Gerrity’s Bride
Carolyn Davidson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Penny Bice, who has given of her talents with true generosity of spirit.

My world became a better and brighter place the day we met.

And to Brenda Rollins, for allowing me the benefit of her skills and vivid

imagination. I appreciate all you do. Thank you, my friend!

But most of all, to Mister Ed, who loves me!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Chapter One

Miss Emmaline Carruthers

Rawlings Farms

Lexington, Kentucky

It is my sad duty to advise you of

the death of your father, Samuel

Carruthers, who perished in a flash

flood, along with his wife, Arnetta,

on Tuesday last. We await your

instructions as to your interest

in their daughter, Theresa, five

years of age. Please advise as soon

as possible.

I remain your humble servant,

Oswald Hooper

Attorney

“Surely even Hades could not be as miserable as this godforsaken place.” The whisper was spoken into the wind. The words were gone as quickly as they were uttered, and the disappointment inherent in those whispered syllables might never have been, except for the slender figure of the woman who still gazed with incredulous eyes at the barren landscape of Forbes Junction.

The train bearing her had stopped for a few moments to allow for her departure, then left her behind with a doleful blast of its whistle. Now it was but a dark stain against the horizon, its smoke trail dissolving into wispy tendrils in the still air.

The sun rode high in the sky, its rays reminding her of the unrelenting heat that had been her companion for the past hours. Since shortly after daybreak, she had alternately fanned herself with a folded newspaper and mopped her brow with a dainty handkerchief. Still, the dry, breathtaking heat had penetrated her traveling costume, leaving her with but a trace of her usual vitality.

“Arizona... Even the name sounds hot,” she muttered as she lifted one foot to view the dust clinging to her fashionably booted foot. She stamped it against the wide wooden boards of the platform beneath her and surveyed the choices she faced.

A dusty road ran between a row of buildings, houses and business establishments, built along a fairly even line, for three hundred yards or so. Then it gave way to a sandy expanse that stretched to the horizon, broken only by scattered shrubs and a few stunted trees. The narrow road continued on, running in a straight line as far as she could see. It was less than inviting, she decided quickly.

Directly before her, an unpainted wooden door stood ajar. Beyond it lay a shadowed room, which appeared to be her most likely chance for shelter from the sun. The train station was small. Probably didn’t get much use, she decided, bending to lift her carpetbag, leaving behind the trunk that held her clothing. The weight of the carpetbag dragged at her arm, reminding her of the books she had stubbornly packed within its voluminous depths.

“Why you want all those along with you is beyond me,” Delilah had muttered. “You won’t be there long enough to read them, anyway,” she’d predicted.

“One can only hope!” As fervent as any prayer she’d ever uttered, the words fell from her lips and were wafted away on the hot wind that blew in unrelieved measure. With a sigh, Emmaline Carruthers squared her shoulders and lifted her feet, moving briskly through the open door.

The room was shady, and that was about all that was to be said for it. Small comfort, she thought as she stood in the center of the dingy station. An open window allowed a bit of cross-ventilation, and she took advantage of the moving air, such of it as there was. Her hand lingered over the top button of her suit, her fingers sorely tempted to loosen it. But better sense prevailed, and she approached the window with all her ladylike decorum intact.

“I beg your pardon.” Such decorum, she had decided, was her only defense against the situation. It would sustain her now, as it had for the past hundreds of miles. Once she reached the boundaries of true civilization, she had recognized that only her status as a lady would protect her from the vulgarities that surrounded her.

“Yup...just a minute.” The drawling reply came from beneath the counter, and she stifled the impulse to bend over the narrow ledge to seek out its source.

Two thin lines of perspiration ran down each side of her neck and settled against the white fabric of her collar, dampening it before it soaked through, cooling her flesh. She resisted the urge to brush at the drop that was even now making its way to her eyebrow, and stiffened her spine resolutely.

“What can I do fer ye?” The stationmaster rose to his full height, his stiff collar tight about his skinny neck. He peered at her through spectacles, which slid down his nose, then lifted one bony finger to settle them back into place.

“I’m expected,” she announced with brittle dignity. “There was to be a vehicle here to meet me from the Carrutherses’ ranch, but I don’t see anyone about. Have you any message for me?”

“Well, I might and I might not,” he quibbled. “Tell me who the message would be fer.”

“I’m Emmaline Carruthers.”

His eyes widened behind the thick lenses, and he pursed his lips as he took a renewed interest in her. Hesitating only briefly on her bonnet, his look roamed with admiration over her flushed features and paused with a trace of wonder as he viewed the curves that filled her dark dress.

“Yep, you surely are,” he allowed. “Got the look of yer pa about ye, through the eyes—not to mention the hair.”

“Indeed?” Her mouth pursed as she considered his assessment.

“Yep. Yer brother’s comin’ to pick you up.” He turned from the window, his duty accomplished with the delivery of the message.

Emmaline bit with vexation at the inside of her lower lip. “Who is coming?”

“Yer brother,” the stationmaster said again, and returned to his position beneath the ledge.

She glowered at his back, lifting on tiptoe to lean over the counter. “I don’t have a brother.” The words were clipped, her exasperation apparent. Surely he had mixed the messages. “I’m here to meet my sister, Theresa. I have no other relatives here,” she said emphatically.

But I have a sister, she thought with joy. Theresa. She whispered the name, savoring the syllables. Theresa. Five years old...daughter of Samuel. That definitely made the child her sister.

“Sorry to hear about yer pa,” The stationmaster said with a frown. “Don’t pay to get caught in a dry creek bed.”

She nodded her thanks. As much a surprise as the news had been, she’d wasted little time in sending her reply. It was difficult to scrape up much sorrow for the man who had fathered her. He was but a distant memory that had never been encouraged to flourish.

Perished in a flash flood. The telegram’s wording had been most specific. Her father had died, along with his wife. Samuel and Arnetta Carruthers...strangers who had borne the same last name she did.

“Did you know him well?” she asked on a sudden impulse.

“Eh? What’s that? Do I know yer brother? ‘Course I know him,” the man stated with dour confidence. “Ever’body in Forbes Junction knows Matt Gerrity.”

“No, I meant...” Her voice trailed off as she backed away from the window. Tiny lines of consternation furrowed her brow as she considered the situation. Any more questioning on her part seemed a futile exercise, she decided with a sigh of frustration. Surely someone would arrive soon. She nurtured the thought. Soon...she thought. Soon, she’d meet the child. With anticipation, she straightened her skirts and adjusted the tilt of her bonnet.

“He’ll be here afore long, lessen he gets tangled up talkin’ with some female or another on his way through town. He draws them women like flies,” the man said, before he lowered the shade over the narrow window and effectively cut off the conversation.

“Like flies...” Emmaline repeated dryly. “That sounds—”

“Time fer lunch,” the now disembodied voice announced from beyond the barrier.

Emmaline sighed as her stomach notified her that breakfast had been too many hours ago. And not much to brag about, at that. The leftover bread from last evening’s repast had been a bit beyond stale, and the peach more than ripe. Train travel left a lot to be desired, she’d discovered long before she reached Kansas City.

A wavy mirror on the wall faced her, and she stepped up to it, glancing into its depths, in hopes her appearance would bolster her sagging spirits. It was useless, she decided mournfully. Violet shadows rimmed her blue eyes, and a smudge marred her left cheekbone. Not to mention the stubborn curls vying for attention beneath the brim of her bonnet. She pushed at them with one finger, subduing them only until they were released, to escape in a flyaway fashion.

She peered at herself, and her sigh was deep as she pronounced, “I’m a wreck!”

“Now, I wouldn’t say that.”

She spun toward the door, her mouth open in dismay, her eyes wide and indignant, and faced the man who loomed in the doorway.

“I beg your pardon?” She couldn’t manage haughtiness, not with sweat streaking her neck and forehead, and errant curls poking out every which way. She settled for arrogance.

He grinned while his forefinger poked back the wide brim of his hat, leaving a crease across the expanse of his forehead. The hand that lowered to his waist was brown, the fingers long and tapered. It rested against his belt, and then the fingers slid into his pocket, until only the thumb looped over the wide leather circling his waist.

Her eyes moved back to his face, and she glowered at him. That he’d caught her surveying herself in the mirror was bad enough. He didn’t have to be enjoying her discomfort.

“I wouldn’t say that.” He repeated his words in a raspy voice that held a trace of amusement. “I’d say that you’re the best-lookin’ wreck I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

She inhaled sharply, irritated at his impudence. Then, with swishing skirts and tapping of booted feet, she turned from him to face the shaded window.

“You don’t want to be rude to the man who holds the reins, ma’am,” he said softly into her ear.

He was right behind her. She felt the warmth of his body against her back, and she stiffened, her spine straightening imperceptibly. Ahead of her, the shade twitched to one side, and the stationmaster peered around the edge.

“Howdy, Matt. Yer sister’s been waitin’.”

She closed her eyes against his words, then opened them slowly. “I don’t have a brother.” Each word was spoken with the emphasis due such a denial. Her aggravation was plainly apparent to both men.

The man behind her had the advantage, and he took it. His hands lifted to rest on her shoulders, and he bent to speak once more, his breath warm against the side of her neck.

“Turn around, Miss Emmaline. I’m here to represent your family.”

Emmaline’s mouth narrowed, and she shrugged as if she would loosen herself from the fingers that even now were forcing her to face him, tightening her shoulders as he silently brought her about. Her eyes were dark with suppressed anger as he accomplished his aim, and she tipped her head back to meet his sardonic gaze.

“I don’t know who you are,” she snapped. “I’ve come from Lexington to meet my little sister, Theresa Carruthers, and I’m waiting for a ride to the Carrutherses’ ranch.” She took a deep breath, availing herself of a double lungful of hot desert air. “I am no relation of yours.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, ma’am,” he drawled, his brow lifting in an arrogant gesture. “I’m just a shirttail relation, so to speak. But genuine kin of yours. My mama was Arnetta Carruthers, and when she married your daddy, I became the most interesting part of the bargain.”

He released her and stepped back, then bowed in a parody of elegance. His next words were underlaid with an emotion she could not have put words to.

“Welcome home, Miss Emmaline Carruthers.” His eyes glittered with the intensity of his appraisal. “We’ve been expecting you.”

* * *

The buckboard wasn’t much of an improvement over the train, Emmaline decided before they’d traveled a mile.

“Do you ride in this thing often?” she asked, clinging to the edge of the seat.

His eyes swept her with a hooded appraisal. “Havin’ a hard time keepin’ your seat?” The corner of his mouth twitched as he slapped the reins against the broad backs of the two huge animals trotting in tandem. Accordingly, they increased their pace, and Emmaline gripped more firmly to the wooden board beneath her.

“Surely you have a buggy of sorts that would have been more suitable,” she suggested, her voice vibrating with the rhythm of the springless wagon.

“Buggy don’t hold much in the line of supplies,” he told her, casting a glance at her pursed lips and furrowed brow. It was really more of an initiation than he had planned. Piling discomfort on top of distress wasn’t exactly playing fair, he admitted to himself as he noted the paleness of her cheeks, flushed from too much sun.

Pulling back on the reins and bringing the team of horses to a halt, he sighed. “Look, little sister...”

Between gritted teeth, she spit the words, barely moving her lips. “I’m...not...your...sister!”

His grin was quickly covered by a swipe of one large brown hand, and he turned to her with a suggestion of his amusement still vivid in his narrowed eyes. “Whatever you want to call it, we’re related, lady. Now, since that’s been established, let’s get you a bit more comfortable. You can’t sit in the sun with all those clothes on, stranglin’ you and holdin’ all the heat in. You’ll have heatstroke before I get you home, and then what good will you be to that little sister of ours?”

She sat in a huddled lump of bedraggled dark linen and considered his words. Then, as he reached toward her, obviously intent on loosening the buttons that marched up the front of her suit, she moved quickly. Her hands were there before his, her fingers moving stiffly as she set free the plain black buttons and turned back the lapels to reveal her throat.

Her eyes closed in pure pleasure as an errant breeze cooled the heated flesh she had exposed, and she breathed deeply of the scent of desert blossoms that the southerly wind carried to her nostrils. Scarcely had she inhaled, barely had she stretched her slender neck from within its folds of fabric, when she felt his hard hands on her wrist.

She opened her eyes, blinking against the glare of the afternoon sun, to see him undoing the buttons that closed her sleeve. She watched in stunned silence as he rolled up the cuff as far as it would go, almost to her elbow, then reached across her to grasp the other hand and repeated the motion.

Emmaline watched, aware of the total lack of respect he was displaying, aware of the proximity of their bodies as he bent to his task, and more aware than she wanted to be of the rough texture of his fingers against her pale skin. She swallowed back the flood of saliva that rushed to fill her mouth.

For just a moment, a swirling sensation in her stomach prompted her to consider anew her refusal of his offer of lunch. That is, until she decided that it wasn’t simply pangs of hunger she was feeling, but rather an unusual awareness of the man who handled her so casually. And then, with a grunt that might have signified approval, he straightened and retrieved the reins.

“Feel better?” he asked as he once more set the team in motion.

“Ummm,” she managed to reply.

“Once we get to the ranch, you’d do well to get out of those stockings and whatever you’re wearin’ under all those layers of clothes,” he suggested in an offhand manner.

Emmaline straightened on the seat, oddly refreshed by the loosening of her jacket, but hovering on the edge of anger at his casual mention of her underclothes. “I beg your pardon,” she said stiffly. “What I am wearing is no more or less than any lady would wear.”

