by Jo Goodman
Halfway through, she fumbled for her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. Without looking up, she addressed Wyatt. “I understand why you think you’re required to look after me, but that’s an interpretation, not a condition.”
“Read on,” was all he said.
She set down the first page and continued until her breath caught sharply. She stared at the page. “He wasn’t serious.” At first it was all she could think to say. “If you knew him better, you’d know he had a wicked sense of humor. This is clearly a joke or proof of an addled mind.”
“You knew him very well. Was his mind addled?”
It occurred to her to lie, but this was Clinton Maddox she was talking about, and she couldn’t bring herself to tarnish his memory. “No,” she said softly. “Anything but.”
“Which makes it a joke.”
Relieved, Rachel nodded. “Then you do see it. I’m glad. For a moment I was concerned that—” She bit down on her next words when she glanced up and saw that Wyatt Cooper wasn’t smiling. Not even a little bit. “You certainly don’t have to be worried that I’ll hold you to it. This sort of thing isn’t done any longer. I’m not even sure that it was done in Mr. Maddox’s youth.”
“A marriage arranged for property and protection?” he asked. “It’s done all the time.”
“I’m sure you’re wrong.”
“I don’t think so. I signed the contract, didn’t I?”
“Well, yes, but it’s not binding. It can’t be, not with such a ridiculous clause. You agreed it was a joke.”
“I didn’t say that exactly. You should know I put my name to it with a sense of the consequences.” He shrugged. “And now I have myself a mail-order bride.”
Rachel’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
“You’ll catch flies that way but not much else.”
Her mouth snapped shut. She glared at him, rattled the paper in her hand, and continued to read. Clinton Maddox was clear that there could be no marriage while he lived, but at his death, her need to be protected was paramount. He did not outline his reasons, which Rachel knew was quite deliberate. She understood them well enough, though it was clear from her earlier conversations with Wyatt Cooper that he did not. Mr. Maddox had cared deeply for her, enough so that he arranged for her safety, but in the end blood will out. He could not bring himself to leave a record of why she’d been compelled to go in the first place.
“He must have thought that marriage was the only sure way to…” She let her thought trail away.
Wyatt picked it up. “To keep you from doing injury to someone?”
“If you like.”
“That’s what he implies.”
“Yes, I read that.”
He waited to see if she would say more, but on this subject she was obstinately quiet. “Will I have to spend our married life sleeping with one eye open?”
“Don’t suggest that, even in jest.”
“What? That you’ll murder me in my sleep?”
“That I’ll marry you.”
Wyatt released a pained sigh as he pushed away from the wall. He spun around one of the chairs at the table and straddled it. Placing his forearms across the uppermost rail, he jerked his chin at the contract she still held in her hands. “Finish reading it; then we’ll talk.”
His expression did not invite argument, although Rachel was sorely tempted. She did as he suggested but only after she made certain he understood it was because she wanted to. Her lips moved slightly as she read, not because she was quietly sounding out the words, but because she was cursing Clinton Maddox.
When she finished reading, but not cursing, she refolded the contract and slid it and the envelope in Wyatt’s direction. “He mentions the mine,” she said. “And reminds you that I’m to have a half interest in it.”
“That’s right.”
“That was his share?”
“Yes.”
“Who has the other half?”
“I have a quarter. The town has the other.” He watched her try to take that in, work out what it meant. “That’s not the important part,” he said before she began to raise objections that would make no difference in the end. “Did you read the paragraph about the spur?”
“Yes. He means to give me sole ownership of it.”
“If you marry me.”
“Yes, I saw that. And since I don’t want the Calico spur, there’s absolutely no motivation for me to marry you.” She tucked her handkerchief out of sight, then raised her eyes to regard him with frank satisfaction. “That ends it, doesn’t it? I believe a wedding contract requires the approval of both parties.”
Wyatt gave her a moment to enjoy what she thought was checkmate before he said the words that proved she had only checked him. “I told you how important that spur is to the town. Do you recall the second half of the message I showed you yesterday?”
She did. It was etched in her mind as deeply as the first, but it didn’t concern her. Then. “C & C control to Foster,” she said. “That’s to be expected, isn’t it? Foster is Mr. Maddox’s only grandson and therefore, his heir.”
“That’s right. Heir to everything but half of the Reidsville Mine and the Calico Spur.” He paused, watching Rachel’s cheeks lose color and her eyes darken until the black centers were nearly all that he could see. “How well do you know Foster Maddox?” She didn’t answer, but it was there in her expressive face. “That well,” he said. “Then you must suspect as I do, as most of the town will when they all learn of Clinton Maddox’s passing, that Foster Maddox isn’t likely to keep the spur open. He won’t have an interest in the mine, so you see, that pretty much eliminates his motivation.”
Rachel felt her shoulders compress as she drew in on herself. “I can’t—that is, I don’t know if—” She shook her head, trying to clear it. “How did Mr. Maddox arrange for me to inherit his half share of the mine? I mean, is it in his will? Will I have to go to Sacramento?”
