Trey McShannon survived the carnage of the War Between the States, only to discover that the deepest wounds are those to the heart. A traitor to his home state of Georgia, Trey has built a new life for himself in the untamed Colorado Territory. Now it’s time to find a wife to share the future he’s worked so hard for–but can he free himself from his past?
Beth Underhill is looking for choices. Needing to marry to escape being sent back east, she prefers Trey’s honest business proposal to false promises of love.
Can a union between a man who doesn’t think he can still feel love, and a woman who no longer believes it exists, blossom into more than a marriage of convenience?
TO CAPTURE THE SKY
Choices of the Heart, book 2
Jennie Marsland
Published by Tirgearr Publishing
Author Copyright 2017 Jennie Marsland
Cover Art: EJR Digital Art (http://www.ejrdigitalart.com)
Editor: Lucy Felthouse
Proofreader: Christine McPherson
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This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
DEDICATION
To Everett, who puts the music in my life.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To the members of Romance Writers of Atlantic Canada and the Hubbards Writers – you ladies and gentlemen have been a constant source of encouragement and creative inspiration. Thank you. And a special thanks to Kathy MacGillivray, who read the first draft of this book ten years ago and made me believe in it.
TO CAPTURE THE SKY
Choices of the Heart, book 2
Jennie Marsland
CHAPTER 1
Denver, Colorado Territory - 1871
“Elizabeth, have you taken leave of your senses? You could have married Jason Pembroke!”
Beth Underhill winced when her cousin Graham’s fist hit the polished mahogany dining table, but she held his gaze without faltering. “Jason Pembroke doesn’t care for me any more than Trey McShannon does.”
Graham sneered at the letter lying on the table. “The man’s a dirt farmer. You have no idea what kind of an animal he is or what kind of a shack he lives in. You know nothing about him at all.”
Beth held tight to her hope that Mr. McShannon’s letters had given her a true impression of the man and his home. In the face of Graham’s doubts and hers, she had nothing else to cling to.
“I know he expresses himself like a civilized man.” What more could she ask of a stranger? The Matheson Matrimonial Agency didn’t concern itself with emotions. In the months since her Aunt Abigail’s death, Beth had come to believe she’d be wise to do the same. “And whatever else Mr. McShannon might be, I doubt he’s a fraud and a cheat like Jason Pembroke. I told you what I found out about his railroad contracts. If you don’t believe me, ask some questions yourself.”
No doubt Graham already knew everything there was to know about Mr. Pembroke’s business affairs. As long as the man stayed on the right side of the law, he’d be satisfied. This was Colorado Territory, not Philadelphia. Here, a man might be hanged for stealing a horse, but not for supplying food to railroad navvies at ridiculously inflated prices.
“Jason is a smart businessman. He’s not doing anything illegal. And what do you know about railroad contracts?”
You’d be surprised, cousin. The process of settling her uncle’s estate, and then her aunt’s, had taught Beth more than she’d ever wanted to know about the vagaries of railroad and mining investments. “I know Mr. Pembroke is greedy and unscrupulous. And even if he weren’t, I wouldn’t marry him. He wants a wife with breeding and all the social graces he doesn’t have himself, and he thinks I’d look good enough on his arm to outweigh my lack of money. That’s as much as he cares for me. He didn’t even bother to propose to me before he approached you.”
Hands in his trouser pockets, Graham paced the length of the room and back. He stopped in the patch of spring sunshine that poured through the window overlooking the street – a relatively quiet street, a good distance from the raucous activity of downtown Denver. Here, it was easy for Beth to imagine she was back in the old home in Philadelphia where she and Graham had both grown up, twenty years apart. The home Graham had never truly left in any way that mattered – just like Aunt Abigail and Uncle Robert.
“Elizabeth, it’s time you faced facts. You’re already twenty-three, and with your financial situation, your choices are going to be limited. You found that out with Daniel Hunter. If you’d agree to go back to Philadelphia, you’d stand a better chance–”
Of what? Meeting more men like Mr. Pembroke, willing to take Beth at a discount for her looks? Or like Daniel Hunter, who’d courted her for a year and made her think he honestly cared for her, then backed away when he learned that she had no significant settlement to bring to their marriage?
“No. I’m tired of being a commodity, Graham, and I’m tired of boys who pretend to be men. That’s why I wrote to the Matheson Agency. I’m going to Wallace Flats, and I’m going to marry Trey McShannon. And if I’m not happy with him, I’ll go to Isobel James in New York and try to make a living from my art.”
Graham put on a pitying smile. Beth had long ago given up expecting anyone in the family to take her painting ‘hobby’ seriously, even though Aunt Abigail had continued to indulge her with lessons until Uncle Robert’s death. A lady needed something to fill her time.
“Your art? You really are living in a dream world. Well, you’re of age and what money you have is your own. I can’t stop you from doing as you wish, but don’t expect me to pick up the pieces when it all falls apart.”
“Understood. I’m leaving on Friday.”
