That night she’d cried herself to sleep. “That pest” was bad enough, but worse, far worse, was “Don’t tell her-” Randall had gotten closer to Gabe than herself.
Now here he was again, keeping Gabe from her, sharing secrets with him, shutting her out. He’d been the enemy then and he was the enemy now.
Darkness was falling fast, causing the mountains to retreat into the gloom. Soon they were past and the plain stretched ahead. Without taking her eyes from the road, Claire said, “Gabe told me you were bringing something special-a gift to the ranch, he said, but he wouldn’t tell me what.”
“That’s right. It’s back there.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
Randall hesitated. This wasn’t the time or the place that he would have chosen. “Gabe was boasting about his herd of Herefords, so I started boasting about Rex. He’s my prize Hereford bull, and what he hasn’t won, isn’t worth winning, and one thing led to another-” he paused delicately.
“Are you saying you’ve brought bull semen?” Claire demanded bluntly.
“Yes,” he said, nettled. “Since you want to take the bull by the-er-horns, yes, it’s bull semen.”
“Why not just say so?”
“Well-a man hesitates to-I mean, with a lady he’s only just met, there are certain topics that-in polite company-hell! Why didn’t Gabe tell you?”
“Probably because he was having a good laugh imagining this conversation.”
“That sounds like Gabe.”
“Anyway, no need to worry about polite company. You’re on the MBbar now.”
They had just that minute passed through the wide gate with the MBbar fixed over it, which meant three more miles until they reached the house. At last it appeared, to Randall’s relief, for he was aching to stretch his long legs and get a warm drink inside him.
The ranch house was a sprawling, two-story building, under a light dusting of snow. Its center was one big room with a polished wood floor, and brightly colored rugs here and there. More rugs hung on the walls, and in the stone fireplace burned a wood fire, its leaping flames reflected in the deep red leather of the armchairs.
“Great,” Randall said, looking around at the homely comfort with pleasure. “It’s hardly changed, bar a few details, from when I spent the best summer of my life here. Am I sleeping in the same room?”
“You’re in Gabe’s room. His orders.”
She made a dive for the large bag but Randall was too quick for her, grabbing both cases and giving her a challenging look. She returned it in full measure, so that he had a grandstand view of the thrilling blue of her eyes, before leading him up the broad wooden stairs.
When she’d left him Randall surveyed the bedroom with reminiscent pleasure. This was where he and Gabe had slept last time, yakking well into the night, reading forbidden books by torchlight and sipping surreptitious slugs of whiskey. The two beds had vanished, replaced by one large enough for a big man to sprawl out on.
He thought of calling Gabe, then stopped as he realized it was the early hours of the morning in England, although only evening here. The long flight, plus the time difference, was playing havoc with his inner clock. He yawned, trying not to be overcome by jet lag.
A shower in Gabe’s bathroom made him feel better, then he searched Gabe’s wardrobe and found a check shirt and jeans, which he put on. He’d brought very few clothes of his own because Gabe had told him to make free with his.
He yawned again and stretched out on the bed, feeling glad to be here. Other considerations aside, it would get him away from the “Hon Hon”, as Gabe insisted on calling the Honorable Honoria.
The thought slipped in without warning and startled him. Only recently he’d half planned to marry Honoria. They weren’t in love, but she was eminently suitable to be an earl’s wife, and it was time he married.
Honoria thought so, too. At Earl’s party she’d attached herself to Randall. People had called them “a lovely couple.” And suddenly he felt trapped.
He wasn’t sure what had changed, unless it was the effect of Gabe parachuting into his life without warning. That had always been Gabe’s style-without warning. He was like a breath of fresh air; irresponsible, crazy Gabe, who never looked further than the next girl or the next slug of whiskey. It would be fun to “be” him for a while.
Imperceptibly, Randall ceased to fight off the jet lag.
Ten minutes later Claire knocked on his door, calling “Supper’s ready.”
