* * *
Minutes later, Mary Alexander was standing on a box in the bedroom of her tiny cabin near the schoolhouse, gazing at her reflection in the full-length mirror. The face staring back at her showed the strain of the last few days and the look in her brown eyes expressed her sense of foreboding. Several times during the last few days, she had been tempted to cry off. But her cowardice stopped her. Pelham Cosgrove was the only man who had ever thought to offer her marriage, and Mary was very much afraid no one else ever would because she was part Cherokee Indian. She knew it wasn’t the best reason to marry, but it was reason enough. After all, Pelham didn’t love her any more than she loved him.
That was the problem, she told herself over and over. They didn’t love each other. That was why she was plagued with uneasy feelings and doubts. She was about to exchange her safe, secure, well-loved existence and walk into the unknown with a man she hardly knew. And not for love—but for the sake of her cowardice and his convenience. Mary bit her bottom lip and gazed at her reflection. Marriage was a lifelong pledge, and suddenly Mary wasn’t completely sure she wanted to tie herself to Pelham Everhardt Cosgrove III for even a day—much less the rest of her life.
She sighed. Her daydreams of marriage had been so much more pleasant than the reality. In her daydreams, she fell in love and married a man who loved her—one who also loved the ranch as much as she did. In her daydreams, her husband moved into her cabin with her and they lived and loved and worked and raised their family on the Trail T. But her intended had other plans. He wanted to live in Cheyenne, and soon Mary would be legally and spiritually bound to follow him into the city—leaving behind her job, her family home, her parents, grandparents, brothers, cousins, nieces and nephews, and everyone else who lived on the ranch.
Mary frowned at her image in the silvered glass as she thought of all the upcoming changes. She would miss her loved ones, and the familiar confines of her cabin, but she would miss her job as schoolmistress to the ranch’s children most of all. Pelham didn’t want her to work, and had flatly refused to discuss the possibility of her riding the five miles out to the ranch every day to continue teaching. Nor would he consider allowing her to teach in Cheyenne. Mary sighed.
So Pelham Everhardt Cosgrove III was a bit rigid and set in his ways. So what? He was punctual, reliable, and hardworking. He would go far with the Cheyenne Stockholders’ Bank. So what if his kisses didn’t set her heart racing? Mary reached up and thoughtfully traced the line of her bottom lip with one finger. Hadn’t Pelham told her that the reason he didn’t want her to continue teaching was that he wanted to start a family right away? Soon she would have children of her own to teach, and wasn’t that what she really wanted? She should count herself lucky that Pelham was, in his words, willing to overlook her unfortunate lineage. If only she could convince herself of that before the wedding.
“Are you sure this is what you want?”
Mary looked around and caught Tessa’s worried expression. “Of course. Why do you ask?”
“Maybe because you don’t look very happy,” Tessa Alexander answered bluntly.
Mary turned back to the mirror. “What gives you that idea? I think the dress is splendid. Mrs. Russo has outdone herself.” She fingered the white lace and satin folds of her wedding dress, twisting this way and that, viewing the gown from different angles. “It’s turned out very well. I’m pleased with my choice.”
Tessa took a deep breath. At times Mary reacted just like her older brother, David, hiding her feelings with meaningless conversation. But in the four months since she had married Mary’s brother, Tessa had learned to get straight to the heart of David’s concerns, and she was equally confident she could do the same with Mary. “We’re not questioning your taste in clothes,” she said. “We’re questioning your choice of a husband.”
“We?”
“Yes.”
Mary whirled around at the sound of another voice answering and came face to face with Faith. “You too?”
Faith nodded. She had come west as Reese Jordan’s bride nearly four years ago and now made her home with Reese and the girls—Faith’s eight-year-old sister Joy, and their three-year-old daughter, Hope—on the Trail T Ranch. Although the Jordans technically owned the ranch, Reese’s father had followed Cherokee tradition and welcomed his wife’s family onto his land and the Trail T had become home to all the members of the Jordan-Alexander clan.
