Free Short Straw Bride by Dallas Schulze

thinking that made him sound cool toward the younger girl. No one—no man —was ever cool toward Anabel.
    “Miss Eleanor.” She felt herself flush like a foolish child as those gray eyes settled on her.
    “Mr. McLain,” she whispered, lowering her eyes to prevent him from seeing the longing she was afraid must be blatantly revealed.
    The moment the two men disappeared into Zeb’s study, Dorinda opened her mouth wide enough to masticate the half-melted chocolate.
    “What do you suppose Mr. McLain needs to talk to Papa about?” Anabel’s tone was thoughtful, her pretty blue eyes full of cool speculation.
    “I’m sure I have no idea,” Dorinda said, annoyed at having been caught in an awkward position. She closed the box of chocolates and pushed it from her.
    “Did you see the way he looked at me?” Anabel asked. “Do you think he noticed how pretty I look?”
    “You shouldn’t say such things, Anabel. Modesty is one of a woman’s best virtues.”
    “But I am pretty, Mama. Everyone tells me so. Wouldn’t it be false modesty to pretend otherwise?” Her mother was still blinking from the impact of that question when Anabel continued. “Besides, since the Lord must have been the one to make me pretty, then I’m actually praising His work when I say as much.”
    If Eleanor hadn’t been busy trying to choke down a laugh, she might have almost felt sorry for her aunt. The dazed look in her eyes suggested that, this time, even she couldn’t ignore Anabel’s incrediblearrogance. Anabel, of course, was oblivious to the shocked silence she’d created.
    “Do hurry up, Eleanor,” she snapped peevishly. “I bet Mr. McLain is asking Papa for permission to see me, and I can’t go out walking with him with my hem dragging in the dirt.”
    The probable truth of her words wiped out Eleanor’s brief spurt of amusement. She didn’t know how she’d stand it if she had to watch Luke McLain come courting Anabel. If that happened, she’d ask Andrew Webb to marry her, she promised herself fiercely.
    “Ouch!” Anabel cried out as a pin pricked her ankle.
    “Sorry,” Eleanor muttered without looking up.
    “You did that deliberately,” Anabel snapped. She jerked her skirt away, ignoring Eleanor’s gasp of pain as a pin tore into her fingertip. Stepping down off the footstool, she glared at her cousin. “You poked me on purpose because you’re jealous.”
    Though she hadn’t deliberately stuck Anabel with a pin—at least, she didn’t think it had been deliberate—Eleanor couldn’t deny the accusation that she was jealous. Not when she was all but seething with that emotion. She sucked a droplet ofblood from her finger and allowed herself a brief wish that she had jabbed Anabel harder.
    Choosing silence as her best defense, she gathered up the packet of pins with trembling fingers and stood. Ignoring Anabel’s furious glare, she put the pins away in her sewing basket.
    “Mama—” Anabel’s whined complaint grated on Eleanor’s taut nerves. “Eleanor poked me deliberately.”
    “I’ll deal with her later, precious,” Dorinda promised absently. “Why don’t you go change into something pretty? Perhaps when Papa and Mr. McLain have finished their business we can persuade Mr. McLain to have some tea with us. You can’t entertain him in a dress with a pinned-up hem.”
    Anabel flew from the room. Eleanor shifted a few items around in the sewing basket, aware that her fingers were trembling. For a brief moment she was tempted to change into another dress, but there wasn’t much difference between the powder pink castoff she was wearing and the dusty blue dress that was her other Sunday best garment. Besides, she’d only come out looking like a fool if she tried to outshine Anabel. Like a mud hen trying to best a peacock, she thought.
    Sternly controlling the embryonic quiver of her lower lip, Eleanor picked up her embroidery and settled herself in one corner of the uncomfortable sofa. No doubt Anabel