Mail Order Bride: Springtime (Bride For All Seasons 1)

She managed one brief wavering smile. “Perhaps we ought to try being on a first-name basis? It would be friendlier. And, after all, we are to be married.”

“Ah—about that marriage...”

Panic suddenly seized her in a vise-like grip, although she dared not reveal that her middle was beginning to quake, and her fingers were trembling. To let this man see the frightening effect of his hesitation would be a sign of weakness. A mistake. Of all the scenarios Camellia had pictured at journey’s end, the possibility that she might end up husband-less, and more destitute than ever before, had never occurred to her.

Instead, she straightened her spine and lifted her chin. “Yes? What about our marriage?”

He was giving her a once-over, dead-on, taking in every feature, probably for the first time. “Seein’ you here, in my house—well, I just ain’t so sure now that marriage is the right thing to do. We’d maybe oughta think this thing through a little more, come up with some other solutions.”

“Indeed.” No revelation, either, of this blow to her pride. Unwanted, by two perfectly acceptable males, within the space of a few months. It was enough to drive one into vapors! “Do you find my appearance displeasing in some way?”

“Displeasin’!” His reaction came so swiftly, so sharply, that she was reassured by its authenticity. “Ma’am, there ain’t nothin’ wrong with your looks. In fact, you’re so downright pretty that I couldn’t believe my own good luck when I figured out who you are.”

Point in her favor. At least he wasn’t revolted to the place where he might be completely nauseated by having to face her every day. “Well, then?”

Again he hesitated, turning the mug this way and that. Not a quick thinker? Or just trying to find the easiest, least hurtful method of truth-telling?

“Miss Burton, through your lawyer, I sent what I thought would be a fair amount of money for your passage to Turnabout. Did you get it?”

“I did. And thank you.”

“Ahuh.

Well, then I see you pull up in a set of rigs that musta cost the earth. Six wagons, teams to pull ’em, men to drive ’em, supplies to fill everybody’s gullet, furnishings like you think there ain’t nothin’ available in our fair town. Accordin’ to what you wrote in your letters, you were just about dead broke. So somethin’ is fishy somewhere. I simply don’t think the lifestyles between us are gonna be able to match up, a’ tall.”

Camellia rose, wrapping her hand in a dish towel in order to carry the hot coffeepot to the table, where both could help themselves. She was as capable of delaying tactics as he!

Then, reseating herself, she folded her fingers together in an almost prayer-like attitude and spoke quietly but earnestly. “Mr. Forrester, I’m sorry this is the impression you have gotten. We agreed to setting a marriage date, to take place soon after I arrived. I hardly think there would be any sort of problem with meshing our cultures and our backgrounds together.”

“I can just see trouble afoot if—’

“Any man and woman must surely make huge adjustments, don’t you think?” she rushed on.

“Simply living as husband and wife would take getting used to. It does seem to me that deliberately working on a union might help to overcome any obstacles, wouldn’t you agree?”

A vein had begun to show itself throbbing in his temple. Perhaps not a good omen. “What you’re sayin’ is all true, I s’pose, although I have no personal—”

“And, I assure you, I respect the contract we’ve made. I intend to honor my commitment. It’s too bad you don’t feel the same integrity.”

“Integrity? Honor? Now, wait a goldanged minute. I’ll have you know—”

“I had intended to be the best wife possible. It would be a shame if the town of which you clearly think so well—” She cast a glance around, taking in all four corners of the house, “—were to discover you were not a man of your word, after all.”

He was beginning to huff and puff with frustration, much in the manner of the big bad wolf attempting to blow down the pigs’ brick home. “I am and have always been a man of my word,” Ben Forrester gritted out between his teeth. “I don’t know what kinda high-jinks you’re tryin’ to pull, but—”

“Oh, please don’t think me ungrateful.” Time to ease up and strike some sort of bargain, especially one he could feel he was winning. “I certainly did use your funds for the transport south. The rest of the expenses were paid for from a private sale of jewelry. Because it was necessary to provide for my sisters, as well.”

“Sisters. Huh.” His expression had frozen into something so distant and detached he might have been wearing a mask. “You never mentioned sisters in your correspondence.”

“No, I admit I did not.”

“And just what are you plannin’ to do with ’em? Am I s’posed to be responsible for three more females than I agreed to?”

As if those three young women, the only family she had left, were castoffs of some kind, to be simply tossed away. She allowed him a small smile, one that showed off perfect teeth and a nice set of dimples. “No, just me. As you know, Mr. Forrester, our father died in December, and the responsibility for my sisters’ welfare lies with me. If you will but allow me the luxury of some time...”

“And then?” He studied her with those intense and intimidating hazel eyes.

“We’ll work something out. I promise you that.”