Chapter 13 #2
“Are you ready?” Wyatt studied her as she stood beside him in front of the Serenity Hotel the next afternoon, waiting for the stagecoach with her aunt and grandmother to arrive. She was nervous, chewing on her bottom lip, and he couldn’t blame her. He was a little nervous, too.
Two days ago, when he proposed that he be her pretend husband, he was certain their ruse would work. Now, he wasn’t so sure. He wasn’t even sure why he had made the suggestion in the first place, except that he wanted to help her and, to be honest, he thought it might be amusing.
“As I’ll ever be. Thank you for doing this for me, Wyatt. I don’t know what I would have done otherwise.” She drew in a shaky breath and let it out slowly. “Truthfully, I don’t even want to see them. They’ve been lying to me for years.”
He grasped her hand, entwining his fingers with hers.
“It’ll be all right. You’ll see.” He said the appropriate words, but even he knew something had changed since she’d moved into his house, which was only a short time ago.
He wasn’t lonely anymore. The house didn’t seem to echo with only himself there.
Even when Delilah and Royce were there, the house was just too big.
Not now though. Her fragrance seemed to have permeated everything.
The light scent still reminded him of mint juleps, magnolias, and warm, sultry nights.
He loved listening to her and his mother as they cooked and baked together, laughing over a memory Delilah related.
It was obvious, at least to him, that his mother liked Sheridan very much and the feeling seemed to be mutual.
Royce liked her as well. So did Hank and Ken, which they made clear with their teasing.
And Duke? Duke adored her, looking at her with those big puppy-dog eyes, following her from room to room when he wasn’t out in the field as she made herself comfortable in her surroundings. The smart mutt even begged for the treats Delilah made, knowing Sheridan couldn’t resist giving them to him.
He realized with a start, he hadn’t been lonely since he met her.
She was funny, too. When she first looked at the big bed in his bedroom, he thought she’d faint.
Her smile had faded as she turned wary eyes toward him.
He saw her visible relief when he said he’d sleep on the divan once her folks arrived, even though she had argued with him, stating she would sleep on the divan instead.
The compromise they’d agreed upon last night—she could sleep beneath the blankets, and he could sleep on top of them had seemed like a good idea.
Until it wasn’t. The patchwork quilt she’d slept beneath hadn’t been nearly thick enough.
He’d felt her warmth all night long, moving about in her sleep and resting her hand on his chest. Even worse, she’d snuggled her shapely behind against him at one point.
It was one of the most uncomfortable nights he’d spent in a long time, and he wished, with all his heart, he hadn’t made that compromise with her at all.
Waking up next to her this morning made it all worthwhile though, despite the effects sleeping beside her had on his body.
He’d fought with every ounce of his will not to touch her, but sleep had a way of overcoming willpower and he’d found himself waking early in the morning with his arms around her, and hers around him, despite the blankets between them.
He shook his head at his own stupidity, then focused on the stagecoach stopping in front of the hotel.
The stagecoach driver, his lips pressed together tightly in annoyance, his face red, glanced down at him from high on his perch.
One look showed Wyatt how thoroughly exasperated Brick Simons, the man who drove the regular route from Serenity to Santa Fe and back, was.
From the journey, or his passengers, wasn’t clear.
“Well, it’s about time. That was the worst ride I’ve ever had.
” A woman’s voice, imperious and condescending, came through the window of the coach.
The shade covering said opening was hastily pushed aside and a face that matched the superiority of the voice appeared.
“How you managed to hit every pothole and rut, I’ll never know!
You should be fired!” She drew in her breath, obviously to berate Mr. Simons again, then turned her attention to him.
Wyatt watched as her eyes narrowed. “You! Just don’t stand there.
Help me out of this death trap! Doesn’t anyone in this backward place know how to treat a lady? ”
“Yes, of course.” He opened the door and extended his hand, at the same time he glanced at Sheridan. Her face had gone white except for two spots of color high on her cheekbones, and she blinked rapidly to remove the telltale glow of tears.
There was no ‘thank you,’ as the woman stepped from the stagecoach, or show of appreciation at all, just a contemptuous ‘harrumph’ for his lack of manners for not responding quicker.
Mr. Simons grabbed the handle of a portmanteau from the top of the stagecoach.
For a moment, it looked like he was going to throw it at the woman who now stood beside Wyatt.
