Fate's Intervention Page 7

  Matthew’s cheeks reddened beneath his tanned complexion. He could feel Marcelle eyeing him curiously. At least she isn’t looking at me suspiciously anymore, he thought.

  “Do calm down,” Stanharbor cooed, patting his daughter’s hand. “I’ve given Matthew our handsome offer and insisted that he consider everything before making a decision and I’m certain,” he emphasized, giving Matthew a warning glance, “that he’ll do just that. After all, he wouldn’t intentionally upset you like this, dear. Would you, Matthew?”

  This is curious. Clifford has put this Matthew fellow in an awkward position. Wonder if he’s man enough to stand up to this fat buffoon, or will he intimidate easily? Marcelle wondered. She hoped that Stanharbor couldn’t easily intimidate him, or she’d be disappointed. He didn’t seem like a weakling that someone could dictate orders to – boss or not.

  Well, Matthew thought, here it goes. I’m about to cause an explosive outburst that people will probably hear over ten counties, at the very least. He didn’t like handling his affairs publicly like this, but the two dense-heads in front of him refused to accept the fact that he was not going to be marrying into their family – now or ever.

  “Mr. Stanharbor,” Matthew said through clenched teeth, his speech slow and clearly enunciated in the hopes that such speech would give his words time to sink in, allowing comprehension before his tirade ended. “I’ve tried tact, with both of you.” His gaze raked over them, and Elizabeth blushed.

  She flicked open her fan and started waving it in front of her face to help dispel the heated flow, but it didn’t work – her blush only intensified beneath the scrutiny of his blazing azure eyes. She’d heard this tone of voice from him before, and she didn’t much care for it one whit. Well, that tone will have to go when we get married, she decided tacitly.

  “And I’ve tried to be extremely direct,” Matthew continued, his eyes returning to the father who was blushing as strongly as his daughter was. “Thus far, neither of you appears to have been listening to a word that I’ve said, so I’m going to try one more time to get through to you both.”

  “Now see here, son . . . ,” Stanharbor started, but Matthew interrupted quickly.

  “I’m not your son, Mr. Stanharbor and the point I’ve been trying to force you both to see is that I will never, ever be your son, and nothing that either of you can try to bribe me with will alter my decision. It’s final. I have made up my mind. I will not be marrying your daughter.”

  “Oh, Matthew, darling, don’t be silly,” Elizabeth said, giggling behind her fan, “you’re just a little put out with us right now, for whatever reason, but I’m certain that once you’ve had a chance . . . ,”

  “If I say it one more time, Elizabeth, I will add a plethora of colorful words that are hardly appropriate for the delicate ears of a child – and, yes, I said child. You will never be old enough, or physically attractive enough to heat my blood to where I want to procreate with . . . ,” Matthew didn’t see the fist that hurled in his direction, but Marcelle did. Unfortunately, she called out a warning too late and Matthew landed with a thud on the hard dirt ground.

  Marcelle knelt beside him, but glanced up at Elizabeth’s cry. She rolled her eyes when Elizabeth placed a hand against her forehead, moaned, and fell against her father’s side. She must have done that particular maneuver on prior occasions because her father instinctively reached for her and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, all while keeping his eyes pinned on Matthew’s fallen form.

  Marcelle controlled the urge to laugh. It was obvious that while Elizabeth was in distress over this turn of events, her swoon was far from real. Her perfect landing against her father, and the fact that she was all but holding herself upright, said it all. If she’d fainted dead away, she’d have hit the ground harder than Matthew had. She just didn’t want to get herself dirty – the little faker.

  “You’ll be sorry for this, Daragh,” Stanharbor said, shaking his fist in Matthew’s direction. “You don’t insult a Stanharbor this way and not suffer the repercussions.”

  Matthew rubbed his jaw as Stanharbor turned and stormed away, dragging a suddenly alert daughter along behind him.

  Matthew looked up and his gaze collided with the laughing gaze of Marcelle Weatherman.

  “Nice going,” she said, and then both burst into laughter.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “So, that was Clifford’s daughter,” Marcelle said. “I really thought for a moment that he’d married the girl. I’ve heard that’s his preference.”

