Chapter Three
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Emily was holding a grudge. Her glares and her stony silence were vastly amusing* but Travis didn't dare laugh or even crack a smile. She'd know then he thought her behavior was humorous* and he'd never hear the end of it.
She didn't speak to him again until they stopped in midafternoon to rest their horses. At least that was the excuse he'd given her. She seemed to believe the lie too. He really called a halt so that she could rest her backside. She wasn't much of a horsewoman* and the way her bottom kept slamming against her saddle* added to the pained look on her face* told him she was taking quite a beating.
The poor woman could barely stand up straight when she finally managed to get down to the ground.
She wouldn't let him help her and didn't think his exaggeratedly wounded expression was the least bit funny.
Because they'd ridden a good distance up the steep mountain path* the air was much colder. He took the time and trouble to start a campfire so she could shake off the chill. They ate a sparse lunch in silence* and just when he was beginning to think the trip wasn't going to be completely miserable* she went and ruined it.
"You did it on purpose* didn't you* Travis? Admit it* then apologize to me* and I just might forgive you."
"I didn't do it on purpose. You were supposed to hook your right leg over the pommel* remember? You were the one who insisted on riding sidesaddle. How was I to know you'd never done it before?"
"Ladies in the South ride sidesaddle*" she announced.
He could feel a headache coming on. "But you're not from the South* are you? You're from Boston."
"What does that have to do with the price of pickles? Southern ladies are more refined. Everyone knows that* which is precisely why I've decided to be Southern."
He could feel the throbbing behind his temples. "You can't decide to be Southern."
"But of course I can. I can be anything I want to be."
"Why Southern?" he asked in spite of his better judgment.
"The little drawl in a lady's speech is considered very feminine and musical. I've done a complete study of it* and I assure you I know what I'm talking about. I believe I've perfected the drawl too. Would you like to hear me say—"
"No* I would not. Emily* not all southern ladies ride sidesaddle."
The glare she gave him made him sorry he'd brought up the subject of saddles again.
"Most southern women do*" she said. "And just because I have never ridden sidesaddle before doesn't mean I couldn't have managed it if you hadn't interfered. You deliberately threw me over that horse* didn't you? I could have broken my neck."
He wasn't going to take the blame for her ineptness. "I merely gave you a hand up. How was I to know you'd keep on going? Is your shoulder still sore?"
"No* and I do appreciate the fact that you rubbed the sting out of it for me. Still* my dress is now covered with dirt* thank you very much. What will Clifford O'Toole think of me?"
"You've been wearing a pair of gloves with a large bullet hole through them. He'll probably notice that before anything else. Besides* if he loves you* your appearance won't matter to him."
She took a bite of her apple before she made up her mind to set him straight.
"He doesn't love me. How could he? We've never met."
He closed his eyes. Conversing with Emily was proving to be as difficult as trying to win an argument with his brother Cole. It was hopeless.
"You're going to marry a man you've never met? Isn't that kind of odd?"
"Not really. You've heard of mail-order brides* haven't you?"
"You're one of those?"
"Sort of*" she hedged. She was* of course* but pride kept her from admitting it. "Mr. O'Toole and I have corresponded* and I believe I've come to know him quite well. He's an eloquent writer. He's a poet too."
"He wrote poems to you?" he asked with a grin.
Her chin came up a notch. "Why is that amusing?"
"He sounds like a… pansy."
"I assure you he isn't. His poems are beautiful. Will you quit grinning at me? They are beautiful* and it's apparent to me that he's a very intelligent man. You may read his letters if you don't believe me. I have all three of them tucked inside one of my satchels. Shall I fetch them for you?"
"I don't want to read his letters. You still haven't explained why you're so determined to marry a stranger."
"I tried marrying someone I knew* and look how that turned out."
"You decided on this course of action after you got jilted* didn't you?"
"Let's just say that it was the last disappointment I was going to suffer."
"Is that so?" he remarked* wondering how she was going to prevent further disappointments.
She seemed to read his thoughts. "I stayed up all that night… my wedding night*" she said.
"Crying?" he asked.
"No* I didn't cry. I spent the entire night thinking about my circumstances* and I finally came up with a plan that I believe will change everything. I've always been forthright and honest. Well* no more* thank you very much."
"How come you're being honest with me?"
She shrugged. "I shouldn't be* I suppose. Still* I
won't ever see you again after today—at least I don't think I will—so it doesn't matter if you know I'm a fraud. No one else will."
"Trying to be something you aren't will only make things worse."
She didn't agree. "Being me didn't do me a lick of good* and once I figured that out* I decided to reinvent myself. I was sick and tired of working hard and being so boringly practical all the time."
"You're overreacting* that's all." And crazy* he silently added. "Your pride was wounded* but you'll get over it."
His cavalier attitude irritated her. "I know exactly what I'm doing* and pride doesn't have anything to do with my decision. Working hard hasn't gotten me anywhere. Shall I give you an example?"
She didn't wait for his answer* but plunged ahead. "Randolph was studying to become a banker. He was just beginning his last year at the university when we became officially engaged. His studies were difficult for him* and because of his grades* he was worried he'd be asked to leave. I told him that if he wouldn't accept every social invitation that came to him* he would have time for his studies* but he wouldn't listen to me. He asked me to help him with his research* and because I was such a ninny and wanted to please him* I ended up writing several lengthy papers for him. He was supposed to use the papers as his study guide* but I later found out he put his name on the top of the first page and handed them in to his professors. It was a dishonest thing to do* of course* and do you know what his punishment was? He took honors for his last year's work and was hired by one of the most prestigious banks in Boston. He started out making an impressive salary* and that was when my sister became interested in him. Ironic* isn't it? If I hadn't helped him* he wouldn't have gotten such a fine position* and my sister would have left him alone.