The American Heiress Brides Collection Read online

  “The potatoes are nearly ready.” She set to stirring the frying pan as if her life depended on it.

  And he had the uneasy sensation his life might depend on what next she said to him. Or didn’t say.

  “I’m not hungry, either.” He crossed the distance separating them and touched her elbow. “What’s wrong, Genie?”

  She shivered as his breath ruffled tendrils of hair dangling about her ear. “Nothing.”

  Eugenia scooted out of his reach. “Let me finish what I started, please.”

  There was a hard edge to her voice. A tone he hadn’t heard since that first day in Silver Strike.

  She plunked the platter of fried potatoes onto the table. She took an extraordinary amount of time—or so he thought—wiping clean her work space. Fiddling with the stove. Adjusting the plates and napkins. Stalling?

  His stomach cramped. Two plates. Two napkins. Two sets of utensils. What was happening here? Why wouldn’t she look at him?

  She crouched beside his grandmother in the rocking chair. “Thank you for everything, Granny. For teaching me so much.” Her voice quavered. “F–For seeing something in me I never imagined about myself.”

  “Genie—” He stopped at Granny’s upraised palm.

  His grandmother touched Eugenia’s cheek with one gnarled finger. “God has great plans for you. Plans for a future and a hope. Never forget. Trust and believe.”

  With an abrupt motion, Eugenia rose, her skirt swaying. “Could we talk outside, Cort?”

  And what he saw in her eyes made him want to run. To hide.

  But he could do none of those things. His chest tightened as he followed her out to the corral. Leaning over the railing, the horses softly nickered.

  She smoothed her hand over the bay’s neck. “If you’d allow me to borrow a horse, I’ll make sure he’s returned to you.”

  He cleared his throat, thick with smoke inhalation and emotion. “Where’re you going, Genie?”

  She flinched. “I’m not Genie. I’m Eugenia Alice Rutherford, silver heiress. And it’s time I started acting like who I really am.”

  Eugenia gulped. “Who I was always born to be.”

  He took hold of her arm. “You can be whoever you choose to be. Together we can—”

  “That’s just it, Cort.” With great deliberation, she placed herself out of his reach. “There is no ‘together.’ There can never be an ‘us.’”

  Eugenia scanned the blackened fields and barn. In her expression he beheld a wistfulness, an aching sadness. And a steely resolution.

  “Such a lovely, lovely dream. But only a dream.” She shook herself. “From which, however, we must now awaken.”

  “I don’t understand.” He gritted his teeth so hard, his jaw ached. “I lov—”

  “Don’t.” She fell against the corral gate. Panic streaked across her face. “Don’t say anything else. Something you’ll regret. Something which can’t be undone.”

  “I don’t regret a single moment I’ve spent with you over the last month. I realize you’re scared.”

  He raked his hand over his head. His hat fell into the dust. “I’m scared, too. But don’t stand there and deny what I’ve felt for you and what I know you’ve felt for me isn’t real. Real love isn’t safe. It’s the biggest risk of all.”

  Eugenia’s eyes flashed. “I’m more like my father than I supposed. A risk taker when it comes to big decisions. Willing to throw my lot and life where there’ll be a better return on my investment.”

  He stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve decided to accept McCallum’s proposal.”

  “Why would you do that?” He seized her arm. “You can’t—”

  She flung off his hand. “I’m Junius Rutherford’s daughter. I can do anything I want. And what I want is to marry the copper king.”

  “You don’t mean that. You can’t mean that. You love me. I know you love me.”

  She gave him a pitying look. “Don’t be naive. Whether I love you or not is irrelevant in the larger scheme of things.”

  “Then enlighten me, Eugenia.” His mouth thinned. “What is this about?”

  “It’s about my future.” Her lips tightened. “And not to be cruel, but your lack thereof.”

  She looked at him down the length of her long, patrician nose. A feat, considering he topped her height by at least a foot. A gesture, which reminded him of the other Eugenia. And stirred an old anger that until now he believed he’d put behind him.

