Proving Herself

by Yvonne Jocks

  Anger was no longer his concern—especially when he learned from the doorman that Laurel had, indeed, left in a hansom cab the man had personally hailed. Oh, he was still angry... but for more than their childish words or her scene before his father. As Collier hailed his own cab, fear far out­weighed anger.

  What if she hired an unethical driver to take her to the station? What if she was set upon by some lowlife on the train? She might purchase a second-class ticket, or even im­migrant class, and who knew how well ladies were protected in such cars?

  When he reached Union Station, only to learn that he'd just missed the train to Sheridan—and that she had, indeed, purchased second-class passage—fear won out.

  "Damn," he said—right there on the platform, without even looking to see if there were women or children about. Stand­ing in a fall of heavy snowflakes, staring down the empty track, he knew he'd failed as a husband. Even a pretend hus­band.

  Damn it to hell.

  He went back inside to ask after the next train to Sheridan.

  "Long as they're getting' through, that'll be eleven forty-three tonight," said the station agent.

  "Getting through?" repeated Collier.

  The agent glanced toward the platform, where snow was already filling in Collier's footprints. More to worry about.

  What if her train was snowed in? What if she'd not taken enough money for the dining car?

  What if, as this solo departure of hers might yet imply, she'd given up on him and their pretend marriage completely?

  Collier sank onto a wooden bench and drew the letter from his pocket. She'd called him "Dearest Collier." She'd apolo­gized, twice—he ached to think she felt guilty for something that was equally his doing. And she'd signed it, "Love, Laurel Pembroke."

  Not just Laurel. Laurel Pembroke. And Love.

  For once, he truly hoped she was not merely being polite. There was something to be said for taking her at her word.

  Resigning himself to return to the hotel, Collier first went to the Western Union desk.

  He had to send a telegram.

  The train had barely cleared Denver before Laurel regretted her impulsiveness. Sort of. But she also felt a twinge of relief. She'd burned her bridges with Collier's family. If she stayed, she'd likely argue with him again. She wasn't sure she could bear that.

  I expect you here when I return, he'd said, as dictatorial and British as she'd ever seen him. As if she were a child. She wasn't the one so desperate for her father's approval that she would debase herself, as he did with the viscount.

  That still upset her, no matter how far north the train got.

  She made the best of her journey home. She bought a sand­wich from a vendor on the platform in Fort Laramie, and chatted with a parson. Much of the time she just watched the mountains, or how brightly her new engagement ring spar­kled when she moved her hand. It made her think of Collier's smile.

  A smile she might not see again anytime soon.

  By the time the train finally reached Sheridan, well after nightfall, Laurel's regrets ached more than her back. Maybe she didn't need Collier to escort her, feed her, protect her, see to her luggage. But she sorely needed him, even so ... and she'd left.

  "That your only trunk, Lady Pembroke?"

  Marveling at the warm air—another Chinook—Laurel stiff­ened at the familiar drawl. She'd figured on getting herself home.

  The last thing she expected was to be met by Nate Dawson.

  The cowboy carried her to a buckboard waiting by the platform, as if she hadn't assured him there was nothing be­tween her and Collier the very day she agreed to start court­ing.

  She flushed, hotter than even the Chinook merited. "Thank you, Nate—I mean, Mr. Dawson. But you don't have to—"

  "Boss sent me to fetch you, ma'am. Reckon I'd best do it."

  "Papa? How'd he know I was coming home so soon?"

  "Best ask the boss." With a grunt, Dawson deposited the trunk into the bed of her father's wagon. Then he extended a bare, callused hand to help her in. "Your ladyship."

  Ladyship? She hopped up and settled onto the familiar seat on her own. Dawson swung himself into the driver's side, where her father normally sat, and collected the reins.

  Collier, she thought. Collier must have wired ahead. But why hadn't her father or her brother come for her?

  She guessed she would have to ask "the boss" that, too.

  "I'm glad to see you, Nate," she ventured, and he slanted a wary, squint-eyed cowboy gaze at her as he drove onto Main. "Back when we talked, at Kitty's birthday, I said there was nothing between me and Lord Collier."

