.”
Frowning in concentration, Bert kept her word to Chance Redburn and did her best to follow her partner’s lead. Try harder. I will try harder.
To his credit, Rafe did his best to avoid her awkward attempts to bob and sway to the music. He hopped nimbly out of her way at least three times, narrowly missing having his toes crushed by her black, lace-up boots. His luck ran out near the end of the dance when he tried to twirl her.
“Oh-h-h-h-h,” Bert moaned as she lost her balance. She flapped her arms wildly in the attempt to reach him and regain her footing. Despite her efforts, she pitched head-first toward the ground.
“B-Bert! Rafe cried.
They ended up sprawled on the ground beside each other. He pressed a palm to his temple while she stared in horror at the grass stains on her ivory skirts.
“Pray forgive me!” they cried in unison.
For a moment, Bert was too shocked and embarrassed to move. A quick glance around her proved Widow Bradshaw had not missed her unladylike display. Drat! She would report the incident to Chance and Violet Redburn, and they might finally wash their hands of her. At best, Chance would withhold carving out a space for her in his barns to work on her inventions. At worst, they would turn her out of their home on her ears.
She wondered idly if their tumble to the ground could have been avoided if she’d been wearing her trousers. She stared at Rafe in remorse. He was a true gentleman to try to take the blame for their failed attempts at dancing, but they both knew it was her fault.
He scrambled to his feet, still clutching his head. “How about I g-go fetch us s-s-some lemonade?”
“I would be so grateful.” Bert shot him a rueful look without really seeing him. Her hearing was fast tuning in to a conversation taking place a few strides away from them.
She narrowed her gaze at the group of fashionably dressed gentlemen. One very tanned, very tall cowboy was gesturing with both his hands. “I’m telling you, the horseless carriage is only the beginning, my friends. Air travel will be the next breakthrough in public transportation. Mark my words!”
Air travel! Bert couldn’t agree with the man more. She yanked her soiled skirts aside to avoid tripping on them as she curled her body forward to her feet. Now that was a conversation worth having! Trying to keep her steps measured and ladylike, she resisted the urge to gallop in his direction.
The tall blonde cowboy spared her an admiring glance as she approached. He was dressed in a black suit, starched white dress shirt, and a silver bolo.
“I couldn’t help overhearing your commentary on air travel,” she blurted by way of an introduction. “And I agree wholeheartedly.”
The man tipp
ed his Stetson back to assess her with clear, slate-colored eyes. “Well, I can’t rightly argue with that, seeing as I just stated the same thing, Miss ah…”
“Bertha Langston,” she supplied tartly. “But most folks just call me Bert.” She stuck out a hand, anxious to complete their introductions and get on with the topic of air travel.
The other men in his party stared at her with growing interest.
“Kane Jameson.” The man treated her to a gallant bow. “At your service, Madame Bert.” He angled his chin at the man standing nearest him. There was a strong resemblance between them, though Kane was built a bit more on the rangy side. “And this tiresome chap is my older brother, Griffin.”
“Griff,” the man corrected, thrusting a hand in her direction. He was an inch or two shorter than his younger brother and a bit thicker in the chest. “We run the Black Barrel Inn down the street.”
“By night, at least,” Kane added. “We run cattle most days at the ranch while our sister, Paisley, holds down the front desk.”
Bert frowned at the brothers and their three companions who’d yet to make their introductions, immensely disappointed to hear no connection whatsoever between their current vocations and their marvelous opinions about air travel. “Have any of you flown before? A glider, perhaps, or a hot-air balloon? Anything at all?”
At her terse line of questioning, two of the men mumbled something about needing to be excused and made a beeline for the food tables.
“I have.” The third man leaned closer to shake her hand. “Matthew Crutchfield. I believe you’ve already met my sister, Annabelle Bradshaw?”
No small amount of guilt stabbed her at the mention of her chaperone’s name. Good gracious! She hadn’t given the woman a single thought since her arrival to the picnic. Glancing covertly across the town square at the many people reclining and eating on bright-colored blankets, she failed to catch a glimpse of the oh-so-proper Mrs. Bradshaw. It was probably for the best, considering the current state of her gown.
Bert glanced down at her wrinkled and grass-stained skirts and grimaced. When she raised her head, Kane was studying her with amusement.
“What about you, Miss Langston? Have you ever flown?”
“Bert,” she corrected abruptly. All thoughts of the missing Mrs. Bradshaw flew from her head. Not unless you count my one disastrous attempt at tower jumping from the roof of our apartment in Boston. Her chin came up. “I’m in the process of designing my own hot-air balloon.” There! Let the cocky cowboy chew on that.
“Are you, now?” He exchanged a curiously gleeful glance with his brother.
She tossed her head. “Yes. The Redburns have allowed me to set up shop in one of their barns.”
“The Redburns?” Griff exclaimed, blinking thoughtfully. “I reckon that would make you one of their—”
“Friends,” she snapped.
Chapter 2: The Gift
Kane
Friends, my hide! You’re one of their brides-to-be, or I’ll eat my hat!
That certainly explained why they’d never met before. The Redburns were marrying off their latest batch of young brides quicker than most ranchers could sell their livestock. Kane’s mouth flattened into a thin line at the discovery he was speaking to a woman the town matchmaker had expressly brought to Bent to marry off.
Not only did the idea of purchasing a matchmaking service fill his mouth with disdain, he wasn’t on the look-out for a wife. Not even close! He had at least a thousand and one adventures left to cross off his list of life goals before settling down. And seeing more of the world outside the borders of Bent, Colorado, was high on that list.
