by Joyce Armor
She almost rejected that offer as not proper and then thought, Why? I am not bound by anything but my own choices and will never see this man again anyway. “Duncan it is. So you decided to stay?”
“Aye, there was naught for me at home. I lost my…” He stopped, took a deep breath and continued. “Well, me father, our laird, is still a relatively young mon and healthy as an ox. Should something befall him, I have two older brothers, Donald and Seamus, who will fill that position.”
He lost his what? “I always wanted to see Scotland. And Ireland. And Wales. And Italy. Oh, everywhere, I guess.”
He laughed as he adjusted the band on his hat. “But ye are heading to Stonehaven.” He looked out the window and recognized the scenery. “We should be there in aboot 30 minutes. I live ootside of Stonehaven on a small ranch.”
So she might see him again after all. Oh, dear. Hopefully meeting her husband would wipe this alluring, manly man right out of her head. As he studied the passing scenery, she took the opportunity to look him over again. He resembled one of those big, powerful Scottish men she had read about who would excel at the caber toss or just about anything else he tried.
“You’re a highlander then?”
She could see the surprise in his eyes.
“I read a great deal,” she said, as if that explained it.
“So why is a beautiful woman like ye a mail-order bride? Donnae they have any smart men in Pennsylvania?”
He thinks I’m beautiful? Why did that give her a tingly feeling all over? “I thought you were listening when I told Elsie that story. My parents died when I was 13 and I had to live with my horrible aunt and uncle, the Armstrongs.”
“Sassenach!” He shook his head. “Nay wonder.”
She laughed at the less than complimentary referral to the English. “Yes, well, I would do almost anything to get away from them, and Mr. Shanley seems like a perfect gentleman.”
Duncan sat up so abruptly she almost flinched. Her eyes grew big.
“Ye cannae mean Charles Shanley.”
Did her betrothed have a major flaw? Was he already married? “Yes. He’s a merchant in Stonehaven.”
Duncan reached over and grasped her hand, holding it in both of his huge but somehow beautiful and gentle hands. For a moment she couldn’t focus. “Lassie, lassie, lassie, ye cannae marry Charles Shanley.”
It took a minute for that to sink in. “What? But I gave him my word. He paid for my travel.” Of all the reasons to get married, she had to name those?
He moved over to her side, this time grasping both hands. “He isnae a good mon, lassie.”
She pulled her hands back, struggling to find her equilibrium. “He’s a respectable merchant,” she insisted.
He snorted. “’Tis women he sells.”
Sophie knitted her brows. “Women? How could he…?”
Duncan watched as the reality sunk in and her eyes widened again. Although the woman might be naïve, she was obviously intelligent. She was fairly tall but somehow delicate in her wrinkled blue dress, and he suddenly felt protective over her.
“Are you sure?”
“Tis sure and certain I am, Sophie.”
Now, for some reason, she looked suspicious. Of him? He was almost affronted.
She couldn’t go back. She just couldn’t. “How do you know this?”
“Well, I have been…I just ken. Everyone in Stonehaven kens his business.”
These comments took another moment to comprehend as she realized he had availed himself of the women’s services. She gave him a look of what…censure? Disdain? No, it was disappointment, and he felt a need to defend the indefensible.
“’Twas four years ago when I first came to town. A mon feels lonely and…oh, just take me word for it. And Charles Shanley is a violent mon, though he’s a slippery one, he is. Most donnae dare to cross him.”
Now Sophie’s heart was pounding. What was she to do? She could never align herself with a man in that trade. Then she had an idea.
“I’ll get out at the next stop.”
He shook his head. “The next stop is Stonehaven.”
“Oh.”
She looked so forlorn.
“Can ye go home, lassie, if we find a way?”
She didn’t hesitate. “No. I’ll never go back. I can’t, I just can’t.”
Duncan thought for a moment, then turned and leaned out the window, banging on the side of the vehicle. “Stop the coach!” he roared. He had to do it a couple of times before the driver heard him. Sophie felt the coach slowing and finally stopping. Duncan looked back at her, holding out his hand.
