Frontier Matchmaker Bride

She decided as she cleaned out the main cabin, which served as a rooming house for her brother’s logging crew, that he needed a woman of substance, maturity. As she helped John’s wife, Dottie, bring in the wash hanging on the line before a squall came in, she determined that an impoverished lady might touch on his sense of chivalry and convince him to help. And she kept her promise. She said nothing to any of her family about her plan.

She had a few women in mind when she went to fetch the mail on Wednesday. Wallin Landing had its own post office, sanctioned by the Postmaster General of the United States, no less, but someone had to carry the letters and parcels from Seattle to her brother James’s store and back. When she stopped at the mercantile on Front Street, however, Seattle’s postmaster was apologetic.

“A big storm ran down the Strait,” Mr. Pumphrey told her, rubbing at the counter with his thick fingers. “I heard it even toppled houses in Victoria. All ships have been delayed, alas.”

“We’ll send someone back later in the week,” Beth promised. “Have you seen Deputy McCormick today?”

“He rode past not a quarter hour ago, heading toward the docks.” He leaned across the counter, heavy features lifting. “If you see him, will you tell him his books arrived?”

Beth glanced to the far wall, where leather spines promised adventure and romance. Mr. Pumphrey had stocked the largest collection of books and magazines of any mercantile in Seattle. Her brother John usually had to be dragged from the store before he spent all his money.

“What did he order?” she asked.

His smile brightened his green eyes. “Dime novels—cowboys, train robberies, kidnapped maidens. Perhaps he learns something about being a deputy by reading them.”

She promised to let Hart know. Leaving her brother’s horses tied in front of the store, she started for the docks. Dime novels. Who would have thought? They were thrilling, sensationalist, romantic. A shame he hadn’t learned more from them than the importance of enforcing the law.

The docks were busy as she approached. When she was a girl, Seattle had boasted only one wharf. Now six others stretched across the shores of Elliott Bay. Three ships had made it to port before the big storm. Sailors and teamsters were still working to unload the cargo. The steamer from San Francisco had also docked, longboats heading out to ferry the passengers and luggage ashore.

Even in all the movement, she easily spotted Hart’s black hat, his tall figure. Because it was useless to call over the whine and whir of the nearby sawmill, she stepped out onto the dock. Her rosy skirts were a sharp contrast to the weathered wood, the clumps of lichen and moss, the dark clouds hanging heavy. But it wasn’t the threat of rain that made work screech to a halt as she passed. Men lowered their end of boxes to tip their caps. Others offered smiles and nods. One enterprising fellow with dark hair darted in front of her.

“Can I help you, miss?”

A blond elbowed him aside, one thumb hooked in the suspenders that covered his flannel shirt. “I’m the man for the job, miss. Anything you need.”

His colleague shoved him. “Back off, you lout. I saw her first.”

The other man raised a fist.

“Gents.” Both the men froze at Hart’s raspy drawl as the lawman moved up behind them. “I believe the lady is looking for me.”

“Yes, please,” Beth said with a smile to the would-be brawlers. “But thank you for your eagerness to help.”

The first swept her a bow. “Anything for you, milady.”

His colleague pushed on his shoulders, nearly oversetting him, then ran off with a laugh, the first in hot pursuit.

“They’re so cute at that age,” Beth said.

Hart shook his head. “You’re not much older.”

“But so much wiser.” She linked her arm with his. “So, tell me. When shall we meet to discuss the next steps in finding you a match?”

He glanced around, likely concerned the men might overhear as work resumed. “Not here.” He tugged on her arm, and she allowed him to lead her back up to the shore and pointed him toward Pumphrey and Company, where Lance and Percy waited in their traces.

“Mr. Pumphrey wanted you to know the new dime novels are in,” she told Hart. “I understand you’re fond of them.”

He cast her a glance. “Against the advice of the Literary Society, no doubt. Probably not up to their standards.”

Beth raised her chin. “I would never disparage another person’s taste in literature. Besides, I’ve always enjoyed them. Have you read The Adventures of Black Bess?”

His smile brightened, and something inside her wanted to dance in its light. “Now, there’s a lady. Nothing stopped her—kidnapping, tornado, bandits.”

Beth grinned. “Of course you remember the bandits.”

He shrugged. “Part of the job.”

