“As well as can be expected,” Slims said. “I never thought to leave the ranch. To leave the house Dav and I had turned into a home. Where we hoped to raise our family together.”
Cailean gaped at him. “You’re expecting a bairn?” He gave a whoop of joy and then stared at him with sorrow. “I’m so sorry this has happened. But I know Frederick. He’ll see the folly of his ways. I pray that you’re the man I believe you to be and that you’ll forgive him.”
Slims closed his eyes. “I do too. Right now, I’m so angry I could tear down this livery with my bare hands.”
Laughing, Alistair slapped him on his back. “Let’s leave the destruction for another day, aye? Come. Let’s see Davina, and then ye can settle in. Tomorrow’s early enough to start work.”
Slims walked outside, pausing to see Davina so animated, as she chatted with Bears about the horse in the paddock. Slims knew that, if he never returned to the ranch, he would be fine. As long as he had Davina by his side.
Chapter 3
A week after Slims had left the ranch, summer continued its glorious reign over Montana, with long dry days and cool nights. The evenings were Peter’s favorite time, as he was comfortably sore after a hard day of work. He had time to himself away from the men, where he could listen to the birds sing without interruption. Tonight the mountains gleamed in the sun’s late rays, as puffy clouds floated overhead, and a soft breeze blew.
Peter stood at the fence, looking out over the rangeland, his arms slung over the rail, contemplating life. Against his will, he continued to feel unsettled. As though much in his life had yet to be accomplished. He felt hemmed in at the ranch, although he rode out daily and helped to work mending fences, digging postholes, or stringing new barbed wire. He wished he never had to see another fence again.
This wasn’t his idea of ranching. He yearned for the days of ranches with a plentitude of open range, rather than a patchwork of fields and discussions of new technologies about how to raise hay and to provide enough feed for the herd throughout winter. Rubbing at his head, Peter wished he had remained with Cole on the drive north. Then he would never have caused the strife that existed between Sorcha and Frederick. And he wouldn’t have seen Philomena again.
With a sigh, he turned away from the fence and focused on the man riding at breakneck speed down the drive. With a stifled groan, he muttered, “Meddlesome man.” When Ewan pulled up, gasping at him, Peter pasted on as polite a smile as possible. “Ewan. Thought you could leave us well-enough alone out here.”
“Yer grandfather’s ailin’,” Ewan gasped. “I need a new horse, an’ I’ll return to town right away.”
Peter grabbed the horse’s bridle, as Ewan swung himself down. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell us what you know.” Whistling for help, Peter waited until Dixon had come to bring the horse to the barn for a well-deserved rubdown and a bucket of oats and then herded Ewan into the house. He knew Frederick was inside, working on paperwork, as he avoided Sorcha.
“Fred!” Peter yelled out, as he ran up the steps into the house, Ewan on his heels. “Fred!”
“Peter,” Sorcha hissed, as she emerged from the hallway, leading into the private family rooms. “Ye ken better than to yell an’ wake the bairns.”
Peter gave her an absentminded nod in acknowledgment, facing his brother, who had appeared in his office doorway. “Grandpa’s hurt.”
“What?” Frederick asked, his fingers gripping the doorframe. His astute gaze flickered to his brother-in-law. “Ewan?”
“Aye, he fell an’ hurt his ankle. They dinna ken if he collapsed due to exhaustion or a problem with his heart.”
“His heart?” Peter parroted, now as ashen as his brother. “Fred, you don’t need me here. I have to go to town with Ewan. Ensure they are well and help at the café, while he recovers.”
Frederick nodded. “Of course.” He crossed to his brother, giving him a hug and pat on his back. “But never doubt you are needed here,” he whispered in Peter’s ear. “Send word. I’ll worry.”
Peter squeezed Frederick’s shoulder, before racing upstairs to throw a few changes of clothes in a saddlebag. In a few short minutes, he strode to the barn, Ewan beside him. “Thank you for coming out here to tell us. For leaving your wife and child alone.”
