Liz Ireland

by Trouble in Paradise

  Unfortunately, Parker appeared to forget the McMillan bachelor creed sometimes, opening himself up to unnecessary suffering.

  Roy kept his gaze focused on Ike, but directed his words to his brother. “I just don’t see the point in getting all tangled up with a woman in Paradise, much less one in New York City.”

  His brother’s eyes, which could stare right through a person with disarming intensity, focused on him. “Then who was that gal I saw you all tangled up with at the Lalapalooza last Saturday?”

  “You know what I meant,” Roy replied curtly, squirming a little under his brother’s gaze. “Saloon girls don’t count.”

  “They’d count if you’d married one,” Ike interjected. “Yessir, if you married one, she’d sure count.”

  “Well I’m not going to marry one,” Roy replied.

  “Wilber Whitestone did—that pretty yellow-haired girl named Marie.” Ike crossed his arms as if he’d just won an argument.

  Roy rolled his eyes. “But I’m not going to marry anybody.”

  Parker laughed. “Don’t worry, Roy, I’m not embracing matrimony. Even if I wanted to, I doubt Miss Fitzsimmons would have me.”

  That assurance didn’t soothe Roy any, either. In fact, it made him downright mad. “Why? Does this Fitzsimmons lady think she’s too good for you?”

  Parker shook his head. “She’s not like that. But from what she’s written me, I know that she lives pretty well. A big house in a neighborhood where all the richest people in New York live. You should hear the parties she’s described—the food and the dancing and the people! Do you know that the Vanderbilt family visits her home?” He continued to shake his head, clearly impressed with such opulence. “A fine society lady wouldn’t be interested in moving to a dusty four-room house in western Nebraska.”

  “Sounds pretty hopeless, all right,” Ike admitted.

  “Good,” Roy said. “Women are more trouble than they’re worth.”

  “I don’t know…” Ike put in. “My mama was an awful hard worker, and so were my sisters. In fact, Roy, a woman can be a handy thing to have around the house. They can do all sorts of things that you probably never think about.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well…they can cook, for instance.”

  “We can all cook just fine,” Roy argued.

  Ike and Parker’s gazes subtly surveyed the remains of their dinner, which, incidentally, Roy had prepared. He knew what they were thinking. He himself had to admit that the corn bread had tasted leathery, and all right, he’d charred the ham a little. Personally, he liked that smokey flavor. The beans had come out mushy—but that was just because while he’d been cooking them, he’d also been working on sharpening the blade on the old plow. Time had gotten away from him.

  “Most of the time, we do just fine,” Roy reiterated.

  “Oh, sure,” Ike agreed. “Not to mention, it’s folks like us what keep the indigestion-pill salesmen in business. But cooking aside, women can also mend things, and keep a house tidy, and help out with chickens and churn butter.” His gaze took on a faraway look. “If you could have tasted my mama’s butter….”

  Several times a month they were treated to rhapsodies on the subject of Ike’s sainted mama. At times like these, the only thing to do was either nod politely or change the subject.

  Roy changed the subject. He still couldn’t stop worrying about the highfalutin’ female writing Parker letters. “If this Fitzsimmons woman is so busy with these Vanderbilts all the time, what’s she writing to you for?”

  Parker lifted his shoulders. “She’s curious about the west, and she saw my advertisement for a correspondent. That’s all. We talk about books, and music, and things of that nature.”

  Ike grinned. “Knowing this Miss Fitzsimmons is better than goin’ to college, it sounds like.”

  “Much better,” Parker agreed.

  Parker had a reputation in Paradise of being something of a self-taught intellectual. He’d given a Fourth of July speech once on Thomas Jefferson that had impressed everyone it hadn’t put to sleep. Roy didn’t mind having an intellectual as a brother. He was proud of his little brother’s smarts. A lovesick intellectual, however, was a trial. “As long as you’re sure that’s all there is to it.”

  Parker laughed. “Don’t worry, Roy. The McMillan bachelor tradition will continue.”

  Ike scratched his scraggly beard and turned to Roy. “How long is this so-called tradition gonna last, if’n you and Parker don’t have kids? Where’s the next crop of bachelors supposed to come from?”