“I’d have thought you’d want something different from the job to read,” she said as they approached the team.

“I started reading them before I was a lawman.”

“And they made you dream of becoming one,” Beth guessed.

He seemed to be studying the horses. Over the years, many men had responded that way to her brother’s horses. They were steel dusts, the first in the area, their shorter necks and powerful hindquarters making them uniquely suited to run far and fast.

About as far and as fast as Hart likely wanted to run from her idea of matching him up.

“Would you be willing to meet me at the Pastry Emporium at two?” she asked. “I’d like to introduce you to someone.”

His eyes narrowed, but he nodded. “All right. Until then, stay away from the docks. There are some rough sorts down there.”

The two workers hadn’t seemed all that rough to her. “You forget. I have five brothers.”

“Your brothers are gentlemen. Some of those workers aren’t.”

She really shouldn’t take his statements as anything more than his duty as a lawman. “Very well. I’ll be careful.”

His gaze moved to the wharves, as if he saw a gang of marauding pirates rather than busy longshoremen. “Good. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

Beth stared at him.

“I’d hate to have to explain to your brothers,” he added.

Well! She was about to tell him exactly what she thought of the idea when she noticed a light in his eyes. Was that a twinkle in the gray?

Beth tossed her head. “Oh, they’ll take your side. You know they will. They always say I have more enthusiasm than sense.”

He shrugged. “I know a few women who match that description.”

Beth grinned. “But none as pretty as me.”

“That’s the truth.” His gaze warmed, and she caught her breath. Hart McCormick, flirting with her? It couldn’t be!

Fingers fumbling, she untied the horses and hurried for the bench. “I should go. Lots to do before two. See you at the Emporium.”

He followed her around. Before she knew what he was about, he’d placed his hands on her waist. For one moment, she stood in his embrace. Her stomach fluttered. She traced the lines around his mouth with her eyes, tried not to think about how those lips might feel against her own.

He lifted her easily onto the bench and stepped back, face impassive as if he hadn’t been affected in the slightest. “Until two, Miss Wallin.”

Her heart didn’t slow until she’d rounded the corner.

Silly! Why did she keep reacting that way? He wasn’t interested in her. He’d told her so himself. She was not about to offer him her heart. There was no reason to behave like a giddy schoolgirl on her first infatuation.

Even if he had been her schoolgirl infatuation.

She was a woman now, with opportunities, plans, dreams for a future. If those dreams sometimes seemed nebulous, it was only because she hadn’t firmed them up yet. She needed time, more information. She’d figure it out eventually. And she wasn’t about to allow herself to take a chance on love again, especially not with Hart McCormick.

For now, the important thing was to find the perfect woman for him, and she knew just where to look. She drove the wagon up Mill Street for the houses that lined the ridge.

Mrs. Dunbar was happy to entertain her, until Beth eased into her reason for visiting. The tall blonde widow leaned back in her leather-upholstered chair with upraised brow at the idea of working with a matchmaker. When Beth confessed she’d come about Hart McCormick specifically, the woman held up a hand.

“Oh, not him. I appreciate you thinking of me, Miss Wallin, but I have no interest in having Deputy McCormick court me.”

Beth couldn’t help frowning. “May I ask why? He seems to me to be everything a gentleman should be.”

The pretty widow went so far as to shudder. “You were raised in the wilderness, I hear. Some ladies have more exacting standards. Deputy McCormick is far too gruff, far too uncompromising. And those eyes.” She shuddered again. “I’d not like to see those looking at me across the dining table every day.”

Beth stood, shaking out her skirts. “I understand. You’d prefer a gentleman you can bend to your will, preferably with pale eyes and a wan constitution. If I find one in Seattle, I’ll be sure to send him your way. I’ll just see myself out.”

She was still steaming as she climbed up onto the bench. Uncompromising, Mrs. Dunbar had said. Who wanted a man who compromised his values? What was wrong with having a strong moral compass? And to judge a fellow by the color of his eyes? Mrs. Dunbar was no better than Drew, coming up with reasons to refuse a man without having any idea of his character! Hart could do better.

Unfortunately, the next two ladies she visited were equally uninterested. One thought him too opinionated, the other too quiet. He certainly held strong opinions, but she generally agreed with them, except for a certain decision on whether to wed. And he wasn’t garrulous. When he spoke, he spoke with substance, imparting information, concern. Why did they see those traits as weaknesses rather than strengths?

