Runaway Montana Groom: Bear Grass Springs Book 12

by Ramona Flightner

  “Seems you have more than one person to make things right with,” his grandmother murmured, running a hand down his arm.

  He nodded, the ache in his chest hopeful rather than painful for the first time in months.

  Peter approached the MacKinnon livery after a long day at the café. He stepped inside, pausing for a moment, as his eyes adjusted to the darkened interior. “Slims,” he murmured, as he saw the giant of a man stroking a hand down the muzzle of one of the horses.

  “Peter,” Slims said, without turning to greet him further. “Wondered how long it would take one of you to show up here.” He grunted with disgust. “Should have known it wouldn’t be Fred.”

  Peter walked down the center of the stable, keenly aware he had no idea what to say to make amends. “I was an idiot to believe you’d betray us,” he blurted out. When Slims turned and stared at him, as though to discern if he were sincere, Peter flushed. “I’m sorry.”

  “What made you see sense?” Slims asked. “Your grandparents tell you the way of it?”

  Shaking his head, Peter said, “She’s back.” At the big man’s groan and then muttered curse, Peter nodded. “I realized, when I saw how devastated my grandmother was, that nothing that was done was ever done to cause us pain.” He paused. “Only that done by her.”

  “She’s your mother, lad,” Slims said.

  With a deep breath, Peter paced away. “I have a hard time reconciling myself to that truth.” He paused and looked out the open doors, leading to the paddock. “I thought we had an ideal family. Life on the ranch wasn’t perfect, but we always had each other. Enough food. A nice home. Laughter.” He shrugged. “There was always plenty of work, a good place to be a boy.” He frowned. “Why’d she come to hate us so much?”

  “I could never answer for her, Pete,” Slims said in a soft voice. “I would say, some women ain’t meant for ranch life. And that was your mother. She missed the big city.”

  Peter looked at Slims, unable to hide the devastation in his gaze. “She had everything and threw it all away.”

  “Aye,” Slims said, with a sigh. After a long moment spent watching the light subtly changing outside, Slims murmured, “Come. I have something to show you. Fred needs to see it too. But you’re here now.” He walked outside to the small cabin near the larger MacKinnon home, where Cailean and Annabelle MacKinnon lived with their daughter, Skye.

  After scraping his boots on the mat outside the small cabin, Slims opened the door. “Dav, we have company,” Slims said.

  Peter looked around the small space, noting the hominess of the room, with a small kitchen in the corner, a moment before the tiny Scotswoman approached and unceremoniously slapped him across his face. “Ouch!”

  “How dare ye doubt my husband’s honor? How dare ye banish him from his home?” She stood, quivering in her righteousness in front of him. “An’ dinna Dav me,” she said to her husband. “Ye ken they’ve treated ye worse than a lowly beggar.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Slims,” Peter said, as he rubbed at his jaw. “I’ve come to ask forgiveness. I believe Fred will too.”

  “An’ why should ye think we’ll come crawlin’ back to work for the likes of ye?” she asked.

  Peter stared from Davina to Slims, instinctively understanding her anger hid a devastating sadness. “Because we’re family,” he whispered. “And families forgive each other when we’ve wronged each other. I’m terribly sorry, Davina.”

  She turned away, muttering to herself about ungrateful men, only calming when Slims took her into his arms.

  Peter watched in wonder at their close bond, battling envy at all they had and at all he feared would forever remain elusive for him. Clearing his throat, he said, “What was it you wished to show me?”

  Slims shot him a glance, indicating he had no desire to be rushed, not when his wife needed soothing. After running a finger over Davina’s cheek, he waited until she murmured she was well. Then Slims rummaged in a saddlebag near the large bed. He extracted a letter and held it out. “Read this sitting down. This is among others that I withheld from you and your brothers.”

  Peter frowned. “A letter? Why? What damage could a letter do?”

  “Read it,” Slims said, with a weary sigh, as he sat on the bed, Davina stroking a hand over his shoulder.

