“Thank you.”
Jim tipped his hat. “Ma’am. Maybe we’ll run into each other,” he grinned, “I mean—see each other—again.” Though he hoped not.
Her step faltered as she turned away. She didn’t scowl at the joke, but Jim thought she came close. Instead, she sniffed in disapproval. With that, she was gone, pert nose in the air, the bustle on her blue dress swaying briskly, but invitingly. Too easily, he imagined running his hands through all that luxurious, golden hair—
Jim reached up and rubbed his neck. He needed to get off the ranch more. He’d spent too many sixteen-hour days with rowdy, dirty cowhands.
But that was part of the job sometimes. Living conditions he wouldn’t choose for himself, companions he had to make the best of. Resigned to the situation, he gave the young lady one last glance. Yeah, she was a whole lot more pleasant to look at than the boys at the Whiskey Creek Ranch.
Chuckling, but not really finding anything here funny, he decided to get lunch before heading back. Maybe a beer to go with it.
Ellie could feel the man’s gaze on her but she certainly wasn’t going to look back, no matter how handsome he was. She couldn’t deny the strange flutter in her chest when she’d looked into his warm, brown eyes. In an instant she’d registered the dark, rugged stubble on his chin, and the unruly sprigs of brown hair poking out from beneath his hat. It curled adorably over his ears. And then he stood and he was so tall, angular, and lithe. He reminded her of a cat, a panther. He’d even moved with an uncommon grace, smooth and fluid—
Oh, for Pete’s sake, she was not here for that sort of thing. Nellie Bly doesn’t get distracted by handsome cowboys. Neither will Ellie Blair. Focus. Somewhere in the area was a man pining for his mail-order bride. Wasn’t he going to be surprised when Ellie showed up?
Frowning at the joke that wasn’t funny anymore, she pushed open the door to the telegraph office. She sent the message that she had arrived safely to both her editor and Mr. O’Toole, then, armed with directions from a passer-by, made her way to the hotel. Evergreen was a quaint, clean town that exuded a feeling of peace and calm. Along the busy boardwalk, she passed cowboys covered in trail dust, and residents dressed in fine shop clothes, though a year behind in style. Two soldiers eyed her appreciatively and tipped their kepis as they passed her.
The town was quite different from Boston. An odd observation, Ellie supposed, but she hadn’t ever been to such a small municipality. She liked the pace—busy but not chaotic—the fact that she could see from one end of Main Street to the other, and that the sidewalks, while muddy, weren’t littered with trash or spit.
Small, friendly, but she was taken aback by the noise. Yelling, whistling cowboys and the din of unhappy cattle emanated from the stockyard on the edge of town. The smell of animal waste was stronger here, but not unpleasant. Ellie preferred the way Evergreen smelled. On a hot, humid day, Boston reeked with the cloying stink of human excrement and garbage. At least this cow town in the middle of the rolling, green plains smelled more like grass and leather than urine.
Ellie signed for the hotel room and passed the fountain pen back to the clerk, a young boy wearing a visor, and garters on his sleeves. As he spun away to pluck her key from the pigeonhole, an idea struck her. People who worked in hotels often had the latest news, gossip, and details of goings-on of a community. Perhaps this young boy was no different.
“Excuse me, but I’m also looking for someone.”
He rounded on her and passed her the key. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I understand Mr. Clegg Hoyt works at the Whiskey Creek Ranch. You wouldn’t happen to know him? Or how I could get out to the ranch?”
The boy grinned. “Aren’t you in luck?”
It wasn’t a question, but Ellie didn’t understand the statement. “I don’t know. Am I?”
“He’s sittin’ in our restaurant. Right there.” He pointed past a towering fern to the restaurant’s open double doors. A man with his back to the entrance sat alone at a table apparently eating his lunch.
Butterflies exploded in Ellie’s chest. A nervous excitement thrummed in her veins. The moment was at hand . . . and she saw no reason to drag it out. Nellie Bly wouldn’t, a voice mocked. Ellie swallowed her fear and spoke without turning back to the clerk. “Thank you.” She dropped the room key in the reticule hanging from her wrist and trekked uncertainly across the lobby. Her legs had grown cold. Her heart beat wildly against her ribs. The speech she had planned danced disjointedly in her head.
