Western Spring Weddings. Lynna Banning

are quite welcome,” she said primly. “I suspect my daughter has interrupted your rest.” She looked straight at him with eyes so green they looked like new willow leaves and handed him something wrapped up in butcher paper. “Emily is quite skilled at interrupting.”

      Emily unwrapped her sandwich. “Mister sleeps under his hat!”

      “I do hope you didn’t wake—”

      “Yes, I did!” Emily crowed. “And he talked to me and everything.” The girl’s bright blue eyes snapped with intelligence. He’d bet she was a real handful. He didn’t envy her mother one bit.

      Suddenly he remembered what manners he’d managed to pick up over the past thirty-one years. “Name’s Graydon Harris, ma’am.”

      “How do you do? I am Clarissa Seaforth, traveling from Boston. And this is Emily, my daughter.”

      He tipped his Stetson. “Emily and I met earlier, Mrs. Seaforth.”

      “It’s Miss Seaforth.”

      That stopped him midbite. “Miss? As in not married?”

      “That is correct. Emily is adopted.”

      “Yes, and I’m real special!” the girl sang. “Mama said she really, really wanted me.”

      Gray watched Clarissa Seaforth’s face turn white as an overcooked dumpling and then pink and then white again. Whoa, Nelly! Something about Miss Clarissa Seaforth didn’t exactly add up. He clamped his jaw shut and resolved not to ask. Not his business, anyway. He had enough on his mind getting back to the ranch after the drive to Abilene, paying Shorty and Ramon the salary he owed them, eating something besides beans and bacon, and finally getting a good night’s sleep.

      “Are you a cowboy, mister?”

      “Emily,” her mother admonished. “Eat your sandwich and don’t bother the gentleman.”

      Jehoshaphat, nobody’d called him a gentleman since he was ten years old and helped old Mrs. DiBenedetti corral her runaway rooster. The train gave a noisy jerk and began to glide forward.

      “Yeah, I’m sort of a cowboy. I just drove three hundred cows to the railhead in Kansas. Guess that makes me a cowboy.”

      “What’s a railhead?”

      “Emily...” the cool voice cautioned.

      Gray bit into his chicken sandwich. “A railhead? Well, that’s where a train stops to pick up cattle cars.”

      “You mean a train like this one? I’ve never been on a train before. It’s kinda rumbly.”

      He couldn’t help chuckling. “Rumbly is a good way to describe it.”

      “Doesn’t it bother the cows?”

      “This is a passenger train, honey. Cows ride on different trains.”

      Her red curls bobbed. “Where do they go?”

      “Uh, well, they go...well, my cows are goin’ to Chicago.”

      “What do they do when they get there?”

      “Emily...” the woman warned. “Eat your sandwich.”

      Whew. He didn’t relish explaining a slaughterhouse to little Emily. Or her mother. He devoured another mouthful of chicken sandwich.

      * * *

      Clarissa swallowed a morsel of roast beef down a throat so dry it felt like sandpaper. How her brother would have laughed about her discomfort. What, sis? You riding the train all the way across the country? You won’t last a single day.

      He was wrong. I have lasted all the way from Boston, and I’m not finished yet!

      But she was most definitely exhausted. She settled back in her seat and let her eyelids drift shut. Emily was a handful, irrepressible, full of four-year-old curiosity and questions and... Oh, she did hope her niece, now her adopted daughter, wasn’t making a pest of herself. In one ear she could hear her daughter’s high, piping queries and in the other the deeper, grumbly responses of the cowboy in the seat facing them.

      “Mama?” Emily jostled her arm. “When are we gonna get there? Can I have a horse?”

      “I do not know, and no, you cannot have a horse. Life is dangerous enough as it is.”

      The cowboy crossed his long, jean-clad legs. “How far are you goin’, Miss Seaforth?”

      “All the way to Oregon. Smoke River.”

      “That’s about ten more hours,” he said from under his hat.

      She blinked. “Now, how would you know that, sir?”

      He sat up. “Cuz I’ve traveled this route before. That’s where I live.”

      “Oh?”

      He sat up. “I own a ranch near Smoke River. Just sold all my cattle in Abilene and now I’m goin’ home. You?”

      Emily pressed up against her arm. “Tell him, Mama.”

      “Why, I am traveling to join someone.” She paused and swallowed. “A...friend. I have agreed to be his wife.”

      “Sight unseen?” He thumbed his hat back off almost black hair.

      “Well, yes, actually. When my brother, Anthony, died, Caleb offered to—”

      “Caleb? Caleb Arness?”

      “Why, yes. Do you know him?”

      Gray bit back a groan. Yeah, he knew him. Last time he’d tangled with Caleb Arness, he’d sworn he’d kill the lowlife some day. “Yeah, I know Caleb.”

      “Ah. Could you tell me a little about him? Please?”

      Like hell he would. But her green eyes darkened into an entreaty no man could resist. Not this man, anyway. “What do you want to know?”

      She hesitated. “Well... Caleb wrote that he loves children. That he would treat Emily as if she were his own child. Does Mr. Arness have children of his own?”

      Gray tried hard not to flinch. Caleb Arness was a liar and a cheat, and if he spent a single minute thinking about anyone other than himself, Gray would cut up his Stetson with his pocketknife and eat it. “Listen, Miss Seaforth. I gotta ask why a woman like you would even consider marrying a man she’s never laid eyes on.” A man at the rock bottom of anybody’s list of eligible men.

      She cuddled Emily closer to her body. “Whatever do you mean, a woman like me?”

      “A woman who—” he sucked in a breath “—is, um, attractive. Okay, pretty.” Really pretty. Hot damn, she made him crazy.

      She blushed the nicest shade of raspberry he’d ever seen, and he bit the inside of his cheek. What could he say to save her from the clutches of Caleb Arness?

      * * *

      The train chuffed noisily into the station at Smoke River, and Emily began to bounce up and down and peer out the window. “Ooh, look, a horsie! And a funny wagon. Can I ride in it, Mama? Can I?”

      Clarissa straightened her hat, then stood up and shook the wrinkles out of her bombazine travel suit. “We’ll see, honey. First we must get off the train.” They moved past the dozing cowboy, Mr. Harris, and descended from the train. The red-shirted conductor followed, set Clarissa’s single suitcase on the platform and disappeared back into the passenger car.

      The sun was blinding. She raised her gloved hand to shield her eyes and squinted at the small station house.

      “Oughtta get you a sun hat pretty quick,” said a masculine voice behind her. Graydon Harris stepped into her field of view.

      “Yes, thank you, I will do that.”

      “Dressmaker in town sells hats,” he volunteered.