by Joyce Armor
“Who’s this?” The girl looked at Sophie dismissively and then at Duncan.
“This is Sophie Wheelright. She’ll be staying with us for a while.”
Ainsley looked Sophie up and down this time, apparently not liking what she saw. “Good. Ye said we needed a housekeeper.”
Sophie smiled at the blatant hostility, not cowed at all. She knew how to deal with hostility. Ainsley MacGibbon was an amateur compared to her.
The girl peered over Duncan’s shoulder. “Where’s yer horse?”
He looked at Sophie rather ruefully and then back at Ainsley. “’Tis a long story. We’ve a tale to tell, for sure and certain. We need some food first, though, and a rest, I’m thinking.”
Sophie nodded. “It’s nice to meet you, Ainsley. This is a beautiful ranch.”
“Hmph.” The girl spun around, turning her back on Sophie. She didn’t quite stomp back into the cabin, but it was close. She shut the door behind her with a bang.
Duncan looked at Sophie, waiting for the tirade or at least criticism. It didn’t come.
“I thought she’d be older,” Sophie commented, and Duncan burst out laughing.
Chapter 2
A real bed. She could tell it was Duncan’s. She could lay spread-eagled on it and still wouldn’t touch any of the sides. She had never seen a bed so big. Of course that made sense. She had never seen a man so big as Duncan. Not that he was a giant; he was just a big fellow. A big, good-looking fellow. He said she would be sleeping in the loft, but he had to put the room to rights, whatever that meant, so he offered this room. She was still sitting on the bed with the door wide open—fighting the urge to roll around on the coil-spring mattress—when he brought in a bucket of hot water and poured it into a bowl on the dresser, the steam rising.
“I think I love you,” she said, and he grinned.
“I have that effect on the lassies,” he smiled, and then became serious. “Do ye need me to check yer feet?”
“No, I can do it. Thank you. For everything, Duncan.”
“Why don’t ye take off the bandages and let the wounds breathe while ye rest, and then we’ll poot more salve on them later.”
She agreed.
“And we’ll need to talk later, lassie. We need a plan.”
After he left, she closed the door and availed herself of the wonderful hot water to wash her face, hands and armpits, appalled when she glanced in the mirror above the dressing table and saw the streak of dirt on her forehead. He might have told her. Then she sat wearily on the bed, which obviously was big enough to accommodate four of her, untied her laces and carefully removed her boots. She didn’t want to take off Duncan’s socks—they were somehow comforting—but, sighing, she carefully removed them. The broken blisters had bled through the bandaging a little bit, although she couldn’t see any blood on the socks. As she had no scissors, she had quite a time getting the bandaging off. Too late, she remembered her father’s knife. Once she succeeded, she barely glanced at her feet. They would heal.
Gratefully, she sank back onto the bed, which was soft, yet not too soft. Now that she was fed and relatively clean, she had time to think. First she looked at her surroundings, enjoying the masculine feel of the room, with its dark furniture. The dresser, bed and nightstand looked home hewn and stained. The wardrobe was pine, but even that bore beautiful scrolling. Had Duncan made the furniture? He had built a fire for her in the stone fireplace, which added physical and spiritual warmth to the room, as did a thick brown rug, with a comfortable-looking brown chair facing the fireplace. She could picture the Scotsman sitting in it, reading, maybe a Sir Walter Scott novel or Our New West. She had enjoyed that book’s description of travel between the Mississippi River and the Pacific Ocean.
Several thick blankets covered the bed, the top one a chocolate brown. Duncan definitely must like his brown. The bed could use a colorful quilt to brighten up the room, and maybe light curtains over the wooden shutters would add to the ambiance. The whole cabin was rustic, with its simple furniture and woven rugs. The main room included a solid pine dining table with four chairs and a gray stone fireplace with a couple of other padded chairs facing it. She could picture Duncan reading or repairing a saddle bag or bridle and Ainsley doing whatever masculine things she did by the fireplace—killing bugs or something. Her aunt and uncle would look down their noses at a dwelling like this. How big did a home need to be? You could only be in one room at a time. When Sophie first entered the cabin, she had felt such a warmth, a comfort, as if something was caressing her spirit. It was what a home should be, she realized. The house she lived in with her parents had felt welcoming yet very academic. It was a fairly large home with rather austere furniture and everything in its place, including many, many books.
