Runaway Montana Groom: Bear Grass Springs Book 12

by Ramona Flightner

  Davina’s words repeated in Philomena’s mind, taunting her. Philomena’s heart ached that his family would be so generous and welcoming. She feared they would have been everything she had ever dreamed of since she was a girl and an orphan, with only distracted relatives to see to her care. These MacKinnons and Tompkinses wouldn’t allow her to wallow. To hide. They would badger her and force her to confront her emotions.

  She sniffled as she smoothed away a tear, when she knew instinctively they would support her through life’s challenges. Oh, why did Peter’s mother have to return and ruin everything? Philomena watched Davina and Bears ride into town, laughing and chatting, and an envy like Philomena had never felt filled her. She now understood just how much she had lost in April. She thought her heart would break a second time.

  Peter walked into the bakery during a lull at the café. His grandma had assured him that she could attend to whatever customer wandered in during his short absence. The large space had a glass case that he assumed was usually filled with the day’s treats. However, it was largely empty, except for a lonely cookie. Shelves on the side held lace and yarn to purchase, as well as finished goods. He wandered to the yarn, fingering the soft strands coiled in bundles.

  Merely glancing at the woman who entered from the kitchen, he focused on the beautiful yarn. “This is Sorcha Tompkins’s work, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir,” the woman said stiffly. “She’s most talented, and we are fortunate that she sells her merchandise here, rather than at one of the mercantiles.”

  He smiled before focusing on her. She stood at least half a foot shorter than him, with shiny brown hair and hazel eyes. “Jane?” he asked in a soft voice. When she gave a start at her name, he smiled. “I’m your cousin, Peter.”

  “I know who you are,” she said in a dull, low voice. Turning to the case in front of her, she pointed to the cookie. “I’m afraid all we have left today is this cookie, sir.” She stared at him, as though he were no more than an itinerant miner who had stopped in to see what they sold. “Do you like oatmeal raisin?”

  He nodded, extracting a coin and placing it on top of the case with a clink. After she handed it to him wrapped in paper, she spun on her heels to return to the room behind the salesroom. Peter watched her leave with shock, munching absentmindedly on the delicious cookie. After a moment, he flipped the sign to Closed and approached the inner doorway. Peering inside, he saw a large kitchen, with ovens pumping out steam as they cooled. A woman he vaguely remembered scrubbed at a butcher-block table, while Jane washed dishes in the sink. In the corner sat an empty rocking chair, and a door led to a room off the kitchen.

  “Forgive me for interrupting,” he said, his hat in hand. When both women gasped and stared at him, as though he were an apparition, he swiped at his face to ensure he had no crumbs clinging to the corner of his mouth. “Thank you, ma’am, for baking that delicious cookie. I know my grandparents have ordered your cakes, and they are quite popular. But I think they should order your cookies too.”

  When the woman with black hair and light brown eyes continued to stare at him without speaking, he said, “I meant no impertinence. I assumed you were the baker.” He paused. “Forgive me. I’ve forgotten your name. I’ve only recently returned to town. I’m Peter Tompkins.”

  “Oh, I know who you are,” the woman said in a low throaty voice, as she cast a quick glance at the woman working at the sink. “I’m Annabelle MacKinnon. I’m married to Cailean.” She spoke with pride.

  He nodded, with sudden understanding. “So you’re related to Sorcha. That’s how you have her yarn.” He smiled. “I know Ewan. It’s nice to meet you.” He glanced past her to the woman scrubbing a pan with such vigor that it appeared she’d rub a hole in it. “Jane?”

  “What do you want?” she asked, as she stared at the few remaining pans in the sink. “I’m busy with my work.”

  He sighed, deciding to ignore Annabelle’s presence. “I wanted to apologize.” He smiled, although his gaze was filled with remorse when the pan clattered into the sink, and she spun to gape at him. He nodded, hoping she could discern the sincerity of his regret. “I never meant to ignore you.”

  “Why did you?” Jane asked in a small voice, as she dried her hands on a towel. She clung to it, so her hands would have something to do.

