by Jill Gregory
The Wayward Heart
Jill Gregory
Copyright 1982, 2016 by Jill Gregory
Digital Edition published by Jill Gregory, 2016
Cover design by Tammy Seidick Design
Digital formatting by A Thirsty Mind Publishing and Design
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Excerpt: Never Love A Cowboy
Titles by Jill Gregory
Reviews
About the Author
Chapter One
St. Louis, 1874
The clatter of pebbles against her windowpane drew Bryony’s attention away from her studies. Pushing the heavy textbook aside, she hurried eagerly to the window to peer down into the moonlit courtyard. Below, Roger Davenport’s shadowy form waved and urgently beckoned her to open the window. Laughing with soft amusement, she obeyed, resting her arms along the sill as she leaned out into the brisk March night.
“For heaven’s sake, Roger, what is it?” she asked saucily, her jade green eyes brimming with mischief.
“I had to see you,” the young man replied in a desperate whisper. “I couldn’t let things rest the way they ended this afternoon! I must speak with you, Bryony!”
“Shall I come down, or will you come up?” she inquired.
Roger made an uncontrollable gesture of impatience. “Don’t be absurd! You know I can’t come up. Please, Bryony, come down at once. It’ll be bad enough if I’m discovered here in the courtyard, much less in your quarters!”
She laughed again. Roger was right, of course. What a scandal there would be if a man were discovered on the premises of Miss Marsh’s School for Young Ladies at this unseemly hour. No man was ever permitted in the dormitory wing where the girls resided, and only authorized visitors were admitted to the grounds at all. This afternoon, Roger Davenport had been an authorized visitor. But tonight....
There would be quite an uproar if he were discovered lurking in the shrubbery.
Pleased and excited that he’d take such a risk to see her, she promised to come down to him immediately, and paused only long enough to lower the window and to dim the oil lamp on the desk before snatching up her shawl, then slipped quickly out of the room and down the long, carpeted hallway to the flight of stairs which led to the side doorway.
In very little time she was stealing her way noiselessly through the garden to where Roger waited, just below her window. He was seated on the long, low stone bench, fidgeting nervously at every rustle of the shrubbery. His handsome face wore an expression of restless agitation. When Bryony appeared out of the shadows, he leapt up and hurried forward to greet her, clasping her hands in his and leading her over to the bench.
She regarded him quizzically as he tugged her down onto the bench beside him.
“Roger, what is this all about? I find it very difficult to believe that you, of all people, crept in here after dark to see me.”
“I had to see you, Bryony. I haven’t had a moment’s peace since I left you this afternoon. It’s terrible, not knowing if you’ll consent to marry me or not! Your answer this afternoon was not at all satisfactory, you know. ‘I’ll think about it, Roger.’ What in hell’s name does that mean?”
Bryony bit her lip. So they were back to this marriage business, were they? Poor Roger, he really seemed desperate for her answer.
But what could she say? She didn’t know what answer to give him. Her own feelings were clouded and uncertain. She needed time—time to sort things out. When she’d tried to explain that to him this afternoon, he’d been hurt and a little angry. Now he seemed even more upset. She supposed she ought to be flattered that her answer meant so much to him, but somehow, she had a feeling that Roger was more interested in marriage for marriage’s sake than in marriage to her.
“Oh, Roger, I wish you wouldn’t press me like this. I just don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes, of course!” His brown eyes shone intently into hers. “I’ll make you happy, Bryony. You’ll see. I’ll buy you anything you wish—a brand spanking new carriage, evening dresses, jewels! We’ll travel in the finest circles! I can picture just how it will be—you’ll charm everyone—my relatives and friends and business associates—and they’ll all adore you as I do. I promise you, it will be a wonderful life!”
Bryony tossed her long, silken black hair, trying to control her impatience with this stream of chatter. Every word Roger uttered reinforced her suspicion that he wanted her only as an ornament, something to show off to his friends and business acquaintances. The very idea made her feel slightly ill. She wanted something more from life than that.
She was about to speak impatiently to him, but she bit her lip instead, remembering the warnings of her friends. They all considered him a most wonderfully eligible suitor: handsome, polished, ambitious. They’d told her repeatedly to avoid taking his courtship lightly, for he was a very promising young man. And above all, they had instructed her, never speak unpleasantly to him, or to any man. That was the quickest way to drive a romantic suitor away for good.
So she hesitated. She wasn’t ready to drive Roger away for good, was she? After all, he was handsome—tall and fashionable, with slick dark hair and pleasant eyes, and a most attractive, confident smile. His future was undoubtedly bright, everyone had told her, for Roger was clever and ambitious, and his father was the president of one of St. Louis’s largest and most prestigious banks. Mr. Silas Davenport was bringing Roger into the banking business with him, and his son, a quick learner, was obviously destined to become just as successful as his father had been.
