“I didn’t know I had any uncles, except Uncle Wendell.” Jonathan scowled. “And Uncle Will in Kansas; he’s my great-uncle.” He glanced from Ben up to Mercy. “Is Uncle Benjamin a great one, too?”
“No, sweetheart, he’s just a plain uncle. He came a long way to visit you.”
A wave of guilt swept over Ben. He had come a long way, but he doubted he’d have made the trip if he hadn’t come looking for his money.
“Do you want to see my pictures, Uncle Benjamin?”
Uncle Benjamin. His oldest brother had two children, yet Ben had never been an uncle to them. Nor would he stay in Fort Victory long enough to become an uncle to Jonathan.
Mercy and Jonathan both focused on Ben, waiting for his response. He nodded and walked over to the bed.
“You rest here for a while.” She brushed a kiss upon Jonathan’s cheek.
“Yes, Mama,” Jonathan said in a tone that made it clear he was suffering a great indignity.
She bent for another kiss and turned to Ben. “I’ll be right back.”
“We’ll be fine,” Ben said, though he had no idea whether it was true.
As Mercy walked away, Jonathan’s eyes fixed on her. And Ben saw clearly that Mercy Buchanan was Jonathan’s mother. That was exactly what Ben had hoped for. A good home for his nephew without any effort on his part. Much to his surprise, watching the fondness in the child’s eyes left an empty ache in Ben’s chest.
Ben pulled a chair next to the bed and sat down. “Let me know if you need help changing the picture.”
“No,” Jonathan said. “I can do it myself.” He lifted the viewer up to his eyes.
Ben glanced at the window, but the curtain was drawn and he couldn’t see out. “Do you have enough light to see?”
The boy shrugged, but didn’t look at Ben. Ben walked to the window and opened the curtain.
“Can you see my Mama?” Jonathan asked.
“Yes,” Ben said. “And your Aunt Miranda, too.”
Jonathan sat on the edge of the bed and Ben placed a hand on his shoulder. “Your mama said for you to stay here.”
“But—”
Ben guided the boy back onto the pillow. “I’ll tell you what. If you promise to stay here, I’ll go outside and check on your mother.”
Jonathan scowled, but he nodded and settled back into the pillow.
“Pa?” Thad helped his father-in-law to a sitting position. “How do you feel? Are you hurt?”
Pa looked at Thad, then at Miranda. Her heart pounded as she watched her father lift a trembling hand to his head. “Nothin’ more than a dizzy spell, I expect. Where’s Jonathan?”
Miranda knelt beside her father. “Jonathan is with Mercy. He came to tell us you . . . you collapsed.”
Pa stared at her for so long she wondered whether he recognized her. She took his hand in hers, feeling it icy cold. “You’d best come inside and rest a while, Pa.”
He nodded. She gripped Pa’s hand as Thad helped him to his feet. “Ain’t had a spell in months,” he mumbled as he shuffled toward the door, leaning on Thad’s arm.
“You’ve been working too hard, Pa.” Thad pulled the door open for them to exit. “Doc warned us—”
“Fact is, Doc don’t really know much about it.” Pa’s voice rose in a rare burst of anger. “When that bull knocked me senseless, something happened inside my head. Sometimes I get dizzy, sometimes I forget things. Don’t know when it’s gonna happen. Don’t know when I’m gonna die either. No point in coddling me.”
Thad grinned. “You’re too stubborn to go before your grandchild is born. I’m certain of that.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a little good, honest. . . persistence.” Pa threw a challenging look at Thad.
“Not so long as it is laced with a bit of good sense,” Miranda spoke up. “Thad’s right, Pa. You need to be more careful.”
“Land’s sakes, child.” Pa stopped halfway across the yard and cast a tense look at his younger daughter. “I was only trying to build a cradle, not as if I was chasin’ down a bull.”
Mercy walked up to them, wearing a worried look. “Pa”—she glanced at Thad—“we were scared half to death.”
“How’s my grandson?”
“He cut his finger.”
“You mean I did.”
