Season of Love (Cutter's Creek Book 11)

by Vivi Holt

  When they pulled through the ranch gate, it was impossible to see much through the storm, but the long two-story building in the distance stood in stark contrast to the white landscape. Margaret gasped. Was that Heath’s house? It was enormous, sprawling across a small open field at the edge of the foothills. A large dark barn sat off to one side, along with what looked like a bunkhouse for the cowboys. Heath pulled up at the front door of the house, and bundled Margaret and the children out of the sleigh and inside before driving the horses toward the barn.

  His housekeeper was waiting and fussed over them, gathering coats and scarves and hanging them on a coat rack by the massive oak front doors. “Merry Christmas, all of you,” she said with a warm smile. “I’m Mrs. Smythe, and I’m so glad to meet you all – Mr. Moore talks about nothin’ else but you these days, it seems.” She winked at Margaret and led the way into the house. “Come with me, my dears – I’ve lit a fire, and it’s good and warm. Phew, but it’s cold out there, you poor dears. I’ve warmed you some apple cider, specially made just for today. I hope you’ll like it.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Smythe.” Margaret followed Mrs. Smythe, her mouth agape at her surroundings. The house was lavishly decorated, with dark timber furnishings and beautiful art lining the walls. The living area featured a large mantle with a roaring fire beneath it. Leather and horsehair couches and settees filled the space, and the children made their way quietly to sit down, their eyes wide.

  Heath rushed through the front door and closed it firmly behind him. He stamped the snow from his boots, and strode over to join them. “Welcome to my home,” he said, sitting down on the horsehair settee beside Frank.

  “Thank you, Heath.” Margaret’s voice was small and her eyes flickered around the space, taking it all in. “Your house is beautiful. And this artwork – it’s really wonderful.”

  “Thank you. But I have to say, I like the art at your house better. You painted it all, didn’t you?”

  “I did. Although it’s not as accomplished as that one there over the mantle. It’s lovely.”

  Mrs. Smythe entered through a swinging door, a tray in her hand. “Apple cider for everyone,” she called.

  Margaret licked her lips. The children were quieter than usual, and she knew they must be taking in their rich surroundings in awe, much the same as she was. The house was impressive, but felt homey at the same time. Heath looked completely at ease playing host, handing out cups as Mrs. Smythe poured them. She watched him, her heart hammering in her chest. He certainly was everything a woman could want in a man. She only wished she’d met him earlier. Now that she had the children, any man who wished to be in her life had to accept them as well.

  But to Heath’s credit, he seemed to be doing just that.

  Chapter Nine

  After Christmas dinner, Margaret helped Mrs. Smythe clear the dishes from the table. “Thank you so much – it was delicious,” said Margaret as she stacked the dirty plates on the long cedar kitchen table.

  “I’m so glad you enjoyed it, dear. I can see now why Mr. Moore is so smitten with you all.”

  Margaret felt her cheeks warm under the older woman’s praise. “How long have you worked for him?”

  “Oh, only about five years. Though I suppose that’s quite a long time to a young person, but not so long to me. He hired me soon after he built this house. I’ve loved every minute of it, though it does get a bit lonely out here, ‘specially in the colder months. I don’t like to venture out much in weather like this.”

  “I can understand that,” said Margaret, as she scraped a plate clean.

  “How are you copin’ with all those younguns?”

  “Well, we’re still getting to know each other. The children seem to have settled into the farmhouse and our life together. And I have to say, I absolutely love having them. You know, when I offered to take them in, I did it because I wanted to help, to give them a home. But now I can see that they’ve given me one. They’re my family, and I’m happier than I’ve been in years, since I lost my own family. So even though it’s hard work and they’ve already given me more than my fair share of heart-stopping moments, I wouldn’t change a thing.”

  Mrs. Smythe grinned at her, her hands on her ample hips. “That is good to hear, my dear. I must say, you’re wise beyond your years. It takes some folks a lifetime to learn that lesson, and others never do.”

