Fifteen minutes later, belly full, the taste of strawberries lingering on his tongue from the jam he’d liberally spread over his toast, Eamon drained the last of the coffee from his cup and wiped his mouth.
He and Theo were the only two still sitting at the table. Granny had grabbed her big floppy hat and headed outside to the barn to begin the process of washing clothes. Lou, Wynn, and Quincy had already left to prepare the buckboard for their morning run to town. Marianne scraped the plates the younger children brought her into a bucket to be given to the pigs, then slid the dishes into the sink to soak for a few minutes—everything organized and efficient, like the rest of the farm.
His attention focused on Theo. She leaned forward in her chair, elbows on the table though it wasn’t proper, her chin resting atop her folded hands as she focused her attention on Thomas. Though he cleared the dishes along with Gabby and Charlotte, he told a story at the same time, his speech pattern alternating between rushed and halting, the words tripping over his lips in his excitement only to become stuck on his tongue where he struggled to get them out. And it didn’t matter. Not to Theo, who patiently encouraged the boy, such love showing on her face, Eamon could feel the intensity of her emotions all the way across the table.
Even though there was work to be done, he didn’t want to interrupt. It wasn’t his place. And Theo didn’t seem like she was in any kind of hurry. Taking his cue from her, Eamon sat back in his chair and listened until the story ended and the boy wandered over to the sink, his turn to wash the dishes while Gabby and Charlotte dried.
A moment later, Theo put down her coffee cup and cleared her throat as she rose from the table. Her gaze settled on him, and her lips spread into a grin. “Shall we?”
“Of course.” He pushed his chair away from the table and quickly followed.
She led the way outside, grabbing her hat from the hook next to the door and plopping it on her head. “We’ll move the horses into the pastures, then we’ll muck out the stable.” She grinned at him. “You ready for that?”
It was on the tip of his tongue to say no. Mucking out the stalls had never been a favorite thing to do, but it was part of his job here. He gave a quick nod. “Yes.”
Theo laughed, a bright bubbling sound that filled the air. “You can admit it, Eamon. No one likes mucking out the stalls.”
He didn’t deny or agree with her statement, but a flush warmed his features as they reached the stable. Eamon stepped in front of her and pulled the heavy door open. His heart jumped a little when Theo gave him a beaming smile and stepped through. “Good morning, my lovelies!”
Her greeting was answered with a few neighs, some nickers, and a whinny or two as she strolled down the aisle, the dog, appearing from wherever he’d been, on her heels. The cats and duck brought up the rear. Stroking a nose here, patting a neck there, speaking softly, Theo opened the gates as she moved forward. Eamon followed her example and did the same on the other side of the aisle.
Eamon watched her, as amazed as he’d been yesterday by the way the big animals responded to her. They left their stalls at a leisurely pace and followed her, behind the dog, cats, and duck already in line.
She turned to him as she came up on Pumpkin’s stall and opened his gate, but instead of letting him roam free as she did the others, she laid her hand on his neck, said a few words close to his ear, then led him toward the big door at the back of the stable. He stayed right beside her, needing nothing more than her touch to guide him. “Do you remember in which enclosures the horses were yesterday?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Theo,” she insisted and grinned again. “Let’s do the same, except I want Daphne with Pumpkin here.”
He gave a quick nod, though he didn’t remember exactly which horse was Daphne. It didn’t matter. He’d find out soon enough.
Theo clicked her tongue as she slid the door open, and the horses strolled through, heading up the grassy path between enclosures. Eamon opened gates and led them into their respective fields.
Theo closed the gate to Pumpkin’s paddock closest to the stable, the faint murmur of her voice reaching Eamon, though he couldn’t decipher her words. He did admire the subtle sway of her hips and the way the hem of her dark brown suede split skirt rippled around the tops of her boots. It took a moment or two before he could force his attention back to the task at hand.
Standing in the middle of the grassy path between enclosures, he studied the horses behind the fences. “All right, which one of you is Daphne?”
A soft nicker met his ears as one of the horses moved toward the gate, her ears pricked in his direction, her soft brown eyes alert and on him. “Are you Daphne?”
