by Amy Sandas
Since reading her fiancé’s misdirected letter, she had struggled to maintain her trust in the idealistic belief that even the most difficult situations worked out all right in the end. Every time the journey became challenging, she’d had to remind herself it was exactly what she’d wanted. She had wanted to test herself, to have an adventure, to discover what it was to be truly independent.
Closing her eyes, she rested her head back against the high sofa cushion.
Well, she had certainly been tested.
Was it truly possible that she and the cowboy had been married?
She knew it was. The civil ceremony had been short and odd, but nothing suggested it hadn’t been legal.
Only until tomorrow, she reminded herself when panic started to tighten her chest. Until then, she remained an uneasy guest in the home of a stranger. A stranger who had rather underhandedly taken her before a judge and married her.
He’d married her! Why on earth had he done that?
As though thinking of the man had summoned him, the front door of the house opened on slightly squeaky hinges. Booted steps sounded on the wooden floor in a long, determined stride that approached the parlor.
Courtney had already adjusted her position to sit at the edge of the sofa with her legs pressed together from her thighs to her instep beneath the brightly colored skirt. Her spine was straight and immovable, despite the lack of a corset. She had angled her head to train a steady, imperious gaze at the man the moment he came through the door.
She knew it would be him.
But she had no idea the sight of him would send her insides into such a flurry of activity.
It had to be her righteous fury that shortened her breath as her stomach executed a wild spinning free fall. It was her indignation that had her clenching her teeth against the urge to lick suddenly dry lips.
He stopped right there in the doorway. Not stepping into the parlor to join her, yet not passing by either.
His light eyes found her and, after only the most abbreviated glance at her altered appearance, locked upon her face.
Oh, how she wished she was dressed in her usual finery with her hair elaborately coiffed and her most elegant jewels around her neck and dripping from her ears. She would employ every trick she’d ever learned, every nuance she’d ever observed amongst her acquaintances, to demonstrate who she was, where she came from, and just how big a mistake he’d made in forcing her into such a situation.
But she was on her own, having cut ties to all those social trappings.
They stared at each other in silence while Courtney couldn’t help but notice how very different he was from the men she was accustomed to. It wasn’t just his rugged, casual attire, though she marveled at the way his slightly faded denim pants formed to his long legs. And the cotton shirt he wore did nothing to conceal the lean strength of his torso, his wide shoulders, or his taut, muscled arms. It was more than the dusty leather gloves on his hands or the sturdy belt encircling his hips or the wide-brimmed hat that he still wore despite having stepped indoors.
It was in his expression. There was a confrontational sort of self-assurance in the hard lines of his jaw, nose, and brow. The slight hollowness of his cheeks and the firm press of his lips suggested he was not a man to mince words or offer platitudes. And his eyes—those light, piercing eyes of his—were filled with bold, unwavering confidence.
Their mutual staring began to feel uncomfortable, but Courtney was not about to speak first. Not that she didn’t have a lot to say—far more than the man was likely prepared to hear—but she was not going to offer the common courtesy of communication until he provided her with a much-needed apology.
After a few more extended breaths, the cowboy gave a short, irritated sigh and lowered his gaze as he removed his worn and dirty gloves. Gathering them in one hand, he smacked them once against his thigh, sending dust up into the air, where it floated down to what had been a nicely cleaned floor, before he tucked both gloves into his belt. “I don’t want a wife.”
Courtney blinked.
Those were not the first words she had expected to hear from him.
I am sorry.
I have made a dreadful mistake.
Will you please forgive my rash and reckless behavior?
All would have been fine and proper choices.
This—this declaration uttered in such a curt, irrevocable tone—instantly got under her skin.
Though fury burned through her blood, she was determined not to repeat her earlier tirade—as liberating as it had been—and did not alter her expression in any way. When she replied, despite the sparks of temper glowing fierce within her, her tone was as flat and emotionless as the one her mother perpetually maintained. “Is it common around here for men to force innocent, unsuspecting women into marriages they themselves do not want?”
He swept his hat off his head and tossed it onto a table set against the wall, almost disrupting a vase of flowers. He shoved his hand back through sandy-brown hair that had fallen over his forehead. “You were in a wedding dress, for God’s sake.”
She rounded on that point. There was no way she would allow him to turn this back on her. “That is another thing. What if I had been a woman seeking to become a bride? You married me thinking that to be the case, and yet you never intended to honor the union.” His features tensed, but he did not reply. “No matter how you look at it, your behavior was reprehensible.”
Clearly, he was not accustomed to having his actions questioned or criticized. Frustration flashed in his gaze, but he did not try to defend himself.
Because he knew she was right?
Courtney rose to her feet, no longer able to contain the seething energy running through her body. Carefully leveling her tone, she said, “Did it never occur to you that I might have been fleeing a wedding, not running toward one? I assure you, Mr. Lawton, I did not jump through a window, betray my family’s trust, sell my grandmother’s pearls, and ride thousands of miles on a train and then a dusty coach to marry a rude and reckless cowboy. I was trying to avoid becoming a bride. Thank you so very much for so effectively ruining my efforts.”
