by Holly Bush
Blake had spent most of the day in a cluttered shop called Green’s General Store. What he had failed to consider at the beginning of the excursion was that America was vastly different than England. It was enormous. And there were few inns to rely on at sunset. Granted, when they’d stayed on the main roads, they passed taverns with rooms to rent, but so far Blake had been unable to confine himself to the wide dirt paths through the countryside.
That in mind, Blake succumbed to the comfort of denim pants, such as Benson wore, purchased from Mr. Green. The shopkeeper had advised him to take the pants to the Chinese laundry before he wore them. Blake’s three new, white cotton shirts were sturdy and collarless. An unlined jacket made of softened suede in camel completed his ensemble. A flat-rimmed, low felt hat made by someone named Stetson was adorned with black braiding. But the piece de resistance was the gun belt that hung below his waistband. A Mr. Colt provided two six shooters, the shopkeeper had explained. Nothing like his hunting rifles back home. Blake supposed he’d best do some target practice. He and Benson may have to shoot their supper, although he was quite unsure what he would do if he actually hit something. Mr. Green insisted he buy a lethal-looking knife with a leather scabbard. Blake’s concern wavered from cutting off his thumb to actually having to peel skin from a dead animal as Mr. Green had described. A very pregnant Mrs. Green had showed him how to roll his new blankets to fit behind his saddle. Blake filled one entire pocket of his saddlebag with matches.
All in all, Blake felt more comfortable. His skin had tanned on his face, and his behind was growing accustomed to long days in the saddle. The fingers of black leather gloves spilled from his pocket. He had clung firmly to his low-heeled English boots, refusing to squash his toes into points. Blake did not stand out, though, in the tavern he surveyed. He was dressed much the same as many of the men there. Blake sipped his drink and shuddered. He had yet to find a decent Scotch whiskey.
The trip to the bathhouse had proved most interesting after Benson and he had purchased their new mounts. A large gray-haired woman smoking a pipe wandered about the row of tubs handing out thin towels. Benson cowered and insisted the woman turn her head while he dried. For himself, Blake sat in the steaming water and wondered what Gertrude was doing. What would she think of his new clothes? What would she think of his decision to ride on horseback for the trip? He admitted to himself that William in all his youth was wiser. His son knew the world held more than London and society. And if that boy, right or wrong, hadn’t snuck on Gertrude’s ship, Blake would have never seen the beauty of this wild country. Never have understood the appeal of this land and its people. Let alone feast his eyes on Gertrude Finch once more. He was, indeed, indebted to his heir.
* * *
“So, Will. When do you suppose someone will be here to fetch you? Been more than two months,” Uncle Fred said as he helped the boy handle a new colt.
“Can’t say, sir.” Will turned to Fred, stricken. “If you think it’s best that I go, I shall do so.”
“No, boy,” Uncle Fred said. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.”
Will rubbed the horse’s coat with a rag. “I’ve been thinking of going anyway. I miss my mother and sister and brother.”
“S’pect you do, son. How ‘bout your father? Miss him, too?” Fred asked as he checked the hooves of the horse. Fred looked up from the corner of his eye to watch Will. “Maybe you argued with your father over this trip, but that’s no reason to keep your feathers ruffled this long. You got to see your ranch in the end.” Fred continued as if unaware of the angry tilt of Will’s mouth. “I’m sure your father is a fine man and won’t be angry anymore. He’ll be wanting to see his eldest son …”
“He is not a fine man.” Will brushed the colt as if hoping to leave it bald.
“Easy, son,” Fred said as he laid his hand on Will’s, stilling the brush. “Why would you say your father’s not a fine man? Everything about you points otherwise.”
Will met Fred’s eyes. “There are things I am unable to divulge without breaking a confidence. I’m sure, though, my mother prays I’m nothing like my father.”
“Gert thinks the sun rises and sets on you, boy. She’s as good a judge of character as I know,” Fred said.
Will’s eyes dropped and his cheeks thinned. “Miss Finch is a fine woman. I hold her in high regard. But she is capable of making errors in judgment. Of that I’m quite sure.”
