The Rancher’s Inconvenient Bride. Carol Arens

make a very long visit to the Lucky Clover.”

      “I would permit that.” He was far too handsome, flashing that teasing smile. “Will you marry me now?”

      “I would go home to the ranch according to what I decide. Not what you will permit. You must understand that I need to make my own choices.”

      “I’ll do my best, Agatha. I swear it.” He did look sincere. “Do you choose to marry me?”

      Did she? He’d saved her future that awful night when he’d kept her from turning to laudanum for comfort. He’d sat down beside her, put a book in her hands and become the comfort.

      Now, his future depended upon her.

      “I can’t. I have nothing to wear.”

      “Step right up close to me, honey.”

      She did. He measured her height with the flat of his hand. She was as tall as the button on his collar. Next he cupped her waist with his fingers, seeming to judge its size.

      The last thing he did before he stepped away from her was to kiss top of her top of her head, pluck a dried leaf out of the tangled mass. From the corner of her eye she saw it drift to the floor.

      “Will you marry me if I show up here with a preacher and a wedding gown?”

      “And a witness. Don’t forget a witness.”

      * * *

      It had been a couple of hours before that William had decided that a tornado was not poised at the edge of town ready to rush in and blow everyone away.

      The dressmaker had not been pleased to be awoken at four in the morning, but she hadn’t minded being paid triple the amount for the three gowns he’d purchased.

      Her expression had been miles beyond curious so he’d simply told her the truth—nearly the truth, that they were for his wife.

      No one need know that the preacher had not crossed his threshold until nearly five o’clock. That the man’s good wife had found Agatha reading a book on the couch in the parlor and hustled her upstairs to dress her in the wedding gown draped over his arm.

      The dress had been intended for a bride in Cheyenne, but given what he was willing to pay, the seamstress said she could make another.

      The promise of more business had apparently been enough to keep her from asking questions and simply extend her good wishes.

      With any luck this marriage would be accepted without a great deal of unwholesome talk.

      He’d lose votes for sure if anyone spread lies about Agatha’s virtue.

      No one voted for a candidate who punched them in the nose—which he might do if anyone maligned sweet Agatha.

      He’d been so caught up in his thoughts and staring at the dust he’d forgotten to wipe from his boots, that he failed to hear the rustle of fabric at the head of the stairs until the preacher nudged him in the ribs.

      “Your bride awaits, young man.”

      Glancing up, William had to catch his heart. It felt like it had escaped his chest and gone running up the steps to embrace her.

      Agatha Marigold Magee was captivating! Out of the blue, without warning, she enchanted him.

      Dawn light shone through the window onto the landing, igniting the flame color of her hair and reflecting fairylike sparkles in the crystals bordering her lace collar. Her eyes glittered bright green, but not by any trick of early sunlight.

      How had this dazzling creature been his neighbor for so many years without him noticing how lovely she was?

      Because she had not always been dazzling. Before Ivy came home, Agatha had been a wraith hiding in shadows and seldom seen in public.

      With one hand on the bannister, she descended to the foot of the stairs. When she placed her pale, slender fingers in his hand, he was struck by the enormity of what he was about to do.

      In moments this fragile woman would become his—to protect for the rest of his life.

      There was something about Agatha Magee that hit him deep in his heart. Ever since the night of the barbecue at the Lucky Clover, he’d felt touched by her.

      There had been a storm that night, and seeing her sitting in a corner of the parlor watching the dancers whirl by, he’d been moved in an unexpected way. Not with pity, exactly, but something akin to it. Compassion for her plight, maybe?

      Yes, she was the sister of the woman he had hoped to marry, but his attention toward her had not been only for Ivy’s sake.

      He’d been overcome with a strong urge to make her smile, to whirl her about the dance floor until she did.

      Of course, she could not whirl about the dance floor. He’d had to support her, lead her with slow precision. He could not help but wonder what would she have been like that night had she not spent years as the captive of her nurse?

      He liked Ivy, but had Agatha been the healthy one—?

      It didn’t matter, because at that time, she hadn’t been.

      Before Agatha’s father died, when he had approached William about a marriage deal—his wealth to save the Lucky Clover in exchange for the social prestige the ranch would give him—he had been assured that Agatha was too weak to ever suit his needs. Bearing a child would kill her, so the doctor had said.

      So it had been arranged that he would marry Ivy—just as soon as she could be located.

      Now here he was, marrying Agatha after all.

      It was true that he needed this marriage to safeguard his reputation for his political future, but that was not the whole of it. He wanted to protect Agatha’s reputation as well.

      Looking at her now, she did not quite seem the forlorn girl he remembered. For one thing, it was apparent that she was not a girl, but a woman.

      A strong-minded woman, but one who was still far too thin, too frail.

      Something about her made him want to stand in front of her, arms spread to deflect every stressful thing life might place in her path.

      As her husband, he could. Although, apparently with great discretion.

      Clearly, his hovering presence would be no more welcome than Hilda Brunne’s had been.

      With the four of them gathered in front of the grand fireplace in the parlor, the preacher went through the vows. They were the typical, sacred ones that brides and grooms recited.

      Amazingly, Agatha held his gaze through them all. She did not shy away, look frightened or even resentful, as she might have.

      Preacher Wilson asked if he would love, honor and cherish her. Yes, he would. Perhaps in some small way he already did cherish her. In a short moment she would share his name—become his family.

      Next, the preacher asked Agatha if she would love, honor and obey him.

      She blinked, frowned then slid her attention to Mr. Wilson.

      “I imagine I might come to love him—in time, sir. Perhaps honor him as well. But obey? In truth I cannot vow to do that, as Mr. English well knows.”

      “Oh! Well said, my dear,” Mrs. Wilson gasped. “It’s as though you have been married for ten years already.”

      “Mr. English, shall I proceed or do you wish to—”

      “Agatha, honey, I vow to you that I will do my best not to interfere with your free will—as best I can. You may continue, Mr. Wilson, if my bride is willing.”

      Seconds ticked by. Agatha cocked her head, studying William this way and that.

      “Yes,” she said when he was good and sure his heart had quit beating. “And I do promise to obey you—as best I can. Please do carry on, Mr. Wilson. I wish to—”