The Bride Raffle (2 page)

Could he have bequeathed Élodie some unstoppable bent toward ruination? Could Élodie, like her ne’er-do-well father, find herself drawn toward irresponsibly pleasurable pursuits? Or, just as alarmingly, toward irresponsible suitors?

If so, Owen didn’t know how he would forgive himself.

Renée had rightly disapproved of Owen’s less-than-admirable qualities. She’d considered him an imperfect husband—at least she had, once she’d gotten to know him better. His rakish and reckless tendencies were supposed to have been cured by their migration west. Unfortunately, Owen had never had a chance to prove himself to Renée—to prove he could be the good husband she deserved. And now, seeing Élodie behave so mischievously…

Well, it was like being visited by the ghost of his own past. A ghost who charmed freely, squandered its money, wasted its time and never quit laughing over its own carefree ways.

Owen frowned. Allowing those selfsame unfortunate traits to flourish in his daughter would be an affront to his wife’s memory. However much he didn’t want to admit it, Owen realized, he
might
need further help with Élodie, now that she was growing older—the kind of help only a good woman could provide.

Looking at his daughter as she danced out of reach toward the mirror again, Owen vowed he’d do what he could to get that help. Lord knew, the womenfolk of Morrow Creek were more than keen to give it.

Starting today, Owen promised himself, whatever suggestions they had for him, he would do his best to follow them. He’d listen closely to their chatter—even though it made his head ache sometimes—and try to glean whatever bits of feminine wisdom he could. For his daughter’s sake, any sacrifice was worth it.

Turning to the kitchen table, Owen snatched up Élodie’s canvas satchel. It contained her rag doll, extra clothing, books and whatever other necessities she might need at Mrs. Archer’s. “Enough admiring your braids. It’s time to leave.”

Élodie frowned, as though wounded by his abrupt tone. “We’re late,
mon petit chou,
” Owen said in a softer voice. “Mrs. Archer will be wondering where we are.”

And she’ll never let me hear the end of my tardiness.

Sometimes it was downright tiresome living in one of the most wholesome and upright towns in all the territory. But an instant after Owen had that mutinous thought, Élodie smiled at him, and he found he didn’t mind living a wholesome life all that much. Not if it was good for his little girl.

“That’s what Maman used to call me,” she said. “Isn’t it?”

Owen nodded.
Mon petit chou
had been Renée’s favorite endearment. She’d whispered it over and over again to their tiny daughter. Doubtless, he mangled the accent. But he didn’t care. “
Mon petit chou,
” Élodie repeated. She sighed. “It’s so lovely. I wish I could remember hearing her say it.”

Struck by her wistful tone, Owen felt his heart turn over again. He clenched Élodie’s satchel. “I do, too. But I guess you’ll have to make do with my version.” In a deep, extra
manly tone, he boomed, “Let’s go,
mon petit chou!
Time’s a-wastin’!”

Giggling, Élodie hurried to the door. Just like that, the wistfulness between them vanished—squashed beneath the weight of workaday responsibilities and the dependable routine Owen had established to keep himself on the straight and narrow.

God forbid any disruptions to that routine should crop up. He didn’t know how he would fare without the tether of good habits to rein him in. He didn’t want to find out, either.

For now, though, distractions weren’t a problem. As long as Owen stuck with his proven routine for him and Élodie, they never would be. He felt absolutely sure of it.

Near Flagstaff, Arizona Territory
June 1883

S
tanding in the middle of the private train car that her manager, Conrad Parish, had helpfully engaged for the Western portion of her speaking-engagements tour, cookery-book author Daisy Walsh rocked sideways. She nearly toppled. Flustered, she righted herself, rearranged her skirts, then lifted her chin.

“What do you think?” she asked. “Will this do?”

In the plush seat across from her, Conrad did not look up. He
did
continue reading his newspaper, though. He gave every impression of being more interested in the happenings of the day than in Daisy’s question. That was typical of him. Conrad liked to do one thing at a time—and to do it flawlessly. She’d simply have to bide her time until he was ready to attend to her.

Still swaying in the moving train car, Daisy waited. Conrad’s hat sat at a jaunty angle, she noticed. His suit fit perfectly.

His shoes were spotless, even though the train car’s floor decidedly wasn’t. Gallingly, Conrad seemed unaffected by the wavy, ocean liner–like effects of train travel. As far as Daisy knew, he hadn’t experienced a moment’s queasiness during their months-long cross-country excursion together.

Daisy wished she could say the same. Just a quarter hour ago, she’d lost her battle to keep down her meager breakfast of toast and coffee. Recovered now, Daisy shook out her bluegingham dress. She smoothed her bustle. Unfortunately, even that much vigorous motion brought on a fresh wave of nausea. She needed to get Conrad’s approval on today’s attire quickly, before something regrettable happened.

Conrad hated it when she was ill.

“No one wants to be subjected to someone else’s sickness,” he’d told her, not unkindly, the first time she’d found herself struck by that fearsome nausea. “
Try
to be a little stronger, won’t you? Everyone at Barker & Bowles is depending on you.”

