Marianne's Marriage of Convenience Read online

  “Abe is the expert boot-maker, Lance. You and Sammy and I are just apprentices. I wonder if we’re really ready to increase production to such an extent. Maybe I should have listened to Abe when he warned me about becoming overwhelmed with orders.”

  “Marianne, let’s not borrow trouble. Let’s just keep on with what we’re doing, and—”

  “Pray a lot,” she said dryly.

  He laughed out loud, and after a few seconds she joined in. “Do you think we were crazy to take on this business?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said quickly. “This whole thing is a huge gamble.”

  Lance hesitated. “I bet you think getting married was a gamble, too, huh?”

  “Well…”

  “Are you sorry?” he asked.

  She waited a long time, toying with her spoon and turning pink. “Do you mean am I sorry I married a man who can make me laugh, to say nothing about a man who can make Poverty Pie and apple crisp?”

  He choked on a swallow of coffee. “Marianne, do I really make you laugh?”

  “Sometimes,” she answered.

  He could tell nothing, absolutely nothing, from the slight smile on her face. “You know, never in a million years am I gonna figure you out.”

  She looked at him over the rim of her coffee cup, and the blush on her cheeks turned deep rose. “You don’t have to figure me out, Lance. All you have to do is put up with me.”

  Marianne watched in disbelief as Lance nodded, but she noticed he was biting his lip. She must be extremely hard to put up with. She was a tired, short-tempered spinster who had woefully little experience with men. Who had a lamentable lack of knowledge about being married to a man. She also, she realized suddenly, lacked a good deal of knowledge about the man she had married.

  And that was her fault. Other women, younger women with more sophistication, with more feminine arts and skills, would know how to draw a man out, get him to…what? Well, share his deepest thoughts with her, for a start.

  She risked a good long look at Lance. Underneath his handsome appearance and his kindly manner, who was he, really?

  She watched him clear away the dishes from the table and dunk them in hot soapy water. She didn’t know what to do with herself while he splashed around at the sink, so she undressed behind the folding screen, donned her nightgown, and slipped under the quilt on her side of the double cot.

  She opened Cowboy’s Lady and tried to concentrate on Duke and Genevieve and their silly antics until her eyelids began to droop. Lance was humming “Clementine.” When his voice cracked on a high note she tried hard not to laugh. After a while she felt him crawl in next to her and puff out the kerosene lamp.

  “You awake?” he whispered.

  “No,” she murmured.

  “Liar,” he said softly. He reached out, pulled her across to his side of the bed and wrapped his arms around her. She sighed and tucked her head into the hollow between his neck and his shoulder. He smelled of bacon and apples.

  She had certainly married an unusual man. A good man. A surprising man. She had been fortunate in choosing Lance Burnside.

  But.

  Abe was right about their partnership in Collingwood Boots. She wouldn’t think of making a business decision without Lance’s approval, but Collingwood Boots was not a marriage. Forbidding her to ride in the Fourth of July horse race, expecting her to obey him just because he was her husband…that was something she could not accept.

  Did other women obey their husbands unquestioningly? Perhaps. But something inside her rebelled at being judged less important just because she was a wife. She felt all tied up inside. But when Lance began pressing his lips against the back of her neck she stopped thinking. A shiver of pleasure rippled through her.

  “Do you like that?” he murmured. His breath ruffled the hair at her nape and sent a jolt of sensation all the way to the pit of her stomach.

  She closed her eyes. When Lance touched her like that it made her feel all shaky inside. “I—Yes, I do like it. Ever since we were married I have been quite surprised by how much I like it. You,” she amended. It was…frightening somehow.

  He tightened his arms around her. “You know something, Marianne?”

  She smiled, even though she was half asleep. “What?” she said, her voice drowsy.

  “In a lot of ways I never thought this would work out, marrying you and coming out West. Did you?”

  “Yes,” she murmured. “I thought it would work out.”

  “Yeah? How come?”

  “Because…because of something my mother said when I was very young.”

  “Yeah?” He kissed her behind one ear. “Tell me.”

