Gerrity's Bride

The sun rode high in the sky, its rays reminding her of the unrelenting heat that had been her companion for the past hours. Since shortly after daybreak, she had alternately fanned herself with a folded newspaper and mopped her brow with a dainty handkerchief. Still, the dry, breathtaking heat had penetrated her traveling costume, leaving her with but a trace of her usual vitality.

“Arizona... Even the name sounds hot,” she muttered as she lifted one foot to view the dust clinging to her fashionably booted foot. She stamped it against the wide wooden boards of the platform beneath her and surveyed the choices she faced.

A dusty road ran between a row of buildings, houses and business establishments, built along a fairly even line, for three hundred yards or so. Then it gave way to a sandy expanse that stretched to the horizon, broken only by scattered shrubs and a few stunted trees. The narrow road continued on, running in a straight line as far as she could see. It was less than inviting, she decided quickly.

Directly before her, an unpainted wooden door stood ajar. Beyond it lay a shadowed room, which appeared to be her most likely chance for shelter from the sun. The train station was small. Probably didn’t get much use, she decided, bending to lift her carpetbag, leaving behind the trunk that held her clothing. The weight of the carpetbag dragged at her arm, reminding her of the books she had stubbornly packed within its voluminous depths.

“Why you want all those along with you is beyond me,” Delilah had muttered. “You won’t be there long enough to read them, anyway,” she’d predicted.

“One can only hope!” As fervent as any prayer she’d ever uttered, the words fell from her lips and were wafted away on the hot wind that blew in unrelieved measure. With a sigh, Emmaline Carruthers squared her shoulders and lifted her feet, moving briskly through the open door.

The room was shady, and that was about all that was to be said for it. Small comfort, she thought as she stood in the center of the dingy station. An open window allowed a bit of cross-ventilation, and she took advantage of the moving air, such of it as there was. Her hand lingered over the top button of her suit, her fingers sorely tempted to loosen it. But better sense prevailed, and she approached the window with all her ladylike decorum intact.

“I beg your pardon.” Such decorum, she had decided, was her only defense against the situation. It would sustain her now, as it had for the past hundreds of miles. Once she reached the boundaries of true civilization, she had recognized that only her status as a lady would protect her from the vulgarities that surrounded her.

“Yup...just a minute.” The drawling reply came from beneath the counter, and she stifled the impulse to bend over the narrow ledge to seek out its source.

Two thin lines of perspiration ran down each side of her neck and settled against the white fabric of her collar, dampening it before it soaked through, cooling her flesh. She resisted the urge to brush at the drop that was even now making its way to her eyebrow, and stiffened her spine resolutely.

“What can I do fer ye?” The stationmaster rose to his full height, his stiff collar tight about his skinny neck. He peered at her through spectacles, which slid down his nose, then lifted one bony finger to settle them back into place.

“I’m expected,” she announced with brittle dignity. “There was to be a vehicle here to meet me from the Carrutherses’ ranch, but I don’t see anyone about. Have you any message for me?”

“Well, I might and I might not,” he quibbled. “Tell me who the message would be fer.”

“I’m Emmaline Carruthers.”

His eyes widened behind the thick lenses, and he pursed his lips as he took a renewed interest in her. Hesitating only briefly on her bonnet, his look roamed with admiration over her flushed features and paused with a trace of wonder as he viewed the curves that filled her dark dress.

“Yep, you surely are,” he allowed. “Got the look of yer pa about ye, through the eyes—not to mention the hair.”

“Indeed?” Her mouth pursed as she considered his assessment.

“Yep. Yer brother’s comin’ to pick you up.” He turned from the window, his duty accomplished with the delivery of the message.

Emmaline bit with vexation at the inside of her lower lip. “Who is coming?”

“Yer brother,” the stationmaster said again, and returned to his position beneath the ledge.

She glowered at his back, lifting on tiptoe to lean over the counter. “I don’t have a brother.” The words were clipped, her exasperation apparent. Surely he had mixed the messages. “I’m here to meet my sister, Theresa. I have no other relatives here,” she said emphatically.

But I have a sister, she thought with joy. Theresa. She whispered the name, savoring the syllables. Theresa. Five years old...daughter of Samuel. That definitely made the child her sister.

“Sorry to hear about yer pa,” The stationmaster said with a frown. “Don’t pay to get caught in a dry creek bed.”

She nodded her thanks. As much a surprise as the news had been, she’d wasted little time in sending her reply. It was difficult to scrape up much sorrow for the man who had fathered her. He was but a distant memory that had never been encouraged to flourish.

