The Bride Raffle (9 page)

She believed him. Owen seemed to be the kind of man who got what he wanted, most of the time. But now Daisy had a small sense of her own burgeoning power. Testing it, she shook her head. Then, for good measure, she bit her lower lip again.

Owen glowered…but then he sighed, tellingly, as well.

For a long moment, they stood at an impasse. Obstinacy and attraction flared between them with equal measure. They each gave the bucket an ineffectual, possessive tug. Then a huge, childish sigh burst out. Élodie shoved back her chair.

“Fine!” She flapped her arms with girlish indignation, the movement most likely a dead ringer for a similar gesture Owen made. “If you’re both going to argue,
I’ll
get the water!”

Élodie took a similar bucket from beside the door. She tromped downstairs to the stable, leaving both adults behind.

For a moment, Daisy wondered about the prudence of being left alone with Owen, especially after they’d shared…whatever had passed between them. She still felt breathless, owing to its galvanizing effects. Gazing up at Owen, she wondered if
he felt the same way. She wondered if he knew how effective his charms had been against her, or if he even knew he’d used them at all.

If that’s what he’d meant by the
bad
things he’d done…

Well, she guessed
bad
was a matter of perspective.

A second later, Daisy realized she wouldn’t find out—at least not today.

“I’d better go help Élodie,” Owen told her, then he took the bucket from Daisy’s slackened grasp and headed downstairs.

E
ventually Daisy could delay no longer. With the dishes washed, the kitchen put to rights and Élodie safely tucked into bed, Daisy took her leave of Owen, then headed to bed herself.

Several minutes later, with Owen’s gruff “good night” still ringing in her head, she stood alone in his bedroom. The place was plain but spotless, unassuming but comfortable—a lot like Owen himself, in fact. And there, alone with no lessons or conversations or chores to distract her, Daisy finally allowed herself to contemplate the life-changing statement Owen had made earlier, when he’d seen her cradling her belly.

You’re going to have a baby.

Could it be true? In a way Daisy hadn’t dared to do until now, she glanced down speculatively at herself. With trembling hands, she smoothed her white, ruffled-hem nightgown—a garment generously lent to her by Miss Reardon—then took a careful look. Her belly
was
undeniably rounder, she saw. Not by much, but the change was noticeable. At least it was to her.

Evidently it had been noticeable to Conrad, too.

That blue dress makes you look a bit stout,
he’d told her. At the time, she’d attributed his observation to the effects of minor overindulgence while on her speaking-engagements tour—and to the fact that such overindulgence had led her to loosen her corsets a tad to compensate. But now, after her encounter with Owen and his startling revelation, Daisy wondered.

She wondered…then retreated instantly from the thought. Granted, she
had
been feeling a bit…different lately. She’d been feeling tired, weepy, and anxious, by turns. But that was easily explained by the pressure she’d been under while traveling across the country on her tour. Wasn’t it?

She simply could
not
be having a baby. It wasn’t possible.

Or at least, Daisy allowed, it wasn’t
probable
. Still cradling her belly, she recalled that she
had,
regrettably, been intimate with Conrad. During those early, impressionable days when she’d been so bedazzled by Conrad and so eager to please him—so keen to retain her job and prove herself worthy of her publisher’s esteem—she’d given in to Conrad’s flattering attention and allowed him to be with her.

But Conrad had
assured
her that he knew how to “take care of things.” He’d promised her that their liaisons were pure hearted…and all but expected, too, while on her speaking tour. He’d sworn, with utmost sincerity, that he cared about her and wanted to help her “grow into womanhood.”

Well, Daisy thought with a sad quirk of her lips, it was possible now that she was growing an entirely new person.

Except it wasn’t. It wasn’t! Daisy had been innocent, but she hadn’t been gullible, she reminded herself. She’d kept her heart her own, as much as possible. And that had been a good thing too, since Conrad had hurtfully lost interest in her very
quickly. Their last liaison had been weeks ago.
Several
weeks ago, in fact.

Surely, if she were actually pregnant, she would know it?

