“Morris,” Philomena whispered, a hand to her chest, as she held on to the doorjamb. “You’re never cruel.”
He held a shaking hand to his forehead a moment, before swiping at his brown hair, sending it into a disheveled mess. “I like to believe I’m not, but, when I saw you with that liar, I wanted to be. I wanted to gut him and to watch him bleed, as I’ve watched you suffer these past months.”
Shaking her head, Philomena took a cautious step into the living room. “It’s not his fault.” At Morris’s soft swear of incredulity, she held out her hand. “He felt betrayed by me. He thought I’d attempted to deceive him by aligning with his mother, with whom he’s estranged.” She paused. “It doesn’t help that you continue to invite the woman for tea.”
“Don’t expect me to become uncharitable, merely to soothe the delicate nerves of your lover,” he snapped.
She flushed, ducking her head. “I fear he’ll never be more than a dream.” Taking a deep breath, she whispered, “I must thank you though. You saved me from saying more than I wished just now.”
Morris strode to her, thrusting the folded newsprint at her. “Save your thanks. You’re already notorious in this town, and I fear you’ll only gain more infamy as the days go on. What happened to wanting a quiet life, Phil?”
Philomena paled, as she read the article in the paper. “I never asked for this. I never …”
“No,” Morris said, with a resigned sigh. “Perhaps you should have known that there are some who are never meant to marry.” He closed his eyes a moment, when he saw her wince. “Phil, I didn’t mean …”
“I know what you meant,” she whispered in a defeated voice. “If you don’t mind, I’m to bed.” She slipped from the room, finding her way in the darkened hallway, up the stairs, and to her room. Once inside, she lit the lamp on her bureau and pulled the heavy curtains over her window, although she wished she could leave them open, so more of the fresh cool evening air could enter. After slipping from her dress and confining corset, she donned a light cotton nightgown and curled into the rocking chair in the corner of her room, tucking her knees up, like she did when she was a girl with simpler worries.
Her brother’s words continued to play through her mind. Although she knew he’d never mean to harm her, he took pride in speaking the truth and not sparing her feelings. Recently she wished he would treat her with the same deference he treated his flock. For she needed his kindness and understanding, rather than his insistence that she overcome what he deemed her flawed desire to be worthy of love.
She groaned, resting her head against the back of the chair. To Morris, all he needed was God’s love. Any friendship or familial love was superfluous to what he received from his daily prayers and faith. However, Philomena had never felt the same.
Since she was a girl, she had yearned for love and affection. Orphaned at too young an age, she had sought it from her brother. Although he had provided her with everything she needed, and she never went hungry or without clothes, a deep void had pervaded her spirit. As she aged, she had learned to ignore the ache in her soul for a deep love, like she dreamed she would share with her husband, coming to accept that no one would love her in such a way.
When she had met Peter, hope had bloomed in her, like the dawn bursting over the mountaintops. For the first time she felt seen and heard. Like she was important and interesting. For those sweet fleeting months, she believed her dreams could come true. And then he disappeared, leaving her behind to face the snickers and the snide comments, as she battled to rebuild her tattered pride.
Always the dutiful sister, Philomena wished she had the courage to defy her brother. To dare to dream again. She shivered as she considered her life, if she failed. If Peter abandoned her again. She had no desire to become destitute or desperate. A life of duty was preferable to a life lived in a place like the Boudoir. A lifetime of disappointment was worth saving her from such a fate.
Peter knocked on the door and shifted from foot to foot, feeling like a recalcitrant schoolboy, awaiting a lecture from the schoolmaster. After watching Philomena walk away from him just now, he was ready for a battle. Or a drink. Anything to take his mind away from the image of losing her again.
When the door opened, Peter looked at Warren Clark in a challenging manner. When the town lawyer merely shrugged and opened the door wider, Peter let out a huff of frustration and stepped inside. He doffed his hat, nodding to the pretty woman sitting on the settee, knitting needles on a stool by her hip. “Ma’am,” he murmured. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Clark. I should have known better than to call at this hour.”
