Never Marry a Cowboy

by Lorraine Heath

  He held up his cup. “I have a weakness for cocoa. I made a bit extra, if you’d care for some.”

  She gave him a tentative smile. “Yes, thank you.”

  “But you can’t run back to your room with it. You’ll have to sit and talk with me.”

  Obediently, she sat while he poured the cocoa into a cup for her. The resemblance between him and Kit was striking, and yet there were as many differences. He was more slender. Responsibility had carved lines within the noble planes of his face, but they did not run as deep as those within his brother’s face. Just like Kit, he carried himself as though he were a man who not only knew, but completely understood, his position in the world.

  He placed the china cup in front of her before returning to his chair.

  “Kit mentioned that you had a fondness for chocolate.” She brought the cup to her lips and sipped the warm brew, savoring the flavor and the mist tickling her nose.

  “My brother has a gift for understatement.”

  “He purchased me a lot of chocolate when we were in Galveston,” she said inanely, wishing she’d stayed in her room. “What are you reading?”

  He lifted the book. “A dime novel. Not very literary, but extremely entertaining. It helps me to relax. The hero in this particular story reminds me a great deal of Kit.”

  “He never mentioned that someone was writing a book about him.”

  “Modesty would prevent his making such an announcement, I’m sure. Perhaps the character isn’t based upon him, although I’ve heard rumors since I’ve been here that he doesn’t wear a gun, which apparently is quite unusual for a marshal.”

  She shrugged. “Most men in Texas wear guns whether they’re marshals or not.”

  “So I’ve noticed. It’s still quite the frontier, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose so.” She took another sip of cocoa.

  “I take it that your marriage to Kit is in name only,” Christopher said quietly.

  Ashton’s fingers tightened around the cup handle. “Why would you think that?”

  “Because Father saw Kit climb down the beam that supports the roof over the porch, and since your room is above ours, we both assumed you weren’t sharing a bed.”

  She felt the heat flame her cheeks. “Currently, we’re not sharing a bed. No.”

  Christopher tilted his head as though to consider possibilities. “But you were for a while? So you’ve had a quarrel.”

  Deliberately, she set down the cup. “I don’t see that where we sleep or if we’ve quarreled is any of your business.”

  “I would agree if I did not love Kit as much as I do.”

  She wondered how much his love would diminish if he knew what Kit had done to Christopher’s wife.

  “Kit desperately wanted to hold your hand while he was in our room learning of Father’s secret.”

  Ashton felt her chest tighten. “Why do you think that?”

  “Because I could see it in his eyes, in the way he looked at you, wanting, but fearful. Come to think of it, he didn’t touch you when he introduced you to me in the foyer, so your quarrel must have occurred before you arrived tonight.”

  “We did not have a disagreement,” she snapped. She didn’t like knowing that Kit had wanted to touch her but hadn’t because she’d asked him not to. She was always thinking of her needs and not his. She should have realized how hard visiting with his father would be, should have put aside her disgust with him for a short time. Lent him her strength instead of her weakness, after all he’d given her.

  “Are you unhappy at the prospect of moving to England?” he asked.

  “I will not be going anywhere with Kit. Our marriage is temporary—”

  “Because of your health?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “All marriages are temporary. Eventually, one spouse dies. The marriage is over. ’Tis only the love that remains.”

  She furrowed her brow. “I’m not sure if you’re being morbid or romantic.”

  “Realistic. But I apologize. I’m in a pensive mood. Did Kit mention to you that he loved my wife?”

  Her mouth suddenly dry, Ashton could only nod.

  “Sometime tonight,” Christopher said, “it shall dawn on him that he should have married Clarisse.” He lowered his gaze to the table and touched his finger to his mouth. “Life is full of ironies.”

  “But you loved her, too. And she loved you. Kit told me she died with your name on her lips.”

  “While lying within his arms.”

