Western Spring Weddings: The City Girl and the Rancher / His Springtime Bride / When a Cowboy Says I Do

“Well, no. Not yet, anyway. We were to be mar—”

“Aw, honey, I’ve heard tall tales in my time, but this one takes the cake. Take my advice and clear out of town as fast as you can go.”

Clarissa stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”

At that moment Emily let out a cry of delight. “Look, Mama, it’s Mister Cowboy!”

* * *

Gray spotted them right off. Miss Seaforth was talking to Rita, and Emily was waving her ice-cream spoon at him. He took the empty chair. “Coffee, Rita. And add some brandy, would ya? Been dry for a month.”

“Sure, Gray. How was the drive?”

“Long. Miserable. Profitable, but I sure earned every penny.”

He turned his attention to Emily. “Had enough ice cream?”

The red curls bounced as she shook her head. “Nope. I’m never, never gonna have enough ice cream. It’s the bestest thing in the whole world, next to Christmas.”

Rita brought his coffee and he downed two large gulps that made his eyes water.

“Rich enough for you?” Rita asked with a grin.

He nodded, swallowed hard and gave her a thumbs-up. She chuckled all the way back to the kitchen.

“Mama won’t let me play with Sammy Wolf,” Emily complained.

“Greywolf,” Miss Seaforth corrected. “I am sure Mr. Greywolf is busy.”

Gray set his cup on the saucer. “I had the desk clerk take your suitcase up to your room, Miss Seaforth.”

“Thank you, Mr. Harris.”

“Uh, now that you’re here, maybe you should give some thought to a few things.”

“Oh? What things?”

“Well, for starters, whether you’re gonna stay or not.”

“Why, of course I am staying. Caleb—”

“Might not show up.” Gray downed another swallow of his ninety-proof coffee. “Might be he’s, uh, tied up somewhere on, um, business.”

“Perhaps. Nevertheless, I am sure he will come soon.”

He smothered a snort. She wasn’t sure of any damn thing. Clarissa Seaforth was a good bluffer, but the expression in those green eyes gave her away. Uncertainty warred with fear and something else he couldn’t pin down. Pride, maybe.

“Listen, Miss Seaforth, like I said, you might start thinkin’ what to do if Arness doesn’t show up.” Actually, if he was in her skin, he would be thinking what to do if he did show up. Run the other direction, he hoped.

“Emily,” she said suddenly. “Are you finished with your ice cream?”

The girl nodded. “Yes, Mama, but—”

“Then we must excuse ourselves and retire to our hotel room. Good afternoon, Mr. Harris.”

He watched the slim, graceful woman until she disappeared through the doorway, then chugged down the rest of his coffee just as Rita appeared at his elbow. “Want some more?”

“Want some? Yeah. Gonna have some? No. Gotta ride out to the Bar H while I can still mount a horse.”

* * *

By morning Clarissa knew she was in real trouble. Her meager funds would soon dwindle, and with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, she acknowledged that the situation called for extraordinary measures. After breakfast she left Emily in the care of the kindly waitress and began canvassing up one side of the dusty street and down the other, looking for employment.

The dressmaker smiled but shook her head. The barbershop, the sheriff’s office and the blacksmith had no use for a female. That left the bank and the Golden Partridge saloon, and she soon found that the bank wouldn’t hire a woman, either.

Very well. She straightened her spine and stepped off the sidewalk. For the first time in her life she would walk into a saloon.

Inside the Golden Partridge it was dim and smoky, and even at this hour of the morning it smelled of something pungent. Tobacco, she guessed. And spirits. She halted just inside the swinging batwing doors to get her bearings, and in that instant a pall of silence descended. Even the piano player’s music dribbled to a stop.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” the bartender called out. “Ladies aren’t allowed in here.”

She clenched her fingers around the reticule holding the last of her money—two dollars. “I...I assumed that to be the case, sir. I was wondering if you...that is, would you have any employment available?”

The bartender’s meaty hand swiped back and forth across the expanse of mahogany countertop. “Not for a lady, no.”

“For what, then?”

The man paused to size her up. “Well, I dunno. Can you sing?”

Chapter Three

Some hours later, Clarissa marched up and down in front of the big two-story brown house on lower Willow Street for a good ten minutes before she could work up the courage to open the gate. “Go on down to Serena’s place,” the bartender had instructed. “Ask her for a dress—something not too flashy but—” the man actually blushed! “—real female-lookin’.”

