Marianne's Marriage of Convenience Page 15

  Abe snorted. “Well, ya ain’t thirteen years old now, my girl. You’re all growed up and married, and that means you have diff’rent responsibilities. Like I said, what ya need to do, or in this case not do, is obvious.”

  But it was not obvious, she thought. Did caring for a man mean that a woman didn’t have a mind of her own? That a woman didn’t have her own ideas about things? To say nothing about her own preferences about things and people and events in life?

  Abe laid a work-worn hand on her shoulder. “I kin see yer brain is rasslin’ around inside that head of yours. Is it producin’ any sensible thoughts?”

  Marianne sighed. “Abe, here is the problem in a nutshell. I think my thoughts are sensible. I think any woman, even a married woman, has to make up her own mind about things and do what she thinks is right.”

  Abe groaned. “I knowed you was stubborn the minute I set eyes on ya that first day you came to the shop. Miss Marianne, ya ain’t dumb, jest stubborn. So I want you to set still and listen to what I’m gonna tell ya. Agreed?”

  She nodded.

  “Peace between a man and a woman is a beauteous thing,” he began. “But it ain’t always easy to get to. You followin’ me?”

  “Yes, I’m following you,” she murmured.

  He grabbed a pot holder and lifted the coffeepot off the stove, poured out two mugs and handed one to her. “Well, then, ya gotta ask yourself this here simple question. What’s more important, getting’ yer own way or havin’ peace between you an’ Lance?”

  She wrapped both hands around the coffee mug. “Abe, it isn’t really about ‘getting my own way.’ It’s about thinking for myself. Deciding what is important for me. Can you understand that?”

  “Nope,” Abe shot. “An’ I wager Lance don’t understand it, either.”

  Marianne took a sip of her coffee and wondered what to say. She took another sip, and then another, and then suddenly she knew. “Abe, the truth is, any person, male or female, even a married woman, needs to do what she thinks is right.”

  “You’re sure about that, are ya?”

  Marianne stared at him. “Yes, I am. The more I think about it, the more sure I am. I have the right to think for myself and to make decisions for myself.”

  Abe looked skeptical. “But don’t fergit that now you’re a wife. And when there’s two in the saddle, they gotta work together. A wife don’t make decisions jest fer herself, does she?”

  “But does ‘working together’ mean that a husband and wife have to think the same way about everything? Agree on everything?”

  Abe frowned and slurped coffee in through his teeth. “Well heck, Miss Marianne, now ya done asked me a question I cain’t rightly answer.”

  Marianne tried to smile at him. “It’s like going to war, in a way. You march out to make sure something happens, or that something doesn’t happen, but either way you’re standing up for what you believe and what you think is right. Do you see?”

  “Nope. Well, maybe. But think on this, Miss Marianne. There’s a heap of difference between thinkin’ fer yerself an’ actin’ on something. ’Specially if yer partner don’t want you to do whatever it is. It’s the same in a business partnership. You an’ Lance own Collingwood Boots together. You’re partners, right?”

  Marianne nodded.

  “Well, ya wouldn’t go off an’ make a business decision about Collingwood Boots without gettin’ his approval, wouldja?”

  She hesitated. “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “Well, ain’t a marriage the same kind of a partnership?”

  Tears welled up in her eyes.

  Abe reached over and awkwardly patted her shoulder. “Aw, now, honey-girl. Ain’t no need to dissolve in a puddle of unhappiness.”

  But there was a reason for the puddle, she admitted. She never, never should have blackmailed Lance into marrying her. She was a terrible wife, and the awful thing was that she didn’t know how to do any better. She knew Lance wanted more from her. He wanted a real marriage, not a marriage of convenience, but she didn’t know the first thing about what a “real” marriage entailed.

  And if a “real” marriage meant always obeying your husband… She swiped tears off her cheeks.

  “Gosh, Miss Marianne, I didn’t mean to get you all upset-like.”

  “Oh, Abe, I am a failure as a wife.”

  “No, ya ain’t, honey-girl. No, ya ain’t.”

