The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs Collection

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  The work Cleo had assigned to him his first week on the ranch didn’t take a great deal of thought, and after three days Sherwood had found a rhythm. Clean the stalls. Feed and water the horses in the barn and in the corrals. Tidy the tack room and clean the leather tack with saddle soap, checking for needed repairs or replacement. Brush and cool down horses as required.

  Although none of his duties would tax a man in top shape, he’d found the muscles in his shoulders, arms, and thighs aching when he got out of bed in the mornings. His right leg complained, the throbbing never letting up, although the pain eased a bit when he propped the leg on a stool or a chair. But he did his best not to let Cleo know of his discomfort. He still had some pride left.

  As he exited the tack room, the sound of an automobile engine drifted into the barn. He looked out at the barnyard that separated him from the main house and saw a car roll to a stop. Sherwood recognized the driver and his passenger—Morgan and Gwen McKinley.

  Right then Cleo strode into view from around the corner of the barn, brushing her hands against her Levi’s as she walked. “Gwennie, I wasn’t sure you two would come today.”

  “It’s Thursday, isn’t it?” Gwen stepped from the motorcar.

  The two women embraced. “I know it’s Thursday, but things must be hopping up at the resort.”

  “They are.”

  “But not so busy we couldn’t join you for lunch,” Morgan said, receiving his sister-in-law’s hug in turn. As he stepped back from her, he glanced toward the barn and saw Sherwood standing in the opening. “How are you, Lord Sherwood?” He waved.

  Five days on the Arlington ranch made the formal mode of address sound strange in his ears. Even odder than Cleo calling him “Woody.”

  Morgan walked toward him. “Are you managing well?”

  “Well enough.”

  “Cleo keeping you busy?”

  He glanced in the direction of the automobile and saw the two sisters, arm in arm, entering the house. “She is.”

  “That’s good.” Morgan nodded. “Would you care to join us for lunch?”

  Sherwood knew the food was the same whether served to the hired help in the kitchen or to the family in the dining room, and he saw no reason to decline Morgan’s invitation.

  Cleo didn’t know what to think when Woody followed Morgan into the house a short while later. He hadn’t taken a meal in the dining room since the day he’d arrived in Bethlehem Springs. It bothered her that he thought to do so when none of the other hands did. Not that Cleo was standoffish with the cowboys who worked the ranch; they were her friends and she’d eaten with them in the kitchen plenty of times through the years. But her sister’s visits to the ranch—and Morgan’s too—were special to her. She didn’t want an outsider honing in on their time together.

  Looking at her father, Morgan said, “I invited Lord Sherwood to join us.”

  Why did her brother-in-law insist on calling him that? They weren’t in England, and Sherwood Statham had no special status here.

  “I hope that is all right, sir,” Woody added.

  Her dad smiled. “Of course it’s all right. The more the merrier.”

  Good thing Morgan didn’t ask for her opinion.

  Swallowing her irritation, she looked at Gwen. “Excuse me while I wash up. I just got done riding one of the mustangs.”

  She left the dining room and made her way upstairs to the bathroom. It had been ten years since the house had been remodeled to include this room, complete with running hot and cold water, a porcelain tub, and a toilet. Luxuries, all of them, and ones Cleo was thankful for on a daily basis. She didn’t mind getting dirty during the day, but she treasured the ease with which she could bathe every night. No hauling water in buckets from an outdoor pump. No boiling pots on a wood stove. No sitting in a small metal washtub in the middle of the kitchen as they’d had to do when she was little. Oh, the joy of sinking down into a bathtub full of bubbles and rubbing perfumed soap over her skin. And that scented lotion Gwen had brought her from New York City. My, my, if that wasn’t something!

  She turned on the tap water and splashed her face, then worked soap into a lather and washed away the dirt and grime. After drying her face and neck, she paused long enough to look at herself in the mirror. Her hair was even more disheveled than usual. No brush could tame it now. Gwen had tried countless times to convince Cleo to let her hair grow longer, but she’d failed to change Cleo’s mind. Long hair would be such a bother, working with the horses the way Cleo did.

