| |
Three days later, on Sunday morning, Ellie sat in the fifth row on the right side of St. James, the row she and her father always sat in, struggling to concentrate on the sermon when two of her current suitors sat in her line of sight. Mr. George Baker and Mr. Leeland Fridley.
Mr. Baker was a banker, not a baker. Short, bald, and a little soft around the middle, he was close to her age, maybe twenty-four, with the most unpleasant tendency to perspire heavily whenever near her. He didn’t do it from a distance, just when speaking to her, and her father could blame Mr. Baker’s nerves, but the last time Mr. Baker took her for a drive, she couldn’t focus on anything but the beads of sweat rolling down his face. Damp palms were one thing, but a dripping brow was another.
Like Mr. Baker, Mr. Fridley had been raised somewhere on the East Coast. He’d arrived in Marietta with the first train and dealt in real estate. If you didn’t know him personally, you might first think Leeland Fridley handsome, but on acquaintance he quickly became tiresome, overly preoccupied as he was with appearances, money, and public opinion.
So, which was the better suitor? The short, nervous, damp Mr. Baker, or the attractive but supercilious Leeland Fridley?
Mr. Fridley suddenly caught her eye and inclined his head. She stiffly nodded back, trying not to fixate on his dark hair, shiny with pomade. She couldn’t imagine touching his hair. But then, was Mr. Baker’s bald pate any better?
Easter was just two weeks away and she needed a third option. But where would this new suitor come from? She’d gone through seven or eight suitors since Christmas and each one seemed worse than the last. The problem wasn’t entirely with the gentlemen, either. Ellie knew she wasn’t a typical young woman, eager to marry and have a family. Her father had raised her as if she was a son, not a daughter. Growing up, he’d made sure she had good tutors, and he’d emphasized her need to read and write, as well as do advanced math so she could help him with his business. And she had helped. From the time she was sixteen, she’d taken care of his books, and placed his orders, and helped him make decisions regarding the future of the ranch. Three years ago when the horrific winter decimated Montana’s cattle, cutting herds in half in parts of the state, the ranches in and around Yellowstone had been hit hard, where some ranchers lost ninety percent of their livestock.
They’d been far more fortunate at Burnett Ranch as they weren’t as dependent on cattle as others. It had been Ellie who’d convinced her father several years earlier to diversify due to the continuing decline in the beef market. She’d run numbers to show him how sheep and hay crops could help them offset their losses, and so while the winter of 1886-1887 was bad, it wasn’t nearly as devastating for them as it had been for their neighbors.
Ellie was proud of her business acumen, but when she tried to discuss business and ranching practices with her different suitors, it never went over well. Sinclair Douglas was perhaps the only one who had tolerated her opinions. The rest of the gentlemen were always eager to steer her back to proper topics like weather.
Or the next church picnic.
Ellie sighed inwardly, fingers lacing. If only she could be happy discussing weather and St. James’s social events, but both topics were tedious. Being a lady was tiresome. She’d rather be on Oisin, riding hard, or traveling in her buggy with the wind pulling apart her hair, making her feel free.
She loved to be free.
Ellie blamed her father for that one.
But she wouldn’t be free much longer. Certainly no husband would give her the freedom her father had allowed her.
Her heart did a funny flutter and she suddenly remembered Mr. Sheenan, and how he was to show her the property on Bramble.
Her stomach plummeted, intensifying the jitter in her veins.
Mr. Sheenan. He was not like any of her suitors. But then, he was nothing like any of the men in Marietta.
She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing, or not.
Her father had asked her several nights ago why the Irishman wasn’t a candidate and she’d been appalled.
But, to be perfectly objective, why wasn’t Mr. Sheenan? How could he be worse than Mr. Baker or Mr. Fridley? At least he had clean hair.
And broad shoulders. And an impressively fit physique. Not that she’d wanted to notice, but it was impossible to not be aware of his height and size when he’d loomed over her as she’d laid sprawled on the side of the road.
He should have helped her up.
She swallowed hard, hands gripping the prayer book in her lap. He was not a gentleman and she dreaded meeting him after this morning’s service. Thomas Sheenan made her angry, as well as incredibly uneasy. Just looking at him made everything inside her lurch and slosh—most discomfiting.
He was also painfully arrogant but, in his defense, he wasn’t vain or haughty like Mr. Fridley. Mr. Sheenan did no primping, prancing, or mincing. Nor did he sweat excessively.
His fault was the opposite. He was tall and muscular, darkly handsome, and absurdly confident. He exuded authority, oozing control, and it was beyond aggravating that a man who hadn’t even been in Crawford County six months should have formed such a negative opinion of her.
