It could have been worse. It could have been a sock.
Squinting at it, Everett wasn’t entirely certain it wasn’t a sock. It did have a particularly hard-used aspect to it—the same quality that every ranch hand’s worldly goods acquired after some time in the bunkhouse. What’s worse, Casper seemed—even more foolhardily—hell-bent on tying it on Everett’s arm.
He jerked away. “I’m not wearing that.”
Casper blinked in surprise—something Everett should have expected. After all, the lanky boy was the newest, greenest, and—therefore—most reckless of all his ranch hands.
“You have to wear a blue armband, patrón!” Casper said in a tone of earnest concern. “How else will Miss Trent find you?”
“I’ll find her myself.” Then I’ll send her away.
Stubbornly Everett set his jaw in silent confirmation of that plan. That was the reason he’d come to the depot at all. He intended to meet Miss Nellie Trent, explain the mistake his vaqueros had made, buy his “fiancée” a return train ticket…and hope she was a reasonable woman who wouldn’t kick up too much of a fuss about canceling their impending “wedding.”
“Heck, this will help with finding her!” Not the least bit daunted by Everett’s refusal to be earmarked for love, Casper fixed the length of blue fabric around his arm. He wrenched a firm knot with a yank of his cowpuncher’s fist, all but brimming over with misguided optimism and youthful naïveté. “There. Now you look the way you’re s’pposed to look to meet your bride!”
With a saint’s forbearance—because Casper was too gullible to know any better, and because the older men had doubtless been the ringleaders in this whole imbroglio, even if they were letting Casper stick out his neck—Everett shook his head. He sighed. “For the twelfth time…I’m not getting married.”
“I know you’re fixin’ to send her away, patrón. You told us so already this morning.” Casper broke off to rub his nose with the heel of his hand, the gesture unaffectedly boyish. He grinned. “If I recall correctly, you told us Miss Trent would be ‘back on the train before her feet touched the ground.’”
Everett had said that. He’d also said a lot more during this morning’s kerfuffle, when the men had revealed their unasked-for matchmaking. In rejecting their scheme, Everett hadn’t bothered with mollycoddling. The words damn fools, pack your duffels and several colorful profanities had been spoken.
“I meant what I said.” It was his way. Always had been. “I don’t want a wife. I don’t need a wife. I won’t have a wife.”
“You’ll change your mind when you see her,” Casper alleged with an imprudent grin. “I bet five dollars you would!”
Everett frowned. “You have a bet running? On me getting married?”
Casper and his compatriots nodded. Casper did so gleefully. The others… Hellfire. They nodded gleefully, too. Everett didn’t know what the world was coming to when a man couldn’t even trust his own vaqueros not to stab him in the back with Cupid’s arrow.
Audaciously a few of them had even followed him on horseback along the mountainous road between his sprawling ranch and the town of Morrow Creek. Presently more than half his troublemaking ranch hands loitered between the train tracks and the bustling ticket office—hoping, he knew, to see the spectacle of their hard-nosed hacendado being overcome by love.
The odds of that happening were very long indeed. Once, Everett had thought he was a typical Western male: gruff but affable. Now he knew he was not. Despite the longtime admiration of his men, he was…lacking. At least to the feminine mind, he was. The day he’d learned that had been one of his worst.
No right-thinking woman wants to live on a hardscrabble ranch with a burly, unrefined oaf for a husband, Everett.
Honestly. Did you think I would settle for this? For you?
Those had been Miss Abbey O’Neill’s parting words to him. The memory of them still stung. Not long after that, she’d absconded from town to elope with Astair Prestell, the famously cultured author, during his whistle-stop speaking tour of the territory.
Although Everett did not miss Miss O’Neill in the way he’d thought he would—unaccountably, he did not miss her at all—he didn’t like knowing that he’d turned up wanting. In any arena.
Far better, he’d decided, to give up on “love” for now.
But his men had no compunction about meddling in their hacendado’s affairs. They’d banded together, contacted a mail-order marriage bureau and written several letters to his “fiancée” on Everett’s behalf. He still didn’t know exactly what those letters had said—what they’d promised. The possibilities of that concerned him. Who knew what a miscreant bunch of whiskey-swilling, knuckle-dragging vaqueros from a half dozen different countries and cultures considered to be “romantic”?
