“Here it is.”
Mitchell stopped the horse in front of a weathered, two-story building and jumped to the ground, taking Gemma’s carpetbag with him. Gemma stayed where she was, staring at the gray, sad building in amazement.
In all the dime westerns and novels she’d read, she had never encountered any descriptions about hotels in the wild West. Feed stores, yes. Saloons, absolutely. But hotels? Never.
Gemma bit down hard on her lip, doing her best to stop it from quivering. Setting out on this adventure, she had thought she was well-prepared to face what lay ahead of her. She had been thrilled, invigorated. Not for one moment had she imagined she would miss what she was leaving behind.
Gemma’s mind raced. Staring at the gloomy hotel, she realized she had been wrong. As desperate as she had been to get away from her father and William Picoult, there were things she would terribly miss about New York. There would be no more lavish hotel parties. No more operas. No more trips to the beach. No dresses shipped from Paris. Were there even women of her age in Shallow Springs? Or would she have no one but men to converse with for the rest of her life?
For the first time, Gemma wondered if she had made a terrible mistake.
12
12. Mitchell
Chapter Twelve
Gemma’s carpetbag in hand, Mitch turned and offered her his hand. She stayed where she was, immobile atop Lady, staring at the hotel. “It’s so...”
She didn’t finish the sentence, making Mitchell cock his head in question. Finally, she daintily cleared her throat and gave him a small smile. “Quaint.”
“I suppose.” He turned to study the familiar building. Having never been to New York, he didn’t exactly know what she had to compare Shallow Springs to. “How about we go in and get you cooled off? Beau should be back to town with the other passengers soon, I imagine.”
He took her hand and helped her down from Lady. Climbing the steps to the hotel, her fingers stayed lightly pressed against his. Mitchell thought back to the way everyone had looked at Gemma as they rode into town and his chest swelled with pride.
She was a beautiful creature—the most gorgeous one he’d ever set sights on. He’d struck gold having such a woman agree to marry him and he’d never forget it.
He knew he might have spoken to her a bit too harshly down by the creek bed. He would have to be more mindful of his tongue. Years on a ranch, surrounded by other men, didn’t lead to much cultivation of softness or manners.
Mitchell set his jaw tight as he held the hotel’s front door open for Gemma. He’d do better with her. Already, there were too many factors working against them, what with the troubles at the ranch. He wasn’t about to lose her on account of him not being able to keep his temper in check.
The hotel’s restaurant was just as slow as it had been earlier, with Mr. Galloway now asleep in a corner chair. Mitchell led Gemma to a table, then quickly found the owner’s wife and ordered Gemma some water and tea.
“Thank you very much,” Gemma smiled up at the older woman as she wrapped her hands around a steaming mug. Her brown eyes sparkled even in the poorly-lit indoors.
“What a polite young lady,” Mrs. Garrison said, putting her fists on her plump hips and raising her eyebrows. “Are you just visiting, darling?”
Gemma carefully set her mug down on the table. “No, I…” Her eyes slid over to Mitchell, as if asking permission.
“This is my fiancée,” Mitch jumped in. “Gemma Campbell.”
The word “fiancée” felt strange coming from his mouth, but he liked it and wanted to say it more. Soon, it will be ‘wife’, he realized. Another surge of pride went through him.
Mrs. Garrison stared at Mitchell. “You don’t say! Good lord, it’s about time, Mitchell Reed. Well, congratulations to you both. Just wait till I tell Mr. Garrison. He said it would never happen, but here you are, son, showing him wrong!” She patted Mitchell on the back before shuffling away.
Finally alone, Mitchell noticed Gemma working hard to suppress a smile.
“She’s always like that,” he explained quietly. “With everyone.”
“Ah. Yes.”
Mitchell cleared his throat and set his hat down on the chair next to him. “How was your trip?”
Gemma sighed in pleasure. “Oh, lovely! For the most part, that is. The train ride was awfully long, but I got to see so much! Have you ever taken the train? It went through so many towns. I counted them at first, but then lost track somewhere around twenty or thirty. And then, we had to spend a night in Lincoln, which was completely unexpected. Although, the driver did make up some time for that. He’s rather speedy. I suppose that might be why the stagecoach wheel broke, now that I think of it. Have you ever...”
Abruptly, she stopped talking, her lips pressing hard together and her shoulders slumping.
“Have I ever what?” Mitchell prompted.
Gemma shook her head. “I apologize. Sometimes I get excited and talk too much. It’s a shortcoming of mine. Please forgive me.”
Laughter exploded from Mitchell and echoed in the still dining room. Gemma’s cheeks turned pink, and she turned her eyes down.
Drats. Mitch stopped mid-guffaw. He’d messed up again, and only after things had begun to look up.
