Away in Montana (Paradise Valley Ranch Book 1)

by Jane Porter

  AWAY

  IN

  MONTANA

  A Paradise Valley Ranch Romance

  Jane Porter

  Away in Montana

  Copyright © 2016 Jane Porter

  Kindle Edition

  The Tule Publishing Group, LLC

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-944925-85-7

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  Dedication

  To those I have loved

  And for those who have loved me

  I wouldn’t be here without you

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  About Married in Montana

  The Paradise Valley Ranch Series

  The Taming of the Sheenans

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to the incredible Tule team for always having my back, and making sure I get the words down and the stories done. I so appreciate the wonderful team, and love working with each of you.

  Special thanks to Michelle Morris for reading each chapter and giving me feedback. Invaluable!

  Thank you to Lee Hyat and Elisabeth Ringvard for being my first readers and making sure I nailed the ending. Massively grateful!

  Thank you Megan Crane for caring so much about everything. You are my wonder girl!

  And lastly, thank you to Ty Gurney and my three sons for giving me the time and space to wrestle, pace, panic, and create. This wasn’t the easiest story and yet you had such faith in me.

  Chapter One

  October 26, 1889

  McKenna Frasier shivered as a gust of blustery autumn wind sent red and gold leaves tumbling down Bramble Lane. Her fingers felt cold and stiff from gripping the invitation to Mr. and Mrs. Henry Bramble’s Hallowe’en Revels so tightly.

  McKenna couldn’t remember when she’d last been so anxious about a social event, and that was significant as she’d attended New York costume balls and formal dinners hosted by everyone from the Astors to the Vanderbilts.

  She’d once been so fearless.

  No, make that naive. She hadn’t ever truly understood the rules of New York society, or the consequences, until it was too late.

  Dr. Jillian Parker, seated next to McKenna, gave her a light pat of reassurance on her arm. “Don’t be nervous. Just be yourself and everything will be fine.”

  McKenna nodded, and pressed her lips together, wanting to believe Jillian, but as the handsome, red brick mansion at the end of the street came into view, her stomach rose and fell, her thudding pulse now matching the brisk clip-clopping of the horses’ hooves.

  She couldn’t get sick here. It wouldn’t do.

  Jillian leaned closer to McKenna, her voice dropping so her husband, who was driving the carriage, wouldn’t hear. “Mrs. Bramble wouldn’t have sent an invitation for the party if she didn’t want to include you.”

  “That’s because I forced the issue,” McKenna answered lowly.

  “You didn’t know you were forcing the issue. It was an honest mistake.”

  McKenna struggled to smile. She knew better.

  When the invitation didn’t arrive for the Brambles’ Hallowe’en party, she shouldn’t have asked Jillian to make enquiries. A true lady would have accepted the oversight with grace and quiet dignity, but McKenna being McKenna, didn’t quietly accept situations. She had a long history of making mistakes, starting with her childhood. As a girl, she’d been criticized countless times for her strong personality and passionate temperament. Her mother had done her best to teach McKenna that a lady was to always be cool, collected, and self-possessed, and to be fair, she was that… at times. But then there were situations, where she wouldn’t, couldn’t, accept fate, fighting it, wanting a different outcome.

  Like with the Brambles’ party.

  Heartsick over not being included, she’d approached Jillian Parker—her only friend so far in Crawford County—to discretely enquire about the invitation, wondering if it had gone missing. McKenna was mortified to learn later that the invitation hadn’t gotten lost. She hadn’t been invited.

  She would have cried, if she was a crier.

  Instead, she lay awake at night, listening to the wind, the hoot of owls, and the distant howl of wolves, telling herself she was silly to care so much. It was just a party. She’d attended hundreds of parties in the last few years.

  During the day, she focused her energy on her pupils, the lessons, and learning how to become a better teacher. It was one thing to study literature and the arts in college, but another to actually teach those subjects, along with math, science, and history.

  Just when she’d finally resigned herself to not going, and felt peace about the situation, one of Mr. Bramble’s bank employees arrived at the school yesterday afternoon with the coveted invite, and a handwritten note from Mrs. Bramble, asking McKenna to please join them tomorrow, writing that the annual Hallowe’en party wouldn’t be complete without her.

  McKenna didn’t know how to react to the sudden appearance of the invitation. The emotional ups and downs of the past few weeks had rattled her, reminding her of the roller coaster at Coney Island, with all the wild dips and thrills. She’d loved and hated that ride. It had been both exciting and terrifying, and now, looking at the Bramble’s imposing, brick mansion in front of her, she felt the same excitement and terror.

  They were here.

  Jillian flashed McKenna a smile. “Courage,” she said.

  McKenna managed a matching smile. “Always,” she answered breathlessly.

