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Authors: Linda Lael Miller
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rugged, outlawlike way, and just the thought of sharing his bed made her head whirl and her stomach do flipflops. She wasn’t sure what she felt, precisely, but it was part anticipation and part mortal dread.
“What made you sign on with the Happy Home Matrimonial Service?” he asked presently. The breeze ruffled his dark hair, which had been barbered since she’d first encountered him in town, sprawled on the ground in front of the Bloody Basin Saloon. His knuckles were scraped, though the fisticuffs had left his face blessedly unmarked.
She wasn’t about to tell him the whole story—that she’d grown up in a brothel, slept with a stranger for money, and fled in a fit of disgrace and wounded pride after the confrontation with Becky—so she related another facet of the tale.“It seemed to me that every day was just like the one before it,” she said quietly, watching the moon’s reflection splinter upon the water of the creek. “I wanted a change. I wanted something big to happen, and I knew it wouldn’t, unless I made it.” She paused. “What about you?”
He sighed. “I needed a wife,” he said, “and fast. I didn’t figure it would take all winter for them to send somebody—they sure didn’t hesitate to cash the bank draft, though.”
Emmeline swallowed. The bank draft.
For the first time, it occurred to her that she’d sold her soul to Rafe McKettrick, as surely as she had her virtue, back in Kansas City, earning herself a few gold coins and a lifetime of secret recrimination. The terms were a little different now, that was all, but a bargain had been struck, money had changed hands, and she was the goods.
She sat up a little straighter on the log, sick with the full realization of what she’d done.
“They might have sent a picture,” Rafe went on, unaware, of course, that she was crumbling beside him, fighting not to double over, not to drop to her knees in the grass, weeping, “or at least told me you were on your way.”
Emmeline bit her lower lip, willed some starch into her backbone. What was done, was done. Like many, many women before her, she would have to make the best of things. “Are you disappointed?” she heard herself ask. She’d never had her likeness taken, and therefore she hadn’t complied with the marriage broker’s request for a daguerreotype, which would, most likely, have been forwarded to Rafe for his approval. “In my appearance, I mean?”
“Nope,” he said flatly.“I reckon you’ll do.”
Emmeline’s last hope for romance died a painful death. Everything was utterly unlike what she’d imagined. True, the large house and thriving ranch had come as a pleasant surprise, but she’d expected to be wooed, perhaps even cherished. Instead, it seemed she was to be little more than a brood mare.
She drew in a long breath and released it slowly. “You brought me out here because you wanted to say something to me, Mr. McKettrick. What was it?”
The answer was blunt. “I sent for a wife—sent for you—because I need to father a child right away. If I don’t, I’m going to wind up as little more than a hired hand.”
She stiffened, barely hearing the last of what he’d said. “Right away?” she echoed. Wasn’t Rafe going to court her at all?
He nodded.“Sooner the better,” he affirmed.
Emmeline had never been intimate with a man, at least, not that she remembered, and she was unnerved by Mr. McKettrick’s size and vitality, to say nothing of his rowdy nature. Still, she was here, wasn’t she, with nowhere else to go, and if the Texan had indeed made her pregnant, as she feared, then here was her chance to make her child legitimate, with no one the wiser. The baby would simply arrive a trifle early, that was all.
“I see,” she said, and just then she didn’t like herself very much.
“Have you ever made love, Emmeline?”
These westerners were so straightforward. She shook her head, but she couldn’t make herself look him in the
“What made you sign on with the Happy Home Matrimonial Service?” he asked presently. The breeze ruffled his dark hair, which had been barbered since she’d first encountered him in town, sprawled on the ground in front of the Bloody Basin Saloon. His knuckles were scraped, though the fisticuffs had left his face blessedly unmarked.
She wasn’t about to tell him the whole story—that she’d grown up in a brothel, slept with a stranger for money, and fled in a fit of disgrace and wounded pride after the confrontation with Becky—so she related another facet of the tale.“It seemed to me that every day was just like the one before it,” she said quietly, watching the moon’s reflection splinter upon the water of the creek. “I wanted a change. I wanted something big to happen, and I knew it wouldn’t, unless I made it.” She paused. “What about you?”
He sighed. “I needed a wife,” he said, “and fast. I didn’t figure it would take all winter for them to send somebody—they sure didn’t hesitate to cash the bank draft, though.”
Emmeline swallowed. The bank draft.
For the first time, it occurred to her that she’d sold her soul to Rafe McKettrick, as surely as she had her virtue, back in Kansas City, earning herself a few gold coins and a lifetime of secret recrimination. The terms were a little different now, that was all, but a bargain had been struck, money had changed hands, and she was the goods.
She sat up a little straighter on the log, sick with the full realization of what she’d done.
“They might have sent a picture,” Rafe went on, unaware, of course, that she was crumbling beside him, fighting not to double over, not to drop to her knees in the grass, weeping, “or at least told me you were on your way.”
Emmeline bit her lower lip, willed some starch into her backbone. What was done, was done. Like many, many women before her, she would have to make the best of things. “Are you disappointed?” she heard herself ask. She’d never had her likeness taken, and therefore she hadn’t complied with the marriage broker’s request for a daguerreotype, which would, most likely, have been forwarded to Rafe for his approval. “In my appearance, I mean?”
“Nope,” he said flatly.“I reckon you’ll do.”
Emmeline’s last hope for romance died a painful death. Everything was utterly unlike what she’d imagined. True, the large house and thriving ranch had come as a pleasant surprise, but she’d expected to be wooed, perhaps even cherished. Instead, it seemed she was to be little more than a brood mare.
She drew in a long breath and released it slowly. “You brought me out here because you wanted to say something to me, Mr. McKettrick. What was it?”
The answer was blunt. “I sent for a wife—sent for you—because I need to father a child right away. If I don’t, I’m going to wind up as little more than a hired hand.”
She stiffened, barely hearing the last of what he’d said. “Right away?” she echoed. Wasn’t Rafe going to court her at all?
He nodded.“Sooner the better,” he affirmed.
Emmeline had never been intimate with a man, at least, not that she remembered, and she was unnerved by Mr. McKettrick’s size and vitality, to say nothing of his rowdy nature. Still, she was here, wasn’t she, with nowhere else to go, and if the Texan had indeed made her pregnant, as she feared, then here was her chance to make her child legitimate, with no one the wiser. The baby would simply arrive a trifle early, that was all.
“I see,” she said, and just then she didn’t like herself very much.
“Have you ever made love, Emmeline?”
These westerners were so straightforward. She shook her head, but she couldn’t make herself look him in the
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