Читать книгу To Seduce a Texan - Georgina Gentry - Страница 8

Early October 1864

The president’s office of Prairie View Bank

He was either going to have to murder Rosemary or marry her. Right now, he couldn’t decide which would be the most distasteful. Banker Godfrey St. John leaned back in his fine leather office chair and cleaned his nails with his pocket knife. He gazed out into the busy lobby where customers gathered, excited about the coming celebration. From every post and beam hung large banners adorned with bright ribbons shouting, “Welcome Home, Rosemary!” “Rosemary, We Missed You!”

Like I’d miss an impacted tooth. Godfrey grimaced and brushed a speck of lint off his expensive striped suit. As far as the town folk, they hardly knew her, but any kind of a celebration was welcome with the war dragging on.

It was a hot day for early October, he thought as he snapped his pocket knife shut and dropped it in his coat pocket. With a resigned sigh, he pasted a smile on his handsome face, ran his finger over his tiny mustache, and walked out into the lobby to mingle with the customers. He hated being so close to such hicks. “Ah, good day, Mrs. Hornswaggle, you’re looking well.”

The fat widow gave him her brightest smile. “Thank you, Mr. St. John. But I’m feeling poorly. My lumbago, you know.”

“So sorry.” He walked past her before she could engage him in more conversation. As a rich widower, he knew he was a target for every woman in town.

“We’re all excited about Rosemary’s return,” she shouted after him.

“Aren’t we all?” He turned and nodded, thinking about his stepdaughter, and frowned. Plump and plain Rosemary was due in on the noon stage and he could only hope it got attacked by Indians or fell off a cliff, which wasn’t too likely on the flat plains of southern Kansas. Damn her mother, anyhow. Agatha must not have trusted Godfrey after all since he’d discovered after her death that her only child, Rosemary, was to inherit the bank on her twenty-first birthday, less than three weeks from now. Godfrey only inherited if Rosemary should die, and she was healthy as a draft horse and about as appealing. Ye Gods! He was out of luck unless he took matters into his own, well-manicured hands. And after all the trouble he’d gone to get his fingers on this fortune.

So to maintain control of the bank and the estate, Godfrey would either have to marry Rosemary or murder her. There would be gossip, of course, if he married his own stepdaughter with her mother dead a little over a year, but he had gone too far to give up all this money now. Besides, he was such a pillar of the community that folks would soon forgive him. He thought about wedding Rosemary and frowned. Ye Gods! Maybe he ought to reconsider murdering her.

Godfrey continued walking through the lobby, greeting people, shaking hands.

The local minister hailed him. “Great day, isn’t it, Mr. St. John, Rosemary due home and all?”

Godfrey shook hands with the frail man. “Yes, indeed, Reverend Post, I’ve missed her so much. However, you know, I thought a Grand World Tour would be good for her after the death of her mother. Agatha’s loss was so tragic for all of us.”

Reverend Post murmured agreement.

Actually Godfrey had hoped Rosemary wouldn’t survive the Grand Tour. He’d hoped she might fall off the Great Wall of China, clumsy as she was, drown in a Venice Canal, or get carried off to some sheikh’s harem or maybe trampled by an elephant. No such luck.

“So tragic, Agatha’s death,” the old minister said.

“Certainly was,” Godfrey nodded, “but life goes on.”

Or would, if I could figure out what to do about my stubborn, plain stepdaughter. He returned to his office, sat down in his expensive chair, and reached for his pocket knife. He cut off the tip of a fine Havana cigar and lit it, considering his options. The new Union fort that was being built just outside town was drawing more settlers and more money. With that in mind, Godfrey didn’t intend to give up control of the only bank in Prairie View.

In the early autumn heat, his office window was open and he watched four weather-beaten men ride down the dusty street and rein in near the bank’s entry. Looked like country yokels, maybe cowboys, Godfrey thought as he watched them dismount.

The tallest of the four tipped his Stetson and nodded to a passerby. “Howdy, stranger, where can we find a stable for our horses and a good saloon?”

Texans, Godfrey thought, sneering at the drawl. Now what are they doing so far from home, especially with a war going on? The quartet looked tan and dusty like they’d been on the road a long time. The tall one listened to the local and nodded. “Much obliged. We’re mighty thirsty.” Then he led off with long strides, followed by a younger man with red hair and big ears and two old codgers sporting ragged gray beards.

