Marianne's Marriage of Convenience

by Lynna Banning

  She looked over at Lance, brushing a last cobweb off the roof beam. He must be even more tired than she was. He had worked alongside her all afternoon, lifting the heavy buckets of wash water and swatting at the ceiling cobwebs she couldn’t reach. He hadn’t said much, and neither had she. There was no need to give him orders; it was painfully obvious what needed doing in the musty, unused apartment, so they just buckled down and did it without talking.

  Finally Lance tossed his scrub brush into the pail of dirty water at his elbow. “We’ve done enough for one day, so let’s go get some supper before the cook goes home for the night.”

  Too tired to respond, she simply nodded. Sammy had long since driven the wagon off down the street, and Abe had stopped banging on whatever he was doing and was nowhere to be found.

  Marianne staggered up the stairs one last time, propped her hands on her hips, and gave the two small rooms one final inspection. Surprisingly, from beneath the grime had emerged walls papered with tiny blue-and-yellow flowers. The floors were so clean they squeaked when she walked across them, the china cabinet and the armoire and the kitchen table shone with polish, and Lance had filled the wood box next to the potbellied stove chock full.

  “Place looks halfway decent,” Lance muttered. “But we sure don’t. Come on, Marianne.”

  They limped back to the restaurant and stumbled into the now deserted dining room to find Rita busy filling the saltshakers.

  “My stars, you two look like you’ve just come off a battlefield!”

  Lance managed a grin. “Yeah. It was a battle, all right. We won, I think, but it sure took the starch out of us.”

  “I never saw a couple more tuckered,” Rita said sympathetically. “Don’t know as you two are going to survive another day of married life.”

  “Even my teeth feel dusty,” Marianne confessed. “But tonight I want another big steak, and after that I want a bath. Tomorrow we can move our things over, and Sammy said he’d bring my trunk from the railroad station so I can unpack it.”

  Lance caught Rita’s eye. “Two steak dinners,” he ordered. “Rare. With lots of fried potatoes.”

  “And peach pie,” Marianne added.

  “Ice cream?” Rita asked.

  “Chocolate,” they said in unison.

  Lance’s eyebrows went up, and Marianne had to laugh. She had to admit she liked surprising him. He thought she was nothing but a bossy, know-it-all woman who liked nothing better than giving him orders. And, she thought with a stab of remorse, that had certainly been true at Mrs. Schneiderman’s.

  She must have made his life miserable. Maybe that’s why only a few days ago he’d said that they didn’t like each other very much. At the time that was probably true. Now she was beginning to wonder.

  Now, she thought with a start, they were husband and wife! When she had blackmailed Lance into marrying her, they had agreed to share everything, starting with her inherited business, Collingwood Boots. And, she realized, they now shared the same hotel room. And the same bed!

  Lance was looking at her oddly. Maybe he was wondering what sort of woman he had married. Or maybe he was regretting marrying her in the first place. In a way she couldn’t blame him.

  “You have never seen me this tired and bedraggled, have you?” she remarked.

  He shook his head.

  “Or this dirty. I washed my face and hands before supper, but my skirt is splattered with muddy water and my shirtwaist smells like…well, never mind what. And my elbows and knees could use a good scrubbing with lots of soap and…”

  She broke off at the expression on his face. “Lance, what is the matter? Are you…are you laughing at me?”

  At that moment Rita set down two dinner plates loaded with thick steaks and so many fried potatoes they spilled over the edge. Lance didn’t even look down at his supper, he just kept staring at her with that odd grin on his face.

  She started to feel hot all over. “Would you mind,” she said in the iciest tone she could manage, “telling me what is so funny?”

  “You are,” he said.

  “Lance Burnside, I may be many things, but ‘funny’ is not one of them.”

  “Marianne,” he pronounced carefully, “you don’t know anything at all about what amuses a man who’s been railroaded into marriage, traveled two thousand miles on a train to God-knows-where, gotten himself through a wedding and a fancy reception and then slaved for hours cleaning up an apartment that’s not big enough for one person, let alone two.”

