Bride School: Mary (The Brides of Diamond Springs Ranch 4) (8 page)

John ducked out of the workroom where the air was
choked with sawdust. After building the delivery crates for over twenty large
pieces, there was hardly a full breath of clean air remaining. And though he
was thrilled to have finished the complete line, minus the largest order, he
couldn’t celebrate anything without air to breathe.

Ian Spencer’s boy, Zachariah, burst in through the
front door of the modest but professional office. “E&Q’s here, Mr. Hermann!
They’ve brought it!”

Nothing could have been more exciting and
appropriate to the moment than those two letters. Emond & Quinsler,
manufacturers of fine carriages, had finished installing the specially tooled
leather seats he’d created for Mr. Charleston, one of the grooms he’d met in
Sage River. And though the man hadn’t known whom he would marry, he’d ordered a
custom seat for a new carriage to be a late wedding gift for his bride. Since
the man lived in Boston most of the year, John would be able to deliver the
order personally.

The final order.

There was something satisfying about completing
the first order that combined Hermann Tanner and Saddlery with Hermann &
Co. Designers of Fine Leather. Of course, there was only one designer in the
outfit. And thus far, there were only two other employees who shared the duties
of bookkeeper, shop sweeper, and reception—Ian Spencer and his son, Zachariah.
The boy of eight was not quite ready for the bookkeeping, but he kept the shop
clean as a whistle. In the next few days, he’d be earning a hefty bonus
ferreting out all the sawdust…

John was not too proud to meet the delivery
outside.

The carriage was small but magnificent. The
leather of the single rear seat fit so perfectly to the vehicle it appeared to
have grown there naturally. But what really gave it a glamourous touch were the
flashes of brass and the intricate feather design around the edge of the back
cushion. Close inspection would show that each feather was made from thousands
of tiny feather marks perfectly aligned to appear…random.

John grinned, knowing that few would appreciate
the beauty of the mathematics that went into the decoration. But no one would
miss the uniqueness of it. It was a statement piece. A statement made from
Louis Charleston to his new bride and a statement the bride would make each
time she went for a carriage ride.

The final beauty of the piece was the fact that so
many would see it and demand to know who built the carriage—and who tooled the
leather.

Ian appeared, breathless from a sprint up the
street. John allowed him and his son a long look. “You may not see your name
here, Zachariah. But it’s here just the same. Every drop of sweat from your
brow goes into the name of Hermann & Co. That means it’s part of this
carriage, too.”

The boy puffed up his chest and started searching
the street to see if anyone had overheard.

“Now, if you’ll lock up shop for me, we’ll give it
a good cleaning tomorrow. I’ll take this over to Charleston’s.”

The delivery driver tipped his hat and sprinted
off for Emond & Quinsler, which was only six blocks away. John climbed onto
the driver’s seat and set in motion the smoothest carriage ride of his life.
The feathers took on new meaning as the vehicle floated elegantly down Halston
road. By the time he’d reached Charleston’s grand home on the north side, he’d
decided he needed a carriage much like it for his own bride, once he had one,
of course. Maybe he could work out a trade with E&Q.

He was led to Louis’ study where the man wrote out
a personal note for the balance owed John.

“I’m sorry you won’t be here to see my Mary Lou’s
reaction. She’s such a sweet thing. I’m sure she’ll want to thank you in
person. The feathers will tickle her.” Louis realized his joke and laughed.

John was simply glad he had a happy customer. “I
forget which one she was.”

“I don’t think you danced with her, John. In fact,
I tried damned hard to keep my dance partners from getting a good look at you.
But then again, you were busy dancing with Mary.”

John shook his head. “I danced with Miss Alexandra
Campbell that night. I’ll never forget it. And I made sure she never danced
with anyone else if I could help it.”

Louis frowned for a moment before his face
lightened to its natural good humor. “Oh, that’s right,” he said. “You weren’t
there the day after the dance. You didn’t know about the switch.”

“The switch?” John’s stomach was giving him fits
simply because the name Mary had been spoken. He wished Charleston would
explain quickly and put him out of his misery.

