The following morning, Frederick sat on the back steps of his house, staring out at the ranchland, as the sky became a translucent pink and gold. After another restless night sleeping in a spare bedroom, hugging a pillow rather than his wife, he wanted a few moments of peace. However, he knew they would be elusive, as the worry about his grandfather was ever present. Although he had received a message the previous day that his grandfather was recovering, Frederick knew he would worry until he saw him.
Ever since Slims and Davina had departed, an uneasy truce had existed between Frederick and his most trusted ranch hands. He had feared that Shorty and Dixon would also leave, but he knew they valued their roles on the ranch. Dalton had just married and had a new home here, so Frederick had less fear that he would abandon the ranch, although that did not mean that Dalton wasn’t furious with Frederick. With a sigh, Frederick wished he could relive that entire episode with Slims. That he hadn’t been so fueled by hurt and a sense of betrayal.
Everything had gone wrong since Slims and Davina had left, and Frederick knew almost all of it was his fault. The distance that had grown between him and Sorcha hurt the most, and he worried it was causing a fissure that would not easily be mended. With a sigh, he rose and wandered to the bunkhouse for a plate of food, before starting his long day of work.
After wolfing down a breakfast he didn’t even taste, he completed the day’s chores by rote, rode out with the men to work on fences, and returned near dusk, exhausted. After a quick wash, he entered the kitchen to find nothing to eat. With a sigh, he walked to the bunkhouse again for a simple meal of beans on toast.
“Boss,” Dalton said, as Frederick left the bunkhouse and was to return to his office to work, until he was so mindless with fatigue that he could fall asleep without Sorcha beside him.
“Aye?” Frederick asked. “Is all well?”
Shaking his head, Dalton urged him away from the bunkhouse to a fence near the barn and away from those who might want to overhear their conversations. “You look like you’ll fall over any minute. Are you ailing?”
Frederick gave a mirthless laugh. “No, I’m not,” he said, as he sighed. “You know this time of year is a lot of work.”
“Perhaps,” Dalton said. He stood, listening to the quiet sounds of a Montana evening. A distant wolf howled, while, closer by, an owl hooted. “You know I’m loyal to you, Boss. You know I’m thankful for everything you and your family have done for me.” He waited until he saw Frederick give a small nod. “But you’re bein’ a fool. About everything.”
Frederick stiffened with indignation, before letting out a long breath, as his shoulders slumped. “You know what it’s like to have your whole world turned upside down in a matter of minutes, Dalt.”
Dalton tapped the fence, before focusing on his friend and boss, rather than his memories. “You bet I do. But I also know I didn’t push everyone away from me. Or fling baseless accusations at someone who’s only been loyal to me.” He shook his head.
“If you were in my boots, Dalt, what would you do?”
Dalton took a deep breath and smiled. “Well, that’s easy, Boss. I’d make up with my wife ’cause a blind man could see you’re miserable without her comfort. And then I’d apologize to Slims.”
Frederick silently squeezed Dalton’s arm, turning for the big ranch house. As he approached the front steps, he took a deep breath, uncertain what he would say when he faced Sorcha. For a week, silence and anger had been their shield against the other, and he knew that had to end. Upon entering the house, he slipped off his boots and hat and walked soundlessly through the tomblike home.
When he approached their large bedroom, he pushed open the door, thankful he’d had the hinges oiled before their disagreement. With a frown, he didn’t see Sorcha in bed but rather in a chair, staring out the window at the full moon. He paused, studying his beautiful wife, with her red-brown hair cascading down her back. Hearing her sniffle, he whispered, “Sorcha,” moving toward her.
“What do ye think ye’re doin’ in here?” she snapped, her eyes lit with disdain. “Ye ken I want nothin’ to do with ye.”
Frederick shook his head. “No, I don’t know that. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be here, crying, as you stared at the moon.”
“Dinna touch me,” she gasped, when he reached for her. She tried to shimmy away but was stuck in her rocking chair. When she moved with such force that she almost toppled over, she reached for him to steady her.
