The Brides of Evergreen Box Set

by Heather Blanton

  “I said I wouldn’t kiss you.” His voice was husky, almost strangled.

  She took his choice away. She pressed her lips to his, pulled his face in so he wouldn’t leave her. He didn’t try. He drank her in, held her so tight her breath came in gasps. Somehow he slipped her feet to the ground and backed her against the wagon. He pressed against her. She felt every lean living inch of him and he fit her perfectly, as if God had designed him to hold her. Only her.

  Slowly, little by little, he emptied out his kisses, and finally pulled away, but he didn’t let her go. As he gently drifted his fingers across her cheek, she wondered if the shock and confusion in his eyes reflected her own.

  Neither spoke. Finally, the silence grew too much for Ellie. “Say something.”

  He pressed his forehead to hers. “Miss Swank, I—”

  “Call me Ellie.”

  “Ellie?”

  She gasped and straightened. “I mean, Millie.” She squeezed her eyes shut and said it with conviction . . . and envy. “I am Millie Swank.”

  He embraced her, pulling her from the wagon, and kissed the top of her head. “Call me—” he paused. “Call me Clegg. Can you ride, Millie?”

  “What?” The question seemed out of place for the moment, jarring even.

  “I have to get us home. I can fix the wagon tomorrow.”

  Her gaze drifted to the horse. She hated to go, but they had no choice. “Yes, I can ride. And, uhm, for the record, Clegg, yes, that was agreeable.”

  9

  The bell over the door rang as Jim pushed his way into the Western Union office. Moseby, tapping away at the telegraph, motioned with his head for him to enter, and finished sending his message.

  Jim met the old man at the counter. “I was in town. You got anything for me?”

  “Was bringin’ it to ya today.” He plucked an envelope from the counter and handed it to him.

  Jim pulled it out and read it right there. DAVE REYNOLDS KNOWN ALIAS FOR SEAN O’DEA. NO TX CONNECTION OBVIOUS. IF O’DEA, SCAR ON RIGHT FOREARM. APPROX 4 INCHES LONG.

  Four inches? That shouldn’t be hard to spot if the man rolled up his sleeve.

  He thanked Moseby, started to leave, but decided to send another telegram. He picked up a pencil from the counter and started writing on the Western Union pad.

  MAIL ORDER BRIDE OF CLEGG HOYT HAS ARRIVED HERE.

  He paused. The statement sounded ridiculous, true as it was. He’d never dealt with anything so incredible before. And somehow, it all felt not only ridiculous, but unbelievable.

  He didn’t mistrust Millie, but something just wasn’t as it seemed with her, either. Was Jim so muddled by his attraction to the woman he couldn’t see the truth? He needed new eyes. A fresh perspective.

  He added to the telegram, INVESTIGATE BACKGROUND ON MILLIE SWANK. PRINCE STREET BOSTON.

  With a sense of dread, he slid the paper back to Moseby.

  “I really don’t need a new dress, Miss Stella.” Ellie drifted her hand over the cornflower blue bodice. A row of tiny pearl buttons marched up the front from the waist to the V-neck.

  “Oh, but it’s such a stunning color.” Miss Stella patted the dress form on the back. “Your eyes.” She lifted a sleeve and placed it against Ellie’s cheek and sucked in a breath. “Brings out the color perfectly. Clegg gets a look at you in this, he’s liable to trip over his own jaw.”

  Ellie chuckled. The lady rancher made some of the funniest comments. And the thought of Clegg speechless over this dress did hold some appeal. A little too much, Ellie decided. “No, I can’t. Really.”

  “You came out here to see if you could make things work. A marriage sure goes a lot smoother when both parties are in love with each other. So, what are you afraid of, Millie?”

  “I’m not afraid.” But she was. She was afraid of hurting Clegg if—when—she left. Worse, she was afraid she might want to stay. “I’m just confused.” Ellie didn’t want Clegg to fall in love with her. She certainly shouldn’t do anything to encourage him. The way he kissed her left her feeling as if she was drowning and floating up to heaven at the same time. The man positively took her breath away. Did she make him feel the same way? Lord, what if she did? The thought set her pulse to racing.

