Away in Montana (Paradise Valley Ranch Book 1)

by Jane Porter

  It was the last of the Alger novels in her father’s library and she was thinking she might need to persuade him to order another one when the book came back after just a few weeks. McKenna, thank you for sending the book but I think I’ve had enough Alger. Your friend, Sin

  She had been so distressed by the note, and she wrote him immediately, asking if she could please send something else.

  He’d answered a week later. I am too tired to read, but I remain your friend. Sin

  She did not see him, or hear from him, for over a year. By then she was fourteen and a freshman in high school, and participating in the Christmas choral recital. Johanna had been in the December recital, too. Parents and families filled the school. Sinclair was one of them, attending the evening recital with his mother.

  McKenna had spotted him in the folding chairs long before Johanna nudged her to point him out. How could one not see Sinclair when he was so fair and stood a full head taller than anyone else?

  At eighteen, he didn’t just look like a man, he’d become a man. She’d felt something shift in her that night. Just looking at him made her realize how much she’d missed him, and how very glad she was to see him tonight.

  After the concert she’d wanted to speak to him but there was no way to reach him, not when her father and mother swept her and Mary out quickly, not wanting to linger amongst the other families.

  But as she was hurried out the doors she’d spotted him outside, off to one side, and she caught his eye, and she hadn’t been able to look away, despite the jostling and conversation around her.

  She’d only wanted to look at him.

  She’d wanted to remember him.

  He was the most handsome boy she’d ever seen, with his light hair and dark blue eyes, and yet she also knew that at eighteen he wasn’t a boy, but a man, except in her heart, he was her boy. She didn’t know when it happened, or how it happened, but at fourteen, McKenna couldn’t imagine ever wanting any one but him.

  Chapter Five

  Sinclair was up early Sunday for chores. It was one of those mornings where it felt good to be outside in the crisp morning, watching the sun rise over the mountains, revealing a delicate blue sky with wispy layers of clouds. The sunrise turned the snowy peak of Emigrant Mountain pink and the gold aspens on the valley floor a liquid copper.

  Even as a boy he’d loved being outside. All he ever wanted to do was run and move. Going to work underground at fifteen and a half had almost killed him.

  But he survived it, and he’d learned to appreciate each day as a gift. He was grateful, too, that he could provide for his mother, and that he’d had the ability to help his sister start her own business. He never wanted his family dependent on anyone again.

  Returning to the house, he bathed and changed into clean clothes before saddling his horse to ride into Marietta for Sunday supper with his mother and sister. He normally enjoyed the weekly family meal, but today the focus would be on yesterday’s party at the Brambles. Neither his sister nor mother had been invited to the party. They were liked well enough in town, but weren’t considered part of Marietta society. He’d hope to change that by building them a handsome house on Bramble Lane, but his sister convinced their mother that it was better to have a bigger nest egg, than invitations to social events.

  Even five years after moving to the area, Sinclair still had no interest in Marietta events and functions. He hadn’t come to Crawford County to make friends, and he wasn’t interested in any of the women. No, he arrived with two goals—claim land and establish Frasier’s mine, hoping this mountain would be as good as the one in Butte.

  It had taken nine months before the Frasier mine began producing and, just like in Butte, it was grueling work in miserable, suffocating conditions. As the manager, he didn’t have to go underground daily. He could have left the inspections to others, but he was the most experienced man on the jobsite, and he personally wanted to ensure the safety of his men as well as measure daily progress.

  After fifteen years of working for Patrick Frasier, Sinclair walked off the job in July following a tragedy that did not have to happen.

  He’d warned Frasier countless times there were serious problems at the mine, citing the dangerous technology, unskilled labor, and excessive production quota. Sinclair had even implemented measures to improve conditions—better wages to attract higher caliber workers, as well as more training for the workers—but when the safety measures cut into profit, Frasier rejected them. The mine accident happened just five weeks later.

