“Good.” Bo’s posture straightened. “I wouldn’t want any bad blood between us.”
“There wouldn’t have been. I understand how a father and son can have totally different aims in life. So whenever you want to come out to the ranch and hunt coyotes again, let me know—of course…” He sighed. If Bo didn’t have time to hunt within three months, what good was the invitation? Though Bo was dealing with a setback in finances—trying to figure out what property actually belonged to the McGills and what his father had stolen—his family was still wealthy, they’d…
Wait, what if he didn’t have to surrender everything to his cousin?
Nolan knocked an anticipatory beat on the wall with his knuckles. “You know what? What would you think about buying my cattle? I know it’s a strange time of year to be asking, but—”
Eric forcefully cleared his throat. “I’m afraid you can’t do that, Mr. Key.”
“Of course I can. It might not be the wisest—”
“But they’re not your cattle.”
Nolan narrowed his eyes at the young man. “Yes, they are.”
“They’re your father’s.”
He narrowed his eyes even more. “They were ours.”
“Do you have written records delineating which percentage is yours?”
Nolan clenched his fists to keep himself from lurching over, grabbing the lawyer, and shaking him. “We ranched together. It was my head for numbers and business that got us what we have.”
“But it’s your father’s ranch.”
“It’s mine.”
“For now, but until you’ve met your obligations, the property and its assets need to remain intact.”
“Are you trying to tell me nothing’s mine?” Nolan’s heartbeat rose clear up into his throat. If Matt got wind of this, he might not allow Nolan more than the clothes on his back when he showed him the door.
“Any assets you can prove were purchased under your name alone are certainly yours. However, until everything in the estate is settled, nothing should leave it.”
But it was the Key Ranch! They’d bought things together as Keys! Even if his father had done more physical work, he’d not have denied that his son had run the show for the last five years.
“Are you ready, Mr. Key?”
Nolan jolted and turned to Mr. Udall, realizing the man’s wife and Mrs. Tate had been silent for quite a while from where they sat behind the counter.
“I suppose, yes.” He pushed the paper toward Mr. Udall, slapped his telegraph money down, then tipped his hat at Bo and his useless lawyer friend. “Excuse me while I go check on things.”
He mumbled a goodbye then shoved his way out the door. He stalked across the street toward the bank, not caring that he was tramping through mud puddles.
What did I do to deserve this?
Could you berate a dead person through prayer? Would God relay his disappointment and frustration to his father? Seemed unfair that Dad could leave him in such a lurch but be safely tucked away in a place he couldn’t be made to regret treating his son so badly.
Though maybe Dad wouldn’t feel remorse, even if he were alive. He’d never mentioned regretting leaving Mother behind. Nor had he ever been pleased with Nolan after he’d lost several inches of his leg above the knee—as if the accident in that horse stall had been Nolan’s fault.
Everyone else had agreed he’d not been careless, he’d simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
And though it was true he’d been left physically incapable of doing as much as his cousin could, why had his father been more pleased with Matt? He was a braggart who did nothing but live off the trust fund his late mother had set up for him and pretended he was worthy of his sales manager title. Surely the only reason Uncle Matthias hadn’t fired him from his catalog business was pride.
After staggering up the bank’s stairs, Nolan took a deep breath before shoving his way inside.
The silence of the lobby warred with the rushing in his ears. He needed to calm down.
Yet what if all the ranch’s accounts included his father’s name? Would that mean he didn’t possess a single cent?
Nothing could bar him from providing for his own needs for the next three months, but would every non-consumable purchase be considered the ranch’s assets and not his?
He unclenched his fists. If what he feared was true, he had to get a hold of himself lest he make a scene.
“I need more time.” A young woman’s fervent whisper pulled him from his panicky fog.
“I’m sorry, miss, but he said you couldn’t have another extension.” The teller’s voice was full of compassion, yet his face appeared set in stone.
“May I speak with Mr. Rice?” Miss Stillwater’s skewed blond updo lost a wavy tress as she leaned closer to the opening in the metalwork running down the middle of the counter, creating an intricate wall between the waiting area and the tellers. “Please.” Her voice was a strangled whisper.
“I’m afraid the answer I gave you came straight from him.”
“He could change his mind.”
“Perhaps.” The teller glanced over Miss Stillwater’s shoulder at Nolan and gave him an apologetic look before looking back to his customer. “Why don’t you sit, miss?”
Mr. Rice came up from behind the teller, a grimace on his face. “I heard you were asking for me, Miss Stillwater.”
“Yes.” She lowered her voice even more. “You can’t rent the laundry out from under me. If you do, how else can I pay you what I owe?”
Nolan took a step back and looked for somewhere else to stand. She was clearly distraught and probably embarrassed to know she could be overheard. But the waiting area was quite small.
Her predicament was surprising though. With the amount of work he’d seen piled up at her place, she ought to be doing well.
“Miss Stillwater, I’m afraid you’re already two months behind. How can I be assured you’ll be able to pay for three months altogether?” Mr. Rice lifted one shoulder. “I can rent your place out tomorrow and have my losses covered. I have children and employees to think about.”