Godfrey glanced at the big clock in his office and sighed as he smoked. If Indians and nonexistent cliffs didn’t stop her stagecoach, his stepdaughter should be arriving within the hour.

Rosemary’s stage rolled down the dusty road at a fast clip, moving toward Prairie View. She was the only passenger as she leaned back against the coarse horsehair cushions and sighed, wishing she was headed some place, any place but there. It was hot, so the isinglass curtains had been rolled up. While she sweated, fine dust blew in to coat her face, clothes and big plumed hat.

Ladies don’t say “sweat.” She could almost hear her dead mother’s scolding voice. Men and horses sweat, ladies glow.

“Well, I sweat, Mother,” she said aloud and then felt foolish to be talking to herself. She and her mother had never had a good relationship, and it had worsened when Agatha Burke had married that sleazy Godfrey St. John. But then Rosemary had always disappointed her mother for looking too much like her plain and rotund father. She had disappointed her father, too, who wanted a daughter as beautiful as his upper-class wife. Rosemary could never please either of them, no matter how much she tried. When Rosemary finally realized that, she had retaliated by becoming stubborn and difficult. Even being sent off to the fancy finishing school that Mother had attended back East hadn’t done much to turn Rosemary into the fine and elegant lady Mother had longed for. Neither had that Grand Tour her stepfather had insisted she take after Mother’s death.

Rosemary took out a handkerchief and mopped her steaming red face. Her corset was so tight she could hardly breathe, but her silhouette was still rotund.

Well, she didn’t like herself much either. With the disapproval and disappointment of her parents, Rosemary never felt loved, and so she comforted herself with food and romantic novels, which only led to more disapproval.

Speaking of food, she wished she had a sandwich or some cookies right now. That would keep her mind off her unhappiness. Godfrey would think she should have worn the light gray of mourning, but she’d gotten grease from a fried chicken leg on her light gray silk dress and she wasn’t certain it could be cleaned.

Maybe Agatha was right, Rosemary would always be a disappointment and no one would ever love her except for her money. So now, as the stagecoach bumped along toward Prairie View, Rosemary daydreamed as usual that she was someone else.

Today she was Lady DuBarry, the beautiful mistress of kings and the most slender, elegant woman in all France. Of course her powdered wig was coiffed in curls beset with diamonds, and a beauty mark accented her lovely face.

She leaned back and smiled in her fantasy. She wore a gold and silver ball gown, rolling along in her private carriage toward the chateau where a giant ball in her honor was waiting. There handsome dukes and earls, no, it would be marquises, would vie for Lady DuBarry’s attention while she laughed behind her dainty fan and men begged to drink champagne out of her tiny slipper and threatened duels in her honor.

“Oh, please, gentlemen, no sword fights over my affections.” She laughed behind her lace fan. “There really are other mademoiselles here.”

“Ah, my cherie,” the most handsome one bent over her fingertips for a kiss, “but none so beautiful as you.”

She blushed prettily and drew her hand back. Which dandy would receive her favors tonight while other women looked on and frowned with jealousy?

The billowing dust brought on a fit of coughing, and that jerked Rosemary back to harsh reality. France with its chateaus and vineyards faded into the dusty Kansas plains as the stagecoach bumped along. She coughed again, straining the tight laces of her corset, and wiped her round face with a lace hankie, which only made muddy streaks, she knew. No doubt her plain brown hair was full of dust, too. Rosemary tried to straighten her hat with its big plumes, then she raised one arm and looked at the dark circle under the armpit. She should have worn a lighter color. Plum probably wasn’t a good color with her complexion anyway.

Oh, Daddy, I never really got to know you. Mother always had me back East in fancy schools. How was I to know you would drop dead suddenly of a heart attack in the bank lobby while I was away?

That had been more than three years ago. Then Mother had married that slick and too handsome teller, Godfrey St. John, and made him president of the bank.

Rosemary scowled. All that was about to change. She had never liked Godfrey, and now she vowed that on her twenty-first birthday, she would send the rascal packing. With the help of that old reliable teller Bill Wilkerson, Rosemary would take over control of the bank herself. Was she smart enough to do that? Mother had told her over and over that she was not clever at all.

