Montana Renegade (Bear Grass Springs Book 4)

by Ramona Flightner

  “I know you went to the bakery today. That you’d rather be with Sorcha MacKinnon than with me.” A tear leaked out.

  “Lies,” he whispered. “Told to you by your mother, I’m sure.” He kissed the trail of her tear, eliciting a shiver when he kissed behind her ear. “I did see Sorcha today. She’s a good friend. Devoted to her family.” He met Helen’s devastated hazel eyes. “And her friends.”

  He grunted as she squirmed in his embrace. “Tell me that you can’t feel how much I want you,” he whispered in her ear. He saw the flush rise on her cheeks and smiled with satisfaction. “Only you, Nell. I only want you.” After a moment he sighed. “I spoke with Sorcha today because I know you are uncomfortable in the clothes Annabelle gave me. Sorcha will come by tomorrow for a fitting. I’m hopeful she’ll be able to make you new clothes.”

  “There is no need for such consideration,” she whispered.

  “Of course there is. I refuse to allow you to hide away in that bedroom for much longer. I am not ashamed of you. I am proud that you will be with me, hopefully as my wife.” He waited until she met his gaze. “The longer you stay here without an appearance, the more the townsfolk will whisper about you, creating tremendous stories about the two of us.”

  She scoffed. “They will never discredit the town lawyer. They will save all their derision for the woman who didn’t even have the ability to become a whore.”

  “Stop it,” he snapped.

  She flinched at his harsh tone.

  “I refuse to listen to you disparage yourself.” He waited until she raised chagrined eyes to his. “Someday I hope you realize that parroting your mother’s worst opinions of you does not lower your estimation in my eyes. Nor will it ever cause me to abandon you.” He clamped his jaw shut as though biting back more words.

  “Why do you want me, Warren?” she whispered.

  “I think the question is, why don’t you want me?” he retorted, dropping his face to cradle it in her shoulder. “It’s as I said before. You’re resourceful, smart and kind, when you aren’t under your mother’s influence. You changed after your disappointment with me. I remember how you were before then. I want that Helen back.”

  She shook her head as tears leaked out. “That Helen doesn’t exist anymore.”

  “I know she does. You have to have faith that it’s safe for you to be who you truly are. Not who you were molded into being by a vengeful, spiteful woman.” He eased away, allowing her legs to slide down the sides of his legs. He kissed her once before backing up. “Forgive me. I should never have acted with such … such a lack of decorum.”

  She shook her head, a luminous joy present for a moment before she lowered her gaze and shielded her emotions from him. “Good evening, Warren.” She brushed past him and into her room.

  The following afternoon Helen answered the insistent knocking on the front door. She eased the door open and suppressed a frown when she saw Sorcha MacKinnon standing there with a basket looped over one arm. After a moment she allowed Sorcha to bustle inside.

  “Hello, Helen,” Sorcha said. She set down her basket before thrusting the curtains open, basking the room in bright light. “I’ll need to see ye if I’m to help ye with yer clothes.” She turned to study Helen standing in one of Annabelle’s hand-me-down dresses. After a moment of watching Helen fidget, Sorcha smiled. “I can see why Warren was insistent I pay ye a visit. If ye walked out lookin’ like that, ye’d have the eye of every man in town.”

  Helen jutted her chin up. “How I dress shouldn’t lead to a lack of respect.”

  Sorcha smiled. “Aye, ’tis true. But we dinna live in a perfect world. An’ the one we live in is strict about how women look and what we wear.”

  Helen put a hand on her hips. “I can do little to hide the shape of me.”

  “Nor should ye. Ye’re a good-lookin’ woman. However, ye dinna want to look as though ye’re about to burst from yer clothes.” She let out a soft chuckle. “Come. Spread out yer arms.” She showed what she wanted and then extracted a measuring tape. She wrote down numbers, muttered to herself and chattered about the goings-on in town.

  Her constant babbling prevented Helen from having to speak, and yet it informed her of what she had missed in the past days. When Sorcha quieted for a moment, Helen asked, “What is said about me?”

