by Jane Porter
But somehow her good intentions failed her after the brief funeral. Once her father was buried next to her mother and the baby girl that had died with her mother, Ellie shattered.
She’d thought she’d been prepared for the loss, but once the casket was lowered, and then the earth began falling on the casket, she sort of lost her mind. She screamed and tried to stop them from shoveling the dirt in. She’d thrown herself at Mr. Harrison as he was the one holding the shovel, and she wouldn’t be calmed, forcing Mr. Sheenan to pick her up and carry her still screaming into the house.
She knew at the time her father wouldn’t approve.
She knew in the coming weeks that he would have wanted her to get up and get dressed and introduce her husband to the ranch.
But something was broken inside of her. She was broken. She couldn’t get dressed. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t function.
The weeks turned to months and while April and May were a blur, she’d begun to be aware of the rhythm of each day.
Or at least, the rhythm of her husband’s day.
She listened now to his heavy thud of boots on the stairs as he headed down. He’d already been in the kitchen. She’d heard his boots earlier and she’d smelled his coffee on the stove, as well as the bacon frying in the pan.
Every morning he ate the same thing, bacon tucked in to thick slabs of soda bread baked in the heavy skillet, washing it down with black coffee.
She knew because she could smell the rasher frying early each morning before Mrs. Baxter arrived, and she’d seen the remnants when he’d been called to an emergency during calving and he’d left his breakfast behind, uneaten.
Sitting up in bed, she heard a door close, banging, and then his footsteps on the porch and then all was silent. He was on his way now to the barn. He’d return midday for dinner, and then again at dusk for supper. Even though she managed to avoid him, she knew his routine.
She knew that each night after Mrs. Baxter left, he heated hot water and bathed in the mudroom attached to the kitchen. She knew because she could hear the clank of the copper tub as he placed it on the floor and then emptied it after. She would see his towel drying in front of the kitchen stove each night when she came down for something to eat after he’d gone to bed. He always used the same towel, washing it himself, and then drying it himself. He washed his own linens and work clothes, too. She knew that because Mrs. Baxter had told her during one of their rare, brief conversations.
Mrs. Baxter had been concerned when Mr. Sheenan insisted on doing his own laundry, but when he’d suggested that he’d like to prepare his own dinner and supper, she’d put her foot down. Her job was to clean and cook, and he could take away one of her responsibilities, but not both.
Ellie left bed and pulled on her wrapper, tying it carelessly at her waist before putting her long, tangled hair into an untidy braid. She ought to shampoo her hair but she was so afraid of all the knots that she put off cleaning it, fearing she’d have to cut her hair now instead of just giving it a good wash.
She’d become unkempt and she knew it, but she found it impossible to care. No one saw her. No one wanted her. She just existed now.
Perhaps today instead of carrying her tea back to her room, she’d go sit in her father’s chair by the fire in the parlor and put his blanket over her lap. When Thomas was out, she liked to pretend her father hadn’t died, that in fact, he was just busy, maybe dressing, or in the barn speaking to ranch foreman, Mr. Harrison, or perhaps he’d traveled to Emigrant to have a drink in the saloon, which would be exciting because then when he returned he’d have news about the neighbors. He’d tell her what was happening in New York, and about the big banks and the stock market.
She loved his news. She loved hearing what he had to say about the weather and the economy and the ranchers that had given up on cattle entirely, selling their land, or defaulting to the banks in Marietta.
Ellie glanced toward the parlor on her way down the stairs. It was dark. No fire burned. Silly Papa. Why had he let the fire burn out?
Ellie would build the fire and then she’d prepare a lunch for her father and Johanna and her to enjoy. Johanna hadn’t come calling in weeks. Maybe she’d appear today and amuse them with stories of demanding ladies needing gowns urgently, despite Marietta being in the middle of nowhere.
Papa always enjoyed Johanna’s visits. He said it was likely she’d end up a spinster, but Johanna didn’t seem to mind being single as she had her own business and it gave her an excellent income. Johanna was lucky to be successful and independent. Truly, she had the best of both worlds.
