Runaway Montana Groom: Bear Grass Springs Book 12

by Ramona Flightner

  He stared at her, as though seeing her for the first time, completely perplexed.

  “You can return to the rectory, content in your belief that I’m the one who failed to follow your ministry. But you should think hard, Morris, because you failed in every way that matters as a brother. I didn’t need a preacher. I needed a brother. A friend. And you were never that.” She pushed past him, walking blindly in the direction of the café, as tears filled her eyes.

  When she arrived at the café, she collapsed onto the bench at the kitchen table, sobs overcoming her. Laying her head on her arms, she cried and cried. Soft hands stroked her back. A gentle kiss to her head. Soothing words. No one snapped at her to cease acting like a petulant child. No one said that now was not a good time for such a demonstration of emotion. Instead her grief was accepted and honored. With that realization, she only cried harder. She felt someone sit beside her, and she leaned toward that warmth.

  “Come, love. Let me hold you as you cry,” Peter whispered.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she gasped. “The café must be busy. The customers …” she hiccupped out.

  “Can wait,” Irene said. “You’re far more important than any customer.”

  Philomena raised her head, staring in wonder at Irene. “Thank you.”

  “Of course, my girl,” Irene said, smiling, as she saw her grandson tend to his wife with such tender care. “Everything is better after a good cry.”

  Philomena nestled into her husband’s arms, thankful for her good fortune that had allowed her and Peter to reunite. For she knew she would be lost without him.

  A week after the wedding, Philomena slipped from the café during a lull in customers to check on Harold. His ankle was improving, and she had heard him say that he hoped to be fit and able to move around freely soon. She knew Irene had gone to Leticia’s to help with the children, as Leticia wasn’t feeling well today. Philomena paused, turning her head up to the sun’s bright rays and relishing the warmth for a moment. Summer in Montana was fleeting, and she wanted to enjoy every moment she could. After another long breath, she picked up her skirts and headed into the house to find Harold sitting in his comfortable chair, reading a book.

  “Mr. Tompkins,” she said, with a bright smile. “Is there anything I can get you?” Her smile dimmed as he stared at her with barely veiled contempt.

  “I don’t see why you’d worry yourself about me.” He glowered at her.

  “You’re my grandfather …” She jumped when he slapped his hand onto the arm of his chair, interrupting whatever else she might have said.

  “No, I’m Peter’s grandfather. I am Mr. Tompkins to you.” He waited until she nodded, seemingly satisfied when she paled and appeared chagrined. “Was that your scheme?” he asked, as he set the book on his belly. “Trapping my boy?”

  “I beg your pardon?” she whispered.

  He shifted around in his chair, muttering his thanks when she helped move his foot, so he was more comfortable. “Did you have this planned out?”

  She glared at Harold. “No one can plan on getting pregnant,” she said, with an indignant glower. “Why are you suspicious of me now?” She waited for him to respond, but he flushed and shook his head. “It’s because of his mother, isn’t it? You think I’m conspiring with her, don’t you?”

  “You have to admit it’s a helluva coincidence,” Harold muttered, flushing redder with his agitation.

  “That I loved your grandson and anticipated our first wedding vows, long before I knew she was alive? Long before Peter knew she was alive?” she asked, stomping her foot in frustration. “Will you never believe that I am sincere in my affection for him?”

  “Affection,” he said, with scorn. “What a pathetic word.” He stared at her with eyes lit with a fierce intensity. “To have a marriage survive, to thrive, you need an unwavering love. Passion is wonderful, but that can ebb and flow. But an unrelenting love? … That will see you through everything.”

  Tears dripped down her cheeks as she stared at him. “You believe me incapable of such emotion.” When he grunted and shrugged his shoulders, she whispered, “Why did you allow him to marry me? Why act so excited if you were disappointed in his choice?”

  “I didn’t know you’d played the oldest trick in the book until she interrupted the wedding,” Harold snapped.

  Philomena held a hand over her belly, taking a step away. “This isn’t a trick, and it was never a trap. You have no idea what I felt when I imagined being an unwed mother with the pastor for a brother.” She swallowed and took a deep breath, battling back panic. “Peter abandoned me in April.”