How could he find fault with her behavior when he didn’t know her?
Pfft.
Ellie felt a prickle of awareness and she glanced from beneath her lashes to her left, and discovered that Mr. Baker was staring at her, full lips slightly parted, expression hungry.
She closed her eyes, and held her breath. Please, dear Lord, send me a proper suitor. A man that I can respect and eventually tolerate in my bed. Amen.
Prayer over, she opened her eyes and looked up at the pulpit from where the minister was still speaking. Normally she enjoyed attending the Sunday service, not because she was particularly religious, but it was a tradition in their family. Sunday was the one day her father didn’t work as he made it a point of honoring the Sabbath. He did it for her late mother, part of the promise he’d made to her as she lay dying that he’d raised Ellie to be a good Christian. It was a big promise for Archibald to make since he wasn’t a churchgoing man. But he’d kept his promise. Ellie never missed church, or the Sunday school classes after the worship service. He might feel like an imposter in the pew, but he made sure Ellie was there.
There was a ritual to attending church, too.
Growing up, after supper on Saturday night, he’d heat water for her bath, and then he’d wash her hair before sitting her before the hearth in her little rocking chair to ensure her long red hair dried completely before she went to bed. While her hair dried, he’d iron her best dress and her petticoats and then shine her shoes. Then on Sunday morning they’d put on their good clothes and head to town for church.
Papa gave Ellie her late mother’s bible as a confirmation gift when she’d turned twelve. For nearly a year, Ellie poured over the bible, memorizing her mother’s favorite underlined verses, but it had been a long time since Ellie believed that God answered prayers. If God did, he would have saved her father.
No one lived forever but, before the cancer, her father had been impossibly strong and healthy. At six-four he’d towered over men, and on the ranch he could do the work of two to three men. It hadn’t been easy but he’d managed to be both mother and father, too, and now God would take him? Without leaving her with anyone? Surely He could at least provide a decent man, someone suitable to marry.
She was so very tired of thinking about marriage, too.
It was a shame things hadn’t worked out with Sinclair Douglas because Ellie had liked him. She hadn’t been in love with him, but Sinclair had been easy to like, and she’d felt an almost sisterly affection for him. He was Johanna’s big brother after all, and respected by the community. She had confidence in his ability to manage the Burnett Ranch and not squander the resources, or run it into the ground.
She found herself looking at Mr. Baker and then Mr. Fridley. She couldn’t imagine either one successfully running the ranch.
Or giving her children. Not that she was ready for children. But one day there would need to be heirs, a boy or girl to inherit her father’s land. It was the least she could do to honor his legacy.
A half hour later the service finally ended, and Ellie exited the church quickly trying to avoid having to speak to either of the two gentlemen, elbowing past parishioners to get to her side.
Stepping outside, she blinked, the overcast day still considerably brighter than the dim church interior, and then spotted Mr. Sheenan parked at the curb, exactly where he promised to be. He hadn’t come in a buggy but in the same huge, ugly farm wagon he’d driven to her father’s on Wednesday.
Her pace slowed. She winkled her nose, remembering how he’d transported his sheep in the back just a few days ago.
He dropped down from the seat and extended his hand to help her in.
Her gaze swept over him. He was so much taller than she, his shoulders broad in the sturdy brown wool coat, his frame thick with muscle. Perhaps if he’d been built more like Mr. Fridley she wouldn’t feel so uneasy. As it was, her skin prickled and her nerves tightened and she drew back a step, thinking this was a bad idea.
“We’ll go in my carriage,” she said breathlessly, ignoring his hand, as she battled for a sense of control.
He shrugged lightly. “I won’t be driving your carriage.”
“No. I will be—”
“You misunderstand, Miss Burnett. You won’t be driving me anywhere. Let me assist you in.”
“Your wagon is about to fall apart.”
“It’s not, and I’ve just scrubbed the seat for you, m’lady.” His deep voice with its Irish accent dripped with scorn. “If you’re worried about cleanliness, I can assure you that you won’t dirty your fine gown on my bench.”
Heat rushed through her. Her cheeks grew hot. “Bramble is just a few blocks over. Tie your horse and we can walk.”
“I’m not tying my horse, nor walking anywhere, not when hail is forecast for this afternoon. So get in, or let us part ways. I’ve plenty to do and I’m not strong on patience.”
She very nearly told him good day and good riddance but she spied Mr. Baker from the corner of her eye, hustling toward the wagon, his pale brow beaded with perspiration and another film of moisture above his upper lip.
