Page 9 of Mail-Order Viscountess

CHAPTER 3

His coffee had gone cold an hour ago, but Thomas kept his hands wrapped around the cup anyway.

His left cheek throbbed in time with his pulse, and the gash over his cheekbone stung every time he moved his face. Rose had wanted him to stop at the doctor’s clinic to have it stitched, but Thomas declined. The cut would heal fine with salve.

James’s gunshot had stopped the fight before Jake and his friends could do real damage. Thomas had gotten off with just the swollen cheek and the cut—and a set of bruised ribs that protested every deep breath. Could’ve been worse.

Would’ve been worse if his brother hadn’t shown up when he did.

The girl had disappeared in the chaos. He’d looked for her afterward, but she’d vanished into whatever shadows had spawned her. Probably for the best. What would he have done with her anyway? Brought her back to the ranch like some kind of stray?

Though that would’ve been less insane than what his brothers had actually done—ordering him a wife like she was a cookstove from a catalog.

The café door opened, and Thomas straightened, despite the protest from his ribs. But it was just a miner, shoulders hunched against the cold, making his way to the counter.

Not James. Not Rose. Not the poor woman they’d summoned across half the continent to marry a man who’d never written her a single word.

His stomach twisted, and he pushed the cold coffee away.

What was he supposed to say to her? Sorry my brothers are meddling fools who can’t mind their own business? Sorry they used my name to make promises I won’t be keeping?

The door opened again.

This time it was them—James and Rose, and behind them…

Two women.

His mind stuttered. Two?

He pushed to his feet, manners drilled too deep to ignore even when his world was falling apart. The movement sent a spike of pain through his side, but he kept it off his face.

Both women followed James and Rose into the cafe, approaching his table. The shorter one possessed honey-blonde hair escaping its pins, delicate features, and eyes that went wide at the sight of his injured face.

The taller woman beside her had hair the color of pale wheat and a spine like an iron rod. Her hazel eyes swept over him with the kind of assessment usually reserved for livestock, and her mouth thinned to a hard line when her gaze landed on his cheek.

They stopped in front of him, but all he could do was take them in. He should say something. Welcome them. Apologize for his appearance. Explain about the fight.

Instead he stood there like an idiot while his face throbbed and his tongue forgot how to form words.

Rose stepped forward, filling the awkward gap. “Thomas, may I present Miss Clara McKinney and her sister, Miss Kate McKinney?” She motioned to the shorter woman first, then the taller.

Sister.

The word clicked into place, and the situation clarified itself. Clara was the bride. Kate was the chaperone—the protective older sister who’d come along to make sure her younger sibling wasn’t being delivered into the hands of a frontier monster.

Based on the look Kate McKinney was giving him right now, she’d already decided which category he fell into.

“Ladies.” He managed a nod to each of them, though the movement made his cheek sting. “Please, sit.”

Clara moved first, her step hesitant as she settled into the chair James pulled out for her. Her gaze kept darting to Thomas’s face, then away, then back again. Like she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing but couldn’t stop looking either.

Kate remained standing a moment longer, that assessing stare never wavering. Then she took the seat beside her sister with the rigid posture of someone preparing for battle.

James and Rose claimed the remaining chairs, and Thomas lowered himself back into his own. His ribs protested, and he had to focus to keep the wince off his face.

The silence stretched long enough to become uncomfortable. Rose opened her mouth—probably to launch into some prepared speech—but Thomas raised a hand to stop her.

If he was going to do this, he’d do it honestly. No more games. No more half-truths or careful omissions.