Hill Country Courtship. Laurie Kingery
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are you from?” she inquired, hoping her question sounded as if she was merely interested rather than prying, so he might open up a little when he answered it. His replies weren’t long or drawled, the way she was used to from Texas-raised men, but maybe that was due to his Scottish heritage. “I mean, it’s obvious you’re Scottish, but did you come directly to Texas from Scotland?”
“My mother and I last lived in Missouri, but only for a time. Before that it was New York. That was where we first arrived when we came to this country.”
Missouri had been a border state in the War Between the States. It made her wonder which side he had fought for, if he had fought for either. The war had been over only four years ago, so it was still a consideration in whether a man was respectable or not. Doctor Nolan Walker, her friend Sarah’s husband, was the only Yankee who had successfully joined the Simpson Creek community. And even for Nolan, acceptance—particularly from Sarah herself—had taken time and persistence. But if Mr. MacLaren had been in the country for less than four years, then perhaps he had missed the war entirely.
“Then may I welcome you to San Saba County? We’re glad you’ve decided to settle here.”
He lifted a brow, and she suddenly felt her remark had been pretentious. She had no right to speak for everyone, especially when she didn’t know yet if his coming was a good thing or not—or how much a part of the community he’d be. Especially if, as Caroline said, he preferred to keep to himself. With the location of his ranch somewhat distant from town, he would need to be determined to socialize in order to truly become part of the community.
“Thank you,” he said, after a long moment.
His direct gaze left her flustered. “How did you hear of the party, if I may ask? Did Mr. Collier invite you?” Oh, dear, did it sound as if she was prying again? Glory, it was hard to talk to such a closemouthed man. She tried to recall every suggestion she’d ever learned about conversational gambits, but she was drawing a blank.
He finished chewing, then said, “My segundo, Hector Gonsalvo, heard of it from one of Collier’s hands.”
Segundo, she knew, was a Spanish term Texans sometimes used for foreman, or second-in-command, especially when the foreman was a Tejano, a Texan of Hispanic heritage. She wondered if the Spanish term sounded as strange to Mr. Gonsalvo in a Scottish accent as it did to her.
“He thought it might be the answer to my needs,” MacLaren went on, then maddeningly left it at that.
The answer to his needs? She could only assume the man referred to his need for a wife. Goodness, the man was too plainspoken! She felt a flush rising above the neck of her royal blue dress.
Stalling to gather her wits, she sipped her tea. Land sakes, she might as well be as frank as he was. “So you’ve decided it’s time to settle down and raise a family, and you’re looking to find a wife. Well, a Spinsters’ Club party is certainly the right place to begin, Mr. MacLaren.”
He drew back, and his intent gaze was now shuttered. “The last thing I’m looking for is a wife, Miss Harkey.”
* * *
He saw the exact moment when she misinterpreted what he’d said and came to a scandalous conclusion. Her indignation at the suggestion sparked a temper as hot as her hair was red.
Maude Harkey rose to her feet, some five feet eight inches of spitting-mad female. “Mr. MacLaren, I’m afraid you’ve formed the wrong idea about our little group. The Spinsters’ Club was founded by ladies seeking marriage, not a...a dishonorable alliance! If that’s what you came here looking for, I suggest you seek it down at the saloon—one of the girls who serves whiskey might be able to accommodate you,” she said, her voice as icy as her temper was blazing.
He rose, too. “Miss Harkey, simmer down. I wasn’t suggesting anything remotely like what you’re thinking. My intentions are entirely honorable. I’m simply not looking for a wife—romantic claptrap has never appealed to me, you see—”
“‘Romantic claptrap?’” she echoed, a dangerous chill remaining in her voice. “Is that what you call our efforts to make matches here?”
He shrugged. “Courtship and that other nonsense is all very well if that’s all a man or a woman is looking for,” he said with a dismissive gesture. “But it seems to me most of these single young women would be much better advised to be seeking employment, not matrimony. And it’s employment that I have come to offer—with nothing scandalous or unseemly to it at all. What I’m looking for is a companion—for my mother, that is.”
She sank back to her seat, her face fiery red. The flush rather became her, he noted—though he’d thought she looked even more striking moments before, with that fierce fire burning in her eyes. “I...I see. I beg your pardon, Mr. MacLaren. Your mother is in need of a companion?” she asked, her voice now scarcely stronger than a whisper.
He sat down again, too, and felt a moment of compassion for her embarrassment. “Yes, she’s got rheumatism and a host of other ailments that keep her from moving around easily, and it’s made her a mite...crotchety, shall we say?” Not that her medical condition was solely to blame for her behavior. Ill humor was as much a part of his mother as her piercing eyes and the strident voice that never failed to find fault and clamor it to the skies. “The ranch keeps me busy from can-see to can’t-see, and I thought if she had another female to keep her company, it might make it easier for her.”
And a lot easier for me. He’d taken the brunt of his mother’s ill temper for far too long, and each time he hired a companion for her and the unlucky female quit after being subjected to Coira MacLaren’s tirades, her irritability toward her son grew worse.
“So you wish to hire a companion for her,” Maude Harkey said carefully.
“That’s about the size of it,” he agreed with a nod. “I’d pay the lady well, of course, and she’d have a room of her own.”
“I’m afraid it’s out of the question, Mr. MacLaren,” Miss Harkey told him, her tone warming from icy to crisp. “Pardon my plain speaking, if you would, but I don’t believe there’s a single one of my friends in the Spinsters’ Club who would be willing to risk her reputation living out on a ranch with no one but an invalid to chaperone her.”
“She wouldn’t be alone,” he informed her. “Senora Morales is my housekeeper and cook. She lives in the ranch house and is always present. Are you quite certain no one would consider it? What about you, Miss Harkey? You look like a capable female. Do you have any encumbrances that would prevent you from taking the job?” He found he rather relished the idea of his mother’s temper meeting its match in Maude Harkey’s. Perhaps each flame would douse the other. Sen ora Morales would stop threatening to quit on a daily basis, and he’d have a peaceful household for a change.
“No, thank you,” Maude Harkey said, getting to her feet again. “Feel free to speak to Jane Jeffries about it, but be aware she has two lively boys who would not do well, I think, in a house with an invalid. You might ask Louisa Wheeler, but she is devoted to her job as schoolmarm, or Daisy Henderson—but she’s got a son, too, and what the hotel would do without her as cook, I have no idea. There are other newer young ladies in the Spinsters’ Club with fewer ties to bind them to Simpson Creek, but I’ll leave it to you to discover who they are.” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the clumps of ladies and male guests clustered around the punch table and chatting in pairs at various points around the spacious lawn in front of Gilmore House.
“Failing that, you might consider putting an advertisement in the Simpson Creek Intelligencer or in the Lampasas newspaper. I’m afraid I must go now and fulfill my duties as hostess by mingling with the other guests. I wish you all the best in your search, but I’m afraid I can be of no further help to you. Good day to you, Mr. MacLaren,” she said, and sailed off in the direction of the veranda.
Regretfully, he watched her go, noting absently how gracefully she moved, even while perfectly conveying her wrathful