Miranda noticed Mercy hesitated before responding. “Jonathan said the plane slipped when you fell.”
Pa sighed. “I’d best not work with the boy—”
“Nonsense,” Mercy interrupted. “It was an accident that could have happened to anyone.”
“You’re the one speaking nonsense, Mrs. Buchanan,” Ben nearly shouted. “The old man is right. He’s a danger to the boy.”
Miranda stepped between Ben and the others. “My pa is no danger to Jonathan. He loves the boy. He wouldn’t hurt him—”
“If he could help it.” Ben glared at her. “But it’s obvious that—”
Miranda stepped up to him, laying a hand on his chest and tilting her head up to look him in the eye. “This is family business. You don’t have any right—”
“He’s my blood, not yours.”
“And where the hell were you and the rest of the Lansings for the past year, when Jonathan needed you?” Miranda shouted. “You and your whole damn family were—”
“I can’t speak for them.” Ben’s voice came from deep in his throat. “I came here as soon as I heard.”
“We’re not going to solve anything standing in the yard shouting.” At the sound of Thad’s quiet drawl, Miranda jerked her hand away from Ben’s chest. “Let’s get Pa inside so he can rest,” Thad continued, “then we’ll talk.”
Ben backed away to let the others pass. Miranda’s face flamed as she watched her sister and brother-in-law take Pa into the house. She rubbed her palm against her skirt, trying to smother the memory of her hand pressing against Ben’s solid chest. Aw, hell. If this was her reaction to a self-important meddler like Benjamin Lansing, heaven help her if she actually liked the man. She had to get better sense. Somehow, she would.
As her family stepped onto the porch, Miranda turned to Ben. “I’m sorry if I was sharp with you.”
His eyebrows rose. “If you were sharp?” He grinned, the first genuine smile she’d seen him wear. “I don’t think there’s any question about it.”
His smile brought a light to his eyes that threatened to melt her resolve. She refused to allow her lips to curve upward. “You have to understand, I’ll do what I must to protect my family.”
“I do understand.” Ben schooled his features to match Miranda’s serious expression. “I feel the same way about mine. Jonathan is my responsibility far more than he is yours.”
The words spilled out of their own accord, but Ben couldn’t regret them. Up until that moment he had assumed that he’d lost the only family he’d ever be willing to fight for on the day his mother died. Now, he felt a surprising urge to protect an innocent little boy, even if it meant delaying his planned exile.
He might even consider taking the boy with him. Lord help him, he was even willing to suffer the temptation of fiery blue eyes that invited exploring, a freckled nose that demanded to be kissed, and a proud, straight jaw that he wanted to caress all the more because of the ragged scar that marred its perfect surface.
“You can see that Jonathan is a part of this family. Mercy and Thad have given him all their love.”
“It’s obvious the boy cares for them.”
“But you ain’t sure their affection is sincere? Why do you suppose they took him in?”
“Why, indeed?”
She blew an exasperated breath out of her nostrils. “For pity’s sake, they have treated the boy as their own son and they plan to legally adopt him.”
“Which will put them in complete and final control of his inheritance.”
Her eyebrows went up. She shook her head, which set some of the curls that had strayed out of her hair ribbon bouncing. “Is that the only thing a Lansing can
think about—money?” Her hands went to her hips. “It ain’t the boy you’re considerin’ at all.”
He took a step toward her and stared into her eyes. “You have no right to speak of my family in that tone.”
She stepped back, wrapping her arms around herself as though warding off a chill. “Then prove me wrong.” She stepped back toward him, challenging him again. “Show me you have some . . . feeling for something other than wealth.”
He reached for one of the golden curls and she flinched. He let his hand drop to his side.
“I’m not the one who has anything to prove.” He kept his voice quiet. “If the Buchanans can show me what they’ve done with the money—”
“Money again. You see—”
“Yes, money!” The woman would try the patience of a monk. If it weren’t for little Jonathan, he might surrender now. “So we understand each other, I will state my position in the simplest possible terms.”
