Lady X's Cowboy

by Zoë Archer

  “I doubt it,” she said. “With all the resources at his disposal, Graham Lawford seldom errs.” Turning back to the earl, she asked, “Perhaps the last owners of this house were named Bradshaw?”

  But he shook his head. “This house has been in my family for three generations. And no one has ever had that name. Now, please, leave my home immediately.”

  Olivia felt herself sag with defeat. She couldn’t believe that Graham had been wrong, and worse, that she and Will had been so excited and confident about what the future held for them now that he was connected to Mayfair for nothing. She did not want to risk looking at Will, fearing that she might begin to weep if she saw what she was feeling reflected in his face.

  “Just a moment,” the countess said, interrupting her thoughts. “That name does sound awfully familiar.” Without another word, she left the room.

  Hope surged inside her, and Olivia gave Will another encouraging smile, which he didn’t return. Instead, he stared at the open door, his expression unreadable. But Olivia knew there were numerous well-connected guests gathered in the dining room. It was very likely that one of them might be named Bradshaw, or know who that person might be. She clasped her hands tightly.

  “Been hearing quite a bit about you as of late, Lady Xavier,” Lord Donleveigh said disapprovingly. “And I must say, it isn’t the done thing.”

  “Trust me, my lord,” Olivia answered, “everything will be worth it in the end.” She barely felt his censure, wrapped up as she was in anticipation of meeting Will’s family.

  The earl had nothing to say in response to this, but he turned with the others to watch the door. Finally, his wife reappeared. She had a very peculiar look on her face, a look Olivia could not fully decipher.

  “I have found the man you are looking for,” the countess said. Olivia’s heart lodged in her throat. Lady Donleveigh turned to a person hidden from view by the door and motioned them forward.

  An older man, quite fit and hale for his years, stepped into view. He was wearing simple, well-made clothes, and tall work boots. He glanced around the room warily, holding his cap in his hand, uncertain what was transpiring, until his eyes fell on Will.

  “Luke!” the man said. He stared at Will with undisguised joy. “You’re alive!”

  “This is Benjamin Bradshaw,” Lady Donleveigh said. “Our coachman.”

  Somehow, they got shuffled into another room downstairs, where the servants lived and worked. They passed many footmen and maids, all staring at Will with curiosity and then Olivia with plain distrust. But none of this reached Will—he wasn’t paying attention to much besides Ben Bradshaw, his grandpa, and Olivia. She was silent, but old Ben had plenty to say.

  In a little space Ben called a pantry, they sat down at a table and Will finally learned the names of his parents.

  “Luke, he were my boy, married Hetty Overbury. She were the cook’s assistant at the Saltney’s place,” Ben explained. He kept touching Will’s sleeve to make sure he was real, and sometimes stopped to wipe his eyes, which would fill. After learning that Will wasn’t his lost son, but his grandson, and that poor Luke was long dead, Ben had started to cry. The mister and missus of the house looked embarrassed, and hurried away as soon as they could, but not before suggesting that their coachman take his visitors somewhere more appropriate. Then they ran back to supper like horses fleeing a burning barn.

  Even as Will was stunned by everything happening, he still noticed that the well-heeled Lord and Lady Whoever They Were wanted their servants out of view and away from their dinner guests.

  “Were my folks married long?” Will asked. He looked at Ben’s face and saw some of his own there. Peculiar.

  “Just a few months,” Ben said. “Luke worked with me in the stables and one day he said he were tired of bein’ another man’s servant, he wanted to be his own man. ‘We’ll go to America, Hetty an’ me, an’ start over.’” Ben’s eyes grew watery again. “Guess he didn’t get that wish.”

  Will was used to his parents being dead, but he wasn’t used to someone else mourning for them. He glanced over at Olivia, who was staring at Ben as though not really seeing. Her face was strangely blank.

  “But tell me about yourself, lad,” Ben said, collecting himself and smiling broadly. Will felt cool water dance down his spine, watching his own grin on another man’s face.

