Chapter 2   

Tara shifted her ten-gallon hat backward and peered down the track. So much for a midmorning arrival. The Utah & Northern Railroad made it to Butte’s Silver Bow Depot over the winter. She left the ranch well before sunrise for the six-hour trek. The entire depot was deserted except for her and the agent. Her freight order and new foreman should have been waiting on her, not the other way around. But what if that confounded train didn’t make it again? Even if it came now, the sun already showed all the signs of blazing hot this afternoon. The long ride home would not be as pleasant as the brisk ride this morning. Montana had a way with weather. She was as fickle as a stray cat, only friendly when she felt her belly rumble.

“Any word, Mr. Dawson?” she called out to the ticket clerk as he worked down the platform from her. She’d like to be doing rather than standing around wasting good time. But one day would be worth it when they had a skilled foreman, Tara consoled herself.

“She’ll be coming up the track any minute, Miss Johnston.” He set a crate on the growing stack of outbound freight toward the edge of the wide wooden walkway that doubled for a platform. “Got a wire last night that the Security jumped the track on another busted rail. Had to be pulled off in Dillon again.”

“Again? What’s that make it, five or six times in the last year?”

He checked his freight then joined her. “Ah, let’s see. There’s the time it hit the last broken rail and tipped. Those folks were shaken up, but no real injuries. Could’ve been a lot worse.”

She nodded. “I saw that in the paper. They’ve nicknamed that sleeper car the In-Security. It’d make me laugh ’cept people are getting roughed up and it’s costing a bunch of hard-earned money when supplies are dumped too.” Off in the distance, a black speck chugged toward them puffing out steam like a grandpa with a pipe. “Honestly, I think folks are braver than me to want to ride one of these ghastly things. I’ll stick to my horse, thank you. Steady transportation for centuries.”

He shrugged and went on counting mishaps. “The time it blew over and killed that mule, another time or two jumpin’ the tracks, and don’t forget that cow what took out two engines and the Security.”

“I heard ’bout that poor old Bessie.” She wandered over to lean against the small one-story building and wait the last few minutes in the shade. “Sure nice of the town to get up a collection for that family. Nobody can afford to lose a milk cow.”

“Yep, I think you have it near right—’round about five to six times that car has jinxed the train. They oughta count their losses and replace it.” Josiah Dawson headed back to the depot doorway as he called over his shoulder, “But it ain’t collided yet like them east-west trains keep doin’.” He stopped and checked his watch against the church bell tolling noon before going inside. “Don’t know why they can’t get their schedules worked out. No sir. Just can’t figure it.”

The whistle blew, grabbing Tara’s attention and alerting the town to the arrival of the tardy train. The platform filled with merchants, delivery boys, and locals as the depot agent continued piling outgoing freight. A little boy ran into town announcing the arrival as if no one had heard the blasts and bells. Excited people crowded in to get their wares and visiting relatives.

Most of the town and surrounding homesteads still showed up to greet the trains for catalogue orders, furniture, and especially fruits like oranges regardless of the day. Men swarmed the freight cars, loading mining equipment, farming supplies, and luggage onto wagons. New homesteaders stared in wonder at the bustling area nestled in the green mountains. How many would stay after their first winter?

Where was that foreman? She could use his help loading up the fence and seed supplies. “Mr. Dawson?” Tara hollered over the remaining crowd, no longer pressed shoulder to shoulder. “You got any clue on passengers? Did they all make it on the train in Dillon?”

He called back, “No, ma’am. Nobody said nothin’. You expectin’ someone special?”

“I—” A tap on her shoulder caught her by surprise. She spun around.

“Miss Tara Johnston?” The man’s accent didn’t sound like an Irish brogue or Texas twang, and it certainly wasn’t Chinese or Italian. More snooty-like, to go along with his high-brow suit. My, my, what a suit! The fabric alone would cost a month’s rations before a tailor took a scissor to it. Tara had never seen such finery before, not even at a performance in Butte with Marcus Daly and Conrad Kohrs in attendance. She had to admire the silk of his waistcoat and finely woven summer wool coat.

He held out an envelope toward her as he pointed at the return address, a very nice smile on his handsome, clean-shaven face. “Are you Miss Johnston?”

She suddenly needed a drink of water. “I am.” My, my, what a head turner. Too bad he’d never be staying in the wilds of Montana Territory. By the look of him, Montana would be far too rugged and primitive and fickle. There wasn’t a practical thing about him, from his shiny shoes to the gem stickpin holding his fancy cravat’s intricate design. The kind of man that came on one train and left on the next with a handkerchief to his nose.