  Parker looked over at Roy, a mischievous smile on his face. “He has a point, Roy. Looks like we’re the end of the line.”

  Roy shifted uncomfortably, hating to be caught in a quandary. Not that it mattered one way or another to him about what happened to the McMillan line…except that there was the farm to take care of. He and Parker had worked hard to turn this parcel of land into something. Hard to think of it passing on to strangers after they were gone….

  Quandaries! That’s what came of letter-writing and gabbing at dinner about hypotheticals. “All I know is it’s about time we finished yacking and decided who’s going to clean up.”

  The three of them always decided that issue of dishwashing by a game of chance. And when it came to the nightly draw for the privilege of that chore, Roy was lucky and drew high. Pulling the ace of hearts off the top of the deck, he smiled broadly and let out a sigh. “Leisure at last,” he gloated, propping his feet on the table as he watched his brother draw. Parker looked worried when he drew a five of clubs.

  Roy’s smile disappeared. Good Lord, was Parker so eager to read a letter that he couldn’t spare a half hour?

  Of course, he didn’t want to clean up the supper dishes, either, and he didn’t even have a letter waiting for him. Just a snooze in front of the fire.

  “Oh, hellfire!” Ike cried as he slapped the three of hearts down on the table. “I’ve cleaned up the durned dishes three times this week!”

  “Bad luck, Ike,” Roy said, feeling little remorse for his good luck. “You want some help?”

  “Heck, no,” Ike replied quickly. Grumbling and arguing came naturally to the three men, but accepting help for work that was rightfully theirs wasn’t their way. “I’ll do ’em. I just wish my luck was a little better.”

  “It all averages in the end,” Roy assured him philosophically. “Chances are that next month you won’t have to do the dishes but once or twice.”

  “If’n one of you would marry, we wouldn’t none of us have to do dishes ever again,” Ike said.

  Roy shook his head. “You’re following a cold trail, Ike.”

  Parker, he noticed, didn’t say anything.

  Roy stood and followed his brother out of the kitchen into the sitting room. Parker was immediately absorbed in that letter. The fire had dwindled to a red glow, and Roy threw another log on, jumping back as the embers flew up.

  “Good lord!”

  Roy remained distracted by the new log, which he poked crossly with an iron, until he looked back at his brother. If shock had a face, it would have been Parker’s.

  “Is something wrong?” Roy asked, alarmed.

  “She’s coming here.”

  Their almost identical blue eyes met and held. She could only mean that Fitzsimmons woman—but that was impossible! “Here?” Roy asked, his voice a bullfrog croak. “To Nebraska?”

  “Here,” Parker corrected, “to our house. Mrs. Eleanor Fitzsimmons will be paying us a visit.”

  “Mrs?” Roy repeated. “You never said she was married.”

  “I never knew until just now.”

  That was peculiar. “Well why the heck doesn’t she stay in New York with her husband where she belongs?”

  “Her husband just died.”

  “A widow.” Roy shuddered with dread. Widows were the most hazardous females there were. A man really had to be on his guard around widows. “B-but she can’t come here!”

  �
�But she is,” his brother assured him.

  “Oh, no,” Roy said, gesticulating with his poker. “She can’t do this. Where would we put her?”

  Parker smiled, almost as if he found Roy’s panic amusing. Amusing! “In the barn?”

  Roy didn’t appreciate the humor. Especially since, more likely than not, he would be the one sleeping in the barn. “Write her back and tell her…”

  Smiling patiently, Parker waited for his suggestion.

  Did he want the woman to come here? Roy couldn’t tell. Sometimes Parker was hard to read. “Well, tell her it’s not a good time. We’ve barely finished the corn harvest, and now we’ve got to get the sorghum cut. We don’t have the leisure to mess with a woman!”

  “I’m not sure the sorghum would hold much significance to a woman like Mrs. Fitzsimmons.”

  “Hell, I don’t care. Tell her that the damned house burned down!”

  Parker shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. It’s too late.”

  “Why?” Roy asked.

