The Brides of Evergreen Box Set

by Heather Blanton

  The one thing Hoyt had insisted on, however, was the moment this case was wrapped up, he wanted to step into the job here at the Whiskey Creek Ranch, so he could resume his correspondence with Miss Swank. The man had in his mind, Jim believed, the sincere desire to settle down. Employment at the Whiskey Creek was the best ranching job Hoyt had ever wrangled and he wanted his chance at it, and a future with his mail-order bride.

  A coarse-talking, rough-around-the-edges cowboy, Hoyt surely was fortunate to snag a bride as beautiful and smart as Miss Swank. Of course, the marriage wasn’t a done-deal just yet. As she’d made plain.

  Would they be agreeable?

  She swept a golden curl off her shoulder, exposing a pale, smooth neck. For some reason, the movement and her flawless skin fascinated Jim.

  “Isn’t that so, Clegg?”

  The false name being spoken brought him back to the conversation and he straightened up. “I’m sorry?” He hated Clegg Hoyt and would be glad to be done with the moniker.

  Miss Stella chuckled. “Lands, you haven’t heard a word we’ve said. I said I think you’d best pick up the pace on your cabin.”

  Miss Swank blushed an adorable shade of pink, the color rising out of her collar and painting her cheeks. Jim had to let a small grin loose, but he bit it back quickly, and slapped himself mentally for this foolishness. He had work to do. “I’m sorry, Miss Stella. My mind is wandering to work. I’ve got tasks I should see to.” He set his tea down on the silver platter resting in the center of the coffee table. “I am your foreman, after all. Would you mind terribly getting Miss Swank settled in?”

  “Not at all, not at all. It will be my pleasure.” She patted Miss Swank on the knee. “I’m sure we have so much to talk about. I have some new dress patterns I’d love to show you. Do you sew?”

  Something akin to panic surfaced in Miss Swank’s eyes as she turned them on Jim. “You will show me around this afternoon, won’t you, Mr. Hoyt?”

  He plucked his hat off the frame of the settee. “Yes, ma’am. Maybe right after supper, if you’re settled.”

  “Oh, a sunset ride.” Miss Stella winked at him. “Clegg, you are such a romantic.”

  He froze. He hadn’t meant anything—he just offered the best time—he swallowed, eager to leave the room. Miss Stella burst out laughing. Miss Swank’s gaze still expressed a little panic and he ducked his chin slightly. “I’ll hurry every chance I get.”

  Ellie shut the bedroom door behind Miss Stella, grateful for her departure, and leaned her forehead on the cool wood with a weary sigh. The woman was kind, intelligent, welcoming, and warm—but she talked incessantly about the womanly arts. If she only knew how bereft of domestic skill Ellie was. An indulgent father had allowed the pursuits of writing and photography to the exclusion of cooking and sewing. Two chores that bored Ellie out of her mind.

  But, God love him, Daddy’s indulgence is paying off.

  Smiling over the memories of her father and his eager support of her unconventional dreams, she strode to the writing desk, ready to get down to work. She set her valise on the desk and pulled out the dossier. Dropping the bag to the floor, she sat down, smoothed out and cleaned off the wrinkled pages, and started reading . . . but her gaze drifted over the room.

  Miss Stella maintained a grand home with comfortable furnishings. In fact, this one bedroom with its grand river rock fireplace was nearly twice the size of Ellie’s whole apartment back in Boston. Yes, she certainly could have landed a less comfortable assignment. And Mr. Hoyt could have been ugly, instead of ruggedly handsome.

  The real Millie Swank might just be a very lucky girl.

  Tossing away the worthless thoughts, Ellie smoothed the letter from Mr. Hoyt. She’d wrinkled it badly rescuing it from the street earlier. Good thing he’d—

  She stopped and stared at the letter. The handwriting was bold, a touch sloppy, and all the lowercase g’s had a distinctive, almost-square shape to them. Unusual. Yet, Mr. Hoyt hadn’t noticed his own letter.

  She supposed it had all happened so fast he simply hadn’t taken a second to look, but the oversight . . . puzzled her.

  Rely on your instincts, kid. You got good ones.

  Maybe.

