“Yes.” He started forward, concentrating hard, trying to minimize his limp. If she noticed his uneven gait, she didn’t let on. Her expression remained unchanged—a cross between impatience and boredom.
Sherwood claimed his portmanteau and smaller suitcase, and the porter set them onto a cart and rolled them outside. Before Sherwood could move to help the man lift the heavy trunk into the wagon that waited near the platform, Cleo grabbed it off the cart and tossed it onto the wagon bed in one easy motion. She wasn’t big, but she was obviously strong.
If all women in the American West were like this one, his sojourn here wouldn’t be a pleasant one.
“You need help getting up?” She pointed to the seat of the wagon.
His jaw tightened. “I can manage.”
She gave a small shrug of the shoulders, then strode to the opposite side and climbed into place. Reins in hand, she waited for him without a backward glance. He wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or perturbed. Thankfully, his assertion that he needed no help proved true.
The moment he was settled, Cleo Arlington clucked to the horses and slapped the reins against their rumps. The team and wagon jerked forward with a jangle of harness. When they reached the road, she headed away from town.
Sherwood looked at her. “Might I ask where we’re going, Miss Arlington?”
“To the spa. That’s where Morgan is. And call me Cleo. Fancy manners are wasted on me.” She glanced his way. “Morgan tells me that your dad’s a duke.”
Sherwood tried to imagine any of his brothers calling Dagwood Statham, the Duke of Dunacombe, “Dad.” It was preposterous in the extreme.
“So what does that mean exactly?” she continued. “What does someone do to become a duke?”
“One inherits the title.”
“So you’ll be a duke when your father passes on?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I’m the fourth son. The eldest inherits the title and the lands.”
“And what do the rest of you do?”
There were several ways he could answer her. He could tell her he’d been trained for the law but had little passion for it. Or that a career—if he’d wanted one—as an officer in the military had been blown up on the battlefields of France. Or he could state his most recent “skills” were gambling, horses, and carousing—none of which were lucrative nor acceptable occupations for a son of the Duke of Dunacombe.
But instead he feigned a laugh. “Isn’t it obvious, Miss Arlington? We come to America.”
Cleo didn’t try to keep the conversation going after that. She sensed this was the last place the dude wanted to be, riding beside her on the wagon seat. Even the way he’d looked at her was rude and overbearing.
Not that she cared what he thought. He was here, and he’d been made her responsibility.
Be kind and compassionate, her dad had reminded her that morning. Easier said than done. Besides, she had a right to feel put out. She had plenty of work of her own to see to without worrying about keeping the likes of him busy. Just look at him. He was every bit the dandy, from the tip of his glossy black shoes to the cut of his suit to the crown of his black felt derby.
Still, it did seem as if he’d had a rough go of it in the war. He’d tried to hide the stiffness in his right leg when he’d climbed onto the wagon, but there was no hiding the scar that ran from below his left eye to below his left ear. Only why did she have to suffer because of what happened to him on the battlefield?
The thought was neither kind nor compassionate.
When the New Hope lodge came into view, she glanced at Sherwood and took vicarious pleasure in his surprise. The lodge was an impressive sight, even for a man who must have seen his share of castles and estates in England and Europe.
By the time Cleo drew the team to a halt, Morgan was striding toward the wagon. “Hello. Welcome.” He stuck out a hand toward her passenger. “It’s good to see you again, Lord Sherwood. I trust you remember me.”
Lord Sherwood? She rolled her eyes. If he thinks I’ll call him that, he has another thing coming. And yet calling him Mr. Statham once they began working together on the ranch would feel almost as formal as using his title. There had to be a better moniker she could hang on him. But what? He probably wouldn’t like to be called dude or greenhorn, even if that’s what he was.
“Of course I remember you.” Sherwood shook Morgan’s hand. “And your gracious mother as well. How is Mrs. McKinley?”
Morgan shook his head, his smile fading. “She died several years ago.”