“You don’t have to leave Reidsville, which, if you noticed, he was particular about. His right to name an heir was settled when he entered into the partnership. The town’s share can never be reassigned, but he and the other shareholder retained the right to pass their portion along.”
“I thought you were the other shareholder.”
“I am. Now.”
“And you received it from your…” She paused, considering the likely candidates. “Your mother’s family?”
“From my father. Matthew Cooper. Do you know the name?”
“No. I never heard Mr. Maddox speak of him.”
“Probably just as well. He followed his own mind about most things and didn’t take kindly to reasoned debate. He was stubborn to a fault and prided himself on being ornery.” He held up one hand, palm out. “And before you say the apple doesn’t fall far, you should know I heard it so often growing up that I thought it was our family’s motto.” He caught the glimmer of her smile, slightly wobbly, but a good sign that she wasn’t digging in. If he could keep her listening, and more importantly, thinking, there was a chance she would come around.
“I still don’t understand how Mr. Maddox could have named me his heir to the mine. Those partnership papers must have been drawn up years ago, maybe even before I was born. It couldn’t have occurred to him then.”
“No, you’re right. Like my father, he named his son.”
“Benson.”
“Yes, but both of them understood that they might outlive their children. There was war talk even then. Neither of them knew what would happen. They wrote out a proviso that in the event of their heirs predeceasing them, they could name another at a later time. The intent was not to pass it to a third generation without forethought. Clinton Maddox named you six and one-half years ago.”
Rachel was properly astounded. “On my eighteenth birthday?”
“So it seems.”
“But I—”
“I can’t speak for the workings of that man’s mind, but that’s what he did. He made sure I
knew about it right away. Of course, I didn’t know what was coming down the pike. I don’t think he did, either, though from where I’m sitting it’s hard to put anything past him.”
That had occurred to Rachel also. “Do you think Foster actually knows about the mine?”
“I don’t know what his grandfather would’ve told him. Probably very little.”
But Rachel didn’t want to talk about Foster Maddox, and she regretted asking the question. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, and quickly changed the subject. “Can I refuse to accept my share?”
“No. You can do whatever you like with it, but you can’t refuse to have it put in your name first.”
“And that’s not dependent on me marrying you?”
“No, not at all. But if we lose the spur, the mine won’t help the town much. We still need to bring machinery in and out, and the rails transport gold and silver. If you’re thinking someone else will step in to lay track, think again. There’s no other right-of-way as direct or safe.”
Rachel rolled her neck, then her shoulders. The beginning of a headache was forming behind her eyes. “I need time,” she said. “I can’t possibly think this through now.”
“I didn’t expect that you could.”
“Do you have the partnership papers?”
“Yes. They’re here, but Jake will have to get them for us.”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t want to see them now. But later…later I’d like to look them over.”
“Of course.”
Rachel lifted her head to look at him. He appeared damnably untroubled, but then she knew he’d had considerably longer to get used to the idea. “I haven’t asked if you’re prepared to do it,” she said.
“I think you know the answer to that. I wouldn’t have delivered the message, allowed you to see the contract, or made an attempt to explain how it all will work if I wasn’t willing.”
“It’s a lot of money,” she said softly. “I can hardly imagine it. Do you need a lot of money?”
“Not a lot. The mine takes investing in to keep it operational. What about you?”
“Mr. Maddox gave me more than enough to start out. You know I don’t owe anything on my home or the land. I’ve been careful with what I have, so I get by nicely. The women here, they like my dresses.” She frowned, regarding him with suspicion. “That’s not your doing, is it? Another way you’ve been looking out for me?”
“No. I swear that accomplishment’s your own. I just learned yesterday that you’ve been sewing for Miss LaRosa and her girls. She’s particular about her clothes, so if she’s patronizing you instead of the fancy dressmakers in Denver, I’d say you earned your success.”
She nodded slowly, still uncertain if she could believe him, but the turn in the conversation reminded her of her other commitment. She placed her palms firmly on the edge of the table, prepared to push herself up. “I have to go. I want to see Mrs. Longabach, and I’m already later than I meant to be. I don’t like showing up and interfering with her routine. She’ll be starting to prepare for dinner soon.”
Rachel narrowly avoided the restraining hand that Wyatt put out for her. “No, really. I have to go.” She stood and easily stepped around the chair, putting some distance between them. “You know I wasn’t going to make a decision now, so there’s no reason for me to stay.”
Wyatt leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs at the ankle under the table. He tapped the center of one palm with a corner of the envelope. “Very well. Go on. See Estella. You’ll have your work cut out for you if she wants her dress to outshine Miss LaRosa’s.”
That observation dampened some of Rachel’s enthusiasm, but she resolutely headed for the door. At the last moment, she turned. “I’ve never inquired before, but does Reidsville have a lawyer, or at least someone well versed enough to go over the contract and the partnership papers with me?”
“We have a lawyer. There’s not much for him to do these days as it regards contracts and such, but if you want him to look over the papers with you, I’d be happy to arrange it. I imagine he’ll be pleased to do it.”
“You don’t mind?”
Wyatt shook his head. “Consider it a leg up on an extra plate of biscuits.”
