Читать книгу Frontier Engagement - Regina Scott - Страница 11

Chapter Two

She was waiting on the porch with several other ladies when James drew the horses to a stop in front of the boardinghouse. Despite the fact that she had said she would only come to visit, standing beside her was a trunk that would all but fill the bed of his wagon. James tried not to cringe.

She’d also changed clothes for the journey. This gown was purple, the bodice fitted to her form, with bands of white satin sculpting the collar, shoulders and waist. Triple bands of the stuff followed the curves of her wide skirts. A straw bonnet with velvet ribbons covered her shiny curls. How could his family possibly find fault?

Determined to match her formality, he wiped the smile from his face, stepped down from the bench and marched up the walk. Stopping at the edge of the porch, he tipped his hat.

“Ladies.”

She stepped forward. “Mr. Wallin. Shall we?”

The others were watching her so solemnly he might have been Death come to take her on her final journey. He offered his arm. “It would be my pleasure, Miss Fosgrave.”

He thought he heard a sigh of envy from one of the other ladies.

If Miss Fosgrave heard it, she gave no indication. She merely accepted his arm, her touch light and sure. James walked her to the wagon as if escorting her to a dance. He couldn’t deny there was something fine about strolling beside a lady in all her glory. His brothers might tease him unmercifully about his liking for fine clothing, calling him a dandy and far too citified, but he’d always appreciated the sheen of satin, the brush of fine wool. Women weren’t the only ones who sometimes had a hankering to look good.

But looking good came at a price on the frontier, and he spied the problem with Miss Fosgrave’s pretty gown the moment they reached the wagon. She couldn’t possibly climb up onto the bench in those skirts. When she paused with a frown as if realizing the issue, he bent and scooped her up in his arms.

Her eyes, now on a level with his, were as clear as spring water. They widened as she cried, “Really, Mr. Wallin! What are you doing?”

“Just my duty, ma’am,” he promised, setting her up into the bench.

Face turning pink, she arranged her skirts around her. “A little warning would have been preferable.”

He leaned against the wagon and grinned up at her. “Very well. I promise to warn you the next time I feel an urge to take you up in my arms.”

The blush deepened, and she faced forward rather than look at him. “A warning that will end any such thoughts, I trust. Now, if you’d be so good as to fetch my trunk.”

“Please?” he suggested.

Her mouth tightened. “Please.”

James pushed off from the wagon and swept her a bow. “At once, your royal highness.”

Her look speared back to him. “Don’t call me that. Don’t ever call me that.”

Why had he thought her eyes as cool and refreshing as clean water? Now they positively boiled with emotions. What had he done to earn her wrath?

James kept his own face still, determined not to give her any reason to change her mind. “Forgive me, ma’am. I meant no offense. Wait here, and I’ll get your things.”

As he ventured back to the house, he shook his head. Why had she reacted that way to a simple tease? Did she think he was laughing at her expense? Nothing could be further from the truth. He’d only been trying to make her smile. It was obvious he’d have to work much harder to stay in her good graces. He nodded to the ladies still watching from the porch and put his hand to the trunk.

One tug, and he nearly groaned aloud. What had she packed—enough bricks to build a house? With the other ladies standing there, and her waiting on the bench, he wasn’t about to admit it was too heavy. He seized the leather handle at either end and heaved it up into his arms. One of the ladies gave an “ooo” of appreciation at his demonstration of strength. It was all he could do not to stagger down the walk.

Miss Fosgrave didn’t so much as look his way as he brought the trunk and shoved it into the bed of the wagon. Sweat trickled down his cheek as he made his way to the front once more.

“All set,” he said, knowing a longer statement would likely come out breathless. He took up the reins and climbed onto the bench.

“Good luck, Alexandrina!” one of the women called, and they all waved or fluttered handkerchiefs as if she were taking off on a grand journey.

He could only hope the end of the trip would be more auspicious than the beginning and his family would find her as perfect as James did.

* * *

Alexandrina sat beside James Wallin, heartbeat slowly returning to normal. She hadn’t expected such a reaction, but then she’d never been held like that before. None of the men who had showed interest in her would have dared put an arm about her for fear of offending her family. One did not mistreat Princess Alexandrina Eugenia Fosgrave of Battenburgia.

“Though of course we do not use our titles here,” Mr. Fosgrave would always confide to the rapt listener in a hushed tone. “Our enemies are everywhere. But when we have been returned to our kingdom, you will be well rewarded for your kindness.”

It had been a potent promise, recalling days of pomp and circumstance that made the average American surprisingly sentimental. So everyone had treated her with kindness, deference, humility. Until the truth had come out. And there had been nothing kind in it.

“Alexandrina,” James said, guiding his magnificent horses up a muddy, rutted trail that hardly did them justice. “That’s an unusual name. Does it run in your family?”

She couldn’t tell him the fiction she’d grown up hearing, that it had been her great-grandmother’s name. “I don’t believe so. I’m not overly fond of it.”