Jaw firming, she lifted her chin and held out her hand, allowing the Irishman to assist her into his wagon.
She settled on the hard wood bench as far from his seat as she could without falling out.
Mr. Sheenan gave her a mocking glance. “Comfortable?”
“Can we just go, please?” she said tightly, hands balling in her lap.
Instead he glanced to the two men standing on the pavement in front of the church. “Should we invite your friends to come along?” he asked sardonically.
Mr. Baker and Mr. Fridley were practically elbowing each other in their haste to reach the wagon. She shook her head. “Sadly, there is no proper bench for them.”
“They could ride in the back—”
“Mr. Fridley would be appalled. Perhaps we should move along and get this over with?”
“Couldn’t agree more.” Mr. Sheenan flicked the reigns and his sturdy horse set off.
It was a short trip down First Avenue, past the triangular shaped Bramble Park with its two saplings and iron bench and then a left on Bramble Lane. There were a dozen houses scattered down Bramble, with two houses on some blocks, and just one house on others. Most of the Victorian homes had been built in the past ten years, some newer than others, but as this was the most prestigious address in Marietta, they were all two to three stories with double hung windows, and columns and porches, and either a tower, turret, or cupola. Some homes were Italianate in design, while others were of the simpler Gothic Revival, and then there were new houses of Queen Anne style.
She looked at each house carefully as they traveled north on Bramble, wondering what it was her father purchased here for her, and if it was a house, or a lot. She’d known for a number of months that her father was up to something, withdrawing money from the local bank for a secret purchase of significant size, but she hadn’t expected it to be land on Bramble. She’d thought maybe he was going to build her a new house on their ranch in the valley.
Apparently she’d been wrong.
Her heart sank as Mr. Sheenan slowed and then stopped before a newly built, three story Queen Anne mansion. The wooden shingles on the lower two floors had been painted butter yellow, while the shingles on the third were her favorite ivy green. The thick trim gleamed white, while the tall double hung windows on all three floors promised a bright interior. Her father knew her tastes, though, because the house had a dashing two-story turret and the huge, wrap around porch she’d wanted ever since she was a little girl.
Her father had finally given her the house she’d always dreamed about but instead of it being on their property, beneath the shadow of Emigrant Mountain, it faced majestic Copper Mountain, which wasn’t her favorite peak at all.
It was without a doubt a very pretty house, the sparkle of the glass and the soft yellow paint infinitely appealing for a city house, but she didn’t want a city house. She would not be living in Marietta. She’d marry and raise her children on the Burnett Ranch in Paradise Valley.
Mr. Sheenan climbed down and reached up to assist her out.
She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“It’s impossible to see everything from here,” he answered. “The builder gave me the key earlier. He apologized for not having any trees in yet, but I think you’d like the inside. There are gas lines throughout, and each bedroom has its own bath with a proper tub and hot water.”
“You’ve been inside then?”
“I have. It’s impressive. My mother would have called it a very fine manor home. High ceilings, a modern kitchen, large windows throughout—”
“That’s nice, but I’m not going to live here. My home is in the valley.”
“Your house in the valley is primitive compared to this.”
She turned her head and looked at him. “Maybe. But would you give up that land—thousands of acres, never mind all that livestock—to live here?”
His gaze narrowed. He studied her a long moment. “No.”
“Well, neither will I.” She swallowed hard around the lump filling her throat. “Will you please take me back to my carriage now?”
He slowed in front of the church and then drew his horse to a stop. The wagon rolled a little and then was still.
Ellie clasped her hands together, fingers tightly laced. Her stomach was in knots. The wind had picked up in the past half hour but there was still considerable blue between the gathering clouds. If she left now, she should be able to get home before the storm broke. She ought to go. She shouldn’t be desperate, or impulsive. But she’d been desperate ever since her father had told her that his condition was terminal, that there was nothing anyone could do now but try to keep him comfortable.
Ellie’s jaw worked. Her eyes burned. “My father approves of you,” she said huskily.
“I don’t need anyone’s approval.”
“He’d like me to marry you.”
“I know.”
She looked at him, throat aching. “Has he spoken to you then about marrying me?”
“He has.”
She pressed her gloved fingertips into her palms so hard she could still feel the bite of nail. “And?”
“I came to America to escape family and obligation.”
She thought she hated him just then. But she’d hate herself more if she gave up now. Burnett Ranch was worth it. Her pride be damned. “I’m not asking you to like me, and I certainly don’t expect you to love me. I just need you to marry me, which will allow me to preserve my father’s legacy.”
He said nothing and she struggled against the hot rush of anger and shame.
