The Brides of Evergreen Box Set

by Heather Blanton

  Jim sat up and swung his feet off the cot. There was more here than that, of course, but he wouldn’t give voice to it. No need to. Anything involving his heart was manageable. Because he could leave when the doors closed. He’d done it a hundred times.

  Miss Swank would be a hundred and one.

  Ellie hurried to her desk and pulled her journal from the valise. Thoughts and observations stampeding through her brain, she scribbled notes furiously before the information left her head.

  When Mr. Hoyt had returned after a few hours, he offered to show her around, to pass a few minutes before dinner. At Miss Stella’s urging, they had first visited with the blacksmith, Henry Yadkin, an older man from Macon, Georgia. He had worked on the ranch for over ten years and therefore, didn’t seem a likely suspect.

  They’d chatted with Bob Carolton, the lead wrangler for the ranch. He, too, had been employed on the Whiskey Creek Ranch for nearly a decade. His assistant, however, Bob Wills, was new to the ranch. Hired just before Mr. Hoyt arrived. A young man, he hailed from San Antonio most recently, but he had bounced around some and been vague with the details of his background. Ellie couldn’t decide if the man was evasive or merely shy. It was hard not to be suspicious of everyone.

  Still, her thoughts went back to Dave Reynolds, whom they had not come across again. Something about him. He had a criminal way about him, if she could be so bold. An arrogance she’d seen before back in Boston. He was above things here.

  She tapped her pencil on the paper. Of course, she could be completely wrong. Maybe she hadn’t met Sean O’Dea at all. Maybe he wasn’t even on this ranch.

  Is he here, Lord? Is Dave Reynolds the man I’m looking for?

  A soft knock at the door and her prayer choked off. “Yes?”

  “It’s me. Stella. Dinner’s ready. Clegg and I are in the dining room.”

  Ellie slapped the journal shut. “Yes, thank you. I’ll be there in just a moment.”

  She buried the journal at the bottom of her valise, and rushed to a mirror. She quickly braided her hair, but decided against the look and brushed it out. She pinched her cheeks, bit her lips . . . and froze, her ice blue eyes going wide.

  What am I doing?

  I’m primping.

  For him.

  She wanted to impress Mr. Hoyt. She laid cool fingers across her mouth and turned away from the mirror. She had enjoyed the ranch tour with him, being on his arm. The men admired and respected her, partly because she was female, and partly because Mr. Hoyt had earned their respect in a few short weeks. The men addressed him with sir, answered questions quickly and forthrightly, smiled and shook hands eagerly with him. She admired that.

  She admired him.

  “Oh, Ellie Blair,” she pointed an accusing finger at her reflection. “You are not attracted to that man.” He’s handsome. Ruggedly so. But it ends right there. You’ll find O’Dea. You’ll do what’s necessary to find him, even bat your eyelashes if need be. You will get the scoop that will put your name on the front page of the New York Times. You will not be distracted by a man. Nellie Bly wouldn’t be. Neither will you.

  She almost stomped her foot in determination. Wrangling in her focus with a herculean effort, she rolled a shoulder and marched from her room.

  So far Ellie hadn’t found anything on the Whiskey Creek Ranch she didn’t like. That included the food. She slipped into the kitchen as Miss Stella was setting down a bowl of biscuits. The older woman had covered the table with fried chicken, candied yams, fried okra, and biscuits. The aroma of the meal hung in the air and made Ellie’s mouth water. She never ate this well back in Boston, unless she went home to see her parents.

  “Can I help, Miss Stella?”

  “Of course not.” The woman spun to her and took her by the elbow. “You are a guest. Have a seat. I have everything ready.”

  Ellie settled in across the table from Mr. Hoyt and smiled at him. He returned it, though with a surprising lack of warmth.

  A little puzzled, she flicked her napkin open and set it in her lap. “I enjoyed the walk today, Mr. Hoyt. Thank you for showing me around.”

  “You sure seem to enjoy chatting and asking questions. You got more conversation out of Bob Carolton in five minutes than I’ve gotten out of him in two weeks.”

  Ellie noted an icy edge in his voice and it troubled her.

