The Bride Raffle

by Lisa Plumley

  “Won’t work.” Élodie adjusted her bonnet. “No matter how nicely you ask him, Papa is about as likely to attend a shindig like the Independence Day town picnic as I am to eat this hat!”

  Daisy grinned. “In that case… Get out your knife and fork, Élodie! Because I aim to take your papa on an outing!”

  And from that moment on, it became Daisy’s personal mission to do exactly that—sooner rather than later, besides.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Daisy made her first attempt to lure Owen into greater sociability later that day. She began quite matter-of-factly, while she was teaching Élodie how to put up rhubarb jam.

  “I saw Thomas today, down at the Pioneer Press offices,” Daisy began, stirring away at the sugary, pink boiling liquid in her pot. “He mentioned that there’s a reading of poetry at the Morrow Creek library every single Wednesday. Isn’t that nice?”

  Seated at the table, Owen gave a noncommittal sound.

  “Today is Wednesday,” Daisy added—usefully, she thought.

  This time, Owen nodded. But he seemed more interested in assisting her with the jam than in hearing any poems read. “Your arm must be getting tired by now. Let me help you stir.”

  Gratefully, Daisy surrendered her wooden spoon to Owen’s capable grasp. Warrior-like, he approached the stove. He began to stir the molten jam, appearing both determined and wary.

  By his side, an apron-wearing Élodie stood on a makeshift stepstool. The little girl peered curiously at the pot, then at her father. “Careful, Papa! It’s very hot. If it splatters, it will burn you.” She pointed. “It’s lucky you have long sleeves.”

  “I promise I’ll be vigilant,” Owen told her, smiling.

  “Several folks in town are attending,” Daisy remarked.

  Owen kept stirring. “Attending what?”

  “The Wednesday-night poetry reading. Thomas is escorting Miss Reardon. Mrs. Sunley and Mrs. Archer usually come along also, with their families joining them. It’s a popular event.”

  Another noncommittal sound. More manly stirring.

  “It sounds enjoyable.” Feeling exasperated, Daisy pushed onward, all the way to brashness. “Would you like to attend?”

  Owen raised his eyebrows. As though the notion was patently ridiculous, he made a face, then shook his head. “No.”

  “Not even with me?” Daisy urged. “I’d really like—”

  “Is this supposed to foam up so high?” Cautiously, Owen took a step back. He wielded his spoon like a hammer, ready to subdue the rhubarb mixture by force, if necessary. “Daisy?”

  “Just skim away the foam as it rises.” Daisy gestured to demonstrate the maneuver, pointing to a bowl she’d set nearby, just for that purpose. She refocused on her invitation. “In the meantime, do let’s go to the poetry reading! I haven’t been to a social event in ages—not one in which I wasn’t the featured speaker, at least.” Still glimpsing no sign of Owen softening, Daisy tried her never-fail maneuver. “Please, Owen? Please?”

  For an instant, he hesitated. He almost seemed ready to acquiesce. Then Owen glanced at Élodie. He gazed at Daisy.

  “Take Élodie,” he suggested. “It will be…broadening.”

  With a sigh, Daisy decided to do precisely that. She might have underestimated Owen’s resistance to joining in Morrow Creek’s social scene, but she was nothing if not determined. She would convince Owen to accompany her to an event, and eventually, to the Independence Day town picnic, too. All she needed was the right strategy. Seen in that light, every attempt she made brought her one step closer to success.

  “All right,” Daisy agreed. “I will take Élodie!”

  Then, with a kiss for Owen to thank him for his help, Daisy collected Élodie, got them both gussied up and headed out.

  Daisy’s second attempt to lure Owen into greater sociability arose, quite serendipitously, the next morning.

  Again, she stood at the stove—this time, making buckwheat griddle cakes for breakfast. Again, Owen offered to help her. But from there, the situation diverged. Because this time, Élodie was not yet awake. This time, Daisy and Owen were alone. And this time, Daisy had decided to wear one of the borrowed dresses that Owen loved seeing her in the most. It couldn’t hurt…

  “Mmm.” Standing behind her as she cooked, he wrapped his arms around her waist. He kissed the back of her neck in a way that made Daisy feel all goose pimply. “How did you manage to sneak away from me?” he asked. “I didn’t hear you get up.”