Perished in a flash flood. The telegram’s wording had been most specific. Her father had died, along with his wife. Samuel and Arnetta Carruthers...strangers who had borne the same last name she did.

“Did you know him well?” she asked on a sudden impulse.

“Eh? What’s that? Do I know yer brother? ‘Course I know him,” the man stated with dour confidence. “Ever’body in Forbes Junction knows Matt Gerrity.”

“No, I meant...” Her voice trailed off as she backed away from the window. Tiny lines of consternation furrowed her brow as she considered the situation. Any more questioning on her part seemed a futile exercise, she decided with a sigh of frustration. Surely someone would arrive soon. She nurtured the thought. Soon...she thought. Soon, she’d meet the child. With anticipation, she straightened her skirts and adjusted the tilt of her bonnet.

“He’ll be here afore long, lessen he gets tangled up talkin’ with some female or another on his way through town. He draws them women like flies,” the man said, before he lowered the shade over the narrow window and effectively cut off the conversation.

“Like flies...” Emmaline repeated dryly. “That sounds—”

“Time fer lunch,” the now disembodied voice announced from beyond the barrier.

Emmaline sighed as her stomach notified her that breakfast had been too many hours ago. And not much to brag about, at that. The leftover bread from last evening’s repast had been a bit beyond stale, and the peach more than ripe. Train travel left a lot to be desired, she’d discovered long before she reached Kansas City.

A wavy mirror on the wall faced her, and she stepped up to it, glancing into its depths, in hopes her appearance would bolster her sagging spirits. It was useless, she decided mournfully. Violet shadows rimmed her blue eyes, and a smudge marred her left cheekbone. Not to mention the stubborn curls vying for attention beneath the brim of her bonnet. She pushed at them with one finger, subduing them only until they were released, to escape in a flyaway fashion.

She peered at herself, and her sigh was deep as she pronounced, “I’m a wreck!”

“Now, I wouldn’t say that.”

She spun toward the door, her mouth open in dismay, her eyes wide and indignant, and faced the man who loomed in the doorway.

“I beg your pardon?” She couldn’t manage haughtiness, not with sweat streaking her neck and forehead, and errant curls poking out every which way. She settled for arrogance.

He grinned while his forefinger poked back the wide brim of his hat, leaving a crease across the expanse of his forehead. The hand that lowered to his waist was brown, the fingers long and tapered. It rested against his belt, and then the fingers slid into his pocket, until only the thumb looped over the wide leather circling his waist.

Her eyes moved back to his face, and she glowered at him. That he’d caught her surveying herself in the mirror was bad enough. He didn’t have to be enjoying her discomfort.

“I wouldn’t say that.” He repeated his words in a raspy voice that held a trace of amusement. “I’d say that you’re the best-lookin’ wreck I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

She inhaled sharply, irritated at his impudence. Then, with swishing skirts and tapping of booted feet, she turned from him to face the shaded window.

“You don’t want to be rude to the man who holds the reins, ma’am,” he said softly into her ear.

He was right behind her. She felt the warmth of his body against her back, and she stiffened, her spine straightening imperceptibly. Ahead of her, the shade twitched to one side, and the stationmaster peered around the edge.

“Howdy, Matt. Yer sister’s been waitin’.”

She closed her eyes against his words, then opened them slowly. “I don’t have a brother.” Each word was spoken with the emphasis due such a denial. Her aggravation was plainly apparent to both men.

The man behind her had the advantage, and he took it. His hands lifted to rest on her shoulders, and he bent to speak once more, his breath warm against the side of her neck.

“Turn around, Miss Emmaline. I’m here to represent your family.”

Emmaline’s mouth narrowed, and she shrugged as if she would loosen herself from the fingers that even now were forcing her to face him, tightening her shoulders as he silently brought her about. Her eyes were dark with suppressed anger as he accomplished his aim, and she tipped her head back to meet his sardonic gaze.

“I don’t know who you are,” she snapped. “I’ve come from Lexington to meet my little sister, Theresa Carruthers, and I’m waiting for a ride to the Carrutherses’ ranch.” She took a deep breath, availing herself of a double lungful of hot desert air. “I am no relation of yours.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, ma’am,” he drawled, his brow lifting in an arrogant gesture. “I’m just a shirttail relation, so to speak. But genuine kin of yours. My mama was Arnetta Carruthers, and when she married your daddy, I became the most interesting part of the bargain.”