by Bella Bowen
He stared at her, eyes a little wet, hands opening and closing nervously at his sides. “Mary?”
Jens stepped away from her and made room for his older brother. But Fritz wasn't moving and there was still a small couch between them.
There was still a lot more than that between them.
“Yes,” she said. “It's me.” And she held open her arms and invited him to her.
Fritz gave Fontaine a nervous glance, probably to assure himself she wasn't going to shoot him if he touched his sister, then he came at her fast. He scooped her up under the arms and swung her around in a circle, then put her on her feet and gave her a hug fit for a bear. When she was finally able to step back, he was grinning from ear to fuzz-covered ear.
“You look healthy, enough, sister. Maybe they're even feedin’ you too much, eh?”
They all laughed.
Mary finally introduced Fontaine...as her dearest friend. If Fontaine was surprised by the remark, she hid it well. The gunslinger and Fritz shared a long glance, and suddenly her face turned red. She mumbled that she'd wait in the lobby and scurried out of the room like her tail was on fire.
Fritz looked at Mary and raised his brows a few times. “How do I get me one of those?”
Mary rolled her eyes. It was shocking to hear her brother talk about another female, and even more shocking to see Fontaine react to a man with anything but contempt, or at best, disinterest. But Mary didn’t know how long their little reunion would last and she certainly didn’t want to spend it talking about Fontaine.
Oh, her friend was beautiful, and after she passed men, they didn't mind watching her go. But most of the time, a pair of britches and a pair of pearl-handled guns discouraged anyone from flirting with her. If Fritz had noticed her Colts, they hadn’t bothered him.
“You leave Fontaine alone,” Mary said.
Her brother grinned. “Oh, I don't know. Seein' as though we're gonna be around for a good long while, I may bother the woman quite a bit if she wants me to.”
The boys laughed loud and long while they all found a chair and settled.
“What about Pa?” she finally dared to ask.
The boys exchanged a look.
Panic jumped up into her throat. “He's not hurt!”
Jens shook his head. “Pa's fine. He's just got a burr up his—”
“Jens!” Max barked. “You can't talk that way to Mary no more. She's a lady now.”
Jens nodded. “Forgive me, Mary. Pa's got some strange notion that we're not supposed to even ask to see you. Even though it's Christmas and all.”
The boys turned their attention to Fritz who pulled a small box from his vest and turned it around and around in his hands.
“Is that for me?” she had to ask. It looked like it might take her brother far too long to get up the nerve to give it to her.
“Don't be mad, Mary.” Fritz handed it over. “Please, don't be mad.”
She couldn't imagine why a gift would upset her, but the warning made her nervous.
She laughed. “The box is beautiful.”
“We made it,” Max said.
She laughed. “You haven't caught me a snake or something, have you?”
Jens shook his head. “What would a lady like you need a snake for? And in winter too?”
She shrugged and found the courage to open the box. Her breath caught. Tears poked at the backs of her eyes and made her nose prickle. There, in the center of the box, on a scrap of velvet, was the carved rose Rebel had given her that fateful day. And she'd only had a kiss to give him back.
At least it looked like the rose. It was possible Fritz had carved her another one just from memory. He’d shown real talent over the years.
She looked at Fritz. “Is it...”
“You remember, doncha? I said I put it in the fire, but I hadn't. I hid it. I should have—”
She cut him off with a shake of her head. “Deep down you probably knew that someday...it would make the perfect Christmas gift.”
Fritz looked like he might melt with relief. His shoulders fell and he gave her a sheepish grin. “You know, I probably was thinking just that.”
Mary swallowed hard and fought to keep her tears at bay. “And I've got a gift for you, brother.”
The other two grunted in protest. Obviously, they didn't want to be left out, but they weren't going to complain out loud.
“Oh? And what's that?” Fritz looked at her dress, probably searching for some sign of a pocket.
“I thought you might like to know that Rebel didn't die of his wounds.” It stole her breath away to say it out loud.