  "No, ma'am. You said it was nobody's business."

  "Yes, but I implied ..." She shook her head, trying to make sense of it. If she'd wanted any man back then, it would have been someone like Nate. But she hadn't wanted a man.

  Not until she met a man who finally got her to appreciate the finer points of being a lady... at least, a lady with the right gentleman. Girl-shoes aside. And as a lady...

  "I..." With a deep breath, she just did it. "I apologize for that, Nate. You were a good friend, and you deserved better."

  "Obliged." But he had to go and add, "Lady Pembroke."

  She glared, and he grinned, and things felt better between them—though not what they'd been. That was fine. She had Collier—who had wired ahead to her family. Didn't that mean he cared?

  "Do you know why Papa didn't come for me?" she asked.

  "You don't know?" When he saw her confusion, Nate told her. "Miss Mariah's havin' her baby."

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Lady Vivian was, indeed, purple. Even powdered and gloved, she looked vaguely corpselike.

  "Do try the hat, precious," Lady Tentrees was pleading when Collier entered his father's rooms. "You'll feel much better."

  She quieted to look coldly at Collier. So did everyone else. Edgar's glare seemed a shade overdramatic, considering his earlier humor, but it might keep the peace with Vivian.

  "I should feel better if Father filed a lawsuit," she declared, and looked pointedly at Collier. "But I doubt Mrs. Pembroke has anything I want."

  Thank God for that! "We will, of course, replace the frock," said Collier. "And I've already spoken to the hotel manager about the sofa. If you must hire someone to treat your hair—"

  "You aren't suggesting I dye it!" protested Viv.

  "Then please accept my sympathy for what I cannot doubt will be a trying time for you."

  Viv's eyes narrowed, as if she were searching his words for a hidden meaning. He'd had none. His mother had taught him that it was usually better to be kind than to be right—a reason for etiquette that some people had lost along the way.

  "And your wife, Lord Collier. I trust we shall be hearing from her soon." If Lady Tentrees truly believed this had come from a kiss on the cheek, Collier could not blame hericiness.

  "I can't imagine not," added Edgar.

  Collier slanted his gaze to his brother, unamused by the reference to Laurel's vehemence, then turned back to the baron's wife. "My wife was called unexpectedly home, and shan't be able to make her apologies in person." If at all.

  Lady Vivian smiled a little, as if she thought Collier had been the one to send Laurel away. Collier did not correct her.

  Instead, after a short bow to the ladies, he crossed the room to where the men stood by the mantel. "Father, may I speak privately with you?"

  The Viscount of Brambourne looked slowly about them with a lifted eyebrow, as if to challenge Collier to find privacy without evicting the rest of the company.

  "The bedroom would be fine," offered Collier. "Or the hall­way." Since his father would rather have purple flowers poured over his head than discuss anything in the corridor, Collier opened the bedroom door for the older man.

  The viscount could have refused. He'd refused private meetings in the past; Collier was only his second son. But he seemed intrigued. With a shrug toward the baron, he pre­ceded his son into the b
edchambers.

  Collier followed, shutting the door. He remembered enough of his upbringing to wait until his father spread a gloved hand and said, "I trust you mean to ask for some­thing."

  Did he think Collier wanted money? Or to return home? He did want the latter... but not if he lost even more in do­ing so.

  "First, I wish to apologize for this morning. It was largely my fault for not interceding earlier."

  "Interceding?" Men interceding in the matters of ladies was rarely done—in England. But this was not England.

  "Lady Vivian baited my wife. The only difference from the dozens of times before is that my wife took the bait."

  "Excusing your wife's petty behavior is no reason to drag me from business," chided his father, and turned as if to leave.

  "Second, I too will be leaving Denver tonight. Again, I apol­ogize—this time for the brevity of my visit. But I must return to Wyoming."

  "And what," asked his father, "is so important in Wyo­ming?"

  Laurel. Any hope I have of self-respect. My future.

