“Absolutely, not,” Gertrude replied to his suggestion. “I’m full up. Every room taken.” Planting both hands on her mile-wide hips, the woman continued, “And don’t bother asking Ruth Sutton to take her in, either. No one’s happy about the General’s foolish behavior.”
Chayston kept the contempt surging inside from showing on his face. He wasn’t impressed his father had ordered a bride, either, but the all-out scorn Gertrude was showering upon Violet was truly uncalled for.
Spinning about, he grabbed Violet by the arm. Coop and Riley hovered at the door, waiting to know where to deposit her luggage so they could get the horses to shelter and find a place to bed down themselves. “Haul her stuff to the sheriff’s office,” he ordered gruffly.
Once the men exited, he hoisted Violet into his arms again and walked out, Gertrude slamming the door so hard her Christmas wreath hit his back before it landed on the porch.
Violet cringed in his arms. “The sheriff’s office? Do you expect me to spend the night in a—a jail?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that won’t do,” she said.
The storm was still picking up momentum. Seeing much of anything was difficult and grew impossible when the wind caught her scarf, flapping it over his face. “Unless you want to start trekking through the snow to the ranch on your own, you don’t have a choice because I’m damn sick of carrying you.”
She pulled the scarf off his face and grabbed ahold of his neck. “You’re a beast.”
“Yes, I am,” he stated, faltering slightly while searching for the bottom step of the hotel’s porch. “Remember that.”
Thankfully that shut her up and he trudged forward.
The floor of the sheriff’s office felt as cold beneath her stocking feet as if he’d set her down outside in the snow. Violet didn’t dare move, though. The place was as black as a hole. A lantern was soon lit and she got her first look around while Chayston told Mr. Riley and Mr. Coop to set her luggage down by the door and go see to the horses. She bid both men goodbye and thanked them for all of their efforts while huddling deeper into her wool coat, wishing she’d taken the buffalo-hide blanket from the stage.
She wasn’t a stranger to winter weather—Ohio was known for its snowfalls, but the magnitude of this storm worried her. Or maybe it was the coldness she’d felt at the hotel still freezing her blood. She’d thought by leaving Ohio she’d be escaping spiteful women, but evidently that wasn’t to be. Ever since their parents had married—her mother and Eleanor’s father—her stepsister had hated her, but Eleanor’s wrath was put to shame by Gertrude Guldbrandson’s.
If only her boots hadn’t been stolen. Then she could have...What? She had nowhere else to go. And a promise was a promise.
Chayston was building a fire in the stove across the room, and with her body craving the heat his had given off—right through his heavy coat every time he’d picked her up—Violet examined the room more closely. Spying a door, she moved a few steps to open it, the light from the lantern on the desk highlighted the area enough for her to make out two cells complete with iron bars. She quickly closed the door.
“Leave it open,” he said. “Or you’ll be frozen by morning.”
She did open the door again, but spun around. “I’m not...” Pausing to search where he could have disappeared to, she noticed another open door and spoke louder, “Not sleeping in a jail cell.”
He didn’t comment, but light appeared in the other room. She rounded the desk to peer in. It was living quarters of sorts, complete with a kitchen stove, table and chairs, cupboards and a rather comfortable-looking bed. He was busy building another fire in the large cookstove. She took note of other things, too, like the tub sitting upside down in the far corner, and the sink, complete with a water pump. It had been a week since she’d had a bath.
Although she assumed the answer, she asked anyway, “Whose bed is that?”
“Mine,” he answered without glancing up.
“Well,” she said, moving farther into the room, inspecting things thoroughly, particularly how clean and neat everything appeared, “a gentleman would give a lady his bed while he slept in one of the cells.”
“Who said I’m a gentleman?”
“No one, but—”
“I’m not.”
“Not what?”
He shut the stove door and turned to face her as he unfolded his legs and rose to once again become a good head taller than her. “A gentleman, nor am I going to give you my bed.”
This man was infuriating in so many ways. Tall and broad shouldered, his size was a bit intimidating, but it was his looks that had consumed her mind while traveling the last trek of her journey to Spring Valley. It had led her to wonder if his father looked like him. Not that it would matter, she’d promised her stepfather she’d marry General Williams, and she would.
In fact, she was looking forward to it. Her mother’s marriage to her stepfather had been arranged by a family member and they’d come to love one another deeply. She’d witnessed it, and knew it was a real possibility for her, too. Her optimism had gulled Eleanor to no end, making Violet even more determined to make this marriage work and prove Eleanor wrong once and for all.
Chayston hadn’t taken off his coat, and was pulling his gloves back on. “It’ll warm up in here fast enough,” he said. “Make sure to add wood to both stoves.”
“Where are you going?”
A determined stride carried him across the room. “Out.”