“You won’t find any of those harnesses and piles of petticoats on a ranch, Miss Emmaline,” he said with dry precision. “The ladies wear light colors, and not too many layers.”

“I’m in mourning,” she announced primly, even as her honest heart prodded her. It was difficult to mourn a father she had little memory of, but she had dutifully donned the required black garb and yards of veiling on her hat. That the veiling had gone by the way after she discovered how hot it was behind the layers of gauze was not to be admitted, she thought warily. Now she’d allowed this...man, this ranch hand, to handle her clothing, and...

The memory of his work-roughened fingers against her skin was the final straw. He was bossy, she decided, not to mention arrogant, and she was still too hot. Her eyes blinked and narrowed against the unrelenting sunshine. Not only that, she was too tired, and sick of being jolted about on this sad excuse for a wagon, she thought as she fought the weary tears that burned behind her eyelids.

His voice saved her from the disgrace of tears. “We’ve arrived,” he announced as they passed beneath a sign proclaiming that they were on Carruthers land. But it was not to be a quick arrival, she noticed, watching the group of buildings in the distance. Indeed, it was another twenty minutes before the wagon halted.

As if it had sprouted from the desert, the house sprawled in several directions, its sand-colored walls dotted with windows and doors. A wide roof provided overhanging shelter, forming a shaded spot on the eastern side of the building. Appearing from the shadowed doorway, a woman stepped forward. Wiping her hands on the front of the white apron she wore, she smiled her welcome. Behind her, the open door revealed a dim interior, and Emmaline yearned suddenly to step within that shady area, out of the sun that beat upon her with unrelenting brilliance.

She shifted upon the seat, and, as if spurred by her movement, the man sitting next to her leaped to the ground and then turned, hands reaching to lift her from the seat. She moved nearer and then, fingers clutching his shoulders, felt him take her weight as he circled her waist with hands that held her firmly. He swept her to the ground, providing support while she gingerly tested her weight on limbs that were unaccountably shaky.

“Got the ground under you, ma’am?” he asked, his eyes mocking as he watched her closely. She was a slim little mite, he decided, flexing his fingers against the boning of the undergarment she wore. ‘Course, once she took off the corsets, or whatever it was they called those idiotic things women wore, she might spread out a little.

She stirred against his hands and he released her, his eyes hooded as he watched the sway of her skirt, the graceful steps of her slender booted feet and the tilt of her head under the bonnet she wore.

“Thank you, Mr....” She groped for a name as she stepped away from him.

“Just Matt,” he said bluntly. “We don’t deal in formalities around here, sis.”

She stiffened. “All right. Thank you, Matt,” she said, declining the argument he’d resurrected with his reference to their relationship.

“Come in, come in,” the woman on the doorstep said, stepping back to allow Emmaline room.

“Maria, this is Miss Emmaline,” Matt said. “Maria is our housekeeper, Emmaline.”

The woman nodded quickly. “I’ve been watching for you. You must be hot and tired. Hungry, too, unless this man fed you in town. From the looks of things, you need something cool to drink and a place to sit and rest a bit.” Maria bustled ahead, Emmaline trailing behind as she looked about the large room, drawn by the simple beauty of its furnishings.

Blinking against the dimness, she basked in the cooler temperature within the house. On the outside wall, the windows were covered with white curtains, sheer and filmy with deep ruffles that were held back at the sides. Large pieces of leather furniture sat about the room, deep chairs with reading lamps close at hand, and a pair of sofas that faced each other before an enormous fireplace on the far wall. A game table, surrounded by heavy wooden chairs, filled another corner. Whitewashed walls, dotted with paintings and an assortment of hanging rugs and tapestries, caught her eye. The floor beneath her feet was wooden, scattered with woven rugs across its wide planking.

A quiet, cool welcome enveloped her as she stood in silence...a welcome she had not thought to discover in this place.

Behind her, she heard the murmur of voices and then the bustle of men carrying in the contents of the wagon.

“Take Miss Emmaline’s bags to the guest room,” Maria instructed the men from the doorway.

“I only have my carpetbag and a small trunk,” Emmaline said quickly. She’d trusted her trunk to fate when the train conductor deposited it on the platform earlier. There it had remained until Matt shouldered it easily and dumped it without ceremony in the back of the wagon.

“I didn’t bring much with me,” she added. Her smile was distracted as she watched Maria. The woman waved her hands at the men hustling to do her bidding, alternately scolding them and shaking her head at them.

“Will your other things be coming later?” Matt asked from the doorway.

“No.” Turning to face him, she slid the bonnet from her head and brushed at the curls that sprang to life, vibrant against the darkness of her mourning dress. “I didn’t plan on staying long enough to need many things.”

His brow rose, and he braced his feet apart, one hand resting negligently against his hip, the other holding the belt and holster he had just slipped off.

“Oh?” The questioning syllable hung in the air.

Her chin lifted a bit as she silently defied him, determined to set the pattern for their short future together. “I only plan on staying long enough to hear the will read and make arrangements to take my sister back to Lexington with me.”

Only the sharp intake of breath warned her of another presence, and that only for a second. Then a wail of anguish filled the air and set her in motion.

“Noooo...” cried a child from the far side of one of the sofas, where she peered over the high back. “I’m not going away! I’m not going to Lexing with her, am I, Maffew?” she wailed piteously.

“‘Course not, Tessie,” he assured her, reaching her in several long strides, his gun belt flung onto a peg on the wall as he moved.

Emmaline was right behind him as he gathered the child into his arms. The little girl wrapped herself about him, burying her face against his broad chest.

The look he slanted at Emmaline clearly told her she had made her first blunder in this place.

“This is your little sister. Too bad you couldn’t have made a better first impression,” he said bluntly.

Emmaline drew in a deep breath and considered the situation. Taking another step closer to where the child huddled in her brother’s arms, she watched the narrow shoulders shudder, her heart aching in quick sympathy.

“Theresa, won’t you look at me? I’ve come a long way just to see you,” she said coaxingly. She reached out to touch the fingers that lay against Matt’s collar, and the little girl shivered.

“No, I don’t want to see you! Make her go away, Maffew!” she demanded loudly.

“Miss Emmaline, why don’t I show you where your room is,” Maria suggested softly from behind her, and Emmaline turned quickly, thankful for the suggestion.

“That would be fine,” she whispered with a nod. With only one short look over her shoulder, she left the room, only to hear the words repeated in a firm, carrying voice from the child she had alienated so quickly.

“Make her go away, Maffew.”

His answer was delivered in a husky murmur. “She won’t be here long, short stuff. Everything will be all right. She’s just a citified woman come to look us over. She won’t be here long,” he repeated firmly.

Emmaline’s lips tightened and her eyes narrowed at his words of reassurance to the child, and she spun on her heel toward the hallway where Maria was leading the way.

“A lot he knows about it,” she muttered beneath her breath. “Citified woman, am I? The man doesn’t know a lady when he sees one! And I didn’t come all the way to this blot on the desert for nothing. We’ll just see about that!”

Chapter Two

Warily eyeing the tortilla on her plate, Emmaline poked at it with her fork. As breakfasts went, it was definitely different from the usual ham and biscuits she was accustomed to at home.

“Eat, eat!” Maria urged her from her post at the doorway. “I put in plenty of eggs and meat for you. It gives lots of energy for the whole morning.”

Emmaline returned her admonition with a smile. Then, with determination, she cut into the strange offering that was called breakfast in this foreign place and ate the first bite.

“I just made fresh coffee,” Maria said from around the corner. Bearing the coffeepot, she bustled through the doorway. Emmaline nodded, her mouth full.

“Mr. Matthew finished up early this morning,” the rotund woman said as she filled Emmaline’s cup. “He’s gone out to check on the new foals.”

“Where is Theresa?” Emmaline asked, and cut with more enthusiasm into the breakfast she had almost scorned. Whatever it was called, the combination of ingredients was surprisingly good.

“With her teacher, doing schoolwork,” Maria answered, moving about the table as she cleared and straightened. For a moment, she hesitated, and her eyes were warm as they rested on the young woman before her.

Emmaline’s hair was brilliant, a golden red that haloed about her in a cascade of curls. Her eyes were blue, wide-set, and bright with unveiled interest as she took in her surroundings. Her features were strong and symmetrical, calling to mind the handsome man who had fathered her. And it was that thought that brought a sense of nostalgia to the Mexican woman who had managed this household for over a quarter of a century.

“Miss Emmaline, you make me think of your papa, you know,” she said with gentle yearning. “He had the same curls, so golden in the sunshine, so full of fire in the shadows.” Her sigh was deep. “I remember the day your mama took you away, how your papa held you in his arms. Your heads were pressed so tightly together, I couldn’t tell one curl from another, so alike they were.”

Emmaline looked up unbelievingly. “You remember me? From twenty years ago? I didn’t know you were here then, Maria.”

“Ah, yes. Your mama was so full of sadness, so unhappy with our sunshine and the dry spells and the spring rains. She said so many times how much she wanted to go where there was green grass and cool breezes.” Her ample breasts rose and fell as she breathed deeply, as if she would express sympathy with the long-departed woman.

“Mama always shuddered when she spoke of this place,” Emmaline remembered as she propped her elbow on the table and leaned her chin on her hand. Mama shuddered a lot, she thought with resignation. She picked up her cup and sipped at the hot brew within.

“And what do you think of our sunshine?” Maria asked. “Perhaps you have some of your papa in you that craves the heat and the open spaces.”

Emmaline shrugged diffidently. “I haven’t given it much chance yet. Yesterday was a real experience, what with riding on that wagon and traveling in the hottest part of the day.” She slid a glance at the woman who was still considering her intently. “I suspect Matthew was trying to put me through a trial, perhaps seeking to discourage me from staying.”

Maria grinned. Her smile widened to express her agreement, revealing brilliant white teeth. “Sí...he may have set out on the wrong foot. Then, too, he did have to get supplies from town, and the buggy doesn’t hold as much.”

“Well, at any rate, I may not be here for long,” Emmaline said quickly. “I’ll make arrangements to see Mr. Hooper and find out what I need to do about the will, and then—”

“And then you’ll fold up your tent and steal away, I suspect, city lady,” said a husky voice from behind her.

Emmaline stifled the urge to toss her coffee at the tall man who stood in the archway, instead looking over her shoulder at him with disdain.

“I don’t steal away, Matt. When the time comes, I’ll leave the same way I came, only with my sister in tow.”

His snort of disbelief only served to bring her to her feet in a rush of movement. She spun to face him, and her skirts swished about her.

Matt’s gaze moved slowly from the tips of her neatly shod feet to the wide skirt of her dress, then across the fitted bodice to where the buttons marched up to fasten beneath her chin. Tilted at an angle, her head was like a bright blossom above the dark mourning colors she affected. The sight of such radiance, shimmering in the early sunshine, which poured through the unshaded dining room window, set his teeth on edge.

She was too good-looking for his peace of mind, he had decided last night. What with the sassy mouth pouting when she got aggravated and those eyes sparking fire at his teasing, she was more than he had bargained for.

“Thought you heard what Tessie had to say last night,” he growled at her. “She’s not about to go clear across the country with you. This is her home.”

“She’s my sister, just as much as she’s yours,” Emmaline reminded him firmly. “I didn’t come all the way out here to see her for a few days and then forsake her.”

Matt stepped closer, the smell of dust and horses and leather making her aware of where he had been this morning. “Don’t sniff your elegant nose at me, lady,” he said roughly. “What you smell is good honest sweat, and Arizona dirt. Not that you’d recognize it.”

“On the contrary.” Emmaline’s voice slid like silk over his irritation. “You have the distinct odor of a horseman, and that doesn’t change much between Kentucky and Arizona. I’m well accustomed to the smell of a barn.”

“Do you know how to ride a horse?” he asked bluntly, his narrowed eyes taking in her smug stance.

She smiled, and her expression was benevolent. “I’ve probably sat on richer horseflesh than you’ve ever dreamed of.”

“Too bad you won’t be here long enough to prove it,” he ventured.

“I’m being tolerant of you this morning, given that you know nothing about me or my intentions, save that of gaining guardianship of my sister. But don’t push me, Mr. Gerrity.” She clenched her hands and thrust them into the pockets of her gown, unwilling that he should know the extent of her aggravation.

He knew. His brow lifted, and a grin teased at the corner of his mouth. “Somehow I suspect you don’t have a tolerant bone in your body,” he drawled. “Especially when it comes to me.”

Her shrug denied him the satisfaction of a verbal reply, and she turned away. Suit yourself, she thought, then left the room, aware that she was too easily drawn into a war of words with him.

“Miss Emmaline!” he called after her, bringing her to a halt midway along the wide passageway that led to the living room. He’d followed her through the archway. She took a deep breath before she turned once more to face him.

“Yes.”

The word was terse—not much of an invitation, he decided. “Oswald Hooper will be here shortly. Would you care to join us in the library?”

Her nod was abrupt. Better that she knew right away just where she stood in the scheme of things here. The situation was far from what she had expected; certainly, the presence of Matt Gerrity had not figured into her plans. But surely her father’s will would effectively place Theresa in her care.

“Just let me know when he arrives,” she requested, striving for a gracious tone. Already her hands were damp with the sweat of anxiety, and her breath caught as she contemplated the issues at hand.

For too long she had yearned for the closeness of family ties. Her mother had been sickly, tending to stay close to her bed or couch, finally succumbing to pneumonia without a struggle. Her grandparents had been kind, in an aloof sort of way, providing her with all she required in order to become a lady and prepare for life as a wife and mother.

