Short Straw Bride. Dallas Schulze

animals.” Anabel wrinkled her short, straight little nose.

      “The McLains are just about the wealthiest folks hereabouts,” her father put in.

      “Really?” Anabel straightened and gave her father a calculating look at odds with her delicate pink-and-white image. “How wealthy?”

      “Now, you know I can’t tell you that, pussycat.” Zeb clicked his tongue at the horse that drew the little carriage. “That’s confidential information.”

      “But this is important, Daddy.” Anabel thrust her lower lip out in a pout. “I’m not asking for myself, you know. I’m thinking about you and Mama. It’s my duty to marry someone who can provide for you in your old age.”

      “Isn’t that just like her?” Dorinda said, to no one in particular.

      “Yes, isn’t it.” Eleanor’s muttered comment brought her aunt’s attention to her. The sentimental tears that had filled Dorinda’s hard blue eyes vanished the moment she looked at her niece.

      “You see that you don’t push yourself forward the way you did last week. ‘Six years, four months and twelve days,’” she mimicked sharply. “I was never so embarrassed in all my life. You just remember where you’d be if your uncle and I hadn’t taken you in.”

      “Yes, Aunt Dorinda.” Eleanor kept her eyes lowered, knowing that her resentment must be plain to read, even to someone as insensitive as her aunt.

      “Is everything ready for supper?”

      “Yes, Aunt Dorinda.”

      Cora and Hiram Danvers were to join them for Sunday supper, and Dorinda Williams was determined that everything be absolutely perfect. She didn’t want to give her “dearest friend” a single flaw to find. Luke McLain’s presence was icing on the cake, as far as she was concerned.

      As soon as they arrived at the house, Eleanor slipped into the kitchen without waiting to see the arrival of her aunt’s guests. She stood in the center of the cramped, airless room for a minute, her hands clenched at her sides. She wasn’t sure which she wanted to do more—cry or break something.

      She heard the low rumble of Luke McLain’s voice from the direction of the parlor and felt her eyes sting with tears. When she’d seen him at church this morning, she’d felt her heart bump. Her stupid heart, she thought savagely. So what if he was the handsomest man she’d ever seen. He was just as foolish as every other man in this town, unable to see past Anabel’s big blue eyes and golden curls.

      When he’d approached the family after church, for one giddy moment she’d thought that their brief encounter in Andrew’s store might have made him want to see her again. But he’d barely acknowledged her presence before turning that devastating smile in her aunt’s direction. From the look he threw at Anabel, it wasn’t difficult to guess why he had gone to the trouble to charm Aunt Dorinda into inviting him to supper.

      Eleanor stalked to the big stove and lifted the lid on the pot she’d left simmering. Picking up a fork, she jabbed a potato hard enough to break it in two. If Luke McLain was stupid enough to fall for Anabel, then he deserved every minute of misery she’d dish out. She herself had better things to think about, like getting supper on the table.

      She threw a few sticks of wood into the stove and opened the damper a little wider. The chicken had been floured and left to sit, covered with a clean towel. All she had to do was melt lard in the big iron skillet and start the chicken frying. While it cooked, she’d have time to mash the potatoes and whip up a batch of biscuits. And if her eyes stung while she was doing it, it was purely because of the heat. It certainly had nothing to do with a particular dark-haired cowboy.

      

      Luke sat in the cramped little parlor and struggled to remember all the lessons his mother had drummed into him about making polite conversation. He talked about the weather, the possibility of the town building a new school and the latest government negotiations with the hostile Indian tribes in the Southwest. He didn’t give a damn about any of the three. What he really wanted to do was demand to know where Eleanor was, not discuss the possibility of a drought with these two overfed bankers.

      The two older women sat on a black horsehair sofa, twin to the one he occupied and probably just as uncomfortable. Dorinda Williams was busy with some sort of needlework, her fingers moving swiftly over a mass of fine cotton. Probably another doily like the ones that covered every available surface in the overcrowded room.

      Annalise or Anamae or whatever her name was sat on the piano bench, poking her fingers on the keys in a series of unrelated notes that grated on his nerves. A beam of sunlight had managed to struggle past the layers of draperies that smothered each window and the light fell across her, turning her hair to spun gold, highlighting her pretty features. Cynically, Luke wondered if she’d chosen that spot for just that reason. It sure as hell couldn’t be out of a love for music, he thought, wincing as her fingers descended on the keys again.

      “Where is Miss Eleanor?” he asked, waiting only for the smallest of breaks in the conversation. He looked at his hostess, hoping his expression was politely interested, rather than impatient.

      Dorinda Williams looked at him blankly for a moment, her niece so far from her thoughts that she seemed to be having a difficult time remembering who she was. Her daughter had no such difficulty.

      “She’s in the kitchen, earning her keep,” she said, throwing him a bright, sharp smile.

      “She’s employed by you?” Luke asked, knowing full well that wasn’t the case.

      “Of course not.” Dorinda Williams threw her daughter a warning look before smiling at Luke. He didn’t find her smile any more appealing than her daughter’s had been. “What Anabel should have said was that Eleanor insists on helping around the house. It’s her way of thanking us for taking her in when her father was killed.”

      “Does she always stay in the kitchen when you have guests?” Luke’s expression of polite interest drew any sting from the question.

      “Can’t say I’ve seen much of her,” Cora Danvers said, her harsh voice unnaturally loud in the stuffy little room.

      “Eleanor is very shy,” Dorinda said in a strained tone. “Her upbringing before she came to us was rather—shall we say, unconventional?”

      “We aren’t saying anything,” Cora said, withering her hostess’s coy tone. “And if you’re hinting that Eleanor’s father taught her anything less than perfect manners, I’ll say flat out that I don’t believe it for a minute. Nathan Williams had manners smooth enough to please the queen of England. So if you’re suggesting that Eleanor might be inclined to blow her nose on her sleeve or some such thing, it doesn’t seem likely.”

      Dorinda’s face had turned a pale shade of purple during Cora’s speech, and Luke hid a smile behind his coffee cup. He thought he could come to like at least one banker’s wife.

      “Of course, Eleanor’s manners are impeccable. I certainly wouldn’t allow anything less. I merely meant that, with her father having practiced a less than respectable profession, perhaps Eleanor is not as comfortable in polite company as a girl like my sweet Anabel, who was raised in more cultured surroundings.”

      “What was her father’s profession?” Luke asked. “If you don’t mind my asking, of course.” Not that he really cared whether anyone minded or not. He wanted to find out as much as he could about the girl he was considering marrying. Eleanor had said her father had traveled a lot, but he hadn’t given much thought to the man’s profession.

      “My brother earned his living on the turn of a card,” Zeb Williams said in a repressive tone that made his opinion of such a profession quite clear.

      “A gambler?” Luke’s brows rose.

      “Yes. It’s not something we talk about a great deal, for obvious reasons.” Zeb looked as if he’d just confessed to having a wild Indian in the family.

      “Look