Gerrity's Bride

Gerrity’s Bride

Carolyn Davidson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Penny Bice, who has given of her talents with true generosity of spirit.

My world became a better and brighter place the day we met.

And to Brenda Rollins, for allowing me the benefit of her skills and vivid

imagination. I appreciate all you do. Thank you, my friend!

But most of all, to Mister Ed, who loves me!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Chapter One

Miss Emmaline Carruthers

Rawlings Farms

Lexington, Kentucky

It is my sad duty to advise you of

the death of your father, Samuel

Carruthers, who perished in a flash

flood, along with his wife, Arnetta,

on Tuesday last. We await your

instructions as to your interest

in their daughter, Theresa, five

years of age. Please advise as soon

as possible.

I remain your humble servant,

Oswald Hooper

Attorney

“Surely even Hades could not be as miserable as this godforsaken place.” The whisper was spoken into the wind. The words were gone as quickly as they were uttered, and the disappointment inherent in those whispered syllables might never have been, except for the slender figure of the woman who still gazed with incredulous eyes at the barren landscape of Forbes Junction.

The train bearing her had stopped for a few moments to allow for her departure, then left her behind with a doleful blast of its whistle. Now it was but a dark stain against the horizon, its smoke trail dissolving into wispy tendrils in the still air.

The sun rode high in the sky, its rays reminding her of the unrelenting heat that had been her companion for the past hours. Since shortly after daybreak, she had alternately fanned herself with a folded newspaper and mopped her brow with a dainty handkerchief. Still, the dry, breathtaking heat had penetrated her traveling costume, leaving her with but a trace of her usual vitality.

“Arizona... Even the name sounds hot,” she muttered as she lifted one foot to view the dust clinging to her fashionably booted foot. She stamped it against the wide wooden boards of the platform beneath her and surveyed the choices she faced.

A dusty road ran between a row of buildings, houses and business establishments, built along a fairly even line, for three hundred yards or so. Then it gave way to a sandy expanse that stretched to the horizon, broken only by scattered shrubs and a few stunted trees. The narrow road continued on, running in a straight line as far as she could see. It was less than inviting, she decided quickly.

Directly before her, an unpainted wooden door stood ajar. Beyond it lay a shadowed room, which appeared to be her most likely chance for shelter from the sun. The train station was small. Probably didn’t get much use, she decided, bending to lift her carpetbag, leaving behind the trunk that held her clothing. The weight of the carpetbag dragged at her arm, reminding her of the books she had stubbornly packed within its voluminous depths.

“Why you want all those along with you is beyond me,” Delilah had muttered. “You won’t be there long enough to read them, anyway,” she’d predicted.

“One can only hope!” As fervent as any prayer she’d ever uttered, the words fell from her lips and were wafted away on the hot wind that blew in unrelieved measure. With a sigh, Emmaline Carruthers squared her shoulders and lifted her feet, moving briskly through the open door.

The room was shady, and that was about all that was to be said for it. Small comfort, she thought as she stood in the center of the dingy station. An open window allowed a bit of cross-ventilation, and she took advantage of the moving air, such of it as there was. Her hand lingered over the top button of her suit, her fingers sorely tempted to loosen it. But better sense prevailed, and she approached the window with all her ladylike decorum intact.

“I beg your pardon.” Such decorum, she had decided, was her only defense against the situation. It would sustain her now, as it had for the past hundreds of miles. Once she reached the boundaries of true civilization, she had recognized that only her status as a lady would protect her from the vulgarities that surrounded her.

“Yup...just a minute.” The drawling reply came from beneath the counter, and she stifled the impulse to bend over the narrow ledge to seek out its source.

Two thin lines of perspiration ran down each side of her neck and settled against the white fabric of her collar, dampening it before it soaked through, cooling her flesh. She resisted the urge to brush at the drop that was even now making its way to her eyebrow, and stiffened her spine resolutely.

