Proving Herself Read online

  "No need, dear," insisted Lady Cooper.

  Lord Collier added, "The Coopers hire stable help for that."

  "The help can't have all the fun," teased Uncle Benj.

  But Lady Cooper sat up all the straighter. "I will not have my guests helping with chores. Nor will I accept you"—she fixed her husband with a glare—"allowing it. Am I under­stood?"

  This was why Laurel had almost refused the invitation!

  Uncle Benj kissed his wife's cheek, grinning at Laurel as if they hadn't committed some sort of crime against etiquette. "I do believe we're outnumbered, Laurel, darlin'."

  She tried to smile, but she had a sudden feeling of being trapped.

  "Alexander, you may go too," consented Alexandra as her husband left. The boy bolted from his chair and after his father, toward the back of the house, like a spring colt. But then Collier's cousin made a misstep.

  She said, "I'll stay and chaperon the young people."

  Laurel Garrison's blue eyes widened in shock. Collier felt similarly.

  From the hallway, they heard Alec say, "Ow!"

  Then Cooper reappeared in the doorway, hand on the sill, and rasped, "You'll what?"

  Miss Garrison stared from Collier to Alexandra and back, something of a snared-rabbit look about her. Good Lord. Did she think this was about courtship?

  Only when Alexandra said, "One must maintain propriety, no matter how unnecessary," did Miss Garrison sit warily back.

  Cooper shook his head and blew out his breath forcefully enough to ruffle his salt-and-pepper mustache. "Now, darlin', Jacob hasn't recovered from his first daughter's courtship. Let's not be helpin' any of the others on to theirs just yet."

  "That," said his wife primly, "is why I'm acting as a chap­eron." When her husband simply stared, she stared coolly back.

  "Right you are," he finally said. Then he winked at Miss Garrison before vanishing, again toward the back of the house and the stables.

  The cowgirl looked doggedly at her hands in her lap. She clearly lacked training in social conventions. Not that she'd slurped her soup, or blown her nose on her sleeve, but...

  Courting, marveled Collier again. Her?

  Compared to that, asking what he meant to ask did not seem quite so distressing. As soon as the screen door at the back of the house closed, he moved to the settee, beside their guest. "May I speak frankly, Miss Garrison?"

  She stared up at him, again like a rabbit in a snare. Or perhaps a fox: rabbits were less apt to bite. "Frankly?"

  He did not realize his desperation until he found himself taking her gloved hand in his. "Please?"

  She hesitated, searching his eyes. Whatever she saw in them must have eased her mind at least a little, because she nodded.

  "Remember last month," he prompted, "by the waterhole?"

  Only when she flushed and jerked her hand free of his did he realize his mistake. The Chinese laundry had cleansed that afternoon out of his suit, but his blood still remembered her in his arms, wet and amazingly willing. Cheating danger, and how they had celebrated.

  "That is to say..." He closed his eyes, but that only brought the images more clearly into his mind. "I mean ..."

  Alexandra began to play Chopin again, and even had the nerve to smile. "What do you mean, Collier, dear?"

  Miss Garrison warned, "What about the water hole?"

  "During our conversation by the water hole," he clarified, "you would not accept my investment in your ranch."

  "You didn't offer," she agreed slowly. "I'm just a woman."

  She was that. Even in the same room as Alexandra, Laurel Garrison exuded intense, if unpolished, femininity.

  "You would not have accepted anyway," he reminded her. "However, in the time that has passed, circumstances have changed. I mean to say... perhaps we could both recon­sider."

  Miss Garrison looked wary. "Reconsider?"

  "My investment in your ranch, of course. I would very much like to buy you some cattle."

  She opened her mouth—quite an attractive mouth; no wonder he'd kissed it—but nothing came out.

  He leaned nearer, elbows on his knees. "You need cattle. Let me buy... ten head. Fewer, if that's too many."

  "But why would you? What do you get?"

  "Ultimately, if you sell the cattle at a profit, I get back my initial investment plus some of that profit. It's a simple pro-posi—" He stopped himself. "Business arrangement."

