pink. “Nah, you’re right, it doesn’t. You put some kinda fancy dressing on it, so your coleslaw tastes okay, I guess. What about apples?”
She nodded. “Yes, I like apples.” She picked up her knife and cut a bite of steak. “What about pears?”
“Pears are mushy.”
“Really?” She laid the knife back on her plate with a sharp click. “You think my ginger-poached pears are mushy?”
“Marianne, after they’ve sat around for an hour or two waitin’ for all the boarders to finish eatin’ so I could finally sit down for supper, your pears are plenty mushy, yeah.”
She frowned. She realized that neither of them had ever eaten a meal when it should be eaten, when the dishes were piping hot and bubbly from the oven and the salad greens were crisp. Even her layer cakes and cobblers tasted stale after sitting in a hot kitchen all afternoon and half the evening. Or maybe it was because she was so exhausted by the time she forked a bite past her lips she couldn’t taste anything. And they had never before eaten a meal, a real meal, together.
“What about...houses?” he asked. “I like brown houses with white trim.”
“I like big houses. I have never owned anything before, certainly not a house. So I want a great big house! I know Uncle Matty was rich, so I’m quite sure my inheritance will include one. I don’t care what color it is. I just hope it’s the biggest house in Smoke River.”
Lance studied her. “Do you think this business you’ve inherited is real prosperous then?”
“Of course. Uncle Matty could afford to live in New York City half the time. Out here in this little town he must have been the wealthiest man in the county.”
“Maybe we should talk about—” he paused to fork a slice of fried potato into his mouth “—religion. What church should we get married in?”
“Not Lutheran,” she said decisively.
“Why not?”
“Because Mrs. Schneiderman was Lutheran. She made everyone say a long fancy grace before every single meal, even breakfast.”
“Okay, not Lutheran.”
“And not Catholic,” she added. “The priest at St. Timothy’s in St. Louis refused to let one of the boarder’s daughters attend Sunday school just because they were Russian. Lance, you’re not Catholic, are you?”
“Don’t know. But I’ve got nothing against them. I don’t think I’m Catholic, anyway. My folks never said.”
“Oh? Where were you brought up? In St. Louis?”
“Nah. Little tiny town in Indiana called Tulip Flat.”
She put down her knife. “How did you—?”
“Come to rob a stagecoach?”
“Well...not exactly.” She could tell her cheeks were flushing. She hadn’t wanted to embarrass him; the question just slipped out. “I mean, how did your picture get on that Wanted poster? I told you before I don’t really think you’re an actual thief.”
“Yeah, well, you’re wrong there. I am a thief.”
Her fork clattered on to her plate. “What? Good heavens, Lance, I can’t go into business with someone who’s dishonest! And I certainly can’t marry someone who is really a thief. Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“You didn’t ask,” he said drily. “You just said all the reasons why I couldn’t be a thief.”
“You mean you really did rob a stagecoach?”
He looked up and held her gaze. “Yeah, I really did. I stole a piggy bank from a snotty ten-year-old kid because he was acting like an ass, braggin’ about how smart he was. Been sorry about it ever since.”
She stared at him. “But why did they think—?”
“Because his momma complained to the sheriff and said I was the only other passenger so it had to be me.”
“So it wasn’t a Wells Fargo gold shipment?”
“Yeah, it was. But it wasn’t me that stole it. I got off at the next stop, in Valdez. The robbery happened somewhere between Valdez and St. Louis.”
“But they blamed you? Why?”
He sighed. “Because nobody would believe that a proper-looking momma with a ten-year-old kid would rob a stagecoach. I’d left the Sackler gang by then because they’d shot a stage driver, but it kept me on the run until I landed at Mrs. Schneiderman’s.”
Marianne bit her lip. That meant the Wanted poster in her reticule was not only outdated, it was based on a false assumption. She felt her hold over Lance Burnside slipping away.
“Marianne, listen.” Lance leaned across the table toward her and lowered his voice. “There’s two reasons why you could pressure me into marrying you. One is that it’d take me a lot of time and money to prove I’m innocent of that Well Fargo robbery, and I’ve never had a lot of time or money.”
“Oh,” she said with a nod. “I can understand that.”
“The second reason is that by marrying you I get to own half of some kind of business. It’s my chance to make a different life for myself, and I’d have to be soft in the head not to see the advantage in that.”
Again she nodded.
And the third reason is that, even with all your starchy manners, I’ve lusted after you for years.
Marianne found the dressmaker, Verena Forester, next to Uncle Charlie’s Bakery. The shop was a small establishment whose display window had seven outlandish ribbon-bedecked summer hats and an elegant green crepe gown with ruffles around the hem. Too fancy for a working girl, she thought.
She walked through the shop entrance with trepidation. Never in her entire life had she ordered anything from a dressmaker. Ever since she was a girl, all her clothes had been hand-me-downs; even her camisoles and underdrawers had been given to her by Mrs. Schneiderman’s boarders or donated by the St. Timothy’s church ladies. Now here she was entering a dressmaking establishment for the very first time in her life, and her hands felt sweaty.
Verena Forester turned out to be a tall, fortyish woman with gray streaks in her once dark hair and a sour expression on her narrow face. Marianne introduced herself and explained what she needed.
“A wedding dress,” the dressmaker said, her tone disapproving. “By tomorrow.” She sniffed and cast an accusing look at Marianne’s waistline. “Some reason you’re in such a hurry?”
“Well, yes, there is a reason, but it is a legal matter, not a physical one.”
“Hmm.” The dressmaker sounded unconvinced. “What kind of wedding dress did you have in mind for a hurry-up ceremony that’s going to happen just twenty-four hours from now?”
Marianne bit her lip. “A very simple one. No fancy flounces or bustles or—”
“You mean plain,” Verena inserted.
“Oh, not too plain,” Marianne said. “I’d like it to be attractive, but I would also like it to be useful later on, something I can wear after the wedding. I am a businesswoman, you see, and—”
“Come with me,” Verena snapped. She led the way to the tall shelves along the wall where bolts of fabric were stacked up as high as the ceiling. “Pale green lawn, perhaps?” She pointed to a bolt halfway up the stack. “That’d go nice with your dark hair, Miss.”
Marianne shook her head. Lawn was so light and summery. It