  Will told him about Jake, and his life in Colorado and on the trail, trying to think what his granddad would want to hear. Ben listened, all eyes, saying things like “Coo,” and “Blimey.”

  “So you’re really one of them blokes ridin’ horses and shootin’ guns?” he asked, amazed.

  “Somethin’ like that,” Will said. He figured maybe later he’d set Ben straight about what cowboying was really about, but for now, it didn’t matter.

  “You don’t hold up banks, or trains, like that Jesse James?” Ben asked sternly. “I won’t abide my grandson bein’ a criminal.”

  Will smiled a little. “Ol’ Jesse was killed last year, and I don’t plan on takin’ his place.”

  Looking relieved, Ben nodded. “That’s good. But I’m glad to hear that you inherited the Bradshaw way with horses. We been coachmen and stablemasters for generations. Horses run in our blood.”

  Will had always felt more comfortable on the back of a horse than standing on the ground, and every trail boss was agog at the way he could manage the remuda of spare horses on the drive. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right.” Ben slapped his hand on the table. “You’re a Bradshaw.”

  “Will Bradshaw,” he murmured, testing the words. It didn’t feel proper; not yet, anyway. Coffin was the name Jake had given him, and he wasn’t ready to cast it aside.

  He and Ben both stood as Olivia rose to her feet, skirts rustling. She still looked far away. “I’m sure you two have quite a bit of catching up to do,” she said quietly, moving towards the door. “And I don’t want to intrude on private family business. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Bradshaw.” Then she was gone.

  Still standing, Ben and Will stared at each other across the table. Ben looked at a loss, which was no better than Will felt. “Hang on,” Will said, and bolted after her.

  He found her walking aimlessly up and down Half Moon Street, past the row of carriages waiting, even her own, and past the other elegant houses that lined the blocks.

  “You look poorly,” he said, coming up to walk beside her.

  She shook her head, but stiff, like a puppet. “I’m perfectly well. But don’t let me keep you. I’m sure you must be very happy to finally meet your grandfather. I can send the carriage back for you.”

  “Liv.” He took her arms and turned her to face him. The blankness of her expression spooked him. “You walked right past your own coach. What the hell is goin’ on?”

  Olivia blinked and gazed at the streetlamp behind him. “Mr. Bradshaw seems like a lovely man. And you look so much alike. I don’t think there can be any doubt...”

  Understanding hit him like a bullet, and with that awareness, the last remains of hope died. “I ain’t rich,” he said flatly.

  Olivia regained some of her alertness, but just enough to smile sadly at him. “I thought everything would be all right once you claimed your birthright. That somehow you could be the prince in exile, like a fairy tale. Foolish, I know, but when it comes to you, I have been quite foolish.”

  “We both have.” He’d forgotten, but now he saw. Truth was, he wasn’t good enough for her, he couldn’t have her, and there would be no miraculous change to make things different. The English had a special word for people like him: common. Will Coffin—or Bradshaw—was plain common, and even though Olivia’s title had been paid for, she was still as high above him as the tallest peak in the Rockies. She wouldn’t say so, but it was true.

  He couldn’t be a part of her world, and he knew he couldn’t ask her to come with him and join his. True, her house wasn’t as grand as the one on Half Moon Street, but it was
so much finer than anything he could give her. Even with Jake’s money, the best Will had to offer wasn’t close to what she deserved. She was no rancher’s wife, killing chickens and chasing dust, showing off an upright piano from Philadelphia to the other ranchers’ wives. She was a lady, and a lady ought to have better than a hardscrabble life.

  She was staring over his shoulder, towards the house, and he turned to follow her gaze. Outlined in the first-floor windows were several people staring at them. Lord and Lady Fancy Pants’ dinner guests, gawking at him and Olivia like some kind of dog-and-pony show. That’s the way things were in this country—everybody watching, everyone minding each other’s business. He wanted to tell them all to go chase themselves, but it would only make things worse for Olivia.

  “You go on home, Liv,” he said. He blocked her from view with his own body. The figures in the window slowly drifted away. “I’ll come by later to pick up my gear.”

