Short Straw Bride (Harlequin Historical) Read online

  She was a widow, after all, the ladies of the town comforted themselves. Though she was young, it wasn’t as if she were a single girl living alone. Letty’s husband had drowned when the wagon he was driving overturned in the midst of a river he’d been trying to ford. A widow at twenty, Letty had welcomed the opportunity to leave Ohio and all its painful memories behind and move west to care for her great-uncle Lazarus.

  Letty and Eleanor had met at church and become fast friends almost immediately. Letty was the one person in Eleanor’s life with whom she felt completely at ease, the one person with whom she could share her dreams and her fears.

  “I’ve decided to marry Andrew Webb,” Eleanor announced abruptly.

  “What on earth for?” Letty set her teacup down and frowned at her friend.

  “Because I don’t want to spend the rest of my life as Aunt Dorinda’s unpaid housekeeper.”

  “You don’t have to marry Andrew Webb just to avoid that. I’ve already told you that you could come live with me. We’d have such fun, Ellie. You know we would.”

  “You know as well as I do that it would never do.”

  “I don’t know any such thing.” Letty’s fine brows drew together and her soft mouth set in a stubborn line. “I have a spare bedroom just sitting empty. And if it would soothe that annoying pride of yours, I could even hire you as my housekeeper. Since there’s not much house to keep, we’d have plenty of time to enjoy ourselves.”

  But Eleanor was already shaking her head. “Can you imagine what people would say about two young women living alone together?”

  “I’m a widow. How could anyone complain if I choose to hire a companion?”

  “A companion even younger than you are?” Eleanor asked, raising her brows.

  “I ought to be able to have any companion I want,” Letty said stubbornly. She caught Eleanor’s eyes and sighed. “Oh, all right. You’re right and I’m wrong. But I don’t have to like it.”

  “I thank you for the offer.” Eleanor smiled at Letty’s disgruntled look.

  “Even if you can’t come stay with me, I don’t want you to marry Andrew Webb just to get away from your aunt and uncle,” Letty said after a moment.

  “I don’t see that I have much choice. I’ve no skills with which to earn my own living. He seems like a kind man and his children need a mother.” Even to her own ears, Eleanor sounded less than excited and she forced a false note of enthusiasm into her voice. “I’ve always wanted children of my own, you know.”

  “That’s an altogether different thing from gaining a husband and four children all in the same day and not knowing any of them any better than you do some stranger just arrived on the train from St. Louis.”

  “They’re not exactly strangers,” Eleanor protested.

  “What are the children’s names?”

  Letty’s unexpected demand left Eleanor momentarily speechless. “The oldest girl is Elizabeth, and the boys are—” She hesitated, groping to put a name to the four towheaded children who sat so quietly beside their father in church. “Simon and…William. And the littlest is Mary—no, it’s Margaret.” She gave Letty a triumphant look. It was short-lived.

  “The oldest girl is Liza and it’s not short for Elizabeth. The second boy isn’t William, he’s Willard, and the baby’s name is Minerva.” Letty ticked off the names on her fingers before fixing her friend with a stern look. “You can’t marry Andrew Webb when you don’t even know the names of his children, Eleanor.”

  “I can learn their names.” Eleanor set her chin in a way that would have startled Luke McLain.

  “You don’t love him,” Letty noted.

  “Not everyone marries for love. Love can come after marriage.” Eleanor tried to sound more confident than she felt. “He’s a nice man.”

  “With terrible taste in hats,” Letty observed, nodding to the overdecorated hat that Eleanor had set on the sofa next to her.

  “I can learn to live with that,” Eleanor said, casting a doubtful look at the item in question.

  “I don’t think it’s possible,” Letty said, shaking her head mournfully. “A man who’d choose a hat like that for a woman…there’s just no telling what else he might do.”

  Eleanor laughed, just as Letty had intended. “I’ve never heard anyone suggest that poor taste in millinery was an indication of serious character flaws.”

  “Well, it can be, and I forbid you to marry the man until we know something more about him.”

  “He hasn’t asked me yet,” Eleanor observed. “But if he does, I’m going to say yes.”