The final lady agreed to come with her to meet Hart, but so timidly that Beth could only wonder. Perhaps he wasn’t showing himself to best effect. If these women had encountered him in the middle of some investigation, Beth could see why they might find him uncompromising. He would have been focused on doing his job. Perhaps they needed to see another side of him, a man who could show to advantage in society.

Not that she’d ever seen that side of him, come to think of it. But it had to be there. She merely had to bring it out.

As in the tale of the ugly duckling she’d read as a child, she was certain Hart McCormick had a swan inside. He just didn’t know it yet. But, with her at his side, Seattle would soon see what a fine man held the position of deputy sheriff. And then the ladies would come running.

* * *

Hart dragged his feet going to the Pastry Emporium that afternoon. He told himself he had work to do. That was why he’d been out on the docks, after all. Weinclef at Kelloggs’ had confessed to finding another newcomer beaten in the alley beside the store. Hart wasn’t about to let the gang claim another victim. Whoever recruited the poor fellows must have a pleasing disguise, because the immigrants went willingly and didn’t want to implicate their benefactor in their troubles.

So, after seeing Beth off, he returned to the top of the docks, watching as the passengers from the San Francisco run climbed up onto the planks. The first pair were grizzled sourdoughs, looking for better pickings, it seemed. Likely they’d be too savvy to run afoul of Seattle’s newest gang. Next up the ladder from the longboat was a dapper gentleman with a lady and two lads in tow. They were probably safe as well. Single fellows were easier to peel away.

The next fellow was the perfect candidate. Tailored coat and plaid trousers, big grin on his face, as if even the frontier town delighted him. Carpetbag in hand, he strutted up the pier.

A lad materialized from behind a crate, startling the fellow. Hart frowned as the pair exchanged words. Then the youth fell into step beside the newcomer, as if guiding him along the dock.

Hart met them at the top of the wharf, feet planted and stance wide. The youth blanched. He could have been as old as fourteen, though his slender build and short stature made it equally likely he was younger. He quickly tugged down on his tweed cap and lowered his gaze, but not before Hart made out thick black hair.

“Afternoon,” Hart drawled. “I’m Deputy McCormick. Where might you be going?”

The man beamed at him. “My new friend here was about to show me a suitable place for a gentleman to lodge in your fair city.”

“Wasn’t that neighborly of him?” Hart eyed the youth. “Where are you headed, son?”

He bolted.

While the newcomer called out in protest, Hart gave chase. The adolescent darted among the wagons waiting to be loaded. Horses shifted, wagons swayed, drivers shouted a complaint. Nothing stopped the youth. Nothing stopped Hart either.

His quarry wove in and out among the traffic on Commercial Street, then paused before a shop. Was he daring Hart to follow him? Hart didn’t look at the name of the proprietor before diving after him.

Three women cried out, and he managed to stop himself before plowing into them. He recognized the two Denny ladies. He couldn’t mistake the woman with them.

Mrs. Jamison drew herself up. “Really, Deputy! What is the meaning of this?”

Hart nodded to her, gaze sweeping the shop. It ought to have been easy to spot a lad among all the fripperies, yet everything looked much as it had yesterday. “Forgive the interruption, Mrs. Jamison. I followed a possible felon into this shop. Did you see where he went?”

The Denny ladies clutched their chests as if fearing for their lives.

Mrs. Jamison narrowed her eyes. “Felon? What nonsense. The only person of the male persuasion to come through those doors in the last hour was my brother.”

Mrs. Arthur Denny, wife of the railroad president, collected herself and stepped forward, blue skirts swinging. “There must be some mistake, Deputy. Mrs. Jamison and her brother are new to our shores.”

“And she is a terribly talented seamstress,” her sister, who had married the wealthy land developer David Denny, brother of Arthur, added. “She and her brother are a credit to our town.”

Hart nodded. “Good to know. I’d like to meet the fellow.”

The Denny ladies looked to their hostess. Mrs. Jamison’s bow of a mouth was pressed tight together. Then it widened to a smile. “Why, certainly, Deputy. I’ll just fetch him for you.” She passed through the curtain at the back of the shop.

The two dark-haired sisters busied themselves with the sketches they must have been perusing before he’d burst in on them. He could imagine Beth poring over the things as avidly.

