Della (Cowboys and Debutantes Book 2)

by Vivi Holt

  She followed him. “What do you mean by ‘see the Reverend’?”

  He lay the bag on the floor and put his hands on his hips. Her head was cocked to one side, and he noticed for the first time how shapely her trim figure was beneath the black silk. “To get hitched, of course. We cain’t stay here together without bein’ married. I mean, we could, but my Ma raised me better’n that.” He felt his cheeks warm beneath her gaze.

  “You mean we’re getting married … today?”

  “’Course. This bed is ours to share. Would ya rather we share it unmarried?”

  Her hands flew to cover her mouth. “Well, of course not. It’s just that this is all happening so quickly …”

  He stepped closer to her and laid a hand on her arm. “Ya came here to marry me, right?”

  She nodded.

  “So that’s what we’ll do today. But after that, we can take the rest of it as slow as ya like.” He kept his voice soft, feeling a stab of compassion for the young woman. She must be reeling, completely out of her depth, her eyes flitted around the place like a frightened bird. “Unless ya’d rather stay at the hotel on Main Street tonight, ‘n we can see the Rev tomorrow.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Oh, could we do that? I think a good night’s sleep is all I really need. I’ll be able to face everything much better tomorrow.”

  “If ya like. I’ll take ya there soon as yer ready.”

  She nodded and drew a deep breath, her round eyes fixed on his. She really was beautiful, and he had to look away lest he steal a kiss before she was ready and scare her further. He walked into the kitchen to wait while she tidied herself. His coat needed a quick brush-down where some of the rain had snuck beneath his overcoat or trickled under the brim of his hat, but otherwise he was ready to go. He’d dressed in his nicest shirt that morning, prepared to look his best for his bride’s arrival.

  But he’d seen the way she’d appraised him, as though he didn’t live up to any of her expectations. Well, if she wanted him to dress differently, she could fix him some new clothes whenever she had a mind to.

  The thought occurred to him that perhaps she didn’t know how to sew. He could tell from the gown she wore that she came from a family of means, the kind of money he’d never had in his life. No doubt with wealth like that, she’d had people to wait on her, serve her, fix her meals, sew her clothes and good Lord knew what else.

  He shook his head. What had he gotten himself into? And why was she here? What had happened to send her away from a family like that? When he’d signed up with the mail-order bridal service, he’d assumed he’d get a wife from a working family, someone sturdy, strong and used to pitching in. Not that there was much for his wife to do in the way of hard work - being a banker certainly had its perks over, say, a dairy farmer. But if they were to have a family of their own, she’d need to be able to run the household, a hard job for even the most robust bride.

  He lit the fire in the stove and got it going, filled the coffee pot and set it on a burner to heat. No doubt a cup of something hot would give them both a much-needed boost after their dash through the cold, wet streets of Livingston.

  He looked around the room with satisfaction - the small kitchen table, the potbellied stove and chimney, the brick oven, and pots and pans hanging from hooks in the ceiling above the table. The dining area with a card table and two chairs, one of which had a bum leg, kept steady with a piece of kindling. The modest sitting room with a worn love seat and sofa, and brick fireplace tucked into the wall below a solid mantle built with his own two hands - a feature he was rather proud of, given his limited experience in construction.

  But now, seeing it through her eyes, he noticed the chipped woodwork, the peeling paint, the dusty sideboard and the scuffed floor. He gritted his teeth as he slipped his still-damp hat back on his head. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had and he’d worked dang hard to get it. Back in Virginia, he’d studied every night while he was just a lad until he finally landed a job at a local bank. He’d worked two jobs for years until he’d saved enough to come west and build this place.

  The journey to Montana Territory on the hard seat of a covered wagon, or more often trudging alongside it, had been lonesome and grueling. He’d almost died of a fever out on the Nebraska prairie one night, but thankfully some folks from the wagon train he’d joined in Oklahoma were there to tend to him and he pulled through. One day he hoped to have a few acres of his own, with a sprawling house, stables for his fine Morgan horses and a barn for a few cattle, hogs and chickens.

