His Perfect Bride (The Brides of Paradise Ranch - Spicy Version Book 1) (13 page)

“Everything all right?” he asked, a twist of uncertainty in his gut.

She sucked in a breath and shook herself out of whatever thoughts she had. “Fine.” She stood, hurrying to gather her things and clear the table.

Franklin reached for the doorknob, but hesitated. Was it his imagination, or was she not looking at him? Was she upset? Had he somehow hurt her last night in his ardor? He searched back over everything that had happened between them, looking for any sign that she hadn’t been as swept away with passion as he had been. Nothing at all indicated that she’d been uncomfortable with their love-making.

He glanced to the clock on the wall by the dining table. “I need to get over to Dad’s house,” he said, regretting the words. “We’ll talk later, when I get home.”

Corva was still fussing with the breakfast things around the table, but she glanced up, smiled briefly, and nodded. “All right. Enjoy your day.”

He smiled back, glad that he could at least do that now that she’d broken through the misery around his heart. Then he fit his hat on his head, gripped his cane, and headed out the door. Whether there was trouble or not—and how could there be after such a dazzling night?—Franklin was only sure of one thing. He had a lot to learn about women. He had a lot to learn about his wife.

The war that was taking place in Corva’s heart was hard to ignore and impossible to brush away by telling herself she was being silly. She and Franklin had shared something special the night before, something amazing. So why had he acted so…so
normal
this morning? They’d shared a kiss in the kitchen, true, but then he’d gone on to talk about ranch business? He’d dashed off to work without a single lingering glance or sweet words. He hadn’t told her he loved her.

She shook her head and sucked in a breath as she pushed away from the kitchen sink, dishes washed and dried. Growing up with her aunt and uncle had taught her nothing about how a marriage should work, but surely, if the intimacies she and Franklin had shared meant as much to him as they had to her, he would have behaved differently somehow, wouldn’t he? She just didn’t know enough to rest perfectly easily.

And he’d told her to get rid of her paintings.

That was like an arrow in her heart. She walked into the main room and looked around at her artwork—her comfort and her friends. He wanted nothing to do with them, wanted them out of his house. Corva clutched a hand to her heart, fighting off the sensation that in order to be safe and loved by her husband, she had to give up part of who she was and blend into his life entirely.

“It’s worth it,” she whispered, crossing to the small stack of paintings she hadn’t hung yet. But even though the words passed her lips easily, her heart squirmed and wrestled with the idea. Safety was a wonderful thing, but was anything worth losing herself?

When she stepped outside, two paintings under her arm to take to the mercantile, she was surprised to find the wagon hitched and ready for her to drive. She stopped and stared at it for a moment. If the wagon was here, waiting for her, how had Franklin gotten to his father’s house? Could he have walked all that way, just so she could have the wagon?

The idea seemed preposterous, but there was the wagon, all for her. She wasn’t about to let it go to waste. With her paintings under one arm, she marched over and climbed up. Corva didn’t consider herself the best driver, but she’d run errands for her aunt and uncle through the crowded streets of Nashville enough times to manage it. Driving across wide open plains was far easier than navigating city streets. Even when she reached the outskirts of Haskell and the livery where people from the outlying ranches parked on visits to town, she was able to coax the horse to a stop.

“Whoa, whoa there. Good morning, Mrs. Haskell.” A cheery-faced man stepped out of the large stable and approached Corva to lend a hand.

“Hello?” Corva answered uncertainly.

The man gave Franklin’s horse a quick pat, then rushed to help her down. “Herb Waters, ma’am,” he introduced himself, and before Corva’s feet could touch the ground, went on to say, “That was some mighty fine baseball you played yesterday.”

A hot blush flooded Corva’s face, and she looked down. “Thank you. It was…unexpected, to say the least.”

Mr. Waters laughed and clapped her shoulder a little harder than was proper. “I don’t suppose you could see the look on Rex Bonneville’s face when you went sliding into home, but it was a sight, I can assure you.”

“Oh…I…” Corva bit her lip, no idea what to say.

“Me and the boys had a right laugh about it after the game over at the Silver Dollar. It’s just a shame you couldn’t join us.” He continued to chuckle and snort and shake his head as he stepped back to see to the horse.

“The Silver Dollar?” Corva asked, turning to retrieve her paintings and her reticule.