The possibilities made Everett shudder. When Miss Nellie Trent arrived—if she arrived—she might be expecting a very peculiar courtship. What sort of woman agreed to that? To him?
“Don’t look so worried, patrón. This is one bet I aim to win. Fácil.” Smiling at Everett, Pedro patted the pocket where he kept his bankroll, apparently ready to risk everything on the outside chance his boss would find love. Before coming to Morrow Creek, Pedro had been a faro dealer in the southern presidio of Tucson. Swarthy and debonair at almost fifty years old, the man still sported the heavy silver rings that proved his expertise at the gaming table. “Not even you can resist a pretty woman. You won’t be able to help yourself. Just like me.”
To prove it, Pedro winked at a passing woman wearing a full-skirted pink dress and carrying a parasol. She blushed. She giggled. Finally she relented and coyly waved at him.
“Da. Sooner or later, wedding fever strikes everyone,” Ivan opined in his lingering Russian accent, oblivious to the flirtation that Pedro had embarked upon. The hulking blond kept his attention fixed on the gingham-lined basket of baked goods he’d brought along for the trip. Ivan selected a snickerdoodle, then pointed it at Everett for emphasis. “Marybelle and Edina told us so, and they would know.” At his mention of the ranch house cook, Ivan appeared momentarily distracted. Then downright dreamy. Then he recalled himself. “This time of year, no man for miles can resist getting hitched. It’s springtime wedding fever. That’s what Edina said. All you need is a willing bride.”
“Which we have found for you!” Oscar boasted in his
jovial and precise German-accented speech. Keeping a finger hooked in his latest philosophy text—just one in a never-ending series of books that accompanied the dark-haired recent immigrant to roundups, roll calls and every meal the aforementioned Edina served up—Oscar nodded sagely. “A new woman can change things for you, patrón. A new woman can cure your broken heart.”
Everett didn’t want to talk about his “broken heart.” Especially not with a ranch hand who’d once quoted poetry to him as an excuse not to tame the latest prize mustang he’d wrangled. Pointedly Everett cast a warning glower in his men’s direction.
“The next man who says ‘broken heart’ will find himself mucking out horse stalls—alone—for a solid month. Understand?”
His vaqueros saluted. “Yes, patrón. We understand.”
They sounded suitably contrite. But given the lasting (and incongruous) expressions of schoolgirlish eagerness on their (mostly) grizzled and beard-stippled faces, Everett didn’t feel he’d sufficiently impressed on them the importance of never pulling such a ludicrous stunt again. He crossed his arms for good measure. Then he deepened his frown to a fearsome degree.
“I don’t want any more of this matchmaking nonsense. What if I’d already promised myself to some other woman?”
They all sobered. “What other woman?” Ivan demanded, warily clutching his basket of goodies to his midsection. “Not Edina!”
“No, not Edina, mi amigo.” Pedro shook his head at Ivan’s protective feelings toward
the cook. “We were very careful about picking out Señorita Trent,” he told Everett in a self-assured tone. “No one else will be such a perfect lady for you.”
“Auch wenn.” Carelessly Oscar shrugged. “That may be true. But our patrón does not agree. Perhaps he is too inconsolable to agree.” The German gave Everett a long-suffering look. He closed his book—something Oscar rarely did—demonstrating the gravity of their situation. “The agency guaranteed satisfaction. Once you have rejected Fräulein Trent, patrón, we can request another—”
“No one is going to reject Miss Trent!” Everett blurted.
He couldn’t help it. Put that way, it sounded horrible. While he did not consider himself to be especially softhearted or softheaded—and he would have had to have been both to agree to this “wedding”—there were lines that even the strongest, toughest, most uncompromising hacendado refused to cross.
What he proposed doing with Miss Trent was not a rejection of her. It was merely…changing their supposed deal. Unless she refused to accept a return ticket, of course. That was still possible. Then what in tarnation would he do with her?
