The Bride Raffle (5 page)

I
mpatiently, Élodie pushed her way through the crowd at the train depot. While Mrs. Archer had been perfectly content to remain at the rear of the platform whispering something about remaining “inconspicuous” for a while, Élodie couldn’t
wait
to catch a glimpse of the woman of the hour: Miss Daisy Walsh.

Like Misses Reardon and O’Neill, Élodie had followed the coverage of Miss Walsh’s work in the
Pioneer Press.
So had Mrs. Archer and Mrs. Sunley. To a woman, they’d all agreed that her arrival in Morrow Creek presented a perfect opportunity to change things for the better for Papa and Élodie.

Eager to seize that opportunity, Élodie jumped up on her tiptoes to see what was happening. Ahead at the dais, the newspaper editor waved a raffle ticket. He spoke loudly and proudly. “And the winner is…” A pause. “…Owen Cooper!”

Excellent.
Everything was proceeding according to plan. Élodie smiled, then glanced over her shoulder. As she’d expected, Mrs. Archer had followed in her wake. The two of them
maneuvered through the crowd. Élodie had a slightly easier time of it, though, since she was smaller and sprightlier.

That’s why she was first on the scene—first to see Daisy Walsh, standing in a green plaid dress. Élodie couldn’t glimpse her face, but she could see that Miss Walsh’s hair was blond. It was arranged at the back of her head, twisted and pinned in a simple style. She had a curled forehead fringe, Élodie noticed.

She came closer, then ducked between two women…just in time to see Miss Walsh go down!

A lady nearby cried out. Everyone surged forward. Élodie couldn’t see a thing. Alarmed, she dropped to her knees, then crawled the remaining few feet, heedless of any potential damage to her skirts. Her knees bumped along the platform. She squeezed between a pair of onlookers, then scrambled to her feet.

Mr. Walsh, the newspaper editor, had caught his sister as she fell, Élodie saw. He cradled her in his arms even now, looking concerned. For her part, Miss Walsh only sagged against him in a clearly insensible state. Her limbs were unmoving. Her face, framed by her fetching forehead fringe, looked pale.

Ghostly
pale. Élodie stopped short, startled at the sight.

For a moment, an awful thought occurred to her. Was Miss Walsh
dead?
Had being raffled off to Papa actually
killed
her?

Perhaps being with Papa was deadly to a lady, Élodie reasoned fearfully. After all, her own
maman
had not survived being with Papa. Élodie should
never
have agreed to this plan!

“Make way, everyone.” With authority, Mrs. Archer arrived. She traded knowing glances with Miss Reardon, Miss O’Neill and Mrs. Sunley, then dropped to a crouch beside the newspaper editor and his sister. Mrs. Archer’s gaze passed over
Miss Walsh. Whatever her impression of the cookery-book author, she kept it to herself. “Well done, Mr. Walsh! You’ve behaved quite heroically on your sister’s behalf.” She nodded to the bystanders. “Everyone else, please give us some air.”

Obediently, their friends and neighbors shuffled backward.

Impressed, Élodie nodded. A tiny bit of hopefulness bloomed inside her, wrought by Mrs. Archer’s usual competence. She would make certain that being with Papa wasn’t fatal. Élodie knew it.

“Miss Walsh?” Mrs. Archer inquired gently. She gestured for Mrs. Sunley to fan the woman. “Miss Walsh, can you hear me?”

Miss Walsh’s eyelashes fluttered. She gave no other sign that she heard Mrs. Archer. Frowning, Mr. Walsh gave his sister a gentle shake. If he’d hoped to revive her, it did not work.

A man nearby chuckled. “Looks like Cooper won himself a dud!” he joked. Liquor fumes pervaded his breath. “He won’t be getting no useful wifely duties from a woman like that one.”

“Be quiet, fool!” Miss O’Neill snapped. But as she crouched beside Mrs. Archer—and also fanned Miss Walsh with a folded copy of the
Pioneer Press
—her expression turned grave. “He’s right, Matilda. We may have made a mistake,” she confided to Mrs. Archer. “Look how delicate she is! Only a few minutes here in town, and already she’s plumb keeled over! She’ll never do.”

