Cinderfella

by Linda Winstead Jones

  Thank goodness he was wearing trousers.

  He couldn’t know that she was awake. She didn’t want to talk. And even more, much more, she didn’t want him to think that just because they were married he had the right to crawl into this bed with her. If she was very still and very quiet. . . .

  “Did I wake you?” he asked softly.

  “No,” she whispered. Then, “I don’t know.”

  He turned to look at her, and her heart skipped a beat. This was not the beautiful boy she remembered, and not the hairy farmer she’d seen covered in mud. This was the man from the masked ball, the man who had waltzed with tantalizing elegance and listened to her as if what she said meant something to him, the man who had kissed her and turned her insides and her world upside down.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “This is my room — our room.” He might have smiled, but perhaps it was just a twitch of those lips. “That’ll take some getting used to.”

  “Isn’t there another room? It’s a big house —”

  “I suppose I could ask Elmo and Oswald to share a room so you can have one of your own,” he interrupted, “but it might be hard to explain your newfound modesty since we’ve already dallied in the gazebo.”

  She was glad of the darkness, glad Ash couldn’t see the blush she felt rising hotly in her cheeks. It was her own fault . . . no, it was just as much Ash’s fault! He’d deceived her on purpose, played with her emotions, pretended to be someone else so he could seduce her. . . .

  “I lied,” she snapped. “There, I said it. I thought you were long gone, since you were just ‘passing through town,’ and well . . . I thought if my reputation was sullied beyond repair, Daddy would send me back to Boston.”

  “Surprised you, didn’t he?” Ash asked softly.

  She had the urge to scream at him, but she didn’t want to wake the entire household. “I’m still going back to Boston,” she hissed the truth at him. “I don’t know how I’ll get there, or when, but I assure you I have no intention of staying here.”

  “It never occurred to me that you would.” His voice was so low she could barely hear it.

  He turned back to the window. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and she saw, with a rush of relief, the pillow and blanket there on the floor near his feet. At least he hadn’t been foolish enough to think he could share a bed with her.

  She didn’t intend to calmly accept what her father and Ash had done to her, but neither was she certain as to how best to proceed. Out-and-out defiance would mean war, with Ash and with her father. Perhaps if she pretended to accept the marriage until her father calmed down, she could arrange a visit to Boston to visit Felicity and Howard and finish up some fabricated old business. She just wouldn’t come back. Once there, she could see to an annulment.

  Planning for an annulment meant, of course, that her so-called marriage to Ash had to remain unconsummated. Since he seemed to have no inclination otherwise, and she certainly didn’t intend to invite him into her bed, that shouldn’t be a problem.

  She really shouldn’t take her anger out on him. Poor Ash, this really wasn’t his fault.

  “I’m sorry you were dragged into this,” she said to his motionless back, her anger fading now that she had a plan. “I know you didn’t want this any more than I did.”

  He didn’t say anything, didn’t argue or agree. He just stared out the window as if there was something fascinating out there.

  “I had no idea my father —”

  “What’s done is done,” he said sharply. “Let it rest.” He didn’t display any intention of lowering himself to the bedroll on the floor.

  She couldn’t leave it alone, couldn’t let anything rest.

  “Why did you do it, Ash?”

  “Do what?”

  “Pretend to be a stranger. Dance with me and . . . and everything.” It probably was best not to actually mention the kissing or the softly whispered, I’ll never forget this night.

  “It was just a game, a prank,” he said softly. “I had every intention of telling you who I was before the night was over.”

  A game. A prank. “So, you lied, too?”

  “Yes.”

  Of course he’d lied, what a stupid question that was. He’d told her she was beautiful, that he would never forget their night. Childish antics.

  “I hope this hasn’t ruined any plans you might have had,” she said sensibly, ignoring her rising disappointment. “Goodness, I don’t know what’s going on in your life. We’ve barely talked since I came back. Do you have a lady friend, Ash?”

  He did turn to her then, not a simple twist of his head but a complete turnabout to face her. Bare chest, black eye, and all. “No lady friend, Charmaine, and the only plans I ever had were for a quiet, simple life. I can’t imagine being married to you will be quiet or simple.” It was an insult, and he didn’t even try to hide the fact.

  “Well pardon me,” she said haughtily. “You can be assured that being married to a . . . a sodbuster was not in my plans for the future.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Of course it’s a fact!” Her voice rose a bit too high and loud, and they both waited for the sounds of an awakened household.

  But all was quiet.

  “I remember differently,” he whispered after a long and very quiet moment. “I remember a little girl who wiped her runny nose on the sleeve of my best shirt and announced that when she was old enough she would leave her mean old sisters and do me the great favor of being my wife.”

  His smile was much too wide.

  “I did not have a runny nose,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. How mortifying! She remembered a few childish tears . . . but a runny nose?

  “I definitely recall a very runny nose.”

  “And besides,” Charmaine said quickly, “that was years ago. My feelings had been terribly hurt, and I was . . . I was . . . ” she searched for a proper explanation while Ash’s smile faded away. She couldn’t tell him about her childish infatuation, not now.

  “So you do remember?”