  “It’s about regaining Daddy’s good graces. About not losing my inheritance. Taking my rightful place in society. And refurbishing my sadly neglected wardrobe.”

  He clenched his fists. “You’re lying. I don’t understand where this is coming from, but I know you. This isn’t you.”

  “Don’t be presumptuous, Cortland Dahlgren. You know nothing about the real me. What could a homesteader like you understand about the needs and desires of an heiress like—”

  Her words shattered what little control he had left over his emotions. Wrapping both hands around her upper arms, he yanked her against his chest.

  She pressed her hands against his shirt and shoved. “Get your hands off me.”

  He didn’t budge so much as an inch.

  “Allow me to demonstrate, Miss Rutherford. One last time, how well this homesteader understands an heiress.” His mouth contorted. “Or at least, one particular heiress.”

  Crushing her lips with his own, he kissed her. For all he was worth. For all she meant to him. For all they’d meant to each other.

  She made a sound in the back of her throat. Her knees buckled. She would’ve fallen to the ground, but he held her hard and fast.

  “Cort …” she whispered, when he allowed her a breath.

  She laced her hands behind his head and combed her fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck. Closing her eyes, she kissed him back.

  Thoroughly. Tortuously. Giving as good as she got.

  He tottered. He would’ve fallen, except her hands propped either side of his shoulders and held him fiercely upright.

  “Genie …”

  Her eyes flew open. “No!” She thrust him from her.

  Stumbling, he caught the fence.

  Her eyes were wild, like a bird desperate to free itself from a snare. “This can’t happen. I won’t let this happen. I’m leaving.”

  Cort hardened his heart against the raw hurt swirling through his gut. “You’re making a mistake. Don’t do this. If you leave me standing here, I promise you nothing will turn out as you hope.”

  She brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “You have no idea what I hoped. But hopes are for fools. And we can afford to be neither hopeful nor foolish.”

  Cort’s heart pounded against his rib cage. “What makes you think McCallum will want you after you threw his proposal in his face in Sacramento?”

  “How did—? Never mind.” She rolled her eyes. “It was never me he was after. Therefore, no bruised pride on his part. He was after a shipping agreement via matrimony with one of Daddy’s railroad enterprises. What I’m doing is for the best.”

  “Better for whom?”

  She led the horse out of the corral. “Better for us both.” She used the edge of the water trough to climb onto its bare back.

  But as she headed toward the road, his hope disappeared in a cloud of dust. And he knew nothing could ever be right for him again.

  Chapter 9

  She didn’t mean it, Cort. That wasn’t our girl talking.”

  He held himself taut, his anger barely leashed. “Maybe the plain and simple truth is we saw what we wanted to see. She never changed. She’s still the same selfish snob she always was.”

  The rocking chair creaked. Gripping the armrests, Granny lumbered to her feet. He turned from his bitter contemplation of the blackened ruins of the barn—and his life—to lend his support.

  “It’s because of that girl you call self-centered that I’m able to walk and
be about my business.”

  “But—”

  “It’ll take more than palsy to put this old lady under. And don’t sell Eugenia short. Have faith in what you feel for her. Have faith in the strong, godly young woman she’s shown herself to be.”

  “She’s shown herself all right.” His nostrils flared. “I ought to ride over there and give her the surprise of her life.”

  “Cort—”

  He scowled. “Telling her what I should’ve said the moment she found herself mired in the mud on Main Street.”

  “Cort—”

  He clapped his hat onto his head. “We’ll see how high and mighty she is when the truth comes out.”

  Granny shook her head. “You should pray about this first. Before you do anything.”

  He grimaced. “If I cut through the woods, I’ll reach the ranch ahead of her.”

  “Don’t make things worse. Please …”

  But he didn’t see how things could get much worse.

  The anger was the only thing keeping him on his feet. If he stood still even for a minute, the despair of shattered dreams would pierce his heart. Numbness would be a blessing. Anything to soothe the pain.

