by Jane Porter
“No! It’s not acceptable. But he isn’t here, and he isn’t the one throwing insults in my face.” She pressed her hands to her skirts, trying to hide that she was trembling. “I understand I disappointed you. I understand that he was high-handed and overbearing, but he probably assumed you’d be happy to marry me.”
“I’m sure of it. He probably assumed he was doing me a favor. He knew I loved you. I’d approached him years ago, asking for your hand so maybe he assumed I wouldn’t care—”
“I didn’t know. He never told me.” She interrupted before he could continue.
The corner of his mouth lifted. “But I did. In my letters.”
McKenna closed her eyes, they burned hot and gritty. She struggled to hold the emotion in, overwhelmed by the shame. “After awhile I didn’t read your letters,” she said, opening her eyes, looking at him.
He made a rough sound. “I know. It took me a bit, but I eventually figured that one out.”
Voices sounded in the hall. McKenna straightened and glanced towards the door. A woman was speaking to a child just outside the door, reprimanding him for being too boisterous indoors.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly.
“I know that, too.”
She looked at him and he shrugged, his handsome features hard, no softness in him anymore.
“I know you,” he said. “You’re not a bad person. You didn’t go to New York to hurt me, and you didn’t fall in love with… him… to punish me. You just couldn’t help yourself.”
She went hot then cold. “I kept all your letters.” Her voice cracked. She struggled to continue. “I still have them, every single one—”
“Tied up with a delicate red silk ribbon?” He seemed amused now. “My romantic, impractical Miss Frasier. You haven’t changed.”
“But you have,” she said, realizing then he’d known she’d been living in Park County all this time and he hadn’t come to see her, nor had his family, even though his sister had once been her friend. “You knew I was here. You’ve avoided me.”
He said nothing and she held her breath, trying to smash the hot, sharp pang in her heart.
He didn’t want to know her anymore. They were only speaking now because they were both here, at the Brambles’ party at the same time.
It hurt.
She’d never felt more isolated or alone.
He was, she realized, intent on punishing her. Just as a large sector of society wanted to punish her, not because anyone actually knew what she’d done, but over what they suspected she did.
McKenna’s hand went to her middle, pressing against the wave of nausea. She couldn’t let herself become upset. She couldn’t fall apart in front of him. What did she expect? That he’d be pleased to see her? That he’d wait, like a hound, for her return?
“I should return to the drawing room,” she said, blinking to clear the sting from her eyes. “It wouldn’t be good for us to be caught alone here.”
“And now you worry about your reputation?”
She laughed softly as she turned for the door. “No, sir. I’m trying to protect yours.”
*
The look she’d thrown his way as she walked out was pure McKenna—fierce, defiant, passionate. Hurt.
Her gently mocking tone echoed in his head even as he watched the rich saffron silk of her gown disappear around the corner.
It wasn’t until he was alone that he exhaled. He’d waited years to see her, and it wasn’t the meeting he’d imagined. There was no pleasure in seeing her. Maybe it was because there was no pleasure in hurting her. Even as angry as he was, he didn’t like adding to her pain. She was suffering, too. The life she’d known was gone. She had been forced to create a new life, and a new identity, and it wouldn’t be easy, not here in Crawford County, Montana.
Sinclair tugged on his tie, and then beneath at his collar, feeling as if he couldn’t breathe. But the collar wasn’t what was choking him. It was the weight in his chest, the heaviness in his gut.
He was so angry. Bitterly disappointed.
But not just in her. Her father. The world itself.
It would have been better not to see her. He wouldn’t feel so conflicted if he hadn’t spoken to her. Being near her unleashed emotions he wasn’t prepared to feel.
He hated ambivalence. He wasn’t built for complicated situations and emotions. He was quite simple, really.
He loved, and he worked, and he worked to take care of those he loved—his family, his country, and his girl. A girl who’d gone away and grown into woman he didn’t know.