  Miss Garrison shook her head. "No, you're getting some­thing else out of it, or you wouldn't have changed your mind."

  Laurel Garrison was intelligent—for a girl who wrestled cows. And something about her, be it her earnest day suit or the youthful simplicity of her pulled-back hair, invited hon­esty in return.

  Perhaps it was that he had kissed her. Thoroughly.

  Collier leaned close enough to smell the mountain pine in her hair. "What I get is the ability to say I've invested. Tell me how much you need, and I'll write a check."

  She met his gaze with hers, watching his eyes very closely. For a moment he imagined she could see his hopes for a future.

  When she shook her head, it unsettled him all the more.

  "You can deposit it at the bank and have your cattle by the end of the week," he insisted.

  "I can't."

  "Of course you can. You would have taken the money from the bank, wouldn't you?"

  "It's not that; it's—"

  "Three head of cattle," he repeated, then took her hand agajn. "It's more than you have."

  She shook her head.

  God help him. "Please."

  He did not expect her to cry.

  "I can't," insisted Laurel, yanking her hand free of Lord Col­lier's gentle, soft-gloved grip. To her dismay she felt tears burning her eyes. To be so close to what she wanted—the cattle, of course. To have someone actually show faith in her, and to have to refuse ...

  It hurt. It ached in her chest, tightened her throat. "It's not that I don't want to, but I can't. I..."

  Lord Collier's silvery gaze seemed needful somehow, as if this meant as much to him as it did her. But how could it? It was her life, her dream.

  And now she had to face the truth about it.

  "I can't keep the ranch," she heard herself admit. "My fa­ther won't let me."

  Lady Cooper had stopped playing the piano.

  "Pardon?" asked Lord Collier.

  He'd helped her once. She guessed she owed him the truth—and herself, too. "My father won't let me winter alone. And if I don't meet residency requirements, I'll lose the home­stead."

  He blinked at her, leaning back, and for a moment she wondered if he understood—really understood—the effort that admission had taken her, the pain and loss that she faced.

  But he asked, Then why on earth are you even trying?"

  What? She pushed back from him and stood. She could not feel so trapped, so frustrated and not even move. "To try! I kept thinking that somehow I'd prove I could do it, but..."

  But it was almost August. She folded her arms, almost hug­ging herself, and said, "You'd be throwing your money away."

  "Ah." Lord Collier sat still, calm and lovely as ever. Then, cocking his head, he said, "If you are to fail anyway, does it matter whether you fail with a few more cows?"

  She took a step back from him. "What?"

  "You won't be endangering the animals, will you? If you must, you can sell them in a month or two at a loss, and—"

  So much for his faith in her! "And be a laughingstock?"

  He blinked. "Pardon?"

  She began to pace. "Bad enough that nobody lets me work cattle because I'm a girl. If I lose money in just a month or two, they won't let me work cattle because I'm bad at it!"

  "At least," said the Englishman coolly, "we—you—could claim to be doing something."

  "Something stupid."

  He narrowed his eyes, clearly annoyed. But they were dis­cussing ranching, and Laurel no longer felt inadequate. She saw she'd been lured in under
false pretenses. Worse, this man had chosen her with no interest in her qualifications as a rancher. He didn't think she could succeed; he just didn't care.

  Buying cattle knowing full well that he would lose money on them? No wonder folks ridiculed remittance men!

  Then he asked, "What if I could help you keep your ranch?"

  Laurel stopped so suddenly that her skirts brushed a chair.

  What?

  No. Surely not. Just because she wanted something to be true didn't make it so. But she looked at the Englishman sit­ting so neatly on her mother's settee, his eyes silvery-bright, his hair like an archangel's, and somehow, with him looking so beautifully determined, she couldn't help hoping. "How?"

  "I have no earthly idea," he admitted, and she spun away so that he wouldn't see her frustration. This was why she ought not have hoped—much less put hope in him.

  "But I've known your situation only five minutes," he added. "I might think of something. I am a businessman ... when permitted."

  What if...

