Too Rich for a Bride (9 page)

“I did this on my own coming up from the creek,” Ida said, waving a hand over her dress. “Mr. Boney here assisted me.”

Relaxing his clenched fists, Tucker looked at her with skepticism etched in the creases in his forehead. “You went down to the camp?”

“I didn’t mean to. I just wanted some peace and quiet, and I like water.”

Tucker looked at Boney, the intensity gone from his brown eyes. “No personal offense intended, Mr. Hughes.”

“Call me Boney.” He shook Tucker’s hand. “None taken.”

Ida shivered, and Tucker glanced back at his wagon. “You need to get out of those wet clothes.”

“Pardon me?”

Mr. Boney chuckled while Tucker shook his head. “I meant we need to see you home so you can change into dry clothing.”

For a woman who intended to avoid entanglements with men, she was doing a poor job of it.

“My wagon would make short work of getting you to the boardinghouse.” Tucker regarded her muddied hat brim, then her mud-soaked boots before continuing. “Besides, it’d be much more pleasant than walking up the hill looking and feeling like … that.”

Good point
. Ida pushed a wavy strand of hair back from her face. “I accept your offer for a ride. Thank you.” She turned back to Boney. “And thank you for your help.” He’d been right—men weren’t all the same.

“My pleasure, little lady.” Boney removed his short-billed canvas hat and slapped it against his leg, creating a cloud of dust around him.

Tucker cupped her elbow and helped her up onto the wagon seat.

She hated being dirty … and indebted to a lawyer, a crusty miner, and now an ice man. But showing up at Hattie’s with a man at her side would be the worst. Her landlady’s reputation as a matchmaker worried her.

So much for her determination to not give the woman any bait for fishing.

Tucker swung up to his perch on the ice wagon. Ida Sinclair sat on the far edge of the seat, straight-backed and proper, staring straight ahead. She obviously wasn’t going to allow the indignities of lecherous miners, a mud bath, and climbing onto an ice wagon in such shape to soil her spirit. While Miss Sinclair closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, his respect for her
grew roots and so did his desire to protect her. Sensing that would be impossible, he snapped the reins and clicked his tongue, signaling the horses forward.

As the wagon lurched up Bennett Avenue, he wanted to tell her she’d been foolish to take such a risk going to the creek—a woman alone. But she’d come from Maine with no concept of the personal danger that awaited her here in the West.

“Miss Sinclair, you are no longer in the genteel society of Maine.” The late afternoon activity of carts, mules, and pedestrians on the street commanded Tucker’s attention as he continued. “You need to be mindful of the fact that here in Cripple Creek there are a whole lot more men than there are women. Fact is”—he held his hand up, his fingers spread—“I can count on one hand the, uh, respectable single women in town and still have fingers left.”

His speech had no sooner run the course of his breath when regret tied a knot in his chest. She had discovered all of that for herself, and didn’t require a lecture from him. Expecting her to tell him so, he braced himself for her well-deserved wrath and looked her direction.

Instead, her lips sealed, Miss Sinclair worried the hem of her mud-encrusted cape. The tears streaming down her face caught his breath and wrenched his heart. A scolding for stating the obvious would have been easier to withstand.

“I’m sorry,” he said, guiding the horses up Third Street. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

She sniffled and shook her head. “It’s not your fault. You were right—I was foolish.”

Had he actually said that? “You’re new here. You didn’t know they camp down there.” Tucker shifted the reins to his left hand. He pulled a
handkerchief from his coat pocket and held it out to her. “You’re safe now,” he said.

Nodding, she accepted the handkerchief and blotted the muddy rivulets on her face.

“I’ll have you home soon.”

“Miss Hattie will think I’ve been wallowing with pigs.”

He formed a fist around the reins just thinking about those pigs.

“Next time you want some peace and quiet by the water, consider sitting at the stretch of creek on my father’s property. Down Second Street off of Warren Avenue. Second cabin on the left. I put a bench down there for just that purpose. No miners.” He pulled up on the reins in front of the yellow boardinghouse and brought the wagon to a stop. “I’ll help you down.”

Silent, she slid the handle of her reticule over her wrist and gathered her soiled skirt with her left hand. “That won’t be necessary.”

Tucker hurried around the back of the wagon anyway, just in time to watch Miss Sinclair’s foot slip off the bottom step, her boot still coated with slick mud. Her hand held fast to the grab bar as her feet dangled inches from the ground.

Her forehead pressed against the wood siding, and a sigh of resignation escaped her lips. “If you insist on helping me down, Mr. Raines,” she said, her words muffled, “I suppose I could oblige you.”

