Pleasance's First Love: A Six Brides for Six Gideons Novella (Book 3) (Grandma's Wedding Quilts 6)

by Kristin Holt

  After Sandusky and the Bank of Leadville turned down his request for a loan to invest in stock, he should put every available bit of money on that mortgage and pay it off. As early as possible.

  “Beautiful.” Pleasance drew in a deep breath.

  Her sincerity made it awful hard to shake off the memories of that last great fight. Her taunts about his dream, this dream, as worthless. They’d both been angry. Not his finest moment. Nor hers.

  “No better place on earth.” The Running G was his home. He’d spend his days here. The place would grow, in time. So would his fame and fortune. He’d die here, and be glad for it.

  Her doubts had spurred him on, kept him slaving like a dog in scorching summer heat, never pausing to take a day off. He’d been desperate to prove her wrong.

  “Congratulations. I’m proud of you.”

  “Thank you.” Finally, that day had come when he’d proved her wrong.

  The pleasure was fleeting and hollow, so he focused on the land, the view, the serenity he always found in his own accomplishments. The sun heated his back, anchored him in the beauty of nature.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She’d whispered, but he heard her just fine.

  “I was cruel.” She turned to look at him again, her eyes round and haunted. “I didn’t mean it. Your dream was worth it—a credible, valuable dream. You’ve more than made good on it.”

  He nodded, accepting her words and all they meant. A cool wash of relief swept through him, almost as good as a dunking in the river.

  “I never should have left.” She held his gaze, strong and sure and determined. “I regret staying away. I’m sorry for both choices, and I admit I was a fool.”

  What was he to say to that? He’d made his choices, and she’d made hers. So much water beneath the bridge.

  “I have no explanation,” she said. “No excuses.”

  Humility had never been Pleasance’s strong suit. She’d had enough pride for the both of them.

  The Pleasance of four years ago never would have apologized. The Pleasance he’d known and loved wouldn’t have asked forgiveness.

  Hold a grudge? Withhold forgiveness? Maybe. Probably.

  But not accept ownership and apologize with this kind of humility.

  That fight—that awful last fight—had haunted him for years. Truth be told, it still did. So why didn’t he feel more satisfaction in this moment?

  Pleasance reached for his hand, spanning the space between them. He might not be able to reach for her wholly, pull her onto his lap across the saddle, but he could accept her hand. He squeezed her familiar fingers, and considered bringing them to his lips.

  “I loved you then,” she stated with certainty. “And I still love you.”

  “Whoa—” He swallowed, his throat dry. He dropped her hand, pulled back in. “Whoa. You don’t love me.”

  Instead of arguing with him, insisting that she knew her own mind—exactly what the old Pleasance would have done—she watched him, far too closely. He hadn’t managed to rile her. She crossed her wrists on the horn of Baroness’s saddle, at ease in the saddle and work clothes. He looked harder for any sign he’d irritated her at all.

  After several long seconds had passed, Pleasance murmured an almost amused, “Is that so? Do explain yourself. Why is it that you’re certain I don’t love you?”

  What was wrong with him? Couldn’t he accept an apology like a man? What was so wrong within him that he instantly denied her claim of love?

  He wrestled with leftover emotions, ties to her he didn’t want.

  “This two-week trial isn’t about love, Ann. Love is a luxury for the wealthy or the young and foolish. My top priority is building my herd, paying the mortgage, and ensuring my property and business are secure. That’s why you’re here—and you understood that, Ann—if you told me the entire truth in your letters.”

  He goaded her, and he knew it. Shame didn’t fit so well, but he held her gaze and waited her out.

  She smiled, but sadness showed in every curve, every line, and in the dampened blue of her eyes. She nodded, a sign of patience and understanding she shouldn’t have been capable of.

  “It seems prudent,” she said, “that our two-week trial is as honest and up-front as can be. That includes how love figures in.”

