James had secretly envied him. An odd restlessness overcame him whenever he saw the newlyweds together. The two had a sparkle about them—an obvious bond, not unlike the one that existed between Wyatt Thompson and his wife, Samantha, wed for only six months. A widow from Argentina, who’d inherited the neighboring ranch, she’d brought a passel of boys and midget Falabella horses with her when she married Wyatt. From that day on, the ranch had exploded with laughter and love and high jinx that seasoned the grueling work of ranch life.
But until Harry O’Hanlon had wed Sally O’Donnell, James hadn’t believed he could even dream of a wife of his own. Before, such an idea seemed as far away as the moon. With living on an isolated ranch, near a town with few unmarried women, he hadn’t seen anyone who took his fancy. Now he understood Harry—how the exchange of a few looks and words from a special woman could knock a man right off his course, sending him unexpected images and longings.
James climbed into the sleigh and gathered up the reins. He nodded good day to Pepe.
With a frown of concern, James realized he didn’t have the same clear field as Harry had possessed for his courtship. The other cowboy had met Sally O’Donnell in the mercantile, and then on Christmas rode out to the O’Donnell’s claim on the prairie, taking with him a haunch of beef as a gift. Later that night, he’d returned to the Thompson ranch, an engaged man.
But Harry hadn’t had any competition, no passel of cowhands to interfere with his courtship. James doubted Sally O’Donnell had set eyes on another suitor in the months before Harry showed up on her doorstep. She had mighty slim pickings out on the isolated prairie. Not that Harry wasn’t a good guy, and the two were obviously head over heels in love.
James thought of the eight other available cowboys who lived in the bunkhouse on the Thompson ranch. Deuce, thank goodness, was too young, and Sid was too old, but the rest of them were presentable enough—or at least they were after they bathed. Even though it was the dead of winter, he predicted there’d be a spate of bathing in the ranch hands’ future as they slicked themselves up for courtin’ the O’Donnell twins.
James sensed Patrick Gallagher would be his real competition. The man had brought a stud to the ranch for Wyatt to check out while he assessed the quality of the mare his stallion would breed to. He was staying up at the big house for a few days, maybe longer—plenty of time to court Bridget.
James had envied him the black Thoroughbred, but now…. Gallagher was a tall, well-formed man who knew his way around a horse and had dark good looks that would probably appeal to women. And the breeder knew it, too. He walked like a man who had land and plenty of stock—unlike James who was just a ranch hand, and up until right now, content to be so.
Defeat tried to edge in, dampening his hope. But he shrugged off the feeling.
First to the table, first to be fed, as his ma was fond of saying. He vowed to begin courting Miss Bridget O’Donnell as soon as she stepped out of the station.
CHAPTER TWO
Bridget stood by the window at the post office, watching for James to return, weary but eager to see him again. Behind her, Alana sat in the only other chair in the room, engaged in a quiet conversation with Mr. Waite, asking him about his rheumatism and suggesting an herbal posset he might try.
Bridget had to tamp down her impatience to be moving, to finish this journey and see what awaited them at the Thompson ranch. She could barely keep herself from pacing the small space.
A faded brown sleigh pulled up in front of the station. She saw James, and her stomach fluttered. To distract herself, she focused her attention on his horse—some type of dappled gray. She wanted a closer look. “James is here, Alana. We must not keep the horse waiting in the cold.”
“We mustn’t keep Mr. Whitson waiting,” her sister chided and rose to her feet, turning to hold out a hand to the stationmaster. “Thank ye, Mr. Waite, for allowing us to warm ourselves.”
“Jack. Call me Jack.” He pressed and released her hand. “No need to stand on formality with me, no siree.” He struggled to get to his feet.
“No, no.” Alana touched his arm. “Ye stay comfortable, and we’ll see ourselves out.”
“Uhh,” he grunted, settling back.
Bridget donned the coat she’d removed earlier and pulled on her mittens. She echoed her sister’s thanks, gathered her satchel and potato bag, and bade the stationmaster good-bye.
Instead of going back into the main room, they left by the outside door, walking across the platform and down the steps.