His expression darkened during her outburst, but his eyes never left her face. There was something in the way he looked at her that tripped over nerves already frazzled beyond belief. When he spoke, his words were low, almost soothing. “It’ll be taken care of tomorrow.”
The confidence in his statement and the steady focus of his gaze had her feeling suddenly as if she had just blown the situation out of proportion. But her temper had risen too high to accept that as she completely gave up on maintaining an even tone to unleash her anger and frustration in a far more satisfying way.
“Indeed,” she declared sharply. “Until then, I would like to make something quite clear. Though I seem to have no choice but to stay in this house until morning, I will not consent to your presence as well. You may take yourself off to wherever else you’d like to go, but you will not remain with me.”
She realized fleetingly that she should feel some shame for speaking her mind so freely, but it felt too wonderful, and frankly, he deserved it. She had only a moment to indulge in her satisfaction at having put him in his place when he left his position in the doorway and started toward her with slow, long strides.
Courtney refused to retreat, though every nerve in her body sparked to life at his approach. Instead, she lifted her chin and allowed all her righteous indignation to shine in her eyes.
The cowboy stopped just short of towering over her, and his proximity—the earthy male scent of him, combined with the strength of his presence within the confines of the small parlor—had a rather distinctive effect on her. She experienced an instant rise in body temperature that brought an unwelcome rush of warmth to her cheeks while her belly tensed with unexpected trepidation.
Looking into her eyes, he replied in that l
ow and soothing voice, “Now it’s my turn to make something clear. You can make all the demands you want, princess, but I take orders from no one. Tomorrow, we’ll go to town and dissolve this marriage as I said we would. But I will sleep in my own damn bed. If that doesn’t meet with your approval, you are welcome to make use of the barn.”
Courtney gasped. Her eyes narrowed as she met his stern gaze. “You are no gentleman.”
His mouth tilted into something not quite a smile. Even knowing it was not an expression of humor or pleasure, Courtney found herself momentarily fascinated by the way the movement softened his hard-lined mouth and added intriguing curves where they hadn’t been.
“I never claimed to be.”
“Tomorrow will not come soon enough,” she breathed.
Something flickered in his gaze. “Yeah, well…” he said in a roughened tone. “At least for tonight, you’ll have to endure my limited hospitality. Be ready at dawn.”
Then he turned and strode from the room, leaving Courtney gaping after him.
As his booted steps retreated down the hallway, she released a heavy puff of breath and dropped back onto the sofa. Fanning herself with one hand, she lifted her lemonade with the other. The heat of her anger still boiled beneath her skin.
How had he managed to get the last word?
It was his sort-of, almost smile. She had allowed it to distract her at the moment when she should have been the most on guard.
That would not happen again.
Chapter Seven
Dean stormed down the hallway with long strides.
Damn. He still hadn’t gotten the woman’s name.
It didn’t matter. She’d be long gone after tomorrow.
He’d already decided to help her get the rest of the way to meet up with her friend. Though he was sorely tempted to change his mind after that scene in the parlor, he’d see the task done. He figured he owed it to her, even though she made it damn hard to feel bad for her.
Jesus! He had never seen a woman with such an all-fired temper. Even when she was talking slow and keeping her voice real even, he could see the fire blazing in her eyes.
He’d been a bit surprised at first to see her dressed as she was. Jimena must have gotten some of Pilar’s clothes for the woman to borrow. Wearing the bright skirt and loose blouse, with her fiery hair drawn back in a simple braid, she presented a very different picture than she had earlier, when she’d been encased in her many-layered and stiffly corseted bridal getup.
She almost looked pretty.
No. That was a lie.
She wasn’t pretty. She was beautiful. Just not in the way he typically admired. With that dramatic hair contrasting with her fair complexion, the tilt of her striking eyes, and the lushness of her coral-colored lips, she was a sight to be sure. It was her attitude he detested.
And that couldn’t be softened by a change of clothes.
She’d sat and stared at him with the same prim and self-important bearing he recognized from the faint recollections he had of his mother. This woman and Roseanne Lawton were cut from the same cloth. Spoiled, pampered, selfish, and ill-prepared for when life got tough.
He shook his head to clear away any more thoughts on the woman. Or his mother.
The rich scents of supper simmering in the kitchen spurred an ache of hunger in his belly. He needed to bathe and dress before dinner. Jimena did not suffer dirt and dust at the table.
As Dean saw it, the best thing that had come from his brother’s rash, impulsive decision to marry Pilar on that drive down to Texas was that her mother had traveled up to Montana with them. For a household that had seen only men for the last two decades, having a woman around who loved to cook was a damned blessing. It was a good thing there was always so much work to do around the ranch, or Dean would have gotten fat from the delicious meals Jimena dished up.
He stepped into the bathing room and was instantly hit by the steamy scent of mint and citrus.
