They had exchanged three letters each, and Charles Shanley was everything she could want in a husband—kind, thoughtful, intelligent, generous. And he apparently didn’t mind her pencil or paper, which she took to mean he wasn’t a snob. It felt glorious to conduct this romance under the Armstrongs’ roof without their knowledge. She would like to be a fly on the wall when they realized she was gone. Not that they would miss her. They would miss her labor, and they would probably miss berating her. Mr. Shanley had sent her train and stagecoach fare, with more than enough for meals along the way. If Sophie had any doubts about this undertaking, it was just because she was outside her frame of reference and felt unanchored.
Still, she had prepared for the trip as if she were 100 percent certain. Without her guardians’ knowledge, she had bought material and fashioned two day gowns and a wedding dress and replaced her worn-out chemises and other under clothing. She also purchased additional footwear. Sophie was frugal and knew how to strike a bargain. She had nearly $460 left to take on her journey, not counting the money Charles Shanley had sent.
She left home in the dead of night, making a true adventure of the escape when she might not have needed to. Uncle Ephraim and Aunt Portia may have been happy to see her go. Yet she had a niggling feeling their hints about her leaving had less to do with her setting out on her own and more to do with her uncle finding her a husband. Her guardians were both materialistic and liked to flaunt their wealth, so it was no stretch to think her uncle might be scheming to match her with someone who could expand his holdings. Needless to say, she had little faith in his ability to take her desires, her sensibilities or even her welfare into consideration.
Per was in Venice, but with Lindy’s help, Sophie was out of the house, wearing a dark blue traveling dress she had made with material she had bought when the Armstrongs were in Philadelphia. She was on the train before her relatives knew she was gone. It was only then, as she watched the towns of Pennsylvania speed by and give way to the countryside in the golden hues of summer, that she had second thoughts. The saying “All that glitters is not gold” kept popping into her head. It certainly applied to the Armstrongs, who showed a different face to the world than the one she saw at home. Could it be true of Charles Shanley? Sophie sighed, closing her eyes in hopes of sleeping away her mental meanderings. She had thought better of “borrowing” a couple of books from the Armstrongs’ library and now wished she had done it.
A social creature and missing those heart-to-heart chats she shared with her cousins, the weary Elizabethtown traveler made friends on the train with a large older woman who was journeying to North Platte to visit her daughter. Sophie shared the story of her impending marriage with Mrs. Jennings, expecting the rather severely dressed woman, wearing brown head to toe, to voice her disapproval. Perhaps she was looking for someone to talk her out of the venture. Instead, the prim lady complimented Sophie on her bravery and wished her much happiness. Bravery? She hadn’t thought of it that way. She knew it was a compliment and it should have made her feel better, but somehow it weaved its way into her doubts. She wouldn’t need to be brave if she weren’t walking into a frightening situation.
Sophie and Mrs. Jennings said their goodbyes at the North Platte station, where the older woman flew into the arms of her waiting daughter as her son-in-law looked on, amused. The whole scenario reinforced a notion Sophie had carried with her since her parents’ deaths: Things and people were often not as they seemed. To look at the older woman and her starchy dress and posture, one would think she was a cold fish, yet she obviously felt emotions deeply and was kind and loving. The woman could not have been nicer to Sophie. Her aunt and uncle, on the other hand…She stopped the unpleasant thought before she could finish it. That was the past, and she was hastening toward her future. Carrying the bag she had purchased and filled with her new items and the contents of her small trunk, she stepped up to the ticket counter, where a middle-aged clerk was counting paper bills.
“Excuse me, sir, can you tell me how to get to the stage station?”
He looked up, yanking a pencil from behind his ear, obviously irritated that she had interrupted his counting. She noticed the pocket on his starched white shirt bore a stain. Coffee, maybe.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
He gave an exasperated sigh, yet begrudgingly gave her directions.
Men!
Two hours later, a driver tossed her bag atop a stagecoach as she stepped inside. She nodded to the three other people already seated, a black-haired, freckled young woman with a child who looked to be around five, and a rather attractive and very large, auburn-haired man who sat across from them. A cowboy or ranch hand, she imagined. The little boy, his brown hair curling, wearing wrinkled blue trousers a little too short for him and a red collared shirt, was stretched across the seat, so Sophie had no alternative but to sit next to the man. She subtly inched her way as far away from him as she could and was rather certain he didn’t miss that, as he chuckled. She could feel herself blushing.