  Her eyes widened. “No—”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll still help with Pryce.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I don’t want you to leave.”

  “But I have to. Maybe Ben’ll let me stay with him for a spell, ’til—”

  “Until what?”

  “I go home.”

  Olivia put her palms against his chest and bent her head so it touched the back of her hands. “Oh, Will,” she said, her voice muffled, “this was not how I envisioned our story ending. In all those silly books I read, the hero and the heroine ride off into the sunset together.”

  “I know, darlin’.” He couldn’t help it—he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, trying to memorize the feel of her there to keep him company for the long, solitary years ahead. “But this ain’t a book, this is real life, and sometimes, life kicks us right in the seat of our britches.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Is that you, Pryce, old man?”

  George Pryce put down his newspaper and looked up at the well-groomed face of Graham Lawford. As usual, Lawford dressed as somberly as an undertaker—nothing but black and gray. It was a little maddening, since Pryce knew that Lawford had scads of money and could afford some of Bond Street’s more lively garments. Well, if Lawford wanted to be dark and gloomy, that was his business.

  “Lawford, good to see you,” Pryce said without much enthusiasm as he rose just enough to shake his hand, then sat back down again. He reached for his paper, but Lawford did not pick up the dismissal.

  “Haven’t seen you at the club in ages,” he said cheerfully. “Too busy gadding about town, eh?”

  “Mm,” was all Pryce answered. He was too annoyed to notice that Lawford, who hardly exchanged nods with him on normal occasions and had the grim mien of judge, was practically brimming with cheerful bonhomie. Pryce blamed himself for the interruption. If he wanted to be alone with the paper, he should have stayed home. But ever since Maddox had contaminated the Greywell’s water supply, his mood had been especially light, and he had fancied he wanted company from men of his own circle. Now he was beginning to regret it.

  “I can see you’re busy,” Lawford said, finally understanding. “And I have to be off. Business, you understand.”

  Didn’t he just? With a curt nod, Pryce picked up his newspaper again, but then damned Lawford’s voice speared through the paper. “I say, Pryce, will I be seeing you tomorrow night?”

  “What’s that?” If there was a social event of any consequence, Pryce was always invited. This was the first he’d heard of anything for the next evening, and it rankled.

  “Lady Xavier’s little gala,” Lawford said. “She’s celebrating her third year in business at that brewery of hers, and having loads of people over to her home for some tasting. She said she just brewed fresh beer for the occasion.” He frowned. “I’m surprised you didn’t know about it. I recall that you were once interested in getting into brewing.”

  Pryce made himself shrug indolently. “I lost interest in that venture. Too plebian.”

  “Ah well. My tastes must run to the baseborn, since I told her I’d come. I’m sure you’d find the whole thing a dead bore. A bientôt.”

  Once Lawford had gone, Pryce allowed himself to smirk. He looked out at the reading room of the club, filled with large, comfortable chairs, men pouring over their newspapers and puffing contentedly on cigars, safely away from annoying female company. He did love this club, loved its exclusivity, its staunch adherence to masculine decorum. In two days, the club would be filled with furious talk of how Lady Olivia Xavier had served poisoned beer to the best of high society.

  Several men glanced over when a giggle escaped from Pryce. He clamped down hard on his wild impulse to laugh. But it was simply too rich.

  She didn’t know. Maddox had done his job perfectly, and Lady Xavier had no idea that her well had been corrupted. Pryce supposed that he ought to be concerned that many people he knew would likely drink the beer and be sickened by it, but they were wealthy, and could afford prompt and effective medical care. They were in no real danger.

  The only person in danger was Lady Xavier. Her ruin would be spectacular. And George Pryce had to be there to see it.

  Olivia stood in the doorway to Will’s room, watching him pack his few belongings into a battered duffle. He owned very little, and it took much less time than she would have liked for him to completely clear out his possessions. She wished he owned mountains of things, just to keep him here a bit longer, but in all too short a time, the Vetiver Chamber was merely another empty bedroom.