Warren smiled, although his gaze flit to his wife. “We’re accustomed to calls at all hours of the night, with Helen’s work as a healer and a midwife. Thankfully it’s been a quiet few weeks.” He looked at Peter, a calculating gleam in his eye. “I have a feeling that trend is about to stop with your arrival.”
Peter smiled and nodded. “I’m afraid so, Mr. Clark.”
Warren rolled his eyes and clapped Peter on his back. “I’m Warren. And we’re family, of sorts. The MacKinnons adopted me, and you’re related to them through Sorcha, so we’re family.” He shrugged, as though that were an obvious route to kinship. “Come. Let’s talk in my office and leave Helen to rest.” He bent over the back of the settee, kissed his wife on her forehead, while murmuring a few words, and then led Peter down a hallway to his office. A lamp on the corner of the desk cast a soft light over the room.
He motioned for Peter to sit in a chair opposite him, and he settled behind his desk. Almost always composed, his quiet nature had lulled a few unsuspecting clients into believing that meant Warren was dull-witted. However, his piercing blue eyes shone with intelligence, and he sat, with fingers steepled, as he waited for Peter to speak.
“I need to ensure my mother never has any claim on the ranch. It’s ours, but Frederick’s more than anyone’s.” Peter paused. “Cole and I talked about it on the way north. We want to find something to do on the ranch, hopefully find an occupation that would provide a living. But, if that’s not possible, it’s Fred’s. He has a family, and he’s remained here, all these years, while we were away.”
Warren frowned. “You were away to ensure the ranch always had enough cattle to thrive. You worked on behalf of the ranch.”
“Yes, but it wouldn’t have thrived if it hadn’t been for Fred. And the horses are all his.” Peter ducked his head.
“What aren’t you telling me, Peter?” Warren asked. At the long silence in the room, only marred by the ticking of a clock, he asked in a soft voice, “What are you afraid of?”
“Does my mother have any right to a claim on the ranch? To any say on what happens?” He met Warren’s astute stare that gave nothing away. “Can she take it from Fred?”
“Always the big brother,” Warren said, with a hint of envy. He sighed deeply, before leaning forward and resting on his elbows. “I need you to be aware you mother has spoken with me about retaining my services as her lawyer.”
Peter froze, his eyes widening in horror. “You said we were like family,” he sputtered. “I … I never would have spoken with you if I knew you were just ferreting out information for her.” He rose, pausing only when Warren spoke in a soft commanding voice.
“I never said I took her commission.”
Peter spun to face him. “What?”
Smiling, Warren motioned for Peter to sit again. “I apologize for not having any whiskey to offer you. I don’t drink.” When Peter was settled, Warren said, “Your mother is a bit like you. Impetuous and passionate. But I find your motives are quite different.” He paused, as Peter had bristled at the thought of having anything in common with his mother. “You’re motivated by loyalty to others. She, only by loyalty to self.”
Peter nodded. “That’s a succinct summation of my mother. Devious and heartless would work too.”
Smiling with pleasure, Warren said, “Then you can imagine her rage when I informed her that I had a permane
nt retainer with your family and that I was unable to accept her patronage.” He dipped his head to the side, as his smile broadened. “Her tantrum was something to see. I believe Skye MacKinnon, who is already three, has a better control of her emotions than does your mother.”
Peter chuckled and settled into his chair. “Why would you say you were already working with me?”
Shrugging, the lawyer said, “I know your family. I knew, at some point, you’d arrive on my doorstep—either here or at my office—needing my aid. I have the luxury of choosing who I like to work with. I find that your family keeps me entertained and quite busy.”
Peter chuckled again. “I didn’t think I’d be laughing tonight, Warren, but somehow I am.” He sobered. “What are her chances of taking away the ranch from Fred? From us?”
Shaking his head, Warren said, “Minimal. She has little legal right, as she abandoned her marriage for another man and faked her own death for years.” He held up his hand to forestall the relief filling Peter. “However, we should work out a few minor details, before she attempts a suit.”
