In the Sheriff's Protection Page 23

  “So I used my badge as protection.”

  Not understanding his meaning, she leaned back and looked up at him.

  “As a sheriff I had reason to talk to you, offer my protection, correspond with Puddicombe, converse with Alfords. I couldn’t do any of that as a regular man.”

  The seriousness in his tone and his eyes had her taking a step back. “Why not?”

  He let out a heavy sigh and then nodded. “Because you’re a married woman, Clara.”

  Relief washed over her so fast she wanted to giggle, but couldn’t because he was being very serious and she could see his point of view. A lawman and a married woman taking up company could cause a scandal. Even in Oak Grove. A seriousness overtook her, too. There was something she sincerely wanted him to know. “I never wanted to marry Hugh. I begged Uncle Walter not to force us to get married, but I was pregnant with Billy, and no matter how he came to be, I’ll never regret having him.”

  Tom pulled her into another comforting hug. “I know,” he whispered. “I know.” He kissed her then, too. A kiss that made her forget about the past and think about the future. She stopped the kiss in order to grab the other envelope off the table.

  “I have something else I want you to read,” she said, already pulling out the top sheet of paper.

  “Another letter?”

  The disappointment in his tone, which said he’d rather be kissing her, made her laugh. “Yes.” She held up the paper for him to read.

  Her heart flipped at how his eyes lit up and he grabbed the paper.

  “Divorce decree?”

  Biting her bottom lip, she nodded. “Yes.”

  “When did you do this?”

  “That’s what I needed to see Judge Alfords about the night Sadie had her baby.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She crossed her arms and tried her hardest not to smile.

  He tossed the paper on the table and laughed. “Come here.” Grabbing her by the elbows, he pulled her close. “From now on, we’ll just tell each other everything.”

  She giggled. “I can agree to that.”

  Leaning close, with his nose almost touching hers, he asked, “So, now that you’re not married, do you have any interest in getting married again?”

  Happiness exploded inside her. Remembering how they’d teased each other back at Uncle Walter’s, she shrugged. “Well, that would depend on who’s asking.”

  “Hmm,” he said with a nod. “Well, he’s tall, not so awful-looking, but could use a haircut. He likes horses and kids and dogs—”

  Laughing inside, she asked, “But not cabbage?”

  “No, definitely not cabbage, but he has a bank account and will build you a new house and till up a garden where you can grow as many cabbages as you want.”

  The desire to kiss him again, be kissed by him, was growing so hard and fast she could hardly hold still. “I don’t like cabbage, either.”

  “Good to know.”

  She placed her hands on his shoulders. Those broad, wide shoulders that she’d admired too many times to count, and that touching right now had her blood heating up. “There’s only one man I’d ever consider marrying,” she whispered. “He’s an amazing sheriff of a quaint little town in the middle of Kansas.”

  “If I know such a man, when would you consider marrying him?”

  “Yesterday. Last week. Last month.” Rubbing the tip of her nose against his, she admitted, “I’ve thought about marrying him since I met him.”

  “What about tomorrow?”

  All sorts of desires were springing forth inside her. “I’d marry him right now.” Unable to stand more, she planted her lips against his.

  The kiss lasted an extended length of time, and left her entire body swirling with anticipation and desire for more when Tom stepped back.

  “Hold that thought,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  She grabbed his hand with both of hers as he spun around. “Where are you going?”

  “To get Reverend Flaherty.”

  She pulled his arm around her waist while stepping closer. Happiness so pure she might burst filled her, yet she said, “We can’t do that. Seriously, we can’t.”

  He placed a quick kiss on her lips while running his hand up and down her sides. “Well, I can’t wait too long, I’ll tell you that.”

  “Me, either,” she declared. “Me, either.”

  * * *

  “You really don’t mind?” Clara asked, her heart leaping with joy.

  “Not at all,” Julia said. “Jules and I would be honored to share our wedding with you.”

  “I have the perfect dress for you to wear,” Martha said. “I just finished it last night. Angus suggested I start sewing it last week. Amazing—every time he suggests that, a wedding happens.”

  Clara, too happy to care if someone thought she was crazy, asked, “Is he a leprechaun or not?”

  The hotel dining room, full of women who had gathered shortly after breakfast to plan the food for Julia’s wedding this afternoon, burst into laughter. When she’d walked in the room earlier, they’d all already known Tom had asked her to marry him last night. A few hours ago, besides her and Tom, the only other person to know that had been Angus.

  As the other women started talking about the dual wedding this afternoon, happiness like she’d never known filled her. She wanted to be married as soon as possible—now that she knew what love was, she didn’t want to waste a moment—yet she said, “I’ll need to ask Tom.”

  “Now’s your chance.” Rebecca Swift, the banker’s wife, pointed toward the door.

  Tom was in the doorway, with one hand braced against the frame. He was so handsome. So perfect. And above all, hers.

