Marianne's Marriage of Convenience

by Lynna Banning

  “Thanks,” Lance managed. “I didn’t realize my troubles were so obvious.”

  Charlie grinned. “Plenty plain. My guess woman trouble.”

  Lance nodded. “Yeah. Sure is hard to understand them sometimes.”

  “Hard to understand all time,” the bakery owner quipped. He handed another molasses cookie over the display case.

  Lance groaned, popped the cookie in his mouth and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Suddenly a flash of blue denim caught his attention. Marianne!

  He choked on the cookie and started forward. He caught up with her just as she turned the corner onto Maple Street, grabbed her arm and pulled her to a stop.

  “Marianne, where have you been?”

  She blinked. “At the bank,” she said, her voice matter of fact. “Why?”

  “Well, I—I woke up and you were gone. Rita said you’d skipped breakfast, and I couldn’t figure—”

  “I did skip breakfast,” she acknowledged. “I couldn’t sleep one more minute without checking the Collingwood bank account. I needed to know how much money we have.”

  Lance offered her the other molasses cookie. “I skipped breakfast, too,” he explained. “Uncle Charlie took pity on me.”

  She nodded, her mouth full.

  “So how much money does the Collingwood account have?”

  She sighed. “Not enough. Less than two hundred dollars, in fact. That must be pretty close to the bottom of the barrel for a viable business.”

  “Well, that’s sure more money than I’ve seen in a lot of years,” he offered.

  She bit her lip. “But maybe it’s not enough to run Collingwood Boots. Abe told me he hasn’t taken any salary for his work in over six months, and I’m sure he will need to order supplies. And we still have to pay Carl Ness for all those purchases we made at the mercantile yesterday.”

  “Marianne, I can’t think on an empty stomach. Let’s go back to the restaurant and get some breakfast.”

  “Couldn’t we eat these cookies instead?”

  “Don’t you want some coffee?”

  “Well…if I could have six more of those cookies I could do without coffee.”

  Lance was so relieved at finding his wife and having a perfectly normal conversation with her, that he took Marianne’s arm and piloted her back to the bakery. When they entered, Charlie popped up from behind the display case. “Want more cookie?”

  “Six more,” Lance said. “And…” He surveyed the shelves of delectable-looking offerings.

  “Cupcakes,” Marianne announced. “Chocolate ones.”

  “One for each?” Charlie asked.

  “Three,” Marianne said decisively. “We can take one to Abe. And one for Sammy, that makes four.”

  “You think Sammy might work for Abe?”

  “Yes, don’t you?”

  Lance nodded. Uncle Charlie wrapped up the cupcakes and half a dozen molasses cookies, handed them over the counter to Lance and pocketed the coins.

  “If Sammy works with Abe I think we should pay him,” Lance pointed out when they were outside. “That will cut into the money left in the bank.”

  “Maybe it can’t be helped,” she said. “It’s clear to me that we need to sell more boots than Abe can make by himself. Otherwise, the business will go under.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Lance, I am responsible for the success of this business now.” She spun away and quick-marched on down the sidewalk.

  He felt as if a big bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head. He caught up with her and yanked her around to face him. “Hold on a damn minute, Marianne! Don’t you mean we are responsible for the business? Both of us own Collingwood Boots. Or had you forgotten our bargain?”

  Her face changed. “Oh. Yes, of course I remember our bargain, Lance.”

  He gritted his teeth. “Yeah? Well, you reacted like you would have back in St. Louis when you were running Mrs. Schneiderman’s boardinghouse. But you’re not back at Mrs. Schneiderman’s, Marianne. You’re here in Smoke River. With me.”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” she said. Her voice sounded subdued.

  “And we are running this business together, like we agreed. Aren’t we?”

  She nodded, and they walked on in tense silence for a dozen steps until Sammy Greywolf drove past them with Marianne’s trunk loaded in the back of his wagon. The boy grinned and saluted, then rattled on past, kicking up dust in the road, and turned the corner.

  Marianne picked up her pace. “Lance, let’s hurry. I packed a coffeepot in my trunk, and I suddenly have the wildest desire to eat my cupcake in my very own kitchen. Now, I want you to—”

  “Marianne, you’re doing it again,” Lance said. “You’re giving me orders!”