It had not been enough. The message from Mr. Hooper had opened her eyes to the solitary existence she had lived for so long. That she was bonded by blood to a five-year-old child, that the closeness she yearned for might be within reach, was the impetus that had brought her here. Even the rude welcome she’d received from the girl was not enough to discourage her. She would woo her and win her, Emmaline had determined during the night hours. She would make Theresa love her.

“Will you be in your room?” Matt’s eyes narrowed as he watched her. She’d been deep in thought. His words had shattered that privacy, and now she straightened her shoulders and lifted her head. With a tightening of her mouth, she nodded at him in silent acceptance.

“I’ll send Maria to fetch you.”

Once more she nodded and turned away, and he watched her walk down the hallway. He grinned unwillingly as he noted each twitch of her skirt, and the way the heavy fabric clung to the curves beneath.

* * *

“I don’t believe it.” Spoken in a whisper, Emmaline’s words hung in the silence of the library. Her hands clenched at her sides, she spun and walked to the window. Only the rigid strength she had willed to her spine held her upright, and she stared unseeingly out onto the small patch of grass that comprised the front yard.

The man at the desk watched her with concern. Emmaline was the daughter of his friend, and Oswald Hooper had predicted this very reaction. His smile was wry. Anyone with a grain of sense could have predicted her reaction. Samuel was probably well out of it, he decided shrewdly. If her father were here, Emmaline Carruthers would no doubt be more than indignant. As it was, she looked fit to be tied.

Her voice was jerky, and her words were abrupt when she spoke. “Was this your idea?” she asked.

There was no doubt in his mind. Matt knew she was speaking to him. Leaning negligently against the wall, he ran one thumb across his bottom lip while he considered her. Her silhouette was dark against the brilliant sunlight that filtered so easily through the white curtains. The slender length of her was garbed in black, the fabric heavy against her layers of petticoats. Only the glimpse of small, fisted hands and the pale line of her cheek and forehead brought relief to the somber costume covering her.

Shaking his head and silently cursing the man who had brought about this situation, Matt straightened and approached the silent figure. “Your daddy didn’t need any help from me, Emmaline. He dreamed this up all on his own.”

Her lips barely moved, and Matt tilted his head to hear the words. “I can’t do it.”

His shrug was eloquent. “Then don’t. Just get yourself on that wagon and I’ll cart you right back to Forbes Junction, and you can catch the next train headed east.” His drawl had become more pronounced when she turned to face him.

He said with innocence, “Why, I’ll bet you could be in Lexington before the sun rises on Sunday.”

“Wouldn’t you just love that!” she said through clenched teeth. “Wouldn’t you just!”

“Why, no, ma’am.” He slowly rolled the words, as if he were jesting with her. Truth to tell, he’d been enjoying the faint accent she placed on each syllable as she spoke. The contrast of her soft, cultured voice and the anger flashing from her blue eyes pleased him.

“I suppose you’d prefer the alternative,” she suggested scornfully.

For just a second, his eyes glistened with unholy glee, and she inhaled sharply.

“Well, ma’am,” he drawled, “I’d say that I’m not in a position to decide that, one way or the other. I’m willing to go along with your wishes.”

It was so tempting, Emmaline thought. He was so close she could see the tiny squint lines beside his eyes. She could stamp her foot or swing a closed fist at him or spout the swear words she’d heard the trainers use back in Lexington.

She swallowed the words, and kept her hands tightly clenched. Her feet were another matter. Her toes were twitching inside the slender boots she wore, so badly did they want to deliver a punishing blow to the instep of the arrogant man who taunted her.

She moved quickly, fearful of revealing the anger bubbling in her depths. He lifted his brow in surprise as she spun to face him fully, and hid a smile as her feet sounded firmly against the carpet.

“My wishes are not the issue here, Mr. Gerrity,” she said with biting sarcasm. “My late father has shown no regard whatsoever for my needs or desires in this matter.”

“Miss Carruthers,” the man at the desk said mildly, anxious to turn this conversation back to the matter at hand. “We need to hear the rest of the will before you make a hasty decision.”

As if she had forgotten his existence, Emmaline’s eyes widened in recognition. “There’s more?”

Since the terms of the will had been read, just minutes ago, she’d been thrown into a state of shock, she realized. That her father could have tied up this ranch, the money in the bank and the fate of her sister with such horrendous terms was unbelievable.

As legal documents went, it was quite simple, really, she thought glumly, remembering each word.

It is my decision that my daughter, Emmaline Carruthers, join with Matthew Gerrity, my stepson, in a marriage that will ensure the heritage of my father being passed on to coming generations. Therefore, I grant joint custody to Emmaline and Matthew, in the case of my beloved daughter Theresa, so that she may be raised with the influence of both her brother and sister. So long as Emmaline and Matthew live on this property, they will be joint owners and joint caretakers of my daughter, Theresa. Should they decide not to enter into such a marriage, neither of them will inherit from me anything other than personal items which shall be listed below.

The lawyer cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles. “Yes, there is more.” His face became suffused in a rosy hue, and Emmaline’s eyes sharpened as she sensed his discomfort. As though he were sending her a silent apology for what was to come, he glanced at her somberly.

“Allow me to continue,” he said.

However, if they decide to abide by the above terms, and should there not be issue from the above described marriage within two years, I declare that neither Emmaline Carruthers or Matthew Gerrity shall remain as owners, but said ownership will revert at that time to my daughter Theresa. Matthew Gerrity will remain in his present position for as long as he desires. A suitable guardian shall be appointed for Theresa and the property held in trust for her until the age of twenty-one.

“He can’t do that!” Emmaline’s words were anguished.

Oswald Hooper looked at her sympathetically, as if he could not bear to deny her claim.

Matt had no such compunction.

“Looks to me like he did do exactly that,” he said with a humorless smile.

“There’s not much more,” said the lawyer. “Just some bequests to the people here, and some legal processes to take place, ensuring the rights of the child. Other than that, you’ve heard the gist of it. Once you two are married, the deed will be changed to include both of your names.”

“Matt Gerrity has no right,” she blurted. “He’s no blood relation.”

“Your father chose the terms, Miss Carruthers,” the lawyer reminded her gently.

“I won’t do it,” she vowed with whispered determination.

“Don’t be so quick to decide, Emmaline.” Matt’s voice was deep, demanding her attention. She looked up quickly to meet his gaze. “If you turn down the terms of the will, I’ll have no choice but to send you on your way. You’ll lose contact with Tessie.”

“And what about you? What will happen to you?”

His shoulders lifted once more, negligently. “Well, I suppose I’ll just stay on here as ranch foreman. The will gives me that option, if I’m not mistaken.”

“It could be interpreted that way,” Mr. Hooper said, prompted by Matt’s questioning look.

“And you’ll have Theresa,” Emmaline said bitterly.

He nodded as he repeated her words. “And I’ll have Theresa.”

“I won’t allow that to happen,” she declared, her chin lifting another notch. Her nostrils flared delicately, and her eyes shone with barely repressed fury. “I’ll do anything I have to.”

She was a fighter, Matt decided, watching the lines of her face firm up before his eyes. Her jaw was clenched, and her lips tightened as she awaited his reply.

With an edge of anger, he accepted her challenge. “So be it.”

Old Samuel had had the last laugh, he thought grimly. He had always told him he’d like to see the day Matt met his match. And this daughter of his damn sure looked like it.

Chapter Three

“Saai, Mr. Matt has been in charge here for two years. And every unmarried woman in the territory has been making eyes at him,” Maria added for good measure.

Emmaline’s mouth pursed as she considered the statement. “I’ll bet he eats it up,” she said finally.

Maria shrugged and smiled. “What young man wouldn’t? The ladies have always taken to Mr. Matt, and now...” Her shoulders lifted once more.

“And now?”

“Everyone will be thinking he has been left the ranch. A man with property will not go unmarried for long.”

“Does he have...” Emmaline paused delicately, unwilling to ask such a question.

Maria frowned at her. “If you had come to breakfast earlier, you might have been able to ask him yourself,” she said firmly, as if that would settle the matter.

Emmaline smoothed her fingers over the hem of her napkin once more. True, she’d appeared for breakfast just as Matt and Miss Olivia were leaving the table. At home, meals had been served at more civilized hours. Surely no one had an appetite at dawn.

Then, too, in her experience, servants were not as outspoken as Maria. But things were done differently here, she reminded herself. Lexington was a long way from Forbes Junction. Informality was a way of life. Why, Theresa and Matt didn’t even wear mourning, she realized, not for the first time, as she looked down upon her own black silk gown. She shivered, mutely deciding Arizona was a long way from civilization.

Annoyance was riding the edge of her voice when she finally managed a reply. “It isn’t a question a lady can ask a man. Besides, I asked you, Maria. All else aside, Mr. Gerrity is not the easiest man in the world to talk to, you know.”

The housekeeper shook her head. “Since he is to be your husband, you have the right to ask him anything you wish.” Her sparkling eyes belied the prim pursing of her mouth as she tossed a quick look at Emmaline. “I owe as much allegiance to Mr. Matthew as to yourself.”

Emmaline cast her an unbelieving look. “I doubt if I will ever be given as much,” she muttered beneath her breath.

The husky voice from the doorway cut with precision into her thoughts.

“Just ask away, Emmaline. My life is an open book,” Matt said with deceptive softness. “Don’t make Maria feel uncomfortable. She’s loyal to the family, and that splits her between us.”

Emmaline’s brow raised as she turned to face him. “You consider me family?”

He hesitated only a moment. “Maria does,” he said flatly. “That’s all that matters.”

“Sí,” the older woman said quickly. “You are your father’s daughter, Miss Emmaline. You are family, as if you had never left.”

The words touched Emmaline more deeply than she wanted to admit, and she smiled with trembling lips as she rose from the table. “Thank you, Maria,” she murmured quietly, one hand lifting to rest for a moment upon the housekeeper’s shoulder as she paused by her side.

Her head bowed for a moment as she considered her position here. When the only truly friendly face she’d come across in the past two days was that of the housekeeper, it was difficult to feel at home. Matt’s words of welcome had been flippant, and his manner had run the gamut from mocking to moody, especially during the session in the library. Since then, he’d retreated into a shell that bespoke his feelings eloquently.

His eyes had been upon her more than once, but the message they conveyed was guarded. He’d be happiest if she hightailed it out of here, she thought.

“Emmaline.” His voice brought her back from her meanderings.

He stood in the doorway, his hands tucked into the slits of his pant pockets. “What do you want to know about me?” he asked, with a taunting grin that made her clench her jaw.

She shook her head mutely, unwilling to allow her irritation free rein. Where he’d been and what he’d been doing for all his life was none of her business, she decided swiftly. Better that she tend to today’s business and forget his yesterdays. She might find out more than she wanted to know. And besides, she probably would soon be learning more about him than she had ever planned on.

With long fingers, he set his wide-brimmed hat upon his head, covering his dark, glossy hair and tilting the brim to shade his eyes, hiding their expression from her view.

“You missed your best chance,” he said evenly. “See you at supper time.” With a nod toward both women, he left the room, and Emmaline was left to wish she’d asked him just one question.

How did Matt Gerrity feel about entering a forced marriage?

Her heart pounded in an accelerated rhythm as she considered the thought. Somehow, Matthew Gerrity didn’t appear to be the sort of man who would take kindly to being forced into anything, she decided. Especially something as final as a marriage. A marriage that would, by necessity, involve the birth of a child.

* * *

Bathing every day was a habit deeply ingrained in Emmaline. She had responded to Matthew’s suggestion that she take a dip in the shallow creek several miles to the north with utter silence. His mocking grin had infuriated her.

The alternative was a procedure involving pails of hot and cold water, and the aid of others. There was no help for it, she’d decided by the third day. Sponge baths in her room were inadequate, and she yearned for the luxury of being wet all over.

The tub was large, sloped at the back, and longer than the one Emmaline was accustomed to. “I can almost lie full length in that,” she said to Maria as the housekeeper supervised its filling. The bathing room was just off the kitchen—a rather primitive way of doing business, Emmaline thought privately. Two of the hired hands carried brimming pails of hot water and dumped them quickly into the tub. Then Maria pumped cold water in the kitchen and sent two buckets along to lower the temperature to Emmaline’s liking. Another pail of steaming water was left next to the tub, should the bath cool before she finished.

“Your papa needed a big tub,” Maria told her with good humor. “He was a large man, and didn’t like to have his knees poking out of the water.”

“I remember him a little, you know,” Emmaline said wistfully. “He seemed a giant of a man to me—all legs, in fact, until he picked me up. I remember him holding me, and then sometimes I wonder if it might be just wishful thinking on my part. Maybe my memories and dreams get all tangled up in my mind.”

Maria moved behind her to plait the abundance of hair flowing to the middle of her back. “I’ll pin this up to keep it out of the water,” she offered, her fingers quick as they formed the loose braid and attached it to Emmaline’s crown with a bone hairpin. Her hands dropped to the younger woman’s shoulders, and she sighed, shaking her head at the memories Emmaline’s words had brought to life.

“I think we have many pictures in our minds, Miss Emmaline. If you remember your papa at all, it is because his love for you was so strong. Don’t think badly of him. He only wished that you had received his letters and could have answered. But he never held it against you.”

“He wrote me?”

“Sí, every month he sent a letter. For years he hoped...but your mama or your grandparents... Well, it’s done now,” she finished briskly. Her face brightened. “When Arnetta Gerrity came here, his life changed. He decided you were lost to him, I think.” She bent to test the bathwater, dismissing the subject.

