Romancing the Bride Read online

  Celia huffed and flopped against the seat back. The frigid air swept the white puff of her breath over her shoulder.

  Spencer’s cowboy hat brushed Annie’s arm as he wiggled his way between her and Celia from where he’d sat in the back. “Does that mean I can talk? I’m happy.”

  The water collecting in his brim ran off into Annie’s lap. She grimaced as the rivulet trickled in through her coat.

  Celia grunted. “You’re always happy.”

  “Hey, you ain’t supposed to talk!”

  Celia stuck her tongue out at her brother.

  Despite wanting to growl, swing the wagon around, and speed home, Annie put on a calm, stern face. “Spencer, it’s ‘you aren’t supposed to talk.’ And Celia, what did I say?”

  Celia rolled her eyes. How Annie hated that gesture.

  Lord, help me. I’m losing control.... No. I’ve lost control—of everything.

  Spencer tapped her shoulder. “So can I talk then?”

  Annie tried to give him a smile. “Of course, son.”

  “As long as I’m happy, right?”

  “Yes.” If that was the only rule in regard to talking, her youngest would rarely have to be quiet. “Why don’t you sing? Cheer us all up?”

  “Come in, you naughty bird, the rain is pouring down.

  What will your mother do, if you sit there and drown?

  You are a very thoughtless—”

  “Something else, son.” Only a boy would think a song about a drowning bird would cheer people up.

  By the time Spencer started the second verse of “Oh, Susanna,” Annie could no longer concentrate on the lyrics. The church on the outskirts of town was but a few minutes away. She pulled at her wet and clingy clothing. What would the marshal think when he saw her in such a state?

  She looked up to the heavy gray clouds obscuring the heavens. If only God would make this decision for her. Two weeks until taxes were due, and if marriage was the right solution, she had even less time to decide.

  On Main Street, a straight shot between brick and wood storefronts, Annie steered around a few pedestrians darting from one side to the other. And cows. A beautiful black heifer with a muddy white face loped alongside Annie’s wagon for a block before turning into an alley. The council had published a warning in the paper a few months ago that the marshal would impound wandering livestock, but they surely wouldn’t enforce the statute. The cattlemen around here would rise up in arms if it cost them to regain their cattle—and their money kept the city afloat.

  The marshal had actually delivered Mayor McGill’s steer to him during a board session last month and threatened to take the beef to the jailhouse if the mayor didn’t pay the fine immediately. Picturing portly McGill steaming over paying the fine to enforce his own law made Annie chuckle.

  The vision of the marshal with the mayor’s steer turned her thoughts to her own precarious situation. The bubbled-up mirth returned to her belly and curdled. The marshal was the only person who could help her with the path she’d chosen. And how could she convince him her plan was worthwhile?

  God, please reveal some other way during the church service, or I’ll likely end up embarrassing myself more than I ever thought possible.

  The little white church, nestled between two evergreens, appeared through the drizzle. Annie pulled into the soggy side lot alongside the wagons of the few families who’d ventured out in this weather. Skirting the church building, the three rushed to the marshal’s neighboring house where the children attended Sunday school.

  Under his porch overhang, Annie squeezed the water out of her skirt as best she could. Spencer shook like a dog, and Celia stood dripping.

  Annie grabbed the darkened hem of Celia’s skirt and squished the wetness out onto the wood planks. “Help me wring out this water. You don’t want to create a mess for the marshal.”

  “He don’t care.” Celia crossed her arms over her chest. She was too big to spank, and correcting her grammar would only fuel her attitude.

  Spencer opened the door and ran inside, joining his high, squeaky voice with the laughter behind the doors.

  Annie shot out her arm to keep Celia from stomping in after Spencer since she was still dripping.

  Was there anything she could do to get this girl to obey? Celia’s hurt over losing her father was so deep, Annie wasn’t sure anything would make a difference right now. “If you aren’t willing to make yourself presentable enough to go into Sunday school, you can come with me instead.”

  “He won’t care, Ma. Really.”

