“Me and the boys had a right laugh about it after the game over at the Silver Dollar. It’s just a shame you couldn’t join us.” He continued to chuckle and snort and shake his head as he stepped back to see to the horse.
“The Silver Dollar?” Corva asked, turning to retrieve her paintings and her reticule.
“That’s right, I forgot. You’re new in town,” he said over his shoulder as he worked to loosen the horse’s harness, still chuckling. “The Silver Dollar is the saloon. We don’t see many ladies in there. Women, yes. Ladies, no.”
Corva flushed deeper. “Oh.” No ladies, and yet this man she didn’t really know had clapped her on the shoulder, like she was one of the boys, one of the team. Well, in a way, she was. She should take it as a compliment.
“You go along and run your errands, Mrs. Haskell,” Mr. Waters said. “I’ll take good care of Franklin’s rig here.”
“Thank you.” It was all Corva could think of to say. She gave the overly friendly man a smile, secured her paintings under her arm, and walked through the livery gate and out into the main street of Haskell.
“Good morning, Mrs. Haskell,” a young man hard at work pounding what looked like a horseshoe on an anvil called out to her as she passed. “Excellent run you scored yesterday.”
“Thanks,” Corva called back to him, striding on.
“Morning, Mrs. Haskell,” another man who sat outside a saddlery, fashioning something out of leather in the morning sunlight greeted her. “Top-notch game yesterday, don’t you think?”
“Yes, it was.” Corva smiled and nodded, then picked up her pace.
“Oh! Good morning, Mrs. Haskell.” A young woman wearing not much more than a gathered skirt, chemise, and corset waved to her from the porch of a pink building with a sign that read “Bonnie’s” over the door. Two other young women in similar states of undress, their hair loose, and rouge on their cheeks jumped up to join the first at the porch rail. “We were all so thrilled to watch you play in the game yesterday.”
“Franklin sure scored a winner with you,” one of the other girls called.
Corva nearly missed a step. Franklin? She might have been inexperienced in the ways of the world, but she knew a whorehouse when she saw one, and the girls were on a first-name basis with her husband?
“Thanks,” she called back to them, far more shaky than she wanted to admit, and rushed on.
By the time she made it to Kline’s Mercantile, her heart was pounding and a sheen of sweat had broken out down her back. It was one thing to live in a cheerful, exuberant town where everyone knew her name and greeted her as she passed, but it was quite another to be praised for her athletic accomplishments by complete strangers. Of all the things that could have given her a name.
She glanced down to the paintings under her arm. They were who she was, who she always thought she’d be, not some sports hero. When had she stopped being Corva Collier and started being Mrs. Franklin “Baseball” Haskell?
She cleared her throat, took a deep breath, and steadied herself by perusing the aisles and shelves of goods for sale. Kline’s Mercantile was a cozy and well-stocked store. It only took Corva a few minutes of studying shelves of canned goods, a table of fabric bolts, and a row of flour, sugar, and grain sacks to settle back into the wife she knew herself to be. There were groceries to buy and responsibilities to see to. That was something familiar. The bell over the front door jingled a few times as she looked, but she paid no mind to the other customers that came in or their quiet conversations.
“Ah, Mrs. Haskell,” the man behind the counter greeted her as she finished her second circuit of the store. “What can I help you with today?”
“Franklin and I need a few things,” she replied, startled that her voice was so quiet and cowed. That wouldn’t do at all. She cleared her throat and went on with, “And…and I was wondering if you might be interested in selling a few paintings of mine here in the store.”
She was certain her heart would break at the prospect, but when Mr. Kline brightened and held out a hand for one of the paintings, a zip of excitement took her by surprise.
He took one of the landscapes she’d painted using a picture in a book and her imagination and held it up. A smile spread slowly across his face. “You did this?”
Corva’s throat closed up in anticipation, so she could only manage a nod.
“I’ve never seen such excellent work with my own eyes.”
“Really?” Her voice pitched to a near squeak.
Mr. Kline grinned at her. “Let me see the other one.”
