Mary took the handkerchief from Faith and dried her eyes. "There isn't much to tell," she said. "It's very simple. I agreed to marry Pelham Cosgrove because he feels it's time he started a family. And I met his requirements for a wife."
"His requirements?" Faith bristled. "What requirements?"
"Looks, education, fine manners, and a certain amount of breeding." Mary smiled sadly.
"A certain amount of breeding? What does that mean?" Tessa demanded.
"It means he's the first gentleman I've met who has looked me in the eye, took note of my obvious Indian heritage, and still considered me enough of a lady to offer marriage instead of an affair."
"Oh, Mary, I can't believe your Cherokee blood makes any difference," Faith said. "He must really care for you."
"He really cares about our family's bank account," Mary told her.
"And you're willing to settle for that?" Tessa couldn't believe her ears.
"Yes," Mary answered fiercely. "I'm a twenty-eight-year-old spinster schoolteacher, and a half-breed to boot. Yes, I'm willing to settle for a husband, a home, and children of my own. I know the price is high, but I'm willing to pay it."
"But Mary…" Faith began.
"Look at me," Mary ordered, "and listen carefully. I need to marry Pelham. And although I'll miss it, I need to get away from the ranch. I need to get out from under Mother's wing and your shadows. I need to start living my own life. I love the two of you like sisters. I love your children and I enjoy teaching them, but I envy you. I want what you have. I want a family of my own. I feel
as if I'm missing so much. And every day I seem to die a little bit inside. I'm afraid that if I wait too long, I won't have anything to offer a husband. I'll be too old and too set in my ways and too bitter— always thinking about what might have been. I can't be a hanger-on anymore." Mary caught her breath as she began to cry once again. "1 don't like what it does to me. Don't you see? I'm afraid of what I'll become. I have to seize this opportunity."
"But Pelham Cosgrove…" Tessa protested.
"Please," Mary struggled to maintain her dignity, "try to understand. I know he's not what you wanted for me. He's not what I planned for me either, but"—she managed a wry smile—"as a half-breed Cherokee woman, I'm not likely to be overwhelmed by marriage offers, no matter how attractive or educated I am." She shrugged her shoulders. "Whether I like it or not, I'm too Indian for most white men, and too white for most Cherokee. I've discovered that life—at least my life— isn't like a fairy tale. Prince Charming isn't going to ride up on a white horse and sweep me off my feet." But even as she said it, an unbidden image sprang to mind—that of a blond-haired rogue with sparkling gray eyes, a voice that could melt butter, and a thick blond mustache that framed a most intriguing mouth. A blond-haired rogue who had, during each of their brief encounters, made her feel like the most desirable woman in the world.
Mary closed her eyes in an attempt to blank out the picture in her mind, and when her feeble effort failed, she tried a different tack. Fixing her gaze on the heavy pearl-encrusted ring on her left hand, she began to methodically replace her mental image of her Prince Charming, feature for feature, with a picture of Pelham Everhardt Cosgrove III, and prayed it would last a lifetime.
* * *
Chapter Two
Chicago, Illinois April 1873
Lately it seemed to Lee Kincaid that even his most meticulous plans had been derailed by unexpected events. And what was worse, he decided as he finished slapping the soot and cinders from his hat and stepped through the front door of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency on Washington Street, was that there didn't seem to be a damned thing he could do about it.
He dropped his leather satchel on the floor and looked up to find Allan Pinkerton's oldest son, William, sitting behind his desk. Lee took a deep breath, then let it out, and ran a hand through his hair, smoothing out the place where his hatband had molded it to his forehead. His trip to Washington had been plagued with problems, including the suicide of Senator Millen—the man he had gone to investigate. His scheduled return had been delayed by the state funeral.
Lee muttered a curse beneath his breath. His holiday would just have to wait a little longer. If he had learned one thing after twelve years of working for the Pinkertons— first with Allan, and now with his sons, William and Robert—Lee Kincaid knew the Agency would demand an immediate recounting of the status of the Millen case. He knew he wouldn't be allowed a respite until the Agency was satisfied with his report, but he hadn't expected William to be waiting in his office to get it firsthand.
"It's about time you got back," William greeted him.
"I just stepped off the train from Washington."
"You were expected back three days ago."
Lee shrugged out of his long canvas duster and draped it across the wrought iron hat and umbrella stand beside the door. Such was the life of a Pinkerton detective; always on the road traveling from one place to another, and always with unexpected delays and daily reports to file. He tossed his hat atop the duster. "I stayed for Senator Millen's funeral."
"I heard," William told him. "The death of a United States senator usually means problems—especially when it's rumored that he died of unnatural causes."
Lee snorted.
"Was it a suicide?"
"Mrs. Millen is saying her husband died of heart failure. That's the official story."
"What's your story?"