  "A bloody cold homestead and over half a year's spotty effort at making something of my life," said Collier.

  "Such as it is?" Laurel was right. His father was rude.

  Collier stood a little straighter. "Lastly, Father—and it is for this that I requested privacy—I wish to thank you."

  "For what, in particular? The remittances?"

  "Those as well, of course." What part of them comes from you. "Money has provided a useful cushion as I adapt to the frontier. But primarily for sending me away in the first place."

  The viscount stared at him, speechless at last.

  "You know I'm no rotter. I've been a good son. I advanced the estate, when I was allowed. Some young men in my sit­uation might never have received the opportunity that you gave me, to prove my own"—he could not help smiling— "mettle. I've found many things that I value in Wyoming— more than I was perhaps aware, until this visit. And I never would have done so had you not forced me to 'make some­thing of myself.' So even if that was not your purpose"—and he knew it was not—"thank you."

  And he offered his hand.

  His father only looked at it. "You fancy yourself a Westerner now, do you?"

  "No, sir. I am a loyal subject of the queen. But I live in the West now. What I may become, I've yet to discover." Collier withdrew his hand. The old pain began to well up in him....

  But he swallowed it back down. He no longer needed his father's approval to confirm his choices.

  Perhaps that was what Laurel had meant about growing up.

  He bowed slightly instead. "Good day, sir."

  "Boy," ordered the viscount as he began to turn away.

  Collier took a deep breath, then turned back. "I assume you mean that with marginal affection. Sir. But an American might take it as another form of baiting."

  "You think making a go with your wife's homestead and your mother's money makes you a man?" Was that interest in his voice?

  "No less a man than would inheriting my father's estate."

  "You don't think Edgar can do it."

  That, too, was a question, of sorts. It was one he'd longed for, prior to his expulsion from England. He could easily ar­gue why he, Collier, might better serve Brambourne ... even avoiding the issue of heirs.

  But why should he? Edgar had been born first, and Collier had waited too long to seek his own path, much less find it.

  "I think," he said, "that Edgar is willing to learn. And that you might do well to train Acton to the governing of the estate as well, as something of a"—he smiled—"segundo."

  "Acton," repeated the viscount.

  Your third son. But Collier simply stood patiently. To his surprise, his father then nodded.

  "Not a bad idea, at that," he said, even more surprising. "Stay an extra night, and we'll discuss it further."

  "No, sir. But if you wish to visit Sheridan, they—we—have a fine hotel where you can stay in comfort." Collier bowed.

  The viscount sighed. Then he offered his hand. "You really should cut your hair, you know. It looks absurd."

  "My wife likes it this way," Collier explained—and took his father's gloved hand in his. For perhaps the first time since he'd graduated, they shook hands.

  "You do everything your wife wants?" challenged the viscount, and his lips slanted into an odd expression that Collier slowly recognized as a smile.

  A smile that pulled faintly to one side.

  "Apparently I do not," he admitted with a sigh.

  "Good man." Then the viscount left the room before Col­lier. One mustn't completely ignore civilized conduct, after all.

  Even in America.

  When Collier made his good-byes to the others, the Baron Tentrees asked when his train left.

  "Tonight, your lordship. But the weather is worsening. I wish to go to the station directly, lest I be snowed in here."

  "I forget; does the station have a restaurant?"

  "I believe it does... or at least a lunch counter." The idea of any of these people—himself included—sitting at a depot lunch counter, with passengers trying to grab quick meals during five- or ten-minute stops, amused Collier almost as much as the baron's questions mystified him.

  "Then let me go with you. I never did hear your other thoughts about American polo."

  "Father!" protested Viv, from where her mother, looking as tired as a mother with a cranky two-year-old, still tended her.

  "Vivian," answered her father evenly, forcing her to actu­ally state her objection or be silent. And, of course, she could not give herself away so boldly as to state her objection.

  "I would be honored," said Collier slowly. At the very least it would liven up an otherwise long wait.

  While the baron retrieved his coat, Edgar there-there'd over his Viwie—but caught Collier's gaze long enough to wink.

