by Karen Kirst
He’d argue with Dillon later. They were both tired and out of sorts. No use making things worse.
Dillon adjusted his crutches, his head bent. “I’m happy for you. You deserve a better life. I’m happy you got the girl.”
“I didn’t know I was that obvious.”
“Only to the people who know you best,” Dillon said. “I have a confession. I knew how you felt, and I made you jealous on purpose. I shouldn’t have. I was young and I was envious. You always had a way with girls. Even Ma wasn’t immune to your charm. I shouldn’t have toyed with you and Heather. It was cruel.”
“It’s Heather you should be apologizing to.”
“One apology at a time.” Dillon pointed with the tip of his crutch. “Everything turned out all right in the end, didn’t it?”
“Otto knew how I felt the whole time?” Sterling asked. “He never let on.”
“He must have. He did a good job of convincing me.”
Maybe that’s why the foreman had been so eager to see them wed. He’d known about Sterling’s feelings all along. If Otto hadn’t stood up in church, things might have turned out differently.
Sterling walked Dillon down to the bunkhouse and delivered his trunk, then returned to the house, his feet dragging. Heather was in the kitchen working on supper. Gracie sat at her feet, pounding on the back of a pan with a wooden spoon.
Heather cast him an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry about the noise.”
“I don’t mind.”
“How is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“That bad?”
“That bad.” Sterling took a seat at the table. “I can’t read him. Half the time he’s angry because I’m coddling him, then he’s telling me that he’s useless.”
“I don’t think he knows what he wants,” Heather said. “This is a startling change for him. He’s used to being in charge, and now he has to let people help him. I’m sure he’s frustrated. Is he going to try a prosthetic?”
“He doesn’t have the money, and he won’t take charity.”
“Stubborn and prideful. Those seem to be traits of Blackwell men.”
“Me?” Sterling assumed an expression of mock outrage. “Don’t bring me into this.”
“No one in town knew the ranch was failing. You certainly weren’t advertising your difficulties.”
“What happens on this ranch is no one’s business but my own,” he stubbornly insisted.
“Prideful.”
“He’s staying at the bunkhouse. The stairs are difficult, and he doesn’t want to stay in the parlor like an invalid.”
“Prideful.”
“What’s for supper?”
“Pride,” she repeated. “Don’t try to change the subject.”
Gracie fussed, and he lifted her onto his lap. She tugged on his ear and gummed the side of his face. “Gra.”
His chest seemed to expand. “Gracie.”
Heather rested her hand on his forearm. “You never share your troubles with me, either. And this is exactly how it feels when someone shuts you out.”
“I don’t shut you out.”
“You do. You share your joy with me, but never your pain. I know you think that you’re protecting me, but you’re not. You’re pushing me away.”
He hung his head. “I never thought of it that way.”
Dillon was doing to him exactly what Sterling had done to Heather. Only instead of hiding his pain behind a wall bitter words, Sterling had hidden his worries beneath a veneer of charm. Except he hadn’t fooled anyone.
Sterling caught her hand. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I know.” She pressed a kiss against his forehead. “It’s something I wanted you to think about.”
“I will.”
Gracie pushed herself upright and hugged his neck. No matter what else was happening around him, when he looked at Gracie, all was right with the world. As long as the three of them had each other, everything else would work itself out. He’d be better in the future. Better at sharing his feelings.
“Gra.”
Heather turned away, and he caught the sound of a sniffle. “Are you all right?” he asked, instantly concerned.
“I’m glad,” she said, her voice watery with tears. “I’m glad that Dillon survived. I’m glad you didn’t lose everyone. I’m glad he’s still here for you.”
Sterling stood and lifted Gracie into his arms. “Me too.”
They held each other in silence. Each lost in thought.
After a long moment he said, “May I kiss you?”
She put her arms around his neck and lifted her mouth to his in silent invitation. A shimmering bolt of awareness coursed through him. She trembled in reaction as his lips moved over hers.
Voices sounded and they reluctantly moved apart.
“If you’re glad Dillon is still here for you, too,” she said, “then maybe you should tell him and not me.”
He sat in the dark for a long time after she left. She didn’t love Dillon. She never had. Which meant that maybe, just maybe, she might be able to love him.
He thought of Beauregard Thompson and his heart clenched. He didn’t know what to pray for, so he prayed for what was best for Gracie. He’d leave the rest up to God.
* * *
Heather checked the coffee percolating on the stove and pretended to ignore the two brothers seated at the kitchen table. Two weeks had passed, and there hadn’t been any discernible change in their relationship. They appeared to have come to some sort of impasse, as they’d done in the carriage the day they’d picked Dillon up. Their conversation was strained, but cordial. The rest of the ranch hands had eaten and left, but the two brothers had lingered, a good sign for the future. Anything that eased the tension was a welcome respite.
Dillon considered the chair Gracie was currently perched upon. “I thought we had a tall chair for kids. How come you’re still making do with Montgomery Ward catalogs and towel ties?”
