Proving Herself Page 12

Then again, Audra had always been a little lady.

  Papa slanted his gaze toward her, then paused in his rhyth­mic scraping to murmur something to Elise.

  "Look what I found!" she exclaimed, trotting to Laurel's side to pull her prize from her pocket. It could have been anything from a lizard to a snake to a frog.

  But it was a woolly-bear caterpillar.

  Normally banded with black only on the ends, and brown in the middle, this one was nearly black. Sign of a hard win­ter?

  It would be even harder if she didn't somehow put things to rights with her family.

  "Very pretty," said Laurel carefully, accepting the fuzzy crit­ter into her palm. It curled protectively into itself. "Are you going to keep him?"

  "I want to watch him turn into a moth," insisted Elise.

  "Well, you make sure to feed him lots of grass and leaves until he does," When Laurel returned the caterpillar to Elise, the little girl dropped it back into her pocket. Luckily Mama had learned about checking pockets when Laurel was little!

  "Kitty, may I please speak to Papa alone?" she asked.

  Kitty looked worried, her eyes big behind her spectacles, but she nodded and ran after Elise—maybe to show their find to Mama and Collier. Laurel hoped Collier wouldn't em­barrass her by yelling or something.

  "I won't be wintering alone now," she said, while Papa resumed blade sharpening. "I mean to marry him."

  "So I figured." He looked up from the knife, annoyed. "Best get Mariah and rustle up some outlaws and Indians fer your sisters while you're at it."

  "Collier's not bad man, and you know it."

  "A skunk or a fool," he insisted, and started drawing the knife over the hone again. "If he's the skunk, Laurel Lee, then you're the fool. And if he's the fool..."

  She winced away from what was coming, even before he said it, even without him looking up or stopping his work.

  "Then you ain't who I raised you to be."

  What truly hurt was that he was right. She and Collier were doing wrong. They were using marriage for their own ends ... and worse, she wanted to do it.

  "I hope you'll be at the wedding." Her voice wobbled.

  "I hope you won't," he said, still not looking up.

  So she fled back to the house.

  "Elise," Mama was chiding as Laurel reached the veranda. "Leave the poor man alone."

  "Not at all," insisted Collier as amiably as ever, but Laurel heard tension in his voice. He did not, she guessed, like cat­erpillars. "They're ... charming."

  She took a deep breath, then straightened her shoulders and headed inside. "If we're getting back to town with time for me to ride home, we'd best go," she told everyone. "Give me hugs now."

  They did. Even Audra came down from her room, where she'd been reading—as always—to congratulate her. Only Kitty was clumsy enough to ask, "Are you crying, Laurel?"

  "Of course I'm not!" Her eyes stung, was all.

  Still, Collier looked more closely. "He made you cry?"

  "I do not cry." But she was learning to read Collier better lately. His icy calm meant anger. "And don't you dare go all protective on me, when he's just trying to raise me right."

  And failing.

  Still, he hesitated, ignoring Elise's stubborn tugs on his coat sleeve. So Laurel leaned closer to him, and his scent of soap and saddle leather. "If we don't leave now, I swear that

  I'll undo everything. The only chance of this happening is to leave. Right now."

  So he circled his arm around her and led her out to where Firefly stood, waiting, with the Coopers' phaeton.

  Collier helped Laurel up first, as though she could not climb into a buggy on her own. Then he swung gracefully up beside her. "We will let you know of further plans," he prom­ised his future in-laws, while Elise bounced on her toes beg­ging to be in the wedding and Kitty hugged Audra's waist, simply watching.

  Laurel waved, too. Everything would be fine. Really!

  But she felt particularly bad driving right past Nate Dawson, astride his cow pony, as they left the ranch.

  Chapter Eleven

  Collier wondered if his and Laurel's impending wedding in­fluenced Benjamin Cooper's decision to winter in Sheridan. Alexandra certainly had not.

  "Really, Mr. Cooper," she fussed as they oversaw the ex­traction of their belongings, to be moved to their newly rented house all of three blocks away. The Irish workers they'd hired kept getting in the way of the Garrisons, who were moving back into their home for the start of the school term. "How you find this town preferable to San Francisco for the winter is beyond me."

