by Caroline Lee
Sullivan’s Ridge
A Christmas Tale
Other books by Caroline Lee
The Sweet Cheyenne Quartet
A Cheyenne Christmas
A Cheyenne Celebration
A Cheyenne Thanksgiving
A Cheyenne Christmas Homecoming
Copyright © 2014, Caroline Lee
www.CarolineLeeRomance.com
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.
First edition: 2012
Second edition: 2014
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Printing/manufacturing information for this book may be found on the last page
For Kristin, my biggest fan
The Montana Territory, 1884
He’d heard somewhere that it was bad form to try to meet women at funerals, but that didn’t mean Nicholas had to stop looking. And oh, he was looking all right.
She was tall—not too tall, just right, really—and stately in dark wool that buttoned up to her chin, but still managed to hug all the right curves. Her hair was dark blonde, almost golden, and tucked back neatly in some sort of knot, under a hat missing all that ridiculous ornamentation females seemed to fancy.
From where he stood on the other side of the grave, clutching his own hat, Nick thought she was the single bright spot in an otherwise-bleary day. He’d done his mourning last week, but it was still tough to say good-bye again. She was holding up better than he’d expected, showing that she was a lady through-and-through. She held herself with dignity; didn’t sob, or even bury her face in a handkerchief. No, she held her head erect, her chin high, as the Reverend threw the first handful of dirt onto the coffin.
Only someone watching very closely would have been able to see the tears threatening to spill.
Beside her stood another woman, a few years older, dressed in an overcoat with a second-hand look. Between them stood a little boy with brown hair, dust on his trouser knees, and jam on his lapel. He was maybe three years old. Unlike the other woman, who watched the graveside service and occasionally sniffled into a hankie, the boy kept his worried gaze on the beauty beside him. He slowly stretched his hand towards hers, and she grasped it desperately, like a lifeline.
Nick’s gaze snapped back up to her face, and he watched her careful mien crumble. She bit her lower lip, and closed her eyes. Two fat tears slid down her cheek as Abner stepped up to finish shoveling clumps of half-frozen dirt into Billy’s grave. She made no move to wipe them, but didn’t bother to open her eyes to watch the final blessing, or the way the townsfolk sort of drifted away afterwards. Her companion had to tug the little boy away, and Nick could tell he went reluctantly.
When Reverend Trapper approached her, she spoke to him with a quiet smile. Nick couldn’t hear her words, but watched her offer him her hand. The Reverend gripped it solicitously and patted it; Nick could just imagine the soft words of comfort and encouragement the older man was offering. The Reverend offered her his arm, and gestured back towards town, but she shook her head, and nodded to the now-filled grave. The older man smiled sadly, patted her hand, and backed away.
Well, Nick supposed that was his cue. He hadn’t intended to intrude on her mourning, and knew that he’d have the chance to meet her later… he just hadn’t counted on how fine she looked. Billy’d never mentioned that, the old schemer.
And so, rather than head straight back down the hill towards the livery stable, he detoured around the now-filled grave, and made his way to her side.
He didn’t give her time to rebuff him, but immediately spoke. “Miss Sullivan?”
Brown eyes, shading to gold at the center, turned to him, and Nick almost lost his train of thought. He’d never—not in all his years—seen eyes quite that shade. They were remarkable. Seen up close, she was remarkable.
Those eyes narrowed in confusion, and he hastened to continue. “My name’s Nicholas Anderson. Nick. I worked for your father. I…” He cleared his throat, but was unable to tear his gaze away from the slightly-confused perfection in front of him. “I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am. He was a good man.” He was my friend.
The faintest ghost of a smile flitted across her pale lips. “Yes, he was.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Thank you, Mr. Anderson.”
Nick would’ve happily spent another hour standing there staring at her, but he knew she wanted to be left alone. So he placed his hat back on his head, pulled the brim down with a nod, and said merely, “Ma’am.”
Walking away from that regal, tragic figure was hard, but he did it. Only because he knew he’d have another chance to admire her again real soon.
Because if he had his way, they’d be living together.
Connie closed the hotel door with a soft click, and leaned her forehead against the cool wood. That funeral had been the single hardest thing she’d ever had to do in her life, and that was saying something. She, who traveled to the Montana Territory as a young girl and helped her father carve out a home. She, who’d then moved back to St. Louis as a young woman to fulfill her father’s dreams for her. She, who’d spent years learning dignity and decorum and propriety, while at the same time nurturing her keen business mind. She’d been brought low by a few days of whirlwind activity and a pitifully short funeral.
She’d gotten her first inclination that something was wrong when she received her father’s last letter. It was sentimental—even for him—and full of details about what he wanted to happen when he passed on. She’d replied, of course, and started readying her household for a visit home. It was breaking the rules of The Bargain, of course, for her to come home; but after that last letter, she didn’t care what her grandmother thought. The old battleship was half off her rocker these days, anyway. If her Papa needed her, she was going home.