The driver called out and the stagecoach suddenly lurched ahead. Sophie almost slid off the seat, but the man’s tautly muscled arm reached out and grabbed her elbow just in time. That had her blushing again as she mumbled a heartfelt “thank you.”
As the stagecoach bumped along the rutted road, the young mother, Elsie Frye, comely in her purple calico dress, became chatty and Sophie began opening up. Elsie and her husband and son Eli lived on a farm near Kearney, where they raised corn, sorghum and beets, as well as sheep and chickens. The young woman and her son had traveled to North Platte to visit her parents. As Eli slept, apparently the man did, too. His worn Stetson was tilted down, covering his face. Sophie found herself sharing with Elsie the story of her parents’ death, her miserable existence with her aunt and uncle—she really needed to get over that pent-up hostility she felt toward them, she realized at one point—and her mail-order bride status.
Duncan MacGibbon rarely slept on stagecoaches or trains. It probably came from growing up in the highlands, where danger lurked everywhere. He found himself intrigued by the pretty blond woman’s story. She was tall and…what? Wispy mayhaps. Very appealing, with sky-blue eyes and a straight nose. Her skin looked soft enough to…Well, best not go there. The woman obviously was one of those who had no secrets; all her thoughts spewed out of her mouth. In fairness, though, he had to admit she wasn’t shouting out her tale but speaking softly. She no doubt would be embarrassed to know his hearing was excellent and he took in every word she spoke.
“Where are you headed?” Elsie asked.
“Stonehaven. It’s in the southern part of the state.”
“And what does your husband-to-be do?”
“He’s a merchant of some sort.”
She just now realized he had never answered her question about what kind of business he owned. He had somehow distracted her. That made her feel foolish.
“It’s exciting, isn’t it? I admire your courage.”
There it was again. Eli accidentally kicked her at that point or the Elizabethtown native might have shared her troublesome doubts. They spent the remainder of the trip to Kearney munching on turkey sandwiches Sophie had bought in North Platte and peaches Elsie provided. They offered food to the man, who declined. He had an odd accent, Irish or Scottish, Sophie thought. Maybe Welsh. Sophie had observed him while he slept, trying to figure him out. She decided the man was ruggedly handsome and most likely knew it. He was dressed as a cowhand, in denim trousers, a light blue chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a brown leather vest. His face was ruddy and very manly, she remembered, like he worked outdoors, and thick eyebrows rimmed beautiful greenish-gray eyes, she had noticed when she boarded the stage. Piercing eyes. Discerning eyes. She had a feeling he didn’t miss much. He was a man’s man and a little dangerous, she surmised. He looked like a cowboy and yet something was off. Sophie tended to study people, and she was almost positive there was more to him than that.
“Good luck with your marriage!” Elsie called out as she stood with her tall, blond husband, who looked Swedish. Eli ran around their bags, full of energy after being cooped up on the stagecoach. Sophie smiled, only slightly embarrassed at Elsie’s proclamation, and waved as the coach pulled away.
Now it was just the two of them and the inside of the coach felt somehow smaller. As soon as Elsie and her son had disembarked, Sophie had transferred to the seat opposite the man. They were barely on their way when he smiled.
“So ye are a mail-order bride, are ye?”
She blushed yet again, just managing to hold back a gasp. “I thought you were sleeping.”
“I always sleep with one eye open, lassie.”
She adjusted one of her slippers, which was pinching, then looked up at him.
“You’re Scottish then.” She recognized the accent now, though it had become Americanized.
“Aye, though I have nae seen me homeland in several years.”
She found herself interested, just as she was intrigued by the young mother’s story and the background of the older woman on the train.
“What brought you to this country? I’m Sophie Wheelright, by the way.”
“Duncan MacGibbon at your service, m’lady.”
He bent as if to bow, and she smiled. If Charles Shanley was half as charming as this Scottish rogue, she would be more than pleased. Mr. MacGibbon did not continue and she looked at him expectantly.
“Oh, aye, me story. Well, ‘tis a complicated one, for sure. I came to America in ’67, looking for me brother Morgan, I was. He had come three years earlier. It took me two years, but I come to find he was killed in yer War Betwixt the States, running a blockade near Charleston, in South Carolina.”
