Table of Contents

Cover

Praise

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About The Author

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

Copyright

Praise for Dallas Schulze whom Booklovers calls “A talent to be reckoned with.”

Gunfighter’s Bride

“…a delightful historical…A nonstop read that truly satisfies.”

—Romantic Times

“…a highly entertaining and emotional read.”

—Rendezvous

Temptation’s Price

“Ms. Schulze gifts her fans with this wonderful historical…”

—Romantic Times

“So you think Ellen Williams is the one?”

“Eleanor,” Luke corrected automatically. “And I won’t know till I’ve had a chance to talk to her a bit more.”

“I don’t know, Luke. Marrying’s a serious business.” The laughter died out of Daniel’s eyes, which were the same clear gray as his brother’s. “Maybe this ain’t such a good idea after all. Maybe we ought to just forget the whole idea and try another housekeeper.”

Luke opened his mouth to agree that it had been a dumb idea from the start and that they should put it behind them. And found himself remembering Eleanor’s big brown eyes, the shy smile in them, and heard her voice saying that she’d lived in Black Dog six years, four months and twelve days.

“I said I was going to find a wife and that’s what I’m going to do,” he heard himself say stubbornly. For some reason, the idea of having a wife just didn’t seem as bad as it once had.

Dear Reader,

This month, we are very pleased with the long-awaited return of Dallas Schulze to Harlequin Historicals with her terrific new Western, Short Straw Bride. This award-winning author, who has written numerous contemporary novels for Silhouette and Harlequin, will make her MIRA debut in early 1997. Meanwhile, don’t miss this heartwarming tale of two people who many for practical reasons, and wind up falling head over heels in love.

Reader’s Choice Award winner Laurie Grant is also back with her new medieval novel My Lady Midnight. This intriguing story features a Norman widow who becomes a political pawn when she is forced to go undercover as a governess in the home of the baron she believes responsible for the death of her best friend.

Miranda Jarrett’s new Sparhawk book, Gift of the Heart, is a touching story set in the wilds of the New York frontier where a woman, abandoned by her no-good husband, discovers happiness in the arms of a fugitive haunted by his past. And Beauty and the Beast, by Taylor Ryan, is a Regency tale about a troubled nobleman who is badgered into health by an interfering young neighbor.

We hope you’ll keep a lookout for all four titles wherever Harlequin Historicals are sold.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Short Straw Bride
Dallas Schulze

www.millsandboon.co.uk

DALLAS SCHULZE

loves books, old movies, her husband and her cat, not necessarily in that order. A sucker for a happy ending, she finds that her writing gives her an outlet for her imagination. Dallas hopes that readers have half as much fun with her books as she does! She has more hobbies than there is space to list them, but is currently working on a doll collection. Dallas loves to hear from her readers, and you can write to her at P.O. Box 241, Verdugo City, CA 91046.

Chapter One

“There’s just no getting around it, Luke. We need a wife.”

Daniel McLain’s tone was grim, befitting the serious nature of his pronouncement.

“There’s got to be some other way.” Luke’s expression was even bleaker than his brother’s.

“None that I can see.” Daniel splashed a goodly measure of whiskey into his glass and then did the same for Luke. “We’ve put a lot of work into this place. If something happens to us, the ranch’ll be sold to some stranger. Neither of us wants to see that.”

Luke could have pointed out that, under those circumstances, they wouldn’t actually see the ranch fall into someone else’s hands, but he didn’t. Daniel’s logic might be slightly skewed but there was a basic truth in what he was saying.

“A son. That’s what we gotta have, Luke. One of us has to have a son to take over when we’re gone.”

“It isn’t like either one of us has a foot in the grave,” Luke said with some annoyance. At thirty, he didn’t consider himself yet on a nodding acquaintance with eternity. “We’ve got plenty of time to think about wives and sons and who’s going to take over when we’re gone.”

“Maybe.” Daniel’s expression was solemn. “But Heck Sloane was younger than both of us and Bill Parley wasn’t even thirty-five. Look at them.”

In point of fact, no one could actually look at either man. They’d both met their demise in the past six months.

“Heck was a fool to take on that shootist. Him and those damned pearl-handled Colts of his were just looking for an excuse to die young.”

“Bill didn’t have pearl-handled Colts,” Daniel noted gloomily. He was well into his third glass of whiskey and clearly feeling the fell hand of fate on his shoulder.

“No, but he had that hammerhead roan. Meanest horse this side of Julesburg. It’s a wonder he didn’t throw Bill into a wall years ago.”

“It could have happened to either one of us,” Daniel said, reaching for the whiskey bottle.

“Not unless one of us is stupid enough to get on a horse that’s half rattler and the other half just plain mean,” Luke said. But the words lacked conviction.

The fact was that it didn’t take a mean horse or overestimating your talent with a gun to get a man killed, and they both knew it. Even a good horse could step in a prairie dog hole or get spooked by a rattlesnake. A man left alone on the prairie, without a horse and far from home, stood a fair chance of dying of thirst or exposure. Hell, it didn’t even take anything dramatic to end a life. Their own father, as tough a man as Luke had ever known, had torn open his hand on a nail and died of blood poisoning a week later.

Luke frowned at the scarred surface of the kitchen table. He reached for the makings and rolled himself a cigarette, scraping a match across the tabletop. He frowned at the mark it left behind. If their mother were alive she’d have skinned him alive for leaving a mark on her clean table and then she’d have done it again for daring to smoke in her kitchen. But she’d been dead for three years now and the once-immaculate room bore evidence of its neglect since then.

The thin lamplight revealed that neglect with merciless clarity. The big iron stove was covered with a thick layer of baked-on grease, bits of food and soot. The muslin curtains that had once hung in crisp white panels in front of the windows were gray with dirt. Not that it mattered much, since the window behind them hadn’t been washed in three years. The wooden floor his mother had been so proud of, that had been brought in from Denver, was obscured by the same layer of filth that covered everything else.

Luke stirred uneasily and reached out to rub his thumb over the black streak the match had left. Erasing it left a slightly cleaner spot on the dirty tabletop. He could almost see his mother’s accusing eyes, feel her disapproval. Though the whole house would just about have fit into the ballroom of her father’s home in Virginia, Lucinda McLain had been proud of this house, proud of the work her husband and sons had put into building it for her.

The McLains might have lost almost every material possession in the War Between the States but they hadn’t lost the most important things—their pride and determination. At the war’s end they’d sold what they could, abandoned what couldn’t be sold or brought with them and moved west, chasing the dream of a new life, just as it seemed half the country was doing.

They’d lived in a soddy at first, literally building their home from the land around them.

He and Daniel had broken wild horses to sell to the army and used the money to buy cattle. Those first years had been hard. All four of them had worked from sunrise to sunset—can see to can’t see.

Before the war Lucinda McLain had never had to dirty her hands on anything outside the home, and even there, she’d had servants to help her. But she’d learned to milk a cow and use a hammer. Her hands had grown callused and her pale skin had burned in the hot sun but she’d never forgotten that she was a lady and she’d never let her sons forget that they were gentlemen. They might have been eating day-old bread and beans but there was always a linen tablecloth, even if the table was a wooden crate. And no matter how many hours she’d put in working outside, she’d still made sure her husband and sons had clean clothes, even if they were mended.

Luke frowned and picked at a three-corner tear just above the knee of his jeans. When had they last been washed? he wondered uneasily.

“Thinking about Mother?” Daniel asked, reading his older brother’s mind.

“Place doesn’t look the way it did when she was alive,” Luke said.

Daniel followed his gaze around the kitchen, taking in the dirt that covered every exposed surface. The rest of the house was in slightly better shape, but only because they didn’t spend much time in any of the other rooms.