She handed over the second painting she’d brought—a view out her bedroom window in Nashville depicting a rainy day and the bedraggled maid from the house across the street. It was a sad painting, but Corva considered it among her best work.
Mr. Kline let out a long, low, “Ohh.”
“Oh?” she echoed, uncertain.
“That…” He nodded at the painting and the poor, grey maid. “That’s beautiful, in a sad sort of way. Looks like you’re good at more than just running bases.”
He winked at her, then held up both paintings, glancing between them. Corva’s heart filled with joyous relief, nearly lifting her off her feet…
…until a bark of, “That’s the most pathetic thing I’ve ever seen,” from behind her brought her crashing down.
She turned to find Vivian and Bebe Bonneville standing behind her, arms crossed, sour expressions on their faces.
“Yeah, they’re pitiful,” Bebe echoed her sister’s comment.
Mr. Kline lowered the paintings, fixing the Bonneville sisters with a stern frown. “Miss Vivian, Miss Bebe. What can I do for you?”
“You can start by not patronizing that sort of person.” Vivian brushed past Corva, knocking her off-balance as she went. “I also need three yards of this lace.” She thrust a card of lace at Mr. Kline.
Mr. Kline sighed, sending Corva an apologetic look as he put her paintings down. He reached for a pair of scissors under the counter and began measuring the lace.
Corva stepped away to resume her shopping, figuring she could leave her paintings where they were until Vivian and Bebe left.
“I’m surprised she would dare to show her face today after the spectacle she made of herself yesterday.”
Vivian’s comment froze Corva in her spot.
“Yeah,” Bebe added. “Can you imagine anyone being so nasty and unladylike?”
“She was covered with dirt from head to toe,” Vivian went on.
Corva twisted, peeking at the sisters from the corner of her eye. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, facing her rather than talking to each other. That was bad enough, but a middle-aged woman with a basket over her arm inched out from one of the aisles to see what the fuss was all about.
“And her hair,” Vivian continued. “Why, it looks like a bird’s nest in the best of times, but it looked positively wretched after that little stunt of hers.”
“I’m sure she only did it to get attention.” Bebe sniffed, raking Corva from head to toe. “Since she doesn’t have anything else at all to recommend her.”
“Ladies, please,” Mr. Kline growled. “Not in my store.”
Vivian whipped to face him, her eyes narrowed in a glare. “Excuse me, Mr. Kline, but doesn’t my father own the deed to your store? Didn’t he purchase it all those years ago when you thought you’d have to close or go bankrupt? Isn’t he the one who invested thousands of dollars in this enterprise because you assured him you were as interested as he is in preventing Howard Haskell from monopolizing every business in town?”
The accusation made Corva’s heart sink. It had never dawned on her that Bonneville could stretch his influence into businesses in town. There was no chance Mr. Kline would sell her paintings. Where half an hour ago she would have greeted that with relief, now, after the way Mr. Kline had praised her work, it was another crushing blow. But the blows had only begun to fall.
“I don’t know why Franklin Haskell would e
ver lower himself to marry an unladylike nobody from who knows where,” Vivian said, tilting her nose in the air.
“His aunt forced him to marry her,” Bebe said, not to her sister, but to the middle-aged woman who was eavesdropping. “Franklin has always wanted to marry Vivian. It was his Aunt Virginia who sent away for this mouse because she felt sorry for her.”
“Is that so?” The middle-aged woman pressed a hand to her chest.
“It’s not,” Corva murmured. She didn’t have the confidence she needed behind her denial. The middle-aged woman blinked at her, then looked to the Bonneville sisters.
“It’s true.” Vivian nodded. “My father says that Virginia Piedmont must have threatened to disinherit Franklin if he didn’t marry her.” She waved at Corva with a dismissive gesture.
“Oh, my,” the middle-aged woman said. “I wonder if Hetty Plover knows about this?”