“Oh, I am so sorry, Mr. MacGibbon. To perish in a war that was not even his. How very sad. It wasn’t my war either, by the way.”
“’Tis Duncan ye’ll be calling me if I may call ye Sophie.”
She almost rejected that offer as not proper and then thought, Why? I am not bound by anything but my own choices and will never see this man again anyway. “Duncan it is. So you decided to stay?”
“Aye, there was naught for me at home. I lost my…” He stopped, took a deep breath and continued. “Well, me father, our laird, is still a relatively young mon and healthy as an ox. Should something befall him, I have two older brothers, Donald and Seamus, who will fill that position.”
He lost his what? “I always wanted to see Scotland. And Ireland. And Wales. And Italy. Oh, everywhere, I guess.”
He laughed as he adjusted the band on his hat. “But ye are heading to Stonehaven.” He looked out the window and recognized the scenery. “We should be there in aboot 30 minutes. I live ootside of Stonehaven on a small ranch.”
So she might see him again after all. Oh, dear. Hopefully meeting her husband would wipe this alluring, manly man right out of her head. As he studied the passing scenery, she took the opportunity to look him over again. He resembled one of those big, powerful Scottish men she had read about who would excel at the caber toss or just about anything else he tried.
“You’re a highlander then?”
She could see the surprise in his eyes.
“I read a great deal,” she said, as if that explained it.
“So why is a beautiful woman like ye a mail-order bride? Donnae they have any smart men in Pennsylvania?”
He thinks I’m beautiful? Why did that give her a tingly feeling all over? “I thought you were listening when I told Elsie that story. My parents died when I was 13 and I had to live with my horrible aunt and uncle, the Armstrongs.”
“Sassenach!” He shook his head. “Nay wonder.”
She laughed at the less than complimentary referral to the English. “Yes, well, I would do almost anything to get away from them, and Mr. Shanley seems like a perfect gentleman.”
Duncan sat up so abruptly she almost flinched. Her eyes grew big.
“Ye cannae mean Charles Shanley.”
Did her betrothed have a major flaw? Was he already married? “Yes. He’s a merchant in Stonehaven.”
Duncan reached over and grasped her hand, holding it in both of his huge but somehow beautiful and gentle hands. For a moment she couldn’t focus. “Lassie, lassie, lassie, ye cannae marry Charles Shanley.”
It took a minute for that to sink in. “What? But I gave him my word. He paid for my travel.” Of all the reasons to get married, she had to name those?
He moved over to her side, this time grasping both hands. “He isnae a good mon, lassie.”
She pulled her hands back, struggling to find her equilibrium. “He’s a respectable merchant,” she insisted.
He snorted. “’Tis women he sells.”
Sophie knitted her brows. “Women? How could he…?”
Duncan watched as the reality sunk in and her eyes widened again. Although the woman might be naïve, she was obviously intelligent. She was fairly tall but somehow delicate in her wrinkled blue dress, and he suddenly felt protective over her.
“Are you sure?”
“Tis sure and certain I am, Sophie.”
Now, for some reason, she looked suspicious. Of him? He was almost affronted.
She couldn’t go back. She just couldn’t. “How do you know this?”
“Well, I have been…I just ken. Everyone in Stonehaven kens his business.”
These comments took another moment to comprehend as she realized he had availed himself of the women’s services. She gave him a look of what…censure? Disdain? No, it was disappointment, and he felt a need to defend the indefensible.
“’Twas four years ago when I first came to town. A mon feels lonely and…oh, just take me word for it. And Charles Shanley is a violent mon, though he’s a slippery one, he is. Most donnae dare to cross him.”
Now Sophie’s heart was pounding. What was she to do? She could never align herself with a man in that trade. Then she had an idea.
“I’ll get out at the next stop.”
He shook his head. “The next stop is Stonehaven.”
“Oh.”
She looked so forlorn.
“Can ye go home, lassie, if we find a way?”
She didn’t hesitate. “No. I’ll never go back. I can’t, I just can’t.”
Duncan thought for a moment, then turned and leaned out the window, banging on the side of the vehicle. “Stop the coach!” he roared. He had to do it a couple of times before the driver heard him. Sophie felt the coach slowing and finally stopping. Duncan looked back at her, holding out his hand.
“Come on.”
