by Gina Welborn
But the look on her face when Luci had invited him shouted that Emilia didn’t want him to join their game.
Besides, she didn’t want him rushing to her rescue. She’d made that clear. And none of the men bidding would dare try anything at a church picnic. Not with her, though they might tear each other apart. Reverend Neven didn’t even have to call for new bids because the men were so eager to outdo one another. Volume and tempers grew in direct proportion to the escalating dollar amounts. More than one person in the crowd looked uneasy.
Mac took a step forward, ready in case things got out of hand.
“Twenty dollars!” young Watson shouted, momentarily stunning the crowd into silence.
Isaak raised his hand. “Twenty-one!” He tucked his chin and whispered, “We need to get Mrs. Collins out of this fix. Are you going to help or not?”
Before Mac thought of a suitable reply, the bid was at twenty-five.
“Twenty-six!” Isaak again.
Reverend Neven lifted his gavel. “Going, going, g—”
“Twenty-seven!” from young Watson.
“Twenty-eight!” Isaak stepped closer to Mac. “What are you waiting for?”
“Going, go—”
“Thirty-four dollars, twelve cents!” from one of the men Mac recognized as a displaced ranch hand. Did he think to woo himself into a new job over lunch?
Young Watson scrambled back toward his father. The three other men huddled together, apparently pooling their money.
“Are you bidding or not?” Isaak lowered his brows.
He couldn’t. Emilia didn’t want his help.
“Going once . . .”
Shouldn’t. Not after sitting next to her this morning and being invited to the Circle C later. Too many people would pair them up, something Emilia didn’t want.
“Going twice . . .”
Wouldn’t. Even though it took every ounce of resolve to remain silent.
“Not,” he answered.
“Suit yourself.” Isaak raised his hand. “Fifty!”
The crowd gasped. The other five bidders stopped what they were doing to shoot nasty glares up the hill.
“Going, going, gone!” Reverend Neven shouted before anyone recovered, pounding his gavel with a resounding crack for emphasis.
Isaak lifted the collection box and tucked it under his arm. “Mac, I have the utmost respect for you . . .”
“But?”
“Since when did you turn into a dunderhead?” Isaak tipped his head toward where Mrs. Collins waited for him by the auctioneer’s table. “I’ve seen how you look at her. Doesn’t take a trained lawman to put the clues together.”
Mac gripped his left arm at the elbow. “She’s my best friend’s widow.”
Isaak rested his right hand on Mac’s shoulder. “Yes, she is. But a widow before she was a wife, and—much as we all loved Finn—he isn’t coming back for her.”
Circle C Ranch
Later that afternoon
“You impress me.”
Emilia looked up from the croquet set’s rule book to see Mac standing in front of her, smiling and blocking her view of the makeshift course they’d staked out in the field on the other side of the new corral. She leaned a bit to the right to see around him. Still on his turn, Roch knelt in front of his orange ball, his mallet stretched out, as he calculated the trajectory to the first center wicket. Luci stood next to him. Mallet in hand, she was saying something. The westerly breeze carried her words away from where Emilia stood.
Emilia nipped her bottom lip, feeling odd under Mac’s serious gaze. She didn’t mind profound conversations, but not now. This afternoon she wanted to be merry because she’d promised Mr. Gunderson during lunch that she would worry less and have fun more. Why not? She wanted to throw caution to the wind because no one was around to cast judgment upon her or upon Mac.
“Shouldn’t you be helping your partner?” she asked.
“Roch listens well.”
Emilia slid a blade of grass in the rule book to hold her place. “Are you implying I don’t listen well?”
His lips curved in the tiniest of smiles, part I know something and you don’t, part I can’t wait to let you in on the joke. The man she’d met at the train depot was a shadow in comparison. If she could travel back in time, before Finn’s death, she knew this was the Mac that Finn had described in his letters. His amused gaze flickered to the rule book, then resettled on her—a subtle you are the one who keeps rereading the rules instead of enjoying the game.
She gave him an overly sweet smile. “I like to read rule books.”
