High Country Bride

by Linda Lael Miller

  The Texan, the very man who had ruined her, walked right into the lobby, big as life, and straight up to the desk. Clive was nowhere to be seen.

  Impatient, he pounded on the bell, then glanced in her and Rafe’s direction, looked away, and looked back. Her fleeting hope that he wouldn’t recognize her was gone in an instant, for a slight smile curved his mouth. Well, his expression seemed to say, hello there.

  That was it. Emmeline’s knees buckled, the world shrank to a black speck, and she folded to the floor.

  When she awakened, she was lying on the lobby sofa with a cold cloth on her forehead, and Rafe was perched beside her, chafing her wrist and saying her name over and over again. She could see the stranger standing a little distance away, his arms folded, watching her thoughtfully.

  She blinked, trying to make him disappear, like some vestige of a bad dream, but he was still there when she opened her eyes again.

  Rafe was visibly relieved that she’d come around, but there was something more in his expression, too. Delight. She thought she knew what he was thinking—that they’d conceived a child already and he would have the heir he wanted so much. She would have cried, if she’d had any tears left.

  “Should I fetch a doctor?” the Texan asked. What was his name again? Holt Something, or Something Holt. The devil take him, what was he doing in Indian Rock, of all places? With the whole country to choose from, he had to end up there?

  “No, thanks,” Rafe said, still smiling. “A good night’s sleep and my wife will be just fine.”

  “Good,” said the Texan. His expression was pensive.

  Rafe lifmmeline into his arms as though she were an invalid. Then he went behind the registration desk, still carrying her, and managed to take the key to room 2 from its box. He nodded to the stranger, who nodded in return, and headed for the corridor at the back of the lobby.

  Emmeline, looking over Rafe’s shoulder, met the Texan’s laughing gaze. He waggled his fingers in farewell, and Emmeline squeezed her eyes shut and didn’t open them again until the door of number 2 closed behind them with a crisp click.

  Rafe laid her tenderly on the bed, unlaced her shoes, and pulled them off her feet. Then he spread a coverlet over her.“You just rest,” he said quietly.“I’ll get you a glass of water.”

  The kindness he’d shown her made Emmeline’s throat constrict, along with her heart, and she could only nod. He left the room, returning a few minutes later with the promised water, which he set on the bedside table. Her purchases at the mercantile had been sent over earlier; she saw the brown-paper bundles resting on the bureau top, neatly tied with string.

  She began to cry, dry-eyed and hurting.

  “Shhh,” Rafe said, stroking her forehead.

  She cried harder.“Don’t be so nice to me!” she wailed.

  “Why not?” he asked, his fine brow knitted into a frown.

  “I don’t know!” she sobbed, and he only looked more confused.

  He patted her hand. “You just rest, now,” he said. Then he kicked off his boots, removed his suit coat, and stretched out beside her on the bed, sharing the coverlet, holding her gently in his arms, as though he feared she might break.“Just rest. I’ll be right here if you need me.”

  She closed her eyes and, almost instantly, she slept.

  When she awakened, the room was dark and she was alone. She sat bolt upright and felt an immediate flash of pain in her midsection. She knew then that her monthly had come, at last, and with a vengeance. She got up, found some towels, and addressed the situation as best she could.

  Rafe returned to find her sitting in the one chair the room boasted, a blanket spread over her lap. Becky, feeling better herself, had stopped by to check on her, found her ailing, and provided a heated brick, wrapped in flannel, and some aspirin powder. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, which she had remade with fresh sheets and blankets, sipping tea and keeping a motherly eye on Emmeline.

  “What’s the matter?” Rafe asked, clearly alarmed. He had a package under his arm, and he set it aside on the bureau, with the others, before approaching Emmeline and bending to kiss her cheek.

  Emmeline would have expected to be glad about her monthly, but she wasn’t, entirely. “I’m—” she began, but then her voice just fell away, and she couldn’t finish.

  “She’s having her womanly time,” Becky said diplomatically.

  Rafe’s face registered the meaning of that, and disappointment moved like a shadow in his eyes, but he recovered fairly quickly.“Do you hurt?” he asked.