“Come on.”
This was insane, yet she did not hesitate for a moment. There was something about Duncan MacGibbon. She knew instinctively he was a good man. She trusted him. Ha! Like you trusted Charles Shanley? She ignored that thought and placed her hand in his. He led her out of the coach. She wondered if he felt the same electricity every time their hands touched. Stop it! There must be a storm coming; that’s why she felt those jolts.
“Throw down our bags,” Duncan ordered the driver, who scratched his head and complied. Sophie jumped aside as one almost hit her. As it was, it landed unceremoniously at her feet, stirring up a cloud of dust that did land on her. She coughed, trying to swat it away.
Duncan smiled. While she probably looked wonderful when she started out on her journey, Sophie Wheelright was a fair mess now, dirty and wrinkled, pieces of her hair coming loose from her braid, which was wound up at the back of her head. Instructing her to wait, Duncan walked closer to the driver. He said something Sophie couldn’t hear and handed him something she couldn’t see. The driver took it and nodded. The crusty old man, who was probably still in his 50’s but looked weathered and tough as nails, adjusted himself on the seat and cracked a whip above the horses with a “Heeyah!” and the stagecoach took off again.
Sophie, who had a streak of dirt on her forehead, watched the vehicle disappear around a bend and then scanned the area. It looked like cattle country, with prairie grass she expected was buffalo grass as far as the eye could see, interspersed with a few trees. In the distance she could see rolling hills.
One part of her mind could not believe she had gotten off the stage with a virtual stranger and now stood in the middle of nowhere with her carpetbag and not much else. She had to admit, however, that another part of her brain felt, dare she think it, energized. She almost laughed. She had apparently traded one stranger for another, except this one was not planning to marry her. If he was correct about Mr. Shanley, though, and she did believe him, this was the only alternative at the moment.
Duncan approached and picked up his bag and hers as she looked at him expectantly. He certainly was tall, several inches over six feet, she surmised.
“This way,” he said, and he started walking toward the hills.
She stood for a moment and then scrambled after him. “Where are we going?”
“Me ranch, and we cannae tarry if we want to get there ere dark.”
She looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun. “It’s noon.”
“Aye. Pick it up.”
Thanking the Lord she had purchased a decent pair of walking boots in Elizabethtown, she grabbed onto her bag, jerking the Scotsman to a stop. He gave her what she assumed was the Scottish version of the evil eye.
“I need to change my shoes. I can’t walk very far in these.”
He looked down at her black slippers and agreed. They were flimsy. He should have thought of that. She plopped herself down in the buffalo grass, yelping and moving when she sat on a little rock, and he chuckled. Sophie gave him a look that was somewhere between a grimace and a glare and quickly searched through the bag. To his astonishment, she pulled out a sturdy pair of brown work boots, thankfully with shoelaces and not buttons or they might be here all day.
At his reaction, she looked up ruefully. “I pictured Mr. Shanley with a mercantile and thought I might be on my feet a lot helping him with i
t. Plus, I like to be outside.”
He wasn’t certain that explained anything and didn’t respond. She tied the shoes, tossed the slippers in the bag and strode off with determination. Duncan MacGibbon knew he would ne’er allow himself to love another woman after Catriona, but he liked Sophie Wheelright. That was for sure and certain.
* * *
So much for comfortable outdoor boots. Although they probably would be fine in the future when they were well broken in, now they were abominable, painful feet-attackers with every grueling step. The couple had walked about three miles, chatting amiably periodically, and had five more to go, Duncan estimated. It was mildly entertaining to watch his tight arse as he strode ahead of her—it was a fine one if she were any judge—but finally she had suffered enough. The wild prairie grass was now different, taller and kind of blue. Mercifully, it looked softer than the buffalo grass. She sank down into it, lying back for a few moments of bliss. Duncan could go to his ranch without her. She was not walking another step in these boots before wrapping her blisters. And she was taking off her blasted corset, proprieties be damned.
