by Jane Porter
Mr. Sheenan was not a gentleman. He should have aided her, not simply stood back and watched. Sinclair would have helped her—
She broke off, jaw grinding tight, the ache in her ankle increasing by the second.
She couldn’t focus on the pain, though, and she didn’t want to think about Sinclair Douglas, either, or the fact that she had to have had the shortest engagement in Marietta’s history.
Taking the driving bridle lines in hand, she drew Oisin parallel to the buggy and used the buggy’s high step to seat herself. Oisin didn’t even twitch a muscle or flick his tail as she adjusted her swollen ankle and then settled her gown’s full skirts, giving them an elegant shake.
It was then, and only then, that she looked over at Mr. Sheenan. The late afternoon sun’s bright rays gilded him with light, preventing her from seeing his expression, but she certainly hoped he could see hers because she felt beyond insulted. She was livid. “As I said, there was no need to trouble yourself, Mr. Sheenan. And, for your information, trousers do not make a man. Next time you meet a lady in distress, try some chivalry. Goodbye.”
And then with a flick of the lines, Oisin was off, delighted to be free of the buggy. She let him run, too, even though the canter bounced her ankle, but she was anxious to put distance between her and the arrogant Irishman and she’d suffer a little pain if it meant she could leave him in the dust.
The wind tugged at her hat, loosening the ribbons to the point that she shoved it back, letting it fall behind her head. Her long hair pulled free of the pins and by the time she reached the wood and iron gate marking the entrance to the Burnett Ranch she knew she looked completely disheveled but she also felt completely, gloriously free.
Once inside the impressive gate, she slowed to a walk, letting Oisin cool down. “Well done, my love,” she said, smiling and patting his warm damp neck. “We made record time today, even without a saddle.”
As the sturdy two-story split-log house with the square dormer windows came into view, Ellie did her best to tidy her hair, braiding the thick red mass before coiling it and pinning it beneath her bonnet. She’d enjoyed her wild ride, but her father wouldn’t be pleased if she returned from Marietta looking like a banshee. She knew of banshees of course because her mother’s family, the Henleys, had been Irish, having sailed from Galway seventy-five years ago to settle in Boston.
Her father’s family were English, but he’d raised Ellie on the Gaelic fairy tales and myths her mother used to tell her, which was why Ellie had named her stallion Oisin. Oisin being the son of the great warrior Fionn MacCool and the goddess Sive.
Ellie embraced all things Irish, with the exception of Mr. Sheenan. He was the one Irishman she disliked intensely.
Home, she was greeted by a stable hand who promptly took the reins from her, and then helped her down. She shared what had happened to the buggy, expressing her surprise and concern that a new buggy should suffer axle failure so soon after its purchase, especially as it was supposed to be brand new. The stable hand promised to take it up with Mr. Harrison, the ranch manager, and she gave directions on where the broken buggy could be found.
Ellie then struggled not to limp her way into the house, anxious to check on her father. She discovered him in the parlor in his favorite chair, his legs up on an ottoman, a blanket over his lap. She didn’t know how it was possible, but he looked even frailer than he had this morning when she’d set off for Marietta.
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him about her adventures—or misadventures, including her concern that an expensive new buggy had such a serious defect—when something in his expression made her hold the words back.
She moved to his side, taking small steps to hide her throbbing ankle. “Are you hurting terribly, Papa?” she asked, gently laying a hand to his brow and then his cheek.
“No more than usual,” he said gruffly, but the tiny white lines at his mouth and the deeper creases at his eyes gave him away.
“I don’t believe you,” she answered, lightly smoothing his bushy white and silver goatee, the perfect partner for his white handlebar moustache. He had a grand moustache. He’d always been quite proud of it, keeping the points meticulously shaped and waxed. “Should I send for the doctor?”
“Why? What will he do? There’s nothing anyone can do.”
“We can still go to New York. There’s that Dr. Coley in Manhattan—”
“There is nothing for him to amputate. Not unless you’re ready to be rid of me.”
The very idea made her chest ache. “Never!” She reached out to cover his hands with hers, his skin cool and thin beneath hers. “But he’s doing some experimental treatments—”
“I wouldn’t survive the trip east, Ellie. Turns out I can barely manage a walk around the barn.”
Understanding dawned. “Is that what you did today? Is that why you’re so tired?”
“I needed to let Harrison know to drive some of the sheep from the upper pasture.”
“You couldn’t send Mrs. Baxter?”
“She left early. One of the girls took sick.”
“Papa, what was so important that you couldn’t wait for me to come home?”
“I’ve got a young fellow who works for Avon Gilmore coming to pick up a dozen sheep. I wanted our Harrison to move them from the back pasture toward the house to make it easier.”
“This young fellow is coming today?”
“Should be here anytime now.”
Ellie suddenly had a sneaking suspicion she knew who the farmer might be, and she shuddered as she pictured massive shoulders, black hair, and a pair of unsmiling dark eyes. “Tell me he’s not Irish.”
“Thomas Sheenan is Irish.” Archibald’s eyes narrowed. “Why? What’s wrong with him?”
