Marry Me (4 page)

But it explained why she’d come there. Husband hunting—yeah, that made sense. Maybe she’d gotten herself good and compromised back home and been shipped where women were scarce enough that men couldn’t be quite so picky about details of a bride’s past.

Well, she was a fine enough looking woman, if you liked them pale and little and proper. She should snag some poor sucker in no time—the sooner, the better, as far as Jake was concerned. Though he’d have to check into whether the guy had a claim of his own or planned on hitching on to hers. Didn’t look like he’d be much trouble to scare off if it came to that.

Jake plopped onto the chair he’d arranged specifically to provide a perfect view of her front door, grabbed the first book of the stack he’d picked up in McGyre, and settled in to wait. He’d let them nibble—she looked like she’d nibble—their meal in peace, he decided charitably, before he went poking around to see what was up.

Turned out he didn’t have to poke at all. Three chapters later the pair of them headed straight for him, her gloved hand tucked proprietarily in the crook of the suit’s arm.

Jake tucked his finger in his book to hold his place. She was looking quite pleased with herself, but the guy appeared a little pale around the edges. He wondered if she’d somehow talked the poor fellow into throwing Jake bodily off the land; he hoped she’d made it well worth his while, considering the bruises the poor sap was likely to earn in the process.

The guy didn’t look any more impressive up close; his neck couldn’t have been bigger than Jake’s wrist, his skin darn near as pale as hers. It was downright insulting that she considered this lowly specimen a fair match for him.

The guy shot her an uncertain look. She smiled sweetly at him, patted his arm in encouragement, and Jake could practically see the man grow half a foot, puffing up in her admiration. It really was not a credit to his sex, Jake thought in disgust, that they were so easily manipulated by a woman’s smile. Even though it really was a fine specimen of a smile, one that seemed to generate its own sunshine. The effect had to be calculated, but it looked as genuine as if it’d sprung generously from a warm heart.

“I’m Imbert Longnecker.” The man cleared his throat. “The land agent for this district.”

Jake lifted a deliberate brow. “Yeah?”

“Emily here…ah”—he cleared his throat, plunged on—“Miss Bright, well, it seems as if there’s some disagreement over the ownership of this land. But I assure you the legalities are indisputable. I recorded Miss Bright’s claim myself and there can be no question of her clear title.”

“Well, now,
that
place you’re standing, right over there, that’s hers all right. Least it will be, if she manages to stick it out.” He let that comment hang long enough to imply he considered that outcome extremely doubtful. “But this, right here, this is on the Blevinses’ side of the line.”

“What?” Miss Bright—what a name, he wondered if she’d picked it herself—dropped the besotted fool’s arm as if it burned her.

“Yup.” Jake pointed toward the shack. “You see, Mr. Longnecker,
I
built that place. I put it all the way over here, almost to the property line, because it was closer to the nearest stream that way. Figured on saving myself some carrying until we got a well drilled. But this”—he tapped the ground with his foot—“this here belongs to Joe Blevins. Paid him five bucks to let me camp here for as long as I wanted. I figure I’m a good three feet this side of the property line.”

“I—” Longnecker looked down at Miss Bright, whose mouth was open in surprise, bright flags of color high on her cheeks as if she’d painted them there. “You won’t mind if I check my maps, make a few calculations, do you?” he asked, patting her hand consolingly, trying to salvage the role of hero as best he could.

“Be my guest.” Poor sap. Miss Bright didn’t strike him as the sort who’d make playing hero worth a man’s while. Best old Imbert there was going to get out of the deal was a slice of homemade pie—and she was too thin-hipped to be much of a cook.

The two of them trotted back to the buggy. He dug around awhile, dragged out a whole sheaf of papers and maps, and proceeded to study them. Miss Bright stood on her tiptoes and craned her neck over his shoulder, as if she might discover something the land agent would miss, ensuring a decision in her favor.

Then again, he thought, frowning, if she kept cuddling up against Longnecker like that the agent might side with her anyway. Jake knew damn well he was on the right side of the line; he’d checked it a half-dozen times to be sure.

Well, if they tried to claim otherwise, they’d get more than they bargained for in him. Maybe he’d even enjoy the fight. There’d been a time when he had—or the young man he’d been then had; that man seemed more a stranger than Longnecker now.

He got bored watching them dither over the maps, returned to his book, and sped through another two chapters before the agent climbed back on his buggy and snapped the reins over his horse. He slumped on the seat, and even his jaunty black hat seemed to droop lower than when he’d arrived.