  “That’s it,” Will said, closing his bag. He glanced around the room as though trying to take it all in, imprint it in his mind.

  She stepped to one side as two footmen came in and carried out the duffle, and the Winchester rifle. One was about to pick up Will’s saddle, at the foot of the bed, but stopped and looked at him first.

  “Go ahead,” Will said. “It doesn’t matter.”

  She covered her mouth with her hand as the footman tucked his arms underneath the rig and carried it out. Will didn’t let anyone touch his saddle, his most prized possession, but it was a measure of how much he was hurting that even the saddle meant little to him.

  Then they were alone in the room. She leaned against the doorframe, bracing her hands on the jamb, as she stared at him. His face was starkly handsome in the harsh morning light, his jaw taut and his eyes blue ice. Will’s mouth, usually grinning or offering untold pleasure, was hard and set. He seemed so tall and broad, unmovable. There wasn’t much about him that recalled the easygoing cowboy who had strolled into her life with fists swinging a few weeks earlier. He seemed like a man who had taken several hard blows and was that much stronger, more tough because of it.

  Thanks to her.

  “Will—”

  “Don’t.” His jaw worked. “We know there ain’t anything to say.”

  “I didn’t want it to turn out this way.” She took a few steps forward. “I wanted—”

  “The impossible. We both did.” He shook his head. “But we didn’t have a snowball’s chance in Texas.”

  She let her eyes move without seeing through the room. She never spent much time in the Vetiver Chamber, especially since David had died and the number of guests staying with her had dwindled to almost none. She hadn’t been particularly lonely, but Will had changed all that. She had never felt more alone than she did at that moment.

  “I understand if you hate me,” she said at last. “Right now, I hate myself.”

  He sighed heavily, then came to stand in front of her. “I don’t hate you, Liv. It’s this place I can’t stomach. Tellin’ a body who they can and can’t love.”

  She looked up at him sharply, and he smiled ruefully. “Yeah,” he said, “I love you, Liv. It caught me by surprise, but it’s the truth.”

  Olivia felt herself stabbed through with a hot blade. She had always longed to hear those words, and she realized she had been wanting to hear them from Will for almost as long as she had known him. Joy flared inside her,
ruthlessly cut by circumstance.

  “Don’t go,” she said desperately. “You can’t say that and go.”

  “That’s why I have to. I can’t watch you get torn apart just ’cause I got feelin’s for you. It ain’t worth it.”

  “Let me decide that.”

  He shook his head. “Nope. This is somethin’ that’s out of your hands.” He started to move past her, then stopped. “Liv, I’m doin’ the right thing. Everythin’ you told me about how you’d be shunned if you didn’t mourn your husband long enough—that’d be a hundred times worse if you took up with a no-name cowboy with nothin’ but a saddle, and a coachman for a granddad. And all that pain it’d cause you, it’d be on account of me, and I just won’t let that happen.”

  “But—” He silenced her by bending down and pressing a soft, sweet kiss on her mouth that was over much too quickly.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow, Liv,” he promised, “to finish Pryce. Then it’s adios.”

  She couldn’t move as Will left the room. She stared at the spot where he used to be, his afterimage. She listened for the front door opening and closing, and strained to hear the carriage pull away. Uncaring that the bedroom door was wide open and anyone could walk by and see her, she sank to the floor. For the first time since David had died, she began to cry, and once she started, she could not stop.

  Ben took him in, after getting permission from the butler, housekeeper, and finally the lord and lady of the house. So, after a few weeks of sleeping in a bed that could hold four grown men, Will lay down that night in a narrow cot in a narrow room. There was one little window that looked out onto the street—or rather, the boots and horses’ hooves going back and forth on the street. Aside from Ben’s bed and the one hastily put in for Will’s use, the room held a washstand, a small cracked mirror, Will’s saddle, and two daguerreotypes, browning with age.

  “That’s Emma, me wife,” Ben had explained, pointing to one of a sturdy woman in a neat, plain dress. “She died ’bout four years after Luke disappeared.” His grandmother.