  “Stupidity.” He shrugged. “I’ve been angry with your father for as long as I care to remember. It’s easier not to remember the good times, so you don’t miss them as much.” He paused. “I was never in town long when I was here, and I can’t remember if Fred told me about you. I never ignored you to spite you.”

  She took a deep breath. “Whether you like it or not, I am a part of the family.”

  He took a step closer but forced himself to stop, as he had no desire to make her feel hemmed in or threatened. “I’m delighted. I’ve always wanted cousins and a family.” He cast a quick glance at Annabelle. “I’m not certain I wanted quite so many so quickly, with all the MacKinnons.” He smiled when Annabelle snorted out a laugh. “And Ewan tries my patience at times, but I’d really like to know you, cousin.”

  Jane stared at him, her eyes huge. “You would? But you hate my father.”

  Peter sighed. “I don’t hate him. I never really did. I was disappointed and hurt by him, but I never hated him.” He shook his head. “And I don’t hate you, Jane. I never thought to see my uncle so selfless, so filled with joy, as when he spoke of you.” He looked at the two women. “I know you’re busy and have much to do. I should return to the café.” He looked at his cousin. “I hope, one day soon, cousin, you’ll come to the café for dinner and a chat. I’d like to know you.”

  He turned to leave, and Jane blurted out, “I’m married to Ben Metcalf. He’s a fine man, who works as Ewan’s partner.”

  Peter smiled. “Good. I hope you both come to dinner. I’m learning I can never have enough family.” He nodded to Jane and Annabelle as he left, the front door jingling behind him.

  Chapter 7

  After work was done, Peter’s determined stride came to an abrupt halt, as he entered the small meadow a short distance from town. Surprisingly it was a place few frequented, even though it was abundantly beautiful, with tall grasses interspersed with wildflowers. Encircled by tall pine trees, it was like a small oasis in the middle of the forest. Birds chirped, and the air was redolent with the fresh scent of the forest, and the comforting sound of the trickling waters of the nearby creek soothed him after a long day in the café.

  All thoughts of his beautiful surroundings fled as he focused on the woman in the middle of the meadow. Philomena. His heartbeat quickened, and his breath caught at the sight of her tracing her fingers over the long grass. “Mena,” he whispered. He smiled as her head shot up at his soft voice.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, her ease and joy in the moment replaced by a stiff formality, as she stood tall, her hands at her waist.

  He frowned, walking toward her with slow and precise steps, so as not to frighten her away. “The same as you, I imagine. Enjoying this evening and finding a little time away from the bustle of town.” His eyes glowed with curiosity, as he beheld her. “How are you out of the rectory so much? Morris never let you leave before.”

  Philomena shrugged. “He’s very focused on his sermons right now and doesn’t have much time to ensure I stay put.” She ducked her head. “I snuck out. He thinks I’m reading a book of sermons.”

  Peter chuckled. “You used those as a sleeping tonic.” He smiled when she stared at him in wonder.

  “How do you remember that?”

  Reaching forward, he traced a finger down her cheek, his gaze intensifying as he saw her shiver at his soft touch. “I remember everything, Mena.”

  “You shouldn’t call me that,” she rasped, as she turned away. Clearing her throat, she yanked on a piece of grass and paced away from him.

  Following her, he asked, “Should I call you Phil instead?” He made a scoffing noise, smiling at her
when she paused to stare at him in confusion. “You are no Phil, Mena. Phil is for a weak-chinned man who would never make my heart pound.”

  “Peter,” she cried out, backing up a step. “Why are you doing this?” She looked around. “Your family …”

  “Would love you,” he said. “Cole already did.” He shook his head at her protestation. “Dance with me,” he whispered, holding out his arms. The hope in his brilliant blue eyes faded, as she remained rooted in place. “I was naive to believe we could start anew.”

  “No.” She stepped forward, setting one hand in his and the other on his shoulder. “I hear the music too.”

