The Bachelor Tax

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One

From the pages of the Edgewood Gazette…

July 6, 1882

Local legislature approved the use of the new Bachelor Tax for our town. Unless our male citizens who claim the status of bachelorhood can prove they have proposed to at least one eligible woman during the past year, they will be assessed a tax. This is for the purpose of promoting marriage among our citizens. All men of legal age are liable for taxation…

Edgewood, Texas, July 25, 1882

This could very likely be the most important day in her life. Rosemary Gibson appraised herself in the mirror hanging over her dresser, reaching to tug at a curl that hung in front of her left ear.

It was the only sign of feminine frippery she allowed herself, that and the matching ringlet on the other side of her face. Aside from those two small indulgences, she felt she was the perfect picture of a churchgoing, teetotalling, virtuous woman.

Hopefully, the image she presented would be enough to entice the man who was due to arrive on the morning train, just ten minutes from now. She lifted the gold watch from her bosom to check the time once more, and nodded decisively. A brisk walk would bring her to the train station just as the locomotive puffed its way into town.

She left the house by the front door, paced quickly down the path to the street, then made her way through the center of town. Her skirts swung just an inch from the instep of her shoes, and she frowned as she caught sight of the coating of dust covering them. And just when she needed so desperately to present a suitable image. Well, it couldn’t be helped.

Her likeness was reflected from the window of the mercantile, and Rosemary tilted her head, admiring the subdued look of her black hat, then straightened her shoulders just a bit more firmly.

She passed the bank, nodding at Pace Frombert as he opened the double doors to the public, then stepped to the street. Crossing the alleyway that led to the row of houses comprising the poorer side of town, she glanced down its length.

Children played in the dusty road, their voices audible in the clear, summer air, and Rosemary smiled at their antics. She lifted her skirt, stepping up to the sidewalk once more. Then looked aside as she approached the bane of her existence, the Golden Slipper Saloon, only too aware of the tall figure positioned by its front door.

Gabe Tanner, he of the scornful glance and dark, piercing gaze. Only on occasion did she cross his path, and those times she was careful to remain aloof.

She dropped her eyes, observing only the scuffed toes of his boots as she passed, then stiffened as a low chuckle followed in her wake. She halted and turned back, unwilling to allow such an insult to go unnoticed.

His lips still curving in a sardonic grin, Tanner leaned back against the wall, hat tilted over his forehead. Dark eyes scanned her from stem to stern, and Rosemary felt a flush creep up her cheeks as she glared at him, then turned away, resuming her progress.

Men like Gabe Tanner should be outlawed from the human race, as far as she was concerned! Whether or not any of their sort appreciated her qualities was not a major issue this morning.

And yet, those same qualities were about to be judged, and very soon. For if the man who was scheduled to depart the train this morning did not deem her fit to be his wife, she might find herself in search of a roof over her head before nightfall. That thought was appalling, and Rosemary shuddered as it raced through her head. Finding a place to store her worldly possessions would be a distinct problem, one she refused to consider right now. Even though their letters had promised much, should Rosemary Gibson not fit the image of a parson’s wife, Reverend Jorgenson had every right to deny her the title.

On the other hand, if he approved of what she had to offer, she might very well be a married woman this very day. Her steps quickened as that thought brought hope to her spinster’s heart.

She’d not been offered for, ever, until the new minister had suggested in his letter that they might form an alliance of sorts. It seemed his bishop preferred married men in the pulpit, and Lars Jorgenson sounded willing to sacrifice his bachelorhood to the effort.

It was a stroke of luck she had not thought to encounter. Since the day her father had breathed his last, she had stayed on, the parishioners allowing her use of the parsonage, awaited the arrival of his replacement, keeping the parsonage in immaculate condition, praying for direction should she find herself without a home.

The final letter last week from the prospective minister had brought new hope to her heart. If he felt they suited, he would immediately notify his bishop. Until then, he felt his tentative plans must be held in abeyance.

Now, in just a few minutes, Lars Jorgenson would step from the train and search her out on the station platform. Rosemary scurried around the corner of the bank and picked her way through the weed-infested shortcut to the railroad tracks.

This might well be the most important day of her life.

Gabe Tanner’s gaze scanned the wooden sidewalk again, the fifth time during the past ten minutes. His indolent posture was but a pose, his mission this morning more important than he was willing to admit, even to himself.

Ah, there she was. That mousy, dark-haired excuse for a woman, with her collar buttoned so tight it was a wonder she could breathe, her mincing little steps making her bosom rise and fall within her dress. She’d have a hissy fit if she knew how it caught his eye, and that thought brought a chuckle to his lips.

She turned back, her eyes widening in anger and insult, then resumed her marching gait, but not before he caught sight of the blush that rode her cheekbones. She ought to pinken them up regularly. It would make her look almost…

Naw, it’d take more than that to put some life into the old preacher’s daughter, Tanner decided. He watched as she paraded on her way, her heels clicking on the wooden sidewalk.

And yet, he had decided, she might very well be the one to save him a bundle, not that the amount was likely to make him mortgage his spread. Rather, he couldn’t abide the thought of the new law, passed less than a year ago and soon to catch him in its web.

Bachelor Tax. The phrase alone was enough to make his mouth pucker in distaste. The thought that a man would be subject to a tax burden such as this was loathsome.

If asking Miss High-and-Mighty to accept his hand in marriage would alleviate the burden for another whole year, he’d give it a shot. The knowledge that she would shudder and step back from his imposing presence was insurance enough to allow his consideration.

He tilted his hat back and stood erect, casting one last glance at the shuttered windows of the Golden Slipper Saloon. Too early for business yet, although the sound of Herbie’s broom sweeping the perpetually dusty floor could be heard beyond the swinging doors. Jason Stillwell was no doubt in bed, owing to the late hours he kept running the place.

Tanner’s footsteps were heavy on the boardwalk as he followed his prey. She was heading for the train station, just as he had suspected.

The new preacher was supposed to be coming in today. Word had it that Rosemary Gibson was holding out hopes the bachelor minister would marry her and allow her to stay on in the parsonage, where she’d already spent the past ten years of her life.

He moved more quickly, noting the puffs of dust that rose as Miss Gibson made her way across the vacant lot. Her hips swayed quite nicely, he thought. Tanner doubted if the new preacher would appreciate the view as much as a rancher with a long dry spell behind him might.

When it got so a spinster looked good at ten o’clock in the morning, a man was in pretty bad shape, Tanner decided.

The train slowed, its whistle announcing its arrival with three short blasts as it shuddered to a stop. The conductor stepped briskly onto the platform and turned to assist the passengers from the metal steps.

There was more than one this morning, Rosemary saw with some surprise. All she had anticipated was the man who had been chosen to fill her father’s shoes. Those shoes she had polished for the final time just last month. Her tears fought to escape and she blinked furiously, lest she meet Lars Jorgenson with damp cheeks.

A woman stepped to the platform, a small boy right behind her. Next, a tall man with a tiny girl clutched against his shoulder eased past the conductor. They stood there, looking around as if they expected to be met, and Rosemary glanced over her shoulder at the empty platform. Surely they were someone’s relatives, or perhaps simply a new family moving to Edgewood, Texas, and in need of a conveyance.

The sight of Gabe Tanner rounding the corner of the station platform caught Rosemary’s eye and she turned quickly from the cocky grin he shot in her direction.

Another passenger stepped from the train and Rosemary held her breath. Surely this was Lars, this fine-looking, youthful gentleman whose gaze searched the length of the wooden platform. She lifted her head, settling a pleasant smile on her lips as she allowed her eyes to rest on his handsome face.