  She stared at him. “None of those things is particularly amusing,” she said. “But right now you are sitting there grinning at me so strangely I thought… Oh, good heavens, I’m so tired I no longer know what I think.”

  He reached over and laid his hand on hers. “Eat your steak, Marianne. You can decide what you think later.”

  She dropped her gaze. His green-striped shirt was as dirt-streaked and sweat-stained as her garments were, she noted. They were both dead tired and they both needed a bath.

  But first they needed food. Without another word she picked up her fork and stabbed it into a slice of fried potato. Lance did the same.

  In silence they devoured their steaks, two slices of peach pie topped with generous scoops of chocolate ice cream, and gulped down so many brimming cups of coffee she lost count.

  Finally, Lance leaned across the table toward her. “Feeling better?”

  She nodded, but she couldn’t speak. All at once she didn’t trust her voice because she felt like crying. Fatigue, she guessed. Or discouragement at the daunting prospect before her. She had inherited a business she knew nothing about. Not only that, she had to admit she knew absolutely nothing about running any business. And on top of that, they had inherited a too-small living space upstairs in which she and Lance, two people who scarcely knew each other, were going to try to coexist.

  Tears finally welled up in her eyes, and she blinked hard.

  Lance reached across the table and took her hand. “Come on, Marianne,” he announced in a no-nonsense tone. “I know things seem pretty grim right now, but let’s go arrange with the desk clerk for a bathtub to be sent up to our room.”

  Chapter Ten

  A young Mexican couple hauled buckets of hot water up to their hotel room and poured them into the tub. It took so long for the tin bathtub to be filled that Lance finally stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes while Marianne paced back and forth in front of the window.

  What would she do when the bathtub was full? Undress? The picture that brought to mind made him smile. Or would she step into the water with all her clothes on?

  That picture made him chuckle.

  But as he waited, his exhaustion caught up with him, and by the time the bath was ready, he was sound asleep.

  Poised beside the brimming tub, Marianne studied him. One arm rested over his eyes, and his chest rose and fell in a regular rhythm, but she hesitated. Her longed-for bath beckoned, but she would have to take off all her clothes to climb into the tub, and something in her held back. Not only that, but if she splashed any water, wouldn’t he hear her and wake up? She caught her breath. Would he watch her?

  She watched him for another few minutes, but he didn’t move a muscle, so very quietly, she shed her sturdy work shoes and then the blue skirt. She unbuttoned her shirtwaist, dropped it to the carpet, and stood motionless in her thin chemise and petticoat and her lacy drawers. A cake of lavender soap lay on the folded washcloth and towel beside the tub, and her fingers itched to strip off the last of her garments and sink into the soothing water.

  But did she dare? Her skin felt dirt-smudged and sticky, and she longed to sponge away the perspiration from hours of scrubbing during the long day, but still she hesitated. She stood quietly and watched Lance’s steady breathing until she couldn’t stand it one more minute.

  She began to pin her hair up on top of her head, then paused, studying him. He slept on. She tossed caution to the wind and shed her petticoat and finally her chemise
and lacy underdrawers. Naked, she clasped her arms over her bare breasts and lifted one leg to dip her toe in the warm water; then she took a deep breath, splashed in and shot another look at the bed.

  Lance’s chest continued to rise and fall. She let out a sigh of relief, reached for the fragrant bar of soap and sank up to her neck in the warm water. Oh, what bliss! She slid down until she could rest her neck against the edge of the tub and closed her eyes.

  Lance heard the splash, but he had sense enough not to open his eyes and let Marianne know he was awake. Instead, he watched her through half-closed eyelids. He had to admit he felt a bit guilty for spying on her, even though all he could see was her face and the top of her shoulders.

  Hold on a minute, Burnside. Marianne is your wife! You have a right to look at her, don’t you?

  Well, maybe. And maybe not. He shut his eyes.