  With a shrug of the shoulders, she left the bathroom and hurried down the stairs. By this time, everyone was seated at the table, including Woody, his right leg propped on another chair, as he’d done the last time he ate with the family.

  Woody smiled at Morgan as Cleo took her place at the table. “I’d forgotten you and your mother were staying at Dunacombe at the time of that hunt. I was recently down from university.” He chuckled. “We did have a jolly good time that summer, didn’t we?”

  Cleo looked at him in surprise. Woody, laughing? But Woody appeared a different man from the one she’d worked with this week. When he was with her, just the two of them, he was stiff and abrupt, with nary a smile. Now he seemed in good spirits and at ease, a side of him she didn’t recognize. He sure wasn’t like that around her.

  She pondered that thought. Maybe the problem’s with me. She hadn’t exactly been pleasant to him. Not to mention that she’d intentionally assigned him the most menial and unpleasant tasks to do.

  Morgan answered Woody’s question. “Indeed we did.” He glanced at Gwen. “I’ve promised my wife a trip to Europe, but it will have to wait a year or two.” He reached up and tenderly brushed her cheek. “Once the baby is old enough to travel, we’ll go.”

  An ache curled in Cleo’s chest. What she wouldn’t give to…

  She squelched the thought before it could fully form. There was no point entertaining it. Things were what they were. Only one man had tried to court her, and he’d turned out to be a snake in the grass. Just went to show her judgment concerning men wasn’t any too good. Better to be content with her life as it was rather than wish for something that might never be.

  Her father broke into Cleo’s train of thought. “I heard you’ve already had a large number of guests arrive.”

  “Yes,” Morgan answered. “We’re about seventy percent full and expect more to arrive on today’s train. We’ll be at full capacity by Saturday.”

  “An auspicious beginning for the spa.”

  “Gwen and I think so.”

  Griff turned toward Woody. “I wonder if your leg wouldn’t benefit from the use of the waters at New Hope.” He looked at Morgan again. “What do you think?”

  “Of course. I believe our therapists could help Lord Sherwood. I should have suggested it myself. But it would mean coming up to the resort several times a week.”

  Her father answered. “That can be arranged.”

  Cleo couldn’t believe her ears. First she was saddled with being responsible for Woody, and now he was supposed to take off from work several days a week to sit in the natural hot waters. What was wrong with her dad? What was wrong with Morgan? Why didn’t her brother-in-law just give Woody a job at the spa and be done with it? Or give him a room and let him be a guest for the next year? That would be so much better than leaving him at the ranch where he was in her way.

  First chance she got, she would tell Morgan so. Just considering the possibility lightened her spirits.

  Sherwood fell into bed that night, exhausted. Lying on his back, he massaged his right thigh. He hoped Morgan was right about the therapists at the spa being able to give him some relief. Months ago, he’d stopped using the pain medication the doctors had given him. Although the drugs helped with the discomfort, he’d never liked the way they made him feel, like his head was stuffed with cotton. Besides, he’d seen what could happen to a man who relied on opiates for too long. The way his leg throbbed now, however, he wouldn’t mind a sni
fter of brandy. But there was no brandy to be had on the Arlington ranch. No liquor of any kind. The devil take Prohibition!

  He thought of the men he’d gone drinking with back in England, the ones he’d spent so much time with after his release from the hospital. They would be amused if they saw him in his present circumstances. Uncivilized country.

  And what would his father think if he could see him lying on this bed in the bunkhouse, a room shared with three other ranch employees? Probably that Sherwood had received his just reward for being less than the duke expected of him. It had always been thus. Even when he was a small boy, he’d known his father felt no affection for him—that no matter what he did, he would never measure up.

  He recalled the Arlington family around the table at lunch today. The conversation had been lively, interspersed with frequent bursts of laughter. And there was no mistaking the affection Griff Arlington felt for his daughters. Although the sisters were polar opposites, Griff treated them the same, loved them the same, took joy in being in their company.