Ewan gave him a long look. “Ye dinna ken us well, do ye?” He nodded his thanks to Dalton, who had another horse ready for him, mounting the horse with ease, as he patted it on its neck, murmured soothing words in its ear. “If ye did, ye’d ken my wife and babe are no’ alone. They’re with family.” He waited until Peter had spoken a few words with the ranch hands, before Ewan added, “As are ye because ye’re Frederick’s brother. There is little we would no’ do for family.”
Peter stared at him for a moment in confusion. “I’m in no mood for a discussion, Ewan. Can you ride as hard back to town as you did out?” At Ewan’s nod, Peter gave his horse a kick and took off down the drive, eager to ensure that his grandfather was alive and well.
Philomena sat on a bench in the front window of the parlor, the lace curtains largely concealing her from the outside world but allowing her to see what occurred, as evening turned to night. She heard Morris mutter to himself, as he worked on a sermon, and she glanced to the stairs. He’d left his door open again, and she knew better than to call to him to close his door. Nothing and no one should disturb a sermon.
She settled against a comfortable pillow, her legs drawn up, as she watched a wagon roll past and out of town. She wondered where they could travel to at this hour of the evening. However, she did not know many of the townsfolk or those who lived in the nearby valley, where the numerous prosperous cattle ranches were. Thus she imagined a husband racing home to his wife and child, eager to not spend a moment more away from his family.
With a determined squaring of her shoulders, she focused on the book in front of her. However, it did little to catch her interest, as it was a tome of preacher sermons that Morris thought she’d find riveting. Instead they proved the most effective sleep tonic she’d ever tried. Each time she opened the book, she was asleep within minutes. Tonight she had no interest to wake with a crick in her neck after having slumbered on the window seat.
She would prefer to read a gothic novel or a mystery, but Morris never approved of her frivolous interest that led to the weakening of her sadly deficient mind. He had never understood her fascination with anything that wasn’t related to the Bible and considered that her lifelong burden, which she needed to attempt to overcome.
She heard a creak on the stairs, and she slipped open the tome, her gaze blindly moving over words but making no sense of them. She prayed Morris wouldn’t quiz her on what she was to have been reading these past minutes. Thankfully his footsteps remained upstairs, and it seemed he was pacing, as he worked out a difficult part in his sermon.
Glancing outside, she stared at the livery and the large MacKinnon house across the main thoroughfare through town. She knew that Peter was distantly related to the MacKinnons, and she had worried they would treat her with disdain, when she saw them in town this week. However, they had remained overtly friendly and kind. Perhaps Peter was not a close member of their family.
With that thought, she let out a deep sigh. She had heard the rumors, and she knew them to be true. The MacKinnons and all those they considered family were a tight-knit group. Everyone in town who wasn’t a MacKinnon wished they were, and some plotted to find a way to join the group. Mothers urged their unwed daughters to flirt and to dance with the loyal ranch hands, hoping their daughters would find a way into the group that way, now that all the MacKinnon brothers were married.
For her part, Philomena was unable to overcome her fascination with Peter, even though he had broken her heart.
She set aside the book, ignored and unread, as she gazed outside, watching the dusk fade as the evening turned to night. She loved twilight. Her greatest wish had been that she would have someone to share this time with. To talk ove
r the day with and to whisper her dreams to, as he held her in his arms. Once she had believed she would realize that dream. Now she feared it would always remain elusive.
The sound of hooves pounding jolted her from her reverie, and she focused on the two men on horseback racing into town. She recognized Ewan MacKinnon, before freezing at the sight of Peter bent low. She unconsciously rose onto her knees, peering out the window, as her gaze tracked him, until she couldn’t see him anymore. Her mind raced with what could have prompted him to ride into town with such precipitous haste. “His grandparents,” she whispered to herself, envy filling the corners of her lonely heart that she had never known such loyalty.
She let the curtains settle around her and sat in resolute silence, listening to Morris talk to himself, as the clock ticked and as a heavy silence fell over the room. Pulling her knees up to her chest, she wrapped her arms around them, as she folded in on herself, like she used to do as a little girl. An oppressive grief filled her that her days would rarely alter and that this unwavering loneliness would forever be her companion.
