by Jane Porter
“I don’t fancy men. I like bedding women. I’d bed your daughter. But I’d never offer for her.” He met the Texan’s narrowed gaze and held it. “Not trying to be disrespectful, just clear about my position. I came to Montana to get away from family. The last thing I want to do is start one.”
“What was wrong with your family? Abusive pa? Unfeeling ma?”
Thomas pictured his village and the small stone house that had been home. And then he pictured the undertaker coming again, and again, and again. How many people could you bury before you had enough of the living? “That’s personal.”
The Texan ran an unsteady hand over his moustache. “I need to ask you a favor.”
“As long as you’re not asking me to marry your daughter.”
“She’d be a good wife.”
“If you like hellcats.”
Archibald laughed hoarsely, and then the laugh turned to a cough and he coughed until tears streamed from his eyes. The door opened and Ellie was there, running to her father’s side, trying to adjust his position while shooting Thomas a furious look.
She blamed him, which was fine. He didn’t need or want her to like him. It was better if she didn’t, and safer if she kept her distance.
She wasn’t safe with him. He’d wanted her from the first moment he saw her, back in early November, the day Montana became a state. He’d been on the fire wagon with the other volunteer firemen as it paraded down Main Street during the statehood celebrations. She was on the street, near the Bank of Marietta, watching the parade with a friend. The friend was blonde and curvy and pretty, but he’d only had eyes for the tall, slender redhead.
He’d watched her intently, liking everything about her, from the tilt of her lips, to the angle of her jaw, to the way she’d watched the parade as though she could do better, and had seen better. From the expensive cut of her coat and hat, he was certain she had seen better. He was certain, too, from the haughty lift of her chin, and the slightly bored expression in her light eyes, that she believed she deserved better, at least better than Marietta, not that Marietta was anything to sneer at, not compared to the places he’d been and things he’d seen.
He didn’t know her story, but it wasn’t hard to imagine. She came from money, and she carried herself like a princess, and she was waiting for her prince, only he hadn’t shown up yet.
Her prince would be tall and fair and have exquisite manners. He’d place her on a pedestal and treat her like a lady, and would eventually bore her to tears but, by then, she’d be Mrs. Charming and fat with his brats and the haughty tilt of her chin would turn to grim resignation and anger because she wanted more out of life and she’d gotten less.
Women like her didn’t understand that if they wanted less, they’d end up with more. Maybe one only understood such a thing if they’d grown up hungry and poor.
Ellie glared at him now over her father’s head. “I think you should go,” she said, a hand on her father’s back.
Still coughing, Archibald shook his head. “We haven’t had our tea.”
“He can have tea at home, Papa.”
“No. He is having tea with me.” Archibald struggled to get the words out. “So bring the tea and biscuits, Ellie. Stop the chatter and dillydallying.”
“I’m not chattering or dillydallying, Papa.”
“But you are arguing.” He sputtered, between shallow breaths of air. “And arguing is a form of dallying.”
“Of course, Papa. What am I thinking?” She shot Thomas another livid look before marching out, slamming the door behind her.
Archibald winced at the slam and then tugged on his goatee. “She takes after her mother.”
“In looks or temperament?”
“Looks.” The Texan’s forehead furrowed. “She has my temperament.”
“Is that why she is not yet betrothed?”
“She’s had offers, including proposals from Denver and Butte, but she hasn’t accepted any. She’s particular.”
“You mean, she likes to be in control.”
“She’s accustomed to having her way.”
Thomas said nothing. There was no point. Ellie was not his concern. He was not getting involved.
“But you see my problem, don’t you?” Archibald persisted.
“Yes, she’s a problem.”
For a moment the old Texan didn’t seem to know how to respond, and then he smiled crookedly. “You would have been a good match for her—”
“No. Not so. I wouldn’t put up with the attitude.”
“She said you were rude to her today, on the road.”
“She could have been killed. There was no need to push her horse. She could ease up with her whip.”
“She loves that horse.”
“Then she ought to slow down and put away the whip.”
“She doesn’t actually strike Oisin.”
“No, she cracks it above his ears, which is absurd when you have a young stallion. He already enjoys running. No need to frighten him.”
“You know your horses?”
“I’ve been around them my whole life.”
“Hmmm.” Archibald studied him for a long moment. “You’re an interesting fellow.”
“Not that interesting.”
“But practical. Maybe that’s why I like you. I’m practical, too. Which is why I can’t leave her out here, not after I’m gone.”
Thomas bit his tongue to keep from saying anything else.
“She’s young and wealthy. Very wealthy.”
“I intend to earn my money, not marry it.”
“There’s no reason you can’t do both.”
Thomas said nothing. There was no point in responding. He’d only be wasting his breath.
Archibald shifted, wincing as he adjusted his position. “I need a favor.”
“If it’s related to the ranch, yes. If it’s with regards to Miss Burnett, no.”
“I need to show her something, but I can’t drive her there myself. I can’t travel anymore, not even into town. I want you to take her for me.”
“I am sure there is someone better to accompany her.”
“No one I can trust.”
“You shouldn’t trust me.”
