sight of her.
“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” she called.
He gave her a startled look. “Yeah, I guess so. Been so busy I hardly noticed.”
“I see that you have already repaired the henhouse.”
“Yeah. Wasn’t difficult.”
“Thank you.”
He stared at her for so long she wondered if she had carrots growing out of her ears. Finally he shifted his stance and ran one hand over his tanned face. “Is there something else you want done?”
“No. I mean, not exactly.”
He frowned. “What does that mean, ‘not exactly’?”
She looked everywhere but at him: the plum tree drooping with ripe fruit waiting to be preserved, the yellow rose rambling along the back fence, the clothesline strung from the corner of the house to the walnut tree ready for her to hang up the laundry.
He waited, his arms folded over his midriff. Finally she worked up her courage and drew in a long breath.
“Yes, Lance, as a matter of fact there is something I want you to do.”
“Okay. What is it?”
Marianne bit her lip again and pulled in a deep breath. “I want you to marry me.”
The hammer slipped out of his hand and thunked on to the grass. “Say that again? You want me to... What’d you say?”
“Marry me.”
“Huh?” His voice was so full of disbelief she almost laughed.
She swallowed. “Yes, that is correct. I want you to marry me.”
He combed his fingers through his unruly dark hair while the frown between his eyebrows grew deeper. Finally he licked his lips and opened his mouth.
“What the hell for?”
Deflated, she plopped down on the back step. “What do you mean, what for? I am making you a perfectly good offer of marriage. I should think ‘what for’ would be, well, obvious.”
He rocked back on his heels. “You mean married as in...husband and wife?”
“Yes.”
“As in...uh...living together under the same roof?”
“Yes.”
He hesitated. “As in...” he cleared his throat “...sleeping in the same bed?”
“Um...well, yes, I suppose so.” She hadn’t thought that far ahead, but no matter. She would work out the details later.
He gave her a long, skeptical look and advanced two steps closer to where she sat. “To be honest, Marianne, I never thought you liked me very much.”
Marianne blinked. “Why, whatever made you think that?”
“Maybe because you’re always ordering me around. Because you never say please or thank-you. Because in all the years I’ve been working for you, you never once even smiled at me.”
She shifted her gaze to the henhouse in the back corner of the yard. “I guess I was too busy cooking and ironing and polishing furniture to smile at anyone.”
Actually, it’s more than being too busy. I was too...well, unhappy to smile at anybody.
He was staring at her with the strangest expression on his face. And he hadn’t spoken a single word.
“Well?” she queried.
His lips pressed into a thin line. “Well, what?”
“Lance, I have inherited a business out in Oregon,” she said rapidly. “But I have to be married in order to claim it. So I need to know if you will marry me.”
The frown deepened. “What kind of business?”
“I don’t know what kind yet, but it doesn’t matter. It will be mine. All mine.”
He gave her a long look. “And mine,” he pointed out, “if we get married.”
“Oh. Yes, I suppose so.”
He pinned her with penetrating blue eyes. “You really want to go to Oregon? I hear it’s a pretty wild frontier out there.”
“Yes, I most certainly do want to go to Oregon. And,” she added quickly before she lost her nerve, “as I said, I must be married to claim my great-uncle’s business.”
He planted himself in front of her and stuffed both hands in the back pockets of his jeans. She waited, holding her breath until she thought she would pop.
Finally, finally, his lips opened. “The answer is no.”
Her breath whooshed out. “But—”
He moved a step closer and gave her a look that was definitely not friendly. “Why,” he asked in a strained voice, “would I want to marry a bad-tempered, bossy woman who hasn’t appreciated one damn thing I’ve done around here for the last four years?”
“But—”
“Marianne, I guess you didn’t hear me. I said no.”
She stared up at him for a full minute. “Well,” she said, her voice quiet. “In that case I have something to show you that may change your mind.”
“Oh, yeah? What is it?”
She reached into her apron pocket and unfolded the poster she’d kept hidden in her bureau drawer. “This.” She thrust it under his nose.
Lawrence Burnside Wanted For
Wells Fargo Stagecoach Robbery
There was a picture of him at the top.
He took one look at the yellowed sheet of paper, and his skin turned pasty under his tan. “Where’d you get this?”
“From the Wells Fargo office. I’ve kept it hidden since soon after you came to work here.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want Mrs. Schneiderman to see it. And because I didn’t really believe you were a stagecoach robber.”
He frowned again. “Why not?”
She sent him a long, level look. “Because you have never shown the slightest interest in all the money the boardinghouse residents leave lying around. If you were a thief, you would have taken it, but you never did. Instead, you’ve worked hard and kept your head down.”
His eyes narrowed into hard blue slits. “Why are you showing me this Wanted poster now?”
She laughed. “I should think that is obvious. How else can I get you to marry me so I can go to Oregon and claim my inheritance?”
His mouth tightened. “That, Miss Marianne, is blackmail.”
Her cheeks grew warm. “Well, yes, I suppose it is.”
“Blackmail!” he repeated firmly.
After an awkward silence she glanced up at him. “Oh, all right, I admit it’s blackmail,” she said quietly. “Is it working?” She sucked in her breath and held it.
For a long, long moment he just looked at her. Then he lifted his hands out of his pockets and leaned toward her.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “It sure as hell is.”
The train rounded a curve and picked up speed, and the passenger car began to sway from side to side. Marianne watched grassland flash by outside the window, admired the drifts of red and yellow wildflowers