  Sherwood wondered what that was like.

  SEVEN

  Cleo stared at her reflection in the mirror. “I look like a fool in this thing.”

  “No, you don’t,” Gwen countered. “You look stunning.”

  “It’s too…girly” She plucked at a pink ribbon that decorated the bodice of the gown.

  Gwen moved to stand beside her. Their gazes met in the mirror. “You are a girl, Cleo. And look how perfect the color is with your hair.”

  “This is the kind of dress you wear. My Sunday dress is bad enough, but at least it’s simple and more suited to me.” She wriggled, hating the feel of the unfamiliar corset against her skin. “And nowhere near as tight and uncomfortable as this.”

  “Like it or not, Cleopatra Arlington, you’re wearing that dress. I bought it for you in New York to wear to the spa’s opening. It’s the very latest fashion. Now sit down and let me do something with your hair.”

  Cleo groaned but obeyed. Arguing was pointless. Besides, this was Gwen’s day. Gwen’s and Morgan’s. Nobody would be looking at Cleo. As soon as she’d said the required hellos, she could fade into the background, maybe even slip outside and hide somewhere. The last place she wanted to be was in a room crowded with glittering members of high society—a label that described most of the New Hope Health Resort’s guests.

  I should have begged off. I should have said I was sick. She very well might become ill before she was safely back to the ranch again.

  On this evening of the spa’s grand opening, the sisters were in the bedchamber of the McKinley suite, Cleo now sitting on the small stool before the dressing table while Gwen brushed her hair and frowned into the mirror.

  “Oh, how I wish we could do more with your hair.”

  “We’ve been over that before, Gwennie.”

  “I know, but I keep hoping you’ll change your mind. It could be so lovely if it were longer and swept up onto your head. What I wouldn’t give for these soft, gentle curls.”

  “The horses at the ranch would be real impressed too.” Cleo chuckled. “Just do the best you can with what I’ve got.”

  Gwen nodded, then brushed the hair back from Cleo’s right cheek and fastened it there with a jewel-studded comb. She repeated the same thing on the left side. Even Cleo had to admit—though silently—that the change was for the better.

  She met her sister’s gaze in the mirror. “I hope those sparkly things aren’t real. What if I lose one of them?”

  “You won’t lose them.”

  Which, no doubt, meant the jewels were real. Knowing it served as a reminder of the change in her sister’s circumstances.

  “Come along,” Gwen said. “It’s time we went downstairs. Morgan and Dad will be wondering what’s kept us so long.”

  “I reckon they’ll know it was because of me.” She rose from the stool, careful to take small breaths, wondering if she would expire for lack of air before the evening was done.

  The main floor of the lodge—lobby, sitting room, dining room—had been transformed by a host of servants last night and earlier in the day. Pine boughs decorated the banister, the fireplace mantels, and windowsills, and the rooms blazed with light from the glittering chandeliers. At the bottom of the stairs, Cleo saw their father and Morgan awaiting them, clad in evening attire. Dashing, the both of them.

  Morgan held out his hand toward Gwen as she reached the last step. “You look beautiful, my dear.”

  “Thank you.” Gwen glanced over her shoulder. “And look at Cleo.”

  “Enchanting.”

  Cleo contained a snort of disbelief. “Thanks, Morgan.”

  From a corner in the sitting room, Sherwood watched as Griff Arlington and Morgan McKinley escorted Cleo and Gwen around, introducing them to the growing horde of guests—both people staying at the lodge and those up from Bethlehem Springs for the evening.

  He almost hadn’t recognized Cleo when she came down the stairs. Was this the same reed-thin woman he saw every day, the one who wore men’s trousers and rode wild horses? Hard to believe it was. Not even seeing her with his own eyes kept him from doubting at first.

  He sipped the glass of cider in his hand. It was a sorry substitute for champagne, in Sherwood’s opinion. Some men of Morgan’s wealth and prestige might have ignored the law on a night such as this. Morgan wasn’t that kind of man.

