Margaret Brownley - [Rocky Creek 02] (7 page)

“Show’s over,” he said to the lingering crowd gathered there.

Groans of disappointment filled the air. Barnes was not well liked and most of the spectators were rooting for Jenny to clobber him.

Since some men continued to hang around hoping for more action, Rhett waved them away like a farmer chasing chickens. “Scat!”

Everyone took off in different directions and he headed toward his office.

“Marshal.”

At the sound of her voice, he stopped and waited for her to catch up to him. She wore a rust-colored skirt and white shirtwaist tied at the neck with a rust-colored ribbon. Unlike last night, every last strand of her blonde hair was in place.

“I’ll come to your office later with the money I owe you,” she said. She couldn’t have sounded more businesslike had they just finished discussing the financial terms of property or livestock.

He frowned. “You don’t owe me a thing.”

She tilted her head slightly, but whether in surprise or determination, he couldn’t tell. “I owe you for the newspapers,” she said.

He shook his head. “I don’t want your money.”

“And I don’t want your—” The look of raw pain that flashed in her eyes was quickly replaced by a hostile glare. “Charity.” She spit out the word like someone might spit out rotten food.

Stymied by the hurt in her eyes, it took him a moment to react to the anger. “It’s not charity,” he assured her. “It’s my way of apologizing for my behavior last night.”

She stared at him and her cheeks reddened. The eyes that had moments earlier brimmed with anger and pain now shimmered with confusion. Whether she was confused by his actions or her own, he couldn’t guess. He didn’t even know himself what confused him more.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said.

She took a deep breath and tossed back her head. “We’ll split the cost.”

He drew back in an exaggerated gesture. “That sounds like an admittance of guilt.”

She observed him through lowered lashes. “My own behavior last night was rather . . . shall we say, unfortunate?”

Her face burned with humiliation, and he couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. “On the contrary, Miss Higgins, you did what any red-blooded woman would do had she been accosted by a charming, handsome marshal. You simply lost your head.”

Her surprised expression was as good as a white flag of surrender. “I do believe you’re right,” she said slowly. “Since your charms are so
irresistible
, it seems only fair that you pay the
entire
cost.”

She looked immeasurably relieved. A slow smile inched across her face.

“Good day, Marshal,” she said, looking remarkably composed for a woman who had just finished negotiating payment for a kiss.

He tipped his hat. “Miss Higgins.”

Head held high, she walked away, everything about her in perfect control except for an intriguing flash of petticoat beneath the hem of her skirt.

He had to give her credit. He offered her an out and she jumped on it. A moment of moonlight madness had been dealt with and dismissed, just like that.

Now they could both relax.

The next day, Jenny whisked about their hotel room like a small tornado.

The Hussy sisters, indeed! She was still incensed about the headline. Is that really what the townsfolk called them behind their backs?

But it wasn’t the headline or name-calling that kept her in a whirl as much as the mounting suspicion that it was a name she deserved. The memory of kissing the marshal stayed with her like a melody she couldn’t stop humming. No matter what she did, she couldn’t put it out of her mind.

For two nights now she’d tossed and turned. Her mind had seemingly turned into tumbling dice that always came up with the same memory. In her more irrational moments, she imagined she liked his kiss, liked the feel of his lips on hers. Mostly she saw it for what it was: the kiss meant nothing. It was a game. A dangerous game, as it turned out, but a game nonetheless. Even his attempt at an apology was a game.

Oh, the shame, the shame. Thank goodness her sisters had been asleep at the time and unaware of her reckless behavior.

She must forget it, put it out of her mind, lock it up with all the other things in her past she didn’t want to think about. The marshal apologized. She accepted part of the blame. It was over, finished. She wouldn’t give it another thought.

You did what any red-blooded woman would do
.

The thought coming from nowhere weakened her resolve and started the sequence of memories all over again. And so it went.

At last she could stand it no longer. She slapped her hand on her chest.
Stop! No more
.

