The Bride Raffle

by Lisa Plumley

Chapter Nine

  Still baffled by the goings-on in his bedroom, Owen gaped at the assemblage of people there. Hastily, he pulled on his shirt to cover himself, deepening his scowl as he did so.

  Then Élodie ran into his arms, and he couldn’t help relaxing. A little. But that didn’t alter the strangeness of this situation—or change the fact that he wanted answers.

  “Papa!” Élodie cried. “See? You won! You won the raffle!”

  Owen hugged her. Then he released her, holding Élodie by her skinny shoulders. He looked into her beaming face, belatedly recalled all the coarse language he’d just used and vowed to do better the next time. If there was a next time he came upstairs to find an unknown woman lounging in his bed as if she owned it.

  Confused, yet unable to look away from that compelling sight, Owen sneaked a glance past Élodie’s head. Yep. The blonde was still there, just as pretty as she pleased, tucked into his ordinary bedclothes as though she’d been waiting for him to find her there…and had decided to do a bit of light entertaining with the womenfolk to pass the time until he came home. Stunned by that dreamlike image, Owen blinked. But the woman remained there, just as she had been when he’d entered his bedroom, looking sweet and friendly and inexplicably wholesome, to boot.

  Why did it have to be his bed? Owen groaned to himself. Why did it have to be a woman in his bed, looking so pretty?

  It had been so long since he’d had a woman between his sheets. He’d almost forgotten how mesmerizing the sight could be. But now, with the winsome Daisy Walsh snug in his bed, Owen remembered. Damnation, he remembered! And he wanted more.

  Determined to refuse himself that much, of course, he tore away his gaze. He settled on skewering Thomas Walsh, that interfering newspaperman, with a scathing look instead.

  “I told you I didn’t want to meet your sister, Walsh.”

  Daisy Walsh flinched, obviously taken aback by his words.

  Owen didn’t know if that was because she was wounded by his bluntness or surprised that he knew who she was. But of course Owen knew. He was smart enough to add up the elements: one gala train depot homecoming, plus one idiotic raffle drawing, plus one luscious woman in his bed equaled heaps of big trouble for him.

  Besides, a man didn’t come home to find the meddlesome foursome of Mrs. Archer, Mrs. Sunley, Miss O’Neill and Miss Reardon ensconced in his bedroom without rapidly divining there was a plot afoot. Morrow Creek was rife with gossip about their exploits and troublemaking. The only trouble was, Owen didn’t yet know how Thomas Walsh and his sister fit into all this. And speaking of the sister…

  Owen felt his gaze lured again, nigh irresistibly, in her direction. She appeared to be pouting, comfortably, there in his bed. She was wounded, then. Well, pretty women often were a mite tetchy. He couldn’t help that. That didn’t explain why he wanted to help her feel better. Because, God help him, he did want to help her feel better. He knew he could do it, too. A long time ago, he’d been excellent at making the women in his life feel all kinds of wonderful.

  Ruthlessly, Owen squashed down those memories.

  “I—I—” the newspaperman stammered in response. Then he pointed at Mrs. Archer. “Matilda said we should do it!”

  At his accusation, Mrs. Archer drew herself up, plainly readying herself to go toe-to-toe with Owen. But before she could do much more than draw in a deep breath, Élodie spoke up. “Isn’t it wonderful, Papa?” Her joyful voice filled the room. She tugged his sleeve to make him look at her, then grinned. “Miss Walsh can’t stay with Mr. Walsh, on account of his living at the boardinghouse and its being unsuitable for a lady, but she can stay here, right, Papa?” Élodie gulped in a breath, her eyes shining with faithfulness. “It’s perfectly proper, because I’ll be here to chaperone. And I already told everyone that you’re the nicest and kindest and most generous man in the whole entire territory! You would never turn away a lady. Especially a lady who’s going to spend a whole week here, teaching us how to cook, and sew, and bake, and knit—”

  Well, it occurred crazily to Owen, Élodie did need to learn some of those things. If he couldn’t help this situation anyway, then what would be the harm in indulging in… No. No.

  “Just a minute, Élodie.” Finally, Daisy Walsh spoke up. “I don’t intend to force my lessons on your father. Clearly, there’s been some sort of misunderstanding here.” Her gaze met Owen’s directly and movingly. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Cooper. You seem almost as surprised by all this as I was.”

