Montana Untamed (Bear Grass Springs, Book One): Bear Grass Springs, Book One

by Ramona Flightner

  Leticia frowned. “Many do their own baking for the holidays.”

  Annabelle smiled. “I know. But there are enough who won’t want to. Or who will want to supplement what they bake with a few of my goodies.” She smiled at her friend. “Either way, I’ll have my regulars looking for breakfast rolls and loaves of bread.” She eased onto a stool as she worked.

  Leticia’s gaze sobered even further as Annabelle rarely stood still when working, never mind sat.

  “How are things between you and Alistair?”

  Leticia was unable to fight a smile. “Good. He’s proclaiming this his favorite Christmas yet as it’s the last Christmas before we wed in June.”

  Annabelle raised an eyebrow. “Have you set the date?”

  “I’ve only promised no later than next summer, and he insists we wed in June.” She bit her lip. “I think that will be all right.”

  Annabelle frowned. “Why wouldn’t it be? You have a man who’s eager to wed you, who has a stable career, and who adores your daughter. I’d think you’d wed him next week if you could.”

  Leticia forced a laugh. “Life is never that simple, Annabelle.”

  After a few moments of silence, Annabelle said, “How is the school year?”

  “Oh, it’s fine. There are forty-four children. It’s a challenge to meet all their needs.” She shrugged. “I do my best.”

  Annabelle smiled as she attempted to reassure her. “I’m sure you do a wonderful job.” She grunted as she hefted the tray into the oven. “I didn’t realize how weak I’d be.”

  “Cailean would be disappointed to see you working already.”

  Annabelle pinched her mouth shut and shook her head. “He lost his right to be concerned about me months ago.”

  Leticia wrung her hands as Annabelle placed a hot cookie tray on the cooling rack and then sat once more. Leticia pulled out a stool across from Annabelle. “I can imagine how you feel, Annabelle. When I lost my husband …” She shrugged. “Loss of any kind is terrible. It makes you examine your life. The life you thought you would live is gone, and you have to create a new life.” She gripped her friend’s hand. “It doesn’t mean it is a worse life. Just different.”

  “You don’t understand. Your husband died. Now you have found Alistair.” She swiped at a tear. “Mine is alive but doesn’t want me.”

  “I fear he wants you, very much.”

  Annabelle glared at Leticia. “He didn’t when I needed him the most.” Her mouth firmed as she fought tears and an overwhelming anger. “He will force me to live with the infamy of divorce.” She pounded her fist on the countertop. “He promised he was saving me from gossip and the notoriety my sister lives with. Instead, I’ll suffer as much as she does.”

  “Only if you are foolish enough to push for a divorce. He doesn’t want one. He wants you back.”

  Annabelle crumpled on her stool. “I remember my frustration with my sister. That no matter how many times I apologized, a part of her never forgave me.” Annabelle shook her head. “Now I understand perfectly. I fear I don’t know how to forgive. Not for the things that truly need forgiveness.”

  Leticia gripped her hand. “Your pain is fresh. Give yourself time to heal. Don’t act rashly now when you don’t know what you’ll want or feel when the grief passes.” She shared a bittersweet smile with Annabelle. “Grief makes everyone irrational.”

  Annabelle sat in the kitchen at the back of the Sunflower Café, hidden from view of other patrons. She watched as Irene and Harold worked in silent harmony as they prepared meals and served them. When there was a lull, they joined Annabelle in the kitchen for a moment.

  “I couldn’t have been more surprised to see you arrive with your basket of breads this morning,” Irene said.

  Harold grunted with disapproval. “You should be at home, resting. You are in no condition to work.”

  Annabelle attempted a weak smile. “I’m much improved, and I needed something to do. I reopened the bakery a few days ago but didn’t have the energy to make all the breads and treats for the café and hotel until today.”

  “I should think not,” Harold growled. “What can your husband be thinking to allow you to return to work?” He frowned as Annabelle stiffened at his comment. “It’s right and proper for a husband to concern himself with his wife’s care.”