Today was supposed to have been about closure. He’d come to shut the door on the past, and distance himself from Patrick and McKenna Frasier. He did not work for the Frasiers. He was not beholden to them. He had no need to respect or protect his relationship with any of them. In short, he was a free man.
Of course, it wasn’t going to be easy to see her, but he’d known he’d feel better once he’d said his piece, making it clear there was nothing between them. He owed her no loyalty or protection. Whatever they’d had was gone. He didn’t care for her, nor did he want a future with her, exhausted by the intensity and chaos McKenna represented.
And then she looked at him, her eyes meeting his, and she dropped the mask, letting him see her—her, McKenna—the way he’d always seen her.
Beautiful and brilliant, emotional and passionate, headstrong and impulsive. It made his chest ache. His gut knotted with pain. He could still see the girl in her, and why he’d loved her in the first place.
She was everything he wasn’t.
Fiery and funny and so full of hopes and plans. He, who wasn’t complex, admired her passion and conviction. He was drawn to her spirit and determination to see the world and change the world and be respected, not because she was a fragile female, but because she was smart and had opinions and believed that she, and all women, were valuable. Not as sisters, and wives, and mothers. But because they were humans.
She was too educated and too headstrong and too rebellious for her own good. The world wasn’t ready for her. He wondered if the world would ever be ready for strong, fierce women.
And he’d known all of this when he was eighteen and twenty. He’d known she was so very different from him, but that was what made him want to protect her, and defend her.
And love her.
Sinclair drew a deep, rough breath, wishing he hadn’t come today, wishing he hadn’t seen that look in her eyes when she realized he’d known she had been here for months, and he hadn’t ever tried to see her, or speak to her.
He hated the hurt that darkened her eyes and, yes, it was only there a moment, but it was real, and he felt as if he’d pressed down on a bruise and that made him regret his hard words. She was already struggling. There was no need to rub her face in it.
*
Downstairs they were telling ghost stories in the darkened parlor and McKenna slipped into a corner. She closed her eyes as she leaned against the wall, the chair rail pressing against her hips, her arms crossed over her chest, the storyteller’s words rushing at her, running over her, occupying her brain until her emotions were under control.
But her emotions refused to be controlled. Her heart raced and her pulse drummed and a lump filled her throat, making it hard to breathe.
He’d known she’d been here for months. He’d known she was close and he didn’t care.
It hadn’t crossed her mind he would even be in Marietta, certain he was in Butte, working one of her father’s big mines there.
The lump in her throat grew. Her eyes itched and burned.
She shouldn’t have come. She shouldn’t be here. She didn’t belong here. And everyone at the party knew she didn’t belong here, and not just at the Bramble’s Hallow’en party, but in Marietta itself. It was such a disturbing discovery, yet another troubling lesson in a year of agonizing putdowns and setbacks.
On the plus side—she wasn’t dead yet.
Her lips curved up.
Thank God she still had her sense of humor. It’d saved her before. It might just be the thing that would save her now.
But, seriously, she had to learn from today’s humiliation, just as she’d learned from the others. She’d continue to redefine life, sorting through memory and experience, saving the best, relinquishing that which wounded, focusing on who she was now… teacher. Spinster.
She grimaced at that, and opened her eyes to look across the dark, crowded parlor where everyone was quiet and attentive, hanging on the storyteller’s next words.
Too bad her students didn’t listen to her with the same baited breath. Maybe she needed to read them more Edgar Allen Poe and Mary Shelley.
She smiled as she imagined reading Frankenstein to her students, and just thinking of her students made her think of her school that smelled of raw lumber and chalk and burning firewood. She was lucky to have a job, and she knew it. The work gave her income, allowing her to not just survive, but have a purpose. Teaching gave her meaning, and so she’d continue to focus on her work. She’d read and teach and pour her intense energy into her students.
A light hand touched her arm. McKenna turned her head. Mrs. Zabrinski—the wife of the Russian who owned the local mercantile—gestured for McKenna to follow her. McKenna had met the fur trapper’s wife when she’d first arrived in Marietta and needed supplies for her new home.