  Never taking her eyes off him, Clara stood and crossed the room. The excitement dancing inside her grew with each step. She couldn’t wait to be his wife. Couldn’t wait to spend the rest of her life with him.

  Stopping in front of him, she asked, “What are you doing here?”

  He pulled her into his arms. “I missed you.”

  “I missed you, too.”

  She loved his smile. Loved how his eyes sparkled. Loved him. Everything about him.

  After a quick kiss, he said, “I heard from Puddicombe this morning.”

  Fear should fill her, but it didn’t. With Tom at her side, nothing scared her. “And?”

  He grinned. “The last one’s been caught.”

  The sigh she let out cleansed her entirely, right down to her soul. “So it’s over.”

  “Yes, it’s over.” Tom then glanced at the women behind her. “What’s happening here?”

  Running a finger around the star badge on his vest, she asked, “What do you think about getting married this afternoon?”

  Excitement danced in his eyes as he pulled her tighter yet. “I think that sounds like the best idea ever.”

  Amazed, she shook her head. “I can’t believe this. It’s—it’s like—”

  She stopped because out of nowhere, Angus appeared next to them.

  “A wee bit of magic, lass?” Angus said with a wink and nod before walking out the door.

  Not caring who was looking, Clara laughed and kissed Tom soundly. “Oh, I love you,” she said. “I love this town. I love my life.”

  His hands, roaming up and down her back, had her insides igniting with delight.

  His voice was husky as he whispered, “You’re going to love it more, tonight.”

  “I know.” She stretched on her toes so her lips could brush against his. “Our wedding night.”

  The effect of that kiss, so deep and powerful it left her floating on air, lasted all day.

  Their dual wedding with Julia Styles and Jules Carmichael that afternoon was perfect. Even more perfect than Clara had ever dreamed about. All of i
t. Including the huge community picnic that followed the ceremony. There was music and food and laughter.

  Even Bear, Wayne Stevens’s huge dog, gave out a joyous bark when Billy, who was lying on a bed in the middle of the meadow next to the church, announced, “If I’d known all I had to do was break a leg for Tom to become my pa, I would have done it weeks ago.”

  Clara looked up into the laughing, handsome face of her husband. The man who’d already made so many of her dreams come true. “I would have, too,” she said. “I would have, too.”

  * * * * *

  If you enjoyed this story,

  you won’t want to miss these other

  great Western reads by Lauri Robinson!

  UNWRAPPING THE RANCHER’S SECRET

  THE COWBOY’S ORPHAN BRIDE

  WINNING THE MAIL-ORDER BRIDE

  MARRIED TO CLAIM THE RANCHER’S HEIR

  Keep reading for an excerpt from THE EARL’S PRACTICAL MARRIAGE by Louise Allen.

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  The Earl’s Practical Marriage

  by Louise Allen

  Chapter One

  Beckhampton on the Bath Road—June 1814

  ‘This is completely unacceptable.’

  ‘You are accustomed to the forces of nature observing your convenience, ma’am?’

  She should have ignored the man, obviously. No lady fell into conversation with complete strangers at roadside inns and most certainly not with tall, raffish ones. And by definition, as this one had addressed her uninvited, he was not behaving as a gentleman should.

  Laurel turned her head to give him a fleeting glance, although the fine mesh of her veil blurred his features a trifle. She had looked more directly earlier, of course, when she was certain she was unobserved. She was female after all and, at twenty-five, not quite a dried-up spinster on the shelf yet, whatever her stepmother liked to imply. She had a pair of perfectly good eyes and a functioning pulse and the stranger was a good looking man if you liked tall, broad-shouldered blonds with overlong hair. And a tan—another indication that he was not a gentleman, although to be fair she supposed he might be connected to the East India Company or have just arrived home from the West Indies.

  She had been sitting at a table in the public room of the Beckhampton Inn sipping tea with her maid, Binham, primly silent at her side, when he had sauntered in. He ordered porter which he drank with one elbow propped negligently on the bar as though this were some common ale house and not a highly respectable posting house on the Bath Road.

  ‘I am used to the postilions I hire knowing the way to circumnavigate obstacles, sir,’ she said now. ‘I do not expect them to throw up their hands and declare that they must make an exceedingly lengthy detour simply because a tree is down and blocking the road at Cherhill.’

  They were now standing in the yard and it was becoming unpleasantly crowded with the stage just in and three other post-chaises beside her own jostling for space and changing horses. In the midst of the bustle the guard from the London Mail was standing, the post bags slung about him and the reins of one of the abandoned Mail’s team in his hand, ordering a riding horse to take him on to London while fielding agitated queries as to just how bad the blockage was three miles ahead.