“You read it yesterday.” He leaned in, just far enough for her to catch a pleasant whiff of his bergamot and cedar cologne . . . and to send her pulse into slow acceleration. “I’ll wager three times minimum.”
“You think you know me that well?”
“I do,” he said in a soft voice. And despite the reasonable distance between them, she felt as if he was touching her. As if he was holding her close. Just the two of them. Her skin began to prick and shiver. His brown eyes with those lovely flecks of gold were no longer looking into her eyes. They had dropped to her mouth. His lips parted as if he was about to kiss her and—
Emilia blurted out, “Mr. Gunderson said this is an unusually warm May. I can’t imagine how hot it will be once summer hits. Don’t you think it’s warm?”
He looked decidedly uncomfortable. “I think—yes, it is.” He dropped his mallet and then wiggled the rule book from her grip.
Emilia watched as he walked to where his horse was tied. He removed his suit coat, laid it and the book over Roch’s coat draped over the saddle, then just stood there, his eyes closed. Emilia looked from him to her siblings, who were counting footsteps from Roch’s ball to the center wicket and then back to Mac. He breathed deep. Finally, he sauntered back, rolling up his sleeves in the process.
He stopped in front of her, still looking tense. “What were we talking about?”
Emilia kept her face blank as she said, “You’ve yet to tell me why I impress you. I could list the ways, but compliments are always nicer coming from others.”
And with that the tension in his face abated.
“I like how you say what you mean.”
“I also tend to mean what I say.”
“That you do.” He tipped the brim of his hat, easing it back on his head. “I know Finn didn’t own a mower, and yet the prairie grass has been trimmed evenly.” He gazed at her warmly. “That leads me to presume Isaak loaned one to you from The Resale Company, along with the croquet set.”
“He did. Yesterday,” she added, lest he think they’d hastily mowed in anticipation of his arrival. She hadn’t done anything after returning home from sharing lunch with Mr. Gunderson except change out of her good Sunday dress and into her gray one. “Mowing a quarter of an acre isn’t all that impressive. I managed it in a couple of hours.”
He looked stunned. He was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “Roch and Jakob didn’t do it?”
“They were building the corral.” Emilia looked to her siblings. Roch was waving at Luci to back up. She did, until her shadow reached the distance from the center wicket to where Roch’s orange ball lay. Roch stood. She turned back to Mac. “Moving the imbedded rocks was the worst part. Luci helped me fill in the holes. Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Once you’ve made your mind up, nothing stops you, does it?”
Emilia started to deny the compliment, but he was right about her. She never gave up pursuing what she wanted. Instead, she tipped her chin and proudly said, “No, I don’t. It’s an excellent trait to have.”
“I agree.”
She chuckled. “That’s because you are as afflicted, Mr. McCall.”
“We’re quite a pair.”
“Indeed, we are.”
He smiled, and she smiled, too. Goodness, she shouldn’t be flirting with him, but she couldn’t help it. During lunch, Mr. Gunderson had remarked that often
a little flirting was all a woman needed to do to motivate a man into action, and she’d thought of little else ever since. Something about Mac today made her feel different. Free of burdens.
And free to flirt.
“Did you really mow this all by yourself?” he asked.
Emilia lifted her palms for him to see the five calluses that had developed. His right hand rose, as if to touch her palm. But then he shifted his mallet handle from his left hand to his right.
He cleared his throat. “Why did you do it by yourself?”
“Luci had schoolwork. I figured if the game was ready to be played, Roch would agree to play.”
He glanced out to where Roch still was practicing his swing. His brow furrowed. “You did this for him, even after the way he’s treated you.”
His words weren’t a question, so she didn’t answer.
Eventually, Roch would realize she still loved him, had never stopped loving him. Marrying Finn and moving their family out here was as much for Roch as for herself, Luci, and Da. Anyone looking at him could see living in Montana was good for him.
“Emilia,” Mac said softly, “you impress me because after what you shared yesterday about repaying acts of kindness, that you willingly accepted Isaak’s offer to borrow the croquet set and mower—”
Whack.
Thunk.