  In the dossier, only one paragraph had been dedicated to Mr. Hoyt. She scanned it, the pertinent facts rising from the page. Ranching background. Moved around Colorado and Wyoming following jobs. One drunk and disorderly charge. And a physical description. Dark hair, dark eyes, etc., etc.

  Clearly, Mr. Hoyt was no choir boy, as his letters suggested, but Ellie got the impression the man wanted roots. Hence his desire for a wife. A reason to settle down. Funny, the rough, wandering character in the dossier didn’t sound much like the man in the letters . . . or even the one she’d met today.

  The gong of banging pots, the grating of perhaps an oven door, and the heavenly scent of fried chicken reminded Ellie she hadn’t eaten a thing since that morning. She stopped at the bottom of the steps and toyed with the idea of following her nose to the kitchen, but the opportunity to do a little nosing around the ranch was more compelling.

  Careful to keep her footsteps muffled on the wood floor, she slipped across the foyer and let herself outside. Mooing cattle and the distant shouts of working cowboys filled the air. She stepped to the edge of the porch and surveyed the Whiskey Creek Ranch. A large herd of Herefords dotted the hills with their brown bodies and bobbing, white faces. The cowboys whooped and hollered, swinging ropes at the animals, rippling the herd like pebbles in a pond.

  Off to Ellie’s left something startled a flock of chickens and they exploded from the barn like a feathery, squawking tornado. An instant later a tall, gangly cowboy emerged from the shadows, carrying a saddle. He approached the corral and hung the gear on the fence. In one quick move, he slithered through the fence, grabbed the saddle again, and carried it over to a horse that stood tied to the rail.

  Curious, and since the man had his back to her, Ellie walked over, approaching quietly, and rested her hand on the fence. The horse twitched her ears, but didn’t give anything away.

  “All right, young lady,” the man said, cinching the saddle, “let’s see if ye’ve learned your lesson.”

  He spoke with an unmistakable Irish brogue. Ellie’s heart beat a little faster. Was this him? Was this O’Dea? She forced herself to slow her breathing, trying to reclaim her calm demeanor. Casual, friendly conversation was the first step in building rapport. “If she’s like most women, she’ll be a little stubborn.”

  The man spun, surprise and suspicion creasing his brow. In an instant, he surveyed Ellie, top to bottom, and his lips curved with appreciation. “Spyin’ on me, were ye, girly?”

  “Spying is a strong word.”

  He chuckled and returned to the horse. “Aye, she is a little hard-headed at that,” he grinned over his shoulder, “but nothin’ I can’t handle.”

  “I’m sure.” Ellie smiled back, trying for friendly as opposed to inviting. His gaze flicked over her again, but he finished with the horse. “I’m sorry,” she said, climbing a little higher on the fence. “I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Millie Swank.”

  He buckled the saddle then strode over to her, his hand outstretched; a white, toothy grin contrasting with a tan face and sandy blond hair. “Dave Reynolds.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Could be.” He shook her hand, holding it a touch too long.

  She would have to treat Mr. Reynolds carefully, Ellie realized, lest she get herself in a bit of trouble. She chose to ignore the comment and pulled her hand away. “Are you the head wrangler?”

  “No.” He leaned back on the fence and resituated his bowler. “I’m still too new to have a title. I can ride with the best of ’em, though. Cowboys aren’t the end-all-be-all on horseback. We Irish lads have been known to dash a pony across the hills and dales of our fair island.”

  “You’re Irish? Yes, I thought I heard that in your accent. How did you wind up in Wyoming?”

&
nbsp; “Ah, knocked around a bit in me youth. I’ve been from ranch to city and back again.”

  “Really? What cities have you lived in?” He squinted at her, as if debating whether to answer . . . or perhaps her questions had raised his suspicions. Ellie licked her lips. “I’m sorry. I can be too curious sometimes.”

  “Didn’t it kill the cat? Curiosity?”

  “I’ve heard that.” She laughed lightly, but something in his gaze sent a chill up her spine. “I’m from Boston, but my parents came from County Cork.”

  He turned to her, regarding her with raised eyebrows. “Now, what a bit of luck, to meet an Irish gal out here in the middle of this godforsaken wilderness. Where was your neighborhood in Boston?”