  “I have a strong suspicion this getup will help clarify things.” Miss Stella smiled and started slowly working the dress from the dress form. “We’re having a little gathering tomorrow night in your honor. I’ll see to it we get the alterations done in time if I have to bring cowboys in from the bunkhouse to sew.”

  Miss Stella had fitted the dress on Ellie that evening and both ladies had been inordinately pleased the tailoring would be minimal. That freed Miss Stella to run an errand on the ranch with the promise she would be home by dark or soon after.

  Her excursion allowed Ellie time to wander the ranch again, enjoy a warm evening, and chat briefly with a few more of the hands. Clegg had driven Miss Stella on her errand. His absence created a longing in Ellie, one she tried to fill by exploring. She felt safe rambling about, as he had told her Reynolds was out riding fence.

  There were too many hands nearby for her to go into the bunkhouse again, but maybe she could ask the right questions. Maybe Reynolds had been seen with the money? Or a box? Was he particularly protective of anything, like a saddle bag?

  She wandered the ranch again, at one point settling in a rocking chair and chatting politely with Bob Tucker. An old cowboy hobbled with age, he had turned into the bunkhouse cook. He knew all the ranch hands, but with his vision and hearing fading, didn’t have any helpful observations about the new ones. He did, however, have an endless stream of tall tales that left Ellie laughing and looking forward to another visit with the old man.

  Jaimie Adams, the youngest hand on the ranch—only sixteen or so—had taken it upon himself to try to raise a maverick. A maverick, the boy had explained to Ellie in a previous visit, was a motherless calf, and this young bull had not been weaned before losing his mother.

  Smiling, she watched through the stall’s slats as Jaimie turned a bottle up and the calf drank thirstily. “That’s a good boy,” he whispered soothingly.

  “He looks like he’s gaining weight.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’ve got every reason to believe he’s gonna make it.”

  Feeling a little desperate to make some progress in her investigation, she decided to risk a more direct question. “Jaimie, what do you think about Dave Reynolds?”

  The boy shrugged a shoulder. “Aw, I don’t know. He’s all right, I guess. You sweet on him?”

  “What? No. I think he’s been to Boston recently and that just had me curious about him.”

  “Good.” The boy switched the bottle to his other hand and flexed the tired fingers. “I like Mr. Hoyt and it would be wrong if you come here to marry him and fell for a fella like Reynolds.”

  “I take it you don’t like him, then?”

  “He’s just—” Jaimie frowned. “Ill. I mean sour. All the time. And he gets real antsy if you get too close to his stuff. Said livin’ in the city made him that way. Somebody’s always tryin’ to take what you got.”

  “Was he in Boston last before coming here, or has he said?”

  “Not to me. Only says the city.”

  Sundown coming on, Ellie went back to the house and set about lighting lamps in the library and the kitchen.

  A little bored, arguably restless, she meandered back out to the front porch. Lights glowed in the bunkhouse windows. Was Reynolds back? Was he sitting on that money? How Ellie wished she could share this dilemma with Clegg.

  She hugged herself against a slight chill that came from more than just Wyoming’s fickle weather. Was a byline worth all the lies, all the tumultuous, possibly heart-breaking, emotions? She longed to tell Clegg the truth. Maybe he could even help her find out the truth about O’Dea.

  Unless he was somehow working with the man.

  The idea was absurd and she brushed it away. It still stuck in her craw, however, t
hat Clegg hadn’t even thought about dismissing Reynolds after he had manhandled her. Oddly, she didn’t sense cowardice or even weakness in the decision. Then why let the man off so easily?

  She sighed, long and slowly, trying to expel doubts. Around her, night settled in. Horses nickered and grunted over in the corral. Pots and pans banged together in the bunkhouse. The men laughed at something, their good humor rumbling like a peel of thunder. Faintly, cows mooed and bellowed, the breeze carrying the sound away.

  Peaceful. A ranch at night was peaceful. She had slept well since coming here. Once she finally fell asleep. Just the thought of being in Clegg’s arms sent her pulse racing, and launched butterflies in her stomach. He kissed her masterfully, perfectly, to her devastation.

