She nodded, knowing her uncle would be watching the clock, ready to punish her for every second away from her work. Still, she might as well be hung for a sheep as hung for a lamb. Edging past Captain Hart in the dingy alley, she led the way out on to the street and down toward the waters of Long Island Sound. The small strip of green grass and trees that the city called a park was the only refuge Elise had when her life threatened to overwhelm her. Directing him to a bench, she looked out over the water, letting the lap and scrape of the waves against the rocky shoreline calm her.
The dog charged to the water’s edge, scattering the gulls and barking, high-stepping along the shore, his tail wagging.
The captain took the near end of the bench, stretched his long legs out, and crossed his booted ankles. His rifle rested against the bench at his side. Elise paused before stepping over his legs to sit, smoothing her skirts, wishing she’d thought to grab her shawl as the brisk mid-October wind blew in over the water.
When he made no move to speak, she said, “I never thought I would see you again.” Glancing up at his profile, she realized he’d put her on his right so the damaged side of his face was away from her. She recalled the last time she had seen him, weak and bandaged, being dragged from his hospital bed and shoved into a train car for the trip to Fort Delaware and the prisoner of war camp. He and so many of his fellow Confederates. Though she had protested their treatment, knowing many were still too sick and injured to survive the journey, the surgeon had ignored her, shunting them off like so many cattle to the slaughter. All she could do was press a few pieces of hardtack into his hand as he was shoved away from her.
“I prayed for you.” She studied her hands in her lap, too ashamed of what had happened to him to look up. “I prayed you were still alive.”
He stirred, as if uncomfortable with her whispered confession. “Miss Rivers, I promised myself at the end of the War that I would never come north of the Mason-Dixon Line again. I’d had enough of Northern hospitality to last me a lifetime, first the hospital here, then Fort Delaware, then Elmira.”
He’d survived Elmira Prison? No wonder he never wanted to come north again. She couldn’t blame him, and yet here he sat, not two miles from the hospital at Fort Slocum where she had treated his wounds and held his hand as he wandered in delirium, fevered and insensible, injured terribly at Gettysburg and shuffled from one hospital to another as those medical centers closer to the battlefield filled to overflowing.
“What brings you here now, Captain?”
His fine, narrow lips pressed together, the skin taut over his cheekbone. “Miss Rivers, I came all this way to ask you to marry me.”
She couldn’t have been more shocked if he had declared he was going to sprout wings and fly. “What? Why?”
“Because I need to get hitched, quick.”
Had his War injuries addled his brains? She’d heard of that happening to some War veterans.
“Miss Rivers, my pa has got hold of an outlandish notion, and there’s nothing I can do about it. He says if my brothers and I want our inheritance, then we all have to get married, pronto. He gave us until New Year’s, and confound it all, nearly every one of my brothers has up and found a woman to marry.” He fisted his hands on his thighs. “I’m the last holdout.”
Her hands went slack, and she knew her jaw did, too.
“Why come all this way? Are there no women in Texas?”
“The War exacted a high price from me.” He made a vague gesture toward his damaged eye. “The women in Texas are not inclined to look on my face favorably.”
The more fools, them. Captain Hart had more than his fair share of handsome looks, scars and patch notwithstanding. There was a strength and dependability to him, and a vulnerability that called out to her and set her heart to racing. He had courtly manners and an ingrained chivalry she’d found sadly lacking in the men of her acquaintance. Of all the soldiers she had treated throughout the war, Captain Hart was the most memorable.
And now he had rescued her from her uncle’s wrath, at least temporarily. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had stood up on her behalf or shielded her from harm.
He whistled to the dog that had gone out onto the pier. “I remember your kindness in the hospital. During my imprisonment, that memory helped me survive. Most Northerners reserved their hospitality for Union soldiers.”
Her heart warmed. “I was only doing what was right. Injury cares not for allegiances.”
