by Holly Bush
“Dear God, sir,” Benson said.
“I’ve secured us a room, Benson. They’ve already taken our trunks. Let’s get out of this mayhem,” Blake said and guided his valet toward the stairs.
Blake rang for dinner for Benson as the valet rung his hands. There was but one bed in the small room.
“I’ll ask for extra blankets and sleep on the floor, Your Grace.”
“Eat your dinner and lie down, Benson. I’m going to the dining rooms. We’ll worry about the sleeping arrangements later,” Blake said, surprised at his own words. The man sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed and jumped with a start when a waiter knocked with his tray. Blake worried his valet would never leave the room after the day’s events.
Blake was seated at the one small table still available near the entrance of the dining rooms. A far cry from his reserved private space at his club in London. But it did allow him to see and take in all around in the vast room. Blake watched a short, well-dressed man rise to leave. The man’s companion was tall and large-built, exuding confidence. The tall man’s tie was a black string affair with a large silver medallion holding it closed at his neck. He placed a black hat, not unlike the one Gertrude had worn at the Morgan’s, on his head. As they passed Blake’s table, he heard the short man remark to the other, “When statehood comes to the Montana Territory, you’ll be its first governor.”
The wealthy and powerful mingled in this room. No defining lines as to style. A political position such as governor apparently in the grasp of a man who wore a bit of string around his neck.
Blake watched the maitre d’ fill the table as quickly as the linen was replaced. Quiet humming and nods from the rest of the patrons to some activity at the door drew Blake’s attention.
“I’m terribly sorry, Miss Hubley. Had I known you were dining with us this evening, I would have seen to your reservation myself,” The maitre d’ said miserably.
“I had no idea I’d be dining now. Don’t concern yourself. I’ll have supper in my suite.”
Miss Hubley wore a burgundy velvet dress that reminded Blake of a wine decanter she’d been poured into. Curvaceous and brimming to overflow. Not a man in the dining room was paying attention to anything but this sleek woman. Blake rose.
“I’ll be finishing soon. Miss Hubley can take my table,” Blake offered.
The stunning brunette turned her head Blake’s way. “An Englishman. No one can fault your manners or that intriguing accent of yours. But I couldn’t interrupt, sir. Thank you.”
Blake summoned the charm that many a conquest had taught him. “But I insist. Please join me,” Blake said with a sweep of his arm.
Miss Hubley titled her head and smiled. She turned to her entourage and spoke. Blake assisted her into the seat across from him and waiters hurried to do her bidding.
“Thank you … ah,” Miss Hubley inquired.
“Blake Sanders, madam. The Duke of Wexford at your service.”
Miss Hubley pursed her lips coquettishly. “I imagine there are many women in England at your service, Mr. Sanders. Women there, I’m sure, scurry to any request you might have.”
“Hardly. But I’m sure men in the states, or any you meet I dare say, would be thrilled to fulfill yours,” Blake said with a practiced grin.
She laughed softly and then raised penciled brows. “But none I’d care to see more than once.”
Blake smiled. “That explains the ‘Miss’ I suppose.”
Miss Hubley nodded in response.
“No husband then to handle your business affairs?” Blake asked.
“I’ve no need of a husband to handle my business affairs. I employ some of the best attorneys to explain the finer nuances of contracts, but I’ve built my own empire and have no intentions of turning its direction over to a man,” Miss Hubley answered.
The woman seated across from Blake was breath-taking. Oddly, he felt no need to figure a way into her bed. But she was another American curiosity, so like Gertrude, and he was interested all the same.
“Do all American women feel as you?” Blake asked.
“I’m very lucky. Financially, I’ve no need of a man. Not all American women are so fortunate. But if my mother and sisters are any testament, we all have a stubborn streak a mile wide,” Miss Hubley said. “What brings you to the states, Mr. Sanders? A stubborn American woman?”
Blake’s face colored. “Hardly, Miss Hubley. Proper English gentleman don’t chase woman across an ocean. My son, William, though, decided to do some exploring without my permission and stowed away on a ship bound for here.”