  “Oh, I was sure to be quiet.” Airily, Daisy waved her spatula. “I thought you might want some extra sleep.”

  “I want to wake up next to you,” Owen said drowsily. His hands slipped lower, cradling her belly. His pelvis pushed titillatingly against her backside. “Every morning, I do.”

  Gently, he swept aside a tendril of hair from her neck. Softly, he kissed her again. His stubble rasped faintly against her skin, inciting a bout of delicious sensations from her neck to her knees. Balancing herself with one hand on the dry-goods table, Daisy tried to concentrate on her griddle cakes. But those paltry, doughy circles did not have the power to entirely divert her attention from Owen’s ongoing seduction.

  “Come back to bed,” he murmured. His thumbs stroked over her middle; his breath teased her earlobe. “It’s early yet.”

  Daisy gestured. “But I already built a fire for the stove.”

  “You did start a fire,” Owen agreed in a husky voice, “but it’s got nothing to do with this old stove top.” He turned her in his arms, then took the spatula from her grasp. “Please, Daisy.” His please finally snapped her to attention. Belatedly reminded of her resolve to draw Owen into the town’s social whirl, Daisy straightened. She gave Owen a kiss, then took back her spatula. With a businesslike air, she flipped her griddle cakes.

  “I would love to,” Daisy said with mock dismay, “only, at the poetry reading last night, one of Thomas’s friends from town invited me on a sightseeing excursion today. So I really oughtn’t dally this morning.”

  “What do Thomas’s highbrow friends have to do with you? Or with sightseeing?” Appearing displeased, Owen gestured at her—at the very tiny amount of space between them. “Or with us?”

  “Well…” Daisy struck a thoughtful pose. “This particular wooded area is supposed to be lovely this time of year, and the invitation was so very nicely offered. I couldn’t refuse! After all, we did already have the experience of the poetry reading in common.”

  “This ‘friend’ of Thomas’s,” Owen said. “Who is she?”

  “Who is he, you mean?” With an innocent arch of her brows, Daisy peeked at a griddle cake to check its underside. It wasn’t yet fully cooked—just like her strategy with regard to Owen. “I believe Mr. Copeland runs a lumber mill just outside of town.”

  Now Owen seemed relieved. “Aha. Marcus Copeland’s wife, Molly, must have hog-tied him into attending that reading.”

  Drat Owen’s knowing everyone in town! It was plumb inconvenient. Sensing her advantage slipping away, Daisy batted her eyelashes at Owen. “So… Would you like to attend, too?”

  He checked a griddle cake. “Attend what?”

  “The sightseeing outing today.”

  Again, Owen gazed at her as though she were mad. “Daisy… I don’t attend social functions here in town. I thought you knew that. I thought everyone knew that—your new friends included.”

  Feeling more than exasperated, Daisy sighed. “Why not, Owen?”

  “I don’t mind if you take Élodie, though,” he continued.

  “Why?” Daisy pressed, not willing to be dissuaded this time by talk of Élodie. “Why won’t you go with me? It’s important to me, Owen. And it would be good for you to get out.”

  For a heartbeat, he almost seemed persuaded—most likely by her mention of how important the issue was to her. But then Owen shook his head. “I have work to do. I have responsibilities. I can’t gallivant off to have fun whenever the urge strikes me.”

 
“You mean because of Élodie? Because if she’s there, too—”

  “Isn’t it enough,” Owen interrupted, “that I’ve given over so much already?” For the first time, he seemed perturbed. He gestured between them with more annoyance than seductiveness. “Isn’t it enough that I have you here, tempting me, every damn day? You don’t know how difficult it is. You can’t know.”

  “Well. I’m sorry I’ve made things ‘difficult’ for you.”

  “Aw. Don’t be hurt, Daisy.” Beguilingly, Owen stroked her back—her rigid, poker-straight back. “I don’t mean… I never mean to hurt you. Not ever. But the fact is, I’ve already done my share of carousing. I’ve already indulged in a lifetime’s worth of bad behavior. From here on, what I need to do is—”

  “Repent? Hide yourself away? Atone for your sins?” Daisy shook her head, remembering all he’d told her about his wife, Renée. How the two of them had met, incongruously, outside a gambling house in Baltimore. How Renée had condemned Owen’s drinking and “immature ways.” How she’d insisted they emigrate west…all the better to force Owen to change. “You already have! Hiding yourself away here won’t make you a better man.”