“She’d box both our ears,” Daniel admitted, looking uneasily over his shoulder as if expecting to see his mother’s shade bearing down on them.

“We could hire a housekeeper,” Luke suggested.

“We tried that. Twice. The first one drank every drop of liquor in the house and damn near burned the place down. The second was more interested in finding a husband than in cooking a meal.”

“As I recall, you were the husband she had in mind. She might have caught you, too, if you’d been a mite slower.” Luke grinned at the memory of his brother’s panicked reaction to the housekeeper’s blatant pursuit.

“You didn’t think it was so funny when she turned her sights on you,” Daniel observed. “Besides, a housekeeper isn’t going to solve the problem of having a son to leave the ranch to.”

“I wish you’d stop talking like we both had one foot in the grave,” Luke said irritably.

“We aren’t getting any younger, and having a son isn’t like ordering a new saddle. It can take a little time.”

“Nine months, last I’d heard.” Luke ground the end of his cigarette out in a plate left over from breakfast. Or was it supper the night before?

“First you’ve got to find a wife. And then you’ve got to go about the business of making babies. It took Dick Billings and his wife almost five years to have their first.”

“If I had a wife as pretty as Almira Billings, I don’t think I’d mind five years of trying,” Luke said with a grin. “Besides, all that practice must have paid off, since they’re working on their third in six years.”

“All we need to do is find you a pretty girl, then,” Daniel said cheerfully.

Luke choked on a mouthful of whiskey. During the ensuing fit of coughing, his brother pounded him on the back with helpful force, nearly dislocating a shoulder in the process.

“Find me a pretty girl?” Luke wheezed when he regained enough breath for speech. “Since when am I in the market for a wife?”

“I thought you agreed that we need a wife.” Daniel’s dark eyes widened in surprise.

“If we need a wife, why am I the one getting one?”

“You’re the oldest. It’s only fitting that you get to marry first.”

“Get to marry first?” Luke raised one dark eyebrow, questioning the privilege his brother had just offered him. “I’m not a consumptive old maid and you’re not a snake oil salesman, so there’s no sense in you trying to weasel me into getting hitched. Seems to me that you should be the one to find a wife. You’re younger, less set in your ways.”

“I’m only three years younger,” Daniel protested. “Besides, I don’t want to get married.” The thought was enough to make him reach for his glass and down a healthy shot of whiskey.

“I don’t want to get married, either,” Luke noted.

There was a lengthy silence while they considered the problem. Outside, a cricket scratched plaintively, the sound swallowed by the vast emptiness of the land.

“We could draw straws,” Daniel said. “Whoever gets the short straw has to find a wife.”

“Might work.” Luke rolled the idea around. It wasn’t ideal. Of course, the only thing that would be ideal was to forget the whole thing. But Daniel was right, they did need a wife. And since neither of them wanted a wife, it was only fair to let chance decide which of them had to be sacrificed on the matrimonial altar.

He got up and crossed to where the broom leaned in the corner. A thick lacing of cobwebs tied it to the wall and the handle stuck to his fingers. Frowning, he lifted it and broke two dusty straws off the bottom. He brought them back to the table and sat down again. Daniel watched as he measured the two straws and then carefully broke one off halfway down. There’d be no mistaking which of them had drawn the short straw.

“You sure about this?” Luke asked.

Daniel dragged his eyes upward to meet his brother’s. “I’m sure.”

Without looking at what he was doing, Luke rolled the straws between his fingers, then closed his fist around them. “You first.”

Both men looked down. The tops of both straws were visible above the tanned skin of his hand. One straw was higher than the other but there was no telling which was longer overall. Daniel studied the two straws as intently as if his life depended on it, which, Luke guessed, it more or less did. He reached out, his fingers hovering above Luke’s hand, and then quickly drew a straw, choosing the one that showed the least.

There was a moment’s silence and then Daniel drew a deep, relieved breath. His face expressionless, Luke slowly opened his hand and stared at the short piece of straw lying on his palm.

Damned if he wasn’t going to have to find himself a wife.

Eleanor Williams leaned her elbows on the windowsill and looked up at the fat yellow moon. It sat in the middle of the sky, surrounded by twinkling stars like a plump matron with dozens of servants dancing attendance. But Eleanor barely noticed the beauty of the view.

Today had been her birthday. She was now twenty years old and, according to her cousin, Anabel, could consider herself practically an old maid. The catty remark was the only acknowledgment there’d been of Eleanor’s birthday and Anabel had only mentioned it because it gave her an opportunity to say something unpleasant. Unfortunately, in this case, Anabel’s nastiness was nothing more than the truth. She was practically an old maid, Eleanor admitted with a sigh. And likely to remain that way as long as she was so completely overshadowed by her younger cousin.

Anabel had just turned sixteen and had every expectation of being a wife before her next birthday. How could she not be, pretty as she was? Her hair was the color of just-ripened wheat, all soft and golden, and when it was tied up in rags, it turned into perfect ringlets that set off Anabel’s pink-and-white complexion like a gilded frame.

Unlike Anabel’s obedient golden locks, Eleanor’s waist-length hair was a mass of thick, soft curls that refused to be completely tamed. Even now, when she’d just braided it for bed, tiny curls had already sprung loose to lie against her forehead. And instead of being rich gold, it was a plain brown—dirt brown Anabel had told her when Eleanor first came to live with her aunt and uncle six years ago.

With a sigh, Eleanor released the heavy braid, letting it fall back over her shoulder. It wasn’t just Anabel’s golden hair that made her so lovely, Her eyes were a beautiful clear blue, the color of a summer sky, as one smitten swain had told her. No one was going to wax poetic about plain brown eyes. And Anabel was tall. Not too tall, Aunt Dorinda would have quickly pointed out. Just tall enough to display the elegant slenderness of her figure.

Thank heavens her Anabel wasn’t a little dab of a thing, Eleanor had once heard Aunt Dorinda say, with a pointed glance in her niece’s direction. At barely five feet tall and with a figure that was neither elegant nor slender, Eleanor couldn’t even attribute the remark to Dorinda Williams’s acid tongue. She was a little dab of a thing, and there was just no getting around it.

His little chicken, her father had called her. Always fussing over him like a mother hen with only one chick, he’d tease. Every night he’d come to her room wherever they were staying and she’d solemnly inspect his person. Always, there’d been some small flaw for her childish fingers to adjust—a tie not quite properly tied, a lock of hair slightly out of place, a loose button to be quickly stitched onto the crisp white linen of his shirt.

The memory made Eleanor smile. It was only after he was gone that it had occurred to her that those little flaws had been deliberate. Nathan Williams had understood his daughter’s need to be needed. If they’d had a settled home, she could have fussed with the cooking and cleaning. But he was a gambler and they rarely stayed in one place more than a few weeks at a time. Since he couldn’t give her a house to fuss over, he’d given her himself.

Eleanor’s mother had died when Eleanor was six, and for the next eight years she’d traveled with her father. Nathan Williams had been a gambler by profession. He’d started out gambling on the Mississippi riverboats before the war. When he married Emmeline St. Jacques, he’d purchased a store in St. Louis and settled down to try his hand at being a tradesman. Eleanor had vague memories of a high-ceilinged room, with sawdust on the floor and goods piled high on every side.

But after Emmeline’s death Nathan hadn’t been able to stay in one place, and he’d gone back to his old profession. He’d brought his young daughter west and they’d traveled from town to town, staying in each only a short while, until he judged it time to take his skill with the cards and move on. It hadn’t been a conventional upbringing and Eleanor knew there were those who’d say that he’d had no business dragging a child all over the country the way he had. But she’d never minded the travel as long as she could stay with her father.

