by Kristin Holt
Why was money a sore subject?
“Then tell me, what is it like?” His tone warned her to tread carefully.
“I have savings.”
He glowered.
“Savings I wish to invest in my new home. When we marry—because we will marry. Don’t you look at me like that.”
“Don’t go offering me money.”
“Why are you threatened? I don’t have enough to usurp your role as head of the household.”
He snorted.
“Silly me,” she tittered, sarcasm heavy. “I thought it only prudent to tell you I have money put away. Money that will become ours when we marry.” No sense using words like if or might or could be, though at the moment, she could be persuaded to walk all the way to Leadville. Alone.
“If you earned that money on stage, I want no part of it.”
“What, precisely, is that supposed to mean?” He’d made it clear, all those years ago, that women who earned a living on stage were only a half-step better than fallen women. Americans’ attitudes, at large, might be pigheaded, but she’d believed better of Jacob Gideon.
“It means I’ll support myself. I’ll support my wife and my family. A man who can’t support his own family can’t retain an ounce of self-respect.”
“You’d rather struggle, alone, to come up with the necessary money to improve your stock, than accept an investment.”
“That’s what I said.”
Unbelievable! “The purpose of this two-week trial, as you put it, is to see if our year-long correspondence courtship might thrive, in person.”
He glared, as if suspecting a trap.
“Part of that,” she said, “is no secrets.”
He narrowed his eyes. “No secrets.”
“Absolutely. Husbands and wives talk about things. They share resources, feelings, ideas. They help each other find solutions.”
“And you know this, how?”
“I watched my parents.” He’d had the O’Kanes, as well as her folks. Two excellent examples of marriages that worked. “My parents discussed issues with the store. My mother was a valued partner.”
“Progressive.”
“In interest of that full disclosure, I have two things to tell you.” She infused calmness into her tone. She spoke softly and quietly. “All I ask is that you listen.”
“Two things, huh?”
“Two things.”
He rocked back on his heels, and folded thick arms over his chest. She wished he’d touch her, at least hold her hand. His posture locked her out.
“First.” She looked him in the eye. “Have you considered a cash crop?”
His brows immediately drew together in confusion. “I’m not taking up farming. I won’t grow wheat. Do you realize how short the growing season is in this high mountain valley?”
“I’m not asking you to grow wheat.” She rested both hands on his folded arms. “Have you considered raising beef?”
“This is a horse ranch.”
“And you have ample room for a few cattle.” She couldn’t contain the excitement that had been building all afternoon. “When the train arrived in Leadville, I noticed the prominence of mines, hard-working men coming and going. I saw restaurant signs announcing beefsteak suppers at steep prices.”
“Beef is expensive.”
“Precisely.”
His eyes sparked. Finally! This idea could get them somewhere.
“My father bought sides of beef, and sold cuts to customers.”
He shrugged, as if the two didn’t connect.
She squeezed his arms, tightened her grip, and drew closer. “A calf grows to maturity in a single year. You could start with a few cows, one bull, and have beef to sell on the hoof in under two years, one year, if you sell calves for others to raise. With careful management, your cash crop would double then triple. Ever so much faster than raising a colt and all that entails.”
“I’m a horseman, Pleasance, not a cattleman.”
“Can’t we be both?”
“Every dollar I spend raising cows is a dollar I can’t invest in priorities.”
“You invested a significant amount of money on my train fare.”
He relaxed beneath her touch. “You are a priority.”
That softened her heart. “I’m not saying cattle are the long-term answer. Just a few years. You can always sell off the herd once the money’s in place.”
His expression had morphed from distrust to comprehension to excitement, and she could see she’d already won him over. A grin blossomed on his supple lips, unfurling and growing.
There would never be a better time to tell him the whole truth. Right now, he was pleased with her—liked her, even.
And she’d glimpsed love in his expression when he’d asked her to walk with him. He’d remembered loving her, believed she loved him still…and sooner or later, she’d convince him she belonged at his side. Forever.
