Proving Herself Read online

  As he stumbled along, Collier found himself following Coo­per's advice—and not just to keep moving. He prayed Laurel had the sense to stay home.

  The Garrison house seemed even more tense.

  "Hail, the camp!" called Cooper, as soon as he pushed open the front door into their foyer—so that nobody would think, for one hopeful heartbeat, that Laurel had arrived safely, Collier guessed. Victoria and Audra hurried over to help the men shed their snow-packed wrappings and coats, and to collect frosty hugs from their "uncle." "Thought we'd pass the time where folks make a decent cup of coffee, if you don't mind the imposition."

  "Of course we don't mind, Benj," insisted Elizabeth Garri­son, going to her husband's partner for her own hug—one that lasted longer than Collier felt was seemly. "We can use the distraction."

  "Can we?" asked Cooper facetiously.

  "Yes." Mrs. Garrison's return smile seemed wan. "We can."

  Then she surprised Collier by enfolding him in a brief hug, as well. "Don't worry, Lord Collier. If any of my daughters can handle herself in a snowstorm, it's Laurel."

  "Then you think she is in the snowstorm?" His voice came out a touch higher than he'd expected.

  She did not rush to correct him.

  "Nothin' drains that girl's good sense faster than bein' told she cain't do somethin'," complained Jacob Garrison, ap­pearing in the doorway to his den. He shook his white head, glaring at Collier as if this were all his fault. "Even by God."

  "And yet you told her she mustn't stay alone on the claim." Immediately Collier regretted his words. This was her father.

  Garrison squinted at him, then shook his head in dismissal. "Rather a live foolish daughter than a dead clever one."

  "You go in with him, Benj," insisted Mrs. Garrison. "I'll get you that coffee and telephone Alexandra to let her know you arrived safely. Would you like anything, Lord Collier?"

  Garrison vanished back into his den, though not before Collier heard him mutter something about lord.

  "Tea?"

  "I'll make you some."

  "Oh, and Lillabit," called Cooper, and coughed. "The boy and I might could use a dose of medicine—ward off the grippe."

  Mrs. Garrison smiled more honestly and mouthed what looked like, In your coffee?

  Cooper waggled his eyebrows at her, then vanished into the den. Collier hesitated, then followed the lady of the house as far as the doorway of the kitchen.

  "And how do you take your medicine, Lord Collier?" she asked. "In a shot glass, or with some soda?"

  Only then did he remember what she'd said about having a temperate household—except for medicine. "You ... im­bibe?"

  "That would dishonor my husband. But Mr. Cooper does."

  "Today, at least," decided Collier, "I believe it would be fitting for me to honor your husband as well."

  Only when she smiled in approval did it occur to Collier that he did, in fact, feel as if he owed the older man some­thing.

  The man was Laurel's father. Collier was only her pretend fiance. If she was out in this, then to some extent, it was at least partially his fault. He was responsible for having upended their lives. For the pies and cakes he now noticed covering almost every available inch of table and counter in the kitchen.

  For goading their daughter, a young woman of whom he was surprisingly fond, into betraying their trust and her future.

  Perhaps he could use that medicine after all. But instead he stepped into a kitchen for the first time in a year. "Please, Mrs. Garrison, call me Collier. The title is merely a courtesy."

  Then came the waiting.

  Collier spoke to Thaddeas and exchanged pleasantries with each Garrison girl, except shy Kitty, as the morning passed. Audra played piano. Victoria recited. Elise showed him several dolls, her new wedding frock, and a small silver ring she'd received for her birthday. "It used to fit on this finger," she explained with childlike solemnity, "and then I moved it to this finger, and then to this one. When I'm too big for that, I'll put it on my pinky. And if I ever get too big for that, Daddy says I can wear it on a chain around my neck."

  Like Laurel and her glass engagement ring? The memory pained him worse than he would have expected. Lord. He'd asked Laurel not to embarrass him___

  "Or"—and she giggled—"in my nose!"

  They were a nice family, he admitted to himself. Rough at the edges, certainly, but good-hearted, creative, kind. They'd done nothing to deserve his deceit. Were Collier a true gen­tleman, he would end this. If Laurel arrived safely—rather, when she arrived—he would take her aside and tell her.

