The Rancher's Inconvenient Bride Page 4

  Hell, the man lied as easily as most of William’s fellow politicians.

  William stood up, keeping Agatha close to him. She was breathing too hard. Reminded him of a small bird he’d rescued once.

  Scooping her up, he backed away.

  “Take my girl and you’ll hear from my lawyers!”

  “She’s no longer your girl.” He’d never had reason to growl, but now he thought he did it as well as the circus owner.

  Frenchie Brown made a motion to run his hand through his hair, but given that he was bald, he only slapped his scalp.

  “Fetch me another girl,” he said to the single remaining roustabout.

  “Shut down the cannon attraction,” William ordered.

  “You have no rights here!” Frenchie Brown insisted, his belly jiggling in outrage.

  Maybe he did not, but he wasn’t going to take Agatha away only to have some other unfortunate girl take her place.

  “Find Mrs. Peabody,” he said to the young couple. “Tell her the circus folks have gone mad in the wind. Let her know to spread the word to everyone that they should seek the shelter of their homes.”

  If there were no customers, no one would be shot out of the cannon.

  He strode away, hugging Ivy’s sister tight, hoping that she was strong enough to withstand what she had been through, that she would not lapse into some sort of malady or seek escape in a drug.

  “Wait!” Her voice was hoarse, no doubt raw with all the screaming she had done. “Miss Valentine. I can’t leave without her.”

  “We’ve got to get out of here now, honey.”

  She blinked up at him. Her green eyes were prettier than he recalled them being.

  “Frenchie will kill that little dog if I don’t bring her along.”

  William glanced over his shoulder. Agatha was right. The wicked round man had picked up a piece of lumber and begun to swing it at the dog.

  “Can you stand?”

  “Of course.”

  He was not convinced and set her down with care.

  “Hold on to this rope.” It was one of the cables on the outside of the tent.

  He dashed back, ripped the plank out of Brown’s fingers and tossed it away. He scooped up the dog, cursing at the circus owner and not bothering to do it under his breath.

  Sprinting back to Agatha he found her still standing. Judging by the way her fingers looked bloodless while gripping the rope, he figured it took all her effort to remain upright.

  Placing the bedraggled mound of fur in Agatha’s arms, he scooped her up again, charging quickly through the crowd.

  Must have been a sight to see. The mayor of Tanners Ridge carrying a woman dressed in glittering, skintight long johns in his arms.

  Sure enough, folks were staring. Especially Aimee Peller and her group of friends. Poor Aimee looked like she’d been run through.

  Charging ahead, he carried Agatha around the animal trailers then started up the hill. It was a good thing she didn’t weigh more than a dime.

  Glancing back, he noticed people beginning to leave the circus. Whether they believed the circus folks had gone mad, or just wanted to see what he was up to, he had no way of telling.

  At least Agatha’s breathing was no longer as quick as a trapped dove’s.

  First thing in the morning he was going to wire Ivy and Travis to come and fetch her.

  * * *

  “Mrs. Bronson!” William called, being propelled into his house by a gust of wind. “Mrs. Feather!”

  His housekeeper and his cook had not gone to the circus, claiming a dislike for such nonsense.

  The events of the evening had proved their wisdom.

  Pushing the door closed with his backside, he called again.

  “Surprised they ventured out in the wind,” he murmured more to himself than to Agatha. Was she even conscious after the rough treatment she had been through? She’d been silent all the way up the hill and the walk across town to the Mayor’s Mansion, as the folks of Tanners Ridge took pride in calling it. “Sure hope that tent holds up.”

  “I’d give it only even odds.” Agatha wriggled in his arms indicating that he should put her down. “Mr. Brown does take shortcuts.”

  “Let me take you to the parlor. The divan is quite comfortable.”

  “I’d rather walk.”

  “Can you?”

  Could she? Last time he’d seen her she could only manage a few steps without help.

  Something about her did seem different, though. She was frail as a waif—he knew that because he’d carried her up the hill and to his house without much exertion. The difference was in her expression. Where she’d once looked wounded, cautious, she now gazed up at him with confidence. Somehow the mix of fragility and pluck touched his heart. Made him regret having to put her down right away.

  “You’ve been through an ordeal.”

  Why had she been through an ordeal? What was she doing so far from home and at, of all things, the circus? Perhaps she had been kidnapped! He’d always assumed she would remain at the Lucky Clover where Ivy and Travis could watch over her.

  Ivy was not older by much. Truth be told it was only by moments since Agatha and Ivy were twins. But the sisters were not alike in any way.

  In his mind, Agatha had seemed quite a bit younger.

  “I can walk.”

  Maybe so. “I’d feel better setting you safely on the couch.”

  So he did, in spite of her protests.

  “I’ll hunt up Mrs. Bronson to prepare your room for the night. As soon as I find Mrs. Feather I’ll have her bring you some soup. Would you like that?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Nevertheless, you shall eat.”