Fred left the corral. It was just as he suspected. Will’s father was also the father of Gert’s baby. As much as he admired the boy, he would find great satisfaction in beating the tar out of his pa.
* * *
“I think a compass should be our next purchase, Your Grace,” Benson said as they wearily rode into the town of Cleveland, Ohio.
“I imagine you’re right, Benson,” Blake said. “I can’t fathom how I got so far off of track. I fear Sir Anthony and Lady Anne were right. I have no idea how to do anything but be a duke.”
“Oh, but you’re quite mistaken, sir. The rabbit we roasted last night was a triumph. A delicacy.”
Blake raised his brows. He had shot the poor thing seven times before killing it. He gagged at the thought even now. Something much different about shooting a bird in the sky for the hounds to retrieve than killing a rabbit and taking the skin off while the animal was still warm. Thankfully, Benson flirted in his youth with the old cook and had a vague recollection of how it was to be done.
“Let us to Cleveland to find a bed and a bath,” Blake said.
Blake lay on the worn bed in the small hotel. They watched their money prodigiously now. Blake could have gone to a bank and gotten a transfer of funds but he wasn’t fond of the idea of carrying large amounts of cash. Two nights ago they’d come dangerously close to being killed. Ugly, filthy men had crept in to their camp in the dead of night and bound them back-to-back against a tree. Benson was convinced they were to die there in the wilderness. Blake consoled himself and kept fear at bay by envisioning Gertrude’s shocked face when he kissed her under the tree by the lake. Her own innocent brand of sensuality on display that day in his foyer. And anticipation, Blake was sure, when he kissed her on the steps in his London home. There was some solace in knowing Gert was the last one he had kissed and made love to, if, indeed, these outlaws meant to end his life.
But to their good fortune, the men had drunk massive amounts of alcohol and fallen asleep around the campfire. Blake was able to reach his knife Mr. Greene had sold him, and cut the rope tying him and Benson together. Blake gathered their horses and belongings and slapped the rumps of the outlaws’ mounts. He smiled as he recalled hissing to Benson to hurry. Blake asked Benson later what he’d been doing.
“Twenty years as a valet proved helpful in stealing those commoner’s boots as they snored. I threw them into the ravine we just passed,” Benson said haughtily.
Blake looked at his valet. “How many times have you removed my boots without my knowledge, Benson?”
“A good valet, sir, never reveals private matters concerning his employer,” Benson responded.
Blake’s laughter rang out in the cool night.
* * *
Gert received a letter from Elizabeth near the first of July. She had felt guilty not writing her cousin as she promised that morning at the docks. But Gert couldn’t bring herself to ask what she wanted to know most. How was Blake? Was he still a pompous ass? Still the handsomest man in London? Who was his newest mistress? Gert turned at the desk in the sitting room and held Elizabeth’s unopened letter. The fine cream-colored stationary held the words she feared or hoped for. Uncle Fred had been thrilled that morning when a neighbor dropped off the mail. He ran as fast as his bowlegs could take him, holding it out to her.
“Here’s a letter, Gert. From your cousin in England,” Fred said and waved it in front of her nose as she stood on the lowest slat of the fence.
“What’s the matter with you, Clem?” Gert shrieked from her post. “You’ve got that
pony in a tizzy.”
Fred knew Clem didn’t have the near-broke horse so riled that he bucked. Just as he’d known yesterday Gert did like blackberry jam, was her favorite in fact, in contrast to what she’d shouted at Cookie. Knew the flowers Clyde had picked weren’t meant for Gert’s grave after a long, lingering illness but rather to brighten her day. And knew that between Gert’s shouts and balling fits had every horse, dog and man scurrying away from her.
“Come on, Gert. It’s hot out here. Take your letter and go on in the house,” Fred said and held the letter out to his niece.
Gert looked down at the letter. Her lip trembled, and she bit it. “I don’t want anything to remind me of that horrible country.”
Uncle Fred stared at her.
“Fine,” Gert cried. “Fine. I’ll go sit and be useless.” She grabbed the letter and marched to the house.