  Sure he wouldn’t. He owned one of the nicest homes in Armelle. A two-story house he’d purchased after a family of eight left for Oregon. How one person could feel comfortable living alone in a house so large stymied Annie. But she wouldn’t let her daughter drag in enough water to ruin his floors either. “It’s your choice: Sunday school or the adult class.”

  Celia’s teeth rocked on her lower lip.

  Perhaps her daughter felt too old for the children’s class. “You’d be welcome with the adults. You’re a young lady now.” If she’d only act like one.

  Bending over, Celia gathered handfuls of fabric and twisted. “I’ll stay here.” She glanced up. “You can go. I promise I’ll go in.”

  “I know you will, but I thought I might peek in and check on things.”

  She’d never paid much attention to the children’s class. What if the marshal had a helper already? Or what if he was fond of one of the young ladies in town? If so, he wouldn’t accept Annie’s plan.

  Celia shrugged and crossed the threshold into the warm air wafting out the front door.

  Annie peered into the house. The large parlor contained only one chair at the end of the carpet on which the children sat cross-legged in an oblong circle. No sofa. No end table. Not even a vase for flowers. How did the marshal entertain guests?

  “Hello, Mrs. Gephart!” A chorus of children’s voices greeted her.

  She waved to them while standing in the doorway. “Good morning, children.”

  A redheaded boy with huge brown eyes ran to her. “Are you going to help with class?”

  “Do I have an assistant today?” A deep bass voice followed the child’s treble.

  The marshal’s frame filled the doorway that led into the kitchen. His suit jacket stretched to fit his wide shoulders, and his crisp white button-up shirt was open at the throat, void of the long, thin bow tie he usually wore. Catching herself staring at his disheveled collar, she averted her eyes over his shoulder. A stack of messy bowls covered the table behind him. His kitchen appeared bigger than her kitchen and parlor combined.

  The marshal stepped forward and grinned. She swallowed the lump in her throat. No wonder so many of the town’s eligible ladies flocked to him at gatherings. A simple smile turned his countenance into perfection. She struggled to find an answer to his question. “Uh, no. I just thought I might ... check on things.” A sudden gust of wind sent rain through the open door and soaked her back.

  And she’d been worried about Celia making a mess.

  She stepped inside and shut the door. The standing water at her feet would mar his high-glossed floor, fancier than the natural planks and packed dirt of her place. “Do you need a helper? If so, I could talk to the adult class about getting you one.”

  He cocked his head to the side, his dark eyes assessing.

  Her heart flipped. “Or well, I mean, I could help. Maybe you’d like a break? You’ve taught this class for so many—”

  “I’ve got things handled, but thanks for thinking of me.” He crossed the room in a few strides, carrying a baking sheet full of little cookies, too brown around the edges. “Do you want a cookie?”

  “I do!” An eager voice yelped behind his back.

  “If you don’t take one now, there won’t be any for you later.” The marshal’s mouth tipped up into a charming smile.

  “Thanks.” She plucked one from the tray, hoping to cover the tremor affecting her hand by taking
a bite. The burnt sugar cookie stuck in her mouth. “I’ll just head over to church if you’re all right?”

  He nodded. “Thanks for dropping by, Mrs. Gephart.”

  “Nothing to speak of, Marshal.”

  Balancing the pan of cookies in one hand, he opened the front door for her.

  She had no choice but to go now. She avoided looking into his eyes as she passed under his arm.

  The sound of giggles, begging, and more giggles erupted once the door closed behind her.

  She ran along the sidewalk, but a wave of heavy rain caught her before she gained the church entrance. The cookie had disintegrated into a soggy mess in her hand. She dropped the wet lump into the foyer’s wastebasket.

  Leah Whitsett, a petite brunette, turned from the coat closet. “Oh, Annie, you’re soaked!” Annie gave Leah’s husband, Bryant, the thinnest of smiles before he ducked into the sanctuary. Her predicament wasn’t his fault, but his signature at the bottom of her tax notice made it hard to muster a genuine smile.

