“Lemme see who ya picked over our Locky.”
“Your dear Locky is not an option for any lady to choose.” Feeling satisfied about the names she’d written down, she withdrew the list from inside her journal. “I’ve only met five of them. The other three are highly recommended.”
He ripped the card from her hand. “Don’t you know better than to take a recommendation from someone yer competing against? They ain’t gonna share the good’uns with—oomph.”
Jane jerked her gaze to Mr. Underwood. “Did you kick him?”
With the tip of a finger, he slid a black checker forward on the board. “He earned it.”
“With an injun is what you was thinking I was thinking,” Mr. Quimby grumbled at his friend. “But I was fixin’ to say with their competition.”
Mr. Underwood dipped his head in apology. Why? He had nothing to apologize for. She could not change what she was … or how she was viewed by some people because of what she was. This was why she’d left the Shawnee Mission. Why she’d left Kansas Half-Breed Lands. Why she didn’t stay in Lawrence after the massacre. She had a home here. In Turtle Springs. She had people she could help, could love, and do kind things for.
People here needed her.
And as soon as she was engaged to marry, her whole family would come here to evaluate the man she’d chosen. Once they approved him—and they would approve—she’d convince them to stay. Convince them this could be their home, too.
For the first time in years, they could be together again.
Laughter drifted down the boardwalk.
Jane again looked. Mr. Lockhart had made his way to the middle of the line in front of the inn. Even if his hair weren’t such a pale blond or if his handsome features didn’t have such a pleasing symmetry, he’d stand out in a crowd. He drew people to himself. Because they wanted to hear him speak, but also because they knew he listened to them as well. She’d seen the way the other ladies in town looked at him—a silent, wistful if only, if only he were an option. Yet none had hounded him like they had Sheriff Ingram until he convinced all he and Abby were affianced.
Several whistles from the men pierced the air.
Abby wore her lovely blue suit with the scooped neckline. Not too daring. Neither too modest. No wonder the men whistled.
Mr. Lockhart met her in the middle of the street. As he withdrew his notebook from inside his impeccably tailored brown suit, he said something to Abby which made her glower at him. He held his hands up in an apologetic manner. Then he stepped back and gave her room to pass.
When he straightened, he looked right at—
Jane’s breath caught. He watched her with such open admiration. With confidence and intensity. And with the knowledge others were noticing. Why? Save for that one comment about a man has a right to change his mind, he’d neither done nor said anything to insinuate he was pursuing her. He’d treated her like her brothers used to. Whenever they’d been out walking and he saw someone he knew—and he always saw someone he knew—he’d introduce her.
One would think he was a resident of Turtle Springs and she the visitor.
Stop, she mouthed, swiping the air with both hands. He had to cease this or people would misunderstand, and then all of the diligence she’d put into preparing the interview questions would be wasted. All for naught! Because no man would come to her table as long as he believed the man he admired so much had chosen her as his bride. Mr. Lockhart, the flirt he was, hadn’t chosen her for anything but to be the subject of his next story.
As soon as he’d accomplished that, he’d be off seeking a new muse. A new adventure. All without her. Like Mama and Papa had done. Like her brothers.
Because no one needed Jane Ransome.
Why should they? She was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. Besides, she didn’t need anyone anyway.
Mr. Lockhart grinned.
Or at least she thought he did. Her vision had blurred too much for her to tell.
He tipped his hat … then strolled back to the line.
“Shouldn’t you go inside with the other ladies?” asked Mr. Underwood in a soft, fatherly voice. “You deserve to find a mate as much as they do.”
“I will in a minute.”
“Jane, what’s wrong?”
She shrugged. “It’s nothing. I’ll be fine. I always am.”
They looked like spooked owls. Or debutantes at their first ball.
“Excuse me.” J.R. slid past Sheriff Ingram, who’d decided the best place to oversee the noisy crowd was right inside the door. Not sure how much overseeing of the crowd he was doing, in light of the fact he rarely looked away from Miss Melton. The women sat patiently at the dining hall’s center table, listening to the second group of bachelors.