Getting no answer, she looked in, and drew a sharp breath at what she saw.
The man who lay dead to the world on the bed wore Gabe’s clothes, was the same lanky shape, and with his hair tousled from the shower, the likeness was emphasised. The sight struck Claire before she had time to arm herself against it, and suddenly her eyes blurred.
Moving quietly, she came closer. It might have been Gabe, and she could dream, couldn’t she? Just for one little moment. She loved Gabe more than she could bear. He was so far away, and she was so lonely. She settled noiselessly into a chair and watched Randall, aching with some bittersweet emotion that was neither happiness nor misery, but an almost unbearable mixture of the two.
She didn’t know that he’d awoken and was regarding her through his eyelashes, puzzled by her expression.
For her sake he grunted and stirred before opening his eyes fully, and that gave her time to get hastily to her feet and compose her face.
“I looked in to say supper’s ready,” she said gruffly. “I wasn’t sure whether to wake you.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“No it’s not,” Claire said bluntly. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.” She vanished.
Randall pulled a wry face. Whatever Claire’s virtues might be, they didn’t include the social graces.
But social graces seemed to mean less than in his other life. What did matter was the long, pleasurable view of her he’d just enjoyed. Without the big sheepskin jacket Claire was revealed as slim and shapely, filling her jeans very nicely, thank you. Randall had swiftly revised his ideas. How could he ever have mistaken her for a man?
Gabe called her “my tomboy kid sister,” and no wonder if she was so set on being one of the boys. But that was a pity. From his viewpoint she had a lot of potential for being one of the girls.
Going down a few moments later, he found Claire in the kitchen, stirring something in a pot from which were coming delicious smells. She’d released her hair and it was falling about her face, softening the fierce air that she wore like armor.
Randall held out his offering, a small, insulated unit containing Rex’s finest. Claire received it without embarrassment and took it away to deposit somewhere safe. Randall looked around at the warm kitchen. In the center stood a large table, big enough to take ten, but laid for two.
“The others have had theirs,” Claire explained, returning.
“The others?”
“North, Dave, Olly. They’re all that’s here now. In summer there’d be more.”
While he waited, Randall looked around him, enjoying the sight of the old place again. Claire watched him with disapproval.
“It’s not as grand as Stanton Abbey,” she said.
Randall regarded her blankly. “Of course not. Nothing is.”
Great! she thought crossly. This snooty Englishman was so lofty that she couldn’t even needle him.
She ladled a thick stew onto two plates and set one before him. It was delicious.
As they ate he came to a sudden decision. “Mind telling me how I got on your wrong side?” he asked mildly. “There’s an atmosphere you could cut with a knife.”
“Gabe should be here attending to the ranch, not off on the other side of the world.”
“But Gabe told me this was the quiet time.”
“There is no quiet time,” Claire said firmly. “There’s a mountain of things to do.”
“Then you’ll just have to show me.” He assumed a droll manner. “I’m a quick learne
r. I’m honest and tidy and-and I don’t eat much,” he finished triumphantly.
To his delight she gave a choke of laughter before she could bite it back. It lit up her face brilliantly, and he was fascinated. Then it was gone as though she’d slammed the shutters down, but Randall continued to regard her with pleasure.
“Why are you staring at me?” she demanded.
“I was wondering where you got that ravishing red hair.”
“No idea. I was a foundling. Thought you knew.”
“That’s right, I did. Gabe found you in a box on the back porch when he was seven.”
“Right. There was a note saying that someone called ‘Abe Stevens’ was my father. He was a hand that had worked here, but he was long gone by that time.”
Randall grinned. “I remember Aunt Elaine saying how Gabe took you under his wing, acted like you were an unusual sort of puppy sent for him to play with.”
Aunt Elaine had contacted the authorities, agreeing to care for the baby until the mother could be traced. But she never was.