  He beamed at her, pulling her closer, as he moved them into motion. For long minutes, he twirled them around the meadow, the only song that of the birds and the breeze. He rested his cheek against her head, breathing in her beguiling scent and relishing having her in his arms again. Suddenly he stumbled over a rock, tumbling them to the ground.

  She shrieked, landing on top of him. With a grunt, he stared at the slowly darkening sky, content to have her with him. “I beg your pardon,” she gasped. “I’m too heavy.”

  His chuckle deepened. “You’re as heavy as a cat,” he whispered, holding her in place. When she squirmed, he ran a hand down her side, pausing when she giggled as he hit a sensitive spot. “Are you ticklish here?”

  “No!” she protested, with too great vehemence, attempting to heave herself away.

  “You are! You never told me.” He flipped her over, quickly assuring himself she was delighted rather than scared. When he saw the mischief and the joy in her gaze, he tickled her, earning another shriek of laughter. Giggling, he finally let her go.

  When she hopped up, she raced away. “You can’t catch me!” she taunted, laughing as he lunged for her. Their cat-and-mouse game continued for many minutes, until they lay in an undignified heap in the middle of the meadow, her head resting on his shoulder.

  She panted slightly, still out of breath from their race around the meadow and from laughing with abandon. Gazing at her flushed face and at her eyes glowing with delight, he whispered, “I adore you.”

  “Peter,” she murmured, her gaze open and filled with hope. “I don’t know what this means.”

  Running a hand over her head, he kissed her forehead, before easing his arms free. “It means I want to build you a crown.” At her perplexed stare, he reached around them, plucking wildflowers, interweaving the stems, until he had fashioned a small coronet. “For my Philomena.” His eyes glowed with the depths of his emotions, although he did not give voice to them.

  “Peter,” she whispered, sitting up.

  “Shh, darling,” he murmured. “A queen never doubts.” He placed the fragile string on her head, canting forward, until his soft breath teased her cheek. “She knows how worthy she is.” At her soft inhalation, he kissed her. At first the kiss was a tentative meeting of lips. Soon it was as though their bodies remembered the passion and tenderness that had existed between them, and the kiss deepened.

  He wrapped his arms tightly around her, and she moved so she straddled his lap, her hands running through his hair. She arched into his touch, sighing with pleasure as his hands stroked down her back. Finally he broke away, yet holding her close. “Never doubt how much I’ve missed you. Longed for you,” he gasped.

  She kept her arms around him, her face buried against his neck. “I … I don’t know what you must think of me.”

  “Mena?” He backed up, until he saw her downcast expression. “Did this not please you?” He ran a hand through her disheveled hair, accidentally pulling apart her wildflower crown. “I … I … Forgive me.”

  “No,” she cried out, her eyes a stormy gray as they beheld his torment. “Of course I wanted this. I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you again.” She flushed and bit her lip at having said too much. When she saw the hope in his gaze, she took a deep breath, determined to be brave. “But I don’t know if you want anything more than this from me.”

  He sighed, his hold on her never wavering. “How can you ask me that?” He flushed and closed his eyes. “Of course you can ask me that. I abandoned you.” With a guilt-filled gaze, he looked deeply into her eyes. “I’ll never regret anything more in my life. Ever.”

  She smiled with a deep remorse. “Let me go, Peter. I must return. Morris might have discovered I’m away, and I’m a sight.” She looked at her rumpled clothes, her disheveled hair. “What would he think?”

  Peter smirked, easing his grip. “Let him think what he will. We know the truth.”

  Philomena stood, leaning against him for a moment when her legs wobbled. She stared at him a long moment. “We do. About tonight. And before.” She stood on her toes, kissing him, before she spun and raced away.

  Peter watched her retreat, following her from a short distance away. Although he understood her desire to have time to compose herself before she returned home, he refused to allow her to endanger herself by truly walking alone. If any dared approach her, they would learn she was his. He only wished she would believe him. And believe that he was hers, as he knew she was his. For he now understood no one else would ever make his heart sing as Philomena did.

