Although Clarisse had said he never gave a warning, Hal was making little noises that sounded like he was getting ready for a loud cry. She walked across the kitchen to the window, knelt, set the infant in his cradle, and rocked. “Shh, shh, baby. You don’t want to worry your mama now, do you?”
Miranda turned toward the door, wishing she could hear what was going on. It had to be the Lansing she’d met in Denver. Damn. She should have asked him a few questions. Found out why he was coming.
Hal turned bright red and let out a yell far larger than his tiny body ought to be able to produce. She snatched him back up and renewed her patting.
“Fine, fine. You wanna be held.” She walked around in a little circle, continuing to rub and pat the infant’s back. “You’ll be thinkin’ I’ve never held a baby. Truth is, I love babies.” She pulled him closer, rocking him in her arms as she paced the room.
She frowned. Benjamin Lansing had better not intend to take Jonathan away from Mercy—not months after she’d taken the boy into her home, treating him like her own son. It wasn’t fair. Miranda wouldn’t allow it.
She looked at the baby in her arms. “He wouldn’t be doing that, would he?”
She brushed her nose against Hal’s soft, warm cheek and inhaled his sweet baby smell. It had been years since she’d held a baby in her arms. She’d forgotten the wonder of them. “Fine time you picked to remind me of what I’m missing.” She sighed.
“I reckon it is time, though, isn’t it?” The fist that seemed to be squeezing her heart loosened a little. “I’m gonna help my sister with her baby, and maybe one day . . . Do you suppose I’ll find someone like my pa—a good, honest, gentle man who will love me and . . . ?”
And maybe she would have a family of her own. She wasn’t ready to make that wish out loud.
Chapter 3
Benjamin Lansing eyed the diverse goods displayed around the cramped mercantile. No doubt the shop had been arranged to be convenient to the proprietor, rather than be aesthetically pleasing to visitors. The result was dizzying.
His eyes rested on the bolts of fabric displayed against one wall. Unlike the rest of the shop, someone had taken care with this arrangement. The simple ginghams and calicoes were displayed by color—dark browns, blues and greens at one end; vivid yellows, pinks, and reds at the other. A small selection of white muslin, silk and lace separated the colored fabric from shelves covered with threads and yarns. After weeks of traveling across the plains, with endless stretches of drab browns and grays, the bright hues were a feast for his eyes.
“Mr. Lansing?”
He turned to face a petite woman with a pretty, heart-shaped face and bright azure eyes.
“Can I help you, sir?” Her voice was polite and calm, with the genteel inflection of the southern regions of the country. But her eyes made it clear that he had better state his business.
“I hope you can, ma’am.” He made a polite bow, knowing a southern gentlewoman expected courtesy from a proper gentleman even beyond what the ladies of Boston demanded. “I’m Benjamin Lansing—Arthur Lansing was my brother.”
The lady covered a quick spark of surprise with her air of formality. “I’m Mrs. Wyatt. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Lansing.” She gave him a nod and a stiff smile that betrayed her complete lack of pleasure at meeting him. “Now, how can I be of service?”
Ben was astonished that the lady made no expression of condolence for his brother’s death, but decided the oversight was attributable to her surprise at seeing him and was not intended to offend.
“I understand my brother left both his ranch and son under the care of Mr. and Mrs. Thaddeus Buchanan. I wonder if you’re acquainted with the Buchanans.”
Her eyes dropped to his dusty boots and made their way slowly back to his face. “Yes.” She locked the fingers of her hands together, as one might do in prayer. “My brother and sister-in-law as it happens.”
He wondered why she had hesitated to reveal her relation to the Buchanans. “How fortunate for me.” He broadened his smile, hoping to set the lady at ease. “Then you’ll be able to tell me how my nephew is faring?”
“He’s thriving.” This time her smile was genuine. “Mercy and Thad have taken very good care of Jonathan.” The smile faded. “And he’s grown to love them as they love him.” She raised her chin almost as though she dared him to argue.