Tessa Roarke had joined the family just four months ago when she married David Alexander, and Faith and Tessa had become the sisters Mary had never had—her dearest friends, staunchest supporters, and closest allies…until now.
Faith spoke up first. “I’m sorry, Mary, we don’t mean to hurt you, but somebody had to come out and say what we’ve all been thinking.” She watched as Mary gave Tessa an accusatory glance. “There’s no call for you to be upset with Tessa. She speaks for all of us. We love you.”
“I see,” Mary replied dryly. “You question my judgment because you love me.”
“Yes,” Faith answered. “Because we’re worried about you.”
“Are you?” Mary arched an eyebrow and turned to Tessa. Tessa recognized the gesture. She’d seen David raise his eyebrow that way at witnesses in the courtroom when he doubted their sincerity.
“You know we are. Why shouldn’t we be worried? This is all so sudden. How long have you known Pelham Cosgrove III?”
“Long enough.”
“How long?” Tessa demanded. “Two weeks? Three?”
“Longer than you knew David before you married him,” Mary countered.
“Our situation was different,” Tessa protested.
Mary arched her eyebrow once again. “Was it?”
“You know it was,” Tessa answered gently. “David and I married because we loved each other.” She met Mary’s brown-eyed gaze, refusing to be intimidated. “I don’t think you can say the same about you and Mr. Cosgrove.”
“Stop right there,” Mary warned as a rush of tears brimmed in her eyes, threatening to overflow. She looked to Faith for support.
“Tell us you love him,” Faith whispered.
Mary looked at Faith and Tessa and saw the concern in Faith’s solemn gray eyes and Tessa’s bright green ones, and the identical worry lines wrinkling their foreheads. “You two are the sisters I never had. Why can’t you trust me? Why can’t you and David”—Mary glanced at Tessa, then at Faith—“and you and Reese just wish me well?”
“We do, Mary.” Faith was merciless. “That’s the problem. We do wish you well. We want you to be loved and to be happy.”
“I am.”
“Then reassure us,” Tessa urged. “Tell us you love the man you’re going to marry. Tell us he loves you.”
Mary bit her lip as the tears she had been struggling to hold in check suddenly began to roll down her cheeks. “I can’t.”
Tessa stepped closer, put her arms around her, and hugged her tightly. “Then help us, Mary. Please. Help us to understand why you are so determined to tie yourself to a man you don’t love.”
Faith produced a delicate lace-edged handkerchief from the pocket of her housedress and reached up to wipe away Mary’s tears. “It’s all right,” Faith said, patting Mary on the shoulder as she choked back another sob. “Take your time.”
Mary took the handkerchief from Faith and dried her eyes. “There isn’t much to tell,” she said. “It’s very simple. I agreed to marry Pelham Cosgrove because he feels it’s time he started a family. And I met his requirements for a wife.”
“His requirements?” Faith bristled. “What requirements?”
“Looks, education, fine manners, and a certain amount of breeding.” Mary smiled sadly.
“A certain amount of breeding? What does that mean?” Tessa demanded.
“It means he’s the first gentleman I’ve met who has looked me in the eye, took note of my obvious Indian heritage, and still considered me enough of a lady to offer marriage instead of an affair.”
/> “Oh, Mary, I can’t believe your Cherokee blood makes any difference,” Faith said. “He must really care for you.”
“He really cares about our family’s bank account,” Mary told her.
“And you’re willing to settle for that?” Tessa couldn’t believe her ears.
“Yes,” Mary answered fiercely. “I’m a twenty-eight-year-old spinster schoolteacher, and a half-breed to boot. Yes, I’m willing to settle for a husband, a home, and children of my own. I know the price is high, but I’m willing to pay it.”
“But Mary…” Faith began.