Poor Mrs. Lomax looked a tad green as a man twice her age—and weight—talked and talked and talked. Where was her friend, Miss Green?
J.R. scanned the dining hall. He didn’t see the schoolteacher, but he did see William Dixon talking to Miss Ransome. She wore a simple yet elegant amethyst suit lacking adornment. As if she sensed someone watching, she looked up … and their eyes met. A tightness settled in J.R.’s chest, and for the second time today, after looking at her, he had difficulty drawing a breath. Dixon said something, snatching her attention away from J.R., but he couldn’t move his gaze off her.
He’d had opportunities to court other women after Sybil’s father refused J.R.’s request to court his daughter. He’d attended cotillions. He’d attended more than a few match-making teas his mother forced him to. A year of attempted courtships that never worked out. Fruitless searches. The war gave him an excuse to stop. No more wasting time on shallow conversations and women who viewed him as a dear friend. He could wait until he found the right girl.
And now, Jane.
With her ebony hair twisted into a smooth bun at the top of her head, Jane was as set-apart as a longtail widowbird in a room of hummingbirds, blue jays, and golden pheasants. He smiled, knowing her exact response to his appraisal.
Mr. Lockhart, a lady doesn’t take kindly to being compared to a bird.
Jane wouldn’t take kindly.
She was the type of woman who lived on good soup, not fine words. He would say them, though, if he knew she’d believe him. If he knew that’s all it’d take to convince her to come to California with him. He had to prove to her that what was growing between them would be the foundation for something wonderful.
The mist of love descended on lovers and fools alike—
Both joy and pathos, both heartache and bliss,
For all are equal in hope this rapturous night.
What would she do if he shared the words he wrote for her? What would she do if he strode up to her table and said, “Marry me”? Or knelt at her feet and said, “Marry me”?
Or drew her into his arms, kissed her senseless, and then said “Marry me”?
Some women, even after such short a time of meeting, would relish such a grand proposal. Widows Peabody and Doolittle would. Lucille Melton would. Her oldest daughter would, too.
J.R. eyed the sheriff. The man looked too troubled, too unsure, and too angry to do any proposing tonight.
Ding, ding, ding.
At the tapping of the bell, chairs scrapped against the floor. Men moved about the room, a few leaving as a new set entered. J.R. looked at Jane, just as the lawyer from Tennessee kissed the back of her hand. Her cheeks pinked. Pinked! Fifteen minutes was not enough time for any woman to develop feelings for a man she’d just met. Love at first sight? Jane was too practical to play Juliet to Dixon’s Romeo.
Or was this not their first conversation?
During J.R.’s discussion with Miss Melton after worship service, he vaguely remembered seeing Dixon exit the church. Not with Jane, though. She’d walked out alone. And then she’d walked directly to where J.R. and Miss Melton were talking. Dixon would have had no time to court Jane this week because Jane had been J.R.’s hostess. She’d been with him. Practically from sunrise to
sunset.
As men changed seats, Dixon still held Jane’s hand. Her lips froze in a tight smile, her countenance strained enough for J.R. to read her unspoken request for distance.
Dixon held firm. If he saw her discomfiture, he didn’t care.
Fury boiled up in J.R. No woman, not even one as capable as Jane, should be forced to endure a man’s attentions.
Even as Dixon spoke, Jane’s gaze flickered to J.R. He took a step forward, empowered by her silent plea, ready to—
At the touch of a firm hand on his shoulder, he turned.
“Some women think it’s romantic to be fought over,” Sheriff Ingram said in a chilly tone. “Not that one, Lockhart. She will be mortified to be made the subject to a scene.” His bright blue eyes narrowed. “So if I’m right about what you’re intending, then you’d better head on outside and decide if you want her … or if you just don’t want someone else to have her.”
“There’s a difference?”
His gaze flickered to where Miss Melton sat. “Unfortunately, there is.”