  Irene studied Annabelle. “Unless you’ve been foolish and are unwilling to allow him to aid you through this difficult time.” She met Annabelle’s despair-filled glare with an implacable stare. “Being angry with your husband won’t change what happened.” She shook her head in disgust and left the kitchen with a hand-held pot of coffee.

  Harold remained with Annabelle in the kitchen, sitting in silence next to her as they listened to Irene laugh and chat with customers in the café dining room. “I fear you’ve made a mess of things, Miss Annabelle.”

  She sighed, rubbing at her head. “I fail to see how this is my fault, Mr. Tompkins.”

  “Running away rather than facing your problems ain’t going to solve them. Just delays the whole process.” He sighed. “Irene isn’t really mad at you. Just reminds her of times she’d rather forget.”

  Annabelle watched him, the despair in her gaze dimmed by concern for her friend. “What do you mean?”

  He crossed his legs and tapped one finger on his bent knee. “You’ve heard us talk about our grandson, Frederick. Couldn’t be more proud of him. Or of his brothers.” His voice faded away for a moment. “His father was our pride and joy.” He shared a chagrined smile with Annabelle. “Now I’m sure all parents will tell you that about their children, but, when I saw him, I knew my life had been worth living because I had such a son.”

  After a few moments of silence, Annabelle whispered, “What made him so special?”

  “Oh, he was ornery and stubborn and couldn’t be bothered by fools. Hated the café ’cause he had to make small talk, and he never saw the point on wastin’ breath talkin’ to folk you’d never see again or would rather avoid in town.” His lips curved into a small smile. “But he was loyal and hardworking and smart. He never let his mother or me down, not when we really needed him.

  “Raised fine sons, against all odds.” His eyes clouded but waved away her question. “And then he died. From a damn lung infection.” He cleared his throat and blinked a few times. “A man isn’t supposed to bury his son.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Tompkins.” She sniffled as she swiped at her cheek.

  “That woman”—he nodded into the café, in Irene’s direction—“wouldn’t let me wallow in my grief. No matter how much I would rather’ve spent my days alone on horseback, watchin’ cattle chew their cud, she forced me to face life. To face being alive.”

  He raised grief-stricken, passionate eyes to meet Annabelle’s gaze dulled by grief. “You can’t allow yourself to become lost to the sadness, Miss Annabelle. And you can’t come through this alone. You need your husband.”

  Annabelle shook her head. “The only similarity in our situations is that we lost someone precious to us.”

  He gripped her hand, preventing her from rising and marching out of the café. “I lost my son. You lost the dream of your child. Don’t lose your marriage too.” He clamped his jaw shut for a moment and then spoke again with a graveled voice as though fighting deep emotions. “Unlike me, you have the hope of another baby. Junior was the only child we ever had.”

  Tears coursed down Annabelle’s cheeks. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Tompkins.” He nodded as she pulled out a handkerchief and scrubbed at her face.

  “Charming the ladies again, Harold?” Irene asked as she entered the kitchen. She moved to the large silver pot half filled with coffee to fill up her portable carafe. Then she set it down and slung an arm around Annabelle, pulling her into a hug. “Oh, my dear, I’m so terribly sorry about what happened.” She smiled her thanks as Harold rose and returned to the main room of the café, leaving her behind with Annabelle.

  Annabelle watched Irene. “
Mr. Tompkins just told me about how devastating your son’s death was.” She covered her eyes. “I feel heartless because I didn’t consider how you had suffered when you mentioned he had died.”

  Irene cupped Annabelle’s cheeks. “Sometimes, until we’ve experience the same agony, we can’t fully understand the words. Hearing someone say, ‘My son died,’ will never resonate in the same way until you can understand what that kind of pain is.” She swiped at Annabelle’s cheeks. “In a way, it’s refreshing you didn’t look at us as people to be pitied, as many in this town do. They know we run the café in an attempt to keep busy.”

  “You are the last people on earth I would ever pity,” Annabelle stuttered out. “Forgive me. I can’t seem to stop crying these days.”

  Irene nodded. “I understand. You feel as though you lost your child as well as your husband. I hope with time you come to realize your husband and his love were never as lost to you as you feared.”

