by Regina Scott
She shook her head. “Perhaps you can. But I refuse to monopolize Seattle’s only deputy. Think what dire crimes are being committed even as we speak!”
Hart chuckled. “It’s Tuesday. Most of the dire crimes happen over the weekend.”
“Really?”
Those blue eyes were so trusting. She believed anything he said. While he had tried to walk the narrow path since that dark day in Ohio ten years ago, he still found her belief gratifying.
She probably hadn’t noticed that Seattle had too many troublemakers these days. Some of the men coming to work in the coal mines across the lake were harder types than the original pioneers. The steamship route from San Francisco that had started this week added dozens more strangers to the city. Worse, there had been reports of newcomers being enticed from the docks so a gang of ruffians could relieve them of any valuables. Mortified, the immigrants hadn’t been willing to come to the sheriff for help, according to the locals who had found the victims. So far, he hadn’t been able to convince the immigrants to talk, and he hadn’t located the criminals, but he wasn’t about to stop trying.
Seattle had one duly appointed constable, but he mostly served as a watchman, raising the hue and cry when something happened. If criminals were to be stopped, it was up to Hart, Sheriff Wyckoff, and any other man he might deputize. Which meant Beth was right, and he had work to do.
Something of what he was feeling must have shown on his face, for she sighed. “I’m finished for today, Hart. You can see me back to the livery.”
She sounded so defeated he moved closer. “Didn’t you get what you wanted?”
“Oh, yes.” Her grin reappeared, forming a dimple at the side of her mouth. “At least, purchase-wise. But don’t think you can get rid of me so easily. I’ll come back to town and meet with you tomorrow. I’ll have better candidates in mind then.”
Not if he could help it.
As soon as he saw Beth on the road north toward Wallin Landing, driving a wagon with her brother’s famous steel dusts in the traces, Hart went straight to his superior’s home on the outskirts of Seattle to speak to Mrs. Wyckoff.
Ursula Wyckoff was a pillar of the town. A handsome woman in her late forties, she worked on most civic and church committees, donated flowers for every funeral and supported any number of charitable causes. Her stern demeanor reminded Hart of the woman who had run the orphanage where he’d been raised. Still, Mrs. Wyckoff invited him in and offered him a glass of lemonade, which he declined, before sitting across from him in the parlor.
“Is something wrong, Mr. McCormick?” she asked, blue eyes bright.
Had she noticed the way he shifted on the horsehair-covered sofa? The Wyckoffs had one of the finer homes in Seattle, the walls covered with floral paper, the wood floors by thick carpets. The furnishings were dark and heavy, while crystal draped the lamps. He always felt like an interloper.
Now he balanced his hat on his knee. “Not wrong, ma’am, just of concern. I understand you and the other ladies of the Literary Society persuaded Miss Wallin to find me a bride.”
She didn’t look the least embarrassed to be caught in her machinations. “Ah. I had hoped Miss Wallin would be more circumspect.”
Hart raised a brow. “So you wanted her to lie, too?”
She waved a hand, the sleeve of her gown dripping lace. “You make it sound so sordid. We were only trying to help.”
“I don’t need help,” Hart told her. “I’m perfectly capable of finding myself a wife if I wanted one. And I don’t.”
She leaned forward, frown gathering. “And why not?”
Her husband knew the full story of his past, his upbringing in the crowded orphanage, his short time as an outlaw, the deadly consequences of his decision to testify against the gang. Would Wyckoff be strong enough to deny this woman if she asked him about it? Would the story have any chance of remaining hidden if the sheriff or Hart told her?
Would he escape this room without giving her something?
He squared his shoulders. “I was in love once. She died. I don’t much care to try again.”
Mrs. Wyckoff made a commiserating noise. Then she rose and went to the sideboard. “I don’t believe you met my daughter, Ursula.” She returned to hand him a daguerreotype. “I thought my first husband silly for insisting that we name her after me and even sillier for going to the expense of having this made.”
