Healing Montana Love: Bear Grass Springs, Book Eleven

by Flightner, Ramona

  At her plaintive voice, he sighed and rubbed at his forehead, before facing her. “He woke up.” At her incredulous stare, he whispered, “Don’t look at me like that. I’ve not played you false.”

  “How can you say that?” she asked in a tear-thickened voice. “You … you made me believe you liked me.”

  He strode to her, gripping her shoulders, as he stared deeply into her eyes. “I do, Lottie,” he said in a tormented voice. “God help me, I do. But I have no right. I’d ruin your life, and you deserve so much more than me.”

  Tears spilled onto her cheeks, and she shook her head. “I don’t understand.” She sniffled and stared valiantly into his gaze. “Don’t you miss what you had? Don’t you want that again?”

  “I miss the promise of what could have been.” His blue eyes blazed with torment and regret as he stared at her. “I never meant to hurt you, Lottie.” He dropped his hands from her shoulders, backing up a step. “Forgive me,” he rasped, clearing his throat. “I hope you have a good evening.”

  He spun on his heels, rushing out the bunkhouse door to stand on the porch. Although he yearned to race away, he was tethered to the place. By his loyalty to Frederick. And by his desire to keep her safe.

  Chapter 5

  Dalton sat on a comfortable chair in the bunkhouse a few nights later. Wood crackled in the potbellied stove, and he stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. After a hard day of caring for the animals on the ranch, he enjoyed this quiet moment for introspection. However, he knew he was relaxed and reflective because Charlotte was humming in the kitchen. Knowing she was safe eased a worry that clung to him like a burr.

  Taking a deep breath, he inhaled the subtle scent of lilacs and vanilla mixed with woodsmoke. A scent he would always associate with Charlotte. After opening one eye, he saw her hovering near the door to the large bunkhouse room. A room he’d never seen her enter. “Miss Ingram,” he murmured, contentment and welcome redolent in his voice. “We’re all alone. There’s no reason not to join me.”

  She shifted from foot to foot, flushing as she saw him battling a smile at her girlish antics. “I’m certain it’s not proper.”

  “Come,” he soothed. “I promise, on all I hold dear, you’re safe.” At her startled look, some of his ease evaporated, and he watched her with a penetrating gaze.

  After a prolonged silence, she entered to perch on a chair near the stove. He watched as she reached out her hands, shivering, as though enjoying the warmth emitted from the stove on this cool May evening. “The weather changed,” she whispered.

  “If there’s one thing that’s constant here, it’s that the weather will change,” he said with a smile. Rather than attempt to soothe her into relaxing, which he sensed would only make her tenser, he eased back into his chair and acted as though she were barely present. “Thank you for supper. I could have heated a can of beans.” He smiled as she sputtered in indignation, his eyes closing again as he relaxed.

  “I was hired to cook. If there is one of you to cook for, I will do so.”

  He watched her through cracked eyelids. “Well, I appreciate it. Last cook was more interested in poker and liquor, so we never ate all that well. It’s nice to have a decent meal after a hard day’s work.”

  He watched as she relaxed into her chair, her hands easing their death grip on her skirts, until they played with a piece of string. He relished the quiet as he saw her gaze at the stove wistfully, her beautiful hair more red than blond in the soft lamplight.

  “I shouldn’t have been so concerned about my reputation,” she said in a soft voice that barely carried to where he sat. “I’m foolish to think it still matters.”

  He uncrossed his legs, rocking them side to side as he continued to study her. “It’s important to you, Miss. I wish I could say one mistake doesn’t tarnish it forever, but we know the world isn’t as forgiving to women as it is to men.”

  She nodded. “I’ve enjoyed my time here. I hate realizing I’ll have to leave.”

  He sat up, his boot heels hitting the floor with a clunk, causing her to jolt. “Leave?” He shook his head. “Ain’t no reason for you to leave, Miss. I’ve promised I’ll act with propriety, and I will. None of the men will bother you.”

  She swiveled in her seat, so she faced him. “How can you be certain? I know you should be on the range right now. You shouldn’t be doing menial tasks, like mucking out stalls and caring for the milk cows and tossing slop at pigs. You should be leading some of the men in whatever Mr. Tompkins needed you to do on the range.”