  “Well, from what I heard, he tried to marry you, but you made him believe that you were some sort of eccentric. Ran him right out the front door.”

  “Has it spread all over the state already?”

  “No, his driver told me.”

  “Oh, that’s right, you work for him – or did,” Marcelle said, eyeing him appreciatively. “That took a lot of courage, you know.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Well, I do.” Marcelle turned and leaned against the corral post, watching the people as they passed by. “I went up against Stanharbor. Rejected him. Already that’s making it difficult for my father to find me a suitor. I seem to come off as a trifle unbalanced when I’m around the opposite sex.”

  “Well, I’ve only known you a few minutes and I’ve already determined that you wanted him to think just that. To me, you don’t seem crazy. A little fruity maybe,” Matthew teased.

  “Thanks. I think,” Marcelle said. “You know, at the time, when Stanharbor was sniffing around, acting as if I had a mental disorder seemed like a great idea to get rid of his pompous behind. I probably shouldn’t say that. Sorry.”

  “Oh, but he is a pompous behind, so apologies aren’t necessary.”

  “Thanks again. I guess I just treated him the same way I have every other suitor that’s come to call the past few years. Why should he be any different, right?”

  “I suppose. I have to ask though, why are you running off suitors? Stanharbor I can see, but . . .”

  “If you saw the suitors, you’d understand,” Marcelle interrupted. “Stanharbor was actually one of the best that my father has been able to find. When I recognized him, I knew how rich he was, but not how powerful. My father used to be able to scare up at least one suitor a month, now I’m not so sure he’ll be able to find anyone at all. After what father told me combined with that little episode with you, I believe Stanharbor may indeed hold enough sway over people to scare them away from my doorstep permanently.” She shrugged as if it didn’t matter, but then her father’s illness and her promise to find a husband in all haste reminded her that she should care, at least a little. “Nevertheless, what I did to him was nothing compared to what you just did to him – and his daughter. I only rejected him. In private. You, on the other hand, tore into his daughter and rejected her, and ultimately him, in a very public place. People are still strolling by giving you sidelong glances, and giggling behind their hands – most likely at Stanharbor. It’s not every day that a prominent citizen like him has his hide chewed by a mere hired hand. He’s going to eat you alive.”

  “Gee, thanks.” He’d been listening to her speak and was still trying to decide what it was about this young lady that was so terrifying to potential suitors. He’d only known her a few minutes, but thus far, he determined she was a witty, charming, if slightly strange individual. Still, if what she said was true, and Stanharbor was the best her father could do, then perhaps it wasn’t she that was the problem, but her father’s choices. Curious.

  “Don’t mention it,” Marcelle smiled. “So, what are you going to do for employment now? I mean, even if you hadn’t quit, that dressing down you gave Clifford pretty much ensures that you will remain unemployable for a very long time – in the state of Wisconsin anyhow.”

  “You are just full of encouragement, aren’t you?” Matthew smiled grimly.

  “Well, I try,” Marcelle laughed. “Look at the bright side, you may be unemployable, bu
t I’m most likely going to be permanently unable to marry. Thanks to my mental act.”

  “You don’t seem very upset over that particular prospect,” Matthew observed with a wry grin.

  “I’m not, but I really should be,” Marcelle said. “So, what are you going to do now? Leave Wisconsin?”

  “I like Wisconsin,” Matthew said, “so no, I’m not leaving. I figure, if I hurry, I can probably persuade someone to take me on before Stanharbor starts bad-mouthing me.”

  “Mmm.” Marcelle muttered and then an idea struck her. She looked at Matthew for a long while, her gaze moving from his tanned, weathered face to his work-worn hands. Could she do it? Would her father skin the flesh from her hide if she did? It wasn’t as if she owed this man anything, although he did step between her and Stanharbor’s attempt to strangle her, and he did seem a decent sort. Besides, any man who could stand up to Clifford Stanharbor and his annoying offspring couldn’t be all bad. He looked like a hard worker too, and if he really trained the horse standing in the corral behind her, then he would definitely be a valuable addition to Weatherman Stables.