“Say, I am sorry. I didn’t know. No one told me.” “Quite all right.” Morgan motioned toward the lodge. “Maybe you’d like to look inside. I’m trying to resolve an issue with our food orders. The opening of the resort is in one week, and we can’t afford any mistakes at this late date. Too many guests arriving soon.” His gaze shifted to Cleo. “Would you mind being Lord Sherwood’s guide? I shouldn’t be much longer.”
Cleo shrugged. “My time’s yours today, Morgan.”
“Thanks. I’ll join you as soon as I can.” Her brother-in-law walked away without a backward glance.
Cleo hopped down from the wagon, and as her boots hit the ground, the perfect name for Lord Sherwood popped into her head. “How about it, Woody? Want a tour of the place?”
“I beg your pardon. What did you call me?”
“Woody. I like the sound of it better than Sherwood.”
After a moment’s silence, he said, “I’m not sure my mother or father would agree.” He descended from the wagon as carefully as he had ascended earlier. “There have been Sherwoods in the Statham family for several generations.”
She bit back a smart retort, her father’s reminder to be kind tweaking her conscience once again. “Well, Morgan said to show you the lodge so let’s go.” She started toward the entrance, leaving him to come at his own pace.
Woody? Sherwood’s father would have apoplexy were he to hear his son addressed in such a way, especially by someone beneath his station. The Duke of Dunacombe was nothing if not a stickler for protocol.
Sherwood followed Cleo into the lodge, a U-shaped, four-storied building made of logs. Rustic, yet magnificent. The lobby was wide and airy with a high ceiling. Elegant throw rugs and runners covered the wood floor, which had been buffed to a high sheen. Original artwork in ornate frames hung on the walls.
Morgan McKinley had cut no corners. One look told Sherwood that everything at this resort would be of the very best quality, including its clientele. Perhaps the coming year wouldn’t be as dismal as he’d begun to fear.
“They’ve got almost a full house for the opening,” Cleo said, intruding on his thoughts. “Friends of Morgan’s from back East and Europe, most of them. Mighty fancy digs, wouldn’t you say?”
“Fine, indeed.” He wondered about his duties and where his room would be located. He hoped on the main floor. Climbing stairs was difficult for him.
“Eventually, the railroad will have the spur brought all the way to the resort itself. Until then, guests will be met with automobiles at the station in Bethlehem Springs and come up the road the way we did.”
Sherwood moved into the large sitting area off the lobby, looking out the windows at the pine-covered hillsides, running his fingers over the backs of brocade-upholstered chairs and the shiny surface of the grand piano.
Very fine.
He pictured himself seated in this room, dressed in evening attire, listening to someone play the piano while he conversed with a lovely young woman—much as he’d done countless times in similar surroundings before the war. Perhaps he might meet an heiress while working here. If she was someone who could overlook his scarred face—
“Would you like to see some of the guest rooms?”
He turned at the sound of Cleo Arlington’s voice, again surprised by her boyish appearance, especially when compared to the buxom and beautiful female he’d been imagining.
She cocked her head to one side. “You’re not very talk
ative, are you?”
He gave her a cool look. “Perhaps I’ll have more to say after I’ve had a chance to get settled.”
Cleo’s eyes narrowed. But her reply was interrupted by the return of Morgan McKinley.
“Thanks for waiting, Lord Sherwood. I must apologize again for not meeting you at the train station, but as I said, we had a mix-up with our supplies. The last thing I want is to open the lodge with an unhappy chef in the kitchen.”
“It’s quite all right. I’m sure no matter when I arrived it would be an imposition.”
“Not at all.” Morgan shook his head. “You and your parents were a great comfort to my mother when we were in England. I’m only too happy to honor your father’s request.”
Sherwood’s jaw tightened. Once again he felt like a boy who’d been sent down from school in disgrace. He and Morgan were of a similar age, and yet Morgan had a life of his own. He wasn’t dependent upon his father’s whims, as was the case with Sherwood. Maybe he should have let himself be cast out of the family rather than come to America. Maybe he should have—
“I don’t suppose we need stand around here any longer.” Morgan looked at Cleo. “I’ve asked one of the men to move the luggage from the wagon to my automobile. Do you want to join us?”