  Miss Stella dropped a pair of chicken legs on to her plate. “Oh, he’s always been slow to speak.”

  “He was anything but, with Miss Swank. In fact, all the boys were pretty ready to chat. Every tongue on the ranch is wagging about the pretty guest in Miss Stella’s home.”

  Miss Stella chuckled as she poured lemonade for them. “Cowboys on a lonely ranch can be worse gossips than old biddies hanging over a fence.” She stretched her hands out to Ellie and Mr. Hoyt. “Let’s say the blessing and get this dinner started.”

  As food passed back and forth at the table, Ellie tried to make sense of Mr. Hoyt’s observations and his tone. Was he annoyed with her? Amused? And he’d called her pretty again? She plopped a serving of mashed potatoes onto her plate and handed him the bowl. “Are you upset with me?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  He filled his plate with the delicacies on the table and Ellie waited. She felt there was something he wasn’t saying . . . yet. She caught his eye and tried subtly to express her disbelief in the flat answer.

  He nodded, ever-so-slightly in acquiescence. “I am a little . . .” he finished stocking his plate, and looked at her, “perplexed. You didn’t tell anyone why you’re here. I take that as a reflection on me.”

  Ellie bit her lip, confused. He sounded serious, but didn’t, at the same time. She could see his point, though, and wondered if he was trying to stay light-hearted to save face in front of Miss Stella, and his men. She guessed such was the case. Men and their egos.

  Miss Stella pulled a biscuit in two and pointed at Mr. Hoyt with one half. “It’s not an easy thing, Clegg, for some women to fess up to being a mail-order bride.”

  “And I had no idea if you’d told your men about me,” Ellie pointed out. Now that she thought about it, it bothered her a little. “You didn’t introduce me as your betrothed. What was I to think? I wasn’t sure how much I should say.”

  “Maybe we could hammer some of these things out on the ride this evening, then.”

  Mr. Hoyt’s gaze warmed and his eyes seemed to burn a shade darker. Much to her dismay, Ellie found herself hoping it wasn’t just her imagination.

  5

  A late June sun balanced itself on the distant peeks of the Laramie Mountains, shining directly in Jim’s face. He tugged his hat lower to block the glare. Miss Swank used her hand as a shield. As they rode along, insects buzzed in the tall grass on either side of them, silhouetted in the waning afternoon glow.

  An awkwardness had wrapped itself around them and Jim was hesitant to breach it. He wasn’t sure why he’d said that part about hammering out things between them. Thinking out loud, he supposed. But what must Miss Swank be thinking? Fact was, they did need to come to some sort of an understanding, lest every hand on the Whiskey think she was not spoken for—creating the potential for more problems than he cared to imagine.

  His mind stumbled over how to draw the lady beside him closer, gain her trust, even her affection if necessary, and get her to use that unbridled curiosity of hers to investigate the ranch’s men.

  “You are a curious thing.” He hadn’t really meant to say that aloud.

  She sighed. “I know.”

  “Not the first time you’ve heard that, eh?”

  Looking a little chagrined, she shrugged. “It has come up before.”

  The topic faded and he wondered what else to say. What if he said the wrong thing? He needed those letters.

  He sneaked a sideways glance at her and had to bite down a smile. Face shielded from the sun by her hand, she stared with awe at the distant mountains. Jagged, snow-capped, turning all shades of orange and red in the
sunset, Wyoming was one of the prettiest places on God’s earth. “Not many views like that back in Boston.”

  She didn’t respond right away. When she did, she spoke slowly, carefully. “To stand beside you as the oranges and reds of a summer sunset turn the mountain peaks to flames.” She smiled winsomely.

  “I’m sorry?” Was she quoting poetry? Or worse, his letters?

  “To stop and let you listen to the pristine silence.” She touched his arm. “Would you? Stop?”

  Confused but obliging, he pulled the horse to a standstill. And they listened. A faint breeze drifted over the waist-high grass. A fly buzzed. The wagon creaked softly with each lazy swish of the horse’s tail. He caught the scent of sage on the air.

  She seemed to drink it in. The pristine silence, was it? Where did Hoyt’s matchmaker get his words?

  Ellie frowned and cut her eyes at him. “Have you been to Boston? How do you know what kind of views we have?”