It had been six years since he was killed by a stray bullet in a barroom quarrel between two cowpunchers, and she still missed him. Eleanor’s eyes grew wistful, remembering her father’s quiet smile and the gentle warmth of his laugh. There was rarely any laughter in her Uncle Zebediah’s house. When she’d first come here, newly orphaned and almost paralyzed with grief, one of the first things she’d noticed was how seldom her aunt and uncle smiled.

At first she’d thought it was because they were sorry about her father’s death, but it hadn’t taken long for her to realize that Zebediah had sternly disapproved of his older brother’s profession. Gambling was an activity steeped in sin and, as far as they were concerned, Nathan’s death in a common barroom brawl was confirmation that God punished all sinners, even if it did occasionally take Him a little longer than Zeb would have liked.

Eleanor might have been offended on her father’s behalf if she hadn’t already begun to realize that there wasn’t much that Zeb and Dorinda Williams didn’t disapprove of. Where her father had always made it a point to find pleasure, even in small things, his younger brother and his wife seemed to try to do just the opposite. They could find fault with anyone and anything, no matter how small. Over the past six years Eleanor could almost count the number of times she’d seen a real smile from either of them, and she couldn’t ever remember hearing them laugh.

Anabel smiled and laughed, but her smiles were well practiced in front of her mirror and her laughter was generally at someone else’s expense. Her parents doted on her, and they’d spoiled her terribly. Anabel had only to express an interest in something for them to leap to get it for her, whether it was a new pink ribbon for her golden curls or watercolor lessons to show off her refined sensitivity to the finer things in life.

It was no wonder she was so bone-deep selfish.

Anabel had been only ten when Eleanor came to stay, but she’d already been well versed in getting her own way. At the suggestion that she might share her big, sunny bedroom with her cousin, Anabel’s pretty pink complexion had flushed an ugly shade of red and she’d begun screaming. Eleanor could still remember her cousin standing in the middle of the parlor, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her body rigid with anger as shriek after shriek issued from her perfect Cupid’s-bow mouth.

Eleanor, dazed by the abrupt changes in her life, had waited in vain to see one of Anabel’s parents slap her to stop her hysteria. Dorinda’s pale blue eyes had filled with tears and she’d quickly promised her daughter that “Mommy’s precious” wouldn’t have to share her room with her cousin. After all, Dorinda had told her husband, without regard for Eleanor’s presence, there was no telling what kind of manners they could expect from a child raised in saloons. Best not to risk Anabel’s delicate sensibilities by subjecting her to bad influences.

Eleanor could have told them that she’d never been in a saloon in her life and that she certainly had better manners than her young cousin, but it hadn’t seemed worth the effort. She’d been grateful for the privacy afforded by the boxy little room at the rear of the house—the maid’s room, Anabel had pointed out with a smug smile the first time they were alone together—and the more she got to know her cousin, the stronger her gratitude had become.

When she’d first come here her aunt had explained that she undoubtedly had a great deal to learn about proper living. Raised as she had been, she’d no doubt picked up many improper notions, and such notions wouldn’t be tolerated in the Williams household. Six years later, Eleanor still didn’t know what ‘improper notions’ she might have had, but she did know that if this was “proper living,” she was not impressed. Zebediah and Dorinda Williams might be proper but they were also smallminded, parsimonious people who took no pleasure in life.

She sighed again and rested her chin on the hands she’d propped on the windowsill. She could leave, of course, but she had no money and no way to earn a living. Though her father had done his best to shield her from the more sordid realities of life, she’d seen enough to know just how difficult the world could be for a woman on her own.

She might be able to wangle a job as a schoolteacher in some remote area. There was always a crying need for such. Or she could marry Andrew Webb and become a mother to his four small children. She could do worse. Andrew was pleasant enough and, as owner of the general store, considered a good catch, particularly for a young woman of no real beauty or expectations, as her aunt Dorinda had pointed out when Mr. Webb began making his interest in her niece obvious. It isn’t as if Eleanor can simply have her pick of beaux, after all. Not like dear Anabel. This last had been said with a fond look at her daughter, who’d managed to blush and look modest, no mean feat for a girl who spent nearly every waking moment in front of a mirror.

Aunt Dorinda was right, of course. She could do worse than to encourage Mr. Webb. It was just that…The thought trailed off as a cloud drifted across the face of the moon. A light breeze blew through the open window, its chill cutting through the light cotton of her nightgown. Shivering, Eleanor rose from the trunk where she’d been sitting and lowered the window.

It was just that she was a silly, romantic fool, she told herself as she climbed into her narrow bed and pulled the covers up around her shoulders. She was still clinging to the childish idea of a handsome knight who’d ride into her life and fall instantly under the spell of her negligible charms.

It was past time to put away such foolish notions, she told herself briskly. She was twenty now, no longer a girl. Unless she wanted to prove that little cat Anabel right and end up an old maid, it was time to stop looking for a handsome knight and start thinking of marrying a good man with whom to build a solid, dependable foundation for the future.

An image of Andrew Webb’s thin face and watery blue eyes rose in her mind’s eye and she felt her determination falter. She wasn’t clear on just what intimacies being married entailed, but whatever they were, it was difficult to imagine sharing them with Mr. Webb. Still, his first wife had clearly had no difficulty doing so, as witness the four children she’d given him before falling victim to consumption.

Eleanor set her chin with determination. Tomorrow was Sunday and she was sure to see Mr. Webb at church, since he attended the services as regularly as the Williams family. When she saw him, she’d do her best to discreetly indicate that his attentions were not unwelcome. If she was not mistaken in the strength of his feelings, she could find herself Mrs. Andrew Webb before the summer was out.

She used the edge of the sheet to dry a tear from her cheek. It was the sensible, mature thing to do. If it wasn’t the love match of her childish dreams, it would certainly be better than spending the rest of her life as Aunt Dorinda’s unpaid housekeeper.

Closing her eyes, Eleanor forced back tears that threatened to spill over. Despite the turmoil of her thoughts, she was soon asleep. Through her dreams drifted images of a dark-haired man with a dazzling smile who swept her up onto the back of his horse and carried her off to a castle that sat incongruously in the middle of the prairie.

Chapter Two

The last time anyone could remember the McLain brothers setting foot inside a church was three years past when their mother had been laid to rest beside her husband. So their arrival on this fine spring morning created a buzz of talk as people wondered what had caused their sudden attack of piety.

The speculation was already well advanced by the time Eleanor’s family arrived. Zeb Williams had a firm, if unspoken, belief that God rewarded not merely godliness but punctuality. But this morning Anabel had been unable to find a particular hair ribbon and their departure had been delayed while the house was searched for the missing item. Though the pink ribbon was found in Anabel’s reticule, exactly where she’d apparently put it, the blame for their lateness had somehow fallen on Eleanor and she’d been treated to a telling silence on the carriage ride.

She was actually grateful for the opportunity to review the decision she’d made the night before. Though she tried desperately to find some flaw in the plan, none presented itself. No matter how she looked at it, marrying Andrew Webb seemed the best option available to her. He was a respectable man, a kind man, even. She’d be a very foolish girl indeed to turn him away.

So, when Mr. Webb greeted the Williams family today, she’d put on her very best smile for him and try to look as if the prospect of wedding a man with cold, damp hands and four small children filled her with something other than dread.

But the whispered buzz that hummed through the small church pushed all thoughts of Andrew Webb momentarily aside. Of course, even without the whispers running through the pews, Eleanor would have noticed the McLains. They sat in the front pew, next to the aisle. Broad shoulders beneath neat black coats, dark hair worn just a little too long for complete respectability—even from the back, they drew a woman’s eyes.

