To Tease A Texan. Georgina Gentry

old geezer, old enough to be my father.”

      “Aren’t you the least bit curious?” He stroked the sleepy cat.

      Lark shrugged and opened the envelope. The handwriting was big and awkward, as if the author was not good with the written word. “‘Dear Miss Van Schuyler: I am glad you answered my advertisement and might be looking for a husband.’”

      “Me? How dare he think I would do that?” She was outraged. “I could certainly get a husband if I wanted one.”

      Pierre shrugged and took the letter from her hand, then read aloud. “‘I am tall and dark-haired.’ Ah, very good. I told him you were tall and pretty.”

      “I’m not interested.” At that point, Lark tore the letter in two, marched to the trash, and threw it away.

      “You’re not even going to see if he’s old?” Pierre looked crestfallen.

      “I don’t care how old he is.” Lark began applying a veil to a new spring straw hat.

      “I hate to think I wasted my time, oui?” Pierre retrieved the letter from the trash and pieced it together, reading aloud. “‘My name is Lawrence Witherspoon. I have a good job as the new sheriff of Rusty Spur here in west Texas.’”

      “Lawrence Witherspoon? Sounds prissy. Besides, I’ve heard of Rusty Spur,” Lark snorted. “Wildest, most lawless town—and so remote, they almost have to ship daylight to it.”

      Pierre shrugged and read some more. “‘I am considered good-looking by the ladies…’”

      “Oh, what a vain man.”

      The Frenchman’s gaze swept over the page. “Hmm, he’s almost thirty. He says he hopes to save enough to buy a ranch someday. That sounds like your kind of man, my dear.”

      She wouldn’t admit it, but it did. Lark sighed. A ranch sounded good to her. She was suddenly very homesick for Texas and the cowboy life she loved.

      “At least you’re not older than he is. In the West, you might be getting a little long in the tooth.”

      “I beg your pardon, I am only twenty-five,” Lark said.

      “Way past marrying age in Texas.”

      “I am very picky.”

      “If you’re looking for the perfect man, he doesn’t exist, my dear. You just find one you love and marry him, warts and all.”

      “Humph. Men,” she snorted. “They’re only looking for someone to clean, cook, and pick up after them. Our lovesick sheriff can just find himself another girl.”

      “Well, all right.” Pierre patted his cat. “I’m becoming an old meddler.”

      Lark patted him on the shoulder. “It’s all right, no harm done.” For the second time, she tossed the letter in the trash.

      However, late that night, lying sleepless in her little room at the back of the shop, Lark kept thinking about the letter. She pictured some earnest young sheriff checking the post office every day for the letter that was never going to come. Lark had a tender heart. The least she could do was answer and explain that she hadn’t written in the first place and had no interest in matrimony.

      She got out of bed and lit the lamp. Then she dug the letter out of the trash, reread it, and sat at the little desk to pen a reply.

      Dear Mr. Witherspoon:

      I received your letter and enjoyed reading it.

      Now she paused. It would be humiliating to him to say that she wasn’t interested and that her employer had sent the letter without Lark’s knowledge. Maybe he would think something he had said in his letter would have changed her mind.

      To be honest, I don’t think you would be interested in me. My womanly skills aren’t too good. I’d rather ride horses and go hunting than clean house. I’m a terrible cook but I can handle a rope better than most cowboys. Now that you know this, you probably won’t want to write me anymore, and I’ll understand. However, I am a Texan too, and really love the Lone Star State. Remember the Alamo!

      Most sincerely,

      Lacey Van Schuyler.

      She addressed the envelope to Sheriff Lawrence Witherspoon, General Delivery, Rusty Spur, Texas, and the next morning, put it in the mail. There, that took care of it. She would lose her correspondent without hurting his feelings. She returned to work in the millinery shop and for the next several days, thought nothing more about it. After all, with the business doing as well as it was, she was busy—and she had that bank robbery accomplice thing hanging over her head to worry about.

      Then one day, Pierre rushed in, all excited, waving an envelope. “Look, dear, you’ve heard from your sheriff again.”

      “He is not my sheriff,” Lark reminded him. “And it’s probably a note thanking me for answering and saying he hopes I’ll understand if he looks elsewhere.”

      The Frenchman’s eyes lit up. “You answered his letter?”

      Lark hated to admit it. “I wrote him and told him what a bad housekeeper and cook I was. You know, that’s what most men are looking for.”

      He winked at her. “Obviously, my dear, you are naive.”

      “Pierre!” Lark was almost speechless.

      “Well, open it and let’s see what he says,” Pierre suggested.

      Lark took the letter from his hand and opened it. “‘Dear Miss Van Schuyler,’” she read. “‘You are being very modest about your assets. Every woman is born knowing how to cook and clean.’”

      “That’s what he thinks,” Lark said, outraged. “I can see he is one of those who think women should shut up and stay obedient and in the kitchen.” She read some more of the large, painful handwriting. “‘I do like a woman who likes horses and ranch life. Did you say you were pretty?’”

      Lark snorted, and Pierre nodded. “That’s number one with most men. And you are pretty, child.”

      “I don’t think so,” Lark countered. “I’m too tall for a girl, and I’ve got some Cheyenne blood. Some Texans wouldn’t be interested in a woman who is part Indian.”

      “Well, maybe the sheriff’s different.”

      “I’m not going to answer this letter,” Lark said. “I can’t imagine being stuck with some hick sheriff who’s looking for a pretty girl who’s a perfect housewife.”

      “He didn’t say that’s what he wanted,” Pierre defended him.

      “How do you know? You never met him,” Lark snorted.

      “He just sounds like a nice man, that’s all. Lawmen are usually upstanding citizens.”

      And it would be a safe haven for a girl on the run from the law, Lark thought. She tried to imagine Lawrence Witherspoon. He might be tall and red-faced with buck teeth. He might be short and balding and burp a lot.

      “I just think this has gone far enough,” she said. “I regret the impulse to write him. I won’t write again.”

      “Oh, by the way, I got a letter too.” Pierre waved the envelope. “A rich old lady I’ve corresponded with in the past has invited me to come to New York.”

      Lark felt her mood fall. “I never thought you’d be going away. I’m so fond of you.”

      “And me you, and so is Miss Mew Mew, aren’t you, kitty?”

      The black-and-white cat blinked and swished her tail.

      “Anyway,” Pierre said, “life moves on. I’ve already found a buyer for the shop since you aren’t interested. Perhaps the new owner will keep you on, although she has two daughters.”

      Lark