Undercover Bride (2 page)

As if suddenly aware that he still held her hand, he released it. “And how, exactly, did you intend to do that?” His eyes shone with amusement. “Convince him, I mean.”

With a strategically pointed gun, if necessary.
Of course she couldn’t say that aloud. “With charm and goodwill,” she said instead.

He hung his thumbs from his vest pockets and grinned. “I don’t know how it is in your hometown, ma’am, but here in Arizona, charm and goodwill won’t get you the time of day.”

So much for the principal’s
dazzle
theory. “What will?” she asked, feigning a look of innocence.

“A firearm and a good left hook.”

She would have felt a whole lot better had he said it with a smile like the one she’d seen before, but he looked serious.
Dead
serious. Nevertheless, she maintained her composure. “I didn’t know that Arizona was so… civilized.”

This time he did smile, which only emphasized his nicely shaped mouth. “Oh, we’re civilized all right. We haven’t had a shootout since last Wednesday.” He crooked his arm and inclined his head. “Shall we? My rig’s over there.”

She slipped her arm through his and forced herself to breathe. It hardly seemed fair for a suspected killer to be so attractive, but she wasn’t about to be fooled by his charm or good looks.

She willed the knot in her stomach to go away as they approached his horse and wagon. Her bout of nerves was annoying and totally uncalled for. He had no reason to suspect she was anyone other than who she pretended to be: an innocent farm girl and mail-order bride.

All she had to do was act like the perfect little fiancée until she found the proof to put him away and she’d be home free. It sounded easy enough during the planning stages, but now that she’d met him in person, something told her that nothing about this man would be simple.

G
arrett Thomas was surprised to see his Aunt Hetty on his doorstep later that day. Yesterday she was on her deathbed declaring, “This really is the end.” And here she was no more than twenty-four hours later, dressed in her Sunday-go-to-meeting best and looking spry as a young hen.

Normally he would be delighted to see her up and about, but he knew from experience that any time his aunt donned feathers and silk midweek, it was never a good sign. Either this really was her last day on earth or she was about to put her nose where it didn’t belong. The appearance of Reverend Holly could mean either one of his suppositions was correct.

“Don’t tell me you’re planning your funeral again,” Garrett said wryly, bracing himself for her usual long and tiresome list of physical complaints, or what he called her “organ recital.” Her last recitation started at the big toe and worked up from there to the cranium.

But she surprised him. No palpitating heart complaints today. No sciatic grievances. Nor any rheumatism updates. Instead, his aunt pushed past him in a cloud of rustling brown silk and lavender perfume.

“No, but now that you mention it, I do wish to make some changes.” She pulled off her kid gloves as she spoke and gave them an emphatic shake. “I’ll not have that awful Grace Lytton sing at my funeral.” Aunt Hetty was a small, birdlike woman whose sharp tongue had, at one time or other, alienated everyone in town.

The minister splayed his hands and shrugged before following her inside the house with an apologetic air. He was a short, barrel-chested man with a goatee. Red suspenders held up his trousers, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows. His one concession to formality was his ever-present bow tie with the pointed ends.

His aunt planted herself on the divan as if intending to take root, and the minster took the nearby upholstered chair.

Before Garrett had a chance to find out what was really going on, his five-year-old daughter, Elise, ran into the parlor, her face bright with delight.

“Aunty!” she squealed.

Aunt Hetty wrapped her arms around the child’s small frame, but other than a quick glance at Elise, her attention remained on Garrett. “Be careful of my back, precious, and watch my bad knee. Oh, and we must do something with your hair. We can’t have you looking like a waif for your father’s wedding.”

Garrett stared at his aunt. So that’s what this visit was about. He should have known.

“What’s a waif?” Elise asked.

Garrett kept his irritation in check, as much for his daughter’s sake as for the man of God. He didn’t have much use for the church, but the reverend deserved respect, as did any guest in his household.

“I’ll tell you later. Now run along like a good girl.” She patted Elise on the backside. “I wish to speak to your father.”

And Garrett wished to speak to her.