  Then she gasped. "Be careful! That is fragile."

  "Aye, yer ladyship," agreed the hulking redhead toting a large basket of what Collier suspected to be china.

  Cooper raised his voice over the bustle. "Just you fellows remember—you'll get a fine bonus if nothin' gets cracked." Then he added to Alexandra, "Now see, darlin', the folks we're employin' right here? San Francisco has enough high-class types to keep your natural order in balance. Sheridan needs us."

  Alexandra deliberately looked away from his teasing, just in time to start at young Alec racing down the stairs two at a time. "Kitty and Elise are here! Kitty and Elise are here!"

  "Oh, bother." Alexandra sighed. "Not yet."

  Her husband drew her into the parlor and kissed her cheek. "You just let us workin'-class types do the fussin'. Deal?"

  "Please speak to your son," she insisted sternly.

  "Always glad to do that," he called back as he left.

  When Collier moved to follow, Alexandra extended an arm. "Do stay. We are most certainly not 'working-class types.'"

  But even as she said that, young Alec—a carpetbag slung over his shoulder—towed Kitty Garrison into the parlor, say­ing, "And we'll live at the Wrights' old place all winter. If I'm good, they might let me attend school with you!"

  "It has nothing to do with behavior," chided Alexandra. "We employ a perfectly good tutor. What are you carrying?"

  "It's Kitty's things," said the boy proudly. "I wouldn't be much of a stand-up fellow if I let her carry them herself!"

  "Ah," said Alexandra, then waved a hand. "Do go on then, children. Quietly." And the two continued toward the kitchen, Alec explaining, sotto voce, his father's promise that while in Wyoming, he could wear long pants like the other Western boys.

  Alexandra covered her eyes. "You see what I put up with." She looked out from under her self-imposed blinder only when the smallest Garrison girl charged past them, clutching a basket and calling, "Carry mine, Alec! I'm a girl, too. Carry mine!"

  Then his cousin pressed her hand over her eyes more firmly.

  Glancing toward the foyer, Collier saw two more Garrison ladies fending off assistance from the movers. "Excuse me."

  Alexandra sighed as he left.

  Victoria was asking one of the men how long he'd been in the States, and from where in Ireland he hailed. Audra, the fair girl, noted Collier's approach with clear relief.

  But as Collier reached them, a voice behind him flushed the workers with the simple announcement of, "Burnin' day­light-Then the rancher trundled into sight under the weight of a large trunk. He scowled to see Collier. "Pembroke."

  "Mr. Garrison," returned Collier, then hesitated. Just be­cause the rancher insisted on doing his own labor hardly recommended the habit. But... this was not England.

  So he actually said, "May I help you with that, sir?"

  "Nope," drawled the rancher. "Wouldn't want you to break a sweat." He started up the stairs like a Tibetan Sherpa.

  Had Collier just been insulted?

  "Excuse me." Thaddeas Garrison carried another trunk by him, far more sprightly than his father. Did they save on tips?

  Then a voice he recognized far better called, "Make way for the Garrison women!" Laurel, a satchel in each hand, marched in the front door, followed by her mother, who car­ried a fishbowl.

  Laurel stopped when she saw Collier. Mrs. Garrison kept the water i
n the bowl by spinning around, then circling them both.

  "Cole! You aren't at the Wright place already?" Laurel dodged a mover even as Collier swept her out of the man's way. Today she looked more like the cow-wrestling Laurel, in a simple blouse and dark skirt, her hair pulled back into a ponytail.

  "Lordship." The mover nodded with deference as he passed.

  For the second time that afternoon, Collier heard himself say, "Let me help with those."

  But she'd already dodged to the stairs. "I can do it."

  "You're not moving back in with your family, are you?" he asked, stepping closer to the banister to look up at her. If she had given up on the ranch ...

  "Golly, no. I'm just helping." She vanished around the land­ing, and he wondered at his discontent—even before Garrison and his son clumped past for another load.

  "Take care, dearest," cautioned Alexandra from the arch­way to the parlor. "I hope you shall civilize Laurel, not that she will tarnish you."

