Did he have any idea what he had done?
“I have half a mind to make him marry you. It’d serve him right,” said Thomas Lovelace.
Molly watched the stripes on her father’s shirt expand and contract with every labored breath from her seat in the back of the surrey. This wasn’t how she’d imagined her ride back to Lockhart. Usually the journey had more to recommend it—like a handsome, cheerful driver, for instance.
The grassland between Prairie Lea and Lockhart offered little to distract her parents from their tirade. They had no interest in the longhorns eyeing their trek across the barren winter fields or the jackrabbit bounding over the knots of dried grass. Rebuking their daughter would be their sole diversion for five miles yet.
“Thank goodness the boy’s got more sense than I gave him credit for. You’d make a poor man miserable,” her father said.
“It was this surrey, wasn’t it?” Adele Lovelace’s gloved hand caressed the leather bench. “Do you know how long I pleaded before your father would purchase it for me?”
Molly grasped the support from the second-row bench and thrust herself forward between her parents’ shoulders. “Your surrey remains untainted, Mother. Of all the things to worry about after I’ve been humiliated before the whole world. We didn’t do anything, or not much. Bailey’s just upset I won’t marry him.”
“After all the music lessons and deportment classes, how could he imagine you’d squander your prospects on him?” Mrs. Lovelace shook her head and clucked softly. “I’m glad your brother isn’t here to see your shame.”
But Nicholas would hear about it, no doubt. Although his new business supplying lumber to the railroad kept him away from home, his partnership with his father’s mill ensured frequent visits and correspondence. Which busybody’s letter would reach him first?
The horse slowed its pace as if waiting for redirection. Molly looked up. The pecan grove. She kicked her boot against the bottom of the front bench, startling the horse and earning a suspicious glare from her father as he struggled to keep the horse from wandering toward the copse of trees.
“So now that Bailey Garner has removed himself from your consideration, are you prepared to entertain more appropriate options?” her mother asked.
Molly didn’t make a peep. Her head churned with possible candidates and how to avoid them. What would it take to outwit her parents? How could she keep her freedom without an outright rebellion?
“It was our mistake pushing you toward Weston when he obviously wasn’t interested,” her mother said, “and now we need to make up for lost time. You aren’t getting any younger.”
Molly adjusted her bonnet as a precaution against freckles.
“Remember,” her father continued, “your stay in Lockhart is dependent on your finding a husband. If you aren’t becoming acquainted with the right sort of gentlemen, you might as well come home. No sense spending all that money on gowns if no one appreciates them. Besides, unless the sawmill does better, there won’t be any money for gowns.”
Molly’s ears perked at the welcomed topic change. She scooted to the edge of her bench. “What’s causing the mill to be unprofitable? Prairie Lea is rebuilding from the fire. Nicholas is sending railroad contracts our way. Lumber prices are stronger than ever.”
“Just because you have a little job in the courthouse doesn’t mean you understand enterprise.” Thomas squared his shoulders.
“You mustn’t allow your position to fill your heart with self-importance. It’s unbecoming in a lady,” her mother said.
“I merely asked a question based on solid information. I fail to see what role pride plays in this.”
“You fail to see what a drought can do,” her father huffed. “If the river wasn’t low, we could float the logs to the mill. As it is, I’m feeding mule teams and paying drivers to bring in the raw material. Nicholas’s railroad contract is locked in, so we’re operating at a loss.”
For all of Molly’s life her father had claimed they were losing money. Made her wonder how rich he’d been in the beginning.
“If you want to help your father,” her mother said, “go back to Lockhart and find a man with income.”
“And connections.” Thomas said. “Someone with capital who’s interested in investing.”
“And, of course, a society leader. We aren’t completely merciless, Molly. There’d be something in it for you.”
Molly frowned. This was no spontaneous discussion.
“Who is it?” She crossed her arms and settled in for a fight. “If you’re going to stick a hook in me and throw me in the creek, I’d like to know for whom we’re fishing.”
Her father pressed his substantial weight back into the surrey seat, causing it to bump into Molly’s knees. “The banker in Lockhart has a son.”