The horse let out another nicker, this time a little louder. Eamon took that as confirmation, though he glanced at Theo. She gave a slight nod, letting him know he had chosen correctly. “Well, that was easy enough.” Eamon approached the horse, grabbed her halter, and gently led her to the paddock where Pumpkin waited.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of heat and dust as they groomed the horses, one at a time for each of them, then cleaned the stable together, all while keeping an eye on Daphne and Pumpkin in the paddock, the mare seeming to be receptive to Pumpkin’s pursuit, though she led him on a merry chase over the gently rolling hills. And though he tried not to, Eamon couldn’t help stealing glances in Theo’s direction before forcing himself to turn away.
Who was this woman?
She worked as hard as he, perhaps even harder. Perspiration glistened on her face. She’d taken off her hat earlier, and a hank of whiskey-colored hair slipped from the ponytail at the back of her head to curl near her cheek. He resisted the urge to tuck it behind her ear at the same time he squelched the desire to just stand back and watch her. Theo fascinated him. Perhaps it was the way she moved, graceful . . . even with a pitchfork. Perhaps it was the way she talked with the children and the animals. Perhaps it was . . .
Eamon dumped a shovelful of manure into the wheelbarrow, determined to keep his mind on his task instead of the boss lady and failed miserably, as once again, almost beyond his control, his eyes flicked toward her. She stood in the aisle, pitchfork in her hand, tines up, as she surveyed her completed task. Sunlight streamed through the door behind her, making her entire being glow, as she tucked that errant lock of hair behind her ear and smiled in his direction.
Eamon didn’t dare move as a thought occurred to him: Do angels exist? And if they do, had he found one? Or maybe she was a sorceress. It was the only explanation he could come up with . . . she’d cast some kind of spell over him. And not the first spell. Why else would he feel this way? He’d known her for less than a day, and yet he was fascinated with her, unable to stop stealing glances in her direction. Reminding himself she might be married didn’t help either.
On the heels of that thought came another, one more likely to be closer to the truth than thinking Theo Danforth was an angel or a witch. Perhaps he’d been so lonely for so long, he saw and felt things that weren’t true.
With a strength he hadn’t known he possessed, Eamon gripped the handle of the shovel harder and forced himself to turn away from the vision that tempted him, determined, more so than ever, to keep his distance.
Chapter 5
Aldrich Pearce moved his chair closer to the crackling flames in the fireplace, kicked the footstool into place, and extended his slipper-clad feet toward the fire. He took a sip of the aged brandy filling the snifter in his hand and felt the trail of heat the liquor left as he swallowed, warming him from the inside out. Despite the fire burning brightly, he was still chilled—was always cold. He supposed that had to do with growing up so poor, there was never enough money for firewood. His hands. His feet. Even the tip of his nose never seemed to be warm.
There were those who said his cold hands and feet matched his icy heart, and to those, Aldrich would tip his hat and agree. One didn’t get where he was with a warm heart. To get what one wanted in life, one needed to be cold. Calculating
. Manipulative. Or so he learned early on from the man who sired him, then left him and his mother to face the world on their own while he went to seek his fortune elsewhere.
He smiled as he swirled the amber liquid around the bowl of the snifter, took another sip, and slid the glass onto the table beside him. His gaze wandered to the map of Colorado above the fireplace. The map had recently been altered—new, darker lines denoted the growth of his personal holdings with the acquisition of the Flying Cloud Ranch and Barclay’s Stock and Feed. The Pearce empire, centered on the town bearing his name, was growing, and that gave him some satisfaction, however short-lived it might be. The pleasure and the feeling of accomplishment never lasted. Nor did it erase the memory of growing up poor and watching his mother struggle without the protection of his father. It didn’t erase the memory of being hungry or ridiculed either.
He rubbed his hands together to generate warmth in his frigid fingers and studied the map. His focus shifted to Morning Mist Farms, five miles south of Pearce and one prime piece of land, not to mention horseflesh . . . and the Widow Danforth.
He wanted it. All of it. The land. The horses. And the enticing, green-eyed widow.
