New York City, Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, St. Louis, Wichita. Miles and miles to think and wonder if she had made a huge mistake. Bowie checked in each day to see if she needed anything, and at each stop, he took Stonewall for a run. Her new husband didn’t join her in the dining car, and she wondered if it was that he didn’t want to be seen with her, or if he didn’t want to be seen at all.
When they reached Wichita, she stepped off the train, greeted by a brisk wind and the smell of cattle. She wrinkled her nose and reached for her handkerchief. A young man broke from a group of cowboys and hurried to her side.
“Sorry about the smell, ma’am. The stockyards have to be close to the railroad. You staying in our town long? Are you looking for a hotel or rooming house? I’d be pleased if you’d consider having dinner with me tonight.” He reached for her valise, not waiting for her to respond. Were all men here as forward as this one? A large hand reached around Elise and took the bag before she could even gasp at his boldness.
“She’s with me.” Bowie stared at the cowboy, the chill edge to his voice sending a shiver up Elise’s spine.
The cowboy held up his hands, backing away. “Sorry, pard. I didn’t know.”
Bowie put his hand under Elise’s elbow. “You shouldn’t talk to strangers. Wichita’s a wide-open town.”
“I didn’t say a word,” she protested.
“A lady as pretty as you doesn’t have to.” He guided her down the platform steps.
He thought she was pretty?
Without giving her time to mull that notion over, Bowie led her along a boardwalk to a hotel. Cowboys in wide-brimmed hats and jingling spurs passed them, and ladies with bonnets that shielded their faces from the sun went in and out of the shops, baskets on their arms. Horses and wagons lined the main thoroughfare, and most of the buildings were made of wood. Dust blew in scudding puffs along the dirt street, and a donkey brayed nearby.
And over all, the biggest, bluest sky she’d ever seen.
Bowie held the door for her, and she smiled up at him, grateful for his protection and care in these unfamiliar surroundings. He went to the front desk. “When does the next stage for Dallas leave?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Then I’d like a room for the night.”
“For you and the missus?” The clerk leaned around him to nod to Elise.
“That’s right.”
“A dollar for the room.” Putting his hands flat on the counter, the clerk raised himself on tiptoe to peer over at Stonewall. “The dog…”
Bowie flipped a five-dollar gold piece onto the register. “The dog stays with us. And I’d like a bath brought up for the lady.”
Elise almost cried at his thoughtfulness. A real bath after making do with quick washes in a basin aboard the train for a week.
“Certainly, sir.” He handed over a key. “Room six, top of the stairs.”
Elise followed Bowie up the wooden staircase. He unlocked the door and looked inside before he let her enter. The room must’ve met his expectations, for he leaned against the bureau and crossed his arms.
She removed her hat and smoothed her curly, brown hair. “It will be nice to sleep in a bed that isn’t moving.”
A tap at the door, and a porter entered carrying a tin bathtub. “Be up in a jiffy with the water.”
He was as good as his word, carrying in two steaming cans and pouring them into the tub.
“Thanks.” Bowie flipped him a coin.
Just how much money did he have? It seemed he was tipping and paying and doling out cash every time she turned around.
When the porter had gone, Bowie straightened. “Go ahead and have your bath. I’ll be back in a bit, and then we can find some grub.” He handed her the key. “Keep the door locked. I’ll knock.”
Elise nodded, staring after his departing form, something she seemed to do often. What a complex man. He saw to her every comfort, but he kept himself at a distance. The only time he had talked at any length was when she asked about his family.
The bath refreshed her, body and spirit. Her only regret was that her one decent dress was limp and travel worn. She didn’t relish putting it on again now, but perhaps tonight she could sponge it and hang it up, and hopefully some of the wrinkles would come out before morning.
She was brushing her hair when a knock sounded on the door. Remembering Bowie’s caution, she asked before she opened it. He entered, followed by Stonewall, and she caught the smell of soap and noted Bowie’s damp hair. Her husband had taken advantage of a bath as well.