“I am not a simple—”
He raised his hand to cut her off. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Miranda. I’m not accusing you of being dim-witted.” Mule-headed would be more accurate. “Just hear me out. I won’t leave here until I’m certain that his inheritance is safe—for Jonathan’s sake. It is not to be used to enrich the Buchanans or the other children they will have. My nephew has nothing left of his father except his name and his fortune. I will make certain the lad keeps both of those things. And I’m quite sure any judge will agree with me.”
“You’d go to the judge to stop this adoption?”
“Damn right I will.”
He pivoted and marched over to his horse, Miranda following on his heels. She reached up and grabbed his shoulder.
“Please, you can’t do that.”
“I must do what I feel is right.”
“It’ll break my sister’s heart.”
“Frankly, your sister doesn’t matter to me.” Ben nodded toward the house. “That little boy is all I care about.”
He swung a leg over the horse the Wyatts had lent him and headed toward the muddy road. He’d come to Fort Victory with a clear mission—to get his money and get the hell out. Sometime in the last hour, his duty had changed.
Miranda watched Benjamin ride away, his horse splashing in the mud left by last night’s rainfall. The sky darkened as a cloud covered the sun. She wrapped her arms around herself, guarding against the chill. Just the damp air. It has nothing to do with that man. Miranda bit her lip. He hadn’t done anything to threaten her, still she’d backed away from him in fear. She lifted her head. At least she’d kept her wits and stood up to him. She wouldn’t let her fears keep her from defending her family.
“Mr. Lansing left?”
Miranda turned to see her sister looking after the horse that was only a speck against the horizon now.
“He’ll be back,” Miranda said, lifting her leaden feet to carry her back to the house.
“What did he say?”
She looked at her sister, then away. She couldn’t bring herself to look into Mercy’s piercing green eyes. But her sister’s gentle touch on her shoulder kept her from moving away.
“He wants Jonathan.” Mercy’s fearful whisper forced Miranda to turn and face her sister.
She captured both of Mercy’s hands. “No.” Miranda shook her head. “He doesn’t want Jonathan.”
Mercy closed her eyes and pulled in a deep breath. “I was afraid he’d come to take him away.” She blinked to clear the tears from her eyes, but she didn’t release Miranda’s hands. “I was prepared to send Jonathan away a year ago. I thought it was right for him to be with his kin. But now . . .”
“But now you’re his mother.” Miranda completed the thought that seemed to have caught in Mercy’s throat.
Her sister smiled. “We love him.”
“Anyone can see that.”
“Mercy?”
Miranda startled at the sound of Thad’s voice. For a big man, he walked quietly.
“Sweetheart, are you all right?” He took Mercy’s elbow and guided her to the porch.
Miranda hadn’t noticed the color was gone from Mercy’s face. She protested, but allowed Thad to help her into one of the rocking chairs on the porch. Thad knelt before her, caressing a cheek. “What is it, honey?”
“I’ll be fine in a minute.” She took a deep breath. “I was afraid. . . . I thought Mr. Lansing wanted to take our Jonathan away from us.”
Thad turned to Miranda. “Did he say something to you?”
Miranda watched Thad’s eyes. The look of tenderness was unmistakable. Nothing like the fierce expression Benjamin had cast upon her. She sat on the second rocking chair, next to Mercy, and tried to find the words to tell them.
“No.” Miranda took a deep breath. “He doesn’t want the child. He’s interested in the inheritance.”
“There’s nothing left but the land,” Thad said.
Mercy nodded. “If he wants the things from the house . . .”
“No.” Thad stood. Miranda shivered at the savage look on his face. “The few things we were able to salvage belong to Jon. I won’t see anything taken from him.”
Miranda held up her hand. “What Ben said was that he wanted to be certain Jonathan keeps his inheritance. If you can find a way to assure him of that, he will leave you be.”
“And if we can’t?” Mercy jumped to her feet.
“Then . . . he said he will fight the adoption.”