“Roch!” Luci yelled. “After all the time you took to aim, why did you hit my ball?” She pointed at the wicket. “That’s your goal. Not”—she pointed to where her blue ball now was—“that!” As Roch laughed, she growled, threw her mallet, and stomped the ground. “I’m never going to win now.”
Mac looked sideways at Emilia. “Should we intervene?”
She thought for a moment. “We’re the adults, but on one condition. I manage my partner and you manage yours.”
He laughed. “Is this why you insisted upon girls against boys?”
“That could be the reason. Or it could be because I know you’re easier to distract than my siblings are.”
Emilia hadn’t taken two steps when she heard him mutter, “How right you are.”
Chapter Fifteen
Millionaire’s Hill
May 14, 5:04 P.M.
Small, private wedding. Grandiose reception.
From her spot at an empty table, Emilia glanced around the expansive lawn behind Mrs. Hollenbeck’s three-story mansion. A string quartet on the patio. Ladies in dresses of every color in the rainbow. Men in three-piece suits. Twelve white cloth-draped tables set with china cups and saucers clustered under the afternoon shade provided by the stately pines. And nary a rain cloud in sight. Was it common out west to host a Saturday morning wedding followed by an afternoon tea to introduce the new couple, dancing, a banquet, and more dancing? Emilia had never seen anything like it.
The only wedding she’d ever attended lasted eight minutes, and the bride and groom had darted from the courthouse as soon as Emilia finished signing her name as witness.
For all practical purposes, she hadn’t attended her own wedding. She’d signed the proxy wearing the same pink dress, black bonnet, and boots she had on now. A bride . . . and then a widow three days later. Six weeks ago.
Yet it felt like a proverbial lifetime.
Finn’s debts were slowly being paid. Managing the ranch was becoming easier. Luci and Needles adored each other. Roch continued to like everyone but her.
And then there was Mac.
She had no idea where she stood with him. Other than an amiable greeting when she’d arrived at Mrs. Hollenbeck’s, he’d maintained his distance. Just as he had maintained his distance all week. Because he felt awkward about almost kissing her during the croquet match?
Or had she misinterpreted that?
Her cheeks warmed in embarrassment. She shouldn’t have flirted with him. Doing so clearly ruined the friendship they’d started building.
As the string quartet changed tunes, Emilia eyed the line of reception guests, including Roch and Luci, at the serving tables. The Palmers weren’t one of the wealthier families in Helena, so the bulk of the expense must have been borne by the groom’s parents. Why, the cost of the tea party alone—she couldn’t fathom. But if this was the minor reception event of the day, no telling what the Palmers and the Bennetts had planned to feed a hundred guests for supper. Prime rib, she’d overheard someone say. Goodness, the expense!
Mr. Geddes Palmer, best man and brother of the bride, stood. He tapped the edge of his teacup with a spoon, quieting the crowd and the musicians. “To Luanne and Roy, the best sister and best friend a man could ask for. Beautiful. Charming. Compassionate. Witty. Generous to their cores. Their philanthropy knows no bounds. If anyone has a need, they are the ones to go to for help. In fact, they even wrote this speech for me.”
The crowd laughed.
“Lu, Roy”—Mr. Palmer raised his teacup—“may our Lord bless your marriage today, tomorrow, and always.”
Emilia joined in the applause as Mr. Palmer sat down.
Mr. Roy Bennett, a handsome, bearded man who smiled as easily as Jakob did, stood. He touched his bride’s cheek. “Six months ago I was ready to leave this beautiful woman behind to pursue my life as I saw it. How fortunate I am that my father-in-law talked sense into me. Sir”—he lifted his teacup to Mr. W. H. Palmer—“your wisdom has proven true. I promise I will live it and share it with others.”
Emilia doubted a man could look as pleased as Mr. Palmer was with his new son-in-law.
Mr. Bennett turned to the guests sitting at the tea tables. “Luanne and I are in awe at the overwhelming support and generosity you’ve bestowed as we prepare to begin our future in Denver. Thank you for being our friends. Thank you for celebrating this day with us. Thank you for how you’ve blessed our lives. Of course . . . a celebration should always include food.” He motioned to the serving table. “Enjoy!”