Owen must be wrong, no matter how certain he’d sounded today.

You’re going to have a baby,
he’d said…but as much as Daisy wanted to have a family of her own someday, the thought of being pregnant now truly scared her. Already she felt alone in the world. She was miles from home, miles from her friends. She was without any ready means of financial support of her own—except for the money she’d cadged from her last speaking engagement, which still remained in the pocket of Conrad’s pilfered overcoat. To make matters worse, she was without even the most fundamental of personal items, too.

Thanks to her impulsive actions, she’d left her touring train without so much as her traveling trunk by her side. As of right now, Daisy possessed exactly one satchel, one dress and set of undergarments, one pair of shoes, one reticule and one copy of the
New Book of Cookery and General Home Keeping: with Recipes and Formulas for All Occasions, Both Informal and Grand.
The generous women of Morrow Creek had volunteered to lend her a wardrobe while she was in town visiting, but that didn’t change the fact that Daisy had behaved impetuously.

Certainly she could be forgiven for wanting to see her brother, for wanting to keep her promise to visit him in Morrow Creek. But if Thomas knew how recklessly she’d behaved—

Daisy stopped, coming to an even more alarming realization. When her brother learned about her…secret, he would be
so
disappointed in her. That was simply one more reason it could not be true. It could not be! In search of reassurance,
Daisy glanced down at her belly again. Its undeniably rounded curve sent fresh apprehension coursing through her. Thomas was truly kindhearted, but he had his own life to enjoy. If he thought she was having a baby, he would feel compelled to help.

Daisy tried to envision herself breaking the news of her impending motherhood to her brother. The imagined sight of his disappointed face made her feel worse than ever. Thomas would say, quite rightly, that Daisy was in no position to be a mother. He would say she was unprepared to have a baby.

But oh…how she
wanted
one! For the space of a heartbeat, Daisy allowed herself to imagine how differently this situation might have unfolded, were her circumstances different. She pictured herself with a loving husband by her side, with a cooing infant in her arms, with a safe and secure home to enclose and comfort all of them.

That was what she wanted most of all. Having a home and family of her own was her very fondest dream. But now…

Now that dream was gone. No man would want an unwed mother for a wife, Daisy realized. No man would want to play father to another man’s child. And since Conrad would be her baby’s father… Well, that fact brought complications of its own.

Fretfully, Daisy paced Owen’s bedroom. With Conrad as her baby’s father, she couldn’t deny him the right to be with his child. No matter that she didn’t love Conrad. Perhaps she would learn to love him. Perhaps, given the bond of parenting, they would be able to transcend their differences: his distaste for her failings, his dismay at her ineptitude, his dissatisfaction with almost everything she said and did, at least lately—

Abruptly, nausea overwhelmed her. With a startled cry, Daisy bolted for the empty basin on the other side of the
bedroom. Apparently, leaving the train hadn’t been sufficient to cure her traveling sickness.

Either that, or Owen was right:
she was having a baby
.

What in the world was she going to do?

I
n the early-morning brightness of his ramshackle kitchen, Owen grabbed a cloth. He wrapped it securely around the oven’s door handle, then opened the heavy cast-iron door. Heat blasted him, almost making his eyebrows curl. He scowled inside, damn near fiercely enough to coerce it into cooking more quickly.

It wouldn’t do, he’d decided in the restless hours before dawn, to appear
too
eager for Daisy’s approval. Yesterday, she’d all but led him around by the nose, with all her smiles and tender touches. Today, Owen was determined to be tougher.

“Is the toast ready yet, Papa?” Élodie asked.

“Almost,
mon petit—
” On the verge of completing that endearment, Owen felt himself flush. Or maybe it was only the heat from the oven with its rack of toasting bread inside that made him feel overwarm. Probably the fact that Daisy sat across the table from Élodie, close enough to scrutinize every move Owen made, had nothing to do with his reticence.
“
Chou,
” he finished in a burst of defiant sappiness. “Almost ready.”