He nodded as if he accepted that. “Then why not shorten it? You could go by Alex.”

She sniffed, ducking away from an encroaching branch on one of the towering firs that grew everywhere around Seattle. “Certainly not. Alex is far too masculine.”

The branch swept his shoulder, sending a fresh shower of drops to darken the brown wool. “Ann, then.”

She shook her head. “Too simple.”

“Rina?” He glanced her way and smiled.

Yes, he definitely knew the power of that smile. She could learn to love it. No, no, not love it. She was not here to fall in love but to teach impressionable minds. And a smile did not make the man. She must look to character, convictions.

“Rina,” she said testing the name on her tongue. She felt a smile forming. It had a nice sound to it, short, uncompromising. It fit the way she wanted to feel—certain of herself and her future. “I like it.”

He shook his head. “And you blame me for failing to warn you. You should have warned me, ma’am.”

Rina—yes, she was going to think of herself that way—felt her smile slipping. “Forgive me, Mr. Wallin. What have I done that would require a warning?”

“Your smile,” he said with another shake of his head. “It could make a man go all weak at the knees.”

His teasing nearly had the same effect, and she was afraid that was his intention. He seemed determined to make her like him, as if afraid she’d run back to Seattle otherwise. She refused to tell him she’d accepted his offer more from desperation than a desire to know him better. And she certainly had no intention of succumbing to his charm.

She clasped her hands together in her lap, one up, one down, fingers overlapping, and made herself look out over the horses. Sunlight through the trees dappled their black coats with gold.

“Nonsense,” she said. “What about you? Why were you named James?”

“It’s from the Bible,” he said, shifting in his seat as one of the wheels hit a bump. His shoulder brushed hers, solid, strong. “Pa named us for the first apostles: Andrew, Simon, Levi, John and James. I suspect you’ll like my brother John. He reads a lot.”

He glanced her way as if expecting agreement. Most likely he thought she read a great deal as a schoolteacher. That had been true once. She’d loved reading stories of kings and queens and gallant knights, imagining they were like her own life. A shame their stories had proved more real than the one she’d lived.

“Reading is important,” she acknowledged. “But putting what we read into practice is even more so.”

He laughed. It came so easily, freely. She wasn’t sure she’d ever laughed like that.

“Now that would depend on what you read, ma’am,” he told her. “Pa left us epic poems and adventure novels. I’m not sure how well we’ve put those lessons into practice.”

“Well,” Rina pointed out, “you do live in the wilderness. That is considered romantic in some circles.”

“No circle I belong to.” He swatted at a branch that hung over the track. “But at least Wallin Landing is becoming more civilized all the time. We have four cabins, a good-sized barn and the schoolhouse. Next is Catherine’s dispensary. Before you know it, we’ll have a town.”

A town. There was something fine about the idea of building for the future. But was it any more real than the stories Mr. and Mrs. Fosgrave had told?

The pattern had always been the same. The three of them would journey to a new town and seclude themselves, careful to hide the horses and carriage somewhere for easy access. This practice was for their safety, the woman she’d called mother had insisted, lovely blue eyes tearing up at the supposed memories. And Rina had learned not to ask too many questions about the past, for it had always upset the dear lady.

But somehow the story would slip out—how her father and mother had been deposed by a cruel tyrant, how even now their loyal subjects were massing to retake the throne. Bankers would extend credit, expecting to be repaid in gold. Society hostesses would vie with each other to fete them. The horses and carriage would come out of hiding, perhaps even join in a few races for which her father would be handsomely paid. Life would be wonderful, until her father would wake her in the night with news that they were no longer safe. And then away they’d go again.

She’d been as shocked as the inhabitants of the last town, Framingham, Massachusetts, when the Fosgraves had been unmasked. Someone had finally questioned her father’s web of lies and discovered that there was no kingdom of Battenburgia, no king and queen with subjects eager to reinstate them, certainly no princess waiting for her prince to arrive. The reality was a long series of debts run up by two charlatans with no intention of ever paying anything back.

She’d been fortunate not to have been indicted with them.

“Don’t blame Alexandrina,” Mrs. Fosgrave had said from the stand the day the judge had pronounced sentence, those blue eyes brimming with tears. “She never knew the truth. She isn’t even our daughter. We found her abandoned when she was about two, and we thought she’d make a nice addition to the story.” Her gaze had pleaded with Rina for understanding. “We did become fond of her.”

Rina’s hands were fisting in her lap now just remembering the moments before the judge had sent the Fosgraves away to prison, allowing her to go with no more than an order not to follow in their footsteps. No one in Framingham had been willing to befriend her. Her darling horses had been sold to help pay the debts.

She’d managed to convince the judge to let her sell most of her clothing for living expenses rather than to pay off the Fosgraves’s debts. The only other things she’d kept were Mr. Fosgrave’s pocket watch and a miniature of the three of them, buried safely in her trunk. When she’d seen the advertisement in the paper about Asa Mercer’s expedition to bring schoolteachers to Seattle, she’d known what she must do.