But now, as she sat at Aunt Mavis’s desk, absently scratching her belly, tears rolled off her cheeks and landed on her hand. She was curious, though, of news about who would come for Will. She read the first page. Elizabeth’s baby had been born. A girl named Sarah Louise. Everyone was fine except for the husband. Apparently Anthony had not laid the child in its cradle since the midwife had handed her to him. Sir Anthony Burroughs had met his match in the form of a tiny baby he could not bear to part from for more than a minute at a time. The thought of that father and his daughter made Gert think of her own child. No father would cuddle him or her or show him off as if he or she were the most precious thing in the world. They would have a mother, though, that would go to the ends of the earth for her child.
Ann Sanders McDonald had taken Melinda and Donald to Scotland where Melinda had managed to tempt every eligible man for miles. Ann had written Elizabeth that one dark-haired chieftain had set Melinda’s thoughts to marriage again. Donald ran constantly with boys his same age, swimming, fishing and growing like a weed. Gert’s lip trembled. She laid the letter in her lap. That was the thing with children, she thought. They grow up. And they leave.
Gert pulled the second page from behind the first and continued. The paper shook wildly in her hand. Blake Sanders had set sail to America for Will, two weeks after she did. Her trembling hand came to her mouth. He was coming here. But why hadn’t he arrived? He was surely coming only to rescue his heir. But where was he?
Gert’s thoughts flew a thousand ways. He was dead on the side of the road. His carriage had careened from a mountainside. And it was certainly no less than he deserved. To allow her and his unborn child to sail across an ocean alone. Well, Will had been there with her, but Blake didn’t know that. He didn’t even know she was pregnant. Although he should have. He did ask her to marry him. But he didn’t love her. Gert had herself in fury of tears, fears and accusations.
“Will,” Gert shrieked as she stuck her head out the window. “William!”
Chapter Fourteen
Blake planned on traveling due west from Cleveland. Somehow he and Benson found themselves in northern Kentucky. They had spent their last evening in a barn owned by a very pregnant woman. Mrs. Fletcher’s husband had died a month prior, and the woman was running the small farm alone. To Blake’s regret, the Fletcher child had chosen that night to arrive in this world. Blake had ridden for a neighbor, as directed, while Benson cooked and straightened the woman’s home. A girl, certainly not much older than his Melinda, came running down the porch steps of the home Blake was sent to.
“How close are the pains?” Tess Williams asked as she waddled quickly to a cart and hitched a mule.
“I don’t know for sure, miss.” Blake looked at the girl, pregnant herself. “Isn’t there someone else who could attend Mrs. Fletcher? Someone with, pray, more experience.”
“You and I is it, mister.” The girl shouted “Yaw” to the mule and set off at a furious pace.
Blake hurried to his horse and followed. Dear God! Did the chit think he’d be helping with the birth? While Ann had delivered Melinda and William, he was in his study, drinking brandy and choosing his children’s school. He was in London during Donald’s birth. But Tess Williams did not care. She shouted directions to Benson for water and boiled Blake’s knife. She directed Blake to hold Mrs. Fletcher’s back while the woman pushed the child from her body. The crying, shouting and sweating Mrs. Fletcher succeeded near midnight in giving birth. Benson had hurried from the house at the first scream. Tess Williams shoved the infant in Blake’s arms, unceremoniously, while she attended Mrs. Fletcher.
Blake found himself seated in a rocker, slowly moving, watching the child in the moonlight from the bare window. He cooed when she fussed and wrapped the blanket tight around her small body. He could not remember, for his life, his children ever being this small. And poor Mrs. Fletcher, soon alone to raise this child. Blake swallowed. What if it were true? What if his deepest fear and surety was reality? Gertrude could be pregnant with his son or daughter. Would someone hold her hand as he had done for Mrs. Fletcher? Would someone murmur reassuring words? Of course, Blake chastised himself. She would have Uncle Fred. But would he hold her and tell her she’d done fine? What if she and William had yet to arrive and were stranded? Who would hold his child in its first moments on earth?
