The Bride Raffle (8 page)

That settled it. He couldn’t comprehend her at all.

“When you’re ready, we’ll go to dinner,” Owen said in his gruffest tone, unwilling to soften any further. “The Lorndorff Hotel puts out a good spread. You must be hungry. If you already fainted once today—”
you already provided more proof of your delicate condition
“—you shouldn’t wait too long to eat.”

“Aren’t you sweet, looking after me that way?” Daisy’s reward to him was a sunny smile. “But I won’t hear of going to a hotel restaurant. I’ll cook for you and Élodie right here!”

Owen frowned. “We don’t have much to cook with.”

“Don’t worry. I’m good at making do.”

She was good at making him feel befuddled. Standing
near her this way, Owen could scarcely summon up a sensible thought.

“You must be tired,” he repeated. Then, still flummoxed by the fact that she
hadn’t
chided him for swearing, Owen relented. “But only a fool would argue against a home-cooked meal.”

“You accept? Good! That’s
very
wise of you.”

“Me? Wise?” At that, Owen shook his head. “I’ve got a word of advice for you there, Daisy—don’t be fooled. I’m not wise.”

Then, before he could blurt out another imprudent word, Owen strode straight out and closed the door, leaving pregnant and unwed Daisy Walsh alone to sort out her predicament…and to wonder, more than likely, what to make of a raffle prizewinner who hadn’t wanted to win at all, but who now couldn’t seem to bear the thought of losing what he hadn’t known he’d needed.

Hellfire. If that wasn’t a muddled thought, Owen didn’t know what was. It was fortunate that whiskey was off-limits to him these days. Otherwise, who knew what other trouble he might find himself in…especially with a lissome woman nearby.

“A
nd
these
are buttermilk-spice muffins!” Daisy announced in her most jovial and generous tone. “Still warm from the oven.”

With a flourish, she set the muffins on the kitchen table, adding them to the other items she’d already arranged there.

“Ooh! They look so tasty!” Élodie exclaimed. She glanced at her father, who sat across the table from her. “And so pretty!”

Happily, Daisy agreed with that assessment. Even given the limitations of Owen Cooper’s bachelor-like kitchen, she’d still managed to assemble a veritable spread for dinner: baked beans from a tin—but doctored up with molasses, salt pork and plenty of fresh black pepper—a compote of dried apricots and raisins, hot stewed dandelion greens and muffins with apple butter.

“Where did that wicker basket come from?” Owen asked, suspicion evident in his voice. “And that…flowery thing?”

“Flowery thing?” Puzzled, Daisy examined the table. Élodie had helped her assemble plates and cutlery. She’d had
her first lesson in cookery, too—a tutorial on using the stove safely. Daisy’s gaze landed on the lining of the muffin basket. “You mean the napkin I used? There were some lovely linens crammed in the back of the cupboard. They were clean, so I ironed them. And now…voilà! A very nice table setting and muffin basket.”

Owen gave the cheerfully printed linens a mistrustful frown. “Those aren’t mine. I don’t even recognize them.”

“Miss O’Neill gave them to us last Christmas,” Élodie piped up. “Remember? You said the bright colors made you feel queasy.”

Queasy.
Ugh. Unhappily reminded of her own recent bouts of travel sickness, Daisy considered how she’d felt since arriving in Morrow Creek. She’d fainted at the train depot, it was true—but she’d been under enormous strain at the time. Since then, it occurred to her, she hadn’t experienced a single instance of nausea. Perhaps, despite Owen’s suppositions about her “delicate condition,” she really had nothing to worry about. No sickness, no troubles…no baby whose father didn’t care a whit for Daisy.

But she couldn’t think about that now. With an efficacy born of long practice, Daisy turned her mind to something else—to some
one
else: Owen. Even after several hours in his company, she still wasn’t tired of gazing at him. The very sight of him filled her with fascination. He was so rugged, so masculine, so very
present
in every movement and gesture and thoughtfully voiced word. “I
didn’t
say that to Miss O’Neill at Christmastime,” he was saying now, in his own defense. He cast the vivid floral napkin a dour look. “I don’t need silly fripperies, that’s all.”

He might not “need” them, Daisy knew, but more than likely, he secretly enjoyed them. Who wouldn’t? Embellishing a household and caring for the people inside it were her favorite things to do—an expertise she’d gladly share with
Owen and his daughter. Even though she’d prepared only one meal for them, she’d enjoyed it. She’d enjoyed having someone to pamper and fuss over.

“Attractive linens enliven the dining experience,” Daisy told Owen as she took her seat between him and Élodie. “A pleasant ambience aids in proper digestion and healthfulness.”

“So does agreeable conversation,” Élodie added, showing off the knowledge she’d gleaned during their lessons so far. “That means you should tell Daisy how nice everything looks, Papa.”

With an inexplicably curmudgeonly frown, Owen gazed at his daughter. Then he blinked. “Élodie, did you cut your hair?”

