Impossible Bride

Serves you right, Trick O'Connor. If ye keep thinkin' the rules of this world don't apply to ye, then ye deserve to have it come back up and whack ye in the face now and then. Just look at her. Patrick O'Connor stared hard at the woman standing alone beside the train tracks. She was so different than what he'd expected. He'd only caught a glimpse of her before, a few months earlier, but there was something about her now he was sure he hadn't seen before. What were ye thinking, lad? Patrick had grown used to his conscience--what little of a conscience he had--speaking to him in the lilting brogue of his late wife. There was rather a poetic justice to it. Then again, there were times--such as this particular moment--where it bothered him immensely. There Deborah Edgerton stood, the locomotive's great, greasy exhale billowing around her delicate form. Was it fair to instruct her to get off the train here rather than Galveston? No, it wasn't. There was a great deal about this that was unfair, and he had planned it that way. Patrick watched her take in her surroundings. He followed the gentle curve of her spine as she drew herself up. She mustered her courage with more grace than he had anticipated. Damn. She wasn't supposed to look like that. To be like that. It changed everything. No, it doesn't, he told himself, but he was already certain that he was wrong. He started toward her, then stopped himself. He wasn't ready. Why the hell wasn't he ready yet? "Lovely welcome," she said to no one in particular, reaching down to brush the dust from her skirts. She had pleasant hands. Keep to the plan. Think, don't look. He stepped into the sunlight and stood, waiting for her gaze to find him. The way surprise lit up her eyes was very nice indeed. The plan, Trick. Remember the plan. "And welcome to you, too," he finally said, pulling himself up to his full height. Being a man of his size had its advantages. She eyed him above the rim of her spectacles. He'd forgotten she wore spectacles, even though it was highly unusual for a woman to have them. Wait for it, he told himself. She'll know. Her eyes were sharp and clear, even from this distance. He took two steps toward her, watching the surprise slowly disappear from her eyes to be replaced by an analytical stare. He touched a finger to the brim of his hat. "Hello . . ." he continued, spoon-feeding her a response in the voice one might use to cue a small child. She glared at him. She didn't understand yet. He expected this to produce a bit of fear, but she dismissed him instead with a wave suitable for gnats. Erect, she sidestepped him and headed for the station door. Lord Almighty. He let out an astounded whistle over the train's parting churns. He heard her mutter something as she put her hand on the station door handle. And then it came. He watched the wave of recognition start at her shoulders and travel down through her fingertips, right down into the pit of his own stomach. Steady, man, steady. With an infuriation that was just plain delightful to watch, she strode back to dump her hatbox at his boots. He couldn't hold back a smile. She knew. "You're not!" she snapped out. "I am." He thrust his hands into his pockets. "You are not Pat O'Connor." "Pat-trick. Patrick. Most everyone around here, though, calls me 'Trick'." Without warning, she plunged the pointed end of her parasol into his gut. "I can see why! This is fraud!" "Fraud?" No doubt about it, Deborah Edgerton was a damn far sight from what he had expected. "I imagine this comes as no surprise to you, Mr. O'Connor"--her voice pitched on the "Mr."--"but Pat O'Connor is supposed to be female." [read more]