“Mr. Fenton!” Molly covered her eyes. “Mr. Fenton is courting Prue McGraw.”
“The blacksmith’s daughter?” Adele tsked. “That’s precisely the problem. His parents do not view the match favorably.”
“You talked to them? No, I can’t come between Fenton and Prue. She’s my friend, the court reporter of whom I’ve spoken. She’s been teaching me shorthand so I can take her job when she gets married.”
Her father chuckled. “Don’t let her fool you. The salary for the court reporter is chicken feed compared to your allowance as Mr. Fenton’s wife.”
Allowance? Molly clenched her reticule tightly. No other word could ruffle her feathers so. Every week she brought home her wages from the courthouse and handed them over to her father. Every week she returned to Lockhart with an allowance from him because he allowed her to keep a portion of her own money.
She suddenly filled her chest with a long draw of crisp October air. Would being a wife provide her with any freedom? She studied her mother’s tightly wound coif in front of her. Probably not, but what other choice did she have? Anything was preferable to being treated like a child. A girl child, especially.
Stealing Mr. Fenton from Prue was out of the question. Molly wouldn’t betray her friend. Besides, Mr. Fenton’s devotion to Prue McGraw couldn’t be shaken. He, at least, was safe from her parents’ schemes, but whom would they settle on next?
Molly clasped her hands together. Would Fenton willingly stand in as a decoy? She needn’t worry about losing her heart to him, and he definitely had no interest in her. Perhaps an understanding could be reached with the banker’s son that would pacify her parents and give Bailey time to get established.
Would Mr. Fenton play along . . . and would Prue understand?
2
LOCKHART, TEXAS
NOVEMBER 1879
To Do List:
Write Mother a scintillating account of dinner with Mr. Fenton.
Buy new tortoiseshell combs.
Learn when Bailey is moving to town.
Living in the cultural center of Caldwell County agreed with Molly. Ever since Mr. Myers led that first herd of cattle up what they now called the Chisholm Trail, cowboys and cattlemen had flooded the city. Businesses prospered and the streets bustled. Although the cowhands could get rowdy in certain areas of town, the ladies of Lockhart were moving it toward gentility and sophistication, and Molly wanted to be in on every step. To her mind, the only advantage that quiet little Prairie Lea held was a certain man who’d promised to relocate any day now.
Yet he hadn’t appeared.
Mr. Fenton entered the dining room and scowled as the waiter pointed in her direction. Molly had put off this rendezvous as long as she could, hoping that Bailey would renew his suit, but it’d been three weeks, and she hadn’t heard a word from him. She closed her journal and hid it in her reticule as the banker’s son stalked toward her, taking long strides with short legs. Mr. Fenton barely halted before he collided with her round table.
“I suppose I must make an attempt at civility. If it weren’t for my disdain for ungentlemanly behavior, this situation could certainly provoke me toward churlishness.” He made a big show o
f looking around the hotel’s dining room, rotating his shoulders as if his chin were fused to his chest. “Fortunately, the presence of witnesses bolsters my restraint.”
Molly leaned her elbows on the table. “Please, Mr. Fenton, be seated. There’ll be enough said about us dining together as it is. We gain nothing by feigning misery.”
“You may feign. My pain is real.” But he pulled out the chair and sat, doing his best to avoid her gaze. “The lengths to which we submit to pacify our families . . .”
Molly’s eyes widened at the insult. My, what a tantrum he could throw. How dare he act condescending. He was courting the blacksmith’s daughter, for crying aloud.
She fought the desire to retaliate. Less than a month had passed since her last public dispute with a man. She’d have to use a different approach.
“If it weren’t for my parents, I wouldn’t be here, and I assume you are in a similar situation. If you want to revolt, you have my blessing, but please spare me your unpleasantness. I am not your enemy.”
Molly had spoken as sweetly as possible, and still his wide eyebrows rose. “I wondered why, despite your well-favored appearance, your parents felt they needed to sweeten the deal with part ownership in the mill. Now I understand. No doubt your sharp tongue has chased off several offers.” He studied her as he waved the waiter over. “Miss McGraw would never accuse me of being unpleasant.”