It was most uncharitable of Jake to be so amused by the man’s predicament. Hell, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t done a dumb thing or two in his time for wanting a woman. He should have more sympathy.

But it wouldn’t keep him from prodding Miss Bright a bit. He ambled toward where she stood waving after the departing buggy with what, in his opinion, was overdone enthusiasm.

She broke off flapping and met him halfway.

“You did that on purpose.”

“Did what?” He tucked his thumbs in his pockets and shifted his weight to one hip.

“You could have told me. Could have explained that you weren’t on my land and saved me dragging Mr. Longnecker all the way out here.”

“Somehow I don’t think he minded. Besides, it didn’t come up. Hardly my fault that you assumed I’d engaged in an illegal activity, Miss Bright.”

“Very well. A life lesson well learned. From now on I’ll assume nothing, Mr. Sullivan. But in the interests of fair play, I’ll give you a friendly warning to do the same.”

“Nobody’s called me Mr. Sullivan in a long time. Jake’ll do.” He frowned. “How’d you find out?”

She winced, as if caught snitching from the cookie jar. “It’s written in some of your books.” Without the hat, her brown hair gleamed in the sun, reflecting like still water. “Speaking of which, I should get those back to you. I’ll go pack them up, bring them over to—”

“It’s not necessary.”

“I don’t mind.”

“No point in it. I’ll just have to move them back in when I do. Might as well leave them there for now. I’ve got enough to hold me for a week or two.”

She glared as if she thought the look would make him cower. Amusing, and he hadn’t been amused in such a long time it would almost be worth keeping her around for a while. “I’m not giving up.” And then she left him, with a flip of her skirts, a toss of hair, leaving a sweet drift of soap and lavender water in her wake.

“We’ll see,” he murmured, very nearly smiling.

So much for the easy part. From this point the letter got considerably more difficult. However, she simply couldn’t put it off much longer. She truly did not want Kate to worry—though in all honesty, Kate would worry no matter what Emily wrote. But how to blunt it a little…she’d given a lot of serious consideration to the matter and had yet to come up with a good solution.

But for Kate to receive a routine letter from Anthea and thus discover not only that Emily hadn’t shown up there but that Anthea didn’t expect her would naturally cause worrying of truly epic proportions. Emily hoped her letter would scale it back to Kate’s ordinary, everyday worrying.

First, Kate, before you go any further you must promise me you will read this entire letter through without panicking. No, not yet! Stop here. Promise me.

Now then…no, no, uncross your fingers. Every word before you make up your mind.

I’m not in Colorado. But I am perfectly safe and comfortable—there’s no bandit holding a gun to my head forcing me to write this, no wild Indians hammering at my door. I am absolutely, positively, not only safe but exactly where I want to be. Truthfully, the utter lack of high adventure thus far has me slightly disappointed.

There now, breathe. It’ll be all right. It
is
all right, though perhaps not what you would have chosen for me. Well, I know what you would have chosen for me, but I decided it was about time for me to do the choosing.

I’m in Montana. Yes, Montana, on my very own claim, in my very own house, snug as a bug, excited over this new stage in my life…in our lives. This homesteading is the simplest thing: choose a claim, pay a few dollars, sit tight until the land is yours, and then sell it for a tidy profit. Really, I don’t know why everyone doesn’t do it.

Sit right back down now, Kate. I mean it! I know you’re halfway to booking a ticket here but really, there is no need. I’m perfectly safe. My claim came complete with a furnished house—yes, my luck is holding well. My neighbors are congenial, the landscape astoundingly scenic. But this place is a tad rustic for your tastes. You know that has never bothered me, I like things simple. But you would go stark mad in a week. There’s no place to shop, there’s no one to draw you a bath, and I’m too busy settling in to entertain you. Give me a few months and I’ll welcome you happily, but please, give me those few months.

Until then…dearest sister, you are free! I know, I know, you have always claimed that caring for me all these years was more for your sake than mine, that the sacrifice was none at all. I even mostly believe you. But now, with the doctor’s death and my new endeavor it is time for you to have one of your own! Have a glorious affair, take a fabulous trip, break those dozens of hearts you know you could. I’m grown now, though you are loath to admit it, and you are still young enough to enjoy a great adventure of your own. Find it, my dear. Find it.

Montana stoked up the heat. Summer blasted away the last, soft vestiges of spring. The grass lost its fresh hue, the earth its soft give. It hardly rained in the ten days Emily had been in Montana, and she was weary enough of hauling buckets of water from the creek that she was getting mighty frugal with the stuff. She hoped to heavens her letter would dissuade Kate from coming; just the thought of Kate without plenty of water made her shudder.