Peter ran to his grandparents’ small house behind the café, running up the steps. “Grandma! Grandpa!” he called out, as his feet clattered on the wood. He fell silent, as he saw the doctor speaking with his grandmother. “Doctor,” he said in a quiet tone, his breath sawing in and out of him, as he doffed his hat.
“My grandson, Peter,” Irene said, with a touch of pride in her voice, as the doctor looked at him. “You may speak plainly in front of him.”
The doctor, dressed in a somber black suit only relieved by the barely visible white shirt, resumed speaking in a low voice. “I believe Mr. Tompkins is suffering from a heart condition, although I can’t be certain. He must not do anything to tax his health. No more long hours at the café. Nothing stressful must occur.” He stared at the two of them somberly. “I shall leave it to you as to how best inform him of this news.” He picked up his bag and slipped from the room, leaving a stunned Irene, staring into space.
“All will be well, Grandma,” Peter soothed.
“How?” she whispered. “I can’t imagine this life without him.” She wiped at her eyes and took a fortifying breath. “We can’t run the café any longer. I’ll have to close it.”
“No,” Peter said. “I’m here. I was superfluous on the ranch. I’ll help with the café.”
She stared at him, with a hint of wonder and concern. “Thank you, Peter, but I know you’ll come to resent working there. You’ve always been the quietest of the boys. You’d hate the constant chatter and the need to gossip with the customers.”
Peter shook his head, taking a step toward his grandmother, so he could squeeze her shoulders. “No, Gram. I’m here. I will help you. We’ll keep the café running, and we’ll continue to be successful. I promise.”
She stared at him a long moment, her expression one of dread mixed with hope. “You forgive us then?”
Letting out a deep sigh, Peter whispered, “I realized, on the mad dash into town, that one of my biggest regrets would have been for Grandpa to die with bitterness between us.” His eyes shone with the terror of the possibility of his grandfather’s death. “I’m still upset, but I’m trying to understand.”
Irene nodded. “We never wanted to hurt you,” she whispered. “You are precious to us.”
Peter nodded, striding to her to wrap her in his arms. “As you are to me,” he murmured in a gruff, emotion-laden voice. After he kissed her on her head, he released her. “I’ve thought about it, and I suspect I would have done much as you did. There is little I wouldn’t do to protect those I love.” At her relieved smile, he squeezed her arm and looked toward the darkened hallway that led to the two bedrooms. “Do you want me with you when you talk to Grandpa?”
Irene shook her head, patting his cheek. “No, my Peter. I don’t. But don’t stray too far away. I know he’ll want to speak with you, when he has the strength.” She sighed. “Although that might be tomorrow.”
He looked at her, seeing the underlying exhaustion she attempted to conceal. “Take tomorrow off, Grandma. Take a few days off. Everyone will understand.” He kissed her cheek, watching as she firmed her shoulders and turned to speak with her husband.
When he heard the murmur of their voices, Peter went outside and sat on the steps leading into the house. Although he knew he would miss the quiet of the ranch and the solitude he had experienced on the range, he felt a flicker of excitement to be in town again. To know that there was a chance his path would cross Philomena’s.
With a sigh, he focused on the somber news imparted by the doctor. Peter didn’t remember a time when his grandfather didn’t play an indelible part in his life. Harold Tompkins had always been the family patriarch, sought out for his support and wise counsel. Harold had also taught Peter how to laugh again, after his father fell into a deep depression upon his mother’s defection and subsequent death. Little in Peter’s life had not been affected by Harold.
“Is he well?” Ewan called out. He had Peter’s saddlebag slung over his shoulder, as he sauntered toward him in the waning light. The hoots and hollers of men nearby carried on the evening breeze, as they sought out entertainment in one of the town’s saloons, while crickets started their soft symphony. Ewan sat beside Peter, completely at ease with the other man’s silence.
