Frontier Engagement. Regina Scott

to warn you. You should have warned me, ma’am.”

      Rina—yes, she was going to think of herself that way—felt her smile slipping. “Forgive me, Mr. Wallin. What have I done that would require a warning?”

      “Your smile,” he said with another shake of his head. “It could make a man go all weak at the knees.”

      His teasing nearly had the same effect, and she was afraid that was his intention. He seemed determined to make her like him, as if afraid she’d run back to Seattle otherwise. She refused to tell him she’d accepted his offer more from desperation than a desire to know him better. And she certainly had no intention of succumbing to his charm.

      She clasped her hands together in her lap, one up, one down, fingers overlapping, and made herself look out over the horses. Sunlight through the trees dappled their black coats with gold.

      “Nonsense,” she said. “What about you? Why were you named James?”

      “It’s from the Bible,” he said, shifting in his seat as one of the wheels hit a bump. His shoulder brushed hers, solid, strong. “Pa named us for the first apostles: Andrew, Simon, Levi, John and James. I suspect you’ll like my brother John. He reads a lot.”

      He glanced her way as if expecting agreement. Most likely he thought she read a great deal as a schoolteacher. That had been true once. She’d loved reading stories of kings and queens and gallant knights, imagining they were like her own life. A shame their stories had proved more real than the one she’d lived.

      “Reading is important,” she acknowledged. “But putting what we read into practice is even more so.”

      He laughed. It came so easily, freely. She wasn’t sure she’d ever laughed like that.

      “Now that would depend on what you read, ma’am,” he told her. “Pa left us epic poems and adventure novels. I’m not sure how well we’ve put those lessons into practice.”

      “Well,” Rina pointed out, “you do live in the wilderness. That is considered romantic in some circles.”

      “No circle I belong to.” He swatted at a branch that hung over the track. “But at least Wallin Landing is becoming more civilized all the time. We have four cabins, a good-sized barn and the schoolhouse. Next is Catherine’s dispensary. Before you know it, we’ll have a town.”

      A town. There was something fine about the idea of building for the future. But was it any more real than the stories Mr. and Mrs. Fosgrave had told?

      The pattern had always been the same. The three of them would journey to a new town and seclude themselves, careful to hide the horses and carriage somewhere for easy access. This practice was for their safety, the woman she’d called mother had insisted, lovely blue eyes tearing up at the supposed memories. And Rina had learned not to ask too many questions about the past, for it had always upset the dear lady.

      But somehow the story would slip out—how her father and mother had been deposed by a cruel tyrant, how even now their loyal subjects were massing to retake the throne. Bankers would extend credit, expecting to be repaid in gold. Society hostesses would vie with each other to fete them. The horses and carriage would come out of hiding, perhaps even join in a few races for which her father would be handsomely paid. Life would be wonderful, until her father would wake her in the night with news that they were no longer safe. And then away they’d go again.

      She’d been as shocked as the inhabitants of the last town, Framingham, Massachusetts, when the Fosgraves had been unmasked. Someone had finally questioned her father’s web of lies and discovered that there was no kingdom of Battenburgia, no king and queen with subjects eager to reinstate them, certainly no princess waiting for her prince to arrive. The reality was a long series of debts run up by two charlatans with no intention of ever paying anything back.

      She’d been fortunate not to have been indicted with them.

      “Don’t blame Alexandrina,” Mrs. Fosgrave had said from the stand the day the judge had pronounced sentence, those blue eyes brimming with tears. “She never knew the truth. She isn’t even our daughter. We found her abandoned when she was about two, and we thought she’d make a nice addition to the story.” Her gaze had pleaded with Rina for understanding. “We did become fond of her.”

      Rina’s hands were fisting in her lap now just remembering the moments before the judge had sent the Fosgraves away to prison, allowing her to go with no more than an order not to follow in their footsteps. No one in Framingham had been willing to befriend her. Her darling horses had been sold to help pay the debts.

      She’d managed to convince the judge to let her sell most of her clothing for living expenses rather than to pay off the Fosgraves’s debts. The only other things she’d kept were Mr. Fosgrave’s pocket watch and a miniature of the three of them, buried safely in her trunk. When she’d seen the advertisement in the paper about Asa Mercer’s expedition to bring schoolteachers to Seattle, she’d known what she must do.

      She might not be a princess, but she’d been raised with the education of one—having been tutored in every town by the very best instructors. Her education was the one thing they could not take from her. It was the one thing she could give to someone else.

      She forced her fingers apart and pressed her hands into the smooth fabric of her gown. Everything she had believed had been a lie. That didn’t mean she couldn’t believe in something else, even if she hesitated to believe in someone else.

      James Wallin was the perfect example of someone she should suspect of telling tales for his own profit. He was confident, and he was glib. He was relaxed behind the reins, as if nothing and no one could shake him. Didn’t he realize that they were driving farther from the safety of Seattle every second? Shouldn’t he be looking for catamounts, bears, savages? Was he even armed?

      Catching her watching him, he grinned again, and despite all her thoughts, something inside her danced. Dangerous fellow. She refused to be taken in.

      “Tell me about Wallin Landing,” she said. “What prompted you to start a school?”

      “It was Catherine’s idea,” he said. “You’d have to ask her.”

      A vague answer, but she supposed he might only be the messenger. He certainly talked as easily as he laughed, going on to tell her all about his widowed mother, four brothers and sister, the addition of Catherine to their group. But what impressed her more than his easy manner was his skill behind the reins.

      Her father had taught her to drive early, on a lark, he’d said. Now she could only wonder whether he had been preparing her to help make a quick escape if needed. Either way, she’d learned to love the feel of the reins in her grip, knowing that all the power of the team was hers to control.

      Sitting beside other gentlemen who pulled on the leather and sawed at the bits had been painful in the extreme. James Wallin gave the horses their heads, only correcting them if they strayed too far from the path. He guided them effortlessly, as if from long practice. And he seemed to trust them as she’d trusted her team.

      “I haven’t seen many steeldusts in Seattle,” she ventured at one point.

      “Steeldusts?” He gazed at his team. “Is that what they are?”

      She’d never met a man who didn’t know the sort of horse he owned. Her father had examined every aspect, from the size of their ears to the conformation of their hindquarters. He’d known breed and lineage, could gauge strength and stamina. Or at least so he’d claimed.

      “I believe that’s the name given them in Texas,” she said, suddenly doubting. Had her father made up the name like he had everything else? Maybe she didn’t know as much about horses as she thought. “I heard they are prized by cattlemen.”

      “Well, I’m hardly a rancher,” James said with a laugh. “My family prefers oxen. I’d ridden with friends from time to time, but these are my first horses. I bought them off a fellow in town who was giving up his stake. They had a certain dash.”