The Lassoed by Marriage Romance Collection

by Bell, Angela; Breidenbach, Angela; Carter, Lisa

  Tanner would talk to her about that later.

  Then they all split up to head home before Shadow arrived demanding to be a bridesmaid.

  Mary Connealy writes romantic comedy with cowboys. She is a Carol Award winner, and a Rita, Christy, and Inspirational Reader’s Choice finalist. She is the bestselling author of the Wild at Heart series, Trouble in Texas series, Kincaid Bride series, Lassoed in Texas trilogy, Montana Marriages trilogy, Sophie’s Daughters trilogy, and many other books. Mary is married to a Nebraska cattleman and has four grown daughters and a little bevy of spectacular grandchildren. Find Mary online at www.maryconnealy.com.

  A Highbrow Hoodwink

  by Rebecca Jepson

  Chapter 1

  Aspen, Colorado

  February 1883

  Katie Dupont tried to focus on serving the hotel’s hungry guests, but she was distracted by the man seated in the far corner. The flickering light cast by the fire barely reached him. In the smoky darkness, he was little more than a shadow. He kept hidden under the brim of his gray bowler hat and blended seamlessly with the miners and entrepreneurs that filled the room.

  Still, she was sure she had seen him before…and equally sure she had not. What was worse, she feared her shameful past had just returned to plague her.

  Her shoulders sagged as she cleared away empty bread plates and stew bowls, then piled them onto a tray. A strand of curly brown hair slipped from her coiled braid and stuck to her damp forehead. She pushed it back, lifted the tray, and walked toward the kitchen.

  Once there, she raised her voice above the din. “The men want more whiskey.”

  Meg, the red-haired cook, jerked her chin toward the worktable. “It’s over there. The jug’s full, so mind you don’t slosh.”

  The words were sharp, but Katie took no offense. It’s a wonder she even speaks to me. The thought caused her brow to furrow. Isn’t twenty-one too young for this much regret?

  She forced the depressing thought away and carefully picked up the jug. The guests had an unquenchable thirst tonight, but she didn’t mind. It gave her a chance to learn more about the man in the corner. She wove through the crowded room as swiftly as her full jug would allow, and approached his table.

  He didn’t look up while she poured. She kept hoping he would, even for a moment. Then he spoke, and she nearly jumped.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  Gentlemen of his class did not speak to serving girls. Yet his voice was quiet, as if he didn’t want the other guests to hear him. Whoever he is, he knows better than to draw attention to us. She knew he was waiting for an answer, but she stole a quick glance at him. She saw that his eyes were dark blue and his features even, except for a slight upward curve at the end of his nose. He gave no indication of recognizing her, and scarcely met her eyes before he turned back to his drink.

  She wished she could linger, scrutinize him further, try to get him to talk some more. But she had a supper to serve.

  “I finish my shift in an hour,” she said.

  He nodded, and she returned to work.

  Supper lasted longer than usual, and Katie stayed late. By the time the guests were finally sated, her arms ached from carrying heavy kettles and sturdy platters. She hurried from the kitchen to the silent dining room to wipe the tables, her last chore of the night.

  The stranger stood by the hearth, still waiting for her.

  A sudden prickle of dread entered her chest, and she began cleaning one of the tables with unsteady hands.

  “Might I convince you to sit a moment?”

  She paused mid-wipe. Turned and sank into the nearest chair.

  The stranger crossed the room and stopped a few feet from her. She noticed his relaxed stance, the lack of tension in his shoulders. He’s confident, used to getting his own way. She twisted the dishrag until it was nearly a knot. Why, why does he seem so familiar?

  He met her gaze. “I fear I must be direct, Miss Dupont.”

  Her hands stilled on the dishrag. “How do you know my name?”

  And then he spoke the words that chilled her to her very core.

  “Because your child is my brother’s son.”

  The room tilted, the fire in the hearth blurred to a vaporous haze.

  She knew now why he seemed so familiar.