  He makes my knees weak, Lord. I always thought that was something written in one of those horrid romance novels. But it’s true. It happens to me—

  “Pining for yer man, m’lady?”

  Reynolds. The warmth in the pit of Ellie’s stomach instantly changed to a black dread. She raised her chin and followed the sound of his voice. He stepped up on the end of the porch, silhouetted against the fading orange sky. He shoved his hands into his pockets and sauntered over to her. Ellie consciously anchored her feet, though she wanted badly to back away from the man.

  He approached her, but stopped at a respectable distance, and chuckled. “Yer a hard lass to read.” He shook his head. “Fearless. Or touched. I’m not sure which.” He took two quick steps up to her. “Why were ye goin’ through my things?”

  Ellie clenched her teeth and commanded her feet not to budge. “I didn’t. I said it wasn’t what it looked like.”

  Trust is the most important thing a reporter can bring to an investigation. Mr. Taylor’s words rang loud and clear. But how?

  Reynolds sniffed, scanned her top to bottom. “Is it coincidence the new foreman’s mail-order bride from Boston shows up now? And one with such fine manners and highbrow talk.”

  “I’ve had some education. And Mr. Hoyt and I have been corresponding for months.”

  “For months? Aye.” That seemed to settle something in his mind. He lifted a lock of her hair. “Then you snuck in hoping to find me alone.”

  For an instant she thought about playing along, to see if he might confess to something. Tip his hand. She could show him a little ankle, as it were. Just a little. Carefully. “I was hoping we could be friends.” Her heart started galloping in her chest. Why did she feel as if she was betraying Clegg? She ignored her screaming conscience and pushed on. “We could talk about Boston. Perhaps we knew some of the same people.”

  Reynolds’ body relaxed. Even in the shadows, she could see his grin widen. “Lonesome for home, are ye then?” He inched closer.

  “Yes. You could say that. It’s all so different here.” She licked dry lips and forced herself not to retreat. “What did you do back in Boston?”

  He leaned in, resting a hand on the post behind her. “A little of this and a little of that. Ye’re a curious thing.”

  Ellie smelled whiskey on the man’s breath. She wanted to run. No, bolt like a rabbit and not stop running till she was behind a locked bedroom door. Steady girl. “Well, I just find it interesting,”—why did she sound so breathless?— “How one could go from working in the city to working on a ranch. I wouldn’t think many jobs overlapped.”

  “Brains and fists in the city. Brains and brawn on the ranch. Same difference.”

  She was annoyed with his answers. Lord, he talks in circles. This is getting me nowhere.

  And Reynolds leaned in even closer. One last try, she decided. More direct. “Brains and fists. Did you work in one of the illegal trades. Did—did you work for a gang?”

  “Maybe yes. Maybe no.” He dropped a hand on her shoulder.

  Comes a moment . . . when not backing away sends a message.

  Clegg’s face rose up in her mind. She was supposed to be his mail-order bride. She shouldn’t be gadding about, flirting with the ranch hands.

  Was she that tawdry? That desperate for this story?

  She stepped back, abruptly, firmly. “I should be going inside.”

  Though she said it as lightly as possible, she saw the change. Full dark was almost upon them, but she didn’t miss the subtle irritation tweaking his expression. Tightened lips. A slight lift of his chin. “You are a thief. Aye, most of the gals from Prince Street have the gift of lifting a man’s spirits along with his wallet.” He clutched her face, hard, but only firm enough to send a message, not leave a bruise, until she tried to jerk free. Then his grip tightened. “But not mine. Stay out of me things, or you’ll get hurt.” He tweaked her chin, turned, and jumped off the porch. In a moment, the darkness swallowed him.

  Ellie rubbed her cheeks and didn’t move until light spilled from the bunkhouse and Reynolds disappeared inside.

  10

  Jim slung the string tie around his neck, stepped up to his mirror, and set about tying it.

  Keeping the party welcoming Millie to the ranch a secret had been no small feat. At first Jim hadn’t even been on board with Miss Stella’s idea, but she had convinced him. But they had also agreed on a tweak. Rather than tell folks this party was for a bride, they were merely honoring a guest now.

