Territorial Bride

“The ring, if you please…” The minister’s voice snapped Brooks back to attention. He forced himself to quit woolgathering. He pulled the ring, from the watch pocket of his brocade vest and gave it to Trace.

Bellami handed her spray of flowers to Missy and allowed Trace to claim her hand. Work-roughened fingers held hers within a protective grasp. In a few more years Brooks’s hands would be as rough. He thought of his old life in New York—the champagne suppers, buggy rides through the park and trips to the athletic club. He glanced back at his parents, sitting side by side in the nearest pew. Brooks grinned. He had withstood Miss Hell-for-leather O’Bannion. He turned back around in time to see Trace slip the ring on his sister’s finger. A smile still curled Brooks’s lips. He couldn’t think of anything or anybody that would force him to return to New York City—not ever again.

Chapter Two

A side of prime Circle B beef sizzled on an iron spit over a glowing pile of coals several yards from the ranch house veranda. A coyote howled somewhere off in the twilight and a mournful answer echoed. The smell of burning mesquite wood filled the air. As Clell swabbed spicy chili sauce on the beef, some of the thick concoction dribbled onto the embers. Flames shot upward, as they would inside of everyone’s bellies after a taste of Clell’s secret sauce.

Missy’s heart was beating hard with happiness and excitement. Clinging to the railing, she lingered on the veranda, content to observe the crowd. Firelight reflected off rows of silver conchas running down the legs of the black calzoneras worn by the mariachi singers as they got in position to serenade the newlyweds.

Bellami’s cheeks flushed crimson as Trace softly translated their melodic Spanish. Then, as the fiddle players joined the mariachis, Bellami and Trace waltzed for the first time as man and wife.

It was almost painful for Missy to witness so much happiness. The persistent lump she had been choking on all day came again. She fought back tears of joy and laughed at Trace’s mock awkwardness when the fiddles abruptly quickened and he was forced to dance a Highland jig.

Nobody could out-celebrate a cowboy, she thought. Fast-moving boot heels clicked on the wood in quick rhythm. Missy laughed out loud when Lupe joined in and lifted her skirt to reveal slender brown ankles and layers of snowy white petticoats. She executed a series of lightning quick and intricate steps. Her movements flowed with such grace and speed that it was hard for Missy to believe the Circle B cook was nearing sixty years old. Her dark eyes flashed with Spanish fire as the mariachis played faster and faster to match her feet.

Without warning the tempo changed. Strains of two additional fiddles blended with the romantic Spanish guitar.

Another waltz for the married couple.

Trace kissed Bellami and pulled her close, and they began to float around the dance floor in a way that made Missy’s heart catch. A part of her hungered to be in the middle of the swirling, twirling couples, but her awkwardness kept her in the shadows at the edge of the veranda.

Bellami had shown Missy how to wear the complicated frippery of a lady, but she still did not feel like one. She clapped her hands to the brisk tempo while she watched other girls from nearby ranches being swept onto the dance floor by one handsome cowhand after another. Her one consolation was that she was in no danger of making a fool of herself while she was hidden alone in the shadows.

“Grab a partner,” Hugh bellowed. “Everybody dance! I don’t want to see anybody sitting this one out.”

“Boo.” Brooks’s voice jarred Missy. “Penny for your thoughts, little lady.”

She whirled to find him standing no more than six inches from her. His black string tie and long-tailed coat had been discarded. The white shirt was unbuttoned halfway down. An errant breeze ruffled the hair on his hard, muscled chest.

“And just when I was enjoyin’ a private moment,” she snapped, pulling her gaze from his torso.

He eyed her with cool detachment and picked a bud from the rose of Sharon that grew in abundance by the veranda. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were hiding up here away from the dance floor, Miss O’Bannion.” That mysterious half smile tickled his lips beneath the full mustache. His eyes twinkled mischievously in the firelight as he sniffed the blossom.

“I ain’t doin’ no such thing. What a fool notion.” She turned back toward the dancers and started clapping again, but the toe-tapping music had changed. Now everyone was twirling in another slow, seductive waltz. She had been so caught up in her talk with Brooks that she hadn’t even noticed. Her cheeks burned with inner heat and she brought her palms together awkwardly, not really sure what to do with her hands.