  “Everything to your satisfaction?” Matthew asked. He struggled to keep his tone level, but his nerves were jumping. Why was she raking her gaze over him? He wondered. If she was eyeing him for the purpose that most women did, then he read her all wrong.

  Marcelle blushed. A man had never caught her inspecting them before, probably because she had never done so before. Still, her reason for doing so was innocent enough, and she certainly didn’t think it would upset him. Yet, if his stiffening demeanor was any indication, her inspection was unwelcomed. It reminded her of her own reaction to men who did the same thing to her, only their looks weren’t innocent. She did find his reaction interesting. After all, shouldn’t a man be flattered to have the opposite sex staring at him. Shouldn’t she be flattered? She lifted her gaze back to his and blushed. His gaze all but screamed that he wanted her to stop gawking and was having difficulty keeping his perturbation under control.

  “Relax, Mr. Daragh, is it?” Marcelle quirked her head in question.

  “Matthew’s fine,” he responded tightly.

  “No, it isn’t, but nonetheless I wasn’t looking at you to see if you’d make a good bed partner.” She said in a deliberately blunt way, and was pleased to see color seep up beneath his collar. “Although I’m sure you probably would, and many women would like nothing more. I was merely trying to ascertain your worth.”

  Matthew’s blush intensified. She could speak directly about his sexual prowess, without batting an eyelash, but couldn’t call him Matthew, and what did she mean by his ‘worth’? Was this another statement, twisted about as a way to throw him off-guard, when she could merely have said what she meant in a less provoking way?

  “Your pitchfork tongue is rearing its ugly head again,” he said, “but, heaven help me, I’ve got to know what ‘worth’ you are trying to ascertain exactly. Do I measure up to an ape, in this at least? Oops, I mean, a monkey.”

  Marcelle smiled, “I was trying to decide if you were a hard-worker,” Marcelle said, “And I can see by your hands that you are.”

  “And why would you be interested in my work ethics, Marcelle – or should I call you, Miss Weatherman?”

  “Since you are not courting me, Mr. Daragh, calling me by my given name would be highly improper for you, now wouldn’t it?”

  “True, but you didn’t seem to me the type to stand too much on formality, especially when you can sit here and talk about bed sport like some one-cent hooker,” Matthew challenged. He didn’t really believe her to be a hooker. He did his own quick perusal, and decided that she wasn’t a hooker. At least she didn’t dress like any hooker he’d ever seen. Still, if she wasn’t a prostitute, how could she be so loose-lipped about some things, but simultaneously refuse to allow him use of her given name.

  Marcelle’s smile widened and a twinkle sparkled in her eye, “Aren’t you still interested in why I want to know what kind of worker you are? Or do you need a few more minutes to finish your examination of my person?”

  Matthew smiled thinly. “Tit for tat, Miss Weatherman. You look me over, and I get to look you over.”

  “Ah, but I had a legitimate reason,” Marcelle challenged.

  “So you said,” Matthew countered, “and I can assure you that the reasons for my examination are just as sound.”

  Marcelle snorted, “I think this conversation derailed somewhere along the line, so let’s get it back on track, shall we? Are you a hard worker, or aren’t you?”

  “Not until you answer my question, Miss Weatherman.”

  “In all honesty, Mr. Daragh,” Marcelle sighed, “I can’t even recall what that question was.”

  In all honesty, it took him a good few minutes to remember the question as well. He had to start rewinding their conversation in his mind. He lowered his gaze in thought, but wasn’t able to think long before Marcelle interrupted those thoughts.

  “Uh hm.” Marcelle cleared her throat loudly. “You are only entitled to gawk at my person once, Mr. Daragh. Otherwise, you break the rules of engagement.”

  “Rules of engagement?” Matthew asked. “What the devil are you talking about, rules of engagement?”

  “The rules of engagement. You know,” Marcelle continued, her features completely without guile, “the rule that says if you allow your gaze to roam freely over a woman’s body more than once in a period of five minutes or less, then you automatically become engaged.”