  The accident enraged Sinclair, the loss of life was avoidable, and unacceptable. He’d warned Frasier. Hell, he’d warned everyone. It hadn’t mattered. Sinclair was done. He refused to be party to abuse and negligence.

  Leaving his property, Sinclair spurred his horse into a canter. It felt good to move. After last night’s agonizing ride with McKenna, he relished the wind at his back and the sunlight dappling the road.

  When he passed the narrow dirt turnoff leading to the school and McKenna’s cabin, he briefly glanced to the right, thinking of her, but not thinking of her.

  She’d been on his mind all morning. He wasn’t going to give her the entire day. She was content with her work and settled in her home. He should be happy. Relieved.

  He’d done his duty, seeing her home last night, and he’d tried to help her—help she clearly didn’t want—so he could stop worrying about her. They’d survived their first encounter, and even though it was uncomfortable, they’d survive future encounters. There was nothing more that needed to be done. And last night’s conversation made him understand there was no going back, either. The past was the past. Their relationship had been one of children, and neither of them was innocent anymore. He could move on, finally.

  He reached town in half the time it’d taken him last night with the buggy. He was glad he’d chosen to ride. The exercise calmed him, easing some of the tension inside, giving him a chance to mentally prepare for all the questions his sister would have about McKenna. He was sure there would be plenty.

  He was right.

  Johanna couldn’t even wait for the meal to end before she demanded a full account of the Brambles’ revels. She’d made dresses for a number of the women attending and asked what everyone wore, wanting to know who was the most fashionable, and if Mrs. Bramble wore her blue silk or the handsome chocolate velvet gown.

  Sinclair shook his head. “I don’t remember what Mrs. Bramble wore. It might have been the navy or the brown. My overall impression was that she looked handsome.”

  “I would hope it wasn’t the navy, because Mrs. Wettstein was going to wear navy, too. But hers was a brocade.”

  “I don’t believe I know Mrs. Wettstein, and I don’t recall brocade.”

  “What about Hattie Harris, was she wearing purple? She loves purple even though its not the right color for her.”

  “I did see Miss Harris, and I do believe she was wearing purple.”

  “Did she look sickly?”

  He grinned at his sister. “No, she did not. But her mother was keeping her close. I think Miss Harris would enjoy a little more freedom.”

  “Indeed she would. Mrs. Harris is quote formidable.” Johanna folded her white linen napkin. “And what about Miss Frasier? Did she wear the saffron gown, or the blush velvet with lace?”

  “Saffron,” he answered without thinking, and then he saw Johanna’s triumphant expression and realized his sister had deliberately trapped him. Johanna was too clever for her own good. “Yes, she was there.”

  “You spoke to her?”

  “It would have been rude not to.”

  “Was she as entitled as ever?”

  His amusement vanished. He took his time answering, lifting his cup, and sipping his coffee. It was stronger than usual, thank goodness. His mother was a tea drinker and didn’t understand that good coffee had to be robust.

  Johanna tapped her spoon to her saucer to get his attention. “Fine. Don’t answer. I know the answer a
lready.”

  “She did nothing to hurt you, Johanna—”

  “Not true, Sin. She used me to get close to you. For years.”

  “You were friends in school from an early age.”

  “We were classmates, but not friends, not until she decided she fancied you, and then it was ‘Johanna, this, and Johanna that’, and suddenly she wanted to sit with me at lunch, and walk with me at recess. I was a convenient friend, nothing more.”

  “You admired her, Jo, and you were pleased that someone like McKenna wanted to be friends with you. None of the other girls from Dublin Gulch were invited to the Frasiers.”

  “I was only invited a few times, and the invitations stopped when Mr. Frasier found out who I was.”

  “And yet that didn’t stop you from wearing her hand-me-downs, or taking apart the dresses to see how they were constructed.”

  “I have pride, but I’m not a fool.”