“No, thanks,” she answered. “I’ll just ride on ahead. Domino doesn’t take too well to being tied to a motorcar.” She set her hat over her short, soft curls. “I’ll see you both at the ranch.” She nodded toward Sherwood, tugged the brim of her hat between thumb and forefinger, and left.
Strange girl, that one.
Morgan motioned toward the entrance. “Unless there’s something more you’d like to see in the lodge, we’d best be on our way.”
It was only then that Morgan’s prior words registered with Sherwood. His luggage had been put into an automobile. He wasn’t staying at the New Hope lodge. But if not here, where?
“My wife has a welcome dinner in store for you at her father’s ranch.”
“You don’t live here at your resort?”
Morgan started walking, forcing Sherwood to fall in beside him. “No. Gwen and I have a house in town. My wife is the mayor of Bethlehem Springs.”
The mayor? Good heavens! Was his wife anything like her sister?
THREE
As the black and white pinto loped toward the ranch, Cleo’s thoughts strayed to the man she’d left with Morgan. Sherwood Statham was everything she’d expected him to be—well dressed, if a bit wrinkled from travel, with an aristocratic look, superior air, and highfalutin accent. The boys at the ranch would make mincemeat of him in no time. He’d be crying uncle before summer arrived, and then she’d be rid of him.
A grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. Perhaps it was wicked of her to think so, but it would be rather amusing to see an English lord mucking out the stalls at Arlington Ranch. In fact, she could think of a number of chores Woody might not take much liking to.
She touched her heels to Domino’s sides, encouraging more speed from the gelding. She wanted to reach the ranch before Morgan and Woody caught up with her.
About ten minutes later, she rode into the yard and dismounted at the hitching post. It took only a short while to remove saddle, pad, and bridle, brush Domino down, and turn the horse into the corral. Then she headed toward the house.
The screen door opened, and her father stepped onto the porch. “Did he make it?”
“He made it. Morgan’s bringing him here in the motorcar. I rode on ahead.”
“And?”
“He’s pretty much what I expected.” Cleo shrugged as she went up the porch steps. “He’s got himself a stiff leg. Moves plenty careful. Not sure how much work he’ll be able to do around here.”
“We’ll start him slow. Let him learn the ropes. I imagine everything will seem strange to him to begin with.”
“I still think this is a mistake, Dad.”
“Cleo.”
“I’m sorry, but I do. Wait until you meet him, and you’ll see. He’ll be as useless as a milk bucket under a steer. He doesn’t belong on a cattle ranch. Morgan’s the one who—”
“Enough. Morgan had good reasons for asking us to give the fellow a job instead of taking him on at the resort. Mr. Statham is here and he’s going to stay here.”
Hard as it was to do, Cleo swallowed the rest of her objections. She’d known it was futile to try. Her father’s mind had been made up the moment Morgan asked the favor of him. The only way she’d be rid of the dude was when he left of his own accord.
Mercy, she hoped that would be soon.
The sound of the automobile drew their gazes down the road leading to the ranch complex. At the same moment, Gwen stepped onto the porch, wiping her hands on her apron. “Thank goodness they’re here. I was afraid the roast would dry out if they were much longer.”
“Morgan’s never late for your cooking.” Cleo wagged a finger. “If you’re not careful, Gwennie, your husband’s going to get fat.”
Her sister’s eyes glimmered with pleasure.
Last summer and fall, the mere thought of Tyler King had made Cleo feel the same way Gwen looked right now—warm and happy and giddy with joy. For a while, she’d believed he meant to ask her to marry him. Maybe he would have…if not for Henrietta Hamilton’s father and his shotgun.
She drew in a quick breath and shook off the memories. They didn’t hurt now the way they had a few months ago. Most of the time, she could think back and be thankful to God for saving her from the biggest mistake of her life. But sometimes, when she saw the happiness on her sister’s face, that pain would hit her again—a pain right dab in the center of her heart.