  Her gaze lingered on his. Her breath escaped her lips with a soft exhale. Her hands trembled just a bit with emotion. Upon hearing her voice, Owen felt riveted. Before, Daisy Walsh had been nothing but an anonymous female in his bed. But now…

  Now she was a woman of flesh and blood and unknown character. For reasons Owen couldn’t explain, he found that change fascinating. There was also the fact that, entirely against his will, his mind chose that moment to offer up a delightful scenario involving Daisy Walsh, him and a whole caboodle of time spent together in his bed, time during which she would whisper his name in that melodious voice of hers. Time during which she would urge him—beg him—to hold her, kiss her, slowly undress her and reveal all her secrets, one by one… He blinked. Why, he wondered again, had they put such a lissome woman in his bed? It was downright evil. No man could be expected to resist such a powerful lure to the imagination.

  Nearby, Mrs. Sunley adjusted her bustle, wearing a selfsatisfied little grin. She hummed to herself. At that moment, Owen knew. Twice-widowed Viola Sunley undoubtedly recognized a thing or two about masculine nature.

  Almost standing on his toes, Élodie gave Owen a worried frown. Puckishly, she grasped his jaw—the way she sometimes did—then forced him to meet her gaze. She gave a very grown-up sigh. “You don’t seem happy, Papa. Are you very angry with me?”

  “Angry?” Taken aback, Owen frowned again. “With you?”

  Élodie swallowed hard. She hung her head. “Because I already knew you hadn’t entered the raffle, even before you told us so. I knew because…” Another gulp. “Because I’m the one who entered your name. Please don’t be upset!”

  Astonished, Owen stared at her. “You did what?”

  “I entered your name in the raffle. I know you didn’t want to enter, but… But I wanted you to win! So I could maybe listen in on some of your lessons and learn something too. I’m getting older, you know, Papa, and one of these days—”

  “You’re going to want to embroider something.” Owen nodded. He’d known this day would come. Maybe not so soon. But one day.

  Élodie’s face brightened. “Then you do understand!” She hugged him, burying her face in his midsection. “I’m so glad!”

  Owen hugged her closer, feeling gutted at the notion that Élodie had felt she needed to behave underhandedly to get the home-keeping tutoring she needed. “You could have asked me.”

  “I know.” Élodie exchanged a look with Mrs. Archer—a puzzlingly devious look. An instant later, her features smoothed into their usual adorable innocence. “But I didn’t want you to feel that you had to teach me yourself. I’m not desperate to learn six ways to burn toast.”

  “It’s fine if you scrape off the black parts.” Gruffly, Owen surveyed the assembled women. “It’s not always burned.”

  All of them smiled gamely, not believing him in the least.

  Owen turned to Élodie. “This is really what you want?”

  His daughter nodded, her gaze a solemn reflection of his own, but in miniature. “It really is.”

  “Then I’ll make sure you get it.” Taking Élodie’s hand in his, Owen regarded Miss Walsh, doing his best not to imagine what she looked like beneath that coverlet. “Would you be willing to give my raffle prize to my daughter instead?” he asked. “To teach Élodie whatever she needs to know?”

  Miss Walsh bit her lips…her sultry, soft-looking lips.

  Hellfire. How was he supposed to withstand all this?

  “Of course I would.” Dai
sy Walsh nodded. Turning pink cheeked beneath his scrutiny, she cleared her throat. She smiled. “I can assure you, Mr. Cooper, that I’m more than qualified to do so. You don’t have to concern yourself with that. I know how to cook, bake, sew, clean, mend, knit, dye, conserve, shop, plant, repair, economize and prepare simple tinctures. I was also top in my class in elementary barbering.”

  Her gaze settled, meaningfully, on his dark, shoulder-length hair. A certain gleam entered her eyes. Owen swallowed.

  He might, it occurred to him, have overstepped with this.

  “Well! That settles that, then,” Mrs. Archer announced. She gestured at Thomas Walsh and the other women. “Congratulations again, Mr. Cooper. It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Walsh. Come along, everyone! Let’s leave this threesome on their own.”

  “You’re leaving?” Yanked from her daydreams of lopping off Owen’s hair, Miss Walsh gaped at the others. “Already?”