In the hall, Jenny Zabrinski apologized for stealing McKenna from the entertainment. “Dr. Parker had to leave,” she explained, in her lightly accented English. “She was called away on an emergency, and Mr. Parker went with her to make sure she got there safely, but Jillian was quite concerned about rushing away without saying goodbye. She didn’t want to leave you stranded. But Mr. Zabrinski and I promised her we’d see you home. There is no reason to worry.”
“I’m not worried,” McKenna answered calmly, and it was true.
She’d been through far too much in the past year to worry about how she’d get home from a party in town. She was young and healthy and had legs. She could easily walk, and if she left now, she would reach home before dark.
“Nor do you need to trouble yourself getting me home. It’s still early and I can easily walk back—”
“No!” Jenny protested sharply, her French accent becoming more pronounced. “You are not dressed to walk such a distance.”
“It’s just an hour and a half.”
“It’s at least two hours, and I am sure you’re not wearing proper walking shoes. Let me see.”
McKenna suppressed a sigh and stepped back so Mrs. Zabrinski couldn’t actually lift her hem to check her shoes for appropriateness of footwear. “They’re not proper walking shoes, no,” she admitted, “but I’m not as delicate as you might think. I grew up in Montana—”
“Yes, yes, you are from Butte, and you are Mr. Frasier’s oldest daughter, and he has washed his hands of you.” And then she smiled, expression softening. “I know. We all know. But, unlike some, I do not mind. In fact, it makes me like you more. You and I are both the same, outcasts here in Marietta.”
McKenna wasn’t entirely surprised by Mrs. Zabinski’s admission. She was part Native American, and she’d married a Russian fur trapper. Yes, they’d set up a store in town, and the mercantile was needed, but that didn’t make the Zabrinkis part of polite society.
“I don’t mind being an outcast if you’re one,” McKenna answered with a smile. “We can be outcasts together.”
“We’ll invite Jillian to our meetings.”
“Sounds like a wonderful time.” She hesitated, remembering why Mrs. Zabrinksi had drawn her from the ghost stories. “Thank you for letting me know Jillian had to leave. I think I’ll head out now, too, while it’s light—”
“Head out now? While it’s still light?” A very deep, familiar voice interrupted her as Sinclair appeared behind them. “You’re not thinking of walking on your own, are you?”
McKenna didn’t know where he’d come from, or how he’d overheard, but he was the last person she wanted to see or hear from. He’d said quite enough upstairs.
“No,” she said flatly.
“Oui,” Jenny answered, giving McKenna a sharp look.
“I’m fine,” McKenna answered fiercely.
Jenny turned to Sinclair. “Mr. Douglas, you live in Emigrant. Can you take Miss Douglas home tonight? She is suddenly in need of a ride.”
“What happened to Miss Douglas’ ride?” he asked, glancing from Mrs. Zabrinski to McKenna.
“Dr. Parker was called away on an emergency, and I promised the Parkers I would find Miss Douglas a ride home.” Mrs. Zabrinski smiled winningly up at him. “I am sure Mr. Zabrinski would be willing to drive Miss Douglas home, but you are going that way, and we live in town, so I thought…” Her voice drifted off but her expression remained hopeful.
McKenna gritted her teeth in frustration. “I do not need a ride, and even if I did, I would not accept a ride from Mr. Douglas.”
“Why not?” Jenny asked, surprised.
“Yes,” Sinclair added, looking at her now, “why not?”
McKenna could feel the weight of Sinclair’s gaze. He was studying her so intently that a silvery shiver raced down her spine, making the fine hair at her nape rise.
But she refused to look at him, focusing instead on Jenny. “I don’t want to trouble anyone, and Mr. Douglas no longer works for my father and would probably be quite uncomfortable seeing me home—”
“I’m happy to see you home,” he answered, cutting her short.
Jenny smiled. “See? He is happy to see you home. It is no trouble. In fact, we should do more to take care of you. We are lucky to have you here, teaching the children in the valley. You have a degree, a true college education, from a famous school. The families in the valley are grateful, and I am sure Mr. Douglas is, too, as he will one day have children and his children will benefit from a teacher like you.”
