by Yvonne Jocks
When Cooper turned to stare at him, surprise, anger, and amazement registered on his face in even measure. "Allegedly?"
"It's of no real consequence to me either way," said Collier firmly. "Laurel is my wife, if she will have me—"
"Have you after what?" pursued Cooper. "Did you tell her you thought she wasn't her daddy's daughter?"
"I did not! What kind of a rotter do you take me for?"
"Well, now... Can't see as you'd dare hit her," mused Cooper. "She's mighty vulnerable to other hurts, though."
"Mr. Cooper, I assure you that I would never willingly hurt my wife. I apologized because she seemed upset, to have left so suddenly, and I could not bear—I did not want that. I may not have been as patient with her, or as or appreciative ..."
Of who she was, and everything that meant. Every wonderful, contradictory, passionate, honest thing.
"I hope," Collier added, more evenly, "to rectify that. If she would allow me."
"Her and her daddy," clarified Cooper, and chuckled.
"Now I'm just plain curious. Whose would she be but Garrison's?"
But Collier had known the man was clever. "Yours."
Cooper choked.
Collier waited for him to compose himself. It took longer than he expected. But when Garrison's segundo finally spoke, after clearing his throat, it was with a strange kind of denial.
"I'd shoot you for sayin' such a thing if I weren't so flattered by the mere notion."
"You love her," persisted Collier.
"Laurel? Indeed I do. I love all the Garrison girls."
"And their mother."
Cooper slanted his blue gaze toward Collier, then nodded. "I do that. And her husband. Doesn't mean I'm fool enough to overstep my affection with either one of 'em."
"I had no intention of prying," said Collier. "And I meant what I said. It would in no way change my respect or love for my wife. But Laurel is clearly more special to you than the other girls, and... I'll admit, I am curious about how much a man might sacrifice for the woman he loves. Here in Wyoming, at least."
"So what you figure is, her mother and I fell victim to our forbidden love, and I let Jacob raise the girl rather than rob the family of their respectability." Cooper cocked his head as if trying on the idea for size.
"What I figure is that, for the right woman, a man might accept or give up anything."
Cooper nodded his decision. "Well, now. Before I divulge anythin' regardin' this matter, you'd best accept one thing," he said firmly. "Your cousin, Alexandra Ellis Stanley Cooper, is my helpmate, my friend, my companion, my love. Nothin' I say here should be taken to disparage that. Savvy?"
"Understood."
"There was a time, however, before fortune set Mrs. Cooper's beauty before me," the rancher continued as he drove. "Then Mrs. Garrison seemed like the most fascinatin' example of womanhood I would ever be blessed to know. In some ways she still is. Problem was, she gave her heart to that crotchety old partner of mine. And when a creature as pure as Lillabit Garrison gives her heart, it remains unavailable from there on out."
"No disrespect to the lady," said Collier carefully. This was his mother-in-law! "But she seems... fond of you."
"I'm pleased to hear that, as I am surely fond of her. But if you think our partiality for each other is a pebble next to what she and Jacob share, or a bump on my life's path with Mrs. Cooper, you've not been payin' attention."
Collier waited, certain there was more to come.
"Once we started the ranch, and little Mariah came along, I will admit to some envy darkenin' my appreciation of our new venture," said Cooper. "Rather than risk the partnership, I absented myself to more civilized territory, to do the business that Jacob's not fond of doin'. I spent a good deal of time feelin' sorry for myself, too."
As had Collier?
"It was in Saint Louis that I met a lady who wooed me from my low spirits. She got me to thinkin' toward what was still out there, instead of just what I'd missed, and I will to my last breath be grateful to her for that. By time we parted company, however, this lady was carryin' my child."
Oh? Surely Laurel was Mrs. Garrison's daughter! "You let her go?"
"Keepin' 'em against their will is rarely wise," advised Cooper. "And she was cannier than to stay with a scoundrel like myself. Besides, she was otherwise involved."
Good Lord. "Married."
