by Verna Clay
The gentle touch of the cowboy's hand mesmerized Angel. She wasn't used to gentleness. Lifting her eyes to his, she extricated her arm and felt gnawing hunger. To save money, she was eating only once per day.
He repeated his plea, "Please."
Angel inclined her head and hoped he couldn't hear her stomach growling. "Very well."
The tall young man opened the door and Angel lifted her head proudly, stepped inside, and tried to calm her rapid pulse.
* * *
The maitre d' greeted Luke and immediately escorted him and Mrs. St. Clair to a secluded table in the VIP section. He chuckled at the surprised look on her face. Unknown to her, he had earlier slipped the man a huge bill for preferential treatment. He noted that Mrs. St. Clair was wearing the same dress she had worn to dine with Mr. Pinkle; something he found curious since the society women of his acquaintance rarely wore the same dresses often. He touched the small of Mrs. St. Clair's back as they followed the maitre d'. When he felt her stiffen, he removed his hand. Behaving in his most gentlemanly manner, something his father had drilled into him; he pulled her chair out, but refrained from touching her again. Then he removed his hat and secured it on the hook above their table.
A waiter approached to take drink orders.
Luke asked, "Do you drink wine, Mrs. St. Clair?"
The beauty trained emerald eyes on him that made his stomach tighten. He couldn't help but notice their exotic shape. In a word, she was simply breathtaking.
She replied primly, "In moderation."
Luke asked, "Do you prefer red or white wine?"
"I have no preference."
He told the waiter, "Bring a bottle of your best red wine."
The waiter bowed slightly. "As you wish, sir."
Luke said in a friendly manner, "This is my favorite restaurant. Whenever I'm in Dallas, I always eat here. I've tried other places, but haven't found any as good as Porter's."
Mrs. St. Clair nodded, but didn't respond.
He continued, "Looks like spring has finally arrived. Before long it will be summer, my favorite time of year." He was hoping his inane conversation would ease the woman's obvious nervousness, but she still didn't speak.
Another waiter arrived with glasses of water, followed by the first waiter with their wine, who expertly performed his duty of uncorking and receiving Luke's approval before serving the expensive bottle. Luke waited for Mrs. St. Clair to sip before continuing his conversation.
"Are you from this area, Mrs. St. Clair?" He asked in a friendly manner.
"No. I arrived two months ago." She didn't elaborate.
"My family lives south of here in a small town called Two Rivers. Have you ever heard of it?"
"No."
"I didn't think so. I don't think it's even a dot on the map."
Luke was rewarded by a slight upward tilt of her lush lips. He picked up his menu and motioned for her to do the same. "Please order whatever you desire."
After their waiter returned and took their orders, a lengthy silence settled again while they sipped their wines and listened to muffled conversation drifting throughout the dimly lit room. After a time, Luke lazily leaned back, stretched his legs out from his chair and asked, "So, Mrs. St. Clair, tell me why you're seeking a mail order husband."
She gave him a sharp look. "I see no reason to go into that because it will not be you."
Luke lifted an eyebrow. "And pray tell why am I not in the running? Surely you haven't chosen Mr. Pinkle."
He noticed Mrs. St. Clair's attractive blush and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He hadn't had this much fun since he and Marylou had shared stolen kisses when they were sixteen.
Mrs. St. Clair gave him a cold stare. "Whomever I select is none of your business, but to satisfy your curiosity, you are not in the running because you are much too young and impertinent."
Luke's lips quirked. "I may be young chronologically, but I have experienced more than men twice my age."
At his words, the beauty unexpectedly smiled and Luke's stomach somersaulted. She said, "Obviously, you are either a man of wealth, or you are foolishly spending your hard earned money on this expensive dinner. If you are wealthy, I doubt you could have experienced much of life's unpleasantries, but if you are wasting hard earned money on this dinner, you still have much to learn."