Or on the ground in the hopes it would spill open.
Wyatt couldn’t tell which, but from the imperious tone and savage comeuppance the driver received, he couldn’t blame the man for his moment of indecision, or the desire to dump the contents of the valise on the woman’s head.
“Hello, Aunt Estelle.” Sheridan stepped forward, ready, he assumed for a hug or perhaps a kiss on the cheek.
That didn’t happen. Estelle DuBois glared at her niece instead and pulled herself up stiffly, her mouth pursed in a moue of dissatisfaction.
In fact, there didn’t seem to be any affection at all toward Sheridan, which he found so incredibly sad.
Didn’t she realize that Sheridan was a fine woman? Intelligent? Kind? Talented?
“Don’t ‘hello’ me, young lady. Dragging your grandmother and me out to this god-forsaken town in the middle of nowhere. You should be ashamed of yourself. You should be home, in New Orleans, where you belong.”
“Yes, Auntie.” Sheridan murmured, completely, it seemed, intimidated by this woman. And who wouldn’t be?
Estelle returned her focus to him, and he knew, without a doubt, why Sheridan didn’t want to go back. Not only that, but he knew why she had lied to this harridan of a woman in the first place. He would have lied himself.
“And who is this man?”
There was only one thing left to do and that was to muster every ounce of charm he could find and shower this woman in it. “My apologies as well. I’m Wyatt MacLean, Sheridan’s husband.”
“Husband!” Estelle exploded, her face flushing, then turned her attention toward Sheridan. “You married this man? Without my permission?”
“My apologies, Aunt Estelle. I should have waited until you arrived, but—”
“Actually, she had no choice in the matter, Miss DuBois—Auntie.” He laughed and caught Sheridan around the waist, pulling her a little closer to him, making those bright spots of color on her cheeks spread to encompass her whole face. “I was insistent. I couldn’t wait for Sherry to become my wife.”
“Sherry, is it?” Estelle’s eyebrow twitched, much as Sheridan’s had done on more than one occasion.
If he hadn’t been looking at her, he would have missed it.
Aunt Estelle opened her mouth, but before she could issue a blistering retort, which he expected and was fully prepared to take, an imperious clearing of the throat sounded from within the stagecoach, then a cane appeared in the doorway to bang against either side of the door.
“I am still in here.” The voice was that of an older woman—a tad shaky, but still full of authority with a hint of disdain, like a queen waiting to be served.
Wyatt hid his smile, then without hesitation, he leaned into the coach. “Let me help you, Grand-mère.”
“Well, it’s about time,” she huffed, then allowed herself to be assisted from the coach.
Wyatt’s first impression of Odette DuBois was that she was what Sheridan would look like when she was older.
Still beautiful, still regal. Her skin was smooth and clear without the wrinkles—not even smile lines—that usually accompanied age.
Her blonde hair, liberally streaked with silver, was piled artfully atop her head and topped by a ridiculous feathered hat that matched her eyes, the same peridot color as her granddaughter.
There was no emotion, no affection shown as Odette leaned heavily on her cane and stepped toward Sheridan. Not even a hello. Instead, she said, her voice dripping with disdain, “I’m very disappointed in you, Sheridan.”
“Yes, Grand-mère.”
Again, he felt for Sheridan, his heart breaking for her the way these two women, her relatives, treated her. He made a decision right then and there to show them both what a wonderful woman she was.
“Our buggy is right over there. Sheridan, why don’t you help them get settled and I’ll get the rest of their bags.”
She gave a slight nod then walked slowly toward the buggy, grandmother and aunt in tow.
“You look terrible, Sheridan. What’s happened to your skin?”
“My skin?”
Estelle sniffed. “It’s positively brown.”
“And you’ve gotten fat,” Odette opined as they walked behind her and tsked.
“Isn’t there a decent modiste here in this godforsaken town? Your clothes are so last year’s fashion.”
Sheridan didn’t defend herself. In fact, she didn’t say a word as both women continued to berate her in the most unkind way, making his blood boil. It was going to be a long visit. He wondered if he’d be able to hold his tongue and not give these women the comeuppance they deserved.
Mr. Simons handed him another bag, making six in total, then winked at him. “Good luck.”
Wyatt shook his head. “Thanks. I think I’ll need it.”