Sterling pinched the bridge of his nose and blinked a few times, but the numbers on the ledger all ran together. He yanked open the drapes and stared out the window.
“Coffee?” Heather asked from the doorway.
He turned toward the sound of her voice. “Yes, please.”
She placed a steaming mug on the table and lifted the edge of the book. “How is the accounting?”
“Frustrating.” He indicated a heap of papers. “I want to match the receipts to the ledger, but the paperwork is a mess.”
“Can I help?”
He rubbed a hand over his forehead, his fingers bumping over the deepening lines of stress. “I can’t ask you to take on any more work. You’ve got Price in the house, and you’re cooking for the ranch hands.”
“It’s no bother. Price is upstairs resting. The doc gave him something for the pain, and I think it makes him tired.” She rested her hand on his upper shoulder. “Sit. You look exhausted.”
He turned toward her. A shaft of light from the setting sun caught her hair, turning the strands into molten fire.
Cupping the side of her cheek, he said, “You need to rest more.”
“Then let’s not argue. Let’s work on what needs to be done.”
He appreciated her no-nonsense attitude. “I’ll add more wood to the fire.”
After tossing several logs on the open flame, he stirred the embers and resumed his seat. She took the chair across from him and reached for the stack of receipts. “Most all of these have dates. I’ll arrange them according to months. That will speed up the process. Since most of the losses have taken place in the past two years, we’ll start there.”
He was distracted, and her words drifted over him without really sinking in. She wore a simple calico dress in blue, and the color brought out the ice blue of her eyes. Of all the people he might have been paired with, he was grateful Heather had been chosen. She was unshakable. No matter what had been tossed her way these past few weeks, she’d met each challenge with steadfast determination.
She’d fought illness and bandaged up Price after his accident. She’d taken over the feeding of the men with brisk efficiency. And now, instead of resting, she was assisting him with the frustrating task of sifting through piles of neglected paperwork.
Together they separated the myriad receipts into piles by year over the previous two years. Then they separated each of those years into months. Heather did, indeed, have an affinity for numbers, along with a quick memory, and she rapidly organized her year of paperwork.
Moving at a less efficient pace, he squinted at a date on the corner of a receipt from the feed lot. “Where did you learn accounting?”
“I’m self-taught, mostly. My first year teaching, I was barely ahead of my students. I’d gone to a private school in Maryland when my mother was alive, but the school in Pittsburgh was far more crowded, and the curriculum was less challenging.”
“I still can’t believe you came all the way from Pittsburgh,” he said. “You must have been terrified traveling all this way alone.”
“I was motivated.” She lifted her head from her work and stared out the window. “There weren’t many options in Pittsburgh for a single girl that didn’t involve factory work. I’d see the women leave for the textile mill in the morning, and they’d return late in the evening. The work aged them.”
“Still, traveling halfway across the country was a risk.”
As a man, he’d always been aware of the dangers of traveling alone, but he’d been confident in his abilities to defend himself. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen when she’d made the trip.
Heather rested her chin on her hand. “I’d managed to hide a few pieces of my mother’s jewelry from my aunt and uncle. Selling those pieces helped. I was able to purchase private rooms along the way.”
The idea of her pawning her belongings appalled him. “Were you able to save anything from your family?”
He imagined her as a child, with those enormous, serious eyes.
“Only memories. That’s enough.” She ducked her head once more. “What about you? Do you have family back East?”
“My ma was from back East, and I have family there. A few second cousins. My pa was an orphan. A self-made man. I don’t know much about his childhood.”
“Your father must have led quite a life.”
“I never thought much about it, but you’re right. I suppose that’s why he was hard on Dillon and me. As a man who came from nothing, he didn’t have patience for weakness. My ma wanted something different from her sons. She’d been raised in a more refined culture. My pa would have built a house five times this size, but she considered the show of wealth vulgar.”
“Isn’t it odd, what draws people together?” Heather said thoughtfully. “They must have had something in common.”
“I think my ma enjoyed the return of her status. Everyone suffered after the war. Social groups shifted, and I believe her family lost most of their prestige. In Valentine, she was part of the elite once more. Don’t get me wrong,” he hastened to add. “I don’t mean to criticize.”
