Cinderfella (12 page)

It was the perfect solution, and it had fallen into her lap. How fortuitous.

“Oh, no,” he said much too calmly, and the color in his face returned almost to normal. “You're not going back to Boston.”

“But you said it yourself, Daddy,” she said, trying to match his calm. “No decent man from Salley Creek will have me after this unfortunate scandal. You yelled so loudly half of Kansas surely knows what happened here tonight. I am forever . . . sullied.”

He smiled. He actually
smiled.
With a long step he came toward her, and Charmaine braced herself for whatever was to come. Her father had never hit her before, had never so much as spanked any one of his girls . . . but he'd never been in a rage like this before, either.

Before he reached her, he bent down and retrieved the boot her stranger had left behind. “He'll marry you,” he said, studying the boot carefully. He turned it over, as if searching for some clue. “Damn big feet, this one's got. Shouldn't be too hard to find.”

“He was just passing through town —”

Her father cut her off with an obscenity.

“Stuart!”

Charmaine watched her father's face soften as he turned to acknowledge his wife's admonishment. “Sorry, Maureen, but a man can only take so much. My daughter will not . . . ” he struggled visibly for a word he could use in present company, “
dally
with a man and then act as if it means nothing!”

Returning his attention to Charmaine, he shouted again. “What's his name?”

“I don't know!” Her shout matched his, decibel for decibel. “He wouldn't tell me!”

Her father seemed to give in, to very slowly fall apart before her eyes. His anger faded, the flash in his eyes dulled, and he appeared suddenly smaller. “By God, I believe you. I wish I didn't. I wish I didn't have to listen to my own daughter talk about marriage as if it were a disease, and then turn around and . . . and. . . . ”

“Dally,” Maureen said softly.

“Dally with a man whose name she doesn't know.” He shook his head slowly. “What's this world coming to?”

Charmaine wished she did know the stranger's name. Not that she would give it to her father, if she did. She wanted it for herself, for her memories.
Stranger
seemed awfully cold for a remembrance.

“If you don't find him,” she said with a cold calm, “and you won't find him, I assure you, I'll return to Boston next week.”

“Like hell you will.”

“You can't stop me.”

She hadn't meant it as a challenge, but it was clear her father had taken it as one. He crossed his arms over his chest, planted his feet far apart, and then he smiled. “We'll see, young lady,” he said softly. “We'll see.”

 

Nathan was waiting up, sitting by the fire with one of Oswald's books in his lap. He was not asleep, but his eyes drooped and he yawned as he turned to the opening door. After a moment's perusal, his eyes widened and he shot from the chair.

“What on earth happened to you?”

Ash limped into the house and slammed the door behind him. There was an odd satisfaction in that simple act.

What could he say? This was the most memorable night of his life. He'd danced, he'd kissed, he'd lost his heart — “I was shot.”

Nathan assisted Ash to the chair by the fire, even though Ash insisted he didn't need any help. It was just a scratch, after all. Hurt like hell, but he'd live.

His godfather had to see for himself, of course, and wouldn't rest until the furrow in Ash's calf was cleaned and bandaged. He swore and mumbled as he did the job. When that was done Nathan retook his seat, and Ash leaned back and stared into the fire.

“I'm guessing it didn't go well,” Nathan finally said, and there was such disappointment in his voice. You'd think he was the one who'd been shot.

“It went as well as could be expected,” Ash said, sparing a glance for his godfather.

“She found you out, didn't she?” Nathan snapped. “I never would have thought it possible, you're so transformed, so completely different.”

“She didn't find me out,” Ash assured him. He began to smile. No, she'd had no idea he was the one. He could look into the fire and see her lips awaiting his expectantly, her smile, her laughing face as she sat atop him in the grass. He'd wanted her then, more than he'd ever wanted anything or anyone.

“I see the night wasn't a
complete
failure,” Nathan said with a smile of his own.

“Not a complete failure,” Ash conceded.

