Miranda shrugged. “I expect they’re more concerned with raisin’ cattle than with buildin’ a foolish house.”
“Foolish? Why is it foolish to give the child a proper home?”
She laughed. “You Lansings. I reckon you think a proper home oughta be made of gold bricks.”
“I didn’t . . . I only meant the house and the ranch are Jonathan’s inheritance.”
Miranda shrugged. “In Philadelphia, a dozen families would be livin’ in a building the size of your brother’s house. The child has no need of such a . . . a . . . mansion.”
He bit his tongue rather than argue with her. If the Buchanans intended to merge his brother’s ranch with theirs and leave his nephew without his inheritance, there would be hell to pay.
He kept his clenched fist under the table. “I would like to see little Jonathan.”
“As I said before, I’m gonna be ridin’ out to the ranch. You’re welcome to come along.” She met his gaze. It was damn hot in this kitchen. “You can stop and see the fire damage on the Lansing spread for yourself, if you like.”
“Yes,” Benjamin said, “I suppose I should do that.” He’d need to evaluate his nephew’s inheritance and be certain the Buchanans were taking proper care of the property.
“Fine. Where’s your horse?”
“I’ll need to rent a horse. I saw a livery stable—”
“No.” Mrs. Wyatt rushed into the room cradling the sleeping infant. She spoke so fiercely they both turned to stare at her. “I don’t think Mr. Lansing should go out there today, Miranda.” Her voice settled back into her accustomed genteel tone. “You haven’t been home in a year. Your sister will want to spend some time with you in private. How will she be able to entertain an unexpected guest?”
“But—” Miranda started to protest.
“I understand, Mrs. Wyatt, but I’ve come a long way and am anxious to get on with my business.”
“But surely, Mr. Lansing . . .” She looked out the window, then turned back to him. “It’s afternoon. By the time you ride out to the ranch and conduct your business it will be dark. Too late to come back to town for the night. The Buchanans live simply—they have no extra beds for guests. After your long journey, I’ve no doubt you’d prefer to spend the night in a comfortable featherbed.” A smile lit her face as though she’d just been inspired. “My husband will escort you to the Bar Double C in the morning. And you can borrow one of our horses. They are much better than what the livery has to offer, I assure you.”
Ben wondered for a moment what Mrs. Wyatt was trying to hide. But perhaps he was too suspicious. It could be simply a desire to prevent him from intruding upon the family reunion. He sighed. It was obvious there was no arguing with the woman.
Besides, he glanced at Miranda sipping her tea. He wasn’t sure it was at all a good idea for him to be alone with that temptation.
Chapter 4
Miranda’s heart leaped to her throat as she caught sight of the entrance to the ranch where she’d grown up. Her father had used pine logs to fashion an arch over the road. They’d burned their brand—a bar joining two C s for Chase and Clarke—into a strip of wood hanging from the arch.
As she approached, she saw the old sign still held the two Cs, even though Mercy was a Buchanan now. Perhaps the past year hadn’t brought as many changes as Miranda had feared. She squared her shoulders and gave a quick click of her tongue to set Princess trotting through the gate toward the house. A movement caught the corner of her eye and she turned. Cows—dairy cows.
“Whoa!” Princess stopped short as Miranda pulled back on the reins. In a newly fenced pasture, two cows calmly grazed on the thick prairie grass. In this territory, cows were free-range animals. Seeing them behind a fence was peculiar enough, but these were not the meaty Herefords and longhorns her sister raised for beef. She recognized the animals as Guernseys from their distinctive white markings and relatively lean build.
Mercy would never allow dairy cows to take the grass that could be used to support a few more head of beef cattle—it went against her principles. Miranda had given up arguing the benefits of having cows for milk and butter. She might as well have tried to persuade the sun to shine all night as convince Mercy to invest in a dairy cow. Her sister had been unshakable on this issue, even ignoring their father’s fondness for buttermilk.
Miranda continued on, wondering what strange sight would greet her next. She soon had her answer. Just past the barn, her old home came into view. It was familiar, but not exactly how she’d left it. Two added rooms spread out on either side of the original one-room log cabin. The addition of a large, covered front porch connected old and new so that it all fit together.