All right, so if she wasn’t clever or pretty, she’d have to rely on her stubbornness and common sense. After she fired St. John on October thirty-first, Rosemary would make some other changes. First, she would get herself a dog. Her parents had never allowed Rosemary to own a dog; they complained that pets were dirty and shed hair.

Yes, a dog, and not the prissy little pup that ladies favored, but a real dog—a big, hairy dog to romp and play with, and yes, it could sleep in the house and it would love her no matter how plain and stubborn she was. She smiled to herself. Her parents would probably roll over in their graves.

She stuck her head through the open window of the rolling stage and looked down the road ahead. In the distance, she could see the barest silhouette of the town. Her brown hair blew loose and she pulled back inside the stage and tried to readjust her plumed hat. Gracious, she probably looked a mess, but she couldn’t do much about that now.

Rosemary stuck her head out the window again and yelled up to the driver. “Could you just pass through town and take me on out to the house?”

The old man shook his head and yelled back,” Can’t do that, Miss Burke, ma’am, they’re plannin’ a big homecomin’ for you at the bank.”

Oh, of course Godfrey would do that. She leaned back against the horsehair cushions and tried to straighten her hat, mop the dust off her face, and smooth the wrinkles and early lunch crumbs from her dress.

She could almost hear Mother’s disapproving voice. “You look a fright, Rosemary. Next time you buy a dress, take someone with good taste with you.”

Who would I take, Mother? she thought. I have no friends in Prairie View. You never allowed me to play with the local children or go to school here; everyone in Kansas was too low class for you.

“I swear, you surely didn’t get any of my looks, you take after your father’s side of the family.”

“Yes, Mother,” Rosemary said without thinking and smiled. On Halloween, Rosemary would be of legal age and the first thing she intended to do was toss that handsome rascal Godfrey out into the street. He might have fooled Mother, but he hadn’t fooled Rosemary.

Waco and his men had stabled their horses, had a drink at the nearest saloon to wash the dust from their throats, and presently, they were walking around inside the bank, looking up at the banners and the big cake a teller now carried into the lobby and set on a table. The crowd inside and out seemed to be growing.

“What’s goin’ on?” Waco asked an old man.

“Oh, ain’t you heard? Banker’s daughter comin’ in on the noon stage. Been gone quite a while now.”

“Don’t say?” Waco muttered.

“Stick around,” said a blue-clad soldier, “there’ll be cake and punch.”

“Sound good.” Waco surveyed the crowd and then caught the eye of his men, nodded his head toward the outside.

The four of them ambled out onto the wooden sidewalk.

“I don’t like it,” Tom said. “You ever see so many Yankee soldiers? They make me as nervous as a deacon with his hand in the church collection plate.”

“Gawd Almighty! Keep your voice down,” Waco cautioned. “You want to be grabbed this minute? We got to keep a low profile.”

“Is that the reason you ain’t wearin’ them silver spurs?” Tom asked.

Waco nodded. “Attract too much attention. I’ll keep them in my saddlebags.”

Zeb took a chaw of tobacco. “Knew it was too good to be true about that fat bank bein’ easy pickin’s. Never seen so many blue-bellies; town workin’ alive with them.”

“I never said it was gonna be easy,” Waco reminded him. Privately, he was shocked himself. When he’d been told about this bank, what he hadn’t been told was that the town was a beehive of Union soldiers.

Zeke combed his fingers through his beard and took his mouth organ out of his shirt pocket. “Who’s this Rosemary everyone’s talkin’ about?”

“The banker’s daughter,” Waco answered.

Zeke began to play an off-key version of “Dixie.”

The other three glared at him.

Waco said, “Why don’t you just wave a red flag at all them Yankee soldiers?”

“I plumb forgot.” Zeke looked sheepish and changed over to “Camptown Races.”

“That banker must set a heap of store by her,” Tom offered, “judging from all the whoop-de-do that’s goin’ on.”

“Must,” Waco agreed, shrugging wide shoulders. “Think she’s been gone awhile.”

A growing crowd gathered on the wooden sidewalk in front of the bank.

“Hey!” someone whooped. “I think I see the stage in the distance!”

