Gerrity'S Bride

by Carolyn Davidson

  She squirmed against him, her words pouring forth in a vile litany of disgust. And above the scalding diatribe, he laughed, his lips pulled back in a grimace that was almost frightening to the woman he held.

  Almost. Sensing his delight in her helplessness, she stilled her struggle. “You forget who is in charge of this whole thing,” she reminded him. Beneath his hands, her flesh cringed, but the eyes that met his flashed a warning he could not ignore.

  He released her and watched her walk away. “You gonna go back on your word? You told me we’d spend time together.” He watched her, squinting his eyes as he counted the paces she walked, reaching the far wall, then turning back, nearing his corner with deliberation. “You promised me” he began, but her derisive laugh choked the words in his throat.

  “You haven’t given me what I asked for,” she reminded him, halting just feet away, her smile mocking.

  He stood straight, forsaking the dimness and stepping closer. “Next time, I won’t give in so easy, lady. You’re gonna be nice to me, one way or another. And I’m gonna up the price.”

  She relented, recognizing his anger, reluctant to push him beyond the limited control she maintained. “Whatever it takes, I told you.”

  His nod accepted her capitulation. “I’ve got a plan. You’ll get what you want.” And so will I, he thought, his eyes sweeping over the woman who tempted him. So will I.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The arrival of four horses on the afternoon train was the highlight of the stationmaster’s day. That they were accompanied by an elderly couple dressed to the nines only served to add to the excitement. Within a few minutes, word reached the mercantile, where Abraham Guismann was deeply involved in a discussion with the preacher. Over at the livery stable, Otto Schmidt had already harnessed up a mare to his light buggy. So, by the time Abraham arrived on pretense of business, the easterners were headed out of town. Behind the buggy trailed the four horses, on a lead rope.

  Abraham watched the dust settle in the road and scratched his head. “Who do you think they are?” he wondered, sorry that he hadn’t gotten a better look at their finery. Eastern fashions were the coming thing, and the black-and-white drawings in the catalog he’d sent for from St. Louis left a lot to be desired. He sighed as he rued the lost opportunity to view the fashion plates, who had probably worn the very latest styles.

  “Couldn’t say for sure, but I’m thinkin’ they were Emmaline Gerrity’s grandparents,” Otto replied. “That’s where they’re headin’, and they’re takin’ those horses to her for a weddin’ present, they said.”

  “Fine-looking animals,” Abraham decreed, although his judgment was based solely to his view of four twitching tails and the hindquarters to which they were attached.

  “Well, I’m thinkin’ that somebody’s in for a surprise this mornin’. The gentleman said they weren’t expected.”

  “Harley’s nephew told me they had enough baggage for a good long stay,” Abraham looked wistful, yearning for one more look at the swiftly vanishing pair.

  “Yup, I stacked it on the back of the buggy and strapped it up good and tight.” Otto turned back to the double doors that stood open beneath his brightly painted wooden sign. “Sure were good-lookin’ animals,” he said, with just the smallest trace of envy, as he surveyed his assortment of stock. “Never seen anything so fine in Forbes Junction before.”

  * * *

  “We got visitors, boss.”

  Matt swept the hat from his head and wiped at the line of sweat that beaded his brow. His forehead furrowed as he glanced at Claude. “Anybody I wanna talk to?” he growled. If it was Clyde Hopkins or his daughter, they could just go hang, he decided sourly. They’d come close to being placed number one on his blacklist already. He wasn’t sure he could tolerate being polite to them this morning.

  Claude shook his head as he considered. “Nope. Never saw this pair before. Look kinda fancied up, they do. But they’re sure bein’ followed by four of the dandiest animals I’ve ever laid eyes on,” Claude allowed, jutting his chin as he passed judgment.

  “Animals? What’re you talkin’ about?” Matt frowned, his attention still centered on the yearling colt he was leading about the corral.

  “You’d best come take a look.” Claude headed away from the gate he’d been leaning against. “Miss Emmaline is standin’ on the porch with her hand over her mouth, and if I ain’t goin’ blind in my old age, I think she’s bawlin’. She sure is dabbin’ at her eyes with her hankie, anyway.”