This was insane, yet she did not hesitate for a moment. There was something about Duncan MacGibbon. She knew instinctively he was a good man. She trusted him. Ha! Like you trusted Charles Shanley? She ignored that thought and placed her hand in his. He led her out of the coach. She wondered if he felt the same electricity every time their hands touched. Stop it! There must be a storm coming; that’s why she felt those jolts.
“Throw down our bags,” Duncan ordered the driver, who scratched his head and complied. Sophie jumped aside as one almost hit her. As it was, it landed unceremoniously at her feet, stirring up a cloud of dust that did land on her. She coughed, trying to swat it away.
Duncan smiled. While she probably looked wonderful when she started out on her journey, Sophie Wheelright was a fair mess now, dirty and wrinkled, pieces of her hair coming loose from her braid, which was wound up at the back of her head. Instructing her to wait, Duncan walked closer to the driver. He said something Sophie couldn’t hear and handed him something she couldn’t see. The driver took it and nodded. The crusty old man, who was probably still in his 50’s but looked weathered and tough as nails, adjusted himself on the seat and cracked a whip above the horses with a “Heeyah!” and the stagecoach took off again.
Sophie, who had a streak of dirt on her forehead, watched the vehicle disappear around a bend and then scanned the area. It looked like cattle country, with prairie grass she expected was buffalo grass as far as the eye could see, interspersed with a few trees. In the distance she could see rolling hills.
One part of her mind could not believe she had gotten off the stage with a virtual stranger and now stood in the middle of nowhere with her carpetbag and not much else. She had to admit, however, that another part of her brain felt, dare she think it, energized. She almost laughed. She had apparently traded one stranger for another, except this one was not planning to marry her. If he was correct about Mr. Shanley, though, and she did believe him, this was the only alternative at the moment.
Duncan approached and picked up his bag and hers as she looked at him expectantly. He certainly was tall, several inches over six feet, she surmised.
“This way,” he said, and he started walking toward the hills.
She stood for a moment and then scrambled after him. “Where are we going?”
“Me ranch, and we cannae tarry if we want to get there ere dark.”
She looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun. “It’s noon.”
“Aye. Pick it up.”
Thanking the Lord she had purchased a decent pair of walking boots in Elizabethtown, she grabbed onto her bag, jerking the Scotsman to a stop. He gave her what she assumed was the Scottish version of the evil eye.
“I need to change my shoes. I can’t walk very far in these.”
He looked down at her black slippers and agreed. They were flimsy. He should have thought of that. She plopped herself down in the buffalo grass, yelping and moving when she sat on a little rock, and he chuckled. Sophie gave him a look that was somewhere between a grimace and a glare and quickly searched through the bag. To his astonishment, she pulled out a sturdy pair of brown work boots, thankfully with shoelaces and not buttons or they might be here all day.
At his reaction, she looked up ruefully. “I pictured Mr. Shanley with a mercantile and thought I might be on my feet a lot helping him with it. Plus, I like to be outside.”
He wasn’t certain that explained anything and didn’t respond. She tied the shoes, tossed the slippers in the bag and strode off with determination. Duncan MacGibbon knew he would ne’er allow himself to love another woman after Catriona, but he liked Sophie Wheelright. That was for sure and certain.
* * *
So much for comfortable outdoor boots. Although they probably would be fine in the future when they were well broken in, now they were abominable, painful feet-attackers with every grueling step. The couple had walked about three miles, chatting amiably periodically, and had five more to go, Duncan estimated. It was mildly entertaining to watch his tight arse as he strode ahead of her—it was a fine one if she were any judge—but finally she had suffered enough. The wild prairie grass was now different, taller and kind of blue. Mercifully, it looked softer than the buffalo grass. She sank down into it, lying back for a few moments of bliss. Duncan could go to his ranch without her. She was not walking another step in these boots before wrapping her blisters. And she was taking off her blasted corset, proprieties be damned.
How the mighty have fallen.
That thought made her giggle, which is what caused Duncan to finally stop. He was far ahead, though thankfully not out of Scottish hearing distance. He tromped back toward her.
“Lassie, we donnae have time to dally.”
She didn’t sit up but looked him in the eye. A sudden thought occurred to her. “What did you give the driver?”
“An incentive to forget we were on the coach.”
Sophie sat up. “Oh. Good thinking.” She started unlacing her shoes.