  Why was she frowning at him? He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen that expression on her sweet face.

  “Mrs. Bronson! Miss Feather!” he called, rushing out of the parlor and into the grand entry. The sooner Agatha was settled into a warm bed the better he would feel. “Mildred? Ida?”

  * * *

  As soon as William left the room in search of his employees, Agatha eased up from the couch.

  She was a bit wobbly and overwhelmed by what she had been through. Defending oneself took more energy than she could have imagined—could she have imagined that she would ever be called upon to do so.

  But William was wrong in his assumption that she was an invalid. She could easily have extracted herself from his big wonderful arms, had she the mind to.

  “I didn’t, though,” she murmured to Miss Valentine. “And how are you, you sweet girl? I’m so proud of how you avoided getting kicked, even with your hurt foot.”

  Agatha bent over, felt light-headed. She traced the line of white that shot through the tan on the dog’s forehead.

  Miss Valentine turned her head, pressing her face against Agatha’s shin.

  “What a sweet hug. I’ll get William to call a veterinarian to look at your foot.”

  From upstairs she could hear him shouting for Mrs. Bronson and Mrs. Feather.

  While she listened, purely enjoying hearing the sound of his voice, she glanced around the parlor.

  Opulent was the best word she could think of to describe it.

  Not a cozy place like the Lucky Clover. The ranch was grand, to be sure, but for all its grandness, it never felt stuffy or overdone.

  Did William feel comfortable with all this fuss and frippery? She did not—although he was right about the divan, it was a nice place to sink into.

  Heavy brocade drapes hung on every window. Regal paintings adorned the walls.

  She wondered if his ranch near Cheyenne had this royal look.

  It sure was noisy outside, with the wind slapping the walls. It wasn’t hard to imagine the sou
nd being Frenchie Brown’s fist pounding out his anger.

  She wanted to cower in a corner remembering the way that hand had looked like death coming upon her, dripping blood and wrath.

  Straightening, she stiffened her back, pictured energy and strength pulsing through her muscles. Even if William had not stopped Frenchie’s blow, the worst she would have been was bruised, or maybe had a bone broken.

  Compared to other things she had been through in her life, a bruise was insignificant. Nothing could be worse than helplessly opening her mouth and allowing Mrs. Brunne to pour laudanum down her throat.

  There had been a time, before Ivy came home, when she had called that woman Mother. Nothing, she now knew, could be further from the truth. All Agatha ever was to her was a replacement for her own lost daughter. There were times when her nurse did not know the difference between Agatha and the kidnapped Maggie.

  In the end, Hilda Brunne’s perception of what was past and what was present had become blurred and driven the woman insane.

  Something smacked the window hard, might even have cracked it. Crossing the room, she drew the heavy curtain aside.

  The night was dark. Dirt and sand blew everywhere. By the light of the lanterns lining the sidewalk, she saw folks hurrying along, bent against the wind and blocking grit from their faces with lifted arms.

  A group of young ladies crossed through a beam of light, all of them looking well-to-do.

  One of them stopped to stare at her. She recognized her even though she’d only seen the woman from behind while she clung to William hoping for the fortune-teller’s blessing.

  The lady pointed her finger. Her companions gawked, nudging each other in the ribs.

  It was understandable. Who would not stare at someone dressed the way she was? Indecent was how she looked.

  “Oh, my!” It suddenly occurred to her that everything she owned was in her trailer back at the circus encampment.

  She was not going back there! Elephants could not drag her back down that hill. Which meant this was all she had to wear.

  When the women on the sidewalk did not move on, but continued to look at her as though she were a sideshow attraction, she let go of the curtain.

  All of a sudden her arms ached, and her legs. The altercation with Frenchie must have taken more out of her than she first thought.

  With some effort, she returned to the couch. Lying down, she motioned for Miss Valentine to join her. It would be polite to ask William if dogs were allowed on his furniture, but that would mean hunting up her prince.

  She hadn’t the strength for that.

  One day she would, though. One day she would run for a mile and not become winded.

  For tonight, she was going to sink into this couch, close her eyes and find comfort in the small but solid weight of Miss Valentine pressing into the curve of her belly.

  * * *

  Impossible!

  William paced the upstairs hall, crushing the note in his hand.

  He stopped, pressed it open one more time. Even reading it for the fifth time did not change the words.

  Mrs. Bronson and Mrs. Feather had been called away to tend their ailing mother. In the future, he would have to remember not to hire sisters.

  They had written that the situation was urgent, and a wire had arrived to summon them home. They’d given an address for him to send their wages, which left him wondering if they would return at all.

  “Impossible!”

  He had carried a woman dressed in glittering, morality-defying underwear into his house. Many of the folks in town had seen him do it.

  And now there was no chaperone when he had expected there to be two.

  Unless he wanted his reputation smeared, his career ruined, there was only one thing to do.

  Going down the stairs, he tried not to think of everything all at once. If he did he’d be overwhelmed.

  He could only be in control of one thing at a time.