"In the legal sense," agreed Cooper lightly. "She wanted that baby even more than I did, and meant to raise it as her husband's, so we parted friends. I returned to the Circle-T a happier man for the experience, and found that Jacob had been busy himself. Lillabit had her bustle on backward again."
Collier began to understand. "With Laurel."
"So the whole time my seed was growin' elsewhere—the lady in question not hailin' from the territories—there was darlin' Lillabit, tendin' her own. Not long after Laurel showed up, I received news that my lady friend—and her husband, of course—had also been blessed with a daughter."
"So since you could not have your own child ..."
"I may have lavished a little extra affection on Jacob's." Now Cooper took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders. "When I heard tell the other baby died—scarlet fever, it was—Laurel became even dearer to me. And by the time your cousin showed up to perfect my life, the habit was set."
With more duckings and a "Gee, now!" Cooper turned the buggy off Main and onto a muddier residential street.
So Laurel was not Cooper's daughter, at that. And yet...
The man had sacrificed. He'd left his friends rather than risk their partnership. He'd let the lady have their baby and her marriage both. And when he'd wed Alexandra, despite that he had no issue, he'd agreed to a childless marriage... for her.
Had Collier ever felt superior to the Americans?
"Thank you," he said. It seemed the least he could offer.
"Rumor has it I'm not bashful about workin' my jaw." A smile twitched Cooper's mustache. "And as there was a time I was not above warmin' the bed of a married woman, I don't reckon I'll plug you for the misunderstandin', just this once. Unless you fail to make my Laurel happy every day of her life, of course."
"I mean to make the effort," Collier promised solemnly.
"Whoa." Cooper drew his buggy to a stop at the curb. "I figured as much when you said you'd respect her no matter who her daddy was. Don't forget, I've been around you En-glishers some. I know what weight you folks put on bloodlines and legitimacy."
But Collier would rather talk to Laurel than Cooper—which was why it surprised him to look up and see that they were not on Elizabeth Street at all. They had instead stopped in front of the house that the Coopers had rented. "I thought you said Laurel was with her parents."
"I did," agreed Cooper, hopping neatly to the sidewalk. "But you don't want to go there."
"I most certainly do!" With a grimace, Collier stepped down into more slush. He kept his shoes on this time. Barely. "But I am perfectly capable of walking."
"Now, son," drawled Cooper, blocking his path. "I've decided that I like you, and so I'm doin' you a favor. After the day her daddy's had, the last place you want to be this afternoon is at that house. I'll fetch Laurel to you instead."
Really! "I am no coward."
"Never meant to insinuate otherwise. But I'm figurin' on you being smart, all the same."
With everything Collier had yet to discuss with Laurel, to ask Laurel, to tell Laurel, this delay abraded him. He supposed he could push by Cooper and stalk to Elizabeth Street anyway. That was, he thought with amusement, what Laurel would do.
But then he noticed the mountains rising up past the trees—and he had a better idea.
When she saw the buggy driving up in front, through the upstairs hall window, Laurel called, "It's him!"
"Shh," warned Mariah gently from the bedroom, while little Garry made a protesting gurgle.
"Sorry," Laurel called more softly. She touched her white-gloved fingers to
the glass and reminded herself to breathe.
Then she took the stairs.
Papa, striding into the foyer from the kitchen, stopped her on the landing with a stern look. A knock sounded. A shadow darkened the front porch, through the door's beveled glass, and Laurel longed to rush the rest of the way down. But it was Papa's house. He could get the door if he liked.
Ladylike, she reminded herself. Ladylike.
Papa wrenched open the door.
Alec Cooper, standing in front of his parents, backed up so quickly that the boy bumped into his father.
Laurel descended the stairs more slowly, leaning over the banister some to better see the veranda. No, she hadn't missed him. The Cooper family was here—but not Collier.
Not Collier!
"Now, darlin' Laurel, you wipe that dismay off your pretty face," commanded Uncle Benj. With a curt, "Excuse us," he shouldered past Papa—who stood very still and threatening— and came to Laurel. He leaned toward her from a mud-safe distance and kissed her cheek, delivering something papery into her hand at the same time. "He's here, and he's safe, and he sent this for you. So don't you fret."