Fritz paled. Both of them ignored the boys and their pointed stares.
“How do you know?” Fritz's whispered question made it clear that he'd worried about it all these years.
“I danced with him a few weeks back,” she said casually. “Turns out he's the son of the local tanner.”
Max smacked his knee. “That's why his hands were brown!”
Jens gave him a shove that nearly toppled him from the stool he sat on. “I told you!”
“Boys, please.” Mary tried out her best impression of Mrs. Carnegie and it worked like a charm. The brothers straightened in their seats and clamped their mouths shut as if they figured nothing else they had left to say could be spoken in front of a lady. And Mary realized she was a lady now. So much about her had changed, and not just her vocabulary. She'd gone from a wild mountain girl to someone who could attend dances and high tea with a dozen true gentlemen and not embarrass herself.
Max cleared his throat, excited. “Well, uh, we know what you can give us for Christmas, Mary.”
“Oh?”
He grinned, wide and white. “You can say yes.”
“Yeah!” Jens’ eyes lit up too. “When Fritz asks you to leave the ranch and come with us, you can say yes!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
John ducked out of the workroom where the air was choked with sawdust. After building the delivery crates for over twenty large pieces, there was hardly a full breath of clean air remaining. And though he was thrilled to have finished the complete line, minus the largest order, he couldn’t celebrate anything without air to breathe.
Ian Spencer’s boy, Zachariah, burst in through the front door of the modest but professional office. “E&Q’s here, Mr. Hermann! They’ve brought it!”
Nothing could have been more exciting and appropriate to the moment than those two letters. Emond & Quinsler, manufacturers of fine carriages, had finished installing the specially tooled leather seats he’d created for Mr. Charleston, one of the grooms he’d met in Sage River. And though the man hadn’t known whom he would marry, he’d ordered a custom seat for a new carriage to be a late wedding gift for his bride. Since the man lived in Boston most of the year, John would be able to deliver the order personally.
The final order.
There was something satisfying about completing the first order that combined Hermann Tanner and Saddlery with Hermann & Co. Designers of Fine Leather. Of course, there was only one designer in the outfit. And thus far, there were only two other employees who shared the duties of bookkeeper, shop sweeper, and reception—Ian Spencer and his son, Zachariah. The boy of eight was not quite ready for the bookkeeping, but he kept the shop clean as a whistle. In the next few days, he’d be earning a hefty bonus ferreting out all the sawdust…
John was not too proud to meet the delivery outside.
The carriage was small but magnificent. The leather of the single rear seat fit so perfectly to the vehicle it appeared to have grown there naturally. But what really gave it a glamourous touch were the flashes of brass and the intricate feather design around the edge of the back cushion. Close inspection would show that each feather was made from thousands of tiny feather marks perfectly aligned to appear…random.
John grinned, knowing that few would appreciate the beauty of the mathematics that went into the decoration. But no one would miss the uniqueness of it. It was a s
tatement piece. A statement made from Louis Charleston to his new bride and a statement the bride would make each time she went for a carriage ride.
The final beauty of the piece was the fact that so many would see it and demand to know who built the carriage—and who tooled the leather.
Ian appeared, breathless from a sprint up the street. John allowed him and his son a long look. “You may not see your name here, Zachariah. But it’s here just the same. Every drop of sweat from your brow goes into the name of Hermann & Co. That means it’s part of this carriage, too.”
The boy puffed up his chest and started searching the street to see if anyone had overheard.
“Now, if you’ll lock up shop for me, we’ll give it a good cleaning tomorrow. I’ll take this over to Charleston’s.”
The delivery driver tipped his hat and sprinted off for Emond & Quinsler, which was only six blocks away. John climbed onto the driver’s seat and set in motion the smoothest carriage ride of his life. The feathers took on new meaning as the vehicle floated elegantly down Halston road. By the time he’d reached Charleston’s grand home on the north side, he’d decided he needed a carriage much like it for his own bride, once he had one, of course. Maybe he could work out a trade with E&Q.