McKenna didn’t know what to say and couldn’t think of an answer. Was Sinclair seeing someone? Was he engaged, or even married? Her stomach lurched, and her heart fell.
“Thank you for the kind words,” she said hoarsely, “I’m sure Mr. Douglas doesn’t want to leave now.”
“Actually, I was just going,” he said. “Why don’t you say your goodbyes to our hosts, and I’ll work on hitching the horse to the buggy.”
Chapter Three
He walked out the front door, every bit as authoritative and high-handed as her father had been. But he wasn’t her father, her husband, or her employer, and she didn’t have to answer to him.
McKenna followed Sinclair outside. “Mr. Douglas,” she called to him as he passed through the gate to the street. “Thank you for troubling yourself on my behalf, but regretfully, I must refuse your kind offer.”
Sinclair stopped walking. He turned to face her, expression blank.
He’d changed so much. He wasn’t a boy or a young man anymore. He was a man, a hard man, practically a stranger and, for the first time she could remember, he made her uneasy.
She touched her tongue to her upper lip, dampening it, as her mouth had suddenly gone dry. “I shall be taking accommodations in town tonight, and then tomorrow in the daylight, I can walk back or secure transportation home.”
He walked back towards her, closing the distance. “There is no place in town that will have you, McKenna.”
Her name, spoken in his deep growl of a voice, made her insides twist, ache. His tone was impatient, and rough, and yet he spoke her name as though her knew her.
But he didn’t know her, not anymore. Just as she didn’t know him.
Perhaps they’d never truly known the other. Perhaps it had all been an illusion. A projection of desire…
“Even if you had the money,” he added flatly, coming to a standstill at the base of the stairs, “they wouldn’t have you. You are not good for business.”
She stood above him, three broad steps between them, and yet he was so tall they were nearly eye level. Her
chin rose defensively, her lips pressing tightly. She didn’t know this Sinclair Douglas. He wasn’t the young man she’d loved. “My father may have disowned me, but the world has not.”
“Your father owns the mine, which means he owns more than a fair share of the town. People don’t want to alienate him, not when their livelihood depends on him.”
“You know that dependence, don’t you?” She flashed sarcastically. It wasn’t fair of her, but he wasn’t being fair, either.
“Too well.” His expression hardened. “I resented it at times, but I was also grateful for the work, and the opportunity. I wouldn’t have what I do now if he hadn’t put me to work.” He nodded towards the door. “Fetch your things so we can say our goodbyes.”
McKenna was painfully aware of Sinclair at her side as she buttoned and slipped her soft leather gloves onto her hands. Mrs. Bramble said goodbye at the front door but Mr. Bramble saw them to the gate. “Very happy you could join us,” he said. “You will have to come again.”
She answered that she would be delighted to pay a future visit, and then Sinclair was ushering her through the gate and to the street where the horse and buckboard buggy waited, the black leather top up, a lantern hanging on a hook.
Due to the tightness of her skirts, McKenna needed his assistance into the practical, black buggy, but she didn’t want to take his hand. Being close to him stirred up the past, flooding her with memories and emotions that she wasn’t strong enough to manage.
She was quickly learning it was better not to remember the past, or the Sinclair she’d loved. The past was gone and the Sinclair Douglas who’d once made her feel so safe was gone, too.
Her throat worked as she adjusted the ribbon at her chin, retying it more snuggly. She wasn’t chilled yet but she would be soon if the wind kept up, and her nerves stretched any tighter. “You know where I live? At the turn off—”
“Yes. I’m five miles southeast of you, in the foothills below Emigrant Peak.”
“And your mother and sister? Are they with you, too?”
“No. They’re here in town. They live above my sister’s shop on Main Street.” Sinclair took a seat next to her, and settled a blanket over her legs. “I offered to build them a house on Bramble, but they’re not interested, content to be in the thick of things.”
