Regina Scott - Frontier Matchmaker Bride

She cast him a glance. “Tiring already?”

Hart stretched his arms over his head. “I can last as long as you can.”

She shook her head. “Perhaps you can. But I refuse to monopolize Seattle’s only deputy. Think what dire crimes are being committed even as we speak!”

Hart chuckled. “It’s Tuesday. Most of the dire crimes happen over the weekend.”

“Really?”

Those blue eyes were so trusting. She believed anything he said. While he had tried to walk the narrow path since that dark day in Ohio ten years ago, he still found her belief gratifying.

She probably hadn’t noticed that Seattle had too many troublemakers these days. Some of the men coming to work in the coal mines across the lake were harder types than the original pioneers. The steamship route from San Francisco that had started this week added dozens more strangers to the city. Worse, there had been reports of newcomers being enticed from the docks so a gang of ruffians could relieve them of any valuables. Mortified, the immigrants hadn’t been willing to come to the sheriff for help, according to the locals who had found the victims. So far, he hadn’t been able to convince the immigrants to talk, and he hadn’t located the criminals, but he wasn’t about to stop trying.

Seattle had one duly appointed constable, but he mostly served as a watchman, raising the hue and cry when something happened. If criminals were to be stopped, it was up to Hart, Sheriff Wyckoff, and any other man he might deputize. Which meant Beth was right, and he had work to do.

Something of what he was feeling must have shown on his face, for she sighed. “I’m finished for today, Hart. You can see me back to the livery.”

She sounded so defeated he moved closer. “Didn’t you get what you wanted?”

“Oh, yes.” Her grin reappeared, forming a dimple at the side of her mouth. “At least, purchase-wise. But don’t think you can get rid of me so easily. I’ll come back to town and meet with you tomorrow. I’ll have better candidates in mind then.”

Not if he could help it.

As soon as he saw Beth on the road north toward Wallin Landing, driving a wagon with her brother’s famous steel dusts in the traces, Hart went straight to his superior’s home on the outskirts of Seattle to speak to Mrs. Wyckoff.

Ursula Wyckoff was a pillar of the town. A handsome woman in her late forties, she worked on most civic and church committees, donated flowers for every funeral and supported any number of charitable causes. Her stern demeanor reminded Hart of the woman who had run the orphanage where he’d been raised. Still, Mrs. Wyckoff invited him in and offered him a glass of lemonade, which he declined, before sitting across from him in the parlor.

“Is something wrong, Mr. McCormick?” she asked, blue eyes bright.

Had she noticed the way he shifted on the horsehair-covered sofa? The Wyckoffs had one of the finer homes in Seattle, the walls covered with floral paper, the wood floors by thick carpets. The furnishings were dark and heavy, while crystal draped the lamps. He always felt like an interloper.

Now he balanced his hat on his knee. “Not wrong, ma’am, just of concern. I understand you and the other ladies of the Literary Society persuaded Miss Wallin to find me a bride.”

She didn’t look the least embarrassed to be caught in her machinations. “Ah. I had hoped Miss Wallin would be more circumspect.”

Hart raised a brow. “So you wanted her to lie, too?”

She waved a hand, the sleeve of her gown dripping lace. “You make it sound so sordid. We were only trying to help.”

“I don’t need help,” Hart told her. “I’m perfectly capable of finding myself a wife if I wanted one. And I don’t.”

She leaned forward, frown gathering. “And why not?”

Her husband knew the full story of his past, his upbringing in the crowded orphanage, his short time as an outlaw, the deadly consequences of his decision to testify against the gang. Would Wyckoff be strong enough to deny this woman if she asked him about it? Would the story have any chance of remaining hidden if the sheriff or Hart told her?

Would he escape this room without giving her something?

He squared his shoulders. “I was in love once. She died. I don’t much care to try again.”

Mrs. Wyckoff made a commiserating noise. Then she rose and went to the sideboard. “I don’t believe you met my daughter, Ursula.” She returned to hand him a daguerreotype. “I thought my first husband silly for insisting that we name her after me and even sillier for going to the expense of having this made.”

Hart gazed down at the little girl with a riot of pale curls and a grin that likely tugged at her father’s heart. “Is that why you call her Miss Eugenie now?”

Mrs. Wyckoff retrieved the image. “This isn’t Eugenie, Mr. McCormick. It’s her older sister. My Ursula died when she was seven. She wandered too close to the hearth, and her dress caught on fire.”

His stomach clenched. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

She stroked the picture as if she would have liked to stroke her daughter’s curls. “So am I. I still miss her.” She dropped her hand. “But my point is this: Where would Eugenie and my son John be now if I had been afraid to try again? Where would any of them be if I had refused to marry after my first husband died?”

He sat straighter. “It’s different for a woman. You don’t have much choice but to wed.”

She set down the picture. “I had choices, Mr. McCormick. I could have kept all my suitors dangling and raised my children in peace. I chose to marry and continue with life. So must you.”

“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” Hart said with a shake of his head, “but there’s no must about it. Besides, my job keeps me too busy to take a wife.”

She nodded. “I’ll speak to Lewis about changing your schedule.”

That was not what he’d had in mind. He enjoyed his work, knew he made a difference. “I live in a small cabin on the Howards’ land. It doesn’t have room for another.”

“I’m certain your wife wouldn’t mind staying in a hotel while you build her a house. Or perhaps Clay Howard can be persuaded to sell you one of his properties in town.”

He wasn’t about to ask the successful businessman for another favor besides allowing Hart to live in the cabin. “Mrs. Wyckoff, I won’t go along with this.”

She eyed him. “Is it Beth Wallin?”

She could not have guessed his feelings. He kept his face impassive from long practice. “No.”

She sighed. “I thought she might be too young to join the Literary Society and accept this assignment, but Mrs. Howard assured us she was a woman of character despite her years and had had much success with her own family. Perhaps I should take on the task instead. After all, you would have a difficult time refusing your superior’s wife.”

He would indeed. Except for a short stint last year when Henry Adkins had been elected, Lewis Wyckoff had been sheriff since Hart had arrived in 1865. He’d listened to Hart’s story, his dreams, and taken a chance that a onetime outlaw would make a good deputy. Hart had never given him reason to regret his decision. He wasn’t about to start now.

“Why are you doing this, Mrs. Wyckoff?” he asked. “You and your husband have been nothing but kindness. Why force me to wed?”

For the first time, her face softened. “Oh, Hart. I’m not trying to harm you. Seattle needs men like you—strong, certain, forthright. But keeping everyone at arm’s length is no way to live. If Miss Wallin cannot find you a woman you’d be proud to call wife, I’ll simply have to delay her entrance into the Society and undertake the commission myself.”

He couldn’t do that to Beth. Hart rose and slipped on his hat. “Don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. Wyckoff. The Literary Society would be fortunate to have Beth Wallin as a member. I promise you, if there’s any woman on this earth who could make me consider matrimony, it’s her.”