Marianne's Marriage Of Convenience. Lynna Banning
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like Christmas trees!
Behind her, two elderly women in matching navy blue travel suits stepped down, followed by a tall man with a tan, weathered face wearing a wide-brimmed gray hat. A shiny silver badge was pinned to his leather vest. Only when the sheriff strode off down the street toward town did Lance step off the train, and Marianne noticed he had tipped his black felt hat down to hide his face.
“For heaven’s sake,” she whispered, “no sheriff out here in this wilderness will be the slightest bit interested in you.”
“Yeah, how do you know that?”
“Because I’ve been reading the newspapers. With all the murders and barroom brawls law officers in the West have to keep up with, a five-year-old robbery back in Missouri isn’t important. You are perfectly safe.”
“Speak for yourself,” he grumbled. “I feel like there’s a big sign around my neck with thief printed in big black letters.”
She drew in a tired breath of the hot afternoon air and turned toward him. “Lance, go inside and arrange for my trunk to be delivered.”
He dropped both their travel bags at her feet, propped one hand on his hip and sent her a reproving look. “Marianne,” he said firmly, “it’s not too late for you to learn how to say ‘please.’”
Out of habit she opened her mouth to berate him, but after a moment she gave a quick nod. “Oh, all right, ‘please.’”
He flashed her a grin and disappeared into the station house. She began to pace up and down the wooden platform, studying the few one-story buildings close by. Dingy, she observed with a sniff. Badly in need of fresh paint.
It was so hot she thought her shoes would melt. And there was no shade. Even with all these trees, the sun was straight up overhead, blazing down like a big copper frying pan in the sky. Her head pounded, and she could feel perspiration soaking her camisole. She fervently hoped the worst thing about Smoke River was the heat and the run-down wooden structures with dilapidated false fronts. At the moment she felt perilously close to crying.
Lance emerged from the white-painted station house and smiled at her. “Fellow inside says he’s rustled up a wagon to take us into town.”
“A wagon? Not a carriage?”
“This is the frontier, Marianne. A town this small probably doesn’t have carriages for hire.” As he spoke a wooden wagon rattled up to the platform and the driver reined a huge gray horse to a stop. He seemed very young, olive-skinned and nice-looking, with a red bandana tied low on his forehead.
Marianne stared at him. “Is that... Is that boy an Indian?” she murmured.
“Probably.” Lance hoisted her travel bag and his leather duffel in one hand and took her elbow. “Come on, Marianne. And don’t stare.”
The boy hopped off the driver’s bench and lifted both bags out of Lance’s hand. “Howdy, folks. My name’s Sammy Greywolf.” He swung the luggage up into the wagon bed. “Welcome to Smoke River.”
“How does he know we’re strangers in town?” Marianne whispered.
“Just common sense. He probably knows everybody in town by sight, and he’s never laid eyes on us before.”
The boy approached and offered her a hand. “Put your foot on the wheel hub right there, ma’am.” He guided Marianne up onto the wooden driver’s bench, then climbed up beside her. Her eyes widened. He wore moccasins that laced all the way up to his knees! He was most definitely an Indian.
The boy waited for Lance to scramble up beside her, released the brake and flapped the reins over the horse’s back. The wagon jolted forward.
Marianne clapped one hand on her feather-bedecked hat and peered at the dusty street. A barbershop. A newspaper office—no, two newspaper offices, one across the street from the other. Ness’s Mercantile, which sported a shocking fuchsia-pink storefront. Uncle Charlie’s Bakery. And, thank the Lord, right next door was a dressmaker’s shop. On the opposite side of the street she spied the sheriff’s office, a feed store, The Golden Partridge saloon, the Smoke River Hotel and a restaurant.
“You visitin’ somebody in town?” the boy inquired. “Or maybe you want to go to the hotel?”
“Hotel,” Lance said quickly. He averted his head as the wagon rolled past the sheriff’s office.
The hotel was only two blocks from the train station. My goodness, Marianne had never imagined that a town could be this small! She studied the restaurant next to the hotel with unconcealed interest. Could that be Uncle Matty’s business establishment? She caught her breath. Oh, Lordy, it couldn’t be the saloon next door, could it? What on earth would I do with a saloon?
The boy pulled the wagon to a halt in front of a white two-story building with wide steps up to the glass-paned entrance door. “Here y’are, folks.” He scrambled down, grabbed both bags and escorted them up the wooden steps into the hotel. “Got customers for you, Hal!” he called out. He gave Lance a grin and a two-fingered salute and disappeared.
The hotel foyer was minuscule, scarcely larger than Mrs. Schneiderman’s front parlor. A red velvet settee and two matching armchairs sat opposite the scarred registration desk, which was deserted. The hot, still air smelled faintly of something cinnamony. Apple pie, maybe.
Lance stepped forward and jingled the bell beside the leather-bound sign-in register, and after a long moment a short man with a shiny bald head and a startled expression popped up from behind the counter.
“How do, folks!” He slapped the book he’d apparently been reading down beside the hotel register. Marianne craned her neck to see the title. The Plays of William Shakespeare. What a surprising choice way out here in this tiny Western town!
The clerk flashed her a tentative smile. “You folks new in town?”
“Yes,” Lance answered. “We just got off the train from St. Louis.”
“Ah, I see. What can I do for you?”
“Uh...we need hotel rooms.”
“Rooms plural, as in two rooms? Aren’t you two together?” The clerk’s curious gaze shifted to Marianne. “Or not?”
“Not!” Marianne said decisively. She felt her cheeks grow warm and prayed she wasn’t blushing.
“Not yet,” Lance added.
Oh, dear, she was definitely blushing now.
The clerk’s gray eyebrows rose. “Ah.” He bent over the register. “Not together, then,” he murmured, scanning the open page.
Lance cleared his throat. “We...uh...we plan to get married day after tomorrow.”
“Ah!” He handed Marianne a pen. “Sign here, please, ma’am.”
She scrawled her name with a hand that shook embarrassingly. “Could you send a bath up to my room? I—We have been on the train from St. Louis for the past three days and—”
“Oh, sure, ma’am, I quite understand. I’ll send one up right away.”
Lance nudged his elbow into her ribs. “Thank you,” she said quickly.
The clerk grinned at her and turned to Lance. “And for you, sir?”
“Just a single room, thanks.”
“No bath?” The man studied Lance’s shadowed chin. “Maybe a visit to the barber?”
A faint flush spread over Lance’s cheeks, and Marianne stared in surprise. Was it possible that Lance was a bit vain about his appearance? She had seen him dirty and disheveled, with sweat sheening his forehead and his chin all bristly after hours spent repairing a fence in the hot sun; he hadn’t minded looking unshaven then. Or maybe, she thought with a twinge of guilt, she’d kept him too busy to shave.
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