  Emmeline swallowed hard, nodded. “I’ve spoiled our honeymoon,” she lamented.

  He shook his head. “No,” he said gently. Then he retrieved the square package e’d set on the bureau, laid it in her lap.“Open it,” he urged.

  Hands trembling a little, Emmeline wrestled with the string and paper, revealing a leather keepsake album embossed with gold letters: OUR FAMILY.

  “We’ve got plenty of time,” Rafe said softly.

  Emmeline looked at the album, and then at her husband, and then she began to cry again.

  Rafe was obviously confounded, but Becky patted his shoulder. “It’s all right,” she said. “She’s just happy, that’s all.”

  Chapter 8

  “WELL,” BECKY SAID, assessing her old friend thoughtfully, as the two of them sat at a table in the dining room of the Territorial Hotel, having tea and coffee, “what brings you to Indian Rock?”

  Holt Cavanagh grinned, drained his mug, and signaled the waiter—the redoubtable Clive—for a second serving. “I might ask you the same question,” he said. “You’re about the last person I expected to run into out here.” He paused, frowned slightly. “Or, maybe, the second to the last.”

  Becky smiled sweetly.“I asked you first,” she said.

  “So you did,” he admitted. He waited until Clive had poured his coffee and scuttled away before saying,“I have some family business to take care of.”

  “Isn’t that a coincidence?” Becky replied.“So have I.”

  Holt chuckled. “You planning on putting down roots around here?”

  “I’ll probably move on in time,” Becky said, picking up the plain crockery teapot and pouring herself more tea. When, and if, things got bad, as her Kansas City doctor had warned they would, she didn’t want to be a burden on Emmeline and her new husband. Far better to be off on her own someplace, like an old bear holed up in a cave.“What about you?”

  “I probably won’t stay put,” Holt said. “Never have so far.”Until then, Becky had never really noticed how attractive he was, with his broad shoulders, wavy brown hair, and mischievous hazel eyes. She reckoned Holt was probably somewhere in his mid-thirties, and although he talked like a drifter, she knew he’d prospered in the cattle business. The two of them had made several joint investments and done well. He’d been a good customer during his infrequent visits to Kansas City, and a favorite with the girls at the boardinghouse. Becky didn’t see clients personally, and hadn’t for some years, so she’d never been intimate with him, and she was glad of that now that they were face-to-face in an environment outside her place of business.

  “You plan on announcing to everybody in Indian Rock that I ran a brothel back in Missouri?” she asked, after making sure that odious Clive fellow wasn’t lurking within hearing distance.

  Holt sat back, causing his wooden chair to creak. “Now, why would I do that?” he asked, sounding a bit indignant. There was a wicked light ding in those eyes of his, though, giving the lie to his expression of affronted innocence.

  Becky leveled her gaze at him. “You’ll forgive me,” she said dryly, “if I have acquired a somewhat suspicious approach to the subject of human nature over the years.”

  He smiled. “I suppose you have,” he said. “As it happens, so have I, so I reckon we understand each other, you and I.” He waxed solemn, looking out the window just as Rafe and Emmeline came along, arm in arm, back from one of their promenades. “That young woman—”
he began.

  “My niece,” Becky hastened to say.“She and Mr. McKettrick are newly married. I think they make a lovely couple.” She paused, measuring him, and his apparent interest in Emmeline. Becky hadn’t run a thriving brothel all these years for nothing; she knew when a man was interested in a woman, and when he was interested. “Don’t you?”

  Holt didn’t answer, but when Emmeline and Rafe came into the dining room, he rose from his chair. Despite his odd fascination of moments before, he seemed more interested in Rafe now than in Emmeline, studying him the way he did, with both intentness and solemnity.

  Emmeline went pale at the sight of Holt; Becky noticed that right away, although Rafe seemed blithely unaware of his wife’s discomfort. Typical, Becky thought. Men worried about all the wrong things, and all the wrong people, and then were blindsided by a situation or a foe that should have been obvious to them from the beginning.

  Holt put out a hand to Rafe.“Hello,” he said, a little too heartily, in Becky’s opinion. “Name’s Holt Cavanagh.” He nodded to Emmeline as he and Rafe shook hands.“I hope you’re feeling better today, ma’am.”