  Peter perched on a chair set at the small table, extracting a sheet of paper with slightly faded ink. His breath caught at the sight of his mother’s handwriting. “She really is alive,” he whispered.

  “God help us all,” Slims muttered.

  Frederick,

  March 13, 1886

  I can’t believe I continue to write you, and yet you continue to ignore me. You are the most ungrateful of sons. If there was any justice in this world, the youngest son, the one most like your pathetic, useless father, would never have been given the running of the ranch. For what good has it done? It’s only allowed you to run it into the ground, chasing your worthless dream of raising horses. Horses! As though anyone would want a horse bred by you.

  For years you’ve ignored me. Me! Your mother. I’ve written and asked for your forgiveness. I’ve said I was sorry. What more would you have me do?

  I refuse to beg. You should beg me to be a part of your life. You should feel honored I would want to return. How can you continue to spurn me? Me!

  Does it not concern you at all that there is the real possibility that I will be homeless, penniless, and without friends soon? How can you wish your own dear mother to be destitute? It’s not to be borne. You cannot be so cruel, Frederick. The son I knew had compassion for all.

  Have you never made a mistake? Have you never regretted your actions?

  I implore you to find your Christian charity and to welcome me back into our family.

  Katrina Tompkins

  Your Mother

  After reading the letter, Peter sat in stunned silence. His gaze raced over it, again and again, as though attempting to decipher the meaning behind the words. “How can this be from the woman who raised us?” he whispered.

  “You remember her from when you were a boy. Everything changed when you started to grow up. When you showed a real affinity for the ranch.” Slims paused, meeting Peter’s tormented gaze. “She lost hope she’d ever leave the ranch then. That she’d have an ally in one of her boys, willing to go on adventures with her.”

  Peter laughed, but the sound was far from cheerful. “How ironic. Now that’s all Cole and I do.” He held out the letter to Slims. “You must be the one to show this to Fred. I … I couldn’t do that to him.”

  Glaring at the boy he’d always considered nephew, if not son, he rasped, “And you think this is easy for me? That I didn’t understand I was betraying your trust every time I sought to protect you from her? That I don’t know what this will do to Frederick?”

  Peter nodded, holding on to the letter. “You’re right. I’ve always asked too much of you, Slims. You’ve always been the most competent, capable man I know. Other than my grandfather.” He paused and rubbed at his eyes. “But you shouldn’t be expected to do this for me. I must.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “Please find a way to forgive Fred.”

  Slims stared at him in stoic silence.

  “Missus,” Peter whispered, slipping from the room, his mind filled with his mother’s never-ending treachery and the fear that the damage wrought might never be undone.

  Chapter 5

  Peter stood, staring at the mountains on the outskirts of town, as the sky turned pink and the air cooled. He breathed in deeply, relaxing now that the café had closed for the day. He relished having time away from customers, who wanted to converse as much as they wanted to eat his grandmother’s delicious food. Although Peter found enjoyment in working there, it was exhausting. More exhausting than bringing a herd up north. How had his grandparents done this for so many years with little help?

  Today had been different with Philomena’s help, both in the kitchen and in the dining room. She was a good cook and
a pleasant hostess. He had imagined working with her, but now that she had spent a few hours at the café, the thought of taking over the café and running it with her was like an elusive vision come to life. Now that he’d experienced it, he didn’t know how he’d ever work without her in complete contentment again. “Dolt,” he muttered to himself. “She’s already played you false once. You don’t need to have it happen twice.”

  He ducked his head, as he heard footsteps approaching. Although a part of him yearned for solitude, another larger part of him was bone-weary of being alone. He glanced over his shoulder, any pretense of forcing a contented expression forgotten, as he met Philomena’s worried gaze. “I’ll be all right.”

  “Will you?” she asked in her soft lilting voice. “Because I’m uncertain I will be.” She paused a moment, before stroking her hand down his arm. “I’ve never lost my temper the way I did today. I’ve never wanted to provoke bodily harm the way I did today.” She paused, her lips twitching, as she fought a triumphant smile.