“What can I do fer ye?” The stationmaster rose to his full height, his stiff collar tight about his skinny neck. He peered at her through spectacles, which slid down his nose, then lifted one bony finger to settle them back into place.

“I’m expected,” she announced with brittle dignity. “There was to be a vehicle here to meet me from the Carrutherses’ ranch, but I don’t see anyone about. Have you any message for me?”

“Well, I might and I might not,” he quibbled. “Tell me who the message would be fer.”

“I’m Emmaline Carruthers.”

His eyes widened behind the thick lenses, and he pursed his lips as he took a renewed interest in her. Hesitating only briefly on her bonnet, his look roamed with admiration over her flushed features and paused with a trace of wonder as he viewed the curves that filled her dark dress.

“Yep, you surely are,” he allowed. “Got the look of yer pa about ye, through the eyes—not to mention the hair.”

“Indeed?” Her mouth pursed as she considered his assessment.

“Yep. Yer brother’s comin’ to pick you up.” He turned from the window, his duty accomplished with the delivery of the message.

Emmaline bit with vexation at the inside of her lower lip. “Who is coming?”

“Yer brother,” the stationmaster said again, and returned to his position beneath the ledge.

She glowered at his back, lifting on tiptoe to lean over the counter. “I don’t have a brother.” The words were clipped, her exasperation apparent. Surely he had mixed the messages. “I’m here to meet my sister, Theresa. I have no other relatives here,” she said emphatically.

But I have a sister, she thought with joy. Theresa. She whispered the name, savoring the syllables. Theresa. Five years old...daughter of Samuel. That definitely made the child her sister.

“Sorry to hear about yer pa,” The stationmaster said with a frown. “Don’t pay to get caught in a dry creek bed.”

She nodded her thanks. As much a surprise as the news had been, she’d wasted little time in sending her reply. It was difficult to scrape up much sorrow for the man who had fathered her. He was but a distant memory that had never been encouraged to flourish.

Perished in a flash flood. The telegram’s wording had been most specific. Her father had died, along with his wife. Samuel and Arnetta Carruthers...strangers who had borne the same last name she did.

“Did you know him well?” she asked on a sudden impulse.

“Eh? What’s that? Do I know yer brother? ‘Course I know him,” the man stated with dour confidence. “Ever’body in Forbes Junction knows Matt Gerrity.”

“No, I meant...” Her voice trailed off as she backed away from the window. Tiny lines of consternation furrowed her brow as she considered the situation. Any more questioning on her part seemed a futile exercise, she decided with a sigh of frustration. Surely someone would arrive soon. She nurtured the thought. Soon...she thought. Soon, she’d meet the child. With anticipation, she straightened her skirts and adjusted the tilt of her bonnet.

“He’ll be here afore long, lessen he gets tangled up talkin’ with some female or another on his way through town. He draws them women like flies,” the man said, before he lowered the shade over the narrow window and effectively cut off the conversation.

“Like flies...” Emmaline repeated dryly. “That sounds—”

“Time fer lunch,” the now disembodied voice announced from beyond the barrier.

Emmaline sighed as her stomach notified her that breakfast had been too many hours ago. And not much to brag about, at that. The leftover bread from last evening’s repast had been a bit beyond stale, and the peach more than ripe. Train travel left a lot to be desired, she’d discovered long before she reached Kansas City.

A wavy mirror on the wall faced her, and she stepped up to it, glancing into its depths, in hopes her appearance would bolster her sagging spirits. It was useless, she decided mournfully. Violet shadows rimmed her blue eyes, and a smudge marred her left cheekbone. Not to mention the stubborn curls vying for attention beneath the brim of her bonnet. She pushed at them with one finger, subduing them only until they were released, to escape in a flyaway fashion.

She peered at herself, and her sigh was deep as she pronounced, “I’m a wreck!”

“Now, I wouldn’t say that.”

She spun toward the door, her mouth open in dismay, her eyes wide and indignant, and faced the man who loomed in the doorway.

