Lynna Banning - The Courtship

Papa said that? Well, she supposed he knew more than she did about such things. “Besides,” Jane murmured. “You’re a Yankee.”

“Still am,” Rydell said mildly. “But the war’s over, Miss Davis.”

“For you, maybe. Not for us. My daddy and mama lost their entire plantation when the Union army came marchin’ through. Papa never forgave the North for that. The only reason we came west was because Father was ruined, and Uncle Junius needed help on that awful newspaper of his.”

“The way I see it, your father never really settled in Dixon Falls. Oh, he ate and slept out here all right, but he stayed in the past. He kept your mother imprisoned there, too.”

“He did no such thing! Why, Mama went out lots of places!”

He went on as if she had not spoken. “And—forgive me for saying this, Jane—he kept you there, as well. Locked up in that house up on the hill, arranging bouquets and practicing the piano—preparing yourself for a life you’d never have.”

Jane flinched. The words stung because they were true. The only times she was allowed to attend a town social, even visit the mercantile for soap or a spool of thread, Papa always accompanied her. She had been allowed no friends. Sometimes she’d felt so lonely she thought she’d die.

Looking back on it, she wondered why she’d put up with things the way they were. Rebellion, of course, would have been unthinkable. A state could secede from the Union, and fight a long and bloody war over it. But a daughter didn’t secede from her family. That was beyond the pale.

Then, before she knew it, it was too late.

Deliberately, she changed the subject. “I would prefer that you hold my home as collateral for the loan, Mr. Wilder. Not my…person.”

His face changed. “It isn’t the house I want, Jane.”

“And you are most certainly not what I want!” She managed to keep her voice steady, but her hands shook like dry leaves in a wind. For an instant she thought of jamming them under her skirt, but discarded the idea immediately. A lady never sat on her hands, not even when frightened half to death. Or mad enough to commit murder.

“Yeah, well, I figured as much. Nevertheless, those are my terms.”

Honey, she reminded herself. Not vinegar. She unclenched her hands and drew in a slow, careful breath. A whalebone stay jabbed anew. The best way to forget all her troubles was to wear a tight corset; it was hard to concentrate.

As soon as she could trust her legs to support her, she rose. “Very well, Mr. Wilder. You have the advantage of me at this moment, since I do need the money. But, sir, while I may be forced to accept the terms of your wager, do not for one moment harbor any hope of winning. I am an excellent seamstress, and I intend to succeed at dressmaking if it’s the last thing I do in this life.”

His lips twitched. “I understand.”

“And,” Jane continued, unable to stop the words roiling in her brain, “I promise you that if I ever do marry, it will be of my own free will and never, never because I have lost a wager. I am not in the habit of gambling.”

“Certainly not.”

“Neither am I in the habit of failing. I shall not fail!”

“Of course.” His voice was annoyingly calm. He slid open the top desk drawer and counted out three crisp one-hundred-dollar bills from his private cash supply. Folding them in half, he handed the money to her.

“There’s an empty storage room next to the mercantile. I own it. You can rent it for three dollars a month, as is.” He extended his hand toward her. “Agreed?”

Jane slipped the currency into her reticule. “It is indeed agreed, Mr. Wilder. Thank you.” She laid her hand in his and gave it a businesslike shake. Even through her glove, heat from his palm surged from her fingertips to her elbow, and she snatched her hand free.

“As we have nothing further to discuss, I will bid you good afternoon.”

Which was most certainly not what she wanted to say. Sometimes she wished she wasn’t a Davis at all, with ladylike manners to remember and a reputation to uphold. Just once she’d like to say what was really on her mind—that Rydell Wilder was a lowdown snake in the grass, an upstart with no sense of propriety and a grievous lack of breeding. Why, he’d even said “hell” in the presence of a lady. The world had come to a sorry place when the likes of him owned the only bank in town!

She resisted an overwhelming urge to slam his office door as hard as she could. Instead, she closed it quietly, relinquishing her grip on the polished brass knob when the latch clicked. The last thing she saw before the door swung shut was Rydell Wilder’s steady gray eyes looking at her from behind his big walnut desk.

Oh! She could gobble down a whole keg of nails, he made her so mad!

The minute she was gone, Rydell folded his fingers into a fist. Jane Charlotte Davis hadn’t a clue how hard real life could be, but by thunder she was going to find out. Was he crazy to lend her the money that could take her out of his life once and for all? Could she possibly make a go of setting up her own business?

Not one chance in a thousand. He rose and paced to the window opening onto the street. A flash of blue caught his eye, sending a familiar ache into his chest.

Oh, hell. Even if she could sew ruffles around a circus tent, she had no experience in trade, no understanding of life in a dusty Oregon lumber mill town. All he had to do was watch and wait—he figured in about ninety days he’d be a married man.

God help him, he wanted her to fail!

Maybe he wasn’t so crazy. He’d worked and sweated for ten years to offer Jane something more than the rough life of a freight line owner’s wife. He’d eaten beans and biscuits for months on end, saved the pay he’d earned riding shotgun for Lefty, and invested it. When Lefty grew too frail to drive the wagon, Rydell had bought him out, and after a few years saw his chance to establish a bank. It was a smart move. Owning a bank made him a lot of money and brought him the respect of the entire town. Now he ate steak every night, shared an occasional drink with Lefty, and was sought after by all the single women, respectable or not.

The only hunger he hadn’t eased over the years was his longing for the shy girl with eyes like a summer sky and thick chestnut hair that hung to her waist. She looked different now, more filled out and sure of herself. He was older, too—work-hardened and female savvy. Even so, the thought of even touching her hand made his heart stutter.

Leave it alone, Dell. Don’t think about her anymore.

Ten long years he’d waited for a chance, and now it was here. He wondered if she remembered him, from before he’d become a man.

He wondered if she knew how a man could feel about a woman.

“Walk you home, Miz Jane? Barton Springer’s the name, case you don’t remember. Drove a wagon for Wells Fargo and knew your daddy.”

Jane tipped her parasol so the shade covered the man’s weathered face. “Mr. Springer, of course I remember you. You were a great help to my father and Uncle Junius at the newspaper office.”

He grinned and fell in step beside her. “Sure sorry to hear about your pa, Miz Jane. ’Specially so soon after Mr. Junius. What you gonna do, now he’s gone?”

“The first thing I will do, Mr. Springer, is stop by the mercantile. I am going into business.”

His bushy gray eyebrows twitched upward. “You, ma’am? All by yourself?”

“All by myself. I’m going to rent the store next to the mercantile. Then I intend to purchase some bolts of fabric—muslin, I think, or perhaps sateen—and some thread. Oh, and maybe a lantern so I can work in the evenings.”

“You gonna need some help totin’ them things, Miz Jane. I’m puttin’ myself at your service.”