“I didn’t think you were.” She rested her palms on the table. “Your parents did a lot of good for the community. Your ma’s parties are legendary.”
Sterling chuckled, the sound hollow. “Without them, Valentine might have wound up a ghost town like so many other communities that were started with gold.”
“That doesn’t make either of your parents a martyr. I teach history, Sterling. A person doesn’t have to be a great man to be a great leader. Leadership is full of difficult choices. Great leaders are often the people who are willing to make difficult moral choices for the greater good.”
Sterling tipped back his head and studied the rafters stretching across the ceiling. His pa had been ruthless with both his friends and enemies alike. For him, achieving the goal automatically righted whatever wrongs were committed along the way. Sterling had never possessed that same moral ambiguity, and neither had Dillon. Neither of them was willing to sacrifice their integrity for the good of the Blackwell Ranch, and his pa had considered their lack of support a mutiny.
Heather slid a receipt across the table. “I’m starting to see the problem. Nearly half of the entries in this ledger are false. A few dollars here, a few dollars there. Your pa was scaling back the operation at the same time as his expenses were going up, at least according to the numbers in the ledger. But that doesn’t make any sense. If your pa was hiding money, who was he hiding the money from?”
Pain spread through Sterling’s chest. After learning of his father’s stroke, he thought he’d been wrong. The accounts proved different.
“Me. He was hiding the money from me and Dillon. He never wanted us to inherit the ranch.”
“Then why did he leave it to you?”
“Revenge, maybe? He gave us the ranch and handed us a failure at the same time. He was the kind of man who’d take pleasure in that sort of thing.”
“But that’s cruel!” she exclaimed. “He was sick toward the end—perhaps his mind was failing as well as his health.”
“That’s what I thought. That’s what I’d hoped. Perhaps he simply wanted us to prove ourselves. He could hand us the failing ranch, and see if we succeeded or failed.”
“Yes, but what happened to all the money? Your explanation doesn’t account for the missing income. I haven’t added up all the numbers yet, but over two years, the discrepancies will add up to thousands of dollars. That money didn’t simply vanish into thin air.”
“I doubt we’ll ever know,” Sterling said.
She assumed her schoolteacher pose, sitting up straight and pinching her lips together. “That money is the key. If you discover what your pa did with the profits, you might find the key to his motives.”
Sterling stifled a grin. He was coming to enjoy the occasional glimpse of the schoolteacher she sometimes let out. “Maybe.”
The money was gone. For all he knew, his pa had burned the cash in the rubbish pile. For a moment he’d considered that someone else had been responsible, but the ledgers were clearly filled out in his pa’s handwriting. He’d been weakened, but the disappearance of the money was far too methodical for a weak mind. He’d hidden the money carefully, with precision, leaving behind a trail of bread crumbs.
Despite her unhappy upbringing, Heather wanted to believe the best in people. While he appreciated her optimism, he knew his pa. There was every chance his pa had donated the money and died laughing, hoping they’d discover his perfidy.
Heather glared at the ledgers, as though angry with the numbers for failing to cooperate. “I can’t believe you’d simply walk away from this mystery.”
“Sometimes the resolution is worse than the mystery itself,” he said.
He had enough on his mind. Delving into the reasons behind his pa’s possible revenge wasn’t high on his list of priorities.
He glanced at the top of Heather’s head, and his pulse quickened. She was softening toward him. She didn’t love him, and she might never, but he wasn’t giving up.
She didn’t trust the future, but maybe he could convince her to trust in him.
* * *
After two weeks of recovery, Heather was determined to host a fabulous Thanksgiving dinner. Sterling produced two fat turkeys, which were now roasting in the oven, filling the house with a delightful aroma. A light snow blanketed the eves, lending a festive quality to the mood.
The ranch hands arrived first. Ben presented her with a bouquet of evergreens tied at the stems with twine, and awkwardly toted a basket filled with biscuits. He thrust the offerings into Heather’s outstretched hands with a mumbled “thank you for the invitation.” Price had slicked his hair back with copious amounts of pomade, and the strands glimmered in the glow of the kerosene lanterns. The bandages on his left arm had been removed, though his right arm remained wrapped.