As Ellie headed for the kitchen, Mrs. Baxter passed, head down, eyes downcast, too. Ellie felt a pang because once upon a time she and Mrs. Baxter had been relatively friendly, but Ellie couldn’t bring herself to speak, not to anyone. Not even to Johanna, which was why imaginary conversations were so much more satisfying. It allowed her to remain in seclusion without feeling overwhelmingly lonely. Johanna would be appalled, though, at Ellie’s fantasy life. But Johanna didn’t know, and even though her friend had stopped by numerous times right after her father’s funeral, even dragging a chair into the hall and waiting for Ellie there, but despite a ten-hour vigil, Ellie wouldn’t unlock the door, or see her, or speak, and Johanna finally left, and hadn’t returned since.
Ellie was thinking about Johanna’s last visit when she entered the kitchen and it took her a second to realize she wasn’t alone. The kitchen wasn’t empty.
Ellie froze halfway across the floor, heart tumbling, gaze fixed on the massive man seated at the kitchen table.
Thomas Sheenan.
It was as if she’d never seen him before and everything in her screamed outrage that he was here, in her home, invading the sanctity of her space.
It had been ages since she’d seen him, the night of her father’s funeral, as a matter of fact. She wasn’t sure how long ago that was, only that the chill of early spring had given way to the heat of summer. She’d gone from sleeping with quilts piled on her bed to wanting just a sheet most nights.
Confronted by his very real, very physical presence, she didn’t know where to look, or what to do. He sat, facing the doorway, in the oldest and largest chair at the table, long legs extended, tall leather boots crossed at the ankle, the dark brown leather scuffed.
The man was huge, seeming to fill the entire kitchen, and worse, he looked so comfortable, sprawling in the chair, her father’s chair, thick black hair tousled, long, powerful limbs relaxed. He looked at her openly, intently, as if he owned the chair, the table, the kitchen itself. Indeed, he looked quite at home.
Impotent rage filled her. Her hands balled at her sides in her skirts. She felt like a child’s bouncing ball caught in the middle of a hard bounce. She practically twitched with energy, her emotions as violent as the intensity trapped inside of her.
She’d never liked him, and right now she thought she could hate him. Acid burned her throat. Her stomach churned.
“That is my father’s chair,” she said roughly, her voice hoarse in her own ears.
It had been weeks since she’d last spoken. Or perhaps it’d been longer. And the effort to speak cost her. She felt almost dizzy with the effort.
The big Irishman shrugged, unmoved. “All the chairs look the same.”
“That is not true. That chair is the largest. It has arms on it. I am sure you knew that—”
“Perhaps I did, perhaps I didn’t.”
“Move.”
His broad shoulders shifted carelessly. “I’m sure your father wouldn’t mind—”
“But I do.” Her gaze met his. “There are three other chairs at that table, please take another.”
“No.”
She blinked, astonished. Had he actually just refused her? And refused her so impolitely? She exhaled sharply, the air hissing from between clenched teeth. Why had she married him? Why hadn’t she chosen Mr. Baker? Mr. Baker would never have spoken to her so crudely. Mr. Baker would have treated her wit
h kindness and respect. “I beg your pardon—”
“I accept your apology. Nothing else needs to be said.”
Her heart did a hard, livid thump. Her pulse raced far too fast. “I wasn’t apologizing. That, sir, is my father’s chair. It is off limits, just as his chair in the parlor is off limits, his room, his books, and anything else that was his.”
Silence descended and Thomas didn’t appear inclined to break it. Instead he looked at her from beneath his lashes, lashes that were far too black and thick, his hard, chiseled features without expression.
The silence continued to swell and grow. Ellie felt the weight of the silence as if it’d wrapped around her, suffocating her.
Her throat swelled closed. Her eyes burned. “Are we clear?” she added shortly, barely able to breathe. It felt as if she’d just run a very hard, fast race and it was impossible to get enough air.
“We are clear on a few things. Shall I remind you of them?” he drawled. When she didn’t answer, he ticked off on his fingers, “One, your father is gone. He’s not coming back. Two—”
“Do not speak of him!”
