Love Is Patient Romance Collection

by Vetsch, Erica; McDonough, Vickie; Barton, Janet Lee

  “This sure would help me out of a bind.”

  She grinned, warmed through to be able to help him. “Then it’s decided.”

  He headed toward the back door, plucking his hat off the peg beside it. He halted with the door half-open, tilted his head, and regarded her. “I appreciate the help, but it doesn’t change anything. This is only a temporary situation, until roundup is over. Then I’ll see to getting you a return ticket back East.”

  Gwendolyn ground her teeth and considered hurling the wet dishrag at his retreating back. Stubborn man. She was foolish to entertain any hope he might come to care for her and want her to stay.

  Matt joined his crew at the cow camp, fitting himself into the roundup with the experience gained from punching cows since his early teens, first in Texas and then in Wyoming Territory. Cattle bawled and churned the dust, men shouted, dogs barked, the smells of smoke and burnt hair filled the air. After being chained to the house for so long, he relished the labor, the wide-open skies, and the camaraderie of the cowboys.

  By nightfall, every muscle ached, but it was a good ache. The calf tally looked promising so far, and his skill with his rope had not gone unnoticed by his crew. Not even Jackson could beat him when it came to throwing a loop.

  In spite of how well things had gone today, an unnamed guilt sat heavily on his shoulders. As he waited for supper to be ready, he unrolled his bedding and sat down to sort it out. Snatching up a stem of wheatgrass, he broke off little pieces to aid his thinking. Being back at work felt good, and yet, as he thought about it, the guilt stemmed from those feelings and got all mashed up with thoughts of Betsy. It wasn’t fair that he could ride away from the house, rope, flank, and flop calves all day, walk his own land if he so chose, while Betsy was bound in that chair, her world hemmed by a picket fence and her body wasting away before an ever-advancing illness. How soon before the sickness forced her into a bed and finally took her very life? His gut twisted at the thought. He’d already lost so much—his mother when Betsy was born, his father when Edith exploded all their lives, and Granddad just over a fortnight ago. When God took Betsy, who would he have left of his own?

  Which thought sent his mind racing to Gwendolyn. Was he right to leave her in charge of his precious little sister? What did he really know about her? Heart-joltingly pretty for sure. She admitted she had no money, that she had nowhere to go.

  All courtesy of Granddad. It was just like the autocratic, bossy old man to try to maneuver Matt into getting married. He’d certainly harped on it often enough, but Matt had resisted, not willing to put his neck into that noose. Edith had sickened him on the idea of marriage, especially to a high-stepping Easterner.

  But Betsy really liked Gwendolyn, which made him even more wary. This was a temporary situation. When Gwendolyn went back East, it might break Betsy’s heart. And how could he be a party to that?

  “Vittles!” The cook, a Russian, pronounced it “wittles” and clanged on an empty pot. Cowboys scrambled to grab tin plates and get in line for their chuck. Matt held back, waiting his turn. As the men squatted with their full plates, he took his own serving from the cook.

  Jackson lounged on his bedroll near Matt, scooping the beans and bacon into his mouth. “Surprised to see you out here, boss. Thought you’d be at home with that pretty gal.” He gave a knowing leer, and several of the younger men chuckled and elbowed one another. “She as nice as she looks? Nice for you to be holed up in that house with just a kid sister to chaperone.”

  Matt lowered his fork and studied Jackson. “What I do isn’t any concern of yours, Jackson. Miss Gerhard is our temporary guest, that’s all.”

  Shrugging, Jackson took another bite. “Still, she’s mighty pretty. A fellow could hardly be faulted for making the most of the situation. I know I wouldn’t mind letting her warm up my bedroll, even if it was only for a little while.”

  Matt’s jaw tightened, and his fingers gripped his fork so hard the skin showed white over the knuckles. A stillness passed over the group, as if everyone held their breath, waiting to see what his reaction would be.

  Jackson seemed to pick up on the fact that he might’ve gone too far and shrugged. “Well, you know what I mean. No offense or anything.”

  Before Matt could answer, the cook lifted the lid on one of the pots.

  “Sucamagrowl’s done. Bring your plates.”