She approached the man and took a deep breath. “Mr. Hoyt?” He turned slightly, looked up, and Ellie’s stomach dropped. The same brown eyes. The same slightly disheveled brown hair. The same unexpected flutter in her breast.
At first he smiled, but it faltered with recognition. “It’s you.”
“It’s me.”
“From the boardwalk?”
“Yes.”
An awkwardness embedded itself between them like a brick wall. He frowned, laid down his napkin with a sigh, and rose to tower over her. “Yes, ma’am. And I am Clegg Hoyt.” He offered his hand.
Ellie recognized the peace offering. A fresh start. “And I . . .” Oh, Lord, here we go. “I am Millie Swank.”
“Miss Swank.” He didn’t react to the name.
In her puzzlement at his dull reaction, she barely returned the shake.
“What can I do for you, ma’am?”
“I am Millie Swank.” Growing insecure, she laced her hands over her stomach, waiting. Surely, he knew—
Suddenly, his square, handsome face transformed—no, melted—into an expression of horror. His eyes flew open. His mouth went slack. “Miss Millie Swank?” he asked carefully. “From Boston?”
“The one you have been corresponding with for a few months now regarding the potential of matrimony. That Millie Swank.”
Mr. Hoyt jolted, as if his knees had nearly buckled. He swallowed and motioned to the empty chair at his table. “Please, have a seat.”
Puzzled, concerned her assignment might be falling apart somehow, Ellie slid into the chair. He sank down slowly opposite her, staring as if she had two heads. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I can see that.” His stunned gaze roamed over her. Was he wondering if she was real? “The opportunity to visit Evergreen presented itself. I didn’t have time to inform you of my plans.”
“I don’t know what to do with you.”
“Pardon?” He’d muttered it like he meant something else.
“I mean,” he shook his head, searching for words. “I’m not prepared for a wife—”
“Mr. Hoyt, I realize you were willing to take a bride sight unseen, but . . .”
“You weren’t willing to take me the same way?”
“It sounds rather unfriendly when you say it like that. I merely thought to see if we might,” Ellie shrugged a shoulder, “hit it off.”
He took a deep breath and swiped a hand over his chin. For some reason, Ellie thought there was more simmering here than just matrimonial plans gone awry. What, she couldn’t even begin to guess. But something said the man was figuring over more than just her.
He sat back, dragging his hands across the white tablecloth. “What did you have in mind, Miss Swank? Courting?”
Ellie’s mouth dropped, but she closed it quickly. “No.” Her turn to hem and haw, but wasn’t that, after all, the way she had planned to buy time to search? By getting Mr. Hoyt to let her roam the ranch. She licked her lips. “I just thought,” she spoke haltingly, carefully, “we could see if the arrangement will suit us. I’m not sure courting would be the right word.”
He scratched his jaw. “I guess if I was expecting love I wouldn’t have written to a mail-order bride.”
Ellie hadn’t looked at it that way. Not much of a romantic herself, she had assumed the man wanted a bride he could come to love. Perhaps Mr. Hoyt, in actuality, only wanted a maid and a cook, and a ranch hand—despite his decision to close the letter with affection. Reg
ardless, she had an assignment. “At the least, I should think you would want to see if we are agreeable together.”
“Agreeable?” He studied her for a moment with an inscrutable expression. She could almost imagine a smile tried tweaking his lips, but she wouldn’t have put money on it. “Well, I doubt Miss Stella would mind the company. She was telling me just the other day how she was anxious for my bride to show up so she could have afternoon teas and talk about needlepoint.”
Ellie pursed her lips to keep from reflecting her horror at the idea. She hated few things more than frilly, silly, lady talk. “I have taken a room at the hotel. There’s no need to inconvenience anyone.”
“The last thing you would be is an inconvenience. Miss Stella is my employer. She lives in a large house with several guest rooms. You won’t be any trouble. She’s already made the offer, in fact.”