She might not be a princess, but she’d been raised with the education of one—having been tutored in every town by the very best instructors. Her education was the one thing they could not take from her. It was the one thing she could give to someone else.

She forced her fingers apart and pressed her hands into the smooth fabric of her gown. Everything she had believed had been a lie. That didn’t mean she couldn’t believe in something else, even if she hesitated to believe in someone else.

James Wallin was the perfect example of someone she should suspect of telling tales for his own profit. He was confident, and he was glib. He was relaxed behind the reins, as if nothing and no one could shake him. Didn’t he realize that they were driving farther from the safety of Seattle every second? Shouldn’t he be looking for catamounts, bears, savages? Was he even armed?

Catching her watching him, he grinned again, and despite all her thoughts, something inside her danced. Dangerous fellow. She refused to be taken in.

“Tell me about Wallin Landing,” she said. “What prompted you to start a school?”

“It was Catherine’s idea,” he said. “You’d have to ask her.”

A vague answer, but she supposed he might only be the messenger. He certainly talked as easily as he laughed, going on to tell her all about his widowed mother, four brothers and sister, the addition of Catherine to their group. But what impressed her more than his easy manner was his skill behind the reins.

Her father had taught her to drive early, on a lark, he’d said. Now she could only wonder whether he had been preparing her to help make a quick escape if needed. Either way, she’d learned to love the feel of the reins in her grip, knowing that all the power of the team was hers to control.

Sitting beside other gentlemen who pulled on the leather and sawed at the bits had been painful in the extreme. James Wallin gave the horses their heads, only correcting them if they strayed too far from the path. He guided them effortlessly, as if from long practice. And he seemed to trust them as she’d trusted her team.

“I haven’t seen many steeldusts in Seattle,” she ventured at one point.

“Steeldusts?” He gazed at his team. “Is that what they are?”

She’d never met a man who didn’t know the sort of horse he owned. Her father had examined every aspect, from the size of their ears to the conformation of their hindquarters. He’d known breed and lineage, could gauge strength and stamina. Or at least so he’d claimed.

“I believe that’s the name given them in Texas,” she said, suddenly doubting. Had her father made up the name like he had everything else? Maybe she didn’t know as much about horses as she thought. “I heard they are prized by cattlemen.”

“Well, I’m hardly a rancher,” James said with a laugh. “My family prefers oxen. I’d ridden with friends from time to time, but these are my first horses. I bought them off a fellow in town who was giving up his stake. They had a certain dash.”

She smiled. “Oh, they have dash, all right. See those high haunches? All power. A steeldust can run a quarter mile on good track in a few seconds.”

He glanced her way. “You seem to know a lot about horses.”

His tone was admiring, but her stomach sank. When would she learn? She had to guard every word now, not to protect a so-called family secret but to prevent being tarred by it. “My...family owned a team much like yours,” she told him. “They raced a few times. Not that I condone the practice.”

“We can’t control our families,” he assured her as if he knew firsthand. “Though that doesn’t keep us from trying.”

Her breath came easier. He wasn’t going to press her for details. “What are your team’s names?” she asked.

To her surprise, he glanced ahead as if to estimate the distance to their destination. When he spoke, he lowered his voice. Did he fear the trees would overhear him?

“The fellow who sold them to me didn’t think much of naming horses,” he said, gaze more serious than she’d seen. “Neither do my brothers. Drew says you don’t name your tools or your saw.”

To her, horses were far more than tools. They were intelligent, caring creatures whose loyalty you were blessed to earn. Yet if he didn’t believe in naming them, he probably wouldn’t understand that.

He turned toward his team once more, and she could see their ears twitching back to listen to him as he spoke again.

“I disagree with Drew,” he said as if making a confession. “My horses are more than bone and muscle, meant only for turning a field or tugging out a stump. I rely on them, and I know they rely on me. They believe in me when no one else does. I think of them as Sir Lancelot and Sir Percival. Lance is a little bigger and prouder, but Percy has the greater heart.”

What beautiful sentiments! His look was soft, paternal even. Rina had to fight the urge to touch his shoulder, tell him she understood.

And he knew the legend of King Arthur? Perhaps Le Morte D’Arthur had been one of the books his father had left him. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d read it, believing that her parents’ kingdom was as marvelous as Camelot.

Now it wasn’t a kingdom awaiting her, but a frontier schoolhouse. After traveling thousands of miles and counting off the months, she was about to achieve her dream of teaching. She could hardly sit still as James guided his team out of the woods at last. A clearing opened up around her, wide pastures surrounded by curly-topped cedar and fir pointing to the darkening sky. A large, two-story log house sat across one end of the clearing, with a barn to the south of it. But what drew Rina’s eye was the building at the back of the clearing, up against the hillside.

The newly peeled logs gleamed gold in the setting sun. The brass bell on a stand outside the planked door looked as if it would ring for miles. She could imagine children lining up outside, eager to come in for lessons. Her heart swelled. This could be her school.

This might be where she could make a difference, where her life would count for something.