Miss Hubley laughed aloud. “I like the boy already. Do you have any idea where to look for him?”
“Yes. On a ranch near Chicago,” Blake replied.
“How did you know where he went? Did he leave a note? You must be terribly worried.”
Blake sipped his tea and pushed his chair back to cross his legs. “William boarded the ship my neighbor’s house guest was sailing on. They are well-acquainted, and I’m sure William has been well cared for.”
Miss Hubley looked up from her wine she was sipping. “What is her name?”
“Whose name?” Blake asked.
“The house guest. It is a woman, isn’t it? Men in my experience rarely blush unless a woman is involved,” Miss Hubley said and met his eye, unwavering.
Blake looked at his hand holding the delicate china of the cup. “Miss Finch. Miss Gertrude Finch.”
Was he that clear even to a stranger? Were his thoughts surrounding Gertrude so obvious? He had been thinking of her. On the way across the ocean. At the dock where he had first seen her beloved home. While shaving. While eating. While riding with the Delassandros. Nearly every waking minute. Could this be why he had no interest in bedding the stunning woman across from him? Not that he hadn’t taken a subtle, but thorough, perusing of the magnificent body at his table. He had. But the breasts, tiny waist and lush mouth feet away did not elicit the same response as the sight of but Gertrude’s little finger.
Suddenly he felt the need to exit the room. Allow his mind to give in to ever constant temptation and concentrate on the night of he and Gertrude’s love-making. Away from Miss Hubley and her insightful questions. Away from this gilded dining room that did not hold Gert.
“Please excuse me, Miss Hubley. Enjoy your dinner,” Blake said as he stood.
She nodded her thanks and touched his hand as he walked by.
“Miss Finch must be quite the woman to make a proper English lord leave his home and pursue her across an ocean,” she said.
Blake hurried from the dining room and the hotel as well. He stood under the canvas canopy, hands in his pockets. He was, by God, on this trip to rescue William. But if he were honest with himself, he would admit the sight of Gertrude’s face was the reason he’d not sent McDonald or Anthony’s man. There was a place, deep within himself, twisting and contorting for want of the sight of her. Like a man who craves drink or snuff or even opium, hapless and helpless till the glass is refilled. Blake imagined her laughing and shouting and with tears pouring from her face as he’d seen at their parting. No vision, regardless of the pain it invoked, dimmed the ever-present longing to see her in the flesh. To let her merriment and arguments surround him. There would be no peace for him he supposed until she stood within his grasp. Till he smelled the mist of lemon that surrounded her.
But would the mere sight of her be enough? Blake shook his head and mumbled to himself. It would never be enough. Would be the supreme torture in actuality. Like a starving man staring at a loaf of bread through a window, its aroma seeping past him. Living in a self-induced prison able to see and not touch or taste. Blake slunk back through the lobby and up the staircase to his room. He would learn to live without her. He must.
Chapter Twelve
Nothing in Gert’s memory compared to the vision, now forcing tears to her eyes, of home. The ranch. She let herself view each detail without hurry. Men milling about. The sound of Cookie’s s
poon clanging on the metal, calling them to their meal, and the neighing and pawing of the horses in their corral. William’s face was squeezed next to hers, both looking out the small window. He had asked an ever-stringing litany of questions, the third one each round, how long till they arrived. Uncle Fred hobbled onto the porch, a hand shading his eyes pointing at the approaching stagecoach.
Gert nearly threw herself out the door and ran to the comfort of Uncle Fred’s arms.
“There, there, Missy. No crying to see this worthless uncle of yours,” Fred Billings said as he wrapped his arms around his niece.
Gert smiled and her lip trembled. Uncle Fred’s clear blue eyes were misted as well.
“I missed you something fierce, too. Now come on in outa the sun. Pokey’ll see to your bag and all. Cookie just put dinner on the table. Come on. The boys are near dying to hear stories,” Uncle Fred said as he turned his head to a cowboy, and nodded at her bags, now lying behind the stagecoach. Fred spotted the next Duke of Wexford. “Who’s that skinny drink of moonshine?”
Will stood at the bottom of the porch steps. “William Sanders, sir. But Will will do fine.”