  A sound at the door startled Margaret, and she turned to find Mary Beth standing in the kitchen doorway, a stack of dirty dishes in her hands. Her mouth hung open and her eyes shone with unshed tears. “Got some dishes,” she mumbled, entering the kitchen to lay them on the table.

  “Thank you, Mary Beth,” said Margaret. She wondered how much of their conversation Mary Beth had overheard.

  Mary Beth hid behind a veil of her hair as she sorted the dishes on the table. Then she turned to face Margaret, a tear glistening on her cheek. “Did ya mean that?” she whispered.

  “Mean what?” asked Margaret.

  “That yer happy ya took us all in? We’re not just a burden or a project to ya? Ya don’t plan on passing us off to the next do-gooder what comes along?” Her face showed the pain in her heart, and she dashed at the solitary tear with a closed fist. She seemed determined to keep her emotions in check and not show any vulnerability.

  Margaret smiled. “I meant every word. I’m sorry for how you and your brothers and sisters have been treated, and the things life has thrown at you. But you have to know, you all bring me so much joy. And as long as I’m able to, I’ll be your family and you’ll be mine, and we’ll face everything life brings us together. Does that sound okay to you?”

  Mary Beth flipped the hair back from her face, and a ghost of a smile flitted across her thin mouth. Then she threw her arms around Margaret’s neck, squeezed tight … let go, and fled from the kitchen.

  Margaret was left gaping after her. “Well, I never … did you hear that?” she asked Mrs. Smythe.

  “I did indeed.” The housekeeper pulled a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and dabbed at her wet eyes. “What a beautiful thing you’ve done, lass. I thought you were crazy when Mr. Moore told me, but now I see the truth. It’s a beautiful thing.”

  Margaret took Mrs. Smythe’s hand and squeezed it. “Thank you.”

  A knock at the kitchen door interrupted their conversation. Heath poked his head in. “Can I steal Miss Hutchins away for a few moments?”

  “Sure you can,” said Mrs. Smythe, wiping her hands dry on her apron. “I was just thinkin’ of setting myself down for a bit to read. The children might like to join me by the fire for a story. The three of them walked back to the dining room, and Mrs. Smythe led the children into the living room to read The Swiss Family Robinson while Heath offered to show Margaret around the house.

  They strolled side by side down the long hallway. “Thank you for a lovely meal – it was much better than us shivering over the kitchen table at the farmhouse together,” said Margaret with a chuckle.

  “You’re welcome. In fact …” He turned to face her and placed his hands on her arms to stop her. “I hope you know that you’re always welcome here.”

  “Well, thank you, Heath, I appreciate it.” She felt momentarily confused – what was he trying to say? His face was red, and he was rubbing a hand across his brow as if flustered. “What is it?”

  “Meg, I know your life has changed a lot lately. You’ve taken on a big responsibility with the children, and you’re trying to give them some stability in their life. You amaze me every day with how brave, strong and patient you are. You’ve taken it all on with barely a thought for yourself and what you might need or want.” He sighed and wiped away the sweat beading on his forehead with the back of his sleeve.

  Then he dropped to one knee, taking her hand in his. “Dearest Meg, I know I shouldn’t dare to hope that you’d consider me, that you’d love me. But I can’t help it. Would you consider becoming my wife? I love you. There’s no other way to say it – I love you. Yo
u amaze me. You make me happy. I feel like I’m home when I’m with you. I want to spend my life with you. Now I understand if you want to wait, to get the children more settled in their life with you, but I just need to know that perhaps there’s some hope for me. What do you say?”

  Margaret gasped and covered her open mouth with her free hand. He loved her? She knew he cared for her and the children, and wanted to do his bit to support her. But that he loved her, and wanted to marry her, in spite of her current situation … it was too much. She didn’t know how to respond, what to say.

  Finally she dropped to her knees as well, and took his other hand in hers. Tears glistened in her eyes and a sob escaped her tightened throat. “Heath, are you sure? You want to take us all into your life, into your beautiful home? We’re noisy and messy and seem to get ourselves into an inordinate number of scrapes. Do you think you’d be able to cope with it all?”

  He laughed heartily, tilting his head back and closing his eyes as the sound echoed down the hall. Then he looked at her again with love in his dark eyes. “I think I can. Is that a yes?”