  He had big dreams. He’d given up so much, been through so much, to make it this far. He wasn’t about to let a woman from New York City make him feel bad about it, even if she was to be his wife.

  Just then Della poked her head through the doorway from the bedroom, then stepped through hesitantly. She’d changed into a light blue gown, an overcoat was slung over her arm, a wide-brimmed straw hat on her head. She almost took his breath away, and he had to clear his throat. “Would ya like some coffee before we go?”

  She dipped her head, her hands clasped shyly in front of her. He poured them each a cup of thick black chicory coffee, and her eyes widened as he handed her the cup. “Thank you,” she whispered, then, “I suppose I’ll have to learn how to do that.”

  He frowned, took a sip of coffee and let the hot liquid slip down his throat and warm his belly. “Hmmm … do what?”

  “Make coffee,” she said matter-of-factly.

  He started, his eyebrows arching. “You’ve never made coffee.”

  She shook her head and took a dainty sip.

  “Have you built a fire before?”

  Again she shook her head.

  He took a deep breath. It was worse than he’d thought.

  Della’s nose wrinkled and she pursed her lips. So much for the idea of staying at the hotel - one look at it and she’d hidden behind Clem’s back, darting looks over his shoulder at the raucous scene. There was no way she’d stay there if she had any other choice. Sporting women spilled out of its doors, a tinny piano played a bawdy melody, and the sounds, sights and smells that emanated from its depths were more than she could stomach. “This is where you want me to stay?” she’d cried.

  He’d chuckled and said it was all they had in town. But if she’d rather, they could go down to the church and get married now. She’d reluctantly nodded, and he’d escorted her to the quaint white building with the steeple on the edge of town. She’d rather take her chances marrying a stranger. At least his little apartment above the bank wasn’t brimming with scantily-clad women and drunken louts.

  Reverend Holstead was a tall, skinny man with a few straggly strands of hair combed over his round, bald pate. He peered down at her over the tops of his spectacles and recited their vows in a monotone while his wife stood by with her hands clasped together and her face pulled into a wide smile. The ceremony was over before she knew it, and she’d barely heard a word, though her own responses seemed to satisfy the group. Then her new husband set her overcoat around her shoulders, shrugged into his own and dragged her off through the pelting rain back to the bank.

  The brevity of the ceremony made her want to weep. But she held in the tears, along with her breath, and vowed to think about it another day — some time when she could stomach it.

  As she shook yet another coating of mud from her boots, she considered how glad she was that she hadn’t changed shoes earlier, else two pairs would be ruined. Were any of the roads in this miserable place paved, or would she spend the rest of her life trudging through mud and dust?

  Chapter 3

  Della lay as close to the edge of the bed as she could. It was warm beneath the covers, but still she trembled. She hadn’t gotten much sleep during her first night sharing a bed with her new husband. All night long she’d been acutely aware of the man lying only inches away from her, breathing deeply in his slumber.

  He stirred beside her, then swung his feet over the edge of the bed and rubbed his eyes, but sh
e lay still, pretending to be asleep. She couldn’t help it - she knew they were married now and he was her husband and it made no sense at all for her to be afraid of him. But still, she’d just met him.

  He dressed quickly, and she heard the clomp of his boots on the staircase as he descended. Within moments, all was quiet in the apartment - he must have gone down to work. What should she do with him gone?