  Marianne clamped her mouth shut. He was right. Would she ever conquer the impulse to just snap out orders without thinking? For most of her life, that was how she had survived, by being decisive. By taking charge. But now…she had to get used to having a partner. Now that she and Lance were married, she had to remind herself she was only half of a team.

  She swallowed. She had more than a partner; she had a husband. She wondered not only whether she…they…could ever in a million years learn to run a boot-making business, but… She swallowed again. She was too used to being on her own. Independent. She wondered if she would ever learn the secrets of a successful marriage.

  They walked on without talking, and by the time they arrived at the shop, Abe and Sammy had manhandled her trunk up the stairs and into their tiny living quarters. Marianne stuffed down her eagerness to start unpacking and went looking for Abe.

  “Abe? We’ve brought you a chocolate cupcake from Uncle Charlie’s.”

  A raspy voice sounded from the shadowy interior of the shop. “C’mon back, Miss Marianne. See where ol’ Abe hangs his hat.”

  With Lance close behind her she picked her way through the shelves of tools and leather scraps, pulled aside a canvas curtain and ducked into a room no bigger than a closet. She stared around her in surprise.

  The space was a marvel of organization, the walls covered with Abe’s possessions hanging on nails—a skillet, an iron griddle, a pair of boots, two worn Stetsons and a red flannel shirt. A blue speckleware coffeepot sat on the tiny stove in the center of the room. Sunlight from a small window fell across a narrow cot with a painted bookshelf nailed in place at the head. It held a small kerosene lamp and a jumble of dime novels.

  “Ain’t never allowed nobody back here,” Abe said. “’Cept I reckon you two are okay, so make yerselves at home.”

  It was like a dollhouse, Marianne thought. So neat and tidy it looked unreal. The plank floor gleamed, and the stove looked so shiny she surmised Abe rubbed it with boot polish.

  “How do you manage in such a tiny space?” she asked.

  “I cook small,” Abe explained. “And I heat up a teakettle of water for doin’ my dishes and washin’ out my duds and takin’ a wash.” He gestured at the speckleware coffeepot. “Care for some coffee?”

  Marianne handed over the bag of cupcakes, and Abe unhooked three china mugs from the wall. “Ain’t got much sit-down room, but…” He gestured for Marianne to seat herself on the cot, which was neatly made up with a thick fur coverlet.

  Abe grinned at them and took a big bite of his cupcake.

  “Now, Miss Marianne, what’s on yer mind this morning? I kin tell yer thinkin’, ’cuz yer face looks all consternated.”

  Lance chuckled. “That’s the best description of Marianne’s face I’ve ever heard.”

  “And yers,” Abe continued with a sly grin, “looks purely constipated.”

  At that, a laugh bubbled out of Marianne’s mouth.

  “So,” Abe went on, wolfing down another bite of his cupcake, “what’s up?”

  “Abe, I checked the bank account this morning. It’s running very low.”

  “Figured as much. I ain’t been spendin’ any money lately, jest fer food and essentials like soap and boot polish, but, as
I told you, pretty soon I gotta send away to Mexico for more cowhides and then there’s tacks and silk thread and a bunch of other stuff, and that’s gonna cost pretty near ever’thing we got saved at the bank. You two got some idee what we outta do?”

  Marianne blinked. Do? She had absolutely no idea what to do. She hadn’t the faintest idea how to bring more money into a business she knew nothing about. She had to admit what she and Lance knew about making boots they could put in a thimble. A very small thimble.

  Nevertheless, she couldn’t let the business fail—it was her inheritance! Well, she amended quickly, hers and Lance’s. It was what she had dreamed of for years, being independent.

  “Abe, what did my uncle do when funds ran low?”

  “Oh, he—Heck, Miss Marianne. Ev’ry time Mr. Collingwood went back to New York, orders started pouring in like maple syrup on a flapjack.” He handed them each a mug of coffee and filled one for himself. “Sorry I don’t got milk. Miz MacAllister’s cow’s goin’ dry. Care for sugar?”

  Marianne shook her head and watched the man dump three heaping spoonfuls of sugar into his cup. It tickled her that Abe had a sweet tooth; she wished they’d brought him more cupcakes.

