by Jane Porter
Will Harrison, the ranch manager, nodded as Thomas entered the barn. Thomas gave a barely perceptible nod in response and continued to the horse stalls, stopping at Archibald’s big palomino and giving him an affectionate pat. He greeted each of the horses until he came to Oisin’s stall. The tall black stallion stared at him, ears and nose twitching and Thomas leaned on the gate.
“Soon,” he said gruffly, watching the unhappy horse. “She’ll be back. It won’t be long, I promise you.”
Oisin took two steps toward Thomas, stopping just out of reach.
Smiling faintly, Thomas reached into his pocket and pulled out the core of his tart apple from his lunch earlier. Palm flat he offered the core to the stallion.
Oisin gave him an indignant look, but after a moment, he took the core in his teeth, lips peeling back to avoid contact with Thomas’s skin before backing up.
Thomas’s amused smile faded after a moment and he shook his head. “You two deserve each other,” he said, before continuing through the barn to the pen outside where the cowhands were in the process of weaning the bigger heifers they intended to take to market in the fall from their mothers.
It had been a busy three months since he’d moved into the Burnett Ranch house. He’d arrived in the middle of calving season, and they’d only just finished calving when lambing began. Four years ago, Burnett Ranch had started with three hundred sheep, and now had nineteen hundred ewes. Thomas thought two thousand would be a comfortable number, but Harrison was pushing for almost twice as much. Privately, Thomas wasn’t sure that the land could sustain both cattle and sheep if herds were that big, but so far Thomas had kept his opinions to himself. Things were less awkward now than when he arrived early April, but he still felt like the outsider. Thomas knew farming in Ireland, but it was different in Montana. Everything was different in Montana—the harsh weather, the vast size of the properties, the rugged terrain. And so even as Thomas threw himself into the work, he was aware that the others were watching, not just Harrison, but the other hands, and they all watched him, waiting for the misstep, waiting for him to fail. But he wasn’t going to fail, and he did what he always did—he worked longer and harder than the others. He started earlier, worked later, and worked smarter, too. It might take a full year for Harrison and the hands to fully accept him, but they would, eventually, and if they didn’t, or couldn’t, then by next April, those hands would be replaced. It was hard enough trying to step into the shoes of the legendary Archibald Burnett, much less run one of the biggest spreads in Gallatin, Crawford, and Park counties, without having any employees on his side.
It stayed light late during Montana summers and since Ellie hadn’t wound her clock since her father died, she had to use her senses to tell her what time it was. And it had to be past six in the evening by the rich, savory aroma wafting upstairs, creeping under her door, making her mouth water and her stomach growl.
She hadn’t had much appetite these past few months. She’d only nibbled at food and from the loose fit of her dressing gown, she’d lost weight. She didn’t care about the weight. In fact, she didn’t care about anything. That was the problem and she didn’t know how to begin caring again.
She’d known she’d miss her father but she hadn’t expected this... despair, and she missed little things she hadn’t anticipated. The bracing scent of her father’s shaving soap. The rich tobacco smell of his pipe. The quick smile he’d give her when she entered the room. His habit of tugging on his moustache, keeping the points sharp. And then the sweet way he’d call her Ellie girl.
A lump filled her throat. She missed everything about him, but most of all she missed his love. And now her father was gone and a stranger lived in the house. There was nothing familiar or comforting about Thomas Sheenan, either.
She perched on the side of her bed, her stomach rumbling, hearing the clank and bang in the kitchen.
She was hungry, and irritated, and in a terrible mood. She’d been in a foul temper ever since this morning when Thomas told her he’d changed the name on the title of the deed. That he’d turned the Burnett Ranch into the Sheenan Ranch.
It made her want to throw up.
He couldn’t have been more disrespectful, or hurtful, if he’d tried. But even then, she wasn’t going to let him chase her out of her own kitchen. This was her house, not his, and she refused to hide upstairs just because he was downstairs.
He was the outsider, not she.
He was the one, making things unpleasant.
She needed to regain control. She needed to put him in his place. He’d all these weeks to grow comfortable in the house, but it was time he remembered that she was in charge here, not he. She was the mistress of the house, and would always be mistress of this house, and no Irishman, no matter how big or how intimidating, was going to make decisions for her.
Simmering, she took off her dressing gown, changing into her blue gingham before heading downstairs to see what was happening in her kitchen. She found him at the stove, his beige linen shirt clinging to his shoulders, outlining the width of his back as he used a wooden spoon to stir something in the big black cast iron skillet.
“Supper is almost ready,” he said, still facing the wall, somehow aware that she’d entered the room although she hadn’t made a sound. “Please lay the table.”
How had he heard her? It was as if the man had ears in the back of his head. “I’m not eating with you,” she said quietly, stiffly. “I’d like a word with you and then I’ll be taking my meal to my room.”
He glanced over his shoulder at her, expression impossible to read. “We can discuss whatever you like over supper—”
“Thank you, but no. I prefer my own company.”
