by Jane Porter
He was angry. He resented her.
“You’d hoped I’d changed my mind, though,” she said suddenly, realizing why he’d come to her room, understanding now his tension.
He didn’t want to be the one to break things off, but he’d hoped she would. He’d hoped she’d release him from their arrangement.
A dozen men had flung themselves at her feet, wanting her, wanting her property and wealth, but she’d chosen a man who didn’t want her.
Just as Sinclair Douglas hadn’t wanted her.
But he’d never been rude about it, and he’d broken their engagement because he loved another.
Ellie felt a sharp prickle in her skin, awareness making the fine hair rise at her nape and across her arms. Her gaze locked with his and she leaned on her elbows, needing the dressing table for support. “Do you love another?”
“No.”
“You’re not promised to another woman?”
“If I were, I wouldn’t be standing here.”
“But you don’t want to be standing here, do you?”
“No.”
She told herself not to be hurt. There had to have been more reluctant husbands in the past. She was sure if she looked through the pages of history, she’d discover that there were other men who did not embrace marriage and fatherhood. She was sure there were others who’d view it as not just unappealing, but a chore.
“At least we can be honest with each other,” she said coolly. “That is something we can celebrate today as we cut Mrs. Baxter’s cake.”
His brow lowered. “It’s not too late to choose a different groom. I saw Fridley in town last night. He’d be here in an hour if you sent word.”
She rose and let her full skirts fall before giving him a small, mocking smile. “Alas, I have chosen you, and here I am, dressed and ready, eager to be your wife.”
His eyes narrowed, thick black lashes dropping, concealing his expression but not before she caught a bright hard glitter in the brown irises. “You are committed to your plan.”
“Our plan,” she corrected. “Just as this is to be our life here.”
“You say that now, Miss Burnett, but I doubt you’ll feel that way later.”
“Why? This marriage protects my inheritance. I should be grateful to you, just as I am sure you are grateful to me for the opportunity...” Her voice faded as his face remained expressionless and he made no effort to agree with her. “This is good for both of us. It’s not one-sided.”
“But it won’t be the same for you after we marry. Your life won’t be the same—”
“Because my father will be gone?” She shrugged, unable to hide her irritation. Must he be so gloomy about everything today? “I’m aware that life is about to change. I’ll have to adapt. You’ll have to adapt. It will take time, and we have time. There is no urgency that I can see.”
He didn’t answer, and the silence became increasingly heavy and surprisingly intimate. She squirmed inwardly as the silence wrapped around them, binding them together there, making her aware of how small her bedroom was, and yet how large her bed was for such a small space.
She swallowed hard. “You have promised to give me time,” she added firmly, even though her legs shook beneath her. “There’s to be no rush to consummate the marriage, or make significant changes. Mr. Harrison has worked with my father from almost the beginning and knows this property inside out. He’s competent and trustworthy and he can manage the ranch while you become acquainted with the land and livestock.”
“When we marry, Harrison will work for me, not the other way around.”
“Of course with time—”
“I’ve already spoken with Harrison. He understands his position, and mine.”
Her brow furrowed. “You’ve already spoken to him? Without my father’s permission?”
“Your father arranged the meeting. Everyone is aware that there will be change. And it’s not going to be easy, not in the beginning, not for anyone, but especially not for you.”
His words, coupled with his tone, made her mouth dry and her stomach heave. She wanted to sit down. Wanted to lie down and grab a pillow and scream until she was hoarse and unable to make another sound.
Instead, she smiled, squaring her shoulders, smashing the panic, reminding herself she was a Burnett. She was her father’s daughter. She could do this.
“I think that just about covers everything.” Her voice lilted. Her smile curved her lips. She would do this. “When you go downstairs, will you please send Miss Douglas up?”
He looked at her for a long, discomfiting moment, his brown eyes searching for something, she knew not what, but she let him look, and look until he’d had his fill. Apparently satisfied, his dark head inclined and he turned around, and walked away, leaving her even more unsettled than she’d been before.
Unsettled and angry, because he made her feel as if he was doing her a huge favor, and she didn’t like it.
He should be grateful for this marriage. He should be dancing down the hall, whistling a merry tune.
She wasn’t homely. She had all her teeth and they were straight and healthy, and white. Her eyes weren’t crossed. Her skin wasn’t pockmarked. She was slim with just the right amount of bust and hips not to be mistaken for a boy. Her hair was gorgeous. It was her best feature, although her father had told her she had good eyes, too.
But most importantly, she was rich. Incredibly rich.
Thomas Sheenan was lucky. He should be counting his blessings right now. He should be on his knees, thanking the good Lord, but somehow, as his heavy footsteps receded, she doubted it.
Thomas walked down the hall, away from the bedroom to the stairs, jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. He did not come to America to marry, or to fall in step with someone’s grand plan.
While he liked Archibald Burnett well enough, Thomas didn’t feel beholden to him in any way, nor was he awed by the old Texan’s legacy. He understood that Miss Burnett was fiercely proud of her father, but Thomas left Ireland to escape heritage and tradition. He’d left Ireland to become someone else.
