by Jill Gregory
“No, sir. There has been no word from them.” The middle-aged housekeeper stared incredulously at the crumpled figure in the Earl’s arms. “Sir, may I be so forward as to inquire...”
“An injured waif. I ran her down on the road. Durgess—the doctor, at once.” The Earl paid little heed to his astonished servants. He carried the girl through the great hall and up the curving walnut staircase at a quick clip, rounding the bend without pausing to see if Mrs. Wyeth followed him—though her labored breathing behind him told him that she did—and continued with long strides toward the door on his left.
The Blue Room was always kept ready for guests. In fact, it had been prepared with special care that same day for the Earl’s brother and his wife, but the Earl dismissed that consideration. Any other room would do just as well for James and Charlotte.
He waited, his face impassive, while Mrs. Wyeth hastened to turn down the elegant embroidered silk bedspread and smoothed back the French linens. He glanced at the girl who lay so still and fragile in his arms. Hard to tell much what she looked like with the dirt and the bruises and that weedy hair hanging in her eyes, but he’d have bet a thousand pounds that she had the brains of a pigeon. She moaned, and he saw her eyelashes flutter, but she didn’t wake up. Damn her. What the devil was she doing in the road?
Mrs. Wyeth, who had been waging a silent inner battle, couldn’t restrain herself as he started toward the bed. “Your lordship surely is not going to put that dirty creature in this fine bed?” she nearly pleaded, unable to bear letting such filth invade the beauty that was Westcott Park.
“If I may suggest it, your lordship,” she went on coaxingly, as if he were still the small stubborn boy who had insisted on caring for every stray or injured creature he happened to find, “why not allow Durgess or one of the footmen to bring the creature into the servants’ quarters?
‘Tis a shame to muddy fine linen with the likes of her...”
“Adjust that pillow a little higher, Mrs. Durgess,” the Earl said as though she hadn’t spoken.
Mrs. Wyeth groaned inwardly. She knew that intent expression in his lordship’s eyes. He cared for no one else’s opinion, gave no thought to propriety... in this same way had he as a wild, dark-haired youth ignored her pleas to keep those horrid beasts of his in the stable. No, he had kept them in his room.
Biting her lip, the housekeeper did as she was bid and watched the Earl of Westcott lower the odious girl onto the cushions. His lordship was always one to be mulish beyond words when he once got an idea into his head. All of the Audleys were like that. Some things never changed...
The girl moaned faintly as her head lolled back against the satin pillow. The Earl regarded her in silence for a moment, while Mrs. Wyeth tried to read his thoughts, but as always, it was impossible. That hard, handsome face—who could ever read what he was thinking? Certainly not his nurse, even when he was a child, nor had Durgess ever understood a whit about him. And she, who had seen him grow from a wild, happy boy to a wild, saddened young man, had never been able to understand the moods that drove him. All she knew was that all the warmth and carefree happiness had drained straight out of him after the tragedy...
His very own family was terrified of him now, though it didn’t used to be that way. Why, these days the Earl had only to glance his way, and poor Master Jared looked guilty as sin, and his cheeks set to flushing—and James barely spoke more than two words when his brother was in the room. Even little Miss Dorinda, poor thing, was frightened of him. He hadn’t always been like this, though, Mrs. Wyeth reflected sadly. It was only in recent years...
As the Earl moved away from the bed he sent a penetrating glance at the housekeeper. “Do what you can for her before the doctor arrives. Bring her round if you can. I’ll be in my study awaiting James and Charlotte. No doubt they’ll want some refreshment.”
“Yes, your lordship.”
He strode out without a backward glance. Alone with the unconscious female, Mrs. Wyeth clenched her hands in frustration. Heaven help them all. The creature belonged in the servants’ quarters at best—in a stable most preferably—not in this most charming of rooms.
She loathed the idea of even touching this disgustingly soiled Young Person. Who knew what diseases she might be carrying? The housekeeper had a difficult time keeping from stamping her foot. Why, oh, why couldn’t the Earl be sensible just once in his life?