“I have left towels, here on the stool,” she said briskly. Quickly she patted once more at Emmaline’s hair, testing the security of the upswept braid, and her eyes were moist with tender feeling. “So like your papa,” she whispered, shaking her head as she left the small bathing room, pulling the door shut behind herself.

Emmaline’s movements were slow, her fingers deliberately undoing the row of buttons on her dress. That her mother had kept so much from her was almost unbelievable. If her father had truly written letters to her all that time, what had happened to them? Carefully she stripped her petticoats from her body, silently condemning them to perdition.

“You’re right, Matthew Gerrity,” she muttered through clenched teeth. “It’s too dratted hot here for civilized clothing.” The black dress, with its yards of skirt, received a baleful glance, and she stepped carefully into the tub of water. And then she sighed with contentment as the scent of lilacs wafted about her.

Bringing her own soap along had seemed a luxury while she packed for the journey, but now it was a dire necessity, she decided. The sudsy fragrance she used washed away her tension, even as it removed the dusty residue and perspiration from her body.

“Are you still here?” asked a small voice from the doorway, even as the knob squeaked at being turned by the child’s hand.

Automatically Emmaline slid beneath the surface of the water and turned her head to peer at the intruder.

Theresa watched her with wide, hostile eyes. “I thought you’d be gone,” she said, her chin jutting forward as she eyed the unwanted woman who’d taken up residence in the bathtub.

Emmaline chose her words carefully. “I came to see you, Theresa. I can’t leave till we get to know each other. We’re sisters, you know.”

The child sniffed and sidled into the room. She propped one hand on her waist and assumed a belligerent stance. “I don’t need a sister,” she declared firmly. “I have Maffew, and he’s my brother.”

“I know,” Emmaline answered softly, aware of how gingerly she must tread. “But all girls need a sister, you know. I’ve always wanted one of my very own. And now that I’ve found you, I really want to get to know you.”

“Why?” Theresa frowned, pushing her lips into a pout.

Emmaline hid her amusement at the look. “Because I’m sure you’re a nice girl and we’ll get on well together. I can show you how to play some games I know,” she added gently, coaxingly.

“Games?” Theresa’s eyes lit with interest for a moment, then the frown settled back in place and an uncaring gesture lifted the small shoulders in a shrug.

“I brought along some things I thought you’d like to see,” Emmaline said as she began once more to wash. She lifted one leg and used the cloth with long strokes, enjoying the sensation of the rough fabric against her flesh.

There was a long moment of silence. Then the child spoke, in a small voice that struggled to be offhand. “What kind of things?”

Emmaline cocked her head and looked over her shoulder, her mouth pursed as if in thought. “Oh...I have a set of jackstraws, and a skipping rope.” She slanted a glance at Theresa once more. “Can you skip rope?”

Theresa’s head shook as she took another step closer.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Emmaline said, as if in surprise. “There’s a package from France that I found in my room back home in Lexington that I thought you might like.”

“From France?” Her eyes widened as Theresa sank onto the bath stool, oblivious of the towels beneath her bottom. “My Miss Olivia says that’s a place across the ocean.”

Emmaline nodded agreeably and resumed her washing, donning a façde of nonchalance. “Of course, you might not like playing jackstraws. But...we could skip rope.” She dared another look at the child, who had leaned even closer. “But then, I’m really a very good rope skipper, and you might have a hard time learning.”

“Oh, no,” Theresa said quickly. “I can learn real fast. My Maffew says I’m smart as a whip.” Her mouth drew down suddenly as a new thought struck her. “You won’t be here very long, anyway. Maffew says you’ll be leaving soon.”

“Well...” Emmaline turned quickly to the child, but it was too late. She had jumped from the stool and, with only one backward look, was gone, slipping through the doorway and running through the kitchen.

“Where’ve you been, pigeon?” The deep voice sounded beyond the half-open door, and Emmaline slipped once more beneath the surface of the water, sloshing it precariously close to the brim of the tub.

“Talkin’ to that lady,” Theresa said. “She’s takin’ a baff.”

“With the door open?” Tinged with a trace of amusement, the voice came closer, and Emmaline reached for the towels Maria had left.

“Are you wantin’ more company in there?” Matt asked from around the doorway. “We usually keep this door shut when the room is being used,” he drawled.

“Please pull it shut, would you?” Emmaline held the towel in readiness as she bent forward in the water, her knees pulled to her breasts.

“Sure you don’t want company?” From just beyond the door, his voice reached her, tinged with taunting amusement.

“Please, Matt,” she whispered, her words wispy with embarrassment.

He reached one long arm within the room, his fingers grasping the knob, and deliberately closed the door.

“Don’t be late for breakfast,” he called to her abruptly. “Maria usually only serves once. After that, you’re on your own.”

“And I hope you choke on yours,” she muttered as she stepped over the edge of the tub and enfolded herself in the towel she still clutched.

* * *

The last rays of the sun set the sky aglow in shades of pink and orange contrasting with the darker bands of purple that chased the daylight below the horizon. The porch faced west, and Emmaline sat on the top step, her arms wrapped about herself as she watched in awe, her eyes wide.

“Never seen a sunset before?” he asked in a faintly teasing fashion.

She shrugged, the movement lifting her shoulders, then allowed her glance to meet his. “Lots of them,” she answered, her arms dropping from her waist, her hands clasping easily in her lap.

“Looked like you were all wrapped up in this one.” He nodded toward the sky in the west, where the scudding clouds were still gleaming at the edges. The pink had darkened to cerise, rimming the gray, ominous cloud bank as though a paintbrush had been swept across the upper edge.

“It’s different,” she admitted quietly. “Stronger, somehow. Maybe just because there’s so much more of it.” She turned back to the vision that was even now fading rapidly beneath the horizon, and her sigh was audible.

“There’ll be another one tomorrow night.” He made his way to where she sat, his stride long and his boots loud against the wooden porch. In an easy motion, he sat down beside her and stretched his long legs before him.

She eyed him from beneath lowered lids, her glance making a guarded survey. His pants were snug, wrapped about his thighs and calves as if custom-made to fit the muscular shape they covered. Dusty and worn at the seams, they were standard-quality denim, but on Matthew Gerrity they became something else.

She thought of the men she’d known who wouldn’t be caught wearing common pants from a store shelf, men who had their riding clothes made by tailors who measured and sewed each seam with precision. None of them could hold a candle to this man, she decided.

There was about him a sureness, a quality of masculine perfection that defied description. He wore a cotton shirt that tucked neatly into his pants, a bandanna tied casually about his throat, his belt snug about his waist—below his waist, really, she amended with a silent chuckle. The pants rode the top of his hips as he walked, she remembered, and her face flushed as she recalled that walk.

That slim-hipped, flat-bottomed stroll that had caught her openmouthed as she watched. The masculine body that began with broad shoulders and long arms, arms that were thick beneath the shirtsleeves he rolled to within inches of his elbows. Hands that were wide, and fingers that were long and tapered and strong.

“Emmaline?” The voice was close to her ear, and she jerked as it brought her from her thoughts.

“Have you made up your mind? Are you planning the wedding?”

She shook her head. “Not yet.”

His look was cynical. “Begging off already?”

“I told you I’d do anything I had to, didn’t I?”

“Is it so bad? Marrying the ranch foreman?” His tone was clipped and cold.

“You won’t be the foreman if I marry you. You’ll own the place.”

“Half of it. Your name will be on the title, too. That ought to make your folks happy, you bein’ a landowner.”

She shrugged and eyed the darkened horizon, loath to look in his direction. “It’s still not what my grandparents planned for me. Certainly not what my mother had in mind for her only child.”

“In other words, you could do better back in Lexington,” he said tonelessly.

“Could you? Could you do better?” she asked, and then dared the question she’d been mulling over. “Was there someone else in the picture before I arrived?”

He was silent, and she ventured to cast a quick look at him. His jaw was taut, and his eyes were narrowed. Certainly not an approachable man, she thought. He gave no indication of his thoughts, and she’d begun to regret her question when he shifted toward her.

“No one that should matter to you,” he answered shortly.

“Will you break her heart? Or is there more than one?”

He shook his head in a slow movement, his eyes on her. “Hardly. I don’t have time to chase after women.”

“Maria seems to think you don’t have to do much chasing.”

“Maria talks too much.” His grin was cocky.

“You didn’t answer my question. Are you going to break some woman’s heart if we marry?” She tilted her chin and waited for his answer.

It was enigmatic, as was the look he sent from beneath lowered brows. “Most women don’t have hearts that are broken so easily.”

She sighed, wondering how long it would take to get a straight answer. “Will you give her up?”

His smile tilted one corner of his mouth disdainfully. “Does it matter?”

Her cheeks were pink as she considered him. “There isn’t any hurry, is there?” she asked finally. “We don’t have to be married right away. Because if you’re having second thoughts, or if you’re planning on—”

“You didn’t answer me, Emmaline.” His lips twisted into another half smile that taunted her, even as it eased the harsh lines of his face, and her eyes were drawn to the movement.

Was his mouth hard, she wondered, or would it soften when it touched the flesh of a woman’s lips? Would he be gentle with his caresses, or would those hard hands be rough against tender skin? Thoughts of those forbidden secrets, things that happened between men and women, flooded her mind, and she blinked in confusion.

“Yes...yes, it matters,” she whispered.

“Even cowhands have honor,” he said roughly. “I won’t be lollygaggin’ around in town after we tie the knot, Emmaline.”

“But you don’t really want to, do you?” she asked.

“I told you, lady, the offer’s still open. I’ll cart you to Forbes Junction to visit the preacher whenever you say. But, to tell the truth, I’d be just as well off putting you on the train. I can make it without you. I make a good living at my job, and I keep a close eye on my sister. I’m satisfied with what I’ve got right now. Theresa’s all that matters to me.”

Her heart thumped against the wall of her chest, and she knew a moment of dreadful sorrow. What she had dreamed of in her childhood years was never to be. Matt Gerrity had no warmth to spend on her, only derision and a calm acceptance of his fate. Could she be satisfied with that? Did she have a choice?

“Can you marry me, without feeling anything for me?” she asked boldly.

His grin was quick. “Oh, don’t worry, honey. I’ll feel something, all right.”

With a graceless movement, she stood, color riding her cheeks as she smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt. “This is a big game for you, isn’t it?”

His eyes were guarded as he rose to tower over her. “I don’t play games, Emmaline. I play for keeps. But let me tell you one thing. If you marry me, you’ll have nothing to complain about. I’ll give you all the attention you want.”

So quickly she was barely able to catch her breath, Matt loomed over her, his big hands grasping her shoulders. He lifted her against his hard body. With a smothered growl, he drew her to him. And then their lips met, hers opening to protest, his open to consume the lush softness of her mouth. With measured restraint, he covered her, taking no notice of the murmurs she uttered within the depths of his mouth.

Emmaline’s hands were helpless against his broad chest, and her toes barely touched the wide boards of the porch. She hung in his grasp and closed her eyes, her face and throat flushed and warm, her mouth tamed to his liking.

A tingle of warmth simmered low in her stomach, but she fought the urge to soften against him. He’d taken hold of her as if she were a hussy in a saloon, and he’d brutally invaded the virgin territory of her mouth as if it were his due. A flush of anger at his treatment covered her cheeks, and Emmaline was overwhelmed suddenly by a sense of despair at the treacherous response of her own body. A sob rose to vibrate within her chest, bringing tears to her eyes. And even her tightly closed lids could not stop them from sliding down her cheeks.

Perhaps it was the dampness against his face that cooled the force of Matt’s ardor. Perhaps he’d begun to regret his irate, impetuous behavior. Whatever the cause, he loosened his grip on her, lowering her feet to the floor, lifting his head to rub his cheek against hers. Her face was rosy, her eyes were tightly closed, yet still the tears flowed, and he felt a pang of regret.

It had been an impulse, and he was too old to be impulsive. Silently he cursed the urges she managed to arouse in him. Emmaline wasn’t used to such rough handling, he reminded himself. He’d have done better to keep his hands off. Here she was, a lady from tip to toe, and he’d just treated her like a woman upstairs at Katy Klein’s Golden Garter.

Putting put her away from his aroused body, he held her in place, waiting until she caught another shuddering breath. Her tongue came out slowly, moving across her lips, testing the tender surfaces and tasting the residue of his mouth. She shivered once more, then shrugged out of his hold, her eyes opening slowly, focusing on the front of his shirt.

“Is this what I have to look forward to?” she asked stiffly.

“Are you gonna cry every time I kiss you?” Matt countered in a harsh growl.

She gritted her teeth and watched as his chest rose and fell with each breath he took. “Was that the way you kiss all your women?”

“Only the ones I plan on taking to bed,” he answered roughly.

She stiffened, and her head lifted until her eyes met the darkness of his. “You are not a gentleman, Matthew Gerrity,” she managed to whisper.

“I never said I was, Emmaline Carruthers.” His index finger touched her mouth before she could move away. “Hold still,” he said quickly, his other hand gripping her shoulder. That single finger slipped easily, slowly, over the fullness of her mouth, and was eased by the moisture he had left there. He watched intently as he traced the path her tongue had taken only seconds ago.

His words were raspy, contrasting with the gentle touch of his callused finger as he completed his inspection and cupped her chin easily in his palm. “Maybe I’ll be nicer next time, honey,” he said roughly.

“Maybe there won’t be a next time,” she snapped, pulling from his touch and hurrying to the door that led into the house.