  “North End.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  Ellie was on dangerous ground. She only had so much information from the real Miss Swank and a rough knowledge of Boston’s Irish community. “Prince Street.”

  “Shore enough now?” He slid a touch closer. “I spent some time there. Ye must know the Dolan boys.”

  Half of the crime element. “No. I’ve heard of them, of course.”

  “Heard of them? That’s a bit like saying ye’ve heard of the sun.” Suspicion sneaked back into his expression.

  “I was a housekeeper on Beacon Hill. I’m afraid all I did was work, seven days a week.” Mr. Reynolds worked his jaw back and forth. Did he buy her thin lies? “Working kept me away from trouble.”

  He relaxed visibly. “Beacon Hill, eh? A long walk from the North End.”

  “That’s where the work is.”

  “A pretty jewel like you cleaning a rich man’s house. At least you didn’t wind up at the Green Dragon.”

  The Green Dragon? Ellie didn’t know what it was. She knew she should have done more homework on the Irish community. “I . . . I, um, well, maybe I won’t have to worry about it now.”

  He raised his chin, that shadow of suspicion returning. “Thought about it, did ye?”

  Ellie hunted his eyes, looking for some clue as to what kind of place the Green Dragon was. Trying to listen to her instincts and asking for help from God, she said, “In my desperate moments.”

  He stared at her for several seconds. “You would have to be mighty desperate indeed. It’s a place for the worst off of all the gals. What steered ye away from it?”

  She took a deep breath, diving into the lie. “I’m contemplating a marriage proposal from Mr. Hoyt.”

  “Now, is that a fact?”

  Mr. Reynolds ambled over, drawing closer to her. So close, she nearly backed away, but thought better of showing him any fear. Instead, she decided to wait a moment and hold her ground.

  “I wouldn’t rush into anything, love. He may not be the best man around.”

  “Maybe not, but I am the boss.” Mr. Hoyt’s deep voice rumbled in the air like a peel of thunder.

  Mr. Reynolds straightened and stepped away from Ellie. Mr. Hoyt marched up, passed his gaze between the two, and settled on the ranch hand. “And as the boss, I’ll remind you to loaf on your own time.”

  “Yes, sir. I was merely passing a few pleasant words with the lady here.”

  The two men eyed each other as Mr. Hoyt pulled a pair of gloves from his back pocket. Tension sizzled in the air. “The conversation’s over.”

  Ellie slowly lowered herself from the fence, giving the two men a little space.

  “Yes, sir.” Mr. Reynolds tipped his hat to Ellie. “Nice chatting with ye, Miss Swank.”

  She avoided his gaze and nodded. “Yes, you, too.”

  Mr. Reynolds returned to the horse, stepped into the saddle, and nudged her forward with his heels. Mr. Hoyt obligingly opened the gate for him. “I need that whole section of fence checked before you come back.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mr. Reynolds said again, tapping his hat. “Consider it done.” A polite distance past them, he kicked the gelding up to a trot and rode out of the yard.

  Mr. Hoyt then turned his unhappy gaze on Ellie. Feeling a bit like a child caught in the middle of some disobedient act, she hugged herself and dug her toe into the sand. Her potential groom folded his arms across his chest. “Care to explain?”

  “I was only chatting with him.”

  “If it was innocent, why was he standing so close and why won’t you look at me?”

  Ellie sucked on her cheek. The man had a good point. The conversation had been innocent. Therefore, the truth had to be her defense and she raised her head. “Honestly, Mr. Hoyt, Mr. Reynolds is a bit of a snake. He moved a little too close for propriety’s sake, but I sensed a move away from him would make him feel he had the upper hand on me. I did not wish to empower that thinking. I was, however, about to move when you made your presence known.”

  He frowned at her, but she could see a faint hint of confusion. “Is that the truth? It sounds like the truth.”

  “Because it is.”

  Mr. Hoyt rubbed his jaw and stared thoughtfully after Mr. Reynolds, disappearing over a hill. “I believe I suggested you should stay away from him. I’m not sure of his character around women.”

  Ellie clasped her hands in front of her and tried to don an expression of contrition. “I was only making polite conversation, but I will respect your suggestion going forward.”