Of course not one in his line had ever been that. His father had certainly been a mild, genial man who loved his books and his horses and his dogs, but he’d had an unfortunate weakness for spirits—and for gaming. A definite wild streak. And Master James, the Earl’s younger brother by two years, had nourished a most unsettling fondness for the sport of boxing—before his marriage, of course. Since then, Mrs. Wyeth reflected with relief, he had settled down quite nicely, at least as far as she could see.
Yet Philip was very different from his father and brother. He didn’t have their easygoing nature. Oh, he wasn’t a difficult master, not really, but a body couldn’t help being intimidated by him sometimes, for when he was displeased, he narrowed those eyes of his and didn’t say a word, but stared at you until you wanted to crawl beneath the floorboards. Small wonder poor Master Jared, sent down in disgrace from Eton, was so unnerved.
And if the Earl found out about the latest trouble...
Mrs. Wyeth shuddered whenever she contemplated the gossip that flew from country kitchen to country kitchen by way of the servants’ grapevine. The Audleys were discussed more than ten other families put together! And the Earl himself had certainly come under his share of scrutiny. All those duels Philip fought, his nasty temper, the races he won, and the outrageous wagers he accepted. Common knowledge among all who knew of such matters. And, Mrs. Wyeth reflected, as she stared at the girl on the bed, then there were the women swooning over him, trying to catch him... but for all the noble beauties who sought his affections, he was known to favor... opera singers!
He was an Audley through and through, no doubt about it. And now, bringing this ragged miss to Westcott Park under such distressing circumstances... well, it bordered on the scandalous, that’s what it did. Her heart ached for him, for beneath her disapproving frown, she loved the boy dearly. What would become of him if he didn’t mend these strange ways?
She approached the unconscious girl with trepidation and growing dislike. Disgusting creature. As Mrs. Wyeth bent over her, a feeble moan sounded from the young woman’s lips. Mrs. Wyeth poked the girl’s bony shoulder.
“Wake up, girl. Wake up and tell me what it is that hurts.”
An Excerpt—NEVER LOVE A COWBOY
Winner of the Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Award
for Best Western Historical Romance
by Jill Gregory
The feuding families of Emma Malloy and Tucker Garrettson have despised each other for decades. Emma and Tucker think they hate each other too. But now they’re all grown up, and when Emma returns home to Whisper Valley after years away at school, their verbal sparring soon ignites a far deeper passion in each of their hearts...
Montana
1882
“Welcome home, honey.”
For a moment Emma Malloy couldn’t reply to her father’s huskily spoken words. As she stepped across the threshold of the beloved two-story ranch house where she’d grown up, her throat closed up, aching with emotion.
She was home. Home. With lavender dusk gathering behind her across the great mountain-scalloped Montana skyline, the house of her childhood, of countless precious memories, welcomed her as no other place ever could. Cheerily lit, cozy, beckoning, the house invited her with the aroma of fresh-baked bread, the glow of a fire to banish the coolness of the night, and the warmth of the people who meant the most to her in the world.
After five long years at school in the east, she was back at Echo Ranch, back where she belonged.
And there was only one thing in the world that could possibly spoil it.
But s
he wouldn’t think about that—about him. Not now.
She wouldn’t let anything ruin this moment, least of all Tucker Garrettson.
Her face shone as she turned in a slow circle and took in the familiar comfortable furnishings of her home.
“Just as I remember,” she breathed.
Her father set down her trunk and smiled. He’d seemed somewhat quiet on the ride home from town, and even though he’d insisted nothing was wrong, she still wondered. But now there was no mistaking the joy that lit his handsome, craggy face.
“It’s good to have you back, Emma. Real good.” His eyes grew wet as she suddenly launched herself into his arms. “Ah ha, little girl,” he chuckled hoarsely, stroking her hair, “you haven’t changed so much after all. I see you still cry only when you’re happy, never sad, eh?”