In fact, he couldn’t be more pleased. The last thing he wanted was responsibility for a young child. But the boy was his own blood, and Ben would make certain the lad was in a suitable home before he got the hell away from this dismal settlement. All he wanted to take with him was the money he’d loaned Arthur. He wouldn’t even demand the interest. The Buchanans could use that for the boy’s care. The original $5,000 would be enough for him to settle down to a simple life in Mexico or one of the Pacific Islands. Some place far from Boston, where he could live out his days in quiet solitude. He almost laughed at that thought. He hadn’t yet celebrated his twenty-eighth birthday, and here he was planning his last days like an old man.
A familiar young woman entered from the back carrying a fussing baby. Ben first wondered how the hell the pretty little art critic had followed him to Fort Victory. Then he realized she must have arrived before him.
“I’m sorry,” Miranda said before she froze, staring at Ben while the baby continued to cry. She turned to Mrs. Wyatt. “I can’t get him to settle down.”
The shopkeeper took the baby, who calmed immediately and hungrily latched onto the fabric of her shirt. Ben looked away. For a moment, he had thought the infant belonged to Miranda. Silly. She would not have been in Denver if she were mother to a young infant in Fort Victory. Clearly, the older woman had to be the child’s mother. Not that it mattered to Ben in any case.
“Excuse me, Mr. Lansing. My little one wants feeding.” She rocked the baby. “Miranda, this is Mr. Benjamin Lansing. Mr. Lansing, Miranda Chase, Mercy Buchanan’s sister.” Mrs. Wyatt glanced from Ben to Miranda.
His business would be concluded quickly if the Buchanans were next to come out of the back. But that was apparently too much to hope for.
“Would you mind giving Mr. Lansing some tea while I take care of Hal?”
Miranda nodded, her eyes fixed on Mrs. Wyatt.
“Mr. Lansing is Arthur Lansing’s brother.”
“Arthur Lansing?” Miranda turned to him, revealing the jagged scar she usually took trouble to hide.
He tried not to look, but he couldn’t help studying the rough track of the scar along her jaw. He fixed on her eyes again. The blue color should have been cold, yet the vision reminded him of swimming in a warm spring. Perhaps it was the soft pink of her skin or the freckles the sun had scattered across her nose that made her eyes seem warm. Her tongue peeked out, calling attention to her full lips. He swallowed hard, hit by desire such as he had not experienced in some time.
Damn. This was a fine time for that appetite to rise from the dead. He intended to take care of business and get out. Hell, she was Mercy Buchanan’s sister, reason enough to stay away, even if he were the type to violate an innocent. Her eyes narrowed on him and he had the unsettling feeling that she had read his thoughts. Perhaps she wasn’t so innocent after all.
He pulled his mind back to the conversation as Mrs. Wyatt left the room. “Yes, Arthur was my brother.”
“I . . .” She pushed a stray curl back from her face. “I was sorry about what happened to him.”
“Thank you,” he said, though her regrets seemed insincere. Perhaps he was allowing his own anger at his brother to color his observations. Arthur had told him that he was a respected member of this community and Ben had no reason to believe that wasn’t true.
“Ain’t this a surprise. Here I thought you were just an art peddler.” She sashayed ahead, leading him into a large kitchen.
His eyes were drawn to her swaying hips, but he caught himself and focused on the untamed curls bobbing up and down behind her head.
“It is a coincidence, i
sn’t it?” Ben cleared his throat. “That we were both headed to Fort Victory, I mean. We might have ended up in the same stagecoach.”
Miranda giggled. “I’ve had my fill of coaches. They toss a body around ’til you can’t tell up from down. My saddle’s a good bit more comfortable, I assure you.”
“You rode from Denver? Alone?”
Miranda raised an eyebrow, then laughed again. “I ain’t been to a fancy city school, but I ain’t stupid either. I came from Kansas with a large company. We parted ways just a few miles outside Fort Victory.”
“I certainly didn’t mean to imply—”
“It’s all right. I didn’t take offense.” The smile vanished. “You haven’t come to take your nephew,” her voice dropped nearly to a whisper, “have you?”
“I’ve come to assure myself the Buchanans are providing a good home for him.”