He was led to Louis’ study where the man wrote out a personal note for the balance owed John.
“I’m sorry you won’t be here to see my Mary Lou’s reaction. She’s such a sweet thing. I’m sure she’ll want to thank you in person. The feathers will tickle her.” Louis realized his joke and laughed.
John was simply glad he had a happy customer. “I forget which one she was.”
“I don’t think you danced with her, John. In fact, I tried damned hard to keep my dance partners from getting a good look at you. But then again, you were busy dancing with Mary.”
John shook his head. “I danced with Miss Alexandra Campbell that night. I’ll never forget it. And I made sure she never danced with anyone else if I could help it.”
Louis frowned for a moment before his face lightened to its natural good humor. “Oh, that’s right,” he said. “You weren’t there the day after the dance. You didn’t know about the switch.”
“The switch?” John’s stomach was giving him fits simply because the name Mary had been spoken. He wished Charleston would explain quickly and put him out of his misery.
The man shook his head enthusiastically. “The girl you danced with wasn’t a bride. She only worked at the ranch. A real Cinderella story. Only Cinderella was wearing someone else’s shoe!” He laughed heartily and it was a moment before John could get his attention.
“She wasn’t a bride?”
“Her name was Mary. One of the brides was lovesick for someone back home and asked Mary to take her place. We all had to play along the next morning to keep her out of trouble with that female gunslinger. So none of us ever met the real Alexandra Campbell. I heard she was a looker too.”
Alexandra Campbell was a phantom? All this while he’d been obsessed with the memory of her…and her real name was Mary?!
“I stayed on another week so Mary Lou and I could get to know one another. After all, I wasn’t in an all-fired hurry—”
“Louis, please. About Mary…”
“Of course.” The big man nodded. “Ten days with little else to talk about, you can bet I heard the whole story. That Scottish woman had been packed up and shipped off to the ranch to keep her from marrying a man from a rival clan. Didn’t realize they cared about Clans here in the new world, but apparently, they do. This Connell McDonald will never find her before someone else scoops her up. I’m sure she’s already gone. That ranch is a pretty popular place what with all us pleased customers, let me tell you. But that Mary.” He shook his head. “Bless her heart, I was about to settle for the wrong gal, but Mary set me straight. And I’m sure I couldn’t have been near as happy as I am now if she hadn’t stepped in when she did.
“You hearing me? John, are you all right?”
John shrugged. “Yes. I heard. Connell McDonald. Scottish clans. Mary… I don’t suppose you know her last name?”
Louis frowned. “Oh, well. I don’t know. Let me think.” He cocked his head. “Mary… Mary… Mary… No. I don’t reckon I do. But she seemed a bit sad about you leaving town when you did. She had something she wanted to tell you, if I remember rightly.”
John smiled and nodded. The promissory note was placed in his hand at some point, but he wasn’t aware of it until he was tucked inside a hack.
“Careful now,” Louis called out to the driver. “I don’t think Mr. Hermann is feeling well.” He stuck his head inside the window. “I’ve already paid the man, John. Just get home and get into bed. You’re over worked, no doubt about it.”
John immediately tucked the payment inside his pocket before he dropped it. Then he allowed his mind to race back to the night of that December dance.
Her name was Mary. Not Alexandra. She worked at the ranch, so she was likely a local girl. Plenty of girls named Mary. Probably a dozen in Sage River alone who were close to her age. But how many with that face? Those eyes?
Impossible. It couldn’t have been her…
And even though his mind acknowledged that impossibility, it was already planning its next trip to Sage River. But first, there was somewhere else he needed to go.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
John stood in the center of the Campbell's parlor and turned in slow circles. There was plaid everywhere.
The walls were covered with it. The rugs on the floor. The cushions, the drapes. And not all the same plaid either. Some of it was peach and green, some blue and red. Large checks and small. And he suddenly had to stop moving and close his eyes to keep his stomach from coming up.