“Care to try?” Brooks asked with an amused chuckle.

“Try what?” Missy knew exactly what he was asking, but she’d sooner take a polecat for a walk than let Brooks James know she couldn’t dance. She looked back at the dance floor, staring determinedly at the laughing couples, trying to ignore the knot that had taken up residence in her middle.

He stepped closer and leaned near her ear. His warm breath carried the faint trace of whiskey—and danger. “Would you care to dance—with me?”

Missy whirled to face him once more. She summoned her voice, but the refusal that had been in her mind died in the back of her throat when she encountered his charming smile.

The night breeze lifted strands of his silky dark hair. Silvery moonlight and the amber glow from the bonfire made his eyes a most peculiar shade of blue.

Missy couldn’t describe it, or what looking into his eyes was doing to her insides. It appeared, for one heartlurching moment, that his eyes glowed with an inner fire like lightning playing on the horns of cattle in the midst of a storm.

Goll-dang, if he isn’t a handsome cuss.

She swallowed hard. Her heart beat against her rib cage like a gloved fist. “I—uh, that is…”

“You can dance, can’t you?” One winged brow rose in silent challenge. Then he raised his hand and deftly slipped the rose bloom behind her ear, tucking a thick lock of hair in place over it.

The heat of a blush raced up her cheeks. Her first inclination was to turn tail and run. She couldn’t dance, but she had gotten to know Mr. Smart-jackass James well enough to know he would require her to prove it. That was a humiliation she would just as soon spare herself, if you please.

“I—I—” she stammered while visions of public indignity raced through her mind.

One side of his mustache lifted. “I believe I will take that as a yes, Miss O’Bannion.” He slipped his arm around her waist and drew her close to his rock-hard body before she had a chance to flee.

Panic welled up inside her, but it was soon overwhelmed by the stunning impact of the way it felt to have his arm about her. A tiny voice in her head said Dig in your heels and run while there is time, but she didn’t listen, she just let him clamp her against his body and pull her off the veranda.

“You know, Miss O’Bannion—” his grin widened “—back home I was considered to be quite a good dancer.”

“Yeah, well, what do a bunch of Easterners know about anythin’?” she answered defensively, raising her chin a notch higher.

He laughed deep and low in his chest. He liked this easy, teasing banter; he liked Missy and the tug-of-war that went on between them. It was much more pleasant than getting all tangled up romantically. He looked at her face, sweetly flushed with lips that were soft and kissable, and he realized this was what he wanted. He wanted to stay in the Territory where he was safe from having to make any permanent commitments and decisions. He was content to stay where he could tease Missy and know that she was always there, day in and day out. She had no suitors hanging around, so he had a clear field. It was the best possible situation for a man who had no desire to settle down.

Missy blinked back her confusion while tingling heat meandered into her limbs from the spot on her back where Brooks’s hand rested. She was afraid her knees would buckle, afraid she’d get all tangled up in the dress, fearful she would make a fool of herself, and sure Brooks would take an inordinate amount of pleasure in whatever indignity befell her. But to her surprise, he started talking to her in low soothing tones, as if she was a skittish filly he was determined to gentle. His voice was smoother than Clell’s twelve-year-old whiskey and as hypnotic as a ripe summer moon.

“Put yourself in my hands, little lady. I promise I won’t step on your toes.” His deep voice vibrated through her rib cage, where he held her tightly against his body. “At least not too often.” His rumbling laughter drew her eyes to his face.

“And what happens if I step on yours?” Missy managed to ask as her foot touched the first pine board. “You won’t think your little joke is so funny then, will you, Brooks?”

The mocking grin faded from his face. “I hope I am tough enough and man enough to take whatever comes of this dance, Missy.” He stared at her, unblinking, while her heart hammered in her chest. “Now and in the future.”

His words hung before them like a spider’s silken web. Then he laughed again and broke the enchantment. “Now wipe that frown off your pretty little face and act like you’re having fun. Trace and Bellami will wonder what I’m doing to you if you keep scowling like that.”

Missy swallowed hard.

Telling her that she was pretty was just about the nicest thing Brooks had ever said to her. How in tarnation could a man like him think a girl who wore chaps and boots was pretty?

He had been everywhere, seen everything.

