Territorial Bride. Linda Castle

the tension of the moment, nothing came to mind. She was trapped like a rabbit in a snare set by Brooks himself.

      

      “May I have this next dance with my daughter?” Hugh smiled with fatherly affection as he tapped on Brooks’s shoulder. An uncharacteristic flush crept up Missy’s smooth cheeks. Putting on a dress had changed more than her outsides, it would seem. Wearing ruffles and petticoats gave her an aura of vulnerability, an attitude of shy unease.

      Brooks released his hold on her tiny waist with some reluctance. He stepped back and allowed Hugh to sweep his daughter into the crowd of dancers. They made a striking contrast—the weathered rancher with steely gray at his temples, and his dewy fresh daughter whose hair was dark as a midnight sky.

      Brooks shook his head.

      All this silly sentiment was only the combination of moonlight and whiskey. He was about half-drunk and that was making him wax poetic, he assured himself. Tomorrow reason would return. In the light of day Missy would be herself. There would be no soft glow of fire, no waltzes, no strange tightening of his gut each time their eyes met unexpectedly. Tomorrow she would be herself and he would be fending off her hostility and her barbed words.

      It was something to look forward to.

       Chapter Three

      Patricia might as well have been drinking muddy water for all the enjoyment the chilled punch gave her. Brooks had taken her aside and revealed his intentions to remain in the Territory. She sighed heavily and tried to wipe away the sadness in her heart. After all, Bellami was happily married to a man who saw beyond her scar to the beauty beneath, but Brooks…that was another matter altogether.

      Patricia hadn’t interfered when he’d decided to come west. Violet Ashland had deeply wounded Brooks, and he needed time to heal. Patricia had hoped that the time he had spent here had accomplished that, but now she was beginning to wonder. Was he really intent on burying himself here in this cultural wasteland?

      “My dear?” Donovan appeared at her elbow. His snowy brows were pinched with concern. “Are you ill, Patricia? All the color has drained from your face.”

      Patricia glanced at Brooks, who was standing near the punch bowl. “No—no, I am perfectly fine.”

      “Truly? You look so…worried. Surely you are not still concerned about Bellami. Trace O’Bannion is as fine and steady a man as I have ever met.”

      Patricia tore her gaze away from Brooks. “No, it isn’t that. I am worried about Brooks.”

      “Brooks?” Donovan said in surprise. “He is the picture of health!”

      “On the outside, perhaps.” She turned to Donovan and frowned. “But I am worried about him all the same.”

      “He is fine.” Donovan rubbed the backs of his knuckles over his wife’s cheek. “You worry too much. He is talking about buying some land to raise cattle here. That’s all.”

      “Do you think it is really what he wants to do or is he still trying to get over Violet?”

      At the mention of her name, Donovan’s face became a mask of disapproval. “That is a subject best left alone, Patricia.”

      “But, Donovan…it would be a great mistake for him to stay here. Surely you can see that?”

      “Patricia, what I see is a grown man. Whatever decision he makes and for whatever reasons, it is his business alone.” Donovan turned her to face him and cupped her chin in his palm. “And I don’t want you interfering.”

      “Oh, Donovan, surely I could just—”

      “No, darling.” He placed both hands on her shoulders and gently drew her closer to him. “Promise me, Patricia.” His voice was soft but stern. “Promise me this time you will leave things alone. You mustn’t say a word to the boy about this. And I think it is best if you don’t mention the fact that Violet has returned to New York.”

      Patricia sighed and leaned into his hands. “Oh, all right. If you feel so strongly about it. I promise.”

      He smiled and kissed her on the forehead. “That’s my girl. Now let’s show these youngsters how to do a proper dance.”

      * * *

      

      Ellen was breathless from all the dancing as she approached the punch bowl where Rod and Missy were chatting.

      “You know, cousin, if Mother notices the glow in your cheeks she will have you staying in bed tomorrow,” Rod warned Ellen as he nodded toward Patricia and Donovan on the dance floor.

      “I suppose I should be sensible,” Ellen replied, sighing wistfully. A cowboy with a thatch of unruly blond hair asked for the next dance. Ellen glanced at Rod like a child who wanted just one more stick of peppermint. Finally she turned to the eager cowboy. “I fear I must decline. I am a little out of breath.” She smoothed the baby pink ruffles on her dress and sighed meaningfully.

      The cowboy tipped his hat and backed away. “Maybe next time, ma’am.”

      “Yes, next time.” Ellen’s eyes followed him until he disappeared into the crowd.

      “Very wise, cousin.” Rod smiled. “You probably saved yourself a stern lecture and a full day in bed. “May I pour you and Miss O’Bannion a cup of punch?”

      “Thank you.” Missy took the cup he passed to her.

      “You are quite welcome. I should be thanking you, Miss O’Bannion. I have enjoyed myself tonight.” Rod poured a second cup of punch and passed it to his cousin.

      “I’m glad you have had a good time, but I bet you have fancy parties all the time back in New York.” Missy watched the couples swirling by in front of her and wished this night would never end.

      “They are rarely this much fun, though,” Ellen said softly. She fanned herself with a delicate, lily-colored hand. She smiled at Missy and batted brown lashes over eyes the shade of cornflowers. How I wish I could wear my hair loose and flowing and have sun-kissed cheeks and be the picture of health like Miss O’Bannion, she thought.

      “That is a fact,” Rod agreed. “New York parties are—stuffy.”

      “You’re teasing me.” Missy felt a blush working its way up her neck.

      “No, I am not. I leave that to my younger brother.” Rod placed his hand over his heart to emphasize his sincerity.

      Ellen continued to study Missy’s face while a wild idea popped into her head. “Why don’t you come and visit? It would give me a perfect excuse to have lots of dances like this one.”

      “Leland might have something to say about that,” Patricia told Ellen with a gentle smile as she and Donovan joined the group at the punch bowl. Patricia looked at the two girls standing side by side—near in age but as different as light is from darkness. Ellen looked frail and too pale, even by current fashionable dictates. And Missy…well, Missy was a little too wild, a little too exuberant, but the glowing picture of a woman in the bloom of youth. Clell had explained about her growing up without a mother. It did account for much of her behavior.

      For a mad, impetuous moment Patricia wondered what it would be like to take the girl under her wing and help her become a proper lady…The idea was silly, and Donovan would have a fit.

      “I would still like for Missy to come and visit,” Ellen said stubbornly. “Whether Papa would allow me to have a party or not. It would be fun to have someone my own age around.” Ellen smiled at Patricia as she spoke. Leland had kept Ellen somewhat secluded. Her cousins had been her major source of companionship. With all the girls married and gone, Ellen had been extremely lonely the last few years. “And we could all go shopping together, Aunt Patricia. It would