How the mighty have fallen.
That thought made her giggle, which is what caused Duncan to finally stop. He was far ahead, though thankfully not out of Scottish hearing distance. He tromped back toward her.
“Lassie, we donnae have time to dally.”
She didn’t sit up but looked him in the eye. A sudden thought occurred to her. “What did you give the driver?”
“An incentive to forget we were on the coach.”
Sophie sat up. “Oh. Good thinking.” She started unlacing her shoes.
He dropped the bags and sat down next to her. “The driver was a substitute. I dinnae ken him.”
She comprehended what he had left unsaid. “That’s why you want us to hurry. In case Charles Shanley finds out we left the stage and comes after us.”
He ignored her astute observation. No sense in fretting about it or getting her in a swoon. “Ye’re taking off yer shoes.”
She smiled. “You noticed that.”
“I ken ‘tis a long way to go, but we must push on, la…” He stopped mid-sentence when she took off a shoe and he saw she had bled through her stocking. “Good lord.”
She took off the other shoe and it was more of the same.
“Take off yer stockings,” he ordered as he rifled through his bag, coming up with a jar of salve, bandaging and scissors.
“You have everything in there, don’t you?”
“The stockings.” He motioned with his hand. “And don’t stand in the dirt.”
He handed her a small towel to stand on. The man thought of everything.
Sophie saluted. “Yes, general.”
Standing on the towel, she turned around, lifted the front of her dress and awkwardly tried to remove the stockings, moaning as they stuck to her bleeding blisters.
“Sit down. Let me.”
He was incredibly gentle as he coaxed the stockings away from the blisters, and she felt a tingling sensation as he held her ankle. The whole scenario would have been unthinkable just a week ago. Funny how a trip across the country and the realization that she had almost made a monumental, life-altering mistake put “proper” behavior into its proper perspective. It wasn’t even in the top 10 things that were important to her now, like her safety, her health, her friends, her spirit, not being hungry, not walking on bleeding blisters.
As he cleaned her wounds, rubbed salve on them and bandaged them, Duncan marveled at how she could have soldiered on with nary a complaint when she obviously was in great pain. She must have highland blood somewhere in her background. When he was done, he reached into his bag and pulled out a clean pair of hand-knit, navy blue socks and gently placed them on her feet.
She was virtually mesmerized by the whole process. “You’ve done this before.”
It was an observation he ignored.
“Let’s get yer shoes on.”
With that he lifted one foot onto his knee and carefully began putting her boot on. She was surprised that she could barely feel the blisters. He tied the first boot.
“How’s that, Sophie?”
Her name on his tongue did something to her heart. It kind of fluttered in her chest. Charles who?
“Uh…it feels good. Thank you, Duncan.”
He put the other shoe on and stood, ready to move on. She was not going another step, however, in the damn corset. If she was going to walk five more miles, she was going to breathe, by God.
“Um, you need to unfasten my dress in the back.”
His jaw actually dropped. He stood there like a rock.
“I promise I’m not going to attack you.”
That made him smile. “Ye can if ye absolutely must.”
“Just do it and we’ll get out of here faster.”
Shaking his head with a “Wheesht!” he quickly unbuttoned her dress, trying to keep his mind blank as he did it. What was she oop to? He didnae want to see her silky skin or think any carnal thoughts aboot it. Or even think why in the world she wanted her dress unbuttoned. He hoped she didnae plan to walk these last five miles in her underthings. He didnae think he could stand it. She twirled her finger, indicating he should turn around.
When he did, she pivoted and pulled the dress off her shoulders, undid the hooks on her corset and mercifully pried it off her sweaty skin, where it left numerous red indentations. She tossed it over her shoulder, not realizing she hit Duncan in the head with it. She already had her dress back on her shoulders by the time his mind computed what was lying at his feet. He looked back at Sophie in something between shock and awe. She was one intriguing specimen of a woman. Now, however, they had to get going.
“Come on, lassie, we have a long ways to go.”
