by Holly Bush
“Speak your mind, Benson. You met Miss Finch in London. She’s a raving lunatic now. What is the matter with her?” Blake asked.
“As I began a moment ago, sir. Miss Finch reminds me of my dear sister. Had ten children and drove her family near insane with her moods while she was expecting. Screaming, shouting, weeping at the strangest things. We shied away from Mildred nine months of the year, I dare say. And her husband, well. He never learned his lesson.” Benson sighed. “God rest his soul.”
Blake backed up. “She killed him?”
Benson shook his head. “Got thrown from a horse and broke his neck, sir. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t remember Lady Ann acting like this when she was having my heirs.”
Benson shrugged and looked away.
“Do you remember the duchess in such a state?”
“I dare say, Your Grace, not all women react to this condition in the same manner. Lady Ann did keep to her rooms though, if I remember correctly.” Benson swallowed. “I believe you spent most of that time in London, sir. The season at full swing, you know.”
Blake turned to look at the men. His introduction to Gertrude’s family and friends was not going well. Blake’s eyes met William’s in the crowd of men. The boy raced to the barn. “William!”
“Leave him be,” the old man said. He looked around at his men. “Back to work now. I’ll handle this from here.”
Blake stepped down from the porch step he stood on. “I would gather you are Mr. Hastings. Gertrude’s uncle.”
“And I s’pose you’re Blake Sanders. Will’s daddy and the man who ruined my Gert.” Fred stuck out his hand. “Been waiting awhile to meet you.”
As with regrets, guilt was an emotion Blake had little experience with. But now he struggled to look at the short, gray-haired man with bowlegs, and a mustache that nearly covered his face.
“Come on in the house, Sanders. You and I need to talk.”
Blake followed Fred Hastings into the kitchen. A large man in a huge apron held a cast iron skillet over Benson’s head.
“What’s going on, Cookie?” Fred asked.
“This here ferener is a planning on taking over my kitchen.”
“I have no intentions of taking over your kitchen, my good man. But I believe my master, the Duke of Wexford, could use a cup of tea and I intend to brew it,” Benson bellowed his finish.
“Let the man make his tea, Cookie. Come on Sanders.”
Hastings led Blake into a small sitting room and motioned for him to sit down in a wing chair. Fred Hastings sat directly opposite of him in another. “I don’t mince words, Sanders. I’m goin’ to tell you straight out.”
The man’s hardened face reminded Blake of an image he’d seen on a Wanted poster outside the Cleveland sheriff’s office. His lip twitched in a snarl as he spoke. “I’ve a mind to put a shot gun to you and your friend Burrough’s belly about now. My Gert was an innocent when she stepped on that boat in New York, and I expected her to arrive back here the same way.”
“Yes, Mr. Hastings, I can understand that.”
“Well, she didn’t.” Hastings sat back in his chair. “Did you ask her to marry you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what she told me. It was a puzzle to me especially after getting to know Will. He’s a fine young man. Hard to imagine him having a father lower than cow shit.”
“Miss Finch declined my protection,” Blake said. Benson arrived and sat a chipped cup holding his tea on the side table. The valet bowed as if he weren’t dressed in an orange plaid shirt and his face wasn’t covered in dirt. “Thank you, Benson.”
“Gert’s having a hard time with this child coming. Screaming and yelling and then crying to beat the band,” Hastings said, his forehead wrinkled in worry. “Sad part of it all is her loving you.”
Blake blinked. “She told me very plainly what she thought of me a moment ago. Love was not the word she used.”
“Ah hell, Sanders. Gert don’t know what she thinks right now.”
Blake smiled grimly. “She made it clear in London. She thinks very little of me.” Blake sat back and crossed his legs. “Knowing all I’ve realized on this trip, it is of little surprise.”
“You ain’t good enough for her, Sanders. I know that. Not with your title and your money and all.” Fred Hastings stood and poured himself a shot of whiskey. He stared out the window after throwing the drink back. “But I’m thinking she wants ya anyway, Sanders.”
“I have asked her to marry me. She declined.”