  She sighed at the memory. “My mother was from Poland,” she said. “She didn’t speak good English, which is probably why she insisted that I go to school. But in the evenings, Mama taught me to cook, and I always remembered what she told me one night.”

  “Yeah? What was it?”

  “‘Kissin’ don’t last,’ Mama said. ‘Cookery do.’ That’s why I thought that marrying you would work out, Lance.” She stifled a yawn. “Because I can cook.”

  He gave a low laugh. “Huh. I’m kinda hoping the kissin’ will last, too.”

  “Maybe it will,” she murmured. “And now that you can cook, too, I think we might have an even better chance.”

  “That’s not exactly what I wanted to hear,” he muttered.

  Marianne said nothing. Lance waited for her to say something more, and when she didn’t he lifted his head off the pillow so he could see her face.

  Hell and damn, she was sound asleep. Again!

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Lance woke to a shaft of sunlight warming his face. He opened his lids and studied the light pouring in through the blue-curtained window, then studied the curtains themselves. Not only could Marianne cook, he thought irrationally, she could also sew. She could probably do a dozen other things he knew nothing about. Sing, maybe? Dance a Virginia reel? Yesterday Abe told him rancher Peter Jensen was holding a barn dance on Saturday night. Everybody in Smoke River was invited. Maybe he’d get a chance to see if Marianne could dance as well as she could cook.

  “Marianne, when you were growing up in St. Louis did you go to dances?”

  No answer.

  “Marianne?” He rolled over and patted the space next to him.

  Empty.

  He sat up. “What the—?” Had she gone downstairs to work in the shop before breakfast? He swung his legs on to the floor. She was sure taking this apprentice thing seriously. Well, so was he, he admitted. Neither of them wanted Collingwood Boots to fail.

  He pulled on his jeans and a plaid shirt, splashed water on his face and ran one hand through his tousled hair. But when he tramped downstairs to the shop expecting to find her, Abe just shrugged.

  “Dunno where Miss Marianne went,” the older man said. “Afore I was even outta bed I heard the shop door close, and when I scooted over to peek out the window, her tail feathers was just disappearin’ around the corner. I figgered you two had words this mornin’ an’ she went out to walk off her mad.”

  Lance stared at him. “Words? Heck, no. When I woke up this morning she was gone. Last night we…um…well, I cooked supper like you said, and she seemed real friendly.”

  The older man sent him a sharp look. “You sure?”

  “I thought so, Abe. But I’m learning that with Marianne you can never tell. Then later we, uh…well, there’s no need to go into later, I guess.”

  Abe nodded and a smile crossed his face. “Glad to hear that,” he said. “Mebbe she just wanted to go off somewhere alone and do some thinkin’.”

  Lance sucked in a breath. Thinking about what? Thinking about Poverty Pie and apple crisp? About Collingwood Boots? About…kissing? Was he making any progress at all on his Seducing Marianne project?

  He shrugged and tramped back upstairs to figure out how to fry eggs.

  *

  Marianne circled around the block and peek
ed into the livery stable. It was so early the sun wasn’t up yet, and the predawn stillness gave her a moment to collect herself. Was she absolutely sure she wanted to do this?

  No, she wasn’t.

  She took a deep breath and stepped in through the livery door. The interior was dim and quiet and smelled of hay and horses and manure.

  “Rosie?”

  The Indian woman appeared at her elbow. “You come, see horses.” She led the way to a stall and pointed to a sleek gray mare with a white blaze on her forehead. “That one mine. Good horse.” A grin split her handsome face. “Very fast.”

  Marianne followed the older woman to the next stall where a shiny chestnut-colored mare whickered gently. “That one Sammy’s,” Rosie said. In the same stall was a smaller bay mare with soft black eyes.

  “You ride this one, okay? All saddled and ready for you.”

  Marianne nodded. “Okay.”

  The woman led the animal out and laid the reins in Marianne’s hand. “Talk to horse,” she instructed. “Name is Black Dancer.” She then opened the stall gate and began saddling her gray mare.

  Marianne and Black Dancer looked at each other. Hesitantly she reached out one hand and patted the animal’s neck.

