The Bride Raffle (16 page)

D
reamily, Daisy strolled along the raised wooden sidewalk bordering Morrow Creek’s Main Street, hand in hand with Élodie. In her opposite hand, Daisy carried a wicker basket filled partway—so far—with sewing supplies and a few dry goods. She and her little helper, Élodie, were on their way to the millinery shop to purchase a new bonnet for Élodie to wear to the town’s gala Independence Day town picnic next month.

Everywhere she looked, though, Daisy glimpsed Owen. In every face, every smile, every gesture, she pictured the man she loved, the man she’d spent the past eventful days with, lolling in bed like hedonists and laughing over the smallest things.

When she’d gone to Owen that night, Daisy had wanted to experience love. She’d wanted to know caring—
real
caring.

Now, thanks to Owen, she did.

She knew a great many other things, too, Daisy reckoned, feeling a silly smile burst onto her face. She knew that Owen was ticklish, but only if playfully and properly touched. She
knew that he loved to be with her…that she loved to be with him. She knew that her capacity for pleasure had never before been tested in the ways it had been tested of late—scandalously so. And she knew, beyond a doubt, that she’d done the right thing by being with Owen—by deepening their attraction the way she’d done with that one fateful late-night visit to him.

At the time, Daisy had feared Owen would find her too forward. She’d worried that he would reject her; that he’d consider her hoydenish and lacking. Instead, Owen seemed to find her more fascinating by the day, Daisy thought—at least if their ongoing togetherness was anything to go by. In fact, she reckoned, as she strolled down the street past Mr. Hofer’s mercantile and the dressmaker’s shop, she wouldn’t have been at all surprised to find Owen offering a more lasting commitment. He
must
love her, Daisy thought. Even if he hadn’t yet said the words. Why else would Owen lavish such attention on her? Such caring? Doubtless, he had many tender feelings for her.

And she, in her turn, had
very
tender feelings for him.

Of course, she hadn’t yet told him that, Daisy realized. She hadn’t told him that she loved him…not even when she’d realized it herself, a few nights ago, when Owen had first held his ear to her swelling belly, delivered her a broad smile, then introduced himself to her baby in the most charming and gallant manner possible. He’d spent several minutes on the task too. He’d carried on a downright endearing talk with her unborn child, making funny faces and gesturing broadly to explain his finer points, and Daisy had gone smitten all over.

In all the years she had to live, she didn’t think she would soon forget the sight of big, burly Owen Cooper speaking to her belly that way. He’d made sure her new baby understood what things were like in the Arizona Territory. He’d stressed
how wonderful a mama was waiting there for him (since Owen was convinced, like Élodie, that her baby was a boy). He’d even told a few stories about Élodie and him, and all the wonderful times they were having with Daisy teaching them homemaking expertise.

Those moments had been magical for Daisy. She knew she’d fallen in love with Owen completely then—so much so that she began to regret her telegraph message to Conrad. At the time she’d sent it, she’d been concerned about her position with Barker & Bowles. She’d been desperate to make sure that she could resume her speaking tour—that she could go on with her life, unchanged as before, when she left Morrow Creek.

But now Daisy knew better. Her life would never be the same…and it would be all the richer for it. She was still fearful about the future. But with Owen’s help, and Thomas’s help—and the help of the other good people of Morrow Creek, several more of whom she’d met over the past days—Daisy knew she would manage somehow. She had to.

There would be difficult times ahead, of course. But Daisy didn’t need Conrad to help her steer through them. Not anymore.

Now, she had the strength of a woman who’d found her place—and that place lay squarely within a ramshackle Western town, where she’d arrived to an unexpected hero’s welcome and would—if heaven granted her most secret wishes—never have cause to leave.

Thinking that she should send Conrad another message, one simply asking him to forward her trunks and possessions, and to provide her with the names of his superiors at Barker & Bowles, so she could properly resign her speaking-engagements tour, Daisy tugged Élodie toward the opposite side of the street.