And then the evening before their scheduled departure, she received a telegram from Reverend Trapper, telling her of her father’s death. He’d been thrown from one of the horses, and broken his neck. It wasn’t a sudden death, oh no. He’d lingered for almost two weeks, even managed to dictate that letter to her. It was a stupid, illogical death for someone as hale and hearty and full of life as Billy Sullivan.
She was still angry at him, and at the fates, for such a silly end to a great man.
Connie had telegraphed the Reverend that she was on her way, and asked him to postpone the funeral. She’d said her goodbyes to her grandmother—although the old woman didn’t notice—frantically prepared the household to be run without her indefinitely, and caught the morning train westward.
They’d arrived late last night, and the Reverend had allowed her time with her father. He explained that they wouldn’t have have been able to postpone the burial so long if it’d been the summer, but in December it was just cold enough that the body ‘kept,’ while not being so cold they couldn’t dig a grave. He also told her that Billy had asked that she not cry for him, that he wanted her to be happy in her new life.
Not cry for him? Too late, Papa. She’d spent most of the train ride and stagecoach journey in tears. She’d had Maggie and little Joshua to distract her, of course, but their usual joy was tempered by the somber tidings. Even Joshua’s wonder at his first train trip hadn’t pulled her from her melancholy.
But she tried. Today at the gravesite, she stood among her father’s friends—people she didn’t know or didn’t remember—and clenched her jaw to keep from crying. She remembered the lessons her mother’s mother had drilled into her, on conduct becoming a lady. She stiffened her spine, bit the inside of her lip, and tried to make her Papa proud of her.
Oh yes, it was the hardest thing she’d ever done, and it was only going to get worse.
She walked across the room, stripping off the warm gloves, dark grey overcoat, and silly little hat. Maggie had taken Joshua back to their room, and Connie had told them she’d take dinner in her own room that night. She needed to be alone for a while.
She had plenty to think about.
Her father had written her many times about the man he’d taken on to help with the ranch. Nick Anderson wasn’t the first man he’d hired to help out, but he was certainly the most dedicated. According to Billy’s letters, Mr. Anderson loved Sullivan’s Ridge almost as much as her father did. Billy had told her, in passing over the years, how strong, and honorable, and capable his foreman was. He’d mentioned at least once, in every single letter, how much Nick did to run the place. In his final letter, he urged her to consider keeping him on as foreman.
What her father had never mentioned, however, was how devastatingly handsome Nick Anderson was.
From the letters, she’d been expecting someone older—maybe not as old as Papa, but not young. After all, they’d been good friends. But when Nick had called her name this morning, and she looked into that pair of smoky blue eyes, she’d wondered what else her father’d neglected to mention.
Nicholas Anderson couldn’t have seen thirty years, yet. His brown hair was neatly trimmed, and his skin had the tanned look of someone who’d spent years on a horse. His hands, where he’d gripped his hat in front on him, had been large and calloused and capable. His teeth were even, his nose slightly crooked, his gaze honest. It was those eyes, though, that had bowled her over; the blue was unremarkable, but the compassion and admiration that she’d seen in them had floored her. That caring, combined with his rugged appeal, was going to make him dangerous.
He looked, in short, like someone a father knows his daughter might enjoy looking at. Someone a man might trust his greatest treasure to.
Oh Papa, what were you up to?
She’d always known that one day Sullivan’s Ridge would be hers; When he’d first bought the property and breeding stock, he’d brought her out to the future site of the house, and stood her there. She’d been only five, but she could remember his pride when he’d described what it would one day look like, and how she would be there to help him build it. She hadn’t been allowed to study business in school, but she knew that her years of voracious reading and her father’s careful coaching would pay off. She’d come out to the Montana Territory prepared to take control of her father’s legacy.
A year ago, Maggie had unwittingly given her an idea. Joshua had been born out of wedlock; the young woman had been let go from her job as a maid, and had been unable to find another. So she lied, and had pretended to be a widow. Connie had hired her, first as a maid, then as a companion, and didn’t learn the truth for close to two years.
Then and there, seeing what a difference a mythical husband could make in a woman’s perceived social standing—having been judgmental herself!—Connie decided she could use the trick too. She knew that, as a young woman coming out to a newly-settled territory, she was going to face stubborn prejudice and reluctance from the men she needed to work the ranch.
But if she had a husband…? Perhaps a husband who was back in St. Louis, and would be joining her sometime in the indefinite future…? Then perhaps she’s appear a little less ‘young and innocent’, and a little more ‘strong and capable’ to her staff.
It had been in the back of her mind for a year or so, to claim to be married once she eventually took over Sullivan’s Ridge. Perhaps a husband her father had disapproved of, which was why he never spoke of him. Either way, it had been worth a shot.
Until, that is, she’d met Nick Anderson. Now that she knew that the man who was most fit for the job of foreman—the man she’d be working with on a daily basis—was so appealing, she’d definitely be married. For several years. To a… a cattle investor, that would help explain her understanding of ranching. David, yes. David. He was very handsome and she loved him very much.