She wasn’t even sure how to explain what had happened on the road from Marietta. “I passed him earlier.”
“And?”
“I don’t like him.”
“Why not? What did he do? Run you off the road?”
Her face warmed. “No. I had an accident. The buggy’s axle broke, and I don’t understand how as it’s supposed to be new, but when it cracked the wheel came off and I went sailing into a rut next to the road.” She drew a short, livid breath. “He witnessed the entire thing, and he stopped, but he wasn’t interested in helping. He was quite rude, actually.”
Her father frowned. “What did he do?”
“Nothing. That’s just my point. He stopped, but once he saw I hadn’t killed myself, instead of assisting me to my feet, he lectured me on my poor driving skills.” She felt her pulse quicken. She told herself it was because he’d been critical and overbearing and nothing to do with the fact that he was the handsome fireman she’d seen last December. She’d had dreams about the fireman, but her dreams were far nicer than the reality. “He knew I was your daughter, too, which makes it all the more aggravating.”
“I don’t know why you care what he thinks.” Archibald tipped his head back and closed his eyes, and drew a slow shallow breath. The air rattled in his lungs, making a faint wheezy sound. “You don’t have to socialize with him.”
“I know, but who leaves a lady lying in the dirt—”
“Did he not offer to help in any way?”
“Oh, he halfheartedly took my elbow at one point, but it was only after I’d given him a setdown.”
“I’m sure it was quite a setdown, too.”
“But it made no impression on him, Papa. He’s altogether too rude and too arrogant.”
“I hope his high-handed manners will not offend the sheep.”
She straightened, arms crossing over her chest. “I’m serious.”
“So am I. You’re not a sheep. You don’t have to like him.” He opened his eyes, his gaze meeting hers. “Unless you’d hoped to make a suitor out of him?”
Heat washed through her and she felt her cheeks flame. “Heavens, no! As you said, I’m not a sheep.”
“Speaking of livestock, I’ve had two recent offer
s for the ranch. One is quite fair—”
“No, Papa. We already discussed this. We’re not selling, and I wish you hadn’t put the word out that you were considering returning to Texas. It doesn’t aid my case.”
“It’s better than letting them know I’m dying.”
“Yes, but we want a suitor that would like to work the ranch with me, not someone to replace us here.”
“But if you can’t find a suitor soon, you won’t be living here, not after I’m gone.”
“I had a suitor.”
“Douglas didn’t work out and that ended months ago. Perhaps you need to stop being so particular and accept one.”
Her lips compressed as she bit back her frustration. Her father had been quite progressive until recently. “Old age is making you old-fashioned,” she said, limping to the hearth to add a log to the fire, before taking an iron to poke at the embers, creating a shower of sparks. “I don’t know why you think I couldn’t manage here alone.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“You’re walking oddly.”
“It’s nothing. It’ll go away.”
“Did that happen in the fall?”
“It wasn’t a fall. I was thrown.” She gave the embers another fierce jab, her frustration getting the better of her. “Quite spectacularly.”
“Then it’s a good thing you weren’t seriously injured. Have you sent someone to retrieve the buggy?”
“I have. But they may not be able to do anything until tomorrow.”
“I’d like to see the axle. It’s supposed to be new.”
“I thought the same thing. And, Papa, I can manage here. You know I can—”
“Not alone. Not after I’m gone. You don’t know men.”
She shot him a sharp glance. “I know you, and if I could manage you—”
“This is different. I’m your father, not a... not a—”
“What?”
“Randy stallion.”
“Papa!”
“But it’s true. You’re too young, and far too pretty. Your mama was far too pretty, too, and it’s a danger. Living here, alone, you’d be a target for every unscrupulous man, and I have not spent my life protecting you, only to leave you vulnerable now.”
“Then don’t die. It’s most inconvenient.”
He smiled crookedly and watched as she returned the poker iron to the fire tools. “You look just like her. Same glorious hair. Same sea green eyes.”
“But I’m not as sweet, I know.” She crossed to his side, kissed the top of his head. “You must feel absolutely miserable if you’re being sentimental. Why won’t you take some laudanum?”
“Won’t touch the stuff. Need to keep my wits about me.”
“For what, Papa? An Irishman who is coming to collect some sheep?”
“Pretty soon I won’t feel pain. At least this way I know I’m still alive.”
Ellie struggled to breathe around the lump filling her throat. “You’re making me sad.”
“That’s why we need to get you settled. We’re running out of time.”
She couldn’t answer, not when fear filled her throat and made her chest ache. He was so much weaker today than yesterday, and yesterday he’d been exhausted and frail. She couldn’t imagine a week from now. And a month?
She blinked hard, trying to clear the sting from her eyes. “Can I get you something? Have you had—” She broke off, listening to the voices outside.
They both listened. Ellie’s stomach rose and fell. “I think he’s here,” she said.
Archibald struggled to fold his blanket. “Well, go on up.”
“Up?” she repeated, taking the blanket from him and swiftly folding it into neat squares.
“Yes, up. Upstairs. That way you won’t have to deal with him again.”