  “Yes! Oh yes! And I don’t want to wait. I don’t think we should. The children will be happy if we’re happy, don’t you think?”

  “I do,” he said. He stood to his feet, pulling her with him and into his firm embrace. His hands wrapped around her waist, and she stood on tip-toe to stare into his eyes with tenderness. Then he dipped his head to kiss her.

  When his lips met hers, she felt a jolt of pleasure from her mouth all the way down her body, and she trembled from head to toe. She didn’t know what the future held for them all, but she knew one thing – she would face it all now with a family and a home. And the knowledge of that filled her with a sudden joy. She would never spend another Christmas alone.

  ***

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  Read on for an excerpt from Of Peaks and Prairies (Paradise Valley, Book 1).

  Excerpt: Of Peaks and Prairies (Paradise Valley, Book 1)

  Chapter One

  2nd August, 1867

  Fort Worth, Texas

  Genevieve Waters-Ewing walked from the church with her hand resting lightly on Quincey Ewing’s raised arm. He’d shaved for the first time in months, and she glanced with distaste at a scratch on his cheek where the blade had nicked his weathered skin. Her whole body trembled and she fought hard to push down the sobs that threatened to escape her aching throat at any moment. He turned to face her with a grin, his ten-gallon hat perched unevenly on his square head.

  The minister who’d married them was so old and frail and his hearing so bad, each time she shook her head and shouted “no” during their vows, he simply nodded with a toothless grin and continued on with the ceremony. When she tried to run, Quincey held her close and pinched her arm. In the end she stood her ground, confident that the law would never uphold such a marriage – until, that is, her new husband forged her signature on the marriage certificate. Now she wasn’t so sure.

  She glared at him as her stepfather came up alongside her. “Congratulations, Genny – yer a married woman now! Isn’t that what ya always wanted?” He chuckled, and she caught him winking behind her back at his childhood friend – the man who’d just been pronounced her husband.

  “Well, at least it’ll get ya out from under my feet,” he continued. “I can’t be payin’ for yer upkeep forever. Your Ma done died on me, leavin’ me with a rug-rat I never wanted. Now it’s time for ya to find yer own place in life. Can’t say as I’ll miss ya much, ‘part from the cookin’ ‘n sech of course, but I’ll find a missus to do that soon enough with ya out of the house. ‘Course, yer not goin’ far – just across the way. I’m sure ya could find it in yer heart to help me out a time or two, after all I’ve done fer ya.”

  They’d stepped out into the bright Texas morning, and Genevieve squinted against the sunlight that streamed down through a faint fuzz of thin clouds above. She cast her gaze around – they were on the outskirts of Fort Worth, Texas, and she could see the plains stretched out before them. The town pushed toward the openness, threatening to civilize its bluffs, rises and hollows. Chaparral tufts littered the landscape, sheltering hare and various rodents and giving the plains an unkempt look.

  Genevieve smoothed the skirts of her burgundy-plaid dress. It was the nicest dress she owned, but even so it was well worn and pulled tightly across her chest and hips where she’d grown in recent years. A long line of small buttons ran up the front of the bodice. The sleeves no longer reached her wrists even when she tugged at them, and the stays pinched her tiny waist. She sighed. “If Ma knew what you had planned for me, Fred, she’d roll over in her grave.” She caught a sob and pushed it back down with a grimace.

  He laughed again, this time with a slap on his thigh. When the sound faded, he leveled his face close to hers. She could smell stale tobacco and tequila as his bloodshot eyes trained on hers and held her gaze. “Ya watch yer manners there, Missy. Ya got a husband now, and he may not put up with yer sass the way I done.”

  She felt a squeeze on her arm and turned to face her new husband with a gasp. “What was that for?”

  “Ya speak to my friend here with some respect. He’s yer elder and I won’t have none of yer lip, ya hear? Yer my wife now and you’ll heed what I say, got it?” Quincey took off his hat to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Dagnabit, it’s hot today. What say we grab us a drink to celebrate this fine occasion?” he asked Fred, who nodded that he heartily concurred with the plan.

