Frontier Matchmaker Bride

Was that a touch of color working its way into his firm cheeks? “I am not having this conversation with you.”

She smothered a laugh, keeping her tone pleasant. “Whyever not? It’s in your best interest. I certainly don’t want to waste my time on women you wouldn’t look at twice.”

“This whole thing is a waste of time,” he grumbled, shifting in his seat.

“Blonde, brunette, raven-haired, redhead?” Beth persisted.

He glanced toward the curtain covering the opening to the bakery kitchen, where the redheaded Maddie Haggerty was likely hard at work. “There’s something to be said for red hair.”

She’d wondered from time to time whether Hart had had a soft spot for the spunky Irish baker before Maddie had married her dashing husband, Michael. She must have been sitting too long, for the little chair seemed suddenly hard.

“Not too easy to find them,” she said. “What else?”

She heard his sigh. “Can’t you leave well enough alone?”

She almost gave up. His shoulders were tight, his hands braced on the table as if he wanted nothing more than to escape. She reached out, laid her hand atop one of his.

“I’m only trying to help, Hart.”

He blew out a breath. “I know. Being a matchmaker is a fine calling, for men who want a wife.”

Once more Beth smiled encouragement. “But not any wife. What’s the perfect woman for you?”

He straightened. “You want to hear what kind of woman I’d accept as a wife? Tall enough to fit under my chin, sunny hair, warm disposition, backbone to argue her side of the matter, grace to give in when she sees it’s important to me. Someone who understands what I do and respects me for it. You find me a woman like that, and I may have to rethink my decision not to wed.” He pushed back from the table and headed for the door.

Beth watched him go, too surprised to move. She’d thought it might be difficult finding him someone who met his criteria, but she knew a woman who embodied all those traits.

Her.

* * *

Hart strode down the boardwalk, the sound of his boots beating in time with his pulse. Why’d he give her a target to shoot at? Her brothers bragged that Beth was a crack shot. Once she set her sights on a lady, Hart was as good as married, even with so few women in the area.

“Hart! Deputy McCormick!”

Her breathless call pulled him up short. She hurried down the boardwalk after him, one hand clamping her dainty little hat to her head. The gray net veil fluttered behind her as if trying to escape. He knew the feeling.

“I said my piece,” he told her, widening his stance. What, was he planning to draw on her? Why did he feel as if he’d been backed into a corner by an outlaw gang bent on destruction?

“And I appreciate your candor,” she assured him as she came abreast. “But we haven’t determined our next steps.”

He started down the street for the sheriff’s office, where he’d left Arno with a feed sack. “You tried. No lady will have me. That’s the end of it.”

Her skirts flapped as she lengthened her stride to keep up with him. “I didn’t say no lady would have you, only the ones I’ve approached so far. I would never give up so easily. We have merely encountered a challenge.” She shot him a grin. “And I love challenges.”

Truth be told, he liked a challenge as well. But this was something more. “You said it yourself—there are only so many unmarried women in these parts. What can you do about a lack of ladies? The women Mercer brought back were all married within a year.”

“Except Lizzie Ordway,” she reminded him. “She chose to devote herself to teaching.”

“Wise woman.” He offered her his arm as they came to the end of the boardwalk, but she used both hands to gather her skirts out of the mud instead.

“I agree.”

She said it so firmly. Why did he doubt she believed it?

“If you and the Literary Society are so determined that every gentleman take a wife, why would you allow some ladies to avoid taking a husband?”

There was a prim set to her mouth. “Some people of either gender lack the spirit of compromise and congeniality necessary for a good marriage.”

“And what makes you think I’m not one of them?”

“Because I know you.”

So she thought, but Hart had gone out of his way to keep his past quiet, his present private. It was best not to make too many friends you’d only end up having to investigate one day.

“If you know me so well, you ought to understand this isn’t going to work,” he told her.

“Nonsense. I must insist that any number of fine, upstanding women might meet your criteria and win your heart, but for one thing.”

From what he’d seen, there were few enough women who could truly appreciate the life of a lawman on the frontier. But he found himself curious as to what might stop them from agreeing to his suit.

“What’s that?” he asked as they rounded the corner.

She met his gaze. “You.”

Hart jerked to a stop, then recovered himself. “Well, I could have told you that. And I’m not changing.”

“Not in character,” she assured him as he set out once more. “Although you might work on some traits. Patience, openness to new ideas...”

His glare only made her giggle. The happy sound could not fail but make him chuckle too.

“Very well,” she acknowledged as they neared the sheriff’s office. “You don’t want to change. Personally, I’m not sure why you would need to do much. I would have thought any lady could see from your exploits reported in the papers that you have high morals, an outstanding work ethic and a chivalrous nature.”

He wasn’t sure whether to thank her or laugh. What a paragon she thought him. He settled for a humph as they reached Arno. The gelding bobbed his head as if agreeing with everything Beth had said.

Traitor.

“If I’d make the perfect husband,” Hart said, “why is it a challenge to find me a wife?”

He’d hoped to prick her bubble of optimism, but she merely raised her chin, the breeze tugging at her platinum curls. “A woman wants more in a husband. She seeks a gentleman, a fellow who appreciates music, the arts.”

He raised a brow, and Arno snorted as if doubting Hart could ever measure up. “In Seattle?” Hart asked.

“Anywhere,” she insisted. “And I cannot believe you insensible to such refinement of spirit. You read literature.”

“Dime novels,” he reminded her. “Adventures, mysteries.”

“And what are the great novels of the past if not adventures. Dickens, Scott, Fenimore Cooper.”