  Matt swung about, and his eyes narrowed, glittering darkly as he turned toward the house and led the colt from the corral. “Here, B.J.,” he called shortly as one of his men emerged from the barn nearby. “Take this colt and rub him down good.”

  “Sure thing, boss.” The young man reached for the lead rope. “Would you take a look at those horses!” he exclaimed, gaping at the retinue coming to a halt before the porch.

  “Yeah, I’m about to,” Matt answered, stripping his gloves and tucking them into his back pocket as he made his way with long-legged strides to where Emmaline stood. His eyes were focused on her and his attention was set on the slender woman who was busily blowing her nose with dainty brushes of the white hankie she kept in her pocket. Then, even as he watched, her mouth curved in a smile and she stepped down from the porch to greet the visitors.

  Can’t be too unhappy to see them, Matt decided, his pace slowing as he watched her approach the couple. He waited, several steps away, aware of the stiff posture she assumed, the stilted words of welcome she spoke.

  “Grandmother, Grandfather...I’m so pleased to see you.” Emmaline halted before them, and her eyes flicked from one to the other before she leaned to place a kiss against the lined cheek of her grandmother. It was accepted with a faint smile and nod. Then, as Emmaline turned to greet the tall, erect gentleman who flanked her, the woman eyed her with a gimlet gleam, noting each detail of her appearance.

  “I can see it’s a good thing we brought you something decent to wear, Emmaline,” she said with haughty emphasis.

  Emmaline flushed as she heard the words of censure. “I’m considered quite decent here, Grandmother,” she answered quietly. “The heat seems to require lighter clothing.”

  “Good breeding requires a lady to always dress in an appropriate fashion, Emmaline. You look like a servant,” she said crisply, as if that were a sin beyond redemption.

  Emmaline swallowed a giggle and struggled to keep her features subdued. Indeed, her skirt and blouse were dead ringers for those that hung against the wall in Maria’s room, having been cut from the same pattern, albeit from more costly fabric.

  “I’ve been helping Maria in the kitchen,” she answered with determined brightness. “She’s teaching me how to make flour tortillas.”

  Her grandmother sniffed delicately. “Whatever that might be.”

  Emmaline cast a look in Matt’s direction, and he answered the summons.

  “Well, if we’re real fortunate, we may just find them on the dinner table,” he drawled, approaching Emmaline with one hand outstretched. She grasped it and drew him closer to her side.

  “This is Matthew, Grandfather,” she said with quiet pride. Dusty and rich with the scent of horses and hay, he stood beside her, and she watched as the stern gentleman from Kentucky took the measure of the man who had married his granddaughter.

  The palm offered was gloved in fine kidskin. The hand that grasped it was callused and browned from years in the sun. Both gripped with strength, Matt’s leashed in deference to the older man.

  “Sir,” Matt said, acknowledging Jonathan Rawlings with a nod.

  “Mr. Gerrity.” Keen eyes, deep-set and faded blue, met his, and Matt felt an unaccountable relief. The lined face was somber, the mouth unsmiling, but the man had a look about him, Matt decided, that was encouraging. Perhaps this unexpected visit might be good for Emmaline.

  He turned his attention to the woman who watched him with gimlet eyes. “Ma’am,” he s
aid with a nod, one hand reaching to sweep the hat from his head. “We’re more than pleased to welcome you.”

  “I’m sure we’ll try not to discommode you any more than necessary,” Clara Rawlings answered smartly. “We decided quite quickly to make the trip, rather than send Emmaline’s things by rail. Can’t depend on them not getting lost.” She looked about her, barely repressing a shudder as she viewed the flat vista stretching away in all directions, with only the trace of low hills to be seen to the north. “I can’t say that your surroundings hold much interest, Emmaline. I’m sure you’re desolate without the beauty of your home about you.”

  Emmaline’s mouth opened and then closed abruptly as she reformed the words that had almost blurted from her lips. “I’ve missed some of what I left behind,” she said after a moment, “but there is much here to recommend our life.”

  Clara Rawlings’s eyebrows raised as she looked down at the dust that coated her smart half boots, glanced once more at the sparse vegetation that stretched to the horizon, and shook her head in silence.