He rested his rifle against the foot of the bed and folded his arms across his broad chest, setting the fringe on his jacket to swaying. She was conscious of his stare as she coiled her hair and pinned it up. No one had seen her with her hair down since she was a girl, and to have him watching her so intently sent flutters skittering across her skin.
“The hotel restaurant opens in a couple of hours. I thought you might like to do some shopping in the meantime.”
Shopping? Since she had exactly three dollars and forty-one cents in her handbag, this would be a short endeavor. She gathered her hat and bag. Still, it would be nice to get out. It had been a long time since she’d had the freedom to take a leisurely stroll along some storefronts. Window-shopping would be a treat.
Bowie had other ideas. He held the door for her to enter a vast emporium, making the bell overhead jangle their arrival. When Stonewall would’ve followed, he snapped his fingers, motioned with his hand flat, and the big dog stayed on the porch, eyes soulful but patient.
Elise inhaled a kaleidoscope of fragrances. Vinegar, leather, coffee, tobacco, kerosene, peppermint. The store was so large, there were two center aisles and long counters down each side.
She could get lost in here.
“Afternoon, folks. What can I do for you?” The shopkeeper ambled over, a trio of new pitchforks on his shoulder. He stood them in a barrel near the door, clattering the tines together and dusting his hands. “Got everything from A to Z.”
Bowie put his hand on the small of her back, and the warmth of his touch spread through her. “You sell ready-made clothes for ladies?” he asked.
“Sure, sure. Got a whole section, right there in the back. Got a room to try on things if you need.” The storekeeper eyed Elise from her shoe tips to her hat brim. “Should be plenty to choose from in your size. Let me go get my wife. She can help you better than me.”
As he trotted to the staircase that ascended one wall, Elise stood on tiptoe to whisper into Bowie’s ear. At the last moment he turned, as if startled to have her coming up on the damaged side of his face, and suddenly they were nose to nose.
Air clogged high in her lungs, and she blinked. They hadn’t been this close since she had first peeked beneath his dirty, encrusted bandages in the hospital.
“Yes? Is there something you need?” It was a question he’d asked every day since he’d rescued her. He didn’t move away, and she felt mesmerized by his dark, brown eye.
She eased back a step, her cheeks warm. “I thought we were just window-shopping. I don’t have money for new clothes.” How could she explain that the wages her uncle should’ve paid her over the years had gone for her room and board?
He raised the eyebrow over his good eye, and shrugged. “Money isn’t a problem. Get everything you need. Dresses, hats, shoes.” He touched her threadbare sleeve where she’d repaired a small tear months before. “You’re a Hart now. You need to look the part.”
Stung, she looked away, tears pricking her eyes. He must be ashamed of her appearance. He didn’t want to return home with such a tatty-looking bride.
The storekeeper returned with a pretty blond woman in a lovely blue gown, all tucks and ruffles, the exact color of her eyes. She looked so stylish and up-to-the-minute, Elise felt worse than ever.
“Hello, I’m Janet Cloverton. My husband says you’re looking for some new clothes?”
Was she? Another glance at Bowie, remembering how kind he
had been, how he’d rescued her, had seen to her every need the past few days. The last thing she wanted to do was embarrass him in front of his family.
Bowie nodded, keeping his face turned away from Mrs. Cloverton. “My wife needs a new wardrobe, what do you call it when a woman gets married, all the clothes she gets?”
Mrs. Cloverton smiled. “A trousseau?”
“That’s it. My wife needs a trousseau.”
Elise let Mrs. Cloverton lead her toward the back of the store, determined to buy whatever she needed to meet Bowie’s expectations.
Chapter Three
Bowie hadn’t foreseen this turn of events.
The stage was so full that when he and Elise went to board, there was only one spot left. He had no choice but to take the seat and hold Elise on his lap. Stonewall took up most of the floor space between the passengers’ feet, and Bowie anchored his rifle between his leg and the side of the coach.
Elise perched on his knee, and he put his arms around her waist as the stage jolted and moved forward. She jerked against his chest and then sat up, stiff as ironwood, her cheeks rosy.
