Runaway Montana Groom: Bear Grass Springs Book 12

by Ramona Flightner

  Frederick paled, as he gaped at his grandparents. “All this time, it’s all been a lie? Everything I’ve worked for? Everyone I’ve ever trusted?” When Irene reached out to him, he backed away. “No. You’ve had your chance. Years’ worth of them. And you never took them. How you must have laughed at us, the gullible boys, who thought they were orphans.”

  Peter made a grunt of agreement, as he stared in stony silence at his grandparents.

  “No, Frederick,” Irene pleaded, “that wasn’t how it was.”

  “You taught us that lies never lead to anything but pain and heartache,” Peter said, as he stared at the two people he had loved most in the world, besides his brothers. “And you’re right. Because of you, I have no faith in anyone. In anything. And I know I’ll never marry or have children. For how can I believe in mere words?” He spun on his heel, slamming open the back door to the kitchen, his boot heels clattering down the steps.

  As he approached homes a short distance from the café and store, Peter paused, taking deep gulping breaths, attempting to calm his roiling emotions. His legs shook, and he could walk no farther. He heard Frederick behind him, and he leaned against one of the buildings. “I’m sorry, Fred.”

  Frederick swayed in place, before collapsing to the ground on his knees. “A part of me wants to kill someone.”

  “Aye,” a man called out. “I ken that feelin’ well enough, but ye canna get away with murder so easily these days.”

  Frederick groaned and pushed himself up. At Peter’s inquisitive look, Frederick muttered, “One of my brothers-in-law. Ewan. He’s always around when you least expect it.”

  “Good or bad?” Peter asked. Frederick looked at him quizzically, as Peter had lost the art of conversation during his years away. He wondered if he’d ever find it again. Only with Philomena had he found the desire to talk until he was hoarse. Thrusting aside any thought of her, he turned to face the nosy Scotsman, just as Frederick murmured, “Good, not bad.”

  “I dinna remember ye,” Ewan said, as he stared at Peter. “Are ye one of the lost brothers?” At Peter’s nod, Ewan leaped forward, giving him a bear hug. “Ach, ’tis good to have more of Frederick’s family home again, aye? How long are ye stayin’? An’ who are ye lookin’ to kill?”

  Ewan motioned for them to follow him down the alley a short distance and then inside his small but comfortable home. “Jessie’s away, searchin’ out another story, and wee Aileana’s with her.” His brown eyes glowed with contentment. “Seems a shame to seek out violence after last night’s festivities.”

  Frederick sighed and sat on one of the comfortable chairs in the small living room, while Peter sat on the settee. Ewan settled in the rocker, and he watched the two brothers, as though he didn’t have a care in the world.

  “You’re a poker player, aren’t you?” Peter asked, as he studied the practiced calm Ewan exuded.

  Smiling, Ewan nodded. “Aye, although I’m retired. Jessie’s no’ keen on me playin’ cards an’ losin’ everythin’ we own in a hand.” He shrugged. “Thankfully I earned enough glory on my final hand to last me the rest of my life.” He studied the eldest Tompkins brother. “Ye, I can tell, would always lose yer shirt. Ye have no patience for strategy, and ye’d give yerself away every time.”

  Peter shrugged. “I’ve never had much interest in cards, except as a way to pass the time.” He slapped his hands on his thighs to rise. “If you don’t mind, I need to speak with my uncle.”

  Ewan chortled with laughter. “Now I ken ye’re an eejit. For, if ye speak with the man while as irate as ye are, ye’ll spill blood. An’ ye may lose yer chance to ever ken the answers ye’re so desperate to discover.”

  “What makes you so wise?” Peter snapped, just as Frederick whispered, “Jessamine.”

  Ewan nodded, as he rocked with no apparent haste in his chair. “Aye, my wife’s a good reporter, ye ken? An’ folks tell her more than they should.” His gaze was distant. “They’re fortunate she’s lost her bloodthirsty ways, or no one in this town would say more than good mornin’ to one another.”

  “How long have you known, Ewan?” Frederick demanded.