The idea of that tall, slim redhead stripping down naked in this room not long ago had Dean’s shoulders drawing up as his stomach muscles tensed. A flashing image of her pale skin slathered with soap bubbles and nothing else shot through his brain, causing an instant reaction below the belt. Everything in his body tightened up.
He kicked the door shut behind him, then strode forward to pump fresh water into the tub. A cold bath would do him good.
* * *
His bride managed to avoid him for the rest of the night, staying upstairs in the bedroom she’d claimed down the hall from his own. He wasn’t so lucky with his brother and his family. Though Randall and Pilar had a fine working kitchen in their house beyond the eastern horse pasture, they’d decided, along with Jimena, to intrude upon Dean’s quiet dinner.
It didn’t matter that they took four or five suppers a week together and that Jimena had clearly planned for such a big meal to be shared. It was obvious they had all gathered at his table for one reason only.
Curiosity.
Well, they’d be sorely disappointed. Dean was not in the mood to share the slightest bit of information with any of them.
Randall, of course, couldn’t keep his busy mouth shut. “So, how’s the little woman settling in?”
Dean ignored him as he stuffed a mouthful of food past his teeth.
“Jimena says she’s a real lady. Sweet and polite.”
Dean coughed at that, nearly choking on his tamale.
“Are you sure you wanna take her back before the judge tomorrow? I could take over on the ranch for a while so you could have a bit of a honeymoon.”
Dean didn’t reply right away. It was not the first time Randall had asked for more to do. Though Dean loved his brother—even when he irritated him—he struggled with the idea of passing on any more responsibilities to the younger man. First of all, it’d take precious time he didn’t have to teach Randall what Dean had absorbed on a daily basis from the age of seven. Not to mention his brother’s attention didn’t often stay on one task for long, and Dean worried that Randall’s desire to be more involved in running the place wouldn’t last.
There had been a time when Dean was young that he had envied his brother’s freedom. While Dean had been practically roped to his granddad’s side, learning every aspect of running a cattle ranch the size of the Lawton spread, Randall had been free to run wild. And that’s exactly what he’d done.
Of course, as he got older, Randall had learned to buckle down when necessary. He drove the cattle to market each year, rode out with the cowboys during branding season, and managed to complete any other small task that was sent his way. He just had too much of their dad in him.
Dean couldn’t risk giving his brother more responsibility if there was any chance Randall wouldn’t follow through.
“You’re the foreman,” Dean finally replied. “There’s more than enough for you to do.”
Randall set his fork down and leaned forward over the table. “The boys don’t need me to babysit them. They all know what to do. I’m barely necessary. Maybe, if I helped you out with more of the administration tasks, you’d be freed up to handle that other problem.”
Dean tensed. He really did not need to be reminded of the issue with the slaughtered cattle just now. He had already told Randall and the other cowboys not to bother the women with information on the violent acts. He did not want them getting spooked.
He met Randall’s open expression with a hard look. It took only a moment for Randall to realize his slip, and he lowered his gaze back to his food.
Dean hoped that would be the end of it, but he should have known better.
“So, what exactly do you intend to do about your new bride?” Pilar’s soft-spoken question was accented with Spanish. She had known a good amount of English when she’d met Randall, but they had been teaching each other their respective languages from the moment they me
t so she had become quite proficient.
His brother—not so much, yet.
In the short time the petite Texas woman had been married to Randall, Dean had come to see how she was a perfect balance to his brother. While Randall was impulsive and took nothing seriously, Pilar was thoughtful and patient.
Her question reignited Dean’s shame in having acted so rashly in marrying the redhead on sight. He met Pilar’s dark-brown eyes. He hated himself for the silence that followed her words, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit his error in judgment.
“See!” Randall shouted with a grin and a dramatic gesture of his fork. “It’s like I told you. For the first time in Dean Lawton’s perfectly structured life, he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing.”
Dean swung his gaze back to his brother as his chest tightened. “Not the first time.”
Knowing exactly what Dean was referring to, Randall replied in a lower but no less insistent tone, “Maybe this marriage is an unexpected blessing. I think this woman could be good for you.”
“Did you even see the woman? She’s used to a far finer life than what we have here. Trust me, the lady wants nothing more than to move on. You’d best get anything else out of your head right now,” Dean said, bringing an end to the discussion. Rising from his chair, he looked at Jimena. “Thank you for the wonderful meal.”
Before anyone else could say anything in response, he left the dining room, taking his dirty dishes with him to the kitchen. Then left the house altogether. He kept walking until he reached the barn. Stepping into the familiar hazy shadows, he made his way down the center aisle between the stalls as every now and then a horse nickered or huffed in greeting. At the far end of the barn was his office. Aside from the open range, which he so rarely got to visit these days, this was his last true place of refuge.
He was sick and tired of his brother’s interference. He knew Randall meant well, but Dean was content with how things were. He’d once imagined a different future, but with that no longer possible, he had no desire to start yearning for anything else.