Molly smiled at the waiter, taking a moment to bask in the appreciation reflected in the man’s eyes, but was she only attractive to poor men? Well, she’d promised her parents she’d give Fenton a chance. They couldn’t fault her if the results didn’t satisfy. Besides, knowing she had a suitor might build a fire under Bailey. It’d been weeks and she had no news of his progress.
“Prue is an angel, on that we can agree. And you’ve probably never had a reason to be unpleasant with her.”
“True. She is the most gentle, most sincere woman I’ve ever met. It pains me to think of what this is doing to her.” His jaw grew so tight that his ears moved.
“I’ve tried to explain to Prue, Mr. Fenton. I’ve promised her I’m not attempting to steal your affections and that you definitely have no interest in me, but she doesn’t understand the pressures visited upon us.” Molly slid her napkin off the table and spread it in her lap as the memory of Prue’s tear-streaked face appeared before her. “Surely if we both reassure her, we’ll make it through this trial without further damage. Then we can honestly tell our families that we became acquainted and have no interest in furthering the relationship.”
“And hopefully such a declaration can be made before our association becomes noticed—”
“Mr. Fenton, I’d hoped to find you about today.” Judge Rice’s periwinkle eyes peered from a weather-lined face. Like a courtly gentleman, he bowed slightly to Molly before continuing. “It’s come to my attention that my young stenographer is suffering from some form of distress, and I thought you might be able to enlighten me.”
“She is?” Fenton sprang to his feet. “Where is she?”
“No, son, not of that nature.” With a hand on the shoulder he guided Fenton back to his seat. “She’s moping about, sighing as ladies are wont to do when grieved.” His keen eyes rested on Molly. “I’m sure you understand, Miss Lovelace. Perhaps you would have insight as to what ails her.”
Molly kept her chin lifted. Of course she knew, and so did the judge. “Perhaps her father is interfering with matters of the heart. That seems to be a frequent culprit these days.”
“Mr. McGraw? I think not, but I hope that we, her friends, can ease her discomfort.” He rapped his knuckles against the table with the same hand that usually held the gavel. “I won’t keep you from your meal or your . . . uh, conversation . . . but I offer that food for thought should you be able to relieve her distress. Good day.”
They both sat, chastened, until the keen gentleman left the room.
“Insufferable,” muttered Mr. Fenton. “I’ll admit you are a victim of the same parental ailment that plagues me, but how can we proceed?”
Molly’s mouth lifted on one side. She needed to be alert to walk this tightrope, and holding grudges exhausted her. “We will proceed together, Mr. Fenton. That might be the quickest way to get apart.”
Bailey Garner sat high in his saddle, enjoying the prestige of riding through Lockhart at his cousin’s side. Tipped hats, deferential nods—people respected Weston Garner, and Bailey hoped someday to be as highly regarded as his eldest cousin, former employer, and mentor. No wonder Molly’s parents had hoped Weston would favor their daughter. He’d been surprised that Weston had shown no interest in Molly, but maybe she’d been too young for the old man. Downright crotchety at times, he was. Still, Bailey was glad when his aunt Louise returned from Mexico with that beautiful widow, Rosa. The Lovelaces never would’ve allowed Molly to step out with him until Weston was spoken for. Now with a wife and a newborn son, Weston was well settled—another reason Bailey envied him.
The Lovelaces, as well of most of Caldwell County, held the Garner family in high regard. Coming from South Carolina before the war, the Garner boys had claimed a large spread that grew every year. His cousin Weston, old enough to merit the title “Uncle” from Bailey’s little sisters, had prospered on his ranch, Palmetto. Weston’s sister, Eliza, and her husband, Jake, were working the land that they’d purchased from his aunt Louise when her marriage to the shop owner moved her to town.
Bailey’s parents, George and Mary Garner, lived nearby and ran sheep with the help of his brothers, but they never seemed to get ahead like the rest of the family and often relied on their relatives to make ends meet.
