Welcome To Wyoming

“We can trace our lineage all the way back,” he said, proudly speaking the truth, “to George Washington’s house.”

“Truly?” she said. “You’re related to George Washington?”

“Well...one of his servants.”

She smiled. “What made you want to go to Harvard?” She looked so nicely at him, he found it hard not to scoff at her curiosity. However, the question made him realize why he was here. Not to flirt with her, but to fool her. The closest he’d ever gotten to stepping foot inside any college was riding past one in a locomotive. He hoped his speech and mannerisms didn’t give him away. He tended to cuss more than he should, and he could never sit calmly in a suit.

“I always had the urge to study,” he lied smoothly. He shifted his too-wide-to-get-comfortable shoulders against his chair and tried to straighten his cramped leg under the table. There never seemed to be enough room for him in these fussy places.

She played with the stem of her water glass but gazed intently at him.

“Studying came naturally,” he lied some more. Ha. He had counted down the days in school when he wouldn’t have to pick up another pencil. Although he was excellent with numbers and calculations, and figuring out what sort of gun he’d need to shoot what distances, and how much gold bullion a two-foot-by-two-foot safe could hold.

She scooped the white napkin from her lap and dabbed her lips. “That’s incredible. Your parents must’ve been so proud.”

“I reckon.” He realized she was referring to Ledbetter’s departed parents, but Simon was thinking of his own. His mother would surely be proud, if it were true and if she were still alive. But his father—the no-good son of a bitch—wouldn’t give a cow’s scrapings. After all, the bastard had walked out on Simon and his mother when he was just a kid.

“And pray tell,” she said, returning the napkin to her lovely thighs, “what subjects did you study?”

He blinked at her. How the hell should he know?

She must’ve taken his hesitation to mean that the question needed clarification. “I know you studied economics, but do tell what precisely you covered.”

“Ah, I see.” His hair brushed against his shoulders. “Economics of the United States. Of our natural supplies, and the upticks and downticks of the market, and our trade with the richer countries of the world. For example, England and France.”

“France? Don’t tell me you speak French?” Her lashes fluttered. How engrossed she was with her imaginary, dearly departed Ledbetter.

To be frank, Simon was a little put off at how much she seemed to worship him. Who the hell cared about someone who’d studied at Harvard? The man had fleeced old women of their wedding rings and slashed the throats of railroad passengers who wouldn’t cooperate. Education was no substitute for character.

“Nah, no French.” He shifted his long arms as the waiter brought glasses of red wine that Simon had requested. He’d selected French wine from the Burgundy region. She’d been impressed by that, too.

“Cheers,” he toasted, “to us.”

“Oh, Mr. Ledbetter, yes, to us.”

“Please, it’s Jarrod.”

“Sorry, it slipped out. It’s just so strange to be thinking we’re to be married shortly when we’ve never met before. Jarrod,” she corrected herself, clicking her glass against his. “May we always be this happy.” She lifted the glass to her mouth.

“Hmm,” he said softly, thinking of her comment, then took a swig. Not bad stuff. He preferred wine from the new vineyards of California, but he’d had a sense he needed to show off by asking for an imported bottle. It was what Ledbetter would have done.

He schemed as he twisted in his prickly wool suit and stared at the enticing person seated mere inches away. How exactly was he going to get through to this woman without arousing her suspicions to get what he wanted?

* * *

Something was off between them.

Natasha had felt it ever since his two friends had left them alone, and she and Jarrod had headed here to the hotel. She was trying awfully hard to be congenial and friendly, but something was holding her back.

What was it?

She lifted a piece of grilled fish to her mouth and tried to enjoy the meal, the restaurant, the company.

Perhaps it was a reaction to his behavior.

She had a sense that Jarrod was sizing her up rather harshly. That now that he’d met her face-to-face she wasn’t perhaps what he’d been expecting?

She wasn’t as formally educated as he was, granted, but she was well aware of the world, very well-read and inquisitive about business and jewelry. Her grandfather had taught her much about the business world, about delivering fine goods, about keeping his word on delivery times and being honest in a business deal. She hadn’t gone to Harvard, but she would love to read some of his texts to learn the finer details of economics, to be privy to what men were educated on and perhaps the economic secrets of the world.

No...she didn’t sense that he was lording over her that he had a college education and she didn’t. It was something else.

In his letters, he’d been keen to list what he wanted from her, declaring his desire of starting a family together, of bonding as husband and wife, but now in person...she sensed none of that. Every time she caught his eye, he was the one who looked away first. He had seemed open and friendly at first glance, but only to a point, for any intimate talk she was hoping for—about weddings and ministers and how many children they’d like to have—was not materializing.

It chipped at her confidence.

Was she emitting involuntary signals that she herself was hesitant of this marriage? That now that she’d arrived and met him, perhaps they were doing this too quickly?

Nothing easy is ever worth having. That was what Granddad had always said.

Perhaps she should take in the evening more slowly, not let her nerves run away with her senses. She would strive to be observant, to ensure that now that they’d met, she still did truly wish to marry him for him, and not because a stranger had simply responded to her letter.

What were her alternatives if she chose not to marry Jarrod Ledbetter?

She knew a trade. Jewelry repair. She’d read in the newspapers that many women here in the West ran their own businesses. That they even had the right to vote.

She had little money in her pocket, which was frightening on its own, but outside the train depot, she’d spotted two signs in storefront windows saying Help Wanted. She could apply for one of those positions to make sandwiches, or for a jeweler’s shop assistant, or any number of small jobs until she decided how to open her own jewelry store.

But...she was being ridiculous. Things were going as planned. She was here and her fiancé across the table was prepared to marry her. How on earth had she allowed her mind to wander off in this manner?

Because she was seeing it through the eyes of her protective grandfather, who’d always warned her not to give her heart away too freely. Any man who came into the shop and gave her a second glance got a cold stare from him in return.

Not until you’re sure of his intentions, Natasha, he’d say, should you ever allow a man to court you.

But Jarrod had given her no reason to doubt that he still intended to marry her.

“Tell me something more about yourself.” He seemed to be enjoying his roast venison and took another bite.

“Such as?”

“Anything and everything. Start from the beginning.”

“But you already know so much from my letters. I have to apologize how much I poured onto those pages.”

“Nonsense. I liked that. And now that you’re here in person, I want to hear about you all over again.” His green eyes flashed with flecks of deeper colors. His gaze lowered to linger on her lips.

Her pulse rippled. “You sure I won’t be boring you?”

He shook his head. His dark blond hair shifted about his broad shoulders, and she very much enjoyed the absurd length of it. All the cultured men in Chicago trimmed theirs short. But this was the Wild West.