She had never been within a mile of such a place! Her knees felt wobbly, but she stuffed down her misgivings, walked up the steps and stood trembling on the wide front porch of Serena’s house. Before she could ring the bell, the door swung inward and a tall, gray-haired woman in a lacy black wrapper peered out at her.

“Miss Serena?”

The woman gave a short nod. “Whaddya want, honey? A job?”

“Well, yes, in a way. Tom, the bartender at the Golden Partridge, said I should ask you for an appropriate dress for—”

“Did he, now? Appropriate for what?”

“For singing. He gave me a job singing at the saloon tonight, but...I have nothing to wear. He said my travel dress wouldn’t be quite right.”

Serena eyed her travel suit. “Got a good eye, does Tom. Well, now, dearie, you just come right on in and we’ll see what we can do.”

“Thank you kindly, Miss—”

“Just Serena. Well, come on, honey! No need to be shy.” She closed the door with a soft click. “Mary?” she called over her shoulder. “Mary, come on down here. Got a dove that ain’t soiled yet, and she needs yer help.”

A slim girl with very blond ringlets appeared in the parlor. She was clad in something with fluffy pink feathers around the shoulders and a slit up one side. She smelled of something over-sweet, lily-of-the-valley, perhaps.

“Mary, take Miss—what’s yer name, dearie?”

“Seaforth. Clarissa Seaforth.”

“Tom sent her over from the saloon,” Serena explained. “Mary, take Miss Seaforth upstairs and find somethin’ with some sass to it. She’s gonna sing at the Golden Partridge.”

Clarissa followed the girl up the thickly carpeted staircase and into a pleasant bedroom with blue flowered wallpaper and white lace curtains. A narrow bed sat in one corner and a carved walnut armoire stood on the opposite wall.

“Y’all look pretty small to me,” Mary remarked. She rummaged through a welter of gowns and finally extracted a handsome crimson velvet creation. “Here. Try this one.”

While Clarissa unbuttoned her bodice and stepped out of her gored skirt, the blonde girl circled around, studying her. Before Clarissa could step into the velvet gown, Mary snatched it back. “Oh, no, that won’t be right on you, honey. Try this one instead.” She slipped a dark green moiré taffeta creation off its hanger and held it out.

“Oh, I couldn’t—”

“Yes, you could, honey. Don’t argue.”

Mary buttoned the gown up the back and stepped away with an assessing look. Then she folded back one door of the armoire and spun Clarissa around. “Hmm. Here, take a look at yourself in the mirror.”

A stranger with huge green eyes in a very pale face stared back at her. “Oh,” she breathed. “Surely that isn’t me!”

Mary laughed. “Sure is, honey. Green suits you.”

“But the neckline is so...so...”

“Low? S’posed to be low, honey. Why do you think Tom sent you to us?”

“Well, he expects me to sing tonight, and he did not care for my travel suit.”

Mary frowned. “Where y’all from, honey?”

“Boston.”

“Huh! That explains everything. Bet you’ve never been within a city block of a place like Serena’s, have ya? Didn’t think so. And y’all aren’t fixin’ to move in here, are ya?”

“Well, no. I have secured employment as a singer at the Golden—”

“So you said.” Mary reached out and tweaked the neck of the green gown lower. “Well, honey, no matter what you sound like, you’ll sure look pretty enough.”

She would? Clarissa studied her reflected image more closely. Well, maybe she would look dressed-up enough to suit the bartender. It was really a lovely gown, except for the bosom, of course. The green dress was cut way too low in front. She tried hiking it up, but the fabric wouldn’t budge.

“Stop that!” Mary pulled her hands away. “Y’all look splendid. Don’t fuss with things and spoil it. And take this shawl with you.” She folded up Clarissa’s bombazine travel suit and thrust it and a green paisley shawl into her hands. “Can’t sashay up Main Street exposed like that—Sheriff’s liable to arrest you.”

Downstairs in the front parlor again, Serena nodded approvingly at the green taffeta dress. “Perfect. You’re a real looker, dearie. If Tom don’t want you, just come on back to Serena’s and I’ll put you to work here.”

“I am grateful, Miss—Serena. I will pay you for the gown out of my wages.”

“No, you won’t, my girl. Tom sits high on my list. And besides, he’s workin’ off a debt of sorts and the cost of the loan of a dress is neither here nor there. He’ll pay for the gown.” She extended her hand. “Been a pleasure doin’ business with you, Miss Seaforth. Wrap up good in that shawl, now, and don’t talk to any men.”