“Look!” Daisy said. “Isn’t that the telegraph office over yonder? I should go send a wire to my friend in San Diego.”

“All right.” Happily, Élodie skipped along by her side. She smiled up at Daisy. “Hey! You said ‘over yonder’! Did you hear that? I think you’re becoming a real Western woman, Miss Walsh!”

“Your papa would be proud.” Daisy hesitated to allow a wagon to pass by. Its occupants waved in a friendly fashion.

“Yes, he would!” Élodie allowed. “Of course, it’s likely because of
him
that you’re becoming so westernized. You know, on account of your both sleeping in the same bed now. I suppose a little bit of Papa’s westernness is rubbing off on you!”

“Maybe. If so, I reckon that’s a good thing.”

“I reckon it is. Mrs. Archer will be pleased for certain!”

At that, Daisy quirked a smile. On the morning after the first night she’d spent with Owen, Élodie had tromped into the bedroom to have Daisy fashion her braids for the day—and had been positively unfazed to find her papa in bed with Daisy.

The little girl seemed to have accepted her father’s coming together with her tutor without a single qualm. If anything, Élodie was a downright booster for the notion. Élodie seemed captivated by the possibility of Daisy and Owen being in love.

“Just to be on the safe side,” Daisy said in an undertone to Élodie, still holding her hand, “let’s not share that bit of news with Mrs. Archer. All right? When your papa is ready—”

“He’ll tell everyone. I know. But that probably won’t take long,” Élodie assured her. “Not only does Papa smile more and laugh more these days, he talks at double the rate, too!”

Smiling, hand in hand, Daisy and Élodie continued to the telegraph office. Along the way, they met several of Élodie’s neighbors, some of Daisy’s newfound friends and a few
residents who’d read about Daisy in the
Pioneer Press
and wanted to chat with her, or to extract her promise to autograph their copies of the
New Book of Cookery and General Home Keeping: with Recipes and Formulas for All Occasions, Both Informal and Grand.

Cheerfully, Daisy agreed. She wasn’t sure what her future held, but she was sure that she enjoyed the life she had in Morrow Creek. Here, the townspeople gazed upon her approvingly. They seemed to believe she was capably fit to care for Élodie. Both of those things, combined with Owen’s caring, gave Daisy hope. They encouraged her to believe that she
could
manage everything on her own—even without Conrad’s constant guidance.

Filled with overall chirpiness, Daisy filed a second wire to Conrad. She inquired about any replies to her first message, but there’d been nothing received that was addressed to her. Maybe, she realized, Conrad truly had washed his hands of her.

With that task complete, Daisy again took Élodie’s hand. They headed for the millinery shop. “All right. A bonnet next!”

Finding that bonnet was a treat. Delighting in the experience, Daisy watched Élodie try on one hat after another.

“You’re really very good with her, you know,” said Mrs. Fowler, the milliner. “It’s been a long while since little Élodie had a mama to look up to and to shop for bonnets with.”

“Oh, thank you,” Daisy demurred, “but I’m not her mother.”

“Pshaw. I know
that
.” Mrs. Fowler crossed her arms, all but cooing at the sight of Élodie in a ruffled gingham sunbonnet. “All I mean is, you seem the mothering type to me, Miss Walsh, beyond a single doubt.” The milliner winked. “And the marrying type, too. I reckon Mr. Cooper is one lucky man.
I won’t be a bit surprised to hear wedding bells ring, before long.”

Despite her private vow not to lose her head, Daisy couldn’t help feeling delighted. If even a local woman—someone who knew Élodie and Owen—believed that Daisy had a future with them in Morrow Creek, then it
must
be true! Aside which, it was heartening to realize that, here in the West, the social strictures seemed not to be fixed
quite
so tightly against the kind of informal arrangement she and Owen shared. “Well…
maybe,
” Daisy hedged. “I certainly hope so.”