Joe was last, the quietest of the bunch. Heather couldn’t recall speaking more than one or two words to the man in the past month. The ranch hand was of average height and build with nothing to distinguish him save for the scar slashing across his cheek. She placed his age near hers, or maybe a little older. He carefully wiped his boots on the rag rug inside the door and offered a greeting.
Next came Seamus’s family. His pa leaned heavily on his cane, his leg not quite healed from the severe break. Mrs. Phillips was quiet and polite, her dress starched and a new lace collar buttoned at her throat.
The Foresters came last. Their two boys, Aiden and Kieran, stopped in the front yard and staged an impromptu snowball fight before their mother urged them inside.
The delicious aroma of dinner wafted through the house, along with freshly baked pies and brewing coffee.
Seating around the table was crowded. They pushed the chairs together and sat elbow to elbow. The linens had been washed and starched, and candles decorated the table between covered dishes. Their soft glow bathed the room with flickering warmth.
Sterling stood and raised his glass. “Dear Lord, as we gather today around this table filled with your bountiful gifts, we thank You for always providing us with what we need, and for occasionally granting us requests for things we don’t really need. On this day, let us be especially thankful for each other. For family and friends who enhance our lives, even when they present us with challenges.”
A murmur of amusement rippled around the table.
He grinned. “Let us join together now in fellowship to celebrate Your love for us, and our love for each other. Amen.”
“Amen,” the table replied in unison.
He bowed at the waist. “I’m thankful you could all join with us today in celebration.”
“Hear, hear!” Mr. Forester lifted his glass. “I’m grateful for the continued health of my family, and for the blessing we’re expecting this spring.” He tipped his gaze toward the ceiling. “I wouldn’t mind a girl this time if You’d be so obliging.”
Laughter and congratulations followed his announcement, then Irene spoke. “I’m grateful for the bountiful harvest, and for good friends and family.”
Too manly to show emotion, each of the ranch hands simply thanked Sterling and Heather for hosting the feast.
When Heather’s turn arrived, she blinked rapidly. “I’m thankful to have such loving friends during these unforeseen circumstances.”
“Hear, hear,” the voices around the table called.
The next twenty minutes passed in a flurry as dishes circled the table and talk and laughter filled the dining room.
Heather stood and plucked the empty butter dish from the table. She excused herself and ducked into the kitchen, retrieving a second butter mold from the ice box. She paused for a moment, letting the wonder of the day envelop her senses. A heavy hand rested on her shoulder.
“Are you all right?” Sterling asked, worry etched across his face. “Are you tired? Feeling ill? I knew this was too much too soon.”
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice full of wonder. “I’m more than fine. I feel amazing. I never imagined I’d have a day like this in my life. Your ma’s china is beautiful. I’m only terrified I’ll chip one of her plates.”
“She wouldn’t mind. She was always happiest when the house was filled with people. She enjoyed entertaining. We never had a party where someone didn’t break a glass or drop a plate. She always said that was the tax and she didn’t mind paying. Gave her an excuse to buy more. I think entertaining reminded her of growing up.”
“How do you always know the right thing to say?”
His expression turned serious. “Not always.”
“Don’t sell yourself short.”
“You’ve put together a beautiful celebration. You’ve breathed new life into this house, and I’m grateful.”
Her eyes burned. “There you go again.”
Irene stepped into the kitchen. Grateful for the distraction, Heather turned away.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Irene said. “Aiden has spilled. I need a rag.”
“I’ll take care of this,” Sterling replied. “You two have more important things to work on, like the delightful meal you’ve served us today.”
“Heather did the heavy lifting,” Irene said. “You should be very proud. The first time I hosted Thanksgiving, the outside of the turkey was burned, and the inside was raw. I cried in front of my in-laws.”
“Go,” Heather ordered. “Both of you. You’ll give me a big head.”