  A soft splash started his imagination working, and an intriguing picture began to etch itself on his brain. Another splash and the image got clearer. In his mind’s eye he saw her reaching one arm toward the cake of soap on the floor beside the tub. Next he heard a soft ripple that suggested she was now smoothing the soap all over her skin, all over her…

  He clenched his jaw and tried desperately to keep his eyes closed until he heard the sound of trickling water. Slow trickles. Leisurely trickles. God help him. Against his will he cracked open one eyelid.

  Marianne had stretched one slim arm up toward the ceiling while the other smoothed the cake of soap over her skin. Water sheened her bare shoulders and trickled between her breasts. He couldn’t help the groan that escaped him.

  Marianne froze. Instantly she let out a little squeak and sank below the surface of the bathwater until only her eyes and the top of her head were showing.

  Lance laughed out loud, rolled off the bed and strode toward the tub. He hesitated for a split second, then reached out both hands, grasped her bare shoulders and pulled her up. She emerged spluttering and spitting, her eyes shut tight.

  “You’re not asleep!” she accused.

  “I tried to be, Marianne. Honest.” And he was trying hard not to stare at her wet, glistening body, her perfectly formed breasts. He sucked in air. Marianne was an attractive woman on the outside, with her shiny dark hair and those mossy green eyes. But he had no idea that underneath all those clothes she was so beautiful it made his mouth go dry.

  Marianne opened her eyes and looked up at him. He was standing stock still, trying not to stare at her, and his cheeks were slowly turning crimson. He looked exactly like Mrs. Schneiderman’s eight-year-old grandson when she’d caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. She wanted to laugh. More than that, some imp inside her wanted to shock him!

  She caught her breath. Never in her entire life had she had such a wayward thought. What was wrong with her?

  She must be a great deal more tired than she’d realized; either that or getting married had unleashed something inside her that was decidedly unlike the Marianne Collingwood she had always been before this.

  Then again, maybe she was only dreaming.

  She clasped her arms over her chest and slowly stood all the way up. Water sluiced off her body, dampening the carpet and splashing on to Lance’s feet. He stood transfixed for a moment, then bent to grab the folded towel on the floor, shook it out and offered it to her.

  She snatched it out of his hand and turned her back. “The bathwater is still warm,” she said over her shoulder. “You shouldn’t let it go to waste.” Then she wrapped the towel around her body and turned to face him.

  “What?” he said stupidly. “Oh, yeah, I guess I shouldn’t.”

  She waited, but he made no move toward the tub, just stood staring at her. She didn’t know what to do next. Should she dry herself off? Or stand quietly until the water beading on her skin evaporated? She decided she would wait until Lance decided what he would do next.

  They stood in silence, gazing at each other.

  Lance suddenly realized how dirty he was. He couldn’t lie next to Marianne smelling like he’d been mucking out a barn! He hesitated for a long, long moment, then reached one hand to his belt buckle.

  She let out a faint hiccup and spun away, so he shed his jeans and stripped off everything else and waited. Still wrapped in the towel, she moved across the room to the armoire, keeping her back to him. He couldn’t help watching her. She hastily pulled on a sheer-looking white nightgown, and then she streaked past him, dove on to the bed and yanked the quilt up to her chin.

  He decided he’d better stop watching her and instead stepped into the tub and concentrated on soaping himself all over and splashing off the bubbles. He even dunked his head and washed his hair, then stepped out of the tub and toweled off with the discarded towel Marianne had dropped.

  Was she watching him? He shook the thought out of his head and continued to dry himself. Jupiter, instead of smelling like a sweaty working man who’d washed off layers of dirt, now he smelled like lavender! He hoped Marianne would appreciate it. The thought made him smile.

  When someone tapped on the door, he pulled on a pair of clean trousers and opened it to find the young Mexican couple standing outside. “Senor, my wife and me, we empty bath now?”

  Lance waited while they carted away the buckets of now cold bathwater and dragged the tub out into the hallway, and then he closed the door behind them and walked over to the bed where Marianne was curled up under the quilt. She lay on her side, her cheek snuggled against a fluffy pillow.

  Sound asleep.