Luke leaned across the table and said quietly. "Obviously, you are very knowledgeable of life's unpleasantries and I bow to your experience. Now, pray tell again, why are you foolishly advertising for a husband? Do you not know the dangers that could befall you if you choose the wrong man—a man of theatrical ability that could fool you into believing his intentions are honorable?" He sat back.
Mrs. St. Clair reached for her wine and he noticed a slight trembling of her hand. So, she wasn't as impervious as she appeared. She sipped her wine and placed her hands in her lap. Lifting her eyes to his, he was surprised to see amusement in them.
She sighed, "You are certainly impudent and persistent. Because of that, I will indulge your curiosity."
In spite of Luke's cool demeanor, his heart hammered.
"I have purchased a small business in San Francisco. It is a bakery that I hope to make a living from. It has been very successful thus far and I believe I can continue its success."
She sipped her wine again and a drop lingered on her lower lip. Luke had to resist the urge to reach and thumb the moisture away. He opened his mouth to ask a question, but she continued before he could speak.
"No doubt, Mr. Samson, you are wondering why a husband is necessary and I will try to explain. However, you may not understand or even believe what I say, and thus misconstrue my confidence."
She looked down and Luke noticed how long her eyelashes were. Again, he was struck by her stunning beauty. He waited for her to continue.
After the space of a heartbeat, she lifted her eyes and said completely void of conceit, "I have often been told that I am beautiful. Because of my appearance, my life has not been as easy as one might suppose. Since my youth, I have had to fend off the advances of men that I neither solicited nor wanted. For years I have saved every penny in order to purchase a bakery and I finally found one for sale in San Francisco. At the time of the purchase, I lived on the east coast. Because of my previous bad experiences with your gender, I hired a man whom I believed to be trustworthy to escort me to San Francisco. Since the journey involves both rail and stagecoach through wild country, and I had no desire to travel as an unprotected female and repeat previous bad experiences, I hired this man believing him to be honorable—but he was not. He tried to take advantage of my person." She slid her eyes to her wineglass.
Luke's jaw tightened and he clinched and unclenched his hands beneath the table. "Go on," he said with a calmness he didn't feel.
"Needless to say, I was very frightened by the incident that happened in Denver. The man was arrested for public drunkenness and lewd behavior and placed in jail. I left Denver by rail and traveled here two months ago. Even on the train, I was accosted by unruly men. After I arrived here, I knew I could not travel the rest of the way unescorted, and since I no longer trust the type of man who hires himself out, my options are limited, which is why I thought the idea of matrimony might weed out many of the lowlifes. Also, a husband is more likely to garner respect. Traveling with the afore mentioned man afforded me nothing but disrespect from women and crude advances from other men that ended in brawls. I simply cannot abide such bestial behavior. I did not ask to be born the way I am, and if I had been, I would have immediately declined and wished to become a plain woman. So, Mr. Samson, you may take my confidences however you choose—as the ramblings of a vain woman, or a woman who desires only to arrive at her business with her personage intact and make a humble living."
The waiter arrived with their dinner, ending further conversation. Luke had an almost overwhelming desire to reach across the table and smooth his hand down Mrs. St. Clair's cheek as an act of comfort. Inste
ad, he cut his steak, and except for occasional attempts at conversation on his part, they ate mostly in silence. He noticed that she ate everything and when the waiter brought more bread, she ate that too.
When she finished, she lifted her napkin to blot her lips and then placed it on the table. "I thank you for the meal, Mr. Samson. I would like to leave now."
"How did you arrive? Did you come by carriage?"
She hesitated a second. "I am not far away. I walked."
Luke read her countenance. She was lying. She had walked a long distance and she was impoverished. Tapping his fingers on the table, he said, "I would like to marry you and provide the protection you need."
Mrs. St. Clair's eyes widened. "That is impossible!"