For half a moment Brooks returned her serious gaze, then he tilted back his head and laughed. Rich, hearty tones of masculine mirth erupted from him. Her belly quivered in reaction to the sound of it.

“Oh, you were teasing. You are always sayin’ the dangedest things to me—” She would’ve said more, but suddenly her feet had wings.

Brooks twirled her out onto the floor. With a sobering chill she realized the flames dancing beneath the side of beef and all the torches surrounding the dance floor had driven back the night. She might as well have been dancing beneath the noonday sun. Now everyone would see if she stumbled or fell or made an ass of herself.

She stared at her feet, trying to avoid stepping on Brooks’s shiny black Justins.

“You needn’t look so terrified, Missy. I promise I’ll never let you come to harm—never.”

Brooks’s words penetrated her gloom.

Her head slowly came up and she shifted her concentration from her feet to his face. Her breath lodged in the space beneath her heart.

I’ll never let you come to harm—never.

All her fear flitted away into the night. She forgot about the crowd of people and the dance steps she didn’t know. Her world compressed into the circle of space she occupied within Brooks’s arms. He turned her in a tight circle that brought her bosom up against the wide, muscular expanse of his chest. Each time he executed a new step and expertly pulled her along with him, her heart beat a little faster.

Missy was put in mind of a midnight gallop on a half-broke mustang. Each time Brooks twirled her she had the sensation of jumping fences and swift-running washes. There was an excitement being in his grasp, a thrill and a danger. Nothing in her life had prepared her for this moment.

Brooks smiled at her and she realized she was good and truly at risk, but not of breaking a leg or even her foolish neck. As she stared into his silvery blue eyes and her heart thrummed inside her chest, she knew what she risked was her heart.

She could care about him if she let herself.

A slow, lazy smile teased the corners of his mouth. “See, I was telling the truth when I said you were in good hands.” As he bent a little nearer and drawled into her ear, his breath fanned out over her neck and left a trail of hot chills in its wake. “I spent a good many hours dancing before I left New York.”

The spinning turns and his warm breath on her skin made her dizzy. She felt as if she had been at her father’s bottle of whiskey right along with the menfolk. A thousand new and unfamiliar feelings sizzled through her. And even though she longed for something sharp and biting to say to diffuse the tension of the moment, nothing came to mind. She was trapped like a rabbit in a snare set by Brooks himself.

“May I have this next dance with my daughter?” Hugh smiled with fatherly affection as he tapped on Brooks’s shoulder. An uncharacteristic flush crept up Missy’s smooth cheeks. Putting on a dress had changed more than her outsides, it would seem. Wearing ruffles and petticoats gave her an aura of vulnerability, an attitude of shy unease.

Brooks released his hold on her tiny waist with some reluctance. He stepped back and allowed Hugh to sweep his daughter into the crowd of dancers. They made a striking contrast—the weathered rancher with steely gray at his temples, and his dewy fresh daughter whose hair was dark as a midnight sky.

Brooks shook his head.

All this silly sentiment was only the combination of moonlight and whiskey. He was about half-drunk and that was making him wax poetic, he assured himself. Tomorrow reason would return. In the light of day Missy would be herself. There would be no soft glow of fire, no waltzes, no strange tightening of his gut each time their eyes met unexpectedly. Tomorrow she would be herself and he would be fending off her hostility and her barbed words.

It was something to look forward to.

Chapter Three

Patricia might as well have been drinking muddy water for all the enjoyment the chilled punch gave her. Brooks had taken her aside and revealed his intentions to remain in the Territory. She sighed heavily and tried to wipe away the sadness in her heart. After all, Bellami was happily married to a man who saw beyond her scar to the beauty beneath, but Brooks…that was another matter altogether.

Patricia hadn’t interfered when he’d decided to come west. Violet Ashland had deeply wounded Brooks, and he needed time to heal. Patricia had hoped that the time he had spent here had accomplished that, but now she was beginning to wonder. Was he really intent on burying himself here in this cultural wasteland?

“My dear?” Donovan appeared at her elbow. His snowy brows were pinched with concern. “Are you ill, Patricia? All the color has drained from your face.”

Patricia glanced at Brooks, who was standing near the punch bowl. “No—no, I am perfectly fine.”

