Wed To The Montana Cowboy. Carol Arens

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СКАЧАТЬ Chapter One

      Kansas City, Missouri, April 1882

      Despite appearances, Rebecca Lane was not a wallflower.

      Glancing to her left, then her right, she watched her passed-over companions sitting primly against the wall of the Kansas City Ladies Cultural Club while the fiddler played his jumpy tune off-key.

      While the other ladies might be considered blushing flowers, waiting hopefully for some man to pluck them from disgrace, she was not.

      What she was, was a spinster.

      If a man did come and pluck her, it would only end in humiliation. There was no disguising the fact that among the dainty wallflowers wilting in their chairs she stood out as bold as a ragweed.

      If this were not a charity event, and if Aunt Eunice had not spent the best part of an hour casting frowns at her, she would stand tall, very tall, six feet worth of tall to be exact, and escape this hall of merry, dancing people.

      A sigh coming from her right reminded her that not everyone was merry. If she had an ounce of spit, she’d unite her sisters in humiliation and together they would march out the door.

      Perhaps not Mary Crowner, though. Willard Phipp had just lifted her from her seat of misery and whirled her onto the dance floor.

      Because Rebecca had idle moments with nothing to do but tap her toe and clench her fingers together, she considered her future.

      There were a few fates worse than being a spinster, and truth be told, some advantages. She closed her eyes to the colorful skirts twirling past her feet. As she often did, she recited the advantages in her mind.

      One, no man would tell her what to say. Two, no man would tell her what to wear. Three, no man would dictate where she could go or when she could go there.

      But—and she never made it through the advantages before this thought sneaked in—no man would ever tell her that he loved her.

      “Rebecca Louise Lane,” her aunt’s voice hissed in her ear. “Why must you sit so tall? Your head is bobbing above the rest.”

      Was her head bobbing? No, certainly her aunt had made that up.

      “How do you expect to ever get a husband?”

      She didn’t, of course, but to say so out loud would put the woman who had raised her in a foul mood, so she shrugged instead.

      “Now, slouch down...and for heaven’s sake, smile. I just saw Randall Pile looking your way.”

      “Yes, Aunt Eunice.” She slid her posterior forward on the chair so that her shoulders sunk to the level of the girl sitting beside her.

      Sadly, this position jutted her knees out and made her look... Well, she wouldn’t think about that. She only hoped that no one tripped over them.

      She peered through the throng of bobbing, whirling dancers, searching for Randall. Please, oh, please let her aunt have been mistaken about the fellow’s interest in her.

      Randall, in his boots, was five feet tall.

      A yellow skirt whipped out of her line of vision and there he was, staring at her. Not at Martha on her right...not at Lucy on her left, but smack, square at her.

      He was with a group of young men. One of them elbowed him in the side. Another whispered in his ear. Randall laughed...well, smirked more like it.

      This could only end in a way that would not please Aunt Eunice.

      Martha’s shame was suddenly lifted when a young man asked her to dance.

      A flash of lavender ruffle settled into the empty chair beside Rebecca.

      “Becca, sit up straight.” Winded, her cousin Melinda frowned at her and yanked her elbow. “You are far too beautiful to be scrunched up like that.”

      Melinda was a lively, pretty girl who rarely went without a dance partner. The one whom she had apparently abandoned in the middle of a quickstep stood alone in the revelry looking bewildered.

      “I saw Mama talking to you. Don’t pay a whit of attention to whatever she had to say.”

      Rebecca sat up and took a long, shuddering breath.

      “If only I could. She’s set on matching me up with Randall again.”

      “I can’t imagine what Mama is thinking. Randall Pile is—”

      “Walking this way,” Rebecca groaned.

      “If we hurry we can escape outside before he makes it across the room.”

      For pity’s sake, the man was fast. She hadn’t taken three steps from her chair before he stood before her, chest puffed and looking arrogant to his boot toe.

      “Would you care to dance, Miss Lane?”

      By George she would not! Sadly, the interested gazes of several people in the room turned her way. She did not wish to make a scene.

      Melinda’s abandoned dance partner appeared out of the crowd. “Miss Winston, may I have the pleasure...again?”

      “Billy!” Melinda exclaimed. “How beastly of me to leave you the way I did. I’d be delighted to continue.”

      Clearly Billy held no grudge. A grin split his face, as cheerful as the bright quarter moon visible through the window.

      Randall grinned as well, but it was over his shoulder at his companions, not at any pleasure over dancing with her. No doubt he had made the offer on a dare...possibly money had changed hands.

      One of the wallflowers giggled. And why would she not? She and Randall must look like a giraffe and a peacock engaged in some bizarre ritual.

      She would give her aunt this one satisfaction, then beg some indisposition and go home.

      A slow walk around Palmer’s cornfield with the brisk night air brushing her cheeks would cleanse away the humiliation as effectively as a classical melody would.

      The fiddler played a twisted version of a polka. Did no one else hear the off-key screech that felt like pinpricks inside one’s bones?

      She glanced about.

      Apparently not. Everyone seemed to be having a fine high time.

      Randall, more than most. He stomped on her skirt with every turn. His clutching, sweaty hand was bound to leave a stain on her dress.

      Exasperated, she glared down at the top of his head, noticing that his hair was thinning. She had the urge to blow a fleck of dandruff from his scalp.

      She might have made all sorts of inappropriate faces at him for all he would notice.

      The one and only thing the man cared to look at was her bosom. And not because it was anything more than adequate but because unless he looked up or down, СКАЧАТЬ