  “Then I guess we’re stuck. Because I can’t see another way.” Sadly, Owen stared at the floor, even as the griddle cakes began to smoke. “The more I go out, the more reckless I become—the more irresponsible and unwise and unfit to care for Élodie.”

  Daisy gaped at him, astonished to hear such a daft notion.

  “Did Renée tell you that?” At his sad, confirming nod, Daisy shook her head, dearly longing to pour some sense into him. She couldn’t believe anyone could be so unkind to Owen. He certainly didn’t deserve it. He didn’t now and he couldn’t have then, either. “Your wife isn’t here!” Daisy insisted. “She doesn’t know the man you’ve become. She never will.”

  She doesn’t deserve your never-ending love, either, Daisy thought in a reckless burst of rebellion. I do. I do!

  “Even if she could see me, she wouldn’t believe it,” Owen confessed. “I gambled right up till the day Renée died.” He gave a rueful quirk of his lips, remembering. “I did quit though, straightaway, as soon as I realized Élodie needed me. Bit by bit, things got better. In the end, Renée’s efforts to reform me…” He shook his head. “Well, they were a good idea.”

  “Renée didn’t reform you,” Daisy insisted. “You did. You just said yourself that you gambled all during your marriage. You told me before—you were drinking then, too.”

  Again, Owen raised his eyebrow in that you’re mad fashion. Daisy was becoming heartily sick of that doubtful expression of his. But her own discomfort paled beside the need to make sure Owen knew the whole truth about himself…and trusted in it.

  “Well,” he acknowledged reluctantly, “I did like a smile of whiskey or two, now and again—even on the long road out west. Renée didn’t like it. She was a teetotaler, of course. And she wasn’t afraid to lambaste me with her views, that’s for certain.”

  Clearly, that meant Owen had not ended his scoundrelly behavior until after Renée had passed on, Daisy thought.

  “But I haven’t had a drop since I came to Morrow Creek. Renée took ill, I put down the bottle…and I never picked it up again.” He almost smiled. “Renée would have been astounded.”

  “See? You made yourself the good man you are today.” Daisy moved nearer, her gaze pleading with him to believe her. “You did that. You get the credit and the reward. All of it.”

  “The reward?”

  Daisy couldn’t help smiling at him. “Élodie, silly! She’s a wonderful little girl. She loves you to pieces, Owen.”

  As if on cue, Élodie emerged. She padded into the kitchen on bare feet, with her hair even more tousled than Owen’s was. As though guided by love, she headed straight for her father. “I do love you, Papa, ever so much.” She gave him a sleepy hug. Then she sniffed the air. “But I think you’re burning the breakfast. Griddle cakes aren’t like toast, you know. There’s not enough apple butter in the whole world to make a burned pancake taste good.” With that message delivered, Élodie hugged Daisy, too. “But I reckon they’ll probably taste better than my hat!”

  She grinned—likely because Daisy had not yet convinced Owen to attend a social event, and Élodie knew it. But Daisy couldn’t admit that to Owen. As she hugged Élodie good-morning, Daisy’s gaze met his. He appeared perplexed, and rightly so. With a sheepish smile, Daisy gave him a shrug—a shrug that said…

  Little girls…who knows what they mean sometimes?

  As Élodie wandered off to practice her embroidery on the sampler she’d begun under Daisy’s guidance, Daisy scooped the griddle cakes onto a plate. She ladled in another batch.

  “All I mean is,” she told Owen, safely out of Élodie’s earshot now, “you’ve had enough of someone tearing you down.” She, more than anyone, knew what that felt like. “You need someone who will see you as the man you are now, today, with Élodie. And me.”

  “It wouldn’t matter,” Owen disagreed. “It’s not enough.”

  I’m not enough, Daisy heard…and it broke her heart.

  “How can it not be enough?” She gestured. “Just look!”

  With reluctance and perceptible skepticism, Owen did. He followed Daisy’s pointing arm…all the way to Élodie. For a moment, all he did was drink in the sight of his daughter.

  “You think… I’m doing a good job raising Élodie?”

