Page 7 of A Week To Wed
I might have said too much about my neighbors. Knowing what I know of Maisy, all those tidbits will make her more curious. I’m not ready for Zeke to be smug about me following in his “mail-order bride” footsteps. Even if he went about it sideways. And Jonas Whitlock? That kid wouldn’t give me the time of day, and I don’t blame him, not after the way my dad cussed him out for leaving. Jonas was the best cowboy at Hall Ranch, and Dad expected unfailing loyalty from everyone around him. Anyone that struck out on their own was considered a traitor rather than simply competition. There was no such thing as “just business” with my Dad. Everything was personal.
It was no wonder Jonas’s dad, my brother, left the ranch young and went into school teaching.
And speaking of personal, I’m definitely not telling Maisy about my cousin in Bozeman who owns a dance studio. I haven’t seen James since Dad’s funeral. I wasn’t expecting him to show, and I feel bad I didn’t get much time to speak to him other than to accept his kind condolences.
I chew my food slowly and wait for Maisy to say something. Dang, this food is good. Lord knows how she got me to eat something green and not spit it out. Finally, I dab my mouth with a linen napkin she dug out from lord knows where, lean across the table and say to her, “That’s part of the reason I wanted a mail-order bride and a quick wedding in the first place. I don’t have any friends, and my family that’s still alive don’t like me.”
I should just tell her about the will. But then again, I know there’s plenty of stuff that Maisy isn’t telling me. She’s hiding out from someone or something. How will she fill out a guest list when she has no family or friends here, either?
Undeterred, she presses on. “The ranch hands, then. And their families. Plus, anyone in Darling Creek you do business with.”
A slight panicky feeling rises in my throat at the thought of my employees sitting around watching me get married. I like them all just fine, but I’m pretty sure that all I am to them is their boss. Who wants to feel obligated to come to their boss’s wedding? And Darling Creek? Sure, people know me. But I wouldn’t call them friends.
“I was hoping for something small,” I say, even as her gleaming smile falters. “Harley and Ray as witnesses. They can have plus ones, sure, if they want.”
She doesn’t know that at midnight Saturday, I turn 40. And according to my late father’s will, I need to be married by the second I turn 40, or the ranch goes into probate.
Yeah. Fucked up thing to do to your only heir, but that’s how strongly my dad felt about me not “settling down and giving him grandchildren.”
He got the last word, even in the afterlife.
Now, tonight, looking at Maisy across the table, eating her food, enjoying conversation with her, I’m starting to think I misjudged her. Yes, she’s a city girl. Yes, she’s maybe a little bit of a princess. And yes, she’s a soft, delicate little thing.
But she’s got a mind of her own, and she ain’t a shrinking violet. Come hell or high water, Maisy is determined to make a big fancy wedding happen in the middle of nowhere with very little notice. That takes some grit and gumption; I’ll give her that. She has my respect. And beyond that, her warm smile is so achingly pretty. All evening while shoveling hay, I kept thinking about how it felt when she’d thrown her arms around me at the airport. We’d just met, and she was utterly fearless. And then she’d pecked me on each cheek. Just a quick, soft touch of lips to my skin, but I can’t forget it. I’d gotten a whiff of her perfume, stirring something deep and untouched inside me.
I hadn’t guessed that I’d immediately be so physically attracted to her, but here we are.
Possessing the ability to turn me on so fast — a stubborn old curmudgeon — can erase a multitude of her consternating city-girl qualities. I’m a simple man with simple needs.
Simple is an excellent word to describe Maisy’s outfit tonight. I like this casual look better than her pink suit and heels from this morning. Tonight, she’s dressed in leggings and a pretty cream sweater that hugs her breasts, with a deep vee in the front that draws the eye down to the shadow of cleavage. I’m sure that apron can be adjusted to cover up most of that exposed flesh, but I’m not complaining. I know this getup is her attempt at dressing down, but there’s nothing “down” about it. Everything is up. My cock. My heart rate. All the hairs on my forearm. Way, way up.
The sunset streaming in through the windows behind me highlights the different colors in Maisy’s hair. Reds and blondes and golden browns. Her stormy eyes are wide and curious.
What the heck is she doing here with me, an old cowboy desperate to marry?
She continues to toss questions and ideas at me about the wedding as we eat.
“You don’t have any ridiculous superstitions about big splashy weddings foreshadowing a short marriage, do you, Lincoln?”
I wish I didn’t have to keep talking because I’m really enjoying her cooking. It’s so good I could lean across the table and kiss her.
“Sweetheart. When I get married, it’s forever. Ain’t no divorce happening for this old goat.”
I keep my eyes trained on Maisy as I return to cleaning my plate, appreciating the pink creeping into her cheeks. I like shocking her. It’s nice to know I can still manage to do that to a woman.
“You’re not old,” she says quietly, almost in a whisper.
My gaze falls to her chest for another moment, and I re-read the snarky words emblazoned there, making me smirk at how untrue they are.
Maisy’s not the secret ingredient. She’s the main one, and I’m starving.
ChapterFour
Maisy
It’s been eight hours since I arrived at Hall Ranch, and I’m ready to jump my groom’s bones.
Day one is done, and Lincoln hasn’t made a move. That’s alright, I think as I lie in bed across the hall from him. Maybe he’s shy with the romantic stuff.