She scanned past his broad shoulders for a real cowboy. But all the men left were either unloading into wagons or gathering luggage for another party. “I’m waitin’ on someone.” Kinda wish it were you. She forced her attention off him and to the passenger car behind him. But he didn’t move on.

“I believe you’re here for me.” He held out a palm the way a gentleman did for a lady alighting from a carriage. She stared at his hand curiously until he pulled it back and gave a courtly bow. “Timothy Higgenbottom at your service, mademoiselle.”

What did he just call her? Her neck warmed, and the sun hadn’t even burned her yet. “Mad-ma-what?” She tipped up her chin, taking his measure. Her father had said to find a Timothy Higgenbottom. Was this man a fraud or a jokester? Who would have put him up to it? Then it occurred to her that this could be a carpetbagger here to defraud them. Her eyes narrowed. She’d heard of shenanigans with impostors. This fancy pants had no call to be working as a ranch foreman.

“Mademoiselle. It means—”

“I don’t care what it means. What I care about is finding the true Mr. Higgenbottom so we can collect our freight and get back to the ranch. I do not find your joke funny. If you’ll pardon me, I have work to do before a long ride home.”

He looked confused. “Miss Johnston, I’m truly him. I mean, me. I’m Timothy Higgenbottom.” He sounded sincere. “Your intended.”

What a funny way to say it, even for a foreigner. “What I intended, Mr. Higgenbottom, was to pick up an able-bodied man to help run my ranch.” She looked him up and down. “You sure ain’t trained to work cattle and horses and manage cowboys.” She again made a point to notice his attire. “Am I wrong? Though you got quite a flare for fashion with that, uh, jeweled thingamabob. Evenin’ wear just ain’t practical in Montana, sir.” Dressed like that, what would he do rounding up the horses? Feeding the cattle? “I think we might well call an end to this charade. Uh … good luck.” She sighed and turned to leave.

“Miss Johnston, in my hand I hold a proposal telling me to come to Montana. In good faith and at personal expense, I have done so to learn ranching and partner with you. Are you telling me that because of my choice of suit, which for your information is not evening wear, you would not wish to marry me?”

Tara stopped. For a moment she gaped at him, trying for the life of her to sort out the knot in his yarn. Then the absurdity of the situation struck her. Pa telling her to wear a pretty dress, which she ignored for her common town outfit. This man in his elegantly embroidered silk vest thinking the job offer from Pa was a marriage proposal. The coincidences couldn’t have been contrived, as they crashed worse than two engines going east and west. The odd situation was utterly ridiculous. She couldn’t hold it in. Tara’s laughter burst forth and doubled her over until tears squeezed out. When she gathered her presence of mind, she finally looked up and saw thunder in his eyes.

Was she outright laughing at him? Timothy couldn’t believe the rudeness and disdain this woman displayed. Public humiliation was not acceptable. Her father’s letter claimed a well-bred young lady. Pretty features held much less attraction when one manifested such disastrous manners. His reckless decision proved nothing but a failure at this point. Mother would plan his wedding to Miss Thompson the moment he walked through the door at Cumberland Meadows.

Timothy straightened his spine and gathered his dignity. He had to figure out what to do now that he’d come this far. “I’ve made a mistake in coming here. I see that.” He tucked the letter in his breast pocket, then picked up the small valise with his most important belongings. “I’m sure there’s another train soon. Good day, Miss Johnston.” Heading home with his tail between his legs churned his stomach. Perhaps he’d buy a ticket back to Salt Lake City or Denver and try his luck in more established, civilized areas of the country.

She straightened right up. “Hold up, mister.” Humor peeked through her words and tweaked the edges of her lips, setting off an intriguing dimple. Her western accent was pleasant, though not her tone. “There’s been a mistake, I’m sure. Likely in the translation of whatever you have there.”

“It’s written in plain English.”

“There’s English …” She hesitated. “And there’s whatever you’re speakin’.” She held out her hand. “May I see that letter, please? Let’s figure where all this tangled mess comes from.”

She was still the rudest girl he’d ever encountered, but at least she’d sobered. Had he misunderstood something? Highly likely, given her particular vernacular. “Of course.”

He handed the envelope to her, noticing the roughened hands of a hardworking woman. No gloves. Nails dirty and uneven as if broken regularly, and calluses covered the skin on her palms. Had he agreed to marry a field hand? Thankfully, they both had the right to change their minds.