Clarissa knotted the green shawl tightly around her shoulders and walked as briskly as she could back to the hotel. A cold, hard lump was settling in her stomach.

When she entered the restaurant, where Emily sat chatting with Rita, her daughter flung her arms around her. “Ooh, Mama, you look beautiful! And you’re so rustly—like lots of dry corn husks.”

It was the first time Clarissa had laughed in the past twenty-four hours. After a quick supper in the dining room—a boiled egg for Clarissa and macaroni and cheese for Emily—she tucked her daughter into bed in their hotel room, gathered up her courage and made her way to the Golden Partridge saloon.

Tom, the bartender, installed her in a back room until her scheduled appearance; she paced around and around the tiny space until her feet ached and finally sat down. At half past nine he rapped on the door.

“You’re on, Miss Seaforth. Knock ’em out of their boots!”

Very slowly she rose from the straight-backed chair, walked uncertainly to the door and, with a whispered prayer, twisted the doorknob. When she appeared, the piano player, a round black man, half rose off his stool. “Lordy, Mister Tom, what you plannin’ tonight?”

“Meet your accompanist, Miss Seaforth. Baldwin Whittaker.”

The pianist swiped off his threadbare cap and blinked up at her. “Ma’am.”

She tried to smile. “Good evening, Mr. Whittaker.”

He rolled his soft brown eyes at Tom. “You, uh, do much singing before, miss?”

“Well, mostly in church. But I know a number of songs from when I was a girl.”

“Hmm. Well, what you gonna sing, Miss Seaforth?”

“‘Greensleeves.’ Do you know it?”

“Shore do. How ’bout you stand sorta to one side, facing the bar. That way folks can see you and I can pick up on your cues.”

Clarissa took her position, steadied her erratic breathing and unknotted the shawl around her shoulders. “Like this?”

The man’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, yes, ma’am, just like that! I can hardly wait to see the reaction when the gentlemen clap their eyes on you.”

Well, she could certainly wait! Every bone in her overexposed body wanted to turn tail and run.

Mr. Whittaker turned to the piano keyboard, played a chord and looked up at her expectantly. Clarissa drew in a breath and opened her lips, but nothing came out. The pianist played the chord again, this time rippling it into an arpeggiated introduction.

Dear Lord, let me not faint dead away before I have sung a single note.

* * *

Gray pulled his tired body out of the saddle, tied the gelding up at the hitching rail and stumbled into the saloon. He wasn’t too clear about why he was back in town after a restless night and a grueling day digging a well and putting up new fencing at the ranch, but here he was, and he was plenty thirsty.

Tom reached over the bar to shake his hand. “Welcome back, Gray. I was starting to wonder if you’d got religion in Abilene and turned into a teetotaler.”

“Not hardly. Just been busy.”

Tom snorted. “Yeah? What else is new?” He splashed a shot glass full of red-eye and set the bottle on the bar.

“Nuthin’s new except I finally hit wet sand at the bottom of my new well.”

Tom leaned toward him. “Got a surprise for you tonight, Gray.”

“What is it? Nuthin’ much would interest me but a few barrels of fresh water.”

“Nah. Something better.”

Gray looked up at the stocky man and froze at what he saw reflected in the gold-framed mirror over the bar. A vision in green with long, dark wavy hair tumbling to her shoulders and an expanse of creamy bosom the like of which he hadn’t seen for a long time. Jehoshaphat, that’s Clarissa Seaforth! What the hell is she doing half dressed in Tom’s saloon?

The piano rippled out some notes and a voice like smoky silk rose in a familiar melody.

Alas, my love, you do me wrong,

To treat me so discourteously,

For I have loved you so long...

Gray slammed his shot glass down on the bar top and swiveled around to stare at her. She sang the whole verse while dusty cowboys and card-playing ranchers sat goggle-eyed and respectful. Then she started on the second verse, but suddenly the batwing doors banged open and Caleb Arness lurched in.

She didn’t recognize him. She just kept singing in that low, silky voice while Caleb stumbled to the bar. “Tom!” he yelled. “Wanna drink.”

“Shut up!” someone called from one of the tables. “Can’tcha hear the lady’s singing?”

Arness obviously didn’t recognize her, either. He kept pounding his fist on the polished mahogany surface and yelling for whiskey.

Tom leaned over the bar and said something to him.

“Singer?” Arness shouted. He swiveled around to peer at Clarissa. “A female singer? Why, hell an’ damn, that’s one helluva pretty—”

Gray’s fist stopped the word. It also stopped the song, and an uneasy silence descended.