  He shrugged and glanced over to his mother who’d been sitting quietly, her fingers nervously tracing the pattern of lace in the tablecloth. “What’s the matter, mam? Are you upset, too?”

  Her gray head bobbed. “We should not have encouraged you. She was never right for you.”

  “We never encouraged, Sinclair,” Johanna cried, outraged. “She did. She wrote you those letters and I was forced to carry them back and forth—”

  “I wrote her first, Jo, and I asked you to carry the letters. I asked you to be kind to her for me, for my sake.”

  “I wish I hadn’t done it,” Johanna snapped, angrily stacking dishes, making them clatter. “She never deserved you. She never deserved us. We treated her like a princess, too. Like royalty. Right, mum?”

  Mrs. Douglas held up her hands. “I don’t wish to quarrel with Sinclair. It’s Sunday, and he’s a man. He’s entitled to make his choices.”

  Johanna dropped a fork onto the china. “Terrible choices! Her father would never have approved his suit. Mr. Patrick Frasier wasn’t about to let an Irish miner’s son marry his fancy daughter—”

  “Enough,” Sin growled, patience shot. “Leave her alone.”

  “And you’re still protecting her!”

  “I was well aware that I would never be her father’s choice and I wouldn’t be where I am now, if it hadn’t been for Mr. Patrick Frasier. You wouldn’t be here, either, with your own dress shop without his help. He gave me the opportunity—”

  “And you, my boy, made the most of it,” Mrs. Douglas interjected quietly. “It was you that did the work. It killed your father but you survived, and you’re out, and you’re never going back.”

  Sinclair smiled faintly. “I’m done with Frasier mines. I promise you that.”

  Mrs. Douglas smiled back. “Good.”

  “Now just promise me you’re done with the Frasier girl,” Johanna said, rising with the dishes.

  The pressure in his chest returned. “There is no going back, Johanna, we all know that.”

  “I hope not,” his sister answered, sweeping to the sink.

  Mrs. Douglas leaned towards her son. “I’m glad to hear, Sinclair. But does the Frasier girl know that?”

  “The Frasier girl is a twenty-five-year old woman, Mother.”

  “Exactly. She has nothing to lose anymore. But you… you’re a different story. You have everything now. You’re healthy. You’re successful. You’re respected. You don’t need her. She can do nothing for you.”

  “Do you really despise her so much?”

  “If you hadn’t met her, you’d be married now, with children.”

  “There is plenty of time for me to have a family.”

  “I want grandchildren. I want to enjoy them while I can.”

  “You will.”

  “When?”

  The corner of his mouth lifted. “Don’t be pushy.”

  “You’re almost thirty.”

  “Mother.”

  Johanna returned to the table and refilled Sinclair’s coffee. Steam wafted from the cup. “We just don’t want to see you hurt,” she said quietly.

  “I understand, and I appreciate your concern, but I’m a man. I’ve never been coddled. Don’t start now.

  “Just remember you are someone, Sinclair Douglas. You don’t need those Frasiers anymore!”

  *

  His mother’s words rang in Sinclair’s head long after he’d left the lights of Marietta behind. You don’t need those Frasiers anymore…

  She was right, and wrong.

  He didn’t need them anymore, but apparently he was still drawn to one because McKenna had very much been on his mind throughout dinner.

  But then, everything he’d done, everything he’d achieved had been for her.

  He was successful because he’d needed to be successful… for her. How else could he approach her father? How else could he hope to marry her?

  It had been backbreaking work, opening the new mine. Accidents and inclement weather slowed their progress, but finally, a year after production commenced, he was able to open up a savings account at one of the banks on Marietta’s Main Street.

  A year later, the mine was doing well, and he was profiting, so much so, that Patrick Frasier threatened to cut Sinclair’s percentage in half. Fed up, Sinclair gave notice, letting Frasier know that the new mine three miles west wanted him for twice what Frasier was paying him. Frasier responded with a telegram filled with curse words and exclamation points, offering Sinclair twice what the rival mine owners were willing to pay him.