  “H-hello, Dancer.”

  “Tomorrow you bring apple,” Rosie advised. “Make friends.” She motioned Marianne over to the mounting block and opened the double-wide stable door.

  Marianne bunched up her blue denim work skirt, stepped into the stirrup, and swung herself up into the saddle.

  “Petticoat no good,” Rosie observed. “Scare horse. Next time wear trousers.” Then she and the mare led the way outside and around the back of the building on to a well-worn path bordering a stand of sugar maple trees.

  Marianne followed the mare for ten minutes, gradually remembering how to use the reins, sit tall, and move with the animal. After another ten minutes, Rosie looked back at her and grinned. “Go slow one more mile, then run.”

  The next thing she knew both horses were cantering along the wooded path, and after an initial wave of fear, Marianne began to enjoy herself. She remembered riding as a girl; she had forgotten how much she liked it.

  They rode for half an hour, and then Rosie drew rein. “No more today,” she called. “Will be sore.”

  On the way back to the stable Marianne pressed Dancer into a trot until Rosie called a halt in front of the livery stable.

  “Come tomorrow early. No petticoat.” She began unsaddling the horses and Marianne smiled her thanks. She had enjoyed the outing. What she didn’t enjoy, she thought with a gulp, was deceiving Lance.

  She left a grinning Rosie at the stable, hurried back to the shop and raced upstairs. When she opened the apartment door, Lance was standing at the stove, frying bacon.

  “You’re back,” he said, his voice quiet.

  She opened her mouth to deliver the explanation she’d rehearsed. “I went horseback riding with Rosie Greywolf.”

  “Oh.”

  That part was true. But she purposely didn’t tell him why.

  The silence stretched until she thought her nerves would snap. He turned back to the stove. “Want some breakfast?”

  His voice sounded odd.

  “Yes, I would. Thank you, Lance.”

  He didn’t answer.

  *

  On Saturday, they worked all morning cutting and stitching cowhide until their hands ached, and Abe finally ordered a break. They gobbled cheese and bacon sandwiches and guzzled the rest of the coffee Abe had made that morning, and went right back to work.

  All afternoon they followed Abe’s directions for their next task, tacking hardened leather soles to the uppers, until Sammy drove up in his wagon. “Charlie at the station house says your bed’s arrived.”

  “Just in time,” Lance murmured under his breath.

  “You want me to deliver it this afternoon?”

  Abe snorted. “’Course we want it delivered! You think I like sleepin’ on my floor?”

  “To say nothing about sleeping on two cots with a dip in the middle,” Lance said under his breath.

  “Yeah,” Abe said. “That cain’t be too comfy, neither.”

  Late in the day Marianne sat down with the account book and began adding up columns of figures. Then she wrote out more advertising copy for the Wednesday edition of the Lark. But she couldn’t stop thinking about their new bed.

  Abe stopped at the small table she was using as a desk and set a mug of coffee at her elbow. “You’re workin’ too hard, Miss Marianne. Oughtta save some energy fer tonight, don’tcha think?”

  She twiddled the pencil between her thumb and forefinger. “Is Sammy here with the bed?”

  “Yep. Ya don’t look too excited ’bout it, though.”

  “I guess I’m a little nervous about tonight.”

  “Naw, it’s not that, Miss Marianne. I meant you should save some energy for the big wingding at Jensen’s barn tonight.”

  “What wingding?”

  “Didn’t Lance tell you? Jensens are holding a barn dance, like they do every summer.”

  “Oh. I guess I forgot all about the dance.”

  Abe’s heavy eyebrows went up. “Fergot about it, huh? Ain’t like a woman to fergit about a dance. Care to tell me what was on yer mind instead?”

  “No, I would not.” She bent her head to check a column of figures, and suddenly Abe peered out the front window and let out a whoop. “Just lookit that! Sammy’s out front in his wagon with yer new bed!”

  Both Lance and Abe barreled outside and wrestled the shipping crate out of the wagon, knocked the wooden slats free and dragged the bed frame and the mattress up the stairs. Sammy brought up the rear with a cardboard box labeled Pillows.