He hadn’t been able to devote much time to pursuing that goal, leaving the details up to his son, AJ, and the handful of lawyers he kept on retainer. Things had changed though. The Flying Cloud was his, as was Barclay’s, thanks to Tell Logan, the outlaw he’d hired to do a little less than friendly coercion on his behalf. He had time now.
He heard the front door open and close. A moment later, his son greeted the butler, despite the lateness of the hour, before his rapid footsteps crossed the marble tiled hall, heading for the broad staircase, the second floor of the Pearce mansion, and the comfort of his suite. “AJ, come in here.”
The footsteps stopped, followed by silence. Aldrich pursed his mouth and waited, silently counting the passing moments until those footsteps fell against the marble tile again, bringing his son to the study. AJ leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms across his chest as if he hadn’t a care in the world, an action Aldrich had seen many times, and a lie if ever there was one.
“You wanted to see me, Father?”
Aldrich reached for the brandy beside him and finished the liquor in one swallow, then rose to his feet. Moving away from the warmth of the fire, he settled himself behind his massive desk, not because it was more comfortable—he’d be cold again in no time at all—but because it afforded him the perfect vantage point to study his son as he sauntered across the room toward the wet bar in the corner. Once again, he heard the vindictive, poisonous words AJ’s mother had whispered just before she died fifteen years ago. “He’s not yours.”
There were times, like now, when he believed those words, when the hatred Millicent Grant Pearce harbored toward him felt more like the persistent jabs of a knife than mere words. As a child, AJ had looked nothing like him. As a thirty-year-old man, even less so. Whereas Aldrich had pale blue eyes and blond hair, nearly white now, AJ was dark. Very much like his mother and the man he suspected of being his father.
Even his stature did not resemble Aldrich. Not in the least. Tall and lanky, with not an ounce of extra weight, AJ was the complete opposite of himself, which again, made him think of the man he assumed had truly sired his son. Aldrich, even on his best day, could never be considered tall or lanky, but Carter Preston, his late partner, could.
His son didn’t act like him, either. There was none of the drive or ambition that had made Aldrich one of the richest men in Colorado, not that he could see anyway. The only thing that AJ did have, which Aldrich credited himself for, was a devious mind.
Aldrich mentally shook himself as, bourbon in hand, AJ sauntered toward the desk and slumped into the chair, his dark eyes a little red-rimmed, as if he hadn’t had enough sleep. And in this case, it was true. The grandfather clock in the corner kept perfect time as the minute hand swept toward twelve, the hour hand firmly positioned on two. He had never needed a lot of sleep and actually did some of his best thinking in the small hours of the morning, when the world was quiet. The same could not be said for AJ, which was another difference between them.
His nose detected cigar smoke, cheap toilet water, and cheaper booze, not the good liquor that filled his wet bar or the expensive perfume worn by his last mistress. “I’ve been thinking about our little problem.”
“And which little problem is that, Father? There are so many.”
“Sarcasm, AJ?”
“My apologies, Father. It’s late and I’m tired.” He swallowed some of the liquor in his glass. As he did so, Aldrich noticed how his hands shook, the tremor slight but noticeable. Too much booze could do that to a man. So could fear. “Please go on. To which problem were you referring?”
Aldrich forced his attention from AJ’s shaking hands to his slightly flushed face. “Theo Danforth.”
It gave him some pleasure to see his son sit up straight, one hand clutching the glass, knuckles white, the other curled into a fist as if he might strike him. That would never happen. The day AJ raised a hand to him, son or not, would be the day he died. He understood the reaction to the woman’s name, though, and it suited his purposes well. AJ had a soft spot for the spirited widow. That soft spot began the day she drove her gypsy wagon into town, despite the fact her husband sat beside her. AJ had been smitten upon first glance. If the truth were told, Aldrich had liked what he’d seen, too. “Ah, you thought I’d forgotten about Morning Mist Farms.”
AJ shook his head as he reached into the humidor on the desk and selected a cigar. He took his time clipping off the end, then swiped the head of a match against the striker. The match sparked into flame. He stared at that little bit of fire before holding it to the end of the cigar and puffing it alight. Smoke circled his head before dissipating toward the ceiling. “Not forgot. Just thought you decided to let her be.”