  Annie glanced at the puddle her dripping skirts left on the floor. “I am indeed. I should have listened to Celia.” The rat-tat-tatting on the roof increased. “I was insane to come in an open wagon, but...” Her other reasons for coming had pressed her.

  Leah turned Annie around and tugged at the shoulders of her coat. “Let me help you out of this and hang it on the hall tree. Maybe it will dry before you leave.”

  Annie tugged her arms from the clingy sleeves and shut her eyes against the reflection in the opposite wall’s mirror. Opening her eyelids showed her the same dismal image she wished had disappeared—a bedraggled hat sat limp atop her wet auburn hair, loose tendrils plastered her splotchy cheeks. With the coat off, her lack of curves was even more defined. She crossed her arms over her chest and shivered.

  Why worry about the bad impression Celia was making on the marshal when she could do that well enough herself?

  “Here’s my shawl. You look dreadfully cold.” Leah smiled and, with a strong grip on Annie’s shoulder, led her into the sanctuary. “Please sit with us.”

  After taking a seat, Annie tried to follow along with the words in her Bible, but instead, summoned up the faces of every man in the county. Married men, elderly men, boys whose voices had yet to change, a few vagrants she’d seen in town, men she’d glimpsed exiting the houses of ill repute and gambling dens, and the marshal. His wavy brown hair and strong clean-shaven jaw above his perfectly pressed, open collar popped up every time her mind lost momentum. She squeezed his image from her mind and scanned the men sitting near her in case she’d forgotten someone of quality.

  Were there no other God-fearing bachelors in this county?

  She’d have to sell the farm. The marshal would never agree.

  While prodding Spencer along in line, Annie tried to moisten her suddenly dry mouth. Marshal Hendrix stood at the church exit as usual. She’d never done anything but wish him a good day and shake his hand.

  Years ago, Gregory had invited the marshal over to show him his firearm collection. They’d talked politics, and she’d scooted gun paraphernalia out of the way to set down a plate of cookies. That’s all she remembered. Having him in the house had been quite insignificant then.

  Two more steps until she stood in front of the marshal. She needed to rehearse what she’d planned to say, but her brain refused to work. Perhaps that was a good thing. Thinking too much about what she was about to do would only convince her this plan was ludicrous and freeze her mouth shut.

  His collar was buttoned up tight now, and he’d put on his crisp black tie, tucked appropriately beneath his vest. He smiled down at her as he thrust out his hand. “Have a good day, Mrs. Gephart.”

  “You, too, Marshal Hendrix.” She failed to release his hand.

  His eyebrows rose.

  She pumped his hand again, pretending she’d meant not to let go. “How were my children today? Celia’s been a handful lately.”

  “Ma,” Celia grumbled behind her.

  His eyes twinkled. “She was fine.” He withdrew his hand. “Thank you for your earlier thoughtfulness in seeing if I needed help. If I ever do, I’ll let you know.”

  There, a lead in, take it! Her lips wouldn’t unglue.

  “C’mon, Mama.” Spencer tugged on her damp coat sleeve.

  She made her lips move. “I ... I hope you do take me up on that favor if you ever need me, and I hope I might ask one in return?”

  His eyebrows descended.

  People most likely pestered him for political favors all the time. She cleared her throat. “Nothing—”

  Goodness, she’d about said “nothing big.” What was bigger than pledging your life to another?

  “Nothing that should be discussed here. But I thought you might come over for supper tomorrow. I need ... help on a matter.” She evened out her breathing and checked to see how her nervous burst of words had affected him.

  His face was serene as he tipped his head. “I’d be happy to advise you in exchange for a home-cooked meal. I hope I can help.” He touched her lightly on the shoulder and crisscrossed his other arm behind her to shake someone’s hand. “Mr. Ivens, good to see you this morning. Miss Ivens.”

  Barely acknowledging the other “howdy do’s” from the rest of the parishioners, Annie rushed to her wagon.

  She had a little over twenty-four hours to form a sound argument to convince the marshal to marry her.

  Chapter Three

  About a quarter mile before he reached the Gepharts’, Jacob Hendrix spurred his horse, Duchess, into a trot.