She pushed up on her toes and took his face between her palms.
He unfolded his arms and settled his big hands at her waist. So much like old times, tears burned behind her eyes.
“Beef for cash was number one. Now on to subject number two.”
“I’m listening.”
“When I heard you contracted with a mail-order bride agency, I panicked. I guess I thought after just one more season, I could come home and make peace with you. I couldn’t bear the thought of you marrying someone else.”
His grip tightened on her waist. His nostrils flared, and his expression closed down hard. Shutters slammed into place. He went from familiar and readable to a closed book in the matter of a second.
Why wouldn’t he be flattered?
“I wrote to that same company,” she rushed on, fearing he’d stop listening. “I told them what I wanted, describing you. I wanted you to choose me as your bride.”
She pushed up higher on her toes, pulled his head down and kissed the corner of his mouth.
He stiffened, reached for her wrists, as if to pull her away.
She locked her hands and held on. “Jacob. Look at me.”
He halted, his hands manacled about her wrists. “I had my chance to sing. It was both wonderful and terrible—because I didn’t have you. You are permanent, forever, my entire life. You’re the one I’ve always wanted to grow old with. I want to be your wife, raise a family with you, bear your name and your children and weather droughts and spring flooding, good times and bad. I want everything we dreamed about when we were too young to know better.”
He caressed her wrists, her arms, sliding his callused palms over her bare forearms and to her sleeves, then shoulders and back. He held her with the kind of reverence she’d spent years grieving.
“Everything you wrote—” He swallowed hard.
“Absolute truth.” She vowed, again. “I couldn’t have you falling in love with someone else, now could I?”
“You went to a lot of work to get my attention, Ann. Why not just come home?”
That question struck the deepest. The answer would hand him the power to mortally wound her. But he deserved to know. “I was so scared you wouldn’t have me.”
His eyes filled but not one tear fell. “Never.” He kissed her, swift and firm. “I love you, Pleasance Benton. No matter if you call yourself Ann Robbins or anything else, I’ll always love you.”
She sobbed—an unladylike, heart-tearing sound of relief. She clutched him tight, so grateful his arms were about her, so relieved to have the truth spoken.
“You ready to throw your lot in with me?” He winked, but he wasn’t teasing.
“Oh, yes. Yes!”
Chapter Eleven
Late the following day, Jacob worked inside the new stables, sweeping up sawdust. At last, the outbuilding was finished, and ready for occupants. Gave him quite a sense of accomplishment, even if those new horses wouldn’t be arriving for a good long while. Maybe a couple years. After he did something he’d sworn he’d never do—raise and sell beef on th
e hoof.
Pleasance had brought up the same idea he’d toyed with the past couple of years, the whole while he’d stupidly sought funds from bankers.
City girl or not, Pleasance had independently considered the same solution.
Next time he saw her, he might have to admit she was right. Or kiss her. Or both.
A few cows on his horse ranch, a season or two or three, and he’d be done with bovines. His debts would be paid.
Last night’s kisses, finally admitting he loved her still, had been beautiful. Something he’d dreamed of, but thought he couldn’t make happen. His boots hadn’t touched ground all day.
As if merely thinking of Pleasance would bring her to him, she appeared in the doorway, as full of vinegar as he’d ever seen her. She carried something beneath her arm, but with strong evening sunlight behind her, he couldn’t tell what.
“Jacob Gideon? Are you in here?” The gal’s tone warned him she was good and riled.
What had Fran told her now? He eased the broom handle against the wall. No sense spooking her.
Behind him, sounds of another broom sweeping kept up. Apparently Tuck didn’t think Pleasance’s visit adequate reason to stop working.
His bedroll quilt—that’s what she’d carried all the way from the house. What was she doing with that?