Though she’d attended church there every Sunday for six years, it seemed to Eleanor as if the building was suddenly much smaller than it had been, as if the McLains’ presence filled up the available space in some way that mere mortal men had no business doing.

It was doubtful that anyone paid much attention to the Reverend Sean Mulligan’s sermon that day. Eleanor certainly couldn’t have repeated a word of it. When the sermon ended, the murmured amens were perfunctory, everyone’s mind occupied with things of more immediate interest than the hereafter.

It was the normal practice for people to linger in front of the church, exchanging greetings with each other, complimenting the minister on his sermon. On this particular Sunday there was only one topic of conversation among the womenfolk—what had brought the McLains to church after all this time. And though the men pretended to be above such common speculation, it didn’t stop their eyes from sliding to where the McLains stood talking with Reverend Mulligan.

Cora Danvers suggested that they’d come to repent their sins in the eyes of the Lord. But no one who looked at either McLain—and everyone was looking at them—could give much credence to that theory. Neither of them looked as if they felt the need for repentance. There was too much confidence in the way they moved, too much arrogance in the way they carried themselves.

Perhaps they were lonely, Millie Peters said. After all, they were orphans, alone and without family. Her soft blue eyes teared up at the thought, her plump face crumpling in sympathy, and Eleanor had no doubt that Millie would try to take the McLains under her wing. But they didn’t look as though they needed Millie’s wing, nor anyone else’s, for that matter.

She’d never actually seen either Luke or Daniel McLain but, like most people in Black Dog, she knew who they were. They owned the largest ranch in the area, a ranch their father had begun and that they’d continued to build after his death. Their patronage kept half the businesses in town in the black. She knew Mr. Webb’s store depended in large part on orders from the Bar-M-Bar.

But she wasn’t thinking about Andrew Webb as she watched the brothers talk to Reverend Mulligan. Though there was a strong resemblance between them, it was the taller of the two who drew her eyes. He looked dangerous, she thought, studying his profile. A strong chin, an almost hawkish nose, his hair brushing the collar of his conservatively cut black coat—there was something just a little untamed about him. And the gun that rested so snugly on his hip completed the image. Not that he was the only man wearing a gun—this was still a wild land in many ways, after all, and most men went armed. It wasn’t the presence of the gun but the ease with which he wore it that was just a little shocking.

As if sensing her gaze, he turned his head abruptly and their eyes met across the packed dirt of the churchyard. He was too far away for her to see the color of his eyes but she felt the impact of that look all the way to her toes. She knew she should look away, that it wasn’t ladylike to stare, but she couldn’t drag her gaze from his.

“Stop staring like a cheap tart. Try to at least pretend you’re a lady,” Dorinda Williams hissed in her ear. Eleanor gasped as her aunt’s fingers found the tender flesh on the back of her arm in a vicious pinch. She lowered her lashes to conceal quick tears of pain. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Anabel smile with pleasure and had to restrain a most unladylike urge to slap her smug pink-and-white face.

“What I’ve got in mind is a gentle girl, one who won’t be too demanding,” Luke said. “I’ve got enough on my hands with the ranch work. I don’t want a wife who expects me to dance attendance on her.”

Sean Mulligan had known Luke and Daniel since the family had first moved to Black Dog after the war. He’d been a friend of their father’s, and he’d often thought that Robert McLain would have been proud of the way his sons had kept the ranch going after his death, fulfilling his dream. He was fond of both boys—men, he corrected himself, looking up at the two of them. He’d been pleased to see them in his church this morning, but his pleasure had rapidly changed to dismay as he’d listened to Luke coolly outline his plan to find a wife.

“I don’t want to waste a lot of time,” Luke was saying now. “Spring’s a busy time, what with calving and all.”

“Finding a wife isn’t like buying a horse, Luke,” Sean protested.

“Buying a horse would be a damn sight easier,” Daniel put in, grinning at his older brother. “Just check the bloodlines, look at the teeth, take it for a ride and you know what you’re getting. Too bad you can’t do the same with a woman.”

“Well, you can’t,” Sean snapped. He dabbed at the beads of sweat on his forehead. The mild spring sunshine suddenly felt uncomfortably warm.

“It can’t be that hard, Sean,” Luke said, looking impatient. “People get married all the time.”

“Yes, but they generally spend some time getting to know one another. They court. A man doesn’t just pick out a bride like…like…”

“Like picking out a horse?” Daniel supplied helpfully.

“Exactly.”

“I don’t have time for courting, and we can get to know each other after the wedding. As long as she doesn’t have a temper like a wolverine or a face like a mud fence, we’ll do fine. I need a wife, not a best friend.”

“But…” Sean sputtered and dabbed the handkerchief frantically over his forehead. How could he explain the impossibility of what Luke wanted?

“There must be some unmarried females in town,” Luke said, his eyes skimming the crowd, unconcerned with the interest he was receiving in return.

“Yes,” Sean admitted cautiously.

“What about the redhead in the blue dress?” Luke asked, narrowing his eyes on the statuesque girl.

“Dorcus O’Hara,” Sean supplied, following Luke’s gaze. Sensing their gaze on her, the girl lifted her chin. “I don’t think she’s what you have in mind, Luke. Dorcus is a bit, er, high strung,” he said delicately.

“Temper like a hungry grizzly?” Daniel asked shrewdly.

“Well, er, yes,” Sean admitted, sighing.

“What about the little one with the brown hair? The one wearing the blue dress and the ugly hat?”

“Eleanor Williams.” Sean’s pale blue eyes widened in surprise.

“She taken?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Ain’t much to her,” Daniel commented. “What about the yellow-haired one next to her?”

“That’s her cousin, Anabel.”

“Too narrow between the eyes,” Luke said critically. “Reminds me of that mule we had in Virginia, the one that’d try to bite anything came within reach.”

Sean choked on swallowed laughter, trying to imagine Anabel Williams’s reaction to hearing herself compared to a bad-tempered mule.

“Why don’t you introduce me to a few possibilities?” Luke asked his father’s old friend.

Eleanor watched discreetly as Reverend Mulligan began introducing the McLains around. Her eyes lingered on the taller one and she felt her heart beat a little faster when he smiled at something his brother said. His teeth gleamed white against his tanned features and she thought she’d never seen a man even half as handsome.

“I’d hoped to see you today, Miss Williams.” Andrew Webb stepped in front of her, blocking her view of Reverend Mulligan and his companions. She’d been so wrapped up in watching the McLains that she hadn’t even been aware of him greeting her aunt and uncle.

“Mr. Webb.” She smiled at him and resisted the urge to try to peer around him to see where the McLains were.

“You look very pretty today, Miss Williams, if you don’t mind my saying so.” Andrew flushed a little at his boldness.

“Thank you, Mr. Webb.” He was lying through his teeth, of course. His crooked teeth, she added when he smiled. The powder blue dress she wore was a remade castoff of Anabel’s, and neither the color nor the style suited her. Not to mention the appallingly ugly hat Aunt Dorinda had purchased for her the week before. The brim dripped with ribbon roses and fat bows and made her look like an overdressed mushroom.

“I knew that hat would look a picture on you.”

“This hat?” Eleanor lifted her hand to touch the despised headgear, her attention fully on Andrew for the first time. “Aunt Dorinda bought it from you?”

“Yes.” Andrew smiled happily. “As soon as I saw it, I thought of you.”

“You did?”

“Yes.” His smile widened. “I’m so glad to see you like it.”

“It’s…lovely,” Eleanor said weakly. It was also the only hat she owned, at least until she could refurbish last year’s bonnet. The tattered condition of that item was the only reason she’d forced herself to don the hat at all.