“You don’t want her—”
“Let’s be clear, Mr. Burnett. I want her, but I’m not going to make a play for her.”
“That alone makes you trustworthy.”
“Interesting logic.”
Archibald smiled grimly. “Marrying her, you’d become one of the wealthiest men in Crawford and Park counties. By refusing to marry her, I know you’re not driven by the dollar.”
“I keep repeating myself but, if I get rich, I want to make it on my own.”
“A principled man.”
“No sir. I just don’t like being beholden.”
“Even better. We’ll make it a business deal. Show her the house I’ve built for her on Bramble, this coming Sunday after church, and I’ll add a dozen head to your herd. Your choice, cattle or sheep.”
“That’s overly generous. I’m not comfortable with the arrangement.”
“And I’m not comfortable period. I’m dying. I want her settled by Easter—”
“That’s just two weeks away.”
“Exactly. I’ll be lucky to last that long.”
Ellie poured the tea for her father and Mr. Sheenan and then left the parlor, unable to remain when her stomach was filled with knots.
She’d heard what her father said to the Irishman. She’d heard him clearly. Papa wanted her settled by Easter, because he doubted he’d live much longer. Easter was April sixth. Just a little over two weeks away.
A little over two weeks before she lost the only person she’d ever loved. It was inconceivable. Impossible to wrap her head around such a reality. She couldn’t imagine her life without him. She’d be absolutely alone.
In the kitchen, Ellie reached for her old coat on the hook near the back door. Thrusting her arms into the sleeves, she fastened
the thick buttons and went outside to get air. It was nearing dusk and just the top of Emigrant Peak glowed gold, catching the last of the day’s rays of light, while the rest of the mountain range, like the valley, was already swathed in lavender shadows.
Outside, she walked in painful circles, from the house to the stables, and then around the barn, and back. Her ankle throbbed and her teeth chattered as she walked, but it was hard to get warm when she was so icy on the inside, chilled by her father’s words. Fate wasn’t fair. Or kind.
She was making another unhappy loop when she spotted the Irishman approaching the barn. His wagon was ready, the sheep already loaded and bleating plaintively in the back.
She lifted her chin and dropped her arms as he neared. “I hope you haven’t worn him out.”
He didn’t immediately answer, his gaze shifting to the wagon and the milling sheep. She could have sworn he was counting them. Did he really think her father would swindle him? How offensive! He knew nothing about the Burnetts then, or honor. “They are all there, and healthy, too,” she said curtly, not bothering to hide her irritation.
Thomas looked at her, expression blank. “He’s beginning to fail.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Is there nothing that can be done?”
“No. Well, maybe, if we had gone to New York, maybe Dr. Coley might have been able to do something, but Papa wouldn’t consider it. He said the trip was too far, and he didn’t feel like being a pincushion.”
“Who is this Dr. Coley?”
“He specializes in bone and soft tissue cancer. He’s very experimental, not everyone approves of his methods, but he might have given my father a chance... as well as given me more time with him.”
Thomas looked doubtful. “Or not. These new doctors kill more patients than they save.”
“But he’s going to die anyway, and if one of these new treatments might have worked... then how could we not try?” She sighed. “If it were up to me, we would have been in New York a year ago.”
“He’s asked me to show you something in town on Sunday, after church.”
“You don’t attend church.”
“I don’t attend St. James.”
And then she understood. Of course. He was Catholic.
She gave him a hard look. “I don’t need anyone to show me anything, here or in town, and, if I needed an escort, it wouldn’t be you.”
“This isn’t my idea, nor is it something I’m eager to do.”
“So why do it?”
“He’s compensating me well. Why else?”
“Of course.” At least he was honest.
Her gaze held his. His eyes were nearly black in the lavender twilight. Today was the first time since she’d seen him since December, the night of the Frasier mine explosion and fire when he’d registered in a flash of quick sharp impressions—tall, thick hair, snapping black eyes in a hard masculine face—but her impressions hadn’t been wrong.
He was dark and intense, hard and fierce, and nothing like her fair, blue-eyed fiancé, Sinclair Douglas.
Sinclair had left her in the middle of their engagement party to rush to the Frasier mine, even though he no longer worked for the Frasiers. She’d been hurt and furious and horrified, and she’d followed Sinclair out of the hotel and had begged him not to go, but Sinclair turned away even as she pleaded with him, and that was when she’d locked glances with the firefighter.
He’d heard her begging Sinclair. The firefighter had heard, she could tell, and he pitied her.
There was no reason for him to pity her.
Her chin had gone up and she’d thrown him a look of disdain because what else was she going to do? Cave? Cry? Break?
Never.
It had been a terrible night, and a horrific next day, and once everyone knew the engagement was over, a difficult Christmas and New Year. It had been months since the engagement party, and every time Ellie thought people had stopped talking about humiliation, she overheard someone whispering, “You know Ellie Burnett lost her fiancé to that scandalous Frasier heiress...”
She hated the chatter and speculation, but Marietta was a small town, and she supposed there weren’t a lot of things for people to discuss besides the weather—cold, cold, and more cold—so whenever someone did say something to her, or about her, she lifted her chin, and smiled, a cool, proud, brazen smile because, after all, there were worse things than gossip, and worse things in a failed engagement. Worse things than shame.