  “Is Sammy coming back today?” Lance asked suddenly.

  “Dunno. Might do, if his momma don’t need him. Rosie Greywolf works at the restaurant, washin’ dishes. The two of ’em together barely make enough to feed a sparrow.”

  “You think Sammy would be interested in learning the boot-making trade?” Lance asked.

  Abe’s lined face lit up. “Ah shore do think so. Kid could hardly keep his hands off my leather workin’ tools, and he shot questions at me faster’n I could think up answers.”

  Lance caught Marianne’s eye. “Abe, would you like to take him on as an apprentice?”

  “Have to pay ’im,” Abe said slowly. “Ain’t right to work somebody as hard as I’d work ’em for no pay.”

  “If Sammy was helping you, we could make more boots,” Marianne said.

  Lance straightened suddenly. “Could you use me, too? Since I’m part owner—” he sent Marianne a significant glance “—I would work without any wages.”

  Marianne stared at him. “Lance, do you know anything about making boots?”

  “Nope. But a man can learn, can’t he?”

  She had no answer to that. She herself had to learn about the boot-making business.

  “What about it, Abe?” Lance persisted. “Could you train me, too?”

  “Well, I reckon I could, providin’ you’re not too dumb. Making boots ain’t for sissies.”

  “Oh, Lance is certainly not dumb,” Marianne blurted out. “He is very intelligent. And he works hard.”

  “Marianne can vouch for that,” Lance said drily. He raised one eyebrow and sent her a bland smile.

  After a moment she straightened her spine. “And I will come up with a new business plan.”

  “Huh?” Abe snorted. “All by yerself yer gonna think up how to increase orders? Heck, Miss Marianne, you jest got married day before yesterday. Ain’t even unpacked yer fancy trunk yet.”

  “There is nothing fancy in my trunk, Abe. I was a working woman before I ever heard of Smoke River and Uncle Matty’s boot shop, and I didn’t pack fancy things. I packed like a girl who knows about work.”

  “You two sure you don’t want to take some time before you leap into this? Maybe have yerselves a honeymoon?”

  Marianne and Lance locked gazes. “I’m sure,” she said. Lance sent her a long, intense look, and then he nodded.

  Abe rolled his eyes and poured more coffee.

  While Lance and Abe discussed leather and boot-making, Marianne climbed the stairs to the apartment and spent the rest of the day unpacking her trunk, stowing the pots and pans and dishes and towels she had shipped from St. Louis on the shiny scrubbed shelves and in the cabinets in the kitchen and shaking the wrinkles out of her work skirts.

  When she came to the bed linens, the sheets and embroidered pillowcases she had saved in her hope chest all these years, her hands fell to her sides. There was only one bed, the narrow cot under the front window. She propped both hands on her hips and stared at it. Why on earth had she not noticed how small it was? She shook out one muslin sheet, spread it over the cot and tucked in the corners. Now what?

  At the hotel she and Lance had managed to sleep next to each other without touching, but here? On this tiny cot? It would never be big enough.

  She stood for a moment in the open door, listening to the voices of Abe and Lance floating from the shop below. Then, with a final look at the narrow cot, she slipped down the stairs and headed for the mercantile.

  *

  Carl Ness tore his gaze from the newspaper spread on the counter and gave her a thin-lipped smile. “Miss—uh… Miz Burnside, what can I do for you?”

  “Good morning, Mr. Ness. Have you a Montgomery Ward catalog?”

  “Yep.” He bent, fished a thick volume from a shelf under the counter and slapped it down next to his newspaper. “You want something I don’t carry here at the mercantile?”

  “I—” Oh, this was embarrassing! “That is, we… Mr. Burnside and myself, are in need of a—” she drew in a fortifying breath “—a bed.”

  The graying eyebrows rose. “Your living quarters over the boot shop don’t have a bed?”

  “Well, yes, there is a bed of sorts, but—” she sucked in another gulp of air “—it is very narrow. More like a cot, in fact.”

  Mr. Ness pursed his lips, but Marianne saw the telltale smile he tried to hide. “Not, um, big enough, huh?”

  “N-no.”