  Again a scramble for this camp delicacy. Sugary, vinegary aromas mingled in the air as the ranch hands held out their plates for the sweet dumplings—a rare treat, and one that Jackson hustled to get in line for. Matt forced his muscles to relax, grateful for the distraction, and took the chance to confer with the foreman, Melton.

  “The cattle look to be in good shape.”

  Melton—whether this was his first name or last name, Matt didn’t know and had never felt comfortable asking—nodded, his primary form of communication. The toothpick he kept permanently clamped in the corner of his mouth twitched a fraction.

  “How’re the men working together? The new men fitting in all right?”

  Another nod. Granddad, a talker if there ever had been one, had questioned Matt’s choice of ranch foreman on several occasions for his lack of conversational skills, but not even Granddad could fault the man’s cow sense. Or his ability to get the most out of a crew.

  “Walk?” The foreman discarded his toothpick and dug another from his pocket.

  “Sure.” They rose and headed for the rope corral, where their mounts grazed.

  When they were well out of earshot of the men, Melton stopped and looked at the night sky, breathing in as if testing the weather. A horse stamped and swished his tail, his teeth ripping through the grass.

  “That yellow-haired gal, she taking care of the little girl?” Concern colored his question.

  Matt went still. Melton had never given the slightest indication that he even knew Betsy existed, much less asked after her health. “That’s right.”

  “Good idea. Good you’re back to work. Best if the men see you leading from the front.” The toothpick switched sides. “Men haven’t talked of much else besides that gal. Taken with her, especially Jackson.”

  It was the longest speech Matt had ever heard Melton make. While he loathed the men’s curiosity, he couldn’t really blame them for wondering. It wasn’t exactly a usual situation. “She’s pretty enough, I guess.” Though pretty seemed a weak word to describe her.

  “She after money?”

  “She’s made no bones about the fact that she’s broke.” The willing way Gwendolyn had pitched in around the house and the easy manner she had with Betsy had distracted Matt from the crux of the issue, but Melton’s question brought it home again. Edith had made them all gun-shy, and with good reason. “I’ll send her on her way as soon as I can.”

  “What about your sister?”

  Matt rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I’ll have to think of something. Betsy can’t stay alone. It was all right when Granddad was here.” A fresh pang of grief seared his chest. “I miss the old codger.”

  “Natural.”

  “We fought hammer and tongs every day of my life. He could get under my skin worse than a cactus spine. Stubborn, bossy, hardheaded. His passing leaves a big hole, you know?” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I feel stuck, no matter which way I turn.”

  For a long time, they stood looking at the stars, listening to the horses cropping grass and the lowing of cattle as they bedded down for the night.

  Finally, Melton stirred himself. “Man has to be careful around women. Be they stepmothers, sisters, or wives.” He strode away into the darkness, but his brief words lingered in the night air, a reminder and a warning. Matt shouldn’t let his head be turned, or he’d find himself in a pickle.

  Chapter 4

  Gwendolyn tightened the kerchief covering her hair and handed Betsy a cloth. “If ever a room needed some attention, this parlor takes the prize.” She swiped her finger through a layer of dust. “You’re s
ure Matt won’t mind?”

  “If he does, I’ll take the blame. Matt never talks about this room, and he mostly avoids it, uses the back door. But this parlor is hideous and a reminder of a time we’d all like to forget. Nobody’s touched anything in here in almost a year. The sooner it’s cleaned out, the better, to my way of thinking.”

  Both Matt and Betsy had alluded to past trouble, but how it connected to this overstuffed room remained a mystery. Gwendolyn didn’t want to pry, especially since Matt had made it clear that hers was a temporary stay, but curiosity as to how an ostentatious parlor had come to be in a simple ranch home this far from civilization nagged at her.

  She threaded her way to the front windows and pulled aside the heavy drapes, coughing and waving her hand in front of her face when a cloud of dust erupted from the velvet folds. Turning, she examined the room in better light.

  “We need to remove at least half of this furniture, and the rest needs to be arranged so you can maneuver. A garter snake couldn’t edge his way through here without bumping into something.”

