The Emperor's New Clothes (26 page)

“Why?” Her voice rose. “Why is it so important to you?”

“Because wives always tell the truth to their husbands!”

Images of countless married actresses and the ebb and flow of their lovers popped to mind, followed in quick succession by the faces of the Every Other Tuesday and Thursday Afternoon Ladies Cultural Society and Theater Troupe. “Where on earth did you ever get such a stupid idea?”

Tye glared. “Big Jack.”

“Big Jack? Big Jack Matthews? Lorelie's husband?” Ophelia laughed, and couldn't seem to stop. “Lorelie's husband says wives always tell their husbands the truth?”

“Other people say it too.”

“Indeed?” Tears of mirth pooled in her eyes. She sniffed and wiped them away. “Men, no doubt.”

“Well, yeah,” Tye said defensively.

“For a man who works around cattle all the time, you certainly can't seem to see manure when it's being thrown around.”

“Oh, no?” He quirked a brow. “I saw through you, didn't I?”

“That remains to be seen.” She flounced over to a bush where her dress was spread out to dry and snatched it off the branches. Abruptly, something he'd said earlier caught at her mind. She whirled and glared at him. “What does that nonsense about wives telling the truth to their husbands have to do with you and me?”

He stared at her for a long, strained moment. Tension pounded through her veins. She feared the answer. She prayed for it.

“I want you to be my wife.” His voice was quiet and steady, and it melted her resolve and her will. “I want to marry you.”

Her pulse leapt. And for a moment the thought of being in his arms and by his side forever seemed solid and safe and right. Then reality crashed around her. A
man like Tyler Matthews could never be happy with a woman like her. And sooner or later he'd know that, and she'd be left with nothing but bittersweet memories and a broken heart.

She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “That's very nice, Mr. Matthews, but I don't want to marry you.”

A slow smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Oh, yes, you do.”

“Why, you arrogant—”

“Thank you.” He shrugged in a modest manner. “Regardless of your assessment of my character, you do want to marry me.”

“I most certainly do not. And furthermore, you don't really wish to marry
me
.”

A dark brow quirked upward in surprise. “I don't?”

“No.” She shook her head. Tye seemed to actually be listening to her. Good. Exactly what she wanted. She ignored a niggling twinge of regret. “You don't even know me.”

“I know all I need to.”

“Just what do you know?”

“I know you believe in home and family. I know you're intensely loyal. I know what makes you laugh, and I've watched you not laugh when it might hurt someone's feelings.”

“Anna Rose,” she said under her breath.

“And just about every other member of the Cultural Society. I know you're willing to extend your help with something as ridiculous as an opera house. I've watched you be patient and kind and thoughtful.” He paused and pinned her with an intense glance. “You see, I do know you.”

“No, no, no.” She paced before him, her dress waving in one hand like a flag of truce or surrender. “You don't know me at all. Tye.” She stopped and took a deep
breath. “I am a gambler and a liar and a thief.”

“And those are your good qualities.” A twinkle danced in his eyes, but whether he wanted to admit it or not, he was right. “I can forgive you and you can reform.”

“Thank you.”

“Don't you see, Ophelia.” His voice was soft and fraught with meaning. “I don't care about your past, only your future. A future with me.”

She shook her head. “But why, Tye? I don't understand.”

“Why?” Confusion crossed his face as if she spoke another language. Then his expression cleared and he grinned. “Don't tell me I didn't mention it?”

“Mention what?”

He stared at her with a look that seemed to reach inside and shake her soul. “I love you, Ophelia.”

I love you, Ophelia
.

The words rang in her mind and panic flooded her. “Oh, no, you don't. I'm not falling for that.”

“Falling for what?” Tye's brows pulled together in puzzlement.

“Falling for that…that…line of dialogue. For goodness sakes, Tye, you underestimate me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You're no different from any other handsome man—”

“You think I'm handsome?” he grinned.

“—who thinks a few flowery phrases will turn a woman's head, leaving him free to lead her astray—”

He snorted. “You're accusing me of leading you astray?”

“—and when he's had his way with her, will leave her crying and broken-hearted.”

“Now, wait just a minute, Ophelia.” Tye glared with righteous indignation. “I've already had my way with
you, as you so charmingly put it, although, it seems to me, you were pretty much having your way with me as well—”

“Tyler Matthews!”

“—but given that, why would I only now, after the fact and not before, declare my love?” He cast her a triumphant smirk. “Explain that if you will.”

“You didn't think of it before!”

“I did think of it, I just didn't say it.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “I don't understand any of this. My intentions here are completely honorable.”

“Honorable, hah?” She threw him a scathing look. “You want to marry me!”