James reached for Alana’s bags and helped her into the back seat of the sleigh.
Bridget tilted her head toward the horse. “Yers?”
“My gelding, Dusty.”
As soon as she handed her satchel and the potato bag to James, Bridget moved to the horse and ran her hand down his neck.
The gelding was tall, with a narrow-bodied, rangy build. But what interested Bridget was his coloring. He looked like someone had taken a gray horse and splattered paint across his coat, and then stood the mount in a vat of paint to his knees to create four white socks. Only the long mane and tail remained sooty gray.
“I’ve never seen anything like him.”
The horse turned to snuffle her arm.
“Ye beauty.” Bridget wished she had an apple slice or carrot to give him. “Next time I see ye, dear boy, I promise to bring ye a treat.”
James walked to her side. “He’s an Appaloosa. An American breed known by these spots.”
“Unusual and striking.” She felt more than saw Alana’s long-suffering look. With a final pat to Dusty’s nose, Bridget returned to the sleigh. There’d be time later to become acquainted with the horse. For the first time, excitement stirred in her about visiting a ranch. I’ll have my fill of horses. She let out a happy sigh.
With a courtly bow, James extended a hand to help her into the sleigh, his gaze intent on her face.
Bridget smiled her thanks. She climbed inside, allowing her hand to linger in his longer than convention allowed.
The padded leather seat still felt warm from hot bricks wrapped in rags that James had moved from the seat to the floor.
Bridget snuggled next to Alana, who rested her head on the seatback, her eyes closed.
James covered them with a thick brown fur, solicitously tucking in the edges.
Bridget fingered the heavy fur, wondering what type of animal had a pelt so thick.
“Bearskin. Grizzly bear.” After answering her unspoken question, James climbed into the front seat and gathered up the reins. With a jerk, the sleigh started forward, and he directed Dusty down the street.
The gelding tossed his head and took some mincing steps sideways, as if protesting the burden behind him. With the guidance of James’s hands on the reins and his voice, Dusty settled down to the task of pulling the sleigh.
Bridget glanced at her sister. “This is cozy.”
Alana raised her head and gazed at Bridget, her eyes troubled. “Mr. Whitson is a thoughtful man. But I don’t like the idea of going to this ranch, instead of our uncle’s home.”
As she usually did, Bridget stepped into the role of giving assurance instead of voicing her own doubts. “Sally is our family, our cousin. Moreover, James and Mr. Waite told us the Thompsons would welcome us.”
“I guess we’ll find out,” Alana said in a tired voice and rested her head on the seatback.
Bridget watched James with interest, assessing his skill. He had sure hands and a confident manner with both the horse and sled.
She’d driven carts and wagons plenty of times, but never a sleigh. When she was young, they’d had a stocky Irish draught horse. And as soon as she was old enough to drive, Bridget coaxed her father into allowing her to take the reins. Da, now gone to Heaven, bless him, had never resisted Bridget’s persuasions. He’d allowed her to run wild in the outdoors she loved, as well as spend time at the squire’s stables, helping out the grooms. The most heart-wrenching part of leaving Ireland was s
aying good-bye to the horses she’d loved.
Bridget sat back, tugged up the fur to cover most of her face, inhaling the smell of musty leather, and watched as they glided through the town, which on closer inspection proved bigger than she’d thought from her first glance through the train window. Two big buildings under construction rose three or four stories amid the false-fronted wooden ones. A few nice houses and one brick mansion seemed out of place next to simple wood cabins.
Soon they left the town, gliding under brown-trunked trees, the branches laden with white crystals from yesterday’s snowstorm. The beauty, like the cold, took her breath away, and she had to force the pine-scented air into her lungs.
James looked back over his shoulder and tossed her a grin. “You two lovely ladies all right back there?”
She lowered the bearskin. “As right as can be with such a skilled driver,” Bridget said with a smile, grateful that Alana was snoozing and thus couldn’t hear how flirtatious she sounded.
He winked and returned his attention to driving.
