Liz Ireland (12 page)

He forced himself to meet Emma’s warm, almost jubilant gaze, and gritted his teeth. He wasn’t in love with her, damn it. She’d saved his life, and he was grateful. He had to keep that in perspective.

“So the sheriff was just making a friendly call?”

Emma’s cheeks reddened a little more and she nodded. “He…he’s not what I thought he was. Not entirely.”

Lang was uncomfortable delving into Emma’s privacy this way, but unfortunately, she made no move to leave. She seemed to want a confidant. “I guess he’s a big wheel around here.” A grumbling resentment seeped through his tone, though he certainly hadn’t meant it to.

“He’s the handsomest man in Midday.” Emma’s voice
held a note of wonder. “His family is very well respected, too.”

She didn’t have to spell it out any more clearly.
Barton
was a catch. Good job, good looks, good name. Lang felt an unexpected stab of jealousy.

Not that he blamed the man one bit for wanting to court Emma. Heaven knows, if he were free and as well fixed as he’d one day hoped to be, he might have worked up the nerve to ask for that privilege himself. Maybe all women weren’t as cold and hard as Lucy. In fact, he sensed that Emma was just the type of woman who would have restored his faith in women.

But that was just so much pipe dream speculation now. He had problems aplenty, and it appeared they had just multiplied. Because he was a wanted man at the mercy of a woman he barely knew, and from the ecstatic, bemused, hopeful look on her face, it appeared his Lady Bountiful was about to become the sheriff’s sweetheart.

T
he very next morning Barton was back, bearing chocolates—the biggest box of candy Emma had ever seen. When he gave it to her, her arms practically sagged under the weight. The box, wrapped in blue paper with lacy detail and a big white ribbon tying it closed, mesmerized her.

“I asked Joe for the best box he had.” Barton puffed up at the awe Emma exhibited over the simple offering.

No man had ever given her such a gift. All her life she’d watched her sister squirrel away sweets and hair ribbons and silly gewgaws bestowed on her by fawning admirers. For years, whenever Emma had opened her dictionary she’d expected a flower Rose Ellen was pressing, a gift from her latest swain, to flutter out of the pages. She’d gritted her teeth as men had given Rose Ellen books of poetry Emma knew her sister had no interest in whatsoever. Eventually, she had accepted these presents as Rose Ellen’s due as the prettiest and liveliest sister, and had long ceased to expect such trivial riches to come her way.

But here was Barton Sealy, in his best suit, bringing her chocolates. She hardly knew what to say. The turnaround in his attitude was so quick, her head was spinning. She
almost had tears in her eyes, and she didn’t even particularly like candy. “Oh, thank you!”

“You’re very welcome,” he said, sending her one of his signature smiles. “It’s such a beautiful morning, I’d be delighted if you’d come out for a walk with me. You could point out the different fields you have a mind to cultivate.”

Emma’s face brightened. “I wouldn’t be boring you?”

“On the contrary. I’d be interested in hearing your plans. Most interested.”

He sounded so sincere, she practically bounded down the path, bursting with ideas. Faster than a man could listen, she inundated him with her opinions and worries about cultivation and crop choices, fences and fertilization, all of which she’d gathered in the past day of reading her grandfather’s antiquated farming books. They walked the length of three fields before she realized that she’d barely let Barton get a word in edgewise. “You probably think I sound foolish,” she said. “There’s so much I don’t know—I would be better off listening than gabbing at this point.”

His blue eyes laughed as he looked at her. “I admire your enthusiasm.”

“Do you?” She felt a warmth seeping clear through her. “Rose Ellen hasn’t been very encouraging. She doesn’t approve.”

He nodded. “But after a week or so, Rose Ellen will return to Galveston, won’t she?”

“I suppose she will.” She almost slipped and said she
hoped
she would. It would be so blissful to have relative peace in the house again!

“Then the most important consideration should be what
you
want to do,” Barton admonished her. “After all, you’re not proposing that Rose Ellen take up the plow.”

At the ridiculous image of her sister under the yoke, she giggled, and she realized how correct his reasoning was.
In the end, she herself would be doing the lion’s share of the work; she couldn’t take too seriously the criticism of others—especially those who would only be watching her in the endeavor. “You’re right.”

How wise Barton was! The realization caught her unawares. She’d always considered him handsome and dashing and…well, rather dim. But that wasn’t how he seemed now at all. She looked up at his striking features and tousled hair the color of spun gold and felt a sigh build in her breast. She was crazy—her feelings had whiplashed so quickly. Yesterday she had felt this way about Lang; but Lang didn’t care for her. He was grateful, perhaps, but he’d given her absolutely no encouragement. Besides, he was a wanted man, unavailable. And meanwhile here was Barton…Adonis of her childhood dreams.