“Somebody tell the banker!”

A short man pushed through the crowd and into the bank to carry the news.

Waco caught a freckled-face boy by the arm. “Hey, son, how come there’s so many soldiers around?”

“Ain’t you heard?” The boy pointed. “New fort bein’ built just west a town.”

“Yes siree bob,” a snaggled-tooth older man said with a smile, “bringin’ lots of prosperity to our little Prairie View.”

The four Texans exchanged glances and moved away.

“A whole nest of soldiers guardin’ that bank,” Tom muttered under his breath. “So now what do we do?”

“Shh!” Waco ordered. “We got to think about this. There has to be a way.”

“We don’t dare go back without the money,” Zeb said, putting a chaw of tobacco in his mouth.

His older brother took the mouth organ away from his lips. “You think we don’t know that?”

“Hush up!” Waco drawled. “Y’all keep your minds open and your mouths shut.”

“Hey,” yelled a beefy Yankee sergeant, leaning against a store front.

Waco felt the sweat break out on his tanned face. “Yes, Sergeant?”

“You got the time?”

Waco relaxed and reached for his gold pocket watch. “Just about noon.”

The sergeant frowned. “You sound like Texans. What you doin’ so far from home?”

Tom, Zeke, and Zeb looked at each other, obviously panicked, but Waco grinned, remembering their cover story. “Up here to see if we can sell beef to the army.”

The other’s beefy face turned hostile. “Big, healthy bunch like you ought to be in one army or the other.”

Waco gritted his teeth but forced a smile. “We got no dog in that fight, Sergeant. We ain’t about to get shot by either side.”

The sergeant snorted his scorn and moved away.

Tom doubled up his fist, but Waco grabbed his arm so hard, the younger man winced.

“You’re gonna get us killed for sure,” Waco cautioned under his breath.

A cheer went up and people pushed forward toward the sidewalk from all the surrounding stores and out into the dusty street, looking north.

A tall, handsome man came out of the bank, smoking a cigar. From the scent, it must be an expensive one. The man wore a fine, gray pin-striped suit and his hands looked as if they had never done any work, not like Waco’s big, calloused ones. People greeted the newcomer with deference and respect.

“That must be the banker,” Waco muttered to his friends. The man looked a little too slick, Waco thought, more like a card sharp than a banker.

Waco pushed through the crowd to where he could look down the street. The stage raced toward them with a jingle of harness and a cloud of dust while the crowd cheered.

“Whoa, horses! Whoa!” The wiry driver pulled his lathered team to a stop, hopped down and came around to open the door while the crowd fell silent, waiting.

Inside, Rosemary took a deep breath, steeling herself for the ordeal to come. She had no social graces. Hadn’t Mother told her that a million times?

The driver opened the door and Rosemary stood up to get out. There seemed to be a sea of curious faces out there staring expectantly. She paused on the step, taking herself away from this awkward situation.

In her mind, she was Flame La Beau, the toast of New Orleans, arriving in this eager town to give a show. All the townsfolk had gathered to see the gorgeous showgirl. She wore a low-cut black gown to show off her curvacious figure. Her shiny ebony curls were done up on the back of her slender neck with a bright ribbon, and every man in the crowd was waiting for her to lift her skirt and give them a quick, heart-thudding glimpse of her dainty ankle.

Against a nearby post leaned a tall, lanky man with eyes as faded blue as his denim pants. Now as Flame favored him with a glance, he took off his Stetson and ran one tanned hand through sun-streaked hair. He looked at her with interest and she thought that when she danced tonight to a sold-out, appreciative crowd, she might throw this gent a garter from her shapely leg. No doubt he would never forget the night he met the notorious Flame of New Orleans.

Waco studied the girl poised on the step looking about. She was a tall and sturdy, softly rounded girl with pretty brown eyes in a dimpled, dust-streaked face. A plumed hat sat a bit crooked on her brown hair. She looked very hot and uncomfortable in a plum-colored dress, and her face seemed unusually florid. There was something vulnerable and unhappy in those dark eyes. The girl took the driver’s outstretched hand, made a hesitant move, missed the next step, and fell in the dirt by the sidewalk.

The crowd gasped and the driver tried to help the plump girl up, but he wasn’t strong enough to manage it.