"Why? Because of my age? My understanding is that this marriage is simply for the convenience of transporting you to California. So what difference does my age make. Besides, you talk as if you are an old woman when–"
"I am thirty-five and cannot fathom why you would want to do such a thing. You must have young lady friends and a busy life–"
"I have nothing standing in the way of helping you, Mrs. St. Clair." Even though she protested, Luke could see a spark light her eyes and pursued that line of reasoning. "My business pursuits are such that for the time being I am free. In fact, I have been pondering a trip to California for quite some time," he stretched the truth.
"Exactly, what are your business pursuits, Mr. Samson, if I may be so inquisitive?"
He leaned back in his chair. "I am an investor and speculator." There was some truth in his response. He had invested in the railways and much real estate, including the hotel he now resided in. His first investment five years previous had been land adjacent to his father's ranch that he had recently built a lovely home on, thus fulfilling his desire to live there most of the year so he could be near his family. He would indulge his love of ranching when he was there and realize his love of adventure when he was not. Recently, he had hired caretakers to live in quarters built behind the main house.
Mrs. St. Clair studied him and his gaze did not waiver from hers. He asked a calculated question, "When were you planning on leaving for California?"
Her eyes drifted to the table, but not before he recognized hesitation and something else—hope. His gut twisted.
"I must think about this, Mr. Samson."
"Of course."
"I would also require references from you."
"I understand."
Her teeth grazed her full bottom lip in a gesture Luke knew to be innocent, but desire shot through him. He cleared his throat. I can deliver references to you tomorrow. Would you like me to send them to the same post office box?"
For a moment, Mrs. St. Clair appeared flustered, but she quickly composed her face into bland indifference. "Yes, please. I must leave now." She stood and began pulling on her gloves.
Luke jumped to his feet and reached for the tab the waiter had discreetly left on their table. "Please, let me take care of this and then I'll see you to your hotel." While he handled the money transaction, she walked to the foyer of the restaurant.
Chapter Six: Purdy Filly
Angel hastened out of the restaurant while Mr. Samson was engaged paying their bill. She did not want him accompanying her back to her shabby hotel. He was very persuasive and she needed time to think. Rushing down the street, she stepped into a milliner's shop, hoping to hide from him. Her heart thumped as she walked to the back of the shop and lifted some fabric, pretending interest. The man unnerved her. He may be young, but his eyes revealed experience with women.
"That shade of lavender would look lovely on you," said the proprietress. "Lavender would bring out the green of your eyes."
Angel smiled her acknowledgement and pretended interest in other fabrics. When she felt she had waited long enough, she slipped out the door and hastened down the street, walking the many blocks to her hotel.
Throughout the night, dreams of azure eyes that seemed to peer into the hidden secrets of her soul troubled her sleep. The next morning, sitting at her desk and calculating her funds, she knew she would have to leave soon for California. Her money was dwindling and she still hadn't found a suitable man to escort her. The proprietors she had purchased the business from were only keeping the bakery open until the end of June, two months away. They had written that if she hadn't arrived by then, they would leave the keys with the business next door. Angel knew that if the bakery closed, precious customers would be lost.
At noon, she made her customary trip to the post office to retrieve her mail. Three envelopes awaited her: two in response to her advertisement and one with handwriting she recognized—Luke Samson's. Unable to resist, she walked to a corner of the postal building and ripped Mr. Samson's envelope open. In his beautiful script, he had listed the names of his father and mother, brothers and sister, and a page of names and occupations of a dozen people. Although Angel did not recognize the names, she did recognize the titles of prominent people: owner of the Philadelphia Inquirer, railroad mogul, restaurateur, and more. While she wondered at the man's connections and his desire to help her, she first smelled, and then heard, the approach of a drunken lout.
"Well, ain't you a purdy filly. Hey, Tator, come have a lookey see." The revolting man reached and grabbed Angel's upper arms, pulling her roughly against his chest. "Yep, I like the feel o' you. I thinks we needs ta spend some time tagather."