Miss O’Neill let loose a dissatisfied
tsk-tsk
. Élodie glimpsed Miss Reardon, standing at the ready, wringing her hands as though unsure what to do. For once, she was not making cow eyes at Mr. Walsh. Élodie didn’t know how the newspaper editor couldn’t see that Miss Reardon was sweet on him. Everyone else knew it. It seemed likely to Élodie that getting
silly for a man while his sister was conked out on a train-depot platform was an endeavor doomed to failure. Perhaps Miss Reardon had finally come to the same sensible realization.

“No. She’ll have to do.” Mrs. Sunley delivered her doubtful friend a quelling glance. “She might be puny and weak, but we knew we were getting a bookish easterner, didn’t we? That was all part of the plan.”

Puny? Weak? That was uncalled for! Unexpectedly, Élodie felt quite protective of Miss Walsh. After all, she’d fainted. She could hardly defend herself. Belligerently, Élodie stepped forward. “
I
think she looks nice! And pretty! Not weak at all!”

At Élodie’s outburst all four of her women friends looked at her. They sighed. Then they dropped their pointed gazes to the fallen, insensible Miss Walsh.
Puny,
those gazes said.
Weak.

“She’ll do,” Miss Reardon said. “If she were any better, we’d run the risk of this situation becoming…
permanent
.”

They all frowned, displeased by that idea. Their plan, Élodie knew, was for Miss Walsh and her homemaking expertise to reawaken Papa’s appreciation for womenfolk…and to remind him how nice it might be to have a lady in his life full-time.

Once he remembered all he’d been missing, Papa would quite logically turn his sights to one of the marriageable ladies in Morrow Creek, Mrs. Archer had explained to Élodie. He would settle down with one of them—after Miss Walsh conveniently left town, of course—and Élodie would have a mother again.

It would be easy. And wonderful. Provided Miss Walsh woke up. Maybe she was too puny to inspire Papa’s manly devotion.

“Daisy? Daisy!” Mr. Walsh moaned. He appeared beside himself with worry and altogether indifferent to the women’s
uncomplimentary talk. “Oh, what have I done? It was only a raffle!”

“It was a very wonderful raffle,” Miss Reardon assured him. “Don’t worry about a thing. I’m sure your sister will be fine.”

Trustingly, Mr. Walsh nodded. His spectacles gleamed in the summer sunlight. He stroked his sister’s face, his gaze full of love and distress. He was dedicated to her, Élodie realized. Any woman who could stir up such affection simply
must
be good.

That boded well for Élodie. And especially for Papa.

She began to feel excited about
the plan
again.

“Yes,” Mrs. Archer added. “But we must get Miss Walsh out of this dizzying sunshine and into someplace cooler and calmer.”

Instantly, Élodie recognized her cue. They had not planned this part. But there was only one possible thing to say.

“My papa’s quarters above the stable are cool and calm,” she volunteered in her most innocent tone. “And Papa is the winner of the raffle drawing, too. Why don’t we take Miss Walsh straight there.”

E
ven by midafternoon, Owen had not forgotten what Miss Reardon had said about him on the train-depot platform.

Just because you always believe the worst of everyone,
she’d declared indignantly,
doesn’t mean it’s right!

She’d called him a “hard man,” too. A
hard
man! That, coupled with Thomas Walsh’s reaction to Owen’s questions about the raffle drawing, had left him feeling irritable—and puzzled. Why was
he
the only one in town who was suspicious and untrusting enough to want to shut down the raffle?

Everyone else saw no problem with the event. That much had been unmistakable from Thomas Walsh’s perplexed looks. But Owen saw myriad problems—all of them stemming from men’s baser natures…natures he was all too familiar with. He’d certainly given free rein to his own freewheeling faults more than a time or two.

Renée had thought she could save him from those faults, Owen recalled as he ushered the last of his boarding horses into a stall and shut the gate behind them. She’d certainly
enumerated those faults to him often enough. And she’d done her best to stamp out Owen’s “reprehensible character,” too. But maybe his wife had been wrong. Maybe, even given more time than she’d had, Renée couldn’t have saved Owen. Not from himself.