  ‘As I told you, ma’am, we can go south to Devizes and then Melksham and get to Bath that way round.’ The postilion who had brought her the unwelcome news shot her a resentful look. ‘By all accounts the only thing that’ll get round that big old oak is a rider on horseback. The Mail’s stuck on the other side and if they can’t get the Mail through, they can’t get anything on wheels past.’

  ‘And I explained to you when we set out that I require to call in at Pickwick on the way.’ Laurel opened the route book that she had tucked in her reticule and ran one finger down the column for roads to Bath. ‘As I thought. If we go via Melksham, which is what you are suggesting, then it is a significant detour to reach Pickwick.’

  ‘No other way to do it, ma’am.’ The wiry little man stood firm.

  Laurel sighed, more at herself than at him. The past few weeks she had lost both her patience and her sense of humour and she knew it. None of this was life and death—nothing actually felt very important any more, if she was honest. If they had to make a long detour and were late reaching Aunt Phoebe’s house, then that was the risk one took in making a journey. Stepmama was right, she was turning into an old maid before her time, crotchety and intolerant.

  ‘Very well. I am sure you know best.’

  ‘Or possibly not,’ the stranger remarked, brazenly intervening in the conversation again. ‘What about the old road by Shepherd’s Shore and round over the flank of the Downs to Sandy Lane?’

  ‘The turnpike trust gave up maintaining that road more than fifty years ago, sir.’

  ‘It is still there, is it not?’

  ‘Aye, sir, and I’m sure it is fit for farm carts and riders, but not for the likes of Quality in a chaise.’

  ‘The ground is dry, there is little wind and you have a team of four.’ The man turned to Laurel. ‘I am on horseback, so I can lead the way. It will be rutted and it’s a long pull, but it bypasses Cherhill and Calne and you will be able to re-join the road to Chippenham and Pickwick without having to turn back on yourself.’

  Laurel studied him, wondering why he seemed vaguely familiar, but unable to pin down why. One man could hardly be a danger to her, she told herself. She had an escort of a maid and two postilions, albeit sulky ones. There was the risk of breaking a wheel or an axle and finding herself stranded on top of these godforsaken Downs, of course, but she wanted to get to Bath badly enough to take that chance.

  ‘Thank you, sir. I am obliged.’ She turned to the postilions. ‘You heard the gentleman, we will follow him to Sandy Lane.’

  They turned and went to the horses without comment, although if backs of heads could speak Laurel thought they would be saying, You’ll be sorry. Or possibly, Women!

  ‘Ma’am, excuse me, but have we met before?’

  He feels it, too?

  The stranger was staring as though he hoped to penetrate her veil. He had blue eyes and dark, dark lashes.

  ‘I hardly think so, sir.’ She did not trust blue eyes, however attractive, and it was unwise to be drawn into conversation which was doubtless a handy ploy for scoundrels. Before you knew where you were you were revealing information about acquaintances and locations that would give a confidence trickster or a seducer valuable insights. Not that she thought h
im either, but presumably if such people were obvious they would not be very successful.

  ‘No, of course not.’ He frowned. ‘It was something in the way you tipped your head to one side when you were thinking. It reminded me of an old acquaintance.’ Whoever it was, the memory did not appear to give him much pleasure.

  Laurel nodded and walked away from him to the chaise. His face was intelligent and sensitive when he was serious, not merely handsome. That expression made up for the blue eyes—in fact, it was positively engaging. Trust me, it said.

  ‘Hah!’ she said under her breath as she climbed into the chaise and made room for Binham on the seat beside her. Men were not trustworthy, strangers or relatives, or friends. Life had taught her that.

  ‘My lady?’ Her new maid, a stickler for protocol, including being addressed by her surname by her employer and as Miss Binham by the lower servants, was radiating disapproval at the conversation with a strange man. Her stepmother thought well of Binham. Laurel had plans to find the lady’s maid a new employer at the earliest opportunity unless she showed signs of developing a sense of humour.

  ‘Nothing, Binham. Hold tight, this will be a bumpy ride, I fear.’

  They turned south, then west, climbing steadily, paralleling the modern road two miles or so away to their right on the other side of the great rise of Downland. Almost immediately the metalled road turned into a chalk track, rutted and white with dust.

  Binham gave a little shriek at the first lurch, clutched Laurel’s dressing case to her bosom with one hand and grabbed for the strap with the other. Laurel held on tightly and looked forward, through the glass between the team of four and the postilions, to the horseman leading the way.

  He was sitting relaxed on a big grey horse that had as much of a raffish air about it as its master, its tail ungroomed and long, its legs covered in the thick dust of the road. It was not some hired hack, that was for sure, not ridden on such a loose, trusting rein by a man who looked as though he had spent so long in the saddle that he was perfectly at home there.

  Laurel pushed back her veil and narrowed her eyes at the broad shoulders, the comfortable slouch. It was most improbable, but there was still something familiar about the man.