  Marianne struggled to keep her mind on the last column of expenses, but the thumps and bumps from upstairs sent her thoughts zinging around in her brain like drunken butterflies. Their new bed was narrower than the double-cot arrangement they’d been using. And narrower meant… She closed her eyes. Narrower meant that she and Lance would be even closer together at night.

  Suddenly she was too warm. She opened her eyes to watch Abe and Lance wrestle Abe’s narrow cot back down to his room and load the old cot from the apartment into Sammy’s wagon, and then the boy rattled off down the street. Why hadn’t they remembered to keep the old cot, as they’d thought they would do, to give them that extra space in bed?

  Very well, Marianne counseled herself. She would simply continue adding up the columns of figures, and then she would go upstairs and dress for the barn dance. And I will not spare one single thought about that new double bed.

  Lance and Abe worked steadily in the shop until late afternoon, and she sipped her now cold coffee and tried to concentrate. Finally she gave up and climbed the stairs to finish making the potato salad she would be taking out to the Jensens’ and get dressed for the dance.

  She couldn’t stop looking at the bed. Tonight would be the first time she and Lance had slept together in a real bed. She tucked in the sheets and fluffed the pillows and tried not to think about it.

  At dusk, Lance came upstairs, changed his shirt and then sat down at the kitchen table. He stared first at the new bed, then at her, and then at the new bed and smiled.

  She paced around and around the small kitchen and finally settled into a chair where she sat watching him watch her. It made her nervous. And curious. What was he thinking? Was it about tonight? About lying closer to her in their new bed?

  Which, she acknowledged with a catch in her breath, was what she was thinking about.

  She studied the ceramic bowl of potato salad and tried not to let her gaze stray to the far corner of the room. Under the blue-flowered quilt the new bed looked just the same as the double cot arrangement they had been sleeping on, but she couldn’t stop thinking about what was under the quilt, not two cots divided down the middle but a real double bed, with nothing to prevent two people from lying really, really close to each other.

&nb
sp; Lance’s voice startled her. “Marianne, what’s the matter? Your expression looks…funny.” He settled across the table from her.

  She jerked to attention. “Oh? Funny, how?”

  “Kinda worried about something.”

  “I—I was thinking about Collingwood Beds—I mean Boots,” she amended instantly.

  “Yeah?” he said with a grin. “What about it?”

  “I’ve been going over the accounts. Even with the fees from the horse races, we are losing money overall. I guess I’m a little bit scared that we can’t make this business work. If we can’t, my dream of owning my own business will burst like a soap bubble.”

  “It’s more important than just your dream, Marianne. If we don’t make it work we’re going to go hungry. Abe, too,” he added.

  She said nothing in response to that, and Lance peered at her across the table. Weeks ago Marianne had told him about her fears for the shop, he remembered. It wasn’t like her to repeat herself, so he guessed she had something else on her mind. Something she didn’t want to tell him about. Maybe something like sneaking off this morning to ride horseback with Rosie Greywolf.

  But he knew she was riding with Rosie, so what in God’s name was making her frown like that?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Sammy Greywolf loaded his mother and Lance into the wagon for the drive out to Jensens’ ranch, and then the three of them sat waiting in front of the shop for Marianne. She kept them waiting another ten minutes, and when she emerged, Abe was with her, dressed in a clean checked shirt and denim overalls. He climbed up beside Rosie on the driver’s bench, and Lance settled Marianne in the wagon bed, propped against his bent knees.

  She wore that same pretty yellow dress he remembered from their wedding day, and she looked so beautiful his throat got tight. How was it possible he had been married to Marianne all these weeks and he hadn’t ravished her yet?

  Because, he reminded himself, a man didn’t just ravish a woman he valued, and he valued Marianne. True, he had nights when his resolve wavered, when he felt like tossing his slow Seduce Marianne campaign out the window and speeding things up. After all, he was only human. But he wanted Marianne for more than just a roll in the hay; he wanted her for the long haul so he was prepared to be patient.