He watched her go, and his mouth set into a grim line. “Don’t bet the ranch on that one, lady,” he said deliberately, then considered the final twitch of her skirts and the arrogant tilt of her head.

Chapter Four

The box was glossy, with an allover design of flowers, blue forget-me-nots and pale pink roses entwined in heart-shaped bouquets. It lay in solitary splendor on the bed, a splash of delicate color against the white coverlet.

Theresa appeared in the doorway and imitated her brother’s stance, her hands stuffed into her pinafore pockets, her feet apart and her head tilted to one side. Carefully she kept her eyes averted from the temptation that lured her. The package had been in the same place every day for three days, the same three days the door to Emmaline’s room had been left ajar, allowing for easy inspection of the interior.

The box, beguiling her with its mystery, had brought the child this far, the faraway land of its origin provoking her curiosity.

Miss Olivia had shown her a map of Europe and pointed out the orange area that represented France. Theresa had been disappointed. Certainly that blob of color was not what she had expected, and the map had not satisfied her yearning to know more about the source of the enticing box that lay just beyond her reach.

Prodded by the child’s questioning, Miss Olivia had dug deep in her satchel of books to find a slender volume that contained reproduced pictures of the French countryside. Grainy photographs of elegantly dressed Parisian ladies strolling down shop-lined boulevards had awed the child. She’d gazed with wonder at the Arc de Triomphe—Napoleon’s concept brought to life, offering welcome to the city. Certainly such a marvelous place could only offer indescribable treasures.

And such a treasure resided in the box that lay on Emmaline’s bed. Only Theresa’s inherent dignity kept her from it. Only her reluctance to accept the presence of Emmaline denied the eager curiosity that glistened in her dark eyes.

From the dressing table near the window, Emmaline watched the child’s reflection in the mirror she faced. Patience had never been listed in her personal catalog of virtues, but the past few days had found her seeking that quality with a persistence that would have given her grandmother immense gratification, had she known. Now she watched as the child in the doorway struggled with temptation.

“Would you like to come in?” Feigning ignorance of Theresa’s dilemma, Emmaline turned on the padded seat and smiled a careful welcome.

A lifted shoulder was her answer, together with a shuttered glance that denied interest.

“I’ve been hoping you’d come to see me.” This time the child met her gaze fully.

“Miss Olivia said I could leave off writing my letters till later if I wanted to,” she offered diffidently. One hand crept from her pocket and rubbed against the muslin of her skirt. “I just thought I’d see what your jackstraws looked like.”

Emmaline released her breath, relief and delight mingling to create a gentle smile. “I’d love to show you all the things I brought with me,” she said, rising slowly, as if she feared to startle a small wild creature.

Another step brought Theresa within the room, and she halted there, her eyes moving over the small evidence of Emmaline’s presence. A silver-handled brush and mirror lay on the dressing table, next to a crystal bottle of toilet water and a delicately painted china hair receiver. The open wardrobe displayed the meager contents of her luggage, and a paisley reticule hung from the wooden knob of the open door.

But the treasures she had planned to lure the child with lay within the depths of her carpetbag, and she turned to lift it from the floor behind the bed. Carefully she ignored the beribboned package that lay precisely in the center of the feather bed she had slept in for three nights. As if it were a worm on a hook, she had displayed it there with casual unconcern, hoping for just such a visit as Theresa had finally chosen to make this morning.

Reaching into the bag, Emmaline drew forth a jump rope with finely carved handles. “Have you ever tried to skip rope?” she asked.

Theresa’s head shook from side to side as she took another step forward, lessening the distance between them. “No, ma’am,” she said quietly, remembering her manners. “I’ve never played jackstraws, either. Miss Olivia said she played them when she was a little girl, though.”

Emmaline allowed a small grin of triumph to escape. Apparently Theresa had discussed this venture with her tutor. Certainly she’d been impressed enough to make her way here without further coaxing.

“Would you like to see my books?”

The child cast one yearning glance at the bed and then harnessed her curiosity with obvious effort. Her sigh was deep. “I do like books, ma’am.”

“Maybe you could call me Emmaline,” her sister suggested quietly. “What would you like me to call you?”

“I’m Theresa. Only Maffew says I’m his Tessie.” She stepped closer, her soft slippers silent against the wide planks of the bedroom floor. One small hand lifted to brush against the quilted coverlet, its fingers careful to stray no farther than inches from the edge of the bed. For a moment, her eyes darted once more to the flowered box, and then she tamed the errant glance.

“Oh!” Emmaline feigned dismay with a soft cry and a pursing of her lips. “I almost forgot about the present I brought you from France.”

“You did? You almost forgot?” Theresa’s eyes widened in wonder at such a lapse.

With shameless satisfaction, Emmaline reeled in the prize she had won. “There, on the bed,” she said with a lazy movement of her hand. “I left the box out in case you came by.”

Theresa’s mouth formed a soft circle of wonder as her small hand edged across the coverlet to allow slender fingers to trace the fragile flowers that graced the shiny prize she coveted.

“This is for me?” she whispered hopefully.

Emmaline nodded, her smile guardedly triumphant as she watched. “Open it, why don’t you?” she urged softly.

With an eagerness that brought a startled burst of laughter from her elder sister, Theresa clambered onto the bed and then, with anxious eyes, glanced back for approval.

“Go ahead, open it,” Emmaline said encouragingly as she approached the foot of the bed. She was heady with success, and her cheeks were rosy with excitement.

Pretty as a picture. The words that described the scene flew into being as Matthew Gerrity watched from the doorway. Unseen, unnoticed by the two, who were deeply engrossed in their own involvement, he hesitated outside the room.

A strange emotion tore at his heart, a painful surge he recognized as jealousy tightening his jaw, and his eyes narrowed as he surveyed the woman who had begun to usurp his place. With feminine skill, she had brought about this happening, knowing intuitively what would whet a small girl’s curiosity, what would draw the child into her orbit.

“Sneaky,” he said in a casual accusation as he left his watching post to shatter the fragile picture burning in his mind. Unwilling to admit the beguiling of his senses, he chose to break the tenuous moment of vulnerability that had seized his control. He thrust away the moment of envy, the sense of standing outside the magic circle, his mouth tightening with the effort.

Emmaline glanced at him quickly, her smile smothered by the shuttered look he cast in her direction.

“Not sneaky, just devious,” she told him softly. “I need every foothold I can manage.”

Oblivious of the adults who spoke civilities over her head, Theresa was involved in the process of lifting the cover from the box, her fingers already foraging beneath the tissue, which had kept the contents from damage during the long journey.

With a gasp of delight and a whisper of wonder, she drew forth the beautiful bisque doll Emmaline had brought for her. With bonnet and gown barely wrinkled, with delicately hand-painted features smiling demurely in her direction, the loose-limbed creation enthralled Theresa completely. The doll’s hands were lifted carefully and examined, the slippered feet treated with tender regard.

Then the child’s small head lifted, and for the first time, Emmaline saw the sister she had traveled so far to meet and claim as her own.

“Oh, thank you, Emmie,” she said with joyous haste, her small tongue shortening the ponderous length of her sister’s name.

Emmaline cast a glance that reeked of triumph in Matthew’s direction and then allowed her features to soften as she sat down beside the girl, who held the doll with careful hands.

“Emmie?” she asked carefully, her heart rejoicing at the implied intimacy.

Theresa looked up and shrugged. “Emmaline is too long to say.” Her eyes darted to the tall form of her brother, who watched silently. “Do you like my present, Maffew?” she asked with obvious restraint as she awaited his opinion.

To his credit, Matt Gerrity smiled and nodded his approval. Unwilling to dampen the pleasure of his small sister, he faced the knowledge that his solitary relationship with her was at an end.

“Your sister knew just what you would like, didn’t she?” he asked, his question directed at both females.

Emmaline’s chin lifted defiantly as she allowed her smile to widen in response. “You had a head start, Matthew,” she said carefully.

Theresa looked from one to the other, as if she sensed the undercurrents that lay beneath their words.

He relented, unwilling to cloud the small face looking at him with a trace of uncertainty. “It’s a beautiful doll, Tessie,” he assured her. “I’m glad your sister brought it to you.”

The gathering cloud vanished. Theresa embraced the doll, her arms holding the stuffed body with care and her head bent as she crooned softly against the delicately rouged cheek.

Matt’s glance brushed with tenderness over the small form as she rocked the doll within her arms, and Emmaline’s breath caught in her throat as she glimpsed the warmth of his regard.

Just for a moment, an errant thought pierced Emmaline’s satisfaction as she hugged her small victory. Just for a fleeting second, she wondered how it would feel to have that same tender look bestowed upon her own being. And for the space of that moment, she felt alone, bereft of human touch, once more the lonely girl who had been searching for a lifetime and until now had never caught a glimpse of what she sought.

* * *

“You’re getting married?” The words were shrill and carried easily to the hallway, where Emmaline had paused. Voices from the library had alerted her to the presence of a visitor, and she had hesitated, unwilling to intrude upon a private conversation. With one hand, she leaned against the wall beside her, vacillating between advancement and retreat.

The murmur of Matthew’s voice was blurred by the rapid speech of a woman who appeared intent on overriding his explanation.

“I don’t understand! I just cannot believe you’ve dragged a bride out of the woodwork!” she exclaimed with the same shrill vehemence.

“Now, Deborah,” Matt said firmly.

A silence settled against her ears, and Emmaline leaned forward a bit, listening for the reply she was sure must be forthcoming. No longer was she tempted to retreat to her bedroom. Gone was the ladylike urge to ignore the passionate exchange in the library. The woman was talking about her, and Emmaline’s eyes were wide with annoyance.

“I was hardly dragged out of the woodwork,” she muttered beneath her breath.

A muffled sob reached Emmaline’s hearing, and then a whispered flow of words caused her to change her position. She took her hand from the whitewashed wall, jammed it in her pocket and moved carefully down the hallway, bent on catching sight of the unseen female who had managed to put a blight on this morning.

Hesitating before the open door of the library, she stiffened, her mouth tightening in disapproval. Matthew’s hands were busy, one distractedly patting a slender back, the other in the process of wiping away tears with a large white handkerchief. The woman who was allowing such familiarity with her person was sighing and sobbing with dainty purpose, the sounds at variance with the shrill comments she had been making only minutes ago.

“Am I intruding?” Emmaline asked from her vantage point. She schooled her features into a concerned mask and stepped forward.

Matt looked up and glared at her over the head of the woman he was attempting to comfort. “I’m not sure this is the time for a formal introduction, Emmaline,” he said bluntly.

The woman in his grasp shuddered once more, then straightened her shoulders and took charge of the handkerchief he held. Walking to the window, she pulled aside the white curtain and looked out upon the view from the front of the house.

Emmaline lifted one eyebrow in an unspoken question and, with a delicate movement of her hands, signified her willingness to retreat, backing away from Matthew’s apparent frustration.

“Never mind leaving.” He changed his mind and reached for her hand, clasping her fingers in a grasp she knew would be easier to accept than to wiggle out of. “This probably is as good a time as any,” he muttered, contradicting his first reaction to her appearance.

“Deborah,” he said briskly, and then waited while the woman at the window slowly turned to face them.

“This is Emmaline Carruthers, the woman who will be my wife.”

Not “my bride” or “the woman I’ve asked to marry me,” but, bluntly, “my wife.” Emmaline struggled to look pleasant. She knew she couldn’t manage friendly, and welcoming was far beyond her capacity for the moment. Pleasant would have to suffice.

With but a passing glance, the woman turned her attention to the tall man who had delivered her a telling blow. His jaw was set and rigid, but his eyes held a trace of pity Emmaline could not help but notice. Perhaps it was the unwanted suggestion of such an emotion that tightened the woman’s own features into a civil expression marred only by the flaring of her nostrils as she spoke.

“Congratulations to both of you. I’ll admit I was a bit surprised at the news, Matt, but then, you always were full of surprises,” she said, dropping her gaze, to brush with one hand at the unwrinkled expanse of her skirt.

“This is Deborah Hopkins, the daughter of our nearest neighbor,” Matthew explained as he drew Emmaline closer, his fingers tightening on her own as she reluctantly stepped next to him.

“I really must leave. I only dropped by to invite you to Sunday dinner, Matt,” the blond creature said, her breasts lifting as she stifled a sigh. Her eyelashes fluttered in a sad little gesture Emmaline noted grimly, and then, fastening her gaze on the man who stood across the room, Deborah smiled. Pathetically, her mouth trembled in a way designed to tug at a man’s heartstrings.

Only as she made her way past them to the doorway did she deign to look directly at Emmaline. Her eyes swept from the top of her unruly curls, down past the black mourning dress that hung in heavy folds to the floor. In a gesture that dismissed Emmaline as insignificant, Deborah moved past her, and it was only when she reached the front door that Matthew moved.

“Let me walk you to your buggy,” he offered, releasing Emmaline’s hand and reaching Deborah’s side with long, easy strides.

She looked up at him with a brave little smile and nodded, stepping back so he could open the door.

Emmaline shook her head in disgust and walked back to watch from the window as the couple approached the buggy standing in front of the house. A small, dark mare stood patiently within the harness, tied to the hitching rail that was just beyond the patch of grass.

How odd, she thought. The woman would make a wonderful actress, changing from feigned sorrow to acceptance to disdain in a matter of moments. And for the life of her, Emmaline couldn’t put a finger on which emotions were genuine. That the girl truly cared for Matthew was probable. This likely was the one he had referred to. The one he said would not be heartbroken by his marriage.