After he knew she was settled, he sat on the floor by her chair, his back against the wall, as he watched her. “Oh, my Sorcha, I’m sorry,” he whispered. When she raised an eyebrow at his vague apology, he reached forward and clasped her hand. “I’m sorry I acted rashly. I’m sorry I’ve allowed her into my life again.” He took a deep breath. “I broke my promise.”
Her fingers played with his, while she stared at him with curiosity. “What promise?”
“I swore I’d never allow her to influence or to affect my life again. And I’ve failed miserably.” He closed his eyes, as he rested his head against the wall. “Tell me I haven’t lost you.”
At his plaintive words, Sorcha moaned and tumbled from the chair to land beside him. “Lost me?” She cupped his cheeks between her palms. “Are ye daft?” She blinked, irritated at the tears clogging her vision. “How could ye believe ye’d lost me?”
“I sleep alone. I eat alone or with my men. I’m so alone,” he whispered, finally opening his eyes. “I miss you. Desperately.”
Sorcha sobbed, throwing herself against his chest. Her sobs intensified, when his strong arms wrapped securely around her. “I didna ken if ye would ever … ever …”
“I’m sorry about Slims. I’m sorry about Davina. I’m sorry about everything.” He stared at her, abject torment in his gaze. “I’m not rational when it comes to my mother.”
Sorcha nodded, tears still leaking from her eyes, as she traced a tender caress over his cheek. “What did ye learn in town that made ye so mad? I realized, in all my time I had to think this week, that I never kent what ye learned. I never listened.” She swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
His eyes glowed at her apology, and he bent forward, pressing his forehead against hers. “My mother is alive. My grandparents have known about it from the beginning. They convinced her to leave, to never return, then faked her death and had a funeral, even though her body was not in the coffin.” He shut his eyes for a moment, as his jaw clenched. “And Slims has intercepted letters from her to me for years.”
“What?” Sorcha gasped. “How could he do such a thing to ye?” She paused, when he stared at her with impotent rage. “Ye never asked him, did ye?”
“No. I barreled into the barn and railed at him, accusing him of treachery, and then I fired him.” Frederick groaned as he thunked his head against the wall. “I always forget she thrives on causing discord. She’ll be delighted to discover that Slims has been thrown off the ranch.”
Sorcha ran a hand over her husband’s tense shoulders. “What more is it, Frederick?” She paused, when he kept his eyes closed, as a tear leaked out. She swiped at it, whispering, “Ye ken I love ye. I forgive ye. As I hope ye forgive me.” She waited, as he never met her gaze. “I’ve missed ye in our bed.”
“Oh, Sorcha,” he rasped, as he hauled her even closer, burying his face in her shoulder. “How can you want a man who wishes his mother were truly dead?”
“Oh, my love,” she murmured, kissing his head. “I love ye. That is all that matters, aye?”
He held her close, crying softly into her shoulder.
A few days after Peter had returned to town, Philomena adjusted the skirts of her serviceable navy dress and ran a hand down one sleeve, intent on making a good impression. She had not yet met all the townsfolk, and she knew Morris wanted her to always look her best and to never have any of her actions reflect poorly on him or his ministry. She prayed the woman she would call upon today would prove to be a woman of discretion.
A few mo
ments after Philomena’s loud knock on the door, a short woman with an intelligent gaze opened the door. Her wheat-colored hair was tied back in a loose braid, with wisps of hair framing her face, and her dress was ill-fitting, as it appeared her bosom would burst from the bodice with a deep breath. “Yes?”
“Hello, I’m Miss Fitch.”
“Yes, I know who you are. Are you ill?” She motioned for Philomena to enter. “I’m certain you know that I’m Helen Clark. A healer in town. The doctor is in town today too, if you’d prefer to see him.”
“Oh, no,” Philomena said, with a blush. “I had hoped to make your acquaintance.”
Helen studied her curiously for a moment, before motioning to follow her down a hallway. “My husband is at his office on Main Street, and, when he’s not here, I use this as a private room to discuss whatever it is that might concern you.” She was halfway down the hall, when she paused, placing a hand on the wall and gasping.