“If you wish.”
“I wish.”
He leaned forward and pulled out the chair next to him at the table. “Two, we are married, and you are my wife, so please, have a seat. It’s been a long time since we’ve spoken.”
“I’m not staying down here.”
“You need to eat.”
“I can eat later.”
The corner of his mouth lifted but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not going to work outside today.”
“It’s not even the Sabbath. How lazy. My father—”
“Is dead.” He drew the chair back even farther, the wooden legs scraping the worn planks of the kitchen floor. “Sit, Mrs. Sheenan.”
Sit, as if she were a dog or an unruly child.
Sit, as if she was his to command.
Sit, as if he expected her to obey.
Heat surged through her, the blood rushing from her middle, up, across her chest, and higher to her neck to scald her cheeks. “Whom do you think you’re speaking to?”
“My wife.” He rose, and tapped the back of the chair. “So have a seat, Mrs. Sheenan, or I’ll put you there myself.”
He was imposing sprawled in the chair, but overwhelming standing, looming over her the very way Copper Mountains shadowed Marietta. She took a panicked step backward. “Have a care, sir. Keep your distance. I’d hate to have to shoot you, but I would, in self-defense.”
“I doubt your gun is on your person at this very moment.”
“I’ll go get it.”
“And then shoot me in cold blood?”
“If I had to.”
“Wouldn’t you find that difficult to explain to the sheriff? You ran upstairs and retrieved your gun to shoot your husband because he asked you to sit with him for breakfast?”
“If my husband threatened to touch me, yes.”
“By putting my hands on your waist, over your dressing gown?” Thomas arched a black brow. “Shocking.”
“I’m glad to be a source of amusement for you, but let’s be very clear on one thing. I have not given you permission to touch my person. And I will not give you permission. We had an agreement—”
“You don’t even honor your agreements, so don’t make too much of them.” He pushed the chair toward her. “Now sit and I’ll put the kettle on. Let’s try to put the histrionics aside, at least while we have a cup of tea.”
She edged back toward the doorway even as she kept a close eye on him. “I’m going to my room. I’ll have Mrs. Baxter bring me a light luncheon later.”
He watched her take small steps, one, two three before announcing, “Mrs. Baxter has been relieved of her duties here at the house.”
The news blindsided her. “What?”
He shrugged as he dropped back into her father’s chair. “There isn’t enough for her to do to justify the wages—”
“Of course there is—”
“I do my own laundry, I prepare my own supper. What you eat every evening in your room, is the meal I have prepared while you hide away upstairs in your bed. It’s wasteful to pay someone for work that doesn’t need to be done.”
Her head was spinning. She didn’t know how to process everything he was telling her. He hadn’t just been doing the cooking in the evening, he’d been quite good at it, but that wasn’t the point, though, was it? He wasn’t supposed to be cooking. He wasn’t supposed to be interfering in domestic matters. The house was her concern, not his. “You had no right to make that decision. You do not pay her wages and what she does, or doesn’t do, is none of your business.”
“You forget, Mrs. Sheenan, that this is our house, and our ranch—”
“It’s my father’s!” she screamed, close to losing all control. “This is the Burnett Ranch.”
“But there is no Burnett working this ranch. There is no Burnett anywhere that I can see. As such, it’s the Sheenan Ranch, and it has been the Sheenan Ranch for nearly three months now.”
Ellie’s legs wobbled. She exhaled with a painful whoosh. “You changed the deed?”
“At the courthouse, yes. As well as the sign at the entrance of the property. This is now our ranch, in our name—”
“I am not a Sheenan, I am a Burnett, and this is the Burnett Ranch.”
“It was, yes, until you married me, and you were a Burnett until you married me, and now you are a Sheenan. You are Mrs. Thomas Sheenan.”
Her eyes closed and she held her breath, holding in the wild emotions that threatened to break free. She couldn’t keep shouting, and she certainly wouldn’t let herself cry in front of him, but how dare he? How could he? “You have deliberately destroyed my father’s legacy,” she said, eyes opening, blinking hard to hide the sheen of tears. “You did it out of spite.”
