The Bride Raffle (7 page)

A
s he and Daisy ventured into his front room, Owen frowned, thinking that perhaps he’d misunderstood. But no—she’d been introduced to everyone as
Miss
Walsh. She wore no wedding ring. She’d mentioned no husband. And surely no husband worth the designation would allow his wife to live in another man’s household, however briefly. Would he? Owen’s mind whirled with questions—beginning with wondering where the father of
Miss
Walsh’s baby was and ending with…wondering where the father of her baby was. What kind of man would leave her alone this way?

As far as Owen knew—as far as Thomas Walsh had explained to everyone in Morrow Creek—his sister had been touring the country for months now, appearing at a series of speaking engagements.

“In the meantime,” Miss Walsh went on, oblivious to his jaw-slackening revelation, “I guess we ought to have ourselves a proper introduction, oughtn’t we? I’m Daisy Walsh, of course, but I’d be pleased if you would call me Daisy while I’m here.”

She extended her hand, her fingers slim and capable.

Owen stared at them, his heart thudding with surprise.

He blinked. “Call me Owen, Daisy.” Obligingly, he took her hand. It felt oddly at home in his. “Congratulations to you.”

“Congratulations?” Confused, Daisy wrinkled her nose. She smiled. “But
you’re
the winner here, Mr.—Owen, not me.”

She gazed down at their joined hands, seeming…captivated by that union. With an abrupt motion, she jerked away her hand.

After her hasty withdrawal from their handshake, Owen’s grasp felt doubly empty. But that was nonsensical. He didn’t need to touch her. He didn’t
need
to feel her warmth.

Except he did. Warmth flowed from Daisy Walsh to everyone around her. He’d noticed that about her right away. Like a springtime sun ray, she seemed capable of thawing even the most frozen of hearts…hearts like Owen’s. Or like Owen’s might have been, he acknowledged, had he not kept such a close grip on it.

“I mean,” he clarified, thinking he’d probably been too abrupt before, “congratulations on your…imminent arrival.”

She appeared genuinely baffled. “My what?”

“Your baby,” Owen clarified. “You’re going to have a baby.”

Now Daisy Walsh seemed genuinely gob smacked.

Owen gave a genial wave toward her midsection. In a good-natured imitation of her, he pantomimed cradling his flat belly. “My wife used to do the same thing, before Élodie was born. Any man who’s paying attention would recognize that gesture.”

She gave a startled laugh. She glanced down, only to find herself, quite automatically, still cradling her middle. Quizzi
cally, Daisy stared at her own hands. “I’m not pregnant, Mr. Walsh.”

“Owen,” he reminded her. “If we’re going to be together—”

“You must be mistaken,” Daisy interrupted. Her cheeks turned pink. Her hands fluttered. “I can’t possibly be expecting a baby.” She gave an awkward laugh. “I don’t even have a husband. That’s the usual order of things, you know.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Suddenly, Owen felt as if he’d blundered in on two oversize feet. He dimly recalled this sensation from his newlywed days with Renée. He didn’t like it any better now than he had then, especially with a woman who wasn’t his wife. “If you don’t want me to talk about it—”

On the verge of promising her he wouldn’t, Owen hesitated. The plain fact was, Daisy Walsh was unmarried.
And
pregnant.
And,
seemingly, alone. Doubtless, that made her situation a delicate one. He didn’t want to scare her away, just when, it seemed, she needed someone to stand by her. “I remember what it was like before Élodie came,” he settled on saying. “I felt as though I was waiting on a miracle. And then…there she was. I guess maybe I’m keen to relive those days.”

At that, Daisy smiled. “Well, I’d be fibbing if I said I haven’t daydreamed about having a family of my own someday,” she admitted. “That’s why I went to cookery school, in fact—to learn how to be the best possible wife and mother I could be.” For a moment, she seemed lost in private concerns. Then she gazed up brightly at him. “That’s why I’m so qualified to teach Élodie!”

Plainly, Daisy wanted to steer their conversation toward more practical matters. But Owen couldn’t do that. Not yet.