“She’ll never have the money to find a lawyer,” Peter muttered. He attempted a relaxed pose, but he gripped the arms of the chair, as he waited to hear what Warren would say.
“Perhaps, but the promise of the riches from one of the most prosperous ranches in the area, if not the Territory, could induce a lawyer to take a chance on her case.” He waited, while Peter paled and swore under his breath. “Here is what concerns me. Was she paid to leave by your grandparents? Was there any truth to the tales of your father’s cruelty that have been whispered about in town for years?”
Peter froze, his gaze distant, as though reliving long ago scenes. “They yelled and fought, but I never saw any physical abuse. And I never saw bruises.” He paused. “If anything, I’d say she was the cruelest. Always saying that my father wasn’t a real man and that we’d all be better off if he were dead.”
Warren hissed in a breath at that. “Witch.”
Nodding, Peter said, “She hated life on the ranch. Hated the isolation of it. And resented anyone who thrived on it.”
“Perspectives can be very different for women than for men or boys,” Warren murmured. “I’ve learned that from my wife, Helen.”
Peter thought of Philomena. “I fear you are correct. And although you may attempt to instill some compassion in me for my mother, you will fail.” He pulled out the letter Slims had given him that day, handing it over to Warren. He watched as the lawyer read the missive, without changing expression, marveling at anyone having such control over his emotions. “I will protect my brothers, Warren. They’ve suffered enough.”
Warren tapped the letter on the desktop, staring intently at the man in front of him. “I suspect you have too. And, if the rumors are true, your mother also ruined your attempt to marry.” A smile flit across his face. “You’re becoming known as the Runaway Groom.”
“Runaway Groom?” he sputtered. “Who would pay attention to such nonsense?”
Warren tossed out the latest edition of the Bear Grass Springs newspaper, watching as Peter’s gaze homed in on the News &Noteworthy section.
It has come to this estimable reporter’s attention that a certain attachment had been formed between two of the town’s newest residents. After witnessing their less-than-tender reunion in the Sunflower Café, many were left wondering about the bitterness that forced them apart. Well, dear reader, I must admit, much remains a mystery. For reasons heretofore unknown, the would-be groom ran away from his bride, abandoning her at the altar. As you can imagine, the shock of seeing the man who had renounced her in such a public manner provoked an excess of emotions, which many delighted in witnessing. One only hopes her brother’s prayers bring her comfort. One doubts the Runaway Groom will find an equal comfort in his cattle. What do you believe, dear reader? Should a runaway groom ever be forgiven? Or has he lost his chance forever?
Peter stared at the article, his gaze reading and rereading it. He paled, as though he’d been gut shot. “What gives her the right to print such an article? Why would she do such a thing to me and to Philomena?”
Warren cleared his throat and shrugged.
“Will you sue her for me?”
A startled laugh emerged, and Warren shook his head. “Alas, no, I’ll never sue Jessamine, unless she is truly cruel.” He sighed and handed him a note. “She feared you’d seek me out, so she left this with me to give to you. She worried you’d not want to speak with her or Ewan again for some time.”
“Ewan,” Peter breathed, remembering the friendly Scotsman, mentioning his wife was a reporter. “How can he allow his wife to write such vile things?”
Laughing again, Warren sighed. “You’ll find life is much easier if you give up your notion of what you will or won’t allow your wife to do. Discussions, not mandates, are what bring harmony in a relationship.”
Peter glared at him a moment, before tearing open the envelope.
Peter,
I know you’ll be irate with me about the runaway groom article. Please forgive me. I haven’t written an article like that in years, and it gave me no pleasure to do so. However, I needed to find a way to take the townsfolk’s minds off the sudden return of your mother. They have yet to discover who she is, and, if they are talking about you and Miss Fitch, I thought to give you time to handle things regarding your mother in your way, without the town’s censure or interference.
Forgive me if I acted in error. I never meant to cause you or Miss Fitch pain.