  Her tone was even, but he heard the unspoken challenge. Almost as if she dared him to take a risk. This woman had destroyed him, more than anybody knew, when she’d turned tail and left Denver. Left him.

  It seemed mighty foolish to bare his heart, let her near him, at least until he witnessed with his own two eyes if her newfound maturity extended to staying power.

  Maybe she’d take. Maybe she wouldn’t.

  Only time would tell.

  If two weeks rolled around—no, make that a solid month, a good five-weeks. Maybe then—maybe—he’d let himself feel something for her.

  He touched his heels to Note’s flanks and kept his eyes on the track ahead, winding down from the knoll on the opposite side. He hadn’t let Pleasance take the lead, not once, and with good reason—those denims. He didn’t need to follow that shapely behind all the way back to the stables.

  ‘Sides, she expected a reply, and some things a man had to say without baring his soul, or worse, looking a woman in the eye. “We’ll see how it goes. Could be the two of us can love each other again.” Scared him to death to admit it out loud, so he added, “And maybe not.”

  The minute Pleasance heard Jacob enter the bathing room to wash up for supper, she quickly set the basket of rolls on the table and scurried into the back hall.

  He bent over the wash bowl, surprising her—again—at just how big he’d grown. Perspiration had dampened his shirt, and it stuck to his skin. Should’ve been distasteful, but instead, the image reinforced the strength, leanness, and play of muscles.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Need something?”

  She cleared her throat. “Yes.”

  She’d come in here for a reason—something specific to chastise, uh…congratulate him for. Oh, yes. Heavens. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re searching for your family?”

  He’d lathered soap all the way up his forearms, bared by rolling the long sleeves nearly to his elbows. She liked that look on him. He truly had eye-catching arms.

  “I know right where my family is. One of ‘em is in this house.”

  “I’m not talking about Fran and the O’Kanes.” She ought to be aggravated, but she’d found it surprisingly easy to control her temper. “Your brothers. The ones you told me, years ago, were lost when you were little.”

  “They’re not lost. I figure they know right where they are.”

  He dried his hands on a towel. Those clear, light eyes, such a sharp contrast to his dark hair and the beard stubble that appeared by noon each day, caught her with the precision of a lasso. Had he any idea, any idea at all, how he affected her?

  Let him talk circles around her. If that’s what he had to do, to be at peace with the unknown, so be it. “I’m genuinely excited about the possibilities, Jake, and I’m happy for you.”

  “You know somethin’? The way you came bursting in here, seeking me out, all bubbling over with enthusiasm? You remind me of when we were kids.”

  She wanted to stick her tongue out at him. “Am I to be flattered by the comparison?”

  “I’m smiling, aren’t I?”

  He was, and that smile did all the same crazy things to her…like before.

  “Did you know,” she paused to moisten her bottom lip, “not one man caught my eye in Europe?”

  His smile dimmed. His mouth had relaxed, and the fullness of both upper and lower lips struck her, again, as far too pretty on a man. If he’d been an attractive man at twenty-three, at twenty-seven, he’d outgrown “attractive”. So much more than handsome.

  “Maybe,” he said as he balled up the towel and threw it into the laundry basket in the corner—that arm, bunched and every muscle defined— “If our…arrang
ement progresses beyond the two-week mark, we’ll discuss it. ‘Til then, all talk of who you might’ve kept company with is off limits. Understand?”

  No, she didn’t understand. “I saw no one.”

  He glared at her. “Two weeks, Pleasance. Not a moment earlier.”

  “Says you. She folded her arms, held his beautiful eyes and waited. He might think he could hide his reactions from her, but the truth was, she could see in those clear depths just how happy it made him that she’d not taken up with anybody else. She’d let it go. For now.

  He’d be more willing to talk of his brothers, now that he’d think he’d diverted her talk from something worse. “Fran told me you brought two letters back from Leadville yesterday. Tell me about it.”

  “Not much to tell.”

  Was the man intentionally trying to rile her? She raised one eyebrow, waited, and smiled sweetly.