“Will someone be…meeting you here, in Morrow Creek?” He hoped to suggest, subtly, that her baby’s father would be welcome there, too. “I don’t have much room, but—” Catching
Daisy’s aghast expression, Owen regrouped. She was probably concerned about propriety. Heaven knew, Renée would have been. “Out here in the West, we don’t stand much on ceremony,” he reassured Daisy. “Lots of folks come here to start fresh—”

Sometimes with a baby, it seemed.
At least in Daisy’s case. But as long as she and her baby’s father married eventually…

“No. No one will be joining me.” Determinedly, Daisy shook her head. “I was traveling with my touring manager, but he’s—”

Abruptly, she broke off. A look of dawning comprehension suffused her face. Her cheeks turned a darker shade of pink.

It seemed beyond likely, Owen realized, that this “touring manager” of hers was responsible for getting her pregnant—whether she wanted to admit it or not. Even without saying so, the truth was all over her face. Owen might not have gambled for a while, but he could still read an expression with accuracy.

Daisy, he could read like a book. She was just that open.

“He’s moved on,” she finished staunchly. “He’ll be working with another client soon. Our association is finished.”

Another client? An association?
That was a hell of a way to refer to it! Owen couldn’t help feeling worried—and offended on her behalf, too. He’d never in his life spoken about a woman in such an uncaring way. What kind of man was her baby’s father?

The damn knuck had a duty to Daisy now! He had an obligation to protect and care for her and her baby, no matter what. Did she still love the man? Owen sorely wished he could tell. But reading hearts wasn’t the same as reading faces.

“I’m not entirely sure what my standing is at the moment,” Daisy mused aloud. “With my publisher and my speaking-
engagements tour, I mean.” She dropped her gaze to her midsection, then hastily lifted it. “I’ll send a wire to Conrad to find out.”

Conrad.
Was that the man who’d abandoned her? Owen disliked him already. He supposed he shouldn’t be so quick to judge him. Likely, he should assign some—if not all—the blame for Daisy’s situation to her. That’s what Renée would have done.

His wife had believed that goodness was the duty of every person, with no excuses made or allowed. But Owen couldn’t bring himself to see things that way. His instincts told him Daisy was an innocent. Owen trusted his instincts. If he hadn’t, he’d never have survived all those rough-and-tumble years on his own.

“If you write him a message, I’ll see that it’s sent,” Owen promised her. He scarcely knew Daisy Walsh, he reminded himself. He shouldn’t involve himself in her private life. But something about Daisy made him want to help her—to watch over her. “Morrow Creek has a telegraph station in town and an adjunct office out by the mountains. Your message will go out quickly.”

“Oh. That’s good. Thank you.” With a fresh smile, Daisy glanced up at him. “Conrad—Mr. Parish, I mean—will be relieved to know I made it here to Morrow Creek,” she assured him.

As though he were back at a faro table, assessing players’ tells one by one, Owen filed away that name.
Conrad Parish.

“Was there some doubt about that?” he asked.

“About my arriving here safely? Well…” Daisy gave him a somewhat waggish smile. “A bit. I’m afraid this entire journey has been something of an adventure for me. First, I jumped off the train, then I arrived to that hero’s welcome my brother arranged, then I was raffled off to
you,
then I
swooned, then I found myself in your bed! All in all, it’s been…stimulating.”

At that memory, Owen felt himself stir. Gruffly, he cleared his throat. “Yes. Élodie is thrilled about her lessons.”

“And I’m thrilled to be giving them. She’s a very sweet girl.” Daisy glanced down the hallway toward Élodie’s bedroom, as though wishing his little girl would emerge and rescue them from their unusual conversation. “You must be so proud. Mrs. Archer and Miss Reardon said you’ve raised Élodie on your own?”

“Mostly.” Uncomfortably, Owen rubbed the back of his neck. He hadn’t done nearly enough—certainly not enough to be praised for. “I’ve done my best. Renée—that’s my wife,” he clarified for Daisy’s benefit, “Renée would have said Élodie needed more.”

At that, Daisy seemed appalled. “More than her own father? I can’t imagine it!” Warmly, she squeezed his hand. “Anyone can see that as far as Élodie is concerned, you hung the moon.”

Owen glanced down at their hands, no longer touching, but still congenially near one another. He hoped Daisy was right about Élodie. He felt wholly unable to say so.

“You must be tired,” he said. “Especially in your delicate con—” Spying a telltale wariness in Daisy’s face, he thought better of finishing that statement. If she didn’t want to admit her pregnancy, he wouldn’t press her. Not now. “I’ll show you where to clean up. You can use my bedroom while you’re here.”