  “Vaguely,” she whispered.

  “Well here I am, your wish come true,” he said dryly. “I wonder if you’ll find life as a sodbuster’s wife as charming as you once thought it would be?”

  “I should’ve let Daddy shoot you,” Charmaine hissed lowly. “I should’ve said ‘I don’t!’ and watched him blow your head off.”

  Ash turned again to the window and the chill midnight. “Maybe you should have.”

  “Stuart, quit pacing and come to bed,” Maureen sat up and sighed. “It’s well past midnight, and you’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

  She didn’t point out to him that the reason he had such a busy day ahead was because he’d neglected his daily chores to track Ash Coleman down and arrange the necessary wedding.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and stared away from her. “Did I do the right thing?”

  It was an uncommon occurrence for Stuart Haley to question his decisions.

  “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I hope so.”

  “It’s just . . . Ash Coleman! Of all the men in this county, of all the men in Kansas. . . . ”

  “Ash is not so bad as all that,” she said soothingly. “You’ve just never forgiven his father for putting up that barbed wire. He’s a perfectly nice young man, handsome and hardworking and. . . . ”

  “That’s enough,” Stuart snapped. “I don’t need to hear a list of Ash Coleman’s attributes right now. Dammit, I expected them to stay here, to live here instead of on that, that farm.”

  Maureen smiled and placed the flat of her hand against her husband’s back. “You got what you wanted, Stuart. Charmaine is married, she’ll be staying close to home, and we’ll get to see her children, our grandchildren, grow up.” She raked her fingers across that familiar bare back. “Why, just a few days ago you were worried about her attitude toward men and marriage in general, and as I predicted, the right man came al
ong and proved her silly theories wrong.”

  “And Ash Coleman is the right man?” he asked with a hint of disbelief.

  “I believe so,” she said with a certainty she didn’t quite feel.

  Stuart fell back against his pillows and threw an arm over his eyes. “My grandchildren will be sodbusters,” he mumbled.

  “Perhaps,” she said soothingly.

  “But what else could I do?”

  “Stuart, darling.” She peeled back his arm so she could look into his moonlit eyes. “You did the right thing,” she said, telling him what he wanted and needed to hear.

  “I hope so.”

  “No matter what she says about being a modern woman, Charmaine is not the kind of young lady to allow liberties unless she cares deeply for a man. Her behavior was inappropriate,” she said sternly, “but things will be all right now. She’ll settle in at the Coleman farm, and perhaps in time Ash will take an interest in this ranch.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Well,” she traced a shadow on his shoulder with her finger. “He’s right about one thing. You will have to stop pulling a gun on him every time you disagree.”

  Stuart grunted, as close to an agreement as Maureen expected she’d ever get.

  He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him for a kiss. He was restless tonight, and it didn’t look as if she’d get much sleep, either.

  “Really, Stuart,” she said as he rolled over her and tossed the heavy quilt aside. “Don’t you think a man of your age should quit sleeping in the buff?”

  He laughed, a low rumble in her ear. “No, I don’t.”

  Charmaine was asleep again. How did she do it? How could she be angry and argumentative one minute, turn her back on him in disgust, and be asleep five minutes later?

  When he was certain she was deeply asleep he crossed the room silently to stand over her. In anger she’d said she wouldn’t stay, and he believed her. It was for the best that she leave as soon as possible, that she slip away and be done with him and this sham of a marriage before she worked her way any deeper under his skin. Maybe he should help her, take her to town and with a false smile on his face put her on the train and wave good-bye.

  And then again maybe he could make her stay. He could climb into bed with her right now, kiss her until she softened like she had in the gazebo, and take what was rightfully his as her husband. His body was telling him to do just that. He was hard and aching, and she was here in his bed. It was what he wanted, more than anything, more than she would ever know. Tonight and every night, he would take what was his. With a child growing inside her she’d have no choice but to stay.

  It wasn’t an option he considered for long. No choice. That would make for a miserable marriage all around, now wouldn’t it?

  She made a funny little noise, more a squeak than a snore, and stirred beneath the quilt. If she was mortified at the memory of a childish runny nose, what would she say if he told her she made odd noises in her sleep?

  He ached for her, physically and somewhere deep inside, and still he smiled. Charmaine wouldn’t be here long, but while she was here life would not be dull.

  Eleven

  To everyone’s surprise, it was Elmo who offered cheerfully to go to town to collect Charmaine’s belongings. Clothes, shoes, personal items — she’d left it all behind when Ash had tossed her over his shoulder and carried her out of the house.

  Charmaine considered riding to town with Elmo, but she didn’t want to face her father just yet, and the idea of enduring the long ride to town with Elmo was more than she could bear at the moment. She’d no doubt be entertained by more stories about his various aches and pains, and the very idea was more than she could stand right now. Nathan asked to ride along, as he had a telegram to send, and the two of them set out shortly after breakfast.

  Ash Coleman, that insensitive lout, had been gone from the house when she’d finally awakened. His bedding had been rolled up and stored behind a wide chest of drawers, there where no one was likely to spot it through the open bedroom door. The blanket and flat pillow were neatly folded, crisp and taut as if they’d not been touched. Charmaine wondered, once or twice as the morning passed, if Ash had gotten any sleep at all.