His long fingers curled around his knees, and he glanced at her. “You aren’t married, and from the way your uncle is treating you, you aren’t exactly prospering since the War.”
A blush heated her cheeks. No, she wasn’t prospering. He had probably taken note of her shabby clothes and battered shoes. She stared out over the water, unable to meet his eye.
“I propose a deal. I need a wife, and you need to escape your uncle. Marry me and come to Texas. I’ll get my inheritance; you’ll get freedom from that dumb-as-a-sack-full-of-hammers uncle of yours and the protection of the Hart name.”
My first—and likely only—marriage proposal. She tugged at her lower lip, wanting to laugh, but feeling the prick of tears, too. I am nearly overwhelmed by the romance of it all. A cold gust of wind whipped over the water, and she crossed her arms, hugging herself against the chill.
Then his coat was dropping around her shoulders, warm from his body, surrounding her with comfort and protection. The butter-soft leather smelled of sunshine and hard work and male. It was as if the captain had put his arm around her, so intimate was the jolt to her heart.
Such a protector by nature wouldn’t be a bad risk as a husband, would he?
“You should know,” he spoke as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “This would be a paper marriage. I don’t expect anything of you except for you to say the words in front of the preacher and come live at the 7 Heart. I’ll provide for you, and you can have the running of the house. I won’t put any other demands on you. All I ask is that you keep the terms to yourself. My family doesn’t need to know that ours is anything but a normal marriage.”
She buried her fingers in the fringe on the coat. A loveless marriage, but one of security, and on her part at least, regard and liking.
As opposed to her current existence on sufferance with a cruel relative.
It seemed an easy decision.
But did she have the courage to jettison her girlhood dreams of marrying for love and accept the captain’s offer?
She snuggled into his coat and decided she did.
Chapter Two
Elise didn’t feel any different from her old self as they boarded the train, except that she was relieved not to have to go back to the factory. She certainly didn’t feel as she expected a new bride should, elated and giddy, eager to start a new adventure with the man she loved. Captain Hart—no, not captain, Bowie, as she’d learned at the hasty wedding ceremony—kept his hand on her elbow, guiding her through the crowds at the station as if he feared she might bolt.
She patted her handbag, feeling the crinkle of paper. The ink was barely dry on their marriage certificate, and here they were leaving New York for Texas already. Not that she had any long good-byes to say. Her uncle had boiled, red in the face, then glowered and grunted a “good riddance” when she’d told him she was leaving. Of course, what else could he do with Bowie and the dog right there to protect her from his wrath?
The pastor of her little church had taken a long look at Bowie, his rifle, and his dog, and asked her in a hushed whisper if she was sure she wanted to do this. After she assured him she did, the wedding was done in a blur. All she could remember was how Bowie’s hand engulfed hers, and how steady his voice when he repeated his vows.
Vows to love, honor, and cherish her.
And she’d promised to love, honor, and obey this man for the rest of her life.
There hadn’t even been a wedding kiss.
As he handed her up the steps into the train, the en
ormity of what she was doing washed over her like an unexpected wave at the beach, threatening to topple her. She stumbled as her breath caught in her throat.
“All right?” His deep voice behind her made her jump.
“Yes. I’m fine.” Her words sounded as weak and quavery as she felt.
The porter took her valise and Bowie’s saddlebags, their only luggage, and frowned as the dog—Stonewall—leapt aboard.
“Livestock is not allowed in the passenger cars, sir.” He looked down his narrow, hooked nose and sniffed.
“He’s got a ticket.” Bowie showed him the pasteboard, his face impassive. The man examined the slip, sniffed again, and held open the door.
“This way, ma’am.”
Not miss but ma’am. She pressed through her glove against the plain circlet of gold Bowie had placed on her finger. From spinster to bride, from miss to ma’am, in the space of an afternoon.