Nothing in her father’s letters led him to believe he’d misrepresented their standing in society. But to look at her, one could only conclude he had written tall tales. She wore a simple ankle-length brown skirt belted around a red-and-white gingham blouse. A red kerchief was tied at her neck, and one thick, long braid the color of coffee dangled down her back. But the letter had emphasized her education in ranch management and half ownership of the JBarF. “Perhaps you can explain how you interpret it.”

Her nose crinkled into cute little wrinkles between lovely brown eyes that danced with curiosity.

Yes, she could be called pretty under the road dust. Too bad she didn’t care to dress the part of a landowning lady. Maybe the letter was fabricated. It wouldn’t be the first attempt to defraud the Higgenbottom family. Perhaps the most clumsy and poorly enacted. But then he’d fallen for it, if that were the case. Doubt steeped his words. “Are you the co-owner of the JBarF Ranch?”

Irritation sparked in those eyes like lightning in dry grass. “What do you mean, am I the co-owner? Who else would I be?” She looked at him like she might look at a toad. “How would you know—” She ripped the envelope open and unfolded the letter. A few moments later her eyes closed and her head tilted up toward the sky.

“I’ve got you.” He moved close to catch her should she faint. A bit taller than the average girl, Miss Johnston appeared more fit than the high society young ladies that took to fainting at the least provocation. He held out his arms and braced his legs for her weight. Instead, she opened fiery eyes. If it were possible, Timothy knew without a doubt he’d be ablaze.

She crossed her arms, tilting her chin to the side like a schoolmarm. “Exactly what do you think you’re doin’ back there?”

“Easing your fall.” He lowered his arms.

“Oh my word!” Her offense at being considered delicate took their first meeting into disaster. “You thought I was goin’ to faint?”

“In my experience, difficult news or a shock to a woman often results in the vapors. I wouldn’t let a—” Her eyes flashed, but what else could he say? “—lady fall.” Definitely not like any lady he’d ever met.

“Oh my word!” she said again. She drew back her shoulders and drilled him with a dead-on, straight eyeball-to-eyeball glare. “I ain’t never had the vapors. The vapors!” Then she pointed at his valise. “Is that all you got?” She didn’t leave room for an answer as she stomped away. “Let’s go,” she tossed over her shoulder. “We need an explanation from my pa. We’ve both been duped.”

Once past his surprise, Timothy caught up to her quickly with his longer stride. “Your pa?”

She stopped for a brief moment. “Mr. Higgenbottom, I’m very sorry that I laughed at you. Well, not really at you. More the situation. But I didn’t know Pa wrote that letter offerin’ you marriage and a partnership.” She took off at a clip that bordered on a run. “In fact, I was told to come and pick up a new ranch foreman. A foreman the JBarF desperately needed yesterday, and the day before that. Are you a foreman?”

“Yes, that’s the agreement.”

“But not my agreement.”

“Obviously not.” He planted his feet and took out his pocket watch. “I’ll find the depot agent and—”

An exasperated sigh escaped as Miss Johnston again folded her arms like she would for a naughty child. Then she asked, “Can you at least ride a horse?”

“I assure you that I cannot only ride a horse, I train them. I’m capable and quite good at my profession as a riding instructor and animal doctor. I wrote as much in my letters.”

“I don’t have any idea what”—she grimaced at his finery—“you’re capable of doin’. What I’m hopin’ is that you’re willin’ to try, because at this point we’re desperate. Are you?”

Willing to try, or desperate? At this point the conversation felt like an untrained pup had broken into the henhouse and feathers were flying everywhere. “Since we’re now both unclear about the situation, can you be more specific?”

“More specific? Surely. I need an able-bodied foreman on the JBarF. You say you’re a capable worker. Well, I got a fence down, cattle to round up, and horses to work. How’s that for specific?”

Animals and land. “I am able and willing.” Also desperate not to go home.

“All right, let’s see what you can do.” She turned toward the end of the wooden walkway. “We got supplies to load and a six-hour ride ahead of us, eight if the wagon’s heavy, and I already done six to get here this mornin’.”

Relief flooded over Timothy. At least he didn’t have to board the train back to Kentucky as a failure—yet. But with such a distasteful misunderstanding already between them, he’d better get a crystal-clear agreement. “Then marriage is not our immediate goal?”