Maybe, despite all his efforts, he was beyond redemption.

Weighed down by the notion, Owen strode the length of his stable, double-checking all the horses. The beasts nickered. A few nosed him as he passed by. He found a sweet word and a pat for each one, feeling a little better as he made his rounds.

At the end of the last row, he spied Gus. “I’m closing up early,” he told his helper. “Stable’s full, thanks to all the thieves and miscreants in town today. If you’re done watering and feeding all these beasts, you can go on home.”

Gus eyed him skeptically. “Is this a trick?”

Owen frowned. “Have I ever pulled a trick on you?”

“Far as I know, you ain’t never pulled a trick on nobody. You’re as straight-arrow as they come. Fact is, it wouldn’t go down too poorly if you cut yourself loose once in a while.”

Owen liked hearing that. That meant he’d done well.

“The fella I used to work for woulda had himself a conniption if I’d gone home afore dark.” Gus squinted at the sunshine streaming in. “Near as I can tell, it ain’t dark yet.”

“Well…” Owen thought about it. Blandly, he gazed at Gus. He shrugged. “There’s always horse droppings to be shoveled. If you’d rather work all night, I won’t stand in your way.”

“I was joking!” Gus shook his head. “Tarnation, boss. You’re about as much fun as an undertaker with a rash.”

Owen only gazed at him. Work wasn’t supposed to be fun.

“I know, I know. Don’t say it—‘Hard work today makes
for peace of mind tomorrow.’ So you’ve told me. Over and over.”

Owen habitually told Élodie that, too. It was essential she understood how important hard work and good effort were. Until Élodie was capable of seeing to her own well-being, Owen meant to ensure the most providential future for her himself.

It was the least he could do. He wasn’t the most effusive of fathers; he knew that. He loved Élodie; he loved her to the stars and back. But Owen didn’t know if he loved her
enough
—if he loved her the way she deserved…the way Renée would have loved her. Just as insurance, Owen meant to give Élodie all the material blessings he could. That way, his own
petit chou
wouldn’t be too handicapped by not having a
maman
in her life.

He crossed his arms. “If you don’t like it, don’t stay.”

“All right! You don’t need to tell me twice.” His helper grinned, then jabbed his pitchfork into the nearest hay pile. “I ain’t one of those numbskulls out there, all cowed by your stone face and tree-trunk arms, you know. I seen you with Élodie a time or two. And if you ain’t the sweetest, taffy-pullingest—”

“I’m changing my mind about that manure shoveling.”

“No need to break out them crazy eyes. I’m going.” Still smiling, Gus grabbed his hat. He stuck it on his head, then hastened for the doorway. He saluted. “Tell Élodie hello for me. And tell her I hope her plan went down without a hitch, okay?”

Owen nodded. Gus probably meant the shindig down at the train depot. Élodie
had
been all keyed up about it this morning at Mrs. Archer’s. Likely, Mrs. Archer and her lady friends had made a fuss over Thomas Walsh’s raffle-drawing brouhaha, and Élodie had been swept up in all the excitement. It was only natural. Élodie didn’t have any other feminine
influences. She had to look to Mrs. Archer and her friends for guidance.

Now that Élodie was getting older, it occurred to him, she would need even more feminine guidance—help in taking on such things as sewing, cooking, cleaning and embroidery. Owen might have darned a pair of socks a time or two, but he was ill equipped to teach his daughter any of those necessary home-keeping skills. When he sewed, his big, blunt-tipped fingertips got tangled in the thread. When he—infrequently—cooked, he turned out griddle cakes, pots of beans with charred edges or bakery-bought toast. When he cleaned—well, he rarely cleaned, beyond necessary tidying. Mrs. Sunley did all the scrubbing and scouring herself, as part of her housekeeping duties, and Miss O’Neill took care of Owen’s and Élodie’s laundry.