A brawny man walked through the door and laughed. “Too much color for ye?” He strode to a shelf and pulled out a decanter and two glasses. “A bit early for whisky, but a Scot'll make any sacrifice for hospitality's sake, aye?” He sloshed the amber liquid into the wide glasses and set the decanter down on the table between the two chairs facing the fire. “Sit ye down, mon. Warm yer bones.”
“You haven't heard why I've come,” John cautioned.
The big man shrugged. “I doona rightly care. I've got a lazy older brother who will have to put his shoulder to my work until I return, so I've a mind to spend a good long visit wi' ye, even if yer selling air.”
John laughed and sat. “I'm not selling anything, actually.”
“Oh?” The Scot took a swig of his drink and waited.
“I've come to ask you about a young woman named Alex—”
“Who's this then?” Another man stomped into the room equal in size to the other, but his head and face were covered in white hair. The mustache was parted over the lips, but the center was off by an inch. And to John, a man who made his living with minuscule measurements, it bothered him enough to keep him from looking the new man in the face.
He got to his feet and offered the hand that wasn't holding whisky. “I'm John Hermann of Hermann & Co., a leather designer from Boston.” He saved the “fine” for when he was selling his products.
“And what's yer business wi' me?” the man asked.
Connell stood. “Not ye, Da. The man's here to see me. And if ye don't mind, we'd like privacy.”
The old one narrowed his eyes. “Privacy? And what would ye need to keep private from me I wonder!”
Connell threw John a silent warning, then smiled at his father. “Ye're not going to be happy until I marry Matilda, ye foosty scunner. So I'm arranging for a special gift for the lass. Now, away with ye!”
The older man grinned and started to turn. But suddenly, he spun back around and threw his fist into Connell's jaw. With no surprise at all on his face, Connell put a foot back to catch himself, then straightened and folded his arms defiantly.
The old man pointed a finger into his chest. “That's for callin' yer own father a foosty scunner. Next time, I'll set ye on yer arse and ye'll find ye
r heed in Lancaster County.”
Connell pointed to the door as if the blow had never happened. The older man put his nose in the air and retreated in his own sweet time.
Once the door closed, Connell grabbed John by the shoulders. “What do you know about my Alexandra,” he whispered. “And I'll warn ye, the auld man will have his ear pressed to the door, no mistake. Did ye ken my lass?”
John shook his head. “I haven't met her personally.”
The big man's face fell and he retreated back to his cup of whisky and the chair. “Well,” he finally said, staring at the fire, “ye missed a rare treat.”
John didn't understand. “Has she already married then?”
Connell shook his head. “She's dead. Last November. The ground was hard by the time her body was returned to us, but I dug the hole meself.” He made a harsh sound, then hissed, “at least they allowed me that much.” The last of his whisky disappeared and he poured himself another glass.
John finally understood. “They told you she was dead, is that right?”
The Scot frowned and looked up. “I buried her, mon. She had better be dead.”
John glanced at the door, then stepped close and leaned over the poor man. “They told you she was dead, Connor. But she's not. As of last December, she was still at Diamond Springs Ranch refusing to choose a husband...”
A second later, he was pinned up against the edge of the hearth with a wide, muscular arm across his throat.
“Ye mean to tell me my Alexandra's still alive?”
John was barely able to nod. Only when he dropped onto his feet did he realize he'd been lifted off them. “Just outside Sage River Wyoming...”
Connell turned toward the door. “Da! Would ye join us please?”
The door opened quickly and the older man stepped inside. The smile on his face lingered from the last conversation about someone named Matilda.
“Yes, son? Do ye need me advice?” He frowned at the decanter of whiskey. “I'll take some of that.”
Connell's sudden smile didn't reach his eyes. “Oh, Da. Dinna by shy. Take all of it. And choke on it.”
