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“Take care of her,” said Jack. “We’re getting married tomorrow.”
“Are you now, Dr. McColton? Congratulations to you both.” The boyish clerk swung the registry back toward himself, read her name and addressed her. “Miss Hamilton, welcome to the Valley Hotel. Will you be needing any amenities shortly? Something from the dining hall, or perhaps a bathtub filled?”
Jack interjected, “Cassandra, I’m hoping you’ll come with me to the ranch for dinner. Won’t you?” When he turned his handsome face toward her, her qualms subsided about the women she’d seen outside. There was no need to get stirred up about what might or might not happen in this town now that she’d arrived. She was here, and determined to make the best of it.
“I’d love to see it. But I do need time to get back this evening, soak in a hot tub and prepare for tomorrow.”
A smile tugged at the corner of Jack’s mouth. Heat flashed in his penetrating eyes, and she got the distinct impression he was imagining her in that tub.
She tried to squelch the flutter she felt, wondering what the marriage night would be like, and nervously brushed back strands of wispy hair. “Please give me ten minutes to freshen up. I’ll be right down.”
“Take twenty,” he said, strolling through the large, cool foyer.
The desk clerk tapped a bell on the counter. A porter appeared. Carrying her satchel, Cassandra marched up the wide wooden staircase behind him. The hotel wasn’t as grand as some in Chicago, but its Californian flavor—with rustic timber, a stone fireplace in the front entry and plenty of windows—was appealing.
She knew there’d be no time for a honeymoon. Jack had explained it in his letters. She wouldn’t be disappointed, she told herself. He enjoyed working hard in his profession, and made no excuses for it. She preferred that over someone sitting idle.
Besides, what other man who’d written to her asking for her hand in marriage had promised her an easy life? Not one.
The porter unlocked a door, handed her the key, set her large suitcase inside and politely left. Cassandra walked into the airy room. The furnishings were sparse, but a large window overlooked the street below. She pulled aside the curtain and noted again the buildings she would likely visit soon in her quest to become a detective—the sheriff’s office, land registry, courthouse, the two banks on the corner. She peeked to see if that brunette woman was still at the hat shop, but saw no sign of her.
Cassandra looked down at her faded clothes. Her well-worn jacket and long skirt appeared so paltry compared to the freshly tailored suit the other woman had been wearing. She came from money, no question. And judging by the daring expression on her face, she definitely knew Jack. Did the woman know he’d be married tomorrow? Cassandra removed the derringer and box of bullets from her satchel, and hid them in the dresser. She tucked the newspaper and books in, too. One other question burned in her mind as she prepared for the afternoon with Jack.
Who was that woman?
* * *
To Jack, it seemed almost like a regular outing with a regular woman, except this one would soon be his wife. He stretched out his legs in the buggy, repositioned his silver-tipped cowboy boots and grasped the reins in his callused hand. Warm winds enveloped him and Cassandra as they drew closer to his ranch.
She’d changed from her traveling clothes into something plainer—long brown skirts, an ivory blouse and patched shawl. She’d let her blond hair fly free, and he enjoyed seeing it spill over her shoulders. However, she was still wearing that damn hat with the dangling scarf she was obviously using to shield her scarred cheek.
He wished she’d chuck the blasted thing. She didn’t need it. But saying so might only embarrass her.
How many nights in the past month had he thought of what it might be like to bring Cassandra home?
He felt more awkward than he had imagined he would. When their knees brushed, when he pointed out his neighbors’ ranches on surrounding hills, indicated the train tracks that ran through the valley to reach the lumber mills, even when they simply sat and said nothing, a mountain of tension rippled between them.
It was as if they each didn’t trust the other. But why would she mistrust him? She was the one who’d turned him away in Chicago, more than once!
He was relieved when they finally approached the house. Red-colored dogwood lined the perimeter of the quarter-mile laneway. The buggy whisked into the shade of the big oaks as they neared the wide, two-story house. Sunlight danced off the clay roof, bounced on the walls of white-painted timber, and sparkled against blue shutters. A stone chimney dominated the north wall.
To the other side, one of his gardeners was painting the fence, his ranch hands were busy working at the two stables, and splendid horses galloped across the fields.
Cassandra turned her head to view the pretty sight. “How many horses do you keep?”
“Twenty-six at the moment. It’s gone as high as thirty-six. I rent them to neighbors, whenever they’re needed in the vineyards, or at harvest season, or sometimes for traveling. It works out well. My neighbors get the use of fine horses, and my animals get exercised.”
“And you get to buy and trade livestock. Impressive. What you’ve always wanted.”
He grinned at her perceptiveness.
The two sheepdogs came dashing out from the stables and circled around them, tails wagging.