“Truly? You look so…worried. Surely you are not still concerned about Bellami. Trace O’Bannion is as fine and steady a man as I have ever met.”

Patricia tore her gaze away from Brooks. “No, it isn’t that. I am worried about Brooks.”

“Brooks?” Donovan said in surprise. “He is the picture of health!”

“On the outside, perhaps.” She turned to Donovan and frowned. “But I am worried about him all the same.”

“He is fine.” Donovan rubbed the backs of his knuckles over his wife’s cheek. “You worry too much. He is talking about buying some land to raise cattle here. That’s all.”

“Do you think it is really what he wants to do or is he still trying to get over Violet?”

At the mention of her name, Donovan’s face became a mask of disapproval. “That is a subject best left alone, Patricia.”

“But, Donovan…it would be a great mistake for him to stay here. Surely you can see that?”

“Patricia, what I see is a grown man. Whatever decision he makes and for whatever reasons, it is his business alone.” Donovan turned her to face him and cupped her chin in his palm. “And I don’t want you interfering.”

“Oh, Donovan, surely I could just—”

“No, darling.” He placed both hands on her shoulders and gently drew her closer to him. “Promise me, Patricia.” His voice was soft but stern. “Promise me this time you will leave things alone. You mustn’t say a word to the boy about this. And I think it is best if you don’t mention the fact that Violet has returned to New York.”

Patricia sighed and leaned into his hands. “Oh, all right. If you feel so strongly about it. I promise.”

He smiled and kissed her on the forehead. “That’s my girl. Now let’s show these youngsters how to do a proper dance.”

* * *

Ellen was breathless from all the dancing as she approached the punch bowl where Rod and Missy were chatting.

“You know, cousin, if Mother notices the glow in your cheeks she will have you staying in bed tomorrow,” Rod warned Ellen as he nodded toward Patricia and Donovan on the dance floor.

“I suppose I should be sensible,” Ellen replied, sighing wistfully. A cowboy with a thatch of unruly blond hair asked for the next dance. Ellen glanced at Rod like a child who wanted just one more stick of peppermint. Finally she turned to the eager cowboy. “I fear I must decline. I am a little out of breath.” She smoothed the baby pink ruffles on her dress and sighed meaningfully.

The cowboy tipped his hat and backed away. “Maybe next time, ma’am.”

“Yes, next time.” Ellen’s eyes followed him until he disappeared into the crowd.

“Very wise, cousin.” Rod smiled. “You probably saved yourself a stern lecture and a full day in bed. “May I pour you and Miss O’Bannion a cup of punch?”

“Thank you.” Missy took the cup he passed to her.

“You are quite welcome. I should be thanking you, Miss O’Bannion. I have enjoyed myself tonight.” Rod poured a second cup of punch and passed it to his cousin.

“I’m glad you have had a good time, but I bet you have fancy parties all the time back in New York.” Missy watched the couples swirling by in front of her and wished this night would never end.

“They are rarely this much fun, though,” Ellen said softly. She fanned herself with a delicate, lily-colored hand. She smiled at Missy and batted brown lashes over eyes the shade of cornflowers. How I wish I could wear my hair loose and flowing and have sun-kissed cheeks and be the picture of health like Miss O’Bannion, she thought.

“That is a fact,” Rod agreed. “New York parties are—stuffy.”

“You’re teasing me.” Missy felt a blush working its way up her neck.

“No, I am not. I leave that to my younger brother.” Rod placed his hand over his heart to emphasize his sincerity.

Ellen continued to study Missy’s face while a wild idea popped into her head. “Why don’t you come and visit? It would give me a perfect excuse to have lots of dances like this one.”

“Leland might have something to say about that,” Patricia told Ellen with a gentle smile as she and Donovan joined the group at the punch bowl. Patricia looked at the two girls standing side by side—near in age but as different as light is from darkness. Ellen looked frail and too pale, even by current fashionable dictates. And Missy…well, Missy was a little too wild, a little too exuberant, but the glowing picture of a woman in the bloom of youth. Clell had explained about her growing up without a mother. It did account for much of her behavior.

For a mad, impetuous moment Patricia wondered what it would be like to take the girl under her wing and help her become a proper lady…The idea was silly, and Donovan would have a fit.