“We did.” Sterling peered over the top edge of the paper he was reading. “But wood rot got it. I found it in the loft in the barn.”
“All of it?”
“Not all. One of the legs. It was sitting on its side. There must have been a leak in the roof at some point. It’s still up there. We were set to burn the chair in the rubbish heap, but there was an accident.”
“I heard about Price’s arms. He’s fortunate he wasn’t burned worse,” Dillon said. “Why don’t you let me look at the chair? I did some woodwork during my downtime. I might be able to fix it.”
“Sure thing.” Sterling snapped the newspaper back in place. “I’ll fetch it this morning.”
Dillon stood and reached for his crutches. “Thank you for breakfast, Heather. You’re doing such a good job around here. The house smells like Christmas.”
His comment reminded her of the oranges, and she checked the tray of neat slices she’d set to dry. “I know it’s still two weeks away, but Gracie and I are decorating the tree out front for Christmas. Would you like to join us?”
“I can’t. I’m helping Otto with something this afternoon.”
Sterling shot his brother an eloquent glance, and the two engaged in a silent exchange that she didn’t quite understand.
After a long, tense moment, Dillon said, “I’ll pull up a chair on the porch and watch.”
“I’d like that,” Heather said.
She cast an uneasy glance at Sterling. Dillon had been fiercely polite since that first day. Sterling had obviously laid down the law with his brother, and Dillon was doing his best to comply.
As he limped toward the door, she desperately wanted to assist him. Yet experience over the past two weeks had taught her that she was better off ignoring his difficulties. Dillon
was fiercely independent, and his temper sparked when he thought they were coddling him. If only he’d consider a prosthetic. She’d seen plenty of men in Pittsburgh who’d lost limbs during the war. They got along just fine with prosthetics. And if he wasn’t fussing with the crutches, he’d have more dexterity with his hands.
She waited until he’d closed the door and crossed the clearing before turning toward Sterling. “You don’t have to force him to participate. You’ll only drive him away.”
“He’s as stubborn as a crusty old pack mule. He won’t even try riding, but he gets all persnickety if he thinks someone is trying to help him out. He can’t have it both ways. He can’t go around saying he’s a useless cripple, and then biting folks’ heads off when they treat him like an invalid.”
“You need to be patient.”
Gracie tugged on her restraints. “Down. Want down.”
Sterling dutifully untied the length of towel and assisted her to the floor. She toddled toward her cupboard near the stove and retrieved her favorite pot. Heather grasped a wooden spoon and extended her hand.
Gracie enjoyed mimicking her actions in the kitchen. She’d stir the pot and even serve up invisible plates of food.
“She needs a doll,” Heather said.
A mischievous glint appeared in Sterling’s crystal-blue eyes. “I believe Santa Claus may have something up his sleeve.”
She didn’t abide vanity, but she could stare at his face all day. Her fingers itched to trace the cleft in his chin. She recalled the rasp of his whiskers against her cheek. He hadn’t kissed her since Dillon’s arrival, and she mourned the loss. She’d have to make the next move, but she didn’t know how.
They could live the rest of their lives as friends, but if she revealed her feelings, she feared she’d live the rest of her life in heartbreak with only his pity for consolidation.
She’d vowed to remain aloof, but she feared she was falling hopelessly in love with her husband.
Tears burned behind Heather’s eyes. “You bought Gracie a doll?”
That was the problem with falling. Once you began the tumble, it was difficult to stop.
“Nope. I didn’t. Dillon asked and I may have mentioned something. The Wells Fargo delivery is next week.” Sterling grinned. “I love Gracie, but I don’t mind telling you, I get a chill when I think of picking up the deliveries. What if someone sends us twins next time?”
Heather playfully flicked the towel at him. “You’re incorrigible.”
The back door opened and Heather ushered Seamus inside. “You’re just in time for breakfast.”
The boy had become a fixture around the ranch. He’d adopted them as an extension of his family and had proved himself a good hand around the ranch.
She and Sterling exchanged a glance. Seamus always managed to arrive just in time for breakfast. The boy definitely had a hollow leg.
He held a burlap sack and struggled over the threshold. “The postmaster sure has a temper about the Blackwell Ranch. You should have heard him. He said words even my pa doesn’t use.”
“What’s all this?” Heather peered into the bag. “Letters?”
“Yep. You’re getting all sorts of mail.” Comfortable around their kitchen, Seamus dished eggs from the pan on the stove and grasped three biscuits before sitting down at the table. “They’re mostly addressed to the mail-order baby.”
Her knees gave out, and Heather dropped onto a chair. “That reporter, Beauregard, must have written his story.”
Sterling grasped the bag and poured the contents onto the table. Letters of every size and shape covered the surface. Heather ran her hand over the top layer. A few of them were marked for the Blackwell Ranch, but most of them were addressed to Gracie.
Sterling sliced one open with his knife and scanned the contents. Heather placed a restraining hand over his wrist. “What does it say?”
She’d been anticipating a reaction to the reporter’s story; she simply wasn’t certain what kind of reaction they’d receive.