“I understand.” Miss Stillwater’s voice held tears while she wrung her hands in a rather strange manner. “Though if you kick me out, no one around here will be willing to rent their place to me, and I—”
“You’ve been dependable until now, Miss Stillwater. Is there no one from whom you could borrow money?”
“No,” she said, nearly crying the word.
Nolan backed away as quietly as he could to sit in the farthest chair.
“You have a contract that needs to be adhered to.”
“Maybe I could take out a loan? It’d only be for twenty-four dollars. That’d cover three months, and then—”
“I’m afraid we wouldn’t be able to do that, but you have the rest of the week to get caught up.” Mr. Rice frowned and rested a hand atop hers. “Do you have unpaid accounts you can call in? I’m happy to keep you as a tenant if you meet your contractual obligations.”
A silent tear rolled down Corinne’s cheek as she stood staring at a spot on the polished counter between them. Then with a huge inhale, she wiped her face, nodded, and bid the banker good day before walking away, head down.
“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Key.” The teller stepped back to the counter as the bank president returned to his office.
“Not a problem.” He glanced at Corinne before pushing himself to stand. He wriggled his leg to put it back into a better position since sitting had turned it askew. “I’ve come to check on how we set up the ranch’s accounts. Are any in my name only? I know the main account isn’t, but what about the savings?”
“Let me check.” The teller headed for the shelving at the back of the bank.
Nolan turned to look through the front door windows. Corinne was leaning against the porch post, her hands tucked up against her chest, pressed in a ball as if praying.
“Your savings account is in your name only, s
ir. Do you have a transaction to make?”
“Yes, but with the ranch’s account.” He shouldn’t touch his savings since that might be all he had in a few months. Though he likely couldn’t transfer money directly from the ranch account to his savings without a lawyer’s censure, he couldn’t be stopped from using the ranch account within reason. “Sixteen dollars please, and apply it to Miss Stillwater’s debt. That’ll cover the two months she’s behind if I did the math correctly, right?”
“Sir, I’m afraid I can’t discuss—”
“I don’t need a discussion. That’s two months, yes?” He lifted an eyebrow.
The teller’s head tipped forward.
“That’s all I’d like to do today.”
“And if she asks?”
“My identity is between you and me.”
“All right, sir. I’ll thank you on her behalf, for I know she’ll be grateful.”
He nodded and waited for the teller to give him his withdrawal slip.
After that was settled, he headed outside and found Miss Stillwater sitting on a bench in the shadows. Her face was puffy, and silent tears were coursing down her cheeks.
He cleared his throat. She had to know he’d overheard. “I’m sorry about your struggles.”
She shrugged and turned her face away.
He stepped closer. “I could bring you a few extra loads of laundry this week.”
Did she just laugh and whimper at the same time?
She pulled out a handkerchief and blotted her eyes. “I—I thank you, but no. I can’t.” She stood and fumbled her handkerchief. Once she retrieved the dainty square, she shoved both the handkerchief and her hand into her pocket and walked past him with barely a nod farewell.
Had she just rejected work? Maybe his act of charity had been in vain. Perhaps she wasn’t the most sensible female in town.
However, there wasn’t much else he could do for her. In three months, they might both be homeless.
Three months?
No. The time frame was coincidental. From what he’d seen, she had plenty of work to keep her afloat. She’d figure things out in time to save her business.
He, on the other hand, had no such work to rescue him. What could he do to save himself that didn’t require marrying?
Chapter Three
Corinne stepped inside the laundry, took one look at the dirty piles awaiting her, and sat down and ripped open her letter. She usually delayed reading mail until she retired, but bedtime would take forever to arrive today with how often she had to rest her hands between scrubbing.
Corinne’s heart rate stuttered. The page was covered in her brother-in-law’s handwriting. He never communicated with her unless absolutely necessary. Thankfully, a quick skim proved her sister was still alive.
Though he loved Yvonne far better than Corinne had ever thought possible, she still didn’t enjoy talking to him. Because when a boy breaks up with his “secret” girlfriend in order to take her younger, prettier sister to the spring concert instead—well, can anyone blame a girl for not being keen on talking to such a boy ever again?
But before Corinne had bucked up enough to tell Yvonne what he’d done, she’d overheard his best friend ask him why he’d switched sisters. Gerald had shrugged and said he couldn’t “get serious” with a girl who kissed worse than a fish gulping for its last breath.
Mortified, she’d chosen not to tell Yvonne anything. She’d figured her little sister would soon enough discover what a louse he was.
Except, within weeks, he gazed at Yvonne as if he would die if he couldn’t breathe the same air that she did. And Yvonne constantly sang, flitting about the house, happier than Corinne had ever seen her.
And in regard to what she’d overheard Gerald tell his buddy … well, nothing since that day had proven he’d lied about how badly she kissed.
Corinne forced herself to get back to reading before she started thinking over memories that only got worse.
…I’m afraid the panning’s not going well. I’ve seen no flakes for weeks now. I know you’re wondering why I’m telling you this and not Yvonne, but she’s been really tired lately and I don’t want to worry her.
What I’m writing to say is, I’m going to have to ask you to make extra payments, preferably double.