  At that hoarsely voiced question, Owen nearly broke down.

  Filled with compassion, filled with the need to comfort him, Daisy nodded. “Yes,” she said solemnly. “Of course I do! You’re wonderful with your daughter. I’ve always thought so.”

  “Always?” Owen’s gaze returned to Élodie. Gruffly, he cleared his throat. “But I can’t love her the way a mother can. She’s lost that.” His voice broke. “I can never give it back.”

  “No.” Tenderly, Daisy caught his hand, feeling overwhelmed with caring for him. “But you can give her something else. You can give her the love no one else can…the love of a father.”

  Owen’s hand tightened on hers. Stiffly, he nodded.

  “I never thought of it that way,” he said. Appearing suspiciously red around the eyes but otherwise bellicose, he frowned at her griddle cakes. “Tarnation! Those are burned too!”

  Taken aback by his sudden roughness, Daisy could only stare. Then she realized: no one had told Owen that before. No one had told him he was doing well. All he’d heard from his wife had been criticism and abuse. Evidently, he’d needed more.

  Big, strong, foul-mouthed, ornery Owen Cooper needed more.

  He needed her, Daisy realized. He needed her to love him.

  And that was all the more reason she wanted to stay with him. It was all the more reason she wanted to stand by, trading hidden grins with Élodie, as Owen took charge of the buckwheat griddle cakes himself. It was all the more reason, Daisy thought as she wrapped her arms around Owen in a tremendous hug, that she was not intending to give up on getting him to socialize.

  She might have lost this round, Daisy told herself, but as long as Owen needed her, she would be there for him. And one of the things he needed her for, she thought, was making sure he came all the way out of his self-imposed exile and joined in life in Morrow Creek…the way his daughter and his friends—and now, Daisy too—profoundly wanted him to do.

  Muttering darkly, Owen served up a plate of griddle cakes. He doused them in twice the usual quantity of maple syrup, seemed to find himself at a loss to know why, then called Élodie to the table. “Breakfast time! Come eat your burned food.”

  Cheerfully, Élodie scampered in to take her place. Daisy tucked away her latest smile. Then she, too, took her place.

  Owen smacked down another plate of griddle cakes. They did not look as burned or as inedible as he made out. “Here. Eat.”

  “Thank you.” Daisy lifted her gaze to his. For the first time, she glimpsed real hopefulness in Owen’s eyes. It was ten
tative—and covered by blustery maleness—but it was there.

  With his hands on his hips, Owen surveyed them. He nodded. Then, apparently satisfied that all was well, he took his leave.

  “I’m going down to check on the horses,” he announced. But all he did was stand there, watching in apparent consternation as his daughter forked up bites of griddle cake. He glanced from his little girl to Daisy. He sighed. “Don’t dawdle, now.”

  “I won’t!” Élodie assured him. “See you in a minute, Papa!”

  “Fine. Good.” Roughly, Owen looked around, still seeming at loose ends. “All right. I’m going to the stable. You two…eat!”

  “We’ll be right here,” Daisy promised. “Waiting for you.”

  At that, Owen appeared almost ready to bawl. Instead, he snatched up a mended bridle from nearby, then stomped away. The whole way down the stairwell, Daisy could hear him muttering.

  When he’d gone, Élodie looked at her. “Papa’s silly.”

  “But he’s also magnificent,” Daisy told her. “Isn’t he?”

  They both traded grins. Then Daisy got busy eating her griddle cakes. After all, she was eating for two now. Besides, she would need her strength later, for that sightseeing outing. If she couldn’t persuade Owen to come along, she’d try again another time, with another social event. The important thing was, for once she’d helped Owen.

  She felt beyond proud of that fact. Proud and grateful. It seemed to Daisy, just then, that she and Owen were like peas in a pod, the two of them, both needing an extra-big dose of love.

  It was fortunate they’d found one another, she realized, so they could give each other that extra-big helping of love. They were lucky in that way. As Daisy finished her first griddle cake and started in on the second, she couldn’t conceive of a single thing she enjoyed more than being with Owen and Élodie.

  It was almost like having a family of her very own—the family she’d always dreamed of. Now, for the first time, Daisy’s dream family seemed tantalizingly within reach…with no dreams necessary. If that wasn’t a miracle, Daisy didn’t know what was.