  A secretive smile played upon Christopher’s lips as he pointed his finger at her and raised a brow. “That was a guess upon my part, but the expression in your eyes confirms it. He never told me that, you see. He no doubt told you a great many things that he never confided in me.”

  “If you have questions about her death, you’ll need to ask him.” She started to rise.

  “Stay.”

  “I don’t think I should.”

  “Afraid you’ll confess my brother’s sins? I am well aware of his sins, Ashton.”

  “Then you don’t need me to stay.”

  “Tell me what you quarreled about.”

  She slid back into the chair. “I told you that we didn’t quarrel.”

  He nodded his head toward her. “Your cocoa is growing cold.”

  She brought the cup to her lips. It was cooler, but still enjoyable, if she could just force it past the lump in her throat.

  “Clarisse was in such agony,” Christopher said as though he’d drifted out of the room. “Her cancerous disease showed her no mercy. Twice, nay, three times, I prepared a brew that would end her suffering for all time, but I could not bring myself to carry it to her lips. So I sent for Kit. He has always been the stronger, you see. Even in the beginning, when he was scrawny, he possessed the strength of spirit that put mine to shame. I knew he would find the will to do what needed to be done. He never told me what had transpired within the room while he was with Clarisse, but when he said, ‘It matters not where my body is, I shall be in hell,’ I knew. I knew he had granted her wish.”

  Staring at him, she slowly set her cup down. “She wanted to die, and you sent him to her knowing that he would kill her?”

  She watched a tear roll down Christopher’s face. “Pain was all that remained in her life. Death was the only thing she ever asked of me that I could not give her, but I knew Kit would deny her nothing, regardless of the cost to himself. And he has suffered greatly for it.”

  Details. So many details to be considered.

  Sitting at his desk, Kit glanced momentarily at the room in which he slept. He knew if he were smart, he’d stretch out on the cot and catch a few hours of sleep before his meeting with destiny.

  But as he’d learned of late, he was not a smart man.

  And the details were staggering.

  Jasper had planned that stagecoach robbery so Kit knew he, too, was a man who understood the concept of leaving nothing to chance.

  Kit had already oiled and cleaned his rifle and loaded it. He would not need extra bullets. If the fourteen that his Henry rifle held didn’t do the job, he seriously doubted he’d be alive to reload and finish the job.

  Still…he placed spare bullets beside his rifle. Leave nothing to chance.

  He had to determine exactly when to step out onto the street. He did not want to seem overeager, but neither did he want to be standing there with the wind whistling by and his palms growing sweaty.

  So many damned details, and they were all unimportant. All except the ones he now worked on. Ones that revolved around Ashton.

  He had considered climbing to the window of her room and slipping into bed with her. His arms ached to hold her, his shoulder longed to again feel the little nodding motion she made as she worked her way into a comfortable position against him.

  He dipped his pen into the inkwell and made a notation on the paper in front of him. He had considered writing her a letter of farewell, but what was there to say? He thoug
ht about thanking her for the time she’d shared with him, but the words made what he truly felt seem trite. He contemplated writing a letter of explanation regarding his sin, but if spoken words could not sway her, he doubted that written pleas would.

  So the only thing he would work on tonight was a missive that he would hand to Christopher tomorrow. It was best this way.

  He picked up the black book that Christopher had given him. He studied the cover and wondered at all his father might have written inside. Thoughts he’d never meant for another soul to read.

  He looked up as the door opened, and Christopher stepped in. His brother glanced around. “I have yet to understand why you bothered to lock this dreary place.”

  “Because I have weapons, and I didn’t want anyone to take them.”

  Christopher nodded thoughtfully. Kit turned over the paper on which he’d been making notations. He didn’t know how he was going to explain all that would transpire tomorrow, but he thought doing it on short notice would serve him best, so Christopher would have little time to try and persuade him to travel a different path.

  “What are you doing here anyway?” Kit asked.