  He shook his head. “No, I do what Boss asks me to do. And the most important task was for me to remain here.”

  “Babysitting me!” she exclaimed, her hand slapping her thigh in agitation. “A woman you don’t even esteem.”

  He eased from his chair and moved to crouch by hers, the lamplight limning his face, highlighting even more the sharp contours of his cheeks and nose. “No, I’m ensuring you are well. Ensuring no one arrived during the day while Fred’s away to harm you or Miss Sorcha or Miss Davina. He entrusted your care to me, and I do not consider that a menial task, Miss Ingram.”

  She sighed with exasperation. “The truth remains, if I weren’t here, you could do as you please.”

  He shook his head. “If you weren’t here, I fear my heart would break.” He flushed and cleared his throat at the inadvertent admission, rocking back on his heels to stand. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Why?” she demanded, rising. “Is it so terrible to believe you might have feelings for me?”

  “No,” he rasped, taking a step away from her. “Not at all.” He stared at her in absolute bewilderment. “I’m being unfair to you, and I’m sorry. What do you see when you look at me?”

  She frowned and bit her lip a moment, before shrugging, as though she had nothing to lose by being honest. “A brave, decent, loyal man who I can trust.”

  He closed his eyes and let out a tortured sigh. “See? Right there’s the problem. I’m not brave.” He opened his eyes to meet her confused gaze, shaking his head in quiet entreaty for her to remain silent. “You don’t understand what it was like. And I can’t go through it again, Lottie.” He closed his eyes a moment. “Forgive me. We all have a tendency to give each other nicknames.”

  She smiled, reaching forward to clasp his hand. Just when she was about to release it because he failed to react, he gave her hand a tight squeeze. “I like it. I’ve never been important enough to anyone for a nickname.”

  “I’m certain that’s not true,” he breathed, staring into her eyes for a long moment.

  “Help me to understand,” she whispered. “What was it like?”

  He took a deep breath and motioned for her to sit again. He tugged his comfortable chair closer to hers, recapturing her hand to play with her fingers, while he sat with a distant gaze and spoke in a trancelike voice. “Have you ever seen someone die?” At her quick shake of her head, he shrugged. “I have. Far too many. When I came here, I thought I’d escaped senseless loss.”

  For many moments, the only sound in the room was that of the crackling wood in the stove and their quiet breathing. “The Tompkinses are good people. You’ve yet to meet Irene and Harold, Frederick’s grandparents, but they’re a pair of the kindest, most welcoming folks you’ll ever meet. They seem to understand when you need a kick in your backside or a hearty meal or quiet companionship to ease your torment.” He rubbed at the space between her thumb and her index finger, as though polishing it, the gentle motion soothing and intimate. “They never considered the ragtag group of men working for them as hired hands. We became family to them.”

  She watched him in wonder as he spoke. Intent on holding back all the questions wanting to burst forth, she instead listened, as he bowed his head and spoke in a soft hesitant voice.

  “It was Irene who sent Mary to the ranch. Thought one of us would have the sense to see what a gem she was. She and Mr. Harold were livin’ in town by then, workin’ th
eir café.” He smiled, a momentary joy eclipsing the shadow of grief. “The other hands knew, somehow, that Mary was sweet on me. And I on her.” He shrugged, his chagrined gaze flitting to hers. “We married in the fall after she arrived here, with Harold and Irene comin’ out from town. We had the ceremony and a big bonfire, and we danced late into the night.” His gaze flit around the room. “For a few years, I didn’t live here but in a small cabin, near the one Slims and his wife share.”

  Charlotte nodded but remained quiet.

  “I never knew such joy as the day she told me she was with child.” He sighed, dropping her hand and rising to pace to the window to look out into the darkened night. “I should have learned that with such joy always comes an equal amount of sorrow.”

  “That’s not true,” she whispered. “Not all joy leads to pain.”

  He turned to stare at her, leaning his weight on the windowsill. “How can you believe otherwise?” He sighed as he saw her flinch at his words and the implied criticism held within. “Mary shouldn’t have had trouble with the birth. She was a big strong woman. Well suited to life on a ranch. But the babe wouldn’t turn. And Mary got so weak.” His gaze was distant. “And I sat there, watching her die.”