  “You were never meant to conceal your true emotions, Mena,” he whispered. “You were always meant to shine.” Unthinkingly he had turned to face her, one hand rising to cup her cheek. “How I’ve missed you.”

  Her eyes glistened, and, rather than racing from him, she inched closer. “And I you, Peter.” She swallowed. “Will you share with me what you learned?”

  He closed his eyes in an attempt to banish the agony swirling through him. “I learned the woman I mourned, the woman I’ve tried so hard to forgive, is despicable.” He clenched his jaw, as a tear leaked down his cheek. “She’s heartless and cruel and self-serving.”

  Philomena’s hand tightened on Peter’s arm, and she canted even closer to him, gifting him with her silent comfort.

  “How am I to tell my baby brother, who was spared the worst of her nastiness, that she despises him?” He opened his eyes and met her mournful gaze. “She only wants us because we’re successful, and she’s a pauper. She has no other use for us, Mena.”

  Philomena let out a deep breath, before pushing forward into his arms. She wrapped them around his waist, holding him close. “I feared that was the case, by what she proclaimed today.” She rested her head against his strong chest. “How could she throw away the blessings she’d been given?”

  Peter eased her away to stare into her eyes in an attempt to discern any deception. “That’s why you came to the café? Because you were worried about me?”

  Before she could answer, a voice from his past, a voice he thought to never hear again, called out, shattering his illusions.

  “Well done, girl! You’ve found him, just like we agreed you would, when we spoke today at your brother’s house over tea. I always knew you were crafty.”

  “Peter, no,” Philomena pleaded, as he took a step away from her. However, his entire focus was on the woman standing behind her.

  “You’re here,” he said in a flat voice, speaking as though his mother were of no more importance than a faceless barkeep selling him a drink. His gaze darted over her, noting the weight she’d gained, the new wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and eyes that made her look in constant disapproval, and her hair that was more gray than gold. He flinched at meeting her assessing blue eyes, eyes that were a mirror image of his own.

  “Of course I’m here. I’ve been kept away from my precious sons for too long.” Katrina opened her arms, striding toward him to enfold him close. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

  At the last moment, Peter stepped aside, tugging Philomena with him.

  His mother, unprepared for his movement, stumbled and fell to her knees.

  “How dare you believe you can return here, after all these years, and believe yourself welcome? How dare you believe we want you back?”

  She pushed herself up, her palms smacking together as she cleaned them of dirt. “Of course you want me back. I’m your mother. You mourned for me.”

  Peter shook his head. “I mourned for a woman who never existed. Or, if she did, she died long before you left us.” He took a deep breath.

  Katrina held out her hand, as though placating a wild animal. “They’ve turned you against me. I can understand how difficult it can be for you to believe I’m truly home. I’ve missed the ranch.”

  Peter stared at her a long moment, a flush rising on his cheeks, as he attempted to calm his roiling emotions. Fury, despair, and anguish pulsed through him. “You believe I don’t know,” he whispered. “Thankfully there are people in my life who are loyal.” He closed his eyes, reciting words that were already burned into his memory, although he’d only read them an hour before. He recited the letter she had written Frederick over three years ago, not pausing when he heard Philomena’s shocked gasp, nor his mother’s demand that he cease his worthless prattle.

  When he finished, he opened his eyes. “I’ve always been blessed, or cursed, with a good memory. It’s helped prevent us from being tricked by dishonest cattle traders. I never thought I’d call on that gift to prove your deceitfulness.”

  Katrina had flushed an unbecoming mottled red, and she stood with hands on her hips. “Whoever wrote such vile lies should be punished! I’ve heard there is a lawyer of sorts in this town. You should hire him.”

  “I should,” Peter said, ignoring Philomena’s surprised murmur. “I should hire him to ensure you can never set foot on the ranch. That you are always barred from our lives. For you forfeited everything the day you walked away from us.”