He dropped the bags and sat down next to her. “The driver was a substitute. I dinnae ken him.”
She comprehended what he had left unsaid. “That’s why you want us to hurry. In case Charles Shanley finds out we left the stage and comes after us.”
He ignored her astute observation. No sense in fretting about it or getting her in a swoon. “Ye’re taking off yer shoes.”
She smiled. “You noticed that.”
“I ken ‘tis a long way to go, but we must push on, la…” He stopped mid-sentence when she took off a shoe and he saw she had bled through her stocking. “Good lord.”
She took off the other shoe and it was more of the same.
“Take off yer stockings,” he ordered as he rifled through his bag, coming up with a jar of salve, bandaging and scissors.
“You have everything in there, don’t you?”
“The stockings.” He motioned with his hand. “And don’t stand in the dirt.”
He handed her a small towel to stand on. The man thought of everything.
Sophie saluted. “Yes, general.”
Standing on the towel, she turned around, lifted the front of her dress and awkwardly tried to remove the stockings, moaning as they stuck to her bleeding blisters.
“Sit down. Let me.”
He was incredibly gentle as he coaxed the stockings away from the blisters, and she felt a tingling sensation as he held her ankle. The whole scenario would have been unthinkable just a week ago. Funny how a trip across the country and the realization that she had almost made a monumental, life-altering mistake put “proper” behavior into its proper perspective. It wasn’t even in the top 10 things that were important to her now, like her safety, her health, her friends, her spirit, not being hungry, not walking on bleeding blisters.
As he cleaned her wounds, rubbed salve on them and bandaged them, Duncan marveled at how she could have soldiered on with nary a complaint when she obviously was in great pain. She must have highland blood somewhere in her background. When he was done, he reached into his bag and pulled out a clean pair of hand-knit, navy blue socks and gently placed them on her feet.
She was virtually mesmerized by the whole process. “You’ve done this before.”
It was an observation he ignored.
“Let’s get yer shoes on.”
With that he lifted one foot onto his knee and carefully began putting her boot on. She was surprised that she could barely feel the blisters. He tied the first boot.
“How’s that, Sophie?”
Her name on his tongue did something to her heart. It kind of fluttered in her chest. Charles who?
“Uh…it feels good. Thank you, Duncan.”
He put the other shoe on and stood, ready to move on. She was not going another step, however, in the damn corset. If she was going to walk five more miles, she was going to breathe, by God.
“Um, you need to unfasten my dress in the back.”
His jaw actually dropped. He stood there like a rock.
“I promise I’m not going to attack you.”
That made him smile. “Ye can if ye absolutely must.”
“Just do it and we’ll get out of here faster.”
Shaking his head with a “Wheesht!” he quickly unbuttoned her dress, trying to keep his mind blank as he did it. What was she oop to? He didnae want to see her silky skin or think any carnal thoughts aboot it. Or even think why in the world she wanted her dress unbuttoned. He hoped she didnae plan to walk these last five miles in her underthings. He didnae think he could stand it. She twirled her finger, indicating he should turn around.
When he did, she pivoted and pulled the dress off her shoulders, undid the hooks on her corset and mercifully pried it off her sweaty skin, where it left numerous red indentations. She tossed it over her shoulder, not realizing she hit Duncan in the head with it. She already had her dress back on her shoulders by the time his mind computed what was lying at his feet. He looked back at Sophie in something between shock and awe. She was one intriguing specimen of a woman. Now, however, they had to get going.
“Come on, lassie, we have a long ways to go.”
“The dress,” she said, indicating her back, and he quickly fumbled through the process of buttoning her back up. Even that sent shivers up her spine.
For his part, Duncan had to get into his clinical frame of mind to button the dress up without touching or thinking about that beautiful skin.
As they began walking again, they shared stories of their childhood experiences. He talked of wooden swordplay with his brothers on fields of heather, rowing across Loch Gilney and growing up in a 15th-century castle. She shared her before and after experiences. Her happy family life included trips to the seaside and riding her own bay mare, Bella. She sounded so sad as she described the unkind treatment of her aunt and uncle, and the feeling of being unloved and unwanted. And trapped. He wanted to show those miserable relatives some unkind treatment of his own.