Aunt Hetty meant well, but he and he alone would decide if and when he married. Miss Taylor’s letters had looked promising; she wrote with intelligence, warmth, and wit. But after meeting her in person, he had grave concerns about her lack of judgment. Chasing after a thief, of all things… She could have gotten herself killed. In the name of Sam Hill, what had she been thinking? And what other character flaws did she possess?

He waited until Elise had left the room. “As I explained the other day, Miss Taylor and I wish to wait until we’ve had time to get to know each other.” Selecting a new wife was not a task to be taken lightly, especially when his two children were involved.

“Wait too long and I might not be around to enjoy your wedding. You know how my back has been acting up and—”

“A bad back is not generally a cause of death,” Garrett argued.

Aunt Hetty stared down her pointed nose. “That’s not all that’s wrong with me and you know it.”

The minister, apparently sensing she was about to run through another shopping list of ailments, interrupted. “Speaking of weddings, when do we get to meet the bride-to-be?”

“Good question.” Aunt Hetty leaned forward, both brown-spotted hands atop her cane. “We stopped at the hotel and the clerk told us there was some sort of mix-up.”

“There was a mix-up all right.” The room he’d reserved for Maggie a month ago had been given to someone else. “No rooms are available.”

“Hmm. How odd.” Aunt Hetty gave him a questioning look. “So where
is
she staying?”

“Right now she’s staying here.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Then there’s no time to waste. I won’t have you living in sin around my grandniece and grandnephew.”

The reverend mopped his damp forehead with a handkerchief but refrained from comment.

Aunt Hetty sniffed. “It’s a good thing I dragged myself out of a sickbed to come over here. I probably shortened my life by—”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Garrett said.

“Nonsense. I promised your dear mother that I would take care of you.”

“And no one could have done a better job than you.” His widowed mother died when he was six, and his aunt devoted herself to his upbringing at great sacrifice. That’s what made it so difficult to stand his ground now.

“Surely you see the advantage of getting to know my bride first before we tie the knot. Let the children get to know her.”

“Hogwash! There’ll be plenty of chances for the children to get to know her after you’ve made an honest woman of her.”

The reverend tucked his handkerchief in his pocket. “It seems to me that the bride should have something to say about this.”

Garrett inclined his head toward the bedroom where Miss Taylor had been closeted since they’d arrived home. “She’s resting from her journey.”

“Did you tell her about Toby?” his aunt asked.

Garrett inhaled. His eight-year-old son had become a sore subject between them. He wasn’t a bad kid, just curious and adventuresome and far too active for his aunt to handle.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Tell me what?”

All eyes turned toward the young woman standing at the entranceway. Suddenly Garrett had trouble finding his voice. Miss Taylor’s good looks hadn’t escaped his notice, of course, but nothing prepared him for the way she appeared at that moment—all rested and dewy-eyed. If her big blue eyes and wide smile weren’t enough to make a man notice, her auburn hair and delicate features certainly were. He had the sudden need to protect her, not only from his aunt’s critical eye but also from all the ugliness of his past.

Aunt Hetty gave an impatient nod. “Well, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Yes, of course.” Surprised to catch himself staring, he motioned Maggie to his side. She barely came up to his shoulders, and her every move released a delicate fragrance that reminded him of spring. Her easy smile seemed at odds with the alert way she carried herself. She had a dainty nose, a wide, curving mouth, resolute chin, and a graceful, long neck. Her slight but shapely form hardly seemed strong enough to contain her indomitable demeanor. A woman of contradictions.

Why would such a pretty and intelligent woman consider being a mail-order bride?
His
mail-order bride.

“Aunt Hetty, Reverend Holly, it’s my pleasure to introduce Miss Maggie Taylor.”

M
aggie smiled as Thomas introduced her. She’d dealt with her share of hard-nosed criminals through the years, but it was hard not to be intimidated by the old woman’s sharp-eyed gaze. The Pinkerton file described Garrett’s aunt as a no-nonsense type and marked her as being perhaps the most difficult to fool. Maggie had hoped to settle in before coming face-to-face with her, but since that was no longer possible, she would simply have to make the best of it.