Confidently, he strode in that direction. But Daisy didn’t follow. Instead, when he turned around, she shot him an empathetic look. “Oh. Your feelings are hurt. I apologize.”

“I’m fine.” He was. He didn’t know what she meant.

“I didn’t mean to say anything unkind about your wife.
Honestly, I didn’t! Miss O’Neill and the others told me you’d lost her some years ago. You must miss her very much.”

“Sometimes.” It was the truth. But the original ache he’d felt had faded over the years. Now, he mostly wished Élodie could have had more time with her mother…and he wished his own shortcomings hadn’t pushed Renée west where she’d taken fatally ill in the first place. “I can sleep on a pallet. It’s no trouble.” He gestured. “My bedroom is right this way.”

“I know which way it is. Remember?” Daisy’s audacious grin served to warm him clean through. It all but invited him to recall seeing her there in his bed, too. Her eyes sparkled at him. “But I do appreciate your gentlemanly behavior.”

Likely, Owen thought, that was because she’d experienced so little “gentlemanly behavior” from Conrad Parish—the man who’d moved on to begin another “association” apart from Daisy. But she hadn’t seemed overly troubled by that fact. And despite Daisy’s precarious situation, which should have cooled him toward her, Owen couldn’t help finding her demeanor altogether charming.

He liked her feminine way of walking, too, as she came nearer with the obvious intention of letting him escort her to his bedroom. He liked her fragrance, he liked her nearness…he even liked her bashful habit of examining her high-button shoes.

Just when he’d thought he’d steeled himself to behave in a further “gentlemanly” fashion, Daisy stopped. She put her hand on his arm. His whole body came alive at her touch, making a lie of his good intentions. All he wanted, just then, was to savor her presence. That, and maybe to touch her, too. It occurred to Owen that he might have underestimated how it would affect him to live with a woman again, even if it was only for a short while.

“Thank you for being so kind to me,” Daisy said. “You didn’t have to be, especially given how surprised you were—”

Was that how Conrad Parish had felt? Owen wondered.
Surprised
by the news of Daisy’s baby? Was that why he’d moved on in such an apparently heartless way? And how did Daisy feel about that? She didn’t
appear
to be pining for the man…

“—and I promise to do my very best to repay you,” Daisy was saying, “by teaching Élodie every last thing she wants to know.”

At the end of her sincere speech, Daisy beamed up at him. She gave his forearm an additional squeeze, as though making sure her good intentions were clear to him. But all that was truly clear to Owen was that he was in over his head.

He didn’t know how to cope with the conundrum that was Daisy Walsh. She baffled him in ways he hadn’t counted on.

“I might teach
you
a thing or two, too!” Daisy teased.

“I’d be surprised if you could,” Owen told her truthfully. “I’ve done a lot of things in my life, Daisy—things you’ve probably never even considered doing…most of them bad.”

For a moment Daisy appeared wary. Then, “I meant sewing.”

Of course. Feeling a fool, Owen headed for his bedroom. He tried to banish the memory of Daisy’s curious expression. Undoubtedly she was wondering exactly what he’d done.

He
was wondering why he’d all but blurted out the regrets of his past as easily as some people discussed the weather. But there was just something about Daisy…something that encouraged trust. If Owen had believed in romantic twaddle like falling in love in a heartbeat, he might have been concerned. After all, he didn’t have time or space or a need for love in his life.

But for now, he decided, he did have time for this. He had time for making sure Daisy was watched over while in his care.

“There’s a washbasin on the bureau.” He pointed to it. “I’ll bring you a fresh pitcher of water and some towels. The mattress isn’t fancy,” he told her, “but it’s comfortable.”

“Yes. I remember.” She cast him another smile. “Thank you.”

Momentarily transfixed anew by the recollection of Daisy in his bed, Owen went still. Damnation, but she’d looked sweet. He’d likely never forget that sight—not as long as he lived.

“Damn Mrs. Sunley and her interfering ways,” he muttered. “That old busybody should learn to mind her own damn business.”

“Élodie was right,” Daisy observed. “You do cuss a lot.”

Startled, he glanced at her, then waited for her inevitable reprimand. In his experience, women didn’t have much patience for a man’s failings—at least good women didn’t. Daisy, despite her belly-cradling predicament, seemed to be truly good.

But all she did was laugh. “It makes me feel right at home. You should have heard my father! He could swear a blue streak.”