  Coming into the parlor with the note pinched in his fingers, he found Agatha asleep on the divan.

  The dog’s head was resting on her ribs but it wasn’t sleeping. Its brown eyes tracked his progress while he crossed the room, built up a fire in the hearth then settled into a chair facing the couch.

  The last thing he wanted to do was wake her. Someone as tender as she was would need to regain her strength, maybe shut out the ordeal she had been through for a time.

  The poor thing looked a proper mess with dirt on her nose, twigs and leaves in her hair—and just there on her chin, a faint smear of Frenchie Brown’s blood from when she had bit him.

  Even with it all, she didn’t seem as gaunt as he recalled she’d been the last time he’d seen her. She’d filled out some, with curves in womanly places—

  Curse it! Why was he looking there?

  Because where else was he to look? The girl was wearing something that looked like sin, designed to draw a man’s attention.

  But why was she? What was she even doing in Tanners Ridge? It was twenty-five miles from home.

  In the end it didn’t matter why she was here, how she had ended up in a circus and was being forced into the mouth of a cannon. Here she was, under his protection. The details would sort themselves out later.

  “Agatha,” he whispered. “Honey?”

  Not an eyelash stirred.

  “Hey, dog. Lick her face, do something to wake her up.”

  Without the household staff present, he didn’t dare even touch her shoulder to shake her awake.

  The dog sighed deeply and closed its eyes.

  “Agatha! Wake up!”

  She sat up suddenly, eyes blinking in confusion. The parts of her that had filled out, which he should not be seeing the outline of but could not help it, jiggled.

  The dog moved to the far side of the couch. After he settled the situation between them he would tell Agatha dogs were not allowed on the furniture...or in the house for that matter.

  “William?” She looked confused, as though she did not recall that he’d carried her here.

  “You’re safe, honey. Don’t worry, we’ll be married as soon as this wind lets up and the preacher can get here.”

  Chapter Four

  “William Byron English!” Agatha stood up, used the arm of the couch for balance since all of a sudden the world had gone tipsy. “What makes you think I would marry you?”

  She felt a blush throb in her chest. It crept up her throat to her cheeks because it occurred to her that he might think it odd that she knew his middle name.

  Please don’t let him guess that she used to sit in her chair repeating it over and over in her mind until Mother Brunne would reprimand her for smiling.

  “I didn’t know you knew my full name.”

  “Ivy told me—it just slipped out.” What a bald-faced lie! “I don’t dwell on your name—in fact, I rarely dwell on you at all.”

  Rarely! Now he knew that she did occasionally dwell upon him.

  “That’s neither here nor there. Once we are wed you can use my full name, dwell on me or don’t.”

  How utterly mortifying! No doubt she was red as flame.

  “I can’t imagine the woman who would not swoon at such a marriage proposal, as absurd as the notion is.”

  He mumbled something—Aimee Peller—she thought it was. His ladylove no doubt, the woman who had stared at her from the sidewalk earlier, the very one who had tossed down a penny wishing for the proposal Agatha was getting.

  No, probably not this proposal quite.

  “We have no choice about it. People saw me carry you into the house. They’ll know we spent time alone.”

  “There’s your staff. We are hardly alone.”

  “There’s only two of them who live in the mansion. They
aren’t here. An emergency came up with their mother and they left. I have no idea when or if they are coming back.”

  “I imagine our reputations can survive until the weather lets up,” she said, knowing it was not true. Both of their reputations would be gleefully danced upon.

  He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on parts of her body where a man’s gaze had never lingered.

  Why, in the upheaval, she had nearly forgotten that she was dressed like a harlot!

  People would think he had carried a coochie girl into his house!

  This was a mess—but marriage? Surely there was another way?

  “It’ll be morning before I can get you to a boarding house. Besides, you can’t go outside in that.”

  Not if her life depended upon it! But, she had nothing else.

  “Folks have short memories.” Hopefully she sounded confident, convincing. But folks also had long memories. Some old-timers at the Lucky Clover still gossiped about Agatha’s mother, how she had divorced Papa and taken only one of her twins with her. “This won’t be much of a scandal a few weeks from now. Oh, you’ve got a cracked window, by the way.”

  He stared at her in silence for so long it became uncomfortable.

  His eyes used to have the most appealing twinkle. It was not evident at the moment.

  Honestly, he could not want to marry her any more than she wanted to marry him.

  “I’m running for governor one day. You know that. I’ll have enemies who will go looking for any way to discredit me.”

  “That’s still many years away. New scandals will come along. No one will recall this.”

  “I wish that were true, Agatha. But politics is an ugly game. People will remember and in the nastiest way.”

  She pressed her fingers to her temples to try and lasso her stampeding thoughts. He was right, wicked-minded folks would remember—remember and talk.

  It made her sick to her stomach to think he might lose his dream because he came to her aid.

  “If it’s such an ugly game, why not forget about running for governor. Go home and care for your ranch.”