  Charlotte shot up, her gaze defiant and pleading. “I’m certain you did more than that.” When he remained quiet, his expression distant, she cupped her hands around his cheeks, her fingers scraping along the fine stubble of his skin. “I know you would have fought for her in every way you knew how.”

  “Some things a man can’t fight,” he whispered. “Miss Helen was here. At the ranch. She did what she could, but …” He shrugged.

  Instinctively Charlotte moved forward, wrapping her arms around him and holding him close. She made soft soothing noises, as one does for an injured child. Gasping, as his arms banded around her with a fierce intensity, she didn’t release him but held him even tighter. “Shh, Dalton. It’s all right.”

  One hand rose to cup the back of his head, her fingers sifting through silky hair. She felt him shudder at her soft caress, and she murmured comforting words, as he struggled for control.

  “Dammit,” he rasped, as he backed away and turned from her. However, she saw the silver streaks down his cheeks, before he hid his grief from her. “Forgive me.”

  Although he would no longer face her, Charlotte continued to run her hands over his back in a calming pattern. “There’s nothing to forgive,” she murmured. “It’s a relief to know not all men are devoid of emotions.”

  He looked over his shoulder at her, his gaze lit with a stormy amalgam of feelings: pain, longing, hope, despair. “Oh, I feel, Charlotte,” he rasped. “God help me, I feel. I pray every night I never feel as much ever again.”

  Her hand dropped from his back, and she stepped away from him. “Oh, I see.” She flushed and shook her head, as though having a silent conversation with herself. “Forgive me.”

  Dalton watched as she raced from the room, her skirts whipping around her ankles and nearly tripping her in her eagerness to flee. “Damn,” he muttered, bending forward to lean his palms against the windowsill. He wished he had the right to comfort her. He yearned to be the man who deserved to call her his. But he knew Charlotte’s greatest risk didn’t come from the faceless woman in town. It came from him.

  * * *

  The following day, Charlotte took advantage of the good weather to do washing. Without the men around, she had more free time in her day, and she relished her lighter duties. She admonished herself silently for she knew she was still receiving a generous salary, and she should offer to cook the meal for the big house too. However, she had never felt comfortable speaking with Sorcha and Davina. Although they had become more cordial to her during the past months, Charlotte had never forgotten that she had almost ruined a harmonious marriage.

  She sighed, looking toward the mountains in the distance, before picking up a sheet to hang. She stood in front of the bunkhouse, where a few lines had been strung for drying clothes. The chickens clucked, and a rooster crowed in the coop to her left, while she heard horses neighing and Dalton whistling, while he worked in the horse barn to her right. A gust of wind caused the sheet to thwack her in the face, and she yelped, disgruntled and displeased with her work.

  After wrestling the sheet onto the line and pinning it in place, she pinned the remaining clothes, calming with the sunshine, fresh air, and birdsong. Soon she was humming while she worked.

  “Charlotte.”

  Yelping again, Charlotte spun to face the amused smiles of Sorcha and Davina. “Oh my,” she gasped, as she stared at them. “I had no idea you were here. I mean, I knew you were on the ranch …” She bit her tongue and stopped speaking, as they watched her with frank amusement. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Aye,” Sorcha said. “If ye’re done hangin’ yer laundry, I need ye in the big house.”

  Charlotte looked in the direction of the main ranch house and nodded, fighting dread. “Of course,” she whispered. She dropped the last wooden pin she hadn’t used into the basket at her feet and followed a chattering Sorcha and Davina. A lilac bush at the side of the house was in full bloom, its lacy purple blossoms sending its sweet scent into the breeze.

  As they walked around to the back of the main house, a kitchen garden was in the middle of being planted, while the flower garden in front showed promise. Charlotte clambered up the steps to the porch behind them, coming to a halt at the sight of a table with three chairs, a pot of tea, and scones. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to intrude,” she stammered.

  “Ye are no’,” Davina said with an exasperated roll of her eyes. “We wanted ye to join us. Sit.” She had settled in one chair and Sorcha in another, leaving the middle chair free for Charlotte.