Since this was better than Ellie had hoped, she dared not discourage the idea. “Well, if you’re sure. I’m anxious to see the ranch about which you’ve written so eloquently.”
His brow dove in what looked like confusion, but he quickly nodded. “Yes, the letters. I wrote you.”
He didn’t sound so sure. “Yes. Nearly twenty times.”
He ran his tongue over his teeth and leaned forward. “You wouldn’t mind letting me read those again? Just so I can remember what all I told you. If you brought them.”
“Yes, I have them. I don’t think I missed any as they were blowing down Main Street.”
He stared at her, but finally let a smile emerge. Charming, almost roguish, as if something was tremendously entertaining. “I guess we were destined to meet, Miss Swank. In one . . . situation or the other.”
Ellie’s instincts told her Mr. Hoyt wasn’t saying exactly what he meant. He found something funny all right, but she worried the joke might be on her.
3
Fortunately, Jim had come to town in the wagon to pick up a big load of barbed wire. Under Miss Swank’s watchful eye from the wagon seat, he gently loaded her trunk and secured it with some rope. Lifting his hat to run his hand through his hair, he asked, “That all, ma’am?”
“Yes, just the trunk.”
He plopped his hat back in place and tsked as he climbed up beside her. “You travel light for a woman.”
“You make it sound as if it’s a bad thing.”
He flicked the reins and the horse plodded forward. “No, just a little out of the ordinary is all.”
“I think it makes me resourceful. You said in one of your letters you were looking for a resourceful woman.”
Jim tensed. What else had he said in those letters? “A wise man should.”
They rode on, for a few miles making only polite conversation about the weather, leaving behind the quaint, civilized Evergreen. The crisply painted and manicured homes of town gave way to lone log and clapboard houses on the outskirts. Eventually, those petered out and they were surrounded by empty, rolling green hills dotted with rocks, hazy blue mountains watching from the distance.
Miss Swank’s head swiveled from horizon to horizon, no doubt taking in the Laramie Mountains in the west and the endless ocean of prairie to the east. She gasped at the site of a lone white buffalo wandering forlornly amongst a small herd of elk.
“I’m told he’s called Methuselah. Last of his kind around here.”
She watched the bull for a moment, then suddenly asked, “Tell me about this ranch. How long have you been here now? Do you like it? How many hands are there? Is it family-owned or a conglomerate? Are you going—”
“Whoa, hold on there,” he waved a hand in front of her. “Take a breath.” How long had she been saving up all those questions? She was a curious thing. “One question at a time.”
“Sorry.” She plucked at her skirt absently. “Sometimes I have them just hurtling through my mind like a meteor shower.”
“You could be a reporter like that Nellie Bly.”
He didn’t miss the sag in her posture, the curl in her upper lip. He’d meant it as a joke, but she looked hopping mad. “Nearly two weeks,” he said, quickly circling back to her questions. “I’ve been with the Whiskey Creek Ranch for a little over two weeks. Let’s see, what was next?”
“Do you like it?”
“So far, yes. Miss Stella is the only surviving member of the two families who started the ranch and she’s a sweet old thing.”
“And the hands? Tell me about the hands.”
“Right now we’ve got twenty-two. Mostly a good crew. A lot of them have been with Miss Stella for years.” His mind wandered to Dave Reynolds. “Couple a new ones.”
“Are they not working out?”
He looked at her, impressed she had caught his hesitation . . . and did she smell like roses? He chided himself for the impractical observation. “Um, I’ve got a new man I’m . . .” he trailed off.
“What?”
“Can’t put my finger on it. He’s competent enough. Just seems there’s some things that don’t line up.” He shrugged, trying to change direction. “Probably hiding from a wife or some such.”
“What’s his name?”
Perhaps curious was bordering on nosy? His raised eyebrow communicated the question. She lowered her head in apology. “I thought if I met him, perhaps I could find out for you . . . if there is something amiss.”
She had a point, but Dave Reynolds could prove to be a danger to anyone, much less a lady. Especially one as pretty as Millie Swank. “His name is Dave Reynolds, but he’s not the sort you should associate with.”