  He did not look forward to robbing her of her homestead, nor to becoming a man who jilted local women. But if he did not accept those consequences, was he a true gentleman? Or had he degenerated into no more than a remittance man, after all?

  Collier's heart stilled when, at midmorning, Garrison came into the house carrying a snowy girl. When his wife un­wrapped a shawl to reveal stringy yellow hair—when Collier realized the shivering creature was not his fiancee, but their pianist—his fear became nausea. He sank into an empty chair, watching Mrs. Garrison drape the girl with blankets from the warming oven and feed her hot, sweet tea, and he wondered at the painful clutch in his stomach. It isn't Laurel, he told himself firmly.

  But it could have been. Or it could yet be worse.

  "I wore the m-mittens M-Mariah gave me," whispered the waif. "I didn't mean to cause trouble."

  "And you didn't, darling," assured Mrs. Garrison, ignoring the child's stringy hair. "But there'll be no wedding today."

  After this new visitor had been washed, dried, and dressed more appropriately, Thaddeas introduced her to Collier as Miss Evangeline Taylor. As soon as he bowed to her, she fled. Ever after, he only caught glimpses of her from safe distances.

  Perhaps the Little Match Girl saw a truth in him that the others did not—that he had used Laurel for his own gain.

  And maybe the regret she saw was nowhere near enough.

  When the clock was nearing noon, the back door blew open and a round furry lump staggered in wearing cowboy boots under its snow-encrusted skirts. The stillness in Collier, where he'd felt fear, expanded until his heart felt hollow.

  She fumbled awkwardly at her wrappings, until Victoria and Mrs. Garrison hurried to her side to help, pulling off a snow-covered bearskin, a scarf, and under that a hat, and under that a shawl, and under that a coat. Only then did they reach Laurel, complete with brown hair and red cheeks and nose. She wore gloves under her mittens, and a second coat under her first. When she beat her skirt, Collier wondered how many of those she wore.

  "Brrr!" She swung her arms, stomped her feet, and slapped her hands across herself to bring up the blood, her eyes bright with the adventure. "Can you believe that snow? Papa, I gave Snapper an extra ration of oats. Oh, thank you, Mama," she added, when Mrs. Garrison draped an oven-warmed blanket over her. "Do you have any coffee? Yes. Thank you."

  Then, as Mrs. Garrison helped her raise the mug to her lips without spilling it, Laurel's blue gaze found Collier's.

  "Cole! You're here!" Then she noticed the others were all staring as he was. "What's everyone looking at?" Everyone began to talk at once. Several of them yelled.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Laurel had expected a much better welcome.

  It all sounded a mite garbled—even with cotton in her ears and a shawl wrapped around her head, she'd been disori­ented by the continuous howl of icy wind. But she caught the gist.

  Papa called her a fool, and Thaddeas seconded it. Uncle Benj accused her of turning him gray before his time. Mama fussed as if Laurel had walked in from the storm stark naked.

  Collier just kept staring. That unnerved her most of all.

  She took another shivering gulp of hot, sweet coffee. For this she'd ridden almost eight miles through a snowstorm?

  "A danger to horse and self," Papa accused. Those were fighting words. She'd had Snapper since he was born!

  "I did not endan
ger my horse! You've said yourself, Papa, that God gives the critters a heavy coat for a reason. The wild mustangs are weathering the storm just fine, I guess, and so did Snapper. I did everything right!"

  Unappeased by his scowling skepticism, she turned her defense to Uncle Benj, who, if doubtful, at least looked sympathetic. "I did! I had my compass. I had three different tins of matches, so even if I lost some, I'd have others. You saw how I bundled up—and that's not counting the pack I loaded onto Snapper. If I got lost, I could've built a lean-to for us and kept warm for a couple of days with the coal oil I brought along. I was careful!"

  Increasingly desperate, she turned to her mother. "I was!"

  "Drink some more coffee, baby," murmured Mama, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. So Laurel took another shuddering sip of the deliciously hot liquid. The warm blanket wrapped around her made her want to shiver all the more, somehow.