Before Corva could say anything to prevent rumors from spreading, the middle-aged woman turned on her heel and dashed out of the store. Shocked and hurt beyond any blow her uncle had ever given her, Corva faced Vivian, fists clenched.
“That was unkind,” she said, proud that at least for now, she had strength in her voice.
Vivian sniffed and shrugged. “So was marrying the man I wanted.”
“Yeah,” Bebe added. “And so was butting in and winning a baseball game that we were supposed to win.”
“Franklin never wanted to marry you.” Corva glared at Vivian. “And it’s just a baseball game.”
Vivian pulled herself up to her full height, the feathers on her hat quivering along with her honey curls. “That just goes to show what you know. In this town, baseball is never just a game.”
Bebe added a “Humph,” and, “I told you she’d never fit in around here. And poor Franklin is stuck with a plain, unladylike nobody who shouldn’t even be allowed to paint the side of a barn.” She nodded to the two paintings leaning against the side of the counter.
For some reason, that final insult stung the hardest. Rather than crush her, like her uncle’s abuse and cruelty had, the misery welling up from her soul filled her with iron.
“Well at least I’m not a pair of witless, overdressed cheaters who wouldn’t know how to attract a man if their lives depended on it,” she snapped. “Why exactly are all of you still unmarried, even with your father’s money behind you?”
Her shot hit its mark. Vivian gasped, and Bebe squeaked in offense.
“I’ve never been so insulted in my life,” Vivian roared.
“No? Just wait. I’m sure you’ll collect a whole string of insults before long.”
Vivian turned a dangerous shade of red, and Bebe’s mouth dropped open. Corva had no interest in staying around to hear what kind of cruelty they would hurl at her next. She squared her shoulders and marched right past them, through the shop’s door, and out into the street.
She had no idea where she was going, but with each step away from the confrontation, her heart sank further. She was a nobody from nowhere. Franklin had been forced to marry her, in a way. She had behaved in an unladylike manner, and everyone in town knew her for that behavior. But she was so relieved to have escaped the nothing life she came from that who she used to be didn’t matter. Franklin was kind and wonderful, and what they had shared last night was perfect. And the baseball game had been more fun than she’d ever had in her life.
Her drooping steps slowed, leaving her near the front porch of the Cattleman Hotel. Several benches and a wicker table and chairs dotted the porch, so as the last of her confidence and energy left her, Corva dragged herself up the porch stairs and collapsed into a heap on a bench. She buried her face in her hands and let herself weep.
She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, stuck in her misery, before a man cleared his throat beside her. With a gasp, Corva snapped straight and looked up. The man in question was tall and thin, with white hair and an impeccably neat suit. His suit jacket bore the emblem of The Cattleman.
“I’m sorry.” She wiped her eyes, rushing to stand. “I shouldn’t be here, I know. I’m not a guest. I’ll leave. I don’t belong here.”
Her final statement brought another wave of misery and accompanying tears. She sank back to the bench, eyes and nose streaming.
The white-haired gentleman took a pristine handkerchief from his inside pocket, sat beside her on the bench, and handed it to her. The simple act of kindness made Corva weep harder, but she took the handkerchief and blew her nose, dabbing her eyes. It smelled of clean laundry and faint cologne and warmth, like an embrace from the father she had lost so long ago.
“Would you care to tell me about it?” the man asked in a fatherly voice.
Corva shook her head, but then lifted her eyes to meet his. Something in their kind, blue depths pushed her to say, “I’m never going to fit in here. I’m not what a woman should be, and I don’t deserve a man like Franklin.”
The white-haired man balked, stiffening and leaning away. “Who told you that?”
A wave of sheepishness deflated her even more. “Vivian Bonneville.”
He arched a brow. “I wouldn’t go believing what that harpy says, or judging yourself by her definition of what a woman should be.”
She knew he had a point, but it was still so, so hard to believe in herself.
“Maybe Franklin should have married her. She may be a harpy, but she’s from a wealthy, respected family, just like Franklin. The most I can ever claim is that my father died a hero in the war.”