  Sorcha’s gaze flew to hers, and then she flushed. “Oh, ye’re infamous. Yer escapade at the Boudoir is widely discussed, as is yer rescue by Warren. At the moment ye’re seen as a romantic couple, but, if ye dinna wed soon, ye’ll lose any sentiment the town holds for ye.” A shadow flickered through Sorcha’s gaze.

  “What is it?” Helen asked. At Sorcha’s silence, she whispered, “What more?”

  “Yer mother isna helpin’ things. She’s sayin’ nasty things about ye.”

  Helen sighed. “That is to be expected. She’s despised me for years. When I failed to marry one of your brothers, I lost all value for her.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Sorcha sputtered.

  Helen shrugged, then bit back a yowl as a pin bit into her arm. “Mother desires money and the security that will come with it.”

  “Although she doesna seem to mind when yer brother loses money gamblin’ or spends it at the whorehouse.” She knelt at Helen’s feet and folded up the too-long skirt.

  Helen flinched. “Walter can do no wrong in Mother’s eyes. Besides, he hit a large vein of ore last year.”

  Sorcha shook her head. “Any fool can see he’ll run through that money faster than ice cream melts in July.”

  Helen giggled. “Mother hoped I would provide that yearned-for stability for her through an advantageous marriage.”

  “Which ye will, when ye marry Warren,” Sorcha muttered around a mouthful of pins. She reached up and grabbed Helen’s arm. She frowned when Helen flinched as Sorcha touched her wrist. When Sorcha flicked the fabric back and spied the colorful bruises, she spit out her pins and stomped her foot. “Who did this to ye?”

  “It’s no business of yours, Miss MacKinnon.” Helen glared at Sorcha and tried to free her arm, but Sorcha kept a firm hold on her, although she did not harm Helen.

  “Did Warren do this to ye?” Sorcha breathed heavily, and Helen saw her battling disappointment.

  “No! Of course not. He’s only ever treated me with kindness.” She shifted as Sorcha waited for her to speak. “My brother visited yesterday. He’s rarely kind and enjoys leaving marks on me.”

  Sorcha made a growl of disapproval low in her throat. “Does Warren ken?” When she saw the answer in Helen’s eyes, she frowned. “Ye must tell him. He has to know what they’re like.”

  Helen shook her head. “He already suspects how horrible they are. He doesn’t need any further proof.”

  Sorcha released Helen’s wrist, her fingers gently stroking her bruised skin before breaking contact. “I disagree. A man can only help us if we let him.” She met Helen’s gaze. “I enjoy fighting my own battles. But I also like knowin’ I’m not alone. Ye might want to think that over.”

  Sorcha bent to pick up her scattered pins and focused on the hem of the dress again. She finished pinning up the hem of the dress and looked at Helen from her kneeling position. “At some point, Helen, ye’ll have to decide whose life ye’re livin.’ Yer mother’s or yer own.”

  Warren smiled as Alistair claimed the seat across from the potbellied stove and chuckled as his friend sighed with relief at the warmth exuding from it. “Thank God we had the meeting here an’ no’ at the bank, like a few weeks ago. Finlay wouldna even light a fire to keep us warm.”

  Warren raised a brow but refrained from responding as the third member of the Bear Grass Springs’ Improvement Committee arrived. Mr. Ambrose Finlay, the town banker, well known for his miserliness, entered Warren’s front office. He was swaddled in so many layers of clothes that he appeared to be trying out for the part of Old Saint Nicholas in the children’s play at the school. After he hung three layers on coat pegs, he frowned with disappointme
nt to sit on the far side of the stove and away from the heat.

  “Lovely suit,” Warren murmured, kicking Alistair in the shin as he snickered.

  Ambrose focused on the compliment, not hearing or not recognizing the sarcasm in Warren’s tone. He preened as he fingered the shiny silver waistcoat under the cranberry jacket. A gold pocket watch chain hung from a small pocket. “It is. I like to have a suit for the season.” He glared at Warren. “I fail to see the reason for our meeting. Little has changed since we met three weeks ago.”

  “Yes, I understand your concern. I also want to inform you both that Mrs. MacKinnon is in the back room. If it is acceptable to you both, I’d have her sit in the main room with us.”