Adonis smiled down at her gently, as if sensing and basking in the admiration she silently heaped on him. “How will you manage on your own, Emma?”

Brought out of her reverie to tackle more practical matters, she bit her lip in thought. “I think I’ll have to hire at least two men to begin with.”

He nodded. “That’s conservative, I would say.”

Doubts crept up on her. Sometimes, what she was contemplating seemed the extremist kind of folly—a doctor’s daughter trying to be a farmer! All so she could open a hospital the community didn’t even seem to want.

“I worry about how a lady like yourself will manage it all. It would be easier on yourself if you had…” Barton’s words trailed off, and he looked away from her. His jaw sawed back and forth, as if he regretted having spoken.

“Please speak bluntly, Barton,” she urged. “A beginner in any endeavor needs all the guidance and counsel she can get.”

He cleared his throat and continued to look out at the
fields, still hesitating. “I only meant you might need someone who could help you
…really
help you.”

“A partner, do you mean?”

He swiveled back to her, and the gaze he settled on her was both warm and assessing. A pinprick of nervousness darted through her.

“A partner, yes.”

Emma nodded slowly. “I’ve thought about something like that. But I know so few people who—”

“I
didn’t
mean a partner,” Barton blurted out. When she glanced up at him, startled, he rushed on. “I meant a helpmeet, Emma. A husband. Have you ever considered that?”

For a moment she felt like embarrassment in lace-up shoes. She stared into those blue eyes as long as she dared, then cast her gaze down, dumbfounded. No one could ever have accused her of being a silly romantic, or believing that dreams could come true. But apparently, one was coming true right now. Astoundingly, she seemed to have wound up in the role of princess in a fairy tale—the Texas version—complete with Prince Charming and happy ending. Yet all she could do, unpracticed damsel that she was, was stare at her knight in shining armor’s boots, which were old and worn. The heel was caked in mud, or muck, which seemed a stark contrast to the fine new wool of the trousers of his best suit.

She frowned at the incongruity. Why would a man come courting in his Sunday suit and forget to wear his best boots as well? It showed an incompleteness, she thought, and lack of eye for detail.

“Emma?”

Her blush deepened as she realized that the man had practically proposed marriage and all she could think about was his wardrobe! Her gaze rose and met his, and she felt
truly, achingly awkward—all gangling arms and hands with nowhere to go. His eyes darkened and he stepped nearer to her, his intention clear. She suddenly had the urge to hop up and down, or better yet, spin on her heel and flee! Instead, she was frozen stiff, stupefied by what was happening. Her heart beat like the wings of a trapped bird; blood rushed through her head in a raging river of sound. God help her, Barton Sealy was about to kiss her!

He stepped his dirty boot forward and planted his hands on her shoulders, yanking her toward him. She toppled against his chest like an old dried tree trunk finally collapsing in a mild spring breeze; her own feet were still rooted while the rest of her tipped forward. Then his mouth descended on hers.

His firm lips met hers with deliberate accuracy, as if she’d been his lifelong target. She was startled by the strength of him, the pure brawn of his body as he bent her own inconsequential weight to his will. Because of his spectacular height, her neck cricked up at an awkward angle, making it more difficult to revel in this glorious moment she’d waited her entire womanhood for. Her first kiss.

Because
this
was her first kiss, she reckoned in that moment. You couldn’t count the kiss Lang had given her. Lang had been unconscious…maybe he’d even thought she was someone else. No, Barton was the first man who, consciously and knowingly, had tugged her into his arms, so
he
could honestly be designated her first kiss.

Maybe if she informed him of that fact he would take better advantage of the honor, she thought with a twitch of frustration. For though she was intrigued by his lips, they remained completely stationary. After all these years of imagining, and reading—and frankly, after Lang’s brief though entirely unofficial preview—she had expected more thrashing about, more desperate groping…more
movement
.
She made a stab at rubbing her lips against his needfully, but the effort was difficult. Barton held her in place against him so firmly, she might have been a medieval prisoner in the stocks.

Finally he pulled away, tipped her upright again and stepped back, eyeing her warily. “You’ll have to pardon me, Emma. I’ve never been so forward with a woman.”

As she stared up at his beautiful features, all the swooning emotion she probably should have felt thirty seconds before crashed over her in a shocking wave. Barton Sealy had kissed her! She wasn’t dreaming. She’d kissed Barton Sealy—and
he
felt nervous about
her!