  His frown deepened, as if he wasn’t sure whether she was being agreeable or manipulative. “Fine.” He dropped his hands to his hips. “Well, I’ve got my own work to do. I’ll see you later for that buggy ride. In the meantime, why don’t you wait to explore the ranch with Miss Stella or me.”

  “I’m not so helpless, Mr. Hoyt.”

  “I’m sure you are far from helpless, but in all honesty, Miss Swank, you are the pret—” He caught himself, and paused to rephrase his thought. He licked his lips and tried again. “I’m still new here. I’m still learning the nature of these men. A pretty young girl should not go about unescorted until I know what we’re both dealing with.”

  His honest assessment, but especially the compliment, left her speechless for a moment. “Oh, well,” she muttered. “I should be more aware of . . . things.”

  “Yes, you should.” He paused, as if he wanted to say more, but scratched his nose instead. “I need to get my horse.” He ducked his chin and turned back to the barn.

  4

  Sighing, Ellie leaned on the corral fence and took inventory of her situation. Mr. Reynolds had to be the man she was looking for, but getting close to him would be a delicate dance. He made her . . . uneasy. He was a blink away from openly leering at her. Batting her eyelashes at him to get information might prove dangerous. She would try other tactics first.

  In the barn, a horse grumbled. A moment later, Mr. Hoyt emerged riding a tall, muscular sorrel. His eyes, dark and entrancing, drifted over Ellie. His gaze quickly moved beyond her, though, and he scanned the yard. Looking for Mr. Reynolds?

  Mr. Hoyt was her second problem. She couldn’t read the man. His stoic face, measured movements, thoughtful words perplexed her. He seemed awfully careful about something. He did not seem interested in having a bride around.

  “Shouldn’t you get back inside?”

  Ellie pushed off the fence, a little offended by his bossy tone. She’d had enough of men telling her where to go, what to do, how to act, how to do her job. Enough to last her a lifetime.

  Perhaps reading the gathering storm clouds in her face, he waved a gloved hand at her. “But you are a grown woman and a guest of the ranch. I just would appreciate it if you wouldn’t wander too far.” He shifted his gun belt and started reworking the string tie on his leg. “Got enough trouble without sending a search party after you.”

  The storm in Ellie’s mind eased off, but didn’t stop its roiling altogether. “I’m not a child, Mr. Hoyt. I won’t wander, and I won’t get lost.”

  He sighed and straightened up, surveying her with that inscrutable, steady gaze. “No, ma’am. I don’t believe you will. Now, I’ll be back in a couple of hours and we’ll take that ride, if
you are still of a mind to.”

  Once Jim had checked on the crew running new fence down on Grizzly Ridge and sent another crew to move a small herd, the day was about shot. Tired, his mind still reeling from the addition of a bride to his investigation, he dragged into his room at the back of the bunkhouse and flopped onto his cot.

  Out working, keeping busy, directing the boys, Jim hadn’t had too much of a problem keeping Miss Swank in the back of his brain. Like a small gnat, she’d flitted into his thoughts over and over, but had been easy to swat away.

  Now, in the quiet, the gnat had turned into a bee. A pretty one, buzzing him persistently.

  Drumming his fingers on his stomach, he pondered his potential bride and realized her arrival was a gift. She was a gift. Miss Swank wanted to see the ranch and was, therefore, the perfect excuse for Jim to roam about, slowly, carefully, at will. He could prompt her to ask questions of the men; where they hailed from, what did they do before coming to the Whiskey Creek spread, what were their plans for the future. Questions Jim had been forced to be careful with, take hours to ask during long, smoky poker games, but a gabby woman could ask them all day long.

  He smiled, heartened by the possibility . . . but the mood melted quickly.

  Dave Reynolds.

  In all likelihood, he was Sean O’Dea. And he was all eyes for Miss Swank. The attraction suggested a plan, one Jim had used before. Although, this time, it didn’t sit easy with him.

  In the past it had been a simple matter to toss a woman out as bait—direct her, encourage her, make her promises, give her the right reasons to ask questions—then walk away from the promises when the investigation ended. This situation was different.

  His fingers stopped.

  Why? Why is this different?

  Because Miss Swank was different. She was no Barbary Coast prostitute or high-society escort consorting with the wrong people by choice. She was simply an innocent woman who had stumbled into the middle of a mess.