She turned to face Lansing. “They are wonderful parents,” she said a bit too loudly this time. She stood nearly a foot shorter than he was, chin raised, eyes fixed on his as though daring him to challenge her opinion. He nearly laughed out loud, but she crossed her arms over her chest and glared. “I know what I’m talkin’ about. My mother died when I was just a bitty thing and my sister practically raised me.”
He cleared his throat and managed to keep from smiling. Fact was he hoped she was right. “I’m certain your sister is taking good care of the boy, but he’s my nephew and I’ll need to see for myself.”
“He’s a damn sight better off now than he was—” She spun around and took the last two steps to the table. “Hell, I didn’t mean . . . your brother was . . .” She placed a hand on the side of the teapot, perhaps testing the temperature. “Jonathan needs a mother.”
“I’m not arguing with you, Miss Chase.”
The deep, round pools of her eyes studied him for a moment before she broke into a smile. “Miranda.” Her lids dropped, then opened wide again, lighting her face. “If my sister’s gonna be mama to your nephew . . .” She shrugged.
“Yes, you’re right. We should be less formal. Please call me Ben.”
“Ben?” She tilted her head as if she needed to see him from a different angle. “You seem more like a Benjamin.”
“How is a Benjamin different from a Ben?”
“Ben is simple, rugged. Benjamin seems more suited to a Boston man.”
He laughed. In fact, his father had always called him Benjamin. He’d become Ben during his army days. “Perhaps you shouldn’t jump to conclusions about a man based on one short meeting. I think Ben suits me better.”
“I’m willing to try it and see how it suits.”
“That’s all I can ask.”
Her eyes locked with his and he thought she’d make another comment. Instead, she walked to the buffet with that little bounce in her step that drew his eyes to her rounded hips. She selected a cup and saucer for him and stepped back to the table.
“Milk? Sugar?” she asked as she poured a cup of tea for him.
“A drop of milk, please,” he said, wishing he could shed his coat and gloves. The kitchen was far warmer than the shop had been. He watched her hands as she finished the ritual of preparing his tea. They were small and graceful, perfectly suited to her.
Before his injury he hadn’t been so interested in hands—he’d have spent more time observing other parts of a woman’s body. And the lady before him did have much to admire about her. She wasn’t wearing the bulky jacket and gun belt that had hidden much when he’d seen her in Denver. Her blue shirt complemented the color of her eyes. Even more important—it hugged the curves of her trim body.
He lifted his gaze to her face as he took a sip of tea. One corner of her lips curled up, and he knew she’d caught him admiring her. Ben returned her smile. “Tell me about your sister and her husband.”
She stirred her tea, then set the spoon on her saucer. “Likely you know Arthur was our neighbor.” She lifted her eyebrows, waiting for confirmation. Ben nodded. “Mercy was there helping the day Jonathan was born. The boy’s mama died that day, and Mercy’s been looking after him ever since.” She ran a finger over the rim of her cup, then looked into Ben’s eyes. “Mercy is as close to a mother as Jonathan has ever known.”
Better and better. “Sounds like the boy is lucky she was around.”
“Damn right he is.”
Ben couldn’t help grinning at Miranda’s defense of her sister. He wondered whether she threw herself with as much enthusiasm into everything she did. A kiss, for example, might be very pleasant with her energy.
Dammit, Ben! She was a girl, perhaps seventeen or eighteen years old. He refrained from asking her age because it didn’t matter. He was leaving Fort Victory as soon as possible and he wasn’t going to dally with this child.
Pulling his mind away from Miranda, he leaned against the ladder-back chair and looked around the pleasant kitchen. The furnishings were comfortable and simple, made of pine and polished to a fine sheen. He thought it was likely they were locally made, although the workmanship was of high quality. The glass-paned windows were adorned by lace-edged gingham curtains, tied back to allow ample sunlight into the room. Though he was no expert, the large cook stove, which was so efficiently heating the kitchen, seemed very modern. And, he noted, the china was as beautiful as any he’d seen in the finer homes of Boston. The tidy room could hardly have been more different from the shabby storefronts of Fort Victory’s unpaved main street.
“It’s warm in here.” Miranda added hot tea to the remains in her cup. “I’ll take your coat and gloves if you like.”