  Ambrose puffed out his chest and tapped his index finger on the table. “If she is so muddleheaded as to mix up an appointment time with you, she can wait in the back.”

  “If you are certain?” Warren murmured.

  “This is not business for a woman,” Ambrose said. “Now why are we meeting?”

  Warren cleared his throat and glanced at the notes in front of him. “I have reviewed the town’s account at the bank and looked at the amount removed for an administrative charge.” He silenced any protest from Ambrose with a severe look. “We have agreed at our last two previous meetings that there was an error on your bank’s part to charge the town such a fee, as you had read and agreed to the contract waiving such a collection.” He took a deep breath. “In the three months we have collected the whore tax, we have raised $137.”

  Alistair nodded. “Wonderful. Now we have funds to use for improvement projects.” He bit his lip when Warren glared at him.

  “That is the amount of money in the account. However, when I looked to see the deductions from the account, which I am afraid are ongoing …” Warren paused to glare at Ambrose. “The account should in fact have $164.”

  “A minor fee and an oversight on the bank’s part.”

  “Ye call a 20 percent charge a minor fee?” Alistair roared. “Ye’re robbin’ the town blind to fill yer own coffers. Coffers that are already filled to near burstin’ with yer horrid loan rates.” He took a deep breath and bit back anything further he would have said when Warren glared at him again.

  “As I told you at the last meeting, it’s a shame that the original contract was lost in the small fire at the bank.” Ambrose shrugged his shoulders and held his hands out in a placating manner as he attempted to look mournful at the loss of the potentially damning contract.

  Warren pulled out a rolled-up piece of paper and unfurled it on the table. “Thankfully for us, I always keep a copy of any of the contracts I write up. You might recall that I had us three, as the town’s representatives, sign a few copies of the same contract.” The men nodded. “I do that in case any original is lost.”

  He smiled as Ambrose fidgeted, and Alistair smiled with pleasure at Warren’s cunning. “Now,” Warren said as he tapped the paper, “as Ambrose’s original was so inconveniently lost, it will take a two-third’s majority to review this document and determine that it is the same that was destroyed.”

  Alistair glanced at it, saw his signature on the bottom and nodded. “Aye, minute that this is the same document.”

  Ambrose pulled it over to him and read it, paling as he read farther down the document. He reached the bottom and saw the signatures. “Yes,” he whispered. “This is the same document.”

  Warren smiled with pleasure. “Wonderful. I will minute that all three members of the committee are in agreement that the document is sound and a duplicate original.” He pulled it toward him, away from Ambrose and any further attempts at mischief. “If we review a few important parts, you will see that it clearly states that the bank is not to charge a finance fee of any kind on the town’s tax money, until the amount of said tax money equals or exceeds $5,000.”

  He raised his eyes and looked from one man to the next. “We can also be in agreement that the town has not yet reached such a sum?” After both men agreed, Warren continued to read. “It is hereby noted, if the bank charges such fee against the duly agreed-upon conditions of this contract, that the bank will be in violation of said contract and owe the town the sum of $1,000.”

  Warren kept his hand over the contract when Ambrose reddened and snarled. “I may have signed that, but I never meant to give the town such a sum of money! How can you think I would agree to that? That’s highway robbery.”

  Alistair watched Warren with a touch of wonder. “’Tis clearly stated in the contract that we three agreed was a faithful copy of the original destroyed in yer bank fire.” Alistair tapped at the bottom of the page. “An’ it bears yer signature.”

  “You haven’t heard the last about this!” Ambrose yelled as he rose, grabbing his multitude of garments off the pegs and storming out the door.

  “How—?” Alistair began but swallowed his question when Warren waved at him to be silent.

  After a few moments Warren murmured, “You can come out now.”

  J.P. poked her head out of the back, her eyes huge. “You’re a fiend, Warren.” Her red hair was tied back in a long braid down her back, and she wore a simple gray wool dress.

  “Perhaps I am, but I wouldn’t be upset if a report of this meeting made its way into your paper.” He smiled at Jessamine and rose. He poured cups of coffee and gave one to each of them before joining them again at the round table. “I did inform him that Mrs. MacKinnon was in the back room.”