In a desperate attempt to quell her raging thoughts, she stuffed her notes into a leather satchel along with her notebook and interview schedule. The first prospective suitor was to meet her in the lobby in twenty minutes.

She ignored the strange stares from her sisters. They both lay facedown on the bed,
The Prelude
by William Wordsworth open in front of them. When they weren’t staring at her, they took turns reading aloud.

She rifled through her satchel to make sure she had everything she needed. She’d forgotten to include
The Compleat and Authoritative Manual for Attracting and Procuring a Husband
. She had bookmarked the Potential Husband Aptitude Test (PHAT) at the back of the book. No candidate would be allowed to court her sisters without passing the test.

After slipping the hefty tome into her satchel, she checked her hair one last time in the beveled looking glass. Satisfied that not one unsightly strand escaped from the tightly wound bun at the back of her head, she turned to her sisters.

“This could be your lucky day, my dear sisters,” she said, managing to sound more cheerful than she felt.

Predictably, Mary Lou made a face and groaned. Brenda looked disinterested. Jenny shook her head. “Don’t just lie there,” she scolded. “Keep reading.”

“I hate this book,” Mary Lou complained. “It’s got to be the dullest book I ever read.”

“It’s a beautifully written story of a man’s life,” Jenny said.

“All eighty years of it,” Mary Lou moaned.

“All eighty
boring
years of it,” Brenda concurred.

“Wait till you get to the French Revolution,” Jenny said, though at the rate they were going, she doubted they ever would.

Without another word, she grabbed her satchel by the leather handle and left the room, hurrying down the stairs to the lobby.

Marshal Armstrong sat sprawled on the horsehair settee in front of the fireplace, his hat on the cushion next to him. His arms stretched along the back, he nodded. “Miss Higgins.”

Surprised to see him, her heart hammered against her ribs and it was all she could do to pretend indifference. “Don’t tell me it’s against the law to conduct interviews in the lobby.”

“Not that I know of,” he said. “Better here than . . . in your hotel room.”

Was that innuendo in his voice? She searched his handsome square face for confirmation, but his still expression gave nothing away.

“How nice to know I’m not breaking any laws.” She felt self-conscious beneath his steady gaze but nonetheless managed to keep her voice light. Why he affected her so, she couldn’t imagine. Certainly it had nothing to do with that ridiculous kiss.

The kiss
. Now why did she have to go and think about that again?

Irritated at herself, she briskly arranged her paperwork on the small table in front of the stone fireplace. Act busy. Don’t stop to think or, heaven forbid, remember. Never look back. Keep to the schedule. Stick to the plan. Her motto had served her well these last few years. No reason it wouldn’t serve her now.

When he refused to take the hint and leave, she asked, “So why
are
you here?”

His mouth quirked with humor. “Maybe I came to be interviewed.”

“Sorry,” she said lightly, “but your name is not on the list.”

She pulled out a chair and sat. She tried to maintain calm, to act like nothing improper had happened between them. Judging by the knowing look he gave her, she was doing a poor job.

The marshal rose from the settee and sat down opposite her. Elbows on the table, he folded his hands together. The only other person in the lobby was the sleepy clerk behind the reception desk.

“I thought it might relieve you to know that every newspaper has been accounted for and destroyed.”

“Excellent,” she said crisply. So far, so good. Message delivered and received. No reason for him to hang around.

Only that’s exactly what he continued to do.

He watched her with a puzzled frown.

“Would that be all, Marshal?” she asked.

“That’s all,” he said, though he still made no motion to leave. “Just out of curiosity, what made you come
here
to look for husbands?”

“Rocky Creek has the most eligible bachelors per capita than any other Texas town,” she explained. “And the most financially secure.”

His brows quirked upward. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“An article in the
Lone Star Tribune
.” She leaned forward, hand on her chest, and lowered her voice. “Although I must say, by the looks of this town, the men around here certainly hold a tight purse.”

“If what you say is true, they also have tight lips, because it’s the first I ever heard of it.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “So how do you interview a prospective husband?”

She stole a slanted glance at him. “Every man will have to pass a test.”