“That’s right, I forgot. You’re new in town,” he said over his shoulder as he worked to loosen the horse’s harness, still chuckling. “The Silver Dollar is the saloon. We don’t see many ladies in there. Women, yes. Ladies, no.”

Corva flushed deeper. “Oh.” No ladies, and yet this man she didn’t really know had clapped her on the shoulder, like she was one of the boys, one of the team. Well, in a way, she was. She should take it as a compliment.

“You go along and run your errands, Mrs. Haskell,” Mr. Waters said. “I’ll take good care of Franklin’s rig here.”

“Thank you.” It was all Corva could think of to say. She gave the overly friendly man a smile, secured her paintings under her arm, and walked through the livery gate and out into the main street of Haskell.

“Good morning, Mrs. Haskell,” a young man hard at work pounding what looked like a horseshoe on an anvil called out to her as she passed. “Excellent run you scored yesterday.”

“Thanks,” Corva called back to him, striding on.

“Morning, Mrs. Haskell,” another man who sat outside a saddlery, fashioning something out of leather in the morning sunlight greeted her. “Top-notch game yesterday, don’t you think?”

“Yes, it was.” Corva smiled and nodded, then picked up her pace.

“Oh! Good morning, Mrs. Haskell.” A young woman wearing not much more than a gathered skirt, chemise, and corset waved to her from the porch of a pink building with a sign that read “Bonnie’s” over the door. Two other young women in similar states of undress, their hair loose, and rouge on their cheeks jumped up to join the first at the porch rail. “We were all so thrilled to watch you play in the game yesterday.”

“Franklin sure scored a winner with you,” one of the other girls called.

Corva nearly missed a step.
Franklin?
She might have been inexperienced in the ways of the world, but she knew a whorehouse when she saw one, and the girls were on a first-name basis with her husband?

“Thanks,” she called back to them, far more shaky than she wanted to admit, and rushed on.

By the time she made it to Kline’s Mercantile, her heart was pounding and a sheen of sweat had broken out down her back. It was one thing to live in a cheerful, exuberant town where everyone knew her name and greeted her as she passed, but it was quite another to be praised for her athletic accomplishments by complete strangers. Of all the things that could have given her a name.

She glanced down to the paintings under her arm. They were who she was, who she always thought she’d be, not some sports hero. When had she stopped being Corva Collier and started being Mrs. Franklin “Baseball” Haskell?

She cleared her throat, took a deep breath, and steadied herself by perusing the aisles and shelves of goods for sale. Kline’s Mercantile was a cozy and well-stocked store. It only took Corva a few minutes of studying shelves of canned goods, a table of fabric bolts, and a row of flour, sugar, and grain sacks to settle back into the wife she knew herself to be. There were groceries to buy and responsibilities to see to. That was something familiar. The bell over the front door jingled a few times as she looked, but she paid no mind to the other customers that came in or their quiet conversations.

“Ah, Mrs. Haskell,” the man behind the counter greeted her as she finished her second circuit of the store. “What can I help you with today?”

“Franklin and I need a few things,” she replied, startled that her voice was so quiet and cowed. That wouldn’t do at all. She cleared her throat and went on with, “And…and I was wondering if you might be interested in selling a few paintings of mine here in the store.”

She was certain her heart would break at the prospect, but when Mr. Kline brightened and held out a hand for one of the paintings, a zip of excitement took her by surprise.

He took one of the landscapes she’d painted using a picture in a book and her imagination and held it up. A smile spread slowly across his face. “You did this?”

Corva’s throat closed up in anticipation, so she could only manage a nod.

“I’ve never seen such excellent work with my own eyes.”

“Really?” Her voice pitched to a near squeak.

Mr. Kline grinned at her. “Let me see the other one.”

She handed over the second painting she’d brought—a view out her bedroom window in Nashville depicting a rainy day and the bedraggled maid from the house across the street. It was a sad painting, but Corva considered it among her best work.

Mr. Kline let out a long, low, “Ohh.”

“Oh?” she echoed, uncertain.

“That…” He nodded at the painting and the poor, grey maid. “That’s beautiful, in a sad sort of way. Looks like you’re good at more than just running bases.”

He winked at her, then held up both paintings, glancing between them. Corva’s heart filled with joyous relief, nearly lifting her off her feet…

…until a bark of, “That’s the most pathetic thing I’ve ever seen,” from behind her brought her crashing down.