  She didn’t want another confrontation, but there were a few things they needed to get settled, and the sooner the better. Tempting as it was, she couldn’t simply ignore the situation and the fact that Ash was her husband, and running away was not an option.

  All morning she silently rehearsed what she would say when she saw him. Pacing in the room where she’d slept, she mouthed the words and used her hands for emphasis. Sitting in the rocking chair before the fire while Verna chattered away, she went over the words in her mind once again. She practiced her most austere posture and expression, and to complete the picture she pulled her hair into a tight bun at the back of her neck.

  She expected Ash to come to the house for the noon meal, but he didn’t. Oswald and Verna ate a hearty dinner, but Charmaine picked at the food on her plate, eating slowly, delaying, waiting. Even after Verna cleared the table, there was no sign of him.

  “Doesn’t Ash come to the house for dinner?” she asked as Verna retired to her rocking chair with a half-finished embroidery sampler. Oswald was already deeply involved in his newest novel.

  Verna smiled coyly. “Missing your groom already? How very precious.”

  Missing her groom? Precious! Was the woman crazy? Didn’t she remember the wedding at all? Charmaine shook her head gently, but Verna didn’t seem to notice. “Surely he’s hungry.”

  Verna squinted at her sampler, which was, Charmaine noted, a mess of knots and ill-formed letters. And why was she working on a piece of embroidery when there were dishes and laundry to be done? The layer of dirt by the front door could use a broom, too.

  “Ash usually takes a couple of biscuits with him when he’s going to be away from the house all day,” Verna said without a hint of concern.

  “A couple of biscuits? That hardly seems sufficient for a man who works so hard. . . . ”

  Verna placed her embroidery in her lap and looked Charmaine square in the eye. “You know, Ash does work much too hard. Now that you’re married, you should convince him to move to town and take up with your father and that prosperous ranch of his.”

  “Could you and the boys handle everything here without him?” Charmaine asked, certain that they couldn’t.

  “Good heavens, no. We’d have to come to town with you.” She smiled. “We’re family, you know.”

  “I know,” Charmaine said softly.

  “When you marry one Coleman, you get the lot of us.”

  Charmaine had a stray and unkind thought that perhaps she really should have allowed her father to shoot Ash.

  “Where is Ash working today, do you know?”

  Verna gave Charmaine another sickening coy smile. “I really don’t know. . . . ”

  “He’s fixing that fence on the east edge of the property,” Oswald interrupted without looking up from his book. “I believe he said he expected to be out there most of the day.”

  A couple of biscuits were certainly not sufficient for a man of Ash’s size who did physical labor all day. “Perhaps I should take him something to eat.”

  Verna waved her hand lazily. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. He always is.”

  Charmaine would not be put off. She left Verna and Oswald, and rummaged through the kitchen for a sufficient meal. She packed leftover fried chicken and an apple and a large piece of pie, arranging it all in a basket she found in the pantry.

  “I was saving that for Elmo.”

  Charmaine turned around to find Verna sulking in the kitchen doorway. “I’m sure he and Nathan will eat while they’re in town. Mother will insist.”

  “But that’s his favorite, custard pie.”

  What could only be called indignation almost overcame Charmaine. How dare this woman deny Ash sufficient food? He worked hard, he put the food on their tab
le, and Verna was whining about a piece of pie? She refrained, with great effort, from telling Verna that Elmo looked as if he could do with a little less pie. “Make another,” she said with a bright smile.

  Verna parted her lips as if she had something to say, but she evidently thought twice. She closed her mouth without saying a word.

  He would almost swear that someone had purposely destroyed this section of fence. Haley? Not his style. Oswald or Elmo? No, this required too much physical effort for either of his stepbrothers to accomplish. Verna? He could almost smile at the thought of her tearing into the fence and knocking down the post.

  Ash had stopped just long enough to wipe his sweaty face on a sleeve when he saw Charmaine picking her way through the tall grass, the skirt of her plain green wedding dress in one hand, a small basket in the other.

  He’d half-expected her to make a quiet escape while he was away from the house, to make her way to Salley Creek, beg borrow or steal a ticket to Boston, and be gone by the time he got home for supper.

  Unreasonably, he was glad she was still here.

  She dropped her skirt and lifted a hand to shade her eyes. “Hello,” she said as she resumed her trek. “I brought you something to eat.”

  “I already ate.”

  “I know,” she said shortly. “Biscuits. What kind of meal is that for a working man?”

  Charmaine Haley — Charmaine Coleman — always managed to bewilder him. Last night she’d told him, in so many words, to go to hell. Today she was bringing him food and chastising him for not eating enough. Why did she care what and how much he ate?

  “Besides,” she said as she reached him. “We need to talk, and I thought it might be best to get this out of the way . . . privately.”

  Here it comes, he thought as he took the basket from her. She wasn’t going to stay, but at least she was going to be honest with him about it. She picked a grassy spot that was high and dry, and sat down with her feet tucked under her skirt.