  She remembered serving a man quite like him almost two years ago. He always sat at the same table beside this very hearth. The sight of him never failed to bring her a tingle of excitement. No man had ever affected her that way. She recalled the thrill she felt when he noticed her at last. And then he offered to give her a ride home in his buggy one night…

  How I wish I had known what a kiss could lead to.

  She willed herself to return to the present. To focus on the man before her—who inexplicably quickened her pulse. But why is he here?

  “I don’t usually act as my family’s carrier pigeon,” he said with a grin that caused a dimple to appear in one cheek. “But someone had to handle this…situation.”

  Situation? What situation? Then it struck her. Georgie. Her dread increased tenfold. “How did you find me?” she asked in a shaking voice.

  “My brother’s coachman. He said Jackson had built a hunting lodge near here, and often dined at the hotel.” His eyes narrowed. “We did not know about the lodge. Nor about his…” He snapped his mouth shut.

  But she knew what he was too refined to say. Affair. Dalliance. It had only been one night, but it was enough. She was damaged. Tarnished. A fallen woman.

  She had known little about intimate matters before meeting Jackson Baxter. No one had told her how a girl became compromised. By the time she figured it out, it was too late.

  The consequences were dire. The stigma rested on her son like a heavy cape, the disgrace of being born out of wedlock. Better he had died, according to some. She remembered hearing a doctor say as much to one of the chambermaids, after the woman’s infant was stillborn. But my child is very much alive. And she would fight to protect him.

  She drew herself up. “Why are you here, Mr. Baxter?”

  “Henry.” A trace of bitterness tinged his tone. “I’m preserving the illustrious Baxter name, though whether I’m worthy of it myself is subject to debate.”

  I don’t care a whit about your illustrious name, only about my son. The brave thought remained trapped in her mind, words she didn’t have the courage to speak. Despite Henry Baxter’s devil-may-care exterior, rumpled cravat, and two days’ growth of stubble, there was no masking his educated speech and the keen intelligence in his eyes. But I cannot let myself be intimidated.

  She lifted her chin. “I should be getting home, sir. Mr. McLaughlin locks the doors himself on occasion, and he must not see me loitering with a gentleman guest.”

  He gave her an even stare. “And I would rather be squandering my family’s money at some garish gambling house. Unfortunately, here we are.”

  She waited.

  “Miss Dupont, I am prepared to offer you a great deal of money to part with your child.”

  A dreadful silence filled the room.

  She didn’t even have the strength to gasp. If the chair had not supported her, she might have failed to stay upright. She had expected many things, perhaps a cabin in northern Montana Territory, where she and Georgie could disappear and never be heard from again. But this?

  “Why?”

  He laughed without humor. “Because my brother has somehow managed to trump my hand yet again.” He paused, and his expression grew sheepish. “Terrible thing to say, now that he is dead.”

  An icy jab pierced her chest. She’d long ago given up hope of a life with Jackson Baxter, but she’d cared for him once—and now he was gone. She swallowed hard.

  Henry cocked a brow. “You wish to know why I am here?”

  She nodded.

  “I have come to buy your silence. To purchase your child, and present him to the gilded echelons of Denver society as my son.”

  At his words, the icy chi
ll spread clear to her limbs. “Why?” She held her breath.

  “Simply put, your son has just inherited the lion’s share of the Baxter fortune.”

  Chapter 2

  Henry noticed that her wide-eyed stare and oversized apron gave her a childish look. Don’t they bother to attire their servers in clothing that fits? Despite the disagreeableness of his errand and his longing to be elsewhere, he nearly smiled. Perhaps they were unable to find anything that came in waif.

  She continued to stare up at him, blue eyes huge in her pale face. The sight almost made him wish he had not been so flippant with her. Then he remembered the illegitimate child she had conceived, and steeled himself. She is far from innocent.

  She spoke in a small voice. “I don’t understand. Jackson didn’t want anything to do with Georgie. He never even met him.”