He hoped his pet name for Élodie would pass by unnoticed. He was instantly disappointed. His daughter turned to Daisy. “
Mon petit chou
is what Maman used to call me before she passed on,” Élodie confided eagerly. “Now Papa calls me that too, to make sure I don’t forget her.” His daughter wrinkled her nose in—it occurred to Owen—near-perfect imitation of Daisy. “I don’t remember Maman too well because I was so little then, but I do like hearing my papa speak French, ever so much!”

“Yes, it’s charming.” Daisy delivered him an amused look. “I guess a fluency in French is a good thing for a man to have in his arsenal. All the better to impress ladies with.”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter. Papa could speak gibberish, and the ladies would still swoon. Ladies hereabouts are
awfully
impressed with him!” Élodie kicked the leg of the nearest chair with typical restiveness. She smiled at Daisy. “Here in Morrow Creek, all the ladies go downright spoony when they see him!”

Now Daisy appeared skeptical, gallingly so for a woman who’d almost flirted with him yesterday. “Hmm. Is that right?”

“Yes! It is!” Élodie alleged with a vigorous nod. “Papa is quite a catch, they say! He’s the most marriageable man in Morrow Creek. At least that’s what I hear around town these days, when I’m on my way to school or accompanying Mrs. Archer.”

“Truly?” Wearing a dubious expression, Daisy put her chin in her hand. “Your father is considered marriageable? Even with those eyebrows? That long hair? Those scowling faces he makes?”

She was teasing him, Owen realized with a sense of
astonishment. Daisy was teasing him the same way she’d done when she’d pretended to have adorned his stable with flowery bric-a-brac yesterday. Then, as now, he’d fallen for her ruse, too.

No one in town ever teased him, he realized. They all took Owen exactly as seriously as he did, as seriously as he’d needed them to do, to keep himself on the straight-and-narrow path.

Telling himself he didn’t care what Daisy Walsh thought, Owen scowled anew, fighting a ruinous urge to tug at his hair—his perfectly ordinary, shoulder-length dark hair. If Daisy thought she would play Delilah to his Samson, she’d better think again. But he almost had to tie his hands behind his back to avoid smoothing out his purportedly problematic eyebrows.

They were fine. Fine!

Unfortunately, his daughter disagreed.

Woefully, Élodie regarded him. She nodded. “Yes, even with all those problems, everyone still loves Papa. I reckon he’ll sweeten up even more, though, with a good lady nearby.”

Doubtfully, Daisy examined him. The woman was a downright prankster, it seemed, intent on bedeviling him at every turn.

“Well, if you say so…” she said, seemingly unconvinced.

Their girlish, gossipy tone got under his skin. That was enough, Owen decided. Perfect toast be damned. He needed to end this conversation before things got out of hand.

He opened the oven door again, pulled out the rack of toast, then slammed it on the stove top hard enough to make the burner covers rattle. “Who wants toast?” he demanded to know.

As he’d expected, his easily diverted daughter gleefully proclaimed her fondness for toast. Owen doled out a portion on her plate, then did the same for Daisy. He stood nearby
them both, arms crossed, waiting for the breakfasting to commence.

This was what Owen did every morning. Today, he felt unusually conspicuous, though, in his every word and deed. Not many people observed him parenting Élodie. He hoped he was doing everything correctly. He had no way to know for certain.

Élodie smeared on a hearty dollop of apple butter, then took a bite of toast. “Mmm! For once, it’s not burned!”

Daisy only regarded her toast through wary eyes. “I’m not sure about this.” She gestured toward the bedroom. “After all the…troubles I experienced this morning, maybe I should wait.”

“Your ‘troubles’ are the reason I refused to let
you
cook.”

Owen had stepped in to take charge right away, just as he’d done with the water bucket yesterday. He refused to let Daisy overexert herself. That was the least he could do. But Daisy only shook her head, doubtless remembering the brief verbal tussle they’d shared when he’d insisted on making breakfast.

“Besides, it will make you feel better to eat,” Owen told her. “As far as this morning goes… That should improve as time goes on, too. I understand it’s usually the worst early on.”