  Shrugging, Ewan smiled. He met his brother-in-law’s anger with no apparent concern. “Long enough to ken ye’re actin’ like an idiot to believe yer uncle ever meant ye harm now. An’, if I understand anythin’, yer uncle was as deceived as ye were then.” He paused. “An’ I’ve already said too much.”

  “Why wouldn’t you tell me? Tell Sorcha?” Frederick asked, his gaze filled with the agony of so much betrayal.

  “Ye ken the vows ye take when ye marry,” Ewan murmured. “They’re more sacred than any blood bond. What Jessie tells me is between us alone, unless she gives me permission to talk about it.” He shrugged. “I’m her confessor in a way. As she is mine.” He waited until he saw a reluctant understanding in Frederick’s gaze. He looked to Peter. “Ye willna understand until ye have a wife.”

  “I’ll never marry,” Peter vowed, glaring at Ewan, who chortled with glee.

  “Oh, ye’ll marry, an’ she’ll drive ye mad. ’Tis somethin’ I canna wait to witness.” He rose. “Come. I’ll go with ye to see yer uncle. For, if ye are alone, ’twould be a dangerous proposition.”

  Philomena Fitch sat in stunned horror in the café, as her brother ate in sullen silence across from her. The chattering from patrons in the café prevented her from overhearing any of the conversation occurring in the kitchen, although she privately chided herself for yearning to know anything more about the feckless man who had betrayed her. Had abandoned her.

  “The devil,” her brother muttered, flushing red, as he knew he should hold his tongue as the town’s new pastor. “What right does he have to come here?”

  She shook her head, indicating no conversation was to be had, as too many had an avid interest in their affairs. After Morris wolfed down the last of his chicken potpie, she nodded and rose, walking meekly in front of him, her gaze downcast.

  Once outside on the boardwalk, she looped her arm through his and forced a smile, as they strolled with restraint at a leisurely pace in the direction of the rectory. Attempting to focus on the bright day, the beautiful clear sky, and the sweet smell of hay from the livery across the street, her mind was filled with images of Peter Tompkins. His rakish smile. His blue eyes alit with joy at the sight of her. The controlled strength in the muscles of his arm as she had rested her hand in his.

  “The nerve of the man,” her brother muttered, as they approached the rectory. When he had ushered her inside and had shut away the outside world, he spun to face her. “Did you know the connection? That the man who betrayed you in Texas was related to the men here?”

  Her eyes widened in horror, as she stared at her brother.

  He gave her hand a squeeze in silent support. “It’s all right, Phil. It’s just bad luck.” He took off his hat and jacket. “How are we always so misfortunate?” he muttered, as he swiped at his brow and paced into the back of the house into the private parlor. “I thought we were starting anew. Putting your disappointment behind you.” He waved at his sister, who stood still, ashen, her hair the color of pecans pulled back in a tight bun.

  “You know I’ll be a spinster,” Philomena whispered. “I was naive to ever believe otherwise.” When Morris remained silent, she cringed. “What does it matter?” she breathed. “Everyone will consider me unwanted. I’ll be fair game.”

  “Again,” Morris growled, as he spun away and slammed his fist onto the windowsill. He took deep breaths, as though to calm his agitation. “I know that I’m a pastor. I know that I preach tolerance and forgiveness and peace.” He closed his eyes, as he let out a deep sigh. “That man proves me a liar of everything I believe.”

  “No, he doesn’t, Morris,” Philomena said in a soft voice. “He simply proved a disappointment. One I wish had remained in the past.”

  She entered the kitchen, a place that usually brought her comfort, and pulled out everything required to bake biscuit
s. Although she had no appetite, she knew her brother would be hungry for dinner later, and she needed a mindless task to take her mind off the afternoon’s events. Why had they ventured out for their noonday meal? Why hadn’t the Tompkinses kept the café closed as planned?

  She’d heard Harold, prattling on about the party the night before and about their decision to return early today. Oh, how she wished they’d all remained on the ranch and had had their reunion there, rather than in town. She would have been spared having to see him. Peter. The man who had stolen her heart and who then had smashed it into a million fragments when he abandoned her.