“It just occurred to me,” she said after they had walked two or three more miles. “Not that I have much of a reputation left if the stagecoach driver can’t keep a secret, but staying with you at your ranch could be…awkward.”
“Says the woman who hit me in the head with her corset, which ye would have left on the ground for anyone to find, I might add.”
“It’s in my bag, but it has evil properties. I am a western woman now, and I don’t want it.”
“Fine. We’ll burn it when we get to the ranch, where ye donnae have to fret aboot yer reputation. Me sister is there.”
“Oh, good. You didn’t tell me about your sister. What’s her name?”
“Ainsley.”
“Oh, what a pretty name. How old is she? What’s she like?”
He noticed she was starting to slow down. They had already walked for almost four hours. “Do ye want me to carry ye, lassie?”
For an instant that sounded heavenly, then her pride took over. “Of course not. We must be almost there, aren’t we?”
He nodded. “It’s just o’er that rise, down in a wee valley.”
“Are you going to tell me about your sister?” Even a little rise in the land sapped her strength. She couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t like she was climbing a mountain. It was a little hill.
“Och, ye’ll have to meet her. She’s a…Och, ye’ll just have to see fer yerself. We’re almost there.”
Another thought occurred to her. “What were you doing in North Platte?”
“Examining and ordering some new equipment.” He walked ahead.
That was vague, but he obviously doesn’t want to talk about it.
As they reached the crest of the hill, she pulled up next to him, trying to hide how out of breath she was. Then she looked down into the valley and gasped. It was as wondrous a scene as she had ever witnessed.
“Jumping jiminy! It looks like a little slice of paradise.”
He smiled. While he had ne’er put that thought into those exact words, she had described it perfectly.
It wasn’t a large ranch by most standards. Nestled in a little valley, with a stream running behind it, his property included a log cabin with two bedrooms and a loft, a red barn and a corral, where several horses grazed. Farther down the valley a herd of cattle grazed.
Sophie could see smoke coming out of the chimney so knew his sister or someone was home. She grabbed Duncan’s hand. “Let’s go. I’m hungry.”
He laughed and led her down a path through a patch of trees and a meadow with grass about two feet high. Her blisters were starting to bother her again, but she was not about to tell him that. The route to the cabin was almost magical. If he knew what a soul-wrenching connection she felt to him at that moment, he would have run screaming in the opposite direction. That made her chuckle.
He stopped. “What, lassie?”
She stopped. “Nothing. I just think you’re a very lucky man, Duncan.”
He smiled, though she noticed it was somehow kind of a wistful smile. What was that aboot? About!
At last they reached the little dirt road that led to the cabin. As they approached the domicile, the door flung open and a girl of about 15—at least Sophie thought it was a girl—burst out of the cabin, ran down the steps and threw herself into Duncan’s arms. He twirled her around, laughing.
“I missed ye too, me bonnie lassie.”
This must be Ainsley. She was at least a decade younger than Sophie had pictured her. Dressed in black breeches and a red and blue plaid shirt made of flannel, she wore beat-up high leather boots. Her hair, cropped short, just below her ears, was a few shades lighter than Duncan’s but still reddish brown. The short hair made her gray eyes look huge. Sophie had just finished her mental assessment of Ainsley as Duncan set her down. She was a couple of inches shorter than Sophie.
“Who’s this?” The girl looked at Sophie dismissively and then at Duncan.
“This is Sophie Wheelright. She’ll be staying with us for a while.”
Ainsley looked Sophie up and down this time, apparently not liking what she saw. “Good. Ye said we needed a housekeeper.”
Sophie smiled at the blatant hostility, not cowed at all. She knew how to deal with hostility. Ainsley MacGibbon was an amateur compared to her.
The girl peered over Duncan’s shoulder. “Where’s yer horse?”
He looked at Sophie rather ruefully and then back at Ainsley. “’Tis a long story. We’ve a tale to tell, for sure and certain. We need some food first, though, and a rest, I’m thinking.”
Sophie nodded. “It’s nice to meet you, Ainsley. This is a beautiful ranch.”
“Hmph.” The girl spun around, turning her back on Sophie. She didn’t quite stomp back into the cabin, but it was close. She shut the door behind her with a bang.
Duncan looked at Sophie, waiting for the tirade or at least criticism. It didn’t come.
“I thought she’d be older,” Sophie commented, and Duncan burst out laughing.