  “Then I hope he doesn’t ask you, because I can’t bear to see you marry someone just to get away from your aunt.” Letty’s hazel eyes reflected her distress. “There must be someone you’d rather marry.”

  Luke McLain’s strong features immediately popped into Eleanor’s mind but she pushed the image away. The idea that he’d have interest in marrying her was so farfetched as to be an absurdity. She might as well wish to marry the man in the moon as to dream of marrying Luke McLain.

  Chapter Five

  It was two weeks before Luke could spare the time for another trip to town. Two weeks during which he realized that if he took the time to get to know every eligible female in Black Dog, the business of finding a wife could drag on for months. And it would cost him time he could ill afford to spend. Trips back and forth to town, Sunday suppers with each girl’s family—the prospect filled him with dread.

  Of course, he could take Daniel up on his suggestion that they just forget the whole idea. But then they’d have to see about hiring a housekeeper, and that would still leave the problem that had started this whole mess in the first place, which was the need for one of them to have a son. True, that had been more Daniel’s concern than his, but the idea had taken hold of him and he couldn’t get it out of his head.

  A housekeeper might solve the problem of the cooking and cleaning but only a wife could provide him with a son and turn the neglected house back into a home. And he was starting to realize that he wanted one as much as the other. So a wife was what he had to have. But he didn’t see any sense in drawing out the process of finding one. As far as he was concerned, his needs were fairly simple—a girl not too old and not too young, one not hard on the eyes but not so pretty that she’d be spending all her time primping and preening, a girl not afraid of hard work. An even temper, biddable and not too skinny.

  Luke stared between the gray’s ears, his dark brows hooked in a frown as he considered the list of necessary attributes. It didn’t seem as if he was asking anything unreasonable. No more than any other man, anyway. In return he was willing to provide for his bride’s comfort and safety. He didn’t drink to excess—or at least, not very often. Nor did he swear in the presence of females. Women seemed to set store by security and he could offer her as much of that as any man could. His wife would never go hungry and he could afford to clothe her and house her in comfort.

  Thinking of the persuasive arguments in his favor, Luke nodded, confidence swelling in him. There was no reason he could see that Eleanor Williams shouldn’t accept his proposal. Unless she was seeing someone else, of course. His frown returning, Luke considered that possibility. But he dismissed it almost immediately. Sean Mulligan had said that Eleanor wasn’t being courted. He had a suspicion that Andrew Webb intended to change that, but if the man hadn’t done anything by now, it was his loss if someone else married the girl.

  Pleased with the results of his reasoning, Luke dug his heels into the gray’s sides, clicking his tongue to hurry the gelding along. There was work waiting to be done. The sooner he made his proposal and got an answer, the sooner he could get back to it.

  Eleanor was pinning the hem on a dress for Anabel when someone knocked on the front door.

  “Now, who could that be?”

  Eleanor assumed her aunt’s question was rhetorical, since the room’s other occupants could not be expected to see through walls and identify the caller.


  “Could be someone on bank business,” Zeb Williams said, looking up from the paper he’d been reading.

  “It’s a Sunday afternoon,” his wife protested.

  “Not everyone observes the Lord’s day as they should,” he said pompously. The paper crackled as he folded it neatly and set it on the arm of his chair. “Don’t worry, my dear, if it’s business, I’ll send them on their way in a trice.”

  “I should think you would. Imagine doing business on a Sunday.” As Zeb left the room, Dorinda settled deeper into her chair and reached for another chocolate from the box sitting next to her before opening the novel she’d been reading.

  “It’s probably someone calling for me,” Anabel said, craning her neck as if she could see around the corner to the front door. “Rose Ellen Miller said she’d bring over the pattern book her aunt sent her all the way from New York. It would be wonderful to see some really fashionable dresses instead of the dowdy things we get out here.”

  “You know you look a treat in anything you wear, precious,” her mother said, dragging her attention from the heroine of her novel and fixing her daughter with a fond look.

  “I just know I’d be a laughingstock in Boston or even San Francisco.” Anabel was angling for a new gown and had no intention of being consoled until she had one.