  A week later, Sorcha sat in Annabelle’s kitchen, her hands wrapped around a warm cup of coffee. She blew on it before taking a sip. “Ah, this tastes delicious. Someday ye’ll have to teach me the trick of brewing a good pot.” She watched as Annabelle appeared to only half listen. “I know my brothers sneak out to the café for a cup most days.”

  She frowned as Annabelle fought a smile. “There’s no harm in admitting ye enjoy hearing about him.” After she took another sip, she traced a pattern alongside the cup. “Is that why ye won’t go into the café anymore? Because ye don’t want to run into Cailean?”

  Annabelle sat across from her and took a sip of water. “I spend time with Irene and Harold. Just not in the dining room of their café.” She picked up a cloth and wiped her counters clean.

  Sorcha made a disapproving sound in her throat. “’Tis as Alistair said. Yer hidin’ away from the world. The only time I see ye, outside of the kitchen, are the few times ye sweep the boardwalk.” Her gaze narrowed. “Ye’re watchin’ the livery for any sign of Cailean. Why won’t ye admit you want to see him?”

  Annabelle tossed down the cloth before slamming her open palm onto the counter. “I yearn for a glimpse of him. And yet I have no desire to speak with him. To hear his excuses.” She bowed her head before releasing a deep breath. “I know I married him, and the only recourse is a divorce, but I have no energy for that right now.”

  Sorcha gripped her hand. “I hope ye never have the energy for it.” She tugged until Annabelle sat on a stool next to her. “He’s miserable, worse than one of those bears in the woods they tell stories about here.” She saw a flicker of curiosity in Annabelle’s gaze and barreled on. “He won’t tell stories, won’t give us advice, won’t act like our elder brother.” Her jaw firmed. “He works, eats, and then disappears.”

  “Where does he go?” Annabelle whispered.

  Sorcha shrugged. “I dinna ken. At first it was to the livery, but now he leaves out the back door and disappears. I’ve tried to stay awake until he returns, but he’s in the kitchen when I wake on the sofa.” Sorcha gripped Annabelle’s hand. “Ye have to forgive him, Annabelle. Please.”

  Annabelle shook her head as a tear leaked out. “I don’t know if I can. I never knew I could hurt like this.” She swiped at her cheeks. “I don’t know if I can give someone, even my husband, the ability to cause such pain again.”

  “What’s the point of livin’ if ye don’t risk pain?”

  Annabelle huffed out an incredulous laugh. “I’ll ask you that after you’ve lived through what I have.”

  “Ye have the love of a good man. Don’t toss it away.”

  Annabelle closed her eyes. “He doesn’t love me, Sorcha. He will only ever love his Maggie and the baby they lost.” She swiped at her cheek. “I should have heeded his warning that he’d never love me when he proposed.”

  “He was frightened, Annabelle. Don’t make him suffer for his fear.”

  She watched her sister-in-law with confusion. “You’re worried about his suffering? Have you ever thought of mine? Have you ever considered what it did to me to know my husband wanted nothing to do with me once I became with child? I know that one of you badgered him into visiting me, and that is the only reason he found me as I lay ill in my room at the bakery. Otherwise, I would have died. He had no concern for me.”

  Sorcha’s eyes lit with loyal passion. “Ye’re wrong. But ye’ll have to discover that for yerself.” She rose and nodded at Annabelle. “I hope ye have a fine evenin’.” She marched out the back door, slamming it behind her.

  Annabelle entered the General Store and bit back a sigh when she saw it was empty of other patrons. She squared her shoulders and approached Tobias, her smile friendly but impersonal. “Hello, Mr. Sutton. I’ve come to inquire after the delivery of the flour and sugar to my bakery. It didn’t arrive this morning as expected.”

  He looked her up and down, his smile more jeering than friendly. “Seems to me that we should renegotiate our terms now that you’re no longer with that MacKinnon.”

  She stiffened and met his gaze. “We are married. He would be most distressed to learn you’ve changed in your treatment toward me.” She bristled at his snort. “I am his wife.”

