Short Straw Bride (4 page)

“Oh, no.” She glanced guiltily at the beautiful fabric. “I’m here to buy new toweling for my aunt. We just finished spring cleaning and she wanted fresh towels.”

“Spring cleaning.” Luke remembered his mother’s annual frenzy of cleaning when every rug had to be taken out and hung on a line to have the dirt beat from it. Then fresh straw had to be spread on the floor before the rug was tacked back into place. The memory was superseded by an image of the layers of dust and dirt that covered her once tidy home, and he winced.

“If you’ll excuse me, Mr. McLain.”

Eleanor started to step around him and Luke saw his opportunity to talk to her vanishing.

“I was wondering if I might ask your advice, Miss Williams.”

“My advice?” She raised her dark brows in surprise. “I can’t imagine a topic on which you could possibly need my advice, Mr. McLain.”

Neither could he, but it had been the only thing he could think to say to keep her from leaving. Now she’d actually expect him to ask her something. He shot a quick glance around, looking for inspiration. He found it, more or less, in the bolts of fabric stacked beside them. He could hardly claim to have come in to buy new toweling. The coincidence would be too great.

“Curtains,” he said abruptly, remembering the graying rags that hung at the kitchen windows in the ranch house. “I…ah…wanted to buy fabric for curtains. I was hoping you could offer some suggestions.”

“Curtains?” She looked surprised. “What kind of curtains?”

“For the kitchen,” Luke answered with a promptness that concealed the fact that the idea had just occurred to him. “To tell the truth, since our mother died, my brother and I have sort of let the place go a bit and I was just thinking it was time we put a little work into it.”

At the mention of his mother’s death, Eleanor’s face softened. It wasn’t really proper for her to talk to a stranger like this, but she knew how difficult it
was to lose a parent. And the idea that he cared enough about his mother’s home to buy new curtains for it went straight to her tender heart. She didn’t think most men would even have noticed worn curtains.

“How big are the windows?” she asked briskly, deciding that propriety could be pushed aside, just this once.

Luke held out his hands to estimate the size, but Eleanor’s attention was drawn to the width of his chest. He was wearing a plain blue shirt tucked into denim pants, and the soft cotton clung to muscles no decent woman should be noticing. She blushed and dragged her eyes away from the broad strength of his body. What on earth had gotten into her? she wondered as she forced her attention to the task at hand and began looking for something suitable to make curtains.

“Do you enjoy living in town, Miss Williams?”

“It’s certainly convenient,” she said. She frowned at a bolt of blue calico before setting it aside. “But I’ve no particular fondness for it. When I was a child, I always longed to settle in one place where I could have a garden and a real home.” She stopped abruptly, embarrassed at having revealed so much of herself. But when she slid a quick glance
at him, he didn’t look as if there was anything unusual in what she’d said.

“You traveled a great deal?”

“My father did, and I traveled with him. I tried to make a home wherever we stopped, but there’s not a great deal one can do with a hotel room.” Her mouth curved in a rueful little smile.

So her father had traveled a lot, Luke thought. And she’d always longed to settle in one place. Well, he could certainly offer her a home and room for the garden she’d said she wanted. From the sound of it, those might be powerful arguments, if and when he proposed.

“I think plain muslin might be best, after all,” she said, drawing Luke’s attention to a bolt of the stuff.

“I’ll have to find someone to make the curtains,” he said.

Eleanor opened her mouth to offer to do the work but closed it without speaking. She’d already been bold enough. If her aunt heard that she’d been talking with a man in Webb’s, particularly a man like Luke McLain, whom her aunt had already earmarked as a possible suitor for Anabel, she’d never hear the end of it.

“Mrs. Larkins does sewing,” she said instead. “She has the little house on the north edge of town
and she does good work for a reasonable price.” It had to be her overactive imagination that made her think he looked disappointed.