  Genevieve rubbed her arm where his thin fingers had pinched, and furrowed her brow. She’d never imagined that her life could have taken a turn for the worse after everything that had already happened to her. When her father died in a mining accident, Ma married the next man who asked her, out of fear that they’d end up in the poorhouse or dead from hunger or cold in the street. Unfortunately, that man had been Fred Bilton, and a more cold-hearted man would have been hard to find. Or so she thought, until she met his friend and their neighbor, Quincey Ewing.

  The two men eyed Genevieve with a frown. “What?” she asked, her hands on her hips.

  “Just wonderin’ what on Earth to do with ya while yer Uncle Fred and me head on down to the saloon for a bit.” Quincey placed his hat back on his head and grabbed her wrist, dragging her along behind him.

  “Stop it, you’re hurting me,” she cried, stumbling after him.

  “Keep up, then, and it’ll hurt less.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Ya can sit outside the saloon where I can keep my eye on ya. I got a feelin’ yer in a feisty mood.” He stopped and pulled her close to his chest, both hands wrapped tightly around her tiny wrists. “And just so ya know – I don’t take kindly to feisty. Ya give me trouble, I give ya trouble, you got me?” He narrowed his eyes at the sight of her pale face, and the wiry gray hairs that curled up from the tops of his eyebrows lifted and fell as he regarded her. “What’s wrong with ya, girl? Did ya hear what I said?”

  Genevieve nodded, and he released one of her wrists, pulling her behind him down the busy street once again. Tears threatened, but she held them in. She didn’t want him to see her cry, to know that he’d been able to hurt her. She couldn’t give him the satisfaction. Fred plodded along behind the two of them, huffing and puffing in his attempt to keep up with Quincey’s clipped pace.

  They drew to a halt in front of a rusted sign that swung from a thin paling nailed in front of a two-way door. The sign read Tandy’s, and Fred licked his lips. “Well, you finally got yer way there, Quincey – I gave you my girl to marry. I figure this means the drinks are on you today, right?”

  Quincey nodded and scowled. With one last glance at Genevieve, he pointed to a nearby bench and watched as she made her way over to sit. “Ya‘n’I will be doin’ our own celebratin’ later tonight,” he said with a glint in his dark eyes.

  Genevieve shi
vered and felt the bile rise in her throat at the thought of what lay in store for her later that evening. Quincey snickered and pushed open the saloon doors, and the two men hurried inside, anxious to begin drinking.

  As soon as they disappeared, Genevieve’s heart raced until it felt as though it would burst from her chest. She pulled and tugged at her corset, but it was no use. Standing quickly to her feet, she drew in deep gasps of air as circles and pricks of light danced and swayed before her eyes.

  “Are you all right there, Miss?” asked a cowboy as he gently cupped her arm. His eyes were kindly above a bushy beard.

  “Yes, I’m fine, thank you,” she replied, steadying herself in his grasp.

  “Why don’t you sit right here? There you go.” He helped her back onto the bench, and she closed her eyes, concentrating on slowing her breathing. The next time she opened them, it was to see the cowboy dip his brown Stetson at her with a smile and meander off down the street.

  Before she knew what she was doing, she was back on her feet and following him. She did it quietly so he wouldn’t notice, and she wasn’t even sure why she felt the need to follow him, but it was as though she were following an instinct she couldn’t fight. I can’t stay there. I can’t go through with it. Quincey is horrible and mean and old and I despise him. I can’t be married to him. Just thinking about going home with him to that ramshackle old place he calls a house makes my stomach churn.

  The cowboy sauntered down the street. He stepped from the covered sidewalk onto the dusty road with a hop and ducked between wagons and buggies to cross it. The road they were following was the main thoroughfare for the dusty Texas town, edged on both sides by tall false storefronts. Covered boardwalks joined them to keep boots and slippers up out of the dust and manure that coated the potholed road with a layer of grime.

  I can’t do it. I can’t do it. Genevieve’s mind was blank apart from a single thought that repeated itself over and over in time with the slap of her feet on the road. I can’t do it. I can’t do it.