“I’ve often thought it remarkable how close one can feel to someone with whom one shares one’s tastes, even in such small and unimportant things as styles of dress,” Andrew said, his watery blue eyes focused intently on her face.

Eleanor stared at him, groping for an appropriate reply. Should she admit, right up front, that she despised the hat in question? If she did, would that end the possibility of Mr. Webb being a suitor for her hand? Did she care? To her relief, she was saved the necessity of a reply by Reverend Mulligan’s arrival.

“Zeb, I’d like to introduce you to some friends of mine. This is Luke McLain and his brother, Daniel. Mr. and Mrs. Williams.”

Andrew Webb was instantly forgotten. Eleanor felt her pulse suddenly beating much too fast in the base of her throat. Luke McLain. She rolled the name around in her mind and decided that she’d never heard one she liked more.

“We’ve already met,” Uncle Zeb was saying as he shook hands with both men. “Dealings with the bank, of course. Haven’t seen either of you in quite a while. How’d your place come through the winter? Did you lose much stock?” He looked ready to settle into a lengthy discussion of ranching but a subtle nudge from his wife reminded him of his duties. “Oh, excuse me. Allow me to introduce my wife, Dorinda. And my daughter, Anabel,” he said, pride evident in both voice and expression.

“Miss Williams.” Luke smiled at Anabel, and Eleanor felt something close to despair. No doubt he’d be dazzled by Anabel’s pale beauty, just as every other man was.

“Mr. McLain. And Mr. McLain.” Anabel smiled, revealing the perfect dimples in her cheeks. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

Eleanor was unreasonably pleased that it was Daniel and not Luke who gave her cousin that reassurance.

“We haven’t seen you at church before, have we?” Anabel asked, widening her blue eyes in a way that drew attention to their pure color.

“We haven’t attended much lately,” Luke said, and Eleanor felt the deep richness of his voice slide over her skin.

“I hope you mean to change that,” Anabel said.

“Now, Anabel, Mr. McLain is going to think you’re being bold.” Her mother’s voice was too indulgent to be called a scold.

“I was just thinking of the importance of tending one’s immortal soul, Mama.” Anabel thrust her lower lip out ever so slightly in the pretty pout that she’d spent hours perfecting.

“Very admirable of you,” Reverend Mulligan said dryly.

“Is this another daughter?” Luke asked, turning to look directly at Eleanor.

“My brother’s child.” Zeb Williams’s tone was flat. “We took her in when he was killed a few years ago.”

There was an awkward little pause, and Eleanor felt the color rise in her cheeks. Her uncle couldn’t have made it more clear that she was an unwanted burden, hardly worth noticing. Tears of embarrassment burned the backs of her eyes.

“Eleanor, this is Luke McLain. His brother, Daniel.” Reverend Mulligan hurried to fill the silence when it became clear that neither her aunt nor her uncle had any interest in introducing her.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Williams.”

Eleanor raised her gaze to Luke McLain’s face, oblivious to his brother’s equally polite greeting. Up close, he was even more overwhelming than he’d seemed from across the churchyard. His eyes were gray, the same clear color as a lake under a stormy sky. They were like polished steel against his tanned skin.

“Mr. McLain.” The whispered acknowledgment was all she could get out. Her heart was pounding against her breastbone, making her voice breathless. She could barely hear Luke’s greeting to Andrew Webb over the sound of her own pulse in her ears. And then he turned back to her and smiled and she felt her knees go weak.

“Have you lived in Black Dog very long, Miss Williams?”

“Six years, four months and twelve days,” she answered, without thinking. She saw his brows shoot up and immediately wished she could catch the words back. She’d kept track of the days like a prisoner counting out her sentence, but she’d never intended to reveal as much to anyone, least of all Luke McLain.

There was a moment of shocked silence, and then Anabel giggled. “You shouldn’t tease Mr. McLain, Eleanor. Why, it almost sounds like you haven’t been happy with us.”

“I didn’t mean that at all,” Eleanor mumbled, lowering her lashes to conceal the rebellion in her eyes. She’d get an earful from Aunt Dorinda later, she knew. And heaven knew what Luke McLain must think of her.

The awkward moment was interrupted by the arrival of Letty Sinclair. Eleanor felt a twinge of annoyance. Letty was her best friend and, ordinarily, she would have welcomed her presence, but on this occasion Eleanor couldn’t help but feel that Anabel’s soft blond beauty overshadowed her enough without the addition of Letty’s more exotic dark good looks. Guilt over the selfish thought made her smile all the more warmly as she turned to include Letty in their little group.

Reverend Mulligan made the introductions. Eleanor watched in resignation, sure that Luke McLain would be completely smitten by Letty’s raven hair and dark eyes. There’s Italian blood there, mark my words, Aunt Dorinda had said darkly when Letty first moved to Black Dog. But Italian blood or not, the healthy condition of Letty’s bank balance assured her place in the town’s small society, even if her charm and generosity hadn’t already done so.

Better that Luke be smitten by Letty than Anabel, Eleanor thought. Better almost anyone than Anabel. By the time the minister had finished the introductions, Eleanor was already envisioning the wedding with herself as a heartbroken but noble bridesmaid.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Sinclair,” Luke said, looking polite but not overly smitten.

“It’s Mrs. Sinclair,” Letty corrected, smiling in a way that made her eyes sparkle. “I’m a widow these three years past.”

“You must have been a child bride,” Daniel McLain said, his eyes blatantly admiring Letty’s trim figure.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Mr. McLain.”

“It was intended as such, Mrs. Sinclair,” he responded with a grin that might have put a flutter in Eleanor’s heart if it hadn’t already been beating double time in response to his brother’s proximity.

A glance at Dorinda Williams’s face showed that she was less than pleased about this addition to their small group. While she’d rather have eaten nails than acknowledge that anyone could overshadow her precious Anabel, there was no denying Letty Sinclair’s charms.

After exchanging a few more pleasantries, Reverend Mulligan and his companions moved on. Instantly three of Dorinda Williams’s closest friends descended on them, wanting to hear every word that had been said.

“What charming young men,” Dorinda said, her superior look only slightly spoiled by the pleased flush on her cheekbones.

“What did they say?” Millie Peters demanded, her small nose quivering with eagerness.

“We merely exchanged a few pleasantries,” Dorinda said, trying to look as if she wasn’t enjoying being the center of attention. Letty and Eleanor exchanged an amused look.

“But why did Reverend Mulligan bring them to meet you particularly?” That was Cora Danvers, blunt spoken, as always. If her husband hadn’t owned half the bank, she wouldn’t have had a friend in the world. Dorinda stiffened at the question, her smile tightening into something more nearly a grimace.

“I’m sure the McLains wanted to meet my Anabel,” she said through tight lips. “Isn’t it obvious that they’ve decided to take their rightful positions in our little society? Naturally, they’ll be interested in finding wives, and my little Anabel is the prettiest girl in town,” she admitted with an air of false modesty that clashed with her smug tone. She sighed and put on a regretful look. “Of course, if your Mary hadn’t run off with that drummer last fall, she might have given Anabel a run for her money.”

Cora flushed an unbecoming shade of purple, and Eleanor found herself almost admiring her aunt’s ability to find the most vulnerable place in which to slide the barb, Everyone in town knew about Mary Danvers running off with the corset salesman, but few people would have dared to mention the incident to her face. Since Zebediah Williams owned the other half of the bank, Dorinda felt safe in striking such a blow.

“Anabel is such a pretty girl,” Millie Peters said hastily, her soft voice filling the taut silence. “It would hardly be a surprise if one of the McLain boys came courting.”

“I wouldn’t wonder if they both came courting,” Dorinda said, forsaking modesty for maternal pride.