Applause broke out.
The string quartet resumed playing.
Emilia watched the guests move down the serving table. Others, content like her to wait until the line lessened, stayed in their seats. Three white-gloved footmen with silver teakettles filled the china cups of those sitting.
“My dear Mrs. Collins, you look like you could use a friend.” Mrs. Hollenbeck slid onto a chair next to Emilia. She placed her plate, with a gigantic slice of cake, on the table. “That was an impressive bidding war last Sunday for your basket lunch.”
“Miss Pope’s basket sold four times what mine brought.”
“Considering Carline Pope stands to inherit ten million from her uncle, her basket should have sold for twice what it did.”
Emilia felt her mouth gap. Ten million? Why, then, was Miss Pope shopping at The Resale Co.? Just last Monday she’d purchased a pair of secondhand gloves.
With a “humph,” Mrs. Hollenbeck laid her napkin across the lap of her amethyst gown. “I intend on having a word with Mr. Buchanan over not bidding on her basket.”
“The bladesmith?”
“Indeed. Have you two met?”
Emilia shook her head. Buchanan Smithy was next to The Resale Co. Despite seeing Mr. Buchanan every Sunday in church, sitting on the second row, right side, she had yet to exchange a word with him. Dark. Brooding. Scary. The literal opposite in every way from Miss Pope. That the older widow desired to match the pair—well, why? Anyone could see vivacious Miss Pope was much better suited with . . . anyone. The pair was no more compatible than Yancey Palmer and Hale Adams.
Mrs. Hollenbeck motioned for a footman. The man hurried over to fill her teacup and Emilia’s. He then moved the cream and sugar dishes from the center of the table to in front of Mrs. Hollenbeck, who dutifully made use of them.
Emilia glanced back to the serving table. What in the—? Roch and Luci held plates loaded with enough cake, scones, sandwiches, and tarts for a dozen people. She couldn’t tell them to put most of it back, but she could remind them about proper behavior.
She placed her hand on the table, in the space betwe
en herself and Mrs. Hollenbeck. “If you would excuse me, I need to—”
“Nonsense!” Mrs. Hollenbeck patted Emilia’s hand. “Sit. Mac is attending to your siblings. Let them eat to their heart’s content.”
Mortification warmed Emilia’s cheeks. So that was why they’d been invited to the wedding of a couple they barely knew. To eat to their heart’s content. Not because there needed to be an equal number of young unmarried ladies and bachelors, as Mrs. Palmer had insisted at the bride’s tea.
Emilia scanned the crowd. Instead of heading to the table she had been saving, Mac led the pair to the table where Mr. Adams sat talking to Judge Forsythe and his wife. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured, sitting. “They know better.”
“Don’t fault them. They’re hungry children and the food is good. Especially the wedding cake.” Mrs. Hollenbeck slid her plate in front of Emilia. “Enjoy.”
“I couldn’t—”
“I insist.”
Mrs. Hollenbeck gave Emilia a pointed look, and so Emilia picked up a fork and took a bite. Oh my. She’d never eaten anything so rich and tasty. The icing seemed to be flavored with real limes.
Mrs. Hollenbeck looked out over the crowd and casually sipped her tea. “People aren’t always what they present themselves to be,” she remarked. She turned to Emilia and smiled. “Case in point, Mr. Buchanan.”
Emilia nodded, having no other response.
“Underneath all that”—Mrs. Hollenbeck’s hand waved alongside her head—“and the”—she waved up and down in front of her chest—“he’s a good man.”
Emilia almost snorted with disbelief. Instead, she took another bite of the delicious cake.
“You don’t look convinced,” Mrs. Hollenbeck mused.
“I would never wish to meet him in a dark alley,” Emilia admitted.
Mrs. Hollenbeck’s brows rose in surprise. Or maybe in disbelief that anyone couldn’t see the diamond in the rough that was Windsor Buchanan. Emilia didn’t take offense. Perhaps after one or ten conversations with the ominous bladesmith she’d feel differently herself.