Why in blazes had his men stuck him in this position?
Aggrieved all over again by their preposterous plan, Everett paced some more. His battered boots clunked along the platform; his plain work shirt and britches kept him respectably—if not stylishly—clad. He wished he’d uncovered his men’s cockamamie scheme earlier. By the time he’d learned of it, it had been too late. His “fiancée” had already been on her way.
“I’m simply going to…return Miss Trent to the city. That’s where she belongs. She’ll be happier there.” With a citified man like Astair Prestell. Defensively Everett lifted his chin. “I’m going to thank her for coming, then pay her to leave.”
They all gawked at him. “Pay her? She’s not a prostitute!” Casper sounded indignant. Two bright red spots bloomed on his cheeks, betraying the fact that he’d visited Miss Adelaide’s place only once—and then merely to “chat” with one of the girls. “You can’t give her money outright like that. It ain’t proper.”
“A ticket, I mean. I’ll pay for a return train ticket.” Everett had explained this to them already. “It’s the least I can do,” he said. “How else am I supposed to get rid of her?”
“Get rid of her?” At that, Ivan and Pedro gasped. They traded fretful glances. “Patrón, you don’t deserve her!”
Damnation. Now he’d been judged and found wanting by his men, too! “How do you know that? None of you have met her.”
Oscar raised his eyebrows. “We’ve corresponded,” he reminded Everett archly. “Miss Trent has lovely penmanship and exemplary grammar, two fine qualities for a potential wife.”
“Lovely penmanship and good grammar?” Everett gave them a sardonic, helpless grin. “Well then. I just changed my mind!”
His vaqueros weren’t amused by his joke.
But that probably didn’t matter anyway. At this rate, Everett reckoned the argument was moot—especially after he swept the assembled travelers with another decisive glance. “She’s not here,” he announced. “I don’t think she’s coming.”
“She’s coming. She paid a fee,” Oscar said dourly, “just like we did. I only hope she was not as idealistic as we were.”
Everett swiveled. “There was a fee involved?”
His vaqueros shrugged. A chorus of yeses in a variety of languages rang out. Oscar’s was last. “Ja. We all contributed.” He raised his mournful gaze to Everett’s face. “If it brings back your soul to you, patrón…then it will be money well spent.”
Doubly troubled now, Everett shook his head at them. This was typical of his longtime vaqueros. His ranch hands were commendably dedicated and hardworking. They were also much too willing to come together for a “cause” they believed in.
Last year, they’d pooled their salaries to buy new featherbeds for the girls at Miss Adelaide’s place. A few months ago, they’d joined forces to run a roughhousing regular from that same cathouse out of town. Weeks ago, they’d decided their lonesome hacendado needed a wife…so they’d ordered up one.
Against all reason, Everett didn’t want to disappoint them. These men would likely never have wives or weddings themselves; they had already given their hearts to the solitary vaquero’s life. He understood the loneliness of that life. He understood its compromises. He’d accepted them for himself. But that didn’t mean Everett intended to go along with this nonsense.
He didn’t have to. He had blue skies, spirited horses, plenty of mescal and all the faro-playing, joke-telling, smoke-a-cigar-in-peace breathing room a man could ever want. He didn’t need anything else. No matter what his ranch hands said.
“Well, Miss Trent doesn’t rate highly in punctuality,” Everett groused, on the verge of abandoning this fool’s quest in favor of enjoying a lager at Jack Murphy’s saloon. “You say she’s ‘pretty’ and ‘perfect,’ but all I see is ‘unreliable.’”
Overhearing his words, a female passerby stopped.
Smartly she glanced at Everett.
“That’s too bad,” she said cheerfully. “Because there are also ‘intelligent,’ ‘intrepid’ and ‘irresistible’ to consider. I have it on very good authority that those attributes apply to Miss Trent as well.” Warmheartedly she smiled at him. “Fortunately she’s also ‘easygoing.’ She might be willing to prove it by giving you another try at your description.”
Her impish grin called to mind secrets and surprises and unknown wishes granted. It called to mind a woman who was reputedly pretty, perfect and proficient at penmanship and syntax. It called to mind other hasty character assessments that Everett had made…and had lately been proven wrong about.