“Is it so impossible to contemplate a life on Burnett Ranch?” she asked tautly.
“It’s exceptional property, and one of the finest ranches in Montana or Wyoming. But I didn’t come here to marry—”
“Yes, I understand. You don’t want a wife. Well, I don’t want a husband, either, but it seems that life is about change and compromise and I’m asking you if you can’t please reconsider your position on marriage, and help me save the land I love so much by marrying me.” Her voice cracked and her lips quivered and she bit down ruthlessly into her bottom one to hide the fact it was trembling.
For a long moment, there was just the whistle of the icy wind. Perhaps he’d think her eyes were watering from the wind, not shame.
She’d never begged anyone for anything before.
She’d never thought she’d have to beg any man to marry her, either.
“Since you have not yet given me a clear, unequivocal no, let me add that this would be a business arrangement. We would both benefit. You’d be co-owner of one of the biggest, most prosperous ranches in Paradise Valley, and I would have my estate protected.”
She held her breath waiting for him to say something, but he didn’t.
Ellie pressed on. “We will want children one day to pass the property onto, but I wouldn’t expect for us to rush into marital relations, at least not anytime soon. I think we should give ourselves time to get to know each other. I anticipate an adjustment period of six months to a year, something sensible so that we could become familiar with the other—” She broke off, and met his gaze, smile wavering. “I’m not expecting romance. I don’t expect much, actually, but if you did agree, and if you agreed marriage could be beneficial, I think it would be wise for us to start out with an agreement in place. Something practical that would lay the framework for the future.”
Thomas took all of this in silently. He watched her face as she spoke, letting her words drift over and around him, listening but not listening, thinking it was all rather foolish.
She wanted a husband but no marital relations for six months to a year. She didn’t expect romance but desired time for them to become acquainted.
Clearly, she didn’t know the difference between men and women.
Nor did she appreciate her desirability.
Men didn’t need to know a beautiful woman well to bed her, and Ellie Burnett was beautiful. Even if one didn’t like bright fiery red hair, they’d still find her pretty. And back home, Thomas had been known for his soft spot for redheads. Maybe that was why she’d made such an impression on him, back in December. That hair and those eyes, never mind her full, soft mouth made for long, hot kisses.
“Why me?” he asked when she fell silent again, finally at a loss for words. “Why not Baker or Fridley or any of the other dozen men who have pursued you since Christmas?”
Two spots of color burned high in her cheeks, making her green eyes glow brighter. Her full pink lips trembled then compressed. “My father approves of you.”
“Did he not approve of the others? Did he dislike every single one?”
“No. He wasn’t critical of any of them.”
“So your father doesn’t approve of me, he just doesn’t disapprove.”
“He’s trying to let me choose.”
“Which brings us back to my question, why me when you know I don’t want you, and I don’t want to marry, and I cannot see how I will bring you a minute’s joy or happiness—”
“You don’t intend to beat me, do you?”
“I don’t beat women.”
“So why would I be unhappy? You’re healthy, ambitious, and, from all appearances, accustomed to hard labor.”
Thomas looked at her for a long moment, not sure why he felt like giving her a good shake.
Was she mentally deficit? She knew nothing about him, nor did she seem inclined to find out anything important about him. She wasn’t even asking the right questions. Instead, it was enough for her that he was young and physically fit. “I can ride and work late, rounding up cattle or harvesting a field, but there will be plenty of nights where weather or illness will keep us trapped in the house together. Don’t you think you should know more about the man you marry than if he can carry heavy things?”
Her brow lifted. “Should I interview you, then? Or write to someone, requesting references? Or, maybe, you have those references on your person, which would be wonderful since time is of the essence.”
“Did anyone ever tell you sarcasm is unattractive in a lady?”
“I try not to spend a lot of time worrying about what people think of me. I know who I am, and I know what I want, and I’m determined to keep my father’s land, and pass it on to my children. And maybe I’m not the simpering sort of lady you prefer—you can blame my father for that—but my instincts are good and they tell me if I want Burnett Ranch to survive for the next generation, you’d be the one to help me do it.”
Her voice deepened and her eyes shone but she never looked away from his gaze. “If my instincts are wrong, tell me. But I think you wouldn’t just keep the property intact, but you’d love it the way the land needs to be loved.”
She was a puzzle. Spoiled to a fault, high-handed, and sharp-tongued, she was also heartbreakingly loyal to her father and she would suffer when he died.
“Where is your mother?” he asked bluntly.
“She died when I was five.”
“No brothers or sisters?”
“She died in childbirth.”