“True,” she gasped, dashing away the tears. “And Papa, I am happy—so happy to be home. I’ve missed you more than I could say. And I’ve missed the ranch and Whisper Valley. And...” she took a deep, emotion-laden breath, “and all of Montana,” she acknowledged with a fierce little laugh. “Philadelphia is splendid, but it isn’t home.”
“Never will be?”
“Never will be.”
She hugged him tight, this big bear of a man who had raised her since her mother died when she was seven. He’d sent her east to school, as he’d promised her mother he would, to give her a taste of life outside Whisper Valley and Echo Ranch. And she’d missed him every day. She’d missed the way he’d tousled her hair when he greeted her in the morning, missed the low easy timbre of his voice as he gave instructions to the ranch hands at the start of each day, missed the quiet evenings they’d spent together in his study. During these evenings, Emma would have been curled in the armchair with a novel, and her father would have been at his desk, working, always working on the ranch books, with a cup of whisky-laced coffee at his elbow and the rich aroma of his cigar breathing masculine life and character into each corner of that sturdy, handsome room.
She’d come back home the first summer, but not since, and though Winthrop Malloy had visited Emma several times a year back east, it hadn’t been the same as being together here, where they both belonged.
Relief flickered in Win’s keen brown eyes as he heard her words and realized that her years at a fancy girls’ school among rich easterners hadn’t changed her.
Oh, she was taller all right, and as shapely as a beautiful young woman ought to be, and her rich silky black hair—which had almost always been either clamped in braids or left to fly in wild disarray in her youth—was now prettily curled and kept in place with a rose-colored velvet ribbon which matched her traveling dress. But she was still his darling bright-eyed Em, the girl with more spunk than any ten cowhands, the girl who could outride anyone this side of the Rockies, who could shoot a rifle as well as he could himself, and who loved Whisper Valley every bit as much as he did.
“Corinne, look who’s back. Corinne! Hell, where are you, woman?”
Before Emma even had time to take three steps into the large, high-beamed parlor, footsteps pounded through the hall from the kitchen and she was enveloped in cushiony arms that squeezed tight.
“Wal, now look at you. All grown up and pretty as a picture. What happened to that scrape-kneed little monkey who used to steal chocolate cake when my back was turned?”
“Guess she grew up.” Emma grinned as she leaned back in the embrace of the plump little gray-haired woman whose bright green eyes were no larger than peas.
“I won’t cry again, she thought fiercely, blinking back tears as she kissed the housekeeper’s leathery cheek, and nearly overcome by affection for this plainspoken woman who had cared for her ever since her mother had died.
“She sure did. Now hold still, and let me look at you. Turn around, Emma. My, my, what a dress. Made in Philadelphia, I’ll wager?”
“Actually, Paris.” Emma waited patiently as Corinne inspected her from head to toe, her head tilted, bird-like, to one side. She seemed fascinated by the delicate black lace trim and elegant train of Emma’s rose silk traveling dress. And by the intricate beadwork on her matching rose shoes. Corinne also studied her face, the way she held her shoulders, and the line of her figure.
Finally, the housekeeper’s expression broke into a wide grin. “You’re sure every inch the lady.” She chuckled, then shook her head wonderingly. “Who would’ve guessed that my wild little monkey would’ve turned into such a high falutin’ fancy-looking gal?”
She said it with love and rich pleasure, and looked ready to burst with pride.
“Well, fancy... maybe. The clothes are, at least.” Emma laughed. “But I feel it only fair to warn you—even now, I wouldn’t turn my back on a fresh-baked chocolate cake, Corinne, if I were you.”
“Which you ain’t, that’s for sure. If you was me, you’d be plumb tuckered out. I’ve been cooking your homecoming meal all afternoon, and now it’s going to burn if I don’t get back in that kitchen and tend to it.”
This was the Corinne she remembered. Always muttering, grumbling, her bark far worse than her bite.
“Mmmm.” Emma sniffed the air appreciatively. “Don’t tell me you fixed roasted chicken?”
