Susan Fox - To Tame a Bride

“Hastings is eager to meet you, dear,” her mother went on, oblivious to the painful silence on Madison’s end of the line. “He wants you to come up to Aspen for the weekend. All the children will be here—”

Madison lifted her head as an agony of hope and excitement stormed through her. She’d never ever been invited anywhere by her mother. She was acutely aware of how long it had been since she’d even seen Rosalind, because some part of her heart had kept constant track. Twelve years, three months, a few odd weeks, a handful of days...

The reminder sent a flash of outrage through her as the truth dawned. The new husband—Hastings?—must have asked more questions than any of Roz’s other men had had the sense to. Rosalind probably felt compelled to summon her ugly duckling daughter to her side. Had she somehow found out that Madison had at long last grown into a swan? Maddie knew instantly that she would be expected to parade herself before Roz’s new husband and stepfamily to provide her errant mother with some sort of legitimacy and standing with them.

Hastings must be a billionaire.

The cynical thought came naturally to Madison. Her mind darted between the only two options she had, yes or no.

Yes, I’ll come today... No, you never wanted me...

Yes to the glimmer of hope? No to the nightmare of pretense. The pain and resentment of a lifetime gave her pride a hard nudge.

“I—I don’t know when I can get away,” she made herself say.

“Oh dear, we’ll only be here until Sunday afternoon!” The coaxing whine Madison had forgotten stirred up more old anger and made her grit her teeth.

“I’ll see what I can do, mother. It’s so hard to get away on such short notice.”

Rosalind was oblivious to the little dig. “Oh, sweetheart, do please try. Hastings and the children will be so disappointed. I’ll be just devastated if you can’t come up...” She let her voice trail away as if she’d become too emotional to go on.

Someone on Rosalind’s end of the line must have been close enough to eavesdrop, which accounted for her Oscar-worthy performance. Madison was suddenly and profoundly sick to her stomach.

“I’ll try, Mother,” she finally got out.

“Oh, that’s my darling.” Roz’s tone switched so quickly to business that she confirmed Madison’s suspicion that Roz’s pleading just seconds ago was a puton because she had an audience she wanted to impress.

Roz prattled off a series of directions to the Aspen residence—one of Hastings’s five homes in the U.S. Madison didn’t bother to write them down. Because they were her mother’s words, she’d remember each one as if they’d been carved on her heart with a dull knife.

Clearly confident that Madison would rush to Aspen, Roz ended the brief conversation and hung up.

Madison sat stiffly, dazed, her heart still beating wildly, her stomach still heavy with nausea. The dial tone droned unnoticed for several moments. Finally, she realized she was still pressing the receiver to her ear. She pulled it away and reached over to set it in its cradle. Her hand was shaking violently.

Madison retreated to her room and spent most of Friday pacing. How could Rosalind expect her to fall all over herself to get to Colorado? How could she possibly stay away? The dilemma tied her in knots that seemed to be spiked with thousands of sharp little pins.

She wrestled with the choice, reliving the pain of a lifetime, so wary of opening herself for more that she was literally unable to reach a decision that didn’t make her feel ill. By the time she went to bed that night, her head was pounding. She managed to sleep only because she’d worn herself out.

By morning, she convinced herself that she had to go to Colorado, and called the airlines in San Antonio to book a flight. She soon discovered that the world had conspired to keep her in Texas at least another day.

At first, she was merely annoyed that every flight with connections to Colorado was booked. By midmoming, she was desperate. She’d tried to hire a private flight out of Coulter City, but there were no local pilots available that day, no matter how much money she offered.

Just as she was about to pack and drive to San Antonio to wait on standby or hire a private flight from there, someone from the local airport called her to report that a private pilot had a cancellation and might be available for hire.

Madison rushed upstairs to her room where a maid was hastily packing her clothes.

“Not the gray silk, Charlene,” Madison said irritably as she snatched the delicate blouse from the garment bag and tossed it aside.

Her nerves were ragged and her tone was sharper than she’d meant, but she ignored the impulse to apologize and paced the room for a few moments while she supervised the packing. It was better not to become too approachable. She didn’t want to encourage a personal relationship with any member of her staff. She’d made that mistake in the past and had lived to regret it.

Growing more restless by the moment, she stalked to the bathroom to gather her toiletries for herself—she never trusted a maid with the task of ensuring that every one of her makeup and hair care items were packed.

Finally, she changed her clothes. She selected a red cotton blouse and a pair of khaki bush pants. The lowheeled hiking boots she chose were made of finegrained leather and lightweight suede. Ankle high, the boots had been chosen more for their chic, outdoorsy look than any true practicality, but they went well with the outfit.

Insecurity made her freshen her makeup, check her polished nails and carefully brush her hair before she scrutinized her image in the mirror. Would her mother even recognize her? Madison turned her head this way and that, searching critically for a glimmer of the homely child she’d been.