  She spun on her heel, fleeing Harold and his vicious words. She stumbled away, blindly racing down the back alley away from the café, away from Harold, and the growing fear that Peter felt as his grandfather did.

  She tripped, shrieking as she fell, and burst into tears. Although she attempted to push herself up, she was emotionally exhausted and didn’t have the strength to rise. Her shoulders heaved as she sobbed, and she bent forward over her knees in an attempt to hide her overwhelming display of emotions from anyone passing by.

  “Philomena?” asked a woman, her voice soft. “Philomena!” Gentle hands patted her back and shoulder. “Come,” Annabelle urged, easing her up. She slipped an arm under Philomena’s shoulder and helped lead her into the bakery’s kitchen, settling Philomena in the rocking chair in the corner. “Water, Jane,” she murmured.

  Philomena fell forward, mortified to have been caught so out of control but unable to stop crying. “I’m sorry,” she gasped out. “I’ll stop and leave you in peace.”

  Annabelle rested a hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “No, you won’t. It’s obvious you need time away from your husband’s family. We should have insisted you visit us sooner.” She pulled up a chair and sat beside her. “I remember what it was like when I was first pregnant. Terrified and excited all at once.”

  “Terrified?” Philomena hiccupped. “Why? You were married to Cailean, and he ado … oo … res you.” She took a stuttering breath, as her sobs quieted.

  “Not after I first told him I was pregnant.” Annabelle sobered, as she spoke of a time in her life she wished she could forget. “He was convinced I’d die in labor, as did his first wife and babe, leaving him alone again. He wanted nothing to do with me or the baby.” She held a hand over her belly, as though she cradled a baby within. At Philomena’s speculative glance, she shook her head with a sad smile. “No, I’m not expecting. And I doubt I ever will again. My last miscarriage …” She shook her head once more.

  “I lost my first baby and nearly died,” Annabelle whispered, her customary vitality and exuberance for life absent, as she solemnly spoke of her past. “I thought I’d lost my marriage too.” Reaching out, she squeezed Philomena’s hand. “I learned to trust again and to never doubt how much I loved or could be loved.” She paused. “No matter who spoke lies to you, believe in your husband.”

  At the protracted silence, Jane asked in a soft voice, “Was it his mother again?”

  “No,” Philomena whispered, as a stray tear leaked out. “It was Harold.”

  “Harold?” Jane gasped, as she dropped a bowl and gaped at her. “But he’s the most generous man I know. The most accepting.”

  Philomena took another stuttering breath. “Unless he fears you are like the woman he most loathes and believes you are just like her.” She winced at the bitterness in her tone.

  “You’re nothing like Katrina,” Jane said, as she approached Philomena and pulled out a crate to sit on. “I can’t believe he doesn’t see that.”

  “Fear blinds us, Jane,” Annabelle murmured. At Jane’s nod of agreement, Annabelle stroked a hand over Philomena’s back. “Why did what he say upset you so? I would have thought you’d be enraged.”

  “I see him,” Philomena said, as though in a trance, her gaze distant and focused on a scene only she saw. “I see Peter watching me, waiting for me to do something. I don’t
know what. And I now realize he’s waiting for me to act like her. To betray him, like she did.” Her voice broke. “He doesn’t trust me, not in the way a husband should trust his wife.” She stared at the two women in the room, envy and accusation in her gaze. “Not like your husbands do.”

  “That’s not true,” Jane said, unable to be disloyal to her cousin. She bit her lip. “At least, I hope that’s not true.”

  Philomena huffed out a mirthless laugh. “Exactly. You hope. I hope. But what good is hope? What does it bring us?” She swiped at her face with a handkerchief, her new initials embroidered on one corner in purple thread taunting her. “Nothing but false promises and a false sense of security.”

  Annabelle frowned at her. “You know that’s not true. Look what hope has brought you. A reconciliation with the man you love. A wonderful life working beside him at the café. A babe you’ll soon hold in your arms. What more did you dream of?”

  Ducking her head, Philomena whispered, “Nothing. This is always what I wanted. A full life.”