  Betsy dusted figurines and china pieces while Gwendolyn shoved tables out of the way, rolled up rugs, and planned the new arrangement. “Any idea where we can put the extra furniture?”

  “There’s a storage area under the eaves. Pete and Mike will carry things upstairs for us.”

  “Perfect. Let’s figure out what stays and what goes, so they can move it all at once.”

  Hours later, the girls surveyed the results. Though the front porch shaded the windows from the bright glare outside, enough light came in to glint off the newly polished surfaces. More than half the furniture had been relegated to the attic, and Gwendolyn had placed what remained into an inviting arrangement that left plenty of room for Betsy’s chair.

  “There. That’s a good job done. It will be so much easier to care for, and you can be comfortable in here.” Wiping her hands on her apron, she glanced at Betsy, noting her pale face and the way she rested her head against the chair back. “I’m tuckered out. We deserve a rest.”

  Betsy lifted her head and tried to appear less tired. “You’re the one who did all the work. I just dusted a little. How about if we sit on the porch for a while?”

  Gwendolyn fetched shawls for them both and a lap rug for Betsy, since the spring wind was still a bit fresh. Easing herself into the rocker beside the wheelchair, she tugged the kerchief from her head.

  “You have beautiful hair. I wish I had golden curls.” Betsy flicked her braid. “Better than this old carroty color.”

  “How can you say that? You have lovely hair. It glows like burnished copper.” Gwendolyn fingered the end of Betsy’s braid where it lay on her shoulder. “Two of my sisters have yellow hair like me, though mine’s the curliest. Jane’s hair is a soft, smooth brown that shines like silk. I always wanted raven-black hair or glorious red like yours. I guess we always want what we don’t have.”

  “You must miss your sisters.”

  The ache that was never far below the surface rose afresh. “I do. We all thought we’d live closer together and be able to see one another often, but we didn’t count on the distances out here. I can’t help but wonder how they’re getting along with their new husbands.” At least they all had husbands. Neither Gareth nor Harrison had shouted in front of everyone that they weren’t getting married, or that they would ship their mail-order bride off at the first possible moment. She crossed the ends of her shawl over her chest. “But having you here makes everything so much easier. I don’t know what I would’ve done otherwise. I’m used to having someone to talk to. If you weren’t here, I guess I’d just have to talk to myself.” She laughed.

  Betsy’s eyes, so like her brother’s, sobered. “I wish Matt wasn’t so stubborn about you staying. I can’t tell you how much better things are with you here. I feel like we’ve known each other forever.”

  Gwendolyn reached over and squeezed Betsy’s hand. “I feel the same way.”

  “Then we should figure out a way that you can stay. You do like Matt, don’t you?”

  She did. And if she was honest with herself, she could easily come to love him, stubbornness and all. He had proven he could be caring and chivalrous, and he was a good provider. He put the needs of others ahead of himself. As if all these qualities weren’t enough, just the sight of his handsome face and physique was enough to give her heart palpitations.

  “I like him. And I’d like to stay.” She recognized the longing in her voice, the unspoken desire to be Matt’s wife and not just his temporary guest cum housekeeper. How had it happened so quickly? She was wise enough to know she had been ripe to fall in love, but the fact that it was actually happening and she couldn’t seem to stop it surprised her.

  “Then we have to get Matt to change his mind. He needs someone like you. He just doesn’t know it yet. Granddad would’ve liked you, too. And you’d have liked him. He and Matt were very alike. So alike that they fought over just about everything. But that never bothered me, because I knew they each cared for the other one so much. They’d start out discussing something, and before you knew it they were pacing and jabbing the air, and then they’d start yelling. Finally, one or the other would throw up his hands and walk away.” She chuckled. “That famous redheaded temper, I guess. But under it all, they loved each other, and they would work it out eventually. I know Matt’s grieving something terrible. He thinks he’s hiding it from me, but I can tell it hurts. I don’t think he’s ever really gotten over Father’s death, especially since they were on the outs when he died.”