  Laurel pressed a gloved fist against her mouth. "You don't know my father like I do."

  "Perhaps if we offered him financial incentive."

  She spun on him. "A bribe? You really don't know him!"

  Even Lady Cooper laughed at the idea.

  Lord Collier frowned. "You say his main concern is your safety. Perhaps we could hire a companion for you."

  "No woman in her right mind would spend a Wyoming winter on the mountain," she warned him, then scowled when he quirked an amused eyebrow at her. "Except me."

  "Quite. And I imagine it would have to be a woman—" He spread a hand to fend off feminine outrage when she glared at him at the same time Lady Cooper huffed. "Unless you can hire some sort of proxy to replace you on the homestead during the winter months. An overseer of sorts. I would have to see the homestead law, but do you suppose that's permit­ted?"

  She shook her head.

  He stood, pressing his full lips together in thought. She found it almost breathtaking to watch someone think so fast—even if he was doing it for his own purposes, and not really hers at all.

  Collier paced a few steps, then turned and faced her again. "You're not yet twenty-one, are you?"

  She shook her head.

  "I didn't think so. And twenty one is the age of majority?"

  She nodded.

  He clasped his hands behind him. "If you were to marry, you would become your husband's legal concern instead. I don't suppose you've got a beau who might be rushed, have you?"

  "No!" Did he think she would have kissed him the way she did, down by the water hole, if— Dam it, they were supposed to be forgetting that. "No," she said again. "And I don't want one! It's my ranch!"

  He took a quick step back. "Merely inquiring, I assure you. Let's see, then. Who has your father's ear, who might inter­cede on your behalf? Your mother? Cooper?"

  But the more possibilities he suggested that she dismissed, the worse she felt. "It's no use."

  "What happens if you default on this homestead, but leave the cattle on the range? Next spring you file again."

  "Not on this land. I only got it because the fellow who filed four years ago moved east. Anything available next year will be out past the deadline—"

  He raised an eyebrow. "Deadline?"

  "Sheep country," she clarified. "It's got terrible grass."

  "I'm sure the sheep ranchers appreciate that," he mused, then waved her annoyance away. "Pardon. Just thinking out loud."

  "Thank you for trying," she told him. "No matter why it is you want it so badly. But it's no use."

  Instead of giving up, he crossed to her, took her hands in his larger ones, and ducked his head near hers. "Miss Garri­son. Look at me please."

  Even with the please, she did not like the command. She studied their gloved hands instead and, past them, their feet. He still wore those foolish, expensive, cloth-topped shoes. But she wore foolish girl-shoes herself today, for etiquette's sake.

  Even their gloves had little use beyond the decorative.

  Then Collier lowered his voice into a sugary dare. "Laurel."

  A dare she would answer. She looked at him.

  "I shall think of something," he insisted, and with the in­tensity of his eyes, the strength of his jaw, she had a hard time doubting him. "I promise I will think of something."

  She shook her head slowly, unwilling to risk hoping.

  "When I do," he insisted, "tell me you'll let me invest."

  "You won't."

  "Then you shan't have to make good, shall you?" He looked very much as he had before kissing her: focused, fer­vent, incredibly engaging.

  Not that she ought to remember the kissing.

  "If," she said slowly, finally.

  "When," he agreed. Then he raised her gloved knuckles to his lips. She hadn't expected that either, nor the steamy warmth of his breath through the thin, useless cotton.

  Perhaps, from the way his eyes widened over their hands, neither had he. But he recovered quickly enough, even grinned that slightly lopsided smile, the one that kept his beauty human.

  Laurel had the sinking feeling she'd just done something very, very foolish—even before Uncle Benj returned to the parlor.

  Chapter Five

  Laurel wrenched her gloved hands free of Collier's when she heard the kitchen door slam shut. Somehow she managed to turn away from him and the hope he offered before Uncle Benj's cheerful, booted stride reached the doorway.

  But her father's partner still saw something.

  "What's wrong, darlin'?" he demanded, coming immedi­ately to her side and shooting a dangerous look toward Lord Collier.