Without thinking, Waco pushed through the crowd to her other side as she sat sprawled in the dust of the road with the little driver pulling vainly at her arm. Everyone gathered around, but only Waco reached down and took her arm. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

Rosemary just wanted to die from embarrassment. Tears came to her eyes.

Clumsy, clumsy, she scolded herself, not making any attempt to get up out of the dirt. Probably the crowd was laughing at her. If she could just die right here and be spared the humiliation.

Then she heard a masculine drawl and a strong hand took her arm. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

She blinked back the tears and looked up. It was that tall, handsome cowboy. How humiliating he had seen her at her clumsiest. “Gracious, I—I—”

“You must have fainted, ma’am,” he said kindly, “the heat and all. Here, let me help you.”

Even as she protested that he probably couldn’t lift her, he swung her up in his arms, dusty plum dress and all, turning toward the bank. Oh, he was so strong. She sighed and laid her face against his chest and felt her hat fall off, but she didn’t care. She’d made a fool of herself again.

But then a sympathetic murmur ran through the crowd. “Did you hear that? Miss Rosemary swooned from the heat!”

“Well, of course, she’s a lady and it so hot and all.”

“Take her inside where it’s cooler,” a lady said.

Oh, her reputation was saved. She leaned her dusty, sweaty face against the cowboy’s wide shoulder and let him carry her into the bank, followed by the curious crowd. Then she saw Godfrey pushing through the mob toward them.

“Ye Gods, dear Rosemary, are you all right?”

She closed her eyes and didn’t answer.

“Get the lady a glass of water and a wet handkerchief,” the cowboy drawled like he was used to ordering people around. “She fainted from the heat. Somebody pick up her hat.”

“Are you sure she didn’t just trip?” Godfrey asked. “I thought I saw—”

She glanced up and saw the glare in the blue eyes, aimed at Godfrey. “No, the lady fainted. She’s too delicate to be out in this heat.” Now the big man carried her into Godfrey’s office and put her down on a crimson settee.

She smiled up at him. No one had ever called her “delicate” before. Of course, as big as this cowboy was, maybe she didn’t seem plump and clumsy to him. She kept her arms at her sides so he couldn’t see how damp her dress was under the arms. “Thank you, kind sir.”

He grinned and stepped back, took off his hat. His eyes were a startling faded blue in his weathered, tan face. “Glad I could be of service, ma’am.”

Now Godfrey was shouldering him aside. “Here, Rosemary, here’s some punch. Do you feel like greeting some of my customers?”

She started to tell him they were her customers, but decided against it. This wasn’t the time or place to confront her stepfather. “I’d really like to go to the house—”

“The customers will be disappointed,” Godfrey snapped. “I’ve gone to a lot of trouble with the cake and all. Even got you a fine gift.”

“All right.” She reached out her hand to the cowboy, but he had stepped back and now Godfrey took her hand, pulled her to her feet. He yanked her toward the lobby and she turned her head and looked after the cowboy who shrugged and stepped back into the crowd. Oh, he was just being polite, she thought, crestfallen. Of course a man like that couldn’t be attracted to a plain and heavy girl.

Godfrey hustled her out into the lobby. “Here she is, folks, our dear Rosemary is finally home!” Godfrey raised his voice so all could hear.

“Hurray!” the crowd shouted and surrounded her to shake her hand and wish her well.

Old Bill Wilkerson, the white-haired senior teller, gave her a warm hug. “Glad you’ve finally come home, Miss Rosemary, don’t know why your mother sent you off to that fancy back-East school anyway after she remarried, and then that Grand Tour.”

Godfrey was certainly behind all that, Rosemary thought, because Agatha Burke might not have succumbed to his oily charms if Rosemary had been around to talk some sense into her. “Hello, Bill, glad to see you.”

She looked around in vain for the big cowboy, but he had disappeared. Godfrey pushed through the crowd and returned with a small box. “Here’s a welcome-home gift, my dear, straight from Paris, France. Even had it monogrammed.”

Bought with my daddy’s money, she thought, but she only said, “Oh, Godfrey, you shouldn’t have.”

“Nothing too good for our dear Rosemary,” he said and gave her an oily smirk.