“Well, I’ve been trying to talk her into marrying Luke Matson,” Uncle Fred said as he turned. “The tall blond near ready to tear your head off.S’pect I might’ve convinced her if you hadn’t wandered by.”
The idea of Gertrude marrying anyone but him made Blake’s hands ball into fists. It would not happen. Could not. He growled his response. “I will not stand for it.”
Fred’s bushy brows rose. “Won’t stand for it, huh? You don’t know Gert as well as I thought then.”
Blake stood and faced Gertrude’s uncle. “And you, sir, know nothing about me.”
Fred crossed his arms over his chest. “I was going to have you bunk with the hands, but I’m thinking you’d be dead by morning. You can sleep upstairs, but if I catch your ass near Gert’s room, I’ll hand you over to my Indian friend myself.”
It was on the tip of Blake’s tongue to remind this man that he was, in fact, the Duke of Wexford. His ancestors had gone to their graves defending their honor and that of their women. The irony of this little man protecting Gert from a Wexford heir did not escape him.
“I would like to speak to Miss Finch, if I may,” Blake said.
“I’ll go and see what she says. Sometimes she naps in the afternoon.” Fred went to the stairs. “Although I’m thinking she’s not sleeping now.”
* * *
Gert could no longer roll around on her bed. Tossing from one cheek and decision to another. Her middle held her firmly anchored on her back. She knew now, to say she missed Blake Sanders, greatly fell short of the mark. Any thought of dismissing him from her life and her heart was impossible. The sight of him robbed her of her will to be strong and the hope that their meeting was merely chance and not fate.
Gert slapped her clenched fists on the coverlet. Why did he have to be so damn handsome? She thought he was fairly gorgeous in London. But now in Levis and a black hat he took her breath away. Why did she want him so much? Gert had nearly talked herself into marrying Luke Matson. He was kind and attractive enough. He would defend her with his dying breath. He would be a good father as well. And he knew horses, knew the ranch and all its workings. Gert sighed. There lay the problem. That was all he knew or ever wanted to. A man couldn’t be stupid, Gert conceded, to handle stock the way he did. But her attempts at conversation about politics or books left him dumbfounded. His conclusion that books were for schools and, no, he hadn’t a favorite author and his firm belief that Congress referred to mating left Gert with a bad taste in her mouth. What would they talk about in years to come? How would they argue if he hadn’t an opinion? Her mind would turn to gravy from lack of use.
And then down the gentle slope of the field came Blake Sanders. Looking at her and fighting his way through Uncle Fred, Will and the hands to be near her. Looking every bit the rugged pirate or cowboy. Taking a moment to feast his eyes on her, Gert was convinced, with a look that was a tender caress. Then she screamed and slapped him. Gert drifted off to sleep with Blake’s face before her.
* * *
While Gertrude slept, Blake went in search of William and found him inside the corral attempting to mount a pawing and neighing horse. Not one of the men watching William so much as a glanced to Blake. He swallowed his shout when the horse threw his son to the ground. The boy stood, dusted his hat on his leg and climbed aboard the crazed animal again. Blake didn’t realize Fred Hastings stood beside him.
“Will knows what he’s doing. I wouldn’t let him
break that mare if he didn’t.”
“He has grown up in your care, Mr. Hastings.” Blake turned to look at the wiry man. “I am in your debt.”
“He was a good boy when he got here, Sanders. Brought Gert home safe and sound. Might confused about becoming a man, though.”
“He’s not had much to model himself by,” Blake admitted. Fred Hastings did not insult Blake with a denial. Just stared straight ahead.
“I’m thinking he’s about ready to go home. Misses his mother and all. When will you be takin’ him?” Fred asked.
Blake had pondered that subject while Benson tended to his cuts and bruises. “I’m going to have Benson escort him home shortly.” Or would William be leading the valet?
“Where’s that leave you, Sanders?”
Blake faced the man. Gert’s father in his heart the chief had called him. “Your niece will be having my son or daughter. I have no intention of leaving her.”
“We’ll see what Gert has to say about that.”
