Fate's Intervention Page 4

“Carney?”

  “The cook, silly.”

  Matthew sighed. She meant Carnation. He wondered if Carnation felt the same way he did about this little twit hacking her name in half. It appeared to him that fate had earmarked Elizabeth for silliness – uninvitingly abbreviating everyone’s name like a two year old. It kind of reminded him of his neighbor’s child back home. She was one years old and called him ‘chew’. He expected that from a young child whose age prevented her from getting past one syllable.

  He wondered, however, if Elizabeth did it intentionally or whether her brain simply operated monosyllabically.

  “Well, Miss Elizabeth, I appreciate the invite, but I have work to do tomorrow and being a hired hand doesn’t put me at the top of your father’s list of party guests.”

  “You’d be my guest,” she insisted, annoying Matthew further. Either she was the densest female to walk the earth or she was deliberately missing his subtle hints.

  “I’m thirty two years old, Miss Elizabeth,” Matthew said. “I’d hardly think that being the guest of a thirteen, going on fourteen-year-old, girl would be appropriate.”

  “I’m not a girl. I’m a woman,” Elizabeth said. She pouted her lips exaggeratedly causing Matthew to groan inwardly. He closed his eyes for a moment to regroup, and wished he hadn’t. Taking advantage of his sightlessness, Elizabeth flung her arms around his neck, and kissed him full on the mouth.

  Matthew’s eyes flew open and his gaze came in direct contact with hers. She hadn’t closed her eyes when her lips met his and awkwardness warred with anger. He had not a doubt that his gaze reflected not only shock and ire, but also repulsion at her ineptitude.

  On top of his mixed emotion, he was finding it hard to believe that the little chit was ready to prostitute herself the day before her birthday. Didn’t she know that her offering would ruin all marriageable prospects? He certainly did not intend to marry her.

  Once his shock passed, he reached his hands behind his neck and pulled her hands free, surprisingly with ease. He expected her to balk, to resist his efforts to get away, but she didn’t. He stepped back, waiting for her next move. Would she burst into tears at his rejection? Would she scream at him for some perceived affront and threatened to have him fired? He’d heard it all before, and wasn’t thrilled with the idea of defending himself again against juvenile behavior.

  He eyed her warily when she backed away little, eyes downcast and a blush tinting her pale cheeks. This was a new one. Coy? Shyness? Unexpected. What was she playing at? He wondered.

  “You didn’t like it?” She asked her voice just barely above a whisper.

  She didn’t really expect him to answer that, did she? He groaned inwardly again and started to close his eyes to regroup when he remembered the last time he’d done that. She was eyeing him expectantly again, apparently waiting for him to claim his undying affection to her now that she’d willingly thrown abandon to the wind and kissed him. He’d had enough being polite. Obviously, she confused politeness with tenderness.

  He ought to toss the little wanton to the ground and show her exactly what a man did with a woman, but then she’d probably tell her father and he’d end up married to the brazen hussy. That idea alone had a shiver of dread racing along his spine.

  “I think that maybe you ought to return to the main house, Miss Elizabeth.” His tone was quiet, but the authoritative delivery brooked no argument.

  The pink hue in Elizabeth’s cheeks deepened, “but . . . ,”

  “No buts, Miss Elizabeth,” he growled. “I’m old enough to be your father, and if you don’t leave before I finish this sentence, I’m going to wallop your behind just as if I were . . . .”

  Elizabeth pushed past Matthew and ran down the lane. Matthew turned and watched her flee, a grin on his face. “Well, I’ll be. It worked. She didn’t let me finish my sentence.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Marcelle wanted to sit on her hands. Marcelle wanted to put on her insipid little smile. Marcelle wanted to regale the gentleman caller with tales of her frightening tendencies to harm the male species with a knitting needle.

  Marcelle wanted to do what she couldn’t because her father was sitting in the parlor with them. Watching her closely. She’d chased off three more possible marriage candidates in the last three weeks and her father had had enough. Since each of those left the house insisting that his daughter was a few peaches short for a cobbler, her chances of marrying before the end of the year were getting slimmer.