  She sat up straight, rubbed the sleep from her eyes and stood to her feet with a yawn. She hoped she’d learn to sleep beside him soon, or soon she’d be so exhausted she wouldn’t be able to think straight. Stumbling into the kitchen, she studied the stove and saw he hadn’t lit it. She would really love some hot coffee and perhaps a croissant. But one of those was not to be - a quick search of the kitchen table, pantry and drawers revealed half a loaf of bread, some cheese wrapped in a cloth, a dozen potatoes and a few apples. No croissants in sight. She did, however, find a pitcher of cream with a towel laid over it and some coffee. Now she just had to figure out how to heat it

  She eyed the stove and tugged a small knob on the door. It opened and she saw the ash from the previous day inside. There was a stack of firewood beside the stove, so she shoved a couple of pieces in, found the flint in a small dish nearby, and squealed with glee when it sent sparks onto the firewood with her first try. But it didn’t take and the flame soon died away. She frowned and stood looking at it with one hand on her hip, tapping her chin with a finger. What had she done wrong? She’d seen fires lit a million times before - why couldn’t she do it herself?

  She added a few smaller pieces of kindling, tried again, and this time they caught. Soon she had quite a blaze going and, grinning with pride over her small achievement, she put the coffee pot on and waited for it to boil. In ten minutes she had a steaming cup of weak coffee between her hands and was sipping it gingerly, careful not to burn her lips.

  Once she finished the cup, she cleaned up after herself, then washed and dressed. She sat on the love seat in the sitting room, drummed her fingers on her knees a few times, then stood and wandered to the window to peer out at the street below. The sun had decided to show itself, and the street bustled with activity. Women hurried along the boardwalk or rode by in wagons. Men skipped across the street, minding the buggies and riders as they went.

  It was so very different to what she was used to. The streets were nothing but mud after several days of rain, and the muck caught on everything it touched - wheels, boots, dress hems. The people scurried around dressed in blacks and browns, Stetsons and bonnets, nothing fashionable, all practical. She knew if she stepped outside, she’d stand out like a sore thumb in her emerald satin gown with black stripes and matching doll hat with its regal cockade of feathers.

  She wrinkled her nose. But if she didn’t go out, what would she do while Clement was at work? Perhaps she should go downstairs and see what he was up to. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, almost grabbed her parasol from where she’d leaned it against the banister before deciding it would be a bit too much, and hurried down the staircase.

  The bank was bright and sunny, and a man with a holstered revolver lounged by the front door. There were three tellers at their windows, and behind them was a small office - Clement’s, she presumed. The door was closed and she stood still for a few moments, twisting her hands together. But in a minute, the office door swung open and she saw Clement, dressed in another checked shirt but missing the hat, stride out with a young couple. The woman smiled nervously at him and the man shook his hand, then they turned and left.

  Clement saw Della, waved to her, and her heart jumped. She smiled and waved back. He marched over and took her hand in his. “Good mornin’,” he said with a grin. “Didja sleep well?”

  She nodded. Her skin tingled at his touch and her cheeks flushed with warmth. “Fine,” she lied.

  “Sorry I didn’t talk to ya this mornin’, but I didn’t wanna wake ya ‘n I had to get to work.” He still held her hand between his, and she wondered when he’d release it. Still, she liked the warm feeling of it.

  “Of course, I understand. It’s just …”

  “Just what?”

  “What should I do with myself?”

  He tipped his head to one side and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “What do ya mean?”

  “While you’re working, what should I do all day?”

  “How did you spend your time back in New York?” he asked, releasing her hand and scratching his head.

  She felt a stab of disappointment that he’d let go, and took a deep breath. “I spent time with friends, with my sisters and cousins. I did needlepoint, I played piano … I was learning French - my tutor came once a week for that. And I’d go to shows, soirees, parties. I’d dance, or go on picnics with friends. There was always something to do …” She paused as the memories flooded her mind and made her mood drift downward.

  He frowned. “Well … we ain’t got any French tutors here, though I’m sure ya could find a few Frenchies to talk to when they’re not down in the mines. I can look into gettin’ a piano if ya like - not sure where I’d find one, but I’ll ask around …”

  She shook her head. “Never mind. I never really liked it much anyway.”

