Her Wyoming Man

by Cheryl St. John

  She’d thought the trembling was inside.

  He picked her up in his arms, securely this time, and carried her to the bank, where he climbed out of the water and set her down. “You might want to wring out your skirts.”

  She took a step away and sat on the grass to do as he’d suggested. He ineffectually squeezed water from the cuffs of his trousers. He picked up his shoes. “We’d better go back to the house and change into dry clothing.”

  Ella gathered her stockings and shoes and joined him.

  That evening, Nathan called the family to join him in his study. The warmth of the day had waned, and he’d lit a fire. The room, filled with comfortable leather chairs and burgeoning cases of books, was pleasant and welcoming.

  Christopher opened a box of miniature figures and set them up in some sort of formation on the stone slab that comprised the hearth. His accompanying noises alerted Ella that the figures were soldiers.

  Grace settled two rag dolls on the footstool and fed them imaginary food from a tiny set of china dishes.

  Robby dumped a bag of wooden blocks on the floor and stacked them into a tower, humming to himself.

  “Grace hasn’t spoken to me yet,” Ella whispered to Nathan.

  “She doesn’t speak to me, either,” he replied. “Sometimes I hear her talking to her dolls when she’s alone in her room, though.”

  “Has she always been so silent?”

  He nodded. “She was still a baby when Robby was born and her mother died. She cries when she’s hurt or frightened, but she never asks for anything.”

  Ella studied the little girl. She was well cared for and had advantages many children didn’t. Losing her mother had undoubtedly been traumatic, but it didn’t explain her silence.

  Ella settled on the floor near the footstool. “Do you suppose I could have tea, too?”

  Grace looked her over skeptically before picking up a miniature cup and saucer and handing them to her. The child understood and responded, so there was nothing wrong with her hearing.

  “Thank you. I don’t suppose you have any cookies?”

  Grace nodded and picked something invisible from the upholstered footstool and extended her fingers toward Ella as though she held a treat.

  Ella pretended to take it and try a bite. “It’s delicious. What kind of cookie is it?”

  Grace merely tilted her head to the side as though she didn’t know and went back to feeding her dolls.

  “Definitely oatmeal with raisins,” Ella said. “They’re my favorites. How did you know that?”

  Grace said nothing, but handed her another imaginary cookie.

  Later, Ella accompanied Nathan when he tucked the children into their beds in the nursery. She studied the room, noting their books and toys and Grace’s row of dolls. Ella had never had a doll. She’d had daytime lessons and voice lessons and practiced French in the evenings. She couldn’t recall idle moments until her studies had ended at age sixteen and she’d been alone mornings while the household slept.

  On a low round table sat some sort of boat with a roof, made of wood and painted to appear as though it had dozens of windows in the cabin area. On its deck and around the outside stood a couple dozen pairs of animals. She recognized the sheep and giraffe Robby had played with in church.

  Nathan spoke softly to each of his offspring, reaching for a stuffed bear that Robby requested. By what stroke of fortune had these children been born to a man who took an active role in their care? She supposed she’d comprehended that other children had fathers. It was a natural fact that everyone had been sired by someone, but how many people knew a father like this? She never really considered it. As Nathan kissed his children, she wondered if Ansel Murdock had tucked in his children when they’d been young. During the past few years, where had he told his wife and sons he was going on Monday and Friday evenings?

  The Lantrys were a lifetime away from everything she’d known. Living among them was like being dropped into a fairy tale.

  Nathan turned down the wicks in the lamps and reached for her hand to lead her from the room.

  What would she do if Nathan routinely left for evenings out?

  A startling question loomed in her mind. Were there parlor houses and dinner clubs in Sweetwater?

  “Would you like to keep me company for the rest of the evening?” he asked as they stood in the upstairs hall.

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to bring along a book or your needlework?”

  She could sew enough to do a quick mend, but had never tried her hand at stitchery. “I’ll read,” she replied, quickly heading for her room to find a book.

  Once they were again in his study, he said, “You may spend your evenings however you like, Ella.”

  “I like it in here,” she replied. “As long as I’m not disturbing you.”

  “Of course you’re not disturbing me.” He settled on a leather armchair and glanced at her book. “What are you reading?”

  “It’s an account of an explorer named Champlain. He lived among the Huron Indians to study them. He adopted their language and customs, and became familiar with the landscape and water routes. His study of geography and Indian life inspired many men after him.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of him.” Nathan gestured for her to show him the book, and she handed it over. He glanced at the cover and then opened it. He raised his eyebrows. “It’s printed in French.”

  She nodded. “Yes, Samuel de Champlain was a Frenchman.”

  “Yes, I know he was a Frenchman. My surprise was in the fact that you’re reading the book in French.”

  She shrugged. “Many of my books are in French.”

  “You became fluent in French at Miss Haversham’s?”

  She took the book from him and settled on a nearby divan.

  “That’s a Roman divan,” he told her, getting up and moving to show her how to lift the upholstered arm. “Raise either arm until the ratchet disconnects and then you can lower it to a position so you can recline.”

  “How ingenious,” she replied.