Reluctantly, she opened it and the crowd gasped. It was a white, pure silk scarf with her initials on it, very fine and expensive. “It’s lovely,” she said without enthusiasm.

“Put it on,” someone urged.

She tied it in a loose bow around her neck.

“Lovely as the wearer,” Godfrey quipped.

She waited for God to strike him with lightning for his lying tongue, then decided God was asleep at the switch today. “If you don’t mind, I’m very tired—”

“No, you can’t leave yet.” Godfrey put his hand on her arm and squeezed hard in warning. “Everyone will be so disappointed.”

So she stayed another hour, greeting people and eating cake, too much cake because she was nervous about making a bigger fool of herself, and of course she got crumbs all over the expensive white scarf. She looked about in vain for the tall cowboy who had saved her from ridicule, but he was gone. Well, what had she expected? Hadn’t Mother said that only the bank’s money would get her a beau?

Finally a buggy came from the mansion to take her home.

“Oh, by the way, dear,” Godfrey said as he puffed and struggled to lift her up on the seat, “I’m giving a dinner party tonight for a few select people. Be ready.”

She got herself up into the buggy, thinking wistfully of the strong and virile man who had carried her. “A dinner party?” Rosemary sighed. “I’m awfully tired—”

“Be ready,” he warned her, and his eyes were cold and black as marble. “I’ll be home early, and oh, let Mollie help you pick out something to wear. She has such good taste.”

And of course, Rosemary didn’t. Hadn’t her mother told her that her whole life?

“All right.” She was not going to get into a fight with him right here. She would confront him later. After all, she was powerless until she was twenty-one.

The driver drove her to the imposing mansion five miles outside town that her father had built to bring his elegant, back-East bride to. Agatha Worthing had been much too good for such a country bumpkin, as she’d told her daughter so often, but her family had fallen on hard times and Noah Burke might have been a mannerless hick, but he’d gotten rich growing wheat and then began to lend money to the local farmers. He had such a sterling reputation that he soon opened a promising bank.

The household staff were lined up to greet her at the door, even Mollie, the pretty but coarse Irish maid with the crooked front teeth, whose lip seemed to curl in derision as she curtsied. Or maybe Rosemary was imagining that.

“I’m very tired,” Rosemary said to all, “and I’d like to rest and clean up. Mr. St. John is planning a dinner party, I understand.”

Everyone nodded.

“And I’m to help you pick out something to wear.” Mollie smirked, and her tone of importance annoyed Rosemary.

“I think I can dress myself,” she snapped and went up the stairs. She didn’t really like Mollie. Sometimes when she and Mother and Godfrey had been sitting before the library fire, she’d thought she’d seen her stepfather exchanging winks with the pretty maid. She dared not tell her mother, who not only wouldn’t have believed it, she’d have berated Rosemary for her suspicions.

Rosemary went into her room and stared into the mirror on the dresser. Yes, she looked as big a mess as she thought she did. The big plumed hat tilted dangerously to one side and Rosemary took it off and threw it across the room. She hated hats anyway.

She fingered the white silk scarf and sighed with resignation. She didn’t care much for expensive clothes, but Godfrey did. She tied it around her throat again, tucking it into the neck of the plum dress. She napped for a while, then drifted down the stairs. Everyone in the house seemed to be bustling about, getting ready for the grand dinner party.

She wished she could avoid that. Godfrey and her late mother loved to entertain with grand balls and dinners, but Rosemary found such events boring. She preferred a simpler life…or maybe it was because she was so clumsy; she always seemed to spill something on her clothes or trip when a young man asked her to dance.

Out of idle curiosity, she wandered out into the conservatory, Godfrey’s passion. It was hot and green and steamy inside. He grew exotic, expensive plants like orchids and seemed fascinated by plants such as fly catchers. In fact, she had seen the gleam in his cold eyes when he fed crippled flies to the plant.

She looked about the conservatory, admiring the exotic flowers. Then she bumped into a small orchid and the pot crashed to the floor with a loud noise. Oh, gracious, she had done it again. Well, he had so many plants, maybe he wouldn’t notice one missing. Or maybe she could repot it and save it. She found another pot and tried to replant the orchid, but it now sat at an angle in its pot, looking sickly. She’d done the best she could, but if Godfrey noticed, he’d be angry. Where could she hide it?