His eyes met hers, the dark irises glinting with something she couldn’t understand. For a long moment he said nothing, his gaze just holding hers, and then his lips thinned. “In that case, you’ll be preparing your own supper.”
“Fine.”
“So what is it you wanted to discuss?” he asked, dishing a generous plate of roast beef.
The meat was so tender it fell apart as the thick slices hit his plate, splashing juice onto the mound of mashed potatoes.
Her stomach growled. She didn’t think she’d ever smelled anything quite so appetizing before. She forced her attention from the plate to his profile. “The paperwork for the ranch. I’d like to see it.”
“Why?”
“I just want to see if you actually changed the name.”
“I actually changed the name.” He turned around. “Are you sure you don’t wish to join me? You haven’t eaten all day.”
“I found some bread and cheese, so I’m not starving.” It wasn’t true, but he didn’t need to know that. She did know that if she joined him for a meal, he’d view it as a victory and she’d rather starve than give him the satisfaction of thinking he’d beat her.
Because he hadn’t beaten her. He hadn’t won.
“You’re being stubborn,” he answered, holding his plate out to her. “You can fight with me tomorrow, but tonight, eat. It’ll do you a world of good.”
It probably would, too, she thought, as emotion bottled in her chest, closing her throat, making her eyes burn. She was tired and hungry and sad and she hated him for taking her home—her father’s home—and turning it into his place.
She hadn’t cared that his name was Sheenan until now. His name hadn’t been an issue... until he’d used it to erase her father.
“Take it,” he said, more forcefully, a lock of black hair falling low on his brow, shading his dark eyes.
Black stubble covered his jaw and his white shirt fell open, exposing not just his throat, but part of his chest. She looked away from the blatant display of skin and muscle. It was indecent. He was indecent. An Irish never-do-well.
“You had no right to change the name of this property. It’s been Archibald Burnett’s since he carved it from the valley thirty plus years ago. He put up the fences and he plowed the field and pl
anted crops where there were only rocks.”
“Your father knew it would happen after he was gone.”
“But I didn’t!” Her voice rose, pain sharpening her tone. “I’m shocked, and angry, and it horrifies me that you’d do such a thing when my back was turned. How can I trust you? How can I respect you, never mind like you?”
“All good questions,” he answered. “And I’ll try to answer them if you’ll sit down with me and have a meal with me—”
“No. Never. I’d rather starve.”
“As you wish, m’lady.” He gave her a slight bow before carrying the cast iron skillet to the slop pail in the corner and dumping the remaining roast and gravy into the pail.
Her jaw dropped as he returned to the stove, and plopped the skillet down, making the skillet rattle.
He’d thrown away the supper. All of it. What a waste. And then shock turned to outrage as he pulled out her father’s chair and sat in her father’s place. “Must you sit there?” she choked, voice strangled.
“You’re not staying, so what does it matter to you?”
“Because it’s where my father sat my entire life.”
“But this is also where I’ve sat every morning and every evening for the past three months.” He lifted his head, his dark gaze skewering her. “Until this morning, I didn’t know it was your father’s chair. But I do know why he sat here. He could see the door from this seat. He could also see out the window. It’s a defensive position allowing him to react quickly should he need to. It’s why I will continue to sit here.”
“Even if it upsets me?”
He looked at her so long that her skin prickled uncomfortably.
“You want to be upset,” he said eventually. “You are looking for a reason to be angry with me.”
Her heart hammered and her pulse jumped wildly in her veins. She was so angry she couldn’t even think straight. “Rest assured, you’ve given me more than sufficient ammunition.”
She was in the middle of a dream, a warm lovely dream, and in the dream she was happy, and there was sunshine and lots of warmth and laughter, the kind of warmth and laughter at Christmas or some other special time, and it was beyond irritating to be pulled from such a lovely dream by the sound of banging.
And the banging came from below.
Bam, bam, bam.
Sleepily, Ellie rolled onto her back and listened. It was very loud, and very even. Bam. And again. And then again.
She sat up and pushed her coverlet aside. What was Thomas doing? Was something broken?
What was he hammering? And why was it so loud? She glanced at her window and it was only just dawn, pale pink fingers of light streaking the horizon. And why so early in the morning?
Uneasy, Ellie left her bed, opened her door, and moved to the top of the stairs. The noise had stopped but now there was a muffled sound coming from the kitchen. Footsteps echoed from the kitchen and then finally silence.
She came down the stairs, and as she reached the bottom step, she looked toward the kitchen doorway, or where the doorway had been, because the door was gone, covered by thick roughly planed lumber.
It took her a second to realize that the kitchen had been boarded up. That Thomas Sheenan had boarded the kitchen.
Was he insane?
The front door opened and the man in question walked in. He saw her, she knew he saw her, but he ignored her as he passed her in the hall, continuing on to the stairs where he took them two at a time as if intending to go to his room, the small guest room tucked under the eaves at the very back of the second floor.
“What did you do?” she said to his back, voice shaking with outrage.
He paused near the top to turn. The hall was nearly dark, no lights on but she didn’t need a lamp to hear his sarcasm. “You weren’t interested in cooking, so I’ve closed the kitchen.”