“I don’t know. The doctor suspects a heart condition. Grandfather is to no longer work at the café. To have no stress in his life.”
Ewan swore under his breath. “I’ve never kent Harold to bide his time while others work. He’ll no’ take kindly to ye tellin’ him that he has to sit at home, twiddlin’ his thumbs, while his wife works herself to the ground.”
“I’m staying,” Peter said in a confident tone. “I’ll help run the café. The ranch is Frederick’s. It has been for years, but I never understood how much so, until I’ve spent time here without Cole.” He flushed, as Ewan stared at him.
“Ye ken ye’ll have to accustom yerself to chattin’ more?” He nodded in the direction of the café. “Most men who come to the café are hopin’ for a bit of conversation along with their meal. They’re lonely. An’ Harold kent that. ’Tis part of the reason the café was so successful.” He winked at Peter. “Although ye ken Irene believes ’tis all to do with her cookin’.”
Peter chuckled. “You are quite different from your brothers.”
Ewan beamed at him. “Aye. They’re much more serious. Doesna mean I havena had my share of disappointments in life.” He shrugged, as though what he had suffered in the past no longer affected him.
Watching Ewan, Peter felt a stab of envy. “How did you do it?” When Ewan stared at him with furrowed brows, Peter asked, “How did you let go of the pain of the past and focus on the present?”
Hearing a scratching noise, Ewan looked to the space between the houses, relaxing when he saw a raccoon ferreting out food. “I dinna ken ye ever really let go of the past. But I learned I had to stop lettin’ it dictate who I was, or I never would have had a chance with my Jessie. An’ there was little I would no’ have done to have her in my life.” He rubbed a finger over his chest. “I still feel the pain, but ’tis no’ so keenly felt.”
Peter made a sound of agreement, as he stared at the man who was family of sorts. “I fear it will be difficult for me to forgive what’s occurred.”
Ewan rose, tapping Peter on his shoulder. “Well, what I can say is, afore ye hold on to a bitterness that will alter yer life, make sure ’tis one worth cleavin’ to. I’ve clung to pain, when I had no right to it, causing myself no end of heartache I didna have to suffer.” He tapped Peter again, before Ewan turned for his nearby home.
Peter watched the sunrise as he sat on his grandparents’ steps, knowing that he should help them open the café that day but also knowing that his grandmother needed another day to spend with his grandfather. He wished he had someone to help him. However, all of the distantly related women of the family were busy with their own businesses or fam
ilies, and Peter had no wish to impose on any of them. With a sigh, he took a long sip of coffee.
His mind teased him with an idea he had first considered this spring, when he had courted Philomena.
Although he admonished himself not to think about his impractical plan, he failed to prevent himself from envisioning what he had dreamed of last night. Running the café with Philomena. Hearing her sing in the kitchen. Listening to her tell stories with his grandparents, as Harold and Irene sat at the table and enjoyed life, rather than working hard. Seeing Philomena’s smile, as he teased her. Seeing anything other than disappointment and mistrust in her beautiful gaze.
With a sigh, Peter ducked his head. Now that he was back in town, he knew it was inevitable he would see her. He hoped her animosity would not remain as fervent as the first time she had seen him here, although he suspected a woman abandoned at the altar had some right to cling to her indignation.
He closed his eyes, as a sunbeam broke through a cloud, heating his face. Unwittingly he imagined what she looked like that day in April. Dressed in a beautiful ivory satin gown with a sprig of bluebells in her hands, as she made her way toward him. Her beguiling eyes shining with joy and promise. Her lustrous hair tied back in an intricate braid, just waiting for him to tease it free.
He let out a deep sigh, as regret and self-loathing filled him. How could he still yearn for a woman who would never be loyal to him? Who would try to trick him? He shook his head. Clenching his jaw, Peter firmed his shoulders, determined to cease thinking about Philomena and her fecklessness. He knew that would prove much harder to accomplish than he would like.
Runaway Montana Groom: Bear Grass Springs Book 12 Page 4
