Wed to the Montana Cowboy

by Carol Arens

  “It’s the name my aunt Eunice gave me.” She glanced at him with eyes the color of an ocean wave. Then she stared into the fire, silent for a long time.

  Not dishonest, but vague.

  “Why have you come here, Miss Lane?”

  “To get to know my grandfather, of course.”

  She continued to stare at the fire and apparently did not notice that the canvas wrapped about her gaped open at her chest.

  Her under-things were fine, lacy and frilly...and sheer with the dampness. He was ashamed of himself for letting his gaze linger.

  For all that he didn’t trust her, she was finely formed.

  “Mr. Walker.” She looked at him suddenly, catching him peering where he had no right to.

  Dark brows lowered over dark-lashed eyes. The campfire cast her high cheekbones in shades of pink. She yanked the canvas tight across her charms.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Lane.” He’d never considered himself a rude man and was humiliated to find that trait within him.

  “If you are a man of honor, let me make one thing clear.” Until a moment ago he’d believed he was. “I do not wish to be courted. I am a spinster and accepting of my fate. I would not welcome any action that would dissuade me from that future.”

  “Again, I do beg your pardon.” No wonder she thought he had wooing on his mind, the way he had been staring.

  “I should warn you,” she said, ignoring his apology. “If you are not a man of honor, I do not take dalliances lightly. There is a man back in Kansas City who presumed that I did. I’m quite sure he is still being laughed at today.”

  As pretty as Miss Lane was, she was stiff. He would believe that she had a heart as cold as winter if he hadn’t shared a bout of laughter with her and seen her concern for the cougar cub.

  He couldn’t help but wonder how she would act with Hershal. He’d have to be on guard to make sure she didn’t wound his kind old heart.

  “You can believe this or not, but until this moment, I have been respectful of women. I humbly ask for your forgiveness.”

  “Forgiveness granted.” She smiled at him all of a sudden, brightly with her white teeth flashing. It nearly knocked him flat, which was something given that he was already sitting on the ground. “By George, that gives me one apology to your two.”

  He laughed. How could he help it?

  “I hope you don’t mind my saying so,” she said. “But your smile is ever so much nicer than your scowl.”

  The fact was, she made him want to smile, and not for the first time.

  But no matter how charming she might seem, he did not know her. He feared what she might be up to.

  At least, with her being an avowed spinster, he didn’t need to worry about losing his heart to her...because he could not swear that, in spite of everything, it would not happen. From what he’d glimpsed, she had a body to make a man daydream.

  Hell damn him as an idiot for letting his mind wander there. He was a confirmed bachelor as much as she was a confirmed spinster.

  A woman needed a secure future where she could put down roots...children needed the same. It made his blood run cold thinking of the things that might happen to them. Children needed to live closer to town...to be near a competent doctor in case of an emergency. These days he was a far better cowboy than he was a doctor.

  “Can you tell me what my grandfather is like?”

  The quick change in the conversation made him uncomfortable. He didn’t want to tell her who the old man was. If he did, she could more easily make plans to do whatever it was she intended.

  “He’s a cold man. Not really open to shows of affection.” He shook his head slowly. “Likes to keep to himself mostly. The cabin is small. Surely not up to a lady’s standards. Things could be uncomfortable for you.”

  She nodded, as though she had expected as much.

  “He didn’t seem cold in his letters.”

  He felt ashamed all of a sudden. He could tell by the look in her eyes that she believed him. No hope for it now but to carry on.

  “Is it possible that he is only reserved?” she said. “I’ve known folks like that. What seems cold only hides a warm heart.”

  “That’s not him.”

  “Surely he’s generous, though. He did send me the violin. It had to have been precious to him.”

  “That’s not the reason he sent it.” He hated himself right now. “Your grandmother was always playing the thing, he told me. To him it was all a bunch of screeching—your bird ought to remind him of her playing. When she died he wanted to get rid of it, but didn’t feel right throwing it out. So he sent it to you.”

  She bowed her head, covered her face with her hands, silent for a long time.

  When she looked up her eyes were moist.

  “That’s not what... Well, thank you for telling me... I believe my dress is dry. I’ll just step into the trees for a moment.”

  She gathered the canvas about her and walked toward the darkness beyond the fire. She hesitated, then stepped beyond his sight.

  Reaching for the Winchester that he always kept close at hand, he cocked his head, listening for danger over the shuffling of fabric.

  It wasn’t easy to admit that it might not be the wild things that were the biggest threat to her, but that he was.

  Clearly his lie about the violin had crushed her. He had heard her play and knew very well that she had a gift...a gift that had been passed down from Catherine Moreland.

  Could be that she really did want to simply meet her granddaddy, make the old man’s life better.

  The trouble was, at this point, he wasn’t ready to take that risk.

  He would be watching her, morning and night. It would be a sorry day that he allowed anyone to harm Hershal Moreland.

  * * *

  Rebecca sat astride the bag of coffee beans with her knees bracing the sides. She tucked her violin under her chin then poised the bow over the strings.