  But as they disembarked from the carriage, McKenna’s legs felt anything but steady. “What if people know I wasn’t supposed to be here?” she whispered to Jillian.

  Jillian slid her arm through McKenna’s. “There are only three of us that know. You, me, and Mrs. Bramble—”

  “And Mr. Bramble.”

  “Men never know anything about parties. I’m sure Mr. Bramble is clueless.” She squeezed McKenna’s arm. “So go in, hold your head up, and smile. Give people a chance to get to know you. The real you. Not the one people think they know from the newspapers.”

  “You’re so confident.”

  “It wasn’t easy for me when I first moved here. Marietta needed a veterinarian, but they didn’t want me. Their new veterinarian was not supposed to be a woman. But I’ve been here five years now and they’ve come to accept me. With time, they’ll also accept you.”

  *

  Twenty-nine year old Sinclair Douglas saw McKenna Frasier the moment she entered the parlor i
n her persimmon and spice gown, her dark hair pinned up, tendrils already slipping free. Knowing McKenna, those were not artful pieces teased from the chignon, but curls that had already worked themselves loose.

  She’d always found it difficult, if not impossible, to contain her intense beauty and energy. Her vivid brightness was both a strength and weakness, and now that she had been exiled from New York, he suspected it’d become an overwhelming liability in Crawford and Park Counties. He’d heard New York society was strict, and punitive, but small towns could be even harsher, and today would be a test. He wasn’t sure if she knew there had been a vocal minority who’d protested her hiring, claiming her immorality and scandalous reputation should have made her ineligible for the teaching position in Paradise Valley.

  Fortunately, it was just a minority of the community.

  Unfortunately, that same minority was present at the Brambles today.

  Sinclair had been angered by the barrage of criticism and cruel comments, but there was little he could do without making the situation worse. She wasn’t his anymore. And, in hindsight, she probably never had been.

  He watched her accept a cup of punch from their hostess. Her hand was not entirely steady as she held the cup. He’d never known her to be afraid of anything before, but then, she’d never been so vulnerable before.

  He hated this. Hated that her family had cut her off. Hated that society had cast her out. Hated that she had no one now. But she’d created this situation. She’d made her choice.

  His chest squeezed tight and he turned away, retreating into the library where she was no longer in his line of sight.

  He wasn’t surprised that she still affected him. He’d loved her for so long, it was difficult to not care, but she wasn’t his responsibility. She wasn’t his, period.

  She’d never be his. Not now. And not because he couldn’t forgive her—he could do that, and eventually he would—but he didn’t trust her. How could a man marry a woman he didn’t trust? How could he create a family with a woman who lacked integrity… honor?

  He stepped past a cluster of ladies who all paused to smile at him. He nodded, smiling grimly, recognizing all three. One was a married woman, the wife of the reverend, and the other two were young single women who’d taken the train to Montana to find husbands. He knew because the reverend’s wife had made several attempts to introduce him to the young ladies.

  He didn’t like to be rude, but he wasn’t interested.

  He wasn’t sure when he’d be interested in settling down.

  He’d been ready a year ago, though. He’d been looking forward to a life with McKenna. They had a future planned out, and he’d purchased land, built a home, saved money for the day he’d need to provide for her.

  He’d thought she was looking forward to the same future.

  He was wrong.

  Sinclair stepped back against the bookshelf to allow a young woman and her mother to pass. The young woman smiled up at him from beneath her lashes. He gave her a brief nod, wishing he was anywhere but here, in an overheated house with too many overdressed people. He rarely attended social events, preferring the solitude of his ranch and his own company, over artificial gaiety and meaningless conversation.

  He’d come today because McKenna would be here. He’d come knowing their paths would cross and he thought it was time to put the past behind them, including the accompanying awkwardness. It would be easier once it was behind them.

  Or so he’d told himself before he saw her arrive, her dark eyes so expressive, a hint of pink staining her cheeks.

  It’d been five years since he’d last seen her and yet he wasn’t as detached as he wanted to be.

  But it was difficult to be detached about McKenna.

  He’d loved her since he was sixteen, almost half his life. It wasn’t easy to pretend she didn’t matter, and for the past eight weeks, he’d tried to prepare for the moment they would cross paths, having expected it from the time she arrived in Marietta on the train, tensing every time he arrived in town and spotted the swing of an elegant skirt or ribbons stitched against a stylish bonnet.

  He’d thought he’d known how he would handle the meeting—a brief, civil acknowledgment—before continuing on, because he wouldn’t cut her. He felt no need to embarrass her or make her uncomfortable, but he certainly wouldn’t converse. There was no reason to speak at length on anything. There was nothing between them now. Not even the kisses. Those kisses clearly had meant nothing to her. Those kisses were apparently as insignificant as the promises she’d made him.