“There’s a blizzard out there,” she reminded him.
“Yes, there is,” he said. “Which makes it even more important I check that everyone’s accounted for.”
Violet held the other protests that surfaced. She certainly didn’t want him thinking she was concerned for his safety, because she wasn’t. Furthermore, anyone foolish enough to go back out in that weather wouldn’t listen to common sense. She waited until the outer door closed and then reentered the office area. Grabbing the chair from behind the desk, she rushed toward the stove. There, she opened the door and sat down to hold both feet in front of the flames. They stung at first, chilled to the bone, but soon started to warm.
The heat was wonderful and she could have sat there for hours but didn’t. After adding more wood to this stove and the one in the living area, she carted both of her bags into the living space. She then pushed, shoved and tugged all three of her trunks in there as well. Gentleman or not, Chayston would be the one to sleep in the cell.
By then, delightful heat filled the rooms and she removed her coat and scarf, hanging them on hooks she made available by transferring what must be Chayston’s clothes to other hooks. Warmed by the fire beneath it, the coffeepot on the cookstove started emitting a scent that sent her stomach growling. Finding a good supply of foodstuff, she made a fresh pot of coffee and assembled a pan of bacon and beans, as well as a batch of biscuits. Used to being busy, she set a pan of water to heat and found a broom. The entire area, including the office and the cells, was surprisingly clean, leaving Violet to wonder if Chayston lived by himself. There were no signs of a woman, but there was a shelf with several fancy teacups and a picture of a very pretty woman near the bed.
After sweeping and mopping up the water left behind from the snow that had melted off of Chayston’s boots and her luggage, there was little else to do, other than set the table. When that was done, she poured herself a cup of coffee and carried it with her, taking tiny sips as she explored the office. Wanted posters
and newspapers were stacked on a shelf in the corner. She glanced through them, wondering more about the sheriff than anything else. Like where had he gone? When would he be back, and how did he get that little scar on his chin?
Eventually, cooking drew her back into the other room. She’d just transferred the biscuits onto a plate when the front door opened. Violet wasn’t sure why her heart skipped a beat, other than she’d been thinking about her future, of having a meal on the table when her husband came home. It’s what she’d always wanted—a family where everyone loved one another. Up until now that had been impossible. Eleanor had seen to that. Violet had tried, as she’d promised her mother she would from the moment they’d moved into John’s house, but Eleanor had never ceased reminding her that they weren’t sisters—that John wasn’t Violet’s father—right up until the moment she’d boarded the train for Montana.
The sound of stomping boots jostled her and she moved to carry the plate to the table, glancing through the open doorway in the process. Chayston was knocking the snow from his pant legs, and she couldn’t help but speculate about his father again and hope just a bit that the General was perhaps as handsome as his son. A tiny bit of excitement danced inside her at the thought of sending Eleanor a letter about her new, overly handsome husband. That would be spiteful, but spite was something Eleanor knew well.
Violet went back to the stove to retrieve the pot of bacon and beans. Chayston entered the room, and frowned deeply as he glanced from the table to her then to the table again as he moved toward the hooks where her coat hung. After moving a few other things, he hung up his coat and hat, and her heart fluttered again. His hair was dark brown, cut short and parted on the side. Once again, writing Eleanor came to mind, but this time a small portion of her optimism plummeted. Her stepsister would write back and point out her new husband was probably too old to want more children.
Without a word, Violet filled a cup of coffee for the sheriff and then sat down, placing both hands in her lap while waiting for him to take the opposite chair.
Chayston’s nerves were in high gear, ticking beneath his skin as if he was o waiting for robbers to strike. That had only happened once, and they’d captured all three, but he’d never forget the sensation. Keeping his eyes averted, he moved to the sink and washed his hands, slowly. He hadn’t expected this. A meal on the table that smelled so good he was practically drooling.
Violet Ritter, without her red scarf and encompassing gray coat, was something of a surprise, too. He’d known she was tiny from carrying her, but he hadn’t notice how unique her eyes were—pale blue like the sky early in the morning. He hadn’t noticed her hair, either. It was as yellow as dandelions and though it was pinned up, several corkscrews hung around her face and ears. The women of Spring Valley were going to be in an uproar when they spied her, and his father would be the target of their disdain. For years, every widow in town had their sights set on the General, and being overthrown by someone this pretty, and young enough to be his daughter, was sure to set tongues wagging.
Chayston had been in their sights, too, mainly for their daughters. Up until Becca, he’d laughed them off, and after Becca, the thought of marriage left him disgusted.
He flipped the towel over the hook next to the sink and made his way to the table. Despite the wonderful scents filling the air, his stomach had soured. Why did he have to be the sheriff right now? The ruckus following Miss Violet Ritter was going to be worse than what those robbers had caused.