“I don’t want to associate with him. I thought I could merely ask some questions in passing. He might answer a woman differently.”
If you bat those sparkling blue eyes at him? I know I’d talk.
Again annoyed at himself, Jim flicked the horse and moved her up to a trot. The day was slipping away and he still had work to do. “I don’t know. I guess we’ll just see how things play out.” He wanted to change the topic and tried to recall the few things the real Clegg Hoyt had said about his potential bride. Boston. Irish descent. A housekeeper. Several siblings. “The telegram you sent. You let your family know you arrived safely?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
The conversation faltered then. Stymied on what might be safe small talk, Jim let the silence settle so he could ponder things, and she went back to watching the landscape.
Maybe he could pull out the info a little nugget at a time. “It’s been a while since I read your first letter. Why did you—” Had she taken out an ad or answered one? “Why did you decide to become a bride this way?” he asked, choosing his words carefully.
“I looked around Boston one day—and at my life—and suddenly felt . . . like I couldn’t breathe. Like I was dying, strangled by the city and the way it was setting my future. Oh, I know it’s not the best reason to marry, but I wanted to be with someone who didn’t have pre-formed notions about what I can do and what I should do. You said you wanted to marry a woman who was hardworking and willing to tackle new challenges. That’s me.”
Jim had been around so many prim-and-proper hothouse flowers the last couple of years, he’d forgotten there were women out there with dreams of their own. As eager as a man to chase an adventure, build a life from scratch. No silks. No satins. No champagne. Just hard work.
Wondering if Miss Swank was up to it, he sneaked a sideways peak at her. She sat ramrod straight, shoulders back, chin up. Her eyes shone with attentiveness. She spoke with purpose, strong and clear, no waver in her voice. Her self-confidence was . . . alluring.
Hard to believe she thought her only way out of Boston, to a brighter future, was by marrying a man she’d never met. Something about Millie Swank said the last thing she needed was a man to rescue her.
And Jim West found himself, just for a moment, envying the real Clegg Hoyt.
Chattering away like an excited bird, the vivacious Stella Hardwicke poured tea for him and Miss Swank in the library. He used the delicate, stea
ming cup as a shield to hide behind while studying the conundrum of his potential bride. The more time he spent with Miss Swank, the more Jim wondered if there wasn’t something . . . well, wrong with this picture. Both she and Dave Reynolds were becoming quite the puzzle. A woman as intelligent and beautiful as her looking for a mail-order husband? That simply didn’t add up.
“Mr. Hoyt has told us so little about you, Miss Swank.” Miss Stella sat back, bringing her own steaming cup with her. A slender, graceful woman with a wise face, wide green eyes, and white hair pulled back in a bun, delight at having female company oozed from her. “Other than you’re a housekeeper, and you’re from Ireland? Strange, you don’t sound like you’re from Ireland.”
“My family lived in County Cork until I was nine. None of my siblings nor I have much left in the way of the old accent.”
“A pioneering family. I like that.” She dropped a sugar cube in her drink and stirred while she spoke. “You’ve got it in your blood. And Wyoming will certainly test your mettle. It doesn’t suit everybody, but Clegg here is proving himself to be quite a productive rancher already.” She sat back and smiled at Miss Swank. “You and I both have picked a winner, I believe. He is solid, steady, and has a head for ranching. Not to mention, he’s the most handsome foreman I’ve ever had.”
Miss Swank flicked her eyes at Jim and then quickly took a sip of tea.
Jim wondered what the young lady would think of the real Hoyt’s looks. The real Clegg Hoyt was short, stocky, and snaggle-toothed. Not that Jim thought he could win any ribbons for his own face, but over the years a few women had told him he was not too hard on the eyes.
Furthermore, while Hoyt was smart enough to pay someone to write persuasively romantic letters, the man had a terrible temper and a stubborn streak grittier than the Mississippi. If not for a barroom brawl down in Denver, Jim wasn’t sure they would have been able to gain the man’s cooperation. But the threat of jail can certainly make a man more amenable.
The Brides of Evergreen Box Set Page 29