  Henry concealed the sudden emotion that welled within, masked his disgust for his brother behind a smooth shrug. “It is not inconceivable that a year of consumption brought the boy to Jackson’s preoccupied mind.”

  At the mention of the disease, she grew even paler. Colorado natives were all too familiar with consumption. Sufferers of the illness amassed to the state, hoping the clean mountain air and steaming hot springs would soothe their damaged lungs.

  He quickly changed the subject. “At any rate, my family’s fortune belongs to your son now, and I intend to secure it.”

  She tilted her head. “Wouldn’t your friends be suspicious if you suddenly appeared with a child they’d never heard of?”

  “One would assume. But I’ve been living abroad since my mother shipped me off to study at Göttingen in Germany. The moment I was expelled, I became a wanderer. My whereabouts and activities were hardly known to my own family, much less Denver society. The lot of them will be informed I was married while overseas, and my wife died in childbirth. I find it best to keep my stories simple.”

  She toyed with her dishrag. “So, Georgie’s mother is to be…taken out of your story?”

  His voice was even. “Yes, but she will be well-compensated for it.”

  She studied him. “My son has inherited a fortune. I don’t need compensation.”

  “He won’t have access to the funds until he turns eighteen. Meanwhile, they remain untouchable.” He grimaced. “I assure you, that clause is every bit as unwelcome to my family as it is to you. We will be forced, after paying you, to greatly reduce our expenditures and live off the revenue brought in by our banking house. That is, if I can persuade our clients that the child is mine, and so keep them from leaving us.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think they’ll believe you.”

  “Oh, but I will be convincing. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from gambling my way through Europe, it’s how to be convincing.”

  A log fell in the hearth and sparks shot upward, then all was still.

  “If you intend to separate a mother from her son, you will have to be.”

  Her soft words coiled around him, threatened his confidence. He weighed her with a look. Was it possible she couldn’t be coerced? But there’s always an angle. He glanced around at the room. The firelight cast a glow over the dark blue carpets and cherrywood tables. Though all was peaceful now, he remembered the place overflowing with a stampede of hungry, soot-smudged men. The hotel was new, of higher quality than most such wilderness establishments, but already the red leather chairs seemed covered with a film, the layered smoke and grime of mining territory. Careful to keep his expression casual, he pulled a chair from a nearby table and sat across from her.

  “This job keeps you pretty busy, I imagine,” he said.

  She didn’t respond.

  “Your duties probably don’t leave much time for caring for your son.” He hesitated, then forged ahead. “Nor does your status as a serving girl offer him much of a life.” Girls in her profession were seen as little better than prostitutes. Offering drinks to crowds of rowdy males hardly gave a girl a sterling reputation.

  She flushed.

  “You want your son to be happy, I presume?” he pressed.

  Once again, he was taken aback by her soft words.

  “Being separated from his mother won’t make him happy.”

  He forced his irritation aside and hunkered down before her. Elbows on his knees, he met her gaze. “Do you really think the life you can offer here will benefit him?”

  She didn’t flinch from his gaze, but he saw the pulse in her throat. He had unnerved her. Good. But had he convinced her?

  Firmness tightened her jaw. “I will not be separated from my son.”

  His eyes hardened, matched hers, and he sat back on his heels. “Tell me what you want from us.”

  “Nothing.”

  He’d spent years reading faces across countless card tables. She couldn’t be bought. He stifled a curse and schooled his features. This wasn’t over. He wouldn’t allow his life to be ruined by a penniless ragamuffin and her deplorable offspring. But for now, he needed to confer with his mother. She might have more ideas, and at the moment, he did not.

  He stood to his feet. “Very well, Miss Dupont. I’ll not take any more of your time.” He nodded curtly. “Good night.”

  Without a backward glance, he strode from the room.

  Henry mounted the steps under the domed turret of his family’s Queen Anne home and flung the door open without knocking.

  “P–pardon, sir,” a fresh-faced footman in knee breeches stammered, “but shan’t I announce you?”