“I’m comfortable,” he lied, lifting his cup with his right hand as he rested his left on his lap. He wasn’t ready to shed the doeskin gloves, which hid his disfigured hand by the simple expedient of cotton stuffed into the empty fingers. Miranda had seen him fumbling with the ribbons in Denver. She’d probably guessed that his hand was crippled, but she didn’t have to know the extent of the deformity. All that remained of his left hand was his thumb, a crooked forefinger and three stubs where fingers had been removed. He could have lifted the teacup with his left hand, but he had little strength in the damaged hand and couldn’t trust it to hold his cup steady. Pride wouldn’t allow him to show Miranda his weakness.
Enough, Lansing. Forget the girl and get the information you came for.
“Mrs. Buchanan’s letters indicated that she plans to adopt my nephew.”
Her forehead wrinkled in thought for a moment. “I’m not used to calling her Buchanan. She only recently remarried.”
“Recently?” He set his cup gently into the saucer. “I was under the impression that the Buchanans were already married a year ago when they took in Jonathan. Did you say remarried?”
“Yes.” Miranda set her cup down, and he noticed her hands were trembling before she placed them on her lap, under the table. “Her first husband passed away, three years ago now. She married Thad last fall, shortly after your brother . . . died.” She glanced at Ben, then looked away toward the window.
“We weren’t close.” Ben set his cup down in the saucer. “Arthur and I. He was years older than me. I never had a chance to know him.”
Miranda chewed on her lip and stared into her cup. Ben had hoped to set her at ease, but she still seemed uncomfortable.
“Mrs. Wyatt tells me the boy is happy with the Buchanans. Is that your observation as well?”
“Yes.” She glanced up at him, then back to her cup, running her finger back and forth over the rim of the cup. “At least, Mercy’s letters say so. I ain’t been to see them yet. Just got back to town—from Philadelphia.” A quick, nervous smile revealed her white teeth, then quickly dissolved. “Reckon I missed all the excitement.”
“The wedding?”
“Yes . . . the wedding.”
They sipped in silence. Miranda’s eyes remained on the table as she rubbed her finger back and forth over the smooth surface.
“Mercy always wanted a child,” she said. “She wasn’t
able to . . . She didn’t have babies with Nate. Of course, now she does have a baby comin’, but . . .” Miranda blushed a lovely rose color. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be talkin’ about such things. I only want you to know she does love him. Jonathan. The new baby won’t make a difference.”
Ben suppressed a grin. Damn, she was cute when she was flustered. So brave and determined to convince him, even though she hadn’t a clue what to say to impress him. “As I said, I’d like to see the boy and judge for myself.”
“I could take you out to the Bar Double C.” She beamed a radiant smile that lit up her eyes like sunshine reflecting off a mirror. “I’m goin’ there directly from here.”
He was lost in her eyes for several heartbeats before her words worked their way into his mind. “Bar Double C? That’s not Arthur’s ranch, is it?”
“Arthur’s? No. Bar Double C’s my sister’s ranch. Arthur’s ranch is on the way, if you’d like to see it. . . .”
The worried expression replaced her radiant smile and Ben tensed. Something was wrong.
“You did hear about the fire?” she asked.
Ben leaned forward. “Fire?”
“Arthur’s house was destroyed.” She blinked twice. “Mercy and Thad managed to get Jonathan out, but they couldn’t save your brother. You must have known. . . .”
“I didn’t know how my brother died, only that it was a terrible accident.” Ben wondered why Mrs. Buchanan’s letters hadn’t been more specific. “She was there? Your sister?”
Miranda nodded. “That’s what I heard. Mercy and Thad . . .”
Perhaps Mercy Buchanan had something to hide, after all. “I didn’t know anything about a fire. I just assumed that the Buchanans would move into Arthur’s home. He said it was the finest house in the area.”
“Humph.” Miranda poured more tea into his cup. “He was right proud of it,” she said in a tone that made it obvious she didn’t feel the pride was justified.
Ben realized he was scowling and forced himself to smile instead. “Are the Buchanans not planning to rebuild? It is the boy’s home, after all.”
Teresa Bodwell Page 3
