Page 12 of Willing to Wed the Rancher
The slap of footsteps told Franz the woman was hurrying their way. Who was she? Had Eric remarried? He hadn’t mentioned a new wife in any of his letters, but perhaps he’d married again over recent months. It wouldn’t surprise Franz. He could only imagine the difficulty in raising two young children without a helpmate.
Dieter’s fingers fumbled with the rope, and it slipped away. But Franz kept his arms where the boy had positioned them, and a moment later, Dieter was wrapping the rope around Franz’s wrists again. “I’m almost done securing him, then I’ll ride into town for the sheriff.”
Franz almost smiled. The boy was taking his playtime rather seriously to suggest going after the sheriff.
“Clarabelle, I need help down,” the little girl pleaded.
“Oh, sweetie.” The woman—presumably named Clarabelle—was surely exasperated by the antics of the children, but she obviously had a patient temperament. Beneath the blanket covering his head, he could see her skirt now, a simple green calico, along with a pair of boots. She approached the tree beside Franz and seemed to be lifting the girl into her arms.
“I told you that we don’t have anything to worry about.” Her tone was gentle and filled with compassion.
“I’m just doing my part,” Dieter said, “like Maverick told me to do.”
“It is noble, I will agree,” Franz interjected, guessing it was past time for him to speak and make his introductions. Eric was likely to come check on his family at any moment, and Franz wanted to be ready. “Although, I would be happy to give you instructions for how to form a more secure knot.” Or any knot at all, for that matter.
Franz had hardly spoken anything but English since arriving in America. Even so, his German accent was still strong. At the sound of it, the woman tugged the blanket off Franz’s head, taking his hat with it.
He found himself peering at a lovely young woman with blond hair containing a slight auburn tint. She wore her hair in a long single braid that hung over one shoulder, and her head was topped with a cowboy’s hat. He’d seen enough of them during his journey to know.
Her face was pale and unblemished, making her green eyes startlingly clear and bright. Her expression was indeed filled with patience and compassion, confirming that she was undoubtedly a good mother to Eric’s two children.
Clarabelle. She had a pretty name.
His gaze slid down. It couldn’t seem to help itself. Not when the little girl’s hold seemed to plaster Clarabelle’s bodice and skirt to a body with curves in all the right places. Perfect proportions, a slender waist, defined hips, and long legs.
She was the opposite of Luisa, who’d been dark-haired, short, and dainty.
Perhaps Eric had chosen someone completely different so that he didn’t have to compare the two. Maybe having opposite wives would make a second marriage easier.
Franz knew he was ogling her, but she seemed to be taking him in with just as much interest. Well, maybe not quite as much, since his ogling resembled that of a gangly adolescent boy who was face-to-face with the most beautiful girl in the neighborhood.
She cocked her head, her elegant brows rising and revealing shy eyes.
For several heartbeats, Franz lost himself in those eyes, longing swelling in waves. He had a strangely visceral need for her, one that involved pulling her into his arms, holding her close, and getting to experience everything about her.
He was shocked at the heat that rippled through him... and the lust. He hadn’t had such a strong reaction to a woman in years—maybe not ever. Certainly, he’d loved Luisa and had been attracted to her, but the need had never been so strong or so urgent.
He took a rapid step backward, bumping into the boy, who was still trying to tie a knot in the rope binding his wrists. Franz wanted to blame his reaction on the fact that he’d been celibate for so many years and that he’d avoided interacting with women to keep himself in check. But he’d just spent time with the friend-of-a-friend woman in Denver and hadn’t felt this kind of desire.
Clarabelle’s gaze was trailing around his face. “You wouldn’t happen to be Eric’s brother, would you?”
For just a fraction of an instant, he wanted to deny it—steal this woman away from his brother and hurt Eric in equal measure. But Franz rapidly shook his head. He’d never, ever do it. Not only did he want to do what was right, but he’d come to apologize, not seek revenge.
“Oh.” She uttered the one word with a huff of breath that contained her disappointment. “I’m sorry. It’s just that you look so much like Eric.”
“Yes, I am.”
Her brows furrowed with confusion.
He was acting like he’d lost his mind around this woman. Maybe he had. “Now it is my turn to apologize. I am Eric’s brother. My name is Franz.”
Behind him, Dieter froze.
“You’re his brother from Germany?” she asked again, seemingly less to query him than to convince herself.
“I am he. I came to Breckenridge last night on the stagecoach.”
Dieter let go of the rope, and it fell to the ground. But he didn’t seem to care anymore. Instead, he sidled around and peered up at Franz.