The man shook his head enthusiastically. “The girl
you danced with wasn’t a bride. She only worked at the ranch. A real Cinderella
story. Only Cinderella was wearing someone else’s shoe!” He laughed heartily
and it was a moment before John could get his attention.

“She wasn’t a bride?”

“Her name was Mary. One of the brides was lovesick
for someone back home and asked Mary to take her place. We all had to play
along the next morning to keep her out of trouble with that female gunslinger.
So none of us ever met the real Alexandra Campbell. I heard she was a looker
too.”

Alexandra Campbell was a phantom? All this while
he’d been obsessed with the memory of her…and her real name was
Mary
?!

“I stayed on another week so Mary Lou and I could
get to know one another. After all, I wasn’t in an all-fired hurry—”

“Louis, please. About Mary…”

“Of course.” The big man nodded. “Ten days with
little else to talk about, you can bet I heard the whole story. That Scottish
woman had been packed up and shipped off to the ranch to keep her from marrying
a man from a rival clan. Didn’t realize they cared about Clans here in the new
world, but apparently, they do. This Connell McDonald will never find her
before someone else scoops her up. I’m sure she’s already gone. That ranch is a
pretty popular place what with all us pleased customers, let me tell you. But
that Mary.” He shook his head. “Bless her heart, I was about to settle for the
wrong gal, but Mary set me straight. And I’m sure I couldn’t have been near as
happy as I am now if she hadn’t stepped in when she did.

“You hearing me? John, are you all right?”

John shrugged. “Yes. I heard. Connell McDonald.
Scottish clans. Mary… I don’t suppose you know her last name?”

Louis frowned. “Oh, well. I don’t know. Let me
think.” He cocked his head. “Mary… Mary… Mary… No. I don’t reckon I do. But she
seemed a bit sad about you leaving town when you did. She had something she
wanted to tell you, if I remember rightly.”

John smiled and nodded. The promissory note was
placed in his hand at some point, but he wasn’t aware of it until he was tucked
inside a hack.

“Careful now,” Louis called out to the driver. “I
don’t think Mr. Hermann is feeling well.” He stuck his head inside the window. “I’ve
already paid the man, John. Just get home and get into bed. You’re over worked,
no doubt about it.”

John immediately tucked the payment inside his
pocket before he dropped it. Then he allowed his mind to race back to the night
of that December dance.

Her name was Mary. Not Alexandra. She worked at
the ranch, so she was likely a local girl. Plenty of girls named Mary. Probably
a dozen in Sage River alone who were close to her age. But how many with that
face? Those eyes?

Impossible. It couldn’t have been her…

And even though his mind acknowledged that
impossibility, it was already planning its next trip to Sage River. But first,
there was somewhere else he needed to go.

John stood in the center of the Campbell's parlor
and turned in slow circles. There was plaid everywhere.

The walls were covered with it. The rugs on the
floor. The cushions, the drapes. And not all the same plaid either. Some of it
was peach and green, some blue and red. Large checks and small. And he suddenly
had to stop moving and close his eyes to keep his stomach from coming up.

A brawny man walked through the door and laughed. “Too
much color for ye?” He strode to a shelf and pulled out a decanter and two
glasses. “A bit early for whisky, but a Scot'll make any sacrifice for
hospitality's sake, aye?” He sloshed the amber liquid into the wide glasses and
set the decanter down on the table between the two chairs facing the fire. “Sit
ye down, mon. Warm yer bones.”

“You haven't heard why I've come,” John cautioned.

The big man shrugged. “I doona rightly care. I've
got a lazy older brother who will have to put his shoulder to my work until I
return, so I've a mind to spend a good long visit wi' ye, even if yer selling
air.”

John laughed and sat. “I'm not selling anything,
actually.”

“Oh?” The Scot took a swig of his drink and
waited.

“I've come to ask you about a young woman named
Alex—”

“Who's this then?” Another man stomped into the
room equal in size to the other, but his head and face were covered in white
hair. The mustache was parted over the lips, but the center was off by an inch.
And to John, a man who made his living with minuscule measurements, it bothered
him enough to keep him from looking the new man in the face.