  He skirted the road and rode the horse hard. Through the piney forest and over the ridge, he hunched over the horse’s mane. Clamping his hat on his head, he let the horse run. He bit his lip so hard he tasted the metallic, copper taste of his own blood.

  Barreling into the stable yard at the McCallum mansion, he swung to the ground.

  He stalked past the startled stable boy and strode across the stone terrace like he owned the place. Which was just too funny. Considering why he was here.

  Through the french doors, he charged into the parlor with its soaring, beamed ceiling and panoramic mountain view. He pushed past Mrs. Anderson, mouth agape.

  “Where is he?” He jerked his head toward the hall. “The library?”

  “Mr.—wait!” Her heels click-clacked behind Cort as she hurried to match his long strides along the corridor.

  He flung open the door and barged inside, only to be confronted by the tall, leather back of the desk chair. The chair swiveled.

  Cort glared at the man behind the desk. “I’m done with you.”

  The knocker banged on the front door, and the man’s bushy eyebrows ascended. Apologetic, Mrs. Anderson bustled inside the library.

  Cort jabbed his finger at her. “You were supposed to be working for me, not him.” The pounding on the door continued.

  The man’s aristocratic mouth twitched. “I believe I have more than one surprise visitor today.”

  “I’m not playing your game anymore.” Cort sneered. “You two deserve each other. I’ve had it up to here”—he brought the side of his hand level to his forehead—“with the both of you.”

  The man looked beyond him to Mrs. Anderson. “I think you better answer that now. Before our guest—Eugenia, I assume from our friend’s apoplectic state—knocks down the door.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Right away, sir.” Taffeta skirts quivering, Mrs. Anderson dropped a curtsy.

  The man raised his index finger. “Oh, and Mrs. Anderson?”

  Midmotion, she halted.

  “Give us about five minutes, if you please.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  Mrs. Anderson bobbed another small curtsy before closing the library door behind her.

  Cort rolled his eyes. “Anybody ever dare to tell you that you’re not really a king?”

  The man steepled his long-fingered hands on the mahogany desk. “Nor Eugenia a princess. But it’ll take a stronger, braver man than me to break the news to her.” His steely blue eyes twinkled. “Are you volunteering?”

  Not trusting himself to speak, Cort wanted to smash something. Anything. He settled for crushing his hat between his hands.

  The front door squeaked on its hinges. Mrs. Anderson’s soft rejoinders turned into muffled exclamations of alarm.

  “If you’d permit one more piece of advice?” Cocking his head, a self-satisfied smirk settled on the man’s patrician features.

  Cort ground the hat between his hands.

  “Your choice, of course.” The man’s elegantly clad shoulders shrugged. “Perfectly within your rights to refuse.”

  His temper rose at the man’s overweening arrogance.

  “It might yet prove to be in your best interests not to show yourself to Eugenia right away.” The man flicked a languid hand toward the brocade drapes. “Perhaps if you’d step behind—”

  “You can’t seriously be asking me to hide behind the curtain while you … You and she …” Cort slapped the hat against his thigh.

  “Please, Cort. I’m praying you won’t give in to a rash impulse.”

  He swallowed. Praying … Granny was right as usual—something he should’ve done before ever entering into this farce.

  Watching this thing play out, he’d be further humiliated, trapped between them. But without another word, he slipped behind the curtain’s concealing folds.

  Through the fabric, he caught the creak of the chair as the man once more faced away. And in the foyer, he heard Eugenia’s shrill demands to see Mr. McCallum.

  Why had he come here? To have his nose rubbed into her rejection and her willingness to sell her soul to the copper king?

  He leaned his forehead against the cool windowpane. Outside, a robin sang cheerily. Inside, his heart was heavy.

  “I’ve come to see Mr. McCallum, and I won’t be denied, Mrs …?” For the first time, Eugenia faltered.

  The gray-haired woman in her early sixties curled her lip. “Why a nursemaid from the homestead next door need know my name, I’m sure I don’t know.”