  Gwendolyn turned her face into the quartering breeze and let it blow the hair back from her temples. Her father’s passing was recent enough to still ache. “Sometimes grief is so personal and deep, you can’t share it. Everybody grieves differently. My sister Emmeline couldn’t keep her sorrow at my father’s death bottled up. She had to talk about it, to cry and grieve aloud. When she asked why I didn’t cry, she quoted Shakespeare: ‘Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak whispers the o’er-fraught heart, and bids it break.’ But I couldn’t talk about it. Sometimes sorrow is too deep to express, especially when it is new. Perhaps that’s why Matt doesn’t give voice to his grief.”

  Betsy nodded. “See, you understand him so well already. Surely there must be some way to convince him to let you stay.” She fisted her hands, resting them on her frail legs.

  “If he’s as stubborn as you say he is, I don’t see how we can change his mind.”

  “We’re two fairly smart women, aren’t we? Between the two of us, we’ll figure it out.” The girl smiled. “Now that I have a sister, I don’t intend to let you go.”

  Matt rode toward the ranch, weary but content. After seventeen days of hard work, the new Circle P calves were all branded, the herd tallied, and the crew worn out. He rubbed his rough chin, conscious of his cow camp dishevelment.

  He shrugged and grimaced. Nothing a bath, shave, and clean clothes wouldn’t fix. Why should he care how he looked? He’d never cared before.

  “Sure will be nice to have a bed instead of a bedroll.” Jackson rode beside him. “And the sight of some feminine beauty would sure be nice. You must be eager to get home.”

  Weary of Jackson’s digs, Matt legged his horse into a canter. Though after the first night in camp Jackson had minded his words to keep them just this side of insolent, he still managed to reference Gwendolyn at least once a day.

  Not that Matt’s mind wasn’t already centered on her most of the time. He couldn’t believe how often she traipsed through his thoughts, how often he wondered what she was doing or how she was caring for Betsy, and what sort of financial compensation he would have to offer her. At the very least, he owed it to her to pay her passage back east, and she deserved something for her trouble and the way she’d pitched in to help him out of a bind.

  And yet, the idea of her departure brought him no joy. Not like he’d anticipated. And more than once, he found his thoughts straying to the mind-boggling not
ion of what it might be like if she actually stayed. Not for himself, of course. Only to help out Betsy.

  At least having Gwendolyn to think about managed to distract him from some of his grief and kept him from brooding on Granddad’s death.

  The house and barn came into view, and his horse picked up the pace of its own accord. Matt’s heart picked up the pace, too. A smile tugged his lips, and instead of riding to the barn, he headed straight for the house.

  Tying the reins to the picket fence with a quick jerk, he opened the gate and started up the path. With the warmup to the weather, he wasn’t surprised to see the windows open to catch the breeze, but he’d have to be extra quiet if he wanted to surprise them. A thump and giggle reached him.

  “Good thing the picture will cover that mark. You can’t hammer a nail worth anything.” Betsy’s laugh wrapped around him. He’d missed his little sister something fierce, worried about her the whole roundup, but she sounded happy. Creeping up the ramp, he eased to the open front door to peer through the screen.

  Across the parlor, Gwendolyn stood on a chair with her back to him, her arms stretching up to hold a nail over the fireplace. Her posture caused the hem of her skirt to come up several inches, and he glimpsed snowy petticoats and a very trim ankle in a high-buttoned boot. Her apron strings nipped in her shapely waist, and glory, her hair hung down her back in a curtain of golden curls. The sight snatched the breath from his chest and turned his mouth to a desert.

  The chair wobbled, and Betsy squealed, reaching out to grip Gwendolyn’s leg. Before he could open the screen, Gwendolyn grabbed the mantel, and the hammer clattered to the floor.

  “Botheration,” she muttered, steadying herself.

  “Are you sure you should do this? Maybe we should wait for Matt. Or call Pete or Mike to help.” Betsy eased back, holding something in her lap.

  “I can do it. I just hadn’t counted on a teetering chair.” Gwendolyn flipped her hair over her shoulder in a motion that captivated Matt. So feminine. Had she gotten prettier since he was away? “Never let it be said Gwendolyn Esmeralda Gerhard was daunted by a mere nail. My motto is Excelsior, and my course is onward. I want this done before Matt gets home.” She lifted the hammer and gave the nail a couple of whacks. “There. Now hand me that picture, young lady.”