Eleanor watched Anabel preen, and ground her teeth together. Just the thought of her spiteful little cousin clinging to Luke McLain’s arm made her want to plant her foot firmly in Anabel’s fanny.

Chapter Three

“A girl with a gentle temperament—that’s what I want.” Luke narrowed his eyes against the sun. “One who won’t throw fits at a man.”

“The woman ain’t been born that won’t throw a fit.” Daniel reached into his pocket for his tobacco pouch and papers.

The brothers were riding back to the Bar-M-Bar, walking their horses in the midafternoon sun. After church they’d had lunch with Reverend Mulligan, who’d done his best to talk Luke out of his determination to find a wife.

What about love? the older man had asked, running his fingers through his thinning hair. Though he’d been loath to admit it, the question had given Luke pause. It had made him think of the bonds between his mother and father, of the way they’d seemed to complete each other. After her husband’s death Lucinda McLain had carried on, but there’d been something missing, a light that no longer shone in her eyes.

But love like that was a rare thing, he told himself. And he couldn’t afford to spend his life hoping he’d be lucky enough to find such a thing for himself. Besides, he was a little old to be chasing after dreams like that. If he hadn’t found a great love by now, he wasn’t likely to find it, especially not with the ranch demanding most of his time. Even if he wanted to go off on some wild-goose chase to find a woman he could love, he didn’t have the time for it. No, a marriage based on more practical considerations would suit him just fine.

“You see any likely-looking girls?” Daniel’s question dragged Luke’s thoughts back to the present. Daniel finished rolling his cigarette and flicked his thumbnail over a match to light it. Cupping his hands to shield it, he lit his cigarette, his eyes sliding to his brother as he shook out the match. “There were pretty girls there. If I’d known there were so many pretty churchgoing girls, I might have been more inclined to pay my respects to the Lord on a regular basis.”

“Careful. You don’t want to find yourself on the wrong end of a father’s shotgun.” Luke paused and then grinned. “Of course, if you did, there wouldn’t be any reason for me to get married.”

“I’ve got no intention of doing anything foolish,” Daniel said, dashing any hopes he might have had. “Though, from the looks of some of those girls, I’m not sure it’d be such a hardship to take one to wife. That redhead wasn’t hard on the eyes, and a little temper might make life interesting. A little fire can be a good thing.”

“In a horse, maybe, but not in a wife. My life is interesting enough.” Luke let the reins go slack as he reached for his own makings and began to roll himself a cigarette.

“What about the dark one? The widow. She was easy on the eyes.”

Luke considered Letty Sinclair briefly and then shook his head. “Sean says she lives on her own. A woman who’s been living on her own is likely to be set in her ways. I want a girl who’s willing to get set in my ways.”

“How about the one with the yellow hair?” Daniel suggested. “I can’t say I’d mind looking at that one over the breakfast table.”

“Too young.” Luke dismissed Anabel Williams out of hand. “Besides, I’d bet my last dime there’s a streak of mean in that one that’d make a man’s life mighty unpleasant. And a girl that pretty probably spends half her time in front of a looking glass, admiring her own reflection.”

Luke lit his cigarette and narrowed his eyes against the drift of smoke. “What I want is a girl who’s not so young that she’s got her head all full of romantic notions but not old enough to be set in her ways. Pleasant enough looking that it won’t be hard to go about the business of having sons with her but not so pretty that she’ll expect me to spend all my time admiring her. She’s got to be strong and willing to work.”

“That’s quite a shopping list,” Daniel said. He reached up to tilt his hat down a bit, the better to shield his eyes from the afternoon sun. “You see a girl you think might live up to it?”

“Eleanor Williams,” Luke said, drawing on the cigarette.

“Don’t remember meeting an Eleanor Williams,” Daniel said after a moment. He blew out a thin stream of smoke and frowned at the endless vista of prairie ahead of them. “She wasn’t the one with the nose like a buzzard, was she?”

“No.” Luke shot him an irritated glance, though he couldn’t have said just why it annoyed him that Daniel didn’t remember the girl.

“She was the one standing next to the girl with the yellow hair. The cousin.”

“The one wearing the god-awful hat,” Daniel said, making the proper identification.

“Her choice of headgear don’t interest me,” Luke said shortly. Privately, he promised himself that the first thing he’d do when they got married was burn that hat.

“There ain’t much to her,” Daniel said, just as he had when Luke had asked Sean Mulligan about her.

“I’m looking for a wife, not a pack mule,” Luke said irritably.

“Need some of the same qualities in both,” Daniel said. “Strong and steady, even-tempered—” He caught his brother’s annoyed look and broke off but there was nothing repentant about his grin. “Course, I’ve never seen a pack mule I wanted to share a bed with.”

“Pack mule’s got more sense than to look at the likes of you,” Luke said.

“So you think Ellen Williams is the one?”

“Eleanor,” Luke corrected automatically. “And I won’t know till I’ve had a chance to talk to her a bit more.”

“I don’t know, Luke. Marrying’s a serious business.” The laughter died out of Daniel’s eyes, which were the same clear gray as his brother’s. “Maybe this ain’t such a good idea, after all. Maybe we ought to just forget the whole idea and try another housekeeper.”

If he’d thought about it, Luke would have said that he wanted nothing more than to give up the idea of finding himself a wife. And here was Daniel, saying that he should give it up. He opened his mouth to agree that it had been a dumb idea from the start and that they should put it behind them. And found himself remembering Eleanor Williams’s big brown eyes, the shy smile in them and heard her voice saying that she’d lived in Black Dog six years, four months and twelve days.

“I said I was going to find a wife and that’s what I’m going to do,” he heard himself say stubbornly.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Daniel’s surprised look. Since he was no less surprised himself, the last thing he wanted to do was talk about his decision. He nudged the gray into a canter, effectively putting an end to the conversation. For some reason, the idea of having a wife just didn’t seem as bad as it once had.

The Wednesday after he and Daniel attended church, Luke found himself driving the buckboard into Black Dog to pick up supplies. He hadn’t expected to find himself back in town quite so soon and was irritated by the necessity. But since their last cook had decided that California’s winters would suit his old bones more than the biting prairie winds, Luke and Daniel had been sharing the duty, and it was Luke’s turn to make the trip.

He nodded to Chet Longman, who ran the livery stable and was also the sheriff, when Black Dog had need of such. He heard the tinny sound of a piano from the Gold Dust Saloon as he drove past and decided he’d stop by for a drink before making the long, dusty drive back to the ranch. It wasn’t much consolation for a wasted day but it was better than nothing.

They had to find another cook, he thought irritably. Or a wife. His eyes narrowed as his attention was caught by a particularly ugly hat—a familiar hat. The woman wearing it was walking briskly down the boardwalk, the skirts of her mint green dress swaying invitingly. As Luke watched, she pushed open the door of Webb’s General Store & Emporium, and Luke allowed himself a grin. Maybe this trip wouldn’t be such a waste of time, after all.

When her aunt Dorinda had sent her out to buy a length of linen for new towels, Eleanor had welcomed the chance to get out of the house and enjoy a walk in the spring sunshine. And going to Webb’s would give her a chance to make amends to Mr. Webb for her blatant inattention to him after church on Sunday. When Reverend Mulligan had brought the McLain brothers over to be introduced, Andrew Webb had been promptly and somewhat rudely forgotten. She couldn’t expect to draw a proposal from Mr. Webb if she ignored him just because she’d been introduced to another man. Even if that other man did happen to be the most attractive—

But that wasn’t the point, she reminded herself briskly. Even if Luke McLain was the embodiment of every girlish fantasy she’d ever had, she was no longer a girl. She was twenty now and it was time to put away childish dreams. There was no knight in shining armor to come riding out of the prairie and sweep her off to a better life. She was going to have to build that better life for herself, and Andrew Webb offered her the best hope for a new future.

