The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs Collection

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  “Oh, my. You do like him, don’t you?”

  Of course she liked Woody. The same way she liked Stitch and Allen and Randall, like she’d said. It wasn’t as if she fancied him in any sort of romantic way. Why, that was plain preposterous, her falling for a dude, and her sister ought to know it.

  She found the filly standing at the hitching post, flicking her tail but undisturbed by anything happening in town. Not that Cleo had expected the even-tempered horse to get overexcited. That had been an excuse so she could leave before Gwen said anything more about Woody.

  She swung into the saddle and rode down Main Street to the post office, where she dismounted and tied up the horse for a second time. Inside, she found the postmaster slipping envelopes into individual mail slots.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Finster.”

  He turned around. “Guten Tag, Fräulein. How is your papa?”

  “He’s much better. Thanks for asking. I told him I’d stop by the post office while I was in town and see if there’s any mail for us.”

  “Ja. I have it.” He set aside the other mail in his hand and pulled several envelopes from the slot marked with the Arlington name. “There is from England a letter for Mr. Statham. He works for you, ja?” He handed the mail to her.

  “Yes, he works for us.”

  She glanced at the top envelope and wondered whom the letter was from. Lord Sherwood Statham. The writing looked feminine, especially those little curls at the end of each word. She turned the envelope over. The seal on the back said Dunacombe. A letter from home. She wondered why it had taken so long for someone to write to him.

  Sherwood mounted the bay in the barn. However, he had no intention of keeping his riding a secret from this point forward. He wanted the others to see him. He wanted to be more mobile, and a saddle horse gave him that ability. It had been six days since his successful first attempt. He’d waited, hoping for another opportunity when no one else was around, but one hadn’t come. Now he was tired of waiting.

  He rode the gelding out of the barn and turned him down the road toward town. Not that Sherwood intended to go that far. He knew his leg would punish him if he took such a long ride just yet. He was learning to apply patience in his recovery, thanks partly to Griff Arlington, thanks partly to the therapist at New Hope, and last but not least, thanks to something Reverend Barker had said during one of his sermons—something about not running ahead of God’s will. Sherwood hadn’t given much thought to God’s will before. Or, for that matter, to God Himself. More than six weeks with the Arlingtons had changed that. He’d found himself hungry to know more about Christ, about the kind of faith he witnessed daily in Griff and his daughters, in Morgan and his sister, and in the good reverend.

  Up the road a ways, he saw Cleo cantering a light-colored horse toward him. He drew in on the reins and waited for her arrival.

  “Well, look at you.” Smiling, she brought her horse to a stop. “When’d you decide to give that a try?”

  “Last week.” He had to admit, her reaction made him feel good.

  She circled him, her gaze taking in the longer right stirrup. “How does he respond to you kicking with only one heel?”

  “Not bad. But then, I’ve kept a short rein on him. No faster than a jog.”

  “If you want, I can work with the two of you, help your horse learn to respond to other signals.”

  Sherwood wasn’t ignorant of horse training methods and had no need of her instructions, but he didn’t tell her so. “That would be most helpful, Cleo. Thank you.”

  In unison they turned their horses toward the ranch.

  “I picked up the mail while I was in town. There’s a letter for you.”

  “For me?”

  “From England.”

  It wasn’t hard to surmise whom the letter was from. His father hadn’t written Sherwood when he was in the army or while he was in the hospital. There was no reason to believe he would write to him in America. No, the letter would be from his mother. She was the only faithful correspondent at Dunacombe Manor. Although it was possible Bottomley might write.

  “Do you miss them?” Cleo asked, breaking into his thoughts. “Your family.”

  It was a simple question, but the answer was complicated. Too complicated to try to explain to someone who didn’t know the duke, someone who didn’t understand the hierarchy of British society, someone who didn’t know what it was like to fall short in her father’s estimation. “England is very far away,” he answered at last.