When she took over the estate, she promised herself, instead of exotic plants, she’d grow no-nonsense things like maybe some sunflowers and some fruit trees. Maybe she could even start a little garden here in this big glass room and grow vegetables.

How like your father. She could almost hear mother’s scornful voice. I’ve tried to turn you into a lady and you’d rather be a farmer.

“Yes, I would.” Rosemary nodded emphatically. “And I’ll get some cows and chickens and more horses and a dog, a big, hairy dog.”

But first, what to do about the damaged orchid? Rosemary took the pot and walked around, looking for a good place to hide it. She paused in front of a tall, big-leafed plant. This was unusual. She hid the little flower pot behind the big leaves. Whatever it was, some of its leaves had turned scarlet and it seemed to have decorative cockleburrs for flowers. Some of the cockleburrs were open and their speckled seeds were visible. They looked a little like pinto beans. The identifying tag on the big plant read “Ricinus Communis: African Origin.”

Out of curiosity, she touched one of the cockleburrs and yanked back. “Ohh! Damn it!” Then she looked around quickly to make sure no one had heard her swearing. Now she noticed the drops of blood on her fingertips.

“Clumsy me.” She had pricked her fingers trying to get the seed pod. Without thinking, she wiped the blood on the white silk scarf, along with the dirty smudge from her fingers. Gracious, now Godfrey would be really upset. Maybe she could rinse it out before he saw it. Rosemary hurried upstairs, took off the scarf, wondering about washing it. She couldn’t give the task to Mollie, the little snit would certainly tattle on her. She heard someone coming.

“Miss Rosemary?” Mollie called, “be ye be gettin’ dressed? Mr. St. John is comin’ home early.”

Oh, damn, damn, damn. Rosemary yanked off the bloodied scarf and tossed it under her bed. She’d figure out what to do about it later. “I’m getting ready if you’ll pour me some bath water.”

Quickly, Rosemary, stripped off the dusty plum dress and stared at herself in the mirror, then regretted it. She was plump, there was no doubt about it; even with her corset so tight, she could hardly breathe. She kept promising herself she’d diet, but then she’d have an ego-crushing disappointment and fill the void with snacks and candy. She would have given half her life to be thin and pretty, but no matter what cosmetics she bought, how she tried to starve herself, she was always going to be a tall, large girl. A man might marry her for her money, but not for love. She’d have to find that in the romantic novels she’d always hidden under her mattress.

In the next room, she could hear Mollie pouring pails of water. The Irish girl stuck her head in the door. “Would ye be wantin’ my help with your bathin’, miss?” Was that a hint of derision in the beauty’s Irish brogue?

“No, thanks, I can take it from now on.”

“Aye. Very well, then, Miss Rosemary. Mr. St. John said I should help you pick out a dress for to wear tonight.”

Even Godfrey thought the maid had better taste than Rosemary did.

Remember, she is the maid and everyone expects you to be difficult. “I’ll pick out my own dress, thank you.”

“Ah, but Mr. St. John said—”

“You can go, Mollie.” Rosemary steeled herself to be authoritative.

“All right then,” the maid said in a flip tone, “but don’t be ablamin’ me if he’s that upset.” She sailed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

He’d think upset October thirty-first when Rosemary took over and tossed him out on his handsome and well-clad posterior.

She climbed into the big copper tub and made lots of suds, then leaned back with a sigh. She was the dark and mysterious Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile. Men would give their lives to see her beautiful form bathing, but of course, only Mark Anthony and maybe some other powerful men ever would.

Then she started scrubbing herself and shook her head over just how plump the mysterious queen had become. She closed her eyes as she bathed, not wanting to be Rosemary Burke again. As she sudsed her long brown hair, she thought again of the strong, tanned man. What would he say if he could see her bathing? The thought made her shudder and she quickly finished bathing, wrapped a towel around her wet body, and went into her bedroom, avoiding the mirror. It had been a difficult day; how she wished she had a leftover piece of cake for comfort.

Mollie had laid out some underthings and a dress, despite Rosemary’s orders. The arrogant servant was one of the people Rosemary intended to fire when she sent Godfrey packing. She wondered if Mollie would still find the stepfather so fascinating when he had no money?