Then she thought about the meal she had shared with Duncan and Ainsley.
“Och!” she said, smiling.
The food was wonderful, cold sliced ham, scrambled eggs and red raspberries. It was Ainsley who made the meal entertaining, though not on purpose. She rattled on about how popular Duncan was with the women and how he would “ne’er” be tied down to one woman.
The girl’s eyes popped open when Sophie said, “On behalf of the women of Nebraska seeking marriage, thank you.” Duncan nearly choked on his coffee.
Ainsley also shared the most disgusting parts of ranching life she could think of, from mucking out stalls to reaching into a cow’s birth canal to assist in bringing a calf into the world, followed by a recitation on thunderstorms, flash floods, droughts, coyote attacks, snakes, scorpions and even bedbugs.
When that didn’t get a rise out of Sophie, Ainsley went for the direct approach.
“Why are ye here?”
Sophie wiped her lips with her napkin and set it down on the table. “I am not here to take your brother from you, Ainsley. He helped me out of a big fix and I am grateful. As soon as we can figure out a good plan, I will be out of your hair.”
Then she turned to Duncan. “Thank you, Duncan. This was a wonderful meal.” She started to rise, picking up her plate and coffee cup.
Duncan jumped up, putting his hand on her wrist. “Leave them be, Sophie. Ainsley and I will take care of the dishes. If ye need the privy, it’s behind the cabin.”
“Thank you.”
She smiled and limped off. She didn’t know Duncan’s thoughts. He realized her feet must be bothering her and marveled again at her strength, thinking, Still nary a complaint from that one. And she didn’t know that Ainsley had watched him watch her go, a frown on her face.
* * *
“Later” did not come until the next morning, as Ainsley fell into a deep sleep and did not awaken until dawn. When she first woke up, she felt a moment of panic. Where was she? Then it all came back to her—the evil Charles Shanley; her hero, Duncan MacGibbon; and the inimitable Ainsley, his guardian. She was saved, momentarily, from the horrible marriage, but what now? She couldn’t live her life on Duncan’s ranch, especially if it put Duncan and Ainsley in danger. And she couldn’t/wouldn’t go back to Pennsylvania. If she could not live in Stonehaven, the only other alternative would be to move on. Alone. That caused another moment of panic before she tamped it down. She apparently would need that courage her traveling companions attributed to her. It was tempting, though, to pull the covers up over her head and stay in bed for a few days. Or a month or two.
Before she arose, she threw the covers off and studied her feet. The blisters were well on their way to healing completely. The Scotsman should mass market that salve, which he had given her after she returned from the privy last night. She had gone to her room to apply it and ended up falling asleep. She availed herself of the fresh basin of water—she must have truly slept soundly to not hear Duncan deliver it, although it was cool so must have been a while ago—and ran her finger over her teeth. Then she searched through her carpetbag. She pulled out a light green day gown, spreading it on the bed to try and smooth some of the winkles out. After donning a fresh chemise
and no corset—she smiled triumphantly at that—she put on the dress. In lieu of stockings, she picked up Duncan’s socks and slid them onto her feet, allowing herself a moment to luxuriate in them. Next came the boots. Not a fashionable look, perhaps, but one that suited her, she decided. Duncan already had seen her at her worst, and she doubted Ainsley could think any less of her.
When she emerged from the bedroom, she was surprised no one was around. Didn’t ranch people rise at the crack of dawn? What did she know? In the small kitchen, she saw coffee brewing, so that meant someone had been up, at least. It had to be Duncan. She was certain Ainsley would not have brought her fresh water, unless it had a snake in it. She checked the larder and cupboards, found the makings for flapjacks and set to work. When she had the batter prepared, she searched out adequate pans and found some bacon to fry.
The breakfast was nearly ready when the cabin door opened and Duncan walked in carrying a load of wood. He dropped it next to the fireplace in the living area and then strode into the kitchen. “Ye dinnae need to do that, lassie.”