  He left the arm lowered.

  “You could sit beside me,” she suggested.

  Nathan studied her uplifted face, the delicate curve of her cheek and the question in her eyes. Looking at her increased his pulse rate and created havoc with his common sense. That afternoon had proven his supreme lack of resistance where she was concerned. He’d given his word and resolved to give their developing relation ship six months.

  Now, thinking about the unbearable length of time he’d carved made the wait seem like an eternity. But he couldn’t sit across the room avoiding her for the next six months. Part of developing a relationship was earning her trust.

  He eased onto the divan only inches from her. “Would you like to bring down your books and keep them on a shelf in here? That way they’d be nearby in the evening.”

  “I’d like that. And you are welcome to read any that catch your eye.”

  “I don’t read French.”

  “They’re not all in French.”

  “You’re welcome to mine, as well.”

  Her gaze lifted and she scanned the spines on the wall of bookcases. “Any?”

  “Of course.”

  She got up and crossed to scan titles, pausing with her finger on one. “Ravenshoe.” Sliding out the volume, she opened it to the first page.

  “It’s a character’s name,” he supplied.

  She replaced it. “Lady Audley’s Secret,” she read from another.

  “It’s a sensation novel. I’m afraid my reading tastes aren’t as refined as yours,” he apologized. “There are classics if you look.”

  “What is a sensation novel?”

  “Plots with subjects shocking to some. If you choose to read it, don’t let on to the good ladies of Sweetwater.”

  “What are the shocking subjects?”

  “I don’t care to spoil the story for you.”

  “You are more likely to entic
e me.”

  He’d married a champagne drinker who didn’t faint at the thought of impropriety. “No French explorers in the lot. A seemingly perfect domestic lady attempts to commit murder. The character has also committed bigamy and abandoned her child.”

  “I believe I’ll read this one first then,” she said with a grin.

  He tilted his head. “I warned you.”

  She sat down beside him, the book unopened. “Warning taken.”

  “Tell me about your family,” he suggested. “We have a lot to talk about, don’t we?”

  “There’s not much to say about them.” She adjusted her skirts.

  “What did your father do?”

  Celeste had been right about this. During their journey to Wyoming, Celeste had brought up the subject of planning what to tell the people they met. “People don’t just fall out of the sky,” she’d said. “We have to have background stories ready.”

  And so whenever they’d had time alone, the women had compared their ideas for what they would say when questions were asked.

  What did fathers do? “He was a banker. A stock holder, actually. He belonged to a gentleman’s club and attended St. Mark’s Episcopal Church.”

  “And your mother?”

  More lies. Would it always be lies she was telling to this man? “I didn’t know my mother well.” And that was as close to the truth as possible. But he waited for more. “She died when I was very young. That’s why I went to Miss Haversham’s.”

  “Any brothers or sisters?”

  That would depend on who her father had been, but she would never know. “None. What about you? Do you have brothers and sisters?”

  “I have an older sister and two younger brothers,” he answered.

  “You all lived together when you were young?”

  He nodded. “Oh, yes. Our bickering drove my poor mother to distraction, but she’s a saint.”

  “She’s still alive?”

  “And still living in the family home in Philadelphia. We will visit before the end of the year. She’d enjoy seeing the children, and I’d like for her to meet you.”

  She nodded, unable to imagine meeting his mother.

  “My father’s only been gone a few years,” he continued. “He was a judge. That’s how I came to go to law school; but then the war came along, so I never practiced.”

  “You fought during the war?”

  “Fought in Missouri early on. Later I was with Sheridan when we trapped Jubal Early’s army on our way to Waynesboro. We were the regiment that blocked Lee’s escape at Appomattox, forcing the Northern Virginia army’s surrender. After the war, the General wanted me to accompany him to Prussia, where he was sent to advise during that war in 70, but I’d seen enough destruction.” All that seemed a lifetime ago. “I was intent on building something, and I’d never forgotten this place. So I finished my law degree, purchased a railcar full of lumber and asked a young woman to marry me.

  “Sweetwater was a tent town then. Only a few buildings existed. But the town was right along the path of the Union Pacific as the rails expanded westward. I discovered I could sell my lumber for far more than I’d purchased it, so I did. Sold it and had more sent from Colorado. I posted notices in the major newspapers, and a few merchants and even a dentist threw in on the new venture. There’s nothing like settling the land and watching something grow. Wasn’t long before Sweetwater was a respectable town.”

  More comfortable now that she’d turned the focus back on him, Ella listened to his story with interest. Nathan was impressively enterprising and ambitious. She was surprised to learn he owned a lumberyard.

  “Is that where you work during the day?”

  “No, I have people who run it for me. I work in an office at the municipal building.”

  She pictured everything about his stories, everything except one thing. “What was your wife’s name?”

  He paused a moment before replying. “Deborah.”

  “Do your children look like her?”

  “Robby looks the most like her. Christopher reminds me of my father, and Grace looks like my sister, Vanessa.”

  “Christopher looks like you,” she told him.

  He nodded. “Many said I looked like my father.”

