Frontier Matchmaker Bride. Regina Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ Jamison spread her hands. “Come now, dear. Someone made that fetching gown.”

      Beth glanced down at the pink skirts again. “Not me. My sister-in-law Nora sewed it for me.”

      “Nora Wallin.” Mrs. Jamison cocked her head, sending curls cascading across her shoulder. “Customers have mentioned her, but I haven’t seen a shop with her name on it.”

      “She takes commissions out of Kelloggs’,” Beth explained. “Or she did until you came to town. I very much doubt Nora will be a competitor. Every lady will be flocking to your door. You and Mr. Jamison must be very proud.”

      The seamstress lowered her gaze. “Alas, Mr. Jamison has gone to his just reward. It’s only me and my younger brother here in Seattle, but I must say everyone has been so welcoming.” She raised her head and made sure to include Hart in her smile.

      Beth glanced between the two of them. An accomplished widow of grace and beauty, a lonely lawman established in his career. What better match could she envision?

      And why did everything in her rebel at the very idea?

      * * *

      Hart had thought his work difficult. He’d grown thirsty or hungry as he chased a culprit across the county for days. He’d been bruised and battered by men fighting to remain at large. Nothing was as painful as waiting for Beth to finish her transactions in the frilly, overly perfumed shop. And he didn’t much like the looks the proprietress was directing his way. For all her sweet smiles and fluttering fingers, he sensed calculation. He could only hope Beth didn’t suggest her as a likely bride.

      Finally, she left, fabric folded under one arm. Pink, like much of her wardrobe. The fresh, youthful color suited her. Not that he paid much attention.

      “What next?” he asked, pacing her as she started down Commercial.

      She cast him a glance. “Tiring already?”

      Hart stretched his arms over his head. “I can last as long as you can.”

      She shook her head. “Perhaps you can. But I refuse to monopolize Seattle’s only deputy. Think what dire crimes are being committed even as we speak!”

      Hart chuckled. “It’s Tuesday. Most of the dire crimes happen over the weekend.”

      “Really?”

      Those blue eyes were so trusting. She believed anything he said. While he had tried to walk the narrow path since that dark day in Ohio ten years ago, he still found her belief gratifying.

      She probably hadn’t noticed that Seattle had too many troublemakers these days. Some of the men coming to work in the coal mines across the lake were harder types than the original pioneers. The steamship route from San Francisco that had started this week added dozens more strangers to the city. Worse, there had been reports of newcomers being enticed from the docks so a gang of ruffians could relieve them of any valuables. Mortified, the immigrants hadn’t been willing to come to the sheriff for help, according to the locals who had found the victims. So far, he hadn’t been able to convince the immigrants to talk, and he hadn’t located the criminals, but he wasn’t about to stop trying.

      Seattle had one duly appointed constable, but he mostly served as a watchman, raising the hue and cry when something happened. If criminals were to be stopped, it was up to Hart, Sheriff Wyckoff, and any other man he might deputize. Which meant Beth was right, and he had work to do.

      Something of what he was feeling must have shown on his face, for she sighed. “I’m finished for today, Hart. You can see me back to the livery.”

      She sounded so defeated he moved closer. “Didn’t you get what you wanted?”

      “Oh, yes.” Her grin reappeared, forming a dimple at the side of her mouth. “At least, purchase-wise. But don’t think you can get rid of me so easily. I’ll come back to town and meet with you tomorrow. I’ll have better candidates in mind then.”

      Not if he could help it.

      As soon as he saw Beth on the road north toward Wallin Landing, driving a wagon with her brother’s famous steel dusts in the traces, Hart went straight to his superior’s home on the outskirts of Seattle to speak to Mrs. Wyckoff.

      Ursula Wyckoff was a pillar of the town. A handsome woman in her late forties, she worked on most civic and church committees, donated flowers for every funeral and supported any number of charitable causes. Her stern demeanor reminded Hart of the woman who had run the orphanage where he’d been raised. Still, Mrs. Wyckoff invited him in and offered him a glass of lemonade, which he declined, before sitting across from him in the parlor.

      “Is something wrong, Mr. McCormick?” she asked, blue eyes bright.

      Had she noticed the way he shifted on the horsehair-covered sofa? The Wyckoffs had one of the finer homes in Seattle, the walls covered with floral paper, the wood floors by thick carpets. The furnishings were dark and heavy, while crystal draped the lamps. He always felt like an interloper.

      Now he balanced his hat on his knee. “Not wrong, ma’am, just of concern. I understand you and the other ladies of the Literary Society persuaded Miss Wallin to find me a bride.”

      She didn’t look the least embarrassed to be caught in her machinations. “Ah. I had hoped Miss Wallin would be more circumspect.”

      Hart raised a brow. “So you wanted her to lie, too?”

      She waved a hand, the sleeve of her gown dripping lace. “You make it sound so sordid. We were only trying to help.”

      “I don’t need help,” Hart told her. “I’m perfectly capable of finding myself a wife if I wanted one. And I don’t.”

      She leaned forward, frown gathering. “And why not?”

      Her husband knew the full story of his past, his upbringing in the crowded orphanage, his short time as an outlaw, the deadly consequences of his decision to testify against the gang. Would Wyckoff be strong enough to deny this woman if she asked him about it? Would the story have any chance of remaining hidden if the sheriff or Hart told her?

      Would he escape this room without giving her something?

      He squared his shoulders. “I was in love once. She died. I don’t much care to try again.”

      Mrs. Wyckoff made a commiserating noise. Then she rose and went to the sideboard. “I don’t believe you met my daughter, Ursula.” She returned to hand him a daguerreotype. “I thought my first husband silly for insisting that we name her after me and even sillier for going to the expense of having this made.”

      Hart gazed down at the little girl with a riot of pale curls and a grin that likely tugged at her father’s heart. “Is that why you call her Miss Eugenie now?”

      Mrs. Wyckoff retrieved the image. “This isn’t Eugenie, Mr. McCormick. It’s her older sister. My Ursula died when she was seven. She wandered too close to the hearth, and her dress caught on fire.”

      His stomach clenched. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

      She stroked the picture as if she would have liked to stroke her daughter’s curls. “So am I. I still miss her.” СКАЧАТЬ