Montana’s Paradise Valley was nothing like County Limerick, and he embraced Montana’s long, treacherous winters and very short summers. He embraced the hardship and the challenge. He didn’t want it easy. He wanted to fight to survive. He wanted the struggle, because then, and only then, did he feel.
Marrying Ellie made it all too easy. The huge, successful ranch. The wealth. The beautiful, young woman with the bright copper hair and dancing eyes not just dangled before him, but dropped into his lap. He didn’t have to do anything but say a few words today—utter the simple vows—and he’d become shockingly wealthy. He’d have more than he could have ever dreamed, with no effort on his part.
He’d be set for life... no sweat, muscle, or thought required.
It made him slightly nauseous. And yet, no one had put a gun to his head. He didn’t have to say yes to her. He didn’t have to be moved by the old man’s plea. Thomas could have refused both. He probably should have refused both, but the old man was dying and his daughter had no one and it was hell to be left alone in the world, with everyone she’d ever loved in the ground. Gone.
He knew because everyone he’d ever loved was gone, too.
Which was why he’d left Rathkeale. He needed to get away from the past, and memories of his family, and his sister, Eliza, the last of them, whispering in her final weeks, “Forgive me. I hate to be a burden...”
She wasn’t a burden. None of them had been a burden. But, after burying her, he’d vowed he was done with family. Done with ties and commitments. He wanted to avoid people and entanglements, particularly emotional entanglements, and yet, here he was, minutes away from marrying a woman who would soon have her world turned upside down.
Dear God, but he was the wrong man for the job.
He should have refused the Burnetts. He should have just walked away. He didn’t owe them anything. They didn’t need to know that he was numb on the in
side. Cold. Dead.
Even he knew that dead men did not make good husbands. Dead men were not good for much of anything, and yet, here he was, about to commit to a woman who would soon need someone strong, and loyal, and able to give meaning to her shattered life.
Chapter Five
The wedding was mercifully brief.
The only guests were the four Douglasses—Johanna, Sinclair, McKenna, and Mrs. Douglas—and Mr. Harrison, the Burnett Ranch manager.
Her father didn’t stand for the brief ceremony, too weak to do anything but give his consent from his chair by the fire.
Ellie barely looked at her groom, her focus on her father whose labored breathing signaled the beginning of the end.
She clutched the small bouquet of lilies that Johanna had borrowed from the lavish Easter decorations at St. James in Marietta. Her hands were damp where she gripped the velvet wrapped stems so tightly.
And then it was done. Thomas Sheenan was lifting her veil and he bent down to place a kiss on the corner of her mouth. It was chaste and sweet and she hoped it made her father happy.
There were hugs afterward, and tears, when she crouched next to her father to whisper, “Happy, Papa?”
“Yes,” he rasped. “You are even more beautiful than your mama.”
She almost fell apart then, but was saved from disgrace by the loud pop of champagne as Sinclair opened the first of the two bottles he’d brought for the reception.
Sinclair toasted the new couple, and then Mrs. Baxter called them to the table where they were served a formal four course meal, prepared by Mrs. Baxter and her oldest daughter Mae.
There were more toasts during dinner, and conversation and laughter, although Ellie wasn’t sure who was laughing since it wasn’t her or Mr. Sheenan. Mr. Sheenan said virtually nothing throughout the meal, his expression grim.
Ellie glanced down at her hand at one point, her attention caught by the simple ring on her fourth finger. It was a gold band, neither wide nor heavy, and every time she looked at it, her heart stuttered and fell.
She was married. Married. Mrs. Thomas Sheenan, too. She didn’t hate the name, but it didn’t feel like her name. It didn’t feel like her. But that didn’t stop Johanna from repeatedly using her new name to get her attention.
Mrs. Sheenan, would you like another dinner roll?
Mrs. Sheenan, do you need something to drink?
Mrs. Sheenan...
Ellie smiled each time, aware that Johanna was teasing her, but the game wore on her as the meal went on, making her raw, each reference to the new surname reminding her that she no longer belonged to her father, but to this brooding, black-haired, dark-eyed stranger.
Her eyes burned as she looked at her father, stooped over in his chair. She’d hoped after the ceremony he’d go to bed, but he’d refused, determined to be at the table, determined to be the proper host, even though he could barely hold himself upright.
Her proud, foolish papa. He ought to be in bed, resting, not entertaining, but she understood that for him this was a momentous day. His only child was marrying. His Ellie had become a woman. A wife.
Her lips quivered as she drank him in. The snowy beard, the impressive moustache, the Texas heart beating in his chest.
Two hours later, everyone departed and Thomas and Mr. Harrison helped her father upstairs to his bedroom, and then helped him change, before putting him to bed.
But once in his nightshirt, tucked into the big bed with the handsome walnut headboard, her father shrank, disappearing into the sheets and pillows, almost too frail for the double wedding ring quilt with the band of red roses embroidered at the edges.
It was an extravagant quilt with ruby and denim and bright yellow gingham fabrics. Her mother had made the quilt twenty-four years ago after marrying her father. She’d made it by herself and it had taken her an entire year, saving the fabrics, cutting, piecing, and then embroidering. The quilt was her father’s favorite thing in the house. He’d never said so in words, but he never let anyone else wash the quilt, or fold it back in summer.