  Emmeline dropped gratefully into the chair Rafe drew back for her. “Yes,” she said weakly, fooling no one. “I am much recovered, thank you.”

  “Rafe McKettrick,” Rafe said.

  “Good to make your acquaintance,” Holt replied.

  Becky took Emmeline’s hand, squeezed it reassuringly, as Rafe, too, sat down. Emmeline was plainly uncomfortable in Holt’s presence, and Becky wondered why. She hadn’t mentioned that she and Holt had known each other in Kansas City, of course, and she was grateful that Holt had the good sense not to do so, either. So what was it?

  The possibility, when it struck her, had the impact of a speeding freight train.

  Dear God, she thought. Oh, dearest God.

  “You two seem to know each other,” Rafe said easily, his gaze moving from Holt to Becky, after Clive had brought coffee for him and tea for Emmeline.

  “Actually,” Holt replied, without missing a beat, “we just got acquainted this afternoon. I was sitting alone, and Mrs. Fairmont very kindly invited me to join her.”

  Emmeline’s eyes, while still huge, looked slightly less feverish. Her hand shook a little, though, as she reached for her teacup and raised it to her lips.

  “We’ve just about finished our business in town,” Rafe said, blissfully unaware of all the complex nuances at play in their midst, “so I reckon we’ll head out for home.” He smiled at Becky.“You’ll join us, won’t you? Pa will want to meet you.=

  Becky nodded and acted pleasantly surprised by the invitation, though in point of fact she’d intended to pay a call at the Triple M in any event. She wanted to see for herself what kind of home her precious girl was settling into, and she had some advice for Angus McKettrick concerning the management of his hotel. From what she’d seen of that establishment, she expected him to be a bit of a dullard. “Of course I’ll join you. If I won’t be imposing.”

  Emmeline tossed her a frantic look, and Becky didn’t know for sure whether the girl wanted her to come to the ranch or stay away. Instead of saying anything one way or the other, Emmeline just lowered her head and took another sip of tea.

  Becky wanted to shake her. Emmeline had not been raised to act like a mouse, after all, but a strong woman. Why else had Becky tolerated the girl’s insane penchant for adventure, if not to assure that she would learn to take care of herself?

  “Pa will be real happy to meet Emmeline’s aunt,” Rafe went on, oblivious. “It’s worried him some, and me, too, that she was so far from any people of her own.”

  Holt cleared his throat, managed something like a smile. “Your pa would be Angus McKettrick, then?” he asked Rafe, in the tone of someone who was confirming a suspicion. What was he up to? Becky wondered. Emmeline had a part in it, surely, but there was more—she was sure of that.

  “That’s right,” Rafe said. Becky figured he must have taken a few thumps in the head somewhere along the way, though he seemed pretty intelligent and well spoken, too. He plainly had no idea that all was not what it seemed. Goodness, the very air itself was charged; Becky wouldn’t have been surprised to see St. Elmo’s fire dance across the tabletops. “We’re always looking for hands if you need work.”

  “I might take a job at that,” Holt said easily. “I could use the wages.”

  Becky narrowed her eyes slightly, pondering. Holt Cavanagh might have been a lot of things, but broke wasn’t one of them. She had an unerring instinct where men and money were concerned, and Holt wasn’t the kind who let himself run short.

  “Then it’s settled,” Rafe said. “I’m the Triple M foreman, so I’ve got the authority to hire you. If you can ride and punch cattle, you’re hired. You get thirty dollars a month, all the grub you can eat, and a bed in the bunkhouse.”

  “Sounds good,” Holt replied, and it seemed to Becky that there was something a little ironic about his smile.

  “I’ll ride out with the rest of you, if that’s all right.”

  Emmeline clung to the edge of the wagon seat with both hands as she and Rafe and Becky jostled over the countryside between Indian Rock and the Triple M on that hot summer afternoon. She was over the terrible cramps that had heralded her monthly, and Rafe had been very understanding, considering that their honeymoon had been spoiled, but her troubles were far from over.

  Now that Holt Cavanagh had arrived, she feared they were just beginning.