He gave Élodie a cautious look, wondering if his daughter realized her papa was discussing her new tutor’s pregnancy and the morning sickness she’d suffered because of it. Thankfully, his reassurance—as cryptic as it was—seemed to sail over Élodie’s head…and to help ease Daisy’s fears, too.

Daisy gave him a shaky smile. “Well, that’s good to know. I’m glad
one
of us has experience in these matters, at least.” That was as close as she might ever come to acknowledging her delicate condition, Owen guessed. She gazed down the
hallway, then sighed with evident dismay. “Although I still think you and Élodie made too much of a fuss over me.”

Élodie quit chewing in midcrunch. “You were ill!”

“Of course we ‘made a fuss,’” Owen added, mystified by her claim. It made no sense to him. “You needed help. We helped.”

“Well… It couldn’t have been pleasant for either of you, and I’m sorry for that. I’ll try to do better next time, and not disrupt our lessons. I promise, I will.” Ruefully, Daisy sipped the ginger tea he’d brewed her. “Although I have to say, this tea is miraculously effective. I feel much better! Thank you.”

Owen was happy the tea had made Daisy feel better. She’d been retching like a three-day drunk after a bout with tequila when he’d heard her and hastened down the hall to investigate. Even so, Daisy had still tried to shoo away him and Élodie, claiming that she didn’t want to “inconvenience” them. When they’d persisted in helping her, Daisy had apologized over and over again for subjecting them to her bout of nausea.

Owen didn’t know what kind of people had been looking after Daisy recently, but he didn’t think much of them. Daisy seemed to feel she was a nuisance, just for needing help when she felt ill. Whoever had instilled that callous notion in her head deserved to suffer his or her own bout of nausea—only a hundred times worse. Owen gazed at her, wondering…

Had the father of her baby been that coldhearted man?

Or was he a blameless bystander, like Owen, who only wanted to see her well cared for and happy? Would Daisy tell him if he asked? Now was not the time, with Élodie present, but later…

“Where did you get it?” Daisy surprised him by asking. “The ginger tea, I mean? Perhaps I should purchase my own supply.”

Owen hedged, lifting his coffee cup for a mouthful of that bracing brew. He frowned, reluctant to admit that he’d
deliberately sneaked over to his neighbors’ house yesterday evening—under guise of “seeing to the horses” downstairs at the stable—and borrowed everything he could think of that might be helpful to Daisy. He did have his reputation as a “hard man” to consider, after all. He didn’t want to seem too sentimental.

On the other hand, if Daisy wanted more tea to lessen her nausea, then maybe she was close to acknowledging her pregnancy.

“There’s no need for you to buy your own ginger tea,” he said roughly. “I’ll get you as much as you can carry. All I want in exchange is—” He broke off, considering striking a bargain. He was concerned that she hadn’t yet touched her toast. She needed to keep up her strength, for her baby’s sake and her own.

Daisy’s curious gaze met his. Her eyes sparkled. “Is…?”

Is…a kiss,
he imagined her saying, and could have kicked himself for having such a base thought as that. He was not here to kiss Daisy, Owen reminded himself. “Is four bites of toast.”

The disappointment in the air felt palpable. At least to him. Somehow, he knew that kissing Daisy would feel like a little slice of heaven, right there in ordinary Morrow Creek.

Doubtfully, Daisy gazed at her plate. “Three,” she suggested. “Three bites, and you have yourself a deal.”

“Nope. That won’t work.” Élodie shook her head, her wee face filled with hard-won wisdom. “Papa won’t bargain anymore. He refuses. Once I tried to wheedle out an extra few minutes of reading before bedtime, and he lectured me about the ‘evils of gambling’ for at least half an hour! It was
so
boring!”

Daisy eyed him. “You don’t gamble? But I thought all Western men were inveterate gamblers, scoundrels and ne’er-do-wells who’d as soon eat their boots as skip a card game.”

“You’ve been misinformed,” Owen told her with a meaningful look at Élodie. “I don’t gamble, drink or smoke. Or swear.”