  Collier supposed he could thank his father and brother for another prize in having sent him away, as well. Even without Laurel—Lord forbid—Collier was better off without Vivian.

  But to say so would be ungentlemanly.

  Laurel had seen puppies born, and kittens, and foals, and calves. She'd always found it horrifying and fascinating. Nothing had prepared her for the birth of Mariah's baby.

  And, being a married lady, she got to be there for the whole thing—a privilege Victoria clearly envied.

  "What's happening now?" asked Laurel's younger sister, af­ter knocking on the door and delivering another bowl full of clean snow, which Mama was allowing Mariah in lieu of wa­ter.

  "Same thing as before, but worse." Laurel planted herself between the doorway and Mariah. "She can't walk anymore, not even with Stuart helping. Mama says it won't be long now."

  "What does the doctor think?"

  "He's reading. He says unless something goes wrong—" Behind her, Mariah cried out again, a wrenching, gritted scream. Laurel and Victoria both winced. "Unless something goes wrong, he says Mama can handle it."

  "And she didn't hit him?"

  "She only made threats when he wouldn't let her handle it-Victoria nodded, understanding. "Papa's cleaning his guns."

  "All of them?"

  "His main ones. I think he wants to kill Stuart."

  "He always wants to kill Stuart," Laurel reminded her. But the way Vic widened her eyes as she shook her head, this was worse than usual. "Well, as long as Papa stays out there and Stuart stays in here, they should be fine."

  And she could not imagine blasting Stuart MacCallum away from Mariah's side with dynamite. When the doctor suggested he should wait outside was the first time Mama threatened violence.

  "Laurel!" called Mama sharply. Laurel closed the door in Vic's face and brought the snow to where Mariah sat up in bed in her nightgown, braced against her stocky husband's chest, sweat dampening her forehead.

  It seemed odd to see Stuart in the older girls' bedroom— sitting on Laurel and Mariah's bed! But they'd decided months ago that Mariah would stay at her
parents' in-town home for the birthing, and it was easier for Victoria and Audra to move than for the MacCallums to displace either Thad or their parents.

  The idea of Stuart sleeping with Marian in Papa's bed, no matter how chastely, did not deserve consideration.

  "Here, love," murmured Stuart over Mariah's shoulder, scooping snow into his hand and lifting it to her lips.

  Mariah only shook her head, jaw clenched, then threw back her head and screamed—"Mama!" It seemed like the pains were coming so close now she hardly got to breathe against them.

  Stuart threw that bit of snow to the side and wrapped his arms around his straining wife, as if he could take on some of her labor. For a moment his brown eyes met Laurel's— more naked than any man's she'd ever seen, except maybe Collier's. She saw then how much he loved Mariah. She saw how his life balanced on this one night. And she saw his fear.

  She tried to grin encouragement. Then she turned back to her mother for her own reassurance.

  Mama, however, was looking under the sheet between Mariah's legs. That Mariah didn't protest such a violation spoke of just how exhausted and miserable she was. "All right, baby. Now's as good as ever. You want to start pushing? You start pushing."

  And Mariah, clenching her teeth, strained back against the brace of her husband and pushed.

  Had Laurel ever really thought her older sister lacked grit? Seeing Mariah now, struggling despite exhaustion and pain to have this baby, she knew her sister had more grit than she'd ever imagined. Laurel just hadn't seen it beyond the corsets and the curls and the ladylike shoes. As if, as Collier had pointed out, things had to be mutually exclusive.

  Mariah's blond hair hung stringy from sweat, despite that Stuart kept wiping her damp face, and she'd turned red from effort. Tears streamed from her eyes, and her cries grew rag­ged, and still she gulped breath, arched her back, and pushed again. When she collapsed back against Stuart, she was sob­bing.

  "I see it," called Mama. "Here—" And she caught Mariah's hand and drew it between the girl's legs.

  Mariah's eyes flared wide. "His head!" Stuart looked quickly from Mama to Mariah's delight and back.