Jack parked the buggy, signaled to one of the hands to come get it, and went to help Cassandra down from her seat. She didn’t need assistance this time. She managed to slide out before he got to her, skirts billowing in the wind, scarf flapping against her face.
She didn’t look well. Rather pale and shaken. “Are you feeling all right?”
She nodded. “It’s been a long journey.”
“I hope you’ll like it here.”
“It’s breathtaking, Jack.”
Her comment filled him with pride.
She smiled nervously, and when some of the men working in the vicinity cast their curious eyes her way, she stepped closer to Jack. The dogs swished their orange tails and panted at her. With a laugh, Cassandra bent down to say hello.
“Meet Caesar and Queenie,” he told her.
She gave them a pat and a rub behind the ears. “By your names, it sounds as though you rule this place.”
“Jack!” called his hefty foreman. “Sorry to bother you, sir. Got a scheduling problem with two of the mares.”
“Excuse me.” Jack left Cassandra’s side for a moment, conversed with his foreman, ironed out the dilemma and returned to her side.
His housekeeper and butler greeted Cassandra warmly when she entered the oak double doors. They were a married couple from England, Mr. and Mrs. Dunleigh. Although conservative in their ways, underneath their formal exterior, and once folks got to know them, they were very friendly. Jack had already explained to them the nature of Cassandra’s scar, that she’d been trapped in her burning home and that a timber had fallen across her face. She had dashed in after her father, to locate her sister upstairs. The other two hadn’t made it out alive, but Cassandra had been rescued by a volunteer fireman.
The Dunleighs discreetly ignored the visual marking.
“Miss Hamilton,” said the very tall housekeeper, whose gray hair was impeccably groomed. “Welcome to California.” Her gold-rimmed spectacles slid down her nose.
“Very nice to be here.”
“May I take your shawl?” asked her husband. He was six inches shorter than his wife and slightly hunched.
“Please.”
“And your hat?” asked Mrs. Dunleigh.
Cassandra hesitated, then slowly slid it off. No one paid her any mind. Jack hadn’t realized how tense he was about the whole hat thing until she finally gave it up, and he breathed out a sigh of relief.
He peered toward the table by the door, and the overflowing letter holder there.
“The mail came this morning, sir,” said Dunleigh. “Some correspondence appears to need your attention immediately. One letter is from the auction house in San Francisco.”
“I’ll get to it shortly.” There seemed to be a never-ending pile of paperwork from his suppliers and customers.
“Dr. McColton,” chirped the housekeeper, “I’ve set some refreshments on the terrace.”
“Very good.” Jack ushered Cassandra through the house.
He wished they would warm up to each other, but there was only strain. She took in the view as their boots tapped on the clay-tiled floors. Colorful rugs lay scattered in the sitting room between the horsehair sofas and chairs and fieldstone fireplace. Mexican artwork adorned the plaster walls. Twenty feet up, timber rafters crisscrossed the ceiling.
The kitchen, with two fireplaces, butcher-block counters, sideboards lining two walls, and a wide pine table, overlooked one of the terraces. The dining table could easily accommodate fourteen.
“My, Jack,” Cassandra said. “I had no idea your house was this huge. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Everything in California’s big. I didn’t notice.”
She tilted her head, eyes sparkling as if she didn’t quite believe him, and he noticed with a quickening of his pulse that there was some tenderness in her gaze.
“Shall we sit outside?” he asked.
She nodded. They made their way to the bamboo chairs beneath a trellis. Thankfully, the color had returned to her face, which was shaded by the lush fronds of the palm trees above. “What a gorgeous spot.”
Jack adored the view, too. It was why he’d decided to buy this piece of property. Land as far as the eye could see. Rolling vales and sloped vineyards that blended into a big blue sky. The scent of earth and wind, and a feeling that Mother Nature had taken extra care when she’d created Napa Valley.
“Sir,” interrupted the butler. “Two gentlemen to see you from San Diego.”
“Today? But they weren’t supposed to arrive till next week.”
“They mentioned they had business this way, sir, and wished to call on you today. Shall I—” Dunleigh glanced at Cassandra, who seemed to withdraw “—ask them to return next week?”
“Please go ahead, Jack.” Cassandra lifted a cool drink to her lips and sipped.
This wasn’t what he’d had in mind for her visit. He’d hoped to spend the whole day with her. However, the rest of the afternoon continued in the same manner. Every time they’d begin to talk, there’d be an interruption, and he was called away. Every time he’d try to lean over and say something more intimate than “Help yourself to another bite of cheese and grapes and walnuts,” one of the Dunleighs walked in with another announcement.
He found Cassandra outside two hours later, steps from the terrace, gazing at the colorful flowers and shrubs he and his gardeners took such pride in. She bent lower and sniffed a wild rose, a pink one, and her hair tumbled over her shoulder. She pushed it back with pretty fingers.