  His fingers slowed as he studied himself in the mirror. Was he handsome? He’d been told he had a strong jaw, a mischievous smile, and brown eyes that hinted at brewing passion. Yes, Sally Koch of the San Francisco Kochs had had plenty of syrupy sweet things to say about him as her beau, until the truth of his profession had come out.

  Well, not everyone could be a millionaire.

  He snatched the tie loose and started again. A housekeeper from Boston might be more than impressed with his chosen profession, however. She might look at him with admiration rather than polite disdain. How much money he made might not be the issue that qualified—or disqualified—him for marriage.

  His fingers froze. Just what are you thinking, Jim West? He stared at his empty ring finger in the mirror. No. There was no way they could make it work. He wasn’t ready to walk away from the good he did. Not yet.

  But this was the closest he’d ever come to thinking about it.

  Miss Stella’s library was filled to the brim with folks from town and most of the ranch hands. A true lady, she did not scorn the company of hired help. In fact, she had told Jim once if a man was good enough to work on her ranch, he was good enough to eat at her table. She shared good whiskey, allowed cigars, and only asked for gentlemanly conduct at all times.

  Nibbling on a small apple fritter, Jim nodded and shook hands as he drifted through the smoke and crowd to stand near the entrance. The position afforded a view of the stairs. Miss Swank—Millie—had not joined them yet, and Jim couldn’t but wonder about the hold-up.

  Miss Stella crossed his path carrying a tray of cookies. “Don’t worry, Clegg, she’ll be down shortly.”

  Jim straightened, wondering what gave it away. “I wasn’t waiting.”

  Miss Stella lifted that eyebrow at him, clearly expressing great disgust with his lie, and glided into the milling crowd. He watched her go, miffed that merely because he was standing here, at the foot of the steps, it looked as if he was—

  Movement drew his eye to the top of the staircase and his breath caught in his chest. Involuntarily, his hand came to rest over his heart. Miss Swank was a vision. The blue dress—the color of a September sky—not only highlighted the color of her eyes, but it highlighted those lovely curves as well. The V-neck hinted at just enough cleavage to have him repenting of impure thoughts for a month of Sundays. Her golden locks were piled loosely in a bun, begging him to take out the pins and let all that shimmering hair fall into his hands.

  Unaware of his torment—he was sure—she smiled as she descended the stairs. “Good evening, Clegg.”

  At first he didn’t hear her. So amazed was he, at not only how beautiful she was, but how incapable of rational thought he was at the mere sight of her. He’d
been attracted to women before. This was something . . . dangerous. And addictive.

  She stopped at the bottom step, nearly eye level with him. “Aren’t you speaking to me this evening?”

  He swallowed and gathered his wits. “You look lovely.” He frowned. “Truly lovely.”

  “You don’t look or sound happy about it.”

  He offered his arm. “Takes a little getting used to, is all. I’ll come ’round.”

  Her brow dipped in confusion. “What takes a little getting used to?”

  He leaned in. “Feeling . . . ”

  “Feeling?”

  “Something . . . ” he ducked his head, not willing to dive too deep. “Something real.” Grabbing his hat off the hall tree, he decided that was all the labeling he would do tonight. Out in the front yard, a fiddle and a harmonica started up. He breathed a sigh of relief. “Would you care to dance, Miss Swank?” His lips twitched. “Millie.”

  As they twirled around the front yard, Jim held on to Millie and tried hard to compare her to every other woman he’d ever danced with, to pull her down from this imaginary pedestal he’d inadvertently placed her on. He had seen beautiful women in stunning dresses; he’d danced with them, held them in his arms, yet . . .

  He looked into Millie’s gleaming, enchanting blue eyes and felt as if he’d never danced with any other woman before. She stirred a deep passion in his body and, yet, poured peace into his soul. Perplexed, he pulled her closer and she moved in willingly. He wanted to kiss her again, but the dance floor was certainly not the place. “How are you liking Wyoming, Millie? Does ranching life appeal to you?”

  She slid her hand up his arm, slowly, as if savoring the feel of his muscle, and nodded. “I like it more and more every day.”