  Charlotte studied them, suddenly sensing she was the main course. “Why?” she whispered, her hands clenched together at her waist.

  Sorcha reached out a hand. “The wee beasts are takin’ their nap, an’ I have a few moments of rest. We want to ken ye better. I fear I’ve no’ been as friendly as I’d like.” Her gaze was filled with remorse. “Forgive me, Charlotte.”

  When Davina nodded her agreement to her cousin’s statement, Charlotte shook her head in befuddlement. “How can you ask for forgiveness, when I’m the one who’s wronged you?” She moved to the only empty chair and collapsed onto it. “I’m the one who nearly destroyed your marriage, Davina.” When Davina laughed at her proclamation, Charlotte frowned with confusion.

  “Nae, ye did no’. Ye caused me to have a few moments of doubt. But, in the end, ye helped make my marriage even stronger, for I showed Slims I trusted him, even without proof of his innocence.” She looked at Charlotte with frank honesty. “I canna say I was no’ angry with ye. But I kent somethin’ was wrong from the first night I met ye. I’ve always regretted ye never desired my friendship.”

  Charlotte ducked her head, as Sorcha murmured her agreement to Davina’s words. “I was pregnant with a married man’s baby.”

  Sorcha took one of her hands and Davina the other. “Aye, ye were,” Sorcha said. “But ye must forgive yerself, Charlotte. Ye were young an’ naive an’ dreamin’ of a better future. He took advantage of yer innocence, an’ I dinna mean the kind that occurs in the bedroom. I mean yer spirit an’ heart an’ sweetness.”

  Davina laughed at that. “Although Slims would say ye were no’ sweet or kind when ye cooked for him an’ Shorty at the far house last summer.”

  Charlotte flushed and shrugged. “I never liked Slims. I thought he was overbearing and bossy. But then, I suppose, that’s how he must be as the foreman of a ranch.”

  “’Tis who he is,” Davina said with a shrug, as though Charlotte’s opinion of her husband were of no importance.

  Sorcha smiled slyly. “Too bad Frederick did no’ have the good sense to send Dalton to the far house last summer. Perhaps everythin’ would have been a wee bit different now, aye?” Her eyes sparkled with mischief.

  Charlotte f
lushed beet red at the implication. “I doubt it. Mr. Dalton is a kind man, but he has no interest in me.” She watched as Davina and Sorcha shared an amused glance at her pronouncement.

  “I ken ye’ve had yer disappointments, Charlotte, but I believe Dalton will no’ be one of them,” Davina said, hiding her smile behind her teacup.

  Sorcha broke apart a scone and slathered on butter and then a little of last year’s peach jam. “Ye ken his wife died?” At Charlotte’s nod, Sorcha spoke in a low, reverent tone. “Ye ken that sort of loss would make a man cautious.”

  Flushing with indignation rather than embarrassment, Charlotte glared at Sorcha and then Davina. “Knowing what you do about him, why would you want me to be with him?” she demanded. “Why wouldn’t you want a better woman for him?”

  Davina frowned, and any merriment faded away as she met Charlotte’s hurt gaze. “Ye ken I never meant to harm ye with my teasin’, Charlotte.” She clasped one of Charlotte’s fisted hands, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry ye’ve had such a difficult time, but dissatisfaction with that man from Butte should no’ make ye believe ye are no’ worthy of a fine man like Dalton. Only a lifetime of disappointment would.”

  Sorcha sighed when Charlotte continued to stare at the porch floor. “We hoped ye’d feel for him as he obviously feels for ye. An’ that I’d finally have a reason to plan a weddin’. I’ve been denied attendin’ too many recently.”

  Charlotte sputtered, her gaze flying to meet Sorcha’s with incredulity. “You can’t be serious. Dalton would never marry me.”

  Davina laughed. “That’s the first time ye have no’ called him Mister.” She squeezed Charlotte’s hand. “An’, aye, he’d marry ye. Once he overcomes his fear that ye’ll die on him, like everyone else he’s ever cared about.”

  Shaking her head, Charlotte said, “No, he told me that he never wanted to feel strong emotions again. I will not force a man to care for me.”