Chapter 8
Reason is not what decides love.—Molière
Later that evening
Care to share your troubles with an old woman?”
J.R. shifted on the porch’s top step to look over his shoulder at Gretchen Kassel standing on the door threshold, not looking a day over forty, which pleased her greatly since she’d passed her fiftieth year. She held two mugs. “Is that coffee?” he asked in anticipation.
“If I said yes, would that make you agree to bare your soul?”
“Only if you added milk and honey.”
“Then coffee it is.” With that perceptive smile of hers, she stepped forward. “The sweet, mucky-colored one is yours.” Once he took a mug, she sat next to him. “Beautiful moon.”
“It is.” He glanced down the boardwalk to the chairs in front of the mercantile, the very ones Jane’s elderly protectors occupied most mornings and afternoons. “Will Carter seems to have a problem walking. He and Millie have been sitting there for the last hour. Are you concerned?”
“Oliver is keeping an eye on them from the upstairs window.”
“He’s a good brother.”
“I noticed you talking with Ebenezer Zumwalt while I photographed the couples.”
“A lady is always in need of a good shoemaker.” She studied him for a moment before smiling mischievously. “Especially if she’s in a race with her daughter to the altar.”
J.R. laughed, unable to help it.
They sipped their coffee, listening to crickets and the hushed voices of Millie and her new suitor. The young widow had surprised J.R. with her choice. Since the night the Kassels offered him use of the spare bedroom next to Oliver’s, J.R. noticed the half-heartedness Millie had for participating in the auditions. Lingering grief over her husband-of-six-month’s death? Or guilt over her decision to move forward?
It’d been three years. The time to mourn had passed.
Even her mother realized that.
“I hope things turn out well for them,” he said in sincerity.
Mrs. Kassel nodded. “Mr. Carter seems like good man.” She rested her hand on J.R.’s forearm. “I appreciate all you’ve done for Oliver. You’re a good man.”
“I haven’t done much.”
“You reminded my son how to smile. That’s the first step in learning to live again.”
J.R. sipped his coffee. “The biggest credit goes to you for the suggestion to take pictures of the ladies with their chosen suitors. Considering what little experience I have with cameras, I couldn’t have managed it or the darkroom, without Oliver’s help. You should sell the printing press and convince him to turn the newspaper office into a photography studio.”
She held the mug with both hands, staring down into the inky liquid. “He used to love photography and helping his father with the newspaper. After he lost part of his arm …” She shook her head and sighed. “He won’t consider it unless you are the one who suggests it. You remind us all of his father, not because you share the same pale coloring. Bert was warm and fun and had such a positive outlook people loved being around him. You have that same vivaciousness, that same enthusiasm for life.”
“Jane isn’t impressed.”
“Jane doesn’t impress easily.” Her head tilted slightly, her expression inscrutable as she studied him. “Did she choose a suitor tonight?”
He nodded, hoping she didn’t see the annoyance he felt. “William Dixon, lawyer from Tennessee. Good man,” he admitted, although the jealous part of him wished it wasn’t true. “He’s taken out a loan on the empty law office across the street.”
“A woman seeking security will find that quite alluring.”
“You think Jane doesn’t feel secure?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “I don’t think she favors Dixon’s suit. If she did, why refuse to have her photograph taken with him? Every other lady jumped at the opportunity to have a photograph with the man she chose.”
“Maybe Jane is waiting.”
He stared at her in shock. “On what?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged in the manner of one who was guessing, but he knew she was sure of her answer. “Maybe … on you deciding if you are going to court her.”
“If I’m going to court her? What do you think I’ve been doing this week?”
“I think you’ve been having a lovely time dangling Jane along as if she’s a childhood playmate.”
J.R. winced. “She looked like she was having fun. Do you think she was playacting?”
“I would be surprised if anyone in this town knows Jane well enough to answer that.” She set her mug on the step next to his. “What do you know about her, besides the fact she’s a beautiful woman who intrigues you?”