“I beg your pardon?” She couldn’t manage haughtiness, not with sweat streaking her neck and forehead, and errant curls poking out every which way. She settled for arrogance.

He grinned while his forefinger poked back the wide brim of his hat, leaving a crease across the expanse of his forehead. The hand that lowered to his waist was brown, the fingers long and tapered. It rested against his belt, and then the fingers slid into his pocket, until only the thumb looped over the wide leather circling his waist.

Her eyes moved back to his face, and she glowered at him. That he’d caught her surveying herself in the mirror was bad enough. He didn’t have to be enjoying her discomfort.

“I wouldn’t say that.” He repeated his words in a raspy voice that held a trace of amusement. “I’d say that you’re the best-lookin’ wreck I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

She inhaled sharply, irritated at his impudence. Then, with swishing skirts and tapping of booted feet, she turned from him to face the shaded window.

“You don’t want to be rude to the man who holds the reins, ma’am,” he said softly into her ear.

He was right behind her. She felt the warmth of his body against her back, and she stiffened, her spine straightening imperceptibly. Ahead of her, the shade twitched to one side, and the stationmaster peered around the edge.

“Howdy, Matt. Yer sister’s been waitin’.”

She closed her eyes against his words, then opened them slowly. “I don’t have a brother.” Each word was spoken with the emphasis due such a denial. Her aggravation was plainly apparent to both men.

The man behind her had the advantage, and he took it. His hands lifted to rest on her shoulders, and he bent to speak once more, his breath warm against the side of her neck.

“Turn around, Miss Emmaline. I’m here to represent your family.”

Emmaline’s mouth narrowed, and she shrugged as if she would loosen herself from the fingers that even now were forcing her to face him, tightening her shoulders as he silently brought her about. Her eyes were dark with suppressed anger as he accomplished his aim, and she tipped her head back to meet his sardonic gaze.

“I don’t know who you are,” she snapped. “I’ve come from Lexington to meet my little sister, Theresa Carruthers, and I’m waiting for a ride to the Carrutherses’ ranch.” She took a deep breath, availing herself of a double lungful of hot desert air. “I am no relation of yours.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, ma’am,” he drawled, his brow lifting in an arrogant gesture. “I’m just a shirttail relation, so to speak. But genuine kin of yours. My mama was Arnetta Carruthers, and when she married your daddy, I became the most interesting part of the bargain.”

He released her and stepped back, then bowed in a parody of elegance. His next words were underlaid with an emotion she could not have put words to.

“Welcome home, Miss Emmaline Carruthers.” His eyes glittered with the intensity of his appraisal. “We’ve been expecting you.”

* * *

The buckboard wasn’t much of an improvement over the train, Emmaline decided before they’d traveled a mile.

“Do you ride in this thing often?” she asked, clinging to the edge of the seat.

His eyes swept her with a hooded appraisal. “Havin’ a hard time keepin’ your seat?” The corner of his mouth twitched as he slapped the reins against the broad backs of the two huge animals trotting in tandem. Accordingly, they increased their pace, and Emmaline gripped more firmly to the wooden board beneath her.

“Surely you have a buggy of sorts that would have been more suitable,” she suggested, her voice vibrating with the rhythm of the springless wagon.

“Buggy don’t hold much in the line of supplies,” he told her, casting a glance at her pursed lips and furrowed brow. It was really more of an initiation than he had planned. Piling discomfort on top of distress wasn’t exactly playing fair, he admitted to himself as he noted the paleness of her cheeks, flushed from too much sun.

Pulling back on the reins and bringing the team of horses to a halt, he sighed. “Look, little sister...”

Between gritted teeth, she spit the words, barely moving her lips. “I’m...not...your...sister!”

His grin was quickly covered by a swipe of one large brown hand, and he turned to her with a suggestion of his amusement still vivid in his narrowed eyes. “Whatever you want to call it, we’re related, lady. Now, since that’s been established, let’s get you a bit more comfortable. You can’t sit in the sun with all those clothes on, stranglin’ you and holdin’ all the heat in. You’ll have heatstroke before I get you home, and then what good will you be to that little sister of ours?”