  “I know what you mean. Gwen was raised by our mother in the East. Mother moved back to New Jersey when we—Gwen and I—were only two.”

  Sherwood nodded, not wanting to interrupt her.

  “Even though I couldn’t remember them, I missed them all the time, especially my sister. It was hard, growing up apart from the other half of my family. Having Gwennie with us these last eight years means the world to me. I don’t know how Dad and I would manage if she were to go away again. Your absence must be real hard on your folks.”

  “All families are not like yours, Cleo.”

  She gave him a long look, one that said he was a mystery to her. Perhaps it would be better if they left it that way. Better if he didn’t let her know more than she did already.

  Dunacombe Manor

  My dearest Sherwood,

  I was pleased to learn that you arrived in Bethlehem Springs without any difficulties on your journey. I had hoped to hear from you again with details of your trip, of where you are living and what you are doing. If you have written such a letter, it hasn’t reached us. Please do not delay in writing again.

  My dearest son, I know that you did not part with your father on the best of terms, and it grieves me, knowing you felt his treatment harsh. Your father does the best he can. Believe me when I tell you this. He cares for you more than he realizes and certainly more than he shows.

  Life goes on at Dunacombe as it has since this dreadful war began. It is quiet and there are few engagements to occupy us. But even if it would not be bad form to have a ball or a hunt, given the current circumstances, it would be a dreadful failure, for there would be almost no young men in attendance.

  I have news of your brothers to share.

  Marshall has asked Margaret Hathaway to marry him and she has accepted. Your father is quite pleased that his eldest son has made such a match. Lady Margaret will make a fine mistress of Dunacombe when the time comes that Marshall inherits the title and estates. After the wedding, which will take place this summer, it has been decided that they will live at Chilton House. Naturally, some renovations must be made, but I believe the house will suit them nicely.

  Haywood, Beth, and the children are all healthy. Their parish has been hit rather hard this spring; many families have lost husbands and sons, and the burden weighs on Haywood’s shoulders as he tries to minister to the people of Brentshire.

  Langford writes that he is doing well. He has lost many officers and soldiers under his command in recent months. However, his spirits remain high. He has not lost confidence that right will triumph in the end. However long that may be.

  Bottomley asked that I remember him to you.

  As for me, my health is somewhat improved, and I look forward to the coming of summer.

  Do write and give me your impressions of America. Your father, as you will recall, has been to New York City, but he told me almost nothing other than to say he is not inclined to go again. I am sure you can tell me more than he has ever done.

  Your loving,

  Mother

  Sherwood folded the letter and returned it to its envelope. His mother’s words stirred warm thoughts of England and his brothers and mother. As for his father…Well, he found it hard to believe the duke cared much about him, beyond whether or not he proved an embarrassment to the Statham name.

  Tomorrow he would write a more detailed letter to his mother. He would describe the journey by ship across the Atlantic and then the journey across this vast country by rail
. He would even tell her that he’d been employed to shovel horse manure from the stables. However, that would be for his father’s benefit. The duke would not take pleasure in a Statham performing such a lowly task, not even when the Statham in question was his youngest son.

  EIGHTEEN

  Cleo stood in front of the mirror, inspecting her reflection with a critical eye. She’d never cared much about her appearance, one way or the other. She knew she wasn’t a beauty, unlike her sister. Gwen was feminine perfection, like a Thoroughbred racing down the track. Cleo was more the gawky filly, all knobby knees and sharp angles.

  She smoothed her hair back from her face and turned her head from side to side. She didn’t care much for her nose. Too stubby, she thought. Plus her lips were too full and her eyebrows set too far apart. And no amount of lemon juice, as her mother had repeatedly urged her to try last year, could remove the freckles splashed across her nose and cheekbones.

  What did Woody see when he looked at her?