His daughter and Daisy both burst out laughing. “You don’t
swear?
” they asked in unified disbelief.

“All right. You’ve got me there. But just for that show of impertinence, I’m making it five. Five bites.”

“That’s not fair!” Daisy objected, laughing. “I won’t do it.” She gave him another contemplative look. “Anyway, if you’ve done as many ‘bad’ things as you claim, surely you’ve gambled a time or two, as well. Not that I mind that—I fancy your wicked past helps make up for my own lack of adventurousness. It must have been terribly exciting!”

“Six bites,” Owen said. Even though she’d persisted in bringing up his past—the past he’d left behind him—he couldn’t be annoyed at her. He felt far too good right now to quibble.

Besides, if a woman like Daisy—a sweet and moral woman, despite her predicament—liked even the worst parts of him…

Well, maybe there was hope for him after all.

Or maybe he was simply a fool for hoping so. Either way, in Daisy’s presence, Owen couldn’t seem to stop feeling carefree.

“Go ahead,” he urged, intent now on teasing her every bit as much as she’d teased him. “Get started. Six bites.”

“Now you’re just being silly,” Daisy judged, gesturing at her plate. “I doubt there are even six bites of toast here.”

“No problem. There’s more toast in the rack.”

“Oh, is there?”

“Lots more toast. All the toast you can eat.”

“Hmm. I see. Well, I guess I’d better go along with you then, before you change your mind and make it six pieces.”

“Don’t do it, Daisy!” Élodie cried, breaking into their teasing talk. “Please,
please,
don’t do it! Not yet!”

At her urgent tone, Owen looked at her. So did Daisy.

“Why not, Élodie?” she asked. “What’s the matter?”

“Well, it’s just that…” His daughter swallowed. She shifted her gaze to Owen’s face, then addressed Daisy again. “The more you refuse to eat your toast, the more Papa smiles. And I haven’t ever seen so much of him smiling in all my life. I just…don’t want it to end too soon.”

At that, Daisy’s expression sobered. She glanced at Owen, catching him just as his smile faded. She bit her lip in thought, then nodded at Élodie. “All right, Élodie!” she said with deliberate cheerfulness. “There is no
possible
way I intend to eat six whole bites of toast!” Daisy announced in her most grandiose-sounding voice. “So what do you think of that, Owen?”

The clock ticked loudly, counting off the moments between her facetious challenge and his expected response. Owen frowned.

“Eat it or don’t.” He refused to be goaded. Bothered by his daughter’s plaintiveness, for reasons he couldn’t explain, Owen grabbed his hat. He plunked it on, scraping back his ladder-back chair as he stood. “It’s no skin off my nose if you retch again. I’ll put a bucket near your chair while you tutor Élodie.”

Daisy’s troubled gaze seemed to follow him. “Owen, I’m sorry. I was only having fun! I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Upset? I’m too hard-hearted to get upset. Ask anyone.” Hastily, Owen pressed a kiss to the top of Élodie’s head. He tousled her hair, then straightened. “I’m going downstairs to the stable to see to the horses. I’ll be back directly.”

Then he tromped away from them both, down to the refuge of the stable and horses, down to the place where no one expected him to change things…where no one tempted him to
abandon all his past efforts, the way Daisy had with a single conversation.

Smiling.
He’d been
smiling!
Like a man without a care, like a man without responsibilities or people counting on him. Like a man without a motherless daughter who needed his full attention.

If he wasn’t careful, Owen thought as he descended grumpily into the calm, earthy-scented stable, he’d be taking up his scandalous ways all over again. At Daisy’s urging, he’d be indulging in every scoundrelly action that crossed his mind. Like kissing her. Like holding her. Like
smiling
as he bantered with her over a cozy breakfast of unburned toast and tea.

It had been nice, he realized as he reached for a pitchfork. It had been
too
nice, probably, for the likes of him.

Hellfire. He must have been crazy to allow a woman in his household again. He was never going to survive it…at least not with his sanity, and his hard-won virtue, entirely intact.