After about an hour, the novelty of riding in a sleigh had worn off. The bricks at their feet chilled, and they grew cold.
They passed from forest into open land. The earlier cloudiness of the day had given way to vivid blue skies and sunshine that sparkled off the snow, the brightness making her squint.
Even huddled next to her twin with the thick bear pelt over part of her face, Bridget felt the icy cold start to wear away at her energy and fatigue set in. Eventually, the strain of the their long journey caught up with her, and she dozed off, her head resting together with Alana’s. Sometimes, the women bumped awake when the runners of the sleigh hit an unseen hole or rock, buried under the snow. Then they’d drift back to sleep.
Finally, James slowed the sled. He twisted in the seat to give them a sympathetic glance. “Last stretch, ladies. We’ve been on Thompson land for a while.”
Bridget lowered the fur enough to expose her mouth. “It’s thankin’ the Good Lord I’ll be when I’m warm again.”
He laughed, although his face was ruddy with cold. “’Bout another ten minutes or so, and we’ll reach the house.”
He must be just as glad as we are to arrive at the destination.
Keeping the fur tight around the two of them, she wiggled to sit up so she could see. But the vista hadn’t changed from snow-covered land and distant blue-gray mountains.
“Do you really think they’ll welcome us?” Alana’s voice quivered.
“Of course. We’re kin to Sally and her husband.” Bridget enthused more certainty into her tone than she felt. Alana, gentle soul that she was, had too many fears, and Bridget often needed to prop her up. Or push or pull her. She remembered the difficulties she’d had in convincing her twin to set out for America. Bridget hadn’t wanted to leave “her” horses, but Alana clung to the people she cared about, especially her best friend, Timkin.
“There!” Bridget pointed with her chin. “I see buildings.” A big two-story white ranch house blended into the snow around them. But the two huge red barns—one in front of the other—made a start contrast against the arching blue sky. She couldn’t wait to meet all the horses that must be inside.
In the corral on the left of the barn, Bridget saw a big man lunging a magnificent black stallion, his movements capable. She sat up, leaning over the side so she could study the horse. She glimpsed a well-chiseled head on a long neck, high withers, a lean body, and long legs. A Thoroughbred. The sleigh passed the barn, and she lost sight of the horse. What are they doing with a Thoroughbred on a ranch?
“Bridget,” Alana chided. “Yer lettin’ in the cold air.”
“Away wi’ ye, Alana. Aren’t ye excited?”
“Nae, Bridget. I’m tuckered is what.”
The sled pulled up in the area between the house and the biggest barn. A picket fence enclosed an area around a side door. A brick walkway and steps leading to the house were cleared of snow.
The door opened, and Bridget spotted a woman in a navy blue coat step out. She wore a pale blue hat, scarf, and mittens, and apparently hadn’t seen them arrive, for she stopped and shaded her eyes from the sun. Then she lowered her arm and moved down the walkway and through the gate to meet the sleigh, a warm smile on her face. She had bright blue eyes, even features, and auburn brows and lashes, which must surely match the hair hidden by her cap.
“Looks like you brought company for me.” The woman addressed the words to James, but her glance at the twins was friendly.
“Well, not precisely for you, Miz Thompson,” James corrected her. “Miz O’Hanlon’s cousins. Bridget and Alana O’Donnell. All the way from Ireland.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “What a journey you two have made. I’m Samantha Thompson. Welcome.” She gestured for them to step from the sleigh.
A lanky man ambled from the barn. Up close he proved to be young, perhaps seventeen, with orange hair and a freckled face. When he saw the twins, his eyes widened and he stumbled, pulling himself up abruptly. Color flooded his cheeks, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.
With an upward quirk of his mouth, James handed the reins to the young man. “This here’s Deuce. He’s really named Harry, but since we have another Harry, the one who married your cousin, we swapped out his name for Deuce.” He introduced the twins to the young man.
Deuce ducked his head and stuttered out a greeting.
Mrs. Thompson patted him on the shoulder. “I was just on my way to check on Sally,” she said to the twins. “The storm knocked down the north fence, and the cattle have scattered. My husband, Wyatt, and the hands rode out to round them up and string new wire. I intend to stay with Sally for a while because Harry is reluctant to leave her, for she’s been feeling poorly.”