  After a day of the wagon jouncing over rocks and slamming into ruts along the narrow path, her stomach felt unsettled.

  Poor Screech must have had half of his feathers bent with the jostling he had taken. As soon as they reached the safety of the cabin, she would make him a perch and let him out of his cage.

  Mr. Lantree had estimated that, bears, cougars, storms and floods notwithstanding, they should arrive at her grandfather’s humble cabin before sunset.

  That happy event could not come soon enough. For the past three hours Mr. Walker had been preaching about the hardships of life on the ranch, the constant danger and her grandfather’s thorny character.

  In her opinion, Grandfather could not possibly be thornier than the man currently whistling some sort of command to the horses.

  If he was, this trip will have proven something that she did not want to know. That Aunt Eunice had been right and there was no such thing as a good Moreland.

  She would not let her mind dwell on the fact that she was half Moreland.

  How odd that in Grandfather’s letters he came across as congenial. She would not have made this long, perilous trip had she believed that he had no desire for a loving relationship with her.

  To lift her spirits she had, at great risk of falling from the wagon, rummaged through her belongings and taken out her violin.

  She drew the bow across the strings but because one of the rear wagon wheels bounced in a rut, what should have been a lovely note was delivered as a squeal.

  All of a sudden the wagon slowed, inching gently over the path.

  To some folks, communing with a dead man would be odd. To Rebecca it was normal...comforting in fact.

  Yes, by George, even from beyond the grave, Mr. Mozart was better company than Mr. Walker, whose clean blond hair caught the sunlight as he sat tall on the
wagon bench.

  She closed her eyes and let Mozart and...she would not believe this was not true in spite of what Mr. Walker had to say...her grandmother guide the bow across the strings. “Eine kleine Nachtmusik” took her to a happy place where her grandfather embraced her and her escort smiled.

  When she finished the piece, she noticed that the wagon had stopped. She opened her eyes to find Mr. Blond-Haired Viking turned about on the bench. To her great surprise, he was smiling.

  “I wonder if these trees have ever heard Mozart,” he said quite pleasantly.

  She would not have guessed that he was familiar with the composer. The man was certainly a puzzle...one that she would not be solving.

  “They’ll be hearing a lot more of it, I guess. From what you have told me about my grandfather, he won’t be pleased to have me playing in the cabin.”

  “I reckon not,” he said, his customary frown settling back into place.

  He turned, clicked to the team then mumbled something under his breath.

  She thought it was “Damned shame.”

  Many things in life were. One could only face them and hope for the best.

  If she had to escape into the pristine forest to visit her composer friends and feel her grandmother’s hand glide along with hers, there were worse places to be.

  As long as one was not crushed by a rolling boulder or attacked by displaced snakes.

  Chapter Five

  “Welcome home, Miss Lane,” Mr. Walker stated.

  If he expected an answer, she could not find the words—or the breath, for that matter—to respond.

  They had stopped at the top of a hill, and gazing down she didn’t believe there was a place on Earth that could be more beautiful.

  In the distance the sky, the most pure shade of blue she had ever seen, met a snowcapped mountain range. The mountain looked rocky, forbidding and altogether magnificent. About halfway down, the rocks gave place to tall green trees. Lower down, the trees became less dense, with verdant meadows claiming space among them as the land flattened out.

  “Look close.” He pointed his finger at the valley below. “You can just make out Big Timber Creek. It cuts through the ranch. Half the acreage is on one side and half on the other. Your grandfather also owns a few hundred acres on the south side of the Yellowstone. The nearest neighbor is a half a day’s ride away.”

  “I wish... Oh, never mind.” What she wanted was impossible, so why put it out there for Mr. Walker to make fun of?

  “You wish you hadn’t come to this isolated place after all, I reckon. Just say the word and I’ll see you on the next riverboat out of Coulson.”

  “That’s kind of you,” she said, understanding full well that it was not kindness motivating him. Clearly, he did not want her here. “But that’s not what I was going to wish for.”

  “Wishes have their place, but out here it’s hard work that counts for something.”

  As if she knew nothing of hard work. Aunt Eunice had gone to pains to make sure her girls did not grow up to be ornaments.

  “What I wished, was that I could put this to music.” She swept her arm at the paradise displayed before her eyes. “To capture it on my violin. But, by the saints, I could try for a hundred years and never get it right.”

  She could not read his expression. He stared at her, silent for a long moment.

  “I don’t know that anyone’s ever tried.”

  Well, that was something. He had not ridiculed her after all.

  “If you look hard you can just make out the ranch house and the outbuildings. There’s the big barn off to the left and down a ways.”

  The barn was easy to spot, being red. The other three buildings were brown, probably made of logs. Two of them were small...but the other?

  Even from this distance she could see that the main house was huge, two stories high with what appeared to be a porch all around the ground level.

  If this was Mr. Walker’s idea of a cramped cabin, well—

  “If we hurry, we ought to make it home by sundown,” he said, disrupting her opinion of his judgment.