He had a one-track mind, Rachel decided, and it followed the most direct route to his stomach. “All right,” she agreed. She offered him a brief, tentative smile, then let herself out.
Wyatt gave her what he thought was sufficient time to leave the bank; then he poked his head out the door and called to the manager. “Hey, Jake, I’ll be needing you to get in the safe again. Miss Bailey wants to see the incorporation papers for the mine.”
Rachel sat in a green-velvet-upholstered side chair in Estella Longabach’s parlor and sipped tea from a fluted, gold-rimmed cup. “I brought my tape measure,” she said. “Just to be certain that what I have in my records at home is still accurate.”
Estella held out her cup a fraction so she could stare down at herself. “I’m certain I haven’t gained any weight.”
“As hard as you work, Mrs. Longabach, it’s more likely you’ve lost some, and a fraction of an inch here or there, well, you can understand that it makes a difference in the fit of the dress.”
Nodding, Estella made another study of Rachel’s dress. “I sure like what you’re wearing today. I don’t remember seeing that in the pattern book you lent me. I’m sure it would have caught my eye.”
“It’s my own design, but there are dresses similar to it in the book.”
“Well, I like yours. It looks, hmm, I don’t know, like maybe you could lead a charge in it. What’s the name of the French girl that fought the English?”
“Do you mean St. Joan? Joan of Arc?”
“That’s her. Your dress puts me in mind of her. Not sure why because you couldn’t really ride a horse in it, now, could you?”
Laughter parted Rachel’s lips. She smiled warmly. “No, it’s not practical for horse riding or swinging a sword. I think you’re noticing the double-breasted cuirass. It feels a bit like I’m wearing armor, I can tell you, but then I wanted to dress for battle today.”
“Well, it sure is pretty, that’s what I know. Must’ve made every man in town sit up and take notice.”
“It’s a friendly town,” said Rachel, realizing she’d spoken those same words to Wyatt earlier.
Estella snorted. “Friendlier to some than others, I’ve seen.”
“I’m sorry. Did I—”
“I’m not talkin’ about you.” She waved one hand dismissively. “I’m talkin’ about that LaRosa woman. I swear she thinks she can get her painted claws into my Henry.”
Rachel wasn’t certain that there was a correct response to this statement. She hurriedly took a shortbread cookie from the tray Mrs. Longabach had set between them and bit into it. Her hostess didn’t seem to notice that she hadn’t replied or even made sympathetic noises.
“Course, if I was wearin’ a dress like yours, Miss LaRosa would know I was serious about wantin’ her to take a step back. I like the idea of dressing for battle.”
The dress was something Rachel felt that she could talk about. “Why don’t we look in the pattern book and see what would suit you best?”
Estella pointed to Rachel’s tailored cuirass. “That’s what I want. What about that shell-pink batiste I ordered? Couldn’t you use that?”
“It’s a beautiful piece of fabric. I looked it over yesterday and wished I’d ordered more, but it doesn’t really work for this dress. I’ll tell you what, I’ll stand up and you take a few moments to study my dress, concentrate on the particulars you like, and then I want you to close your eyes and try to imagine your lovely piece of shell-pink fabric cut and styled and detailed in exactly the same way.”
Estella set her cup aside and laid her hands flat on her lap, prepared to concentrate. “This is a new one on me,” she said. “Is this how they do it in those Paris salons?”
“I don’t know,” Rachel said, rising t
o her feet. “I’ve never been to Paris. What made you think I had?”
Estella shrugged. “Just my imaginings, I suppose. You don’t really talk much about yourself, so I fill in the gaps on my own.”
“But Paris?” asked Rachel. “That gap’s the Atlantic Ocean.”
Estella twirled her finger, indicating that Rachel could start turning. “I saw paintings of Paris when Henry and I still lived back East. Oh, that was years ago now, but I never forgot them. Seemed like a place I’d like to visit someday, though it was always hard to picture myself there exactly. You, though, I could see you real easy in those paintings. Think of it every time you come glidin’ down the street in one of your pretty dresses, standin’ out of the background like you were movin’ through the painting, strolling on one of those boulevards with the little shops and cafés. Sophisticated, like. Just a bit separate from the crowd, you know. But real nice, too, ’cause you always make a point of smilin’ or givin’ folks a nod.”
Rachel finished turning to face Estella once again. Her eyes were troubled and the small smile she forced was uncertain. “Thank you,” she said softly. “You’re kind to say so.”
Estella’s eyebrows rose halfway to her dark widow’s peak. “Lookin’ at you now, I’m wonderin’ if I should have said a thing. I don’t think you know how to hear a compliment, ’cause that’s what it was. Meant what I said in the kindest way, and that’s the truth.”
“Well, thank you, then,” Rachel said with more conviction this time.
“That’s better. Now I’m going to shut my eyes and think about a shell-pink batiste, and if I can get Paris proper in my mind again, I’ll be draggin’ Henry into one of those cafés with me.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Rachel waited. The clock on the wall ticked off the seconds, and she counted fifty-two before Mrs. Longabach opened her eyes.
“Well,” Estella said firmly, “the shell pink isn’t going to do at all, is it?”