As if it turned into a rattlesnake and bit her, she flung the quilt at him. But a quilt, even rolled up like that, made a poor projectile. It fell short of the target on his chest, bounced upon the plank floorboards a good six feet from his boots, and rolled closer.
“Pleasance?” He showed her both open palms, nice and easy, approached two quiet steps. The woman was as unpredictable as a green filly. “What’s got you upset, sweetheart?”
“Where did you get that?”
He risked a glance at the bedroll, just in case he’d mistaken it in the dimming light. “My bedroll? I’ve had it forever. Took it on every roundup from the time I hired on.”
He knew where she’d found it. In the bedding chest, upstairs. She must have sought another quilt for her bed. Summer nights at this altitude could be unpleasantly cool.
“Where did you get it?”
“Grandma Mary gave it to me.” He remembered that day like yesterday. That quilt had held him together that first year or two after she’d gone abroad.
“I can see that.”
“What cowboy needs a quilt?”
His city girl didn’t know much about things. “Cowboys call ‘em sugans, sweetheart. Most cowhands patch theirs out of anything they have—worn out coats, usable parts of cast-off clothing, pieces of Army blankets.” He’d taken more than a razzing for showing up with a bed-quilt, but it’d been worth every teasing jibe to have this bit of Pleasance with him.
“That sugan kept me warm on every roundup, every drive, every assignment away from the bunkhouse.”
Most of the fury had melted from her spine. “Grandma made that quilt top for me.”
Aw, shoot. “Don’t cry, sweetheart.” He took a risk and gathered her close, snuggled her tight under his chin and held on.
“She pieced those blocks while she visited us that one time, and I didn’t like it. I thought the colors too plain, the design far too simple. I hurt her feelings, so she gave my quilt to you.”
He stroked her back, loving her warmth and her honesty. He really ought to tell her—
“She told me,” Pleasance said, muffled against his shirt, “that Flying Geese pattern was to be my wedding quilt.”
Now Granny’s words made even more sense. “I think she hinted at it, when she gave me that sugan.”
She clung to him.
Holding her felt so right. He stroked her hair, satin-smooth and warm. “If you want that quilt your granny made, it’s yours.”
She pushed out of his arms, looked him in the eye. “Don’t you understand?”
Nuh-uh. He did not understand. At all.
“I rejected my grandma’s choice of quilt pattern and fabrics for me.” Her expression screwed up tight, trying not to bawl, and he loved her even more. “She had reason after reason why she’d selected it, and I…and I….”
With both thumbs, he brushed her tears away. “Grandma Mary loved you, Pleasance. I’m sure she understood.”
He’d never seen anyone understand quite so much as Grandma Mary.
Tuck kept sweeping, heading away from them, toward the door at the other end of the stables. That suited Jake fine.
“I was ungrateful,” she managed between short, agitated breaths. “My wedding quilt ended up on cattle drives and roundups and too small for a bed. We can’t both sleep under my wedding quilt!”
Some men might’ve known what to say in response to a comment like that, but not Jacob.
Horses, with a language all their own, communicated clear and unmistakable.
Give him a horse, any day, over a woman.
Pleasance hadn’t been gone from the stables even five minutes when Ace, one of the hired men, rode in fast.
Tuck dropped his broom and hurried near.
Ace threw one leg over his horse’s head and dismounted on a run. “We have company.”
Dread settled in Jacob’s gut. He watched Pleasance stride back to the house, her calico dress and apron caught on the breeze, his sugan rolled up beneath her arm. He didn’t like the idea of threats lurking, especially not with Pleasance and Fran here.
Whip and Cactus galloped through the gate. They remained in the saddle, ready for orders.
The threat couldn’t be immediate, or the men would’ve drawn their weapons and explained later.
“Whip and me, we was riding fence along the southern edge, like you said. In them aspens, we found signs of one, maybe two uninvited guests.”
Who would skulk that far from the house? Few locations on the ranch were more isolated. “Speak.”