Graham stalked out without replying. Legs suddenly shaky, Beth pulled out a chair and sat at the table, in the middle of the elegant dining room – the kind of room that could still be hers if she used her head instead of her heart and let Graham find her a husband.
Was she out of her mind? Or just desperate to escape the trap she’d felt closing around her since the end of the War Between the States, when she’d been officially put up for sale in the marriage market? She picked up Mr. McShannon’s last letter and read it again, though she knew every word by memory.
Dear Miss Underhill,
Thank you for explaining your position so honestly. I will be honest with you in return.
For the last four years I have been living outside of Wallace Flats, a day’s stage ride south of Denver. My homestead is ten miles from town. I built the house to meet my own requirements, which are simple, but it is weather-tight and clean. I have no idea if you are the kind of woman who could be content with a dirt floor, but if you are, you might find it comfortable enough.
My nearest neighbors are two miles away, and I go to town no more than twice a week. If you are very fond of social life you’ll find it dull here, but if you enjoy solitude, there is no lack of it. I find the countryside beautiful, but many find it bleak and of little interest.
What I can offer you is this: if you think you could be satisfied with my situation here, I will pay your
way to Wallace Flats. I think a one-year trial period, as husband and wife in name only, would be wise. Next spring, if we decide we aren’t mutually suited, we can separate with no questions asked, and I will pay you a hundred dollars for your time. If this is agreeable to you, please let me know through the agency.
Sincerely
Trey McShannon
A straightforward business proposal. Wasn’t that more palatable than the offers Beth had received from the men Cousin Graham sent her way? Mr. McShannon’s proposition – a more accurate word than ‘proposal’, really – held just as much affection, and a lot more honesty.
Be grateful for that, Beth. It’s a rare commodity. But a homesteader? She could hardly blame Graham for thinking her crazy.
A vision of Trey McShannon formed in her mind – rough, unclean, surly. Bile rose in Beth’s throat. She forced it down and took a couple of calming breaths. That kind of man couldn’t have written the letters she’d received. But…he could have had someone write for him.
He must be lonely. So was she. They had that in common, if nothing else. And during the trial period, he wouldn’t expect to touch her.
Or so he said.
Be sensible, Beth. If the man frightened her when they met, she could catch the next stage out of Wallace Flats, crawl back to Graham and let him send her east, where she’d be safe. Secure.
And stifled.
If that was her only other choice, she’d take her chances with Trey McShannon.
Three Days Later
“Wallace Flats, ma’am. Here you are.”
So this is it. Beth’s heart sank as she clambered out of the stage. “What a forsaken place.”
The driver pulled her bags from the top of the coach and dropped them beside her, raising a small cloud of dust to add to the coating on Beth’s skirt. “I’ve seen worse.” He wiped his nose with a grimy handkerchief and shifted from one foot to the other, his thoughts as plain as the frown on his face. You don’t belong here. “I got to be going. Been a pleasure, ma’am.”
He touched his hat, climbed back to his seat and let out a low, keening whistle to start the horses. The stage rolled away, leaving Beth stranded in this bit of nowhere.
In spite of the sun, the spring breeze nipped at her. Shivering, Beth pulled her shawl tighter and surveyed the town square. Baker’s Mercantile needed new window trim. The school needed a fresh coat of white paint. The saloon, with a pair of sagging benches out front and Neil Garrett, Prop. painted in bold, black letters above the swinging doors, looked like the most prosperous business in the place.
Iron rang on iron at the blacksmith’s forge, and a saw droned at the saw mill. Behind the false-fronted businesses, houses straggled into the distance – a hundred, perhaps a hundred and fifty at a stretch. The public well stood under a pine in the middle of the square, the earth around it dampened by drinking horses and riders.
Nothing looked solid or permanent compared to the stone construction Beth was used to seeing in Denver. Nothing in town held the eye, but a far-off view of rolling foothills caught her attention. If all went as she expected, she’d be headed out there.
Cadmium yellow and orange, some French ultramarine. A touch of Hooker’s green. The light’s beautiful. I’ll have to tell Graham to put some paper in my trunk. But how much time could she hope to have for painting? Mr. McShannon might very well expect her to work from dawn to dark.
Beth scanned the main street and caught one of the loiterers on the saloon steps ogling her. He smirked and turned away. With his long, lank red hair and pockmarked face, the man looked like a weathered demon with an evil sense of humor. Thank God Beth knew Mr. McShannon wasn’t a redhead.
No one in sight fit the description he’d given her, so she picked up her bags and crossed the square to Baker’s Mercantile. A typical country store, she supposed, with all the essentials on the shelves and the scents of molasses and coffee in the air. The plump, dark-haired woman behind the counter shook her head at Beth’s inquiry, setting her long earbobs dangling. “Haven’t seen Trey in town today.”
“I hope there isn’t some mistake. I sent him a wire that I’d be on today’s stage. He wired back that he would meet me.”
The clerk rested her hands on the counter and looked Beth over from head to toe, taking in every detail of her smart traveling suit. Even in serviceable clothes, she knew she had ‘good family’ written all over her.