“I know they are.” Panting, Daisy had nodded, even as her belly had roiled. She hadn’t wanted to disappoint anyone who was relying on her—least of all poor, beleaguered, patient Conrad, whom she knew had her best interests at heart. He hadn’t asked to be assigned to her speaking-engagements tour—a job which, given that it dealt with home keeping and cookery, certainly wasn’t in Conrad’s area of interest. “I’ll try harder. I promise I will! Just please, don’t tell Mr. Barker or Mr. Bowles about my travel sickness. I don’t want them to think they chose the wrong woman to represent them on the speaking tour.”

“Well…I’ll do my best,” Conrad had promised her.

But the doubt in his usually self-assured voice had made Daisy feel even queasier. Because she simply couldn’t fail. Not now. Not after Barker & Bowles, the renowned publisher, had selected
her,
unbelievably, out of hundreds of students at
New York City’s School of Cookery. They’d singled out
Daisy,
of all the other eligible candidates, to author and promote the
New Book of Cookery and General Home Keeping: with Recipes and Formulas for All Occasions, Both Informal and Grand.

Wobbling anew in the rocking train car, Daisy put her hand on the seat back to steady herself. Outside the window, flat terrain flashed by, dotted with scrubby bushes and faraway mountains. The Western territories were austere, compared with New York. She wasn’t sure she liked them. She
knew
she disliked Conrad’s cigar, which he puffed idly as he read his newspaper.

“I’m quite fond of this blue gingham,” Daisy said, daring to nudge him into acknowledging her. This wardrobe-checking routine was tiresome, but Daisy had to accede to Conrad’s greater experience in these matters. He hadn’t guided her wrong a single time, not through her entire sold-out series of engagements. “Or would you prefer the green plaid?”

Frowning, her manager finally glanced up. His gaze flicked over her. “Maybe. That blue dress makes you look a bit stout.”

“It does?” Concerned, Daisy looked down at herself. The blue gingham
did
strain a bit over her midsection. Probably she’d been eating too much rich food at hotel restaurants and the like. She
had
been on her speaking tour a while now….

“It might not be the dress.” Conrad’s scrutiny increased. He even lowered his newspaper. “It might be your figure.”

With a practiced eye he took in her appearance, seeming to glimpse beneath her dress and petticoats and stockings, all the way to her skin and flesh and bones beneath. Standing alert for his necessary inspection, Daisy felt herself flush. Most likely, Conrad
could
imagine the way she appeared while naked. After all, there had been that one impetuous time when they’d—

Well,
that
had never happened again. And never would.

It didn’t bear thinking about.

“Come now, Daisy. Don’t look so churlish. You’ll ruin your attractiveness with those frowns.” Her book-tour manager tsk-tsked, his voice interrupting her thoughts. “You know I don’t
enjoy
criticizing you this way. It’s my job. My responsibility.”

She inhaled deeply. She nodded. “I understand.”

“This wouldn’t be necessary if you would obtain a firmer grasp of what suits you and what doesn’t. For example—”

“Will this dress do or not?” Feeling her stomach lurch, Daisy clutched the seat more tightly. She didn’t like to interrupt, but these were special circumstances, and Conrad had appeared on the verge of launching into a full-blown lecture, besides. “We’ll be at the next town soon, and I’d like to review my speech, so—”

“Yes. You
do
have that regrettable habit of forgetting which ladies’-auxiliary group you’re addressing. You probably should review your speeches a bit more carefully in the future.”

With effort, Daisy bit her tongue. She’d only made that mistake once. The error had occurred because she’d been unable to sleep in her rocking train berth. Ordinarily, she had a fine memory. But she’d traveled to so many towns lately…

She could use a break, it occurred to her. For the past several weeks, she’d felt unusually weary—even to the point of growing teary eyed at times. Fortunately, after the next speaking engagement, Conrad had promised Daisy a much-needed reprieve: two whole weeks free to visit her brother, Thomas.

She missed Thomas. She hadn’t seen her elder brother since he’d emigrated west last year, but they’d always been close.

“It wouldn’t hurt to review your recipe techniques, too.” Conrad tapped ash from his cigar out the train window. “You
made a mistake last time. The huckleberry pie was much too soggy.”

“It was still delicious!” Daisy protested, emboldened by the thought of her imminent break. She’d promised Thomas she’d bake him all manner of treats—items he didn’t have ready access to as a bachelor newspaper editor at Adam Crabtree’s
Pioneer Press
in Morrow Creek. “Every bite disappeared!”

She shouldn’t have argued with Conrad, though, no matter how eager she was for her time with her brother. Arguing with her tour manager only brought on lectures…and disapproval.

Daisy hated being the subject of disapproval. Knowing she’d disappointed someone else made her feel awful.

Predictably, Conrad’s stern expression met hers. “If
you’d
possessed the judgment to discern that pie’s quality yourself, Barker & Bowles would not have hired
me
to monitor you.”

Miserably, she hung her head. Conrad did have a point.