Eight men, all dear to Gert in their dirt and mud, stared at Will. Eight confused expressions on their faces. Clem leaned forward as if narrowing the distance would make Will’s words more distinct.
“Sure talks funny,” Clem said. A spark of recognition lit his face. “This here boy’s from England.”
“Yes, he is. He’ll be staying with us for a while,” Gert said. “Let us wash our hands, and we’ll tell you the whole thing over dinner.”
Gert led Will into the house, and her shoulders dropped as if the weight of her problems had suddenly lifted. The parlor held the same flowered sofa and chair Gert and Aunt Mavis had bought years ago. The mantel still held the blue pitcher and Mavis’s precious candlesticks. The staircase still glowed with layers of beeswax polish, and the huge kitchen’s fragrant smells drew her. Seemed like a lifetime since she’d been here. But yet as though she had never left. It was good to be home.
Cookie squeezed Will, between Clyde, Clem’s brother, and Slim. Gert sat at the head of the table with Uncle Fred at the other end. Uncle Fred said the blessing and the procession of bowls and platters made their way from hand to hand. Plates, piled high, now sat in front of each man. Cookie passed hot biscuits from behind and sat down. The meal was eaten in silence. These men, Gert knew, were hungry. Conversation was unexpected. Food, the filling of empty bellies, was the main concern. Gert picked at her meal and pushed food around on her plate. Cookie’s meals were always tempting but combined with the four-hour ride in a stagecoach and her eventual confession to Uncle Fred left her with no appetite.
“Somethin’ a matter, missy?” Cookie asked Gert.
“No, it’s delicious. But that ride in the stagecoach seems to have upset my stomach,” Gert replied.
“Hell, I seen you ride a bucking bronco for hours, and you ate your fill then,” Slim said.
The men at the table laughed and hee-hawed. Gert shrugged her shoulders and forced down a biscuit. Will was staring at her. She told them then of her trip across the ocean. Of the fine horses she had ridden, and her new wardrobe and of the balls and formal dinners and of her hosts’ best friend and his family. And of how Will had come to eat at their table. They sat back and stared at him when they realized he was the son of a duke and set to inherit a great estate.
“Don’t want nothin’ to do with them grand houses and such, boy. Mebbe your Pa will let me be his son,” Pokey said, laughing.
“No, sir. I love my home. But my father,” Will threw Gert a glance, “my father would have never let me travel this far I’m sure.”
“Set in his ways, huh?” Uncle Fred said.
“What yer Ma goin’ say?” Cookie asked. “I’ll be betting her and yer Pa’s havin’ a pickle of a fight about now.”
Will looked at his plate. “My mother and father don’t reside together.”
“That will have no bearing on how worried your mother or father are,” Gert said and eyed William over her coffee cup.
Slim slapped Will on the back. “So you be wantin’ to break some broncos. Bell rings at four-o-clock. I’ll find you a job, I s’pect.”
William’s eyes glowed. “Thank you, sir.”
Uncle Fred looked up. “Slim, here’s, the foreman. If you want to see the workins’ of a real honest-to-goodness ranch, he’s your man. We don’t abide slackers. Do your job, mind your own business, and I’ll be guessing,” Uncle Fred continued with a smile, “you’ll have the time of your life.”
Gert watched Will. He could barely sit still. But she was sure he was as tired as she. “I’ll make up one of the beds upstairs for you, Will.” His face fell.
“I stayed with the sailor’s below deck on the ship, Miss Finch.” He turned pleading eyes to Slim and Uncle Fred.
“We got a spare bunk, Gert. Let the boy stay with us,” Slim said.
Gert knew what sort of talk went on in the bunkhouse. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Uncle Fred stared at her from across the table. “Ah, hell, Gert. He’d be missing half the fun. You know that. Wouldn’t be the first youngin’ guided into manhood from there.”
The men snickered. Will pleaded. “Please, Miss Finch.”
“Your father would die if he heard you’d been bunking with this crew,” Gert said.
Uncle Fred narrowed his eyes. “England make you better than us, Missy.”