A quick sweep of Bert’s appearance revealed she’d likely started her evening looking like the belle of their town gathering. Her white gown and lacy white jacket were fetching, and she wasn’t the least bit hard on the eyes with her medium-length, wavy auburn hair and pixie-like features. She brought to mind a lovely but bedraggled nymph — one, most unfortunately, who would be sold and delivered to the most amorous bidder. According to Matthew Crutchfield, who’d inquired about the Redburn’s matchmaking business, it took a twenty-five dollar down payment to begin the process and another twenty-five dollars to seal the bargain once a proper wife had been obtained.
No, thank you! When the time was right, Kane fully intended to select and pursue his own wife. Trying not to shudder in revulsion, he opened his mouth to deliver the first nicety that came to mind and subsequently take his leave of her; but she’d already half-turned away from him.
“Do tell us more!” She clasped her hands beneath her chin and stared beseechingly up at one of his best friend’s, Matthew Crutchfield. “Lots of people like talking about it.” Her dark, snapping gaze briefly flickered to Kane before settling on Matthew once more. “But it’s not often you run into someone who’s actually been airborne before.”
He was stunned. The chit had summarily insulted then dismissed him. That was some powerfully odd behavior coming from a woman who was supposed to be on the prowl for a husband.
He glanced at Griff who merely shrugged and grinned.
To his knowledge, this had never happened to either of them before. Not once! The brothers were accustomed to young women batting their eyelashes and keeping up a steady stream of cheerful banter to prolong their encounters. They were not accustomed to being ignored by a young woman who’d rather pursue a scientific conversation on the merits of air travel.
Reeling in shock and no small amount of mortification, Kane tuned back in to what they were saying.
“I’m an avid follower of Otto Lilienthal’s work.” Matthew removed his Stetson and ran a hand through his dark, shaggy mane of hair. The man could use a good haircut, but at least his shirts were starched and his suit pressed, thanks to his recently widowed sister moving to town to keep house for him.
“The Flying Man,” Bert mused dreamily.
Matthew nodded so vehemently that his brown Stetson shifted askew. He reached up with both hands to straighten it. “A well-earned handle, if you ask me. When I sailed to Germany a few years ago on business, I was able to take a short test run in one of his Derwitzer Gliders. Believe me, it was smooth sailing.” His dark eyes glinted with excitement at the memory. “The world looks mighty different when you’re eighty feet in the air.”
Bert appeared to be hanging on every word the man uttered. Her eyes were wide and her lips slightly parted. Even her cheeks had taken on a faint flush.
Kane shifted his weight from one boot to the other. If anything, the petite bride-to-be had grown more lovely in the last handful of minutes. How in tarnation was that possible? He narrowed his gaze on the tendrils of hair blowing loosely against her cheeks in the evening breeze. She was making no effort to smooth them down. In fact, she seemed oblivious to the fact they were dancing like imps across her temples and brow.
“What sort of business took you to Germany?” she inquired in a much politer voice than she’d used on Kane.
“I’m a scientist.” He folded his arms, looking utterly enchanted by the petite woman’s interest in his work. “And you, ma’am?”
Kane gleefully noted her cheeks pale a few degrees as the men assembled awaited her response. As far as he knew, Matthew wasn’t looking for a wife any more than he and Griff were. This was the part where the fascinating Bert Langston admitted her true intentions and scared off her scholarly new acquaintance.
“I’m an inventor,” she shared in a defensive tone.
He clenched his jaw. What a sly, untruthful creature! He was tempted to set the record straight and denounce her true intentions to Matthew, but the way she wrapped her arms around her middle when she spoke gave him pause. It was as if she was bracing herself for criticism, which inevitably tugged at his sympathies.
“Though I’ve created a number of useful gadgets around the house,” she prattled on a trifle breathlessly, “my greatest passion is flying.”
“One I share wholeheartedly.” Matthew beamed down at h
er.
Kane gnashed his teeth at the thought of the two of them sharing a passion. It made no sense, but he was jealous of what was unfolding between them.
Bert’s expression turned thoughtful. “I don’t suppose you’ve had the pleasure of meeting Samuel Langley here in the U.S.?” She seemed oblivious to the fact she took a step closer to him when she spoke.
Kane noticed, though, and was supremely annoyed. It was as if the two of them were completely shutting him and Griff out of their conversation.
“Alas, I have not.” Matthew’s reply was regretful. “Have you?”
“Oh, how I wish!” She gave a small bounce on the balls of her feet. “I’ve not had the opportunity to become acquainted with him personally, but I did manage to watch him launch his Aerodrome #5 from a houseboat in the Potomac River. He more or less crash-landed it back in the river.” She gave a rueful chuckle. “According to the last article I read about his work, he’s making great progress on manufacturing an in-flight control system. Only then will it be safe enough for him to climb aboard and give it a test drive.”
The quartet of violins struck a new set of notes, and the townsfolk moved across the square, claiming their partners for the next dance. This time, a man and a woman joined the musicians in the gazebo and began to sing a nonsensical ditty about a cat who kept dipping into the cream when the master churner wasn’t looking. The song was punctuated by many loud guffaws from the audience.
Matthew unfolded his arms and cast an irritated glance in the direction of the town square. “Perhaps, we can find a quieter venue to continue our conversation?” His upper lip twisted in irritation at the growing crowd. It seemed as if every citizen in Bent was present this evening.
“How about we retire to the Black Barrel Inn?” Kane spoke without thinking; however, he meant the offer sincerely. It was the only way he could fathom keeping the entrancing Bert Langston within sight and earshot. Otherwise, heaven only knew where she and Matthew might disappear to.