Her frequent trips to San Antonio to have her dull blond hair tinted a bright shade just short of platinum was well worth her time and money. She was fanatical about frequent touch-ups and trims. The sleek, collar-length pageboy cut, with the back trimmed slightly shorter than the sides, was simple, elegant and easy to maintain.

Her complexion was clear and the array of skin care products she used kept it flawless. Her delicate features had evened out, her teeth were pearly white and perfectly straight after years of braces, and her slim figure was femininely curved and rigidly maintained by a careful diet. Only the deep blue of her eyes was the same.

Thrilled that the image in the mirror would surely exceed anything her mother could have hoped for, Madison grabbed her handbag and small case, then rushed from the bathroom. Her luggage had already been taken down to the car.

Her heart was pounding with excitement and dread by the time she settled on the backseat of her Cadillac and the chauffeur closed the gleaming black door. In seconds, they were speeding through Coulter City to the small airport past the edge of town, and Madison was so nervous that she felt light-headed.

“What do you mean, you can’t fly me to Aspen?”

Though the cultured feminine voice wasn’t loud or shrill, it carried from the tarmac on the airstrip side of the hangar to where Lincoln Coryell had parked his Jeep. He instantly recognized the cool, acid-edged tone and felt his good mood sour.

Madison St. John, the reigning queen of Coulter City, was obviously struggling to comprehend the word no. A grim smile slanted his lips as he lifted his gear out of the Jeep and shut the door.

Beautiful, elegant, and filthy rich, Ms. St. John should have been one of the most sought-after heiresses in Texas. Instead, men avoided the razortongued shrew as diligently as they would a hill of fire ants. Any man with sense found out right off that no amount of money was adequate compensation for the hell he’d have to endure to tangle with her. A fortune hunter or two had been brave enough to try, but she had the ability to send any man foolish enough to get near her running for the nearest mesquite patch.

She couldn’t be much older than twenty-three, but she viewed the world with the cynicism and arrogance of an embittered woman twice her age. Her grandmother, Clara Chandler, had been the same way, though age and meanness had made her far worse.

Madison hadn’t always been the way she was now. Linc had worked on the ranch her grandmother had owned years ago. He remembered Maddie St. John as an awkward, stick-thin adolescent with straggly hair and a mouth full of hardware. She’d been a sweet kid then, shy, soft-spoken, and polite to everyone.

But that sweet, shy girl had grown up into a spoiled, self-indulgent beauty, so changed that there was no sign that the child she’d been had ever existed.

As he walked past the corner of the hangar to where his small plane was parked, he could finally see Madison with the pilot, Tom Grant.

“You agreed to fly me to Colorado, Mr. Grant,” she went on in that imperious tone that worked like sandpaper on the nerves.

“It’s a long flight, Miz St. John, and—”

“You want more money.” It wasn’t a question. Her soft voice had dropped lower and brought to mind the warning growl of a cat.

“No, ma’am,” Tom said, shaking his head as if he were anxious to correct her impression. “Just that the wife decided she hadn’t seen much of me this week and won’t stand to have me gone most of the weekend after those other folks canceled. Said she wanted me home.”

“How sweet.” Madison’s soft remark was poisonous, and Tom shifted nervously from one foot to the other. Line could imagine the look she was giving the man, though he could only see her profile as he passed several feet away from where they stood.

Tom caught sight of him then and gave a quick wave to get his attention. “Linc Coryell’s right over there, Miz St. John. Heard he was flyin’ to Aspen—hey, Linc!”

Madison turned to look in the direction Tom Grant indicated. The pilot broke into a trot and rushed to intercept Lincoln Coryell. As she watched, Tom jerked a thumb in her direction, said something too low for her to hear, then turned to hurry toward the airstrip office.

Incensed that the pilot had distracted her and neatly escaped, she stiffened when she felt Linc level his gaze on her. He was wearing a pair of mirrored sunglasses. The shade of his black Stetson would have made it impossible to read the expression in his dark eyes from this distance, but the sunglasses projected an aloofness that made him appear unapproachable.

She saw his mouth tighten before he glanced away and walked on. Unwilling to let this opportunity go by, she started after him. Her boots thumped smartly on the concrete as she tried to catch up.

Though she had an aversion to men like Lincoln Coryell—blunt, macho and uncivilized—she could endure a few hours of his presence if he could get her to Aspen. Instinct rather than past experience told her he was one of the few men in this part of Texas who was completely unimpressed by either her name or her wealth.

But then, Lincoln Coryell wasn’t a man to show deference to many. He was too hard and rough-edged and rich to be intimidated, and though the former cowboy was probably more wealthy than she was, his lack of education—she’d heard he hadn’t finished high school—and his ranch hand background excluded him from being a close member of the small society of elites in and around Coulter City.

She suspected a man like him could never be bought or finessed, and the only intimidation that would come into play with him was the strange intimidation she felt suddenly.

She pasted a faint smile on her face to signal the friendliness she needed to project, but the necessity of doing so made her grit her teeth. She could find another flight, but probably not until tomorrow. It was only because tomorrow might be too late that she even considered using charm.