  "I'm fine. Really." She attempted a smile that, to judge by Uncle Benj's clear suspicion, did not succeed. "But I would like to go home now, I think. If Lady Cooper doesn't mind."

  "I'll ride with you," agreed the rancher.

  "Really, Uncle Benj. I got here just fine on my own."

  "And I'll see you get back just fine," he insisted.

  So they rode back to her claim together. He even gave her a fair piece to compose herself, during which he merely com­mented on the unseasonably warm weather, the flowers, and her beauty.

  Then he asked. Sort of. "A man marries a woman," he mused aloud as they left the track to ride cross country. "He lives with her, travels with her, has his only child with her— only one he knows of for sure, anyhow...."

  She did not smile at his attempt to shock her. She was busy remembering Lord Collier's words. Not if, he'd said, when.

  Did she dare hope?

  "It seems a fellow owes his lady certain courtesies, after that," continued her adopted uncle. "Like the chance to do some schemin' now and again. But Laurel darlin', you are special to me. I won't have even my beloved wife causin' you distress. So why don't you tell me what the hell that was about?"

  His insight startled her even more than the curse. Relieved, she smiled. She should have known he would not be fooled. "Nothing, really."

  "I don't owe you near as much schemin' time," he warned.

  But what was there to keep secret? Beyond what she'd been keeping secret for over a month, anyhow: the water hole.

  "Lord Collier wants to invest in my ranch, that's all."

  Uncle Benj laughed. "The boy must be gettin' desperate."

  Laurel stared at him until he realized what he'd said.

  "Not that you don't likely have a fine establishment, dar­lin'," he added quickly.

  "But Papa doesn't mean to let me keep it," she finished.

  "I am aware of his resolve there, yes," he agreed. "Can't even say I'm against it."

  Him, too? "Uncle Benj!"

  He held up his right hand to ward off her dismay. "If I could figure a way to let you have that land but winter in town, I would most certainly do so. I reckon your pa would, too, for all that he'd prefer you settle down properly instead. But you winterin' alone in them mountains..." He shook his head.

  "Maybe it
will be a mild winter," she pointed out.

  "Maybe not," he countered. "I would be as loath to see harm come to you as your own father is. He loves you enough to risk your hatin' him for it. Reckon I can do no less."

  I might be able to keep you on it, Lord Collier had said. But he had no reason to worry about her safety.

  "May I ask you something?" Laurel ventured as they reached the leaf-dotted shade of the treeline.

  "You may ask me anything, darlin'. I told you that years ago." And he had. Uncle Benj had been the one to confirm for her that people made babies pretty much the same way she'd noticed animals doing it. He'd let her try a cigar once— one puff had been enough—and had slipped her sips of beer and even whiskey over the years.

  But this was a different kind of question. "Why'd you marry Lady Cooper?"

  Uncle Benj stared at her, his eyebrows high. He was a slim man, still dark-haired except for his sideburns and some gray in his mustache. But today he looked almost as old as her father.

  Which, she realized with some surprise, he was.

  "Anythin' except that," he decided finally, pleasantly, and pointedly. "Well, looky there. See that there bird's nest?"

  "I didn't mean ... I don't mean to question that you did. She's clearly a wonderful person."

  "Tendencies toward subterfuge aside," agreed Uncle Benj.

  "And beautiful."

  "As a Texas sunset. First thing that drew my eye to her."

  "I guess you must have fallen in love with her."

  "Helps the marriage immensely," he agreed.

  "But... she's English."

  Uncle Benj looked amused. Clearly he knew that.

  "And you're a rancher. An American rancher."

  "I'm a rancher by necessity, darlin'," he reminded her. "If life worked out how I once figured, I'd be a plantation owner on a spread to rival that Brambourne Cole's always talkin' about."

  Cole! She could only imagine how the Good Lord Collier would react to the nickname, and liked it immediately.

  "So you married her because she's from the kind of life you once thought you'd have?"

  Uncle Benj looked down at himself. He dressed like a rancher—a well-off one. "Seems I came close. In no small part due to your folks."

  "Oh."