There was death and loss. Grief.
Ellie was five when her mother died and she didn’t remember her mother, but she remembered the grief. She remembered the longing, and the missing, and how the missing filled her, aching within her, a void that couldn’t be answered.
A void that wouldn’t be soothed.
The grief had been a constant growing up, and even though it had been years since she ached, it was still there, a quiet companion. A shadow. She found that she pushed herself just because she had to push to actually feel something. Emotions didn’t come easily to her, and she wasn’t sure if that was because she took after her Texan father, or if because grieving had hardened her, but it probably wasn’t important. The only thing important now, was saving the Burnett Ranch.
“Do you know what my father wants you to show me?” she asked after a long minute had passed.
“I do.”
She hesitated, choosing her words with care. “Does this have to do with property on Bramble?”
Thomas’s dark head turned, his intense gaze narrowed on her face. “You know.”
“I know he’s determined to see me settled. But I’m not interested—”
“How can you say that if you haven’t seen it?”
“I’d hate life in Marietta.”
“You wouldn’t be lonely.”
“I wouldn’t have freedom.”
He sighed and shook his head, expression grim. “I’ll pick you up Sunday in front of the church, after the eleven a.m. service.”
“What about the Irishman?” her father asked the next evening, breaking the silence.
Ellie’s brow lifted. She looked up from her needlework. “What about him?” she asked, determined not to be short tempered even though sewing was one of her least favorite things to do. She wouldn’t sew for anyone, and had adamantly refused from mending and doing even decorative needlework, but his favorite nightshirt had lost the second button and she couldn’t wait for Mrs. Baxter to fix it. Time was in short supply for everything these days.
“Why isn’t he a candidate?” her father asked mildly.
“Stop making it sound like an election. I’m not running for office, nor is he. I just want someone healthy and strong enough to do the work, and smart enough to know who is the boss.” She gave him a level look. “And I think we both know Mr. Sheenan would not allow that.”
“Have you asked him?”
She snorted. “He’s already accused me of ‘wearing the trousers.’ I certainly have no desire to provide him additional ammunition.”
“You don’t think he could be a good husband?”
“No.” She checked the button and it seemed secure so she tied a knot and bit off the thread. “How can you like him, Papa?”
“He’s smart, strong, young, ambitious, and honest.”
“You failed to mention haughty, big-headed, egotistical—”
“I’ve been called all of those things, nearly all my life.”
“Hmph.” She rose and gave the shirt a shake. “I’ll put this back in your wardrobe. It’s ready to wear. And then I think I’ll go to bed.”
Archibald’s brow arched. “You’re giving up? Just like that?”
“I’m not giving up. I just don’t feel like arguing with you.”
But in her room, she couldn’t climb into bed but her ankle was still too sore for her to pace. She wrapped a heavy wool shawl around her shoulders and took a seat on the cedar chest in front of her window and stared out at the moonlit landscape. It was a clo
udless night and the stars were bright overhead, painting the barn and pastures a ghostly white below.
She’d arrived here with her mother as a toddler, having left Texas without any memories of the place. This ranch was all she’d ever known. And she understood she couldn’t stop her father’s cancer, but there was no reason she had to lose her only home, too.
Her father was leaving her plenty of money. She’d have more than she could ever spend, and the kind of security that meant she could do whatever she wanted... travel, build a fine house on the ranch, buy a second house somewhere else. But she didn’t want a second house and she’d never felt any interest in traveling, at least not very far. She enjoyed visiting Butte and traveling to Bozeman, but her favorite escape was camping in Yellowstone, when her father would pitch a tent in a sagebrush meadow on the historic Bannock Trail. The meadow was filled with quaking aspen and Douglas firs and a gurgling stream on its way to meet the Yellowstone River. They’d encountered all kinds of wildlife there—deer, bison, wolves, bears—but she’d never been afraid because her father wasn’t afraid, and she didn’t know if that was because he was an expert marksman, or if because like her, he relished adventure.
Ellie tipped her head against the glass, and squeezed her eyes closed. Dear God, please take care of my father. Make sure he knows he was loved.
Chapter Three
Three days later, on Sunday morning, Ellie sat in the fifth row on the right side of St. James, the row she and her father always sat in, struggling to concentrate on the sermon when two of her current suitors sat in her line of sight. Mr. George Baker and Mr. Leeland Fridley.
Mr. Baker was a banker, not a baker. Short, bald, and a little soft around the middle, he was close to her age, maybe twenty-four, with the most unpleasant tendency to perspire heavily whenever near her. He didn’t do it from a distance, just when speaking to her, and her father could blame Mr. Baker’s nerves, but the last time Mr. Baker took her for a drive, she couldn’t focus on anything but the beads of sweat rolling down his face. Damp palms were one thing, but a dripping brow was another.
Like Mr. Baker, Mr. Fridley had been raised somewhere on the East Coast. He’d arrived in Marietta with the first train and dealt in real estate. If you didn’t know him personally, you might first think Leeland Fridley handsome, but on acquaintance he quickly became tiresome, overly preoccupied as he was with appearances, money, and public opinion.