  Flinching at the remembered hatred in his gaze earlier today, she focused on the flour and lard she needed for her biscuits. Thinking back about that day they were to wed and the aftermath never did any good. She resented the time she had wasted pining over him, convinced an emergency had kept him from marrying her. As one day passed into another, she’d had to accept he had played her false. He’d received the attention he craved, while rounding up a herd of cattle, and had left with his brother.

  She held a flour-caked hand to her forehead, battling tears at the thought that a herd of cattle was more enticing than she was. With a deep breath, she forced away any self-pity and focused on her baking. On providing a comfortable home for her brother. Although Morris was a good man, he had never approved of her attachment to Peter. Only with great reluctance had Morris agreed to her marriage to Peter.

  With an unladylike snort, Philomena knew it was the prospect of having to face his congregation with the infamy of having a sister who eloped that had convinced Morris to marry the two. Morris’s reputation as an upstanding pious man was important to him. Although never outwardly cruel, Morris knew how to influence her to act in a way which he thought most beneficial to him and his vocation.

  Only with Peter had she ever defied her brother.

  Philomena had heard that the previous pastor had enjoyed verbally attacking townsfolk who had displeased him. Morris would never countenance such behavior, although he would speak privately with those who had suffered a moral lapse to ensure they understood their error.

  With a sigh, she knew her brother’s displeasure was sure to mount, as news of her previous association with Peter Tompkins and his anger toward her spread about town. She was a simpleton to have dreamed of a different reality in a different location.

  Peter followed behind a sullen Frederick and a jabbering Ewan, as they walked down the boardwalk in the growing town of Bear Grass Springs. They strolled past the bustling café, where Peter assiduously ignored the stares of patrons, the bustling Watering Hole Saloon, the empty Odd Fellows Hall, and a busy barbershop on the way to the General Store, affectionately called the Merc. The townsfolk had begun to warm up to its owner, Tobias Sutton, over the past year or so. His cantankerous, biting comments had diminished, and he now appeared genuinely concerned about the townsfolk and his customers.

  Peter, who had spent little time in town for years, had yet to witness his uncle’s transformation. Nor was Peter one to care about the reason behind it. For him, his uncle had destroyed any chance at reconciliation when Tobias had had an affair with Peter’s mother, bringing infamy and despair to Peter’s family.

  The bell over the door jingled, heralding their arrival. Noting his uncle’s gaze, darting from him to Frederick and back, Peter smiled with satisfaction. Good. For once, his uncle could feel uneasy and worried at their presence.

  “Frederick, Peter,” Tobias murmured, before turning to help the few customers in the shop.

  “We’ll wait for you in the back, Uncle,” Frederick said. “Close up when they’re gone.” His stare dared his uncle to argue, but Tobias nodded, before focusing on his patrons.

  Frederick walked through a small storage area to a rear kitchen, with Peter and Ewan on his heels. Peter noted it was a tidy space, with a stove and sink along one wall, while a small table with two chairs was against another. Staring out the rear window, Peter paused, as he saw the rectory to the right in the distance. Memories of Philomena threatened to overwhelm him, and he spun around, determined to ignore them.

  Leaning against the windowsill, he forced a relaxed pose, although he knew he failed to hide his mounting nerves when Ewan snickered at him. Soon Peter’s focus was on his uncle, as Tobias moved with cautious steps into the room.

  Peter couldn’t remember how many years it had been since he had intentionally spent time with his uncle. At least twenty. Probably more. Unbidden, memories of that painful time flooded back. Peter had been twelve when he had learned of the affair, as both Tobias and his mother fled the ranch together. Soon afterward, he and his brothers were informed of their mother’s death. Peter remembered trying to console a desolate Cole, at just eleven, and Frederick, who, at ten, cried for his mother every night.

  In the ensuing years, Peter had believed watching his father suffer would be his greatest torment, but Peter soon realized hell awaited at school and at church. The never-ending teasing, torment, and humiliation at the hand of schoolchildren and the preacher was a burden Peter tried to protect his brothers from. However, he knew he had failed. By the time they were young men, all three brothers had buried their grief, maturing quickly, as they dedicated their lives to working on their ranch, supporting their father, and vowing to never love.