She turned to find Vivian and Bebe Bonneville standing behind her, arms crossed, sour expressions on their faces.

“Yeah, they’re pitiful,” Bebe echoed her sister’s comment.

Mr. Kline lowered the paintings, fixing the Bonneville sisters with a stern frown. “Miss Vivian, Miss Bebe. What can I do for you?”

“You can start by not patronizing
that
sort of person.” Vivian brushed past Corva, knocking her off-balance as she went. “I also need three yards of this lace.” She thrust a card of lace at Mr. Kline.

Mr. Kline sighed, sending Corva an apologetic look as he put her paintings down. He reached for a pair of scissors under the counter and began measuring the lace.

Corva stepped away to resume her shopping, figuring she could leave her paintings where they were until Vivian and Bebe left.

“I’m surprised she would dare to show her face today after the spectacle she made of herself yesterday.”

Vivian’s comment froze Corva in her spot.

“Yeah,” Bebe added. “Can you imagine anyone being so nasty and unladylike?”

“She was covered with dirt from head to toe,” Vivian went on.

Corva twisted, peeking at the sisters from the corner of her eye. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, facing her rather than talking to each other. That was bad enough, but a middle-aged woman with a basket over her arm inched out from one of the aisles to see what the fuss was all about.

“And her hair,” Vivian continued. “Why, it looks like a bird’s nest in the best of times, but it looked positively wretched after that little stunt of hers.”

“I’m sure she only did it to get attention.” Bebe sniffed, raking Corva from head to toe. “Since she doesn’t have anything else at all to recommend her.”

“Ladies, please,” Mr. Kline growled. “Not in my store.”

Vivian whipped to face him, her eyes narrowed in a glare. “Excuse me, Mr. Kline, but doesn’t my father own the deed to your store? Didn’t he purchase it all those years ago when you thought you’d have to close or go bankrupt? Isn’t he the one who invested thousands of dollars in this enterprise because you assured him you were as interested as he is in preventing Howard Haskell from monopolizing every business in town?”

The accusation made Corva’s heart sink. It had never dawned on her that Bonneville could stretch his influence into businesses in town. There was no chance Mr. Kline would sell her paintings. Where half an hour ago she would have greeted that with relief, now, after the way Mr. Kline had praised her work, it was another crushing blow. But the blows had only begun to fall.

“I don’t know why Franklin Haskell would ever lower himself to marry an unladylike nobody from who knows where,” Vivian said, tilting her nose in the air.

“His aunt forced him to marry her,” Bebe said, not to her sister, but to the middle-aged woman who was eavesdropping. “Franklin has always wanted to marry Vivian. It was his Aunt Virginia who sent away for this mouse because she felt sorry for her.”

“Is that so?” The middle-aged woman pressed a hand to her chest.

“It’s not,” Corva murmured. She didn’t have the confidence she needed behind her denial. The middle-aged woman blinked at her, then looked to the Bonneville sisters.

“It’s true.” Vivian nodded. “My father says that Virginia Piedmont must have threatened to disinherit Franklin if he didn’t marry her.” She waved at Corva with a dismissive gesture.

“Oh, my,” the middle-aged woman said. “I wonder if Hetty Plover knows about this?”

Before Corva could say anything to prevent rumors from spreading, the middle-aged woman turned on her heel and dashed out of the store. Shocked and hurt beyond any blow her uncle had ever given her, Corva faced Vivian, fists clenched.

“That was unkind,” she said, proud that at least for now, she had strength in her voice.

Vivian sniffed and shrugged. “So was marrying the man I wanted.”

“Yeah,” Bebe added. “And so was butting in and winning a baseball game that we were supposed to win.”

“Franklin never wanted to marry you.” Corva glared at Vivian. “And it’s just a baseball game.”

Vivian pulled herself up to her full height, the feathers on her hat quivering along with her honey curls. “That just goes to show what you know. In this town, baseball is never
just a game
.”

Bebe added a “Humph,” and, “I told you she’d never fit in around here. And poor Franklin is stuck with a plain, unladylike nobody who shouldn’t even be allowed to paint the side of a barn.” She nodded to the two paintings leaning against the side of the counter.

For some reason, that final insult stung the hardest. Rather than crush her, like her uncle’s abuse and cruelty had, the misery welling up from her soul filled her with iron.