That left him with embroidery. Imagining himself trying to practice that intrinsically feminine art, hunched over a wooden hoop with his resolute gaze fixed on a nightshirt or some such, Owen shook his head. Likely, he’d embroider his trouser leg to his nightshirt, then gash holes in both garments while trying to free himself with his trusty jackknife—the only implement he ever found truly handy in his ramshackle “sewing kit.”

Renée had embroidered like an angel, he remembered, feeling sobered by the recollection. Renée would have taught Élodie all manner of stitchery. She’d embellished Owen’s handkerchiefs with fancy French monograms. She’d commemorated their wedding by putting up a set of fine pillowcases. But that good bed linen had been lost on the journey westward, and over the years, Owen had grown as comfortable with plain cotton linens as he had with cactus patches, flat Western dialects and lonesome fatherhood.

Reminded of Élodie, Owen glanced at the closed door through which Gus had exited. Élodie would be tickled if Owen fetched her from Mrs. Archer’s place early today.
Deciding to do just that, he gave the closest horse one last pat. Then he headed upstairs for a washup and a fresh shirt, the better to fetch his daughter without also affronting her nose.

Cheered by the thought of seeing his little girl again, Owen took the stairs two at a time, headed for that washup, stripping off his sweaty shirt as he went.

Snugly tucked into an unfamiliar bed, being ridiculously fussed over by an assortment of unfamiliar but very sociable women, Daisy sighed. She wanted to catch Thomas’s eye. She wanted her brother to step in and put a stop to all this commotion, since her own protests had gone nowhere. But at the moment, Thomas appeared to be engaged with an animated Miss Reardon in one corner of the room. He didn’t seem capable of noticing anyone else.

Wistfully, Daisy watched her brother and Miss Reardon. She couldn’t help feeling entranced by them. The look of adoration in Miss Reardon’s eyes appeared quite naked…and quite profound, too. It must be wonderful to be looked at in such a way, Daisy thought. It must be wonderful to be listened to, as Thomas was being listened to just then, as though happiness began and ended with the sound of your voice and the content of your thoughts.

Whatever it took, Daisy
had
to make sure her brother didn’t fritter away his chances with Miss Reardon. But for now…

Well, for now, Daisy had to decide how to cope with this unexpected situation. Her cookery and homemaking expertise had been raffled off to one lucky winner. The commandeering Mrs. Archer had instructed everyone to bring Daisy to the home of that as-yet-unmet winner, Owen Cooper. And no one except Daisy had disagreed with that plan. So now it was done.

Daisy had been unable to protest with any efficacy as she’d
been shepherded, woozily, through the streets of Morrow Creek and brought here, to a modestly furnished but clean set of rooms above a flourishing livery stable on Main Street. So far, all she’d been able to glean about the mysterious Owen Cooper was that he was a stable owner, a widowed father and a “hard man.”

This last bit of information, breathlessly conveyed by Miss Reardon, had done little to set Daisy’s troubled mind at ease.

“Is he…respectable?” Daisy had ventured during their walk to the stable. “Is he kind? Is he
very
awful at cooking?”

She hoped he was dreadful at it, so he would appreciate her skills doubly. Also, she hoped he was old, feeble and wholly unable to follow through on the lewd gestures his townsmen had seemed so fond of making during the raffle drawing.

But surely Thomas would protect her from anything like that. Wouldn’t he? Thomas would never knowingly put her in harm’s way. He trusted his neighbors and friends—including Mr. Cooper. That meant, to Daisy’s way of thinking, she could, too.

“I daresay Mr. Cooper is
atrocious
at cooking!” Mrs. Sunley had cast Daisy—and her unsteady posture—an assessing glance. She’d frowned. “But then, you never know. It’s devilishly hard to discern these things just by looking at someone, isn’t it?”

Miss O’Neill had elbowed her, a movement Daisy had felt plainly, on account that Miss O’Neill had been guiding Daisy with her other arm. To Daisy, Miss O’Neill had offered a smile. “I have no doubt Mr. Cooper’s prospects will be immeasurably improved by your arrival here in town, Miss Walsh. We’re all looking forward to seeing Mr. Cooper…progress in that area.”