“I’m sorry,” he quickly said. “I didn’t mean to laugh at you.”
She turned a skeptical face back up. “It’s been a while since I’ve had someone to freely converse with. Even my closest friends in New York… it was often quite difficult to speak openly with them.”
“I understand completely,” he nodded. “And I only laughed because… well...”
Gemma blinked, her long lashes sweeping against high cheekbones. “I know this characteristic of mine probably seems rather silly.”
“No,” he sharply said. “It’s not. I laughed because I find it wonderful.”
Her eyes widened, mirroring Mitch’s own surprise with himself. Just as Gemma liked to talk, Mitch favored the opposite. He didn’t have anyone to share his deepest thoughts with and he’d never even considered wanting that. But resting there with Gemma, he saw for the first time just what something like that could mean. To come home after a hard day and find his wife sitting at the hearth, ready to hear his troubles and share her own stories…
A memory from long ago flashed through his mind: that of his parents, staying up late to talk. His mother in the rocking chair, his father, pipe in hand, in the large wingback. Sometimes, especially if it was Saturday night, Mitch would wake up and find them still there, the embers of the fire glowing and their words still flowing.
His parents had that special connection, and now—God willing—he would have it, too.
“Talk all you want,” Mitch confidently said. “And then some more. I want to hear everything you have to say.”
The smile that stretched Gemma’s lips was the most relieved one he’d ever seen.
“Tell me about New York,” he encouraged. “What was it like to grow up there?”
“Oh, it was...” Her eyes turned toward the ceiling. “Lots of things. It was delightful in the winter, mostly.” She sighed happily. “When it snowed, giant drifts formed in the park. My friends and I would take our sleds and climb to the hill in the very center. It has all these big rocks piled around it, and we’d just fly off them. I remember, this one time, my friend Abigail shot off one of the rocks and vanished into a snow bank. She didn’t come out, so we started looking for her. We were digging and screaming her name. We thought she’d disappeared into the snow and we’d only find her body once the snow all melted.”
“That’s awful.”
She laughed. “At the time, yes. We were terrified. I kept digging, thinking about what it would be like to have to go and tell her parents that Abigail was dead because I’d dared her to slide off the highest rocks.”
“Ah, so you’re a mischievous one. That’s good to know.”
Gemma ducked her face again, but this time, she was smiling.
> “What happened? With Abigail?”
“As we were standing there, frantically digging through the snow, she called from behind us. It turned out she’d been going so fast she’d gone right through the bank and out the other side. We were so distressed we hadn’t noticed the tunnel her sled had made.”
This time, Mitch really couldn’t check his laughter. “No! That’s not possible!”
“It is! I swear it.”
“It must have been a small bank.”
“I cross my heart, it was a rather giant one.”
“You’ll love sledding here,” he said once his chortles had died down.
She sipped her tea. “Is there much snow here?”
“More than you’ll ever want to see,” he nodded. “One winter and you’ll be sick of it.”
“No, I won’t. I am like an arctic fox. I could live in it.”
“I’ll have to see it to believe it. I’ll build you a sled before winter comes.”
Gemma gasped slightly. “You will?”
“Of course, I will,” Mitch softly answered, looking back into her eyes. Her gaze stayed on his and a little tremor ran through him.
“Do moose come out in winter?”
“You’ll see them, yes.”
“Hmm. I’ll be sure to give them their space.”
“Don’t worry. I bet rumors about how terrifying you are have already made the rounds in the moose community. Every moose in Wyoming Territory will likely be steering clear of you for years.”
“Yes,” Gemma smiled. “It must have been my carpetbag that scared them.”
“Or your gentle demeanor,” Mitchell laughed, happy they could already make fun of the crazy day.
Gemma giggled a bit, but then, her lips quickly turned into a frown. “I do hope life on the ranch is more… contained.”
“What do you mean?”
“Are there animals? Other than the penned ones?”
“That’s just the pigs and the horses. The cattle roam free for the most part.”
“Oh.” Her nose wrinkled slightly.
Mitchell studied her, unsure of what to say. A contained ranch life? What did that mean? Was Gemma expecting the animals to all be tied up?
She’d written in her ad that she sought a life in communion with the land. But did she even know what she’d been talking about? Gemma drank her tea, her gaze turning to the window, and Mitchell stole the chance to study her clothing. He didn’t know dirt about ladies’ wear, but he knew he’d never seen a dress as fine as Gemma’s in Shallow Springs. And this was what she’d worn to travel in.
The quality of the dress seemed at odds with the situation. Mitchell had assumed most women who became mail-order brides did so because they had run out of options back east. That was the case with the girl McGuire had married. She’d been a scullery maid, washing dishes and mopping floors. Having the opportunity to marry and take charge of her own house had been a blessing for her. She probably didn’t even care that the cabin had a dirt floor.