“It’s a long ride. You should try to relax.” He whispered against her ear, marveling at the glossy texture of her hair, her delicate profile, and how smooth and fine her skin was.
She kept her eyes down, studying her hands. The five other men in the stage stared at her, and Bowie gave them each a hard look, reminding them of their manners. They looked out the windows and at the floor, and slowly Elise softened against him.
Before too many miles had passed, she laid her head on his shoulder, all but melting into him as she fell asleep. All those nights on the train when he’d waited until she was asleep before entering their compartment and taking up his spot on the bench to watch over her hadn’t prepared him for this. Bowie savored the feel of her in his arms. He’d never held a woman like this, never been this close to one. He’d watched his brothers as one after another they met their wives, fell in love, and became a world of two.
And he’d never thought it would happen to him.
That brought him to his senses. He wasn’t in love, and he and Elise would never have that kind of relationship. They were married, yes, but only on paper. Theirs was a mutually-beneficial arrangement, nothing more. She had married him because she wanted a way out of her dead-end life, and he’d married her to get his inheritance. Love didn’t come into the equation.
He couldn’t resist rubbing his bewhiskered chin against the top of her head, inhaling her scent. Jasmine.
She must’ve purchased some jasmine soap at the emporium. Along with some mighty pretty clothes. He hadn’t thought to wonder what she’d bought specifically, merely settling the bill when she was done and toting the packages back to the hotel. When Bowie had come to her room this morning, she’d about taken his breath away, she looked so beautiful. He breathed in the jasmine once more, feeling sleep tugging at his eyes. He would be glad to get home…
The pain had been unbearable. White-hot, searing agony from his collarbone to his hairline. He remembered nothing from the moment the caisson he’d been crouching behind as he reloaded his pistol had exploded, throwing him down the hill toward the enemy lines, until the hospital orderlies dropped his litter on the floor of the makeshift prisoner’s hospital at Fort Slocum.
For days he’d been in and out of consciousness, lying first on the battlefield, and then transported with the other wounded prisoners to area hospitals. He gripped the litter poles, gritting his teeth against the agony in his face and neck.
The scent of jasmine drifted toward him, delicate and elusive. After months of smoke and blood and horses and men, it was the first pleasant aroma, and he drew it in like a hungry man.
“Shhh, easy there, Captain.” A woman’s voice. He opened his eyes … at least he tried to … but he could see nothing. Panic clawed through his chest, making him gasp.
“My eyes!” Moving his lips at all sent another cascade of pain through him.
“Shhh.” Her hand rested on his right shoulder, pressing gently. “You’re safe in a hospital, soldier. I’ll take care of you. Your eyes are bandaged for now. Just rest.”
Her voice sounded low and sweet, the nicest thing he’d heard in months. A spoon pressed to his mouth, and he swallowed the laudanum.
“Who are you?” his voice rasped.
“My name is Miss Rivers. Elise. Sleep now. I’ll watch over you.”
When next he awoke, the pain was more bearable, that is, until she began to remove the bandages. As much as he wanted that, wanted to be able to see her face, to see anything, the pulling of the encrusted bandages awoke the searing agony once more.
“I’m so sorry. I’ll be as gentle as I can.” Cool water touched his skin, soaking through the wrappings. “I brought you a salve that my mama used to make up for burns. It will help, I promise.”
Then she removed the last bandage, and he could see her face. Blurry at first, then coming into focus.
Lots of curly, brown hair, and light brown eyes, sweetly curving cheeks, and a pink mouth. As beautiful as she was kind. She wore an encouraging smile, and he decided his wounds couldn’t look as bad as they felt, not if she wasn’t shocked and repulsed.
But what was wrong with his left eye? Was it still bandaged? He lifted his hand, but she grasped it and pressed it down. “Don’t touch your wound. You risk infection.”
A man in a stained white coat blundered over, banging into the cot, sending a jolt of pain through Bowie. “Ah, he’s awake, is he? Move aside, nurse.”