Is she ill like her mother?
Bridget’s concern must have shown on her face for Mrs. Thompson waved her hand in a negating motion. “No, no. Nothing serious. For the last three days, she’s been queasy in the mornings…”
Alana gasped. “Sally’s with child?”
Her sister had been the one to help their mother with healing and midwifery and so knew about such matters.
Mrs. Thompson’s eyes twinkled. “It’s early days, but I suspect so, since she perks up in the afternoon.”
Bridget exchanged a concerned glance with Alana. Given her condition, their cousin couldn’t possibly welcome visitors.
With a smile, Mrs. Thompson waved for them to accompany her. “After you greet Sally, I’ll bring you back to the house. I know from experience what a long journey from another country feels like, and I’m sure you’d like a bath. We have indoor plumbing and a nice bathtub for soaking. Far easier than a small tin tub in Sally’s cabin. And afterwards, Mrs. Toffels, my housekeeper, will make you something to eat.”
“A bath sounds just heavenly.” Bridget allowed Mrs. Thompson’s charm to wrap around her like welcomed warmth, and her fears eased. Back home, an upper-class lady wouldn’t dream of inviting the likes of them into her home for a bath and a meal. She wondered if everyone in this town would be as friendly.
The crunch of footsteps and hoofbeats in the snow heralded a horseman leading the black stallion. She recognized him as the one who’d been working with the Thoroughbred, and her interest quickened.
With a gasp, Alana shrank behind Bridget.
Up close, Bridget could see the man was as magnificent as his horse. Big and broad-shouldered, he had patrician features with dark eyes and eyebrows.
He glanced at them, a glint of interest in his eyes.
Bridget met his gaze with a frankness of her own.
His eyebrows lifted, and he focused his attention on her.
“Mr. Gallagher owns a stud farm.” Mrs. Thompson explained, touching Bridget’s shoulder. “Patrick, I’d like you to meet Miss Bridget—” She brushed Alana’s sleeve “—and Miss Alana O’Donnell, who’ve come a long ways…from Ireland. Ladies, Mr. Patrick Gallagher.
He removed his hat and swept
them a charming bow. Straightening, he smiled with great charm and replaced his hat.
Something about the way his body shifted—shoulders back, chin firm, head slightly-angled, showed he was used to female attention. He made Bridget aware of her bedraggled state in a way that James had not. She stilled her hands to keep from smoothing the wrinkles of her skirt. She wouldn’t betray any hint of self-consciousness to this man.
Like James, he, too, barely glanced at her sister. A novel reaction, not just because the sisters were twins but because at home Alana, with her gentle goodness, was beloved by all the villagers. Kindness shone on her face, and everyone, especially men, noticed her.
Confusion made Bridget glance away from the horse’s owner and focus on his stallion. She wanted to move closer, but Alana grasped a fold of her coat. She couldn’t pull away without exposing her sister’s skittishness.
Is Patrick Gallagher looking at me because he can tell I’m interested in him? Does he see my longing to know his horse? Or is it just that Alana is hiding, and I’m the one in the forefront?
As if discerning that her thoughts were on him, he sent her a knowing smile.
Heat flushed her, bringing a sudden sense of optimism. Perhaps there’s some gold dust in Montana, after all.
* * *
A few minutes later, as James carried the bags of potatoes, Bridget and Alana followed Mrs. Thompson down a narrow path through the snow to a small cabin made of squared-off logs. The door sat in the middle of the one-story house, with a small four-paned glass window on each side. The timbers still looked raw, with some kind of plaster sealing the spaces between the logs. There was no porch, unlike many of the houses she’d seen from the train, only a wooden step to the entrance. Cordwood was stacked to the eaves along one wall.
A privy stood to the left of the house, with a narrow path through the snow from the doorway. The wood of the small structure was as new as the home.
A Valentine's Choice: A Montana Sky Series Holiday Novella (The Montana Sky Series) Page 2