  “I saw you leave the boardinghouse.” Christopher raised a brow. “The building does have a front door, you know.”

  “I’m aware of that fact, but I prefer to live dangerously.”

  “That explains the reasoning behind your taking this position as marshal then, doesn’t it? Your life must be at constant risk.”

  “Hardly. Mostly I escort drunken cowboys out of Harry’s saloon,” Kit said.

  Christopher looked into the room where Kit slept. “It’s a far cry from the grandeur of Ravenleigh.”

  “It suits me,” Kit said quietly.

  With a sigh, Christopher sat in the chair that David Robertson had occupied several weeks earlier. A lifetime ago.

  “Why didn’t you write me when Father had his first stroke?” Kit asked.

  “I did,” Christopher said. “I assume the letter hasn’t arrived.”

  Kit glanced around his desk. “Not that I’ve seen, but then, there seems to be no pattern to how long it takes a letter to reach me.”

  Christopher jerked his head toward the book Kit held. “Have you read it?”

  “No.”

  “Ah, what a tangled web we weave, heh?” Christopher asked, intertwining his fingers and placing them over his flat stomach.

  “Father’s web seemed fairly straightforward.” Kit set the book aside. “You could have kept this discovery to yourself, you know.”

  Christopher nodded slightly. “I considered it and not because of greed, avarice, or hunger for a title. But who am I if not the heir to Ravenleigh?”

  “You’re Christopher Montgomery.”

  He scoffed. “But who is that, Kit? Who I am has always been defined by what I would be. When I read Father’s journal, I felt as though someone had tossed me carelessly into a tempest. I have yet to find my anchor in this storm of deceptions.”

  Kit remembered the vivid dream he’d had the night when the fog rolled in. Now that it made sense, he sympathized immensely with his brother’s frustrations. “Under the circumstances, I should think any man would feel doubts and confusion. Still, you could have burned the journal.”

  Chuckling softly, Christopher shook his head. “I was tempted, so tempted. I even built the fire, but in the end, I knew I could not live with myself, nor would I ever be able to look you in the eye if I were not honest with you, if I did not share my discovery.”

  Kit leaned forward to voice the concerns that had been bothering him. “You risked Father’s life bringing him here. You could have waited—”

  “I had not intended to bring him, but he insisted. I did not realize that he wished to come so he could use the time to try to convince me to hold my tongue. I’m angry with him. Furious, in fact. All these years, he deceived us. He made me into someone I was not meant to be.”

  “He made you into who he wanted you to be.”

  Christopher pounded his fist on the desk, surprising Kit by the unusual display of rage. “English law does not work in that manner. The aristocracy does not select its heirs. God does.” Briskly rubbing the side of his hand, Christopher sighed. “I apologize for my outburst.”

  “No need to apologize. You have every right to be upset.”

  “You don’t seem bothered by this turn of events.”

  Kit stroked the scar beneath his chin. “I suppose it hasn’t all sunk in. Besides, I believe that I’ve made a small contribution while I’ve been here. You have to understand, Christopher, that I have found a measure of contentment.”

  “Father warned me that would be the case, that you would not find this revelation as enticing as I envisioned you would. I’m surprised to discover him right.”

  “As difficult as it is to admit, Father knows us well—both our strengths and our weaknesses,” Kit said, willing to admit to himself at least that his father had done him a service in raising him as he had. By never giving him an inch, he had prepared him to stand on his own.

  Christopher held Kit’s gaze. “Have you no curiosity as to what brought on Father’s first stroke?”

  Kit shrugged and gave his brother a grim smile. “I should imagine he was yelling at one of the tenant farmers for not managing his crops to specifications.”

  “He was yelling at me. He’d found the letters you’d written to me. He was not at all pleased that I had turned to you for advice.”

  “You were a fool not to burn them as soon as you finished reading them.”

  “They contained far too much wisdom. I referred to them often…had considered making them into a book, actually.”

  Kit scoffed. “It would be a very short book.”