  Marcelle was beyond caring, despite her promise to her father to try to wed by year’s end. In reality, she was simply like a horse that refused to accept a bridle. If she ever did allow a bridle, she didn’t want just any man saddling up and riding her. She wanted to feel closeness to her partner that would allow her the freedom to be herself, so they could ride together without the need for controlling restraints. Yet how could she explain that to her father? How could she explain that this current fellow was no better than the other men had been in igniting that spark that would lead her down the aisle?

  “More tea, Brian?” She asked sweetly, shooting her father a look that told him she could be most pleasant and that leaving the room was safe for their guest. He shot her a look that told her he wasn’t going anywhere.

  Brian jumped at the sound of her voice. Neither of them had spoken in the last ten minutes and apparently, the ensuing silence had almost lulled him to sleep.

  “Oh! No, no, my dear,” he said, rubbing an aged hand across his gaunt features. He was tall, which would normally be a plus, but he was also so thin that she doubted whether he could carry her across a threshold should she choose to wed him – which, of course, she’d never do. A stout wind could lift him and carry him off – which she wished would happen now. He was far too bland to consider marrying.

  At least her father had taken her seriously and found a man who wasn’t portly. Looking at him, however, she rather wished her father hadn’t veered so far in the opposite direction. What truly worried her about this caller wasn’t his weight or even his age – which her father also kept barely within the agreed upon range – but the fact that her father insisted on joining them in the room. That meant that he appeared to favor this man over the others, or he was going to make it difficult from now on for her to drive away suitors he considered eligible. He’d struck a bargain with her, and since he was keeping to his end by locating only slender men under forty, it appeared as if he was going to force her to uphold her end to behave and seriously consider them. None, however, was worth considering and she truly wished she could scare him off, back to Pinedale.

  Brian Walker said that’s where he lived. Six or seven counties to the north of where they lived. She wasn’t exactly certain how her father had found this one, but she wished he hadn’t. From what little information she’d been able to gather from their extremely brief periods of conversation, Walker was a wealthy man as owner of a local bank.

  When Brian stood a moment later, Marcelle inadvertently breathed an audible sigh of relief. Her father’s eyes narrowed disapprovingly, but it was obvious Brian didn’t hear, which gave Marcelle pause. He was standing a lot closer to her than her father was which could only mean that his hearing was deteriorating as fast as his body.

  Her father was eyeing Brian strangely as well, so he was apparently thinking something similar.

  Marcelle eagerly stood and escorted her caller to the front door.

  “Well, my dear,” Walker said, “it’s been a pleasure making your acquaintance. I’m sorry I have to leave so soon, but it is a long ride home. I do hope we’ll have the opportunity of entertaining one another again in future.”

  Marcelle only smiled in response, not trusting herself to speak. She didn’t think she’d have to worry that Brian would come to call on her again. She would be very surprised if he could recall her name, much less where she lived. He seemed quite inattentive. What would surprise her even more would be if he lived long enough for a proper courting period
. His health seemed frail. Perhaps that’s why her father approved. If she married him then he would die shortly thereafter, most likely, leaving her widowed – and rich. Then neither he nor she would have to worry about finances again. The thought was so absurd that she giggled slightly. Fortunately, her caller took her smile as approval for continued courtship. He took her hand and placed a light kiss on the back, then bowed low.

  “I look forward to returning soon. Until then, I’ll bid you good night.”

  Marcelle sighed when he boarded his carriage. She closed the door and laid her head against the wooden frame, sighing loudly. When she turned, her father was standing in the foyer watching her.

  “Wherever you dug that skeleton up, I’d suggest you bury him again,” Marcelle said. “You can’t seriously think that I’d prefer that scarecrow any more than I did Clifford Tub of Lard, do you?”

  Her father raised a hand to silence her objections.