“Gabe even chose my name,” Claire said now. “And he badgered his Mom and Dad until they said I could stay.”
Twenty-four years later she was still here. No wonder, Randall thought, that she was devoted to her “big brother.”
“So nobody knows who I am,” Claire said. “I could be descended from thieves, murderers-” She tossed the dubious possibilities at him defiantly, almost challenging him to say that she wasn’t good enough to associate with a lord.
But she’d mistaken her man. Randall had met inverted snobbery before, and he knew how to deal with it. “Kings, queens, sultans,” he supplied. “Your blood could be bluer than mine. And let me tell you something about blue blood. It doesn’t start out that way.”
“How do you mean?”
“The Stantons were some of the shadiest characters you ever saw. Gamblers, thieves, cutthroats, all of them low-life with an eye to the main chance. They made their money in various villainous ways, and when they had enough they bought their title and their big house, and pretended they were real aristocrats. Actually, of course, they were still as common as muck, but within a few years everyone who remembered that was dead. That was when their blood turned blue.”
Claire gave another unwilling laugh. On the pretext of refilling his plate, she studied Randall, not knowing what to make of him anymore. She wasn’t used to men who talked like this. Gabe’s humor was loud, up-front and boisterous. So, for that matter, was everyone’s on the ranch. Even Aunt Elaine.
But Randall spoke with a quiet, fine honed irony; “British” humor, no doubt. It annoyed her to discover that she enjoyed it.
Randall looked up, grinning. “Don’t let anyone fool you with that ‘aristocrat’ rubbish, Claire.”
The grin was delightful. She looked away quickly. “Who’s fooled?” she asked. “I saw through you at the start.”
“I sure hope so.”
He wished she would laugh again. It made a light come on inside her, revealing things he wanted to know about. Why did she switch it off so fast?
“This food’s good,” he said. “Did you cook it?”
“It’s just a stew.”
“Best stew I ever tasted.”
Instead of appreciating the compliment she rose and threw some more logs on the floor.
“It’s been snowing on and off for the last few days,” she said, “but I reckon tonight we’ll have the big one.”
She removed his plate and set another one, bearing a large piece of cherry pie, in front of him. Before he could stop her she scooped ice cream from a tub and dumped it on his plate.
“Hey!” he protested. “Are you trying to fatten me up?”
“Gabe eats ice cream like there’s no tomorrow, and he never gets fat.”
“But I’m not Gabe,” Randall reminded her gently.
She set down the tub abruptly. “That’s right.” She removed the ice cream.
“Why don’t you tell me about the mountain of things to do?” he invited.
“The big chore in winter is feeding the stock,” she said. “They can’t graze as they would in summer because the snow covers the grass, so we bring them in closer, to where we can keep an eye on them and take hay out to them every day.”
Randall nodded. “I do the same with mine.”
“You-personally?”
“No, I have stockmen. Does that matter?”
“I just wondered how used you were to turning out into the snow. You’ll probably prefer to stay here and keep warm.”
“No, I’d prefer to come with you,” he said at once.
She was immediately conscience stricken. “Look, there’s no need. I mean, just because I riled you-”
“You don’t rile me, at least, not enough to make me do anything I don’t want to do.” He added wickedly, “But you can keep trying.”
She was too wise to answer this directly.
“Tomorrow we’ll take two trips, the first before breakfast.”
“I’ll go out with the second,” he said. “I’m not a glutton for punishment.
“We go to bed early in winter,” she said, “and get up at first light.”
Randall yawned. “Suits me.”
“Frank’s away clinching a deal for Gabe at the moment. You’ll meet the hands tomorrow.” Claire hesitated. “You may not find them easy to get to know.”
“I’ll try not to let them intimidate me. Thanks for the warning.”
They went upstairs together. In the corridor he said, “No need to escort me to my room. I’ll try to remember the way.”
