Claiming Their Mail-Order Bride: A Cowboy Ménage Romance (Montana Ménage Book 2)

by Lily Reynard

  “Can I talk you into coming back to bed and cuddling a bit?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I—I have to light the stove and milk the cow and get some eggs before I start breakfast,” she said, her words tumbling out in embarrassment.

  “Oh.” His face fell, and she felt guilty about disappointing him. He unfolded his arms and stretched. “Well, I reckon I should get a move on my chores, too.”

  But he stayed put, watching her avidly as she went to the armoire and put on her corset, a clean blue shirtwaist, faded from many washings, and one of Eliza’s plain brown woolen skirts, suitable for work.

  When she was once again looking respectable, Walt swung his legs over the side of the bed, sat up, and began pulling on his boots. He still wore his shirt and jeans from last night, though his shirt was wrinkled. His thick fair hair stuck up all over his head in uneven tufts, and his jaw and chin glinted with golden stubble.

  He looked entirely too appealing for comfort, and Sarah regretted not taking him up on his offer to spend some more time cuddling.

  “Would you like pancakes again?” she asked, in an effort to resist temptation. I need to show him that I could be a good wife.

  He brightened. “I'd love some!”

  “Well, then, that’s what we’ll have for breakfast,” she said, lacing up her own shoes. “Would you prefer bacon or fried ham on the side?”

  Then she left the bedroom, and made her way downstairs, determined to make him the fluffiest, tastiest pancakes he’d ever eaten.

  Ten days.

  * * *

  Sarah had milked Rosa, gathered eggs, and fed the impatient chickens, and was mixing up the pancake batter when she heard Walt splitting pieces of wood for stove kindling outside.

  Relief flooded through her. She hadn’t quite gotten the hang of using the heavy, terrifyingly sharp axe yet and had been dreading the necessary chore of chopping up more wood after breakfast, so that she could keep the big cast-iron stove hot enough to simmer the stew she planned to make for lunch.

  She opened the back door and stuck her head out. She took a moment to admire Walt wielding the axe. His shirt stretched tight over his wide shoulders and muscled back as he swung down with unerring accuracy, neatly splitting a hunk of wood into something that the stove could handle.

  When it looked like he could be safely interrupted, she said, “You make that look so easy. I’m always afraid I’m going to chop my foot off. Thank you.”

  Walt lowered the axe and chuckled. “Happy to oblige. Especially if it means you can keep cooking.”

  Sarah beamed at him. He’s so sweet and thoughtful! “I’m nearly ready to begin cooking the pancakes, if you want to wash up before breakfast.”

  “Sure,” he replied agreeably, returning her smile. “Let me just finish chopping up this piece, and I’ll be right in.”

  Walt was as good as his word.

  He entered the kitchen five minutes later, freshly split kindling piled high in his arms, and filled the big wooden crate that sat on the floor next to the tall copper boiler. Then he went to wash his face and hands before lifting the coffee pot off the stovetop and filling their cups before seating himself at the table.

  Sarah scooped the first batch of pancakes off the greased griddle and divided them between their two plates, which sat warming on one side of the stovetop. She added slices of fried ham from the skillet, then carried them over to the table.

  Walt’s eyes widened as she placed one of the plates in front of him. “This looks wonderful.”

  Sarah smiled shyly as she seated herself and passed him the pitcher of huckleberry syrup. She was relieved that the pancakes had turned out as well as she’d hoped they would, golden-brown and fluffy.

  Neither of them said much as they applied butter and syrup to the pancakes, and cream and sugar to their coffee, then dug in.

  When Walt’s plate of food had been reduced to a few pancake crumbs and smears of purple syrup, she ventured, “I was wondering what kind of fruit trees you have in the garden.”

  His fair brows went up, and she wondered whether recognizing trees was one of the skills that a supposed Missouri farmgirl was supposed to have.

  “So that I can prepare for canning and preserving this summer," she added hastily. She added silently, if I’m still here, that is.

  “Oh, right,” Walt put his fork down and sat back in his chair. “Let me see…” He began counting off on his callused fingers, “Apple, apricot, sour pie cherries, sweet black cherries, peach, plum, and pear.”

  So many! She was going to be canning and making jam all summer!

  “We’re going to need a lot of sugar,” she said weakly.

  “Well, I’m not sure how much fruit we’ll be getting this year,” Walt said, looking apologetic. “Lark and I forgot to prune the trees—we had a lot on our minds. But enough for a few pies, I hope.”

  Sarah nodded. “I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see what the summer brings.”

  “And the birds.” Walt scowled. “They got most of the cherries last year, though to be honest, I didn’t have much heart to tend the garden after Mom died.”

  Sarah leaned over and put her hand on his shoulder. “That must have been very difficult for you. I’m so sorry.”

  Walt shook his head, but patted her hand.