At that, all four women—and the adorable little girl who’d accompanied them—had exchanged eager, knowing looks.
Those looks had puzzled Daisy then and still did now. She took their cryptic glances to mean that Owen Cooper needed improvement in some area, but she couldn’t imagine what it was.

“Won’t he be upset to find me ensconced in his home?” Daisy had protested as the foursome—with Thomas’s flustered help—had ushered her upstairs and into bed “for some much-needed rest and recuperation.”

“This is fairly intrusive—”

“Nonsense!” Mrs. Archer had interrupted. “He’ll love it!”

“He’ll be grateful,” Mrs. Sunley had added. “What man
doesn’t
like to come home to find a woman in his bed?”

Thomas, blushing, had pretended not to hear that remark. So had Miss Reardon, who’d busied herself with brewing a pot of coffee and offering a cup to “enliven” Daisy after her “ordeal.”

Only Élodie had answered Daisy’s question with candor.

“Papa won’t mind. He’s as even-keeled as the day is long.” The little girl had nodded, absently hugging a rag doll. Her gaze had traveled over Daisy’s face with avid curiosity. “Papa doesn’t get riled up, not ever. But he does swear sometimes.”

On that note, improbably, Daisy had relaxed an inch or two. Of all the people she’d met today—excepting her brother, of course—she liked little Élodie the most. Any man who could single-handedly raise such a lovely daughter simply
had
to have positive qualities, Daisy reasoned. That made her feel immensely reassured about Owen Cooper.

After all, little Élodie was lively and smart, polite and out-spoken and very sweet. She was also disarmingly keen to be near Daisy at all times, even to the point of carrying her coffee cup to her…and mimicking, with her own small tin cup of water, the precise way Daisy sipped the recuperative brew.

“I’m feeling much better now, thank you.” Daisy set down
her coffee cup and saucer with a rattle. “I honestly don’t think I need to stay abed this way!” she told all the assembled women for what must be the tenth time in a row. “Surely there are things I could be doing to prepare for the first lesson. I did make a promise to Thomas, after all. The winner will surely be counting on me! The sooner I start working—”

“Don’t be silly!” Mrs. Sunley bustled over, casting a hasty glance at the bedroom’s open doorway. “The first lesson can wait! You’ve been through quite a shock, arriving here to such a fuss. Of course it overwhelmed you!” Firmly, Mrs. Sunley tucked her in more securely. “You should stay right there in bed until Mr. Cooper arrives. Then he’s
guaranteed
to take to this idea instantly! I reckon, of all the men in town, Owen Cooper ought to be the
most
persuaded by finding a woman in his bed!”

At that scandalous statement, everyone stilled. Then…

“What Viola means, of course,” Mrs. Archer hastened to say, giving her cohort a glowering glance, “is that Mr. Cooper is a generous man who would be happy to assist a lady in need. Any lady, any time, for whatever reason. Isn’t that right, Abbey?”

“Oh, yes!” Miss O’Neill bobbed her head up and down. “Yes!”

Everyone else averred the same thing, even Thomas. Daisy knew she should have felt comforted. Yet something still niggled at her. Something Mrs. Sunley had said a moment ago…

“Is Mr. Cooper entirely amenable to being my student?” Daisy asked. She peered at Mrs. Sunley. “You said he’d be ‘guaranteed’ to take to this idea…but why would he need to be persuaded?”
With the sight of a woman in his bed, no less!
“Mr. Cooper
did
enter his name in the raffle, didn’t he?”

To Daisy, entering the raffle would seem proof enough of his willingness to learn—no further persuasion necessary. But
at her question, all the women went as still as statues in a city museum. Then Mrs. Archer put one hand to the brooch at her neck, sucked in a breath and gave a choked little chuckle. “Why, how
else
would he have won?” she asked.

“Yes!” Miss O’Neill parroted. “How else would he have won?”

Something about their odd demeanor put Daisy on guard. She squinted at the women, trying to figure out why their behavior bothered her…then gave up. Conrad had always told her she was an awful judge of character. She guessed he was correct.