Behind them, the bell over the door tinkled, announcing the departure of Cora Danvers and her obstreperous son. Though Eleanor couldn’t see past Luke McLain’s large frame, she could hear Andrew hurrying in their direction and she felt a totally irrational resentment toward him for interrupting. Not that there was really anything to interrupt, she reminded herself.

“Are you finding everything you need, Miss Eleanor?” At Webb’s question, Luke reluctantly stepped aside to allow the other man to pass him. Webb moved to stand next to Eleanor, his weak eyes darting from her to Luke with suspicion. There was a certain possessiveness in the way he stood, a look only another man would recognize.

Luke’s gaze sharpened on Eleanor’s face, but if there was reason for Webb to feel possessive, he couldn’t read anything in her expression. Something told him that any feelings of possession were strictly on Webb’s side. The thought pleased him.

“If you’ll cut some of the linen for me, Mr. Webb, I’ll be on my way,” she said, giving him a quick, impersonal smile.

“I’ll be with you in just a minute, Mr. McLain,” Webb said as he and Eleanor walked past.

“I’m in no rush.”

The storekeeper’s hand hovered a moment, almost touching the small of Eleanor’s back, and Luke was surprised by the annoyance he felt at the idea of the other man touching her. When Webb’s hand dropped away without making contact, Luke felt a satisfaction out of proportion to the moment. He followed them to the front of the store.

Eleanor was vividly aware of Luke McLain’s gray eyes watching her while Andrew cut the fabric for her aunt. She told herself that she was not so foolish as to read anything into his interest. She’d just happened to be nearby when he’d found himself needing a woman’s opinion. He’d probably have been just as happy to ask Cora Danvers, if she’d been handy. But the brisk mental lecture didn’t have any effect on her rapid heartbeat.

When the toweling had been cut and wrapped in brown paper, she gave Andrew an absent thank-you without really seeing him. Picking up the package, she turned to leave, her eyes catching Luke’s.

“I hope the new curtains are what you wanted, Mr. McLain.” She hoped he wouldn’t notice the slight breathlessness in her voice.

“Thank you for the help, Miss Williams.” He nodded and smiled at her, and Eleanor hurried out before she could make a fool of herself by collapsing at his feet.

Luke let his eyes follow her as she left, watching her walk past the big front window. It wasn’t until she’d disappeared from sight that he turned his attention to Andrew Webb. The suspicion in the other man’s eyes had deepened but Luke ignored it. Webb had had plenty of time to make his intentions known to the girl. If he hadn’t done so, then he had no one to blame but himself if someone moved faster.

Luke gave him the order for the supplies. He loaded a case of canned peaches and sacks of flour, sugar and other staples into the buckboard. It wasn’t until they were almost done that he remembered the curtains he was supposedly anxious to have made. He didn’t give a damn about curtains but, remembering Eleanor’s earnest help, he felt his conscience tug at him. Moving to the bolts of fabric, he picked up the muslin she’d indicated. He started to carry it to the front of the store and then
hesitated. Obeying an impulse, he picked up the bolt of blue fabric she’d been fingering. If he married her, he could give it to her. And if he didn’t, well, then, he could give it to whomever he
did
marry.

L
uke McLain attended church alone the following Sunday, and his presence incited only a smidgen less speculation than it had the week before. After the services he exchanged greetings with people he knew but made it a point to intercept the Williams family before they reached their carriage. A few minutes’ conversation and a smile and he was the recipient of an invitation to join them for Sunday supper.

It was no wonder Mr. McLain had hinted for an invitation to dine with them, Dorinda Williams pointed out on the carriage ride home, what with Anabel looking particularly pretty today.

“Just be your own sweet self, precious, and Mr. McLain won’t be able to resist you.” Dorinda gave her daughter a fond look. Luke was following on horseback, giving the family a few moments alone.

“I don’t know if I want to marry a rancher, Mama. All that dirt…and those animals.” Anabel wrinkled her short, straight little nose.

“The McLains are just about the wealthiest folks hereabouts,” her father put in.