  “I didn’t know you were planning on going to either of those places.” Eleanor’s mouth was full of pins, making the muttered comment indistinguishable. Still, the other two glared at her, perhaps sensing sarcasm even though they hadn’t actually heard her.

  “It’s Mr. McLain,” Anabel hissed suddenly.

  Eleanor hadn’t needed Anabel to identify the owner of the deep, masculine voice in the hall. Her fingers were suddenly shaking, making it impossible to slide the pins into place. She was vividly aware that her hair, which had been ruthlessly tamed for church earlier, had begun to escape its bonds and curl about her face. She was wearing a pale pink dress that made her skin look the color of old flour, had a mouthful of pins and was kneeling on the floor at her cousin’s feet—probably just where Luke McLain thought she belonged, she thought bitterly.

  In the moment before her uncle and his guest appeared in the parlor door, Eleanor spit the pins into her hand. At least she didn’t have to look as if she’d swallowed a porcupine. Her aunt was not so lucky. Dorinda had just popped an entire chocolate into her mouth, leaving her with a choice of swallowing it whole or chewing in a most unladylike fashion.

  “Mr. McLain has something he wishes to discuss with me,” Zeb said in what Eleanor privately labeled his “I’m an important man” tone.

  Dorinda smiled, keeping her lips tightly pressed together. Her silence might have seemed odd if Anabel hadn’t jumped in to fill it.

  “We’ve missed you in church these past two weeks, Mr. McLain,” she said, softening her boldness with a dimpled smile and a coquettish look from under her thick lashes.

  Eleanor felt her heart sink as Luke’s gaze seemed to linger on her cousin. Standing on a low stool as she was, Anabel must look to him like a porcelain figurine on a stand. As for herself, she might qualify as a dusty brown mouse fit only to kneel at Anabel’s dainty feet.

  “That’s kind of you to say, Miss Anabel,” Luke said, and Eleanor knew it had to be wishful thinking that made him sound cool toward the younger girl. No one—no man—was ever cool toward Anabel.

  “Miss Eleanor.” She felt herself flush like a foolish child as those gray eyes settled on her.

  “Mr. McLain,” she whispered, lowering her eyes to prevent him from seeing the longing she was afraid must be blatantly revealed.

  The moment the two men disappeared into Zeb’s study, Dorinda opened her mouth wide enough to masticate the half-melted chocolate.

  “What do you suppose Mr. McLain needs to talk to Papa about?” Anabel’s tone was thoughtful, her pretty blue eyes full of cool speculation.

  “I’m sure I have no idea,” Dorinda said, annoyed at having been caught in an awkward position. She closed the box of chocolates and pushed it from her.

  “Did you see the way he looked at me?” Anabel asked. “Do you think he noticed how pretty I look?”

  “You shouldn’t say such things, Anabel. Modesty is one of a woman’s best virtues.”

  “But I am pretty, Mama. Everyone tells me so. Wouldn’t it be false modesty to pretend otherwise?” Her mother was still blinking from the impact of that question when Anabel continued. “Besides, since the Lord must have been the one to make me pretty, then I’m actually praising His work when I say as much.”

  If Eleanor hadn’t been busy trying to choke down a laugh, she might have almost felt sorry for her aunt. The dazed look in her eyes suggested that, this time, even she couldn’t ignore Anabel’s incredible arrogance. Anabel, of course, was oblivious to the shocked silence she’d created.

  “Do hurry up, Eleanor,” she snapped peevishly. “I bet Mr. McLain is asking Papa for permission to see me, and I can’t go out walking with him with my hem dragging in the dirt.”

  The probable truth of her words wiped out Eleanor’s brief spurt of amusement. She didn’t know how she’d stand it if she had to watch Luke McLain come courting Anabel. If that happened, she’d ask Andrew Webb to marry her, she promised herself fiercely.

  “Ouch!” Anabel cried out as a pin pricked her ankle.

  “Sorry,” Eleanor muttered without looking up.

