Carolyn Davidson - Gerrity's Bride

“I’m being tolerant of you this morning, given that you know nothing about me or my intentions, save that of gaining guardianship of my sister. But don’t push me, Mr. Gerrity.” She clenched her hands and thrust them into the pockets of her gown, unwilling that he should know the extent of her aggravation.

He knew. His brow lifted, and a grin teased at the corner of his mouth. “Somehow I suspect you don’t have a tolerant bone in your body,” he drawled. “Especially when it comes to me.”

Her shrug denied him the satisfaction of a verbal reply, and she turned away. Suit yourself, she thought, then left the room, aware that she was too easily drawn into a war of words with him.

“Miss Emmaline!” he called after her, bringing her to a halt midway along the wide passageway that led to the living room. He’d followed her through the archway. She took a deep breath before she turned once more to face him.

“Yes.”

The word was terse—not much of an invitation, he decided. “Oswald Hooper will be here shortly. Would you care to join us in the library?”

Her nod was abrupt. Better that she knew right away just where she stood in the scheme of things here. The situation was far from what she had expected; certainly, the presence of Matt Gerrity had not figured into her plans. But surely her father’s will would effectively place Theresa in her care.

“Just let me know when he arrives,” she requested, striving for a gracious tone. Already her hands were damp with the sweat of anxiety, and her breath caught as she contemplated the issues at hand.

For too long she had yearned for the closeness of family ties. Her mother had been sickly, tending to stay close to her bed or couch, finally succumbing to pneumonia without a struggle. Her grandparents had been kind, in an aloof sort of way, providing her with all she required in order to become a lady and prepare for life as a wife and mother.

It had not been enough. The message from Mr. Hooper had opened her eyes to the solitary existence she had lived for so long. That she was bonded by blood to a five-year-old child, that the closeness she yearned for might be within reach, was the impetus that had brought her here. Even the rude welcome she’d received from the girl was not enough to discourage her. She would woo her and win her, Emmaline had determined during the night hours. She would make Theresa love her.

“Will you be in your room?” Matt’s eyes narrowed as he watched her. She’d been deep in thought. His words had shattered that privacy, and now she straightened her shoulders and lifted her head. With a tightening of her mouth, she nodded at him in silent acceptance.

“I’ll send Maria to fetch you.”

Once more she nodded and turned away, and he watched her walk down the hallway. He grinned unwillingly as he noted each twitch of her skirt, and the way the heavy fabric clung to the curves beneath.

* * *

“I don’t believe it.” Spoken in a whisper, Emmaline’s words hung in the silence of the library. Her hands clenched at her sides, she spun and walked to the window. Only the rigid strength she had willed to her spine held her upright, and she stared unseeingly out onto the small patch of grass that comprised the front yard.

The man at the desk watched her with concern. Emmaline was the daughter of his friend, and Oswald Hooper had predicted this very reaction. His smile was wry. Anyone with a grain of sense could have predicted her reaction. Samuel was probably well out of it, he decided shrewdly. If her father were here, Emmaline Carruthers would no doubt be more than indignant. As it was, she looked fit to be tied.

Her voice was jerky, and her words were abrupt when she spoke. “Was this your idea?” she asked.

There was no doubt in his mind. Matt knew she was speaking to him. Leaning negligently against the wall, he ran one thumb across his bottom lip while he considered her. Her silhouette was dark against the brilliant sunlight that filtered so easily through the white curtains. The slender length of her was garbed in black, the fabric heavy against her layers of petticoats. Only the glimpse of small, fisted hands and the pale line of her cheek and forehead brought relief to the somber costume covering her.

Shaking his head and silently cursing the man who had brought about this situation, Matt straightened and approached the silent figure. “Your daddy didn’t need any help from me, Emmaline. He dreamed this up all on his own.”

Her lips barely moved, and Matt tilted his head to hear the words. “I can’t do it.”

His shrug was eloquent. “Then don’t. Just get yourself on that wagon and I’ll cart you right back to Forbes Junction, and you can catch the next train headed east.” His drawl had become more pronounced when she turned to face him.

He said with innocence, “Why, I’ll bet you could be in Lexington before the sun rises on Sunday.”

“Wouldn’t you just love that!” she said through clenched teeth. “Wouldn’t you just!”

“Why, no, ma’am.” He slowly rolled the words, as if he were jesting with her. Truth to tell, he’d been enjoying the faint accent she placed on each syllable as she spoke. The contrast of her soft, cultured voice and the anger flashing from her blue eyes pleased him.

“I suppose you’d prefer the alternative,” she suggested scornfully.

For just a second, his eyes glistened with unholy glee, and she inhaled sharply.

“Well, ma’am,” he drawled, “I’d say that I’m not in a position to decide that, one way or the other. I’m willing to go along with your wishes.”

It was so tempting, Emmaline thought. He was so close she could see the tiny squint lines beside his eyes. She could stamp her foot or swing a closed fist at him or spout the swear words she’d heard the trainers use back in Lexington.

She swallowed the words, and kept her hands tightly clenched. Her feet were another matter. Her toes were twitching inside the slender boots she wore, so badly did they want to deliver a punishing blow to the instep of the arrogant man who taunted her.

She moved quickly, fearful of revealing the anger bubbling in her depths. He lifted his brow in surprise as she spun to face him fully, and hid a smile as her feet sounded firmly against the carpet.

“My wishes are not the issue here, Mr. Gerrity,” she said with biting sarcasm. “My late father has shown no regard whatsoever for my needs or desires in this matter.”

“Miss Carruthers,” the man at the desk said mildly, anxious to turn this conversation back to the matter at hand. “We need to hear the rest of the will before you make a hasty decision.”

As if she had forgotten his existence, Emmaline’s eyes widened in recognition. “There’s more?”

Since the terms of the will had been read, just minutes ago, she’d been thrown into a state of shock, she realized. That her father could have tied up this ranch, the money in the bank and the fate of her sister with such horrendous terms was unbelievable.

As legal documents went, it was quite simple, really, she thought glumly, remembering each word.

It is my decision that my daughter, Emmaline Carruthers, join with Matthew Gerrity, my stepson, in a marriage that will ensure the heritage of my father being passed on to coming generations. Therefore, I grant joint custody to Emmaline and Matthew, in the case of my beloved daughter Theresa, so that she may be raised with the influence of both her brother and sister. So long as Emmaline and Matthew live on this property, they will be joint owners and joint caretakers of my daughter, Theresa. Should they decide not to enter into such a marriage, neither of them will inherit from me anything other than personal items which shall be listed below.