  "Gold does not tarnish," Collier reminded her.

  But the age-old saying had little power against the sense that he was somehow not a "stand-up fellow."

  Laurel couldn't have attended the fall roundup even if she weren't getting married. But being engaged to maybe the only man in town who wasn't involved either didn't help.

  "That would be where the cowboys gather the local cattle, yes?" asked Collier, strolling with her through her parents' tree-lined in-town neighborhood. They saw each other at least once a week—to keep up appearances as much as any­thing. "To identify which belongs to whom, take them to mar­ket?"

  His voice sounded as thick and delicious as ever, but it was a voice that had never yelled at cattle or maybe anybody.

  Around here, babies knew "roundup" before they knew some colors and relatives. "Papa said it's rough, and too busy, that I'd only be in the way."

  She'd seen them as a child, but not as a lady.

  "Perhaps it's for the best," suggested Collier. But before she could resent his dismissal, he asked, "Is this a good time to purchase cattle for your homestead?"

  "No, it's the worst time. If someone doesn't get his price at market, maybe then."

  "And how long do the fall roundups last?"

  "First snowfall." She didn't like how he nodded, as if that solved everything. She didn't even like that he enjoyed walks. No self-respecting cowboy walked anywhere he could ride.

  Laurel wondered if this was what cold feet felt like.

  "We've much to accomplish before then," assured Collier.

  Now that she could keep her claim, she herself certainly did.

  If only the darned wedding did not keep interfering.

  * * *

  One Sunday in early September, Laurel's mother and sisters would not let her go home until she'd faced the petty details.

  "Ask Collier," Laurel pleaded. "He's the one who knows about society things. He should do it."

  Especially if he didn't want her embarrassing him.

  But, as with so much, tradition forced this on the woman.

  "I want to be a bridesmaid," decided Elise, leaning her head into Laurel's side. She leaned back, scowling, when Laurel said, "I wasn't thinking to have bridesmaids, baby."

  "It's too soon for a big wedding," agreed Audra, a stickler for propriety. "It's really too soon for any wedding."

  "Luckily," said Mama, "it seems more townspeople than not are forgiving Laurel and Lord Collier's brief engagement."

  "Because he's British?" asked Kitty.

  "Because at least he's not a sheepherder" clarified Laurel, making a face at Mariah, which Mariah made back.

  "Most folks know about Laurel's claim," said Victoria from her authority as a newspaperwoman. "It's kind of like the soldiers going off to fight the Spanish last spring."

  At the time Laurel had thought couples remarkably foolish to rush such a decision. Now look at her!

  "Besides," added Vic. "They want to see a royal wedding."

  "He's not royal, and we want a private wedding," insisted Laurel, but Vic didn't even seem to hear her. She was asking, "How long were you and Papa engaged before you married, Mama?"

  "Why look! Here comes Alexandra," announced Mama, and rose to greet their guest at the door.

  To Laurel's relief, Lady Cooper provided a voice of reason.

  "Of course they shall have a private wedding," she agreed. "As none of the groom's family will be able to attend, it is the only fitting decision. In fact—and I do hope I am not intrud­ing, Elizabeth—Mr. Cooper and I hoped you might allow us to hold the wedding at our residence, freeing yours for the reception."

  She did not add, considering your husband's misgivings; the younger girls weren't supposed to know about that. But Laurel felt as if she'd just shed a very heavy weight.

  Mama looked relieved herself. "That's a kind and excellent suggestion," she said, and even took the Englishwoman's gloved hand. "Thank you."

  "Laurel's marrying Lord Collier at the Wrights' house?" Vic­toria made a face toward Marian, but not in insult. Colonel Wright had tried to force her and Stuart off their claim. Since then, his reputation had fallen as sharply as had his business.

  "Ironic, huh?" Mama smiled. "Alexandra, do you have any suggestions for our announcements?"

  And it began again. Laurel stayed firm on her decision to have no bridesmaids, since Collier, an outsider, would not have ushers. But the others triumphed everywhere else. They would decorate in white and orange, but only if Laurel called it "apricot." Mother insisted she could get orange blossoms even in late October. Victoria's friend Evangeline would play piano, as she had for Mariah. And the wedding cards would be simple but silver-edged.