  Peter stared at the older man in front of him, remembering the charming, kind man who had only showed him patience and understanding, as Peter grew from a boy into a man. Peter cleared his throat, banishing those thoughts, as he forced himself to focus on how Tobias had changed. He still had broad shoulders and strong hands, although he was now slightly stooped in the shoulders. His brown hair was shot with gray, and his beard was a splotchy patchwork quilt of gray, white, and brown.

  Watching as his youngest brother marched up and belted their uncle in the shoulder, Peter bided his time to see what would be required of him. Now, more than ever, he felt like an outsider in his own family.

  “How could you, Uncle?” Frederick asked. The anger and hurt were ever present in his voice, but the heat and rage he’d shown his grandparents were absent. “How could you lie to us all these years?”

  Tobias paled. “You know?” His gaze roved from Frederick to Peter and back. “How?”

  Standing tall, Peter sauntered forward. “Even after all this time, you don’t deny what you’ve done? You don’t ask for forgiveness?” Peter shook his head. “It’s as though we’re to blame for discovering the truth.”

  Tobias closed his eyes and held a hand to his forehead. “You have to understand. All that was done was to protect you boys.”

  “We’re not babies! Not now. Not then,” Frederick screamed, while Peter made a grunting noise in agreement. “We had the right to know.”

  Ewan cleared his throat. “No’ that I like interferin’ with matters that are no’ mine to interfere with”—he gave them a wry smile—“but I think ye might discover there’s more to this than yer disappointment at no’ kennin’ she was alive.”

  Peter spun to face the Scotsman, a man he didn’t consider kin. “Who are you to interfere in our private family affairs? Who are you to know more about this than we do?”

  Ewan met his rage with a smile that only heightened Peter’s anger to a boiling point. “’Tis because I’m no’ keen on kennin’ what happened that I can tell ye that ye need to haud yer wheesht,” he said in an exaggerated Scottish accent. He smiled as Peter stared at him in absolute confusion.

  “He’s tellin’ you to shut up,” Frederick muttered on a sigh, then turned to his uncle. “You said once you’d tell me about my mother. Our mother.” He waited as Tobias remained quiet. “Now’s the time. She’s back.”

  Tobias stared at them, his gaze alert. “Here in town?” He relaxed when Peter shook his head no.

  “I saw her in Texas.” Peter took a menacing step forward. “But you will tell us what we want to know.”

  Tobias motioned for them to sit. Frederick sat at the
table with him; Peter resumed his perch against the windowsill, and Ewan leaned against the counter, with one leg crossed over the other.

  “What you want to know?” Tobias muttered, with a shake of his head. “What is there to tell you? Your mother was a beguiling, beautiful woman, who was never satisfied with what she had. She always imagined that someone had something better. More beautiful or more valuable. That another man could provide for her better. Be a better lover.” He shrugged, as his nephews flinched. “You wanted to know the woman she was …”

  “Why the silence? The lies?” Peter asked. “Did you think us too weak to accept she had left?”

  Tobias shook his head. “You have always been strong. Stronger than you needed to be.” He rubbed at his head. “After the affair with your mother, I had no right to be a part of your lives, but I agreed with my aunt and uncle. With your grandparents. If you knew the full truth, that your mother had run away with another man, rather than return to your father …” Tobias paused for a long moment. “We worried you would lose all faith in women. Never marry or find your own joy. If there was one thing we didn’t want your mother to take away from you, it was that. The ability to have faith and to hope and to dream.”

  “But you took that away from us,” Peter said in a low voice, frowning when his uncle winced, as though he’d been knifed.

  “I truly believe that, if I hadn’t agreed to run away with her, she would have found another man. One way or another, your mother would have left. I merely had the misfortune of acting the fool.” Tobias ducked his head.

  “Aye, Tobias, ye were played, and ye paid a high price,” Ewan said, glaring at Peter to not argue with Ewan on that point. “But ye’ve been fortunate. Ye’ve been given yer second chance. Too many are denied theirs.”

  Tobias smiled and nodded, looking years younger. “Yes, I have been. And I’ll be forever grateful.”