She’d propped open the front door and peeled the flap back from the window, hoping for a friendly stray breeze. Even the stingiest fire notched the temperature up, but one could be content with cheese and stale crackers for supper for only so long.

The air was marginally cooler by the door, and she leaned against the frame. Almost immediately
he
looked up, his gaze simmering across the space between them for a long moment before he returned his attention to his book.

He slouched in his chair, which she still expected to shatter beneath his bulk the next time he sat down. The charred remains of the fire that he almost never lit darkened the ground. A burst of wind sent the doorway to his tent flapping.

He read with furious concentration, shoulders hunched, eyes hidden beneath the wild fringe of his hair. Once in a while she’d see him erupt from his chair and spring across the land at a breakneck pace, as if he couldn’t contain his energy any longer and had to release it in one wild surge. He’d return, sometimes hours later, panting, throw himself down on the bare ground, and fall into a sleep that seemed little more restful than his run.

But mostly he was just there, relentlessly, impatiently waiting. And unfailingly, as soon as she glanced out the window to see if he was still there, he’d lift his gaze as if somehow alerted to her attention.

At first it infuriated her. Then it annoyed her. Now he was simply there, as much a part of the landscape as the shivering grass and the stunted box elders atop the next rise.

As she watched, he balanced his book on his knee, reached over, and grabbed a can out of a nearby crate. Without even looking to see what he’d unearthed, he pried off the lid. He tipped his head back, shook something from the can into his mouth, and chewed while he read.

Emily frowned. That was no way to have dinner. It had to be exceedingly unhealthful to subsist on tinned food. Not to mention that a man of that size surely required more fuel than most. And Emily believed that proper digestion required both attention to one’s meal and congenial atmosphere and companions. Mr. Sullivan failed on all count

She reminded herself firmly that it was not her problem. Rather, she should hope that starvation drove him to the nearest city and away from her.

In any case, her own supper must be nearly done. Heat boiled from the tiny oven when she cranked open the door, carrying the warm scent of biscuits.

Perfect. It had taken her a few days to get the hang of cooking on the thing, but really, it was a shame there was no one around to admire her skill.

She’d planned to finish the biscuits over the next couple of days, but they really were best warm. And the pot of stew, made from the rabbit the Blevinses, her new neighbors, had brought her when they came to visit on Sunday, was far more than she could finish in the next few days.

She grabbed a tin plate, plopped a hefty ladle of stew in the middle, rimmed the edge with a half dozen biscuits, and headed out before she could change her mind.

He glanced up again the instant she stepped out the door, and she felt the focused intensity of his regard. No emotion, not even curiosity, revealed itself on his face. But then he could have been smiling like a child at Christmas behind that great bush of a beard and she couldn’t tell.

“Here,” she said when she gained his side, thrusting the plate at him.

For a long moment she thought he might ignore her completely. Finally he set the book aside. “What’s this?”

“I made too much. Thought you might like some.”

His gaze slid up to her. His eyes were so dark they were almost black, handsomely shaped, with lashes as thick as his hair. It was all she could do not to shift under his wary inspection, and she forced her smile wider.

“Why?” he asked.

“It’s no more complicated than I told you.” At least she didn’t think it was, and she didn’t want him prodding her into looking any deeper. “You’re a suspicious sort, aren’t you?”

“Maybe I am.” A trait he’d learned well and painfully, Jake thought.

He half expected her to take her peace offering and dash on home. Hell, he would have; he’d deliberately been a far sight less than friendly. She’d have to be desperate for company to find his desirable.

But she didn’t seem desperate about anything. More like unnaturally cheerful. She sang—badly—as she fetched water. She whistled as she attempted to tack the loose tar paper back on the walls, even when it took three tries. And, always, she smiled, the same sunshiny smile she bestowed on him right now.

Her permanent and extreme cheerfulness had to be the oddest form of mental deformity he’d ever run across. There was no other explanation for it.

Accepting the plate seemed a bigger surrender than it should, softening their uncompromising antagonism. He really should show her on her way. Make her understand that he couldn’t be bribed by something as cheap as biscuits. But damn, they smelled good, and he was getting awful tired of cold beans.

So he grabbed the plate and figured he owed her something back. “You been busy. Lots of visitors.”

She blinked in surprise. “Was that a conversational gambit?”

“Hey, miracles happen sometimes.”

Her smile dimmed a bare fraction. He figured it had to go away once in a while, but this was as close to solemn as he’d ever seen her. “Do you believe in them?”