The white-haired man continued to eye her with stalwart appraisal. “First of all, that’s no small thing. Second, who was it before Vivian Bonneville who told you that you were worthless?”
Corva’s sheepishness changed to prickles of both shame and wonder that this man, whose name she didn’t even know, had seen right into her so clearly. She knew the answer to his question in an instant—her uncle—but she couldn’t bring herself to so much as whisper his name.
The white-haired man took a breath and shook his head, resting his hand against Corva’s back. “I was there when Mr. Garrett, Mrs. Piedmont, and Mrs. Evans came up with the idea of sending to Hurst Home for young women interested in marrying men here in Haskell and starting a new life.”
Corva’s brow shot up. “You were?”
He nodded. “I heard them discussing how Franklin Haskell needed someone special in his life.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he raised a finger to silence her and went on.
“Those three people care a great deal for Franklin Haskell. Virginia Piedmont has watched him grow from an impetuous and arrogant young man, to a broken spirit, to a young man full of promise, but haunted by his past. She cares for him like he is her own son. Do you truly think that she would send away for a bride for him who was anything but the finest, sweetest, and most suitable woman for him?”
Corva closed her mouth and swallowed, staring at the soggy handkerchief in her hands. “I hadn’t considered that.”
“Perhaps you should. Perhaps you’re not used to it or have had to protect yourself in the past, but now you may want to consider putting your trust in other people, people who care about you and want to help you.”
“Are there such people?” She lowered her eyes.
He paused before saying, “You’re sitting next to one right now.”
She shook her head. “You don’t even know me.”
“Do I have to be best friends with you to wish you well or to want to see you happy?”
Corva glanced up at him.
“No,” he answered his own question. “But we’re connected all the same. You’re part of Haskell now, whether you can see it or not. You won so many hearts yesterday at that baseball game.”
Heat infused her face. “What I did wasn’t very ladylike.”
He made a sound that was anything but gentlemanly. “That’s Vivian Bonneville talking. Considering the example she set at the game, she shouldn’t be pointing fingers. And if you think your
behavior was shocking, you should spend more time with Virginia Piedmont. Or Lucy Faraday. Or Katie Murphy, for that matter.”
Corva grinned as her few, colorful memories of those women who she had just met came to mind.
The white-haired man shook his head and squeezed her shoulder. “The point is, we’re neighbors here in Haskell, not passersby or townspeople or faces in a crowd. With a few glaring exceptions, we take care of our own. We’ll take care of you too.”
The sentiment was enough to bring fresh tears to Corva’s eyes. “I’ve never had neighbors like that before.”
“Well, you do now.” The white-haired man gave her shoulder one last squeeze, then stood, holding himself as stiff and tall as a statue.
Corva stood with him, biting her lip. “But what about Franklin? Marrying me wasn’t his idea. And sometimes…sometimes he doesn’t seem interested in me. He…he doesn’t like my paintings.”
“Your paintings? Are you an artist?”
She nodded.
The white-haired man paused in thought for a moment, then said, “How do you know he doesn’t like your paintings? How do you know he’s not interested in you?”
“He told me to take some paintings into town to sell them,” she said. “And this morning, he was more interested in talking about cattle than…” She swallowed, a blush heating her cheeks.
The white-haired man let out quick breath. “Do me one favor, Mrs. Haskell.”
She peeked up at him, heart and brow lifting.
“Before you tell yourself any stories about what your husband thinks or doesn’t think, ask him.”
“Oh, but I couldn’t. What if he—”
“Ask him,” the white-haired man repeated. “I guarantee you’ll be surprised with the answer.”
She eyed him skeptically, but in spite of her worry, she felt as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “I suppose you’re right.”
“I’m always right.” He nodded. “That’s why Mr. Garrett hired me to run his hotel. Now run along. If you’re quick, you can make it home before lunch and have that conversation with your husband.”
Confidence renewed, Corva nodded. “You’re right. I need to ask questions first and panic later.”
Wild Western Women Spring Into Love: A Western Historical Romance Box Set Page 46