She tended to agree with his judgment. “I don’t think anyone could break her heart,” she said beneath her breath as she watched them. Matthew assisted Deborah onto the high seat of the buggy and then untied the mare, turning the buggy with one hand on the harness. Lifting a hand in a farewell, he watched as the horse broke into a rapid trot at the urging of her mistress.

He turned back to the house, his eyes fixed on the window where Emmaline waited, narrowing as he caught sight of her there. With long, measured strides, he went back to the porch and up the steps to cross to the wide front door. In moments, as long as it took her to turn aside from the window and move halfway across the room, he was back, framed in the doorway, his face a dark cloud of anger.

“All that was far from necessary,” he said with rough impatience. You should have kept your nose outa here, Emmaline. This whole thing was none of your business.”

A twinge of guilt stabbed her, and she hastily threw up a barricade of irritation to thwart its interference. “My name was mentioned. That made it my business,” she said pertly. “After all, I’m the bride you dragged out of the woodwork,” she added with soft emphasis.

“If you hadn’t been eavesdropping, you wouldn’t have heard that remark,” he growled defensively. His jaw firmed and his eyes glittered as she glowered at him.

“I was coming from my bedroom down the hallway. I couldn’t help but hear,” she explained with lofty hauteur.

“Well, you should have trotted right back down that hallway. You could tell that Deborah was upset,” he said with measured anger. “I had only just told her that we were to be married, and she spoke too quickly.”

“Are you defending her, Matthew?” Clasping her hands behind her back, Emmaline surveyed him cooly.

“Deborah doesn’t need defending. She’s more than able to take care of herself,” he answered bluntly.

“Perhaps just the sort of wife you need.” Emmaline’s suggestion was coated with subtle sarcasm.

“Perhaps.” The word dropped between them, and Matthew wished immediately that he could retrieve it, unsaid. This had gone on long enough, and he sensed Emmaline becoming more agitated by the moment.

“Look, it’s beside the point, Emmaline. I’m not marrying Deborah. I’ve never even discussed the subject with her. She’s a neighbor and a friend. Let’s just forget the whole thing.”

“Maybe you never discussed marriage with her, but your friend certainly had it in mind, Matthew. And what was I supposed to think when I came and found you...together?” she asked emphatically.

He glared at her impotently, unable to deny her statement. “She was crying. What should I have done? Shoved her away?”

Emmaline shrugged. “I’m sure a gentleman like you would never do that.”

She could really get his dander up, Matt acknowledged glumly. And in a way, she was right. Certainly Deborah had been considering him as a husband. He’d have been a fool not to recognize it. And he probably should have been more considerate when he broke the news to her. But a few kisses and stolen caresses didn’t add up to marriage, in his book. Deborah had probably set her cap in his direction, and his innate honesty forced him to admit silently that it likely would have come about...had not this fiery little baggage come into his life.

But she had, making an impact he was still attempting to absorb. His aggravation at her interference and the rush of emotion she managed to let loose within him combined as he approached her with measured tread.

Too late, she attempted to sidestep his grasp. He was upon her before she could maneuver past him, and his hands were reaching for her. His eyes flared with a hot purpose that had her retreating, struggling against his hold, turning her head from the warmth of his appraisal.

“Let go of me,” she demanded, her hands rising between them and fisting, to pound against the width of his chest.

“Not on your life,” he growled. “You sauntered in here and claimed your rightful place. Don’t deny it, Emmaline. You knew exactly what you were doing when you came through that doorway.”

She met his eyes with a wary look, and her hands unclenched, her fingers spreading against his shirt and pressing against him, as if to retain some small space in which to defend herself.

“No, I...” she began carefully, attempting to explain her actions, then stopped, knowing he was right. She probably should have retreated to her room and left Matt to his explanations. Better yet, if she’d stayed in her room just a while longer... No matter. It was done. She’d known he’d be angry with her interference, and, too late, she wished she could undo the events of the past several minutes.

He held her shoulders firmly, his eyes focused on the myriad expressions that flooded her features. Then his gaze lowered, sweeping over the same dark dress Deborah had surveyed with such scorn. His mouth quirked at one corner, and his fingers shifted their grip, sliding a few inches down her arms. One eyebrow lifted a bit as he watched her, unwillingly admiring her defiant stance.

Emmaline felt heat radiate within her as he surveyed her, from the uptilted thrust of her chin to the soft curves of her breasts. She faced him proudly, fighting the urge to cross her arms over the cushion of her bosom, her senses vibrantly alive beneath the dark intensity of his gaze.

With heavy-lidded precision, his eyes lazily surveyed her slender form, and his movements were careful as he allowed his hands to slide to her waist. Then, moving them upward, he clasped her ribs, just beneath the swell of her bosom, and with a steady urgency his thumbs moved, resting against the lower curve of her breasts.

She flushed, feeling the pressure there, where no man had ever dared to trespass before. Where no gentleman had even cast a lingering glance in passing. She was taken aback by his forward behavior, and yet within her she felt a spark of excitement that would not be denied. A flaring need brought tingling life to the part of her that he touched...a warmth that begged to be brushed against, a heat that cried for the movement of his hands. But good sense, and her rigid upbringing by Delilah, prevailed.

“Don’t.” The single word whispered from her lips, was a plea he could not deny. He lifted his gaze reluctantly from the vision that tempted him and looked instead into her eyes.

As quickly as it had filled him, Matt’s flaring anger was gone, washed away on a tide of regret. As much as Emmaline had deserved his harsh disapproval, she was not deserving of his crudeness.

His hands dropped from her, and his nostrils flared as he inhaled abruptly. “I’m sorry, Emmaline. I shouldn’t have touched you in anger.”

“No...” She shook her head.

For a moment, she swayed, her own breathing irregular, her heart fluttering within her breast like a captured bird that strained to escape. Once more his hands framed her shoulders, and he steadied her, his jaw firm, his gaze sober, only the strange light in his eyes giving her a glimpse of the emotion he held in check.

Her laugh was uneven and forced as she tilted her head to one side. “You’ve really done it now, you know,” she said, her voice trembling.

“Have I?” He muttered the words through lips that barely moved.

“Yes, you’ve let the cat out of the bag. You told Miss Hopkins that you’re going to marry me. The whole town will know it by nightfall, if the Arizona Territory is anything like the state of Kentucky. And I suspect people are alike the world over.”

“Maybe,” he conceded roughly.

She tilted her head back, her eyes meeting his. “Are you going to marry me?” she whispered, and he nodded without hesitation.

“When?” she asked in the same whisper, as if she could not raise her voice beyond the soft questioning that was but a breath of sound.

“As soon as I can make the arrangements.”

Her mouth formed a soft O and he yielded to the temptation of her lips, his mouth descending to cover them with his own.

She shivered in surprise, bracing herself for the same sort of assault he had launched on the porch only days ago. Instead, Emmaline found that the mouth he pressed to hers was all warmth and tenderness. His hands slid up to either side of her head, holding her with gentle purpose as he explored the textures of her face. Her eyes closed and she caught her breath as his caress brushed against her cheek and then to her temple, his nose burrowing in the curls that lay in abandon against her brow.

She was caught up in the pleasure he offered. With only a moment’s hesitation, she leaned into his embrace and relaxed against the broad firmness of his chest. Tentatively her fingers crept to his shoulders, and she grasped handfuls of his shirt.

He gentled his touch, only his mouth paying homage to the softness of her skin, the curve of her throat, and again to the lips that inhaled his scent.

This time he growled a wordless sound of triumph as he parted her lips and edged his tongue against the tender skin. “Open your mouth for me,” he said with dark purpose, his lips brushing carefully with coaxing movements.

She shook her head, moving against his grasp. Her eyes opened in dismay as his demand penetrated her lassitude.

His sigh was deep and his regret enormous as he drew back. A trace of humor lit the depths of his eyes and his mouth twisted in wry acceptance as he viewed the flushed face of the woman he intended to marry.

She wore his brand—the glow of latent passion that lay just beneath the surface of her bewilderment. He tamped down the surge of desire that billowed once more within him.

“You’ll open for me next time,” he promised her in a lazy drawl that told her of his satisfaction at this turn of events.

She dropped her hands from him, confusion darkening her eyes as she considered what he had demanded of her. Then, the determination within caused her to her stiffen against his grasp. She shook away his hands, stepping back from the nearness of his big body.

“Don’t count on it,” she said softly. “Don’t count on it, Gerrity.”

Her skirts swished about her, her head lifted in defiance, and he let her go as she brushed past him, turning to watch as she left the room.

It wasn’t until she closed the door of her room behind her that Emmaline crumpled. Leaning against the heavy planks, she slid down to sit on the floor, burying her face in her hands. Her fingertips traced the path his lips had taken, barely touching the surface of her flesh where the heated kisses had burned against her.

“Oh, Delilah,” she whispered against her palms. “You didn’t tell me about this. You didn’t tell me!”

Chapter Five

Olivia Champion could be an attractive woman, Emmaline decided. If only she weren’t so grimly determined to look like a typical teacher. Her primly clad body and her smoothly scraped-back hair advertised her calling, as did the subservient air she wore like a garment.

Like a chameleon against the sand, she blended into the atmosphere of the house, and only here at the breakfast table had Emmaline heard more than one-syllable replies from the woman. Apparently this was a daily routine. Matthew questioned and Olivia answered, reciting Theresa’s schedule for his approval.

Her dark eyes focused on Matt’s face as Olivia placed her napkin carefully across her lap. Emmaline watched as a faint softening of the other woman’s features was quickly concealed by the lowering of her head.

So that’s how the land lies, Emmaline thought with awakening interest. The words spoken described lessons and books, but the subdued glances and carefully orchestrated movements told a different story.

“Today we’ll be working mostly on letters and numbers,” Olivia said quietly, her eyes limpid as she lifted her lashes in Matt’s direction. “I’ve planned a geography lesson for this afternoon, but that will depend on Theresa.” She glanced at Emmaline, her expression tolerant, as she elaborated. “Sometimes she gets a bit cranky after noontime and needs a short rest.”

Emmaline nodded, striving to hide the smile that begged to curl her mouth. “I seem to suffer from the same problem some days,” she agreed. Glancing at Matt as if she were seeking his reinforcement, she continued. “She’s only five years old, Miss Champion. You’re not pushing her too rapidly, are you?”

Olivia shook her head. “Certainly not. Mr. Gerrity wants his sister to be more than literate. His plan is to send her back east, to a university, when the time comes. But for now she is only beginning the basics, learning her letters and numbers as I read to her from the classics. We look at pictures of other countries and read about them, learning history and geography at a primary level.” Her gaze swept across the table to rest with tender concern on Theresa, whose own eyes had moved from one adult to another.

Well said, Emmaline thought with a trickle of humor. The woman was a teacher to the bone, with hardly a shred of impetuosity within that dignified frame. Except for the sidelong glances that Matt seemed so oblivious of.

“I’m sure you have the situation well in hand,” Emmaline murmured, her attention on the butter knife she was using with a lavish hand.

Across the table, Matt’s dark eyes focused on the two women. Even as he listened to the words they spoke, he measured them in his mind. It was unfair, he decided. The contrast between them put Olivia at a distinct disadvantage. Next to the bright curls that surrounded Emmaline’s head and cascaded down her back in an early-morning frenzy, the tutor’s dark hair was commonplace, slicked back into a tightly wound knob at the nape of her neck. Only the somber clothing each wore placed them on common ground; Olivia’s dark gray morning dress just shades lighter than the black silk that adorned Emmaline’s curves.

He frowned as he considered the covered buttons that divided Emmaline’s fitted bodice, ending at the small stand-up collar circling her throat. Covering all the soft flesh there, except for an inch or so in front, where he caught sight of the vulnerable hollow his lips had touched only yesterday.

“I want you to put away the mourning, Emmaline,” he announced as he cut the beefsteak that lay on his plate.

“Really.” She managed to put subtle emphasis on each syllable as she softly defied his edict.

His fork waved in her direction. “Yes, really. You’re not likely to meet any members of high society out here, and the rules of behavior you followed in Kentucky don’t apply.”

She glanced at him with barely concealed disdain. “Rules of behavior never vary when it comes to civilized people,” she said politely.

Olivia Champion swallowed the last bite of her breakfast with almost indecent haste and snatched the white napkin from her lap to cover her mouth. “May I be excused?” she asked softly, and her eyes were shuttered as she rose from her chair. “I must prepare for Theresa’s lessons.”

Matt’s nod was curt, but Emmaline found her tongue. “Certainly, Miss Champion. We’ll look forward to dinner.”

His gaze was morose as Matt watched the young woman leave the room. “You’ve had a week to look her over. Is she any good?” he asked in an undertone. “I mean, do you think she’ll do for Tessie?”

Emmaline’s left eyebrow lifted as she considered him. “Why on earth are you asking me? Didn’t you check into her credentials before you hired her? How long has she been here?”

He shrugged diffidently. “For three months, just since Tessie’s birthday. My mother hired the woman, sight unseen, from a newspaper ad, when she decided that it was time for Tessie to begin schooling.”

“Well, I suppose she’s doing well. She seems to like Tessie, and she certainly admires you.”

“Me?” Matt shook his head as he swallowed the last bite on his fork. “What do I have to do with anything? You’re just trying to ignore the issue.”

Blankly Emmaline looked at him. “What issue?”

His hand waved in her direction, encompassing the darkness of her attire. “That black thing you insist on wearing,” he muttered with disgust.