Élodie, caught in the midst of diligently copying the precise manner in which Daisy split and apple-buttered her buttermilk-spice muffin, nodded proudly. Her new forehead fringe bobbed above her eyebrows. “I used the sewing scissors!”

Owen gawked. “You cut your hair yourself?”

Another nod. Élodie cast Daisy an adoring look. “I wanted to look
just
like Daisy. And now I do!”

Owen’s thick dark brows drew together. He aimed a censorious glance at Daisy. This time, it was her turn to defend her good name. “I had nothing to do with it!” she said. “When I saw Élodie after I’d settled in, she’d already cut her hair.”

“I
told
you Papa wouldn’t notice for hours!” Élodie crowed.

“Yes. I guess you were right.” Amused by the little girl’s perspicacity when it came to her father’s observant nature—or lack thereof—Daisy tried, playfully, to push things further. “How long do you suppose it will be before he notices the collection of flowery bric-a-brac I arranged at the stable?”

Owen’s chair scraped back. “Flowery
what? Where?
”

Feeling better than she had in days, Daisy laughed. She reached to give Owen’s hand a tug, intending to draw him back
to his place at the table…and instead found herself giving him a more lingering touch. Just as she had before, she squeezed Owen’s hand, then let her fingers dawdle awhile against his arm.

She shouldn’t have done it, Daisy knew. Not then, and not earlier today, either. But something about Owen emboldened her. He made her feel as though she could be herself with him. Owen was blunt but nonjudgmental; he was honorable. With him, there was no need to watch her every word or deed, the way she’d learned to do with Conrad. Before her speaking engagements tour had begun, Daisy recalled, she’d been an ordinary, high-spirited woman. After spending so much time alone with Conrad, though, she’d become a timid, fearful girl, relying too much on her tour manager to help her meet her obligations to Barker & Bowles.

Tonight, for the first time in months, she felt as though her usual womanly self was returning. But perhaps, Daisy decided as she looked at her pale hand nestled contentedly atop Owen’s sun-browned wrist, she’d become a little
too
comfortable here.

Owen already assumed she was having a baby out of wedlock—a thought Daisy could scarcely bring herself to consider. Did she truly need to add fuel to the fire by behaving so familiarly?

Reluctantly, she withdrew her hand. “I’m only teasing. Sit down and eat your dinner, won’t you? It’s getting cold.”

Grumbling, Owen did. For a little while, the only sounds were those of enjoyment as everyone tucked into their meals. The apple butter was passed; coffee was poured and drunk; sighs of enjoyment were released and gratefully savored by Daisy.

Owen had been very kind to her. Élodie was adorable. Daisy liked them both already. And as she listened to Owen talk in his deep, thoughtful voice with Élodie about the merits
of knitting versus embroidery, she felt strangely heartened by the two of them, too. Owen had raised Élodie on his own. And little Élodie seemed happy. Didn’t that prove that a child could thrive, even if she had only one parent to care for her and love her? If that were true, Daisy mused with a new sense of hopefulness, then maybe she didn’t need to be afraid.

Maybe she could admit the possibility that had been niggling in the back of her mind for weeks: that she
was
going to have a baby, and she
could
raise her child without Conrad.

Contemplatively, Daisy glanced at Owen. To her, he seemed brave and astute and resilient…if a little too somber. He seemed to bear the weight of his responsibilities capably and earnestly. He seemed to be a good man—the kind of man who’d take in a stranger on a moment’s notice…then make her feel welcome, even going so far as to invite her to live in sin at his house!

Will someone be…meeting you here, in Morrow Creek?

His earlier question still made Daisy’s ears burn. Owen had meant Conrad Parish, of course. He’d wondered if Conrad would be scandalously joining her here and helping her raise the baby Owen imagined Daisy was expecting to have.

The notion was unthinkable. Daisy didn’t love Conrad. She didn’t even miss him. As a point of fact, it had been a relief to comport herself according to her own wishes tonight. It had been
fun
to teach Élodie about sifting the flour twice to ensure airy muffins and about using a heavy cloth to shield her fingers from the hot cast-iron baking pans. Moreover, Daisy’s newfound autonomy seemed to have gone straight to her head! Dreamily, she considered what it might be like to touch Owen’s hand again—but he, apparently, didn’t harbor any such wistful yearnings.

Will someone be…meeting you here, in Morrow Creek?

She had to make it clear to him that she wasn’t promised to some other man, least of all to her erstwhile speaking-tour
manager! As far as Daisy was concerned, Conrad could just move on to his new assignment with Astair Prestell and leave her be.

Right now, Daisy wanted to envision what it would be like to see Owen look at her with devotion, the way Miss Reardon had looked at Thomas today. She still felt downright enraptured by their attraction to one another. It was inspiring to think that two people could find one another, even in such a remote place as Morrow Creek. Daisy hadn’t seen much of the town yet, but she intended to remedy that soon. She liked what she’d seen so far—even if the place
was
reportedly wildly permissive.