Mercy stepped off the porch, looking down the road Lansing had taken. “If it’s a fight he wants—”
Thad wrapped an arm around her and pulled her against his chest. “Don’t fret, honey. We have taken nothing from the boy. If that is honestly Mr. Lansing’s concern, then our interest is the same as his. In a week, the judge will sign those papers and no one will take Jonathan from us ever.”
Miranda came up to stand next to her sister. “Jonathan is your son now, Mercy. Judge Jensen will see that and do the right thing.” If Ben Lansing thought he could stop the judge from granting the adoption, he was wrong. Miranda had no idea what she could do to prevent him, but she would find a way. Of that, she was certain.
Mercy nodded, blinking back tears. “What about the five thousand he says we owe him?”
Her sister didn’t need to finish the thought. The ranch was solvent now, barely. But they couldn’t possibly have five thousand dollars in cash. If Ben Lansing demanded payment, they had no way of paying him.
Chapter 7
Fort Victory had no real hotel, but the saloon did have rooms to let. Benjamin had been tempted to ask the lovely Spanish proprietress whether an extra fee could lure her up to his room. Fortunately, his good sense intervened. Rita probably would have thrown him out on the street at such a suggestion. A pity. He needed something to distract him from the pretty little lady with the bright blue eyes and sunshine smile.
Ben spun around at the light rap on the door. For an instant he imagined it was Miranda coming to see him. He opened the door to find Rita’s young servant with the hot water he’d requested. She set the pitcher and towels down, made a quick curtsy, and left the room without a word, being careful not to come within arm’s length of Ben.
He glanced in the small mirror that hung over the table, trying to see what it was about him that might frighten the girl. Hell, his lust didn’t extend to children. Maybe working in a boardinghouse with strange men passing through had taught the youngster to be cautious. He pulled his boots off and kicked them under the bed, then bent to wash his face and hands. He wiped the crisp, clean towel over his face, too damn tired to shave.
Leaving his left hand to soak in the water, he walked over to the bed and sat with the bowl on his lap. He fisted his hand under the water, stretching the web of scars. Slowly, he pulled his thumb out, bent it back and forth, then unfolded his pointer finger until it was nearly straight. As the warmth of the water penetrated, his stiff fingers began to relax. He regarded his good hand, agile and complete. The surgeon had explained the co
mplexity of hands to Ben. Bones, sinew, and vessels for carrying blood, all working together to make possible the simple movements he had taken for granted for the first twenty-four years of his life.
When his left hand was smashed, all of that had been disrupted—bones shattered, muscles torn. The flow of blood was interrupted. That was the most difficult part for the surgeons to repair. Without a supply of blood to the fingers, they couldn’t live. He touched the tip of his index finger to his thumb, opened the circle, then closed it again. His index finger had survived almost intact. Perhaps, if he could get enough strength back in that finger one day, he could hold a brush again. He pulled his hand out of the cooling water and dried it.
He’d promised himself to exercise his hand every day. It was easy to forget, though, especially when he saw little progress. He always seemed to have more pressing matters to attend to. And now he’d found himself with a mystery to solve. The judge wasn’t due in town for a few days. In the meantime, Ben hoped to discover what he could about his brother’s estate, as well as the Buchanan and Chase families and their relationship to Arthur.
His brother had never mentioned any particular friendships, yet Miranda had said that Mercy had taken care of the boy since he was an infant. It seemed odd. Much of what Ben had learned in the past few days seemed inconsistent with what his brother had written.
Arthur’s letters indicated that he was an important man in this town. No doubt his affairs were popular topics for the local gossips. That didn’t mean it would be easy to separate truth from fiction, but at least information should be abundant. Since the saloon was quiet this afternoon, he would start with Rita. And if the time he spent with the Spanish woman helped him to forget a certain blond beauty, so much the better.
Miranda bumped along in the old wagon beside her father. It was the slow way to get to town, but without the wagon, they couldn’t carry all the things they were bringing for trade. Besides, Pa wasn’t much for talking, and riding with him gave Miranda a chance to think.
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