  With a groan, she squeezed her eyes shut. It didn’t matter to her what he saw or what he thought. His opinion was irrelevant. It wasn’t as if she liked him. Not in the way her sister had implied yesterday. While she would admit he wasn’t as intolerable as she’d first believed him to be, neither was he of particular interest to her. They had next to nothing in common. They might become friends, but that was all. In ten months, more or less, he would return to his homeland, where he could go back to doing whatever it was British lords did. England was where he belonged, just like this ranch was where she belonged.

  She opened her eyes, ran a brush through her hair, and hurried out of the bedroom. She’d best start breaking the last of those mustangs. A wild ride might be the trick to shake loose all the thoughts that had plagued her lately. Thoughts of Woody and the times he’d been good to her even when she hadn’t been so kind to him. Thoughts about the loneliness she sometimes saw written in his eyes. She’d even caught herself recalling the times they’d bickered, enjoying the way she could get under his skin with just a comment or two. And his laugh. She liked remembering his laugh, something he didn’t do often enough to suit her.

  She pushed open the kitchen door and Woody was the first person she saw. He stood at the stove, spooning scrambled eggs from a big skillet onto his plate.

  “Mornin’, Cleo,” came a chorus of male voices from the table.

  “Morning, boys,” she answered the three ranch hands. “Morning, Cookie.” She drew a slow breath. “Morning, Woody.”

  “Good morning, Cleo.”

  She felt the strangest hiccup in her chest when he smiled at her.

  Cookie said, “Are you joining us today? Your dad’s already eaten and gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  Stitch answered, “Up to the resort. Said he had something important he wanted to talk over with Morgan.”

  That set off a few alarm bells in Cleo’s head. What could be so urgent that her father—not all that long out of his sickbed—would ride out this early in the morning? Morgan would come to the ranch tomorrow with Gwen. Couldn’t whatever it was have waited until then?

  She looked toward the stove again. Woody and her dad talked over the ranch business every day. If something was troubling her dad, he might know what it was. But Woody’s back was to her as he carried his breakfast plate to the table and so her questions went unasked.

  “Here you go, Cleo.” Cookie held out a plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon.

  She hadn’t much of an appetite now, but she took the plate from his hand and went to the table, where she slid onto a chair next to Stitch and across from Woody.

  Stitch said, “Say, Cleo. Did you know Sherwood’s started riding that gelding you picked out for him?”

  “Yes, I met him on the road yesterday.”

  “Maybe he can ride fence with me one of these days.”

  She shrugged. “No harm if he thinks he can manage it.”

  “I believe I’d rather like that.” Woody spread butter on his toast. “Perhaps I’ll be ready in a week or two.”

  “Sure. Whenever you’re up to it.” Stitch stood, breakfast dishes in hand, and carried them to the sink. He was followed an instant later by Randall and Allen.

  Cleo moved the eggs around on her plate with a fork, waiting until the other men were gone. Then she looked across the table at Woody. “Do you know why Dad went to see Morgan?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “He hasn’t been worrying, has he? You know, about the price the cattle will bring or anything like that?”

  Not all that long ago, she wouldn’t have needed to ask someone else such a question. There’d never been anything unspoken between Cleo and her father. But after Griff made Woody the ranch manager, things had changed. Even though she was okay with the arrangement—she had no desire to handle the books—sometimes she felt left out, excluded, and it wasn’t a feeling she cared for.

  “I don’t believe your father is unduly concerned about the sale of the cattle.” There was a tender look in Woody’s eyes. “And you should not worry about him, Cleo. He is well.”

  For one awful moment, she thought she might burst into tears. And the worst part of it was, she wasn’t at all sure why she wanted to cry.

  Griff sat on the brocade sofa in the McKinley suite at New Hope, a cup of black coffee in his hand. Morgan sat nearby in a matching chair. For the past fifteen minutes or so, the two had exchanged the expected questions and answers: How’s your health? Much improved. How’s everyone at the ranch? Fine. Are you enjoying the weather? It’s been warmer than usual for June.