“The dress,” she said, indicating her back, and he quickly fumbled through the process of buttoning her back up. Even that sent shivers up her spine.
For his part, Duncan had to get into his clinical frame of mind to button the dress up without touching or thinking about that beautiful skin.
As they began walking again, they shared stories of their childhood experiences. He talked of wooden swordplay with his brothers on fields of heather, rowing across Loch Gilney and growing up in a 15th-century castle. She shared her before and after experiences. Her happy family life included trips to the seaside and riding her own bay mare, Bella. She sounded so sad as she described the unkind treatment of her aunt and uncle, and the feeling of being unloved and unwanted. And trapped. He wanted to show those miserable relatives some unkind treatment of his own.
“It just occurred to me,” she said after they had walked two or three more miles. “Not that I have much of a reputation left if the stagecoach driver can’t keep a secret, but staying with you at your ranch could be…awkward.”
“Says the woman who hit me in the head with her corset, which ye would have left on the ground for anyone to find, I might add.”
“It’s in my bag, but it has evil properties. I am a western woman now, and I don’t want it.”
“Fine. We’ll burn it when we get to the ranch, where ye donnae have to fret aboot yer reputation. Me sister is there.”
“Oh, good. You didn’t tell me about your sister. What’s her name?”
“Ainsley.”
“Oh, what a pretty name. How old is she? What’s she like?”
He noticed she was starting to slow down. They had already walked for almost four hours. “Do ye want me to carry ye, lassie?”
For an instant that sounded heavenly, then her pride took over. “Of course not. We must be almost there, aren’t we?”
He nodded. “It’s just o’er that rise, down in a wee valley.”
“Are you going to tell me about your sister?” Even a little rise in the land sapped her strength. She couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t like she was climbing a mountain. It was a little hill.
“Och, ye’ll have to meet her. She’s a…Och, ye’ll just have to s
ee fer yerself. We’re almost there.”
Another thought occurred to her. “What were you doing in North Platte?”
“Examining and ordering some new equipment.” He walked ahead.
That was vague, but he obviously doesn’t want to talk about it.
As they reached the crest of the hill, she pulled up next to him, trying to hide how out of breath she was. Then she looked down into the valley and gasped. It was as wondrous a scene as she had ever witnessed.
“Jumping jiminy! It looks like a little slice of paradise.”
He smiled. While he had ne’er put that thought into those exact words, she had described it perfectly.
It wasn’t a large ranch by most standards. Nestled in a little valley, with a stream running behind it, his property included a log cabin with two bedrooms and a loft, a red barn and a corral, where several horses grazed. Farther down the valley a herd of cattle grazed.
Sophie could see smoke coming out of the chimney so knew his sister or someone was home. She grabbed Duncan’s hand. “Let’s go. I’m hungry.”
He laughed and led her down a path through a patch of trees and a meadow with grass about two feet high. Her blisters were starting to bother her again, but she was not about to tell him that. The route to the cabin was almost magical. If he knew what a soul-wrenching connection she felt to him at that moment, he would have run screaming in the opposite direction. That made her chuckle.
He stopped. “What, lassie?”
She stopped. “Nothing. I just think you’re a very lucky man, Duncan.”
He smiled, though she noticed it was somehow kind of a wistful smile. What was that aboot? About!
At last they reached the little dirt road that led to the cabin. As they approached the domicile, the door flung open and a girl of about 15—at least Sophie thought it was a girl—burst out of the cabin, ran down the steps and threw herself into Duncan’s arms. He twirled her around, laughing.
“I missed ye too, me bonnie lassie.”
This must be Ainsley. She was at least a decade younger than Sophie had pictured her. Dressed in black breeches and a red and blue plaid shirt made of flannel, she wore beat-up high leather boots. Her hair, cropped short, just below her ears, was a few shades lighter than Duncan’s but still reddish brown. The short hair made her gray eyes look huge. Sophie had just finished her mental assessment of Ainsley as Duncan set her down. She was a couple of inches shorter than Sophie.