The old fear bunched in Angel's throat and when the man's burley partner rounded the corner, she thought she might faint. Glancing across the room and not seeing the postmaster, she realized she was in trouble. Placing her hands on the horrible man's chest, she pushed as hard as she could, but her effort proved fruitless, as she had known it would. He only encircled her waist and pulled her lower body tighter against his. She could feel his erection and almost threw up. Her only option now was to scratch and scream, something she hated doing.
A voice from across the room said calmly, "I don't think the lady appreciates your attention. I highly suggest you let her go."
Angel almost gagged when the imbibed man's breath reached her nostrils when he slurred. "Oh, yeah? Well, I found her first. Ain't never seen one this purdy. You'll have ta wait yer turn. Ain't that right, Tator?"
Tator grinned, showing off rotting teeth. "I'd say that's right." He took a step forward, flexing his knuckles.
Smoothly, Mr. Samson reached inside his duster and removed a small derringer, aiming it at Tator's crotch. He said with a smile, "I'd love to pull the trigger."
Tator stopped, swayed slightly, and responded, "Ain't no whore worth gettin' killed over. Com'on Slim."
Mr. Samson lifted an eyebrow and readjusted the aim of his gun toward Slim's head. Slim cussed, ground himself against Angel, and said just before shoving her away, "Yeah, and this one's the kind that gits men killed." With a look of pure hatred, he joined his friend and they mumbled profanities while stumbling out the door. Mr. Samson followed them, never lowering his gun.
Angel slumped against the wall, willing visions of past experiences to return to her subconscious. She was shaking so badly she clasped her hands together and squeezed her eyes shut.
"Angel," she heard her name softly called. The steadiness of the sound calmed her somewhat and she opened her eyes. Mr. Samson stood a few feet away, obviously giving her space, and then did something that made her heart race again for a different reason. He smiled reassuringly.
Angel blinked and placed her hand over her heart.
"They won't be bothering you again, I promise." The young man glanced at the envelopes and pages that had fallen to the floor. "I see you've read my references. Do they meet with your approval?"
Unable to comprehend his words she stared at him with widened eyes.
When she didn't respond, he said, "There's a park across the street. May I escort you there? You can rest on a bench."
"Umm…" Angel glanced nervously at the door.
"They're gone, Angel. You're
safe with me."
The young man bent to retrieve the papers and then offered her his arm. She suddenly came to her senses. He must think her daft. She needed to sit before her shaky legs collapsed. "Yes, I'd like to go to the park."
Instead of placing her hand in the crook of his elbow however, she avoided contact and walked past him. He followed and reached to open the door. The postmaster walked back into the room, oblivious to what had just transpired.
Outside, Angel glanced anxiously around while Mr. Samson walked beside her, and when they crossed the street, he touched her elbow. Curiously, the contact did not make her cringe as she would have expected after her ordeal. Usually, such happenings left her phobic for days. He directed her to a lovely path bordered by multicolored flowers and a bench set amongst them. When she sat, he knelt in front of her.
"Is this better?"
Taking a shaky breath, she said, "Yes. Much."
Angel felt Mr. Samson studying her face, but kept her eyes trained on a bed of pansies behind him. He stood and walked to the tree next to the bench, leaning against it.
* * *
Luke removed his Stetson and held it next to his side. The encounter with the uncouth cowboys had obviously upset Angel to the point that she was having difficulty recovering. He waited patiently for her to look at him. When she did, his breath caught. She was simply the most striking woman he had ever encountered, and he had met his share because of the societal circles in which he sometimes had to associate. Society women had nothing better to do than pamper themselves into prettiness, but they paled in comparison to this angel.
Mrs. St. Clair said, "Thank you, Mr. Samson. I sincerely appreciate your help. I-I hate encounters like that."
"Do they happen often?"
She glanced away. "No. But enough to make me leery of going outdoors. I spend much time in my hotel room."
"Have you considered my offer of protection?" he asked bluntly.
She bit her full bottom lip and Luke clenched his jaw, chastising himself for seeking to become involved with this woman.