  For the first time in his life, Sinclair Douglas was making real money, the kind of money that if invested properly would make him wealthy.

  He sat down with Henry Bramble, told him what he was earning and what he’d so far saved and, with Henry’s guidance, they laid out a plan, investing in opportunities across the country. Two failed, one broke even, and the fourth succeeded beyond his wildest dreams, turning him into a millionaire in less than two years.

  The only one who knew his finances was Henry Bramble. He didn’t even tell his family just how well he was doing. It was no one’s business but his own, so whatever came in from his investments, was quietly reinvested again, with Sinclair living off his earnings from the mine.

  During his fourth year in Marietta, he used his mine income to buy land, and then cattle, and eventually he built a house and outbuildings on his property, working his property on the weekends during the year, and every evening during the summer months, taking advantage of the extra hours of daylight.

  Maybe it was Henry Bramble’s friendship that gave him entrance into Marietta society. He didn’t know, or care, just as he didn’t seek out approval. He knew who he was, and what he was, and as long as he stayed true to his values, he was happy.

  And then came news of the scandal. Each headline worse than the last. McKenna Frasier had stumbled. McKenna Frasier had been exposed. McKenna Frasier was a fallen woman. And then, McKenna had been disinherited…

  Those had been some of the worst weeks of his life.

  Urging his horse to a canter, he breathed deeply, trying to slow the hard thudding of his pulse and ease the tightness in his chest that had been there ever since he’d heard she’d been hired for the Paradise Valley school.

  He had been baffled by the knot in his chest, and he didn’t understand it, but it seemed—despite everything—she still possessed a small part of him. She was part of his being, living in a corner of his heart, and he could try to hate her, but that would be like hating himself.

  She was impossible.

  Beyond maddening.

  And maybe that was why he’d fallen in love with her in the first place.

  *

  McKenna was at the table, wrapped up in layers of sweaters, writing letters to her friends back east, including a very long, chatty letter to Amelia Harris who loved McKenna’s adventures and always wanted more stories, when a knock sounded at her door. She put down her pen and sat tall, glancing towards her windows. It was dark out, and she hadn’t heard anyone approach.


  “Who’s there?” she called, rising.

  “It’s Sinclair.”

  The deep voice sent a shiver through her. She hadn’t expected to see him again, at least, not so soon. She opened the door warily. “You startled me.”

  He entered the house, carrying a fabric wrapped bundle. “Soda bread and butter,” he said. “And a little bit of cake, too.”

  “You didn’t make this.”

  “No, my mother.”

  “How kind of her. Thank you.” McKenna accepted the bundle, and lifted it to her nose, breathing in the scent of freshly baked bread before placing the care package in her makeshift kitchen. “How is she?”

  “Good.” He glanced from her to the fireplace.

  She followed his gaze. The fire wasn’t burning well. She’d allowed the ashes to build up too much. “I have to clean it,” she said. “I was going to do it once I finished the essays but the day escaped.”

  There was something in his expression that reminded her of last night, and how the rough road would jostle her and she’d fall against him. He had the same pained look tonight, his handsome features hard, his expression remote.

  “It’s a lot of work for one person,” he said.

  “Far more than I anticipated,” she admitted.

  He opened his mouth to say something but changed his mind. He walked the length of her house, floorboards squeaking beneath his heavy boots. “It’s drafty,” he said after he’d crossed from one end to the other, and back.

  “I’m thinking of turning some of my evening gowns into curtains.”

  He glanced towards her bed with the thick quilt of jeweled velvet and black wool. “It looks like some of them have already met their fate.”

  “Mr. Worth would be aghast.”

  The corner of his mouth lifted, and his expression softened a fraction as his blue eyes rested on her and then his smile faded and he looked at her as if he didn’t know her. Or, if he knew her, he didn’t like her.

  It was brutal.