The Engagement Bargain

His sister propped her hands on her hips. “She should come home with us.”

Caleb had briefly thought the same thing, and had come up with a thousand reasons why the plan was not sound. “This isn’t our concern. Surely she has family, friends.”

A sweetheart, perhaps. The thought brought him up short. He shook his head. Nothing in the papers had ever indicated that Miss Bishop was linked with a gentleman—and that would certainly be newsworthy.

“I’ve corresponded with her for months. She doesn’t have anyone close. Her mother lives in St. Louis, but she’s in Boston for an extended stay. Besides, it’s too far for Anna to travel in her condition.”

Caleb sensed a losing battle ahead of him. This was the Jo he knew and admired. Given a problem, she immediately grasped for a solution and charged ahead.

He held out his arms in supplication and assumed his most placating tone. “Slow down. We don’t have any influence here.”

Jo slapped his hands away. “I’m not one of your animals. Stop speaking to me as though I’m a goat. Anna is my friend. She’ll need a place to rest, a quiet place to recuperate. People who care for her.”

“Jo, listen to me, even if you invited her back to Cimarron Springs, do you really think she’d accept your offer? She’s not a country girl. She’d be bored in an instant.” He indicated the elaborate appointed hallway with its hand-knotted rug and brass fixtures. “This is her world.”

Though he knew the idea was ludicrous, he couldn’t shake an impending sense of despair. He didn’t want their paths to cross any more than necessary. Anna Bishop was beautiful and witty and captivating. In the brief time he’d seen her on that stage, he’d known she was different from anyone else he’d ever met. He was drawn to her, and those feelings were disastrous.

He was a veterinarian from a small town who loathed big cities. She was a nationally renowned speaker with a following. She had a calling. There was clearly no room in her life for someone like him. He’d grown emotional over someone who hadn’t returned his affection once before. Only a fool made the same mistake twice.

His sister approached him and crowded into his space until they stood toe to toe. “She needs us.”

“Why us?” Caleb stood his ground. “Why does she need us?”

Jo glared. “Until they discover who tried to kill her, Anna is going to need a place to hide. And you’re good at hiding, aren’t you?”

With that, she pivoted on her heel and stomped down the corridor.

His burst of fury quickly died, replaced by a bone-deep weariness. He wasn’t hiding, he was simply a loner who should have stayed in Cimarron Springs where he belonged. And yet if he’d stayed at home, what would have happened to Anna? Who would have cared for her?

The answer troubled him more than he would have cared to admit. Which was why he needed as much space between them as possible, as soon as possible. Becoming embroiled in Anna’s life was out of the question.

Chapter Three (#ulink_396ec9ec-2ca9-5b68-98f1-ae1878ec2fec)

A week following the shooting, Anna staggered from bed and took a few lurching steps, determined to reestablish her independence. Winded, she collapsed onto a chair before the window. She’d considered dressing, but even the simple task of standing had become a tiring battle in her weakened condition.

From this moment on she was taking charge of her life. No more depending on others, no more sleeping the days and nights away. Except her body had refused the call to action.

The bandage wrapped around her side restricted her movements, and the slightest agitation sent a shock of pain through her side. Near tears, she rested her forehead against the chilled windowpane.

A soft knock sounded at the door. She smoothed the front of her dressing gown and tucked a lock of hair behind one ear, relieved they’d had her trunk delivered to the room when she and Jo had switched.

“It’s Mrs. Franklin,” a voice called.

Anna sat up as straight as her wound allowed. “Please, come in.”

As the door swung open, she recalled her embroidery and quickly shoved the evidence beneath her pillow. For reasons she couldn’t explain, she kept the feminine hobby to herself.

The older woman took one look at Anna and tsked. “Why didn’t you call for me? I would have helped.”

The past week was a blur of disjointed memories. Between sleeping and waking, she recalled the visits from other suffragists. The room had erupted with flowers like a meadow after a spring rain. They crowded every available surface, perfuming the air.

“I managed well enough,” Anna said. “I didn’t want to inconvenience you.”

“It’s no trouble.” Mrs. Franklin’s gray eyes clouded over. “It’s the least I can do.”

As she crossed before her, Anna caught her hand. “This wasn’t your fault.”

“You can’t blame me for feeling guilty.” The older woman paused. “Will you at least let me help you dress this morning?”

“That would be lovely. I’m tired of lazing around in my nightclothes.”

While Anna was eager to press her independence, she sensed the other woman’s need to be useful, and remained docile beneath her ministrations. The widow was the opposite of everything Anna had been taught to hold dear. Mrs. Franklin seemed to revel in her role as protector and nurturer—character traits her mother abhorred. Victoria Bishop took great pains to surround herself with the like-minded. No action was ever taken without a purpose. Independence was prized in the Bishop household. Tutors and nannies who had coddled Anna as a child were quickly corrected or dismissed.

You are not here to care for the child, Anna recalled her mother’s oft-repeated order, you are to teach the child how to care for herself.

After Anna donned her simplest outfit, a white cotton shirtwaist and brown plaid skirt, Mrs. Franklin spent several minutes fussing with her hair.

The older woman stood back and surveyed her work. “I’m no lady’s maid, but you’re presentable.”

Having done her own hair for many years, the sensation was odd. Being pampered and cared for was not nearly as repellent as it should have been. In fact, Anna quite liked the relaxing sensation. Unbidden, her mother’s fierce countenance popped into her head. Victoria Bishop had not raised her only daughter to be spoiled.

Anna took the brush from Mrs. Franklin and ran the bristles away from her temple, smoothing the wave created by her impossible curls. “It’s lovely, really. I don’t usually wear it this way.”

The widow had pinned her loose hair in a cascade atop her head. When Anna perched her hat over the arrangements, the curls framed her face. The effect softened her countenance and made her look younger, more approachable.

Mrs. Franklin tugged one of the ringlets free and let it fall against Anna’s cheek. “Oh, yes, I quite like that. You have lovely hair, my dear. If I’d had that hair back in ’45, oh the trouble I could have caused.”

Judging from the twinkle in Mrs. Franklin’s eye, Anna guessed she’d broken more than one heart. “I have a feeling you caused plenty of trouble, no matter your hair.”

“True, my dear. Quite true,” the widow answered with unabashed pride.

Anna couldn’t help but laugh with Mrs. Franklin’s reflection in the mirror. When she turned away, Anna’s smile faded.

Why was accepting assistance such a shameful weakness? If the situations were reversed, if Mrs. Franklin had needed help, Anna would have happily aided her. And yet each time she relinquished even the tiniest bit of her independence, she heard her mother’s stern disapproval. Why was the desire to look attractive such an appalling offense?

If a woman’s sole purpose in life was to attract a mate, then nature would not have given us the superior brain.

Anna patted her hair and recalled her manners. “Thank you, Mrs. Franklin, for your assistance. You’ve been absolutely indispensable. I don’t know what I would have done without you this week.”

“You must call me Izetta.”

Mrs. Franklin—Izetta—straightened the horsehair brush on the dressing table. “There’s a gentleman here to see you, if you’re up for it.”

“Mr. McCoy?” Anna’s heartbeat tripped. “He’s here?”

“No. A detective. A Pinkerton detective at that. Can you imagine?”

“Well, of course Mr. McCoy will have gone.” Anna held out her hands and studied her blunt fingernails. She mustn’t let her emotions turn at the mere thought of him. “I was only hoping for the chance to thank him properly.”