  Matthew did gawk at Marcelle then, “You don’t really . . . you can’t seriously think . . . ,” he sputtered.

  “Oh, you can relax, Mr. Daragh,” Marcelle said, glancing briefly at the watch draped on the chain about her neck, “it’s been six minutes between glances, so you’re in the clear.”

  Matthew spotted the twinkle of mischief glinting in her brown eyes and resisted the urge to finish the strangulation that Clifford started.

  “So, not only are you a devil with a pitchfork tongue, but you appear to be a devil of a tease as well.”

  Marcelle’s smile turned downward. She didn’t like the thunderclouds that appeared in his eyes. The blue color darkened to sapphire, and his dark brows knitted into a frown.

  “I’ve upset you and for that I’m truly sorry. I guess I’m so used to locking horns with my father that teasing has become second nature to me. I suppose I owe you an apology, especially if I’ve offended you, which your expression tells me I have; and here I am trying to offer you a job, which is one reason I felt that calling me by my given name would be inappropriate of you being in my father’s employ, if you accept the position, that is. Will you? Accept the position?” Marcelle took in a huge breath, having expended her last one completely with that extended clarification.

  Matthew’s eyes widened and then he burst into laughter, “Well, that was quite a mouthful, dear lady.”

  “Well, if you wouldn’t take offense so easily, then I wouldn’t have to expend so much energy on explanations; and you never answered the question. I’m offering you gainful employment. Will you take the position?” Marcelle was now irritated with the man, but couldn’t really understand why. Maybe because she felt the need to defend her quirky personality, something she didn’t need to do with her father. She never did so with potential suitors, either, but that was because she depended upon that quirkiness to drive undesirable prospects away.

  “Okay, okay,” Matthew smiled, putting his hands up in surrender. “Keep your pantalettes on. I’ll take the job. Are you sure your father is taking on new employees?”

  Marcelle didn’t answer right away. She was still reeling over his acceptance of the position without bothering to know what the job entailed.

  “Miss Weatherman?”

  “Oh! Well, my father sent me to do his business today,” Marcelle stated with more confidence than she felt, “so I’m sure he’ll accept your employment without argument. Now, as first order of business, I want you to help me obt
ain the horses I need for the few clients my father still has; that Clifford Stanharbor hasn’t managed to steal away, that is. Starting with this one.”

  Marcelle turned her attention back to White Star.

  “As I said,” Matthew said, “you have good taste in horses. Are you certain you can afford him? His bid price may be more than a small enterprise can afford, and yours is, isn’t it? A small enterprise?”

  “Yes, but I’m not so concerned about that. Is he gelded?”

  “No.”

  “Then if we can secure him, he’ll be worth his weight in gold.”

  “How so?”

  “If I understand correctly, Stanharbor relies on horses caught in the wild, or horses of mediocre worth that he finds at auctions like this, to provide to his clients. I know from first-hand experience that the horses that he sells aren’t worth the price paid. It amazes me that he’s still in business,” Marcelle said. “Anyway, I’ve had an idea for a few years now that might help put Weatherman Stables on the map again.”

  “What idea?” To Matthew, Marcelle’s excitement was nearly tangible.

  “If we can acquire good quality horseflesh, beginning with this stallion as the stud male,” Marcelle explained, hand waving about excitedly, “And purchase a few highbred mares, then we can produce a better breed of horse to offer our clients. In doing so, perhaps reacquire some buyers that Clifford stole away.”

  “From the way you’re talking, not only is your ranch small, but it’s suffering financially. Am I reading you correctly?”

  “Not suffering, so much as not as well off as it was before we began competing with Clifford Stanharbor. Anyway, with your help, I’m sure we can turn things around. I just feel it. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s a sound idea and one that I proposed to Stanharbor, myself, for his stables, but he rejected it. What makes you think your father won’t reject the idea as well?”

  “Well, I am his voice today, and therefore decisions regarding the stables are mine to make. I did hire you, didn’t I? Besides, if my father didn’t trust me, he wouldn’t have sent me to do his business for him. Even you said you had a similar idea. Did you mean it? Do you really think it sound?”