Carolyn Davidson - Gerrity's Bride

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now, I wouldn’t say that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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