  “In name only, missus.” His smile widened when he saw her indignation. “I’ve watched him come and go from the Boudoir every night for the past two weeks. I’d hardly call him a dedicated husband.” He looked her over. “Or you a desirable wife.”

  She clamped her jaw shut a moment before she spoke. Her voice emerged raspy and pain laced. “I’d thank you not to speak of my marriage.”

  “Does it bother you that your husband prefers your sister to you?” He laughed. “Never fear, Mrs. MacKinnon,” he said in a loud voice as the bell chimed and other customers entered, “your shipment was delayed due to a train derailment because of the weather. Should be in tomorrow in time for your Christmas baking.” He nodded at her as though in a deferential manner although his eyes were lit with malevolence as she backed away.

  She bumped into the customers, mumbling an apology before she escaped onto the boardwalk. Her gaze immediately sought out her husband’s livery, and she forced herself to return to her bakery rather than march across the street to confront him.

  That evening she stood on the back porch of her husband’s home, listening to bits and pieces of the stilted conversations that emerged through the kitchen door. She heard Sorcha’s soft voice and Alistair’s deep baritone. A cold wind blew, and she silently cursed herself as a jealous fool for standing outside on a mid-December evening. When the back door burst open, she emerged from the shadows.

  “Cailean,” she whispered.

  He spun to face her, his face lit by the light from the kitchen window. She shuddered as the temperature had plummeted during the evening. “Belle! What are you doing here, standing in the cold? Why didn’t you come inside for supper with us?” He reached a hand out as though to stroke some warmth into her but then thought better of it and dropped his hand.

  “I must speak with you,” she said.

  He nodded and gripped her elbow, dragging her into the warmth of the house. She barely acknowledged the gaping, shocked hellos from Alistair and Sorcha with a nod. Ewan watched them with an amused twinkle in his eyes. Cailean pulled her into the front sitting room and slammed the door behind them. “’Tis warm in here.” He pushed her onto the sofa and threw a blanket over her. “I don’t want you catching a chill.”

  Her confused gaze clashed with his worried one. “Why do you care?”

  He froze at her blunt question, then bent over her as he tucked the blanket around her.

  “I know you visit the ladies at the Boudoir every night, so I don’t know why you’d presume to show concern for me now.”

  He moved from her and sat in a chair away from her, too far for him to touch her. “I see. You’re only here because you’re jealous?”

  She flushed at his incredulous tone. “Don’t be indignant with me. I have acted with honor since we separated. I’d hoped you�
�d act the same.”

  His eyes lit with disappointment as he beheld her. “This is what you think of me? You listen to one man’s evil gossip and jump to believe the worst conclusion?” Cailean rose and strode to the window, staring outside.

  “Your sister also remarked that you leave the house every night, for destinations unknown, and return at ungodly hours.” Annabelle shrugged as she watched him tense with her words. “What was I to think?”

  “You love your sister,” he whispered.

  She frowned. “Yes, I do. I hate the life she’s been forced to lead.” She swallowed as he remained silent. “I was advised today that you find her company more entertaining than you ever found mine.”

  He turned to face her, leaning against the deep window frame, his emotions masked. “I visit her most nights. I give her time away from the miners to just be.” He bowed his head. “The only thing I ask of her is that she tell me stories of when you were young.”

  “You mean you don’t … ?”

  “I want you, Belle. If I can’t have you, I’ll find a way to survive.” He let out a humorless chuckle. “Although spending time with your sister has brought more torment than comfort.” His desolate gaze met hers. “It’s only made me miss ye more.”

  “It must have cost you a fortune,” she whispered.

  He shrugged. “It was worth it. I’ve money saved. My wife costs me no upkeep. She won’t even accept an allowance for clothes.”

  She bowed her head, her shivers intensifying.

  “Should I call the doctor?” he asked, moving toward her. His erratic movements stilled when she raised her eyes to his, and he saw tears leaking out.

  “No, I’m not ill.” She sniffled. “Well, I am heartsick.” She accepted his handkerchief and swiped at her face and nose. “I miss you.”

  He canted toward her at her whispered admission. “I miss you too, Belle. Desperately.”