Out here in the
West,
we don’t stand much on ceremony
.

That’s what Owen had told her today. As Daisy looked at him now, with his shaggy dark hair, hawklike nose and caring eyes, she blessed him for saying so. He’d obviously sought to set her mind at ease over her supposed pregnancy. Another person might have turned her away, but not Owen. Owen had, in what appeared to be typically taciturn fashion, tried to reassure her.

Tardily, he blurted, “Everything is very nice, Daisy!”

His voice boomed across the kitchen table, startling her. Daisy jumped, making cutlery clatter. Élodie grinned, obviously proud of her papa for having remembered her earlier decree.

“Well done, Papa! You minded your manners!”

“Don’t be sassy. It’s not the first time, you know.”

“I know.” With patent care, Élodie examined Daisy. She adjusted her grasp on her fork, mimicking Daisy’s hold. She sat up a little straighter. “But Daisy says encouragement helps us learn new things better. Daisy says everyone likes a kind word.”

Owen angled his head. He squinted, seeming to notice
his daughter’s mimicry of Daisy for the first time. “That’s true.”

“Daisy is very clever. And talented. And beautiful!”

Discomfited by so much praise, Daisy stood. “I should get busy with washing up. If you’ll point me to the water pump—”

“I’ll get the water.” Brusquely, Owen stood. He eyed her recently vacated ladder-back chair, all but intimidating her back into it. “You should rest. You’ve done too much already.”

“I feel fine!” Undeterred, Daisy strode toward the potbellied stove. She’d spied a tin bucket earlier that would work wonderfully to haul in some wash water. Knowing she was probably still blushing from Élodie’s effusive praise, she grabbed the bucket. “I’ll just—”

“You’ll just let me do it.” Owen’s broad chest and wide shoulders filled her vision. How had he moved so quickly to intercept her? He was much too big to move so agilely. Yet he obviously had. Without a word, he seized the bucket handle.

Inadvertently, their hands met again. Owen’s hand felt warm and callused and capable. Daisy’s hand felt…in dire need of more contact. Suffused with a longing for exactly that, she gazed up. “I can do it. I’m perfectly capable,” she said.

But her voice trembled on the words. And her breath, oddly enough, seemed to run away before she could catch it. How had she not noticed until now, Daisy wondered, how velvety and intriguing Owen’s eyes were? How had she not noticed how soft his lips looked…how arrestingly stubbled his jaw appeared?

Owen’s gaze dipped, tellingly, to her midsection. “While you’re here,” he said staunchly, “I will pump water for you, haul firewood for you, carry anything heavy and make sure you don’t overexert yourself in any way. Is that understood?”

Daisy wanted to disagree. She didn’t want to be under the
thumb of anyone, not when she’d finally freed herself with that first brave step off the train and into her future. But on the other hand, Owen was only trying to safeguard her well-being…

As though sensing her hesitation, Owen lowered his voice. He angled his head nearer to hers. “Please, Daisy.” Now his tone sounded intriguingly compelling…private. His fingers stroked hers atop the bucket handle. “I want to do it. Let me help you.”

How had he become so charismatic? So…persuasive? In the blink of an eye, Owen had gone from a stableman to a charmer. Fascinated by the change in him, Daisy nonetheless managed to hold her ground. “I’m not as fragile as you think I am, Owen.”

“I can see that.” His gaze lifted to her face. Remarkably, there seemed to be respect—and compassion—in his eyes. “But I’ve already done enough I regret. Consider this a favor.”

Lulled by his intimate tone, Daisy wavered. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned your dire past,” she said to buy herself time. “Exactly what have you done that’s so terrible?”

Owen frowned. His gaze never left hers. “I can hold out longer than you can.” He tightened his grasp on the bucket’s handle. “Agree to let me do all the strenuous work for you.”

“Well, that’s hardly fair, is it? I’m not even—”

Pregnant.
It stood between them, scandalous and absurd.

Daisy couldn’t say it aloud. Not again. Maybe she’d already used up her quantity of self-deception and denial for the day.

“I don’t want to be a problem for you,” she said instead.

Owen scoffed. “You’re far from problematic. Except…”

“Except?” Daisy echoed, reminded of Conrad’s insulting
assessment of her.
You won’t be my problem to deal with anymore.

“Except when you bite your lip that way.” Owen seemed mesmerized by the unconscious motion she’d made. “It’s very…” Roughly, he cleared his throat. “I can’t help being distracted.”

Imprudently thrilled, Daisy perked up. “Really? By me?”

She still couldn’t believe Owen hadn’t reprimanded her—for not acceding to his wishes, for not tamping down her arguments…for being herself, with all her foibles and hopes.

His frown did deepen imposingly, though. His eyes gleamed. “This doesn’t mean I won’t insist on doing all the difficult work for you. Give in, Daisy. I’ll have my way eventually.”