After all, at one time, he’d believed Miss Abbey O’Neill truly cared about him—and was capable of fidelity, besides. He couldn’t have been more wrong.
If he were wise, he’d be more careful this time.
Looking at the woman who’d so boldly approached him, Everett had a jumbled impression of blue eyes, freckled skin and tawny hair. He registered her soot-smudged dress, dark gloves and crumpled red hat. Beneath its blue-ribbon-bedecked crown and woefully bent brim, her face appeared singularly pert and vivacious. Her lips pursed. Her cheeks bloomed. Everett had the unmistakable sense that she had not been exaggerating when she’d called herself intelligent, intrepid…and irresistible.
Was this Miss Nellie Trent at last?
His mind whirled. Studying her more closely, Everett no longer heard the metallic squeal of train wheels or the hubbub of conversation. He no longer felt the platform beneath his boots. He no longer sensed his vaqueros nearby. He did hear his own heart pounding double-time in his chest. And he did feel his body tingle with a curious sense of…anticipation? Eagerness?
Oddly enough, it felt like…recognition. It felt the same as when Everett rode across the foothills after a long time away and spied his hard-won hacienda in the distance. It felt good.
That made no sense whatsoever. This woman could be Miss Nellie Trent. She could also be an impossibly nosy bystander.
Either way, she gazed at him interestedly, oblivious to his bafflement, as though genuinely expecting him to reconsider the various qualities he’d attributed to his unknown “fiancée.”
“No? All right, then. Maybe later.” Her lively smile dazzled him. “When it comes to hearing my finer qualities enumerated, I am willing to wait just as long as it takes.”
Belatedly Everett regained the use of his addled brain. “I see. I don’t guess those qualities will include modesty?”
She laughed. “Touché, Mr. Bannon!” Her gaze dropped to the grubby blue band on his arm. “It is Mr. Bannon, isn’t it?”
“It was when I woke up this morning.”
Another peal of laughter. “You are delightful!” Shaking her head in apparent wonderm
ent at that, the woman lightly touched his arm. “And here I was worried you’d be some fusty old coot.”
As she lifted her hand, Everett experienced an inexplicable fondness for the tied-on blue armband that had identified him to her. He never wanted to remove it. “If I was, I reckon you’d be the type of woman to tell me so. Immediately upon meeting me.”
“Ah. You mean I’m too forward, don’t you?” She tilted her head as though the idea had newly occurred to her. “I see. I’ll list that attribute right next to ‘unpunctual’ in my personal ledger.” A brief smile. “Although I’m not usually late. Today I was unavoidably delayed in meeting you. It won’t happen again.”
She did not elaborate, and he couldn’t ask her to. Despite her blithe tone and merry eyes, Everett couldn’t help feeling his comment had bothered her. He wanted urgently to recall it. “It’s no trouble. You’re probably just tired and hungry,” he assured her gruffly. “Train travel can take its toll on anyone.”
“All the same…I’ll try to do better. I’m very interested in this marriage we’ve arranged, you see.” With a winsome smile that would have tempted any man into unwanted matrimony, she extended her gloved hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Bannon. I, of course, am Miss Nellie Trent. Your bride-to-be.”
Hopelessly charmed by the bustle-wearing, blue-ribbon-sporting, outspoken force of nature that was his potential “fiancée,” Everett took her hand in his. Warmth passed between them, leaving him surprised and shaken. And just like that, Everett realized that his vaqueros were right.
He did need something more. He needed Nellie Trent.
Chapter Two
“Are my lodgings very far from here?” Nellie asked.
Interestedly she examined the town of Morrow Creek, nestled in the valley beyond the train depot. It was full of lumber-framed buildings and false-fronted shops and at least one two-story hotel. It bustled with people and wagons and the usual horse traffic. To her ever-curious mind, the admittedly minor and fairly typical town of Morrow Creek looked…thrilling.
Weddings Under a Western Sky: The Hand-Me-Down BrideThe Bride Wore BritchesSomething Borrowed, Something True Page 17