  “You could take a walk, have a look around” he said with a wry smile. “But first, lemme introduce ya …” He led her to where the first teller sat at a window protected by vertical iron bars. The woman wore a slim-fitting dress with a colorful scarf around her neck. She had luxurious mahogany hair, and her pouting lips parted to reveal brilliantly white teeth. “Della, I’d like ya to meet Francisca Schmidt, one of my tellers. I’m sure the two of ya’ll get along just fine.”

  Della shook Francisca’s hand and gave her a well-practiced smile. “A pleasure to meet you.”

  “And you too,” replied the woman in a soft accent. “Welcome to Livingston,” she answered precisely. “How do you like it so far?”

  Della blushed. “Well, I can’t say - I haven’t seen much of it. But it’s certainly different from what I’m used to.”

  Francisca nodded. “Si, I imagine it is. Perhaps you’d like to join my Bible study group. It might make it easier to make friends here.”

  “Oh yes, well …”

  “I know, it does not sound very exciting - you are probably used to many exciting parties and balls where you are from. But here in Livingston, unless you like to gamble or drink in a dance hall, better to settle for a quiet group. We meet each week at my house.”

  “Thank you.” Della glanced up at Clement, who nodded his encouragement. “That sounds lovely.”

  Della’s boot stuck in the mud when she crossed the street. She yanked it free before a buggy sailed past, narrowly missing her. The driver shouted and shook his fist at her, and she waved an apology as she hobbled to the boardwalk. She wiped her boot clean on the edge of a board and set off again.

  The clang of a blacksmith’s tools filled the air, and she snuck a look inside a wooden building to watch a man hammering a red-hot horseshoe into shape. She passed a mercantile, and made a mental note to stop in on her way back to see what products they sold. She didn’t hold out much hope for their selection, but perhaps she’d find a few things she needed. Then she saw a sign hanging from a shop front ahead: The Lucky Emerald. She frowned. What type of establishment could it be? She thought it unlikely she’d find a fine jeweler’s in Livingston, Montana Territory.

  She stepped forward, ready to sneak a look inside, when a woman rushed past, knocking her to the ground. She fell on her hands and knees with a cry. The woman had been short and broad, wearing a worn gray dress with matching bonnet - and carrying an axe!

  With a gasp, Della leaped to her feet and looked toward the swinging double doors the woman disappeared through. She heard shouts and cries from within, and pushed cautiously inside what looked to be a saloon. The woman was swinging her axe with great heaves into the bar, chopping it into kindling. A man ducked around her, shouting and clutching at his dingy bowler hat w
ith both hands. “C’mon now, Honey, give it up or I’m callin’ the sheriff on ya! You’re gonna destroy my bar!”

  Della’s eyes widened and she froze in place.

  The woman turned on the barkeeper with a snarl. “This place! You take a man’s hard-earned money - that’s food right out of his family’s mouth, you know it is! But do you care? No, you don’t care one jot! Well, let’s see how you like it when the tables turn!” She swung the axe down hard, splitting the bar. The axe stuck in place and she tugged hard on it but couldn’t budge it.

  The man grabbed her from behind and twisted her arm up behind her back, making her squeal. “Joe comes in here of his own accord - I don’t make him spend that money. Now, let’s go see the sheriff. Ya can’t just come in here and do this whenever ya get angry at yer husband. Why don’tcha try talkin’ to him about it sometime?” His tone was sympathetic, even he shoved her ahead of him past Della, out the doors and down the street.

  Della ran a hand over her face and took a deep breath. Her legs trembled and the street began to sway. She tried to keep breathing, but felt as though she couldn’t. Oh dear, why couldn’t the floor stay still for a moment so she could get her bearings? She really should stop wearing her stays so tight - and anyway, it couldn’t possibly matter what size her waist was any longer. She reached out both hands, stumbled backward out the doors and fell, landing with a thud and knocking her head hard on the timber boards.

  Just then, two strong arms slipped around her, lifting her from the ground. She glanced up to see Clement’s brown eyes hovering over hers, his brows drawn low and his forehead creased with concern. “Della?”