  “As you seem to have heard from Fran, I hired a private detective.”

  “Go on.”

  “She seems to have verified that the two names I remember—John and Beau—are on some census record. She found the rest of my brothers—”

  “She did?” Elated, thrilled, Pleasance bounced on her tiptoes and before she realized what she’d done, she’d hurled herself into Jake’s arms. The reaction was just so natural, such a habit…

  He held her there, flush against him, his hands splayed on her lower back and his eyes, silver in the waning light of day, darkening to pewter.

  “Yes.” His throat worked as he swallowed. His eyes fastened to hers and she could’ve drowned in the depths. “She.”

  Pleasance shook that revelation off. Women could be investigators if they wanted to. All she cared about was Jacob. And his family. And his ranch and his success…

  “Where are they? Where are your brothers? Your parents?”

  “Hold your horses. She didn’t write to report where they are. Just that she’d verified their names. And where they were twenty-five years ago.”

  “Twenty-five—”

  With a don’t-argue-with-me glare, he set her on her own two feet, and folded his arms.

  As if that would keep her from hugging him. If she felt like it.

  “Twenty-five years ago?” she repeated. “You would’ve been, what, two? Three?”

  “Yes. The 1850 census.”

  “That’s ancient history.”

  “Did you just call me ancient?” He winked.

  The years fell away, and they were young again. Running, squealing, playing. Sitting in the grass and talking. He’d winked at her whenever he’d teased…and that had been often. She’d loved how he’d teased. Playful. Kind. He’d made her feel adored.

  Oh, how deeply she’d loved him.

  She gathered herself, remembering the conversation. “She’ll be able to find more information? Pick up the trail?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I hope she does.”

  Movement in the kitchen, the sound of the oven door shutting with a thud, reminded her supper would be on the table. Time to give up this happy bubble with just the two of them and a reason to celebrate.

  “Thanks.” He reached for her, as if to brush the side of his finger along her cheek. He’d touched her like that, with love and reverence and awe, so many times. Even though he dropped his hand, she had no trouble remembering his touch.

  Chapter Eight

  Two days later, Jacob’s mood had turned sour.

  He found himself snapping at the dogs, scowling at the men, losing patience with the horses, and assigning Pleasance ridiculous chores—all in the name of showing her what she was in for—while sand slipped through the proverbial hourglass.

  Two weeks.

  One third of that time had evaporated.

  Panic had latched onto him hard before dawn, driving him out of bed an hour ahead of time, too restless to sleep.

  At this rate, she wouldn’t leave—at least not when he wanted her to. Knowing her, she’d wait until he loved her more than ever, until her leaving would tear his heart out by the roots.

  He leaned back against the barn, grinding his molars, clenching his fists, and listening to her work inside.

  The scrape of shovel against hard-packed earth, the rasp of metal against wooden stalls, the drag of her boots over straw-strewn floor.

  A breeze picked up, carrying the odors of freshly mowed hay, horse, and wood smoke.

  The cooling temperature should’ve lowered his temper, but knowing he’d put Pleasance—a lady—to work doing a man’s job made his fuse even shorter.

  For two days, he’d been unbearably hard on her. Ever since she’d shown joy over the private detective locating his family in census records a quarter of a century old.

  Since she’d hugged him with unfettered happiness, he’d thought of little else than holding on tight and begging her to stay.

  He must stick to his guns, prove to her what life on this ranch was really like. Guilt had no place in this two-week trial. None at all. He’d ignore his desire to treat her like the lady she was, no matter what.

  He’d ignore his desires to hold her, feel her warm, little fingers wrapped in his.

  No matter what, he would not embrace her again. And no kissing. Absolutely no kissing.

  He couldn’t give up now.

  Especially since Pleasance was doing remarkably well. Where is the little girl who did whatever she could to avoid work?

  Where was the young woman who wanted to be on stage? Why was she content to rise early, get her hands and clothes dirty, and work ‘til sundown?