Mrs. Fowler smiled kindly. “Perhaps Mr. Cooper is waiting for the Independence Day town picnic to propose. You are planning to attend, aren’t you? It’s the must-do event of the year.”

“Only the annual Halloween gala comes close,” put in another woman, who’d been shopping nearby. “We all enjoy it so.”

“I’m sure I’d love to attend,” Daisy assured them.

“Papa doesn’t like parties,” Élodie informed them dourly. “Not
most
parties, you mean.” Daisy cast a self-conscious glance at the two grown women nearby. “Right, Élodie? But surely, when it comes to something like the Independence Day festivities, your papa will change his mind and come along.”

“He won’t. Leastwise, I doubt it. Independence Day is always busy at the stable, so Papa usually stays there. He can’t pass up a chance to add to his
petit chou’s
nest egg, he says.” Pursing her lips in the looking glass, Élodie tried on another bonnet. She discarded it. She tried another. “I always attend the Independence Day town picnic with Mrs. Archer.”

All the women lapsed into silence. Daisy could read their expressions like a book.
Poor child,
they seemed to be thinking.
Poor Miss Walsh for pinning her hopes on curmudgeonly
Owen Cooper, who doesn’t enjoy sociable get-togethers of any kind
.

“Miss Reardon told me about your father’s…reluctance to socialize,” Daisy admitted to Élodie. “I thought he’d changed.”

I thought I’d cured him of that unsociability, Daisy couldn’t help thinking, with loving-kindness and good cheer.

Now, looking at Élodie’s doubtful little face, Daisy realized she hadn’t done any such thing. In fact, she might well have reinforced Owen’s reclusive tendencies by allowing him to sequester them both at home…in his lovely bed, together.

“Well, I guess I can change
that
easily enough, can’t I?” Daisy announced to the millinery shop at large—and to Élodie, in particular. “Most likely, all your father needs is for me to ask him properly to accompany me someplace. Then, after that—”

“Won’t work.” Élodie adjusted her bonnet. “No matter how nicely you ask him, Papa is about as likely to attend a shindig like the Independence Day town picnic as I am to eat this hat!”

Daisy grinned. “In that case… Get out your knife and fork, Élodie! Because I aim to take your papa on an outing!”

And from that moment on, it became Daisy’s personal mission to do exactly that—sooner rather than later, besides.

D
aisy made her first attempt to lure Owen into greater sociability later that day. She began quite matter-of-factly, while she was teaching Élodie how to put up rhubarb jam.

“I saw Thomas today, down at the
Pioneer Press
offices,” Daisy began, stirring away at the sugary, pink boiling liquid in her pot. “He mentioned that there’s a reading of poetry at the Morrow Creek library every single Wednesday. Isn’t that nice?”

Seated at the table, Owen gave a noncommittal sound.

“Today is Wednesday,” Daisy added—usefully, she thought.

This time, Owen nodded. But he seemed more interested in assisting her with the jam than in hearing any poems read. “Your arm must be getting tired by now. Let me help you stir.”

Gratefully, Daisy surrendered her wooden spoon to Owen’s capable grasp. Warrior-like, he approached the stove. He began to stir the molten jam, appearing both determined and wary.

By his side, an apron-wearing Élodie stood on a makeshift
stepstool. The little girl peered curiously at the pot, then at her father. “Careful, Papa! It’s very hot. If it splatters, it will burn you.” She pointed. “It’s lucky you have long sleeves.”

“I promise I’ll be vigilant,” Owen told her, smiling.

“Several folks in town are attending,” Daisy remarked.

Owen kept stirring. “Attending what?”

“The Wednesday-night poetry reading. Thomas is escorting Miss Reardon. Mrs. Sunley and Mrs. Archer usually come along also, with their families joining them. It’s a popular event.”

Another noncommittal sound. More manly stirring.

“It sounds enjoyable.” Feeling exasperated, Daisy pushed onward, all the way to brashness. “Would you like to attend?”