“Really?” Anabel straightened and gave her father a calculating look at odds with her delicate pink-and-white image. “How wealthy?”

“Now, you know I can’t tell you that, pussycat.” Zeb clicked his tongue at the horse that drew the little carriage. “That’s confidential information.”

“But this is important, Daddy.” Anabel thrust her lower lip out in a pout. “I’m not asking for myself, you know. I’m thinking about you and Mama. It’s my duty to marry someone who can provide for you in your old age.”

“Isn’t that just like her?” Dorinda said, to no one in particular.

“Yes, isn’t it.” Eleanor’s muttered comment brought her aunt’s attention to her. The sentimental tears that had filled Dorinda’s hard blue eyes vanished the moment she looked at her niece.

“You see that you don’t push yourself forward the way you did last week. ‘Six years, four months and twelve days,’” she mimicked sharply. “I was never so embarrassed in all my life. You just remember
where you’d be if your uncle and I hadn’t taken you in.”

“Yes, Aunt Dorinda.” Eleanor kept her eyes lowered, knowing that her resentment must be plain to read, even to someone as insensitive as her aunt.

“Is everything ready for supper?”

“Yes, Aunt Dorinda.”

Cora and Hiram Danvers were to join them for Sunday supper, and Dorinda Williams was determined that everything be absolutely perfect. She didn’t want to give her “dearest friend” a single flaw to find. Luke McLain’s presence was icing on the cake, as far as she was concerned.

As soon as they arrived at the house, Eleanor slipped into the kitchen without waiting to see the arrival of her aunt’s guests. She stood in the center of the cramped, airless room for a minute, her hands clenched at her sides. She wasn’t sure which she wanted to do more—cry or break something.

She heard the low rumble of Luke McLain’s voice from the direction of the parlor and felt her eyes sting with tears. When she’d seen him at church this morning, she’d felt her heart bump. Her stupid heart, she thought savagely. So what if he was the handsomest man she’d ever seen. He was just as foolish as every other man in this town, unable
to see past Anabel’s big blue eyes and golden curls.

When he’d approached the family after church, for one giddy moment she’d thought that their brief encounter in Andrew’s store might have made him want to see her again. But he’d barely acknowledged her presence before turning that devastating smile in her aunt’s direction. From the look he threw at Anabel, it wasn’t difficult to guess why he had gone to the trouble to charm Aunt Dorinda into inviting him to supper.

Eleanor stalked to the big stove and lifted the lid on the pot she’d left simmering. Picking up a fork, she jabbed a potato hard enough to break it in two. If Luke McLain was stupid enough to fall for Anabel, then he deserved every minute of misery she’d dish out. She herself had better things to think about, like getting supper on the table.

She threw a few sticks of wood into the stove and opened the damper a little wider. The chicken had been floured and left to sit, covered with a clean towel. All she had to do was melt lard in the big iron skillet and start the chicken frying. While it cooked, she’d have time to mash the potatoes and whip up a batch of biscuits. And if her eyes stung while she was doing it, it was purely because of the heat. It
certainly had nothing to do with a particular dark-haired cowboy.

Luke sat in the cramped little parlor and struggled to remember all the lessons his mother had drummed into him about making polite conversation. He talked about the weather, the possibility of the town building a new school and the latest government negotiations with the hostile Indian tribes in the Southwest. He didn’t give a damn about any of the three. What he really wanted to do was demand to know where Eleanor was, not discuss the possibility of a drought with these two overfed bankers.

The two older women sat on a black horsehair sofa, twin to the one he occupied and probably just as uncomfortable. Dorinda Williams was busy with some sort of needlework, her fingers moving swiftly over a mass of fine cotton. Probably another doily like the ones that covered every available surface in the overcrowded room.