  “It isn’t what you’re used to, Grandmother, but it has a beauty of its own,” Emmaline said with quiet assurance. Then, not for the first time, she glanced at the string of horses, long-legged and gleaming in the sunshine, waiting patiently behind the buggy.

  “We brought you a wedding gift, Emmaline,” her grandfather said, his eyes intent on her. “Do you recognize your horse?”

  “Yes, of course.” Her breath caught in her throat as Emmaline looked her fill at the bay mare. The animal swished her dark tail and flicked her ears as she nickered softly. “Oh, yes,” Emmaline repeated as she released Matt’s hand and stepped eagerly around the buggy to where the four horses waited. She stood a moment, her face close to the rich sorrel-colored mare before she rested her cheek against the animal’s muzzle. Her hand lay with familiar ease, brushing the soft forelock, even as her other arm reached to allow her fingers to tangle in the long, dark mane that lay against the mare’s neck.

  Matt felt a thickening in his throat as he watched, his hands thrust deep in the back pockets of his denim pants. She missed her horse, he thought with a touch of surprise. She hadn’t really talked about her home that much, she’d just settled in pretty well and gone on with it.

  His glance drifted back to the elderly couple who had turned to watch Emmaline’s reunion with her Thoroughbred mare. A slight frown and a pursed mouth more than expressed her grandmother’s opinion of Em’s exuberance, he decided. The grandfather, on the other hand, wore a half smile that might be fainthearted approval, Matt thought.

  Emmaline turned, her face flushed, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears, and spoke her thanks. “I can’t tell you how much it means that you brought Fancy to me.”

  “Your grandfather suggested that since you’ve chosen to remain here for your sister’s sake, you might be grateful for a decent horse to ride,” Clara said with deliberate emphasis.

  Precise and biting, the statement ground against Matt’s ears, and his lips thinned as he held back the curse that surged within him. He drew in a breath, and his nostrils flared. The old biddy—how did she dare to suggest that Emmaline was stuck with no choice, either in family or in horses? Remain here for her sister’s sake...without a decent horse to ride. He glared at Emmaline, as if she were the culprit, and caught her eye.

  She stared at him, still digesting the snide remarks of her grandmother, and felt a twinge of apprehension as his eyes flared darkly, piercing her with the anger that rode him.

  “I...I’ve been riding here, Grandmother...” She faltered, her mind searching for just cause for Matt’s anger. “It’s different... I’ve had to get used to a western saddle.” She licked at her lips, suddenly gone dry, and her eyes pleaded with the man whose face had assumed a mask of indifference.

  Gone was the angry glare, in its place a cold stare that confused her and set her heart to beating more rapidly.

  If she’d married him just for Theresa, she’d been putting on a good show, Matt groused to himself, watching her search for words. She sure hadn’t said any different to the old lady, either, he thought with scorn. What had given the woman such an idea? Surely not the wire he’d sent.

  He remembered writing the lines and waiting till Harley Summers tapped it out on the wire. Emmaline and I are married, making a home for Theresa. Send her belongings. Seemed pretty simple, right to the point, he decided. Nowhere had he suggested it was a big sacrifice on Emmaline’s part to spend her life in Arizona. Seemed like she ought to be glad she had a chance to live on her daddy’s place again. Sure beat the hell out of spending the rest of her life with the dried-up old lady she called a grandmother, he reasoned.

  “Well, I’m sure the stock here will improve if your husband has enough sense to make use of the stud we brought with us,” Clara said firmly. “Rawlings Farm has always taken pride in their horses. Perhaps your sister would benefit from the opportunity to ride a Thoroughbred, also.”

  Enough was enough. “Sorry I can’t offer you an even swap, ma’am,” Matt drawled with cold purpose. “I haven’t got much to offer. Emmaline’s not up for grabs, and she’s the most valuable commodity I’ve got.” He shook his head in mock dismay. “I’m afraid my animals are used to hard work and hot weather. They’d purely go to waste back east with nothin’ to do but eat grass and tote pancake-ridin’ city folk about.”

  “I beg your pardon? Pancake-riding...what?” Her attention firmly grasped by the subtle insult wrapped in the meager apology he’d offered, Clara Rawlings lifted her chin and allowed her dignity to slip, just a bit. “We certainly didn’t intend to trade horses, Mr. Gerrity. And certainly Emmaline is not to be spoken of in the same breath with animals that live in a barn. They are a gift to our granddaughter...one whose value I am sure you are not cognizant of.”