I know Yvonne told you about being in the family way in the last letter, but that was before the midwife predicted twins, seeing how fast she’s growing and being so tired. If it wasn’t for that, maybe I could get by with what you’re sending, but…
Double the payments? Corinne tilted her head back with a sigh. It’d been hard enough to humble herself to request the loan in the first place when her laundry had burned down in Rapid City. With how things were going now, was it even possible?
This morning, she’d been both relieved and embarrassed to learn somebody had anonymously paid two months of her rent when she’d gone in with only a third of the money needed. The bank president had most likely forgiven her debt but didn’t want anyone to know. Otherwise, everyone might expect him to write off overdue balances.
Just like last week, she’d left the bank in tears, but happy tears this time.
She rubbed the corner of the stained letter. Seemed there wouldn’t be much of a reprieve to her toil though, for how could she say no to Gerald’s request when it meant her sister’s children would suffer if she did?
Corinne tried to slip the letter back into its envelope, but her fingers were too numb to cooperate. She stared at Gerald’s slanted handwriting instead. How could she possibly double or even triple her workload to pay him and keep up with her rent if she couldn’t tuck his letter back into its envelope without wincing?
Was it possible to wash clothes with your feet?
Hmmm, not a bad idea.
Potential contraptions started whirling about in her mind, but she shook them away. She might be able to figure out a way to power a washing machine with her feet, but there was no time to build, test, and tweak such a thing now. She had to get all this work done quickly if she had any hope—
Knock, knock.
The front door whined open, and she turned to present her customer with the best smile she could muster—hard to do, since all her facial muscles had settled into a perpetual grimace lately. “Can I help you?”
Leah Whitsett, a petite brunette with a puckered scar running through her brow, stepped inside. Hands folded in front of her, she offered a smile which looked off center below her drooping left eye.
Corinne froze the half-smile on her own face to keep from letting any pity show. Only a few months ago, Leah’s outward beauty had matched her kind heart.
“I was hoping you could help me.” Leah’s voice was rough, no longer the clear, feminine lilt it used to be.
“Do you have laundry for me to bring in?”
“I’m sorry, no. I’m not dropping off anything. I need work.”
Corinne couldn’t help her frown. This poor woman shouldn’t have to ask for work. “Unfortunately, I can’t offer you any.”
Leah scanned the piles of unfinished laundry, but when she turned to look back at Corinne, her gaze held no accusation, rather, resignation. “I understand. Good day, Miss Stillwater.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Whitsett.”
The lady frowned, gave her a nod, then turned for the door, a slight limp to her gait.
Corinne exhaled. She could’ve used Leah’s help, of course, but she couldn’t pay her. She stared down at her throbbing hands. If only she’d already invented something to circumvent the majority of her manual labor, she might not be in such a poor financial position right now. Might have been able to hire a woman who needed help paying bills while her husband was imprisoned.
But at least the townspeople loved Leah. As soon as people found out she was asking for work, surely others, especially the former marshal and his wife, would make sure she didn’t lose her home and had enough to eat until her husband returned.
Corinne pushed herself out of her cha
ir, dropped the letter onto her desk, and forced herself back to work.
Unlike Leah, she didn’t have a town full of friends to save her. Since arriving in Armelle, she’d been too busy to socialize. Even if she had been able to leave work more often, she couldn’t hold a candle to Leah—the nicest woman she’d ever met.
And she couldn’t count on the bank president to bail her out again either, for he had a business to run.
Her right hand pinged with pain, so she gritted her teeth to keep pushing her hands through the motions of rubbing Mrs. Ivens’s blouse against the washboard.
What if a month wasn’t enough to get caught up and her hands got worse like the doctor predicted? Yvonne would probably beg for her to come live with them and help with the babies, but she couldn’t do that to herself. She was over Gerald, but she just couldn’t live under the same roof with him.
Besides, they lived too far from any town for her to find work while staying with them, and if she couldn’t make a go of things here…
She stopped to huff a sigh. She had to find a way to pay them.
A few people in town had overdue accounts, but collecting them wouldn’t cover half a payment to her brother-in-law.
The bell above her door tinked again, and Celia Hendrix, a tall, lanky girl of sixteen, marched in. Her hazel gaze locked onto Corinne. “How come you didn’t hire Mrs. Whitsett?”
Corinne took her hands out of the water, sighing with the relief her hands felt, but that didn’t make answering the young woman any easier. “Unfortunately, I can’t use her.”
Celia took a long look around at the piles and then pinned her glare back on her.
The young woman had worked for her last summer when a bunch of surveyors had come through. Celia knew exactly how long washing everything in this room would take.
Corinne glanced at the walls of laundry closing them in. “Yes, I’ve got work, but I can’t afford—”
“I thought you were better than everybody else.”
“Pardon?” What did everyone else have to do with laundry?
“Just because Mrs. Whitsett’s speech is all gravelly now and her hip didn’t heal perfectly, you act as if she’s no use. She’s got hands and can stand, that’s all she needs. There’s no reason for any of you to think she’s no longer a good worker. Why, she volunteers for everything!”
Pretending to Wed Page 2