Jessamine
Peter scratched at his head, before handing the letter to Warren. “If you’re my lawyer, there’s no reason to hide anything from you.” He waited for Warren to quickly read the short note. “Is she sincere?” At Warren’s nod, Peter said, “It won’t matter for long. Too soon the townsfolk will know my mother is back and is very much alive.”
“Will they though?” he murmured. “She’s been gone for some time. Much longer than most have lived here. She’s nothing more than a story to them. Not a real person. None would know her or recognize her.” He tapped the newspaper story Jessamine had written. “Although I know it’s uncomfortable to be at the receiving end of anything Jessie’s written, perhaps she has done you a favor.”
“How so?”
Warren smiled at the challenging tone in Peter’s voice. “Rather than wondering about the strange woman staying at the hotel, the townsfolk will be taking bets on the next time you and Miss Fitch speak. On when you’ll wed.”
Peter groaned. “How has my life turned into a circus?”
Warren laughed and rose. “All of our lives are filled with chaos. You must learn to embrace it.” He slapped Peter on the shoulder. “Come. I want a little time with my wife.”
Peter walked down the hallway, pausing upon entering the living room to see Helen asleep on the settee. “Is she well?”
“Yes,” Warren said, unable to hide the proud gleam in his gaze. “We’re to have our first child by early winter. She’s resting up.”
“Congratulations,” Peter said, shaking Warren’s hand. “I’ll be in touch. I’m staying with my grandparents in their small home.” At Warren’s nod, Peter slipped from the house and into the cool evening air. Once outside, he walked in the direction of the rectory, eager for any glimpse of Philomena. However, thick curtains covered all the windows at the rectory, thwarting any chance, and he contented himself with the knowledge she had returned home safely.
Chapter 6
The following morning, Peter rose early. He brewed coffee and sat in quiet contemplation for a few moments. Soon he would go to the café with his grandmother, but he relished the peaceful interlude. He glanced to the bedroom door with a frown to see his grandfather hobbling, leaning heavily on his crutches. “Grandpa, you’re to stay in bed.”
“If I spend another day in that bed, I’ll die from boredom. I can’t read another book, and no one will sit with me long enough so I can dictate my memoirs.” He win
ked at his grandson, as Peter choked on a sip of coffee at the thought. Harold settled in the comfortable chair near the stove, mumbling his thanks as Peter handed him a cup of coffee.
“Ah, you always did make a good cup,” Harold said, after a deep sip. He sniffed with his eyes closed, as he savored the rich aroma of his morning brew. “Your talents have been wasted on the range all these years.”
“I’m a fine cowboy,” Peter snapped. He let out a deep breath, as his grandfather watched him with a raised eyebrow. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“Apologize to yourself for actin’ like an ass,” Harold said. “You should know by now you can be good at more than one thing.” He waited for Peter to speak, muttering in frustration at the silence that ensued in the small kitchen. “If there’s one thing I know, boy, silence doesn’t always mean harmony. And it often does more harm than good.”
Cocking his head to one side, Peter stared at him quizzically. “I thought silence helped every relationship.”
“Only when you’re bitin’ your tongue from saying something you’ll regret. Which is the majority of the time, when we’re talking to our ladyloves.” He winked at his grandson. “But, too often, we stop ourselves from sayin’ the things we need to say out of fear of causin’ pain. Or making ourselves look like idiots.” He groaned, as he moved his leg about, sighing with pleasure when Peter helped prop his injured foot on a stool, so it was elevated slightly. “We all must learn that to live is to appear vulnerable.”
“What are you trying to say, Grandpa?” Peter took another sip of his coffee, before setting aside his mug. He canted forward, resting on his elbows, as he wholly focused on his grandfather, who had acted so much like a father to him.
“Find the person who loves you despite all your faults and faltering.” He stared deeply into his grandson’s tormented gaze. “Those will only endear you more to her because they show you’re human.” With a grimace, he whispered, “I always thought Frederick suffered the most when your mother abandoned all of you. I realize now how much you all suffered. That none of you can claim any greater pain.”
Runaway Montana Groom: Bear Grass Springs Book 12 Page 8