“No, no,” Gert said. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“What it sounded like,” Clem added.
“Will’s been raised differently. Very formal,” Gert said, now embarrassed.
“Boy’s a boy, Gert,” Pokey said.
Gert tapped the table, refusing to imagine Blake’s reaction to his son’s companions. But Will’s eyes, now fairly begging to stay with the hands, reminded her of his father. “Alright. But none of your crazy stories meant to scare a boy half to death. And not a word about the Golden Slipper.”
The men nodded solemnly, except for a few sly smirks.
“I can take care of myself, Miss Finch,” Will replied, obviously wondering what he’d be missing.
“You’re a young man, William. And still need guidance. For now, I’ll be the one deciding of what nature,” Gert said.
Will blew a breath. “I got you here just fine, Miss Finch. Even with you sick half the …” Will trailed off and dropped his shoulders.
Eight heads snapped Gert’s way.
Uncle Fred’s stared hard at her even as he spoke to Will and the hands. “Mind your manners with Gert, Will. And you boys keep the stories clean.”
“Feelin’ poorly, Miss Gert?” Luke Matson asked.
Luke Matson was a tall, rangy cowboy who said little. He was blond and suntanned and one of Uncle Fred’s best hands. Gert always felt he was interested in her. She had given him no encouragement thus far. Luke was kind, handsome and a hard worker, but Gert had never thought much of men in that vein till lately.
“I think all the traveling wore me down,” Gert said.
Luke nodded and sipped his coffee. The others stared at her quizzically. Cookie began to clear dishes, and the men filed out of the kitchen. They nodded and told her they were glad she was home and had Will firmly entrenched among them. She was left alone at the table with Uncle Fred.
“I think I’ll put my things away,” Gert said as she pushed back her chair.
“Pokey already carried ‘em up,” Uncle Fred said.
Gert excused herself and went upstairs. She unpacked and sat on the edge of the bed, thinking of how she would tell Uncle Fred. He was the closest thing she’d ever had to a father. She knew he already suspected something. He wouldn’t push her, but Gert knew it best to be told sooner rather than later. Where was her resolve she’d carried as a shield all these years? She was never one to fret. Always solving problems. Women’s plights. Hands disputes. Even her cousin’s worry about crossing t
he ocean. Gert had said without hesitation that day that she would escort the young girl. Never been one to sit and watch and wait and worry. And here now, she sat twisting her quilt in her hands.
Uncle Fred sat in the parlor, sipping whiskey and reading a newspaper Gert was certain was a week old. He didn’t hear her come in. His craggy, weather-beaten face was a balm to her soul. Fred Billings had built a fine horse ranch with his own two hands and the loving help of his wife Mavis. Skinny as a rail, regardless of how much he ate, with a huge handle bar, gray mustache completely covering his mouth. His hair was thinning, Gert noticed. She realized she rarely saw him without a hat. His opinion of her, she supposed, mattered more than anyone else’s. He looked up at her and smiled, lay down the paper and curled his hand to her to sit down. Fred watched her settle into the chair and sat in silence.
“Uncle Fred. There’s something I have to discuss with you,” Gert said and swallowed.
“I kinda figured.”
Her uncle would not prompt or push. Just settle himself to wait until she gathered the courage to talk. Gert wrung her hands. “I don’t know where to begin,” she said.
“The beginning, I s’pect.”
Gert nodded and wobbled a smile. She told a long, rambling story about Anthony and Elizabeth and the Sanders family. “And so I really enjoyed my time spent with them,” Gert concluded.
Fred nodded. “Uh huh.”
“The fact of the matter …” Gert trailed off. She sat silently and stared out the window. The fact of the matter was she carried a child whose father she loved and would probably never see again. She did love Blake. An ocean apart and further still in ideas and upbringing. It was the only explanation for the vast empty she felt. Her home and family had filled a longing in her, yes, but had left her heart void. It was the only reasonable explanation for the odd pining she felt. And for the vision of Blake’s face that plagued her mind from morning till night. That vision, ever etched in her brain of Blake above her in the misty moonlight. Gert’s fingers touched her stomach. The night they conceived this child.
