The Rancher’s Inconvenient Bride. Carol Arens
The fortune-teller tapped her chest with her crimson fingernails. “It’s in here.”
“How lovely for Mr. English, then.” He did want a horde of children. Ivy had told her that about him.
“Go on your way, Miss Agatha. Enjoy your evening.”
Yes, but first she needed to feed scrawny Miss Valentine. It was distressing to feel her ribs, so sharp and angular under her fur.
While walking away, she heard Leah’s throaty laugh, then seconds later, “I see your future young ones. For a penny I’ll tell you what it is.”
* * *
Sitting on the steps of the chuck wagon, Agatha listened to the distant wail of the pipe organ.
Miss Valentine had finished her second plate of stew and was nosing about in the dirt for fallen scraps.
Agatha drummed her fingers on her knees and wondered if William was going to marry the bouncing woman or the one who would bear him many children.
She sighed. She had never truly considered the possibility that she would ever be William’s bride. Although she could hardly control her nightly dreams. But the light-of-day truth was, she was not at all the woman he needed.
That was why, when the Lucky Clover had been threatened with financial ruin, Travis had gone in search of Agatha’s missing sister and brought her back to marry William.
Everyone knew Agatha would never be a suitable match for their wealthy neighbor. She didn’t have the stamina; she was too shy.
Sadly, her father had been informed by the doctor that she should never have children, being much too frail for the stress. Over the years Nurse Brunne made sure Agatha understood that she was not fit for any man because of it.
“I don’t care if you think you’re in the family way!” Frenchie Brown’s voice slammed the wall of the food trailer, bounced off and echoed down the dim pathway.
“I will not be shot out of the cannon!” came the outraged reply.
“I have a signed contract, Mrs. Otis. You have no choice.”
Agatha stood up and peered three trailers down.
Frenchie Brown’s big fist was clamped about the pregnant human cannonball’s arm. No wonder the woman was struggling to get free. This was a dangerous act—even when the wind was not blowing.
“Put the costume on or take it up with my lawyer.”
The red-sequined outfit lay on the ground glinting in lamplight—flaunting its indecency. Why, the wicked garment didn’t even have a skirt. It was no more than a pair of fancy long johns.
“Take it up with God!”
“Around here, I am God.” Now his voice was low, but unmistakably growling.
What a terrible situation! No one was in the area who might help Mrs. Otis.
No one but—
Agatha stepped into a wavering beam of torchlight. “I’ll run for help!”
Frenchie Brown let go of Mrs. Otis. She dashed away into the darkness.
“You! Girl! Come here.”
In spite of the fact that she had been willing to go get help, she was not good at dashing. No, she doubted she could do it if she tried.
She approached her boss, who apparently believed he was equal to the Almighty, with her heart beating madly against her ribs.
He studied her silently, walked around her in a slow circle.
“You’ll do.” He snatched up the costume from the dirt and tossed it at her. “Put it on.”
“I couldn’t.” She really could not. It was a comfort that Miss Valentine had trotted up to stand beside her.
“Do not try my patience. Folks paid good money to see a woman get shot out of a cannon. The reputation of this company depends on you.”
“No, it does not. My contract is to feed you.” Be bold, be bold be bold! “It’s far too windy for that stunt, anyway.”
“Danger is what it is all about! Folks like to get all het up inside. Gives them a real thrill.”
“I must decline,” she said while he tried to shove the costume at her. “Most firmly.”
“You leave me no choice, then.”
With a grunt, Frenchie squatted down.
Really, folks might pay to see that feat.
He snatched up Miss Valentine. “Put it on or I’ll break the mongrel’s neck.”
She did believe that. No doubt he would stuff the dog and mount her high on the elephant’s trunk.
“Very well.”
Agatha snatched the long johns and marched into the cook house. She would put the awful thing on, act like she was going to comply, then when the dog was safe, she would run. She would make a dash for it—as best she could. Clearly she would need cunning as well as speed.
Her plan fell apart when Frenchie’s fist anchored about her arm before he dropped Miss Valentine in the dirt.
He yanked her toward the cannon exhibit. She dug in her heels.
“I won’t do it!”
He grabbed her around the waist and lifted her off the ground.
She wriggled and pounded his arm, tried to peel his fingers off.
“Put me down!” she shouted. “I will not do this!”
“Take it up with your lawyer later—if you are able. It is a blustery night. Anything can happen.”
The thing William regretted most about the evening was the encounter with the fortune-teller.
Somehow Aimee Peller had convinced herself that the seer intended to say that they would be married soon. For the past half hour she had clung to him, pride of conquest clear in her smile. He’d lost count of how many times she’d stared at her hand, at the finger a wedding ring would circle.
While it was true that Aimee would be an appropriate wife—she was beautiful and socially accomplished—he would never marry her.
He’d been cursed with knowing what could be between a husband and wife. He’d seen it in Ivy’s eyes whenever she looked at Travis.
Hang it, but he wanted to see that look in the eyes of the woman he married.
All he would see in Aimee’s eyes was triumph over her social position.
Maybe he ought to have married Ivy’s sister last year like he’d considered doing after Ivy turned him down.
But no. Marriage to Agatha was out of the question. While she was a sweet and docile girl who touched his heart with her shy smile, she would never be able to stand up to the rigors of political life.
It had been a good while since he’d seen her. He had not visited the Lucky Clover since Ivy turned down his marriage proposal.
He did wonder about Agatha from time to time. What had become of her? He hoped that Ivy had managed to restore her to health. He prayed that she had not become addicted to laudanum again.
Had life treated her differently, she might have been as bright and sparkling as her twin sister. That night he’d carried Agatha about the dance floor, he’d seen a spark of joy in her eyes.
Somehow, that brief encounter had left him feeling tender toward her. She had gazed up at him as if he were her hero. It could not be denied that he’d looked