  “I’m weary, dearest,” he said, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “I think I’ll retire early for the night. You go and read or something.”

  “Father . . . ,”

  “I cannot argue with you, Marcelle, so let the subject alone until another day. At least know that our upcoming trip to the horse auction next week will postpone my matchmaking.”

  “Are you sure you’ll be able to travel all the way to Lander?” Marcelle asked, noticing the pronounced circles of tiredness under her father’s normally alert emerald gaze.

  “I think I have a cold, so I’m feeling a bit drained, but I’m certain that next week will see me spry again. Besides, I still have several clients that Stanharbor hasn’t managed to steal that rely on me to provide them with quality horseflesh. I mustn’t let them down or Stanharbor will snatch them away as well. Then we will have nothing.”

  “If Stanharbor is such a threat to our well-being, why did you want me to marry him?”

  “If you’re married to him, he’d hardly remain a threat to your financial well-being, now would he? Since I wouldn’t have to concern myself with your care, then I could retire comfortably and not have to fret about whether my clients stayed with me or not. Stanharbor could take them all to blue blazes for all I care.”

  “Oh, Father,” Marcelle said, wrapping her arms about his waist, and hugging him close, “why didn’t you tell me that my staying here was putting a strain on you?”

  “Oh, Sweetheart, it’s not as bad as all that,” he said. He loved his daughter dearly and hadn’t thought what a careless statement brought about by irritation at not finding her a suitor and tiredness from being ill, would cause. “It’s more that I want someone capable looking out for you, not you having to worry about caring for me for the rest of your youth. Now,” her father said firmly, “I could use some rest, so you find something to entertain yourself with this evening.” He reached around and released his daughter’s grip.

  “No chess match?”

  “No chess match,” he said. He placed a light kiss on her forehead. “Now, let me be for a bit. Go work on your quilting.”

  “Exciting.”

  “Very. Please send Nancy with my port.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  Marcelle watched her father climb the steps to the living quarters and wondered what he was hiding from her. She didn’t believe for a moment that he had a cold. Cold, bah. His health had been slowly deteriorating for the past month and Marcelle knew it. No cold held to a body as long as that. She hadn’t missed the increased visits from his physician either.

  The subtle threats he kept spouting added to the increased pressure for her to wed; the ongoing cold and multiple visits from his physician, made her wonder at what really was going on with her father.

  Despite their incessant arguing – another oddity since he was participating in those less and less as well – he could have forced her to wed at any time since turning fourteen, but hadn’t. Now, things were changing rapidly and she wanted to know why.

  She knew why he’d humored her when she was younger. That was no great mystery. He’d indulged her curiosities and allowed her freedom that most young girls never experienced, and even given her the right to decide when and whom she would marry. That earlier lenience stemmed from her mother’s sudden death and his inexperience in the rearing of a young daughter. A partiality that suited her just fine. Of course that changed when he realized she wasn’t inclined to select a mate. She only wished things could remain as they were when she was fourteen, but something was happening to her father, something that was changing his perspective of her future. It worried her.

  A small smile formed on her mouth as she remembered the first suitor to come to call on her. Her father hadn’t even played a hand in that one. The young man simply appeared on her doorstep the day after her thirteenth birthday.

  Stefan Mills was tall, lanky, and right in the middle of becoming a man at the tender age of sixteen. He was an amusing diversion for Marcelle, who enjoyed watching him trip over his two feet and listening to his voice change pitch on a daily basis. She was always polite with him, however, and never let on that his awkwardness was the center of farcical discussion around the dining room table each evening.

  He was also Marcelle’s first experiment with kissing. Unfortunately, that hadn’t gone so well.

  Father, seeing the young man’s interest, and pleased that the boy’s father owned the adjoining parcel of land, invited him and his parents to dinner. Following, Father suggested a walk to allow them a chance to talk freely, with Bridget, the housekeeper at the time, following at a discreet distance.