She greeted the older woman with an extended hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

His aunt had a surprisingly firm grip. After a quick shake, the older woman withdrew her hand. “Never thought you’d marry a Southerner,” she said, surprising Maggie.

She was born in the South, but her family moved north when she was four. That made her a Yankee through and through. No one other than Thomas’s aunt had detected anything in her manner or speech tracing back to her early roots.

Reminding herself to dazzle, Maggie kept a smile plastered on her face. Nothing was wrong with the old lady’s hearing. And the way Thomas’s aunt stared at her, as if seeing right through her, there was nothing wrong with the woman’s eyesight, either.

“What difference does it make, Hetty?” the reverend asked, breaking the brittle silence. “The war’s been over for a good many years.”

Garrett nodded. “Yes, it has been.”

“But the effects linger on,” his aunt said, her gaze boring into her nephew’s scar. He frowned. Taking the hint, she shifted her attention to Maggie. “How old are you?”

“Aunt Hetty!”

Maggie turned to Garrett. “It’s all right. I have nothing to hide.”
Much.
“I’m twenty-six.” She could have said she was younger and probably gotten away with it, but it was wiser to stick with the truth whenever possible. Less to remember that way. Less chance of getting caught in a lie or fabrication.

Aunt Hetty slanted her head sideways. “That’s rather old for a bride, wouldn’t you say? Why have you waited so long to marry?”

“My family needed me at home,” Maggie replied. Her real name was Maggie Cartwright, and she had no family. Not anymore.

Assuming a new identity was never easy. One of the jobs of an undercover agent was to prepare in advance for every possible question or situation. She couldn’t just pose as a mail-order bride; she had to
be
a mail-order bride.

Aunt Hetty’s eyes narrowed. “And I take it your family no longer needs you now?”

In her letters to Thomas she’d written at length about her loving family and the Indiana farm where she grew up—fiction, all of it.

“No, but this little family does,” Maggie replied with a quick glance at Thomas. Had she said the right thing? Or had she been too presumptuous? It was hard to tell by his stoic expression.

“Hmm.” The older woman’s face showed reluctant acceptance. “Shall we get on with it, then? Where’s Toby?”

Maggie’s stomach knotted. “Get on with what?”

“Why, your wedding, of course,” his aunt replied.

Maggie felt Garrett stiffen by her side. Obviously he was even less happy to hear this than she was. “I told you we intend to wait,” he snapped.

Maggie glanced at Garrett’s rigid profile. Waiting was one of the stipulations made clear in her letter to him, but his vehemence worried her. Did he suspect something? Had he changed his mind? Not that she would blame him, of course. After that fiasco at the train station, she wouldn’t be surprised if he called the whole thing off.

Aunt Hetty’s brow creased. “Have you any idea how it would look, a man and woman living together without benefit of God’s blessing?” His aunt gave a determined shake of her head. “If Miss Taylor stays here, you’ll both be the talk of the town.”

“I don’t care what people say, and I care even less for God’s blessing.” Belatedly Thomas added, “Sorry, Reverend.”

His aunt refused to be deterred. “If you don’t care about your reputation, then think about the children’s. Miss Taylor can stay with me. In fact, I insist upon it.”

“Oh no!” Maggie’s outburst raised even the preacher’s eyebrows. She cleared her throat and started again, this time in a more ladylike tone of voice. “What I mean to say is, I don’t want you to go to any… bother on my account.”

Aunt Hetty discounted her concern with a wave of her hand. “No bother at all.”

“What about your health, Hetty?” Reverend Holly asked. “Your heart might not be able to stand the strain of having a guest.”

Aunt Hetty sniffed. “A little strain is a small price to pay for saving my nephew’s reputation.”

Garrett opened his mouth to say something, but Maggie laid her hand on his arm and smiled up at him. His aunt had expressed concern for the children. Maggie hoped that was the key to getting the old lady to back down.

“We want the young ones to get to know me first before I become their stepmother. I’m sure you’ll agree that would be in their best interests. Staying here might be”—
akin to sitting on a keg of lit dynamite
—“a blessing in disguise.”

A shadow of indecision flitted across the older woman’s face, and she glanced at the reverend as if seeking his counsel. “I… I don’t know.”