He cleared his throat even though he hadn’t spoken his thoughts aloud. Both of the ladies were members of the Literary Society. No sense giving them more ideas.

Mrs. Jamison floated back in with a young man at her side. He wore no coat over his cambric shirt and wool trousers, and his black hair was parted to fall neatly on either side of his face. He acted more diffident, but Hart was certain the lad was the same one he’d chased from the wharf.

Mrs. Jamison’s long-fingered hand rested on her brother’s shoulder. “Bobby, this is Deputy McCormick. He wanted to meet you. Deputy, this is my brother, Robert Donovan.”

Hart inclined his head. The adolescent gazed back, mute.

“Donovan,” he acknowledged. “I’m glad to meet you. Tell me what you were doing down by the dock.”

Mrs. Jamison’s fingers must have tightened on his shoulder, for the cambric stretched under her hand. “You must be mistaken, Deputy. My brother knows better than to visit such a dangerous place.”

Still the lad said nothing. Hart cocked his head. “We know otherwise, don’t we?”

Donovan swallowed.

His sister’s hand slipped around his shoulders. “Oh, Bobby, you didn’t. I told you it was no good meeting the ship. None of your friends are coming north. And we don’t have the money to send you back to San Francisco.”

Donovan hung his head.

Mrs. Jamison met Hart’s gaze, tears shimmering in her violet eyes. “I’m sorry, Deputy. Bobby didn’t want to come north, but there was nothing for us in San Francisco after my husband died. Please forgive him if he caused any trouble. He just wanted to find a friend.”

As if fighting tears himself, Donovan gave a brave sniff.

Hart straightened. “No harm done. But do as your sister says, lad, and stay away from the docks. If you want to make friends, you’d do better to attend school.”

Mrs. Jamison beamed at her brother. “Of course. We’ll be enrolling him at the North School at the start of next term.” She turned her look on Hart. “Thank you, Deputy, for your kind concern. May I send something home to your sweetheart to show my appreciation? Perhaps a length of ribbon?”

“Mr. McCormick doesn’t have a sweetheart,” the elder Mrs. Denny put in with a sly look to Hart.

“Though many of his dear friends would like to see that remedied,” her sister added with a giggle.

Mrs. Jamison turned the same shade of pink as her wallpaper. “Then you must send her to see me when you propose. I specialize in wedding dresses.”

Hart tipped his hat. “Very kind of you, ma’am, but I’m afraid that time might be a long while coming.”

The seamstress fluttered her dark lashes. “Perhaps not as long as you fear. A lawman like you would make a devoted husband and father. See how well you did with Bobby?”

The boy glanced up at him, eyes narrowed. “I hope you’ll come by often, Deputy.”

His sister’s smile tightened. “Now, now, Bobby. Deputy McCormick must be very busy. We’ll be fine. Haven’t I always taken care of you?”

Her brother didn’t answer, dropping his gaze and shuffling his feet.

He didn’t fool Hart. There was something going on with Bobby Donovan and his lovely older sister. Hart made up his mind to keep an eye on them both. Right after he made sure Beth hadn’t settled on a bride.

Chapter Four

“Are you certain this is advisable, Miss Wallin?”

Beth smiled encouragement to the woman sitting beside her in the Pastry Emporium. Honoria Jenkins was a gentle lady who had been hired to teach at the newly opened North School, starting after Easter. Her light brown hair, cornflower-blue eyes and rosy cheeks made her resemble one of the glass-eyed dolls on display at Kelloggs’.

“We are in a public place,” Beth assured her, waving at the neat little wrought-iron tables and glass display case the bakery boasted. “And I’m here as a chaperone.”

Miss Jenkins adjusted the brown velvet hat on her sleek hair. “But won’t Deputy McCormick suspect this is more than a casual meeting?”

Beth certainly hoped so. “As I mentioned, Mr. McCormick is seeking a wife. I’m merely facilitating introductions as his good friend.”

The schoolteacher eyed the door as if expecting Father Christmas to arrive with a bag of presents. “He sounds like quite a catch.”

“Oh, he is.” Beth picked up the cup of chamomile she had ordered. “Upstanding, loyal, a hard worker. He’s the law in this area.”