A doctor. Bowie hurt so badly he could barely concentrate on the man’s words.
Lost the eye. Black powder burns. Lucky to be alive, but you’ll be disfigured.
Blinded, scarred, mutilated.
A scream bottled in his throat, anger, fear, panic. Sweat formed on his face and neck as he strained to come to grips with the doctor’s diagnosis.
No! Why hadn’t God just let him die there on the battlefield at Gettysburg? Cannons roared, men shouted, horses screamed, and bullets whistled as men fell all around him.
He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t escape the pain ravaging his body.
Then her touch was there, cool and soothing.
“Bowie.”
The hospital receded, the sounds of battle growing faint.
“Bowie, wake up. You’re having a bad dream.”
He opened his eye. Elise cupped his cheek, her fingers brushing the hair away from his face. He gulped in a huge breath of jasmine and fresh air.
Her hand lowered to rest against his chest, his heart hammering as if trying to get out. The stage rocked and swayed.
“Are you all right?” Concern clouded her gentle brown eyes, just as it had in the Fort Slocum Hospital.
No one had touched him in years. He never allowed anyone to get that close.
“I am now.” He took another steadying breath, and for the first time in a decade felt comforted.
Elise followed Bowie up the steps of the house he called El Regalo, butterflies bombarding her stomach. The place looked like a castle, big, stone, with ironwork railings and many, many windows. She began to get a new perspective on the change in her circumstances.
Horses and buggies stood tied up out front.
“Did you tell your family we were coming home today?”
Bowie shook his head. “It’s Sunday. We all eat together on Sundays.”
Elise gripped her gloves, trying to hold on to her nerve. She had known she would have to meet Bowie’s family, but she hadn’t anticipated she would meet them all at once.
Opening the massive oak door, Bowie ushered her inside, dropping his saddlebags and her valise onto a bench in the foyer. The livery driver brought her new trunk up the steps and set it just inside the door.
She tried to take it all in, the high ceilings, the plaster medallions, the papered walls and shining woodwork.
And the sound of voices.
“This way.” Her
husband held out his hand, and she swallowed hard as she placed her fingers in his. “They won’t eat you. They’re going to be glad, once they get over their surprise.”
She nodded and let him lead her into the dining room—the most sumptuous dining room she’d ever seen, with ornate carved wood and a coffered ceiling, and what surely had to be the longest table in Texas.
“Afternoon.”
Bowie’s voice made every head turn and every conversation stop. Elise gripped his hand as if holding on to a lifeline. He drew her into the circle of his arm, snugging her up against his side, and she looked up at him in surprise. Public displays of affection were not something he’d done before. Then she remembered how he’d asked her not to let anyone know theirs was a marriage of convenience.
The gray-haired man stood from the end of the table. “Bowie. Good to see you. Who’s that with you?”
“Pa, everyone, I’d like you to meet my wife. Elise, this is my family.”
For a long moment nobody moved or spoke. Mouths hung open, and forks remained half raised.
Then all at once, the room burst into action. Chairs scooted back, laughter rang out, and Elise and Bowie were surrounded. The men pounded Bowie on the back, and the ladies held out their hands in greeting. The knot in Elise’s middle eased some, even as Bowie’s grip on her waist tightened.
“Where have you been hiding her?” Hays—she thought it was Hays—asked Bowie.
“We’ve known each other a long time.”
“Aren’t you a sly one, keeping her under wraps?” Was that Chisholm?
“Welcome to the family.” A pretty young woman—Emma? It must be Emma since she was obviously in the family way—leaned in and kissed Elise on the cheek. “I’m sure you must be tired from your trip, and then to meet all of us all at once…” She didn’t have a Texas twang to her voice, but Elise couldn’t place the accent. Definitely a northerner, though, which made Elise feel better. At least she wasn’t the only Yankee in the family.
“Let me meet this young lady.” The gray-haired man parted the group, his mustache twitching. This must be GW, Bowie’s father. Elise found herself engulfed in his embrace and then stood away while he studied her. She held her breath, waiting for his verdict.
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