The Invitation (Montgomery/Taggert 19)

It wasn’t that he was shocked at a woman asking him to marry her. He didn’t want to brag, but he’d had a few marriage proposals in his time. Well, so maybe they were more in the form of propositions and maybe they weren’t from women who could be called respectable, but there had definitely been women who had mentioned the word “marriage.”

What was shocking was that this woman was talking to him about marriage. This tiny creature was the type of woman who pretended that men like him didn’t exist. She was one of those women who swept their skirts aside when he walked by. Maybe later they met him in the back of the barn after church, but they didn’t talk of marriage with him, and they didn’t ask him in for Sunday dinner.

But he could believe that this little thing would have trouble getting a man. There wasn’t anything to recommend her. Except for a rather curvy front—and he’d certainly seen better—she was the type of woman you wouldn’t notice even if she were sitting on your lap. Not pretty, not ugly, not even homely, just plain-faced. She had dull brown hair, not a lot of it, and it looked as though a dozen red-hot pokers couldn’t make it curl. Plain brown eyes, plain little nose, plain, ordinary little mouth. No figure to speak of except for the nice round shape on top. No hips, no real curves at all.

And then there was her manner. Cole liked women who looked as though they’d be fun in bed and out of it. He liked a woman who could laugh and make him laugh, but this prim little creature hardly looked capable of pleasantries, much less humor. She looked like the teacher who would accept no excuse for not doing your homework. She looked like the lady who arranged the flowers for the church every Sunday, the woman you saw every day you were growing up but never thought to ask her name.

She didn’t look married. She didn’t look as though she’d ever had a man in her bed, a man snuggling against her for warmth. If she’d had a man, he probably wore a long white nightshirt and a cap and what they did they did solely for the procreation of the human race.

He took his time lighting a thin cigar to give himself some time to think—and to recover himself. He traveled so much and met so many people that he’d had to train himself to be a quick and accurate judge of both men and women. But so far, he wasn’t making any headway with this one. When he was younger than his present thirty-eight years, he used to think that women like this one were dying for a man to warm them up. He’d learned that cold-looking women were, for the most part, cold women. Once he’d spent months working to seduce a plain, prim little woman rather like this one, all the while thinking that a dormant volcano lay under her tightly buttoned dress. But when he finally got her knickers off, she just lay there with her fists clenched and her teeth gritted. It was the one and only time in his life when he couldn’t perform. After that, he decided it was easier to go after the women who looked as though they might welcome his advances.

So now here was one of these frigid, mousy little nothings, with her dress buttoned to her chin, her elbows held close to her body, and although he couldn’t see them, he was sure her knees were locked together.

He was seated on one of those hard, upholstered chairs the landlady considered fashionable, taking his time lighting his cigar and watching her, waiting for her to make the next move. Of course she had so far made all the moves. She had written him that she wanted to hire his services for a very personal matter and she’d like to come to see him in Abilene.

From her letter—written on heavy vellum in a perfect hand—he’d guessed she was rich and she wanted him to kill some man who’d toyed with her affections. That’s what women usually wrote to him about. If a man wanted to hire him, he generally wanted someone killed because of land or cattle or water rights or revenge or some such. But with women it was always love. Years ago, Cole had stopped trying to make both men and women believe he wasn’t a hired killer. He was a peacemaker-for-hire. He felt that he was really a diplomat. He had a talent for settling disputes, and he used that talent to do what he could. It was true that sometimes people got killed during the talks, but Cole only defended himself. He never

drew first.

“Please go on,” he said when the mouse didn’t continue. He’d offered her a seat, but she said she’d rather stand. Probably because that stiff back of hers wouldn’t bend. And she’d insisted that the door to his room be left open six inches—so no one would get the wrong idea.

She cleared her throat. “I know what I must sound like and look like. I’m sure you think I am a lonely spinster in need of a man.”

Cole had to work to keep from smiling since that is just what he thought. Was she now going to tell him that she didn’t need a man? All she wanted was for him to find the neighbor’s son, who had jilted her, and wipe him off the face of the earth.

“I try not to lie to myself,” she said. “I have no illusions about my appearance and my appeal to men. I would, of course, like to have a husband and half a dozen children.”

He did smile at that. At least she was honest about her need for an energetic man in her bed.

“But if I really were looking for a husband, a man to be a father to my children, I certainly wouldn’t consider an aging gunslinger with no visible means of support and the beginnings of a paunch.”

At that Cole sat up straighter in his chair and sucked in his stomach. It took some doing to keep from putting his hand on his stomach. Maybe he’d better stay away from his landlady’s apple pie for a couple of days. “Would you mind telling me what you want?” Not that I would ever, ever take this job, he said to himself. What did she mean, “aging gunslinger”? Why he was as good with a gun right now as he had been twenty years ago! None of these youngsters today—He cut off his thoughts when she started speaking again.

“I’m not sure what to tell you first.” She gave him a hard, scrutinizing look. “I was told you were the handsomest man in Texas.”

Cole smiled again. “People talk a lot,” he said modestly.

“Personally, I don’t see it.”

At that he paused with his cigar in midair.

“Maybe you were handsome some years back but now…Too much sun has turned your skin to leather, and you have a hard look about your eyes. It’s my guess, Mr. Hunter, that you’re a very selfish man.”

For the second time that day, Cole was shocked into speechlessness. Then he tipped his head back and laughed. When he looked at the woman again, she wasn’t so much as smiling. “All right, Miss…”

“Latham. Miss Latham.”

“Ah, yes, Miss Latham,” he said snidely, then was annoyed with himself. In fights, he’d faced men who’d said all manner of things about him and his ancestors and they hadn’t been able to rile him, but this ordinary woman with her comments about his supposed paunch and whether or not he was selfish annoyed him. Who was she to talk? She was so nondescript that if you stood her against a sand dune you wouldn’t be able to see where she started and the sand left off.

“You want to tell me what you want of me?” he asked. He knew he ought to tell her to get out of here, but he couldn’t help being curious as to what she had to say. Great, he thought, a curious diplomat. He could get killed being curious.

“I have a sister who is one year older than I am.”

She turned and walked toward the window, and when she walked there wasn’t the slightest hint of the graceful sway of hips that men loved to look at. This woman walked as though she were made of wood—and she was just about that attractive to him.

“My sister is everything that I am not. My sister is beautiful.”

She must have sensed Cole’s thoughts because she started explaining. “I know that those who see me cannot believe I have a beautiful sister. They probably think that my idea of beauty is undeveloped.”