It was late, and Ash knew he should climb the stairs and get to bed. Maybe he'd sleep for a few hours tonight, for a change.

“So you'll see her again?” Nathan pressed. “You'll call on her properly, and —”

“No,” Ash said quickly and finally. “Tonight was fun, but this is where it ends.” Ah, but what a night to remember.

The fire crackled, and for a while that was the only sound in the room. This house was a peaceful place, without Verna and her boys in it.

“I've had the most fabulous idea,” Nathan said blandly. His even tone warned Ash that something was up. “Leave this place and come on the road with me. A bath, a shave, and a haircut, and you're altered beyond belief. You've Lila's blood in your veins, so there must be acting talent in you somewhere. Your good looks, Lila's genes, my training, and I'm back in business.”

“I'm no actor.”

“You fooled Miss Haley,” Nathan cooed.

Yes, he'd fooled Charmaine all right, but there hadn't been any acting involved. He'd let down his guard for a few hours, but nothing had changed. “I'm a farmer, Nathan. I was born in this house and I'll most likely die here. I'm sure that sounds dull to a man who's traveled across the country time and again, but it's who I am. It's what I want.”

He was a part of this place, it was a part of him. Otherwise, he would have left after his father's death, leaving Verna and Elmo and Oswald to make their own way. He was and would forever be a farmer.

And Charmaine Haley would make a terrible farmer's wife.

 

Ruth was humming as she straightened the gown and turned back the bed. How could she? How could she be so curiously happy? Ruth, who rarely smiled and never laughed, was grinning like a silly goose and humming a tune that had been played earlier during the evening.

How could she be so inappropriately happy when Charmaine's world was falling apart?

“I'm glad to see
someone
had a good time tonight,” Charmaine snapped.

“Oh yes, miss.” Ruth was apparently oblivious to the sarcasm. “Everything was just beautiful, and the food was delicious, and the guests seemed to have a good time.” Ruth cut a sly glance in Charmaine's direction. “And I met a very nice man.”

“You did?” Charmaine forgot her own predicament, for a moment.

Ruth nodded, her head moving up and down in quick short snaps. “Yes ma'am, in the kitchen. He was looking for more of my apple pie, and he needed a seltzer for his stomach. I fetched a fresh pie from the oven and saw to his stomach, and we talked for quite some time.”

“What did you talk about?” Charmaine asked, remembering her own conversation with the stranger.

“Oh, recipes and headache powders and cures for stomach ailments, that sort of thing.”

It sounded dreadfully dull to Charmaine, but Ruth seemed satisfied.

When Ruth left her to make her own way to bed, Charmaine went to the window. Finally, she could breathe. She was going to burn that darn corset, and it would take an army to get her into one again.

She was weary, but how could she sleep? How could she ever sleep again? A dance, a kiss, a whispered
I'll never forget . . .
and her world was turned upside down.

Howard had warned her that one day she would meet a man who appealed to her baser emotions, to her lower self. He'd tried to prepare her . . . but mere words couldn't describe the way she'd felt when the stranger had kissed her. How did one fight something like that? How did one guard against a feeling that overpowered everything else, every thought, every conviction. . . .
 

And her father had shot him! She tried not to think of it, tried to convince herself that he'd missed all six times and the stranger had made a clean getaway.

But when she closed her eyes she saw him, wounded and bleeding, wasting away without her, calling her name . . . . She was distressed by the certain conviction that her stranger
needed
her.

Such excitement was surely not good for her constitution, but she found she wasn't anxious to put the stranger from her mind. The dancing and the conversation, that thrilling smile, the kissing in the gazebo. It was all so decadent . . . but it didn't
feel
decadent. It felt good, and pure, and right, and she wanted nothing more than to look out the window and see him standing there beneath the maple tree, staring up, waiting for her to lift the pane and invite him in.

Her eyes flew open and she sighed in dismay. Goodness, what was happening to her? She tried to reason out her unusual behavior. She'd been in emotional turmoil since arriving in Salley Creek. Her father was his usual demanding self, her mother was not herself at all, and everything had changed. And after an evening that was much too exciting, her father had taken a
gun
after the only man who'd ever made her question her beliefs.

