Valentine's Rose (2 page)

“There won’t be any picnics,” he announced. “We have more requests than brides, so we’ll hold a drawing later today over at the courthouse.”

Shouts of outrage and more than a few curses peppered the air. Had armed troops not been present, the crowd might’ve rushed the platform.

The women’s expressions ranged from shocked to furious. Apparently no one had told them their husband’s names would be drawn from a hat. Val couldn’t decide whether he admired the land agent for being clever or despised him as an unfeeling cad.

Hardt pitched his voice above the noise from the crowd. “There’s more...only men with registered claims will be considered. A list of qualified candidates is posted outside my office.” He didn’t allow time for questions before he escorted the stunned brides-to-be off the platform.

The soldiers formed a protective wall between the ladies and the grumbling men.

Val kept to the front of the crowd. He waited as the ranking officer rode by on a spirited bay. Before the next soldier blocked his view, he saw the railroad agent stride by with his face set in stone. Several of the women followed. Val scarcely took note of them, being focused on looking for the tall girl. When she passed, he could step in and hold out her scarf so she could take it.

He heard her clomping before he spotted her. She walked with an odd gait, as if her boots didn’t fit well or pained her. Soon as she drew near, Val stepped in between two mounted soldiers and held out her scarf.

Her head swiveled at his movement, and the moment their eyes met, hers went wide with surprise. He’d been right. Only her eyes weren’t just green, they were the color of spring leaves. She reached for the scarf at the same time her foot slipped off the plank and she stumbled.

Val leapt and caught her by the arms as one of her boots sank into the soft mud. She gasped. Clinging to his shoulders, she gazed at him with a startled expression, as if she hadn’t expected him to assist her. Or maybe she was just surprised by his quick reflexes.

“Get back,” shouted the soldier immediately behind her. He appeared to be talking to the other men trying to crowd in.

At any rate, Val didn’t loosen his grip, but the girl tried to scramble backwards, apparently thinking the order had been directed at her. Her boot made a sucking sound then popped off as she tried to dislodge it.

Three soldiers closed ranks around them and the parade came to a halt.

Val slipped his arm around the woman’s waist—a surprisingly supple, slender waist. He steadied her as she hopped back to the sidewalk. She perched on one foot like a heron while he turned to pluck her shoe out of the mud.

“Put your hand on my shoulder for balance. If you’ll pardon my taking the liberty, I’ll slip your boot on so you won’t risk falling again.” When he knelt before her, she looked horrified.

“Oh-oh no, sir, you don’t hafta...”

Hearing her Irish accent took Val aback, though he might’ve expected it. Her ragged dress and plaid shawl looked like something worn by the peasantry. The uncharitable thought fled as he looked into her eyes and saw a soul as pure and innocent as his was debased and wicked.

“Do me the honor,” he urged her.

This time she didn’t hesitate. Her long, elegant fingers curled over his shoulder. At her touch, desire flickered. There was something about a woman’s hands, and this woman had beautiful hands. Likely, her feet, which were presently covered by wool stockings, were also long and slender and just as pale.

Val grasped her ankle. The flicker ignited into a flame. His face grew warm at the uncontrollable reaction. What in God’s name was wrong with him? He hadn’t gotten hard this fast the last time he’d been with a woman wearing nothing
but
stockings—and silk ones at that.

Her hand trembled.

Hating that he’d unsettled her, Val clenched his jaw and tried to be gentle as he guided the girl’s foot back into the boot and then laced it up. He secured the loose laces on the other one. “Wouldn’t do to have you tripping again. I might not be there next time to catch you,” he quipped to distract her from noticing his overheated condition.

The railroad agent wound his way back through the other women and halted. He frowned at Val as though he’d done something wrong. “What’s going on here?”

Val rose to his feet, slowly. He thought it apparent what was
going on
, but maybe the surly agent hadn’t been paying attention. “This young lady slipped, and I assisted her.”

He drew the scarf out of his pocket and presented it to her.

She took it rather gingerly. “Th-thank you,” she murmured.

Val had little patience with women affecting shyness. In most cases it was a flirtatious pretense. However, this girl’s blushes weren’t accompanied by a fluttering of eyelashes. Nor did her tongue-tied reaction come across as feigned.