  A few days later, Philomena walked with a purposeful stride through town, her empty basket looped over one arm, as she did her weekly shopping. She wished she didn’t have to wear a hat, as she had a sudden desire to stare at the large fluffy clouds floating overhead. Peter had talked with her once about being on the prairie and staring at the clouds, looking for shapes. Looking for anything that would entertain him. She found that she wanted to do anything to make her feel remotely closer to him these past few days.

  With a resolute determination, she focused on the town and the street, rather than the sky and any flights of fancy. She was the pastor’s sister, a sensible, sober woman. She did not run around wildflower fields, make crowns from flowers, or have tickle fests. That was not who she was. She recited from the Bible, made tea for parishioners, and was demure at all times.

  She walked past the Mercantile, her main stop for her errands, yet continued in the direction of the bakery. Although Philomena was an accomplished baker and cook, today she knew Leena Johansen was at the bakery. Philomena hoped Leena would bake something special, although she wasn’t sure what that entailed. Last week Philomena had bought a spice cake. Just thinking about it made her mouth water.

  She passed the café, forcing herself not to peer inside for a glance at Peter. She yearned to hear his voice or to see him, but she knew that would be futile. Morris was already suspicious, after she returned home a few days ago, covered in grass stains.

  After purchasing two spice cakes, she exited the bakery with a jaunty spring in her step. When a woman dressed in threadbare clothes blocked her path, she nodded and attempted to slip past her. However, the woman anticipated her movement and continued to remain in front of her. “Excuse me, ma’am,” Philomena said in a soft, cajoling voice, “I would like to pass.”

  “I’m certain there are many things you would like,” said the woman with oily limp hair and eyes that gleamed with distaste. “You think you’re so high and mighty and above all of us because you’re the pastor’s sister. You think that you can do as you please and will never have to pay the price for your actions.”

  Philomena stiffened but remained overtly cordial. “I’m certain there is no call for such comments. Good day, ma’am.” She gasped when the older woman gripped her arm to the point of bruising.

  “Oh, and I’m certain there is. You’ll come to ruin with your fascination with that Tompkins boy. Nothing good ever comes from such a liaison.” She nodded. “They’re all swindlers.”

  Wrenching her arm free, Philomena stood to her full height, a good six inches taller than this woman. “I bid you good day, ma’am.”

  She marched down the boardwalk, flushing when she saw the Mercantile storekeeper, Mr. Sutton, outside sweeping. “Sir,” she said. In her agitation, she hadn’t even noticed that
she had passed the café without considering stealing a peek at Peter. “I had hoped to have an order filled for delivery later today.”

  “Of course, miss,” he murmured, as he continued to glance over her shoulder. “I wouldn’t let the resentfulness of Mrs. Jameson affect you. She’ll be forever bitter that her son died and that her daughter married a man who won’t be manipulated.”

  Philomena gazed at him in confusion. “I’m sorry. I’m still learning who everyone is.” She smiled her thanks as he opened the screen door to the Merc for her and then followed her in.

  “Helen is the town healer and married to Warren Clark.” At Philomena’s nod, indicating she knew who Helen was, he said, “Her mother is that pathetic, resentful woman you just had the misfortune of meeting.”

  “The healer’s mother?” Philomena gasped. “Does no one in town have a good mother?” She flushed, as her eyes rounded.

  “Oh, there are plenty of good mothers,” Tobias said, with a chuckle. “It’s just the bad ones who make a name for themselves.” He winked before he glanced over her list. “I can have this delivered by late afternoon.”

  Philomena smiled. “Thank you.” She paused as she looked at some cloth, before shaking her head. “That will be wonderful.” She approached the door, turning as he called out to her.

  “Miss,” Tobias said in a soft yet carrying voice. “Don’t hurt him again. If you don’t want anything to do with him, let him down easy.”

  Philomena stared at him with unfathomable eyes. “I’m certain it’s none of your concern.” She held herself rigid, as she gazed at the shopkeeper.

  “He’s my nephew, although I know he wishes I weren’t family most days. But I care for him, as though he were my own son.” His jaw clenched once. “All I ask is that you’re kind.”