  But finally Griff was ready to broach the subject that brought him to see Morgan. “I’d like to talk to you about Sherwood.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “No. There’s no problem, Morgan. He’s a hard worker and has been an enormous help to me, especially after I fell ill. We’ve become friends. Good friends, I believe. But I would like to understand him better. I sense a hurt in his soul. Perhaps unrelated to what happened to him in the war. Do you know what else there might be?”

  Morgan steepled his hands in front of his lips, saying nothing.

  “He rarely talks about his home or family,” Griff added.

  “No. I don’t imagine he would.”

  “Why is that?”

  Morgan cleared his throat as he lowered his hands. “It’s difficult for me to speak ill of the man who was of assistance to my mother during her illness. However, since you’ve asked, I’ll answer as honestly as I can. His grace, the Duke of Dunacombe, is a harsh man, without any natural warmth for his family. I would say that his single desire for children was to produce an heir for the dukedom. Each subsequent son was of lesser importance than the one before. Five years separate Lord Sherwood from his next oldest brother. By the time Sherwood was born, he mattered not at all in his father’s eyes.”

  Griff’s chest tightened in empathy. How that must have hurt Sherwood as a young boy. How it must have confused him.

  “The duchess is a meek woman, warm hearted when she’s with others, but when faced with the duke’s cold demeanor, she retreats into herself. There were many times during our stay at Dunacombe when she remained in her bedroom for days at a time.”

  Griff was tempted to say he’d heard enough, and yet he needed to know all he could.

  Morgan refilled his coffee cup from the silver pitcher. After taking a swallow, he continued. “When I said that Lord Sherwood didn’t matter in his father’s eyes, that wasn’t entirely true. It does matter to the duke that none of his sons bring dishonor upon the Statham name. That seemed to be the one thing at which Lord Sherwood excelled, as far as his father was concerned. Lord Sherwood had a lively spirit that often led to mischief, despite how diligently the duke tried to squash it, but he wasn’t wicked.” Morgan set down the cup and leaned forward on his chair. “Let me be clear, Griff. I never heard or saw him do anything that made me believe it warranted his father’s anger or harsh treatme
nt. Not ever in the months I was at Dunacombe. I know that he drank some and gambled some, but not to excess. His greatest sin back then was his flirtatious nature. The young women adored him, but he had no desire to make a good match and settle down.”

  “I see.”

  “To be honest, I rather miss seeing that playful side of him. After what his father told me of his more recent…escapades…I rather expected—” He stopped abruptly, ending with a small shrug.

  “Yes, I know what you expected.”

  “Griff, I think you’d better tell me what this is about. Why the questions now after all these weeks?”

  “It’s about…Cleo.”

  “Cleo?”

  Griff rose and walked across the sitting room to the window with its view of the mountainside and, a good distance away, the prayer chapel. “While I was ill, I began to worry about her, about what will happen to her when I die. I don’t want her to be alone when that day comes. Then I considered how difficult it could be for her to meet the right man. It took someone like you to win Gwen’s love. What sort of man will it take to win Cleo’s heart?”

  “It’s hard to say. A cowboy, I suppose.”

  “That’s what I would have said too.” He turned around. “But I believe she has a growing fondness for Sherwood.”

  “Good heavens,” Morgan said softly.

  “A few weeks ago, I would have thought it impossible.”

  “Does Lord Sherwood return her affection?”

  “I don’t know.” Griff rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “But even if he does, it can’t end well. Can you imagine how Sherwood’s friends would receive Cleo? Not that I expect it to come to that. Even if he were to propose marriage, she wouldn’t accept. She knows enough about high society to want to avoid it.”

  “I hope so.”

  “But that doesn’t mean she won’t be nursing a broken heart after he leaves.”

  Morgan came to stand near him. “You don’t know that it’s gone that far. It could be her attachment is nothing more than friendship.”