  Henry brushed past him. “No need.”

  He hurried to the staircase and hollered up it. “Mother!”

  Seconds passed, then Margaret Eleanor Hatherly Baxter appeared, empress of Denver society and matriarch of one of its most prominent families. She stood motionless, her perfect brows arched, intense brown eyes giving him a cool look before she descended the stairs.

  “Things did not go as I had hoped,” he began, “but I did manage to travel from Union Station to Capitol Hill without bumping into anyone we kne—”

  She pursed her lips and glanced at the footman, who, unbeknownst to Henry, had followed him and now stood in the hall awaiting her command.

  Henry knew what she was warning him of. Not only was it vital to keep Georgie’s true parentage a secret, it was bad manners to speak of private matters before a servant.

  His mother turned to the footman. “My son and I will take tea in the drawing room, Philip.”

  If she was chagrined to hear of the ill success of her plan, she didn’t show it. She had sent for Henry by letter when Jackson was sick, but by the time Henry docked in the New York harbor, it was too late. His brother was already gone. His mother, having been made aware of the contents of the will by the family lawyer, warned him by telegram to lie low for a while. She had a plan, she said. A plan that would have worked, if only that stubborn girl had cooperated.

  Henry traveled from New York to Denver without drawing attention to himself. Once he arrived home, his mother told him the whole distasteful tale. How loath she must have been to topple Jackson from his white steed.

  Now she led the way to the drawing room, brushed back the red velvet curtain, and gestured for him to sit across from her at the little center table. She waited until Philip brought in a silver tray and poured two steaming cups of fragrant tea.

  “That will be all, Philip,” she said.

  The servant inclined his head and departed.

  “The girl refused our offer?” she asked as soon as he was gone.

  Henry nodded.

  She picked up her teacup, fingers unsteady. “This threat has the power to ruin us all.” She sipped her tea and lifted her gaze to his. “I hope you realize that, Henry.”

  He scowled. Does she think I’m that stupid? An illegitimate child in the family was a disgrace too terrible to speak of. Everybody knew that. Though Denver had begun crudely, it was becoming a veritable beacon of propriety, at least in his family’s circles. Men of birth from the East, members
of the Old Guard, had come to the city for its gold, silver, coal, and the railroads needed to transport them. If word of Georgie’s origins leaked to them, his mother’s proper Fortnightly Club existence would be no more. J. A. Baxter & Co., the investment bank started by his late father, would collapse, and its income would be lost. Cigar-smoking clients with their Waltham pocket watches and starched collars would never do business with the sons of Baxter again.

  Ruined.

  Henry told himself he didn’t care. There had never been a need for him in his family’s lofty world, not when Jackson managed things so well. And yet…

  He was sorry for his brother’s death, of course. He’d been stricken to learn that the childhood playmate he’d shared a nursery with was gone, just like that.

  But he was the heir now. The Capitol Hill mansion was his. Baxter & Co. was his.

  He leaned forward, folded his hands on the Russian lace tablecloth, his teacup still untouched. “What must I do?”

  When his mother told him, he drank all of his tea in a single swallow and called for whiskey.

  Chapter 3

  Katie’s arms ached from carrying Georgie through the alley. She chose each step, careful not to walk in the patches of yellow-gray slush. She knew it had been created by dishwater, flung onto the snow from the row of windows above.

  “You’re getting too big,” she murmured.

  Georgie twisted in her grasp and regarded her with serious blue eyes, then stuck his fingers in his mouth and resumed looking straight ahead. He was just ten months old, but he grew heavy during the weekly trek from the mountain shanty to Katie’s west-side tenement. She was forced to leave him with a miner’s wife six days a week. Her long hours at the hotel prevented her from fetching him until her day off. If only someone who lived nearer would look after him. Then I could at least bring him home at night.

  But the miner’s wife was the best a girl with her reputation could do. The woman also took in laundry…and the children of prostitutes.