He looked away, not wanting to care, not wanting to be concerned, but he was concerned. “Aunts, uncles, grandparents?” he asked gruffly.
“Maybe in Texas. Or Massachusetts. My mama was born in Boston.” Her slim shoulders shifted. “But I’ve never met any relations. Apparently there was a falling out years ago when Mama married Papa.”
So she would be alone. And she would grieve and her grief would be made worse because there was no one else.
He looked away, frustrated. “You need to marry someone who will be kind to you, and patient. I am neither kind, nor patient—”
“I’m not looking for a girlfriend. I have Miss Douglas for gossip and girlish confidences—”
“You say that because you’ve been sheltered. Not all men are the same—”
“Exactly. I don’t want a gentrified man from the city. I don’t care about etiquette. I don’t need a dance partner. I need a husband who won’t be afraid of blisters and hard work, a husband who isn’t frightened by the howl of wolves and willing to rescue the stray calf even in the middle of a storm. If that is you, I want to marry you. If that is not you, then tell me, and I will continue my search and respect you for not wasting my time.”
He was not tempted, and the only thing he felt was irritation. He didn’t need people, or entanglements, and this woman with her gleaming red hair and wide, bright eyes would be nothing but trouble. He’d left Rathkeale to get away from complications and he liked Montana. He was beginning to settle in here in Paradise Valley. It almost felt comfortable, but it wouldn’t be comfortable with her around.
In fact, just sitting next to her in this damn wagon made him exceedingly uncomfortable. His trousers were too tight now and his body felt thick and hard, his pulse quick, his temper stirring.
“Was there never a suitable groom?” he asked shortly, wanting nothing more than to drop her off at the church and be done with her.
So why didn’t he just end this miserable conversation?
Why didn’t he just leave her to her fate?
He didn’t care.
He didn’t care.
He didn’t want to care.
But, as the silence stretched, and he could see how she struggled with words, color coming and going, washing her pale cheeks with red before fading again, he felt tense and impatient with the men of Marietta who should have wanted her, men who wanted wives and babies and stability. Men who needed anchors and partners.
He was not one of them.
“There was someone,” she said faintly. “We were briefly engaged, but he loved another.” Her smooth jaw firmed, expression cool. “I wouldn’t have allowed the courtship to proceed so slowly if I’d known he wasn’t going to marry me. Now there is no time for anything but exchanging vows.”
“I understand the urgency. You are being practical. But I had sisters. Girls are not boys, women are not men. You can’t possibly expect me to believe there is nothing you want for yourself.”
“Before my father became ill, I had dreams, but what is the point of dreaming when your heart is breaking?” She looked at him and suddenly her guard was down and he could see in her eyes her despair. She was hollow and scared.
“I want my father to live,” she said. “And I’d give everything up—the land, the livestock, the income—just to have another year with him. But God’s not listening and so here we are. I’m not good at begging. I don’t have a lot of experience pleading, but if I need to—”
“No.” He cut her off swiftly, brutally, unable to stomach anymore.
He hated grief. He had no use for emotions, good or bad. Work made sense. He understood blood and sweat. And sex. But that was all. Because that was all he had left. Whoever he’d been before was gone, buried with his family in County Limerick.
“I can’t give you tenderness, but I’m not afraid of wolves or bears or banshees—”
“Banshees,” she interrupted with a gurgle of tearful laughter. “My mother was always warning me of the banshees. Hooligans and banshees.” She reached up and swiped the tears before they could fall. “It’s good to know you’re not afraid of fairies or mischief makers.”
“How can I, when I was one myself?”
“Not a fairy, I hope.”
“No, but I did get into my share of trouble as a boy, and I suffered the consequences. I don’t look for trouble anymore, but if there’s something that needs to be done, I’ll do it.” He looked into her eyes, held her gaze. “But know, if we do this, you won’t be playing lady of the manor. You’ll be expected to do your share, and there won’t be anyone to wait on you hand and foot.”
“No one waits on me now.” She hesitated, her expressive face revealing her uncertainty as well as hope. “So... is that a yes?”
He wanted to say no. He wanted to walk away but, God help him, he couldn’t. “I need to speak to your father first.”
“To ask for his permission to marry me? If that is the case, it’s not necessary. He’ll say yes because at this point, it’s merely a formality—”
“Not to me.”
“When would you approach him?”
He hated this, all of this, but something in him couldn’t allow her to lose everything. He couldn’t save her father, but he could save her land. He understood the land because he understood sun and rain and the cycle of life. He could make something of the ranch.
She was another matter.
“I’ll call on him late this afternoon,” he said grimly. “And we’ll see what happens then.”