“Are you quite well, Mrs. Clark?” Philomena asked, placing her hand on Helen’s back.
“Helen,” she gasped out. “Everyone calls me Helen.” After a deep breath, she whispered, “I’ll be of no use to you today, I’m afraid.”
“Should I fetch the doctor for you?” Philomena took a step in the direction of the front door.
Laughing, Helen shook her head and then winced. “Heavens no. There’s not a thing he could do for me. But you can help me to the comfortable settee in the living room.” After Helen was settled, Philomena perched on a nearby chair. “Stop staring at me as though I’ll expire at any moment.” Helen smiled when Philomena winced. “I’m expecting a babe. The little one is making me a bit dizzy.”
“Heavens,” she breathed. “Is that normal?” After a moment, she blushed. “Congratulations.”
Holding a hand over her belly, Helen giggled like a girl. “I feel as proud as one of the famous scientists discovering the cure for some dreaded disease, when all I’ve done is the most natural thing in the world.” She sighed with pleasure. “But Warren and I had given up hope of having a child after years of marriage, with no baby on the way. This took us by surprise, and we are delighted.” She frowned when she saw Philomena near tears. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.”
“No, never offended,” she whispered. “I’m so happy for you. Which I know must sound ridiculous because I don’t know you.”
“Not ridiculous at all.” Helen smiled. “I’m always delighted to make new friends.”
That Sunday, three days after Peter had raced into town, he walked beside his grandmother into church. As boys and young men, his grandparents had dragged them into church every week. Now that he had been on his own for years, he rarely set foot in a church. Too many memories of the pastor gleefully ridiculing and humiliating his family had made church an unwelcoming place. However, his grandmother had insisted he accompany her today.
“Are you certain I shouldn’t remain with grandfather while he recovers?” he whispered, as they walked down the aisle toward a pew.
She shot him an exasperated glance, as she knew exactly what he was attempting. “You are sitting beside me during the entire service, and you will give thanks for your grandfather’s apparent return to health.”
“His ankle is still maimed,” Peter muttered.
“That may be, but his heart appears to be well, and, for that, we should be here for a year of Sundays, never mind a month.” Her eyes flashed with displeasure, as though daring Peter to disagree.
“I’ll be here today,” he said, his words rushed, lest she believe he would attend every Sunday for a year. Even if he were to live in town, he couldn’t imagine being in church, with everyone staring at him every week. He’d rather be at the café, serving up meals.
Irene placed a hand on the leg he bounced up and down. “No one is staring at you for the reasons you believe. You’re a handsome and very eligible bachelor. They are attempting to work up their courage to approach you.”
He paled and then flushed, as he stared at his grandmother in horror. “That’s almost worse!” He cast a furtive glance around the church, belatedly noting that she was correct. None looked at him with derision or pity. All displayed an avid interest and an avaricious intent.
“Oh, it’s far worse. When you were a boy, you were given a wide berth and the freedom to do as you wanted. Now you will have women attempting to entice you at every turn.”
He let out a dismayed huff of breath. “This is an unseemly conversation to have in a church, Gram.” At her chuckle, he smiled. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered, reaching to clasp her hand that still rested on his thigh.
“As I’ve missed you, my boy,” she murmured.
He settled into his pew, ignoring those who sat beside him and their anxious whispers about the handsome eligible man. He stared straight ahead, determined not to give anyone attention, lest some woman believe she were favored. As he squirmed in his seat, waiting for the pastor to arrive, he froze.
Philomena walked down the aisle, toward a pew at the front. Much to his delight, she sat on the other side of the aisle, within sight. He could partially see her expression, marveling at the beauty of her elegant neck, the simple sophistication of her evergreen dress. He only wished he could see her beautiful eyes and breathe in a hint of her perfume.
Irene dug an elbow in his side, and he grunted, rising to his feet a half second later than the rest of the congregation, as he had focused so intently on Philomena that he had missed the pastor’s arrival. He looked directly at Morris, knowing that insolence and challenge filled Peter’s stare, as he met Morris’s irate gaze.