  Collier still said nothing at all. Her sisters—and the mousy Evangeline Taylor, of course—kept their tongues, too.

  "Horses fall," Papa reminded her darkly. "Startle. Buck. Lose the horse, you lose your pack. Break an arm, knock yer head on a branch, could be you wouldn't light them matches."

  Oh. "Well, Snapper didn't fall," she insisted... but not quite as emphatically. He had stumbled once or twice. "Or throw me. And I'm here just fine, just like I promised."

  Everyone just kept staring—even the one she'd come for.

  "I keep my word," she insisted to him, her fiance.

  But Cole turned and stalked silently off to the parlor.

  Papa shrugged on his buffalo coat and wrappings, then headed out toward the stables, maybe to check on her horse. Thaddeas sank into his chair, shaking his head. "You little idiot," he said again, echoing Papa's accusations. "Will you never learn?"

  It was Uncle Benj who finally enveloped her in a big, wel­come bear hug, blankets and all. "My darlin' Laurel, don't you never do anythin' like that again." His voice sounded muffled against her hair. "I doubt my old heart could stand it."

  But after that one embrace, he stepped to her mother's side as if to give her support.

  "I should go talk to Collier," said Laurel, looking toward the hallway. His reaction particularly annoyed her. Not that

  he had a whole lot of reason to care, she guessed, beyond seeing their partnership through. But still, she'd kind of thought...

  Hoped...

  He was the reason she'd come. Him... and the ranch, of course.

  "Not yet, you won't," insisted Mama, pushing Laurel down into a kitchen chair. "You eat some stew while I fill the bath­tub. Then you will take a hot bath so that you don't catch your death. Then you will put on warm, dry clothes, and then you can talk to your Collier. It's not like either of you are going anywhere soon. The wedding's been postponed."

  "Postponed!" And after she'd ridden all the way here?

  "The judge telephoned earlier to say he'd come when the weather cleared and no sooner," said Mama. "He saw the sense in waiting it out."

  This was not how Laurel had thought it would go at all.

  Collier still stood in the parlor, watching the snow out the bay window, when Laurel came to him. She smelled of soap and of pine, as if she'd perfumed the water with it, and her hair hung long and thick down her back. She wore a red woolen dress with a gored skirt, and as she met his gaze straight on she looked...

  Uncertain? Lovely. Blessedly, miraculously alive.

  She did have a beauty about her, a health no cosmetic could imitate. No blush could give her face that warmth; no dye could streak her hair such deep colors. Her stride was perhaps too long, her gaze too direct—but at least what he saw, she was. And Collier had come within hours of turning her into something else.

  "May we have some time in private?" he asked Benjamin Cooper, still not lifting his gaze from the hesitant Laurel.

  "Long as you remember you're not married yet," Cooper warned them. He absented himself from the room, though, ushering Kitty and Audra with him.

  "You're acting like you're mad at me," accused Laurel. She

  stood not a foot away, and yet those mere inches felt like miles.

  "Dogs get mad," he corrected. "People get angry."

  "Then you're angry?"

  He nodded slowly. He supposed he was.

  "I took some risk, but I took it for you!" She flushed, then frowned and kicked at the carpet. "I mean ... because I promised I would. We made a deal."

  "That is what angers me." Before she could argue that, Col­lier put a steadying hand on her arm. "Could we sit? Please?"

  Immediately she looked wary. She'd worn indignation bet­ter.

  "I need to speak to you of something important. Privately."

  She glanced toward the archway to the foyer, then the doorway to the kitchen. But apparently realizing, as he had, that they'd find no better privacy today, she sank onto the settee.

  He sat beside her and inclined his head toward hers so that he could murmur his explanation very low. "I am having second thoughts about the wedding."

  She spun on him as if he'd bitten her. "You what?"

  "Please hear me out." When she only glared, he leaned closer and spoke in her ear. "I'm thinking of what's best for you."

  She shivered. Was she still suffering from her cold ride, even after the hot drinks, hot bath, hot blankets?