It was late, she was tired, and everything she believed in had been tested tonight.

Her father would never find the stranger. The man who had robbed her of her senses as if she were a brainless child had to be, as he'd claimed, passing through Salley Creek never to return. And no one else would ever make her fall to such depths. No one. From now on, she'd be on her guard against tall, handsome strangers who were experts at dancing and kissing.

It was just as well that her father was doomed to failure.

And still she stepped to the window, lifted it slowly and quietly, and leaned forward to search the shadows of the maple tree that grew up to and beyond her window. She strained, listening intently for a sound that shouldn't be there, a rustling of leaves or a seductive whisper. Nothing.

She slammed the window shut.

 

 

 

 

 

Nine

 

He'd faced every man in town on this deceptively beautiful morning after the masked ball, with the boot that scoundrel had left behind in his hand and a silent and unnaturally pale Charmaine at his side. It was a frustrating quest. The men he confronted were either too short, or too fat, or they had incredibly small feet. With every failure, his anger grew. Stuart Haley would not be made a fool of! His daughter would not
dally
with a man unless she was by-God prepared to marry him!

It didn't take long at all to eliminate the men in town. Not that he'd expected to find the man he searched for sitting on his doorstep wearing only one boot. It wouldn't be easy, but this wasn't over, not by a long shot.

They were approaching the Coleman farm. From there, he would set his sights just beyond Salley Creek, to the ranches in the next county. The owner of this boot was probably some good-for-nothing cowboy enjoying a night on the town . . . with
his
daughter!

Of course, when all was said and done it would be right nice to have a cowman as a son-in-law.

“Daddy, you're wasting your time,” Charmaine said with a forlorn sigh as they pulled up in front of the Coleman house. “I swear to you it wasn't Oswald or Elmo March, and Ash wasn't even there.”

He snorted as he left the buggy and lifted his arms to assist Charmaine to the ground. He wanted to believe her, he truly did, but she'd changed so much . . . too much. His little girl would never lie to him, but this woman, well, he just wasn't sure.

“Then this won't take long, will it?” he snapped as he mounted the steps.

Truth was, he thought he remembered seeing those March boys while Charmaine was dancing with the low-life stranger who would marry her come hell or high water, but through his anger he couldn't be certain. Besides, maybe they knew who the sonofabitch was.
Somebody
had to know!

Verna Coleman opened the door before he reached it, a false smile on her face.

“Why, Mr. Haley, what a pleasant surprise,” she said as she held the door opened wide. “And Charmaine,” she said brightly. “Do come in.”

He didn't like Verna Coleman, any more than he'd liked John in his day. She was friendly and always had been, and she ran with an acceptable bunch of churchgoing ladies in town . . . but her cheerful greetings made his skin crawl. No need to waste any time.

“I'm looking for the man who belongs to this boot.”

 

He'd been up and out of the house before Verna and the boys had returned from town, and Nathan had still been asleep. It had been a quiet morning, the best kind, and after a productive morning in the fields Ash was headed in for a quick noon meal.

He groaned aloud when he saw the strange wagon in front of the house. Verna's friends, a house full of them no doubt, here to gossip about the ball.

Ash hesitated on the front steps. What if one of them recognized him with his short hair and a mere one day's beard growth? He didn't think it was likely, but it was a chance he couldn't take. Verna and her cohorts would have a field day with that bit of news, and word was sure to get back to Charmaine, sooner or later.

He took one step back. Hell, he was hungry, but his stomach would wait.

Too late. “Here's Ash now,” Verna's shrill voice called as she threw open the door.

With a sigh, he pulled his hat down over his eyes, slumped his shoulders, and prayed for the best.

The last thing he expected to see as he entered the house was Oswald sitting by the cold fireplace, his foot held aloft while Stuart Haley compared it to a boot.