All during the long service, Peter tuned out Morris’s sermon about duty, responsibility, and self-sacrifice. Peter resented that Morris appeared to direct all of his most stinging remarks in Peter’s direction, although Peter understood the man would believe himself justified. As far as damaging rebukes from a pastor were concerned, none could approach those leveled by Morris’s predecessor, Cruikshanks. Thus Peter met every one of Morris’s jabs with an insolent smile and a gleam in his eyes, unable to hide his satisfaction that Morris grew increasingly irate during his sermon.
At the final “Amen,” Peter chuckled.
“Peter,” Irene hissed. “Stop taunting that man. He’s our pastor now, and most here like him. He might be a bit … pontifical in his sermons, but he seems like a good man.”
“Pontifical,” Peter said, with another chuckle. “Come, Grandma. Let’s go. I want to ensure Grandfather hasn’t gotten into any mischief.” He winged out his arm, smiling when she looped hers through his.
When they emerged outside on a brilliantly sunny summer day, he paused. “I forgot about the potluck.” He looked at Irene. “We didn’t brink anything.”
She shrugged. “It’s all right this week. We generally bring so much each week that folks bring home food.”
Peter sighed. “Can I leave you to check on Grandfather?” He rubbed at his neck and fidgeted at the sight of mothers prodding their daughters at the sight of him and fathers looking him over, as though he were a bull, attempting to determine if he were worth purchasing.
“No, you may not. You know he’s fine. Now come. You need to mingle with more than the men who frequent the café.” She tugged on his arm, her eyes gleaming with humor when he stumbled before falling into step beside her.
He dutifully met the women of the town and their daughters, although he said nothing. He merely nodded his head. He would not gift any woman with a smile, as he knew it would be misconstrued as a romantic overture. Unfortunately he realized his tactic was backfiring when he heard one woman murmur, “He’s so mysterious. I’m sure it’s because he’s overcome by our attention and doesn’t know how to express himself.”
He rolled his eyes and clamped his jaw tight with frustration at the inanity of that comment. However, when he paused beside his grandmother, as she chatted with another of her friends, he focused on Philomena. She stood a short distance away, speaking with no one. He
wished he could approach her, although he knew that would only fuel the gossip after their disastrous meeting in the café.
Frowning, he saw her brother approach her. Although Peter could not hear what Morris said, Peter suspected it was cutting, as Philomena appeared to wilt. Her cheeks paled, her shoulders stooped, and she bowed her head. Rage filled Peter, and he eased away from his grandmother to approach the siblings.
“You know better than to moon after him, like one of his pathetic heifers,” Morris hissed. “Or are you so depraved that you must continue to make a spectacle of us?”
“Seems to me the only one making a spectacle is you, Morris,” Peter said in a slow drawl, his smile one of delight at irritating the man, as Morris spun to glare at him. “Pastor. Miss Fitch.”
Morris flushed at the sight of Peter. “I had hoped you’d have some sense to leave my parishioners in peace during our weekly potluck. Instead it appears you’re determined to charm your way through my innocent flock.”
Peter smiled, his amusement fanning the flames of Morris’s rage. “If you call me charming, as I stand beside my grandma as welcoming as a piece of granite, then your flock must be desperate for some form of entertainment.” He shrugged. “Although I can’t blame them, after listening to that sermon.”
“You insolent …”
Peter waited, but Morris closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “As for the potluck, I think you’ll find there’s not as much food today. My grandfather is ill, and we didn’t bring anything to the gathering. You won’t fill your icebox with the leftovers today.” He looked to Philomena, who stared at the ground.
“That’s as it should be. The wealthy should feed the poor,” Morris said.
“Perhaps,” Peter said. “But I don’t see too many of our town’s poor among your flock. I see those who are successful. If you truly cared about the poor, the downtrodden, and those who can’t afford a bath and a shave before church”—Peter raised a brow, as he’d heard the rumor about town that, if you couldn’t bathe before the service, you shouldn’t attend—“you’d show a greater Christian charity.”
Runaway Montana Groom: Bear Grass Springs Book 12 Page 5