“Because I love you!”

“No! No! No!” She pulled her dress on over her head, a frantic need to escape pushing her faster.

“Ophelia!”

“No, Tye, you're just like every man who thinks a few overused words to a woman will give him not just her body but her soul. Well, not me, Mr. Mayor.” She struggled to fasten the buttons on her dress. “You've had my body, and it was quite delightful, thank you, but my soul is my own. I refuse to be left alone and pathetic at a stage door waiting for someone who never comes, who never planned on coming in the first place. No, not me. There are far too many Edwin Kendrakes in the world to take a chance that you're the exception.”

“Who's Edwin Kendrake?” Tye voice was cool, but his eyes sparked.

She grit her teeth and glared. “My father.”

“The Shakespearean scholar?”

She shrugged. “All right.”

“I see,” Tye said slowly. “Your father treated women—”

“I don't want to talk about my father's behavior
toward women. He was a wonderful father. That's all that really matters.”

“But—”

“It's not just my father. It's every man I ever saw growing up. Not any of them knew what love meant. Yet every single one freely and sincerely declared his devotion to achieve his ends, and women were the sorry victims. I will not be one of those women. I will not be a victim of you or any man.”

She trapped his gaze with hers. “You've taught me a great deal today about passion and lust, and for that I'm grateful. But I do not believe there is such a thing as love, and if that emotion exists at all, it does so only in the special bond between parent and child or siblings for each other, but never, ever truly among men and women.”

“I'm not giving up, Ophelia. I love you.”

She clapped her hands over her ears. “Stop saying that! I don't want to hear it! I'm getting the hell out of this town and I'm getting as far away from you as I can!”

He stared at her with eyes grim and determined. “There's no possible way I'm letting you leave.”

She planted her hands on her hips. “And just how do you intend to stop me?”

“I'll have you thrown in jail.” The line of his jaw clenched tight and unyielding.

She gasped. “How could you?”

“It's easy.”

“Wait just a minute here. I haven't done anything, not really. I mean, Big Jack's money is still in the bank. You can't put me in jail.”

“Sure I can.”

“How?”

He shrugged. “I'm the mayor.”

A sudden thought struck her, and her stomach
clenched. “Are you going to tell Big Jack and Lorelie about your so-called proof?”

“I don't know.”

“Don't. Don't tell them.” She bit her bottom lip and gave him a pleading glance. A glance that said what she couldn't say aloud. The words that stuck in her throat.
If you really love me
…“Let me tell them.”

“Why?”

“I suppose I feel in their debt. They're very nice people. If you could just give me some time?” If he'd give her enough time she'd be on the afternoon train tomorrow.

“How much time?”

“Until the morning of Jack's ceremony.”

His expression was impassive. “Why should I?”

“Because you say you love me.” She studied him for a moment. “If there's one thing I learned from watching all those pathetic women fall in love with men like my father only to be abandoned, it was that, in spite of the pain that comes with it, very often loving and offering love was enough. That love, real love, demands nothing in return. That's what I'm asking from you.

“Whether or not this declaration of yours is genuine, Tye, you should know in some part of my heart I appreciate it. I never expected to hear those words, and I never suspected they'd sound so, well, wonderful.”

“Ophelia—”

“No, Tye.” She thrust out a hand to stop him. “Let me finish. Please.”

She drew a deep breath and stared straight into his eyes. If ever she needed to be a good actress, to prove in some way she was indeed her father's daughter, this was it. For Tye's sake and her own.

“Tye, I don't love you.” She clenched her fists to calm her trembling hands. “I enjoyed today for what it was, an afternoon of pleasure, nothing more. I'm sorry if
this is painful, that was not my intent—”

“Ophelia, I—” Disbelief creased his forehead.

“—but the fact is, I care nothing for you. So don't delude yourself into thinking we are star-crossed lovers in some Shakespearean tragedy. We're not. We are”—she shrugged—“nothing.”

Silence fell between them. She longed to pull her gaze from his bottomless brown eyes simmering with pain and shock, but she couldn't. She couldn't so much as flinch if she wanted him to truly believe she didn't love him. And he had to believe.

His expression hardened. He released a long pent-up breath. “You'll tell Jack before the ceremony?”

Relief rushed through her. “Of course.”

She stared at him, and at once knew he knew it was a lie. She'd be on the next train out of Dead End. He knew that as well.

“You're still a bad liar, Ophelia,” he said softly.

“I don't lie.” She turned away to gather their things together, and added under her breath, “I act.”