  Katrina struck out, a lightning-quick attack, and Peter’s head jerked to the side. “You ungrateful boy!” she screamed. “Who are you to judge me? You ruined my life! I wish you’d never been born!” Her eyes widened at her proclamation, and she held a hand to her lips. “Peter, I never meant …”

  He took a step away, his hand swiping at blood on his lip. “Oh, you meant it, Mother. Just like you meant every mean thing you said to me in the short time you lived on the ranch with us.” He blotted the blood with the cuff of his shirt, never taking his eyes off her, as though she were a viper, and he waited for her to strike again. “I know you, Mother. I know who you really are.”

  She thrust her head and shoulders back in a show of bravado. “Tell me what I am, boy.”

  Peter flushed at being called a boy by her, when he stood in front of her as a full-grown man of thirty-six. “You’ve returned because you’re finally destitute, and you have no one else to turn to. You have no regard for anyone but yourself, and, when we are no longer useful to you, you’ll discard us again as easily as you did the last time.” At her wince, he smiled.

  “Don’t rejoice at my misfortune. Or did your grandparents fail in their raising of you, as I knew they would?”

  Peter took a threatening step in her direction, before halting. “Don’t speak against them.” He bit back anything more he might have said. “Whatever misguided notion brought you to town should be ignored, and you should leave.”

  She smiled cryptically. “I’ve never been very good at should.” She smiled insincerely and sauntered away.

  Peter stood, his fists clenched, as darkness descended. The cacophony of birdcalls and chipmunk chatter quieted, leaving an eerie stillness, only interrupted by the soft sound of the breeze fluttering the tree branches. When an owl hooted in the distance, Peter jerked and looked around him. “Mena. You’re still here.”

  “Yes.” She stood in a shadow, her arms wrapped around her belly. “Will you walk me home? It’s grown late.”

  He motioned for her to join him, and he waited for her to slip her hand through his. “I’ve missed this,” he whispered. “Quiet moments with you.” He sighed. “Although I’m a fool.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  He helped her down a slight hill and into town. “Because I should know better than to believe in constancy.” He sighed, when she flinched beside him. “You never said she was having tea with you and plotting with you again today.”

  Philomena tugged on his arm, urging him to st
op, so she could face him in the fading light. “All I knew was that my brother was having a parishioner over for tea. When I saw who it was, I refused to sit down with her, refused to serve her or to have a calm conversation with her. I feared I would bash her over the head with my rolling pin, if I remained in her presence too long.”

  He half smiled, his gaze warm and tender, as he stared at her. “Why, Mena?”

  Taking a step closer to him, she spoke with an earnest honesty. “She stole you from me. Stole my dreams. Ruined what I hoped I would have.” She paused, clearing her throat as tears threatened. “And I’ll never forgive her.”

  “Why?” he whispered again. His intense and passion-filled gaze never faltered from hers.

  “I lost you, Peter, and I don’t know how—”

  “Philomena!” Morris Fitch’s voice sounded in the near dark, causing them both to lurch apart.

  “Morris,” Philomena gasped, as Peter glared at the man approaching them. “I didn’t see you there.”

  “Of course you didn’t. You were too busy being led astray again by this worthless cheat.” Morris grabbed her arm, tugging her away from Peter. “Stay away from my sister, Tompkins.”

  “Mena,” Peter said, reaching out for her a moment, before dropping his hand. He had no desire for the townsfolk to gossip about Philomena stretched between the two of them in a tug of war. He watched as she stumbled after her brother, wishing he had the right to protest her brother’s treatment. Wishing he had the right to hold her in his arms again. To receive her comfort and wise counsel. Swearing softly, he understood with a startling clarity all he had forsaken by failing to show up that day in late April.

  “What were you thinking?” Morris hissed, as he slammed the door to the rectory and marched into the rear of the house, never doubting his sister would follow him. He lit a lamp and turned to glare at his sister. “Don’t you have enough common sense to avoid the man who abandoned you, or are you desperate for more heartache?”