She sat in a huddled lump of bedraggled dark linen and considered his words. Then, as he reached toward her, obviously intent on loosening the buttons that marched up the front of her suit, she moved quickly. Her hands were there before his, her fingers moving stiffly as she set free the plain black buttons and turned back the lapels to reveal her throat.

Her eyes closed in pure pleasure as an errant breeze cooled the heated flesh she had exposed, and she breathed deeply of the scent of desert blossoms that the southerly wind carried to her nostrils. Scarcely had she inhaled, barely had she stretched her slender neck from within its folds of fabric, when she felt his hard hands on her wrist.

She opened her eyes, blinking against the glare of the afternoon sun, to see him undoing the buttons that closed her sleeve. She watched in stunned silence as he rolled up the cuff as far as it would go, almost to her elbow, then reached across her to grasp the other hand and repeated the motion.

Emmaline watched, aware of the total lack of respect he was displaying, aware of the proximity of their bodies as he bent to his task, and more aware than she wanted to be of the rough texture of his fingers against her pale skin. She swallowed back the flood of saliva that rushed to fill her mouth.

For just a moment, a swirling sensation in her stomach prompted her to consider anew her refusal of his offer of lunch. That is, until she decided that it wasn’t simply pangs of hunger she was feeling, but rather an unusual awareness of the man who handled her so casually. And then, with a grunt that might have signified approval, he straightened and retrieved the reins.

“Feel better?” he asked as he once more set the team in motion.

“Ummm,” she managed to reply.

“Once we get to the ranch, you’d do well to get out of those stockings and whatever you’re wearin’ under all those layers of clothes,” he suggested in an offhand manner.

Emmaline straightened on the seat, oddly refreshed by the loosening of her jacket, but hovering on the edge of anger at his casual mention of her underclothes. “I beg your pardon,” she said stiffly. “What I am wearing is no more or less than any lady would wear.”

“You won’t find any of those harnesses and piles of petticoats on a ranch, Miss Emmaline,” he said with dry precision. “The ladies wear light colors, and not too many layers.”

“I’m in mourning,” she announced primly, even as her honest heart prodded her. It was difficult to mourn a father she had little memory of, but she had dutifully donned the required black garb and yards of veiling on her hat. That the veiling had gone by the way after she discovered how hot it was behind the layers of gauze was not to be admitted, she thought warily. Now she’d allowed this...man, this ranch hand, to handle her clothing, and...

The memory of his work-roughened fingers against her skin was the final straw. He was bossy, she decided, not to mention arrogant, and she was still too hot. Her eyes blinked and narrowed against the unrelenting sunshine. Not only that, she was too tired, and sick of being jolted about on this sad excuse for a wagon, she thought as she fought the weary tears that burned behind her eyelids.

His voice saved her from the disgrace of tears. “We’ve arrived,” he announced as they passed beneath a sign proclaiming that they were on Carruthers land. But it was not to be a quick arrival, she noticed, watching the group of buildings in the distance. Indeed, it was another twenty minutes before the wagon halted.

As if it had sprouted from the desert, the house sprawled in several directions, its sand-colored walls dotted with windows and doors. A wide roof provided overhanging shelter, forming a shaded spot on the eastern side of the building. Appearing from the shadowed doorway, a woman stepped forward. Wiping her hands on the front of the white apron she wore, she smiled her welcome. Behind her, the open door revealed a dim interior, and Emmaline yearned suddenly to step within that shady area, out of the sun that beat upon her with unrelenting brilliance.

She shifted upon the seat, and, as if spurred by her movement, the man sitting next to her leaped to the ground and then turned, hands reaching to lift her from the seat. She moved nearer and then, fingers clutching his shoulders, felt him take her weight as he circled her waist with hands that held her firmly. He swept her to the ground, providing support while she gingerly tested her weight on limbs that were unaccountably shaky.