She might be flustered because she’d experienced the same reaction he had when he touched her foot. Or, something more in line with what a lady would feel at the pull of attraction. Whatever the reason for her rosy glow, he found it enchanting.

He executed a formal bow. “A pleasure, my lady.”

“All right, the damsel is saved. Let’s get moving.” Hardt flicked an assessing gaze over him and then gave a nod to one of the soldiers, who motioned for Val to move away.

He found the entire exchange insulting. However, there was little point making an issue of it. He’d done his good deed. Before he turned away, he made eye contact one last time with the young woman, considered wishing her luck finding a husband and then changed his mind. Being bartered off to these rough men who didn’t have the least idea of how to treat a lady would not be considered lucky by any stretch of the imagination.

He turned away, focusing his attention on getting through the crowd and down the street without being turned the same brown color that stained everything and everyone. Time to get back to business. At that popular saloon, he’d find an interested buyer, quickly sell the deed and get the hell out of this Kansas mud-hole.

––––––––

R
ose Muldoon stared at the retreating gentleman, who had slipped between two horses and headed in the opposite direction, making his way through the crowd of men still milling about in the street. According to the railroad agent, there were two hundred unattached settlers living in the area. If so, they must’ve all come to town to meet the train. Her handsome, black-haired rescuer stood out, not only because he topped the tallest men by several inches, but also because of his manner and attire. That black suit fit his tall frame so perfectly that it had to be custom made. Imagine, a high bloke like him bowing to someone like her.

A brisk wind ruffled her skirt. She tightened the knot on her shawl to prevent it from blowing away. The wind wasn’t cold as much as a nuisance—trying to slip its fingers beneath her petticoats like that old coot Donohue. The gentleman hadn’t tried to pinch her behind the knee when he took her ankle and slipped the boot back onto her foot. No, he’d been ever so gentle and polite. If he’d felt her trembling, he didn’t show it.

Just thinking about his hands on her brought on another heated flush. 

“Ma’am? You need to move.”

She jerked her head around at the soldier’s order. Then shuffled her feet to follow along behind the other women, wincing at the stinging on her toes and heels. Good thing she had on stockings so the gentleman hadn’t seen her blisters. That would’ve been almost as humiliating as falling on her face in the mud in front of him, as she would have done if he hadn’t caught her. A smaller man would’ve dropped her or lost his balance. He acted like she weighed nothing. When he put his arm around her, he’d been reaching down, not up, and he hadn’t looked at her like she was a freak. If God had shaped a man to fit her, He couldn’t have made one more perfect.

She chewed her lip, chastising herself for not opening her mouth and talking to him. Instead, she’d behaved like a
hickjop
. The only thing worse would’ve been to drool on the Englishman’s polished black boots.

Did he live ‘round here? Would he be taking part in the drawing? He didn’t talk, or look, like the other men who’d rushed the train with their tongues hanging out. If that gentleman were in the market for a wife, he’d want a more refined lady, like the pretty widow walking in front of her. Susannah Braddock might decide she liked him, as well.

Too embarrassed to ask outright, Rose posed a question. “What sort of man do you favor, Susannah?”

“Not one I draw out of a hat,” she replied over her shoulder. “I’ll do my own choosing, thank you.”

That might work for Susannah, who had the kind of face and form that turned men’s heads, along with the added bonus of a good education and not bearing an Irish name. Rose had none of those things in her favor.

“What if the blokes don’t agree to be chosen?”

“Any man you select would be honored, I’m sure.”

Rose wasn’t so sure. Not because she didn’t have pride—that was the problem, she had too much pride. Back home, she’d gotten propositions, but no decent offers. At least the men out here were willing to tie the knot. But she had better put that fine gentleman out of her mind or be ready to meet with disappointment when he didn’t show up for the drawing, or worse, if he did and got matched up with someone else.

Susannah winged open a fringed shawl and cloaked her seven-year-old son against her side when he started to wander. Rose smiled, recalling the countless times she’d tried to keep her little brother out of the mud. It rarely worked given Willy’s fascination with puddles. The energetic lad she’d met on the train had the same mischief dancing in his eyes. The two boys would become fast friends, if they ever met. But they never would...not in this life.