  “Yes, I am. I feel so…so inadequate. Before Lance and I even met I was an over-the-hill spinster. On the shelf, other women said. He could have married someone much better than me—I won’t ever be enough for him.”

  “Now that’s plumb crazy talk, Miss Marianne.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a big white handkerchief. “You’re a right pretty woman, and it sure seems to me you’re plenty ‘enough’ for any man. He couldn’t do no better ’n you.” He pressed the handkerchief into her hand.

  She mopped at her eyes. “Even if I could learn to be the kind of wife Lance really wants, is the price a woman has to pay for a happy marriage simply obeying her husband regardless of how she feels?”

  He snatched the handkerchief back and blew his nose. “I dunno, honey-girl. But I do know one thing. You sure do ask the damnedest questions!”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The next day Lance worked all day bent over a table cutting out boot patterns from a sheet of prime cowhide under Abe’s supervision. By six o’clock his back muscles ached and he was hungry and dead tired. Marianne had made herself scarce since morning, retreating upstairs to their quarters after sharing a cup of coffee with Abe. She had looked red-eyed and distressed, and that was so unlike her Lance wondered what was wrong.

  As evening came on, Abe set his hammer aside and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Quittin’ time, Lance. Ya got nuthin’ left on that cuttin’ table but leather scraps.”

  Lance plunked down his shears and began to massage the thumb on his cutting hand. “Never thought carving out pieces of cowhide could be so tiring. Worse than building a fence any day.”

  Abe chuckled. “Yeah, makin’ boots is a lot harder’n folks realize. Ranchers know. That’s why they’re willin’ to pay top price for a fine pair.”

  “Sure makes a man hungry,” Lance muttered.

  Abe sent him an odd look. “Maybe Miss Marianne’s cookin’ up somethin’ delectable for yore supper. She hasn’t poked her head out all day.”

  “She looked upset this morning, Abe. Any idea what’s bothering her?”

  Abe busied himself gathering up scraps of cowhide. “Where’s Sammy?” he inquired in a low voice.

  “Off delivering sacks of chicken feed for Abraham Stockett. He’s been gone a couple of hours. You didn’t notice?”

  “Been busy,” the older man said shortly.

  “Abe, have you got any idea what Marianne is upset about?” It was the second time he’d asked that question, but maybe Abe hadn’t heard him the first time.

  “Yeah, kinda…sorta,” Abe said. “It’s about you forbiddin’ her to ride in the horse race on July Fourth. You know, expectin’ her to obey you just ’cuz you’re her husband.”

  Lance stared at him. “You really think that’s what got her so het up? She hasn’t been riding since she was a kid, Abe. I don’t want her to get hurt.”

  “Mebbe. I don’ wanna be tellin’ ya what to do, Lance. But it might be somethin’ to think on, givin’ her an order like you was in the army.”

  “Okay, I will think on it. I promise.”

  Abe grinned. “Another thing ya don’t wanna do, son, is be late for supper.”

  Lance cleaned his cutting shears and put them away, then tramped up to the apartment. His shoulders ached. His temples throbbed. And with Marianne upset about something, his spirits were dragging.

  The sight of Marianne bustling about the tiny kitchen in a ruffly red gingham apron lightened his mood. Partly it was the delectable smells coming from the oven; partly it was just watching her tend to the pots and pans with that determi
ned look she got in her green eyes when she was concentrating on something.

  He was a lucky man, he acknowledged. Lucky to have married a woman he admired. One he genuinely liked. Every time he looked at her, he got all sorts of quivery feelings inside.

  She gave him a tentative smile. “You look tired, Lance.”

  “Yeah. Cut out about a thousand leather pieces today. Abe wanted them done just so, and it’s not as easy as it first appears.”

  Marianne nodded. “A whole day with Abe looking over your shoulder cracking a whip must be worse than a whole day at Mrs. Schneiderman’s with me cracking my whip.”

  “Not true,” he said. He took a step toward the kitchen table where she was laying out the plates. “You’re a lot prettier than Abe.”