Owen raised his eyebrows. As though the notion was patently ridiculous, he made a face, then shook his head. “No.”

“Not even with me?” Daisy urged. “I’d really like—”

“Is this supposed to foam up so high?” Cautiously, Owen took a step back. He wielded his spoon like a hammer, ready to subdue the rhubarb mixture by force, if necessary. “Daisy?”

“Just skim away the foam as it rises.” Daisy gestured to demonstrate the maneuver, pointing to a bowl she’d set nearby, just for that purpose. She refocused on her invitation. “In the meantime,
do
let’s go to the poetry reading! I haven’t been to a social event in ages—not one in which
I
wasn’t the featured speaker, at least.” Still glimpsing no sign of Owen softening, Daisy tried her never-fail maneuver. “Please, Owen?
Please?
”

For an instant, he hesitated. He almost seemed ready to acquiesce. Then Owen glanced at Élodie. He gazed at Daisy.

“Take Élodie,” he suggested. “It will be…broadening.”

With a sigh, Daisy decided to do precisely that. She might have underestimated Owen’s resistance to joining in Morrow Creek’s social scene, but she was nothing if not determined. She
would
convince Owen to accompany her to an event, and eventually, to the Independence Day town picnic, too. All she needed was the right strategy. Seen in that light, every attempt she made brought her one step closer to success.

“All right,” Daisy agreed. “I
will
take Élodie!”

Then, with a kiss for Owen to thank him for his help, Daisy collected Élodie, got them both gussied up and headed out.

Daisy’s second attempt to lure Owen into greater sociability arose, quite serendipitously, the next morning.

Again, she stood at the stove—this time, making buckwheat griddle cakes for breakfast. Again, Owen offered to help her. But from there, the situation diverged. Because this time, Élodie was not yet awake. This time, Daisy and Owen were alone. And this time, Daisy had decided to wear one of the borrowed dresses that Owen loved seeing her in the most. It couldn’t hurt…

“Mmm.” Standing behind her as she cooked, he wrapped his arms around her waist. He kissed the back of her neck in a way that made Daisy feel all goose pimply. “How did you manage to sneak away from me?” he asked. “I didn’t hear you get up.”

“Oh, I was sure to be quiet.” Airily, Daisy waved her spatula. “I thought you might want some extra sleep.”

“I want to wake up next to you,” Owen said drowsily. His hands slipped lower, cradling her belly. His pelvis pushed titillatingly against her backside. “Every morning, I do.”

Gently, he swept aside a tendril of hair from her neck. Softly, he kissed her again. His stubble rasped faintly against her skin, inciting a bout of delicious sensations from her neck to her knees. Balancing herself with one hand on the dry-goods
table, Daisy tried to concentrate on her griddle cakes. But those paltry, doughy circles did not have the power to entirely divert her attention from Owen’s ongoing seduction.

“Come back to bed,” he murmured. His thumbs stroked over her middle; his breath teased her earlobe. “It’s early yet.”

Daisy gestured. “But I already built a fire for the stove.”

“You
did
start a fire,” Owen agreed in a husky voice, “but it’s got nothing to do with this old stove top.” He turned her in his arms, then took the spatula from her grasp. “Please, Daisy.” His
please
finally snapped her to attention. Belatedly reminded of her resolve to draw Owen into the town’s social whirl, Daisy straightened. She gave Owen a kiss, then took back her spatula. With a businesslike air, she flipped her griddle cakes.

“I would love to,” Daisy said with mock dismay, “only, at the poetry reading last night, one of Thomas’s friends from town invited me on a sightseeing excursion today. So I really oughtn’t dally this morning.”

“What do Thomas’s highbrow friends have to do with you? Or with sightseeing?” Appearing displeased, Owen gestured at her—at the very tiny amount of space between them. “Or with us?”