Hart gazed down at the little girl with a riot of pale curls and a grin that likely tugged at her father’s heart. “Is that why you call her Miss Eugenie now?”
Mrs. Wyckoff retrieved the image. “This isn’t Eugenie, Mr. McCormick. It’s her older sister. My Ursula died when she was seven. She wandered too close to the hearth, and her dress caught on fire.”
His stomach clenched. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”
She stroked the picture as if she would have liked to stroke her daughter’s curls. “So am I. I still miss her.” She dropped her hand. “But my point is this: Where would Eugenie and my son John be now if I had been afraid to try again? Where would any of them be if I had refused to marry after my first husband died?”
He sat straighter. “It’s different for a woman. You don’t have much choice but to wed.”
She set down the picture. “I had choices, Mr. McCormick. I could have kept all my suitors dangling and raised my children in peace. I chose to marry and continue with life. So must you.”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” Hart said with a shake of his head, “but there’s no must about it. Besides, my job keeps me too busy to take a wife.”
She nodded. “I’ll speak to Lewis about changing your schedule.”
That was not what he’d had in mind. He enjoyed his work, knew he made a difference. “I live in a small cabin on the Howards’ land. It doesn’t have room for another.”
“I’m certain your wife wouldn’t mind staying in a hotel while you build her a house. Or perhaps Clay Howard can be persuaded to sell you one of his properties in town.”
He wasn’t about to ask the successful businessman for another favor besides allowing Hart to live in the cabin. “Mrs. Wyckoff, I won’t go along with this.”
She eyed him. “Is it Beth Wallin?”
She could not have guessed his feelings. He kept his face impassive from long practice. “No.”
She sighed. “I thought she might be too young to join the Literary Society and accept this assignment, but Mrs. Howard assured us she was a woman of character despite her years and had had much success with her own family. Perhaps I should take on the task instead. After all, you would have a difficult time refusing your superior’s wife.”
He would indeed. Except for a short stint last year when Henry Adkins had been elected, Lewis Wyckoff had been sheriff since Hart had arrived in 1865. He’d listened to Hart’s story, his dreams, and taken a chance that a onetime outlaw would make a good deputy. Hart had never given him reason to regret his decision. He wasn’t about to start now.
“Why are you doing this, Mrs. Wyckoff?” he asked. “You and your husband have been nothing but kindness. Why force me to wed?”
For the first time, her face softened. “Oh, Hart. I’m not trying to harm you. Seattle needs men like you—strong, certain, forthright. But keeping everyone at arm’s length is no way to live. If Miss Wallin cannot find you a woman you’d be proud to call wife, I’ll simply have to delay her entrance into the Society and undertake the commission myself.”
He couldn’t do that to Beth. Hart rose and slipped on his hat. “Don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. Wyckoff. The Literary Society would be fortunate to have Beth Wallin as a member. I promise you, if there’s any woman on this earth who could make me consider matrimony, it’s her.”
Chapter Three
As Beth went about her chores that afternoon and the next morning, she gave considerable thought as to who might be the right match for Hart. She didn’t believe his protests. Her brothers had all reacted that way to courting, only to fall in love when the
y found the right brides. Hart might bluster all he liked, but the ladies of the Literary Society were right—he’d make some woman a fine husband.
She decided as she cleaned out the main cabin, which served as a rooming house for her brother’s logging crew, that he needed a woman of substance, maturity. As she helped John’s wife, Dottie, bring in the wash hanging on the line before a squall came in, she determined that an impoverished lady might touch on his sense of chivalry and convince him to help. And she kept her promise. She said nothing to any of her family about her plan.
She had a few women in mind when she went to fetch the mail on Wednesday. Wallin Landing had its own post office, sanctioned by the Postmaster General of the United States, no less, but someone had to carry the letters and parcels from Seattle to her brother James’s store and back. When she stopped at the mercantile on Front Street, however, Seattle’s postmaster was apologetic.