  “Speaking of fruit trees,” he said, and she recognized a deliberate change of subject. “Did I ever write you about my Grandpa’s pear tree?”

  She tried to remember if she’d read anything about a pear tree in the stack of letters that he had sent Liza, and shook her head. “I don’t recall anything like that.”

  Walt reached for the coffee pot and refilled both their cups before continuing.

  "Back when I was really young and we still lived in Missouri, Charlie and I used to get into terrible trouble together. Our Grampa Charles and Gramma Mina lived on the farm with us, but in their own house. Grampa forbade us to pick any of the ripe pears from the tree in their yard, because he wanted to keep them all so that Gramma Mina could make her German pear schnapps. Anyhow, Charlie and I loved those pears, and we were both hopping mad that they were now forbidden fruit.” Walt paused and grinned at Sarah. “So, one fine summer day, about the time that those pears were coming ripe, Charlie suggested that we climb that tree and take a single bite out of each hanging fruit we could reach.”

  Sarah giggled at the image of two boys carefully climbing the tree and creeping out on each branch.

  “We would've gotten away with it, too,” Walt continued, “but I slipped and fell out of the tree and broke my wrist, so we were found out. Charlie never forgave me, because Grampa tanned our hides but good with a willow switch."

  “That sounds like quite the scheme of revenge,” Sarah said. “But who was Charlie? I don’t recall you mentioning him in any of your letters.”

  Walt's expression clouded over. "My older brother. He died just before my folks decided to head out to Montana. I've sometimes wondered if maybe they up and left Missouri because they needed a change of scene after losing him." He shook his head. "I still miss my big brother and wonder what kind of man he would have grown into. Someone more like my dad than my Grampa Charles, I hope." His expression turned thoughtful. "Now that I think about it, though, I wonder if my parents' willingness to adopt Lark had something to do with losing Charlie. Though, given the circumstances, I'd like to think that we would have offered Lark a home and a place in our family regardless."

  "I'm sorry for your loss," Sarah said.

  "It's all in the past now," Walt said. "I didn't mean to bring a sad subject to these wonderful pancakes. And if you promise to bake something with the pears in our little orchard, I solemnly swear to keep my teeth out of them before we harvest them."

  “Then I solemnly I promise I’ll make you poached pears with cream,” Sarah said.

  It was time to redirect the conversation away from the dangerous subject of Missouri. Since Liza had been from there as well, Sarah knew it
would be all too easy to betray herself by being unfamiliar with the particulars of that state.

  She wondered how long she could successfully keep up this charade of being Liza Hunter.

  The better she got to know Walt, the worse she felt about her deception. It was a Sword of Damocles, hanging over her head by a thread, threatening her with ruin—or worse—if the truth ever came up.

  But how long can I keep this up? For the rest of my life? She suppressed both a shudder at the prospect and the impulse to confess all to Walt and cast herself on his mercy.

  Wouldn’t it be nice if I could just be myself, without having to worry about watching my every word and action?

  She knew better than to yield to that impulse.

  Liza Hunter had a refuge here on this ranch. And as long as the world—and Mr. Burgess in particular—thought that Sarah Franklin was dead, no one would have any reason to come all the way to Montana looking for her.

  “Speaking of food, I still have some pancake batter left,” she said. “Would you like seconds?”

  In reply, Walt handed his plate to her. “Would I ever!”

  When she returned to the table a few minutes later with a stack of freshly made pancakes, she decided to turn the conversation to a safer subject than childhoods in Missouri.

  “I’ve been wondering,” she began, as Walt applied syrup and butter to his pancakes. “When did you decide to dig a mine on this ranch? Has it been in operation long?”

  “A while. And the mine's been around since I was a boy. You see, it was originally my dad’s idea,” he replied. “He caught a bout of gold fever when he found a few flakes and small nuggets in one of the streams running through the hills a couple of miles to the east. So he hired some miners to dig a mine in those hills."

  “But he didn’t find any gold?” Sarah guessed, because he and Larkin had both referred to it as their copper mine.

  “Right,” Walt confirmed. “Dad's brief burst of gold fever passed when all they found was copper ore. I think he might have kept digging for a while longer—we Edwards are pretty stubborn—but then then the accident happened.”

  “Accident?” Sarah asked, alarmed.

  Walt nodded as he chewed and swallowed. “The support beams holding up the mine weren’t strong enough, and one of the shafts collapsed. The miners working here were trapped under tons of rock. It took months to dig out their bodies. Dad immediately shut down the entire operation, and went back to raising cattle. But he was haunted by guilt until his dying day.”

  “Oh, no.” Sarah’s heart broke at the thought of those unfortunate men.

  Then she thought about Larkin, who was likely laboring away in one of those mine shafts at this very minute. He might be in danger.

  Plus, she felt wracked with the doubts that had been plodding around and around inside her head, like a donkey turning a millstone.

  Had Larkin really left because he was developing feelings for her? Or had it been loathing that sent him running?