  I love you. Wait for me. I’ll be back soon. There will never be anyone else for me…

  And he, naïve boy, had waited. Patiently, because he had to. Patiently, because he wanted to. He’d wanted her to be happy. He hadn’t understood her desire to go to college or travel abroad, because people like him didn’t do those things. People like Sinclair Douglas filled her father’s mines, and worked the smelters, and laid the railroad tracks crossing the West.

  But she’d been raised in luxury, spoiled by her doting father, a father who was a self-made man himself, and Sinclair understood ambition, and how Mr. Frasier wanted everything for his daughters, and McKenna, a Frasier to the core, wanted everything, too.

  Sinclair had thought he was part of everything, so he’d harnessed his hunger and impatience, encouraging her to study and winter in Italy and summer in England.

  While she’d traveled, he’d worked and saved, taking on every challenge, seeking every promotion, knowing if he remained a lowly miner, he’d never get her father’s approval to marry her, but if he proved himself, if he rose through the ranks and became a manager, maybe, just maybe Mr. Frasier would respect Sinclair enough he’d consent to the marriage.

  Like most miners he knew, he worked seven days a week, and then on the rare day off, he’d write to her, laboring over the letters, rewriting when his sentences leaned too much or he’d dribble ink, smearing the words and staining the page.

  Penmanship wasn’t his strength. He could read and write, but it wasn’t easy for him, not like math. Math was no problem. He’d never met a series of numbers that didn’t intrigue him.

  But when he sat down to write her, he smashed his insecurity and penned a letter, determined to be entertaining, which wasn’t necessarily easy when he worked in the bowels of the earth, but he was good at what he did, a miner like his father. He worked hard, too, just like his father. But he hoped to be luckier than his father who’d died young. Fortunately, his hard work did get noticed, and while McKenna was entering society, he was sent to Marietta to manage Frasier’s new copper mine, making him the youngest manager to ever run a Frasier mine.

  In Marietta, he wrote her less frequently, not only because her correspondence was more erratic, but he was exhausted. Mining had always been dangerous, but Frasier was pushing the production in the Marietta mine, ignoring safety protocols to meet the nearly impossible quota.

  It was better writing to her less often. It meant he didn’t have to work so hard to hide his anger towards her father. Frasier didn’t seem to care whether his work force lived or died. They were all dispensable, and a new immigrant Finn or Serbian could replace one of his experienced Cornish or Irish workers. It didn’t matter if the man left behind a wife and children. It didn’t matter if they suffered miners’ consumption. It wasn’t Frasier’s problem. It was Sinclair’s. This was why Sinclair had been made the manager, so Frasier didn’t have to trouble himself with reality, and practicalities.

  So he smashed his frustration, and focused on his job, saving every letter McKenna did write as a testament to the promise she’d made him. She loved him. She’d be back. She was his, and had been his since they were just students in Butte, until gossip reached him in the mines that McKenna Frasier has been disinherited. The Frasier heiress has been disowned.

  He didn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe it. But the scandal filled the papers. People loved to see the high and mighty fall, and no one was hig
her or mightier than beautiful, wealthy McKenna Frasier.

  He hadn’t wanted to read the stories. He’d wanted to distance himself from the gossip but, in the end, he’d had to read them. He’d had to understand just how McKenna had become another man’s.

  And now she was here in Marietta, in the parlor of the Brambles’ house, and he realized that as important as she’d been to him, it was time to let her go.

  *

  McKenna lost Jillian almost immediately after they entered the handsome, red brick mansion, and had been grateful when Mrs. Bramble approached her, warmly welcoming her, and offering her a glass of punch to refresh her after her trip from Paradise Valley.

  They visited for a moment, and then Mrs. Bramble was called away and McKenna faced the formal parlor, a faint smile on her face. The Brambles’ home was Marietta’s grandest, and this afternoon, it appeared that all of the doors of the downstairs rooms had been thrown open to create a series of large rooms perfect for entertaining.

  She spied a lavish buffet across the hall in the dining room, while just beyond the parlor, children and adults alike were playing games in the library. The carpet on the opposite side of the parlor had been rolled up for dancing, and a pianist played while a half dozen high-spirited children darted between the adults in a boisterous game of tag.

  Bursts of laughter and the hum of conversation drowned out the musicians, but no one seemed to notice. The Brambles’ Hallowe’en party, in their grand Bramble House, had become an annual tradition and, from the squeeze, it seemed all of Marietta was here. Outside, crisp red and gold leaves rolled down the lane while inside everything smelled of cinnamon spiced cider and succulent roasted ham.

  Encouraged by the laughter and chatter, McKenna approached a group of women, all young mothers with babies in their arms, or toddlers nearby. “Hello,” she said with a smile, “I’m McKenna Frasier—”

  “I’m sorry.” A tall woman in dark blue cut her short. “We’re having a private conversation.”