  He riffled through the catalog and flipped it open at the section featuring home furnishings, then turned it around to face her. Marianne bent over the page and read the extremely small type. “Heavy iron bedstead with brass rod and knobs, finished in white enamel.”

  But it was only four feet wide! In fact, the largest bed in the catalog was only four feet wide. That would allow scarcely two feet of sleeping space for each of them. The bed in their hotel room was larger than that, and all at once she realized why. That bed was wider because it was two single beds shoved together. So if they butted the cot up to a regular-sized double bed, it would be as wide as the one in their hotel room.

  “Mr. Ness, if I ordered a bed today, how long will it take for it to reach Smoke River?”

  Before the proprietor could answer, a bell jangled and the mercantile door banged open. In swept a large, bosomy woman wearing a bright yellow calico print dress and a red hat so swathed in bird feathers Marianne half expected it to burst into song.

  Mr. Ness groaned under his breath. “Be right with you, Miz Ridley.”

  The woman bustled up to the counter and craned her neck to see the open catalog page Marianne had spread before her. “Ordering something, dearie?”

  Carl Ness earned Marianne’s everlasting gratitude by reaching over and snapping the volume shut.

  “It could take a few weeks from today depending on what other orders they have to fill,” he said, practically whispering. “Furniture comes from Chicago by rail, but in Omaha they unload it and freight it over the mountains by wagon.”

  Mrs. Ridley tilted her head, all the better to hear what was being said.

  “You wanna order the bed?” the proprietor murmured.

  “A bed!” Mrs. Ridley chirped. “How nice.”

  “It’s for Abe, over at Collingwood’s shop,” Mr. Ness said quickly. He sent Marianne a surreptitious wink and patted the closed catalog. “I’ll add a mattress,” he whispered. “Need any pillows?”

  Marianne nodded and held up two fingers.

  Mrs. Ridley stepped closer, inspected the closed catalog and gave a loud huff before heading down the garden tool aisle.

  Carl Ness leaned over the counter toward Marianne. “Watch out for that woman, Miz Burnside. Eugenia Ridley’s the biggest busybody in town.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ness. I will be back tomorrow to buy our fo
od supplies for the week.”

  “You can send your husband or Abe over with a list, ma’am. I’ll load everything up and Sammy Greywolf can drive it over in his wagon.”

  Before she left the mercantile, she bought five yards of blue gingham to make curtains for the windows, a thick pad of notepaper and seven pencils. On impulse she added a small folding screen. Mr. Ness said he would deliver the screen himself after he closed up the shop.

  On her way out the door Marianne watched Eugenia Ridley sweep up to the counter and thumb through the Montgomery Ward catalog on the counter. The town busybody, was she? Thanks to Mr. Ness, the woman would never know about her separate bed sleeping arrangements with Lance. In a small town like this, that would make rich fodder for gossip.

  She headed back to the shop and had just turned on to Maple Street when a thought stopped her in her tracks. A few weeks! Whatever would they do while they waited a few weeks for the other half of their bed to arrive? And what of the nights? Sleeping next to Lance on the large bed in their hotel room had been awkward, to say the least. But now they weren’t in the hotel.

  Now… She closed her eyes. Now their bed was one single narrow cot. A very narrow cot.

  All at once she gave a guilty start. She had liked sleeping next to Lance. And she had to acknowledge something else, something that had happened at their wedding. When the minister had invited Lance to kiss the bride, she had anticipated a light peck on the cheek. She certainly hadn’t expected him to really kiss her. That was for two people who loved each other, not for two people who were embarking on a business arrangement and a marriage of convenience.

  But he had kissed her, really kissed her, and at that moment something unexpected had happened. His lips were firm and warm, and their gentle pressure on her mouth sent a sweet, insistent heat flowing through her entire body. She had stopped breathing, and her heart had slammed hard against her rib cage. And then…

  She shivered at the memory of what happened next. Then she had kissed him back! Whatever had she been thinking to do something so bold?

  The truth was she had not been thinking. She had simply been reacting. And that was so unlike her ordinarily dry-as-day-old-bread self it gave her pause. She caught her breath. And, oh, my goodness, had she really stood up from the bathtub in front of him without a stitch on?