So she’d put on her favorite dress, a soft green cotton that suited her coloring much better than most of Anabel’s castoffs, and she’d put on the ugly hat Mr. Webb had thought suited her. She’d wondered briefly if she could really be contemplating spending the rest of her life with a man who had such dreadful taste in millinery, but then reminded herself that there could be worse things. Like living with her aunt and uncle.

She’d spent a moment batting her eyes at her own reflection and trying to imitate Anabel’s way of looking at a man from under her lashes. But the look that was coquettish on Anabel seemed simply foolish on herself. Since Mr. Webb was looking for a mother for four small children, perhaps he’d be more impressed by common sense than coquetry. Common sense she had in abundance.

Drawing a deep breath, Eleanor pushed open the door of Webb’s. She immediately had the urge to turn and run, but the little bell over the door had already given away her presence and Andrew Webb was stepping out from behind the counter, his thin face wreathed in a smile.

“Miss Eleanor. What a pleasure to see you again so soon.”

“Mr. Webb.” Eleanor gave him her warmest smile and was pleased to see him blink and swallow hard.

“What can I help you with today?” he asked, regaining his composure.

“My aunt was hoping you’d have some good linen toweling. We’ve just finished spring cleaning and she’d like fresh towels to finish things off.”

“I have just the thing. Got it from St. Louis not two weeks ago.”

Eleanor followed him as he went to find the requested item. Looking at his scarecrow-thin figure and neatly combed sandy hair, she tried not to picture a pair of broad shoulders beneath a plain black coat and a head of deep brown hair in need of a cut.

“Best money can buy,” Andrew said proudly as he lifted a bolt of fabric onto the counter. “Your aunt won’t find any better, even if she went to Denver.”

“It looks like just what she had in mind,” Eleanor murmured. Her eyes were drawn to a bolt of royal blue grenadine. The deep, rich color would suit her coloring much better than her cousin’s castoff pastels. She reached out to finger the soft fabric, picturing it made up in a simple gown with a minimum of decoration, with perhaps just a touch of lace at the neckline and wrists to soften the severity of the cut.

“That’s much too dark a color for a young lady such as yourself, Miss Eleanor.” At Webb’s comment, she let her hand drop away from the fabric. “Something in a softer shade, perhaps. My late wife favored pinks and the softest of blues,” he said reminiscently. He seemed to suddenly realize to whom he was speaking and flushed a deep shade of red. “I hope you don’t mind me mentioning my wife.”

“Not at all. It’s only natural that you think of her.”

“Yes. But life goes on and I’ve put aside my grief and am looking to the future.”

The fervent look he gave her left no doubt that he was hoping the future he looked toward included her. Looking into his watery eyes, Eleanor felt her heart sink. Was she really contemplating spending the rest of her life with this man? At most, she felt a mild liking for Andrew Webb. Could a happy marriage be built on so little?

She was saved the necessity of having to answer either him or herself by the jangle of the bell over the door. It rang again almost immediately and the harsh tones of Cora Danvers admonishing her son about something echoed through the store. Andrew jumped and blushed again, like a boy caught smoking his father’s cigars behind the privy. He glanced over Eleanor’s head toward the front of the store.

“Are you in a hurry, Miss Eleanor?”

“Not at all. Please take care of your other customers, Mr. Webb. I’ll find plenty to occupy myself.” She was relieved when he hurried back toward the front of the store. Perhaps if she didn’t have to look at him she’d be able to bolster her determination a little.

She heard Mr. Webb greet Cora Danvers, heard Cora’s son Horace offer some whined complaint, the words indistinguishable. She reached out to finger the blue grenadine again. She had a little money, but it would be wildly foolish to spend it on a bolt of cloth when she already had four dresses hanging in her room. But wouldn’t it be wonderful to wear something that suited her, she thought wistfully. In a dress like the one she’d envisioned, she wouldn’t feel like such a little dab of a female. She’d feel elegant and almost pretty. Maybe even pretty enough to draw the eye of a man as handsome as Luke McLain.

At the sound of someone approaching, she snatched her hand back from the fabric and turned, annoyed to feel herself flushing as if she were guilty of some crime. Luke McLain stood not three feet from her, and Eleanor felt her breath catch and her cheeks blush fiery red. She pressed one hand to her bosom, as if to physically still the sudden pounding of her heart.

Luke wondered why he’d thought of her as plain. The face beneath that god-awful hat was not beautiful, by any means, but it was certainly not plain. Not with those big brown eyes that made him think of a fawn and that full mouth that seemed just about made for a man to kiss. Her flush deepened and he realized he’d been staring at her without speaking.

“Miss Williams. Reverend Mulligan introduced us at church last Sunday.”

“I remember, Mr. McLain.” As if I could forget.

“A new spring dress?” he asked, gesturing to the bolt of grenadine.

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

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

“If you’ll excuse me, Mr. McLain.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You traveled a great deal?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m in no rush.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Four

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is everything ready for supper?”

“Yes, Aunt Dorinda.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A gambler?” Luke’s brows rose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just like that mule Pa owned, Luke thought again. Remembering the mule’s tendency to bite when riled, he had to restrain the urge to shift his chair a little farther away from Anabel’s. But he underestimated her intelligence. Anabel knew exactly who was to blame for his indifference.

Eleanor carried in a pie and Luke’s mouth watered at the pungent, sweet smell of warm cherries. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had cherry pie. And if her pie was anywhere near as good as her biscuits…

“That smells mighty good, Miss Eleanor,” he said, enjoying the flush of pleasure that brought a sparkle to her eyes.

“Serve our guest first, Eleanor,” Dorinda Williams said, with the air of a queen giving out favors.

Still flushed, Eleanor set the pie down next to her aunt and used a narrow spatula to lift an already cut slice onto one of the small china plates that sat ready to receive it. It had never occurred to Luke that a woman could look graceful doing something as simple as serving a piece of pie, but there was a quick grace about everything she did and he found himself thinking that it wouldn’t be a hardship to watch her around the house.

Eleanor moved down the table and reached between him and Anabel to set the plate down in front of him. Luke was looking at the pie but out of the corner of his eye he caught a quick movement from Anabel. Eleanor gasped as her arm was jogged. The plate tilted and Luke’s white shirtfront was suddenly decorated with cherry pie.

There was a moment’s stunned silence as everyone at the table stared at the bright red cherries splattered across his chest.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t know how—”

“Eleanor, you clumsy little idiot!” Dorinda’s sharp voice cut off her niece’s breathless apology. “Can’t you do anything right?”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Williams,” Luke said.

“It’s kind of you to say so,” Zeb put in, his long face drawn in tight lines of disapproval. “Naturally, Eleanor will see to the cleaning of your clothing or its replacement. Tell Mr. McLain you’re sorry, Eleanor.”

“She’s already apologized.” Luke spoke before Eleanor could say anything. She’d set down the plate and grabbed Luke’s napkin and was dabbing at the stain on his shirtfront. He closed his fingers around hers, stopping her futile attempts to repair the damage. “I’m just glad the pie wasn’t hot,” he said, glancing up at her with a smile.

Her mouth curved, but the lower lip quivered and her eyes were bright with unshed tears. Luke found himself wanting to bang her aunt’s and uncle’s heads together. He still held Eleanor’s hand and he could feel her pulse jumping erratically under his touch.

“If I could have a towel?” he suggested gently.

“Get Mr. McLain a towel, Eleanor,” her aunt snapped immediately.