  “Because by now she’s left New York. According to the dates she gives in this letter, Mrs. Fitzsimmons is already on her way.”

  Chapter Two

  “I knew there would be trouble,” Roy grumbled, stomping his feet as he stood outside waiting for the train. A cold blast of air had rolled over the plains the day before, and the wind was bitter. There was no end of work to be done on the farm, yet here he was, one-half of the greeting party for some harebrained society lady. “I knew there’d be trouble the minute you told me you were writing some woman you’d never even met before!”

  Parker, unperturbed by the imminent invasion of their bachelor paradise, kept his eyes on the tracks. “You should have stayed home, Roy.”

  That had been unthinkable. He grumbled through his muffler. “I had some things I wanted to do in town.”

  A knowing smile crossed Parker’s face. “And you wanted to get a gander at Mrs. Fitzsimmons.”

  Roy crossed his arms but said nothing. As if Eleanor Fitzsimmons wasn’t going to look like every other woman in the world! He never had been one to be swayed by women anyway—especially rich, high-toned, pampered city women.

  But Parker was. Take Clara Trilby. That girl was a menace. Oh, maybe she wasn’t rich like Mrs. Fitzsimmons, but she was the daughter of the most successful merchant in Paradise, and she put on airs as if she were a duchess. And she’d left Parker’s battered and spent heart drowning in her wake.

  “Admit it, Roy. You wanted to make certain Mrs. Fitzsimmons didn’t drag me off to a preacher on the drive home.”

  “I won’t even bother answering that,” Roy said. Then, after a moment of silence, he couldn’t help adding, “Your trouble is, you give women too much credit. I never met a woman yet who was half as interesting as a good poker game.”

  “You haven’t met a girl outside of the kind you meet at the Lalapalooza in years, Roy,” Parker pointed out. “Look, instead of fidgeting out here in the cold, why don’t you go run your errands while I wait for Mrs. Fitzsimmons?”

  “Mrs. Fitzsimmons!” That was another peculiar thing about this woman. Why had she chosen two days before her planned visit to announce to Parker in a letter that she was recently widowed? Why had she written to Parker for a year and omitted to mention the fact that she was a married woman? “You have to watch out for widows, you know. They’re the real sneaky ones.”

  Parker nodded, pretending to soak in his brother’s wisdom.

  “They’ve had time to figure men out—and they aren’t above using subterfuge to finagle another man into marrying them. Especially by using the pity card!”

  “Of course you know all about widows,” Parker said.

  “Just look what happened to Al Drucker!” Roy reminded him. “He felt sorry for that one widow woman with four kids, and before he knew what hit him, she’d up and stolen all his money and run off to California to be with her lover, leaving Al with the four kids!”

  “So it follows that Mrs. Fitzsimmons will be just that underhanded.” Parker raised a brow at his brother and sent him one of those piercing gazes that unnerved Roy. “They aren’t all like Mama, Roy.”

  Roy recoiled, which was always his reaction when he heard his brother use this endearment in reference to the woman who had abandoned them. He barely remembered her—just her sweet, violet scent, her merry laugh, and the soft sound of her voice as she sang at night.

  He shook the unsettling thoughts away, and turned back to the subject at hand. “I tell you, there’s something fishy about Mrs. Fitzsimmons, and I intend to watch her. She isn’t going to leave my sight for a moment.”

  “Why, Roy, you sound downright intrigued.” Parker laughed. “And you said all women were dull!”

  “I didn’t say they weren’t crafty, though.”

  A whistle sounded in the distance, and Parker walked over to his brother’s side to watch the train’s approach.

  “She’s bound to have quite a few bags with her,” Parker said. “I’ll bring the wagon around.”

  The thought of the woman arriving with too many belongings panicked Roy. How long could she be planning to stay? He turned to stop his brother, but Parker was already out of earshot as the train chugged noisily toward the small depot.

  Roy grumbled to himself. This was going to be a nuisance! What if Parker didn’t get back in time? How was he supposed to pick out a woman he’d never even seen?