  Laurel had already begged her mother to see to her dress, so she needed only to visit the seamstress to be fitted. But on her traveling outfit she balked. "We aren't going anywhere."

  "Of course you are, dear," insisted Lady Cooper. "A wed­ding journey is customary."

  "I can't leave the claim, so we'll do without custom."

  "Homestead laws aren't that strict," protested Mariah.

  "No. I..." Laurel stood, suddenly suffocating in orange blossoms and apricot. "I shouldn't even be wasting the after­noon on all this. I need to be taking care of my claim!"

  Her sisters looked as if she'd just spoken Sioux.

  Mama said, "Well, that is something for you and Lord Col­lier to decide." Which would require another trip to town, probably a whole dinner to go with it, and in the meantime she wasn't smoking meat or canning vegetables or finishing her horse shed ... or helping with the roundup.

  Because of honeymoons and wedding cards and being fe­male!

  "All right," she declared suddenly. "We will." And she marched out of the parlor, through the kitchen, and to the pantry, where her mother kept their newfangled telephone. Laurel had used it only once before, but she felt desperate.

  She lifted the receiver, then jiggled the cradle. "Hello, Lolly?"

  "Laurel!" answered a disembodied voice. "You're visiting your parents? Isn't that nice!"

  "Would you connect me to the Coopers' house, please?"

  "Really, dear, it's more proper for Lord Collier to ring you. He hasn't said his vows yet, you know. And are you sure you want to set such an example for your sisters?"

  Laurel glanced out the pantry door, where her youngest sisters—and Victoria—were watching, and felt a pang of guilt. Was there nothing women were allowed to do any­more?

  No wonder she liked things better on her mountain. "I could walk there before you finish putting me through."

  "Well, really!" But Lolly connected them. The Coopers' maid answered, then fetched Collier. Then a comfortingly familiar voice asked, "Hallo?"

  "You aren't planning a honeymoon, are you?"

  As long a silence as answered her question, she began to fear they'd been disconnected. Then Collier said, "Laurel?"

  As if anybody else would telephone him about their hon­eymoon! "We can't leave the claim for that
long. There'll be too much to do if the snows haven't come, and if they have, I don't want to risk not getting back."

  "You're telling me this on the telephone machine?"

  "Cole, please!" The word shuddered out of her, more force­fully than she'd expected. It was all too much to handle, and she felt clumsier than ever, and she just wanted it done with.

  She used her booted foot to shut the pantry door, careful not to catch Elise's fingers on the jamb.

  "Why don't I come over there," he soothed.

  "No! Then I'll never get to leave." That had to be why she wanted him to keep his distance. It wasn't that she would

  want to be alone with him, or kiss him. They had an agree­ment. "It's just that... it's all cards and colors and flowers."

  "And this presents some sort of difficulty?" Clearly he didn't understand either. Why had she even called him?

  "If you came over here and did one overly proper thing, right now, I might just kick you."

  "Then I shan't come over," he agreed firmly. Her laugh shuddered out of her as uncertainly as had her please.

  Then, when he said, "Shall we take a wedding journey come the spring thaw?" she suddenly wished he had come over, because her need to kiss him overwhelmed her need to protect herself.

  Which frightened her more than it should.

  "As long as it's not during the spring roundups." Relief soft­ened her voice to almost a whisper.

  "God forbid," he murmured back.

  She realized she was smiling. Then she remembered the fall roundup, and sobered. "What are you doing with your afternoon?"

  "I've been reading about your American stock market," he told her. "What are you doing?"

  She laughed again, embarrassed. "I'm hiding in the pan­try."

  "Ah," said his voice from the receiver. "Is someone threat­ening you with those dreadful girl-shoes again?"

  "No," she protested, pleased that he'd remembered her tastes on that subject, and that he clearly did not take the subject as seriously as her father sometimes did. "Nothing like that."

  "Then don't you have a frontier to conquer?"

  "I guess I can, now." No wedding journey until spring.

  "Crisis averted, then."