“Look at me,” Mary ordered, “and listen carefully. I need to marry Pelham. And although I’ll miss it, I need to get away from the ranch. I need to get out from under Mother’s wing and your shadows. I need to start living my own life. I love the two of you like sisters. I love your children and I enjoy teaching them, but I envy you. I want what you have. I want a family of my own. I feel as if I’m missing so much. And every day I seem to die a little bit inside. I’m afraid that if I wait too long, I won’t have anything to offer a husband. I’ll be too old and too set in my ways and too bitter—always thinking about what might have been. I can’t be a hanger-on anymore.” Mary caught her breath as she began to cry once again. “I don’t like what it does to me. Don’t you see? I’m afraid of what I’ll become. I have to seize this opportunity.”
“But Pelham Cosgrove…” Tessa protested.
“Please,” Mary struggled to maintain her dignity, “try to understand. I know he’s not what you wanted for me. He’s not what I planned for me either, but”—she managed a wry smile—“as a half-breed Cherokee woman, I’m not likely to be overwhelmed by marriage offers, no matter how attractive or educated I am.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Whether I like it or not, I’m too Indian for most white men, and too white for most Cherokee. I’ve discovered that life—at least my life— isn’t like a fairy tale. Prince Charming isn’t going to ride up on a white horse and sweep me off my feet.” But even as she said it, an unbidden image sprang to mind—that of a blond-haired rogue with sparkling gray eyes, a voice that could melt butter, and a thick blond mustache that framed a most intriguing mouth. A blond-haired rogue who had, during each of their brief encounters, made her feel like the most desirable woman in the world.
Mary closed her eyes in an attempt to blank out the picture in her mind, and when her feeble effort failed, she tried a different tack. Fixing her gaze on the heavy pearl- encrusted ring on her left hand, she began to methodically replace her mental image of her Prince Charming, feature for feature, with a picture of Pelham Everhardt Cosgrove III, and prayed it would last a lifetime.
Keep reading Something Borrowed
Book 3 in the Borrowed Brides Series
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Golden Chances, Book 1 in the Borrowed Brides Series
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Coming August 6, 2013
A thoroughly English girl raised in Hong Kong, Julia Jane Parham has spent her entire life walking the line between two worlds. When her closest friend, Su Mi, becomes the victim of an arranged marriage gone horribly wrong, Julie travels to San Francisco in order to buy back her freedom and soon finds herself in over her head.
On a rescue mission of his own, Will Keegan uses his saloon, The Silken Angel, as a front to whisk Chinese prostitutes away from the city’s ruthless brothel owners to a life of freedom, risking his own hide in the process.
Sparring with a spirited British lady is the last thing Will Keegan needs, but he isn’t about to let lovely Julie throw herself headfirst into danger. And as the urge to protect her turns into something more, Will knows he must coax Julie into trusting him, or risk losing her forever…
San Francisco, California
February 6, 1875
Will Keegan opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of his bedroom in the Silken Angel Saloon. His head ached from the pall of bluish smoke that lingered in the saloon, produced by the hundreds of cigars and cigarettes his customers smoked each night. The half bottle of brandy and the pot of coffee he’d drunk, the loud conversation, and the music from the slightly out-of-tune piano also contributed to the pounding behind his eyes.
He’d dreamed the dream again. Dreamed that he was back in Hong Kong with Mei Ling, whose features blurred, merging once again with Elizabeth’s.
Will squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth against the splintering pain in his brain. It was early. The soft light of the Saturday morning barely penetrated the heavy fog, but the clouds of moisture hanging over the city did little to muffle the noise.
Today marked the beginning of the Chinese lunar year. In a few hours Dupont Street and the streets along the waterfront would be filled with more discordant sounds—parades, fireworks, bells and horns, bamboo flutes, cymbals, drums, including the hundreds of toy bolang gu, the pellet or rattle drums sold by street vendors, as well as the squeals of live pigs that would be paraded through the narrow city streets as the residents of Chinatown welcomed another Year of the Pig.