Someone, surely not her practical sister, had planted a flowerbed in front of the house. Clarisse had warned Miranda that she might not recognize her sister, but she’d never said she wouldn’t recognize the old house. Miranda shook her head, reminding herself that it was no longer her home and her sister could make any changes she wanted.
Miranda dismounted and tied Princess to the railing on the side of the porch where Princess wouldn’t be able to trample the lovely flowers. She traced a hand along her mare’s neck and glanced around, hoping to see someone, but a little afraid that it would be a stranger that greeted her rather than Pa or Mercy. Blowing out an exasperated breath, she fought a silly urge to knock on the door. Certainly Clarisse would have told her if the family had moved. Pacing up and down the porch wasn’t going to accomplish anything.
The house seemed too quiet to be occupied, so she walked around back where she found a woman on her knees, working in the huge kitchen garden.
The long chestnut braid dangling down the woman’s back could have belonged to Mercy, but Miranda knew immediately it was not her sister, for this woman was wearing a blue gingham dress and a straw hat decorated with a bright yellow ribbon. Even if Mercy had decided to take time away from the cattle to grow her own vegetables, Miranda was certain she would never wear a dress to work in the garden, or decorate any hat with a ribbon. Her sister had not worn a dress outside of church since they’d moved West.
Miranda walked to the edge of the garden before she called out, “Excuse me, I’m looking for my sister, Mercy Clarke . . . er, Buchanan.”
The woman stood to her full six feet and turned.
“Miranda?” Mercy called out before dropping her trowel and rushing forward.
Miranda covered at least half of the distance and threw her arms around her sister, who pulled Miranda against her with her long, sinewy arms and whispered, “Miranda, oh Miranda. You’re home.”
It occurred to Miranda that she should pull away, to show Mercy that she could stand up on her own, but she was enjoying the feel of her sister’s arms around her too much to worry about showing how strong she’d become. They held each other for a few moments until Mercy finally released her and took a step back.
“Let me look at you,” she said with a sigh as she held her much shorter sister at arm’s length for a thorough examination.
Miranda was surprised to see a tear rolling freely down Mercy’s cheek. Her stoic sister had been dry eyed at her first husband’s funeral, spending the day comforting Miranda instead of allowing herself to grieve.
Mercy’s smile faded into a look of worry as she considered her sister’s appearance. “Beautiful as ever,” she pronounced.
“You always were blind when it came to me.” Miranda decided to let her sister get away with the lie, under the circumstances. Her eyes dropped. “Baby doesn’t show on you, yet.” She smiled up at Mercy.
Mercy blushed, placing a hand over her middle. “Maybe doesn’t show yet, but my trousers are too tight for me. I’m forced to wear a dress for working.”
“A terrible sacrifice,” Miranda teased.
Mercy laughed. “Don’t you make fun now, bad enough I have to listen to Pa and Thad.”
“I’m happy for you,” Miranda said. She was surprised to realize it was true. Maybe with
the passage of time she’d be able to see other women carrying babies without aching for her own loss. Feeling joy for her sister was a good place to start.
Mercy pulled her sister close again. “I’m so glad you’re home.”
“Mama! Mama!”
At the sound of the small boy’s shouts, both women turned. Miranda observed that Clarisse had not exaggerated—Mercy was glowing. The joy that caused the light obviously centered on the small boy running toward them, waving a small slate above his head.
“I finished my sums.” He handed Mercy the slate as she squatted down to look him in the eye. “Can I help you in the garden now?”
Miranda watched the corner of Mercy’s lips twitch as she attempted a stern look. “Have you forgotten how to make a proper greeting?”
Jonathan looked up at Miranda. It had been over a year since the boy had seen her. After a brief hesitation, he broke into a wide grin, revealing a missing tooth.
“Miranda?”
“Aunt Miranda.” Mercy brushed a stray lock of hair back from her son’s face.
Miranda squatted next to the boy. “Can you call me Aunt Miranda?”