The Davenport family—a rather stuffy, self-consciously dignified group whom she had met on several occasions—knew all of the right people, and were among the city’s most prominent citizens. If she married Roger, she’d enter the Davenport’s select circle, and her future would be assured.
Bryony knew it would be an easy, elegant life. She couldn’t turn it down flat—not without giving Roger’s proposal a great deal of thought. She liked him very much.
But, she thought, a quiver of panic in her chest, do I love him? How does a woman know when she’s in love?
“Bryony, say something!” Roger urged, shaking her slightly.
She raised her gaze to his fac
e. “I’m... very fond of you, Roger,” she began truthfully, “and very flattered by your proposal. But I’m not entirely certain that I... that I love you—or that you love me.”
“Not certain? How can you say that after I’ve gone to all this trouble to sneak in here tonight—just to beg you to marry me? Of course I love you!” He laughed. “You’re so beautiful, Bryony, and sweet, and you’ll make me a perfect, charming wife. Exactly the kind of sweet, helpful wife I’ve always wished for. I’ll be the envy of every man I know—and it’s common knowledge that a pretty wife can be most helpful to a man in business.” He winked. “I guarantee you, once we’re married, you’ll never want for anything in the world. So,” he added, dropping down to one knee. “My darling, give me your answer. Say yes!”
She hesitated and studied him silently, her stomach clenching. For some reason, Roger’s pleading tone irritated her. If he loved her, truly loved her, why didn’t he sweep her into his arms and show her—passionately? Why didn’t he kiss her until she was dizzy, or tell her what was really in his heart? He spoke as if she was a pretty little ornament he wished to add to his life. Why didn’t he do something, instead of begging her like this?
Hiding her annoyance, she stood up. “I’m sorry, I can’t give you an answer tonight, Roger. Perhaps tomorrow. Yes... tomorrow afternoon. Come see me, please, and I promise to give you a definite answer.”
He grabbed her arm and yanked her back onto the bench so abruptly she gasped. Anger and desperation gave his voice a shrill quality that seemed to pierce the darkness. “You’re a little fool to hesitate, Bryony. You’re eighteen now, and in a few months you’ll be finished with your schooling. You can’t stay on at this prissy boarding school forever! If you don’t marry me, what will you do? Tell me that! Where will you go?”
“Please, Roger, lower your voice.” Tugging her arm free of his hold, she stared at him with mounting anger. “I’ve told you before that I hope to visit my father on his ranch this summer. You know I haven’t seen him for several years now, and I’ve been begging him to let me come west. I intend to set out as soon as this term is finished.”
“West? You can’t be serious! It’s a rough, uncivilized frontier out there, crawling with Indians and the most dangerous, unsavory types of white men. You wouldn’t like it at all, believe me.”
Gazing at her with indulgence, he continued in a more soothing tone. “I understand your passion for horseback riding, Bryony, and I assure you, I’ll be happy to provide you with a half-dozen purebreds after we’re married, if that will please you, so you needn’t think of journeying all that distance merely to satisfy your equestrian desires. Come now, you don’t really want to travel all the way to... Arizona Territory, isn’t it? I’m sure your father would never permit you to do so. He hasn’t allowed you to visit before, has he?”
“No.” She spoke in a low tone, and quickly turned her head away so that he couldn’t see the hurt in her eyes. For it was true—she hadn’t seen her father in three years, and on that occasion he’d visited her here at school. She couldn’t deny that they’d never been particularly close, and that it had been her mother, the lovely Helena, who had raised Bryony with love and great gentleness until her death ten years ago. Ever since that time, Wesley Hill had placed his daughter in the best boarding schools and in the homes of relatives—writing to her occasionally, always seeing that she was well cared for, and showered with lavish presents on her birthday; in general, denying her nothing—nothing, that is, except for his company, and his own precious time.
Wesley Hill was a vital, ambitious man, and he’d made it quite clear that he didn’t have time to be bothered by a young daughter roaming about underfoot. He’d become involved in the mining business, and through several well-placed investments, owned sizable shares in two profitable Colorado gold mines. He had gone on to become one of the first men to begin ranching in the Arizona Territory, setting up his spread on ten thousand acres of rich grazing land near the southeastern frontier town of Winchester, and stocking his range with fifteen thousand head of Texas and Mexican longhorn cattle.
In the past five years since he’d begun this project, his herd had multiplied rapidly, despite the persistent raids by Apache Indians—and now more than thirty thousand head of cattle grazed on Circle H land.
Bryony had heard of his success through occasional letters from her father, but though she’d longed to go west for a visit, he’d never permitted it. She’d been greatly disappointed by his refusals, not only because she wished to see him, but also because she had a strong, burning desire to see the great, fabled west of which she’d heard so much. She possessed an adventurous spirit that had never been given free rein, confined as she’d always been to boarding schools and the very proper homes of her genteel relations.