“I would still like for Missy to come and visit,” Ellen said stubbornly. “Whether Papa would allow me to have a party or not. It would be fun to have someone my own age around.” Ellen smiled at Patricia as she spoke. Leland had kept Ellen somewhat secluded. Her cousins had been her major source of companionship. With all the girls married and gone, Ellen had been extremely lonely the last few years. “And we could all go shopping together, Aunt Patricia. It would be fun, you know it would be fun!”

Patricia cast a sidelong look at her spouse. Ellen was right. It would be fun. Patricia had missed having Bellami to fuss over as much as Ellen missed their chats.

“I think it is a good idea, Ellen,” Patricia said suddenly. “We must do our best to persuade Miss O’Bannion to come as soon as possible.”

“Good idea, Mother,” Rod agreed, in spite of Donovan’s growing frown. He fussed too much over his wife and whether or not she was overdoing. “After all, Missy is family now.”

“It would be nice to be in a place where I could dress like this every day,” Missy said wistfully.

“You are charming no matter what you are wearing,” Patricia assured Missy. “Isn’t she, Donovan?”

“What? Oh, yes, charming.” Donovan replied absently. Patricia had purposely avoided his suggestion about interfering.

“Oh, do say you will come soon. You would have a lovely time in the city.” Ellen brightened with every word. “We could have some new gowns made. It would be great fun and I would love the company.”

“Yes, my dear, we insist.” Patricia smiled inwardly. The girl was always clomping around in men’s trousers and boots—she would be a challenge. But she did have good bones, and with a little work…

Curiosity nipped at Brooks as he watched his family. He allowed himself one more pull from Clell’s bottle before he started threading his way across the floor. He side-stepped to avoid dancing boots and whirling skirts and finally reached the other side of the room.

“That’s awful nice of you, ma’am, but…” Missy began.

“What’s going on?” Brooks whispered to Rod.

“Ellen has almost persuaded Miss O’Bannion to come to New York,” Rod answered. “I think it would be a marvelous idea for Ellen to have some female company.”

“What? You can’t be serious!” The loudness of his voice brought Missy’s head around with a snap.

“Is something wrong, Brooks?” She frowned at him. He swayed a little as she glared at him. It was obvious he had been sharing Clell’s bottle.

“Nothing, nothing at all.” Brooks shook his head.

“Good. For a moment I thought you might have been upset about the invite.”

Brooks gave her a lopsided grin. “Nothing to be upset about. The whole idea is ridiculous. I know you are too sensible to even consider such a thing.”

“And just why is the idea of me going to New York so comical?” Missy pressed.

“What?” Brooks tried to listen to what she was saying, but Clell’s whiskey had brought a buzz to his head and a ringing to his ears. “Well, little lady, wearing boots and hats in New York drawing rooms is not the thing this year.” Laughter bubbled up in the back of his throat as he imagined Missy sitting down to tea in her form-fitting chaps.

“So you think I ain’t got sense enough to learn to act like a lady, is that it?” Missy’s dark eyes narrowed with anger.

“Not exactly.” Brooks blinked a couple of times and tried to clear the cobwebs from his brain.

“You learned to be a cowboy…”

“That’s different.” He blinked and steadied himself.

“What’s different about it? If you could learn to be a cowboy, why is it so hard to believe that I could become a lady?”

Even in his half-looped state, Brooks was intelligent enough to recognize a loaded question when he heard one. “You just can’t go. Now let’s stop all this silly talk.”

“I can’t? Did I hear you right?” Missy shook her head in disbelief. “Did you just tell me that I can’t go to New York?”

Brooks sucked in a breath, tried to catalog his own thoughts into a proper order while he looked at Missy. Indignant fire burned in her brown eyes. She had lovely eyes when she was spitting mad. A part of him wanted to tell her that, but that kind of talk was the sort of thing that got men tangled up. He bit back the compliment, not wanting to do anything that would upset his plans of having no entanglements, no commitments. He had to keep a cool head. Then he could remain free as the wind. “Now, Missy…”

“Don’t you ‘now Missy’ me. And just when, oh-so-mighty Mr. James, did you start tellin’ me what I can or can’t do?” She advanced on him, and to his utter astonishment, he retreated a step. She raised herself up on her slippered toes, but even then the top of her head barely reached his chin. She was narrow eyed with fury now.