“I’m the new housekeeper, aren’t I?”
He laughed. “Ainsley’s me wee protector.”
“I noticed.” She flipped the last flapjack and added it to the stack on the plate and then turned to the bacon. “Sit down.” She indicated the dining table in the alcove.
“Let me pour the coffee.”
“If you must.”
He smiled and did so as she drained the bacon and placed it on another plate. As she took the food to the table, he delivered the coffee as well as plates, cups and silverware. And strawberry jam and butter for the flapjacks.
He certainly is domesticated.
He also set a place for Ainsley, who had yet to appear. They ate in relative silence, except for his compliments of the food and her delight in the coffee and the jam. Then it was time to have the talk, which she somehow dreaded. She could not think of a solution to her problem that was not frightening. At least she had money. What a fix she would be in if she were broke.
“Have ye thought aboot what ye want to do, lassie?”
She sighed, setting down her coffee cup. “I have. I cannot go to Stonehaven. I cannot go back to Pennsylvania.”
He looked at her thoughtfully, as if he was really trying to understand. “Why not?”
“There’s nothing for me there, Duncan. My aunt and uncle stole my inheritance. They don’t even like me. I’m pretty sure my uncle would be trying to marry me off to some rich old pervert if I were still there. I’m not going back.”
“All right. Donnae fash yerself. We’ll think of something.”
Sophie used her finger to pick up a drop of strawberry jam from her plate and licked it, a move so sensuous it nearly sent Duncan into an apoplectic frenzy. His efforts to concentrate were failing miserably.
“Is there anybody else in Stonehaven I could marry who is as powerful as Charles Shanley?”
He didn’t even hear her. She had that look that said she was expecting an answer, though, so he said, “What?” He had to get his head out of her drawers.
She repeated the question. Duncan thought about that, grateful for a different subject to cogitate on, even as it made him kind of uncomfortable thinking about her marrying someone else. “Barnaby Cleaver owns one of the largest ranches around here.”
She brightened up.
“Of course, I believe he’s approaching 80.”
“Does he have any grandchildren? Or great-grandchildren?”
Duncan smiled. “Aye.”
Her eyebrows went up
“Lassies,” he said. At least he thought most of them were.
She took another sip of coffee, thinking. “I don’t really want to go anywhere. I love it here. I guess I have to, though. Maybe I’ll go to Colorado. I always wanted to see the Rocky Mountains. Or San Francisco. I’ve never seen the ocean.”
“Donnae ye know, lassie, it’s not where ye go but who ye’re with. ‘Ere ye do anything rash, let me go into town and take the lay of the land. Charles Shanley is a wealthy mon, so I donnae see him fashin’ aboot the money he sent ye. And we could always pay that back.”
We? That sent another warm feeling through her. “All right. When will you go?”
“In aboot an hour, after I see to the cattle. Ainsley is working in the barn today. I should be gone a few hours.”
“I’m sure Ainsley and I will have a wonderful time.”
He chuckled.
She got up. “Thank you, Duncan. You have literally saved my life. I’ll leave a plate warming in the kitchen for Ainsley. Is there anything else I can do around here to help you?”
“Can ye milk a cow?”
“I can try.”
Bless her. The lassie was game for anything.
* * *
It worked when Duncan did it. Why wasn’t this teat producing? And now Bessie, or whatever her name was, was getting restless. Sophie was about to threaten the cow when she heard a noise behind her.
“Can’t ye do anything?”
“And good morning to you, too, Ainsley.”
“Ye’re not doing it right.”
Sophie released the teat and turned around on the stool. “I figured that out. Duncan showed me. He was in a hurry, though, and didn’t wait to see if I had mastered the technique. Will you teach me?”
Ainsley sighed a put-upon sigh only a teenager could properly deliver and practically shoved her off the stool. “It’s all in the fingers. Ye have to squeeze and pull gently at the same time.”
Ainsley grabbed a teat and the milk squirted out of Bessie in a veritable waterfall. Sophie watched in awe.