  "Oh, come here," he invited grudgingly. And he drew her into his arms, held her against his own warmth. She resisted, stubborn and rigid at first, then slowly relaxed into his em­brace. They made a surprisingly good fit. "Laurel, had you been hurt or killed trying to get here, it would have been my fault."

  She stiffened again, if only to draw back. "Yours?"

  "Had I not made this inappropriate offer, you would have been safe in your cabin, or with your family in town. And that may be the least of the risks to which I've exposed you. Your mother was correct. You ought not burden your future

  with what we know—what we've agreed—shall be a failed marriage."

  As she faced him to whisper back, her cheek brushed his coat's shoulder. "If we annul it, it won't have been a marriage at all, just business. And that could still work. I know it could!”

  He sometimes forgot how innocent she was. "I doubt we will manage an annulment, Laurel."

  "Well, maybe you can't, but I have something to say about that too, you know! Just like I had a say in coming here to­day."

  "And even if we did manage it," he assured her, "Nobody but ourselves would know. As far as your family are con­cerned, you would forevermore be the former Mrs. Pem­broke, deserted and eventually divorced. I do mean to have children someday. Sooner or later, I would need to officially cut our ties—and that is selfish of me, unforgivably so. Today when I feared it too late, saw how many people we might hurt, I understood how selfish."

  Laurel watched him from his shoulder, a crease between her eyebrows. But all she said, very softly, was, "We made a deal."

  "What?"

  Her blue eyes narrowed. "We, Lord Collier, made a deal. You act as if you're taking advantage of me, but that's hog-wash. You want something from me? Well, I want something from you, too. My ranch. As for the future, well, I'd rather be a divorcee with her own prospering ranch than a poor spin­ster who never could prove up her homestead because she started too late, with bad land and no backers. You would be amazed how folks overlook a little notoriety in a person who runs a successful business."

  He had to smile. "Perhaps."

  "Do I want to do it without you? Sure I do! If I were a man, I could. But if I were a man, nobody would be scolding me as if I had no right to make decisions and take risks with my own life."

  Well. That was an intriguing perspective!

  "If you won't many me, I can't make you. Well..." The smile that turned up her lips worried him. "Not without mak­ing up some fib about you taking advantage, and I've put my folks through enough without a shotgun wedding. But don't you dare jilt me and pretend it's for my own good, because that's
just..."

  She scowled at the very idea. Collier could think of several apt words, but suggested her own. "Hogwash?"

  She nodded sharply. "You promised."

  He felt they'd missed something important. Certainly he was wrong to wed with no real intention of permanence. But he was not misleading her. And he doubted he could fight his own worse nature and her determination. "You are cor­rect," he admitted finally, leaning his forehead against hers. "We have a deal."

  She relaxed against him, warm and soft and alive, and smil­ing brightly. "So as soon as the weather clears?"

  "As soon as the weather clears." Something moved at the comer of his eye, and he watched. Both of them saw when little Elise again peeked around the comer.

  "That little wretch," murmured Laurel, her voice low in her throat. Collier thought he could get used to holding her like this. Not that he should.

  "I am very glad," he whispered, "that we kept our voices down."

  She nodded, her rich dark hair sliding against his shoulder.

  The next time Elise's head slanted into view, both Collier and Laurel were staring straight at her. "Elise Michelle Garri­son," scolded Laurel. "What do you think you are doing?"

  Instead of fleeing exposure, Elise stepped into the room and rocked on her heels. "I just wanted to see him kiss you."

  "What?" demanded Laurel, stiffening again.

  But Collier—in light of maintaining their charade—said, "Excellent suggestion, Elise." And he ducked his head to press a gentle kiss onto Laurel's warm, alive mouth.

  She relaxed into his shoulder again. By following the tilt of her head, he found himself levered more fully over her. He turned his head to better slant their mouths, his lips opening.

  Hers did, too.

  Damn, but he appreciated her not freezing to death!

  "So you aren't angry with me?" whispered Laurel breathily. Their noses touched. Her eyelashes almost brushed his.

  "With myself," he clarified, and covered her mouth again.

  A sharp whistle startled them apart. Looking around, Col­lier quickly saw Benjamin Cooper filling the doorway to the kitchen.