  Emmaline moved swiftly, frightened that the emotions flaring so openly were about to get out of control. Her grandfather reached to halt her, one gloved hand touching her forearm.

  “It’s all right, Emmaline. Your grandmother is feeling the effects of the long trip. I’m sure she didn’t mean to be so outspoken,” he said, his effort to defuse the situation apparent.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Rawlings,” Matt said. “I sure wouldn’t want your wife to think I wasn’t goin’ to put the proper value on Em’s gift. After all, four Thoroughbred racin’ horses are just what we need out here in the desert.”

  “Matt!” Emmaline hurried to grasp his hand, her eyes pleading with him. “She didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  “Well, since you married me for your sister’s sake, and you didn’t have a decent horse to ride, I’m sure glad your folks showed up to rescue you, sweetheart,” he said emphatically.

  Emmaline was torn between grinding her teeth at the cocky words he spouted and crying with frustration at the whole foolish argument that had sprung up between these two hardheaded people. His hand was hard and ungiving against hers, and she curled her fingers about the length of his determinedly, unwilling to let him hide behind the sarcasm of his words.

  “Matt—” she began softly “—can’t we go in the house and make my grandmother comfortable and continue this later?”

  “Yes, do you have a place where I can rinse some of the dust from your countryside from my skin?” Clara asked condescendingly. “Perhaps a washroom of sorts?”

  “We have a bathing room, Grandmother,” Emmaline answered, “or you can wash in your bedroom. We’ll bring a pitcher of water to you.”

  “You have spare rooms?” the woman asked, gathering her skirts to step onto the porch.

  “Yes, ma’am, we’ve even been sleepin’ on real beds for several years now,” Matt said soberly as he finally returned the pressure of Emmaline’s fingers. “Quit beddin’ down in front of the fire a while back, in fact.” Opening the screen door, he waited for Clara to enter.

  Emmaline cast a look of entreaty at her grandfather, who nodded in tacit understanding and followed his wife into the co
ol interior of the living room.

  “Humph...must have made some improvements since my daughter lived here.” Clara looked about her, and then her gaze settled on the tall rancher who stood proudly by Emmaline’s side.

  “We do try to keep up with the times,” Matt agreed, willing to cool the embers of the confrontation he’d kept aflame out of hurt pride.

  The thick walls and the wide overhang were features that had been incorporated into the building of this home with one purpose in mind—that the cool night air be held through the daytime hours and the sun’s rays be kept from the interior by the wide roof. As a result, except for the hottest summer days, the high-ceilinged living area of the house was a welcome respite from the heat.

  “You have a lovely home, Emmaline,” her grandfather said with warmth.

  “Matt’s mother had a lot to do with it, I think,” Emmaline answered haltingly. “Grandmother’s right. I don’t think this was nearly as beautiful when I was a child.”

  “Can we find someone to help carry in our things, child?” Jonathan asked. “Perhaps I can help sort out the bags and boxes and get your grandmother’s carpetbag for her.”

  Matt moved to the door. “I’ll get a couple of the men to do it,” he offered, appeased somewhat by Emmaline’s words. She’d come to his defense, he realized. In her own way, she’d set herself on his side of the line. As he opened the door and stepped onto the porch, a look of satisfaction curled his lip.

  * * *

  Maria had outdone herself, Emmaline decided as the evening meal came to a close. Matt had been taciturn, offering little to the general conversation, his eyes heavy-lidded and veiled. Olivia was quiet, answering in single syllables the few questions tossed in her direction, her gaze measuring as she watched the visitors.

  Emmaline was flushed and harried, though they had managed to eat without any major crises. But between ensuring that the conversation focused on the food and the trip from Lexington and helping Maria with the additional work of serving guests, she was at a fine pitch of exhaustion by the time dessert was served. She had helped with it, choosing to make this part of the meal as traditional as possible for her grandparents’ benefit. Dried-apple pie was a safe bet, she’d decided, and although Maria groused about fussy eastern folk, she’d allowed Emmaline to cajole her into line.