Miss Jenkins sighed. “How heroic.” She turned her blue gaze back to Beth. “Why aren’t you pursuing him yourself?”

Beth’s face heated. She set down her cup and selected one of the lemon drop cookies, her personal favorite, then took a bite and swallowed before answering.

“He’s like a brother to me.”

The lemon drop was like dust in Beth’s mouth. Maddie Haggerty, longtime friend and owner of the Pastry Emporium, must have had an off day. Beth took another sip of the tea to wash things down. It didn’t help.

Suddenly the couple sitting closest to the window gasped, and others began rising. Beth caught a glimpse of a dark-coated rider and a black horse pelting past, heard the shouts accompanying them. Her heart started beating faster.

Miss Jenkins pressed a hand to the ruffles at her throat. “What is it?”

“Deputy McCormick, I believe,” Beth answered, rising. “Come on.”

She hurried to the window, where the other patrons had collected, voices buzzing as they vied for the best position to watch. Beth squeezed in and pulled Miss Jenkins with her. Down the block, Hart and Arno veered against a team of horses thundering along, reins flapping. As she watched, he leaned over in the saddle, caught the reins, and pulled both Arno and the team to a halt. The elderly driver trembled while his wife buried her face in his shoulder.

“Runaway team,” someone said. “Good thing McCormick was on duty.”

“As usual,” Beth said, drawing a breath.

Miss Jenkins pulled her gaze from the street to stare at Beth as the others returned to their seats. “How can you be so calm? Someone might have been killed.”

“Possibly,” Beth allowed, taking her arm to lead her back to their table. “But you see how he rescued them. Mr. McCormick is a gentleman who can be counted upon.”

Miss Jenkins looked thoughtful.

They had no sooner settled themselves than the door opened to the ring of the shop bell. Hart stepped inside, leather duster settling against his black boots. His hard gaze bypassed the display counter with its dozens of frosted and spiced treats, and narrowed in instead on the patrons gathered at the tables. Some of the other patrons applauded. He gave them a nod.

Beth rose as he approached.

He removed his hat, the sunlight from the window gilding his short-cropped black hair. “Miss Wallin.” His look moved to her companion.

As if she was guilty of some crime, Miss Jenkins paled, and she pushed the cookies away from her.

“Good afternoon, Deputy,” Beth said determinedly. “May I introduce a new acquaintance of mine, Honoria Jenkins. Miss Jenkins, this is Deputy Hart McCormick.”

Hart inclined his head. “Ma’am.”

She dropped her gaze. “Deputy. Won’t you join us?”

With a look to Beth that held any number of misgivings, he drew up a chair.

“Cookie?” Miss Jenkins asked, offering the plate. “They’re quite good.”

“No, thanks,” he said. “Never was too partial to lemon.”

She set down the plate, wrinkling her nose. “Too tart. I quite agree.”

Odd. She’d consumed four of the things before Hart had arrived and even agreed with Beth they were one of Maddie’s best.

“That was very brave of you just now,” the schoolteacher continued, folding her gloved hands demurely on the table. “Miss Wallin told me you’re quite the hero, but now I’ve seen the evidence with my own eyes.”

His gaze swung Beth’s way, and she had to stop herself from squirming. She raised her chin instead. “Everyone here saw what you did. We all know you stand between the citizens of the county and every sort of danger.”

He snorted, leaning back in his chair as if to distance himself from the very notion. “Folks in King County are pretty good about spotting danger and protecting themselves. I’m just here for when things get out of hand.”

Miss Jenkins leaned closer to him. “And do they get out of hand often?” she asked.

Hart frowned as if he could not understand her breathless interest.

“Miss Jenkins is new to our shores,” Beth explained. “I’m sure she’d appreciate your assessment of the area.”

Hart shrugged. “Things are fairly safe. Only had one cougar attack in the last month, and Sheriff Wyckoff and his dogs chased it off. Natives left on this side of the Sound are friendly for the most part. Last time anyone was murdered was a few months ago—family out Columbia way—shot in their beds. We strung up the killers.”

Miss Jenkins was turning whiter with each word.

“But everything in Seattle is fine,” Beth rushed to assure her. “Kind people, industrious...”

“Few drunken brawls on the weekend, petty theft in the mercantiles...”

“Four churches now,” Beth continued, raising her voice.

“A gang along the waterfront, beating and robbing newcomers.”