“I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately, Emma.”

And I’ve thought a lot about you all my life
. She reached up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, but words failed her.

“I think we suit each other,” he said. “We’re different, yes, but you have gumption. I admire that.”

She swallowed, or attempted to. At his words of praise, her shoulders straightened. Gumption! Suddenly that sounded like the most romantic, silly compliment man had ever paid woman.

“I know we’ve only spoken privately a few times,” he stumbled on, “but I was wondering if you could tell me if you’ve ever thought of me…” If she wasn’t mistaken, the man blushed.
Blushed!
“You know, that way.”

What could she say? She’d not only thought of him, she’d curdled with envy when she’d seen her little sister enjoying his company, dancing with him and hanging on his arm in public. In fanciful daydreams he’d kissed her a million times, and done more than kiss her, and had proposed marriage on occasions too numerous to count. She’d even spent more idle moments than she cared to admit wondering about what Barton Sealy particularly liked to
eat for breakfast, or what his favorite tune was. The very idea that he’d have to ask her if she’d ever thought of him
that
way was almost absurd, because the truth was she’d thought of him in every way conceivable.

Of course, since she’d always been aloof with him, she had no way to prove her devotion, except…

She glanced at him. “When I was sixteen, I carved your initials in a tree.”

He looked at her with amusement mixed with, if she wasn’t mistaken, relief. How funny, and how flattering, to think that Barton Sealy had been worried she’d spurn him!

They walked back to the house side by side, saying little. Emma was tongue-tied, not because she was embarrassed, but because she couldn’t think of anything to say. She barely knew Barton, and yet here she was, practically pledged to him. The idea would have frightened her if she hadn’t been so stunned. In fact, she felt more surprised than happy—but she knew when the shock wore off she would be flooded with pleasure. It was just that everything was happening so fast!

At the front porch he said goodbye to her, but didn’t kiss her again. She was disappointed, but she was also unsure of kissing protocol. Maybe midmorning front-porch kisses weren’t the thing.

After she’d watched him ride off to town until he was no more than a speck cresting the hill, she felt her spirits suddenly pick up. In fact, now that he was gone and she didn’t have to talk to him, she felt ecstatic. She whirled, sending her skirts billowing around her, then flew through the door. Lord, she was hungry! She’d barely eaten breakfast, and so much had happened since then!

As she floated to the kitchen, she was stopped by the sight of Rose Ellen, looking resplendent and queenly in her purple velveteen dressing gown and matching slippers.
Her sister stood next to Emma’s box of chocolates, now opened, staring at the contents in amazement. Her cheeks were pink when she looked up, and Emma could tell that one cheek was swollen with pilfered candy.

“I came down for breakfast and no one was here,” Rose Ellen explained.

“I was out.”

Her sister glanced at her suspiciously, then back down at the chocolates. “Wasn’t that the sheriff with you?”

Emma smiled, unable to keep her chin from sailing just a notch higher. “Yes, that was
Barton
. He came by to see me.”

Rose Ellen’s long black lashes fluttered as she blinked. “He brought you the chocolates? Wasn’t that going overboard?”

Emma grinned. “He said it was the biggest box Joe Spears had.” It was oh so difficult not to gloat more, or even to shout to the heavens that she’d been kissed.

With difficulty Rose Ellen finally swallowed the lump of sweet confection in her mouth. “Did he say anything to you about Mr. Archibald?”

Emma laughed. “The subject never came up. Why would it?”

Her sister’s face twisted in confusion. “But he must have said
something
.”

“Yes, we talked a good deal.”

“But what about?”

Emma smiled dreamily. “Oh, about my plans for the farm…and lots of things.”

When her sister just stood there gaping at her speechlessly, Emma turned and continued on to the kitchen, where she poured out a cool glass of apple cider to take up to Lang. Then, absently mulling over the morning’s
events, she discovered she had drunk the cider herself. She poured another glass for Lang and went up to see him.

Strange, she thought, that just five days ago she’d never had a man look twice at her. Then the outlaw had showed up and she’d had not one but two kisses…even if only one of them really counted. She knew she was behaving like a silly schoolgirl with her head in the clouds, but this was all a new experience for her.

She sashayed into Lang’s room, catching him unawares. She skidded to a stop, nearly spilling the cider. Lang stood in the middle of the room in only his trousers. All the times Emma had seen him unclothed before, he’d been lying down, helpless looking, but now she gaped at the wide expanse of his lightly furred chest in awe. The stark white bandage cutting across his torso only seemed to add to his appearance of strength.