  “But the mine is safe now?” she asked. “How can you be certain that one of the tunnels won’t collapse again?”

  “Because when Lark and I decided to reopen the mine, we brought on an actual mining engineer as our business partner. I told you about him—Jim Soo Fong. He’s in charge of making sure that all of the shafts are correctly supported.”

  But now that the terrible mental picture of Larkin crushed under tons of rock had embedded itself in her imagination, it proved impossible to dislodge.

  “Can I visit the mine?” She wondered how Walt would react to her request. Dismay shot through her at his frown.

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” he said, putting his fork down and scrutinizing her.

  She wondered if she’d overstepped in some way.

  “It’s really no place for a lady,” he continued. “It’s dark and damp and cramped. Plus, there are plenty of bugs and snakes at the mining camp, and the miners are, well, they’re decent fellows, but a bit, er, rough around the edges.”

  Sarah gathered her courage in the face of his opposition. She’d had to do it often enough when Father was one of his moods.

  “But I would very much like to know where my potential future husbands are working.” She kept her voice soft but firm.

  Walt heaved a sigh, but at least he didn’t look annoyed at her insistence. Or angry. “All right, I’ll take you on a tour, if you’re so all-fired determined about it.”

  “Thank you.” Sarah relaxed a little, pleasantly surprised that she had prevailed without any unpleasantness.

  It only convinced her further that Walt would make a good husband, one with whom she could discuss any problems or issues with reason and courtesy.

  Then Walt fixed her with a knowing look and continued, "Now, why do I get the feeling that this isn't strictly about the mine?"

  "I—" she began, and stopped. She’d already told enough lies to this good and decent man. She couldn’t stomach the prospect of further untruths. “I’m concerned about Larkin.”

  "And so you want to talk to him." It wasn't a question. Walt didn't look angry, though.

  Sarah nodded. "When he left here, he seemed quite upset, and I'm afraid I was the cause of it. I just want to know whether he harbors any ill feeling towards me."

  Walt forked up the last bite of his pancakes and sat back in his chair, his bright blue eyes filled with concern. "I doubt he does, but if it would put your mind at ease, we could ride out to the mine this afternoon. I have a few things that need doing around here, first."

  "Of course, I understand," Sarah hastened to assure him. "Thank you, Walt."

  If nothing else, at least her upcoming meeting with Larkin would resolve her nerves. One way or the other, she hoped to learn how he truly felt about her and whether he was willing to let her stay.

  * * *

  “I still think bringing you here was a bad idea,” Walt said, as he reined in his horse in front of a large, tin-roofed wooden shed built against the side of the hill. A sign painted on the side of the shed read, “E&W Copper Mine. No trespassing.”

  He slid down from the saddle and helped her dismount from his tall horse.

  They had spoken very little on the ride from the ranch house. Walt had seemed lost in thought, and Sarah had occupied herself with looking around at the scenery as they followed a dirt track up into the hills on the other side of the valley.

  “This isn’t a good place for a woman,” Walt continued. “The miners are, well, they’re good men and hard workers, but they can be crass sometimes.”

  “I don’t mind,” Sarah said stoutly.

  She looked around curiously. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but this place looked nothing like the gold claims she had seen staked along the riverbanks while driving to and from Twin Forks.

  Here, the trees on half of the hillside had been felled, leaving cleared land and an army of stumps, surrounded by a dense pine forest. A set of railroad tracks led up the hill and vanished through the doorway of the shed, which appeared to mark the entrance to the mine.

  There were three or four men, bearded, grimy, and dressed in denim jeans and heavy canvas shirts. They were sitting on stumps near the shed and eating large baked turnovers filled with what looked like a mixture of meat and potatoes or turnips. They ogled her openly as she and Walt approached.

  Walt must have sensed her sudden nervousness, because he put a comforting arm around her shoulders.

  “Boys,” he greeted them. “This here’s my fiancée, Miss Sarah Hunter.”

  “Congratulations, boss,” one of the men said. He lifted his dirty cap to her. “Pleased to meetcha, Miss.”

  The others nodded in agreement and continued to stare at her as if she were some exotic creature. Her face grew warm under their scrutiny.

  “You fellas see Lark anywhere?”

  “He’s in the number two shaft, boss,” someone answered. “Fooling around with those rocks of his.”

  Sarah looked at the foreboding d
arkness beyond the shed’s doorway and began to take a tentative step forward.

  Walt’s arm tightened around her. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said in a low voice. “There’s no way I’m letting you in there to get those nice clothes of yours all dirty.”

  “But—” she began to argue.

  “Tell you what. I’ll go fetch Lark while you wait—” he glanced up at the miners, and she saw him change what he was going to say “—at the camp. It’s just over there in the trees. Follow the path until you hear running water. I’ll meet you there with Lark.”

  Relieved that she would not have to venture into the intimidating-looking darkness, Sarah nodded. “All right.”