Despite her protests, her chest filled with pride. Using the same techniques she’d used when she was teaching, she’d planned out the meal on paper, calculating the baking time for each of the dishes and staggering the time each dish spent in the oven. She’d been up since the early hours of the morning, but she wasn’t the least bit tired. Having the house full of people energized her. She’d spent plenty of evenings alone, and she was grateful for the opportunity to entertain her friends—both old and new.
After clearing the table, Kieran and Seamus called for games.
“Can we play Up Jenkins?” the youngest Forester boy, Aiden, asked.
“Absolutely,” Heather said. “I’ll fetch a coin.”
The adults and children divided into two teams and sat across from one another. Heather’s team huddled together, passing the coin from person to person before taking their seats at the table once more. The first team dutifully placed their palms on the surface.
Seamus called, “Up Jenkins,” from the opposite side of the table. Irene went first. She rubbed her chin and studied each of them in turn. “I think Price has the coin in his left hand.”
Price flipped his wrist, revealing an empty palm.
“That’s one point for us!” the Forester youngest child declared.
The game went back and forth across the table until the coin was discovered in Heather’s right hand. They played three more times, until the ladies retired to the kitchen to fix the desserts.
Irene uncovered her now-famous chocolate cake.
“You’re spoiling Sterling,” Heather declared. “I warned you. He’s developing quite a sweet tooth.”
“I’m spoiling myself.” Irene laughed. “I’ve had terrible cravings for chocolate with this baby.” She rubbed the slight dome of her stomach. “That’s why I think we might be having a girl. I didn’t have chocolate cravings with the two boys.”
Angie Phillips, Seamus’s ma, revealed a pumpkin pie from beneath a towel. “I wanted licorice candy with Seamus. I must have eaten a whole jar from the mercantile.”
“Where are your older boys today?” Irene asked.
“They’re working at the flour mill. The influenza kept most of the workers home over the past few weeks, and they had a shortage. The owner was offering extra pay for the holiday.”
“I can’t believe they’re working on Thanksgiving,” Heather said. “I’ll fix you a pan of leftovers to take home to them. I’m afraid I overestimated the amount of food I’d need. I’ve been feeding the ranch hands, and they eat more than you’d believe.”
“I’d believe.” Angie chuckled. “I have three growing boys, remember? I envy you your girl. I’d like some pink around the house. I’m always surrounded by work boots and fishing supplies.”
“They fish in the winter?”
“They fish whenever they can find a free moment.”
Gracie reached for the apple pie, and Heather intercepted the tiny hand. “Wait until I cut you a slice.”
The child crossed her pudgy arms over her chest and stubbornly shook her head. “Mine!”
“Gracious.” Irene patted her red curls. “Why do they always learn that word before so many others?”
“Is there any cream for the pie?” Angie asked. “I forgot mine at home.”
“In the ice box.” Heather gestured toward it. “I’ll fetch the beaters.”
Sterling strode into the kitchen, a stack of plates in his arms. “There’s more where these came from. I volunteered Aiden, Seamus and Kieran for dish duty. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I’ll take care of the dishes,” Heather said.
“Not today.” Angie waved her away from the sink. “The cook on Thanksgiving never has to do the dishes. That’s the rule.”
“Listen to her,” Sterling said solemnly. “Rules must be followed.” He saluted and returned to the dining room once more.
Angie watched him exit and tsked. “Does that man have any faults?”
“Who?” Irene asked.
“Sterling Blackwell, of course. I’ve known him for years, and I don’t know that he has a single fault. Have you discovered one yet, Heather?”
“He’s far too optimistic.”
“That’s not a fault!” Irene protested. “You can’t be too optimistic.”
As she fetched the beaters, Heather considered her answer. Sterling never allowed anyone near his troubles. When they’d gone over the books, his admission had been shocking. She couldn’t imagine a father sabotaging his children’s future, and yet that’s precisely what Mr. Blackwell seemed to have done, considering the discrepancies they’d discovered.
Sterling had accepted the appalling fact without even blinking an eye. She’d mistaken his easygoing demeanor for indifference, but she didn’t believe that anymore. He wasn’t indifferent; he simply didn’t want to admit he cared.