“That’s amazing, and even the cow seems happy.”
Ainsley rolled her eyes. “Now ye try it.”
So the girl was not without compassion although it was begrudging. What was her hostility masking? Some kind of fear, no doubt. Sophie sat back down on the little stool and attacked the problem with a vengeance. A gentle vengeance. At last, a little stream of milk squirted into the bucket and Sophie nearly yelled with joy. As it was, she said, “I did it!” with such enthusiasm even Ainsley couldn’t help but smile. She quickly recovered, though.
“Well, keep doing it until the bucket is full, then ye can help me muck the stalls.”
It was a weak threat at best. If the little vixen thought Sophie was not used to hard labor or disgusting jobs, Duncan’s sister was in for a surprise. Too bad I don’t have any farm clothes, Sophie thought as milk dripped onto her dress. Ainsley was wearing the same breeches as yesterday with a different flannel shirt, this one solid blue. Sophie had an inspiration.
“Do you have an extra pair of breeches I could borrow?” Although the girl was shorter than Sophie by a couple of inches, their frames were similar, and Ainsley did have the cuffs rolled up on hers. Sophie looked down at her dress. “This is not a ball gown, but it’s not exactly fit for doing farm work either.”
By this time Sophie had caught on to the milking process and the milk flowed into the bucket in a steady stream. Ainsley would not let herself be impressed, although she knew she should be. “These were Morgan’s,” she said, and Sophie could see the melancholy in her eyes.
“That was your brother who was killed running the blockade?”
“Duncan told ye.” It was almost an accusation.
“Yes. I’m so sorry for your loss. I know that empty feeling. I lost my parents when I was younger than you.”
“You did?” Damn. Ainsley didnae want to like this wench or to have anything in common with her. She had to admit to herself, however, that she was friendly, despite Ainsley’s attempts to upset her. Almost too friendly, which made her suspicious. And e’en if the woman from Pennsylvania was sincere, it didnae mean she belonged on the ranch. Ainsley and Duncan had gotten along fine without Sophie Wheelright, and they would be fine after she left. Though she had not quite formed the thought in her head, Ainsley dreaded the prospect of Duncan falling in love with Sophie—or anyone, for that m
atter—and marrying. His little sister would be in the way then. He would likely send Ainsley back to Scotland.
Sophie’s comment led to a conversation about their late relatives. Morgan, apparently, was the adventurer in the family. He was daring and rash and full of life, always seeking new experiences, and popular with the ladies. The word “swashbuckling” came to mind. Sophie’s parents were more quiet and subtle, yet they were witty and charming and even made learning fun. Then there was Uncle Conall. When Ainsley ran away from her highland home, determined not to be sent to boarding school, she hatched a plan to follow Duncan to America. She was surprised, when the ship set sail, that Uncle Conall had followed her. After months of travel, they had finally made their way to Duncan’s ranch, where Uncle Conall refused to wear anything but his traditional highland kilt and tartan. While he didn’t help much with the daily chores around the ranch and he did like his liquor, it was his spirit and enthusiasm that lifted Ainsley in particular. Sophie could tell she took it hard when he succumbed to typhus.
Sophie hoped the conversation would bring her and Ainsley to a greater understanding. Alas, it was not to be. An hour later the milking was successfully completed, Sophie was decked out in breeches and a blue chambray shirt tied at the waist. Mucking stalls was not the most pleasant work, God knew, but if Ainsley was expecting Sophie to balk or go into a fit of the vapers, she would be waiting a long time. The young girl delighted, however, in pointing out Sophie’s incorrect technique of moving straw.
* * *
Stonehaven was just coming to life when Duncan rode in. He reined in at the bank, where he withdrew some money, enjoyed a cup of coffee at Mabel’s Café and headed for the dry goods store, owned by the Greitzers. Eliza Greitzer was the reigning town gossip. If it had happened or was happening in Stonehaven, or she thought it might possibly happen in the future, she knew about it and felt compelled to share it with anyone and everyone. For that reason, he normally avoided the dry goods store if at all possible. Today, he was almost looking forward to chatting with Mrs. Greitzer. Almost.