“Whadja hit me for, ya skunk?” Arness mumbled from the floor where he lay.

“No reason,” Gray said quietly. “Just practicin’. Now, either shut up or get out.”

Arness lurched toward Clarissa. “Ain’t leavin’ without kissin’ that woman! C’mere, honey.”

Gray shot a look at her stricken face and gave her a quick, decisive shake of his head. Her eyes widened. Who? she mouthed at him.

Arness, he silently mouthed back.

She went whiter than a pail of milk.

Arness made a grab for her. “Now, come on, honey, be nice. You come on over here and I’ll show you a real good time.”

Right then Gray knew he had to get her out of there. “Tom,” he muttered to the barman. “Keep Arness busy.”

Tom rose to the occasion by knocking over a bottle of whiskey, spilling it all across Arness’s filthy trousers. While Arness mopped at the damage, Gray strode to Clarissa and bent to speak in her ear.

“Don’t scream. I’m getting’ you out of here.” He leaned toward the piano player.

“Cover for us, Whitt. Play something loud.”

Gray grabbed her around the waist. “Come on.” He hustled her into the back room, out the rear door and into the dark alley outside.

He ushered her into the hotel. “Which room?”

She turned fear-dilated eyes on him. “N-number six.”

He reached over the counter and snagged the key off its hook.

“Emily will be asleep,” she protested.

“Good.” He unlocked the door, pushed her inside and marched in behind her.

“Mama!” Emily sat up in the big double bed, rubbing her eyes. “And Mister Cowboy! It is tomorrow already?”

“No, darling. It’s still nighttime.” Clarissa sank down on the bed and wrapped her arms around her daughter.

Gray laid his hand on her shoulder and she looked up at him. Her eyes looked kinda funny. Dazed-like. “He doesn’t know what you look like,” he said in a low voice. “But Tom’ll tell him your name and that’ll let the cat out of the bag for sure.”

She nodded.

“I’m going over to the livery to get another horse.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“I’m takin’ you and Emily out to my ranch.”

“But—”

“Pack up,” he ordered. “And bolt the door while I’m gone.”

Chapter Four

In spite of the voluminous puffy green taffeta skirt, Clarissa managed to mount the animal Gray held for her and watched while he lifted Emily into his saddle, settled her on his lap and folded her tiny fingers around the saddle horn.

“Hang on real tight, Emily.”

“Okay.” She sent a happy grin up at him, and Clarissa felt a stab of unease. Children were so trusting! And so was she, she reflected. Imagine, letting a man she had met only once kidnap her and take her home with him!

Gray grabbed the reins of her sorrel and kicked his black gelding into a canter. When they reached the edge of town, he moved into a gallop, but he still kept hold of Clarissa’s reins. She couldn’t bring herself to admit she had been on a horse only once in her life, and that was on her tenth birthday.

In the dark everything looked oppressive—thick stands of towering trees, tangled brush, shadows. There was a sound of rushing water. And no light anywhere. She was used to a measured out grid of orderly streets, gaslights, houses with candles in the windows. Her skin prickled. It was like riding into hell. If she allowed herself to feel anything, it would be a wash of pure terror.

After what seemed like hours, they moved through a wide swinging gate, then trotted up a long lane. Gray still held on to her reins with one hand and kept the other firmly planted around Emily’s middle.

Clarissa was exhausted, so winded she could scarcely breathe and her backside was numb. Inside she was still shaking, but knew she was safe now, swept away from a terrible fate. Caleb Arness was a drunkard. And a liar. She was well rid of the man, but her narrow escape had left her unnerved.

But what now? Why, oh why, had she ever left Boston? She didn’t know anything about the West. She didn’t even know where she was.

Good heavens, Clarissa, pull yourself together. You must be strong for Emily. You have to protect your daughter.

They came up on a gentle rise and up ahead a light winked in the blackness. Oh, thank God, civilization! How long had she been joggled along on the animal beneath her, one hour? Two? It felt like ten years.

Mr. Harris—well, she guessed she should call him Gray, since he had rescued her and Emily from that odious man Caleb Arness. She would be grateful to Graydon Harris to her dying day. How could Caleb have lied to her like that, telling her he was an upstanding citizen of Smoke River, a friend of the sheriff and all the ranchers within fifty miles? A family man who would welcome her and her daughter into his Christian home? The man was nothing but a slovenly drunkard.

The horses slowed to a walk, and now she saw there were two lights—one inside a big white house with a wide verandah across the front and the other swinging from a shadowy man’s hand.