He shifted on the step so he could face Mrs. Kassel, crossed his arms, rested his elbows on his knees. “Jane’s father, Wellington Ransome, married Victorie Pappan, the fourth daughter of a French trapper and a widowed Shawnee squaw. In ’33 the couple left the Ohio Valley and settled in Kansas Territory near what’s now the town of Olathe. Ransome built taverns and trading posts near forts. He put ferries at river crossings.” J.R. paused. Considering Ransome sent his only unmarried daughter a wagonload of goods every month, J.R. had no doubt her family was far wealthier than anyone in town knew. Some information, like Jane’s older brother’s murder, was also hers to share.
“Jane’s mother, Victorie,” he went on, “knows seven languages and speaks with a French accent. Eight of her ten children lived to adulthood. Jane and her two younger brothers are the only ones not married. Ransome and his wife serve as translators for the Agency of Indian Affairs.”
Mrs. Kassel nodded. “So that’s why they never visit. I heard Indian girls are betrothed, sometimes sold, by their parents when they are very young. Jane is twenty-six and has never been married, that I know of.”
“I don’t think she has either.”
“With all the time you two have had to talk, how is it you don’t know?”
“Jane is free with facts.” To J.R.’s admiration and frustration, her cousin, Cyrus, had been as stingy with personal stories about Jane. Good man, though. “Her feelings, her fears—she keeps hidden.”
“Interesting.” Silence lingered. “Don’t you think it strange Jane’s parents would build that house and then leave her there alone?”
J.R. rubbed at the growing tension in his forehead. He did find it strange.
“Do you want to marry her?” came softly.
“I’ve entertained the idea.” More than entertained. He’d imagined their lives together in Sacramento. He looked at Mrs. Kassel. “Unfortunately, Jane has given me no indication she would welcome my attentions. She doesn’t respond to flirting.”
“Why should she?” she said with an overt edge in her tone. “You’ve known her for six days. Women generally need more time to decide if a man is worth a life-long commitment.”
“I don’t have time to waste waiting
for her to decide. I’m leaving for California as soon as I finish writing my article.”
“And that, J.R., is why she selected Mr. Dixon.”
Saturday afternoon, May 26,
Founders’ Day Celebration
Jane held her eyes closed as she waited … and waited for Clyde McGee to finish the prayer he’d begged Reverend Smith to allow him to give. Was he finished? Was he thinking of another rhyme? She peeked out of the corner of her eye. The youth stood next to her on the top of the church step, head bowed, hands folded together. She tugged the tail of his untucked shirt.
“Aaaaaaaa-men!” he yelled.
Another roar of amens and several whistles followed.
Once the noise quieted down, Jane cupped her hands around her mouth. “If you haven’t placed your bid on a quilt,” she yelled to the crowd, “then hightail it over to the bidding booth.” She raised an arm in the air, holding up three fingers. “The auction ends at three. Madeline Foster has the list. Madeline, wave so everyone sees where you are.”
One by one, the crowd turned from where Jane stood on the church steps and looked to the wooden booth between the cemetery and the Fosters’ two-story home. Madeline Foster stood on an upside-down crate next to the booth, waving. To her left, the colorful array of quilts, buffalo hides, and fur pelts attached to her mother’s clothesline fluttered in the warm breeze.
“Thanks, Miss Jane, for organizing this.” Clyde grasped her around the waist and held tight. “You’re the best neighbor.”
“Uhhh …” She patted his back. “You’re welcome?”
He darted down the steps. Raising his hands in the air, he stopped in front of his friends. They all patted him on the back.
Slowly the crowd spread out. Some headed to peruse the quilts, hides, and pelts being auctioned to pay for the school’s repair fund. Some headed to the tables spread with pastries and hand-cranked freezers of ice cream. To be sure, Mrs. Bombay’s strawberry and cream would be the first consumed. It always was. Of course, she refused to serve it to children.
“I bet she uses liquor,” Jane muttered.
“I wouldn’t say that too loudly.”
Seven Brides for Seven Mail-Order Husbands Romance Collection Page 53