Emmaline’s chin lifted, and her eyes glittered. The man was totally blind to the attachment Tessie’s teacher was forming for him, and yet managed to notice every detail of her own appearance. How dare he criticize her dress?

Matt chewed calmly, surveying the arrogant picture she presented, his own eyes lowering to his plate as he fought to hide the gleam of amusement he could not suppress.

“This black thing,” she announced with genteel anger, “is made of the finest silk, imported from France and sewn by Lexington’s most accomplished dressmaker.” Her head nodded once when she’d completed her announcement.

His drawl became more pronounced as he inspected her carefully. “Well, it sure won’t do for summertime in the Arizona Territory.”

“I beg to differ with you,” she said smartly. “We’ve had this conversation once before, if I remember correctly, and my position has not changed. I intend to remain in mourning for at least six months. Given the circumstances of our marriage, I consider that sufficient.”

His chair pushed back, silent against the thick rug that covered the dining room floor, and Matt rose to his feet. He spread his palms flat on the heavy pine table and leaned to confront her, parroting her words precisely.

“Given the circumstances of our marriage, I insist you send for some more appropriate clothing from Kentucky. Either that, or I’ll take you into Forbes Junction to sort through the ladies’ things at the dry goods.”

A flush rose from her throat to cover her cheeks, and Emmaline swallowed the angry words that formed in her mind. Just who did he think he was? This misbegotten...

“Well?” He leaned closer, and she fought the urge to scoot her chair back, fought the inclination to put more than a few inches between his hard-bitten features and her own.

Her fingers clenched into fists as she pounded them on the table, her elegant manners flying to the four winds. She met his arrogance in equal measure.

“Well, what?” she said between gritted teeth. “Who gave you the right to judge my wardrobe, Mr. Gerrity? Until I stand before a preacher and say all the right words, you have no right to dictate to me! About anything!”

His eyes flashed with smothered amusement as he assessed the haughty demeanor of the woman who faced him. He’d ruffled her feathers, that was for sure. He decided he might as well finish the job, as long as he was at it.

One hand lifted from the table and snaked out to cradle the curls that covered the back of her head. Fingers gripping securely, he pulled her forward, balancing himself with the other hand that pressed firmly against the table between them. Tiny flecks of amber glowed within her blue eyes as she tilted her head against the pressure of his wide palm. Not fear, he noted with satisfaction, but defiance, lit those gently slanted eyes. Her lips were firmly closed, her jaw clenched, and her nostrils flared with the force of her indrawn breath as he lowered his mouth to stake his claim.

As kisses went, it wasn’t much, he thought ruefully. She had clamped down hard, her teeth held tightly together, like a bulldog with a bone. He molded her lips with his own, amused by the pursing and pushing at him, and then, with a growl, he bit at the lower lip that protruded, nipping it gently until she protested.

“Um...bffft...” The words were captive within her mouth, and he quickly followed his attack with a gentle bathing of his tongue against the fullness of the flesh he had grasped between his teeth.

Then, as quickly as he had leaned forward to take hold of her, he released her and stood erect, his damp mouth slanted into a grin that bespoke his victory.

“I have the right, Emmaline,” he told her quietly. “I’m in charge here, over everything and everyone on this ranch. Most especially, my dear bride-to-be, I’m in charge of you. That gives me the right to be concerned for your welfare.”

He waited for the explosion that was sure to follow, but she only watched him warily, her tongue exploring the cushion of her bottom lip.

The worrying of her mouth had not hurt, she realized, only caught her attention, which was no doubt what he’d had in mind. He’d caught her attention, all right. Twice before, he’d kissed her, first with a harshness that branded her as his prey. The second time had been an awakening, a tender, careful perusal of her lips that had beguiled and tempted her into hazy desire.

Now, in a demanding fashion, he had arrogantly taken her mouth, riding roughshod over her muffled protest. As hard as his hand had been, holding her in place, as determined as his mouth had been, tasting of her own, she could not be afraid of his dominance. Only of the strange emotions his touch had forced into being within her.

“And what if I decline your generous offer, Mr. Gerrity? What if I choose not to shop at the dry goods?” She rose from her chair and waited, her eyes speaking her defiance.

His grin became a smile of anticipation as he allowed his own gaze to slide downward over the bodice of her dress, admiring the slender curves beneath the black silk.

“Why then, Miss Carruthers, I’ll have to find something appropriate of Maria’s for you to wear,” he said with mocking assurance.

“Maria’s?” Her glance was skeptical, questioning his intelligence without words.

Arrogantly he ignored her insinuation, viewing her dark garb measuringly. “You’ll need a different outfit, if you expect to go riding with me. We’ll just have to make Maria’s fit.”

“I hardly think so,” she said, denying his suggestion. “We just aren’t built the same.”

His grin caught her unawares, and she bit at her lip. His threat to stuff her into Maria’s clothing had been mere foolishness. No two women could be more different. Once more he’d managed to rile her with his teasing.

And then he relented, his smile shamefaced now. “Peace? A truce of sorts?” He lifted his hand in a placating gesture, waiting for her nod of agreement. “I have just the thing for you to wear,” he said softly.

Matt Gerrity in the role of a supplicant was not to be believed, and Emmaline privately gloated at the sight. She could afford to be generous, she decided, then smiled and shrugged eloquently.

“You’re going to have a chance to make good on your claims,” he told her, reaching for her hand as he reminded her of her boast. “I’ll get you outfitted, and then we’ll see just how well you can ride some good Arizona horseflesh.”

* * *

“Whose is it?” she asked as she smoothed the soft leather garment with the palm of her hand. Dark against the pristine white of the coverlet on her bed, the riding skirt was spread for her approval. Made of tanned leather, sewn with careful stitches, it was certainly not Maria’s. Slim at the waistline and flaring into a full, separated skirt, it was obviously some woman’s prized possession. Her hand brushed once more at the creamy texture of the leather as Emmaline admired the garment.

Matthew Gerrity’s jaw clenched, tightening for a moment as he watched her slender fingers. “It belonged to my mother,” he said finally, his voice clipped, as if he found the words difficult to speak.

Emmaline’s eyes widened as she stood erect, clutching the skirt to her breast. “Oh...well, maybe I shouldn’t...”

He shrugged, lifting one shoulder, as if it were but a minor detail, this protest on her part. “It’s too fine a garment to go to waste,” he said soberly. “I don’t think she’d care if you wore it.”

As if a veil had lifted, his mouth twisted into a smile when Emmaline nodded, accepting the gift he offered.

“Thank you,” she said gently. “I’ll be very careful with it.”

His smile widened into a grin, quick and unexpected, taking her by surprise. Another side of this man, she realized, one she hadn’t expected. A warmer, softer element that had caught her unprepared.

Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the grin vanished and the taciturn rancher once more stood before her. “Get ready,” he said gruffly. “I’ll get someone to saddle up a couple of horses.”

She nodded, lifting the soft leather to brush it against the curve of her cheek, watching Matt as he turned away to leave her room. Deep within her body, a coiling heat radiated, bringing about a tingling awareness of him. Of high cheekbones and dark hair, a strong jaw with deep slashes defining his cheeks, wide shoulders and hard, heavy muscles beneath the cotton shirt he wore.

The door shut behind him quietly, and she closed her eyes, intent on recapturing the purely masculine look of him to ponder for a moment. The width of his shoulders, the strength of those wide-palmed hands that had lifted her so casually, taking her weight as if it were nothing. Her heart pounded more rapidly while she remembered the moments on the porch, when he’d held her and kissed her with harsh intent. Yet his kiss had not repulsed her or caused her to fight his embrace.

It was a puzzle, she decided, her eyes blinking open. And nothing in her sheltered past had prepared her to interpret the feelings that ran rampant within her. To give her his mother’s riding skirt... She shook her head unbelievingly, inhaling the fine scent of the leather.

And this was the same man who was intent on riding roughshod over any objections she might have to offer against his manipulating her life. Biting her lip against the thought, she shook her head. “I don’t begin to understand you, Matthew Gerrity,” she murmured.

Even as she uttered his name, she heard the telltale sound of his boots in the corridor outside her door.

“Ten minutes, Emmaline,” he called impatiently through the closed panel.

“Bossy,” she grumbled as the footsteps moved on, and then she sighed as she crossed to the heavy wardrobe to find a shirtwaist that would be suitable for her ride.

* * *

The mount he placed her on was small, a compact cow pony with muscular haunches and leashed power that surged between her knees. The saddle was strange, high in back and equipped with a knob in front, cradling her in its depths. She held the reins as Matt directed, both across her palm, guiding the horse with the pressure of the narrow leather strips across his neck.

“Not exactly what you’re used to, is it?” Matt’s wide palms were lodged against his hips, and his eyes glittered with unconcealed glee. Watching her and assisting her in mounting the gelding had been an experience he’d thoroughly enjoyed. Holding her left foot in his palm, he’d hoisted her easily, one hand at the waistband of the skirt she wore. Regrettably, he hadn’t been able to fit her as neatly with boots. The ones he’d found in his mother’s room were a size too large, but he’d stuffed the toes with batting that secured her feet for safety.

“I’ve ridden astride before,” she told him. “But we box our reins and hold them with both hands.” Her palms rested on the horn of the saddle, and she scooted about in the cradle, seeking a spot where she would feel comfortable and yet in control of her mount. Her legs clung to the pony’s sides, and she spent a moment sending a prayer heavenward that she’d not disgrace herself on this first day. A vision of falling headlong in front of Matt or losing control of the horse she rode caused her to tighten her grip on the reins. Her horse pranced sideways, sensing her unease.

“Let up on the reins!” Matt said sharply.

“I am!” she retorted, attempting to soothe the animal. Ears back, the gelding was skittering toward the corral fence, and Emmaline realized she was facing her first test.

With soft words and a gentle, even pressure on the reins, she turned the horse and then allowed him to move out at a quicker pace. Automatically, she rose to meet his quick trot, and behind her Matt howled his dismay.

“No...not like that! You can’t post on a western pony. Just ride the trot...keep your rear end in the saddle and get used to the motion.” He shook his head in scorn at her eastern ways. “You’ll be laid up with liniment on your bottom at this rate,” he said, catching up with her as she rode beyond the confines of the corral.

She glanced at him with as much dignity as she could muster, given the bouncing ride she was coping with. “I’d like to see you on a saddle with one of our big hunters between your legs and watch how you handle it!” she snapped.

“You’ll never find me perched on one of those pancakes you call a saddle. We don’t ride for pure fun, lady. Out here, our horses are just equipment that allow us to do our work.”

“Well, I certainly don’t call this ride pure fun.” But, gradually, she caught the rhythm of the animal she rode and settled deeper into the saddle, rolling more easily with his gait. One hand slid from the leather of the saddle to smooth the mane, which flowed against the dark neck of her mount.

“Does this animal have a name?” she asked.

He shrugged at her question. “I think Claude calls him Brownie.”

Her hand ceased its motion.

“Brownie?” The word dripped with derision. “You actually call a horse Brownie?”

He swept her a mocking bow from his saddle, and his eyes sparkled. “Actually, I don’t call him anything. What would you call him back in Kentucky?”

“Our horses all have names they’ve been registered with, and we usually call them by some part of that name. Mine is Rawlings Sweet Fancy. I call her Fancy.”

“Well, today you’re riding a cow pony named Brownie, bred for cutting cattle,” he drawled, urging his horse into a slow lope. Hers followed suit, and she settled with relief against the saddle.

Emmaline scanned the horizon, where low hills melted into each other, covered with a dark underbrush and dotted with taller scrub. Before them lay a sparse pasture where mares and foals were kept. Surrounded by a double strand of barbed wire, the mares appeared to have docilely accepted their confinement. But the foals were frolicking, kicking up their heels and racing to and fro, carefree in the hot sunshine with their mothers close by.

“We’ll be working with these foals later today, if you want to watch,” Matt said, his gaze ever alert to her. She’d changed, thawing before his eyes as she watched the young ones leap and play in the pasture. A faint smile hovered over her lips, and the rigid control she’d donned at the beginning of this ride had slipped, to reveal the softening of the woman within.

“I’d like that. I’ve helped with the young ones back home,” she told him casually, and then, as her smile broke into a wide grin, she lifted her hand to point at one particularly adventuresome colt.

“Look at that little fellow,” she said with a chuckle. The long-legged dove gray creature had overestimated a leap and gone spraddle-legged in the grass, shaking his head and looking about in surprise.

Their horses had slowed as they spoke, and now they walked abreast of one another. The air between them was free of the abrasiveness they had set out with.

“Thank you for the loan of the skirt,” she said finally, after a few long minutes of quiet.

“No problem,” he answered curtly. “My mother was generous. She’d approve.”

“Tell me about her,” Emmaline asked, aware that her request might well be denied. Matthew Gerrity didn’t strike her as the kind to confide in anyone.

He surprised her, tipping his hat back and resting one hand on his thigh. “She was raised here in the territory—a real native, you might say. Her daddy was a brave from a tribe who took a shine to her white mother. That made her a half-breed, and not good marriage material. But she was pretty,” he said, his words tender as he thought of the young girl who had been an outcast.

“Anyway, when Jack Gerrity breezed by, he snatched her up and took her along with him. She was young when I was born, just sixteen, and too innocent to see through the black-hearted Irishman who fathered me,” he said with a twisted grin. “He was foreman on a good size ranch fifty miles or so west of here, and she made do as best she could. We lived in the foreman’s shack there on the ranch, and my mother took home the laundry from the big house.” His mouth tightened as he remembered those early days. “You sure you want to hear this?” he asked abruptly.