Chapter Three
Chayston spent most of the meal trying not to look at Violet. It hadn’t worked very well. His eyes were drawn to her, and a little voice in his head was conjuring up things the men in town might say about her. Like how she was the prettiest thing they’d ever seen and how lucky the General was.
After taking a long swig of coffee—which he almost choked on—he said, “Thank you. That was very good.”
Her smile was tiny and the shine of her cheeks appeared bashful. “I’m glad you liked it.”
“I did,” he answered honestly. “And I didn’t expect it.”
She frowned and tilted her head to one side slightly. “Expect it?”
“Yes, expect it.” He took another swallow of coffee. “You didn’t need to cook.”
With a little shrug, she said, “I’ve been cooking for as long as I can remember.” After patting her lips with her napkin, she added, “My mother taught me. For the last three years, since she died, I’ve been in charge of preparing all the meals.”
“For who?”
“My stepfather and stepsister, and for the past four months since her marriage, my stepsister’s husband.”
“In Ohio?” he asked, already knowing her answer. Other than her name and where she was from, the General hadn’t said much, just to bring her to the ranch posthaste.
“Yes,” she said. “Ohio.” Straightening her already stiff-back posture, she added, “I’m sorry I didn’t have time to make something for dessert.”
“I’m used to faring for myself, so I don’t have desserts very often.” Chayston met her gaze again. “Not like the General. But he has a cook.”
“He does?”
Why he wanted her to know that wasn’t clear, yet he said, “Yes, a fine one.”
She nodded, never looking his way. After a few quiet seconds had ticked by, she asked, “Who is the woman in the picture?”
Busy contemplating how his father might have found her, it was a moment before her question registered. “What picture?”
“The one on the shelf with the teacups.”
He glanced across the room. “That would be Roy’s wife,” he said. “How’d you and the General start writing?”
“We didn’t write,” she said. “Who’s Roy?”
“The sheriff,” he answered. “Did you send telegrams to each other?”
She frowned and shook her head. “No, the General and my stepfather wrote to each other. I thought you were the sheriff.”
“Who’s your father?”
The tiniest little laugh sounded as she set her chin in her palm and gazed across the table. “Can we stick to one subject?”
More curious than he should be, Chayston answered, “Sure. Who’s your father?”
She let out a small sigh, but answered, “John Lassiter.”
Recognition surprised him. “Lieutenant John Lassiter?”
Her eyes took on a shimmering brightness and a full smile found her lips. “Yes. Did you know him? He and the General were stationed together.”
“They were, and yes, I knew him. Before the General left the army for ranching, we all lived at the fort. The General and John were close friends.” Chayston had to grin, remembering how John had given him a knife one year for Christmas—back when he looked forward to the holiday. “How is John?”
Her smile faded, so did the gleam in her eye. “He died two—no three weeks ago.”
Remorse washed over Chayston. Unable to come up with anything better, he said, “I’m sorry.”
She sniffled and rubbed at her nose. “I am too.”
At a loss, Chayston picked up his coffee and swallowed the last—now very cold—mouthful.
“So,” she said, “how can both you and Roy be the sheriff?”
“I’m just filling in for Roy Galveston. He captured a couple of bandits, robbers who’d hit a few trains and banks, last fall, and took them down to Texas where they were wanted for their crimes. He’ll be back by the end of
January.” Chayston hoped that was still the plan. He’d had enough of being a lawman and was ready to get back to ranching. The General had insisted he wouldn’t be needed at the ranch during the slower winter months and could fill in while Roy went south, and the town council agreed, which was usual. No one ever defied the General. His mother said he’d be like that, too, someday. She’d been right, at least when it came to the stubborn and bullheaded traits.
A shiver rippled his spine, like a goose walking over his grave—another of his mother’s sayings—and Chayston let his gaze settle on Violet, who was looking at him just as seriously.
Then, pushing away from the table, he rose.
She jumped to her feet too. “Could we make a deal?”
Another shiver almost paralyzed him. “What sort of deal?”
“I’ll clean up.” She gestured toward the table and then the stove. “And cook all the meals until the weather lets up enough for me to travel to the General’s ranch, if you let me sleep in here instead of in a jail cell.”
He’d already figured he’d be the one sleeping in the cell, even before learning she was John Lassiter’s daughter, but there was worry in her eyes and for some inexplicable reason, he wanted to tease it away. “You’ll make desserts?”
Watching the smile form on her lips was like watching a sunrise.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ll make desserts.”
Chayston tried to swallow the thickness forming in his throat but couldn’t. He should go back out in the snow, find someplace else for her to stay. She was far too pretty, too...feminine to stay here with him. Alone.
Snowbound With the Sheriff Page 2