Will hoped that a mug of the strong, scorching-hot brew that passed for coffee and a heaping spoonful of willow bark elixir would ease his head enough to allow him to grab another hour or two of sleep despite the drum banging and the cymbal crashing…and the amazingly clear mezzo-soprano voice growing closer and louder by the minute.
“Not again.” Will sat up, raked his fingers through his hair, grabbed the silk dressing gown at the foot of his bed, flipped the bedcovers aside, and stepped into his boots.
She was inside the building. Inside his saloon…
Will didn’t know who had let the crusader slip through the doors of the Silken Angel, but there would be hell to pay when he identified the culprit.
He didn’t mind religious fervor. He’d grown up with missionaries and had been surrounded by it. His father was minister of the First Presbyterian Church of Hong Kong, his mother had preached the gospel according to John Knox on her deathbed, but a little religious fervor went a long way, and Will was rapidly reaching the end of his patience.
The construction of the Silken Angel Saloon had become a clarion call for every follower of William Booth’s philosophy in San Francisco—and their numbers seemed to be multiplying daily. A year ago, you could count the San Francisco Salvationists on one hand, but the past few months had brought boatloads—all looking to save the city— particularly the Barbary Coast—from itself and eternal damnation.
Will didn’t object to the goal, but he certainly objected to the methods. Between visits from the Salvationists and the Women’s Suffrage and Temperance League, he’d had to replace three bar mirrors, two plate-glass storefronts, a case of whiskey, two tables, and half a dozen chairs. All of that in addition to the breakage caused by the usual assortment of rowdy customers.
He’d nearly reached the bottom of the stairs and was in the midst of shoving his arms into the sleeves of his dressing gown when the soprano reached the refrain.
“’Bringing in the sheaves. Bringing in the sheaves. We shall come rejoicing, bring—’”
He hurried down the remainder of the stairs and collided with the figure standing at the foot of them. The girl looked up, widening her eyes in surprise at the force of the impact. He recognized the look of astonishment and fear as her ugly black boots lost purchase on the polished oak floor and she wobbled backward.
Reacting instinctively, he reached out, grabbed the girl around the waist, and hauled her against his chest. The air left her lungs in a whoosh of warm breath.
“Oh!” came her muffled exclamation. Her hat had been knocked askew and her face was buried in the hair on his chest, revealed by his open robe.
Will held her fast until he was certain she was in no danger of falling, then set her down on the floor and released his hold.
She sucked in a breath.
&nb
sp; “Please…” Will held up his hand. “Don’t sing anymore.”
A startled look crossed her face. “I wasn’t going to sing.”
“Thank God,” he murmured beneath his breath.
“I was going to scream.” She didn’t look up, but continued to stare at his bare chest as if mesmerized by the sight.
Staring down at the top of her head, Will pulled the silk edges of his robe together and knotted the belt. “Don’t do that either.”
“I most certainly will!” she warned, still staring at the bit of flesh left exposed by the wide lapels of his dressing gown, a frown marring the area between her eyebrows. “If the situation warrants it.”
“It won’t,” he muttered. “As long as you don’t sing.”
She looked up at him then, her gaze narrowing in a warning that matched her frown. “What’s wrong with my singing voice? I’m told it’s quite pleasant. And how dare you manhandle me this way?”
Her eyes were blue. Cornflower blue fringed by thick dark lashes and framed by eyebrows that were a dark reddish brown. A tiny sprinkling of lighter reddish-gold freckles dotted her nose. Her hair, beneath her awful military gray bonnet, matched her eyebrows. “Would you rather I allowed you to tumble to the floor?”
“No. Of course not,” she replied. “I thank you for saving me from that, but if you hadn’t come charging half-clothed down the staircase as if the building were on fire, I wouldn’t have been taken unawares or thrown off balance in the first place.”
“You’re blaming me?” Will was taken aback by her audacity.
He stood nearly three inches over six feet tall in his bare feet and was solidly built, while the top of her head barely reached his chest despite the two-inch heels on her boots. She was a tiny, auburn-haired spitfire of a girl standing toe-to-toe with a man practically twice her size.