Annalise or Anamae or whatever her name was sat on the piano bench, poking her fingers on the keys in a series of unrelated notes that grated on his nerves. A beam of sunlight had managed to struggle past the layers of draperies that smothered each window and the light fell across her, turning her hair to spun gold, highlighting her pretty features.
Cynically, Luke wondered if she’d chosen that spot for just that reason. It sure as hell couldn’t be out of a love for music, he thought, wincing as her fingers descended on the keys again.

“Where is Miss Eleanor?” he asked, waiting only for the smallest of breaks in the conversation. He looked at his hostess, hoping his expression was politely interested, rather than impatient.

Dorinda Williams looked at him blankly for a moment, her niece so far from her thoughts that she seemed to be having a difficult time remembering who she was. Her daughter had no such difficulty.

“She’s in the kitchen, earning her keep,” she said, throwing him a bright, sharp smile.

“She’s employed by you?” Luke asked, knowing full well that wasn’t the case.

“Of course not.” Dorinda Williams threw her daughter a warning look before smiling at Luke. He didn’t find her smile any more appealing than her daughter’s had been. “What Anabel should have said was that Eleanor insists on helping around the house. It’s her way of thanking us for taking her in when her father was killed.”

“Does she always stay in the kitchen when you have guests?” Luke’s expression of polite interest drew any sting from the question.

“Can’t say I’ve seen much of her,” Cora Danvers said, her harsh voice unnaturally loud in the stuffy little room.

“Eleanor is very shy,” Dorinda said in a strained tone. “Her upbringing before she came to us was rather—shall we say, unconventional?”

“
We
aren’t saying anything,” Cora said, withering her hostess’s coy tone. “And if you’re hinting that Eleanor’s father taught her anything less than perfect manners, I’ll say flat out that I don’t believe it for a minute. Nathan Williams had manners smooth enough to please the queen of England. So if you’re suggesting that Eleanor might be inclined to blow her nose on her sleeve or some such thing, it doesn’t seem likely.”

Dorinda’s face had turned a pale shade of purple during Cora’s speech, and Luke hid a smile behind his coffee cup. He thought he could come to like at least one banker’s wife.

“Of course, Eleanor’s manners are impeccable.
I
certainly wouldn’t allow anything less. I merely meant that, with her father having practiced a less than respectable profession, perhaps Eleanor is not as comfortable in polite company as a girl like my sweet Anabel, who was raised in more cultured surroundings.”

“What was her father’s profession?” Luke asked. “If you don’t mind my asking, of course.” Not that he really cared whether anyone minded or not. He wanted to find out as much as he could about the girl he was considering marrying. Eleanor had said her father had traveled a lot, but he hadn’t given much thought to the man’s profession.

“My brother earned his living on the turn of a card,” Zeb Williams said in a repressive tone that made his opinion of such a profession quite clear.

“A gambler?” Luke’s brows rose.

“Yes. It’s not something we talk about a great deal, for obvious reasons.” Zeb looked as if he’d just confessed to having a wild Indian in the family.

“Look how serious we’ve all grown,” Anabel cried with forced gaiety, annoyed that everyone’s attention had somehow been drawn away from her. “It’s much too nice a day to be so serious. Don’t you agree, Mr. McLain?”

She widened her pretty blue eyes at him and thrust her lower lip out in the merest hint of a pout. Luke would have bet a good horse on the fact that she’d practiced that look in front of her mirror. He smiled and wondered if maybe her parents shouldn’t have spanked her a time or two when she was younger.

“Why don’t you play for us, dear?” Dorinda smiled indulgently.

“I’m not very good,” Anabel protested prettily, but Luke had the idea that it would have taken a tornado to budge her from her seat on the bench.

“Nonsense, my dear. Miss Brown said you had a natural talent,” Zebediah said. “Miss Brown learned to play in Boston,” he added proudly, giving the impression that Bostonians had some sort of an edge over the rest of the country when it came to piano playing.

“Miss Brown said the same thing to my Horace,” Cora put in. “And he can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”

There was an awkward little pause and Luke saw Anabel’s eyes flash with fury, the first genuine emotion he’d seen from her.