“A big storm ran down the Strait,” Mr. Pumphrey told her, rubbing at the counter with his thick fingers. “I heard it even toppled houses in Victoria. All ships have been delayed, alas.”
“We’ll send someone back later in the week,” Beth promised. “Have you seen Deputy McCormick today?”
“He rode past not a quarter hour ago, heading toward the docks.” He leaned across the counter, heavy features lifting. “If you see him, will you tell him his books arrived?”
Beth glanced to the far wall, where leather spines promised adventure and romance. Mr. Pumphrey had stocked the largest collection of books and magazines of any mercantile in Seattle. Her brother John usually had to be dragged from the store before he spent all his money.
“What did he order?” she asked.
His smile brightened his green eyes. “Dime novels—cowboys, train robberies, kidnapped maidens. Perhaps he learns something about being a deputy by reading them.”
She promised to let Hart know. Leaving her brother’s horses tied in front of the store, she started for the docks. Dime novels. Who would have thought? They were thrilling, sensationalist, romantic. A shame he hadn’t learned more from them than the importance of enforcing the law.
The docks were busy as she approached. When she was a girl, Seattle had boasted only one wharf. Now six others stretched across the shores of Elliott Bay. Three ships had made it to port before the big storm. Sailors and teamsters were still working to unload the cargo. The steamer from San Francisco had also docked, longboats heading out to ferry the passengers and luggage ashore.
Even in all the movement, she easily spotted Hart’s black hat, his tall figure. Because it was useless to call over the whine and whir of the nearby sawmill, she stepped out onto the dock. Her rosy skirts were a sharp contrast to the weathered wood, the clumps of lichen and moss, the dark clouds hanging heavy. But it wasn’t the threat of rain that made work screech to a halt as she passed. Men lowered their end of boxes to tip their caps. Others offered smiles and nods. One enterprising fellow with dark hair darted in front of her.
“Can I help you, miss?”
A blond elbowed him aside, one thumb hooked in the suspenders that covered his flannel shirt. “I’m the man for the job, miss. Anything you need.”
His colleague shoved him. “Back off, you lout. I saw her first.”
The other man raised a fist.
“Gents.” Both the men froze at Hart’s raspy drawl as the lawman moved up behind them. “I believe the lady is looking for me.”
“Yes, please,” Beth said with a smile to the would-be brawlers. “But thank you for your eagerness to help.”
The first swept her a bow. “Anything for you, milady.”
His colleague pushed on his shoulders, nearly oversetting him, then ran off with a laugh, the first in hot pursuit.
“They’re so cute at that age,” Beth said.
Hart shook his head. “You’re not much older.”
“But so much wiser.” She linked her arm with his. “So, tell me. When shall we meet to discuss the next steps in finding you a match?”
He glanced around, likely concerned the men might overhear as work resumed. “Not here.” He tugged on her arm, and she allowed him to lead her back up to the shore and pointed him toward Pumphrey and Company, where Lance and Percy waited in their traces.
“Mr. Pumphrey wanted you to know the new dime novels are in,” she told Hart. “I understand you’re fond of them.”
He cast her a glance. “Against the advice of the Literary Society, no doubt. Probably not up to their standards.”
Beth raised her chin. “I would never disparage another person’s taste in literature. Besides, I’ve always enjoyed them. Have you read The Adventures of Black Bess?”
His smile brightened, and something inside her wanted to dance in its light. “Now, there’s a lady. Nothing stopped her—kidnapping, tornado, bandits.”
Beth grinned. “Of course you remember the bandits.”
He shrugged. “Part of the job.”
“I’d have thought you’d want something different from the job to read,” she said as they approached the team.
“I started reading them before I was a lawman.”
“And they made you dream of becoming one,” Beth guessed.
He seemed to be studying the horses. Over the years, many men had responded that way to her brother’s horses. They were steel dusts, the first in the area, their shorter necks and powerful hindquarters making them uniquely suited to run far and fast.
About as far and as fast as Hart likely wanted to run from her idea of matching him up.