“Ramon,” Gray called out. “Get Maria!”

The swinging lamp disappeared into a small, dark cabin a few yards to one side of the big house, and in the next minute Gray dismounted, pried Emily’s fingers off the saddle horn and lifted her down onto the ground. Then he came toward Clarissa’s sorrel.

“Miss Seaforth, I’ll help you dismount.”

“Where are we?”

“My ranch, the Bar H.” He reached up, circled his hands around her waist and lifted her out of the saddle. The instant her feet touched the solid earth her legs collapsed under her and she cried out. Gray caught her under the arms and leaned her up against the horse.

Emily skipped to her side. “Mama, how come you can’t walk?”

“I can walk perfectly well,” she said as steadily as she could manage. “In...a minute.”

“Take your time,” Gray murmured. “You don’t have to prove it.”

It took a full ten minutes before she trusted her limbs to keep her upright, and even then Gray had to half carry her up the porch steps.

“She is ill?” the man called Ramon asked.

“Nah. Just tuckered.”

“Maria...she is inside.”

Seven steps later Clarissa stood in the doorway of the house and met the startled glance of a short, plump Mexican woman.

“Ay de mi, Señor Gray, what have you done?”

“Nothing. Maria, this is Clarissa Seaforth, and—” he glanced left and then right, but no Emily “—her daughter. Clarissa, meet Maria Rocha, my housekeeper and cook.”

“Ah, no, I am not cook anymore, remember? Not since I get my new stove in my own kitchen. Just housekeeper.”

The man with the lantern swung up on the porch with Emily’s hand in his. “I find her outside petting your horse, señor.” He relinquished her to Clarissa and set the lantern on the mantelpiece of the stone fireplace.

“Ramon’s my foreman,” Gray explained. “Ramon, this is Miss Seaforth. And Emily.”

Ramon bowed. “Señorita. I have already meet Emily,” he said with a wide smile.

Clarissa untied her shawl and lifted it off her shoulders. Maria’s sudden gasp reminded her she was still wearing the green taffeta with the too-low neckline.

The housekeeper marched up to Gray and poked her finger at his chest. “Señor Gray, I ask what you do, and you say ‘nothing’? Is obvious you do something, and now you bring her home!” She shook her head in disapproval.

“Hold on, Maria. It’s not what you’re thinking.”

“Eh? And what I am thinking?”

Clarissa took a shaky step forward. “Mrs. Rocha, Gray rescued me from a very bad man in town.”

Maria’s black eyebrows folded into a frown. “Is so?”

“Is so,” Gray said with a sigh. “Caleb Arness.”

The Mexican woman crossed herself. “Very bad man. Very bad.” She pointed to the kitchen. “Come. I make coffee.”

Gray caught her arm. “Maria, wait. Would you move the things in my bedroom to the room in the attic? Miss Seaforth’s gonna be with us for a while.”

“Maria,” Clarissa said quickly. “Please don’t move any of Mr. Harris’s things. Emily and I will sleep in the attic.”

“But is all dusty up there,” Maria protested.

“I can dust.”

“And with even cobwebs!”

Clarissa suppressed a shiver. “I can deal with...with a few spiders.”

Emily grasped her hand. “I wanna deal with spiders, too! Can I, Mama? Can I?”

* * *

The attic room was at the top of a steep staircase, and while Clarissa saw no spiders, a thick layer of dust lay over the chest of drawers and the night table. And the bed! My gracious, when she plopped the suitcase down on top of the quilt, a cloud of dust puffed up into her face.

Maria appeared in the doorway, her arms loaded with bed linens. “Señorita, I bring sheets and pillows, with feathers. And—ay-yi-yi!—the air up here is make my eyes water!”

“Me, too!” Emily chimed. “It feels real sneezy, doesn’t it, Mama?”

“So, the little one is your daughter?” Maria sent a pointed glance at Clarissa’s exposed bosom. “But you not married lady?”

“Emily is adopted,” Clarissa said quickly. “Actually, she is my brother’s child. Her mother died in childbirth.”

“Papa not want daughter?”

“He was lost in a shipwreck at sea.”

“Ah.” Maria tossed the armload of sheets onto a chair and patted Emily’s red curls. “Pobrecita!”

Clarissa snatched the patchwork quilt off the bed and gave it a good shake. The air filled with dust. Maria spread the clean sheets over the mattress and plumped up the pillows while Emily scrambled into a white lawn nightie and launched herself onto the bed. “Look, Mama, it bounces!”