Rosemary put on her underthings and picked up the corset with resignation. She’d like to throw it away and never wear such an uncomfortable thing again, but of course it made her appear thinner, and that was important to men. Then she looked at the dress Mollie had chosen and gritted her teeth. It was bright green, very elaborate and expensive, and Rosemary hated it. She hung the bright-colored silk back in the closet and chose a simple pale blue gown.

Mollie came into the room just then. “Ye need help with your corset, ma’am?”

Mollie was so slender, she probably never wore one.

“Yes, please.” Rosemary put it on and hung on to the bedpost as Mollie struggled to lace it and pull it tight. Tiny waists and full bell skirts with hoops were the fashion now. Even when Mollie pulled the corset so tight, Rosemary felt her face turn cherry red, she knew she would never achieve the hourglass figure featured in all the ladies’ magazines. “Not so tight,” she gulped, “I can’t breathe.”

“Ah, but ye’ll want to be stylish, won’t ye?” Mollie scolded.

“No,” Rosemary said emphatically, “I want to breathe. I don’t want to swoon from lack of air.”

“Gentlemen like dainty ladies who swoon,” Mollie said and in the next breath, “is that what you’re going to wear?”

Now she sounded just like Mother. Rosemary bristled. “Yes, that’s what I’m going to wear.”

“But Mr. St. John—”

“Enough, Mollie. I intend to wear the blue dress.”

“All right, but I hope he don’t blame me none that—”

“I’ll deal with Godfrey.” She was surprised at her own resoluteness. “You may get the curling iron and do my hair now.”

The uppity Irish girl stomped out of the room and returned with a curling iron, pins, and brushes. She lit a lamp and put the curling iron to heat over it while she towel-dried her mistress’s brown hair.

“Not too elaborate.” Rosemary ordered.

“All fine ladies have theirs all done up fancy,” Mollie reminded her.

“I don’t care. I’d like it pulled to the nape of my neck and tied with blue ribbons so the curls can hang down my back.”

“Yes, ma’am, it’s your hair.” It was evident Mollie disapproved. “Can’t make a silk purse from a—”

“What was that?”

“Nuthin’, ma’am,” Mollie said.

No doubt Godfrey would disapprove, too. Well, she’d deal with that when she got there, Rosemary sighed.

Below, she heard the front door open and the butler say, “Ah, good afternoon, Mr. St. John. The lady is upstairs dressing.”

Then Godfrey yelled up the stairs. “Yoo-hoo, Rosemary, I’d like a word with you in the library.”

Rosemary gritted her teeth. To Mollie, she said, “Tell him I’ll be right down.”

Mollie went to the door. “Godfrey,” she called, “I mean, Mr. St. John, Miss Rosemary says she’ll be right down.”

The maid seemed a little too familiar, Rosemary thought, but she let it pass. She dismissed Mollie, heard her descending the stairs, and after a moment, she thought she could hear the maid and Godfrey talking.

Rosemary dreaded this evening, trying to make clever conversation with the prominent locals. No doubt someone would bring along an eligible son or nephew, hoping to marry her for her money. For a long moment, Rosemary wished there was someone out there who would be interested in her for herself.

The image of that big Texas cowboy passed through her mind. His arms had been so powerful as he picked her up out of the dirt, and he hadn’t laughed behind his hand like she suspected so many others were doing. In her mind, she was Billie, the Western Queen of the Range, galloping around an arena, a tiny, spunky thing on a big black horse, roping and doing tricks while the audience applauded and the big cowboy nodded in approval from the sidelines. Then he would lift her from her saddle and—

“Rosemary, are you coming down or not?” Godfrey’s annoyed voice broke into her daydream from below.

“I’m coming.” She hurried toward the stairs, the big hoop skirt swaying around her as she walked. She felt like a hot air balloon about to go aloft.

Below her, Godfrey St. John looked up at his stepdaughter and frowned. He liked tiny, slender women who laughed a lot and were free with their favors; someone like Mollie. Rosemary was not his type at all, so plain and plump in that simple blue dress, and the wide hoops only made her seem heavier. Ye Gods, did he really have to marry her? Maybe it would just be easier to murder her.