If he admitted he was invested, he risked his pride. So he assumed an air of lazy disinterest rather than succumb to hurt. She wanted something more. He let her share his joy without understanding his pain. She wanted to be a part of his happiness as well as his sorrow. As long as he kept that part from her, they would never truly be partners.
As the ladies chatted, she whipped the cream into a light froth. Their arms laden with desserts, they returned to the dining room. The men were discussing the weather and the price of cattle, and the older children had retired to the parlor where they faced off over a game of checkers.
Gracie was content on Sterling’s lap. They shared a plate overflowing with a generous selection of desserts.
Outside, the snow drifted gently from the sky, but they were safe and warm inside, full of excellent food and drowsily content. The oil lanterns on the wall and the candles on the table bathed the room in a soft glow. Voices ebbed and flowed around Heather with the occasional bursts of laughter. Mrs. Blackwell’s china had survived the dinner without a single piece broken or a single cup chipped.
Without warning, a sense of unease overcame her. While their guests enjoyed desserts and coffee, Heather ducked into the kitchen once more. Everything was too perfect, too right. Life had taught her that the good times never lasted for long. Darkness followed daylight, and rain clouds followed each sunny day.
She shook off her sense of unease. That was as it should be. The crops didn’t grow without rain, and the stars didn’t shine without a black night. She needed a dose of Sterling’s optimism. She’d never let herself hope for too much, and this was all more than enough for her.
“I’ve brought more dishes,” Sterling said from the doorway.
He clutched a stack of plates between his hands, several teacups balanced precariously on top.
“Be careful! I haven’t broken any dishes today.” She carefully extracted the top layer from his arms. “I don’t want to start breaking things now.”
“You set a fine table, Mrs. Blackwell.”
The words rolled off his tongue like a term of endearment, and her face heated. “I should take Otto a plate.”
Together they loaded the sideboard near the washbasin.
“You stay,” he said. “The children will be in to help with the dishes. They’re arguing over the privilege now.”
“All right. But only because I don’t trust you with the fine china.”
“Don’t worry, my ma never trusted me either. I’m used to it.”
She dished up a generous plate of food and balanced two biscuits on the side. Upon presenting the heaping plate to Sterling, he hoisted an eyebrow in question. “You realize you’re only feeding one person?”
“He’s probably quite hungry.”
“I hope so.”
Sterling accepted the plate with one hand. With his other hand, he cupped the side of her face, his palm resting against her chin.
“Thank you,” he said. “For bringing life into this house once more.”
She smiled, then turned her head and pressed a kiss against his palm. “You’re welcome. You gave Gracie and me a home, so it was the least I could do.”
His expression shifted slightly into a look she couldn’t quite read. “You don’t owe me anything. Not even your gratitude.”
Her heart hammered in her chest, and she backed away from the intimacy of the moment. “You’d best go quickly. The food will get cold.”
She draped a towel over the plate and held the door open for him. Moonlight glinted off the fresh layer of snow, lighting the way. He deserved more than the legacy his pa had left him. She had no doubt he’d make the ranch profitable despite the obstacles before him.
One thing nagged her. The missing money hadn’t simply disappeared. If he’d placed the money with a charity or given away the balance, there had to be a record somewhere. If he’d simply hidden the money away, Sterling deserved that income to run the ranch, and it had to be someplace.
Sterling might brush off the discrepancy, but she didn’t like loose ends, and the question haunted her. What had Mr. Blackwell done with the missing money?
* * *
Sterling carried the covered plate of food across the clearing to the bunkhouse. As foreman, Otto had his own room with his own stove and a separate entrance. Sterling knocked, and Otto hollered for him to come inside.
The foreman sat on his bunk, his back propped against the wall, an open book draped over his knee.
Sterling set the plate on a side table. “Heather fixed this for you.”
An envelope on the table snagged his attention. He recognized the sharp angle of Dillon’s handwriting, and the name on the front made his heart jerk: Heather O’Connor.
“What’s this?” Sterling asked.
Otto flicked a brief glance toward the missive. “Must have fallen out when Joe delivered the mail. He’s always leaving a trail. I don’t think the fellow reads too well. You’ll want to give that to the missus.”
