he had begun his search for Eleanor, he’d given her future no more than a passing concern. Any woman would certainly want what he was offering: land, wealth and a prominent husband.
Women all over the state would envy Ivy.
All of a sudden he could not look at her. He lit the kindling and added three small logs, watching while the sparks caught and the tiny flames reached for wood.
He was beginning to fear that she was the one woman who would not want what he offered.
She wanted her sister, yes. But the rest?
Hearing water splash and Ivy laugh, he looked up.
“Got us a big fat one, Travis!” She held up her catch, waving it victoriously in her fists. Little Mouse slipped but caught Ivy’s shirt with four pink paws and scrambled inside her breast pocket. “Want one more?”
“That one’s big enough for three!” he called back.
For a moment, he tried to picture her in a frilly dress nipped tight at the waist like the ladies wore them. She would look lovely. There was no denying it. But would it make her happy?
From what she’d had to say about fashion so far, he doubted it.
All he could hope for was that she would learn to be comfortable with it. The future of everyone at the Lucky Clover depended upon her being willing to become elegant.
“Heat up the pan while I gut this critter,” she said, standing beside him now, her calves and ankles spotted with water that sparkled on her skin with the final rays of the setting sun.
He glanced up at her; the satisfaction of catching dinner bare-handed made her blue eyes light up with pleasure. The mouse crept out of her pocket then crawled up her shirt to sit on her shoulder.
Was it even possible for Ivy to become elegant? Would she end up with a crushed spirit, the same as had happened to her mother?
There would be no divorce for Ivy, though. No second chance at life. William English was not a cruel man, but he was ambitious. His wife would be a reflection of him. Perfection would be required of her.
Given who he was, William would be a perfect husband, a match to his perfect wife, at least in the public eye.
If that did not turn out to be the case privately, William would never allow divorce to ruin the ideal image.
“Better get that pan going!” This time Ivy’s voice came from beside the stream. “I’m so hungry I’d fight a bear for this fish!”
He watched her while he fetched the pan from his saddle pack.
Kneeling beside the water, she sliced the fish down the middle. Scooping out the innards, she tossed them into the stream.
They had spent thirteen nights on the road to Cheyenne. The first three had been sleepless misery, but not the last ten. In fact, night before last she had only woken him once, fearing that she heard a bear rustling in the shrubbery.
Which, she had. But the small brown critter had fled when Travis banged the fry pan and the kettle against each other.
“Gosh almighty, you’re brave!” she’d declared, grinning at him in clear admiration.
Then she’d slept on his side of the fire the rest of the night without waking. But last night she’d slept on her own side of the fire.
Funny how he’d been the one to wake up, hoping the sounds in the night would be Ivy Magee coming to lie beside him again.
As much as he knew it was wrong to want that, he’d continued to toss about, seeing images of her in his mind and wondering if...wondering nothing. Unrestricted wondering would be a big mistake.
Watching her now while the pan heated, smiling with pride at her filleted fish, he knew it was a damn good thing that they would reach Cheyenne in two days.
That was when he would need to begin making a lady out of Miss Eleanor Ivy Magee. She wouldn’t feel so friendly toward him then, and he might find it easier to resist her earthy charm.
There was no doubt that she was going to resist the restrictions on her dress and behavior. Looked at fairly, who was he to force them upon her?
Only the man fighting for the survival of the Lucky Clover and everyone on it.
He could only hope that after a time, she would come to see that this new life was for the best.
Given time, she would forget the ways of the river and embrace being a fine lady.
Curse it, that thought ought to put him at ease. All it did was turn his belly sour, keeping him from anticipating eating his share of that hand-caught fish.
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