  She didn’t want to pry into a hurtful subject, but she was curious. “Is it painful to talk about your wife?”

  “I have a lot of regrets,” he answered, which didn’t address her question.

  She didn’t pry.

  “Deborah was unprepared for a life far away from everything she’d known in Philadelphia,” he went on, surprising her and holding her interest. “I built her a beautiful home, started a planning council and brought in a doctor and a teacher. Soon there were churches and schools.” He shrugged. “But this isn’t the big city, and the social activities can’t compare. She missed her family.” He glanced at Ella.

  Nathan had a respectable background and a commendable war record. His ambition and vision had sparked accomplishments for which he could be proud. But beneath the handsome exterior and the successful businessman, she sensed a vulnerability that spoke to her untried heart. Now his first words to her made sense. “When we met, you asked why I’d traveled West and warned me this place wasn’t what I was accustomed to.”

  “Deborah didn’t complain, but she was never happy here. I took her away from her family and her home.”

  “I have no family or home, and Sweetwater is far better than where I came from,” she assured him. Whatever he imagined about her, she didn’t want him thinking she was unsatisfied with his home or the way he had welcomed her.

  He shifted on the sofa to look more fully into her eyes. She offered him a warm smile.

  He raised his hand and stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “You’re incredibly beautiful.”

  Her gossamer bubble of pleasure burst with the disappointment of that familiar endearment from his lips. Beautiful was nothing she hadn’t heard a hundred times. It meant nothing. “Isn’t it true that beauty is in the eye of the beholder?”

  He slid his fingers into the hair at her nape. “There isn’t a beholder on this earth who wouldn’t agree.”

  Encouraged, she slowly leaned toward Nathan, keeping her expression soft, her body language yielding. “I’m very happy to be right here, Nathan.”

  As she’d hoped, he leaned toward her and their lips met. It was gentle, his kiss, undemanding…sweet. Like no other kiss she’d ever experienced, not even like the first kiss they’d shared—or like the impulsive one in the stream that day—because this time she’d been prepared for the contact to be enjoyable.

  She reached to skim her fingertips along his jaw and frame his warm cheek with her palm.

  Nathan slid closer on the divan to take her shoulders into his embrace and hold her more tightly. She liked the taste of him, the feel of his arms around her, his clean scent. She liked everything about his kiss…particularly the way he made her feel as though she was someone special, someone deserving of his attention.

  Inexplicably, a question came to her, a thought that disturbed her and stole a measure of her joy. Had Nathan kissed other women since his first wife’s death? Would she care? Had he taken a lover…or visited a parlor house? It was the nature of men to sate their basic physical needs, and he was a man like any other. Would it matter to her if he had?

  Ella wished she hadn’t thought of the possibility. Considering his intimate exploits made her an even bigger hypocrite.

  When had it started to matter that he want her for any reason other than securing her position as his wife? Why should she care if he had bedded a hundred women? Since when did it pain her to hear a man compliment her beauty? She had come all this way to find a respectable position and live her life freely, and that was still her mission.

  But something had happened since she’d met and married Nathan. Something she couldn’t have anticipated or planned for. Now she cared what this man thought of her.

  She moved
away enough to speak. “Will you walk me upstairs to my room?”

  “All right,” he said, his voice gruff.

  She took his hand and got to her feet. He stood beside her, towering over her and gazing down into her eyes. She turned and led the way up the stairs, pausing outside her room. “Will you light the lamps?”

  She opened the door, and stood aside for him to enter.

  Chapter Eight

  He found the matches and lit a wall sconce and the oil lamp on her bureau.

  “It’s so quiet here at night,” she said softly. “In the city I heard more commotion.”

  He stood, facing the door, but without moving toward it. “I suppose it takes some getting used to.”

  “I suppose it does.”

  He turned to look at her, his gaze dropping from her face to caress her form beneath her clothing. “Good night, Ella.”

  “Good night.”

  Nathan closed her door and strode down the hall, his footsteps muffled on the carpet runner. He returned to his study and banked the fire.

  She was in his blood, that woman. Everything about her, the sound of her voice stating the most innocent fact, her intoxicating scent, the sheen of her lustrous, dark hair and the curves beneath her clothing, everything combined to set him on fire. How would he last six months with her nearness an exquisite torment? What had he been thinking?

  For safety, he set an iron grate in front of the fireplace and headed up to his room. He lit a lamp, then deliberately walked to his bureau and opened the top drawer to pull out a flat wooden box. Setting it on top of the chest of drawers, he opened it and took a breath before picking up the wedding portrait of himself and Deborah.

  He could answer his own question of what he’d been thinking. He’d rushed into marriage the first time, that’s why he’d vowed to take things more slowly with Ella.

  Deborah had been so young, so unprepared for the life he’d unwittingly led her into. Filled with starry-eyed dreams and lofty expectations, she’d followed along, believing that every young girl’s dream of a husband and family was coming true to her liking.

  She’d taken one look at the sorry excuse for a town, and disappointment had swept her features into numb shock. He’d promised that they’d only be at the hotel until their house was built, and then they’d furnish it with all the comforts of home. And they had.