Swallowing his laughter, Tucker planted his hands on her waist. He lifted her off the wagon and set her on the ground. He’d helped his sister from a wagon many times, but holding on to Miss Sinclair weakened his knees. And as he released her, he found himself hoping to see her again soon … at the bench by the creek.

SEVEN

uesday evening a steady rain tapped on the cabin’s tin roof in rhythm with Kat’s flow of words. She added the period to her last sentence, capped her jar of ink, and smiled down at her fifth article for
Harper’s Bazar
.

Although
Harper’s Bazar
was predominately a fashion magazine, in her column Kat wrote stories about real women in the West. This month she’d written about a young woman in Victor who had lost her sister and brother-in-law to disease and had taken in her five nieces and nephews. Writing for such a prestigious magazine still seemed like a dream to Kat.

However, life with the man who stood at the washstand in the corner was the most unbelievable dream. Morgan caught her gazing at him and gave her one of his dimpled smiles that made her grateful she was seated. The man had an uncanny ability to sweep her off her feet with one tender glance. Although she looked forward to the completion of their new home and having more elbow room, she would miss the closeness this one-room cabin afforded them.

Morgan set his razor next to the basin. “You couldn’t help yourself, could you?” He took slow, exaggerated steps toward her. “You just had to write another story about your charming husband, didn’t you?”

Kat giggled. The man was impossible. He’d heard all about her trip to Victor and the interview.

Impossibly irresistible
.

Morgan sat across the table and laced his fingers with hers. “Do you plan to write a story about Ida?”

“Perhaps. Or a story about Mollie O’Bryan. A western businesswoman would no doubt be of interest to my readers.”

“You know I’m partial to industrious women of independent means.” He winked. “But I fear your sister may not know what she’s getting into.”

“Working for Miss O’Bryan?”

He nodded. “And the men who dominate the mining and investment companies here.”

“She’s the ‘big sister,’ remember? I think she’ll keep those fellows in line and do just fine. Besides, if she does run into any bullies, she has at least one noble brother-in-law who can offer her counsel.”

He drew her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Mrs. Cutshaw, I do believe you have me right where you want me.”

“Ready to lose at a game of checkers, are you?”

“I’ll do my best”—he pushed his chair back and stood—“but I may not be able to stop myself.”

Kat smiled. She was already a winner, and this man the prize.

“We’ll see. I’ll put these things back in my trunk while you get the board.” Kat stacked her writing materials and rose from her chair. She’d taken only a few steps when the room began to spin and her insides started to convulse.

Morgan rushed to her side and handed her a tin bowl. Fortunately, she didn’t have to use it. When the gagging subsided, Kat straightened and drew in a deep breath.

Her husband, looking as pained as if he’d just smashed his finger, guided her back to the chair at the kitchen table and knelt in front of her. “Feeling better?”

She gave him a slow nod. She felt better, but she didn’t know how long it would last. Her body had been at odds with her since the moment she’d raised her head off the pillow that morning.

“Did you eat something that didn’t agree with you?” Morgan asked.

“You’ve eaten what I’ve eaten.” Kat shrugged. “Nell and I spent much of the day giving Ida a walking tour of town, and then she was here with me this afternoon. Too much excitement, I suppose.”

The creases in his brow told her he wasn’t convinced. “Have you noticed any other changes?”

“It was nothing. Really.” She raised herself from the chair to prove it. “I feel much better now.”

He stood beside her, his hands open as if he expected to have to catch her.

Now that she thought about it, she had made more trips to the outhouse the past couple of days. And she’d felt like a newborn calf on wobbly legs today.

Newborn calf
.

Kat’s mind raced, trying to remember. The last one began the day before she’d received the August issue of
Harper’s Bazar
with her third story printed in it. That was August 10. This was September 29.

She pressed her hands to her abdomen.

“You missed it?” Morgan’s voice had suddenly gone flat.

She nodded. He’d been through this before.

“You’ve been feeling a little queasy for the past few days?”

She nodded again.

“More frequent visits to the room outside?”

Another nod.

Tears pooled in his green eyes. “Our house may be ready none too soon.”

Her eyes were wet too. A baby should’ve been wonderful news. A pregnancy would’ve been cause for celebration for Nell. But Judson had never lost a wife and unborn son in childbirth.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t be silly.” Morgan laced his fingers in hers and drew her hand to his lips. “A baby is good news, Kat.”

She wanted to believe him. But more than anything, she hoped he believed it.

EIGHT