  Eugenia bristled, defense of the homestead on the tip of her tongue. But just in time, she remembered her purpose. No need to make an enemy yet. Not until this dragon lady gatekeeper allowed her access to the copper king.

  Once she became McCallum’s wife, she and this haughty housekeeper would have a conversation. About who was who and what was what. She wasn’t Junius Rutherford’s daughter for nothing.

  She jutted her chin. Nobody did haughty better than Eugenia Alice Rutherford. She frowned. Or than the person she used to be. The person she wasn’t so proud of now.

  The woman glanced at the watch fob pinned to her embroidered shirtwaist. But as Eugenia contemplated ramming the door, the woman stepped aside. And ushered Eugenia into the massive foyer.

  “Right this way, if you please, miss. And it’s Mrs. Anderson to yourself.”

  Anderson … Where had she heard that name? She followed Mrs. Anderson past an ornate display of fresh flowers.

  Mrs. Anderson’s knuckles rapped briskly on a pine-paneled door. Hearing a muffled “Come,” she turned the knob and swept Eugenia inside. “Eugenia Rutherford, sir.”

  She’d barely time to register the book-lined walls, expensive oil paintings, the mahogany desk and leather chair before …

  … before Mrs. Anderson closed the door behind Eugenia with a soft click. Leaving her alone in the room—

  The chair creaked.

  Her heart palpitated. She wasn’t alone. Her palms turned sweaty.

  At the homestead, the way ahead seemed clear. But now … now her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth.

  She had only vague recollections of the copper king coming to Sacramento last winter. She remembered a brown derby, the rough, scratchy beard, and dark eyes.

  Eyes which became stormy when she had the butler throw him out onto the street. She winced, recalling her high-handed behavior.

  Would McCallum hear her out? Or do the same to her? No worse than she deserved.

  Her knees quaked beneath her skirts. She smoothed her hands down her dress and frowned at the roughness of her palms against the silk. Mr. McCallum would laugh at her seen-better-days dress and callused hands.

  She straightened. She had nothing to be ashamed of. Her hands were the result of clean, honest work. A badge of honor. And i
f McCallum—

  Behind the chair, he cleared his throat.

  Eugenia squared her shoulders. “Mr. McCallum, I’d like a word with you about an important matter of mutual benefit.”

  Silence, except for the steady ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner near the green drapes.

  Eugenia pursed her mouth. “I’d like to apologize for our last meeting.”

  Tick. Tick. Tick. Or was that the beating of her heart?

  “Our last meeting.” She moistened her lips with her tongue. “At my father’s house. In February. Mr. McCallum?”

  Her breathing accelerated. He didn’t bother to face her. Of all the rudeness …

  But she caught herself. After the way she’d acted, she had no right to expect anything. And if she had to eat crow to save the homestead, she’d do that and more.

  Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Time was running out.

  “I’ve come to tell you that I’ve reconsidered the kind offer of your marriage proposal.”

  The man shifted in the seat, but otherwise, he said nothing.

  She plowed ahead. “I realize how wrong I was to be so prideful. But I’m throwing myself on your mercy and asking you to reconsider marrying me.”

  Only the incessant ticking of the grandfather clock filled the study.

  She took a deep breath. “Let’s be honest, though. You don’t love me, and I don’t love you. You want access to my father’s railroad.”

  Eugenia knotted her fingers in her dress. “I’ve greatly wronged my father. But he loves me—a love I took for granted until lately. I think I can make things right with him regarding the transportation of your copper. I’m willing to surrender my claim to his fortune.”

  Now for the hard part. “I need only one thing from you in return.”

  The chair tilted as the man sat forward.

  “I—I need you to sign the homestead deed over to Cort Dahlgren, free and clear of any debts.” There, she’d said it.

  “Why?”

  She jolted at his clipped voice. “B–Because …” Tears stung her eyes.

  Eugenia dashed away the tears with the back of her hand. “Because I love Cort Dahlgren, and he loves that farm. I’d gladly spend the rest of my days working the homestead with him, but he needs the farm more than he needs me as his wife.”