She followed the railroad employee, with Bowie and the dog coming along behind, and to her surprise, the porter continued past the bench seats in the passenger section to the end of the car and into a private compartment. “This is your berth.” He stowed her bag in an overhead rack. “We’ll be pulling out soon. Dinner service is in the forward car at seven p.m. and a porter will be around to pull down your bed at nine if that pleases you?”
“Fine.” Bowie stepped aside to allow the man to leave, and Elise surveyed the little room. A private compartment all to themselves? Polished wood and glass everywhere, velvet seats. Such luxury. She felt as out of place in her worn, faded dress as a tin cup at a tea party. Could Bowie really afford this?
He put a coin in the porter’s hand, something large enough to make the man’s eyes widen and for him to bob his head. “If there’s anything you need, please, let me know.”
Bowie nodded and stepped inside the compartment. “Will this do?”
Stonewall jumped up on the seat and looked out the window, leaving a nose-print on the glass. Elise took off her gloves, finger by finger, comparing the train accommodations to her uncle’s cramped, mean rooms above the factory. “Will this do? This is the nicest place I’ve been in since…”
“Since?”
She took a steadying breath and swallowed. “Since my parents passed away.” Removing her bonnet, she smoothed her hair.
“When was that?”
“During the War. A week before you were brought in to the Fort Slocum Hospital, actually.”
He stilled in that way she’d noticed several times now, so still she knew he was concentrating solely on her. “So you were in mourning when we met.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.” She sat on the bench across from the dog, testing the springs, running her hand over the burgundy velvet cushions. Bowie took the seat across from her, resting his rifle against the bench, patting the dog. There wasn’t much room in the compartment, and Bowie and Stonewall seemed to fill most of it. “My parents passed away within two days of each other, of an illness. I was volunteering at the Fort Slocum hospital, and after the War, most hospitals wouldn’t take an unmarried woman as a nurse. It was one thing to help out in a crisis, but afterward, the proprieties must be observed. There were many War widows who needed the jobs, anyway. My uncle is my only relative, and I went to live with him. I had nowhere else to go, and no money to get there, even if I had a place to go.”
“That’s how I found you. You mentioned the button factory once in the hospital.”
And he had remembered, after all these years?
She studied her new husband from beneath her lashes. His dark hair fell over his shoulders, and he wore a full beard and mustache. On the side of his face that had been injured, the hair grew unevenly, but the black powder stippling blended in with his dark whiskers, hiding some of the damage. She remembered being so careful of his wounds the first time she had washed and shaved him in the hospital. His beard looked soft and was nicely trimmed, but she missed the strong line of his jaw hidden beneath the whiskers.
His hand stroked Stonewall’s gray and black coat, and he stared past the dog’s head out the window, keeping his good side toward her. She well remembered the breadth of Bowie’s shoulders, his solid frame, as she’d tended him in the hospital, changing his bandages and bedding, feeding him, holding his hand when the pain was too great or the nightmares stalked him.
It was one thing to be his nurse, something else altogether to be his wife, even if only on paper.
How did one make small talk with a new husband? She twisted her gloves in her hands.
“I didn’t know your name was James Bowie. Not until you told Pastor Gates. I always knew you only as Captain Hart.”
“My pa named all of us after famous Texans.”
“Tell me about your family. I know some from when you were in the hospital, but I feel I need a refresher.” And what she knew had come from the fevered wanderings of an injured man who probably didn’t even know he was rambling. Once his fever had broken and he’d come to senses, he’d barely spoken, and then only to her.
The train whistle blew, and with a jerk, they were moving down the track. Her heart rate accelerated along with the train. She’d never been farther from home than a quick trip to Boston once when she was twelve. To think of traveling all the way to Texas…
“There are seven of us brothers. Austin’s the oldest. Tough, a good leader. If things went according to his plans—and they usually do—he should be married by the time we get back to Hartville. Then there’s me. After me is Travis. He’s a doctor, and he married Annie Lawrence, who has a son, Robbie, from her first marriage. Houston is number four, and he’s got a hardware store in town. He’s married to Coralee Culpepper, a neighbor girl he was sweet on before he ran off to California for a few years. He’s seeing to getting you a house built. Should be done by the time we get back.”