Aldrich scoffed. “And why would I do that?”
“Because you don’t need another farm. Or ranch. Or business. You don’t need those horses.”
“Who said anything about need, AJ?” He gestured toward the expensive, one-of-a-kind paintings adorning the walls and the rare objets d’art created especially for him, each piece worth so much more now that the artist was dead. “I don’t need anything. Want is a whole different story.” He paused, his eyes focusing on the map once more. “I’m thinking of letting Logan help us persuade our lovely widow that selling Morning Mist Farms and her horses to me is her best decision.”
Movement caught his attention and his focus shifted.
AJ rose from his seat and sauntered across the room to the bar filled with fine liquor. He poured himself another glass of aged Kentucky bourbon, then tossed it back like it was water. “I thought you were going to let me court the widow Danforth, marry her, and gain control of all that fine horseflesh.”
Aldrich grunted as he rifled through the papers on his desk. “You’re taking too long. You should have wedded and bedded her already.” He looked up from his papers and grinned. “Or bedded and wedded her.”
“She isn’t ready.” AJ filled the glass one more time, then resumed his seat.
“She’s a woman, isn’t she? Change her mind.”
AJ shook his head. “She’s still in love with her late husband.”
Aldrich smirked. “She might say she is, but I know the truth. How can she still love a man who left her with a mountain of debts when he died? Who’d give money to every poor slob who asked for it rather than save it for their future? She’d be a very rich woman if Henry Danforth had kept his money in his wallet.” He pulled a cigar out of the ornate box on his desk, bit off the tip, and stuck it in his mouth. “Take my word for it, son, she’s ready.” He struck a match, but instead of lighting the cigar, he waved it in the air as he spoke. “Convince her. Show her she needs someone to help her run that farm. I’m sure she’s tired of shouldering the responsibility on her own.” He grinned and finally puffed the cigar alight. B
lue-gray smoke wreathed his head as he leaned back in the chair and held out his empty snifter. “I’d do it myself—I’m still young enough. I haven’t lost my looks or my powers of persuasion, but for some reason, Theodosia Danforth doesn’t like me.”
AJ grabbed the glass, rose from his seat, and, once again, strode toward the bar. “I wonder why, Father? Do you think it has anything to do with the nasty, reprehensible things you said about Henry when she paid off the debt he owed you?” He poured a healthy portion of brandy, more than the usual amount, the amber liquid filling the snifter halfway. “And she isn’t alone, either. She has Quincy Burke and the rest of her family.”
Aldrich took the glass before AJ slumped into his chair. “Ha! He’s another one. I will admit he’s a good farmer. His cows produce more milk than average, but he’s got no head for business. He has himself a sweet deal at Morning Mist, but he’s not Theo’s husband or her protector.” He lifted the snifter to his lips and swallowed, feeling the warmth of the liquor slide down his throat.
“You could always buy out her mortgage, then call the loan in.”
“And why would I want to do that?” He tapped ashes into the crystal bowl on the desk, then stuck the cigar in his mouth and inhaled deeply.
AJ shrugged, then adjusted the sharp crease in his trouser leg. “It’s worked for you before.”
He exhaled the smoke in one perfect smoke ring after another and watched them distort and become shapeless wisps of vapor. “True, true, but those were dire circumstances. That gambit failed for me, too, and I lost money on the deal. No, I won’t go that route again unless it becomes absolutely necessary.” He leaned back in his chair and brought the cigar to his lips once more while his focus went from AJ to the map and back. After a moment, he sighed. Now that Flying Cloud and Barclay’s were his, he felt a little generous, not something that happened very often. “I have decided, dear boy, to let you continue with your plan to seduce the widow Danforth, but there is a time limit. You have two months before I have Logan . . . persuade her to see my point of view. No, make that six weeks to court her, so you’d best hurry. She’s already got Ben Foster and Jim Kennedy sniffing up her skirts and that new hired hand, too.”
A Kiss in the Morning Mist Page 7