He hooked one arm over the back of the chair. “You are your father’s legacy, and the children we have will be his legacy.”
“We’re not having children. I’m not having anything to do with you! I want you out. I want you to go right now.”
“Alas, love, it doesn’t work that way. This is my house now. My property. My livestock. My livelihood. I’m not leaving, not ever.”
“Then I’ll go.”
“Will you now? And where will you go, and with what money? As your husband, I control the purse strings.”
“So I have nothing?”
“I’ll give you an allowance, but you’ll have to do your part. You won’t get something for nothing.”
“And what is my part?”
“Your wifely duties.”
She blanched. “In your bed?”
“Later, yes. But for now, cooking. Cleaning. Tending to our home.”
“That is Mrs. Baxter’s job.”
“But Mrs. Baxter is gone—”
“She’s not gone. She’s upstairs.”
“She was upstairs, yes, but she slipped out the front door five, maybe ten, minutes ago. I saw her leave.”
“She didn’t say goodbye. She didn’t tell me she’d been fired.”
“Why should she? When was the last time you spoke to her? When was the last time you spoke to anyone who worked here, never mind lived here?”
He sounded so calm, so arrogant, and smug. And it was his smugness that made her stomach rise and her chest compress. He had no idea that anger made her stronger, or that he’d picked the wrong adversary. She was no meek, biddable woman. Her father had raised her to have a backbone, and she might have lost her father, but she still had a spine. “How clever you are. How proud you must be.”
“I wouldn’t say clever, or proud, no. Determined would be more accurate.”
Fury and frustration washed through her. She couldn’t stay, couldn’t listen to another word. Heartsick, Ellie left the room, chest on fire. She was so angry she shook from head to toe as she climbed the stairs to her room, her legs weak, her right hand trembling on the banister. This couldn�
��t be happening. He couldn’t mean half the things he said, and he certainly couldn’t mean that he’d actually, legally changed the name of the ranch. That was the worst. That would be the lowest of low.
Eyes stinging, she closed the door of her room and turned the key in the lock, then leaned against the door, hands fisted, knuckles pressed to the wood.
If he truly changed the name of the ranch, she hated him, and she would hate him forever.
Chapter Seven
And that was just round one, Thomas thought, leaning back so that his chair rested on two legs as Ellie’s bedroom door slammed shut above.
He’d expected the fire and fury. He hadn’t minced words or tried to protect her from the changes on the ranch. She needed to know. She needed something to care about, something to fight for, and she’d fight for the ranch. She’d fight for control. He welcomed the battle. It had been far too quiet in this house for the past three months. He was a loner so he wouldn’t have minded the quiet if he lived alone, but every day he’d been aware of Ellie upstairs, locked in her room, locked in with her grief.
Grief was part of life. Death was a given. No one would escape it. But, eventually, one had to commit to living, and they did that by function and making decisions and taking action. Thomas was determined to see Ellie outside again, this week. He wanted her riding and being part of the ranch management. He wanted to see her dressed and heading into town.
In short, he wanted her to be the woman he married, not this wraith slipping in and out of rooms when she thought the house was empty.
With a sigh, he put the chair down and washed his hands and face at the sink before slicking his hair back with damp hands before exiting through the back door.
It was only mid-morning but outside temperatures were rising. It would be another warm day but for now, the air still smelled sweet, and fresh, scented with baked earth and summer hay.
Birds warbled in the tall tree adjacent to the house.
Thomas headed for the barn, willing himself not to think of anything now but the work ahead of him. Nothing would be gained at this point by worrying about Ellie, or dwelling on the hard things she said. He’d expected a fight, and she’d given him one. Good for her. He would have been disappointed if she’d meekly caved in and sipped her tea and promised to behave as if a proper wife. He certainly didn’t have feelings for her as a wife. He didn’t know what he felt for her, only that he knew he was responsible for her, and he’d promised her father he’d look after her, so he’d do that. Thomas didn’t make many vows, but when he did, he kept them.