“Oh. My. Word. That’s all you men can think about, ain’t it? Gettin’ a wife to do the cookin’ and cleanin’ and birthin’. I got no plans to be addin’ to my workload.” Hands on her hips, brown hair tickling at her dusty cheeks, Miss Johnston made quite the Wild West postcard under her ten-gallon hat. “In case I wasn’t specific enough, Mr. Higgenbottom, I ain’t ever marryin’ you. Now if you want a job, you got one. But you gotta prove you can keep it.”

Their eyes locked. “I’ll keep it, Miss Johnston.”

She put out a hand. Timothy took it and shook, sealing the deal.

“Good.” Her words were softer, more melodious, as she glanced back over her shoulder. “Let’s get the horses, load up, and get ourselves back to the ranch. Where’s your horse?”

“Had to leave him behind for the trip.”

She raised her eyebrows and sent a look heavenward. “Of course you did.” She walked away quicker than he’d expected, leading him to two magnificently bred chestnut Morgans at the water trough. “Come on, Blaze. Walk on, Biscuit.”

She took them to the wagon, hitched them up, and drove them to the offloaded freight. She hadn’t blinked an eye or asked for his help.

Timothy took off his suit coat, leaving it on the padded driver’s seat. They worked together lifting, piling, and pushing fencing supplies into the long wagon bed with few words between them. She worked as hard as he did, not slowing or watching anyone do it for her.

Timothy’s astonishment at her strength and ability set his impression of women on its head, his idea of a capable, interesting woman challenged in that instant. Was a cultured, educated, and socially prominent woman somehow better than a woman with a valuable skill set who worked alongside her man? He stole a glance at her. Yes, definitely pretty under all that road dust. She could be something special. He’d have to watch and see.

Did Miss Johnston’s idea of a capable man have a different set of standards than what his pocketbook held or whether she’d have a title to wield? A man working for her and the man she married might be two very opposing interests. But her uneducated slaughter of the English language poked a hole in that theory. Still, she intrigued him.

The depot agent rolled a heavy-laden cart over. “This here’s the last of the luggage. Any of it yours before I lock it up?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Yes?” Miss Johnston gave a quick double-take. “All that?” She had an incredulous expression.

“Where ya’ from, mister? That’s some accent ya’ got there,” the agent said.

“Kentucky, most recently. Timothy Higgenbottom. But originally England.”

“No kiddin’, all that way. Well, welcome to Montana Territory. I’m Josiah Dawson. Josiah’s fine.” He lifted one end of a huge travel trunk. “You go by Tim?”

“No, Timothy, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“All right, Timothy, let me know when ya need a ticket back home.”

“I’m planning to stay.” He couldn’t avoid Miss Johnston’s reaction as she shook her head ever so slightly in disbelief.

“Looks like maybe ya are.” He gave a low whistle at the remaining travel trunks on the cart. “Maybe so.”

“What if I hadn’t brought the wagon?” Shoving some of her supplies hard against the wall of the wagon bed, she said, “Did you bring all of England?”

Best not to bite that bait. Timothy held back the fact that he’d left the majority of his belongings behind.

Josiah helped Timothy load three large trunks and rearrange the other supplies to better balance the load. Miss Johnston carried a smaller trunk to the front, setting it on the passenger’s side of the seat. Timothy noted her confident ease. She didn’t complain about the work. She simply did the next needed action. In his world, menservants carried and moved anything hefty for the women, regardless of station. A maid thought nothing of dusting under heavy furniture while men moved it here and there. The women of higher station ordered others about while they drank tea. This woman, who waited for no man, who gave as much of herself as she demanded from others, had him mystified.

Josiah watched them for a moment. “Miss Johnston, I think ya mighta got more than you was expectin’.”

Her expression was unreadable as she checked the horses and their rigging. “Not sure what you mean, Mr. Dawson.”

He tipped his hat. “Good luck to ya, Timothy.” He left, chuckling under his breath.

Timothy lifted his coat from the driver’s seat. “I think I can fit that small trunk in the back with some twine to hold it.”

“No, you need a place to ride.”

“You mean ride in the back?” Maybe as a lad, but never since.

“’Less you want to lose any of those precious trunks? Your choice.” She climbed up and took the reins. “Better hop on one way or another—it’s a long walk.” She snapped the reins above Blaze and Biscuit. “Walk on.”

The wagon lurched forward. Timothy swung onto the back, feet dangling a few inches above the earth. She was the boss and, hopefully, a future partner. But did she have to hit every bump and rock in the road?