“Fine. Goodnight.” Claire opened the door to her own room, but stopped as if she remembered something. “You’ll find some extra blankets in the closet. It gets real cold out here. Randall?”
He was staring over her shoulder at the little table by her bed. Claire followed his gaze, said a hasty “Goodnight” and shut the door.
Randall went on to his room, sunk in thought at what he’d seen. Right by Claire’s bed was a photo of Gabe wearing his most wicked and appealing grin.
So that was it! Claire was carrying a torch for Gabe, and she was mad at Randall for being the wrong man.
Far from being offended, Randall found himself relaxing at being with a woman who wasn’t out to catch him. After the perfect manners of Lady Honoria and other hopeful damsels, Claire’s blunt disapproval came almost as a relief.
He was smiling as he climbed into bed, and asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
Two
Randall slept poorly because he had to keep getting up for more blankets. When it got cold in Montana, he realized, it really got cold. With every possible blanket on the bed, he was still barely warm.
At the first gleam of light he rose and sat by the window, swathed in blankets, to watch the dawn come up. It was magic: dark gray at first, then lightening to pearl as it crept over the huge, silent landscape of a Montana winter. Randall watched with a sense of wonder.
The estate attached to Stanton Abbey was large, but it had nothing like the eerie vastness of the MBbar. As first one building, then another took shape, Randall had a sense of ghosts coming out of the mist. From somewhere unseen a horse whinnied softly.
At last the land appeared, gleaming white, for Claire had been right about the snow. It had fallen heavily during the night and now lay thickly on the ground and against the doors.
Randall wasn’t sentimental about snow, despite its beauty. He knew it could be a treacherous enemy, and more so than ever in an exposed place like this.
But this morning he would have more than snow to worry about. He was about to meet the hands. And he had no illusions about how important it was.
Gabe had given him a brief rundown.
“Frank’s the foreman. He and his wife have their own place on the ranch. He doesn’t say a lot, but he’s a great guy. There’s only three hands at the moment, and they live in the bunkhouse.”
He descended to find three m
en waiting for him, stamping their feet and blowing on their hands as though they’d just come in from the cold. Heads were raised as he came down the stairs. Eyes bored into him, watchful, sarcastic. It would have been unnerving if Randall had been easily unnerved.
The most prominent was a stocky, fair-haired individual in his thirties. He was handsome in a bullish, showy way, but he had a suspicious face. From Gabe’s description Randall guessed that this was Dave, the chief hand. Beside him stood a man with a long white beard, and a head of thick, white hair, whom Randall knew was called Olly.
“As long as I’ve known him he’s looked like the Oldest Living Inhabitant,” Gabe had said. “So of course he became Olly.”
Despite his white hair Randall noticed that Olly’s cheeks were ruddy, and his eyes brilliant and lively.
The third man stood slightly apart. He was youngish, maybe thirty, tall and rangy, with dark hair and eyes, and a lean face. When the other two moved forward he stayed back.
Claire appeared and made the introductions.
“This is Dave,” she said, indicating the stocky man who stretched his mouth in an unwelcoming smile. Randall felt his hand seized in a painful grip that he did his best to return with interest.
Olly’s smile was friendly enough, but his grasp too was powerful. Afterward Randall resisted the temptation to flex his fingers.
“And this is North,” Claire said, indicating the third man.
North kind of drifted forward and extended his hand vaguely, with an amiable smile. His handshake was firm without being a trial of strength. Of the three he seemed to be the only one without attitude, and Randall instinctively liked him.
Claire called, “Come and get it!” and the men converged on the kitchen.
Standing by the stove, stirring porridge, was a large, middle-aged Indian woman.
“Her name is Susan,” Gabe had told him. “We took her on last summer to help cook for the hands. But when winter came and most of them drifted away, she had nowhere else to go. So she stayed.”
And Randall had said, “Still collecting waifs and strays, I see.” Gabe’s casual kindness had always been the most endearing thing about him.
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