He got to his feet and offered the hand that
wasn't holding whisky. “I'm John Hermann of Hermann & Co., a leather
designer from Boston.” He saved the “fine” for when he was selling his
products.

“And what's yer business wi' me?” the man asked.

Connell stood. “Not
ye
, Da. The man's here
to see me. And if ye don't mind, we'd like privacy.”

The old one narrowed his eyes. “Privacy? And what
would ye need to keep private from me I wonder!”

Connell threw John a silent warning, then smiled
at his father. “Ye're not going to be happy until I marry Matilda, ye foosty
scunner. So I'm arranging for a special gift for the lass. Now, away with ye!”

The older man grinned and started to turn. But
suddenly, he spun back around and threw his fist into Connell's jaw. With no
surprise at all on his face, Connell put a foot back to catch himself, then
straightened and folded his arms defiantly.

The old man pointed a finger into his chest. “That's
for callin' yer own father a foosty scunner. Next time, I'll set ye on yer arse
and ye'll find yer heed in Lancaster County.”

Connell pointed to the door as if the blow had
never happened. The older man put his nose in the air and retreated in his own
sweet time.

Once the door closed, Connell grabbed John by the
shoulders. “What do you know about my Alexandra,” he whispered. “And I'll warn
ye, the auld man will have his ear pressed to the door, no mistake. Did ye ken
my lass?”

John shook his head. “I haven't met her
personally.”

The big man's face fell and he retreated back to
his cup of whisky and the chair. “Well,” he finally said, staring at the fire, “ye
missed a rare treat.”

John didn't understand. “Has she already married
then?”

Connell shook his head. “She's dead. Last
November. The ground was hard by the time her body was returned to us, but I
dug the hole meself.” He made a harsh sound, then hissed, “at least they
allowed me that much.” The last of his whisky disappeared and he poured himself
another glass.

John finally understood. “They told you she was
dead, is that right?”

The Scot frowned and looked up. “I buried her,
mon. She had better be dead.”

John glanced at the door, then stepped close and
leaned over the poor man. “They
told
you she was dead, Connor. But she's
not. As of last December, she was still at Diamond Springs Ranch refusing to
choose a husband...”

A second later, he was pinned up against the edge
of the hearth with a wide, muscular arm across his throat.

“Ye mean to tell me my Alexandra's still alive?”

John was barely able to nod. Only when he dropped
onto his feet did he realize he'd been lifted off them. “Just outside Sage
River Wyoming...”

Connell turned toward the door. “Da! Would ye join
us please?”

The door opened quickly and the older man stepped
inside. The smile on his face lingered from the last conversation about someone
named Matilda.

“Yes, son? Do ye need me advice?” He frowned at
the decanter of whiskey. “I'll take some of that.”

Connell's sudden smile didn't reach his eyes. “Oh,
Da. Dinna by shy. Take all of it. And choke on it.”

The skin around the white fluffy hair turned deep
red. “What say you?”

“Bah!” Connell waved a dismissive hand. “Ye need
to have them change the headstone,
Father
.”

“What headstone?” The old man started backing
toward the door, his face still glowing red.

“Alexandra Campbell's.”

“Oh?” He kept backing. His son advanced.

“Aye. Because the only thing buried in that box is
my love for all things McDonald!”

The old man stopped. “Now, see here. No son of
mine—”

“Ye're right about that, ye bastard. I am no son
of yers.”

~ ~ ~

It was a mere ten minutes later when John and
Connell McDonald rode away from the old man who was more intent on stomping his
hat into the dirt than watching his son ride out of his life.

John was a little surprised to see that Connell
didn't seem the least bit upset, so he asked him about it.

“Auch, well, my bonny Alexandra is alive. What
more is there to grieve about?”

John felt duty-bound to point out that the woman
may well have married in the past three months. After all, at least twelve
dozen men had gone to Sage River in that time looking for a pretty bride. And
if Miss Campbell had given up hope that Connell would ever find her, she might
have moved on.

“Does it matter?” Connell asked. “My Alexandra's
alive.
Alive!
And if she's married to someone else...” The big man's
eyes finally betrayed his emotions, and fat tears splashed down his cheeks. “Well,
whoever he is, the poor man will have to find another wife, that's all.”