  Sherwood saw Cleo nod and smile as the introductions continued. But he wasn’t fooled. He could tell she was uncomfortable, and he felt a little sorry for her.

  “Lord Sherwood. As I live and breathe.”

  He turned.

  The young woman who’d spoken was petite and attractive. Sparkling diamonds ringed her white throat, while more of the same dangled from her earlobes. Her accent was definitely American.

  She faltered when she saw the scar on his face, but recovered nicely, her smile back in place, though it looked more forced now. “I can see you’ve forgotten me, Lord Sherwood, but I’ve already decided to forgive you.” She held out her hand. “Marjorie Lewis. We were introduced during the London season about four years ago. I believe we shared half a dozen waltzes.”

  He remembered her then. She was an American heiress who’d gone to England to seek a titled husband. He’d met several young women just like her through the years. Four years ago he’d attended a ball or soiree almost every night of the week during the season and met dozens, if not hundreds, of beautiful girls, all of them seeking the perfect match. He’d talked and danced the nights away without any intention of finding himself a bride. He’d thought he had all the time in the world. He didn’t know that war would soon break out, changing him forever…

  But Miss Marjorie Lewis must have failed in her quest for a husband, for there was no ring on the third finger of her left hand.

  When Sherwood took her hand and lifted it to his lips, he wished he hadn’t removed his gloves. His own hands were calloused from the past week’s labors; she was sure to notice. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Miss Lewis.”

  “You’re a long way from England. How is it you’re in Idaho, of all places?”

  “I’m a friend of the owner.” “Friend” might be stretching the truth some, but it was the easiest explanation.

  “You know Morgan McKinley?” She glanced over her shoulder at Morgan and Gwen. When she looked back at Sherwood, she said, “News of his marriage surprised everyone. Who is she, after all?”

  Sherwood wasn’t about to respond to her thinly veiled attempt to garner information. “And what brings you to New Hope, Miss Lewis? You look to be in good health, so I assume it isn’t for the therapy.”

  She laughed, a rather pretty sound. “I am, Lord Sherwood. Superior health. I’m here because my father sits on the board of directors of one of Mr. McKinley’s charitable foundations. He thought it beneficial that we attend.” She made a sweeping motion with her hand. “You see before you the crème de la crème of Boston and New York society. But perhaps yo
u know some of them.”

  Before Sherwood could tell her he didn’t know a soul beyond Morgan McKinley and his wife and in-laws, a servant drew near, carrying another tray with flutes of cider. He set his empty glass on the tray but waved away a second one, instead keeping his eye on the tray of hors d’oeuvres that wended its way toward his corner of the room.

  “Father.” Marjorie motioned to a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and beard, beckoning him to come closer. “You remember Lord Sherwood. We met him when we were in London. He’s the son of the Duke of Dunacombe.”

  “How do you do, Lord Sherwood?” The man bowed at the waist.

  “Well enough, Mr. Lewis.”

  The older man didn’t shy away from the scar the way his daughter had. “It appears you’ve had a bad time of it, young man. Did you get that wound in the war?”

  Sherwood felt his jaw tighten. “Yes.” His desire for a drink returned.

  “Terribly worrisome what’s happening over there. Some of our own boys are going off to fight with the Canadians and the British, as if Americans needed to be involved. Young fools. Better we stay out of these European dustups, if you ask me.”

  Sherwood recalled the trenches—the noise, the bullets, the bombs, the barbed wire, the rain, the mud, the poison gas, the fear—and his stomach twisted as his palms grew moist. The war he’d seen was more than a dustup, and the many deaths of his fellow soldiers deserved better than whatever else the man before him might say.

  Even a drink wouldn’t have helped. All he needed now was to get away from anyone who didn’t understand.

  He nodded to Mr. Lewis and his daughter. “Excuse me, will you?” Before they could answer, he walked away, not caring if he appeared rude. He weaved his way through the crowd that filled the large, high-ceilinged sitting room, through the equally crowded lobby, and out the main doors.