“Auntie Mirandy,” Jonathan chanted, then launched himself into her arms, nearly knocking her over.
She drew his small, warm body against her. His baby-fine hair felt like silk against her cheek, and he smelled of mud and straw. Feeling a strange sensation against her ribs, she drew back. Sure enough, the lump in the boy’s pocket was moving. Mercy saw it too, inserted her hand into his pocket, sighed, then pulled out the small toad.
“How did that toad get into my pocket?” Jonathan asked, his eyes on the toad.
“I wonder.” This time Mercy’s stern look seemed to come more naturally. “I told you he can’t live in our house. It’s too dry for him. Take him back to the creek. Now!”
He wrapped his hands around the toad and nodded reluctantly. “Yes, Mama.”
“Then come right back and we’ll check your sums.”
The boy brightened. “Can we save them for Papa to see?”
Mercy nodded. “I’m certain Papa’s looking forward to seeing them.”
The boy beamed a smile at Mercy, then took off running in the direction of the creek.
“He’s grown in the past year,” Miranda said.
Her sister favored her with a bright smile, maternal pride gleaming in her eyes. Mercy turned toward the house where Miranda’s horse stood patiently waiting.
“I thought you’d sold Princess before you went to Philadelphia.”
“To Uncle Will and Aunt Emily. They were happy to sell her back.” Will had offered to give her back the horse, but Miranda insisted on paying. “I took the train as far as Abilene and stopped to see them. They sent you a letter and two books.”
“Books?”
“They’re safe in my bag.” Miranda grinned. “I was careful with them, I promise.”
“You didn’t ride here alone, did you?” Mercy scowled.
“Do you suppose Uncle Will would have allowed that?”
Mercy turned so that she could keep one eye on the trees where Jonathan had disappeared. “I wasn’t sure you’d listen to Uncle Will’s advice.”
Miranda sighed. “I’m always willin’ to listen to advice. But I have to make my own decisions.”
Instead of arguing with her, Mercy asked after Will, Emily, and their children. In a minute, Jonathan emerged from the trees and trotted back to them.
“I found him a nice place in the mud,” the boy said.
Mercy pulled out her handkerchief and wiped his hands. “Are you sure you left some mud for him?” She brushed at Jonathan’s britches.
Jonathan scowled. “Are you teasing me?”
“Yes.” Mercy winked, then handed the slate back to Jonathan. “You take this up to the house and wait while Miranda and I see to her horse.”
“Can I swing while I’m waiting?”
“I reckon. Put the slate on the kitchen table first.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“And scrape that mud off your shoes before you go inside the house!” Mercy shook her head as Jonathan sprinted ahead of them. “Sometimes I wonder if that boy even knows how to walk.” She wrapped an arm around Miranda’s shoulders and pulled her toward the house. “You must be exhausted after your journey.”
Miranda was tired, but too full of nervous energy to imagine herself relaxing. “Princess deserves a long rest after all she’s been through.”
“Was it a difficult journey?”
There was no mistaking the note of anxiety in Mercy’s voice. She had been shot by thieves a year ago when she made the same 500-mile journey from Uncle Will’s place in Kansas to Fort Victory. Mercy might have died if Thad had not managed to get her to the doctor in Fort Victory. Whatever else Miranda might think of her brother-in-law, she would be grateful to him for saving her sister’s life.
“No.” They stood on either side of the horse, removing Miranda’s bags and bedroll from the saddle. “We had mostly fine weather and no serious trouble.”
“Thank the Lord.” Mercy dropped one of the bags onto the porch.
Miranda peered at her sister over the saddle, then turned to loosen the cinch on the final bag. Church on Sunday was as much a social event as a religious one. But mentioning God on Monday was an entirely different matter. Something had changed her sister in the past year and it wasn’t just that she was wearing dresses and frivolous ribbons. Miranda caught her sister’s clear green eyes, then looked away. She wasn’t about to give Mercy a chance to study her. Once her sister guessed she had something to hide, she’d be relentless in going after the truth. Then she’d probably strap her Colt over her pregnant belly and head East to seek justice. Only it wouldn’t be possible for her sister or anyone else to set things right this time. Miranda had to live with her mistake alone.