  The walk was going well, since Marcelle’s humor continued to increase with each of Stefan’s missed steps, even if conversation was lagging. She kept thinking that he’d maintain better footing if he kept his gaze directed forward instead of to the rear. It didn’t register why he would be concerned as to the whereabouts of their chaperone.

  It wasn’t until they came to a bend in the road that she realized why he’d been interested in Bridget’s nearness. He didn’t want any interruptions. Taking advantage of the housekeeper’s temporary absence from sight, he decided to prove his prowess.

  They rounded the bend and, with alacrity, he pulled her up short, yanked her around by the arm, and straight into his torso. Arms flailed as both tried desperately to regain their balance. It didn’t work, and they landed in a heap on the ground.

  However, the ludicrous display and buffoonish behavior did not deter Stefan from his goal of kissing her. The moment they hit the ground, he rose, and planted a big, wet, mushy kiss on her closed mouth – after bashing her nose with his.

  Unfortunately, Bridget chose that moment to round the corner. Yelling in her native tongue, she started swatting at Stefan with a switch. The swatting increased in fervor when she saw the blood that was seeping from Marcelle’s nose, where Stefan’s head had collided when they fell.

  The Mill’s family moved a month later, without Marcelle having to lay eyes on Stefan again.

  It had been such a disgusting experience that Marcelle hadn’t allowed another man access to her mouth in the four years since. That wasn’t a difficult decision to make, since all the men that called upon her reminded her of her father and she didn’t want to think of her father while kissing a man.

  The smile vanished when her father returned to the forefront of her mind; him and his strange behavior of late. She’d have to take a walk down memory lane another time. Right now, she had to find out what was going on. He wasn’t pushing her into marriage for her financial well-being. She knew he wasn’t. He could have done that long ago. No, there was something more and she wasn’t going to rest until she found out what. A good place to start was with his physician. Her father may not want to discuss his health, but she would pry it from Doc Franklin. Come hell or high water, she would.

  She grabbed her shawl and snuck out. Determination on her face and in her stride.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Peter eyed his daughter suspiciou
sly across the short expanse of the carriage. Something was definitely bothering her. He could tell by the set of her jaw, the stiffness of her back and the ongoing silence, but the most obvious clue was that she was riding in the carriage with him. She never rode in the carriage with him on their trips to Lander. She much preferred the back of a horse to the interior of a carriage.

  Then again, so did he – normally – but things for him weren’t normal any longer and he knew he probably could not maintain his seat in a saddle.

  When he informed his daughter of his continued tiredness, and that he planned to take the carriage to the horse auction, he expected her to argue in favor of forgoing the trip entirely, but her eyes had only widened slightly. Then, much to his surprise, she turned back toward the stables, her horse in tow.

  She still hadn’t said anything to him when she crawled into the carriage with him. Now, a half hour later, she sat staring silently out at the lush green landscape. In fact, she’d hardly said two words at all to him in the past week.

  “Marcelle, dear,” her father said softly, “if you’re fretting that I’ll make you marry Brian Walker, relax. I don’t think he’d suit at all.” That should make her happy again, he thought, but she surprised him again by simply muttering, “Who?”

  “You know whom, dear,” he answered. “The banker from over in Pinedale.”

  “Oh, him,” Marcelle said, her gaze remaining averted. “I never thought you would.”

  “Oh, well, then, drat it all, whatever has been bothering you this past week?”

  Marcelle turned then to look at her father and for the first time he saw worry outlining her wide, brown eyes.

  “What is it, dear?” He asked.

  “Why didn’t you tell me, Father?” Marcelle whispered. She fought the urge to cry, not wanting to give in to histrionics before giving him a chance to explain. She’d cried silent tears every night since her visit to her father’s physician last week. Their conversation still cankerous.

  “Doctor Franklin, my father has been visited by you on numerous occasions, but doesn’t seem fit to tell me why, so I’ve come to you for answers,” she said without preamble, the moment he opened his door to her.