There was an awkward silence when Eleanor had vanished into the kitchen. Luke found himself wondering why his mother’s lessons on etiquette had never covered what a man should say when he found himself wearing a slice of pie and knowing that the cause of the disaster was sitting right next to him looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am that this happened, Mr. McLain.” Dorinda’s voice was heavy with mortification.

“No need to apologize, Mrs. Williams. Accidents can happen.” He let his gaze settle on Anabel, who looked back at him without the smallest trace of guilt or remorse in her pretty blue eyes.

Eleanor returned and Luke scraped cherries and pie crust off his chest and into the towel she’d brought. Aside from his shirt, there was no real damage done. Once the towel was disposed of, he fixed Eleanor with his best smile, the one that had generally succeeded in getting him just about anything he wanted from a woman.

“I’d still like a slice of that pie, Miss Eleanor.”

She gave him a grateful look and reached for the pie plate, but her aunt spoke before she could touch it. “I’ll serve the pie. I’d prefer to avoid another scene.”

Eleanor flushed and moved around the table to sit down, her hands in her lap.

“Anabel, my dear, please pass this to Mr. McLain.”

“Yes, Mama.”

Anabel took the plate from her mother and turned to Luke, who eyed her warily. But she set the plate in front of him, giving him a sweet smile in the process. She turned that smile on her cousin. “You see, Eleanor, all it takes is a little care.”

Luke saw Eleanor’s dark eyes flash with anger. She knew as well as he did just who was to blame for spilling the pie. He waited, wondering if he was about to see a display of temper, but she only drew a deep breath and looked down at the table.

His expression thoughtful, he picked up his fork. She had a temper but kept it under control. That was a good thing in a wife. As he’d told Daniel, he didn’t want a wife who was prone to throwing fits. The more he saw of her, the more she seemed a likely candidate for marrying.

Besides, she baked the best darned cherry pie he’d ever sunk a tooth into.

“It was just awful, Letty. It looked like I’d shot him with a shotgun, only it had been loaded with cherries instead of buckshot.” Eleanor’s face flushed at the memory.

“It doesn’t sound like he was upset.” Letty Sinclair picked up the teapot and filled both their cups.

“He was nice as could be,” Eleanor agreed. “And that little cat, Anabel, sat there with a smug little smile on her face. I just wanted to shove her headfirst into a mud puddle.”

“Or a cherry pie,” Letty suggested.

“That would have spoiled her mood,” Eleanor agreed, smiling at the thought of Anabel with a faceful of cherry pie. Her smile faded. “Luke must think I’m clumsy as a bull at a tea party.”

“Luke?” Letty raised her eyebrows at the familiarity.

“Mr. McLain,” Eleanor corrected herself with a guilty blush.

“I’ve seen him and his brother in town a time or two even before I met them at church last week,” Letty said. “They’re both very attractive men. You could do worse than to set your sights on one of them.”

Eleanor choked on a mouthful of tea. “Me? Set my sights on a man like Luke McLain? I’d be making a total fool of myself.”

“I don’t see why.” Letty’s pretty chin set stubbornly.

“What would a man like that see in a dab of a girl like me? Ouch!” She cried out more in surprise than pain as Letty rapped the back of her knuckles with the silver spoon she’d picked up to stir her tea. “Why did you do that?”

“Because you sounded just like your aunt Dorinda,” Letty said, showing not the least sign of remorse. “You’re not a dab of a girl, Eleanor Emmeline Williams.”

“I’m hardly statuesque, either.”

“Haven’t you ever heard that good things come in small packages?” Letty stirred her tea and fixed her friend with a stern look. “You’ve lived with that harpy of an aunt and that nasty little cousin of yours too long.”

“I haven’t had much choice,” Eleanor muttered. She took a sip of tea, savoring the rich flavor of it. When Aunt Dorinda made tea she always skimped on the tea leaves, turning out a watery brew more reminiscent of dishwater than a beverage.

Good tea was only one of the many pleasures she took in visiting Letty Sinclair. Letty was her dearest friend. She’d moved to Black Dog three years before to take care of an elderly uncle. When her uncle passed away, leaving her a small house and a comfortable inheritance, Letty had stayed on. There were those who were scandalized by the idea of an attractive young woman living alone, but the fact that Letty Sinclair could always be counted on to donate both time and money to any worthy cause kept the whispers to a minimum.

She was a widow, after all, the ladies of the town comforted themselves. Though she was young, it wasn’t as if she were a single girl living alone. Letty’s husband had drowned when the wagon he was driving overturned in the midst of a river he’d been trying to ford. A widow at twenty, Letty had welcomed the opportunity to leave Ohio and all its painful memories behind and move west to care for her great-uncle Lazarus.

Letty and Eleanor had met at church and become fast friends almost immediately. Letty was the one person in Eleanor’s life with whom she felt completely at ease, the one person with whom she could share her dreams and her fears.

“I’ve decided to marry Andrew Webb,” Eleanor announced abruptly.

“What on earth for?” Letty set her teacup down and frowned at her friend.

“Because I don’t want to spend the rest of my life as Aunt Dorinda’s unpaid housekeeper.”

“You don’t have to marry Andrew Webb just to avoid that. I’ve already told you that you could come live with me. We’d have such fun, Ellie. You know we would.”

“You know as well as I do that it would never do.”

“I don’t know any such thing.” Letty’s fine brows drew together and her soft mouth set in a stubborn line. “I have a spare bedroom just sitting empty. And if it would soothe that annoying pride of yours, I could even hire you as my housekeeper. Since there’s not much house to keep, we’d have plenty of time to enjoy ourselves.”

But Eleanor was already shaking her head. “Can you imagine what people would say about two young women living alone together?”

“I’m a widow. How could anyone complain if I choose to hire a companion?”

“A companion even younger than you are?” Eleanor asked, raising her brows.

“I ought to be able to have any companion I want,” Letty said stubbornly. She caught Eleanor’s eyes and sighed. “Oh, all right. You’re right and I’m wrong. But I don’t have to like it.”

“I thank you for the offer.” Eleanor smiled at Letty’s disgruntled look.

“Even if you can’t come stay with me, I don’t want you to marry Andrew Webb just to get away from your aunt and uncle,” Letty said after a moment.

“I don’t see that I have much choice. I’ve no skills with which to earn my own living. He seems like a kind man and his children need a mother.” Even to her own ears, Eleanor sounded less than excited and she forced a false note of enthusiasm into her voice. “I’ve always wanted children of my own, you know.”

“That’s an altogether different thing from gaining a husband and four children all in the same day and not knowing any of them any better than you do some stranger just arrived on the train from St. Louis.”

“They’re not exactly strangers,” Eleanor protested.

“What are the children’s names?”

Letty’s unexpected demand left Eleanor momentarily speechless. “The oldest girl is Elizabeth, and the boys are—” She hesitated, groping to put a name to the four towheaded children who sat so quietly beside their father in church. “Simon and…William. And the littlest is Mary—no, it’s Margaret.” She gave Letty a triumphant look. It was short-lived.

“The oldest girl is Liza and it’s not short for Elizabeth. The second boy isn’t William, he’s Willard, and the baby’s name is Minerva.” Letty ticked off the names on her fingers before fixing her friend with a stern look. “You can’t marry Andrew Webb when you don’t even know the names of his children, Eleanor.”

“I can learn their names.” Eleanor set her chin in a way that would have startled Luke McLain.

“You don’t love him,” Letty noted.

“Not everyone marries for love. Love can come after marriage.” Eleanor tried to sound more confident than she felt. “He’s a nice man.”

“With terrible taste in hats,” Letty observed, nodding to the overdecorated hat that Eleanor had set on the sofa next to her.

“I can learn to live with that,” Eleanor said, casting a doubtful look at the item in question.

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