“And how do you intend to manage? You can’t even get out of your chair, Papa.”
“Someone will send him through eventually.”
He was a dreadful, stubborn old man and she loved him more than life itself. “I’ll act as your hostess.”
“But don’t you want to go hide?”
“And when have I ever hid from anyone, or anything?” She gave him a reproving look. “Because I haven’t, and I’m not about to start now.”
A hard knock sounded on the front door. Ellie smoothed the front of her skirt. “I shall let the pig farmer in.”
“He’s not a pig farmer.”
“Apologies, mutton.” She swept away with as much dignity as she could muster, considering her tender ankle, and headed for the front door.
Chapter Two
The door opened and she was there, in her green dress with the mud splatters, her thick red hair half braided, the rest spilling over her shoulders and down her back. She looked up at him, delicate winged brows arching in disdain. She wasn’t surprised to see him, which meant her father had prepared her.
“Mr. Sheenan,” she said coolly.
“Miss Burnett,” he replied, inclining his head.
He noticed she didn’t invite him in. He suspected if she had her way she’d leave him on the doorstep forever.
“You arrived home in one piece,” he said.
Her chin went up, eyes flashing fire. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“I was prepared for the worst.”
“How disappointing for you then.”
If he were a man that smiled, he might have smiled then. “Your man said your father is inside. Does he wish to speak to me, or is he good with me collecting the livestock and returning home?”
“He’s in the parlor,” she said, not bothering to open the door wider, or step back to allow him to pass.
She was being deliberately difficult, wasting his time, trying to make him feel small. Perhaps he should be offended. Perhaps he should feel insulted and small.
He didn’t.
While it was true the days were still short, and night came quickly, Ellie Burnett heated his blood, making him hard and carnal. “I don’t know where the parlor is.”
She gave him a look he couldn’t decipher. “You do not have parlors in Ireland?”
“We did not,” he answered, his gaze traveling slowly, lazily over her flawless face, as if she was his to study and explore.
He knew she didn’t like it, and yet it was a pleasure looking at her. Ivory skin, green eyes, lush, dark pink mouth. He’d like that mouth on him. If she weren’t Archibald Burnett’s virgin daughter he’d have her on her knees. Or on her back, skirts up, thighs parted.
He grew hotter, harder, making him wish he could adjust himself since his trousers had become unbearably tight in all the wrong places.
Maybe it was time to visit the brothel above Grey’s Saloon or, better yet, find a widow who’d enjoy physical pursuits without ties. Thomas didn’t want a relationship, and he certainly wasn’t interested in virgins, marriage, or children. But he did enjoy bedding a beautiful, spirited woman, and Ellie with her thick, gleaming hair and oval face, was both beautiful and fierce.
“Then, please, let me help you,” she said coolly, mockingly. “I’d hate for you to feel overwhelmed by a big house.”
She turned around, skirts swishing. He followed her, liking the back view nearly as much as the front. If he was a gentleman, he wouldn’t look.
He wasn’t a gentleman.
Thank God.
“My father is under the weather today,” she said, hesitating outside a closed door. “I ask that you be mindful of his health.”
When he didn’t answer, she added, “He’s not contagious, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m simply trying to be sure that he isn’t overtired.”
She didn’t know that he knew. Her father had confided in him a week ago when Thomas made the final payment for the livestock. Burnett hadn’t asked Thomas to keep the information private, but he had. It wasn’t his secret to share, and the news would influence the suitors lining up for Miss Burnett’s hand. He didn’t want to marry her but, at the same
time, there was no point making it harder for her to find a decent match. “I won’t be long.”
She gave him a speculative glance before her gleaming red head inclined. “Thank you.” And then with her chin up and shoulders squared, she opened the door for him. “Mr. Sheenan is here, Papa.”
Thomas moved past her, crossing the room to shake Archibald’s hand. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“Coffee, or tea, Thomas?” the old man asked, voice raspy.
“Only if you want something. I don’t intend to stay more than a few minutes.”
Burnett turned to his daughter. “Tea, Ellie, please. And scones or biscuits if Mrs. Baxter made any fresh today.”
Ellie shot Thomas a sharp look before walking out, leaving the door open.
Archibald gestured with a trembling hand to the door. “Close it. She doesn’t need to know everything I say or do.”
Thomas obliged, shutting the door gently. He returned to the hearth. “She’s protective of you.”
“I’ve given her a great deal of freedom.” Archibald’s forehead creased, his thick salt and pepper hair falling forward. He combed it back irritably. “I don’t mind dying. But I do mind leaving her to the wolves.”
“She’ll find it hard in the beginning, but she’s stronger than you think.”
Archibald stared at him hard. “What happened on the road today?”
“She told you.”
“She tells me everything.”
“Then she told you she rode like the devil was chasing her.”
“Ellie enjoys the wind in her hair.”
Thomas grimaced. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“How would you put it?”
“She’s willful. Spoiled.”
“That she is. But she’s also smart, smarter than most men around here, and it’s going to cause problems for her.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“You know why.”
“I’m not the marrying kind.”
“Why not? Do you fancy men?”