Lynna Banning - The Courtship

“This does not make sense, Mr. Wilder.

“It is to your advantage that I fail in this venture. Why in the world would you offer help?” asked Jane.

Rydell took a single step toward her and reached out. “Been askin’ myself that question all morning.”

“And what is your answer to that question?” Jane’s voice had steadied, but it dropped to a whisper.

“Damn—darned if I know,” he admitted. And before he knew what he was doing, he closed his fingers around her upper arm. She didn’t move, just looked at him. Unable to help himself, he pulled her toward him. And his mouth found hers.

Her lips were warm. He’d never known such excruciating sweetness. Instinctively he broke free. He didn’t think he could stop if he didn’t call a halt now.

“You’re right, this doesn’t make sense,” he breathed against her temple. “No sense at all.”

The Courtship

Harlequin Historical #613

Praise for Lynna Banning’s previous titles

The Law and Miss Hardisson

“…fresh and charming…a sweet and funny yet poignant story.”

—Romantic Times

Plum Creek Bride

“…pathos and humor blend in a plot that glows with perception and dignity.”

—Affaire de Coeur

Wildwood

“5 .”

—Heartland Critiques

Western Rose

“…warm, wonderful and witty—a winning combination from a bright new talent.”

—Award-winning author Theresa Michaels

#611 MY LADY’S PLEASURE

Julia Justiss

#612 THE DARK KNIGHT

Tori Phillips

#614 THE PERFECT WIFE

Mary Burton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Available from Harlequin Historicals and

Lynna Banning

Western Rose #310

Wildwood #374

Lost Acres Bride #437

Plum Creek Bride #474

The Law and Miss Hardisson #537

The Courtship #613

For my mother, Mary Elizabeth Banning Yarnes

With grateful appreciation to Jean Louise Banning, Suzanne Barrett, David Woolston and my agent, Pattie Steele-Perkins

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Epilogue

Dixon Falls, Oregon

1874

“Jane Charlotte, don’t you dare step one foot out that door without straightenin’ your hat! Why, it looks just like a puffball that’s been knocked plumb off center.”

With a sigh, Jane poked one finger against the stiff straw creation she’d clapped on top of her dark hair and felt it shift an inch to the right.

“Now, pull your waist down and tuck it in nice, honey. Y’all can’t go traipsing into town looking like you’ve got no maid to tend you.”

Jane faced her mother, who was reclining on the worn green damask settee, an open copy of Tennyson clutched in her thin fingers. “We have no maid, remember, Mama? We left Odelia at Montclair with Aunt Carrie, and Juno ran off with that sharecropper in Dillon County after the War. We’re on our own out here.”

Her mother’s unblemished ivory forehead wrinkled. “Truth to tell, Ah don’t like to remember, but never you mind. Tuck in your waist, now, honey. And tell your father where you’re goin’ in such a fizz.”

Jane’s throat closed at the mention of her father. Papa was dead and buried in the orchard, and her chest ached every time she thought of it. Mama didn’t want to remember this, either—that they’d laid him to rest three days ago. Some days, Mama fancied herself back in Marion County, sitting on the porch in the shade of the tupelo tree, sipping lemonade.

“I won’t be gone long, Mama.” She bent to kiss the smooth, cool cheek and patted her mother’s hand. “You find a nice poem by Mr. Tennyson to read out loud after our supper, you hear?”

“You speak to your father before you leave, Jane Charlotte. Ah don’t know what he’ll say to your goin’ out unchaperoned….”

Jane bit her bottom lip. Papa’s dead, she wanted to scream. Don’t you understand? He’s gone! But such an outburst would serve no purpose; Mama would forget it within half a minute, and Jane’s throat would hurt for hours from screaming. Her mother refused to accept unpleasantness; she simply pretended it didn’t exist. Maybe she should thank the Lord her mother preferred the past; it kept her from being frightened of the present, and Jane was frightened enough for both of them.

She straightened her spine, smoothed down the folds of the dark blue sateen skirt she had made over from a ball gown of her mother’s, and moved to the front door. The paint around the lock plate was flaking off, revealing the bare wood beneath. It needed fixing.

Everything needed fixing—the house. Their lives. Even herself. It had been ten years since she’d first delved into her mother’s clothes trunk; how much longer could a few outdated ball gowns last? And the house—it had gone to wrack and ruin since her mother’s health began to fail.

“’Bye, Mama. I’ll be home in time to make your tea.”

“Jane Charlotte, tell your father…” The small, clear voice faded as Jane descended the porch steps.

Tell your father. She gritted her teeth. She’d like to tell him a thing or two, like to shout the truth at him: Papa, you dragged us away from everything we knew, everything we loved, and you didn’t take care of us, Mama and me, nor our property, and…and now you up and die and we’re practically starving!

Hush up, now! No well-bred Southern lady rails at a dead parent no matter what they’d done, leastways not in public. And certainly not among Yankees! She marched down the path to the front gate, groaning aloud at the sight of the weed-infested border of sunwithered Sweet William and the overgrown roses massed along the fence. Well, great heavens, she couldn’t keep up the cooking and the cleaning and the pruning and lovingly dribble wash water on the roots like Mama did before she took sick.

Oh, Papa, whatever am I to do? A sick, hard knot formed in her midsection. She didn’t feel like herself anymore. At that, she gave a choked laugh. Be truthful, Jane. For months and months, even before Papa died, she had felt like a fledgling sparrow who’d fallen out of its nest. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t fly back in.

Well, fly you must, ready or no. She swung the gate shut, wincing at the screak of the rusty hinge—one more thing to attend to—and twitched her skirt free of the fencepost. It took all her willpower to steady her breathing. She felt for all the world like David girding himself to meet Goliath.

Only this was worse. She snapped open her mother’s best black silk parasol. At the bottom of their dusty, sun-baked hill lay the town, and there waited The Enemy. Goliath was a Yankee.

She straightened her hat and ordered her feet to carry her forward. I am sorry, Papa, but you left me no choice.

“She’s comin’, Dell! Miz Jane. Walkin’ up the street lookin’ jes’ like a queen.”