  She wasn’t the same girl who’d walked away from him, that summer in the garden, any more than he was the same man who’d grieved her loss.

  That man, the man he’d been before, would never have made her chop firewood and fill every bin—that still rankled. Everybody knew cutting firewood was a man’s job.

  He’d tasked her with milking both cows, mucking stalls, weeding the garden, bottling green peas, mending a pile of work clothes two feet thick, and…

  He detested himself.

  Test or no test, valid purpose or not, he’d obviously made things harder on Pleasance than necessary.

  He dropped his head, hard, back against the barn’s exterior wall.

  Mrs. O’Kane, the only ma he remembered, would turn him over her knee. Paddle him good, she would, for treating a lady like a hired hand, for no reason other than loving him.

  Music…sweet and lyrical, floated from the barn.

  Pleasance was humming.

  Mucking out stalls, and humming.

  No funeral dirge either. Happy, buoyant music that put him in mind of the kind of happiness he’d only ever known with her.

  Two days ago, he might’ve figured she put on a show. Tried to convince him she was happy here, that she’d actually changed enough to want this high mountain valley over the glamour of France.

  But not now. He’d ordered the stalls mucked out, showed her where to dump the waste and how much fresh straw to cover the floors with…and made up some nonsense about work he headed out to do. He’d told her he’d see her in an hour or two.

  She had no reason to believe anyone was around, especially not him.

  Didn’t that, above anything else, show him which way the wind blew?

  He’d been downright mean. She hadn’t complained, not one word, though Fran had given him an earful.

  Pleasance’s humming gave way to singing. Not that fancy opera nonsense no one could understand, but a ballad, a soft and beautiful ballad that made the love he’d once felt for her—all right, he could admit it—the love he’d never stopped feeling for this aggravating, wonderful woman, stir and expand and stretch his chest until it hurt.

  She sang.

  And she worked. He heard the shovel thud against wooden stall, knew by the rhythm of her strokes exactly where she was in the process. Knew, innately, the odors and unpleasantness…and heard her Paris-trained voice singing of a love that surpassed sunset and sunrise,
the changing of the seasons, and the finality of death.

  Was it possible to fall in love, again, when he’d never stopped?

  He shoved away from the barn, strode fast and sure and determined, straight for the house. He couldn’t stand in the shade, not one second longer, and listen to her voice. The timbre and full-bodied resonance only reminded him that nothing went as planned.

  He paused in the bathing room long enough to wash up, like always, only to notice that the towels on the bar had been embroidered. Dainty little flowers in sprigs of yellow and blue…

  In the kitchen, dishtowels. New and bright with pinks and oranges. Embroidered with hours and hours of work. The dining room table, usually bare, displayed a tablecloth with embroidery and hand-tatted lace all the way around the edges.

  What had happened?

  What—whose?…but he knew.

  Pleasance’s trousseau.

  Her personal touches on his home. Handiwork she’d made throughout the last decade of her life, planned and prepared for the time she’d set up housekeeping.

  Pain, sharp and intense, so much like he’d suffered endlessly when she’d left him the first time. Pain that reminded him of broken ribs.

  Could his heart hurt this badly?

  She’d told him, hadn’t she? That she’d sing for a while. A couple years. Then she’d be back. She’d return, and she’d marry him.

  She’d said she was committed to him, wanted to wed him…

  What, exactly, was he to do? Take a risk he knew better than to take? Allow himself to love her, really, wholly, love her?

  This—this trial period—this having her in his home, wasn’t supposed to be this hard.

  He fought a losing battle.

  He wandered from the dining room into the parlor, noticed the doilies she must have brought with her, ‘cause he’d never seen them before.

  Maybe this battle wasn’t one he wanted to fight.

  At the dinner table that night, Pleasance nearly fell asleep. Fran had prepared one of Pleasance’s mother’s regulars—roast chicken with the right blend of herbs and spices. She’d felt every bit of Fran’s welcome.