Then he turned back to the others. "Now, Jacob, I know you don't have the manners of that fine son-in-law of yours, but the least you can do is invite my wife and son into your home."
Slowly Papa pivoted back from where he blocked the doorway, still scowling his disapproval at Uncle Benj. "Sent you to fetch his godship."
"Last time I checked, I didn't work for you. Why, darlin' Lillabit, as I live and breathe," he greeted when Mama came in from the kitchen to hug him. "Watch the mud."
"Hullo, Mr. Garrison, sir," said Alec politely. But he sidled a wide circle as he passed Laurel's father, as if still taken aback by the rancher's grim reception.
"Mr. Garrison," agreed Lady Cooper, following with more ladylike steps.
"I think he was figurin' on you readin' it," teased Uncle Benj to Laurel. With a start she looked back at the note in her hand. She guessed if she could do anything, she could do this.
Laurel Pembroke, it said on the outside, in Collier's neat hand. When she unfolded it, the message inside was brief.
We've much to discuss. Please come home. Love, Collier.
Chapter Twenty-nine
He'd signed it with love, Laurel thought.
And he'd said home!
She didn't cover her mouth fast enough to muffle her shriek of joy. Upstairs, little Garry started to cry. "Sorry, Mariah!" Laurel called, then ran to the coatrack for her lightest coat. "He's at the claim!"
"He's what?" asked Mama.
"He's at the claim, and he wants me there!"
Papa was nodding his slow, angry nod at Uncle Benj.
"Now that," insisted his partner, "was his idea."
"He'll have to come off the mountain sometime," warned Papa, and both Mama and Lady Cooper said, at the same time, "Not the face!"
But surely Papa wouldn't get violent with the man she loved! Not if everything worked out after all. And, oh, for the first time ...
He'd signed it with love. He'd called the claim home!
How could she not hope?
"May I saddle your horse for you, Laurel?" asked Alec eagerly. Of course, she could still saddle her own horse, even dressed up like this. But she guessed she didn't always have to.
"Yes, thank you," she said. While Alec scampered out, she ran back to her grim father and wrapped her arms around him in a hug.
"Oh, Papa, thank you! I know you're still angry, and you have a right to be. But if it hadn't been for you, I might not have done any of this... so thank you!"
Then she kissed his whiskered cheek and hurried out to the kitchen for her boots. If she heard Uncle Benj cackle, she paid it no mind. She had more important things on her mind.
Home. Maybe he was being polite. But it had to be a good sign, didn't it? If she could be what he wanted, then maybe...
Collier must have found another horse. Laurel rode Snapper and led the dapple gray, Llewellyn, through slush and muck that got thicker as they left town. Only the mud kept her wearing her coat in this dry wind—her outer layer was likely a sight. But this was one time she would meet with Collier ready to look the way his wife should—or as close as she could get. Compared to the joy of leaving town for the plains, then the foothills, mere comfort hardly mattered.
When she reined Snapper off the rutted track that led toward the Circle-T, riding across country, he responded with enthusiasm to match hers. Llewellyn in tow, they made for the treeline. The timber, still harboring deeper patches of snow and ice, provided cool relief against the Chinook. The creek rushed by, full and wild. And for the first time in months, the air smelled of more than snow and woodsmoke. It smelled of springtime and hope. Laurel loved these mountains.
But that wasn't the love that drew her to the claim cabin in the pine grove. Not this time!
The first thing she saw, when she rode into the clearing, was a British flag flying over her door. She realized that it didn't bother her at all. It meant he was here. Home.
Then Collier hiked around the comer of the cabin, from the woodshed side, with a cigar box in his hands. Or... was it Cole?
He wore a muddy duster over dungarees and boots, and what looked like a chambray shirt. His golden hairwasdrawn back from his handsome face, his eyes bright. When she saw him like that—a beautiful cross of aristocrat and settler— Laurel guessed he could fly the flag of Spain over her door and she wouldn't mind!