  “Well, if he does pay you, even half such a king’s ransom, I wouldn’t trust keeping my money there. He’ll do whatever he can to undermine you now, Warren.” Jessamine took a sip of coffee and relaxed into the chair vacated by Ambrose. She smiled with evil intent. “This is the sort of woman’s work I relish.”

  “He’ll hate ye even more after the article. Cornered men are never rational.” Alistair shook his head at Warren and chuckled. “Remind me never to cross ye.”

  Warren watched them with confused innocence glinting in his eyes. “I don’t know what either of you are referring to. The contract is clear. He knew what he was signing.”

  Jessamine pursed her lips and shook her head. “Perhaps. But I doubt he thought he’d ever be held accountable for what he considered an accounting error.”

  Warren raised an eyebrow. “Then he should have known better than to attempt to swindle a lawyer.” He smiled as his friends laughed. “With the money we receive from him, we can finally start the projects the town needs.”

  “But what happens if his bank fails?” Alistair asked.

  Warren shrugged. “I’ve reason to believe that another bank is considering opening its doors in Bear Grass Springs. With the successful cattle ranchers, the influx of homesteaders and the nearby mining town, another bank would succeed.”

  Jessamine smiled. “As I said before, Warren, you are a fiend. And you knew exactly what you were doing.”

  He smiled. “My father taught me many lessons. Know your opponent was one of the most useful.” He shrugged. “For Finlay, greed would always win out.”

  “And the town will prosper due to it,” Alistair said as he raised his cup of coffee in a silent salute to the astute lawyer.

  Chapter 4

  A week after Helen arrived at Warren’s house, she entered the parlor. She came to a halt when she saw as a tall man standing behind a Douglas fir tree, his pair of boots stuck out from one side of the thick tree, and flannel-covered arms grasped the spine of the tree.

  “Fasten the damn thing in place,” the man from behind the tree ordered.

  She bit back a giggle as Warren’s voice then emerged from under the tree.

  “It’s not as easy as it looks, Cailean.” There was another grunt. “There. Let it go.”

  Cailean held up his hands as he released his hold on the tree. For a moment the tree stood in perfect position, as though magically held in place. In the next instant it leaned to one side, and Cailean grabbed at it. “I thought you said you had it secured.”

&n
bsp; “The damn stand toppled over.” Warren pushed himself out from under the tree and sat staring at it in confusion, pieces of evergreen and needles stuck in his brown hair. “Are you certain you centered it?”

  “Your leaning tower of fir tree is no’ due to me, Warren,” Cailean said with a snort. His gaze darted toward the doorway as Helen giggled again.

  Warren glanced over his shoulder, an embarrassed grin flirting with his mouth. “Helen. I’d hoped to have this up before you came into the parlor. It’s more challenging that I recalled.” He heaved himself off the floor and brushed at his pant legs and bottom. “I’m uncertain what to do.”

  Helen fought another giggle. “We often tie our tree to the window frame.” She flushed as Cailean laughed. “Don’t tell my mother that I told you.”

  She watched as Warren strode out of the room and bit her lip. “I didn’t mean to offend him.”

  “You didn’t. He’s not used to being challenged by the mundane tasks of life. He’ll determine what to do, although I think your suggestion is sound.” He laughed when Warren returned with a ball of string, scissors, nails and a hammer.

  Warren looked from his friend to Helen. “Not a word to the townsfolk. I wouldn’t want this ending up in the paper.”

  Helen giggled once more, ignoring Warren’s searching gaze at her evident joy. She helped him cut the string and held her breath after he tied the tree to the newly tapped-in nail and left it free to stand on its own. After the tree was as freestanding as it was going to be, she clapped her hands together with delight. “Oh, how wonderful. I love Christmas trees.”

  “Aye, they make the holiday more festive. Miss,” Cailean said goodbye with a deferential nod and then walked to the front door with Warren.

  When Warren returned to the parlor, he stopped for a moment to watch as Helen gently fingered the needles of the tree. She raised her fingers to her nose, breathing in the scent.