“You need guidance and supervision, Daisy.” Conrad tapped his cigar again. “Even more than most females do, I’m afraid.”

He made her sound downright hopeless. She believed she was capable. Evidently Barker & Bowles did not. Not yet. But they would, Daisy vowed, before she was through. In the meantime…

“Ugh. You’re not going to
cry
again, are you?” Conrad wagged his finger. “As I’ve told you before, the fact that you feel so prickly over my helpful remarks only demonstrates that you need to grow a thicker skin. I merely wish to enlighte n you—to give you the benefit of my greater wisdom and proficiency.”

Of course. He’d mentioned that to her before. Maybe, despite Daisy’s misgivings, Conrad was right. Clearly, Barker & Bowles held her book-tour manager in the highest esteem. The men in every town they visited patted him on the back and bought him
drinks to earn his favor. The ladies at her speaking engagements fawned over him, too. It didn’t seem possible that all those people were wrong about Conrad, and Daisy alone was right.

That’s why, although bothered by his blunt opinion, Daisy pressed her lips together to hold in another rebuttal.

“In any case, you should cook something else next time.” Conrad eyed her tightly fitting dress again. His brows drew downward. “Maybe a healthful soup. No more pies for you.”

Because of her “stout” figure,
Daisy realized, and felt newly embarrassed. Even on the most personal level, it seemed, she was lacking. If she were to have any hope of remedying the problem, she’d better listen to Conrad.

At that, another wave of nausea assailed her. Oh, no.

“Excuse me,” she blurted. “I’m so sorry!”

Conrad frowned. Then, doubtless prompted by her ashen complexion, he scrutinized her more closely. In a tone of mild disgust, he asked, “Are you going to be sick again?”

With a panicked nod, Daisy lifted her skirts. She rushed to the train car’s rear door. It would certainly not be ideal to dispel the residual contents of her stomach between the rolling, swaying cars as they raced along the tracks. But faced with the alternative prospect of being sick in front of Conrad…

She’d rather give up huckleberry pie forever than live with the memory of Conrad’s censorious gaze for the rest of her days.

“Don’t worry. We’ll continue this discussion later,” Conrad called after her. “And this time, when you’re sick, don’t get your dress dirty!” He gave a clucking sound of displeasure. “We don’t have the funds for such frequent laundress expenses.”

Daisy scarcely heard the last of his admonishments. She yanked open the train-car door, felt the cooling whoosh of the
fresh morning air as it buffeted her, heard the rattle and clang of the train wheels against the track…then was violently ill.

Daisy was still clinging to the railing when she heard the train-car door open again. Gratefully, she glanced up. She hoped Conrad had arrived with a cup of water or a clean handkerchief for her. Sometimes, he was kind and thoughtful and caring. She’d experienced it herself, during their earlier days together.

To her relief, Conrad
did
have a handkerchief. But he pressed it to his own nose, making a moue of distaste as he did.

“Feeling better now?” he inquired.

Shakily, Daisy nodded. She couldn’t
wait
to get off this train. She sorely needed a break from her motion sickness. By now, all that kept her going was the hope of seeing Thomas soon.

“Good. Because of your tiresome argumentativeness just now, I neglected to make a necessary announcement, Daisy.” Her book-tour manager lifted his chin, wearing an inscrutable expression. “I received a telegram from Barker & Bowles at the last station. I’ve been reassigned to a more prestigious speaking tour.”

She blinked with surprise. “Reassigned?”

“Yes.” Conrad gave her a gentle pat, as though rewarding her for mimicking his pronouncement. “We’ll change trains in Flagstaff, after your next speaking engagement. This means there won’t be time for your little sojourn in Morrow Creek, of course.” He scanned the countryside as it flashed past them. “It’s too bad, really. We’ll probably pass within a few dozen miles of the place.”

A few dozen miles.
That’s all that separated Daisy from her brother? She’d already promised Thomas she’d visit. She’d so
been looking forward to seeing him! How could she pass by so close and not see him? It was unthinkable. “But you
promised,
Conrad! You said I could visit—”

“I’m afraid priorities must be attended to.”

“
Your
priorities, you mean.”

He appeared surprised—and displeased. “This matter is closed. The decision is made. I’d suggest you align yourself with it.” Conrad narrowed his eyes. “I would hate to have to deliver an unflattering report to Barker & Bowles, just when you’re on the brink of being assigned a new manager. It would be…unfortunate if Barker & Bowles decide you’re not worth the trouble of continuing your speaking-engagements tour.”

“I understand.” Reluctantly, Daisy nodded. Pensivel y, she gazed at the barren landscape. “I’ll do my best to acquiesce.”

Conrad nodded. “You always do. In fact, your compliant nature is one of my favorite qualities about you!”

He beamed encouragingly upon saying it, as though the most wonderful thing she could offer him was her compliance—and likely, in his mind, it was. Then Conrad returned to the train, leaving Daisy standing alone at the railing, wondering…

Was acquiescence really the best policy here? And if it wasn’t…what else was she supposed to do?