“Got the ground under you, ma’am?” he asked, his eyes mocking as he watched her closely. She was a slim little mite, he decided, flexing his fingers against the boning of the undergarment she wore. ‘Course, once she took off the corsets, or whatever it was they called those idiotic things women wore, she might spread out a little.

She stirred against his hands and he released her, his eyes hooded as he watched the sway of her skirt, the graceful steps of her slender booted feet and the tilt of her head under the bonnet she wore.

“Thank you, Mr....” She groped for a name as she stepped away from him.

“Just Matt,” he said bluntly. “We don’t deal in formalities around here, sis.”

She stiffened. “All right. Thank you, Matt,” she said, declining the argument he’d resurrected with his reference to their relationship.

“Come in, come in,” the woman on the doorstep said, stepping back to allow Emmaline room.

“Maria, this is Miss Emmaline,” Matt said. “Maria is our housekeeper, Emmaline.”

The woman nodded quickly. “I’ve been watching for you. You must be hot and tired. Hungry, too, unless this man fed you in town. From the looks of things, you need something cool to drink and a place to sit and rest a bit.” Maria bustled ahead, Emmaline trailing behind as she looked about the large room, drawn by the simple beauty of its furnishings.

Blinking against the dimness, she basked in the cooler temperature within the house. On the outside wall, the windows were covered with white curtains, sheer and filmy with deep ruffles that were held back at the sides. Large pieces of leather furniture sat about the room, deep chairs with reading lamps close at hand, and a pair of sofas that faced each other before an enormous fireplace on the far wall. A game table, surrounded by heavy wooden chairs, filled another corner. Whitewashed walls, dotted with paintings and an assortment of hanging rugs and tapestries, caught her eye. The floor beneath her feet was wooden, scattered with woven rugs across its wide planking.

A quiet, cool welcome enveloped her as she stood in silence...a welcome she had not thought to discover in this place.

Behind her, she heard the murmur of voices and then the bustle of men carrying in the contents of the wagon.

“Take Miss Emmaline’s bags to the guest room,” Maria instructed the men from the doorway.

“I only have my carpetbag and a small trunk,” Emmaline said quickly. She’d trusted her trunk to fate when the train conductor deposited it on the platform earlier. There it had remained until Matt shouldered it easily and dumped it without ceremony in the back of the wagon.

“I didn’t bring much with me,” she added. Her smile was distracted as she watched Maria. The woman waved her hands at the men hustling to do her bidding, alternately scolding them and shaking her head at them.

“Will your other things be coming later?” Matt asked from the doorway.

“No.” Turning to face him, she slid the bonnet from her head and brushed at the curls that sprang to life, vibrant against the darkness of her mourning dress. “I didn’t plan on staying long enough to need many things.”

His brow rose, and he braced his feet apart, one hand resting negligently against his hip, the other holding the belt and holster he had just slipped off.

“Oh?” The questioning syllable hung in the air.

Her chin lifted a bit as she silently defied him, determined to set the pattern for their short future together. “I only plan on staying long enough to hear the will read and make arrangements to take my sister back to Lexington with me.”

Only the sharp intake of breath warned her of another presence, and that only for a second. Then a wail of anguish filled the air and set her in motion.

“Noooo...” cried a child from the far side of one of the sofas, where she peered over the high back. “I’m not going away! I’m not going to Lexing with her, am I, Maffew?” she wailed piteously.

“‘Course not, Tessie,” he assured her, reaching her in several long strides, his gun belt flung onto a peg on the wall as he moved.

Emmaline was right behind him as he gathered the child into his arms. The little girl wrapped herself about him, burying her face against his broad chest.

The look he slanted at Emmaline clearly told her she had made her first blunder in this place.

“This is your little sister. Too bad you couldn’t have made a better first impression,” he said bluntly.

Emmaline drew in a deep breath and considered the situation. Taking another step closer to where the child huddled in her brother’s arms, she watched the narrow shoulders shudder, her heart aching in quick sympathy.