  Smoke curled out of the chimney of one of the small cabins. It whisked away out of four chimneys of the main house.

  Even though it was only four o’clock, the evening chill was beginning to set in. Seeing the little settlement, Rebecca was suddenly anxious for the safety of four walls.

  It would be wonderful to lay her head down tonight without having to peer into the darkness, fearful of eyes staring back from the bushes.

  Even if her grandfather did not welcome her, if he made her sleep in the barn, she would snuggle next to some docile, furry creature and sleep soundly.

  * * *

  The lamps in the main house and the bunkhouse had already been lit when Lantree pulled the wagon into the yard. Flowers in the flower beds on both sides of the porch had already closed their petals to the coming night. Three dogs on a rug near the front door wagged their tails in welcome.

  As usual he was nervous coming home after an absence. Any number of things could have gone wrong.

  While Hershal was capable, the limitations of age were starting to show. He wasn’t as agile as he had been when Lantree had first met him. He forgot things now and again and he took more naps.

  His voice was still as booming as ever, though. His word was still law.

  Everything seemed calm this evening...and it’s not as though there were not competent hands working the ranch. It’s just that none of them would even know how to tend a blister. Lantree at least could still do that along with some other minor treatments.

  There was the big, congenial ranch hand, Tom Camp. The man was good at following directions. Tom would do whatever was asked of him and do it well. Loyal by nature, he was a good friend.

  There was also Jeeter Spruce, but he was young and impatient to earn enough money to strike out on his own.

  Lastly, there was Barstow, who did not own up to a last name. No one minded that because he cooked the best vittles in the territory. Barstow had no interest in running anything but the kitchen.

  Now, there was the granddaughter.

  He’d feel easier in himself if he thought she had the ranch’s best interest at heart.

  Once she inherited, and he figured she would, she might sell the place. If she didn’t do that, she might cut down the trees, rape the land and break the old man’s heart.

  Moreland cared for trees more than most folks did. He believed that because they were integral to the natural beauty of the land, a home for wildlife and had been a rightful part of the environment long before there had been a Moreland Ranch, they had earned the right to keep their roots in Montana’s rich earth.

  Even if those were not his beliefs, it had been Mrs. Moreland’s dying wish to preserve them.

  Anyone who threatened a tree threatened the beloved memory of Catherine Rose Moreland.

  Respecting her memory meant respecting her trees.

  Cattle rustlers were expected and tolerated, to an extent. More than once Moreland turned a blind eye if he knew the rustlers to be hungry. The same could not be said for the riverboat folks in need of fuel and the railroad men in need of tracks.

  It wasn’t as though Moreland’s trees were the only ones about. The mountains were full of them. But his timber held the most appeal, given that his forests were near the river.

  He’d lost track of the times his boss had sent Mayor Smothers’s lackeys running for home, fearing for life and limb...and sanity.

  “I’m fairly certain,” Miss Lane said, bringing him back to the issues of the moment, “that you called this great, lovely home a cramped cabin.”

  Yes, he had told her that. He’d told her many things that were not true. One by one he was sure to be called on them. It wouldn’t
be long before he would have to deal with his misrepresentations about Hershal Moreland’s character.

  The old man was sure to have something to say about that.

  All of a sudden a gunshot exploded from inside the barn, saving him from having to answer to his lie that very moment.

  He took off at a run, leaving Miss Lane to find her own way off the wagon. A gun being fired from inside the barn could only mean that Hershal had captured a tree rustler.

  * * *

  “What do you make of that, Screech?”

  The bird, being unused to gunfire, had fallen from his perch with a thump, then righted himself with an outraged fluff of green feathers.

  “Uh-oh,” he stated then used his hooked beak to climb the bars to his perch.

  “Well, by the saints, I will not sit here like an abandoned ninny.” She eyed the drop to the ground, grateful for once for every inch of her six feet.

  She stood up and turned away from the buckboard. Cautiously, she felt for a foothold. Finding one, she lowered herself down, then felt for the next spot to anchor her toe.

  Luckily, she was good at getting out of wagons unassisted. The last thing she wanted to do was break or twist a limb...to seem inept in front of her grandfather.

  And, she could only admit, it would be the humiliation to end all if Mr. Walker found her sprawled on the ground unable to rise.

  After a moment, having met with only one slippery mishap, she set both feet on solid ground.

  But what to do now? Go into the house uninvited? Worse, go into the barn uninvited and maybe get shot?

  One thing was for certain, she was not going to stand here shivering in the cold with the darkness growing more dense by the moment.

  “I’m going to follow Mr. Walker,” she called to Screech.

  Really, there was nothing else to do. He was the only person she knew. In spite of his negative attitude, she did feel a sense of security in his large presence.

  Creeping up to the closed barn door, she listened to the voices inside, still not convinced she ought to enter.

  “You see that portrait hanging below the loft?” an elderly-sounding voice bellowed. It nearly shivered the timbers of the door. “That’s my Catherine Rose.”