Mitchell’s eyes fell to Gemma’s fingers, which were wrapped around her mug. They were pale and soft, with no callouses at all. It wasn’t hard to tell she didn’t have much experience with labor.
So, if she hadn’t been a servant in New York, what had she done? What kind of family was she from? She’d said her parents had not been able to find her a suitable husband. If her family was as well-off as Mitchell guessed, why had they not allowed her to wait until a decent bachelor eventually came along? Surely, they could have afforded to keep their daughter in their house.
Mitchell was just opening his mouth to ask what trade her father was in when he saw movement outside the window. The stagecoach had arrived, with Beau flanking its fixed wheel. Personal talk would have to resume another time.
“They’re here,” Mitch announced, standing up and putting a coin on the table. Gemma followed him back out into the blazing heat, lifting her skirts carefully and stepping around the more worn parts of the stairs.
Beau nodded his greetings, wiping sweat from his face. “Took us a good while, but I figure that wheel is as fixed as it’s gonna get.”
Mitchell glanced over at Gemma, who was talking with one of the women from the stagecoach, then noted the hotel’s shadow. Hours had passed since they’d left Winding Path and there was still plenty of work to be done before the sun set. “Let’s head on back to the ranch.”
Turning for the hitching post, he caught sight of a figure that hadn’t been there before. Fletcher rubbed Lady’s nose, saying something to her in a soft voice. As Mitch continued to watch, he lifted Lady’s front leg and inspected the bottom of her hoof. Irritation filled Mitch and he quickly stomped over to the vagabond.
“Fletcher,” he harshly said.
The disheveled man dropped Lady’s hoof. “Mr. Reed.” He grinned, trying to hide the guilt on his face.
Mitchell reached around him and grabbed Lady’s reins. “My horse isn’t for sale.”
He shook his head jovially. “Just taking a look at the shoe job. It’s mighty fine. Was wondering who did it.”
“A ranch hand,” Mitchell grunted, turning his back to Fletcher and guiding Lady toward Gemma. After the long day Mitchell had had—the long season, really—the last thing he needed was the town bum coveting his horse.
“Miss Campbell,” he said, her name coming out like a bark. Gemma, eyes wide, stopped her conversation and looked at him. He took a breath and tried again, making sure his voice was low and sweet this time. “Are you ready to go?”
She nodded, but he could see the hesitation in her face. His jaw tightened as she said goodbye to the other woman and came over to Lady. He really would have to be more mindful of his temper.
Gemma hadn’t done anything wrong. She’d only barely arrived in Shallow Springs. Scaring her off before he got a real chance to know her wouldn’t do any good.
He made himself smile down at her, hoping the expression came across as warm and genuine. “Ready to go see your new home?”
“Oh, yes!” Excitement danced in her eyes, bringing back the sensation Mitch had had when they touched hands for the first time.
Helping her onto Lady once more, he swung up behind her. The sweet floral perfume he’d caught a whiff of earlier filled his nose and heat collected across every inch of his skin. For a brief moment, he forgot just where he was and what he was supposed to be doing.
Lord, this woman….
She probably had no clue she had such power over him.
13
13. Gemma
Chapter Thirteen
Gemma leaned forward in the saddle, straining every muscle in her body, attempting to look around the bend. Behind her, Mitchell chuckled. “Excited?”
She was glad he couldn’t see her face. She probably looked like a small child in the candy aisle. “Somewhat,” she coyly responded.
Beau’s horse trotted in front of them, partially obscuring the mountains laid out across the horizon.
Gemma had barely been able to take her eyes off them since leaving town. They seemed to go on forever, peaks poking through every available inch of sky. What kind of wonders were up in those mountains? Gold? Bandits? Waterfalls no man had ever set eyes on?
The horse turning brought her attention back to the ground. They’d taken a left and the sight in front of Gemma made her gasp.
“Is this…”
“Winding Path Ranch,” Mitchell answered, the pride evident in his voice. “Home, sweet home.”
The new road to the ranch, cut deep by wagons, began with a wooden sign proclaiming the property’s name. On either side of it, lush fields covered the earth. At the far edge of one of them, cattle congealed on the landscape.
As the horses continued up the path, the buildings came into better view. It was the main house that had taken Gemma’s breath away. Though built from logs, it was bigger than any she had yet seen in Wyoming. A wraparound porch and large windows completed the impressive design. With various barns and build
ings surrounding the house, the ranch appeared to be a small town in and of itself.
As they neared the house, more wondrous sights popped up. A small fruit orchard. A fenced-in garden bursting with melons, tomatoes, and a score of plants Gemma had never seen. A coop with chickens clucking around its exterior.
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