  With a sigh of disappointment he carefully lay down beside her, folded his hands over his belly and studied the ceiling. For the next hour he thought about himself and his new wife. They had both worked themselves to the bone today, doing what was necessary without talking about it. Probably because of all those years working together at Mrs. Schneiderman’s boardinghouse.

  They made a good team, he thought with an inward smile. They had even taken a bath practically in front of each other. Finally he sighed, closed his eyes and drifted into an exhausted sleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lance woke to bright sunlight warming his closed eyelids. He groaned and rolled toward Marianne’s side of the bed.

  Empty. Empty? He jerked fully awake to find she was gone. Also gone were her blue denim work skirt and the striped shirtwaist she had been wearing yesterday.

  He dressed hurriedly and pounded down the stairs and headed to the restaurant, where he expected to find Marianne drinking coffee and buttering a stack of toast. But when he entered, Rita just frowned at him.

  “Sorry, Lance. I haven’t seen Miss Marianne this morning. You want some coffee?”

  “No, thanks, Rita. I need to find my wife.” He strode out onto the board sidewalk and headed for the boot shop.

  She wasn’t there. “Golly, no, Mr. Burnside,” Abe said with a puzzled look on his dark face. “She ain’t been here this morning. But Sammy Greywolf came by a while back. Wants to help me cut out some leather pieces, and I could sure use the help. That be okay with you?”

  “What? Oh, sure, Abe. Sure.”

  He checked upstairs in case Marianne had slipped past him while he was talking to Abe. Cautiously he opened the door to the apartment, expecting to find her busy polishing something, but…no Marianne. After all the scrubbing they’d done yesterday, the apartment gleamed, and it still smelled like bleach and furniture polish. But Marianne wasn’t there.

  He walked down to the mercantile, but Carl Ness raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “Lost yer wife, huh? Try the dressmaker’s, just down the street. That’s where my wife has usually been when she disappears.”

  On the way to the dressmaker’s shop he stepped into Uncle Charlie’s Bakery. The rich scent of fresh-baked bread made his stomach growl, and he suddenly remembered he hadn’t eaten any breakfast. Still, he didn’t stop but went next door to the dressmaker.

  Narrow-faced Verena Forester shook her head. “Lord-a-mercy, Mr. Burnside, a body would thi
nk a new husband could keep track of his own wife!”

  He studied the shops across the street. Stockett’s Feed & Seed didn’t seem likely; Marianne had no animals to feed and no garden to plant any seeds in. Next to the feed store was the sheriff’s office, and his heart gave an unexpected thump. He’d shaken the man’s hand at the wedding reception without a second thought. But this morning an unwelcome idea halted him in his tracks.

  Marianne wouldn’t turn me in, would she?

  With a jolt he realized he hadn’t the faintest idea what Marianne would do. Yeah, she’d said she didn’t really believe he was a Wells Fargo stage robber, but when it came right down to it, he didn’t have a clue what actually went on in Marianne’s head. Would she change her mind about him just because he’d scooped her up out of her bath when she hadn’t a stitch of clothing on?

  He had to admit that in many ways Marianne was an unknown quantity. His widowed father always said a woman was a mystery to a man until the day he died. “Your momma could make me laugh and cry and beat my head against the wall, but so help me, she never explained herself. She puzzled me all to hell.”

  Until this moment Lance had never understood how a woman could do that to a man, puzzle him to the point where he would beat his head against the wall. After his mother died, Papa had worked himself to death in his law office.

  Then a devastating thought struck him. Had Marianne left him? His stomach dropped to his toes.

  He about-faced and paced up and down the boardwalk to calm his nerves. Finally he found himself in front of Uncle Charlie’s bakery again, gazing through the window at the shiny glass display case inside. He must have looked hungry, because the Chinese proprietor saw him and waved him inside.

  “Look like need cookie,” the proprietor announced with a grin.

  Uncertain how to answer, Lance stared into the man’s twinkling eyes.

  “Here.” Charlie thrust a dark, crinkle-topped cookie at him. “Molasses,” he said. “Good for troubles.”