  She laughed, and then her cheeks turned the most delectable shade of pink. Suddenly he wasn’t near as tired as when he’d walked in. In fact, he felt a definite warmth flooding through his aching body, rejuvenating it in the most exciting way.

  But he could sure sense the tension in her; he felt like he was walking on eggshells. Something was seriously bothering her, and he hoped to God it wasn’t him.

  “Sit down, Lance. Supper is ready.” She dished up a bowl of savory-smelling stew and plopped two big, fluffy dumplings on top. He sat down and leaned forward to breathe in the delicious aroma.

  “Lordy, that smells good!” He looked up and their eyes met. “You’re a really good cook, Marianne. That means a lot to a hungry husband.”

  She looked startled, then a little flustered, and then a slight smile turned up the corners of her mouth. “Eat, Lance. Before it gets cold.” She served a bowl of stew for herself and settled on to the chair across from him.

  They ate in silence. Lance gobbled the dumplings first, then spooned carrots and potatoes and chunks of tender beef into his mouth until his spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl.

  Marianne barely touched her supper. He watched her toy with her spoon, idly turning over chunks of onion but not putting anything into her mouth. She glanced at his empty bowl and without a word she rose and ladled out another serving for him, added two more dumplings, and set the coffeepot on the stove.

  Lance studied the glistening dumplings before him and racked his brain for something to say. “Marianne,” he said at last, “you’re not eating any supper. Is…is something wrong?”

  “N-no. Well, yes, Lance. I’m worried about the Fourth of July race.”

  “What about it?”

  She didn’t answer for a long minute, just trailed her spoon around and around in her bowl of stew. “I’m worried about, um, about the riders. The women riders.”

  “You still worrying about whatshername, Eugenia Ridley, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything else on your mind?”

  After a pause she nodded her head, and he waited, his nerves jumping, until he thought he’d crawl out of his skin. “Yeah? What else?”

  “Oh…” She turned her spoon over and over in her hand. “About what to do about Eugenia Ridley.”

  He clanked his spoon down on the table and leaned forward. “Marianne, you can’t ride in that race. You haven’t ridden for years, and it isn’t that easy to get used to sitting on a horse in a hurry.”

  “I know that.”

  He elbowed his bowl of stew to one side and reached to capture her hand. “Doesn’t anything ever scare you, Marianne?” She squeezed his fingers compulsively and bent her head, and all at once he realized she was close to tears.

  “Yes,” she said in a shaky voice. “When I am cold and hungry I get frightened. I’ve been that way ever since I was young.”

  It tore him up inside to see her cry. In all the years he’d known her he’d seen Marianne cry only once, when a little orange kitten she’d adopted had been killed by the neighbor’s dog. That morning she sank down on the back porch step and mopped away at her tears for a good half hour.

  “I’ll tell you what scares me,” he said slowly. “It scares me that you want to ride in that horse race. And—” he looked away from her “—it scares me when I think you might get hurt.”

  “You know what I’ve always hated?” she said suddenly.

  “Besides me forbidding you to enter that race?” he said with a tired smile.

  “Yes, besides that. Actually it has nothing to do with you, or that horse race, either. When I was a girl, after my mother and father died, I grew to hate wearing hand-me-downs. Underclothes, especially. I think that’s why I always want to have pretty, frilly undergarments. Even before I purchase aprons and sensible work skirts, I buy lacy underwear. I bet you’ve never noticed that.”

  Oh, he’d noticed, all right. Every night when she undressed and draped her garments on top of the folding screen he could scarcely take his eyes off her camisole and those lace-edged drawers. He’d have to be a statue to not notice.

  “Look, Marianne. I’ll wash up the dishes tonight. Why don’t you crawl into bed and…um…maybe read one of Abe’s novels?”

  “I made a peach cobbler for dessert. Don’t you want any?”

  “Sure, but I can dish it up myself. You take it easy.”

  She gave him a searching look, then stood up, slid the bubbling pan of cobbler out of the oven and set it on the stove top. She sent him a quick look and plunged an oversized serving spoon into the center.

