Bride School: Mary (The Brides of Diamond Springs Ranch 4) by Bella Bowen Page A

hack.
    “Careful now,” Louis called out to the driver. “I
don’t think Mr. Hermann is feeling well.” He stuck his head inside the window. “I’ve
already paid the man, John. Just get home and get into bed. You’re over worked,
no doubt about it.”
    John immediately tucked the payment inside his
pocket before he dropped it. Then he allowed his mind to race back to the night
of that December dance.
    Her name was Mary. Not Alexandra. She worked at
the ranch, so she was likely a local girl. Plenty of girls named Mary. Probably
a dozen in Sage River alone who were close to her age. But how many with that
face? Those eyes?
    Impossible. It couldn’t have been her…
    And even though his mind acknowledged that
impossibility, it was already planning its next trip to Sage River. But first,
there was somewhere else he needed to go.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
     
    John stood in the center of the Campbell's parlor
and turned in slow circles. There was plaid everywhere.
    The walls were covered with it. The rugs on the
floor. The cushions, the drapes. And not all the same plaid either. Some of it
was peach and green, some blue and red. Large checks and small. And he suddenly
had to stop moving and close his eyes to keep his stomach from coming up.
    A brawny man walked through the door and laughed. “Too
much color for ye?” He strode to a shelf and pulled out a decanter and two
glasses. “A bit early for whisky, but a Scot'll make any sacrifice for
hospitality's sake, aye?” He sloshed the amber liquid into the wide glasses and
set the decanter down on the table between the two chairs facing the fire. “Sit
ye down, mon. Warm yer bones.”
    “You haven't heard why I've come,” John cautioned.
    The big man shrugged. “I doona rightly care. I've
got a lazy older brother who will have to put his shoulder to my work until I
return, so I've a mind to spend a good long visit wi' ye, even if yer selling
air.”
    John laughed and sat. “I'm not selling anything,
actually.”
    “Oh?” The Scot took a swig of his drink and
waited.
    “I've come to ask you about a young woman named
Alex—”
    “Who's this then?” Another man stomped into the
room equal in size to the other, but his head and face were covered in white
hair. The mustache was parted over the lips, but the center was off by an inch.
And to John, a man who made his living with minuscule measurements, it bothered
him enough to keep him from looking the new man in the face.
    He got to his feet and offered the hand that
wasn't holding whisky. “I'm John Hermann of Hermann & Co., a leather
designer from Boston.” He saved the “fine” for when he was selling his
products.
    “And what's yer business wi' me?” the man asked.
    Connell stood. “Not ye , Da. The man's here
to see me. And if ye don't mind, we'd like privacy.”
    The old one narrowed his eyes. “Privacy? And what
would ye need to keep private from me I wonder!”
    Connell threw John a silent warning, then smiled
at his father. “Ye're not going to be happy until I marry Matilda, ye foosty
scunner. So I'm arranging for a special gift for the lass. Now, away with ye!”
    The older man grinned and started to turn. But
suddenly, he spun back around and threw his fist into Connell's jaw. With no
surprise at all on his face, Connell put a foot back to catch himself, then
straightened and folded his arms defiantly.
    The old man pointed a finger into his chest. “That's
for callin' yer own father a foosty scunner. Next time, I'll set ye on yer arse
and ye'll find yer heed in Lancaster County.”
    Connell pointed to the door as if the blow had
never happened. The older man put his nose in the air and retreated in his own
sweet time.
    Once the door closed, Connell grabbed John by the
shoulders. “What do you know about my Alexandra,” he whispered. “And I'll warn
ye, the auld man will have his ear pressed to the door, no mistake. Did ye ken
my lass?”
    John shook his head. “I haven't met