He knitted his brows together. “A test?”

She nodded. “It’s called the Potential Husband Aptitude Test. PHAT for short.”

He scratched his temple. “I never heard of such a thing.” He squinted. “What kind of questions are on the test?”

She shrugged. “Questions about a man’s background and occupation. His past.”

“And a man’s financial status,” he said, his voice edged with disapproval.

“Yes, that too,” she said evenly.

After a moment, he asked, “May I see the test?”

She didn’t want to show it to him. He would only criticize or deride it. Still, she couldn’t think of a way to turn down his request without seeming rude. Reluctantly, she pushed the open book across the table.

He read the questions in silence, his eyebrows inching upward as he progressed down the page. Finally, he shook his head and pushed the book toward her.

“It sure does seem like a strange way to pick a husband.” He sounded more puzzled than critical.

“A woman can’t be too careful,” she replied. Nothing was more detrimental to a woman’s well-being than an ill-chosen mate.

“Is that all you’d ask a prospective groom? Where he lives, went to school, plans for the future?”

“What else is there?” She eyed him with curiosity. “What would
you
ask a prospective bride?”

He looked straight at her. “I would ask if she believed in God.”

His answer given without hesitation or justification surprised her. Shocked her, really. The PHAT covered many aspects of a man’s life but failed to consider his religious beliefs. She hadn’t thought to ask the question herself, and this worried her. Obviously, she’d grown more distant from God than she knew.

“I plan to ask additional questions,” she said defensively.

Anxious to show that her methods were prudent if not altogether conventional, she said, “Let’s say for the sake of argument that you qualified as a suitor—which, of course, you don’t—which Higgins would you choose for a wife?”

“Sorry, not interested,” he said.

“But if you were?” she pressed.

He looked her straight in the eye. “
If
I were interested, I’d choose the oldest one,” he said.

His answer restored her confidence and she could barely contain her delight. “Which proves my point, exactly. Without asking proper questions, I’m likely to choose unsuitable mates for my sisters, as you just did.” She folded her arms. “Mary Lou is definitely
not
your type.”

“Mary—” He stopped himself.

He looked momentarily surprised, and she could easily guess why. “Some people think Brenda’s the oldest, but Mary Lou is.” At nineteen, Mary Lou was one year older than Brenda. “Do you still want to stay with your first choice?”

He gave a distracted nod. “So why do you think . . . eh . . . Mary Lou isn’t my type?”

“For one thing, she’s stubborn.”

“Stubborn, eh?” No longer scowling in disapproval, his eyes twinkled as if he were privy to some joke. “I would never have guessed it.”

“And single-minded,” she added. “Once she gets something into her head, there’s no changing it.”

“I seem to have noticed that,” he said, lightly.

“And she tends to set unrealistic goals.”

He drew back, hand on his chest in an exaggerated gesture. “No-o-o.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” she hastened to add. “She is very attractive, as I’m sure you’ve noticed—”

“Absolutely,” he said.

“And she can be very sweet and loving—”

“Excellent qualities,” he said. “The question is, can she cook?”

“I’ll have you know, all us Higginses are excellent cooks,” she replied with more than a little pride. She had personally made certain her sisters were well versed in running a household.

He splayed his hands. “I’m sure she’ll make some man a fine wife.”

“But not you,” she said.

“Definitely not me.” He looked so relieved she couldn’t help but laugh.

He grinned back at her. “Ah, so you
can
laugh?”

She snapped her mouth shut and resumed her usual businesslike demeanor. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Except you’re always so serious.” He pointed to her notes and lists. “I doubt you do anything without first committing it to paper.”

“I’ve been known to be spontaneous,” she said.

“Ah, yes, I seem to remember a . . . certain incident.” His gaze swept across her reddening cheeks, and he gave a knowing smile.

It irritated her that the kiss that had caused her so much grief did nothing more than amuse him.

“Yes, well . . .” Spotting her first interviewee walking through the lobby door, she stood, grateful for the interruption. “Sorry, I have no more time for this.”