“And how do you intend to prepare your meals, Mr. Sheenan, when the kitchen has been barricaded?”
“I’ll use the kitchen door. I have a key to the deadbolt.”
“And me? What about me? Am I to starve to death?”
“I hope not.”
“You’re mad,” she choked.
“Maybe.”
“You admit it?”
“I admit that I’m tired of doing all the work. I’m also tired of fighting you.”
“You wouldn’t have to fight me if you just left me alone!”
“As I did for the past three months?” He laughed roughly, no humor in the deep sound. “That was a mistake. Just look at you. When was the last time you combed your hair or put on a clean dress? You smell—”
“I don’t!” she cried, outraged.
“Your skin is greasy. Your hair—”
“Enough. Leave me be.” Her voice broke. “Please.”
“I can’t. I won’t. Not any longer.”
“Why? What I do shouldn’t matter to you. Nor should you care how I look, so if you don’t like my appearance, don’t look at me! You didn’t marry me for love, or affection. You married me for the land. And you have the land. You have what you wanted. Count your blessings—”
“But I don’t have you.”
She stiffened. “What does that mean?”
“This isn’t a marriage. I want a marriage. We agreed to a marriage.”
“We agreed we’d wait.”
“To consummate the marriage until we became acquainted, but how are we to become acquainted if we don’t take meals together, or speak to one another? I don’t think it’s asking too much for you to sit at a table with me, or to prepare toast and coffee for me.”
“I’m not ready to become acquainted—”
“When will you be ready?”
“I don’t know.” She stared up at him, outwardly defiant and yet on the inside, she was reeling. She wasn’t ready for this. She wasn’t ready for him. “You need to give me time.”
“It’s summer, Ellie. It’s been three months since your father’s funeral.”
“Do not use my name!”
“You’re my wife.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
She looked away, mutinous, emotions rioting. She’d made a terrible choice marrying him. There was a half dozen Marietta and Bozeman, decent, respectful bachelors who would have made a better match. Why hadn’t she picked one of those men? “You do not get to dictate how much time I’m allowed to grieve. It is my grief, not yours, and my life, not yours—”
“You are my responsibility, and as such, I am insisting you to return to the land of the living. I appreciate that you lost your father. But you can’t just remain in bed. There is work to be done. You are needed to contribute to your family’s welfare.”
“What family? You?”
“It’s a shock, isn’t it, Mrs. Sheenan?”
She hated him using her first name, and yet she hated being called Mrs. Sheenan even more. Good God but this was a nightmare. She wasn’t at all prepared for life with him. “And what do you expect me to do, Mr. Sheenan?”
“What other wives are doing right now. Putting away food for winter. Planting late summer crops—”
She laughed out loud, cutting him short. “I do not preserve food. I don’t make applesauce or jam or pickles. I do not butcher or dry meat. If you feel the need to begin preparing for winter, then please, chop all the firewood you want, and once you have sufficient firewood, head into the mountains and look for grouse and deer and elk but, Mr. Sheenan, for me summer is about picnics and parties and enjoying the fine weather, not laboring next to a hot stove.”
“Is that what you’ve been waiting for? A picnic? In that case, bathe and I’ll take you on one. This afternoon.”
“I don’t want to go on a picnic with you. I don’t want to do anything with you. I want my father back and my old life back—” She broke off, voice strangled, dangerously close to breaking down. She clenched her hands, digging her nails into her fists.
Dear God, she needed to pull herself together. She couldn’t f
all apart here, now, in front of him. She couldn’t weep as if a child. Her father didn’t tolerate tears. If she was going to cry, she’d do it in the dark, in the privacy of her own room. Ellie drew a deep breath, and then another, concentrating on slowing her breathing and regaining control. “You say I am mistress of this house. Do you mean that?”
“Of course.”
“Then take down this barricade so I can access my kitchen, or neither of us will ever get anything to eat.”
“You have access to the kitchen through the mudroom door. All you have to do is go outside and walk around to the back. It will be good for you. Fresh air. Exercise. A chance to view your property from someplace other than your bedroom window.” He paused, his face shadowed in the dim light of the stairwell. “You might not appreciate my tactics, but I am trying to help you.”
She made a soft sound of disbelief in the back of her throat. “Do not take me for a fool, Mr. Sheenan.”
“I do not, Mrs. Sheenan.” He started to move away then stopped. “I will leave the kitchen door unbolted so you have access to the kitchen and laundry during the day. The back door is unlocked now, and I would very much enjoy a light meal, toast and cheese, or a scrambled egg would do. I don’t want to overwhelm you. Let us start with something simple to avoid taxing you.”
“I don’t feel like cooking.”
“Then slice the bread and serve it with butter and cheese. I’m going to change my shirt and I’ll be back down soon.”
And then he continued down the hall toward his room, leaving Ellie bristling at his authoritative tone. Who did he think he was, ordering her about? And did he really think he’d get anywhere with her, acting as if he was the boss, and she was in his employ?