“Don’t know what to tell you, miss. Are you a relative of his? I heard him say one time that he had a sister, though you sure don’t look anything like him.”
“No, we’re not related. Is there anywhere I can get a room for tonight?” Panic whispered in Beth’s ear. Afraid to travel with much cash, she’d brought enough for a return stage ticket to Denver, and not much more. If Mr. McShannon didn’t show up, she’d have no choice but to slink back to Graham with her tail between her legs.
“Yes, there’s Mrs. Grant’s place down the street. The yellow house, fourth place from here on this side – wait, that’s Trey there.”
The clerk’s earbobs swung again as she pointed.
Beth turned to the store window. Her pulse pounded in her ears as she watched Mr. McShannon walk toward her.
Twenty-seven years old, six feet tall, dark hair and eyes. She’d described herself to him in similar meaningless terms. He’d probably find them as inadequate as she did.
His rangy frame could have carried more weight, but he had the muscle of a man who did physical work. The way he moved, not stiffly but with a certain contained energy, suggested an intense nature. He wore his faded denim work pants, collarless homespun shirt and battered cloth cap as if he rarely dressed any other way. If she hadn’t known his age, Beth would have guessed him to be over thirty. There wasn’t much of youth about him.
That impression didn’t change when he stepped into the store. Long, thick dark lashes fringed his molasses-colored eyes, set deep under heavy brows. His straight, wayward, near-black hair needed cutting and he hadn’t shaved before coming to town, but at least he smelled like he bathed and did laundry regularly. Compared to the men on the saloon steps, he looked positively distinguished.
“Excuse me, miss, are you Beth Underhill?”
He spoke coolly, with a trace of a Southern drawl. A level, uncompromising glance from those dark eyes made Beth’s stomach lurch with nerves. She caught hold of the edge of a shelf to keep from backing away.
Idiot, say something. When she found her voice, it sounded odd and distant to her ears. “Yes. You must be Trey McShannon.”
He looked as uncomfortable as she felt. This first meeting couldn’t be easy for him, either. Beth moistened her dry mouth and held out her hand. Warm, callused fingers closed around hers and released.
“I am. How was the trip out? The road can be rough in the spring.”
“It wasn’t too bad.”
Behind the counter, the clerk hung on every word. No doubt they’d be the talk of Wallace Flats within an hour. The corners of Mr. McShannon’s mouth tugged upward in a hint of a grin as he handed the woman a list.
“Could you put this together for me, June? We’ll come back for it in twenty minutes or so.” Without saying anything more, he picked up Beth’s bags and walked out.
His amusement brought out a glimmer of mischief in Beth. A shelf behind the counter held a stack of denim trousers. Durable and practical. She couldn’t wear them in town, but out at Mr. McShannon’s homestead, why not? He’d be off at his work all day, and there’d be no one else to see her. As for June, she’d be bound to talk, so why not give her something to talk about?
“Will you please add something to that order? A couple of pairs of waist overalls. My size.” Beth left June staring after her and followed Mr. McShannon.
He crossed the street to a wagon hitched to a team of heavy, soot-black horses, put the bags in the back and turned around, hands on narrow hips.
Beth spoke first. She usually reacted to fear by charging ahead, and something about
this man rattled her. After five years in the marriage market, she hadn’t thought that possible. “I guess we’d better see the minister, unless you’ve changed your mind.”
Beth squirmed inwardly under Mr. McShannon’s appraising gaze. He didn’t seem the least bit impressed with what he saw. Men didn’t often react to Beth that way. Graham would have said it was good for her.
As if he’d been looking at nothing more interesting than the goods in the store window, Mr. McShannon nodded and started down the street. “The church is this way.”
Beth arched an eyebrow at his back. Have a high opinion of yourself, don’t you? “Yes. I can see the steeple as well as you can.”
* * *
You’ve made a big mistake, McShannon. This girl belongs serving tea back in Denver. Get out while you still can. Trey wouldn’t look at her, but that didn’t dull his awareness of the woman walking beside him, with her big, blue-gray eyes, creamy, freckle-dusted skin, and heavy knot of burnished auburn hair. Her softly curving mouth matched the slight but sweet figure in her navy blue suit. She reminded him of Cathy Sinclair back home, a lifetime ago in another world. In the hours Trey had spent wondering what Miss Underhill would look like, he’d never come close to the reality.
But you made a deal.
Unmake it. She had no business answering your letter.
No woman who looked like that had any business writing to a matrimonial agency. Her letters hadn’t given him any indication that she’d be anything but, well, ordinary.
…I want to be perfectly honest with you, Mr. McShannon. After the recent death of my aunt, I find myself in need of a home. I have no other family except my cousin, who has a growing family of his own. My aunt’s home now passes to him and he wishes to sell it. He has offered me a home with his family, but we have never been close and I would prefer to find some other arrangement. I must do this soon, as my cousin wishes to proceed with the sale as quickly as possible…
To Capture the Sky (Choices of the Heart, book 2) Page 1