Blake resurrected his ducal air. “It will make no matter Gertrude’s wishes in this. I will camp under the stars if need be. I am staying.”
“Staking your claim, huh?” Fred asked. Blake nodded. “For the child or for Gert?”
Blake smiled. “Both.”
“White Cloud give you and yer man a scare today?” Hastings asked.
“To some degree,” Blake said dryly.
Hastings laughed. “Aw, come on. When I told him about Gert and you and to keep a look out for you, he was mighty pissed off. White Cloud’s known her since she was a girl. I knew he wouldn’t kill you. We’re friends. He’d save that for me. But you sure as hell didn’t know that. Ol’ Benson looked like he’d seen a ghost.”
“Benson was petrified and for good reason.”
“And you weren’t?” Fred said with a laugh.
Blake turned from watching Will to lean against the slat of the fence. “There are things in this life more frightening than dying. I assure you.” Like facing the fact he’d been a failure as a husband and father. Pleading with God for a second chance he did not deserve. Wondering if he was able to do better if his prayers were answered. But the most frightening thought of all was that of leaving Gert if he were denied.
Fred Hastings listened to Sanders confess more than he’d realized. When a man had regrets that made death seem mild it was because he’d made a mountain of mistakes along the way. Hard for a man, any man to admit.
“Will’s done with that pony. We don’t need him no more this afternoon,” Fred said.
Blake found his son in the barn, rubbing polish on a saddle. “William.”
Will’s head came up with a snap. “Everyone calls me Will now, sir.”
Blake sat down on an overturned bucket. He had much to say but had no idea where to begin. He was glad the first words in his mind slipped from his mouth before he’d stopped them. “I’m proud of you.” Will faced him in disbelief. “I was angry to be sure when I read the note you left, but I suppose I understand your reasoning now.”
Will hung his head. “Miss Finch told me you allowed Melinda to wait to marry. If I’d talked to you about this trip instead of stowing away, things might have been different.”
“Perhaps,” Blake replied. “Although I wished you would have come to me, I can’t deny I’ve enjoyed this journey immensely.”
“Really, Father? I was certain you’d be quite annoyed at having to leave town. With Melinda’s come-out and the season just starting.”
“Hmm,” Blake murmured. The season. With any luck he wouldn’t need to go to London till next year.
Will swallowed and his face lit with a blush. “How, how is mother?”
Blake nodded agreeably. “Fine. Your mother, sister and brother are staying at McDonald’s home in Scotland while I’m abroad.”
“They are?” Will asked.
“Yes. McDonald planned my passages on one of his ships. I should have heeded his advice on other matters as well.”
Will’s mouth dropped. “You spoke to him?”
“They dined with me while planning your rescue. I did, indeed, speak to him but would have been far wiser to listen.” Will’s mouth dropped further. “McDonald makes your mother very happy and worries prodigiously about her and her children.” Blake waited for his son to comment. “Close your mouth, William. You’re bound to swallow flies.”
Will’s eyes darted. “It’s just I can barely believe you ate dinner with them.”
Blake leaned back against the post behind him. “I don’t suppose there is any way to explain this to you without admitting I was a terrible husband to your mother. She and you children were but one more heirloom in the Wexford collection.” Blake looked straight and unwavering at William. “I have since discovered I was quite wrong.”
The young man returned the stare with the same intensity. “What are we then, Father?”
Blake bit his lip to stop its trembling. Here before him was one of the moments he’d been dreading. Where the fear took his breath away and spurned the beat of his heart to racing. Was he too late to make amends? “You and your sister and brother are extraordinary. The depth of pride and love I feel for each of you is overwhelming. You are all a precious, unique gift I failed to accept. I am hoping to change that.”
“We are all most fortunate to have you for our father,” Will said.
Blake could do no more than nod. His composure returned with a deep breath. “I am hoping you will assist Benson back to London very shortly.”
“You’re not returning?”
“I would like to set things straight with Donald and Melinda, post haste. Your sister especially, but there is a matter of grave importance I must attend to here. I cannot return until then.”