“And beef stew. And them potatoes fried with onions you always had a hankering for.”
“And chocolate cake,” Win Malloy added, winking at Emma as Corinne sent him a scowl before bustling back toward the kitchen.
Hefting Emma’s trunk, he started toward the curving oak staircase. “Corinne’s been fussing in the kitchen for days. And polishing floors and lamps as if royalty was coming to stay.”
“Everything looks wonderful, Papa.”
“You’ll find that nothing much has changed since you’ve been away.” He turned right at the head of the stairs and led the way to her bedroom. “I’ve kept your room as it was. Thought you might want to add some new things, pick out what you want. I expect you’ll want some fancy female knickknacks. Maybe some new curtains. Whatever you like, Em. Change whatever you want in the house, too. This is your home, and it should suit you now that you’re all grown up.”
“As a matter of fact, I do have a few ideas about that. I brought some things with me from Philadelphia, from Aunt Loretta’s house. But oh...”
She broke off as she reached her doorway. Warmth and pleasure and a thousand happy memories flooded through her.
It was all just as she remembered. The room was large and simply furnished, with a wide featherbed covered by the same green and blue patterned quilt she’d had since she was a child, and with the same rag doll cradled on a pillow in the center. The green cotton curtains at the window were somewhat faded now, as was the rag rug upon the polished wood floor, but the bedside table and lamp, the bookshelves, and the big oak dresser with the gold-framed photograph of her mother sitting atop it, beside a white china pitcher and basin, were as sturdy and solid as ever.
“It does feel wonderful to be home,” she said softly, glancing over at her father with satisfaction. But with a sinking of her heart, she saw that he looked distracted again. His brows were knit, his eyes shadowed with worry, and it was obvious his mind had wandered to something other than her homecoming.
Something that deeply troubled him.
“Papa, what’s wrong? Please tell me.”
He stiffened, and his attention sharpened on her, even as a flush came over his face. “Nothing, honey. Nothing worth speaking of. Don’t you worry about a thing.”
“Is there something I should be worried about?”
“Yep, sure is.” He moved toward her and pinched her cheek, a glint of warm humor suddenly lighting his eyes. “How you’re going to beat off all the young cowpokes for miles around once they hear you’re home. And once they see what a looker my little girl’s grown into. Why, I’ll have to fight ‘em off night and day—”
“Papa,” she scolded him. “You’re changing the subject.”
He grinned at her.
“See you downs
tairs, honey. I reckon you’ll want to rest for a while after your trip.”
Then Emma was alone in the room of her childhood, surrounded by the familiar sights and smells—the dancing fragments of memory.
Papa’s probably only concerned about some minor problem with the ranch, she told herself as she set her small silk handbag on the table. She made up her mind to coax him into telling her about it at supper.
Then, with light, eager steps she crossed to the window and lifted the curtain, hoping to catch the final glow of sunset. But she was too late. Mysterious gray darkness draped the land. But pure Montana air wafted like cool silk over her, and she knew that the glorious mountains and canyons, the grass-rich plains, and the singing waterfalls were out there and would be there in the morning, as they had been a thousand mornings before.
She could wait.
For now, all she could see were the shadowy shapes of the ranch outbuildings and in the distance, the jaggedness of black looming peaks.
Whisper Valley—the most beautiful place on earth.
“I won’t leave you again,” she whispered.
She thought of the letter inside her handbag, the letter from Derek Carleton tucked alongside her lace handkerchief and velvet money pouch.
It was a marriage proposal, written in Derek’s flawless black script, and it was eloquent and heartfelt. She’d memorized every word of it.
But she had yet to answer it.
First, I guess I need to decide if I’m in love with him, Emma thought ruefully, tracing a finger across the windowpane.
Love. That was something she hadn’t yet figured out. How did one know when one was in love? She enjoyed Derek’s company when he escorted her to balls and parties and operas. She liked him, she enjoyed kissing him—but she didn’t feel anything like the raging passion she’d always associated with being in love.