“Now I know where you got that beautiful bouquet.”
“Sorry for all the interruptions.”
“I think I’d better get back. There’s much I have to do for tomorrow.”
“Won’t you stay for dinner?”
“There’s something very charming about the tradition of being separated from the groom the night before the wedding. Don’t worry about me eating, I’ll order from the hotel. Sorry, I’m not very hungry now.”
He was concerned. “Are you feeling any better?”
“Yes, much.” Her eyes were brighter, her lips fuller and pinker.
“Do you need help with anything at the hotel? I’m sure Mrs. Dunleigh would be pleased to lend a hand. With your wardrobe, for instance.”
“I’ll be fine.”
He felt suddenly shut out of her life.
He understood she was a bride needing her privacy, but back in Chicago, she’d always shut him out of her thoughts and feelings. He shoved his hands into his pockets, brought back to their days there, when he’d been much younger and much more nervous around the fairer sex. Hell, he was a lot more experienced than he used to be, and being with Cassandra shouldn’t affect him. But the five years he’d spent carousing in saloons with entertaining women didn’t seem to help him now.
“I hope you’ll consider this a fine home, Cassandra,” he said.
“I look forward to it very much.”
He wondered whether he should show her the second floor, where the bedrooms were located—his, soon to be theirs—but decided not to. It would be awkward to press something so personal upon her, in full view of the staff, when he and Cassandra weren’t yet married.
“Tomorrow at six,” he reminded her. “I’ll have the Dunleighs come to your hotel at quarter to the hour to escort you to the church.”
She nodded and kept her distance.
He stayed at arm’s length, too. He wanted to kiss her, but his staff persisted in intervening. Cassandra didn’t seem to expect, nor did she appear to miss the fact that he didn’t approach her. When he was called away again by his foreman to check on a sluggish colt, Jack said goodbye to her and asked Mr. and Mrs. Dunleigh to accompany her to the hotel.
“We’ll see each other tomorrow,” Jack said.
“Have a good evening,” she replied, as cool as a moonbeam. She pulled her shawl around her slender shoulders and was gone.
* * *
He hadn’t kissed her!
Hours later, alone in her hotel room with a towel wrapped around her newly washed hair, Cassandra still couldn’t believe the slight. It was all she’d thought of since the moment they’d parted, during her ride back to town with Mr. and Mrs. Dunleigh, and during her bath on the lower floor of the hotel.
She stared at his pink roses on the nightstand. She’d placed them in a vase beside the lone lantern, which cast a dim glow. Why hadn’t Jack tried to kiss her? Had he found her repulsive?
She didn’t think so, for he was about to marry her. Most men wouldn’t wed a woman unless they found her appealing in some way. Besides, the way his burning gaze sometimes raked over her, she knew with a rush to her pulse that he sometimes found her attractive.
Perhaps he’d wanted to be affectionate, but the sight of her marred cheek had stopped him.
She couldn’t imagine how their wedding night would go. Was that promise of sexual excitement in his dark brown eyes deceiving? Or would his physical skills match the apparent appetite in his hungry gaze? If he was a passionate man, then why in blazes hadn’t he kissed her?
Some men put up a good act, pretending to be what they weren’t. Troy Wainsborough had been a prime example. On the surface, he’d been a successful attorney, a protégé of her father’s at his law offices. She’d been coaxed and prodded for years in his direction by her father. Beneath the surface, however, Troy had a darker side that involved drinking and loose women. He’d been belligerent to her, not a family man at all.
His cousin, Jack, who was taken in by Troy’s family at a young age upon the death of his parents, had always been labeled the black sheep. Her father had believed it, emphatically pointing out the young man’s disobedience to his aunt and uncle, his frequent brawls and his argumentative nature.
Cassandra’s misjudgment of Jack had come to light the night he’d left Chicago. Hours too late to apologize to him.
But here they had a second chance.
Dressed in her tattered nightgown, Cassandra lifted the hot iron she’d ordered from the front desk, and pressed it upon the limp lace of her wedding gown. Although the dress was thirdhand, passed down to her from Mrs. Pepik at the boarding house, Cassandra adored it. She gingerly ironed the collar and tended to the small creases beneath the bust.
At the thought of all her dear friends in Chicago, her chest ached with emptiness.
Everything here seemed so solitary.
She wished her sister were here to help her prepare for the wedding. She wished her father would be here tomorrow to walk her down the aisle. She wished she had a single friend in this town. Most fervently of all, she wished that Jack McColton had swept her up in his arms and kissed her as if she meant something to him.
With a catch in her throat, she set the iron aside. It was getting cool, and the ironing was finished. As practical as she was, Cassandra knew she’d better get some sleep tonight. But if she did have a true friend in this town, they would have spent the night talking, sharing thoughts about Chicago and what this new community was all about.