“Is your mother’s family expecting you?” Weston asked.
“Yes, sir. Uncle Matthew’s got me a job, and Aunt Frances is putting me up. I’m all set.”
Weston swerved closer to avoid a wagon that pulled into the street. “I guess you’ve prayed through this, but it seems like a contradiction, if you ask me. You swear off Molly, and then you move to Lockhart. Don’t know but what you aren’t playing with fire.”
“Believe me, I’ve wondered aplenty if I’m doing the right thing, but this seems best. There’s no future for me on the ranch, not with two brothers who’ll want their share. I’ve always known I wanted to move to town and have a career. Now that Samuel and Tuck can take up the slack, I’m free to make my fortune.”
“So you’re doing it for your gal, but doing it without your gal?”
“It’s like to drive me crazy not talking to her, but we needed to take a few steps back to get on the right path again. Besides, I don’t need any distractions, because until I can support Molly, it’s clear that God has said, ‘Not yet.’” He saw Weston’s shoulders twitch with mirth. “All right, maybe Molly’s parents said it, too, but I’ll keep my distance until God changes their minds or my income, because I’m hooked. Ever since primer school when she whooped everyone at arithmetic drills, I knew she was the girl for me.”
“Of all the credentials I’ve heard for a wife, that’s got to be one of the strangest.”
Bailey was no good at sums, but he could decipher Molly, and she knew it. Long ago she’d given up trying to keep secrets from him. She needed him. And he needed to be needed.
Bailey’s knees tightened around the saddle as they approached the hotel. He couldn’t keep the doubt from crawling back. Did Molly remember why he was leaving her alone?
“It’s a brave move to risk losing your girl.” Weston reined his horse toward the hitching post. “One caution, though. Don’t get discouraged if you stumble. Sometimes we have to deal with the same temptations time and time again.”
“We’re supposed to be ‘more than conquerors,’” Bailey protested.
“Conquerors can lose a few battles along the way. Just yesterday I was talking to your pa—”
Bailey dismounted and looped the reins tightly over the hitching post, trying to avoid a reciting of his pa’s story. They’d almost lost their ranc
h and endangered his aunt Louise’s farm because of his father’s love of cards. He didn’t need Weston to remind him of his family’s embarrassment. George Garner was a fine man. His pa loved him like the dickens, but Bailey was made of sterner stuff. Thank the Lord he didn’t inherit the same weakness.
“I’m starved.” Bailey nodded to the wide hotel with the real second story. “This place looks good.” And smelled good, too. His stomach gurgled at the meaty aromas wafting out the swinging batwing doors. Aunt Frances wasn’t expecting him until suppertime, and with her houseful of children he knew better than to show up unannounced and hungry.
Bailey followed Weston into the restaurant and nearly bumped into his back when he stopped abruptly. Weston turned around.
“Let’s go to the Hungry Drover. It won’t be as full.”
“I don’t mind. Got to get used to the hustle and bustle of a crowd if I’m going to live in town.” Bailey stepped past his cousin, afraid he was about to dig in his heels.
And there she sat.
Molly spotted him at the same moment.
Bailey groaned as he took measure of the uptight man with the pinched face and beetle-brown sack suit. It didn’t take a genius to figure what she was up to.
“No wonder you threw on the brakes.”
“I tried to warn you.” His older cousin avoided controversy like preachers avoided the Minor Prophets, and for once Bailey was grateful.
“Weston? Is that you?” The man’s voice traveled over the din to lasso them.
The cousins exchanged weary glances, but Weston was trapped.
With one last dark look at him, Weston turned. “Hello, Mr. Fenton, Miss Lovelace. How y’all doing?”
Bailey had no choice but to follow as Weston did his duty. Molly’s gown, the same dusky color as a rain cloud, suited his mood. He’d anticipated her parents would present her with new suitors, but not that she’d fold so easily. At least her companion didn’t look pleased. If watching Molly talk to other men got this Fenton character riled, he’d better poke his eyes out.
Regina Jennings Page 2