Silently, Ophelia and Tye picked up the remains of their afternoon. Every time she stole a glance at him, his expression was granite, his eyes cold and hard. There was no doubt she'd hurt him. Maybe he really did love her, and maybe it was the kind of happily-ever-after love that she'd read about in fairy tales. But this was real life, and she'd seen too many men use those magic words without a moment's thought as to the consequences to believe in anything as elusive as love.

They rode back to the Matthews' house without exchanging a word. Even the horse pulling the carriage seemed to sense their mood, and Ophelia didn't hear a single laugh. The quiet was a shame really. She had far too much time to think. And far too much time to face the truth.

It might have been the moment he first talked about
the moon in Venice, or it might have been the moment he first took her in his arms, or it might even have been the moment he kissed her right in the middle of Dead End, but whenever it had happened, she had to admit, if only to herself, she loved him. She loved him with an intensity that buckled her knees and stole her breath. And she loved him far too much to risk losing him.

And lose him she would. Even if he meant all his talk about forgiveness and reforming her, even if he could overlook the questionable nature of her past, he could never love her forever. It wasn't really his fault. As far as she had seen, it wasn't in a man's nature to love a woman forever. And if she couldn't have him forever, she didn't want him at all.

It was best if he thought she didn't love him. If he even suspected the truth, he'd never let her leave. Eventually she'd give in and admit to loving him, or worse yet, marry him, and inevitably, one day, he wouldn't love her or want her anymore. And she'd be no different than the women she'd vowed her whole life not to become.

No, it was better this way. She'd leave Dead End and never look back. At a town full of very nice people. At a creek where a child once fished and a woman discovered joy. And at a tall bronzed, golden-haired man with a laugh like sunlight and eyes as dark and delicious as chocolate.

And she would never want chocolate again.

Sedge stared unseeing at the dark, amber liquid in the small glass on the bar at Simmons' Saloon. The words of the telegram crammed in his pocket repeated over and over in his mind like the lingering memory of a nightmare or the rantings of a lunatic. He laughed to himself and slugged down the whiskey. The wire came from his family's solicitor. His beloved mother didn't even have the decency to notify him herself of the untimely demise of his father and brother. Something akin to pain twinged through him at the thought of how very little her second son meant to her.

The telegram called it a boating accident. The solicitor urged his return to England at once. One could well appreciate the wonderful irony of it all. The black sheep being asked—no, urged—to come home when just a few months ago, they couldn't get rid of him fast enough. Bloody hell.

He was the Earl of Russelford.

And his first decision as an earl would be to choose between his new life in Wyoming and a life, and a home, he'd thought lost to him forever.

Sedge held up his glass. “Joe, my good man, my glass is regrettably empty.”

Joe Simmons grabbed a bottle and expertly poured the shot, setting the bottle down on the counter. Shoving the glass across the bar, he leaned forward in a confidential manner. “Hey, Montgomery, listen to me for a minute.”

Joe's oily gaze slid from one side of the saloon to the other as if he didn't want anyone to overhear. “You know, I think this business about becoming respectable and civilized and calling ourselves”—he snorted—“Empire City is just so much bull.”

Sedge raised his glass in a toast. “I daresay everyone in the entire territory knows of your feelings.”

“Yeah.” Joe bared a yellow-toothed grin. “I ain't too much for keeping my mouth shut.”

“Regrettably,” Sedge murmured.

“Like I was saying, I don't much care for what's been going on around here, but”—he heaved a resigned sigh—“my Anna Rose does.”

“Why, Joe Simmons.” Sedge raised a brow. “Concern? About your wife? I am impressed.”

Joe grunted. “Thanks. But what I'm trying to say is, it seems to me the visit of that there countess has had a lot to do with how things are going. You know, how folks feel and act about the town.”

“A sense of accomplishment? Perhaps pride?”

“Yeah, yeah, that's it.” Joe nodded. “I'd hate to see anything happen to her. Anna Rose likes her.”

The effects of the whiskey vanished. Sedge narrowed his eyes, his senses sharp. “What do you mean?”

“See that man at the end of the bar?” Joe casually
inclined his head in the direction of the only other man seated at the bar.

“Who is he?”

“Says his name's Leeland Stubblefield. Says he's a gambler. And he's looking for a woman.”

“Aren't we all?” Sedge said with a casual manner he didn't quite feel.

“Yeah, but he's looking for one particular woman.” Joe lowered his voice. “Claims she cheated him in a game, out of money and train tickets and…marriage.”

“Marriage?”

Joe nodded. “He says she's the daughter of some dead actor but he can't remember her name. Only that her first name starts with A or O.”

Sedge laughed uneasily. “Well, that doesn't—”

“He also says she's tall and a real looker. Red hair, green eyes. Travels with a sister, a little blonde.” Joe gave him a knowing glance. “Sound like anybody we know?”