  Not that Parker had ever seen her, either, he reminded himself, the ridiculousness of the situation hitting him square between the eyes. How were three bachelors supposed to entertain some New York lady? With winter coming on, no less! She’d go out of her mind within days. Or they would.

  When the train’s wheels screeched angrily against the tracks as the behemoth labored to a stop, Roy crossed his arms and waited with as much patience as he could muster. At least meeting Mrs. Fitzsimmons as she stepped off the train would allow him the opportunity to get a good gander at the woman before Parker did. The moment tenderhearted Parker saw the old widow, he was bound to offer her his heart and all his worldly possessions right there in the middle of the depot. This way Roy could study her, and see if she looked trustworthy. If she didn’t, maybe he could still warn his brother against her somehow.

  He squinted up at the doors of the passenger cars. Two women dressed in black stepped down from the train—two widows, wouldn’t you know it, which didn’t make his job any easier. One was short and youngish looking, the other was tall and older—or at least he thought she was older. She was wearing a veiled hat, so her age wasn’t easy to discern. He looked back at shorty again and quickly dismissed her. The tall regal woman who was wearing a very stylishly cut coat was undoubtedly Queen Eleanor who hobnobbed with Vanderbilts.

  He ambled forward and tipped his hat curtly at the woman. “Mrs. Fitzsimmons?”

  A smile touched the woman’s wide mouth, but at the sound of the name, the blue eyes behind the veil fogged, then blinked in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”

  Her voice was low and sonorous—a nice voice. Too bad it sounded completely bewildered. Plus she was staring at him strangely, as if he were crazy.

  “Parker!” a voice trilled behind him.

  Something tugged at his sleeve, and Roy spun on his boot heel, coming face to face with the other, younger lady, who was wrapped in a heavy cloak, with a hat and scarf covering her head. Actually, her face was nowhere near his. She was so petite she barely reached his shoulder.

  “It’s me—Eleanor!”

  He froze, feeling for a moment that the breath had been knocked out of him. This was the cultured widow? For some reason, he hadn’t expected someone so young. Or so pretty! Tendrils of vibrant red hair peeked out at him beneath the black shawl, framing a face whose perfectly creamy skin was highlighted by a pert upturned nose and the liveliest, greenest pair of eyes he’d ever seen. And she was so small—although her delicate figure remained hidden beneath her heavy outer garments.

  She beamed a d
azzling smile at him that made his insides flop over uncomfortably. He didn’t know what to say to her. He couldn’t speak.

  “Parker McMillan!” she exclaimed again, still grinning.

  Roy stood in front of her, transfixed. Why, Eleanor Fitzsimmons was little more than a girl! Twenty, twenty-two at most. And there wasn’t anything particularly aristocratic or aloof about her appearance, which surprised him. As she stood bending slightly forward into the wind, holding on to the crown of her hat to keep it lodged atop her head, her cheeks glowed a healthy red from the brisk wind. Who would have thought Parker’s Mrs. Fitzsimmons would turn out to be the most bewitching creature he’d ever laid eyes on?

  Her pink lips turned down into a frown. “You are Mr. McMillan, aren’t you, sir?”

  He shook his head. She had a different accent, a careful way of speaking that he supposed went with being rich and cultured. Kind of the way he always imagined English people might speak.

  Her frown turned to confusion. “You’re not?” She paled. “Oh, heavens! I must apologize…”

  “I mean—well, yes I am,” he stammered, giving himself a mental slap. “But not the McMillan you were probably expecting. I’m Roy McMillan.”

  “Parker’s brother!”

  When her face broke out into another sunny smile that seemed to light up the gloomy October afternoon, he grinned helplessly and nodded. “That’s it.”

  “Parker wrote me about you.”

  “He did?” He didn’t know why it pleased him so that she remembered. Maybe because it was so pleasurable just to stare into beautiful eyes greener than a meadow in springtime.

  “Nothing’s happened to him, I hope?”

  “To who?”

  “To your brother.”

  “Oh, no,” Roy assured her. “He’s just pulling the wagon around.” Remembering his manners, he added quickly, “May I hold your bags while we wait for the rest of your things?”

  She blinked up at him. “The rest of my things?”