Grief squeezed Rose’s heart.

For a time after that awful fire, her pain had been so intense she hadn’t thought she would survive. Didn’t want to. Father McCarthy had suggested she take advantage of the railroad’s offer and go find herself a husband, have her own family. It wouldn’t replace the one she’d lost, but it might ease some of the pain and the aching loneliness.

Using a corner of her shawl, she wiped away the tears.
There now, no more crying,
her mother would’ve told her.
We all have our crosses to bear, and yours are no heavier.

Susannah cast a glance over her shoulder and her brow furrowed with concern. “Rose, never fear. Mr. Hardt can’t force us to take part in this travesty. We will appeal to the authorities.”

Rose wasn’t sure what
travesty
meant, and she didn’t see how pleading with those in authority would help. That sort didn’t care about people like her. “What would they do? Before we appeal, let’s get a look at who shows up for the drawing.”

Her rescuer’s image popped into her head. His lips were as perfect as those on the statue of St. Michael, and a square jaw that added strength to his lean, aristocratic features. Ah, he had the loveliest eyes, a fascinating blend of blue and gray, as light as crystal.

“There won’t be a drawing. Not if I can help it.” Susannah’s firm reply burst the daydream. “We must have the freedom to choose whomever we want, not just the men Mr. Hardt says are qualified, or those he picks from a hat. What gives him the right to limit our choices?”

Some women had limited choices, regardless. But Rose didn’t correct her friend on the matter because it wasn’t in her nature to argue. She offered an observation instead. “Mr. Hardt, he’s not that different from other men. They all think they’re put on earth to be in charge.”

“No one could argue that.” Susannah hugged her son closer. “Which is why it is up to us to teach them differently.”

Rose imagined father’s reaction if her mother had announced he wasn’t in charge. “If you don’t mind, I’ll be leaving that task to you.”

“You don’t agree, Rose?” The question came from the woman behind her.

“What I think doesn’t matter,” Rose replied, hoping to avoid an argument.

“Of course it does,” Susannah returned with vehemence. “What we all think matters. Just because we’re women doesn’t mean our opinions don’t count.”

“Tell that to Mr. Hardt,” Charm LaBelle projected the reply around Rose’s right side. The top of her head didn’t even reach Rose’s shoulder.

What Charm lacked in size she made up for in personality, even in the way she dressed. She stood out like a bright-feathered bird. She’d been all the way to California and back and had spun wondrous tales during the train ride. The Englishman might prefer a well-traveled woman like Charm. Except that he’d have to lift her like a child to kiss her.

“That uncharitable man is leading us along like the Pied Piper,” Charm muttered. “I wonder if he remembered to collect our trunks.”

Rose glanced down at the donated carpetbag. She hadn’t needed a trunk or a suitcase to contain all she owned in the world: another dress, also donated, nightclothes and a rosary Father McCarthy had given her. The only reason she had her mother’s shawl was because she’d wrapped up in it when she’d left early that fateful morning, just before dawn, to collect clothes to be washed. When she’d returned, the apartment building had been ablaze.

“Oh, good heavens!”

The morbid thoughts invading Rose’s mind disintegrated at Susannah’s outburst.

“Mr. Hardt, please slow down! Our legs are not as long as yours.”

She’d called out several times to tell him he was walking too fast. The mounted soldiers riding alongside them hinted at the reason—the rambunctious crowd. In New York’s Sixth Ward, men were more numerous, and just as rowdy. Being whistled at and ogled didn’t seem as strange as disembarking in a town that had been plopped down out in the middle of nowhere.

One end to the other was only a couple blocks, if you could call a muddy thoroughfare lined with wobbly planks
blocks
. The depot appeared to be the only brick building, the rest being constructed out of rough wood shingles, including a general store, a grocery and three gin houses, what they called
saloons
. Surprising there weren’t more, what with all these men and no mothers, sisters or wives to keep them out of trouble. Mr. Hardt had assured them the men would settle down, now that women were here to offer a
civilizing influence
. He couldn’t possibly believe twelve women could civilize all these men.