  “Smells good,” he murmured. “Sure you don’t want any?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”

  He found he had no more appetite, either, even for Marianne’s peach cobbler, so he cleared the dishes off the small kitchen table and poured the bucket of heated water into the sink. While he washed and dried the cups and bowls, Marianne disappeared behind the folding screen in the corner.

  He heard her shoes clunk on to the floor, and he tried not to watch as once again her garments appeared over the top of the screen. First came her blue work skirt, then a white petticoat, followed by her camisole. By the time her lacy drawers appeared, Lance was so aroused he had to grit his teeth.

  Methodically he wiped the dishes and stowed the clean silverware in the cutlery drawer, then snatched up the novel he’d borrowed from Abe’s library. Rustler’s Revenge. He moved the kerosene lamp to the night table, stripped off his clothes and crawled into bed.

  But instead of cracking open his novel, he found himself waiting for Marianne to emerge from behind the screen.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Before she stepped out from behind the folding screen, Marianne heaved a long, tired sigh. A lamp burned beside the bed, and Lance was propped up against a stack of pillows, an open book in his hands, something with a red cover featuring a masked rider and some cows. She hesitated, then padded across the floor, slipped under the quilt and curled up on her side, facing away from him. Closing her eyes, she tried to talk herself into falling asleep.

  No luck. She was excruciatingly aware of him. She could hear his slow breathing, smell the piney scent of soap on his skin and feel the warmth of his body next to hers. She even fancied she could hear the soft, steady thump of his beating heart.

  She couldn’t confess how alone and uncertain and just plain scared she was that she was going about this marriage all wrong. She lay without moving, willing herself not to roll toward him and seek solace in his arms.

  She heard the rustle of paper as he turned a page. Was he really reading? Or was he watching her?

  Another page flipped over, and she bit her lip. She had done nothing all day but worry and cook and think about Lance. Was he thinking about her? How could he focus on that silly cowboy story when she was feeling so undone inside?

  Oh, be reasonable. I barely spoke to him all day. Why should he feel anything but indifferent toward me now?

  She hunched herself into an even tighter ball and struggled to hold back tears. What on earth is wrong with me? I feel like crying because…because I don’t know what to do.

  She hated not feeling in control. Ever since she had found herse
lf alone in the world she had tried to control the uncertainties in her life. Lance was the biggest uncertainty she had ever encountered. Now, God help her, they had quarreled, and she didn’t know what to do.

  Lance studied Marianne’s inert form beside him until he couldn’t stand it one more minute. He snapped his book shut, puffed out the lantern and edged closer to her. She didn’t so much as twitch, so he carefully curled his body around hers and settled his arm across her waist. After a long minute she did something that surprised the hell out of him. She snuggled her bottom into his groin.

  She felt soft and warm, and if he bent his neck he could smell the lemony scent of her hair. He smiled into the dark and kept on smiling, even when his body began to react to her closeness.

  God, he wanted her so much he ached.

  “Marianne,” he whispered.

  “Yes?” Her voice sounded drowsy.

  He tightened his arm across her waist. “Nothing. Just… Marianne.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The following week Marianne looked up from the counter and smiled as Ivan Panovsky opened the door of Collingwood Boots and escorted his sister, Annamarie, inside.

  “Good morning! Have you come to place an order?”

  “Ah, no, Missus,” the tall, dark-haired man replied. “I bring my sister Anna to pay entry fee for horse race.”

  “Oh?” Her smile deepened. “For the ladies’ race, is that right?”

  “Is right,” Ivan affirmed.

  “And will you be entering the men’s race?”

  A laugh burst out of Annamarie. “Ivan? Oh, no, Mrs. Burnside! Ivan has hated horses ever since one stepped on his foot back in New York.”

  “But my Anna,” the young man said, “she likes to ride. She can now enter race?”

  “She most certainly can, Mr. Panovsky.”

  “What is cost, please?”

  “Five dollars.” Mentally she tallied up the entry fees collected thus far. Over three hundred and seventy-five dollars now, enough for one full-page advertisement or two smaller ones with the biggest publisher of dime novels in the country.