  Had he been to Boston? Or rather, had Hoyt? Jim gambled. “No. I just meant, I bet there aren’t any views like this. And certainly, no pristine silence.”

  A little crease in her forehead remained, even though she nodded. “No. And the city is crowded and dirty. It smells. But it’s exciting. It’s a busy, vibrant city with so much history.” Her eyebrows rose suddenly, as if she remembered something. “But I hate it. I’m eager to be in a place where a man—or woman—can have lots of elbow room. Make her own way. Face the challenges of living in this raw environment.”

  She was quoting again, or so Jim surmised. “Did I say that? Did I say all those things. Including pristine silence?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Yes. Don’t you remember?”

  “I’m usually tired when I write. It’s late. I remember the sentiment. Just not the exact words.”

  “Oh. Yes. I could see that.”

  “Wyoming can definitely be raw,” he said, trying to find something safe to talk about. “Especially long about January.” Jim had traveled all over the United States, some in Europe, and didn’t know of any place colder than this new state when the wind and snow were blowing.

  “I thought you said you hadn’t been to Wyoming before?”

  Jim turned the wagon southwest down Corn Crib Road and Miss Swank dropped her hand. Her gaze was sharp and skeptical. Jim shrugged. “Wyoming’s winters are famous.”

  Again, he noticed the little crease in her forehead. Had he misspoken? Somehow aroused her suspicion about his identity? Wouldn’t that be something? To have two years of work derailed by a mail-order bride.

  “Lots of time to read in a place where the winters are severe.”

  He nodded. “True. What do you like to read? Wuthering Heights or some such?”

  Miss Swank shivered. “Good Lord, no. Romantic drivel, that. I love history books and biographies. Occasionally fiction, but not often. And, of course, the Bible. I’ve been quite impressed with your knowledge of the Old Testament.”

  “Mine?” Pure shock almost made its way to his face, but Jim wrestled it down. “The Old Testament?”

  “Yes, your thoughts on the Book of Ruth were fascinating. Comparing Boaz’s willingness to marry Ruth to Christ’s desire to redeem His bride, the church. Beautiful.”

  “Yes. Beautiful.” And sickening. Hoyt had obviously paid a matchmaker to write those letters. One who had gone far beyond the pale.

  “Would you mind showing me where you’d like to build the cabin?”

  Jim’s stomach knotted. “The cabin?”

  “Yes, I assume you’ve had time to scout a home site? Something near water or with a view of the mountains? Which did you say you’d prefer?”

  “Um . . . ”

  “You mentioned you thought you’d have it finished by mid-August. Although you did arrive here later than originally planned.”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s it.” He resisted the urge to sweep a hand over his mouth. The gesture always betrayed his stress. “I’ve barely had any time to consider building. I’m behind on a lot of my plans.”

  “If you expect to marry me, or any other woman, shouldn’t you be concerned about where you’ll live?”

  Jim wanted to sigh, but he held that back, too. This little gal had him backing up against the wall. He needed to change the direction of this game.

  “Running this ranch has been more time-consuming than I had anticipated.” He tied the reins around the hand brake. Reminding himself he had a job to do, he turned to her and leaned in a touch closer. “I’ve never worked on a spread this large. It’s taking some getting used to.” Her eyes, perfect sapphires, widened and he enjoyed the thrill of setting her off balance. “But if I’d known ahead of time how pretty you are, I would have had a cabin waiting for us.”

  Miss Swank’s mouth fell open. Literally. Jim had to clamp his jaw to keep from laughing. He’d really set her back on her heels with that comment. Her mouth moved into a little “O”, then she swallowed and lifted her chin. “I . . . I . . . ”

  He leaned in another inch. “You don’t back away, do you? Comes a moment, though, Miss Swank,” he glanced at her lips, so soft and delicate, “when not backing away sends a message.”

  She froze like a fawn listening for danger. He caught a whiff of her perfume and it reminded him of roses and lilacs. A golden strand of hair drifted across her cheek, stirred by a gentle summer breeze. Her chest rose and fell at a faster pace.