  “Yes. You’ll be fine,” Miss O’Neill assured her.

  She bustled nearer to give Daisy a hug, then a brisk goodbye. All the other women followed suit. Thomas’s farewell was longer lasting, filled as it was with brotherly affection.

  Owen watched the two siblings together, saying their goodbyes and making plans to see each other the next day. Thomas and Daisy’s fondness for one other was evident. If Miss Walsh could engender those kinds of warm feelings—even from her stiff-seeming, scholarly brother—Owen realized, then she must be a good person. A person Élodie could safely learn from.

  And a person he could safely board in his household…even taking into account her luscious lips and fascinating voice. There was no reason Miss Walsh’s presence had to endanger Owen’s plan to be a good man.

  As his visitors made their way out, pursued by Élodie’s cheerful calls of “Adieu! Adieu!,” Owen relaxed a little. He hadn’t expected this to happen today. But it had. And it was what his daughter wanted. He could manage it—for Élodie’s sake.

  At the doorway, Thomas Walsh eyed Owen. “It looks as though you were right, Cooper—at least about the way the raffle drawing would go. You’re the last person I expected to win.”

  “Better me than one of those reprobates who’ve come into town.” Sincerely, Owen offered the newspaperman a handshake. “Don’t worry.” He nodded toward Miss Walsh. “I’ll watch over her.”

  “You’d better.” Walsh nodded, then put on his hat. To Daisy, he promised, “Remember, I’ll be only a few blocks away.”

  With approval, Owen noted Walsh’s protectiveness of his sister. Soberly, he nodded to him. As the door shut behind the last of their visitors, Élodie skipped off to her own bedroom to fetch something, leaving Owen alone with Miss Walsh.

  “Well, I guess we’d better get started then, hadn’t we? I’ve been idle long enough!” Nimbly, Daisy threw off the coverlet, her manner eager but businesslike. She swiveled, then sat up. Self-consciously, she fluffed his feather pillow to its former loftiness. “I’ve asked Élodie to bring me one of her dolls to dress,” she explained. “That will give the two of us a good starting point for sewing lessons, without proving too overwhelming for an initial project.”

  As though keen to leave his bedroom and get started, Miss Walsh stood. She pushed herself up from the bed with one hand on the mattress—and the other hand protectively cradling her abdomen. Riveted by that revealing gesture, Owen went still.

  In that moment, everything became a thousand times more complicated. Because Owen recognized that gesture. He’d seen it in his wife, over and over again. During the months before Élodie had been born, Renée had often laughed over her inability to quit cradling their daughter, even before she’d arrived.

  Daisy Walsh was pregnant. And unmarried. And on her own.

  And now she was with him, at least temporarily.

  Chapter Ten

  As he and Daisy ventured into his front room, Owen frowned, thinking that perhaps he’d misunderstood. But no—she’d been introduced to everyone as Miss Walsh. She wore no wedding ring. She’d mentioned no husband. And surely no husband worth the designation would allow his wife to live in another man’s household, however briefly. Would he? Owen’s mind whirled with questions—beginning with wondering where the father of Miss Walsh’s baby was and ending with…wondering where the father of her baby was. What kind of man would leave her alone this way?

  As far as Owen knew—as far as Thomas Walsh had explained to everyone in Morrow Creek—his sister had been touring the country for months now, appearing at a series of speaking engagements.

  “In the meantime,” Miss Walsh went on, oblivious to his jaw-slackening revelation, “I guess we ought to have ourselves a proper introduction, oughtn’t we? I’m Daisy Walsh, of course, but I’d be pleased if you would call me Daisy while I’m here.”

  She extended her hand, her fingers slim and capable.

  Owen stared at them, his heart thudding with surprise.

  He blinked. “Call me Owen, Daisy.” Obligingly, he took her hand. It felt oddly at home in his. “Congratulations to you.”

  “Congratulations?” Confused, Daisy wrinkled her nose. She smiled. “But you’re the winner here, Mr.—Owen, not me.”

  She gazed down at their joined hands, seeming…captivated by that union. With an abrupt motion, she jerked away her hand.

  After her hasty withdrawal from their handshake, Owen’s grasp felt doubly empty. But that was nonsensical. He didn’t need to touch her. He didn’t need to feel her warmth.