“Would you be willing to meet me at the Pastry Emporium at two?” she asked. “I’d like to introduce you to someone.”
His eyes narrowed, but he nodded. “All right. Until then, stay away from the docks. There are some rough sorts down there.”
The two workers hadn’t seemed all that rough to her. “You forget. I have five brothers.”
“Your brothers are gentlemen. Some of those workers aren’t.”
She really shouldn’t take his statements as anything more than his duty as a lawman. “Very well. I’ll be careful.”
His gaze moved to the wharves, as if he saw a gang of marauding pirates rather than busy longshoremen. “Good. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
Beth stared at him.
“I’d hate to have to explain to your brothers,” he added.
Well! She was about to tell him exactly what she thought of the idea when she noticed a light in his eyes. Was that a twinkle in the gray?
Beth tossed her head. “Oh, they’ll take your side. You know they will. They always say I have more enthusiasm than sense.”
He shrugged. “I know a few women who match that description.”
Beth grinned. “But none as pretty as me.”
“That’s the truth.” His gaze warmed, and she caught her breath. Hart McCormick, flirting with her? It couldn’t be!
Fingers fumbling, she untied the horses and hurried for the bench. “I should go. Lots to do before two. See you at the Emporium.”
He followed her around. Before she knew what he was about, he’d placed his hands on her waist. For one moment, she stood in his embrace. Her stomach fluttered. She traced the lines around his mouth with her eyes, tried not to think about how those lips might feel against her own.
He lifted her easily onto the bench and stepped back, face impassive as if he hadn’t been affected in the slightest. “Until two, Miss Wallin.”
Her heart didn’t slow until she’d rounded the corner.
Silly! Why did she keep reacting that way? He wasn’t interested in her. He’d told her so himself. She was not about to offer him her heart. There was no reason to behave like a giddy schoolgirl on her first infatuation.
Even if he had been her schoolgirl infatuation.
She was a woman now, with opportunities, plans, dreams for a future. If those dreams sometimes seemed nebulous, it was only because she hadn’t firmed them up yet. She needed time, more informati
on. She’d figure it out eventually. And she wasn’t about to allow herself to take a chance on love again, especially not with Hart McCormick.
For now, the important thing was to find the perfect woman for him, and she knew just where to look. She drove the wagon up Mill Street for the houses that lined the ridge.
Mrs. Dunbar was happy to entertain her, until Beth eased into her reason for visiting. The tall blonde widow leaned back in her leather-upholstered chair with upraised brow at the idea of working with a matchmaker. When Beth confessed she’d come about Hart McCormick specifically, the woman held up a hand.
“Oh, not him. I appreciate you thinking of me, Miss Wallin, but I have no interest in having Deputy McCormick court me.”
Beth couldn’t help frowning. “May I ask why? He seems to me to be everything a gentleman should be.”
The pretty widow went so far as to shudder. “You were raised in the wilderness, I hear. Some ladies have more exacting standards. Deputy McCormick is far too gruff, far too uncompromising. And those eyes.” She shuddered again. “I’d not like to see those looking at me across the dining table every day.”
Beth stood, shaking out her skirts. “I understand. You’d prefer a gentleman you can bend to your will, preferably with pale eyes and a wan constitution. If I find one in Seattle, I’ll be sure to send him your way. I’ll just see myself out.”
She was still steaming as she climbed up onto the bench. Uncompromising, Mrs. Dunbar had said. Who wanted a man who compromised his values? What was wrong with having a strong moral compass? And to judge a fellow by the color of his eyes? Mrs. Dunbar was no better than Drew, coming up with reasons to refuse a man without having any idea of his character! Hart could do better.
Unfortunately, the next two ladies she visited were equally uninterested. One thought him too opinionated, the other too quiet. He certainly held strong opinions, but she generally agreed with them, except for a certain decision on whether to wed. And he wasn’t garrulous. When he spoke, he spoke with substance, imparting information, concern. Why did they see those traits as weaknesses rather than strengths?