  “I realize that, but still I consider a short book of wisdom more useful than a long book of nonsense.” Christopher leaned forward. “The overall management of Ravenleigh I understand completely. It’s the details that thwart me from time to time. You’re so bloody good with details. You always were. That’s the reason I suggested we manage Ravenleigh together. I suppose it angered Father to realize he had selected poorly.”

  Kit studied his brother’s dejected mien. To be toppled from an exalted position was much harder to accept than being lifted to one. Christopher’s willingness to expose the truth was a testament to his integrity. “Father did not select poorly. You carefully measure every decision, determining where the benefits will be best achieved. You are exactly what Ravenleigh needs.”

  Christopher laughed, a sound Kit had not heard from his brother in a long time.

  “What so funny?” Kit asked.

  “You do not see yourself as the lord of the manor?”

  Kit shook his head slightly. “In all honesty, no.”

  “Then what are you here, if not lord of the manor? You are responsible for the welfare of these people. In the short time I’ve been here, I’ve had more questions thrust upon me than I have in the whole time since I assumed management at Ravenleigh.”

  Kit pondered his brother’s observation. In an odd way, he was a lord, but he did not have absolute power, only absolute responsibility dictated within the confines of the law. “Interesting. I suppose we could argue that if I am lord here, I have no need of Ravenleigh.”

  Christopher settled back in his chair. “No, we cannot argue that. Father was wrong to deny you your birthright.”

  “Who among us is without sin?”

  “Perhaps that is true, but that does not change the fact that you are the rightful heir.”

  Kit held up his father’s journal. “It is not as simple as you make it out to be. I shall consider the matter very carefully and let you know my decision on the morrow.”

  With a heavy sigh, Christopher stood. “Regardless of your decision, my feelings for you will not change. I could not have asked for a finer brother.”

  Kit swallowed hard, the words incredibly difficult to accept, harder to speak. “I feel the same. You were a ble
ssing in my life.”

  “You say that as though your life were over. I am a blessing in your life and shall continue to be so. I’ll be off so you can get some much needed and deserved rest.”

  Christopher walked to the door, stopped, and turned slightly. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”

  “I have some matters that need my attention in the morning. I’ll visit you and Father shortly before noon,” Kit said.

  “Before noon, then. Arrive with the answer I want, not the one I expect.” Christopher stepped outside and closed the door.

  Kit set the journal aside. His father had gone to great lengths to ensure that Christopher was the heir apparent. Ironically, tomorrow a stranger named Jasper would unwittingly fulfill his father’s deepest wish.

  Chapter 23

  “I don’t know who I am,” Christopher said quietly.

  “You’re Christopher Montgomery.”

  Chuckling low, he glanced at the woman walking beside him in the moonlight wearing nothing but her nightgown. She had gladdened his heart when she hadn’t questioned his disturbing her in the middle of the night, but had simply suggested that they walk so he could talk out whatever was bothering him. Against his better judgment and his earlier resolve not to do so, he’d eaten dinner at her house every night. She possessed a calmness—when her daughters weren’t threatened—that drew him like a siren’s song. “Kit said the same thing. But who is that, Elizabeth?”

  “I don’t see that it’s any great mystery. You’re you.”

  He stopped walking, turned, and faced her. “My entire life, I have been Viscount Wyndhaven with the knowledge that one day I would become the Earl of Ravenleigh. Now, I’m only Christopher.”

  She folded her arms beneath her breasts, and he fought not to lower his gaze. “You put too much stock in a name. A name doesn’t make you who you are. Until I was seventeen, I was Elizabeth Morgan. Then I got married and was Elizabeth Fairfield.” She pressed a hand flat against her chest, above her breasts. “But I was still just Elizabeth, in here where it mattered.”

  He shook his head, wondering how he could possibly explain to someone who had not grown up in his society how he viewed himself. “You were a daughter, and then a wife.”