Short Straw Bride

Cora and Hiram Danvers were to join them for Sunday supper, and Dorinda Williams was determined that everything be absolutely perfect. She didn’t want to give her “dearest friend” a single flaw to find. Luke McLain’s presence was icing on the cake, as far as she was concerned.

As soon as they arrived at the house, Eleanor slipped into the kitchen without waiting to see the arrival of her aunt’s guests. She stood in the center of the cramped, airless room for a minute, her hands clenched at her sides. She wasn’t sure which she wanted to do more—cry or break something.

She heard the low rumble of Luke McLain’s voice from the direction of the parlor and felt her eyes sting with tears. When she’d seen him at church this morning, she’d felt her heart bump. Her stupid heart, she thought savagely. So what if he was the handsomest man she’d ever seen. He was just as foolish as every other man in this town, unable to see past Anabel’s big blue eyes and golden curls.

When he’d approached the family after church, for one giddy moment she’d thought that their brief encounter in Andrew’s store might have made him want to see her again. But he’d barely acknowledged her presence before turning that devastating smile in her aunt’s direction. From the look he threw at Anabel, it wasn’t difficult to guess why he had gone to the trouble to charm Aunt Dorinda into inviting him to supper.

Eleanor stalked to the big stove and lifted the lid on the pot she’d left simmering. Picking up a fork, she jabbed a potato hard enough to break it in two. If Luke McLain was stupid enough to fall for Anabel, then he deserved every minute of misery she’d dish out. She herself had better things to think about, like getting supper on the table.

She threw a few sticks of wood into the stove and opened the damper a little wider. The chicken had been floured and left to sit, covered with a clean towel. All she had to do was melt lard in the big iron skillet and start the chicken frying. While it cooked, she’d have time to mash the potatoes and whip up a batch of biscuits. And if her eyes stung while she was doing it, it was purely because of the heat. It certainly had nothing to do with a particular dark-haired cowboy.

Luke sat in the cramped little parlor and struggled to remember all the lessons his mother had drummed into him about making polite conversation. He talked about the weather, the possibility of the town building a new school and the latest government negotiations with the hostile Indian tribes in the Southwest. He didn’t give a damn about any of the three. What he really wanted to do was demand to know where Eleanor was, not discuss the possibility of a drought with these two overfed bankers.

The two older women sat on a black horsehair sofa, twin to the one he occupied and probably just as uncomfortable. Dorinda Williams was busy with some sort of needlework, her fingers moving swiftly over a mass of fine cotton. Probably another doily like the ones that covered every available surface in the overcrowded room.

Annalise or Anamae or whatever her name was sat on the piano bench, poking her fingers on the keys in a series of unrelated notes that grated on his nerves. A beam of sunlight had managed to struggle past the layers of draperies that smothered each window and the light fell across her, turning her hair to spun gold, highlighting her pretty features. Cynically, Luke wondered if she’d chosen that spot for just that reason. It sure as hell couldn’t be out of a love for music, he thought, wincing as her fingers descended on the keys again.

“Where is Miss Eleanor?” he asked, waiting only for the smallest of breaks in the conversation. He looked at his hostess, hoping his expression was politely interested, rather than impatient.

Dorinda Williams looked at him blankly for a moment, her niece so far from her thoughts that she seemed to be having a difficult time remembering who she was. Her daughter had no such difficulty.

“She’s in the kitchen, earning her keep,” she said, throwing him a bright, sharp smile.

“She’s employed by you?” Luke asked, knowing full well that wasn’t the case.

“Of course not.” Dorinda Williams threw her daughter a warning look before smiling at Luke. He didn’t find her smile any more appealing than her daughter’s had been. “What Anabel should have said was that Eleanor insists on helping around the house. It’s her way of thanking us for taking her in when her father was killed.”

“Does she always stay in the kitchen when you have guests?” Luke’s expression of polite interest drew any sting from the question.

“Can’t say I’ve seen much of her,” Cora Danvers said, her harsh voice unnaturally loud in the stuffy little room.

“Eleanor is very shy,” Dorinda said in a strained tone. “Her upbringing before she came to us was rather—shall we say, unconventional?”

“We aren’t saying anything,” Cora said, withering her hostess’s coy tone. “And if you’re hinting that Eleanor’s father taught her anything less than perfect manners, I’ll say flat out that I don’t believe it for a minute. Nathan Williams had manners smooth enough to please the queen of England. So if you’re suggesting that Eleanor might be inclined to blow her nose on her sleeve or some such thing, it doesn’t seem likely.”

Dorinda’s face had turned a pale shade of purple during Cora’s speech, and Luke hid a smile behind his coffee cup. He thought he could come to like at least one banker’s wife.

“Of course, Eleanor’s manners are impeccable. I certainly wouldn’t allow anything less. I merely meant that, with her father having practiced a less than respectable profession, perhaps Eleanor is not as comfortable in polite company as a girl like my sweet Anabel, who was raised in more cultured surroundings.”

“What was her father’s profession?” Luke asked. “If you don’t mind my asking, of course.” Not that he really cared whether anyone minded or not. He wanted to find out as much as he could about the girl he was considering marrying. Eleanor had said her father had traveled a lot, but he hadn’t given much thought to the man’s profession.

“My brother earned his living on the turn of a card,” Zeb Williams said in a repressive tone that made his opinion of such a profession quite clear.

“A gambler?” Luke’s brows rose.

“Yes. It’s not something we talk about a great deal, for obvious reasons.” Zeb looked as if he’d just confessed to having a wild Indian in the family.