  Except he did. Warmth flowed from Daisy Walsh to everyone around her. He’d noticed that about her right away. Like a springtime sun ray, she seemed capable of thawing even the most frozen of hearts…hearts like Owen’s. Or like Owen’s might have been, he acknowledged, had he not kept such a close grip on it.

  “I mean,” he clarified, thinking he’d probably been too abrupt before, “congratulations on your…imminent arrival.”

  She appeared genuinely baffled. “My what?”

  “Your baby,” Owen clarified. “You’re going to have a baby.”

  Now Daisy Walsh seemed genuinely gob smacked.

  Owen gave a genial wave toward her midsection. In a good-natured imitation of her, he pantomimed cradling his flat belly. “My wife used to do the same thing, before Élodie was born. Any man who’s paying attention would recognize that gesture.”

  She gave a startled laugh. She glanced down, only to find herself, quite automatically, still cradling her middle. Quizzically, Daisy stared at her own hands. “I’m not pregnant, Mr. Walsh.”

  “Owen,” he reminded her. “If we’re going to be together—”

  “You must be mistaken,” Daisy interrupted. Her cheeks turned pink. Her hands fluttered. “I can’t possibly be expecting a baby.” She gave an awkward laugh. “I don’t even have a husband. That’s the usual order of things, you know.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Suddenly, Owen felt as if he’d blundered in on two oversize feet. He dimly recalled this sensation from his newlywed days with Renée. He didn’t like it any better now than he had then, especially with a woman who wasn’t his wife. “If you don’t want me to talk about it—”

  On the verge of promising her he wouldn’t, Owen hesitated. The plain fact was, Daisy Walsh was unmarried. And pregnant. And, seemingly, alone. Doubtless, that made her situation a delicate one. He didn’t want to scare her away, just when, it seemed, she needed someone to stand by her. “I remember what it was like before Élodie came,” he settled on saying. “I felt as though I was waiting on a miracle. And then…there she was. I guess maybe I’m keen to relive those days.”

  At that, Daisy smiled. “Well, I’d be fibbing if I said I haven’t daydreamed about having a family of my own someday,” she admitted. “That’s why I went to cookery school, in fact—to learn how to be the best possible wife and mother I could be.” For a moment, she seemed lost in private concerns. Then she gazed up brightly at him. “That’s why I’m so qualified to teach Élodie!”

>   Plainly, Daisy wanted to steer their conversation toward more practical matters. But Owen couldn’t do that. Not yet.

  “Will someone be…meeting you here, in Morrow Creek?” He hoped to suggest, subtly, that her baby’s father would be welcome there, too. “I don’t have much room, but—” Catching Daisy’s aghast expression, Owen regrouped. She was probably concerned about propriety. Heaven knew, Renée would have been. “Out here in the West, we don’t stand much on ceremony,” he reassured Daisy. “Lots of folks come here to start fresh—”

  Sometimes with a baby, it seemed. At least in Daisy’s case. But as long as she and her baby’s father married eventually…

  “No. No one will be joining me.” Determinedly, Daisy shook her head. “I was traveling with my touring manager, but he’s—”

  Abruptly, she broke off. A look of dawning comprehension suffused her face. Her cheeks turned a darker shade of pink.

  It seemed beyond likely, Owen realized, that this “touring manager” of hers was responsible for getting her pregnant—whether she wanted to admit it or not. Even without saying so, the truth was all over her face. Owen might not have gambled for a while, but he could still read an expression with accuracy.

  Daisy, he could read like a book. She was just that open.

  “He’s moved on,” she finished staunchly. “He’ll be working with another client soon. Our association is finished.”

  Another client? An association? That was a hell of a way to refer to it! Owen couldn’t help feeling worried—and offended on her behalf, too. He’d never in his life spoken about a woman in such an uncaring way. What kind of man was her baby’s father?

  The damn knuck had a duty to Daisy now! He had an obligation to protect and care for her and her baby, no matter what. Did she still love the man? Owen sorely wished he could tell. But reading hearts wasn’t the same as reading faces.

  “I’m not entirely sure what my standing is at the moment,” Daisy mused aloud. “With my publisher and my speaking-engagements tour, I mean.” She dropped her gaze to her midsection, then hastily lifted it. “I’ll send a wire to Conrad to find out.”