“Were you traveling with a large group?”
“About thirty people, not counting the young-uns.” Uncle Will had found a large extended family that was bound for Oregon. They were a close-knit group. All of them had known each other their whole lives. It was easy for Miranda to keep to herself, which suited her fine. But she didn’t mention that part to Mercy. “Three of the men served in the Union Army during the war. How Uncle Will managed to find me such a protective group, I’ll never know.”
“Well, I’m grateful he did.” Mercy pushed the brim of her hat back and examined Miranda again. “We wanted you home, but we worried about you making the journey.”
She turned away from her sister’s piercing green eyes. “Lovely flowers.” Miranda pointed to the fresh beds on either side of the porch. “Are they marigolds?”
“You know I couldn’t tell a petunia from a posy. Clarisse planted them. Said it would make our house look more like a home.”
Miranda laughed. “I suppose she put the ribbon on your hat, too.”
Mercy smiled and shook her head. “No.” Removing her hat, she ran a finger along the bright satin strip. “This was a gift from Jonathan. I was going to wear it in my hair, but Thad suggested the hat. This way, even when I’m not wearing it, Jonathan’s gift is always hanging where he can see it.” She plopped her hat back on her head. “We want Jonathan to understand that he’s important to us.”
Perhaps her sister hadn’t changed so much, after all—she’d always loved her family. They led Princess into the barn, leaving the door open to let light in as they worked together to settle the horse comfortably.
“Jonathan seems at home here.”
Mercy nodded. “It hasn’t been easy for him. At first he tried so hard to please us . . . I’m almost glad when I see him getting into mischief.”
As Miranda stored the saddle and tack, her sister checked the mare’s legs with skilled fingers. Mercy seemed radiantly healthy and quite capable of keeping up with the demands of the ranch. Perhaps Miranda wasn’t needed, after all.
“When Pa wrote, you were feeling sick.”
“Sick?” Mercy stood up
and ran her fingers through Princess’s dark mane. “I suppose I was. Now that I know the cause, it doesn’t seem so bad.”
If Pa and Mercy were well and healthy and Thad was truly as protective as Clarisse said he was, maybe Miranda could make her excuses and be gone before winter set in. She’d miss the birth of her niece or nephew, but Mercy didn’t need her for that.
Miranda chewed on her lower lip. She’d just arrived and already she was looking for an excuse to leave—to go off on her own and hide. No! She was done with cowering. No matter how hard it was, she wouldn’t leave here until she was certain Mercy didn’t need her.
Suddenly, Mercy turned toward the door, as though some force had drawn her. Miranda followed her sister’s gaze and saw a giant shadow that could only be her brother-in-law.
“Mercy, you in here?” Thad moved into the barn. “I saw some things on the porch and I wondered—” He caught sight of Miranda and smiled. “Miss Miranda, it is so good to have you home.”
He was even bigger than she remembered. Huge, in fact. Not just tall, but so broad she feared he could crush her with a single blow. Her first instinct was to escape. Before she could move, he wrapped his arms around her, lifting her off her feet and forcing the air out of her lungs. She went stiff, pushing against his chest with all her might until he put her down.
Thad looked down at her, his face unreadable in the shadow. “I . . . I’m sorry, ma’am. I was carried away.”
Mercy moved to his side, wove her arm around his waist, tilted her head up and kissed his cheek. Miranda felt herself relax as Thad turned and brushed a kiss to Mercy’s forehead, then turned back to Miranda. “Mighty fine having you home, Miss Miranda.”
Miranda nodded, her mouth too dry to speak.
“Where’s Pa?” Mercy asked.
“He’s still with the men, bringin’ the last of the cattle down from the summer range. Buck will make sure he gets home safe. I came on ahead to see about supper.”
“Is it too late to make a pot roast for dinner, do you think?” Mercy asked.
Thad extracted himself from his wife’s hold. “Not if I start it right now.”
Teresa Bodwell Page 4