  The sun was low in the western sky when they reached the ranch house, after a couple of hours of hard travel, and Emmeline was so glad to see the place that she almost forgot what a mess she’d gotten herself i. Almost, but not quite.

  Mr. Cavanagh, who rode a fine sorrel gelding, expensively saddled, turned off toward the bunkhouse, as a hired hand might be expected to do. There was a lot of commotion going on over there; some of the cowboys were playing horseshoes.

  Emmeline watched him ride away, and might have kept right on staring after him, if Becky hadn’t pinched the back of her arm, hard, to get her attention.

  Angus came out onto the porch, as he had when Emmeline herself first arrived, with Concepcion at his side. He waved a welcome, and looked pleased to see that they had an unexpected guest. Concepcion, Emmeline noticed, seemed less enthusiastic, though she was very polite.

  Rafe pressed the brake lever hard with one foot before winding the reins around it and climbing down. He lifted Emmeline after him, then assisted Becky.

  “Mrs. Fairmont,” he said,“this is my pa, Angus McKettrick.”

  Angus put out a big, work-worn paw. “Howdy,” he said.

  “Hello,” Becky replied.

  “Mrs. Fairmont is Emmeline’s aunt,” Rafe said.

  Concepcion drew near, standing just half a step behind Angus, her brown eyes missing nothing.

  “This is Concepcion,” Emmeline hastened to say, pulling her friend forward a little way, to meet Becky. “She’s been ever so kind to me.”

  Becky, having shaken Angus’s hand, shook Concepcion’s as well. A look passed between the two women as they greeted each other. “I will always be in your debt,” Becky said.“My niece is precious to me.”

  Concepcion relaxed visibly. “Come in,” she said. “It is just like these McKettrick men to keep a guest talking in the dooryard, when there’s hot water for tea on the stove, and fresh molasses cookies to go with it.”

  Rafe and Angus set about bringing in the bags and parcels stuffed into every spare inch of the wagon bed, while Concepcion led the way into the house, through the entryway and the dining room, and into the warm, welcoming kitchen. There, she took Becky’s lightweight wrap, and then Emmeline’s, and shooed them to the table.

  “I have missed you,” Concepcion told Emmeline, as she bustled about, gathering the best china pot, a tin of tea leaves, cups and saucers. “These men!” Having set everything down, she threw her hands in the air for emphasis. “They are sorry company, indeed. Not five
words said between them, the whole time you were gone!”

  Emmeline smiled, glad to have been missed. “How is Phoebe Anne?”

  “She’s mending,” Concepcion said. “Taking a walk by the creek at the moment. Was there any word waiting in town, from her folks?”

  “Rafe brought an envelop from the telegraph office,” Emmeline said.

  “What did it say?”

  Emmeline shook her head.“I don’t know. The message was addressed to Phoebe Anne, so he didn’t open it.” She looked at Becky, then back at Concepcion.“Did you know there’s going to be a party? I brought lovely fabrics for our gowns.”

  “A party?” Concepcion beamed, still busy at the stove. “Even after what happened to ing in teltons, I’d say we have plenty of reason to celebrate. You and Rafe are married, and now your aunt has come all this way to visit.”

  Emmeline glanced at Becky, and thought she looked a bit tired. Her joy at the prospect of a celebration waned a little, and she was filled with concern. “Maybe you’d like to lie down, after tea,” she began, but Becky cut her off before she could go on.

  “Nonsense,” she said. “I feel fine. If anybody’s fragile around here, Miss Emmeline, it’s you, not I.”

  Emmeline subsided slightly, feeling almost as though she’d been reprimanded. “I’m perfectly all right!” she protested, after a brief pause spent rallying.

  Concepcion served the tea and sat down in her usual place at the table for a chat. “Emmeline didn’t tell us you were planning to come and see her,” she said, watching Becky over the rim of her cup.

  “It was meant to be a surprise,” Becky said, somewhat airily.“And I’ll be moving on quite soon.”

  Concepcion absorbed this news with equanimity.“Not too soon, I hope,” she said. “We are very fond of Emmeline here, but I’m sure she’s been homesick, and longed to see a familiar face.”