She nodded, almost afraid to speak, lest she break the thread of his story.

He shrugged and settled back into his saddle. “Jack Gerrity wasn’t a kind man.” His eyes flickered once in her direction, and the look in them was bleak. “Anyway, one day when I was about five or so, he hightailed it to town on payday, along with the rest of the ranch hands.” He lifted his reins, and the horse beneath him quickened his pace.

Emmaline looked at him with impatience, jostled in the saddle as her own mount followed suit. “And then what happened?” she asked after a moment of silence.

“We never saw him alive again,” he said. “He headed for town to drink and gamble away his monthly pay, and died when he slipped an ace up his sleeve.”

Her brow puckered and she shook her head. “What caused him to die?” she asked innocently.

“The gun of the fella across the table who caught him cheatin’ at poker,” Matt replied sardonically.

Her heart thumped wildly in her throat as Emmaline envisioned the bloody scene. “Whatever did your mother do?” Her voice trembled as she thought of a young woman left alone with a child to care for.

His shrug was eloquent. “We had to move to make room for the new ranch foreman. She managed to get another job, cooking for another rancher. Took me along and raised me in the kitchen.”

“How old were you then?”

His hand fisted against the solid flesh of his thigh, and his voice tightened into a deep growl. “Old enough to stay out of the way when the old man who owned the place got drunk.” He went on deliberately, as if he wanted to have the words spoken and done with.

“One day, my mother loaded me and all our belongings on a wagon and headed out. Your pa found us on the road and took us home with him. When the old man caught up with us, your pa sent him on his way. Paid him for the horse and wagon and told him to clear out.”

“Did they get married then?” she asked quietly, almost unwilling to interrupt, but wanting to know the rest of the story.

“No...she cooked and kept house for him until he heard that your mother had died, just ten years ago.” He scanned her with eyes gone hard and cold. “He thought you’d come back home then.”

“I was only twelve years old,” Emmaline said, defending herself. “My grandparents were heartbroken, and I was all they had left of her. I couldn’t leave them.” Her chin lifted defiantly. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t want to. My father had never shown any interest in me, anyway.”

His look was scornful. “We both know that isn’t true. I remember all the letters he sent, till he finally gave up on you.”

Those letters again. Maria had told the same story, and she’d spoken with such ringing sincerity, the words had begun to raise doubts in her mind. She shrugged them away, her heart unwilling to release the anger she had clung to for so long.

“Seems to me he had a family right here,” she said haughtily. “You and Arnetta filled the bill for him. He didn’t need a daughter.” As she spoke the words, a twinge of pain needled its way into her heart, and she recognized the envy that blossomed within her. “He didn’t need me,” she repeated stoically.

“You’re wrong.” Matt’s voice was firm, adamant, as he denied her claim. “He felt bad every time one of his letters came back unopened. Then he finally stopped sendin’ ‘em.”

She was silent, digesting the news he’d just delivered, tempted to admit her ignorance of the facts she’d just been faced with. But not for the world would she betray her grandparents, though dismay gripped her as she repeated his words to herself.

His letters came back unopened.

It was too late for mourning, she decided as her back stiffened. But unwanted tears burned against her eyelids, and she struggled to contain them. If he really wanted her, he’d have come after her, she reasoned painfully. She allowed herself one sniff, breathing deeply as she pacified herself with the thought, her eyes on the ground.

“What did you want to show me?” she asked abruptly. “Surely there must have been a reason for this jaunt.”

He glanced at the set expression she wore and scowled. One day he’d make her listen, he vowed. She was due for an eye-opener where her daddy was concerned.

“Just thought you’d like to take a look at the near pasture, and then ride to the top of that highest rise ahead of us,” he answered. “You can see the stream over east of here, and from the high spot we can see all the way to the summer ranges, where the horses go for pasturing.”

“You send them away?” she asked, relieved that he’d allowed her retreat.

“Yep. We round up a good share of the stock and herd them north from here into the high country to graze. Leave a couple of men there for the summer to tend them. They stay in a line shack and watch for mountain lions and keep an eye on things.”

“What about the young ones? Do you send them, too?”

He nodded. “Except for the nursing foals and the ones we keep here to train for saddle. The rest we’ll sell off as we need to.”

“To whom?”

“Whoever,” he said. “Some go north, some to the army. We make most of our money from the ones we break and sell to ranchers or send east.”

“Break?” she asked.

“Well, eastern lady, what do you call it when you get a horse to let you on its back and give you a ride?” His tone was amused as he teased her.

“I can’t imagine breaking an animal,” she said briskly. “Back in Kentucky, we train them, starting with a foal, just days old. By the time we’re ready to mount them, they’re used to being handled and are ready to be ridden.”

“And I suppose you know all the tricks of the trade,” he suggested mockingly as he watched her roll with the easy gait of her horse. Once she got past the rough trot, she managed well, he thought with silent admiration.

“I watched the trainers work, from the time I was a child,” she said, and her mouth tilted in a smile of remembrance. “I used to sneak out to the barns whenever I could. And when I was older, our head trainer, Doc Whitman, let me help.”

“I’ll bet your mother didn’t know,” he surmised with a lifted eyebrow.

“No.” Her smile faded as she straightened in the saddle. “How much farther?” she asked briskly.

“A ways yet,” he returned, acknowledging her retreat.

The level land began rising in a gradual ascent, and her pony chose his way without her guidance, moving at a steady pace that ate the ground beneath them. She followed just a few feet to Matt’s rear, aware now of the value of the high-backed saddle as she settled into the rolling gait. Her eyes scanned the land about her, yet returned like a compass pointing north to the man who rode before her, his back straight, his shoulders held proudly as he traveled the land he’d been entrusted with.

The highest of the sprawling hills was ahead, and Emmaline felt the hot rays of the midmorning sun penetrate her white shirtwaist even as the breeze kept her reasonably cool while they rode. Matt had handed her a wide-brimmed hat to wear when they began this trek, but she’d left it hanging down her back. Now she tugged it into place.

“You’re ‘bout guaranteed to have a sunburned nose tomorrow,” he told her, casting an assessing glance over his shoulder. “That’s a case of too late, you know.”

“I’ve never been very concerned with a lily-white skin.” Her nose wrinkled, and she laid fingers against it. “I suspect you’re right this time. I can feel the heat there already.”

“I’ll warrant you were a trial to your folks, growin’ up,” he suggested mildly, taking in the sight of her rosy complexion.

“You’d be right. But I cleaned up really well, once I grew up,” she added with wry humor.

His mouth pursed at her words, and he grunted in agreement. “Yeah, I’d say so.”

The horses traveled a narrow path as they neared the crest of the hill, moving along ridges that had not been apparent from far off, but had obviously been used for trails regularly. Single file, they moved along at a quick pace, Emmaline a few yards to the rear, until they broke onto level ground. Their pace picked up and the horses settled into an easy lope.

Then, with a scattering of small pebbles and dust, Matt drew his reins and held out a hand to halt her next to him. “Look, out there,” he instructed her as his other hand swept the horizon.

Before them was a valley that led into a canyon between two roughly hewn hills. A stream trickled down the center of the valley, coming from the side of the rocky heights above.

“Is that the beginning of the mountains?” she asked as she tried to trace the canyon out of sight.

“Just foothills,” he said. “The mountains are farther north, where the stream begins. It dries up down here during the hot spells, but up north a ways, it flows year-round. That’s where we send the horses.”

“It’s desolate, isn’t it?” Her eyes swept the horizon, where not a moving shadow or creature caught her gaze.

“Some folks would say so.”

She looked at him quickly. “But not you?”

He shook his head and swung his horse about with a quick movement of his reins across the cow pony’s neck. “Time to get back. Maria will have dinner gettin’ cold before we show up.”

It was gone. The sense of closeness she’d felt with him had vanished.

His glance was quick as he nudged his horse into a trot. “Can you keep up?”

She bristled and urged her own horse along. “Try me,” she called challengingly.

“One of these days, city lady,” he drawled. “One of these days, I’ll take you up on that.”

Chapter Six

The rounded flank of the horse shone in the sunshine like warm mahogany, and with each stroke of the currycomb, Emmaline sent dust and loose horsehair flying. It was satisfying work, she decided, this grooming of horses. The sound of soft nickering from the mares and colts in the corral, the scent of hay and leather, and even the more earthy smells associated with the barn, brought back memories she cherished.

An affinity with the majestic animals had been her salvation through her childhood, when her mother had almost abandoned her, languishing in her dark, silent rooms. In the home where her grandparents observed all the rules of proper behavior and struggled to instill them in their reluctant grandchild.

She’d felt an outsider, there in that pillared mansion where guests were greeted beneath a welcoming portico. She’d greeted them herself, more than once, and smiled and talked obligingly with the finest citizens of the county. All in the cause of family. And since the death of her mother, she’d spent ten long years struggling to come up to the standards of the society her grandparents enjoyed.

Her hands slowed as she considered the past, reflecting on the proper behavior, the elegant posturing, the strict rules of etiquette she had adhered to, suffering in the doing. Only her hours spent in the barns had given her escape from the rigid way of life that had ruled her days.

She lifted her head and looked about her, at the wide span of the corral, the open doors of the barn and the flat pasture that was still green from the spring rainfall. Her gaze halted as she inspected the adobe house, which hugged the earth and seemed almost part of it. With thick walls and high ceilings, it held the cool night air long into the daytime hours, and offered a welcome for her that she had felt with increasing depth.

Even the people within those walls had begun to treat her as a part of the household. Emmaline smiled as she considered the sister she had come here to claim.

Theresa had spent half an hour before breakfast practicing her rope skipping, with Emmaline’s willing encouragement. The session had ended with a tentative embrace on the child’s part, and Emmaline had tried to be satisfied with the half hug she received before Theresa scampered off to the breakfast table.

“Out exercising so early?” Matt had come upon her unexpectedly, and she’d wondered for a moment if he’d watched as she took turns with her sister, showing her the fast-paced stepping to the rhythm of the rope as it spun about her body.

She had turned to face him, flushed and still breathless when she met his teasing glance. Irritated at being caught off guard, she’d muttered a hurried excuse and slipped away, aware of her disheveled appearance.

She spent a few moments before her mirror to prepare herself for the morning table. She’d washed her face with warm water and a cloth, and then quickly brushed her hair before she tied it up with a ribbon to match her dress.

At the table, Matt once more had become the man in charge, questioning Olivia, prodding Tessie to eat her breakfast, his earlier lapse into teasing forgotten, it seemed. But the slanting look he cast in Emmaline’s direction as he left the table had been filled with a veiled warmth she hugged to herself.

Now she took it out and examined it, that glance of his. Her eyes slitted against the brilliant sunshine, she brushed contentedly at the side of the horse she tended and wondered at the softening of Matthew’s hard features. His eyes had glowed with some indecipherable emotion that dwelled there, just behind his shuttered gaze.

Her arm kept up the steady movement as the horse edged closer, his own eyes closed as he welcomed her attention.

“I swan. You’re spoilin’ that critter, Miss Emmaline,” said Claude from the barn door, where he watched. “Ol’ Brownie’s never had it so good in his life, since you started ridin’ him.”

Emmaline grinned. The lazy teasing of the man behind her, combined with the prospect of a long ride in the morning sunshine, pleased her immensely.

“I like grooming him,” she answered, finishing her task with a final flurry about the neck of the gleaming animal, bending to step to the other side as she brushed. One hand rubbed at his velvet muzzle with affection.

“Well, he’s never had so much attention in his young life, and he’s just eatin’ it up.” Claude tipped his wide-brimmed hat back as he surveyed the scene before him.

He watched as Emmaline flicked the blanket onto the pony’s back, then lifted the saddle to swing it into place. She hesitated and lowered it, taking a breath as she once more prepared to hoist it. It was heavier by far than the small riding saddle she had used in Kentucky. And when she rode sidesaddle with the larger horned version, her mount had always been prepared for her.

“Here, let me do that,” Claude said, quickly dropping the halter he’d been holding and hustling over to where she stood. His hands reached out to grasp the heavy saddle and take it from her hands.

She relinquished it readily and brushed her palms against the leather of the riding skirt she wore. Once more the soft texture of the garment caught her attention, and she looked down at it, appreciating the gesture of the gift. The thought brought a flush of color that ridged her cheeks as she recalled the hours she had spent with Matt that day.

She would ride alone this morning, always within sight of the house and barns, she had promised at the breakfast table. Matt would be working with horses in the corral, unable to join her. She watched as Claude tightened the cinch and dropped the stirrup into place, ready for her to mount.

Leading the horse, one hand on his bridle, she walked with him until she lined him up with a mounting block Claude had placed for her use next to the barn. She could manage without it, but the gesture had pleased her, and she knew he watched as she stepped up onto it, smiling in his direction in silent thanks.

The horse edged away as she put her weight in the stirrup, and she spoke quietly to him, swinging her other leg over the saddle and gathering the reins into her left hand.

Like a demented animal, the cow pony flung his head back and snorted, then bowed his back and kicked out with his hind legs. His loud whinny rang out, and then, in a surprise movement that had her clutching at the saddle horn and dropping the reins at the same time, he leaped with all four legs off the ground, slamming once more against the hard sand, jarring her teeth together.

“Whoa...whoa there, Brownie!” Claude’s hoarse voice rang out in near panic as he watched the young woman clinging for dear life to the animal she rode.

From the corral, three men came running to the scene, Matt Gerrity at the front, his booted feet eating up the ground in long strides, his eyes focused intently on the drama before him.

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