Gerrity's Bride

Emmaline cocked her head and looked over her shoulder, her mouth pursed as if in thought. “Oh...I have a set of jackstraws, and a skipping rope.” She slanted a glance at Theresa once more. “Can you skip rope?”

Theresa’s head shook as she took another step closer.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Emmaline said, as if in surprise. “There’s a package from France that I found in my room back home in Lexington that I thought you might like.”

“From France?” Her eyes widened as Theresa sank onto the bath stool, oblivious of the towels beneath her bottom. “My Miss Olivia says that’s a place across the ocean.”

Emmaline nodded agreeably and resumed her washing, donning a façde of nonchalance. “Of course, you might not like playing jackstraws. But...we could skip rope.” She dared another look at the child, who had leaned even closer. “But then, I’m really a very good rope skipper, and you might have a hard time learning.”

“Oh, no,” Theresa said quickly. “I can learn real fast. My Maffew says I’m smart as a whip.” Her mouth drew down suddenly as a new thought struck her. “You won’t be here very long, anyway. Maffew says you’ll be leaving soon.”

“Well...” Emmaline turned quickly to the child, but it was too late. She had jumped from the stool and, with only one backward look, was gone, slipping through the doorway and running through the kitchen.

“Where’ve you been, pigeon?” The deep voice sounded beyond the half-open door, and Emmaline slipped once more beneath the surface of the water, sloshing it precariously close to the brim of the tub.

“Talkin’ to that lady,” Theresa said. “She’s takin’ a baff.”

“With the door open?” Tinged with a trace of amusement, the voice came closer, and Emmaline reached for the towels Maria had left.

“Are you wantin’ more company in there?” Matt asked from around the doorway. “We usually keep this door shut when the room is being used,” he drawled.

“Please pull it shut, would you?” Emmaline held the towel in readiness as she bent forward in the water, her knees pulled to her breasts.

“Sure you don’t want company?” From just beyond the door, his voice reached her, tinged with taunting amusement.

“Please, Matt,” she whispered, her words wispy with embarrassment.

He reached one long arm within the room, his fingers grasping the knob, and deliberately closed the door.

“Don’t be late for breakfast,” he called to her abruptly. “Maria usually only serves once. After that, you’re on your own.”

“And I hope you choke on yours,” she muttered as she stepped over the edge of the tub and enfolded herself in the towel she still clutched.

* * *

The last rays of the sun set the sky aglow in shades of pink and orange contrasting with the darker bands of purple that chased the daylight below the horizon. The porch faced west, and Emmaline sat on the top step, her arms wrapped about herself as she watched in awe, her eyes wide.

“Never seen a sunset before?” he asked in a faintly teasing fashion.

She shrugged, the movement lifting her shoulders, then allowed her glance to meet his. “Lots of them,” she answered, her arms dropping from her waist, her hands clasping easily in her lap.

“Looked like you were all wrapped up in this one.” He nodded toward the sky in the west, where the scudding clouds were still gleaming at the edges. The pink had darkened to cerise, rimming the gray, ominous cloud bank as though a paintbrush had been swept across the upper edge.

“It’s different,” she admitted quietly. “Stronger, somehow. Maybe just because there’s so much more of it.” She turned back to the vision that was even now fading rapidly beneath the horizon, and her sigh was audible.

“There’ll be another one tomorrow night.” He made his way to where she sat, his stride long and his boots loud against the wooden porch. In an easy motion, he sat down beside her and stretched his long legs before him.

She eyed him from beneath lowered lids, her glance making a guarded survey. His pants were snug, wrapped about his thighs and calves as if custom-made to fit the muscular shape they covered. Dusty and worn at the seams, they were standard-quality denim, but on Matthew Gerrity they became something else.

She thought of the men she’d known who wouldn’t be caught wearing common pants from a store shelf, men who had their riding clothes made by tailors who measured and sewed each seam with precision. None of them could hold a candle to this man, she decided.

There was about him a sureness, a quality of masculine perfection that defied description. He wore a cotton shirt that tucked neatly into his pants, a bandanna tied casually about his throat, his belt snug about his waist—below his waist, really, she amended with a silent chuckle. The pants rode the top of his hips as he walked, she remembered, and her face flushed as she recalled that walk.

That slim-hipped, flat-bottomed stroll that had caught her openmouthed as she watched. The masculine body that began with broad shoulders and long arms, arms that were thick beneath the shirtsleeves he rolled to within inches of his elbows. Hands that were wide, and fingers that were long and tapered and strong.

“Emmaline?” The voice was close to her ear, and she jerked as it brought her from her thoughts.

“Have you made up your mind? Are you planning the wedding?”

She shook her head. “Not yet.”

His look was cynical. “Begging off already?”

“I told you I’d do anything I had to, didn’t I?”

“Is it so bad? Marrying the ranch foreman?” His tone was clipped and cold.

“You won’t be the foreman if I marry you. You’ll own the place.”

“Half of it. Your name will be on the title, too. That ought to make your folks happy, you bein’ a landowner.”

She shrugged and eyed the darkened horizon, loath to look in his direction. “It’s still not what my grandparents planned for me. Certainly not what my mother had in mind for her only child.”

“In other words, you could do better back in Lexington,” he said tonelessly.

“Could you? Could you do better?” she asked, and then dared the question she’d been mulling over. “Was there someone else in the picture before I arrived?”

He was silent, and she ventured to cast a quick look at him. His jaw was taut, and his eyes were narrowed. Certainly not an approachable man, she thought. He gave no indication of his thoughts, and she’d begun to regret her question when he shifted toward her.

“No one that should matter to you,” he answered shortly.

“Will you break her heart? Or is there more than one?”

He shook his head in a slow movement, his eyes on her. “Hardly. I don’t have time to chase after women.”

“Maria seems to think you don’t have to do much chasing.”

“Maria talks too much.” His grin was cocky.

“You didn’t answer my question. Are you going to break some woman’s heart if we marry?” She tilted her chin and waited for his answer.

It was enigmatic, as was the look he sent from beneath lowered brows. “Most women don’t have hearts that are broken so easily.”

She sighed, wondering how long it would take to get a straight answer. “Will you give her up?”

His smile tilted one corner of his mouth disdainfully. “Does it matter?”

Her cheeks were pink as she considered him. “There isn’t any hurry, is there?” she asked finally. “We don’t have to be married right away. Because if you’re having second thoughts, or if you’re planning on—”