“Well…” Daisy struck a thoughtful pose. “This particular wooded area is supposed to be lovely this time of year, and the invitation was so very nicely offered. I couldn’t refuse! After all, we
did
already have the experience of the poetry reading in common.”

“This ‘friend’ of Thomas’s,” Owen said. “Who is she?”

“Who is
he,
you mean?” With an innocent arch of her brows, Daisy peeked at a griddle cake to check its underside. It wasn’t yet fully cooked—just like her strategy with regard
to Owen. “I believe Mr. Copeland runs a lumber mill just outside of town.”

Now Owen seemed relieved. “Aha. Marcus Copeland’s wife, Molly, must have hog-tied him into attending that reading.”

Drat Owen’s knowing everyone in town! It was plumb inconvenient. Sensing her advantage slipping away, Daisy batted her eyelashes at Owen. “So… Would you like to attend, too?”

He checked a griddle cake. “Attend what?”

“The sightseeing outing today.”

Again, Owen gazed at her as though she were mad. “Daisy… I don’t attend social functions here in town. I thought you knew that. I thought
everyone
knew that—your new friends included.”

Feeling more than exasperated, Daisy sighed. “Why not, Owen?”

“I don’t mind if you take Élodie, though,” he continued.

“Why?” Daisy pressed, not willing to be dissuaded this time by talk of Élodie. “
Why
won’t you go with me? It’s important to me, Owen. And it would be good for you to get out.”

For a heartbeat, he almost seemed persuaded—most likely by her mention of how important the issue was to her. But then Owen shook his head. “I have work to do. I have responsibilities. I can’t gallivant off to have
fun
whenever the urge strikes me.”

“You mean because of Élodie? Because if she’s there, too—”

“Isn’t it enough,” Owen interrupted, “that I’ve given over so much already?” For the first time, he seemed perturbed. He gestured between them with more annoyance than seductiveness. “Isn’t it enough that I have you here, tempting me, every damn day? You don’t know how difficult it is. You can’t know.”

“Well. I’m sorry I’ve made things ‘difficult’ for you.”

“Aw. Don’t be hurt, Daisy.” Beguilingly, Owen stroked her back—her rigid, poker-straight back. “I don’t mean… I never mean to hurt you. Not ever. But the fact is, I’ve already done my share of carousing. I’ve already indulged in a lifetime’s worth of bad behavior. From here on, what I need to do is—”

“Repent? Hide yourself away? Atone for your sins?” Daisy shook her head, remembering all he’d told her about his wife, Renée. How the two of them had met, incongruously, outside a gambling house in Baltimore. How Renée had condemned Owen’s drinking and “immature ways.” How she’d insisted they emigrate west…all the better to force Owen to change. “You already have! Hiding yourself away here won’t make you a better man.”

“Then I guess we’re stuck. Because I can’t see another way.” Sadly, Owen stared at the floor, even as the griddle cakes began to smoke. “The more I go out, the more reckless I become—the more irresponsible and unwise and unfit to care for Élodie.”

Daisy gaped at him, astonished to hear such a daft notion.

“Did Renée tell you that?” At his sad, confirming nod, Daisy shook her head, dearly longing to pour some sense into him. She couldn’t believe anyone could be so unkind to Owen. He certainly didn’t deserve it. He didn’t now and he couldn’t have then, either. “Your wife isn’t here!” Daisy insisted. “She doesn’t know the man you’ve become. She never will.”

She doesn’t deserve your never-ending love, either,
Daisy thought in a reckless burst of rebellion.
I do. I do!

“Even if she could see me, she wouldn’t believe it,” Owen confessed. “I gambled right up till the day Renée died.” He gave a rueful quirk of his lips, remembering. “I did quit though, straightaway, as soon as I realized Élodie needed me. Bit by bit, things got better. In the end, Renée’s efforts
to reform me…” He shook his head. “Well, they were a good idea.”