Catching sight of her, Collier put the box aside and came to take Snapper's bridle. When he did, Laurel all but dove from her sidesaddle into his strong arms, and, oh, he smelled even better than the mountain, and even more like home.
Somehow they could fix things between them. Somehow.
Especially now that she didn't have to do it alone.
Collier lost count of the kisses Laurel showered across his face, his neck, his jaw, his ears. Apparently she had forgiven him. That seemed enough justification to kiss his muddy-coated wife back. Happily. Wholly.
Only when Snapper snorted equine disgust at the two of them did Collier straighten from Laurel to tip back her mud-spattered hat and share an appreciative grin. "For shame, Mrs. Pembroke," he chided playfully. "In these parts, one sees to one's horses before engaging in pleasure."
Bold words, considering that the whole of the mountain had become her own personal arsenal of mud grenades. But Laurel just wrapped her arms tighter around him and kissed him again, so ardently that his forehead knocked her hat right off the back of her head. He caught it one-handed whilerever the gentleman, obliging her in the kiss as well. He had missed her! The smell of her, the feel of her, the warmth of her, the spirit of her.
"Is that what one does in these parts?" she asked happily as they drew reluctantly apart, and he looked at her more closely. Her hair was curled and arranged in a way that, even after losing the hat, looked quite stylish. She wore ear bobs.
And she smelled not just of herself but of... perfume?
"One does indeed." Damn. He had to kiss her some more, hold her some more, breathe her in and reassure himself that she was here with him. Perhaps he'd not wholly alienated her in Denver. Perhaps they had a chance, at that.
Despite what he had to tell her.
Only that thought—the knowledge of the last few obstacles they had yet to surmount—gave him the impetus he needed to grasp her shoulders and slowly, reluctantly, separate them. "Hello, dearest," he greeted. "You look lovely."
"Wait until you see what's under the coat!"
He laughed at the improper images that arose in his mind. But when she tried to kiss him again, he turned his cheek to her, so as not to get drawn back into his favorite enticement.
"I'm afraid we do have matters to discuss," he said when she pouted. "Hadn't we better face them head-on, for once?"
"Matters?" She took a deep breath and nodded, resigned. "Yes. Oh, Collier, I am sorry. So sorry!"
"You? Never you ..." H
e wanted to kiss her again, her forehead, her cheek, but caught himself, limited himself to an encouraging smile. As distraction, he led the horses to the slushy, muddy corral, where Cooper's Appaloosa already watched with interest. He lifted the loose top log down so that their mounts could step through, then lifted it back into place while Laurel set about unsaddling Snapper—and cataloging her sins.
"I'm sorry I embarrassed you. I'm sorry I said I wouldn't apologize to Lady Vivian. Of course I will. I would apologize to the lowliest whore if I'd behaved that badly, so why not her?"
Collier enjoyed that analogy so much, he almost laughed again. But she looked so very serious that instead he busied himself rubbing Snapper down with his saddle blanket. "We were both out of countenance that day," he assured her.
"And then I ran away."
"I prefer to think of it as shortening your visit."
She rolled her eyes at him, as if to accuse him of dissembling. Collier inhaled the sweet scent of horse, ran his bare hand through Snapper's wiry mane, and wondered how he had ever imagined a life in which only the hired help curried or saddled his mounts... and a wife who would expect that.
Even if he did still mean to hire someone to muck stalls and such. Or at least to help.
"I didn't keep our bargain," Laurel insisted. "We had a deal. You deserved better, and I'm sorry."
"As am I," he assured her, stepping back with her to let Snapper go roll in the mud with Llewellyn. "For any number of snobberies and conceits and Lord knows what condescensions I've forced upon you, either from myself or my family."
She considered him seriously, then offered a hand. Truce?"
Truce? He wanted to cup her face and kiss her until they forgot where they were, to thoroughly ruin her coif and possibly lose the earrings, to take her inside and make love until neither remembered past hurts. But he had been distracting them, distracting himself, with the wonder of that for months now. A gentleman could control those baser urges... at least for short durations. A gentleman did what truly needed doing.