“Miss Finch?” Will ventured.
Blake slapped his hands on his knees and stood. “Yes, William, ah, Will, now, I suppose. Miss Finch. There is the delicate matter of convincing her to marry me and the upcoming birth of your brother or sister. I would very much like to be in attendance that day.” Will stared at him. “I didn’t tell you I helped a woman, a Mrs. Fletcher, birth a daughter on my trip here. Was quite extraordinary. I have all intentions of being the first person my child sees in this world.”
“You helped her have a baby? Was there no midwife?”
“No. You see, just a neighbor. Tess was her name and expecting as well,” Blake said. He continued then to tell Will of everything he’d encountered. Of their lost luggage and carriage. Of Benson’s wild manner of dress. Of the sores on his bottom from riding till Will howled with laughter.
A bell clanged and Will stood. “Tis supper, Father. Would be rude to be late.”
Blake chuckled as he followed his son, sorely concerned for his father’s manners. When he stepped in the kitchen, another fight brewed between the round cook and Benson. The cowboys milled around, exchanging odds on who would win. Apparently, all over where Blake was to be seated.
“Benson. No need to worry. I will be happy at any place,” Blake said.
“But, Your Grace,” Benson wailed.
The kitchen quieted and Blake turned to the doorway. Gertrude stood there as if she were a deer caught in the full light of the moon, looking pale and fragile still for her wide girth. He swept around the table and faced her to clip off a bow. “Allow me,” Blake said as he escorted her the three feet to her chair. He heard sly comments and laughter from the men.
Will bristled, walked to Gert’s chair and stood across from his father. “Miss Finch. I am glad to see you’ve joined us. You look lovely today.” Will took one short step back and seated himself between Clyde and Clem.
Uncle Fred eyed the goings on and said a short prayer.
“Mr. Hastings. Tell me about the horse Will broke today,” Blake said.
Uncle Fred looked up, clearly surprised at the question, and set his spoon in the bowl. “What do you want to know?”
“The markings, Father, indicate the sire or dame may have been a pain
t. A native American horse. She’ll be a fine mount,” Will said and turned to Slim. “Wouldn’t you say so?”
“I reckon,” Slim replied, his mouth full of food.
“I’m not so sure. Sometimes those ones never do take to the bit,” Fred said.
The talk then was loud and raucous with each hand shouting his opinion. Benson and Cookie began to remove plates while the men sat back in their chairs still debating. Benson served Blake and Will tea and they nodded their thanks.
“Oh, Miss Finch. I did forget to ask if you’d care for any.” Benson smiled broadly.
“Yes, I believe I will have tea, Benson. Thank you,” Gertrude replied.
Cookie’s hands flew to his hips. “Missy, you aint’ never wanted tea before, or I’d a made it.”
“It just sounds good right now,” Gertrude said.
Cookie shook his head. “English nonsense. Ain’t nothin’ the matter with good old American coffee.”
“Speaking of England,” Luke Matson said as he stared at Blake. “When you going back? Will’s been missing his family.”
Silence reigned in the small kitchen. Blake leaned forward to fold his hands in front of him and stake his claim as Fred Hastings had mentioned. “Benson and Will will travel soon to England.” Blake would make the cowboy lay down the gauntlet. Luke Matson did in the next instant.
“What about you?” he growled.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Blake’s eyes did not blink with his announcement. Just met Matson’s stare head on.
Clyde crossed his arms across his chest and shook his head. Clem whistled and leaned his chair back on two legs. Soon the table erupted in odds.
“Matson’s younger by ten years, I’d say. My two bucks are on him,” Clem said.
Pokey shook his head. “The Englander has longer arms. I match that money on reach.”
Gertrude’s hands hit the table with a thud, and every head turned. “Stop it right now. I’m going to sit on the porch. I had better not hear one more word about betting.”
Blake grinned. His sassy Gertrude had stopped the chatter. What a duchess she would make.
Luke Matson leaned forward and whispered. “Will says you English boys duel about whose pants have a tighter crease. Didn’t expect you to hide behind skirts.”