  Jim lifted the hair away but stared at it for a moment, struck by how it resembled spun gold. Somehow his hand moved to her cheek. Her lips parted slightly and her gaze flicked to his mouth. The notion to kiss her came as easily as his next breath. His lips met hers, gently, questioning. Then she yielded to him and fire raced through his veins at the sweet taste of her.

  He held her tighter, his fingers clutching at her waist. His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out everything but the sound of her breathing. The heat of their mouths discovering each other ignited desire in his soul—

  She jerked away, leaving him with a frigid emptiness. She stared back at him, mouth agape, chest heaving.

  Mesmerized, he ran a thumb over her lips, while in his gut something told him to run. All the way back to San Francisco. Back to the faux charms of insincere women—women who posed no real threat. He licked his lips and tried to find some shred of his focus, some reminder this was a job and he was not a schoolboy with a crush. Shamelessly, he sought refuge in shallow humor. “I found that most agreeable, Miss Swank.”

  She blinked and shook her head. “You should take me home.”

  Jim leaned back confused, concerned. What was he thinking? Though a housemaid, she was still a lady. “I’m sorry. I overstepped—”

  “Please, just take me back.”

  Her pleading cut him. He straightened up with a nod and untied the reins.

  6

  Ellie fell back across her bed and flinched at the memory of the kiss. She could still feel Mr. Hoyt holding her, his mouth on hers. His scent clung to her. Leather and sweat and something uniquely him, manly and strong. His dark chocolate eyes had sent a chill racing up her spine in that moment . . . the moment she knew he was going to kiss her and she’d wanted him to. Desperately.

  Groaning, she rolled over on her stomach. “Oh, Lord,” she whispered, “what have I gotten myself into? I can’t be distracted like this.” Nellie Bly wouldn’t. She would have kissed Mr. Hoyt back, and then asked why he didn’t recognize his own handwriting. Or remember that he had talked about building a lovely cabin, one with a view of the Laramie Mountains.

  I can’t even think straight around the man.

  She rolled on to her back again and scrubbed her face, trying to clear away this strange mental fog of . . . desire. Again, the memory of his lips on hers sent heat racing to every part of her body.

  No, no, no, she scolded, rolling her head back and forth. I’m not sixteen. This is ridiculous. I’m just a little overwhelmed because he’s so handsome. It’s merely a physical attraction. One I can manage. Remember
the scoop.

  The scoop.

  My story.

  She could hear the laughter of the male reporters in the newsroom. Recall their jokes. Their mockery of her dainty boots.

  MY story.

  MY bylines.

  Her heart sped up, this time for different reasons. She clenched her jaw and took several long, slow breaths. MY story. The Murphy Gang. This investigation can take murderers off the streets of Boston and get me the front page. I need to leave Mr. Hoyt for the real Miss Swank. The real—fortunate—Miss Swank.

  What is Mr. Hoyt lying about?

  The thought startled her, unbidden as it was, but it made sense. He hadn’t recognized his own handwriting. Talking about the Old Testament had puzzled him. He didn’t seem to recall any of the details he’d written in his letters or about his cabin. She should look more closely at her potential groom.

  Or was that playing with fire?

  She sat up, forcing her head to quiet her heart. Dave Reynolds knew an awful lot about Boston and the criminal elements there. Clegg Hoyt seemed to know very little about his own dreams.

  Two men new to the ranch. Coincidence?

  She doubted it.

  Did they have secrets? Were they wearing masks? A line from Shakespeare floated through her mind. The play’s the thing wherein we’ll catch the conscience of the king.

  She’d best play her part well then.

  Jim wanted to bang his head against a wall. He barged into the bunkhouse, kicked the door shut behind him . . . and just stood there, hands on his hips. Lost. What had he been thinking? What had come over him? He’d kissed her. There had been no call for the brash action. More confusing, she’d kissed him back. Then why had she pulled away in panic?

  He’d been too bold. She was not a pawn in this chess game. Disgusted he had taken such an uninvited liberty with Miss Swank, he snatched off his hat and tossed it across the room. Only then did he become aware of the eyes upon him, staring at him from the table tucked in the corner. Four of his men sat silent and slack-jawed, hands filled with cards. The fifth player, Dave Reynolds, grinned like the Cheshire cat.