  A home-cooked supper would be the best thing about this day.

  Despite the other problems facing the county—rustling, gambling, and vagrants, to name a few—his boss had insisted he spend all afternoon enforcing the city’s sidewalk code.

  While nailing down boards, he’d overheard a few ranchers wanting to declare war on the rustlers.

  Vigilante justice made him cringe, and yet, if the town’s only marshal was strapped with jobs unrelated to law enforcement, there was little chance he could do much to stop organized rustlers, though he tried every spare chance he got.

  Up ahead, the Gepharts’ wooden cabin, tiny in comparison to his monstrosity of a house, sat snug within a dip on the austere plains.

  Sheets flopped on a clothesline in the breeze, the chimney puffed cheerily, and chickens scratched the muddy ground. What he wouldn’t give for a little cozy domesticity. His house was bare and cold, even in summer. He could barely stand to live in the silent, still place. If only he’d never bought it. He patted Duchess’s neck. “At least, you don’t mind how often we roam about, do ya?”

  Duchess whickered and he prodded her to pick up the pace, letting her stretch her legs.

  Once he reined her in next to the little cabin made from the stout pines off the mountain ridges and the reddish-brown sandstone from the river, he breathed in the smell of what would hopefully be a sugary pie. He slipped off Duchess and tied her reins to the porch railing before heading to the front door.

  Jacob fidgeted as he awaited the answer to his knock, staring down at his scuffed cowboy boots. He’d never seen Annie look anything but prim and proper when the Gephart family came in for church and an occasional trip to the mercantile. Her bedraggled appearance yesterday, along with the uncertainty in her wide, warm amber eyes and the trembling in her handshake, had pulled at his heartstrings.

  He’d heard her cowboys had deserted her for McGill’s ranch. How McGill slept at night after bribing the widow’s cowpunchers to work for him instead, he didn’t know. The man held enough power—owning the most profitable ranch in the county as well as being mayor—so why take from a grieving woman?

  From somewhere inside, he heard a pair of voices, but no one called out to him, so he knocked again.

  The property tax hike had likely hit Annie hard. Had she asked him out here in hopes he could help her avoid the bill? He could offer a listening ear, but Armelle’s citizens were never
thrilled when he reminded them he only had the authority to enforce laws, not change them.

  But Annie’s late husband had quite the arsenal of firearms. Maybe she wanted to sell one to pay taxes? He wouldn’t mind owning the Henry Repeater Gregory had once shown him. His new Colt Single Action Army Revolver used the same cartridge.

  Scuffling sounded from behind the door.

  Jacob loosened his shoulders. No reason to stand rigid as if he were a fourteen-year-old boy getting ready to ask his first girl to take a twirl around the dance floor.

  The door creaked open, and Spencer’s beaming smile appeared. “Marshal Hendrix!”

  “Hi, squirt.” He ruffled Spencer’s tousled hair. “You going to let me in?”

  “Sure.” The boy swung the door open wide. “I didn’t know you were coming. You wanna see the horntoad I caught this afternoon? Or...” his eyes grew wide and his voice descended into a whisper as he scanned the horizon behind Jacob, “...are you here to arrest somebody?”

  Jacob let out a chuckle. “Does someone need arresting?”

  The boy shrugged. “Mama’s been onto Celia all afternoon. Can you get scolded so much you have to answer to the law?”

  Jacob laughed, turned the boy around, pushed him inside, and shut the door behind them. Though the Gepharts didn’t make it into town every Sunday, he’d always enjoyed having Spencer in his class before church service. “Haven’t heard of a case like it yet.”

  Celia stood by the table in the cramped dining area, her hands on her hips, her right foot tapping. “Spencer, mind your own business.”

  Jacob patted her arm, full of tight muscles. “No harm done, now.”

  Annie backed in through a side door. “This creature cannot be roaming free in my pantry.” She turned around, gingerly holding out a fat horned lizard. “Come get—” She dropped the reptile and blinked as she met Jacob’s gaze.