Not too terribly long ago Blake was sure he had lived his life with no regrets. Lately, he wondered if any decision he’d ever made was right. So much he’d missed, so much he let willingly go unseen. He was very near as useless as Anthony had described him. The child in his arms blew bubbles and yawned. Blake touched the small hand with his finger and the tiny fist opened and closed around it, and her veined eyelids dropped. Suddenly, and with a desperation Blake had never known, he craved his children. Wanted to see Melinda’s sweet, smiling face and hear her laughter. Touch William’s shoulder and tell him how proud he was of his son. Wished he had climbed to see that damn tree house Donald loved. Blake’s vision blurred until the tiny pink bundle in his arms was but a shadow.
And Blake knew without a doubt, at that moment and not before, what Ann, Anthony, his servants and Lady Katherine had known all along. What Gertrude had seen in his children the first instant they’d met. No horse, home or club, no rule or shapely body held a candle to his sons and daughter. What had appeared as gold was not but a cheap imitation compared to the treasure God had foolishly bestowed upon him. He was glad then Ann was their mother. The dear Lord had been merciful. While he roamed haunts, chasing pleasures, his wife had been raising those children. He no longer felt angry or cheated. But indebted rather, to a woman he’d not loved and treated poorly. Perhaps McDonald will make her happy.
And above all this, knowing all this, one face loomed before him. Unbeknownst to her, Gertrude had changed Blake’s life. He had been lured here because of William’s fascination with her heartfelt tales. Blake would have gone to his grave never seeing this land’s bounty or the pride and resourcefulness of its people. Melinda would have been married to some young fob planning a life filled with women and titles while Blake’s daughter stayed behind to raise her children. And Donald, he cringed to admit, was a stranger.
Sometimes in the past, Blake had revealed something personal to someone. Most times to Anthony. But he had no inclination to share his thoughts with his friend at this moment. There was only one person on this earth he’d admit his folly to. The same one he’d wronged and cursed. The tall, green-eyed woman not afraid for an instant of his displeasure. She’d curse him and tell him she’d known all along he was an ass. Blake smiled at the thought of her censure. They would argue and trade barbs, and he would kiss her.
* * *
“What is it, Miss Finch?” Will said as he ran in the house. “You’re as white as a ghost.”
“Your father is coming here to get you. He left England two weeks after us.”
Will dropped in a chair. “Where is he then? Shouldn’t he have arrived by now?”
Gert’s lip trembled. “Yes. He should have. Weeks and weeks ago.”
Will’s eyes darted. “I am happ
y and frightened and angry he is coming.”
Gert wandered about the room. Finally stopping to touch Aunt Mavis’ candlesticks, her back to the door. “I don’t know what to do, Will. I don’t want him to know of my condition.”
Gert had as many mixed emotions as Will. To see Blake again would ease a pain that lingered. But seeing his face, hearing his voice would be torture, knowing he was not the man for her. She had come to that conclusion painfully. Admitted to herself she’d succumbed to a physical attraction with a man intent on leading a merry life of wealth and indulgence and pleasures. A man wholly unable from centuries of tradition, to view a woman as anything but a necessity for heirs and gratification.
Gert had a good life here on the ranch. One that allowed her views to be listened to, her opinions valued. She had respect and a place in the order of things. Gert would not have love, not for every star she wished on. It was not meant to be. As she had told countless young women, find yourself, your values and talents and make a good life. Never wait on a man to fulfill your dreams. Much more difficult to live those words than to say them. Gert would never again scoff at a woman believing her prince or knight or pirate would solve all life’s woes.
“When your father finds out I’m expecting his child, I can’t imagine his reaction,” Gert said softly.
“I won’t let him hurt you. In any way, Miss Finch,” Will replied.
“Neither will I,” a voice came from the door. Gert spun around to see Uncle Fred and all the hands.
“Don’t you worry none, Gert,” Cookie said.
“No duke is goin’ to bother you,” Clyde said. Clem nodded.
“I won’t let the bastard break your heart again,” Luke whispered.