“Renée didn’t reform you,” Daisy insisted. “
You
did. You just said yourself that you gambled all during your marriage. You told me before—you were drinking then, too.”

Again, Owen raised his eyebrow in that
you’re mad
fashion. Daisy was becoming heartily sick of that doubtful expression of his. But her own discomfort paled beside the need to make sure Owen knew the whole truth about himself…and trusted in it.

“Well,” he acknowledged reluctantly, “I did like a smile of whiskey or two, now and again—even on the long road out west. Renée didn’t like it. She was a teetotaler, of course. And she wasn’t afraid to lambaste me with her views, that’s for certain.”

Clearly, that meant Owen had not ended his scoundrelly behavior until
after
Renée had passed on, Daisy thought.

“But I haven’t had a drop since I came to Morrow Creek. Renée took ill, I put down the bottle…and I never picked it up again.” He almost smiled. “Renée would have been astounded.”

“See?
You
made yourself the good man you are today.” Daisy moved nearer, her gaze pleading with him to believe her. “
You
did that. You get the credit and the reward. All of it.”

“The reward?”

Daisy couldn’t help smiling at him. “Élodie, silly! She’s a wonderful little girl. She loves you to pieces, Owen.”

As if on cue, Élodie emerged. She padded into the kitchen on bare feet, with her hair even more tousled than Owen’s was. As though guided by love, she headed straight for her father. “I
do
love you, Papa, ever so much.” She gave him a sleepy hug. Then she sniffed the air. “But I think you’re burning the
breakfast. Griddle cakes aren’t like toast, you know. There’s not enough apple butter in the whole world to make a burned pancake taste good.” With that message delivered, Élodie hugged Daisy, too. “But I reckon they’ll probably taste better than my hat!”

She grinned—likely because Daisy had not yet convinced Owen to attend a social event, and Élodie knew it. But Daisy couldn’t admit that to Owen. As she hugged Élodie good-morning, Daisy’s gaze met his. He appeared perplexed, and rightly so. With a sheepish smile, Daisy gave him a shrug—a shrug that said…

Little girls…who knows what they mean sometimes?

As Élodie wandered off to practice her embroidery on the sampler she’d begun under Daisy’s guidance, Daisy scooped the griddle cakes onto a plate. She ladled in another batch.

“All I mean is,” she told Owen, safely out of Élodie’s earshot now, “you’ve had enough of someone tearing you down.” She, more than anyone, knew what that felt like. “You need someone who will see you as the man you are
now,
today, with Élodie. And me.”

“It wouldn’t matter,” Owen disagreed. “It’s not enough.”

I’m not enough,
Daisy heard…and it broke her heart.

“How can it
not
be enough?” She gestured. “Just look!”

With reluctance and perceptible skepticism, Owen did. He followed Daisy’s pointing arm…all the way to Élodie. For a moment, all he did was drink in the sight of his daughter.

“You think… I’m doing a good job raising Élodie?”

At that hoarsely voiced question, Owen nearly broke down.

Filled with compassion, filled with the need to comfort him, Daisy nodded. “Yes,” she said solemnly. “Of course I do! You’re wonderful with your daughter. I’ve always thought so.”

“Always?” Owen’s gaze returned to Élodie. Gruffly, he
cleared his throat. “But I can’t love her the way a mother can. She’s lost that.” His voice broke. “I can never give it back.”

“No.” Tenderly, Daisy caught his hand, feeling overwhelmed with caring for him. “But you can give her something else. You can give her the love no one else can…the love of a father.”

Owen’s hand tightened on hers. Stiffly, he nodded.

“I never thought of it that way,” he said. Appearing suspiciously red around the eyes but otherwise bellicose, he frowned at her griddle cakes. “Tarnation! Those are burned too!”

Taken aback by his sudden roughness, Daisy could only stare. Then she realized: no one had told Owen that before. No one had told him he was doing well. All he’d heard from his wife had been criticism and abuse. Evidently, he’d needed more.