Yes.
Now she just had to convince her pulse to calm down every time she saw Mr. Anderson, or he’d begin to think she wasn’t happily married to her imaginary husband, dear Daniel.
There was no way she was going to allow her… her pulse to distract her from her plans for the success of Sullivan’s Ridge. Mr. Anderson was handsome, yes, but he’d stay far away from her once he knew about David. Whatever crazy ideas her father might have planted, she knew enough about Mr. Anderson to know he was honorable, and would respect the vows of matrimony. He’d treat her with respect, or risk facing Daniel’s wrath. David’s wrath. Whatever his name was.
She hadn’t unpacked the night before, knowing that she’d only be at the hotel a few days, but the trunk she needed was accessible. She sat on the floor and lowered her jewelry case onto her lap. There, tucked between red velvet, amid her most valuable jewels, was her mother’s wedding band.
Reverently, she lifted the small ring of gold from the box. Her mother, who’d come from one of the wealthiest families in St. Louis. Who’d fallen in love with a poor, stubborn dreamer with his sights set on Montana. Who’d cherished the simple wedding band above all her heirloom jewels. Connie prized the few memories she had of her mother, and this ring even more. Her parents’ marriage had been brief, but blessedly happy, and she knew that she wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less than a love like they’d found.
With memories of her parents’ marriage urging her to remember her goals, she slipped the simple golden ring around the fourth finger of her left hand, and made a fist.
Now, she just had to remember that she was married.
Nick finished washing the last mug, placed it upside-down on a towel, and started to get things ready for breakfast the next morning. It was stupid, but he really missed Billy in the evenings. Since the old man had hired him, he’d done the cooking for the two of them… and then later, as the ranch had expanded, for the other hands as well, if they weren’t all out on the range. But in the evening, after dinner, when the other men had gone back to the bunkhouse, or into town, Billy’d help him clean up. They’d swap stories and jokes, plans and regrets, and share experiences from their past.
He’d been working for Billy Sullivan for six years now, and the old man’d become his mentor and his friend. He missed him.
Now that Billy was gone, Nick’s own place in this world was in limbo. He’d put sweat and blood into the success of Sullivan’s Ridge, and loved this place as much as Billy had. But it wasn’t like he was the old man’s son; there was nothing here for him now. Billy had left the entire place to his daughter, which was right. But Nick couldn’t help feeling a little bitter that he was going to be shoved out into the cold after all of his hard work… Unless the daughter asked him to stay on.
Billy had often mentioned how Constance was going to need a good, knowledgeable man to run the ranch with her. And then, after the accident, he’d spoken at length about his plans for the ranch. He knew he was dying, and wanted to make sure someone knew. He couldn’t tell Constance, with her so far away, so he told his student, the man who’d devoted years of his life to the ranch’s success, as well.
Nick had been the one to write that last letter to the daughter, as Billy dictated. Their handwriting was similar enough that she might not have even noticed. But he had flushed slightly when Billy urged Constance to keep him on, extolling his talents and virtues. He’d written it, though, because more than anything else, he wanted to stay at Sullivan’s Ridge.
It was his home.
; And so, the following morning, two days after Billy’s funeral, he was waiting in the living room of the main house, with his hair slicked back, freshly shaved, wearing a clean shirt. He wanted to make the best impression he could on Miss Sullivan. He knew the woman’s background, and figured appearances and propriety mattered to her.
So he was a little surprised to see her sitting on the front seat of the wagon, next to Timmy. The young hand had volunteered to bring her and her luggage from town, but all they had was the old buckboard. It wasn’t anything on the luxury he was sure she’d grown used to, but it’d have to do.
He hadn’t expected to see her perched up there in the front, though, her hand clamped on top of a fancy broad-rimmed hat, peering excitedly around her. The wind had died down a bit, and the sun was shining brightly. There was still a dusting of snow from the night, and the air was brisk. Her companion and the boy were huddled sensibly in buffalo robes on the trunks in the back of the wagon, but she was acting like a school miss out on a spring afternoon.
Nick met them on the porch, and couldn’t help but smile at her excitement. He crossed the drive to help her down, and when she placed a small, gloved hand in his, he got his first real look at her face.
Dear Lord, he’d thought she was beautiful at the funeral? When she was stately and still? She was positively stunning full of life and energy. Her smile quite literally took his breath away. She was dressed in somber clothing befitting a lady, but out here, surrounded by the wonder of the Montana paradise, the sadness had melted away. It had been replaced—for the ride up to the ranch, at least—with a joy and exuberance Nick had never seen.
This was the Constance Sullivan her father had remembered, and spoke of. He’d known that she’d change when she went to St. Louis, and the statuesque lady at his funeral had shown every refinement Billy had come to dread. But here, for a moment, Nick had been allowed to glimpse the carefree, joyful soul that Billy had chosen to remember.