“Look how serious we’ve all grown,” Anabel cried with forced gaiety, annoyed that everyone’s attention had somehow been drawn away from her. “It’s much too nice a day to be so serious. Don’t you agree, Mr. McLain?”

She widened her pretty blue eyes at him and thrust her lower lip out in the merest hint of a pout. Luke would have bet a good horse on the fact that she’d practiced that look in front of her mirror. He smiled and wondered if maybe her parents shouldn’t have spanked her a time or two when she was younger.

“Why don’t you play for us, dear?” Dorinda smiled indulgently.

“I’m not very good,” Anabel protested prettily, but Luke had the idea that it would have taken a tornado to budge her from her seat on the bench.

“Nonsense, my dear. Miss Brown said you had a natural talent,” Zebediah said. “Miss Brown learned to play in Boston,” he added proudly, giving the impression that Bostonians had some sort of an edge over the rest of the country when it came to piano playing.

“Miss Brown said the same thing to my Horace,” Cora put in. “And he can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”

There was an awkward little pause and Luke saw Anabel’s eyes flash with fury, the first genuine emotion he’d seen from her.

“Well, Anabel doesn’t need a bucket to carry a tune,” Dorinda said with a tight little smile. “Do play something, precious.”

“Only if Mr. McLain promises to make allowances. I feel a little shy. I don’t often perform for anyone but the closest family.”

“You played two weeks ago at my house with half a dozen people watching,” Cora said. “Didn’t look shy at all, then.”

“I’m sure no one needs to make allowances for your performance, Miss Williams.” Luke spoke quickly, staving off the explosion he could see building in his hostess’s face. “I’d enjoy hearing you play.”

About as much as I’d enjoy having a tooth pulled.

Anabel conjured up a pleased blush before turning to the piano, where her music, by coincidence, of course, just happened to be laid out. It didn’t take more than a few measures for Luke to realize that Miss Brown was either completely tone deaf or a terrible liar. Anabel might have a natural talent but it sure as hell wasn’t for piano playing.

He was starting to wonder how much of this he’d be expected to suffer through when Eleanor came to the door of the parlor. She didn’t speak and no one else seemed to notice her presence but Luke knew the moment she appeared.

As Daniel had said, there wasn’t much to her, but what there was was very neatly packaged, Luke thought, admiring the feminine softness of her figure. After all, when it came to women, a man didn’t need more than an armful and Eleanor looked as if she’d provide plenty to hold on to on a cold winter’s night.

He was grateful to see that she’d left off the ugly hat she’d been wearing both times he’d seen her. Her hair was drawn back from her face, but the severe style was softened by the delicate fringe of soft curls that had escaped to frame her face. He found himself wondering what her hair looked like when it was down. Would it curl over a man’s hands, pulling him closer to her? And would she welcome a man’s passion or be frightened by it?

He was surprised to realize that he was becoming aroused just looking at her. Irritated with himself, he looked away, turning his eyes to where Anabel sat abusing the piano keys, thereby missing the wistful look Eleanor turned in his direction.

Though he certainly wouldn’t choose a wife based solely on her cooking skills, Luke was pleased to find that Eleanor’s were more than adequate. He and Daniel had hired a cook but he’d quit almost a month ago and since then, they and the hands had been cooking for themselves. Even when they’d had a cook, the food had been less than inspired. The meal spread out before him was the best he’d had since his mother’s death. The biscuits were as close to pure heaven as he’d ever eaten in his life. He said as much, and from the startled look Eleanor shot him, he suspected few compliments came her way.

“Thank you.” Her voice was low and soft, just as he remembered it, and Luke added another item to his list of prerequisites for a wife—a pleasant speaking voice. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life with a woman with a voice like a cat who’d got its tail caught under a rocking chair.

Anabel, who’d been seated next to Luke, looked annoyed that someone had noticed her cousin. When Hiram Danvers seconded Luke’s comment about the biscuits, her pout became a little less studied and not nearly as pretty as it had been. Eleanor looked uncomfortable with the attention being given her and Luke decided that modesty was a good attribute in a woman.

Though Luke participated in the conversation, his attention was centered on the dark-haired girl across the table from him. He saw nothing to make him think his first assessment had been in error. The more he watched Eleanor Williams, the more convinced he became that she’d make a suitable wife. Her looks were pleasant, her demeanor quiet—she was the very picture of the docile bride he’d described to his brother.

When the meal ended, Eleanor rose and began to clear the table. Luke noticed that neither Anabel nor her mother moved to offer any assistance. Since Eleanor didn’t seem to notice the omission, he assumed this must be another example of how she “earned her keep.”

As Eleanor disappeared into the kitchen, Anabel caught Luke’s eye. Her smile was pure invitation, too old for her sixteen years. Luke was surprised by his own lack of interest. Perhaps Anabel read something of that lack in his expression because her soft, pink Cupid’s-bow mouth tightened momentarily and something cold and hard flickered in her baby blue eyes.

Just like that mule Pa owned, Luke thought again. Remembering the mule’s tendency to bite when riled, he had to restrain the urge to shift his chair a little farther away from Anabel’s. But he underestimated her intelligence. Anabel knew exactly who was to blame for his indifference.

Eleanor carried in a pie and Luke’s mouth watered at the pungent, sweet smell of warm cherries. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had cherry pie. And if her pie was anywhere near as good as her biscuits…

“That smells mighty good, Miss Eleanor,” he said, enjoying the flush of pleasure that brought a sparkle to her eyes.