“Well, Anabel doesn’t need a bucket to carry a tune,” Dorinda said with a tight little smile. “Do play something, precious.”

“Only if Mr. McLain promises to make allowances. I feel a little shy. I don’t often perform for anyone but the closest family.”

“You played two weeks ago at my house with half a dozen people watching,” Cora said. “Didn’t look shy at all, then.”

“I’m sure no one needs to make allowances for your performance, Miss Williams.” Luke spoke quickly, staving off the explosion he could see building in his hostess’s face. “I’d enjoy hearing you play.”

About as much as I’d enjoy having a tooth pulled.

Anabel conjured up a pleased blush before turning to the piano, where her music, by coincidence, of course, just happened to be laid out. It didn’t take more than a few measures for Luke to realize that Miss Brown was either completely tone deaf or a terrible liar. Anabel might have a natural talent but it sure as hell wasn’t for piano playing.

He was starting to wonder how much of this he’d be expected to suffer through when Eleanor came to the door of the parlor. She didn’t speak and no one else seemed to notice her presence but Luke knew the moment she appeared.

As Daniel had said, there wasn’t much to her, but what there was was very neatly packaged, Luke thought, admiring the feminine softness of her figure. After all, when it came to women, a man didn’t need more than an armful and Eleanor looked as if she’d provide plenty to hold on to on a cold winter’s night.

He was grateful to see that she’d left off the ugly hat she’d been wearing both times he’d seen her. Her hair was drawn back from her face, but the severe style was softened by the delicate fringe of soft curls that had escaped to frame her face. He found himself wondering what her hair looked like when it was down. Would it curl over a man’s hands, pulling him closer to her? And would she welcome a man’s passion or be frightened by it?

He was surprised to realize that he was becoming aroused just looking at her. Irritated with himself, he looked away, turning his eyes to where Anabel sat abusing the piano keys, thereby missing the wistful look Eleanor turned in his direction.

Though he certainly wouldn’t choose a wife based solely on her cooking skills, Luke was pleased to find that Eleanor’s were more than adequate. He and Daniel had hired a cook but he’d quit almost a month ago and since then, they and the hands had been cooking for themselves. Even when they’d had a cook, the food had been less than inspired. The meal spread out before him was the best he’d had since his mother’s death. The biscuits were as close to pure heaven as he’d ever eaten in his life. He said as much, and from the startled look Eleanor shot him, he suspected few compliments came her way.

“Thank you.” Her voice was low and soft, just as he remembered it, and Luke added another item to his list of prerequisites for a wife—a pleasant speaking voice. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life with a woman with a voice like a cat who’d got its tail caught under a rocking chair.

Anabel, who’d been seated next to Luke, looked annoyed that someone had noticed her cousin. When Hiram Danvers seconded Luke’s comment about the biscuits, her pout became a little less studied and not nearly as pretty as it had been. Eleanor looked uncomfortable with the attention being given her and Luke decided that modesty was a good attribute in a woman.

Though Luke participated in the conversation, his attention was centered on the dark-haired girl across the table from him. He saw nothing to make him think his first assessment had been in error. The more he watched Eleanor Williams, the more convinced he became that she’d make a suitable wife. Her looks were pleasant, her demeanor quiet—she was the very picture of the docile bride he’d described to his brother.

When the meal ended, Eleanor rose and began to clear the table. Luke noticed that neither Anabel nor her mother moved to offer any assistance. Since Eleanor didn’t seem to notice the omission, he assumed
this must be another example of how she “earned her keep.”

As Eleanor disappeared into the kitchen, Anabel caught Luke’s eye. Her smile was pure invitation, too old for her sixteen years. Luke was surprised by his own lack of interest. Perhaps Anabel read something of that lack in his expression because her soft, pink Cupid’s-bow mouth tightened momentarily and something cold and hard flickered in her baby blue eyes.