Gently, Ellie smoothed the quilt over his chest, her fingers brushing across the pink and crimson roses near the edge. He closed his eyes, the only sound in the room his ragged breathing.
“Are you comfortable, Papa?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer, and she didn’t press him, sitting on a chair next to the bed, her hand in his, listening to the air rattle in and out of his lungs.
Footsteps sounded on the wooden floor behind her. “You were up all night with him last night,” Thomas said. “Go rest, and I’ll wake you in a bit.”
She shook her head. “I can’t leave him—”
“He’s sleeping now. There is nothing you can do. And a couple hours of sleep would help you.”
She opened her mouth to protest but just trying to speak made her eyes fill with tears. The fear was suffocating, her exhaustion crippling. She didn’t want to break down in front of her father, or her new groom.
“You’ll call me,” she said.
“Yes.”
“And you’ll be with him?”
“I’ll sit in that chair.”
Numbly, she went to her room and struggled out of her wedding dress and put on a nightgown and then her long dressing robe so she’d be ready should Thomas knock on her door before climbing into her childhood bed, in her childhood room.
She didn’t feel any different than she had when she woke up, and yet everything had changed.
Shivering, she pulled the covers higher. She didn’t want to think, or feel, aware that there was no going back. There would never be going back, only forward.
The emotion she’d kept bottled in all day threatened to spill, but she gripped her covers tighter, and smashed all the emotions down. There would be time to grieve. That wasn’t today, or tonight. Her father was still here, alive, and that was all that mattered.
Her eyes closed and somehow, impossibly she slept, only to be awakened four hours later by a firm rap on her door.
“Ellie, you’d best come. He’s failing.”
Archibald Burnett died three hours after midnight on Easter Sunday.
Thomas was there, at the back of the master bedroom when Burnett drew his last breath. He knew it before Ellie did, but then he’d gone through this a half dozen times before. And yet once he knew the old man was gone, Thomas felt a lance of pain deep in his chest where his small, hard heart belonged.
Silently, he said a prayer for the old man’s soul, and then he gave Ellie a moment to see if she’d recognize that her father was no longer with her, but when she kept her head down, her cheek still resting on the thin, frail hand, he moved forward.
“Ellie,” he said gruffly. “Your father—”
“I know.” She lifted her head, her fingers still clasped with her father’s.
She was pale, unnaturally pale, her lips pressed tightly. She rose from her chair and gazed down into her father’s face for a long minute. Her throat worked. Her jaw tightened. And then she carefully bent close and pressed a kiss to her father’s cheek before smoothing his shock of white hair and then doing the same to his bushy beard.
“He went so quickly.” Her voice was low and hoarse. “Just days ago he was still himself.”
“He hung on for you, despite the pain.”
“He never complained about the pain.”
“I think if it weren’t for you, he would have stopped fighting weeks ago.”
She turned to look at him. “You think he was waiting for me to get married?”
“I know he was. Your pa was a good man.”
“What happens now?”
“We have the kind of funeral he would have wanted—”
“He didn’t want one.”
“Then you have the kind of funeral you’d want for him, and then you mourn him and when you’re done mourning, you’ll get on with living, just as he intended you do.”
July 1890
Chapter Six
July 5, 1
890
Three months ago today Thomas married Ellie.
Tonight, after midnight, it would be three months since Archibald Burnett passed away. Thomas had kept a calendar and he’d checked off every day since the April fifth wedding.
It had been a long three months for both of them. He’d been working from sun up to sun down on the ranch, aware that he had much to learn and prove, and she’d spent the time mourning. He’d given her the space and time to grieve, too.
And she had grieved. She’d done nothing but grieve since Easter, sequestered in her bedroom, only leaving the privacy of her room when she was certain he wasn’t in the house, quickly, quietly entering the kitchen for something to eat or drink before disappearing back into her room where she’d lock the door on the inside. He understood from Mrs. Baxter that Ellie didn’t dress. She rarely bathed. She had no needlework in her room, nor anything to occupy herself with. When she emerged for a meal, she didn’t sit at the table. She ate alone in her room, and it wasn’t just Thomas she avoided, but everyone, Johanna Douglas included.
He’d known she would mourn, and he’d expected her to take to bed for awhile, but as the weeks turned to months, his patience and sympathy wore thin. Unabated grief wasn’t healthy. Thomas was concerned she was losing her grasp on reality, the endless mourning making her ill, not just physically, but mentally.
It was time to call her back to the land of the living. Time to give her a sense of purpose again.
She wouldn’t like it.
She would fight him. But she couldn’t live forever in her bedroom as if a hermit, or a cloistered nun.
Papa had been gone for months, she wasn’t sure how many months, but the seasons had changed, the cool spring giving way to bursts of heat in the late morning, a heat that lingered late into the afternoon.
She’d had such good intentions when she’d married Thomas Sheenan. She’d planned on showing him the ranch, and taking him across the vast property personally. She knew the hills and mountain slope that rose up behind the house, and she was going to prove to her husband, that no one knew the property better than her.