“Tracks. Cigarette butts. Empty tins and liquor bottles.”
Jacob looked to Tuck—whose expression mirrored his own worry. “Vagabonds?”
“Too much money in their pockets for that.”
Tuck was right. Only men with coin purchased tinned food. Anybody else would snare a rabbit and roast it on a spit. “Miners?” The surrounding mountains crawled with the influx of men seeking their fortunes.
“Don’t think so.” Tuck spat through the open door, into the dust. “Haven’t seen nobody on their way through. They’ve no need to climb our fence to camp on this side of it.”
“Didn’t climb the fence, Boss.” Ace’s pocked face mottled with anger. “Downed a section.”
A creek, soft grass, and a copse of trees—all available outside the fence, on land available for sale. Nah, that made no sense.
If they were still local… “Any sign of the intruders?” He searched Whip’s face, then Ace’s.
“None. The fire was cold, but couldn’t have been more’n a day old, two at most. Muck in the bottom of the tin cans attracted animals.”
Jacob had been so wrapped up, courting his bride-to-be, he’d slacked off on riding fence, keeping an eye on his spread. Something wasn’t right here, and he hated that he’d been caught unaware.
“Listen up. Spread the word. I want four of you—armed, prepared—two work, two stand guard. Get that fence back up.”
“Yessir.” The men knew enough not to leave just yet.
“Tuck,” Jake turned to the foreman, “You round up the others. I want somebody watching the house and the women, no matter the time of day or night.”
Tuck nodded.
The men were all too aware of the return of lawlessness to Leadville. With Marshal Mart Duggan gone and Pat Kelly wearing the badge, their law-abiding town had rapidly disintegrated. No matter how bad they needed it, the Running G wouldn’t find worthwhile help from the local law. The city had more than enough trouble to spare, and nothing but a wink and a whistle from Kelly.
If only Jacob had more men on the payroll, it wouldn’t be so tough to keep an eye on things. “Nobody goes a
nywhere unarmed. Not to the outhouse, not to bed, and not to supper.”
Ace, who usually had a wisecrack for everything, let the opportunity slide. That told Jake plenty.
He nodded at the men in dismissal, and headed straight for the house. He needed the pistols, ammunition, and holsters stowed in his desk drawer.
Most important of all, he’d ensure the women understood the threat.
Three days after the discovery of the cold campfire, Whip returned from Leadville and pulled the wagon around the back of the house to unload groceries.
Jacob saw him coming, and rode in. “Trouble on the road?”
“None.”
Not for the first time, Jake felt a mite foolish. He’d overreacted.
One downed section of fence. One campfire. A couple bottles and cans. He’d seen worse property damage.
“The mail.” Whip pulled a bundle from his coat pocket and handed it over.
Once the supplies were unloaded in the kitchen, Jake untied the bundle of letters and sorted through. Post from the implement, grocer, blacksmith.
Odd. He tore open the first. Notice from the blacksmith. He’d closed the Running G’s tab.
Jake swore, sharp and severe. He’d paid the bill, every blasted month, in cash. Why in Sam Hill would the smithy turn away a paying customer?
Two more envelopes ripped open. Two more notices.
“Whip!” The man had stopped the wagon near the bunkhouse, yet hadn’t seemed to hear, so Jake whistled, waved the man in.
Whip came running.
“The grocer refuse to put today’s purchases on tab?”
“No, Boss. It’s first of the month. I paid up the tab, like you told me. I paid for the supplies in cash too.”
Jake balled up the offensive letter and threw it into the kitchen. How had he forgotten July first had passed?
One notice, he might be able to shrug off. But three?
He knew precisely what had happened—and the instigator’s name was Lycurgus Sandusky, President, Bank of Leadville. That man and the devil were on a first-name basis.
Lycurgus hadn’t liked Jake closing his account, leaving the sanctimonious door of his palatial office open when he’d walked out.