“Don’t worry,” Sterling said. “This one is supportive. ‘Dear Mr. and Mrs. Blackwell, I applaud your Christian charity in supporting the abandoned child. I sincerely hope there are more people in the world like you.’ That’s not so bad.”
He opened a second letter, and a folded newspaper clipping fluttered out of the envelope.
Her heart pounding with dread, she quickly skimmed the article. “I don’t know whether to be relieved or horrified. There is a thread of truth in the story, but he’s embellished the events. You and I sound like romantic, star-crossed lovers brought together by an abandoned child. Oh gracious, the last line states, ‘Love will find a way.’ I’m horrified. I’m definitely horrified. This isn’t reporting, this is embellished fiction.”
“I guess it could be worse.” Sterling opened a second letter and grimaced. “It’s worse. This lady claims the child is hers, and she wants her back. She insists someone stole her baby, and she thinks Gracie belongs to her. Except she’s got the age all wrong, and she says her child has blond hair.”
Heather blinked rapidly. “I knew it. I told that reporter if we put something in the newspapers, folks would come out of the woodwork.”
Sterling ripped open letter after letter, sorting them into piles. Heather paced behind him. She caught the scent of something burning and quickly retrieved a pan of muffins from the oven.
Seamus ate his breakfast and watched the proceedings. “My ma said she figures the baby was from one of the ladies on Venus Alley. She says most folks in town feel sorry for the two of you. She says that most everyone thinks you two were chosen for your looks and Mr. Blackwell’s money. What’s Venus Alley?”
“Nothing,” Heather said sharply. “And don’t mention that name again.”
“If it’s nothing, why can’t we talk about it?”
“Because we can’t, that’s why.”
Seamus stood and placed his empty plate in the sink. “Now you’re sounding just like my ma. I’m going to see if Joe needs any help in the barn.”
“That’s a wonderful idea,” she encouraged.
Gracie was chewing on the corner of an envelope that had fallen from the table. Heather grasped the edge of it, but Gracie held firm. “I feel as though I’m reliving that day all over again.”
Sterling surveyed the piles. “This is somewhat encouraging. Most of the responses are positive.”
“But not all of them. This woman is quite angry that we kept Gracie.” Heather pressed her hands against her cheeks. “Were we wrong? What else could we have done?”
“Neither of us asked to be listed on that Return of Birth. We weren’t given a whole lot of choices.”
“Do you think they’ll try to take her from us?”
Seamus pushed open the door and stuck his head through the opening. “The sheriff is coming.”
Heather slumped in her seat. “I guess that answers that question.”
Sterling knelt beside her and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Don’t give up on me now.”
“I’m not.” She turned her face into his chest. “Can you be strong for both of us? Just for a while?”
“For as long as you need.”
Fifteen minutes later, the territorial sheriff sprawled in a chair in the parlor. Heather perched on the edge of the settee, her hands clasped in her lap.
“This has gone beyond my jurisdiction,” Sheriff Spalding declared.
He was a gray-haired man who’d fought in the Indian Wars. Heather figured most of his stories of heroism were grossly exaggerated, but since they didn’t have much crime in Valentine, nobody much cared.
The man leaned forward. “I’ve got three people claiming the child belongs to them.”
“But—”
“Hold up a minute, now, little lady. Thank
fully that reporter didn’t publish too many details about the child. Two of them have gotten her age wrong, and one of them thought she was a boy.”
“What do we do?” Heather demanded.
“Right now the child is considered abandoned. You’ll have to go through the formal court order to retain custody of the child.”
Sterling held up his hands. “We’re listed as the parents on the Silver Bow County certificate. That’s what got us into this mess in the first place.”
“I have to consider the paper a fraud since nothing was filed with the county or with the city of Butte. You have to understand, Sterling, Montana is a territory, not a state. Silver Bow has recorded births since 1878, but only voluntarily. The rules are different without statehood. There isn’t really a place to record births other than the county registry, and most folks don’t bother. There’s no law saying they have to.”
“Which means you can’t prove who she is.”
“Which means I can’t prove who she isn’t either.”
Heather rubbed her temples. “Can they take her from us?”
“Yes and no.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“You can petition the courts,” the sheriff said. “That’s the best I can do for you. Other folks can petition the courts, as well. You two have a good case. There are plenty of folks in the community willing to stand up for you.”
“I can’t believe this.” Heather choked back a sob, and Sterling caught her hand. “This child was abandoned and left with us, and now we have to prove ourselves in court?”
“That’s the way the law works. Unless you can find me proof that she’s yours.”
“You know what happened.”
The sheriff stood. “I’m real sorry about this. You have to go before the court and take your chances.”
After they walked the sheriff out, Heather paced before the hearth. “I don’t believe any of those people have a claim to her.”
“Then we’ll petition the court to give her to us,” Sterling said calmly.
His infuriating refusal to accept the possibility of losing Gracie was driving her mad. “We should have done that before. Why didn’t we do that from the beginning?”