Romantic foolishness.
The Ford Touring Car rolled to a stop in front of the house. In short order, Morgan hopped out of the driver’s seat and came up to the porch. Taking hold of Gwen’s hand, he led her to the passenger side of the car. Cleo’s father followed after them.
As Woody disembarked from the automobile, he grimaced in pain. Morgan must have seen it, too, for he hurried the introductions of his wife and father-in-law, then said, “Let’s go inside, shall we? No point standing around when there’s a delicious meal awaiting us indoors.”
Gwen, ever the solicitous hostess, walked beside Woody on their way into the house, asking him questions about his trip West and, after he’d answered her, telling him that she and Morgan had recently made the same journey across the country. When they reached the dining room, she looked at her husband. “Dear, please bring a footstool for Mr. Statham. I’m sure he’ll enjoy his meal more if he can raise his sore leg for a time.”
“You’re very thoughtful, Mrs. McKinley.” Woody bowed his head in her direction. “Thank you.”
Cleo swallowed a sound of derision. When was the last time a new ranch hand had gotten this sort of welcome? Never, that’s when. Most new hires were shown to the bunkhouse so they could stow their gear and then put straight to work. Just how was she supposed to make a ranch hand out of him with her entire family treating him like a special guest?
The familial affection around the Arlington dinner table was almost palpable. It made Sherwood more than a little uncomfortable. At Dunacombe Manor, meals with his parents and brothers were formal affairs, their conversations strictly guarded. Sherwood had learned at a young age to watch what he said and how he said it. Usually it was best to say nothing at all.
Griff Arlington said something that elicited laughter from his daughters and son-in-law, and Griff laughed right along with them, the merry sounds echoing about the room. Sherwood tried to envision the same thing happening around the table at the manor, but all he could see was the duke boxing his ears and sending him from the room. No imagination required there. It had happened often enough when he was a boy.
Gwen McKinley, seated on Sherwood’s left, leaned toward him and softly said, “I’m afraid we’re being rude, Mr. Statham. You cannot possibly understand what we found so amusing.”
“It’s quite
all right, Mrs. McKinley. I’m afraid my thoughts were wandering anyway.”
“You’ve hardly touched your food.” Cleo leaned back in her chair. “Not to your liking, Woody?”
If he wasn’t mistaken, there was a definite challenge in her tone of voice. She seemed to have taken an instant dislike to him. So be it. “I do not know anyone by the name of Woody, Miss Arlington.” He looked at Gwen again. “And your sister is mistaken. This is the best meal I have eaten since arriving in America. It’s weariness that has stolen my appetite.”
Cleo stood, the legs of her chair scraping against the floor. “I’ll have one of the boys help me take your luggage to the bunkhouse. I suppose tomorrow’s soon enough for me to begin showing you around.”
She had already reached the door before her words made sense in Sherwood’s mind. Luggage. Bunkhouse. Begin showing around.
He looked at Morgan. “I’m sorry. Am I to understand that I will be staying here on this…on this ranch? I’m to work here?”
Morgan looked as surprised as Sherwood felt. “Yes. I thought you knew. Your father didn’t tell you?”
“No.” Sherwood swallowed. “He didn’t tell me.”
An uncomfortable silence flooded the room.
Different emotions warred in Sherwood’s chest. Shame that he’d been pawned off on this family like an unwanted dog. Anger at his father for setting him up to appear an incompetent fool. Fear that he wouldn’t be able to do whatever tasks were assigned to him. Dread that he would fail here just as he’d failed on the battlefield, just as he’d failed in the eyes of the duke.
Griff cleared his throat. “Well, don’t let it worry you, Mr. Statham. I promise we’ll ease you into things. Cleo and the other cowboys will show you the ropes, make sure you know how things are done.”
Sherwood lowered his right leg from the footstool, then stood, feeling awkward and clumsy in front of them. “If one of you might direct me to the—” He searched his memory for what Cleo had called it. “—to the bunkhouse?”
Morgan rose. “I’ll take you.”
The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs Collection Page 24