Frontier Matchmaker Bride. Regina Scott
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and she knew it was only a matter of time before one of them worked up the courage to come speak to her.
She was one of the only unmarried females over the age of eighteen within a fifty-mile radius, so that sort of thing happened a lot. Normally, she didn’t mind. Their approach allowed her to put her matchmaking skills to the test, suggesting other ladies who might better appreciate their attentions. She loved playing matchmaker, helping couples reach their wonderful happy-ever-after. Her success with her brothers had brought her to the attention of the Literary Society, an august group of women she had dreamed of joining. All were established, respected, admired for their civic contributions and taste. She’d felt nearly giddy taking tea with them, eager to volunteer for any of the worthy causes they supported—women’s suffrage, literacy, medical treatment for the poor.
Unfortunately, the opportunity they suggested she volunteer to champion was the most difficult she could have imagined, taking her back to a day nearly two years ago, a day she’d tried in vain to forget.
Beth put her back to the men now, straightened her shoulders in her gray wool cape, but still the memory intruded. She’d just turned one-and-twenty and had filed for her claim. That was what was expected of her, choosing one hundred and sixty acres that would augment the town her family was building at the northern end of Lake Union. She was proud to do it.
She was too proud.
She saw that now. A young lady on the frontier might accomplish much at such an important age—file for her own claim, pursue a career.
Select a groom.
She didn’t have to look far. She’d admired Deputy Sheriff Hart McCormick since she was fourteen and he’d ridden out to Wallin Landing the first time. Tall, handsome, worldly even at the age of four-and-twenty then, he’d been the embodiment of the heroes in the romantic adventure novels their father had left her and her brothers. He was the knight Ivanhoe, fighting to save England; the dashing John Alden petitioning the fair Priscilla Mullins to wed. She’d smiled and primped and giggled at him every time he came near. He never seemed to notice.
But when she turned one-and-twenty, she became determined to make him notice. She was certain God had a plan for her life, and it included Hart McCormick. She just needed to give God a little help in moving things along.
She’d dressed in her best gown, a vivid blue with white piping, styled her pale blond curls to spill down behind her. She’d borrowed her brother James’s famous steel dusts and driven the horses in to Seattle to tell Hart how she felt. It hadn’t been hard to locate him. Then as now, Seattle consisted of a few business streets hugging the shoreline with residences and churches on the hillside above, backed by the forest from which they’d been carved. She could scarcely breathe when he’d agreed to walk with her. They’d passed the Brown Church when she’d stopped him, gazing up into his dark eyes.
“I admire you far more than any lady should,” she’d said, voice ringing in her ears. “I don’t suppose you might feel the same.”
He’d gazed down at her a moment, and she’d thought she would slide into the mud of the street, her bones had turned so liquid. She waited for his gaze to warm, his arms to go about her, his lips to profess his undying devotion. That was what happened in her father’s novels. That was the way she’d always dreamed it would be for her.
He’d tipped his black hat to her instead. “That’s mighty kind of you to say, Miss Wallin. But I have no interest in courting you. Best you go on home now.”
She had. She’d run all the way back to the livery, startling the owner, and urged her brother’s horses Lance and Percy into a frenzy to get them back to Wallin Landing. She very much doubted she’d be willing to risk her heart again, for him or any other fellow. It seemed her role in life was to encourage others to marry. Perhaps it was easier to see from a distance how two people might become a couple. She’d certainly misjudged her own circumstances. Even now, she avoided spending time with Hart.
Yet how could she allow him to be pushed beyond his endurance? For that was what would happen if the ladies of the Literary Society thought she had failed in her commission.
Farther up the street, a movement caught her eye. A black horse, sides glossy, head high and proud, trotted toward her. The man riding him was no less impressive—carriage firm and controlled, gaze sweeping the street. She knew those eyes could be as dark and unyielding as a rifle barrel. Her heart slammed against the bodice of her dress.
She made herself step to the edge of the boardwalk and raised a hand. “Deputy McCormick! A word, if you please.”
His gaze swung her way, and the world seemed to narrow until she could see nothing but him. Shoulders broad in his worn black leather duster, the flash of metal that was the badge on his chest. Long legs in denim and black boots. Her breath was hard to find as he guided his horse across the street and reined in in front of her.
Gloved fingers brushed the brim of his black hat. “Miss Wallin. What can I do for you?”
Beth swallowed. Where was the speech she’d so carefully rehearsed? Why did one look at those chiseled features still serve to make her tremble?
She refused to be a ninny in front of him again. He wasn’t the man for her. Her experience and his determination had confirmed that.
“Hitch Arno a moment,” she directed him. “We need to talk.”
He leaned back in the saddle. “I thought you and I were done talking.”
Heat rushed up her. He had to remind her of the most ignoble moment of her nearly twenty-three years, as if she wasn’t reminded of it every time she saw him.
“This is different,” she told him, catching a stray hair the wind had freed from her bun and tucking it behind her ear. “There’s a plot afoot, and you must be wary.”
He stiffened, but then there was nothing soft about him. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t noticed before confessing her feelings. Hart was all planes and angles, his brows a slash, his lips an uncompromising line. Some in Seattle were afraid of him. She wasn’t. She wouldn’t allow it.
He slung his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground. Tying his horse Arno to the hitching post in front of Kelloggs’, he followed Beth around the corner onto a quiet side street.
“What’s this about a plot?”
His gravelly voice stroked her skin. Beth stood taller, even though that brought the top of her feathered hat just under his chin.
“The Literary Society has designs on you,” she informed him.
His brows shot up. “The Literary Society? Mrs. Howard, Mrs. Yesler, Mrs. Wyckoff, the Denny ladies and Mrs. Maynard?”
Beth nodded. “The most influential women in Seattle. They are determined that every upstanding citizen do his or her part to grow the territory.”
He relaxed, arms hanging loose at his sides. “As deputy sheriff, I’m available to help as needed.”
Beth licked her lips. “Not in this particular area, I fear.”
He shrugged. “If they need a lawman, they have only to ask. They didn’t need to enlist your aid to turn me up sweet.”
“As if that would work,” Beth muttered.
His eyes narrowed. “See? I told you we were done talking.”
And she hadn’t noticed how stubborn he could be, either. Beth stamped her foot. “Oh! Will you listen for once? I’m trying to save your life!”
Once more tension slid over him. “What do you mean?”
Finally! Beth met his gaze. “The ladies of the Literary Society have decided it’s time for you to wed. They’ve even compiled a list of candidates. And they’ve asked me to play matchmaker.”
* * *
Hart stared at her. For a moment, when she’d mentioned saving his life, he’d thought