  Jane watched her closely. “You have told my cousin you love him?”

  Philomena flushed and shrugged. “Yes, once. Before we wed. He knows how I feel.”

  Annabelle moaned and rolled her eyes. “No, Philomena, it doesn’t work like that. You tell him, daily if you can. You show him, in all the little things you do. The soft touches, the glances that show how much you appreciate and admire him. Don’t let fear and another’s doubt prevent you from seeing what is in front of you.”

  “What if Peter feels the same as Harold?” Philomena whispered, her breath calming, as only a few tears leaked out.

  Annabelle beamed at her. “Then you prove him wrong and have the most wonderful reconciliation.” She winked at Philomena. “For those are some of the best times in your marriage.”

  Against her will, Philomena giggled and felt a stirring of hope.

  A few days later, any hope Philomena had felt had faded to ash. Peter was affectionate, but she sensed a distance that hadn’t existed between them after their wedding. Deep inside, she knew it was because he worried she was just like his mother.

  As her doubt and anxiety grew, her happiness became more brittle. She rarely touched him or stroked a hand down his arm. Nor did she lean into him for a hug, eager for his kiss on her head. A kernel of anger grew into a rage and a resentment that he felt only duty and responsibility toward her, not love.

  Why would a man like Peter truly love her? A small voice in her head mocked her, growing louder and louder with each passing day. Why wouldn’t he believe her to be just like his mother? His own mother believed her to be of the same cloth, as did his grandfather. How disappointed Peter must feel to be burdened by her forever.

  Her own family only ever considered her an obligation, and her brother refused to attend, never mind officiate, her wedding. She was not a woman worth celebrating or cherishing.

  As these thoughts grew in volume in her mind, Philomena withdrew more and more, wanting as little contact as possible with Peter. She failed to notice the hurt in his gaze as she turned away from his embraces or the yearning when he stared at her. Instead she saw disappointment and despair. Not once did she have the courage to discuss what she feared, as she dreaded the confirmation of her thoughts more than living in a hell of her own making.

  Peter sat on the stoop of his front porch, fighting a sense of impending doom. Mena was at a gathering of the extended MacKinnon women’s clan, and he knew she had been looking forward to spending time with them. For nearly a week, she’d been skittish and more emotional, hesitant to bestow the small caresses, kisses, and smiles he had grown accustomed to. What had he done to upset her? Whenever he asked, she was offended at the question, so he knew better than to wonder out loud. However, he couldn’t prevent doubt from blooming that she regretted their marriage.

  He kicked out his legs to get more comfortable on the porch steps, as he stared at the town, thankful for their home a little way outside of town on a small rise. He enjoyed the sense of privacy they had, although it was near enough to their work at the café and his grandparents. He shook his head as he considered the incredible thoughtfulness of his cousin, Jane, and her husband, Ben, at giving them this cabin. Although he loved his grandparents, spending the first months as a newly married couple living with them would have been a challenge.

  He sighed as he considered his wife. Everything had been wonderful on their honeymoon. He closed his eyes as he remembered the laughter. The teasing. The tickle fights that led to lovemaking. The moments when he held her in his arms, and no words were needed, and all was right in his world.

  “Ah, ye’re such a newlywed,” Ewan called out, ruining Peter’s reverie as Peter jerked and opened his eyes to meet the grinning Scotsman’s teasing gaze. “She’ll be home soon enough.”

  “Yes,” Peter said, motioning for Ewan to sit beside him on the stoop. “Bears will walk her home.”

  “Aye,” Ewan said, sighing with appreciation, as he looked at Peter’s view. “Ye have a nice home, Peter. Although ye ken ye willna enjoy it as much in winter and ’tis icy up an’ down this wee hill?”

  Peter shrugged. “We’ll manage. I never thought to have my own home.” He shook his head in wonder. “I always thought I’d live at the ranch, with Fred and Cole.”

  Ewan made a noncommittal noise. After a long pause, he muttered, “What’s the matter now? Ye married the woman ye love. Ye have a bairn on the way. Ye have a home an’ a business. What more do ye need?”