  “You did that deliberately,” Anabel snapped. She jerked her skirt away, ignoring Eleanor’s gasp of pain as a pin tore into her fingertip. Stepping down off the footstool, she glared at her cousin. “You poked me on purpose because you’re jealous.”

  Though she hadn’t deliberately stuck Anabel with a pin—at least, she didn’t think it had been deliberate—Eleanor couldn’t deny the accusation that she was jealous. Not when she was all but seething with that emotion. She sucked a droplet of blood from her finger and allowed herself a brief wish that she had jabbed Anabel harder.

  Choosing silence as her best defense, she gathered up the packet of pins with trembling fingers and stood. Ignoring Anabel’s furious glare, she put the pins away in her sewing basket.

  “Mama—” Anabel’s whined complaint grated on Eleanor’s taut nerves. “Eleanor poked me deliberately.”

  “I’ll deal with her later, precious,” Dorinda promised absently. “Why don’t you go change into something pretty? Perhaps when Papa and Mr. McLain have finished their business we can persuade Mr. McLain to have some tea with us. You can’t entertain him in a dress with a pinned-up hem.”

  Anabel flew from the room. Eleanor shifted a few items around in the sewing basket, aware that her fingers were trembling. For a brief moment she was tempted to change into another dress, but there wasn’t much difference between the powder pink castoff she was wearing and the dusty blue dress that was her other Sunday best garment. Besides, she’d only come out looking like a fool if she tried to outshine Anabel. Like a mud hen trying to best a peacock, she thought.

  Sternly controlling the embryonic quiver of her lower lip, Eleanor picked up her embroidery and settled herself in one corner of the uncomfortable sofa. No doubt Anabel was right and Luke had come to ask for permission to call on her. Painful as it might be, she was simply going to have to deal with that reality.

  Anabel returned to the parlor so quickly that Eleanor wondered if she’d simply cut her way out of her other dress. She was wearing a pale pink dress with a soft flounce at the hem and a touch of lace at the neckline and wrists. She looked like an angel, her mother told her, and, much as she would have liked to do so, Eleanor couldn’t disagree.

  It was no wonder if Luke McLain was smitten with Anabel, she thought with a sigh. How could a man be expected to see past all that beauty to the nasty core of her?

  The three women waited with varying degrees of patience. Dorinda pretended to read her novel. Eleanor pretended to concentrate on her embroidery. And Anabel posed prettily on the edge of the piano bench and admired the grace
ful folds of her skirt, not bothering to pretend an interest in anything other than herself.

  Though it seemed like forever, it was something less than half an hour before they heard the door to the study open. Dorinda dropped her novel. Eleanor promptly jabbed her finger with a needle. Anabel merely lifted her head, tilting it attractively, a smile wreathing her pretty face as her father entered the parlor.

  “What did Mr. McLain want, Papa?” she asked with just the right combination of shy hope and feminine confidence.

  Zeb Williams didn’t respond immediately. He cleared his throat and looked away from his daughter. His eyes met his wife’s, skated over Anabel again and finally settled on his niece with a mixture of dislike and disbelief. “Mr. McLain would like to speak with you, Eleanor,” he said slowly.

  “With me?” Eleanor’s voice rose in a surprised squeak.

  “Yes.” The single word seemed to take a considerable effort. He cleared his throat again and focused his gaze somewhere past her shoulder. “You may speak with him in my study but you’re not to close the door more than halfway, do you hear?”

  “Yes, Uncle Zeb.” She hesitated, but her uncle didn’t seem to have anything more to add. She set aside her embroidery and stood.

  A quick glance at Anabel showed her pretty mouth half-open with surprise. Eleanor was pleased to see that she looked a little like a trout. Knowing that it was only a matter of seconds before Anabel regained her breath and demanded an explanation, Eleanor didn’t delay her departure.

  She paused outside her uncle’s study and smoothed her palms over her skirt. She knew from experience that there was no sense in even trying to pat her hair back into place—the curls would just spring right back out again. Drawing a deep breath, she pinned what she hoped was a serene smile on her face and walked into the den. Mindful of her uncle’s concern about propriety, she pushed the door half-shut behind her.