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I sighed. “Are you truly trying to play matchmaker?” I asked.
Olivia didn’t look the least bit contrite and set her chin in an obstinate angle. “Yes. You need a wife and Emily is perfect.”
“She’s just lost her husband. How could she be perfect if she’s clearly not interested?” I angled my head toward the direction she’d gone.
“Her husband gambled and drank to excess. While she never once confessed it, I believe he hit her. He was cruel to her at the very least. She is not the least bit sorry he’s dead. In fact, if she weren’t such a nice person, she’d be dancing on his grave.”
The idea of anyone hurting Mrs. Woodhouse made my hands clench. She was too small, too… dainty—even with her lush curves—to protect herself from the likes of a man Olivia described.
“Then she can find a man she truly likes this time around. She’s young, beautiful. She’s a catch for any man in town.”
Olivia grinned. “So you think she’s beautiful?”
“Any conscious man would think so,” I countered.
“Then you should offer for her.”
I sighed, exasperated. “Why?”
“Because you and Xander need a wife.”
I shook my head. “We do not need a wife.”
“I see the way you look at the couples at Bridgewater. Everyone’s happily married. It’s hard, I’m sure, for you to witness since no one else marries like we do. Like your parents. You want a marriage with Xander like all of us at Bridgewater. Admit it.”
“Of course I admit it. I won’t marry any other way.” I put my hand up. “That does not mean that our bride should be Mrs. Woodhouse.”
Olivia pursed her lips. “She has to marry.”
My brows went up. “Again, why?”
“The bank is taking the ranch. Debts, most of them I’m sure are because of her husband’s gambling. She has no place to go. No money. She’ll have to get a job and there are none, unless she wants to work on her back.”
“Olivia,” I warned.
“What? It’s true.” Olivia took a deep breath. “She’s going to have to marry. A
woman doesn’t have any other options. It might as well be you.”
I frowned. “Is that a compliment?”
“Of course, it is. She deserves someone—or two someones—who will be good to her. I know you and Xander would be. Plus, I know her well and she knows about how we marry. I like her. Trust me, you’ll be well suited.”
I turned so I could look at the woman’s retreating figure. Well suited? I had no doubt we’d be very compatible in bed. She would be no hardship to look at. That did not make a marriage, but it certainly helped.
XANDER
It didn’t matter to me that Olivia was matchmaking. I’d known her intention from the moment she asked us to escort her to claim her friend instead of her husbands. They would have done anything for the woman and the excuse of moving tables was a poor one. Laughable. There were enough strong backs at the picnic to complete the task instead of them. I was just pleased they were trusting enough of us to take her to the Woodhouse ranch. It wasn’t as if we’d done anything to make them question our ability to protect their bride, especially with Tyler being family. To the contrary, in fact. They must consider us quite highly, but the Bridgewater men were a possessive and protective bunch.
Perhaps they were trying to take Mrs. Woodhouse under their wing. I’d heard that she’d been to the ranch before, knew of their ways and customs. The fact that she held that secret meant the men placed her in high regard. All this meant that it wasn’t just Olivia that was trying to put Mrs. Woodhouse together with Tyler and me. The men were in on it as well and thought the woman was the one for us. Because of this, I’d been nothing less than curious about the widow.
When she’d opened the door, it had been difficult not to stare. Hell, she was a vision. It was her mouth I’d noticed first. Plump and full, it was a bright cherry pink, as if she’d been kissed all afternoon. It was when I met her gaze that I’d been intrigued. There, I saw a woman who’d seen hard times. She was exceptionally good at hiding it, but the stiffness of her shoulders and the tightness about those dark eyes were obvious indicators. I knew them well, for I saw hints of myself in her.
Not in her soft curves or the way her hips swayed as I walked beside her. Not in the long, slim column of her neck. Not in the pert turn of her nose. She may not have been wrongly convicted of a crime, but she’d been hurt. Had her husband been the sole culprit? Cruel parents? She was too young for much more. Regardless, I felt a kindred spirit with this woman and I hadn’t even said one word to her.
“You do not have to escort me any longer. I assure you, I know the way home.” Her long dress swished against the grass.
Her short legs ate up the distance toward the ranch house and I slowed my gait to match hers.