Elise blinked. “You had him building a house before you knew if I’d accept your proposal?”
Bowie shrugged. “Figured you’d need a place to live if you said yes. Figured the family could rent it out or use it for a foreman and his family if you said no.”
A house being built, just for her. What would it be like? Big? Small? Far from town? Near his brothers’ homes? So many questions.
Bowie must’ve sensed her interest. “You can shop in Hartville for furniture and rugs and such, or order from a catalog. If you need to, there’s always someone going to Santone. You can go along to shop, or send a list.”
She nodded. Shopping for a houseful of furniture? Her. Elise Rivers … no, Elise Hart now. The ladies at the button factory wouldn’t believe it.
“I’d love to go to town with you and choose things for the house.” Her mind raced with ideas, wondering what his tastes were, if he liked heavy, dark furniture, or if he preferred things more Spartan.
“I don’t go to town. Do as you like with the house. It won’t matter to me.” His flat tone told her to leave the subject for the time being. Such a curious man, kind one moment, cold as snow the next.
“Which brother comes after Houston?”
“Crockett.” Bowie shook his head. “You’ll know him when you see him, because he’s always wearing a loud shirt or bandanna or both. As a kid, he was always getting into scrapes. He’s settled down, a real steady hand, good rancher. Married Jane Haymaker, a neighbor.”
“That’s five.” She held up one hand. “What about the other two?”
“Chisholm is number six. He’s a Texas Ranger. Married a Spanish beauty named Caro. He’s cool-headed in a fight.” Bowie said this as if it was the highest praise he could offer.
“And number seven?”
A slight smile touched Bowie’s lips, a rare occurrence from what Elise could gather. “Hays. Fortune’s Favorite is what Mother used to call him. The ladies think he’s charming, at least from what I hear. He stole a march on all of us and married the new padre’s daughter, Emma, way back last spring. They’re expecting their first child sometime around Christmas.”
&nbs
p; “As an only child, I can’t imagine having so many siblings. I hope I can keep everyone straight.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Austin, Bowie, Travis, Houston, Crockett, Chisholm, and Hays. And their wives. And one baby on the way.”
“That I know of, anyway. Could be more. Harts are a prolific breed.”
“Do all you boys look alike?”
His brows came down. “I suppose. We all have dark hair. I’m the tallest.”
“What about your parents?”
“There’s just Pa now. Like your folks, my mother died during the War. I was rotting in Elmira Prison, and my family thought I was dead.” Disgust rasped in his voice. “I’ll always regret that. Mother dying thinking I’d been killed at Gettysburg.”
“Your family thought you’d died?” Elise’s heart broke. “How terrible for them. And for you. I wish I’d known. I would’ve written to them. I would’ve gotten a letter to them somehow.”
The moment he spoke of the War, his face had hardened. “I’m going to stretch my legs.” Levering himself up, he motioned for Stonewall to stay.
She stared at the door wondering if she’d said the wrong thing. Wondering if she’d done the wrong thing. Settling back against the squabs, she rested her head, watching the world slide by.
Lord, help me to be a good wife. I never thought I would pray those words, but here I am, a married woman. At least on paper. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out the marriage certificate, staring at the signatures that said she was someone’s wife.
Elise Marie Hart.
Mrs. Bowie Hart.
It was the name of a stranger. Would she ever get used to it?
Elise barely saw Bowie, though they were confined to the same train for nearly a week. She spoke more with Stonewall than her husband. It was as if he couldn’t bear to be in the same space with her. Where he slept, she had no idea. The porter came each night and made up her bed, and she climbed into it, Stonewall curling up on the end of the bunk and keeping her feet warm.
Seven Brides for Seven Texans Romance Collection Page 49