Had he ever believed in miracles? The concept was as foreign to him as flying to the moon, the word he’d mouthed a meaningless combination of random letters. “No.”

How’d she do that? he wondered. Make her smile brighten while her eyes went soft and sad with sympathy?

“Did you ever?” she asked.

“I can’t recall.”

“But—”

“You’re not the sort to leave something well enough alone, are you?”

She laughed then, rich and raucous. How odd that there was nothing at all ladylike about Emily Bright’s laugh. “No. You’d do well to take note of that, too.” She gestured at the plate. “You should eat. Before it gets cold.”

“Eat right in front of you, when you’re not? That wouldn’t be too polite of me, would it?”

She plopped her fists on her hips, tried to scowl at him. “You’re not trying to get out of tasting it, are you? I didn’t poison it, I swear.”

He picked up the biscuit, tore into it, and nearly groaned aloud in pleasure. “It’s good,” he said in outrageous understatement. “When you give up homesteading, you can get a job as a cook, no problem.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“If you’re trying to look threatening,” he told her, “you’re failing miserably.”

She squinted further before giving up with a laugh. “I know. It’s a curse; try as I might, I look as innocuous as a kitten.”

“You just
look
harmless?”

“Only look. I’ve got nasty claws, and don’t you forget it.”

“Uh-huh.” He popped the rest of the biscuit in his mouth. “Heck,
I’ll
hire you, if everything you make is as good as this.” Now why hadn’t he shooed her on her merry way by now? he wondered. He was not given to small talk. Not given to talk, period, when you got right down to it. Even if he were, she wouldn’t be the one he’d be small-talking with. “But for all I know you’re running a restaurant already, for all the people trotting in and out.”

“Hmm.” Speculation lit her eyes.

“Oh no you don’t,” he said warningly.

“Thanks for the suggestion. I was getting worried about scaring up enough cash before I proved up.”

It should have infuriated him. But hell, who could take her seriously? Playing frontier girl might be all fun and games right now, but the instant winter grabbed hold, she’d be begging to get out of Montana. And if it didn’t happen that way, well, he’d just have to give her a nudge.

“But I doubt very much you’ll be able to run a restaurant with an obviously dangerous maniac capering outside your front door,” he warned her, but there was no heat behind it.

“Hasn’t stopped the neighbors from coming over so far,” she replied lightly. Teasing him. The concept was strange enough to stun him for a moment. “That was the Blevinses on Sunday. You know them of course. I like her very much; she reminds me a bit of my sister Anthea.”

He started on the stew, half listening to her bright chatter. Whyever she thought that he wanted to hear all about her visitors, he’d no idea. Still, he didn’t want her grabbing her food and running off with it. Listening to her babble was a small price to pay for those biscuits.

“Joe seemed inordinately fond of my chess pie,” she said slyly, “maybe even more than five dollars’ fond.”

“Joe? There’s not a chance he’s giving up a cent and you know it.”

Jesus. Now she was beaming at him with delight, as if immensely proud of his pathetic banter. He’d have to remember not to give her any encouragement, because she clearly took the slightest bit and ran with it.

“And I had Mr. Biskup over on Sunday, too. You do know him; he’s been here since before you came.”

“Yeah, I know him.” Vaguely. Skinny old duffer with a beard down to his waist. At all hours of the day and night, he bounced around on the back of a nag that looked even older than he was, canvas packs piled high behind him like a lumpy throne. They’d passed perhaps three words between them the six months Jake had lived there before.

“He showed me several of his sketches. They’re quite remarkable. But then I imagine you know that.”

“Sketches?” he asked without thinking.

“You didn’t know he was an artist?” She looked as shocked as if he’d up and confessed a penchant for rolling in the mud. Obviously the idea of living next to somebody for more than a day and not knowing all about them was abhorrent to her. He should be grateful she’d spared him that long.

Maybe, he thought bleakly, if they’d had company as often as she did, formed friendships there, Julia wouldn’t have felt so alone.

Ruthlessly he pushed the memory away. He’d wallowed in what-ifs for a long time and it hadn’t helped one bit. He’d come back there because it was time to try another way. He’d put this place to rest one way or the other.

He glanced up to find her studying him, her mouth and eyes sober, as even he already knew they seldom were. “He mentioned you.”

“Did he,” Jake said flatly, hoping it’d be warning enough.

“He said you came with your wife then. Where is she?” Emily asked. And there, thought Emily, was all the emotion he never allowed to surface. Grief, oceans of it, deep, dark, turbulent, welling up from where it lived inside him, fresh as if born yesterday, old as if it’d been there forever.