To Love A Texan. Georgina Gentry

“I was just running some errands for Major Bottoms so I have his buggy. Please allow me to drive you to the establishment.”

      Lillian smiled with relief. “You know my aunt’s hotel?”

      “Your aunt?” He took her suitcase and her elbow and they walked toward the buggy tied at the hitching post. “Lil McGinty was your aunt?”

      Lillian nodded as he helped her up into the buggy. “I only met her once. I suppose somewhere along the way, she married some Irishman. Myself, I’m now establishing my lineage so I can prove myself eligible for Sisters Noble of British Society.”

      “Really?” Young Lieutenant Fortenbury took his seat next to her and smiled as he snapped his little whip. “What a coincidence. I myself am a member of Sons of British Society, the brother organization.”

      She warmed to him immediately. He might be a bit foppish, but after all, he was a blueblood and her mother had always stressed how important that was. It didn’t matter if one were gently poor as long as one came from fine ancestors. Blood will tell, Mother had said over and over as she told Lillian of her aristocratic relatives. “Just what kind of town is this, anyway?”

      He gave her a weak smile. “Oh, prosperous, with the fort and the ranches all around here. But they’re really county bumpkins, most of them, and worse yet, Texans. I’m hoping for a transfer soon to Washington, D.C. so I can move up in the world.”

      Fine bloodlines and ambitious, too. She warmed to him even more. “Tell me about the Texas Lily,” she asked. “Does it do a good business?”

      He made a choking sound. “I—I really wouldn’t know.”

      “Where is it, anyway?”

      “That’s it up ahead; that big white house on the hill at the end of Main Street.”

      “Oh, my.” She breathed a sigh. It was a gigantic three-story white Victorian mansion with many turrets and gingerbread trim. A horseshoe-shaped drive encircled a large lawn and flowerbed of common orange day-lilies, centering around a big white iron birdbath. Lights streamed from all the windows and there were many buggies and horses tied out front. “It seems to be doing a landslide business.”

      “It always does on Saturday night,” Lieutenant Fortenbury said, “Or so others tell me.” He turned the horse up the horseshoe-shaped drive toward the ornate stained glass front doors.

      “Is that a goat out among the day-lilies?” She blinked, not quite sure what she saw.

      “Oh, that’s Herman, the billy goat. He was Lil McGinty’s pet.”

      The goat glared at them, waggled his gray beard, and returned to munching day-lilies.

      “I thought billy goats were always named Billy?”

      The officer laughed. “This one is named for the fort’s founder, Major Herman Floppett. I understand there’s a resemblance. Well, here we are.” He reined in the buggy out front. From inside came the sound of laughter and music.

      “My,” said Lillian, “they seem to be having a good time.”

      “They usually are.” Lieutenant Fortenbury said. “Miss Primm, I think you should know…”

      “Yes?”

      “Never mind. Uh, let me help you down, Miss Primm.”

      He came around and assisted her, then hesitated.

      She started toward the steps. “Aren’t you coming in?”

      He shook his head. “I—I think I’ll wait for you in the buggy.”

      “Oh, but I’ll be staying since I’m now half-owner.”

      He hesitated again. “Miss Primm, about the Texas Lily—”

      “What?”

      He hesitated again.

      She was a bit put out with him, thinking him rude for not assisting her up the steps like any proper gentleman would. She lifted her skirts, went up the steps, and rang the bell. From inside, she heard loud music and men talking. A woman laughed somewhere inside. Her limited experience with hotels made her puzzle over the racket. Of course, she’d heard Texans were rowdy by nature. She wondered about the other owner. Perhaps he was some old Texas rancher or maybe a back east hotel man. At the very least, he must be Irish. Lillian wrinkled her nose. Hadn’t her mother often told her how vulgar and low-class the Irish were?

      She heard footsteps and then a small, elderly black woman in a maid’s uniform opened the door. The smell of cigar smoke enveloped them both, and beyond the woman, Lillian could see crowds of men and girls dressed in short, gaudy dresses. “What in the name of goodness is going on here?”

      “Just who is you, lady?” The elderly woman inquired.

      Lillian pushed past her into the hallway. The inside was as large as a ballroom with an open balcony overlooking the room. The drapes were gaudy red velvet and through the swirl of cigar smoke, she saw men at tables playing cards or leaning against an ornate bar. An off-key piano banged away at “Buffalo Gals.” What kind of behavior was this in her deceased aunt’s fine hotel? She marched into the room and stood looking around, confused and outraged. As the raucous crowd seemed to notice her, they moved and quieted.

      Brad felt good tonight. It was about time his luck changed. In his hand, he held a royal flush. He hadn’t had one since the night Lil McGinty crashed through that railing and came sailing off that balcony and landed on a billiard table. Yep, his luck was running wild tonight. Just as he was about to bet, he realized the room was growing quiet and heads were turning toward the door. The music quit mid-note. Now what the hell?

      Brad frowned as he craned his neck to see what the distraction was. A tall, red-haired girl stood in the middle of the entry and now she marched into the room like a warship under full sail. She had hair the color of a forest fire, pulled back in a tight bun under a plain dark hat. She wore a dark, no-nonsense, severe dress and she was skinny as a rail and looked stiff as a poker, her face frowning, a few freckles scattered across her nose. This was a respectable lady, there was no doubt about that. Now what was a respectable lady doing in a place like the Texas Lily?

      The silence grew as everyone turned to look at her.

      “I demand to see Mr. Bradley O’Neal,” she said in a back-East accent that would cut glass with its sharpness.

      Uh-oh. This couldn’t be good. Brad stood up from the poker table with a sigh and turned his hand upside-down on the table. “Anybody touches my cards before I get back, I’ll make him eat my derringer,” he drawled and then stepped forward to greet the lady. “Brad O’Neal at your service, ma’am,” he made a sweeping bow. “And to whom do I have the honor of—?”

      “What is the meaning of all these shenanigans? This is no way to run a hotel. It must stop immediately.”

      “What?” He was seldom at a loss for words, but any man would wither under the glare of those cold green eyes.

      “Mr. O’Neal,” she snapped, “I am your new partner. I am Lillian Primm.”

      Oh, hell, his luck really had run out.

      Chapter Two

      He managed to close his mouth and made a sweeping bow. “Oh, Miss Primm, we weren’t expectin’ you.”

      “Evidently.” She glared at him although she had to look up to do so. He was tall and wide-shouldered, dressed in a stylish frock coat and a red satin vest. His black hair fell down over one eye as he bowed low and his dark eyes issued both a challenge and an invitation. There was something very primitive and male about him that made her take a step back. Oh, he was one of those Irish rogues her mother had warned her about; no doubt about it. “There will have to be some changes made. This is no way to run a fine hotel.”

      Around them, men had gathered out of curiosity and now