She had bread to bake and floors to wax and a dozen other chores to finish before she could even sit down to eat breakfast herself! She gritted her teeth and got out the mixing bowl.
She was kneading dough on the flour-dusted wooden breadboard when a messenger boy pounded up the porch steps, rapped on the front door and thrust a telegram into her hand. She stuffed it into her apron pocket until she could plop the bread dough into the greased bowl to rise, and then she sat down on the back porch step, unfolded the square of paper and smoothed it out on her lap.
REGRET TO INFORM YOU OF MATTHEW COLLINGWOOD’S DEATH STOP YOU ARE SOLE HEIR OF BUSINESS ESTABLISHMENT IN SMOKE RIVER OREGON STOP INQUIRE SMOKE RIVER BANK STOP WILL STIPULATES HEIR MUST BE OF GOOD CHARACTER, OVER TWENTY-ONE YEARS, AND MARRIED STOP MYERS & WALDRIP, ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW STOP
She let out a hoarse cry. Surely she was dreaming! Sole heir? Oh, my stars and little chickens, she couldn’t believe it! She had always dreamed of being free of Mrs. Schneiderman, of being in charge of her own life. Of even having a life to be in charge of!
She read the telegram again, and tears swam into her eyes. Great Uncle Matty was her grandfather’s younger brother, but all she knew about the man was what Papa had told her. Uncle Matty was eccentric, and he was rich.
She read the telegram a third time. Where on earth was Smoke River, Oregon? Probably in the middle of some desert with no trees or flowers or houses or people or anything even remotely civilized. Oh, pooh, what did that matter? It was a chance to leave the endless drudgery of Mrs. Schneiderman’s boardinghouse! She had dreamed of leaving for years, dreamed of striking out on her own, but no matter how carefully she hoarded her meager earnings, it was never enough.
Could this one single telegram really change my life?
She scanned the message a fourth time and clapped her hand over her mouth. Married! The heir to Matthew Collingwood’s business had to be married.
“But I am not married,” she muttered. “I have never even been engaged.”
She gazed into the backyard where Lance was hammering new pickets on to the front of the henhouse. Suddenly she couldn’t take her eyes off him.
She shut them and groaned. Oh, mercy, no. Not in a million years would he consider such an idea.
Then she popped open her lids and bit her lip.
Or would he?
Marianne waited until Lance finished hammering the last picket on the henhouse, and then she slowly stood up. He pounded in one last nail and turned to go, then looked up and caught sight of her.
“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” she called.
He gave her a startled look. “Yeah, I guess so. Been so busy I hardly noticed.”
“I see that you have already repaired the henhouse.”
“Yeah. Wasn’t difficult.”
“Thank you.”
He stared at her for so long she wondered if she had carrots growing out of her ears. Finally he shifted his stance and ran one hand over his tanned face. “Is there something else you want done?”
“No. I mean, not exactly.”
He frowned. “What does that mean, ‘not exactly’?”
She looked everywhere but at him: the plum tree drooping with ripe fruit waiting to be preserved, the yellow rose rambling along the back fence, the clothesline strung from the corner of the house to the walnut tree ready for her to hang up the laundry.
He waited, his arms folded over his midriff. Finally she worked up her courage and drew in a long breath.
“Yes, Lance, as a matter of fact there is something I want you to do.”
“Okay. What is it?”
Marianne bit her lip again and pulled in a deep breath. “I want you to marry me.”
The hammer slipped out of his hand and thunked on to the grass. “Say that again? You want me to... What’d you say?”
“Marry me.”
“Huh?” His voice was so full of disbelief she almost laughed.
She swallowed. “Yes, that is correct. I want you to marry me.”
He combed his fingers through his unruly dark hair while the frown between his eyebrows grew deeper. Finally he licked his lips and opened his mouth.
“What the hell for?”
Deflated, she plopped down on the back step. “What do you mean, what for? I am making you a perfectly good offer of marriage. I should think ‘what for’ would be, well, obvious.”
He rocked back on his heels. “You mean married as in...husband and wife?”
“Yes.”
“As in...uh...living together under the same roof?”
“Yes.”
He hesitated. “As in...” he cleared his throat “...sleeping in the same bed?”
“Um...well, yes, I suppose so.” She hadn’t thought that far ahead, but no matter. She would work out the details later.
He gave her a long, skeptical look and advanced two steps closer to where she sat. “To be honest, Marianne, I never thought you liked me very much.”
Marianne blinked. “Why, whatever made you think that?”
“Maybe because you’re always ordering me around. Because you never say please or thank-you. Because in all the years I’ve been working for you, you never once even smiled at me.”
She shifted her gaze to the henhouse in the back corner of the yard. “I guess I was too busy cooking and ironing and polishing furniture to smile at anyone.”
Actually, it’s more than being too busy. I was too...well, unhappy to smile at anybody.
He was staring at her with the strangest expression on his face. And he hadn’t spoken a single word.
“Well?” she queried.
His lips pressed into a thin line. “Well, what?”
“Lance, I have inherited a business out in Oregon,” she said rapidly. “But I have to be married in order to claim it. So I need to know if you will marry me.”
The frown deepened. “What kind of business?”
“I don’t know what kind yet, but it doesn’t matter. It will be mine. All mine.”
He gave her a long look. “And