But lately, this adventurous urge had been growing on her, and she wasn’t ready to give up hope. She had a feeling that somehow, someday, she’d know more of life than she’d previously been allowed to glimpse, and she had a strong suspicion that this would not be achieved by marriage to Roger Davenport.
“Roger, I must go back now.” She rose to her feet. “We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
“No, wait!” he exclaimed as she moved resolutely away from the bench. In his excitement, his voice rose more loudly than he intended, and with a little cry of alarm, Bryony peered upward, fearful that one of her classmates would come to a window to investigate the noise.
But it was her own window that caught and held her attention, as she saw the oil lamp in her room glow with increasing brightness. Someone was in her room, turning up the lamp.
“Roger, go!” she whispered desperately, suddenly aware of how close they stood to discovery.
“I... I’m sorry, Bryony, I didn’t mean to shout—”
She gave him a small push. “Please, you need to leave right now! Don’t you see? Someone is in my room, looking for me! They can’t find us together... oh!”
She broke off as a dark form filled the window where only a short time before she had laughed down at Roger. But the woman in the window was not laughing. A dark scowl was fixed upon her stern features as she caught sight of the two young people in the courtyard.
Roger stiffened, frozen with horror. “Damn, she sees us!” he muttered hoarsely.
“Yes, thanks to you.” Bryony sighed, abandoning the advice of her friends concerning the eternally pleasant tone to be used when addressing a suitor. “Now, Roger, will you please leave before she comes down here? Look, she’s left the window—she’s on her way already. Go!”
“I can’t leave you here to face her alone,” he said miserably. “It’s my duty to protect—”
“No, no, forget your duty! I can handle Miss Grayson.” But she felt far from confident. Her heart was pounding—she knew full well the trouble she was in, and dreaded the scene awaiting her. But she preferred to face the scandal alone, without having to worry about defending Roger.
“There’s no reason why you need be scolded too. She won’t have recognized you, and I promise I won’t tell her your name. I beg of you to leave—this will be much easier for me if I’m alone.”
He glanced at her uncertainly, and then, as heavy footsteps sounded on the graveled path, he kissed Bryony hurriedly on the lips, promised to call on the morrow, and darted frantically into the shrubbery to escape.
Bryony turned just as Miss Letitia Grayson emerged from the garden path, her puffy, red face lit with triumph.
“Well, Miss Hill,” the woman said, folding her arms across her chest in a formidable pose. “What, may I ask, is the meaning of this outrageous behavior?”
Chapter Two
“Good... good evening, Miss Grayson.” Bryony felt herself flushing under the woman’s withering stare, but faced her with head held high, her black hair streaming in the gusty March breeze. She became suddenly aware that it was cold in the courtyard, but how much of this was due to the chilly evening, and how much to the frostiness emanating from Miss Grayson,
it was difficult to say. Shivering, Bryony pulled her shawl more closely about her shoulders while the older woman looked her up and down.
“It is not a good evening, Miss Hill—not for you, at any rate,” the assistant headmistress snapped. “And you haven’t answered my question! What is the meaning of this despicable conduct?”
Bryony saw faces pressed against the glass of several windows above, and silently wished Miss Grayson would not speak quite so loudly. The commotion she was creating was only worsening an already dreadful situation. But she knew it would be useless to ask the woman to lower her voice. There was a malicious sparkle in the assistant’s beady dark eyes that showed she was only too happy to have caught Bryony Hill in a compromising situation. Bryony sighed as she heard one of the upstairs windows slide open, no doubt to permit the observer to hear the entire conversation.
Resignedly, she accepted the fact that the scandal would be all over the school by morning.
“I just came down for a walk in the garden,” she said quietly, shrugging as if nothing unusual had occurred. “It was such a mild, lovely night... so I thought...”
“Poppycock!” Miss Grayson practically shrieked the word, and Bryony winced as several more curious, white faces appeared at their windows, like sudden stars popping into the evening sky.
“There was a young man here with you!” her tormentor announced triumphantly. “I saw him myself! Who was he?”
Bryony eyed her silently, struggling for composure, although anger was surging through her at this public ordeal. She suspected that Miss Grayson was enjoying herself immensely, and resentment flooded through her. When she made no reply to the assistant headmistress’s query, Miss Grayson took a step closer and grasped her arm in a pinching, painful grip.
“Are you going to answer me?” she demanded, giving Bryony’s arm a shake.
“No!” Bryony wrenched away. “I am not.” She was trembling now, not from the cold, but from fury that she could no longer control. A rush of satisfaction swept over her as Miss Grayson’s thin-lipped mouth drooped ludicrously open in shock at her reply.