Sedge clenched his teeth. “It does indeed. Thanks, Joe, I'll take care of it.”

Sedge pulled himself off the stool and started toward the gambler. He paused and snatched up the bottle of whiskey just as Joe reached for it. The saloon owner scowled his disapproval. Sedge grinned, and made his way to the far end of the bar. He settled on the seat beside the newcomer. Greasy was the word that came to mind to best fit the short, squat gambler. And there was a rather distinct odor that lingered about him.

“I hear you're looking for a woman,” Sedge said idly.

“Who ain't?” Stubblefield grunted.

“Drink?” Sedge held up the bottle.

The stranger narrowed his eyes suspiciously, his gaze shooting from Sedge to the bottle and back. He shrugged. “Sure.”

Sedge filled his glass, and watched the gambler pour it down his throat in one long swallow. “What do you want her for?” Sedge asked.

“She owes me.” He thunked the glass down on the counter and raised a brow at the bottle. Sedge obligingly poured him another drink.

“So Joe said.”

“Yep.” Stubblefield sipped slowly this time. “And I aim to find her.”

“Why?”

“Well, she was sure as hell cheating in that last game. Or somebody was anyway. I figure it might as well be her.”

“I see,” Sedge said. “Did you lose a great deal of money?

“The pot wasn't much. It isn't even the train tickets.” He nodded at Sedge. “I'm pretty sure she stole those and I should have won 'em.”

“I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, old man.” Sedge pulled his brows together. “If it's not the money or the tickets, why do you want her?”

“Lord, she was the prettiest little filly I ever seen.” An expression of pure rapture passed over the man's face. “Her hair was like a flaming bush, and her eyes just like jewels, and her skin”—he shuddered with obvious desire—“I wanted to touch that skin. Real bad.”

“But surely you're not looking for this woman just because she was pretty?”

“Hell, no.” Stubblefield drew himself up on the bar stool to what appeared to be a rather insignificant height. “I offered to marry her. I would have made her respectable. I ain't never offered marriage before.” His eyes narrowed in a dangerous manner. “And I ain't never been turned down.”

“She turned you down?” Sedge struggled to keep a sympathetic tone.

Stubblefield snorted in disgust. “She disappeared is
what she did. Skipped out of the hotel room in the dead of night.”

“So…” Sedge chose his words carefully. “Why are you looking for her here?”

“This is where the tickets were for. I should have been here sooner but”—he shrugged—“I had other things to take care of, ya know.”

“Indeed,” Sedge said thoughtfully. “When did all this occur?”

“About a month ago.”

Just about the time Ophelia swept into Dead End. Bloody hell. He'd have to pass this on to Tye. As obstinate as the man was, he was still his closest, maybe even his only, friend in the world.

“You've been asking all these questions.” Stubblefield's beady little eyes glittered. “You seen her?”

“From her description, I daresay I'd remember her, but no.” Sedge shook his head in a good show of remorse. “I haven't seen—wait a minute.” Sedge snapped his fingers. “Of course. How could I have forgotten?”

The slimy little man perked up. “What? Where?”

“I do believe…now let me think.”

“Yeah, yeah?”

“That's it.” Sedge cast Stubblefield a triumphant glance. “I did see her. Why, right here in Dead End. Just about a month ago. Had a short, blond girl with her…”

“Yeah, that'd be her sister. Didn't ever see her myself, but heard they traveled together.”

“I can't imagine how I could have forgotten. That intriguing hair and a well-turned ankle…” He elbowed Stubblefield and winked.

“Yeah, yeah?” The vile creature was practically drooling. “Where did you see her? Is she still here?”

“Oh, say, I am sorry.” Sedge shook his head in feigned regret. “When I saw her she was getting on the
train for Laramie. Sorry, old chap.”

“It's all right, mister. I appreciate the help. And I'll find her sooner or later.” Stubblefield's eyes gleamed with determination. “Laramie, you say?”

“Laramie.”

“That's where I'm headed then.” He picked up his glass, downed the last of the contents, nodded to Sedge and swaggered out the door.

No wonder Ophelia was pretending to be someone she wasn't. He'd no doubt do the same thing to avoid anything quite as distasteful as that revolting little man. He could well see why a woman, any woman, would run from the likes of Stubblefield.

Good Lord, even aside from the leer in his eye and the lack of hygiene on his person, the gambler had the hairiest knuckles he'd ever seen.

 

“I did leave her a note, but other than that…” Jenny shrugged.