  Peter turned to study the man beside him. After a prolonged silence he said in a soft voice, “It’s an act, isn’t it? Your forced gaiety.”

  Ewan sobered and shook his head. “No’ now, it isn’t. Ye see a contented man in front of ye.” He sighed. “But it was. When my Jessie an’ I had problems.”

  “You and Jessamine?” Peter asked, with a confused shake of his head. “But you are so in love. You are dedicated to each other.” He scratched at his head. “It’s as though you can hold a conversation with each other from across the room.”

  Ewan chuckled. “Aye, when we’re in harmony, we can. But we’ve had our share of difficulties.” He let out a breath, the twinkle in his brown eyes fading as he sobered. “Aileana is our daughter, aye? But she’s no’ our blood. She’s adopted. Jessie an’ I canna have children.” He shuddered. “I fear another pregnancy would kill her.”

  Ewan tapped his hand against his leg, a nervous tattoo, as though speaking about the difficult times might conjure them again. “All Jessamine wanted, besides me, was a baby. An’ that desire almost ruined our marriage.”

  Peter sat in stunned silence, as he watched Ewan and listened to him speak. “What happened?”

  Ewan shrugged. “I thought she was havin’ an affair. Thought she did no’ love me anymore.” He shook his head as regret and a hint of shame filled his gaze. “I couldna see past my own fears to see my wife’s deepest desire. Couldna handle that she might desire someone more than me. Until I learned it was a bairn.”

  “What did you do?” Peter asked.

  Ewan smiled. “We fought, and I feared our marriage was over. But then I learned my doubts were unfounded, aye? Jessie’d never play me false. She’s too much integrity for that. An’ too much love for me.” He rubbed at his head. “An’ I had to admit, to myself at least, that I couldna be all that she needed. That adoptin’ a wee bairn would only bring us joy. An’ she has.”

  Peter grunted, as he thought through Ewan’s story. “You knew your wife loved you. She’d shown you devotion.”

  Groaning, Ewan stared at the sky, as though seeking divine intervention. “Oh, sweet heavens, save me from doubting Tompkins men. Ye never can see what ’tis right in front of ye. Why must ye be blind as well as dumb?” He met Peter’s glare with an impish smile. “Yer woman found a way to maneuver her brother to the town ye’re from, an’ she stood up to yer mother an’ had the courage to go against her unforgiving brother’s wishes, an’ still ye’d doubt her?�
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  Peter leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “You don’t know what it’s been like these past days. Something happened. Something made her change.”

  Ewan took a deep breath. “Aye, somethin’ did happen, but I canna speak of it.” He looked at Peter, sorrow in his gaze. “I … I canna betray the trust I share with Jessie. What I can say is, trust in yer wife. Show her yer faith in her. An’ all will be well.”

  “What happened?” Peter demanded. “Who hurt her?”

  Ewan shook his head. He rose, brushing off his pants. “Peter, dinna let the pain of the past cloud yer present joy. Dinna look to yer wife to act as yer mother did, for she’s no’ a thing like yer mother, an’ ye ken it.” He squeezed Peter’s shoulder before sauntering away, whistling a jaunty tune.

  Peter sat in stunned silence, as he thought over Ewan’s visit. If his mother had said something cutting to hurt Mena, he knew Ewan would have spoken of it. He rebelled against the idea that anyone close to him could have intentionally hurt his wife. However, the doubt grew, and he knew he had to find a way to soothe her pain.

  Philomena entered the home she shared with Peter, quietly shutting the door. She didn’t see him on the porch or in the front living room, so she assumed he was in the bedroom, already asleep. Although she loved the long summer days, they also meant long work hours, and she knew he must be as exhausted as she was. Stifling a yawn, she moved to the kitchen for a glass of water and stared out the side window to the hills covered in sagebrush. Through the open window, the hint of sage wafted inside, and she closed her eyes, relishing in the fresh scent.

  She’d felt the baby move these last few days. After wondering what that sensation was, she’d asked the women tonight, and they had confirmed the fluttering she noted was the baby. A tear leaked down her cheek, and she gave a silent prayer of thanksgiving that her baby was well.