The date of the postage was a month ago. Sterling tucked the letter into his breast pocket. Dillon hadn’t written him a letter in nearly three months, but he’d written to Heather. A band of emotion tightened around his chest. Dillon obviously hadn’t heard about the marriage, because he’d addressed the letter to Heather’s maiden name at the schoolhouse.
He and Otto discussed the work for the following day before the foreman ushered him out the door with a firm admonition to entertain his guests rather than look after an old man.
The letter in Sterling’s pocket seemed to burn into his breast. Heather hadn’t mentioned anything about exchanging correspondence with his brother. He paused in the middle of the clearing, halfway between the house and the barn. He’d known about the past they shared when he’d entered into the marriage. If they were still corresponding, then he had to trust that they were continuing a friendship and nothing more. Thinking jealous thoughts didn’t benefit anyone.
His boots left tracks in the light covering of snow, and he discovered Heather in the kitchen with Irene. The two were admiring his ma’s silver coffee service.
Heather sent Irene ahead with a tray and rubbed a weary hand over her eyes. “What do you think about selling the coffee service?”
Distracted, he replied, “I don’t care much either way. Why do you want to sell it?”
“With the price of silver, that set should fetch a pretty penny.”
“You take care of Gracie and the house,” he replied gruffly. “Let me tend to the money.”
“You’ll fetch a better price in Butte, most likely.” She poured creamer into the small pitcher and dropped the lid into place. “How is Otto?”
“Tired. But doing all right.” The foreman seemed to have aged lately, and Sterling worried over the change. “He asked me to give this to you.”
She reached for the letter. “Gracious, I haven’t seen this letter for ages. It was stuffed in one of my books.”
Ages? When had she seen the letter before? “Dillon has never been much for writing.”
“You can say that again.” She thumbed open the envelope and retrieved the single sheet of paper. “Yep. That’s about how I remembered. Do you ever look back and wonder how you could be so young and foolish?”
“On occasion,” he answered, confused by everything she was saying.
“I do like Dillon,” she said earnestly. “You don’t have to worry that things will be awkward between us. You asked me before if I was frightened traveling west alone, and the true answer is that I was terrified. I’d been traveling for nearly two weeks when I arrived. Dillon was there at the depot. He was capable. He was kind and considerate. In my haze of loneliness, I took his kindness to mean something more.”
“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” Sterling said quietly.
“But I do, don’t you see? He’s going to come home, and I don’t want you to worry. Whatever happened between us was purely in my head. Read what he wrote.”
Sterling flashed his palms. “I don’t need to know the details.”
“This won’t take long.” She glanced at the paper and read out loud: “‘Dear Heather, thank you for your kind words. I wish you all the best. Dillon.’” She casually tossed the letter into the fire. “If that doesn’t make his lack of feelings abundantly clear, I don’t know what will.”
Except he’d always wonder. He’d always wonder if he was living the wrong life. He’d always wonder how different all their lives might have been if he hadn’t interfered. The forces that had brought them together were shockingly random.
Whispers of speculation had come upon them, and he’d pondered the reasons they’d been singled out. His wealth and Heather’s red hair were the two things that made the most sense.
Whoever had chosen them had not been aware that the ranch was failing. And there weren’t many eligible women in Valentine with red hair. What if Dillon had come home first instead of Sterling? Who would be standing in the kitchen? Who would be hosting the Thanksgiving dinner? Whose name would have been listed as Gracie’s father?
The edges of the paper caught and curled, and a downdraft sent the paper floating. He grasped the corner of the envelope and ran his thumb along the printed postage mark.
The letter was obviously years old. The date he’d noticed earlier was charred and unreadable. He squinted at the edge of the paper, willing his memory to recall the details. Had he simply misread the date? He must have been mistaken. Why would someone alter the envelope?
Heather certainly wasn’t trying to provoke his jealousy. She was open and honest and even dismissive of the contents of the letter. If someone else had discovered the letter and hoped to foster seeds of discontent between the newly-married couple, the ploy had failed.
Why make trouble between them at all?
Laughter sounded from the dining room, and he tossed the remnants of the envelope into the fire.
They had today. For now, that was all he needed. There’d be time enough to worry about the future later.