“She's going to be mad.” Zach and Jenny rode side by side away from the setting sun. Zach had told her they were headed to Laramie, wherever that was. “Although why you felt we had to run off like this…”

“I told you, she'd never understand.”

He shook his head. “She'll find another maid, Jenny.”

“That's not it exactly.” If he was going to be her husband, perhaps she'd better tell him everything. Well, maybe not everything. “Ophelia isn't exactly my employer.”

“Oh?”

“We're much closer than that.”

Zach reined his horse to a stop and shot her a suspicious stare. “What do you mean? How much closer?”

“Well…” Just how much should she tell him? “She's more like…like…um, a relative than an employer.”

He reached out and grabbed her reins, pulling her
horse to a halt. “How much more?”

She grimaced. “Kind of like, oh, maybe, a sister.”

“I still don't see the problem. So she likes you and thinks of you as…” He stared, and comprehension dawned on his face. “She
is
your sister, isn't she?”

Jenny sighed. “Pretty much.”

“Holy cow.” Zach shook his head in disbelief. “She's going to be a damned sight more than just mad, I'll bet.”

“I'd take that bet.” Jenny shifted in the saddle. “At least I won't be around when she finds out.”

“You want to tell me the truth now?” Zach stared at her sternly. “Seeing as how we're going to get married when we get to Laramie, there's no time like the present to start telling me the truth.”

“You're not bringing up that nonsense again about wives not keeping secrets from their husbands, are you?”

“It's not nonsense,” he said staunchly. Goodness, he actually seemed to believe it.

“Oh.” She raised a brow. “And just who passed on this little secret to marriage?”

“Big Jack Matthews.” A smug note sounded in his voice, as if she wouldn't argue with an edict that came straight from Big Jack himself.

“Big Jack, huh?” Jenny bit back a chuckle. Ophelia had told her all about the Every Other Tuesday and Thursday Afternoon Ladies Cultural Society and Theater Troupe. Her sister had also mentioned that the leader of the organization, the coordinator of every undertaking, the virtual mastermind behind the society, was none other than the very feather-headed Lorelie Matthews. Jenny would wager serious money this was one little secret Jack had no inkling of.

“So, are you going to tell me?” Zach glared indignantly.

“There really isn't much more to tell.”

“Why don't you start with why the sister of a countess is pretending to be a maid.”

“Oh, I'm not…” She burst into a grin. “Why, Zach, how sweet. You thought I was a countess's sister?”

“You're not?”

“No indeed. Actually, I'm not even Ophelia's real sister. Her father found me and adopted me.”

“Was that the count?” Zach's brows furrowed in confusion.

“What count?”

“Ophelia's father.”

“Oh, no.” Jenny shook her head. “Father was an actor. And a very good actor too, I might add. You should have seen his reviews. Why, when he played King Richard or Hamlet…”

“But he wasn't a count?”

“Of course not.”

“So, who was the count?” Zach raised a dark brow as if he had just narrowed in on the right question.

“What count?”

Zach's eyes widened, and his face turned the most intriguing shade of red. “I don't know what count! But isn't there supposed to be a count if she's a countess?”

“I see what you mean.” Jenny nodded sagely. “That count. The dead count.”

Zach heaved a sigh of relief. “Now you're talking. Tell me about the dead count.”

Jenny shrugged. “I can't.”

“Why not? Wives aren't supposed—”

“Stop it right there, Zachary Weston.” She wagged a finger under his nose. “I don't care what you've heard about husbands and wives, but I will not allow you to accuse me of lying to you this way.”

“I wasn't—” Goodness, he certainly did look cute when he was protesting his innocence.

She held up a hand to stop him. “Well, I should hope not. Now, did you have another question?”

Zach stared with a look that reminded Jenny of a man she'd once seen who'd just been kicked in the head by a mule.

“Never mind, Zach, about the dead count. He isn't.”

“Dead?”

“That's right. Primarily because he was never alive.”

“He wasn't alive.” Zach's words were slow and measured. He didn't seem to be understanding this at all. Lord, she hoped he wasn't feeble-minded.

“Nope. Ophelia made him up.”

“Why?”

“She needed a dead count.”

“Why?” There was a plaintive note in his voice.

“So she could be a widow, of course,” Jenny said patiently.

“Why?” It was as much a groan as a word.

“You know?” Jenny drew her brows together thoughtfully and tapped her chin with her forefinger. “I'm really not quite sure how that part happened. I think someone just assumed she was a widow and she went along with it. It seemed like such a good idea to her at the time, although, personally, I thought we'd both end up in jail. Still, Ophelia saw the entire endeavor as a way to—”

“Hold on!” Zach narrowed his eyes. “I've figured this out.”