by Jane Porter
He picked up the reins, giving them a brisk flick. The horse responded immediately, and they were off, pulling away from the brick three-story house with the abundance of white trim.
McKenna felt a sudden pang at leaving the luxurious mansion, so like the one she’d grown up in. It was hard leaving a place warm and comfortable, with high ceilings and tall windows that pulled natural light deep into each room. As the day grew later, lights would come on, making the handsome home glow.
The warmth and brightness of Bramble House made returning to her tiny, split log cabin harder, even though she was lucky to have housing provided.
She reminded herself of her blessings now. Work. A home. Relative financial security. At least for the time being.
She was fortunate, too, that she didn’t have to travel far each day to teach. But living alone wasn’t easy for her. She’d never lived alone before, always having family around her in Butte, and then her friends at Vassar, and then she had her father’s extravagant home on Fifth Avenue filled with staff, her father’s periodic presence, but lots of friends. McKenna had enjoyed a busy social life and many friends….
She swallowed hard, chin lifting, annoyed by her self-pity. It felt indulgent. She couldn’t allow herself to be indulgent, and loneliness wouldn’t kill her.
At least, it hadn’t killed her yet.
“Comfortable?” Sinclair asked abruptly, his deep voice both a pleasure and a shock every time he spoke to her.
He’d changed so much in the past four years. He’d always been tall, but he’d put on muscle, his frame heavy and powerful, a testament to the physicality of his work and the grueling decade working the Frasier copper mines.
“Yes, thank you,” she answered.
Even though they weren’t touching, she could feel Sinclair next to her, his energy and warmth tangible, making her heart race and her skin prickle with awareness.
Nervously she smoothed the blanket across her lap. Adrenalin hummed in her veins as leaves swirled down the street, dancing in and out of the horse’s hooves.
She’d overheard woman at the party speaking of the weather and what a lovely, long Indian summer it had been with unusually warm temperatures stretching into early October. McKenna had enjoyed the fine weather, too, but in the past couple of weeks, the weather had changed, the cold snap turning the thickets of aspens in Paradise Valley from green to glowing clusters of amber and orange.
“Did you enjoy yourself today?” Sinclair asked, breaking the silence.
She almost laughed at his question. Did she enjoy herself?
She pictured the women who’d rebuffed her, entire groups of women who’d turned their backs on her, shutting her out, and then she remembered Jenny and Jillian who’d both confessed they were outsiders, too. It should make her feel better, not being the only one excluded, but having grown up included, it was hard to accept being pushed to the outside. Perhaps if it had been her choice, it’d be different, but she’d made a misstep, and that error in judgment had cost her everything.
McKenna blinked to clear her eyes. Her head suddenly ached. She realized she was tired.
She hated being dependent on others.
She hated being poor.
Hated her disgrace.
Worse, she hated that she’d wanted so desperately to be included today. She’d hoped that the party would help ease her into society. She’d hoped that today women would discover she wasn’t scandalous at all, but rather, pleasant company, an educated lady with exceptional deportment.
“It was a mistake to go,” she said. “I was not wanted there.”
“You were invited.”
“I forced Mrs. Bramble’s hand.” She saw his swift side glance and she gave a half-nod. He knew the worst of her. He wouldn’t be shocked. “I wasn’t meant to attend. I didn’t know that when I asked Dr. Parker to approach Mrs. Bramble on my behalf, but I soon discovered I wasn’t meant to be on the guest list.”
“Yet you were here today.”
She shrugged wearily. “My inquiry put Mrs. Bramble in an awkward position and so she invited me at the last minute.”
“Nobody has to do anything, particularly the Brambles. Your father might own the mines, but Mr. Bramble heads up the bank and they have tremendous influence in town.”
“Which is why I couldn’t turn the invitation down, once it arrived yesterday. But I deeply regret asking Dr. Parker to speak with Mrs. Bramble. It was bad form on my part.”
“You’ve always broken the rules.
“There are just so many in life and most of them are ridiculous. For example, if women go to medical school they are every bit as qualified as men to—”
“I wouldn’t go far.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say!”
“The world isn’t ready for women physicians. I’m not ready.”
“Women are every bit as intelligent as men.”
He shot her a dry look. “I don’t doubt that women are intelligent. But women are also emotional and impulsive—see, you’re getting upset? You can’t get upset every time someone disagrees with you. You’ll never win an argument like that.” His mouth curved in a faint smile. “How did we even get on this subject?”
“I don’t know, but I think you’re wrong.”
“I’m sure you do,” he flashed, before adding, “We were talking about you forcing Mrs. Bramble’s hand.”
“And I did.”
“It’s just an afternoon party. No harm done.”
“Oh, I’m not so sure about that. The ladies didn’t want me there. I tried several times to approach women and was rebuffed.” She drew a quick sharp breath. “Half the town made their fortunes in my father’s mine, but now I’m beneath them.”
“He has distanced himself from you, and so they feel obligated to do the same.”
“I’ve done nothing to them, though.”
“Society is punitive, and there will always be those who enjoy another’s misfortune. It is human nature.”
“I don’t like human nature. It’s cruel.”
“Of course it is. Survival of the fittest. Only the strong survive—”
“I despise Mr. Darwin.”
His lips twisted. “Because you’ve been crushed?”
“I’m not crushed!”
“Good. Remember that.”
For several minutes they traveled in silence. She focused on the crunch of leaves and the last glaze of light illuminating the mountain peaks, trying to find comfort in the surrounding beauty. It was beautiful here, too, the mountain peaks far more majestic and dramatic in Crawford and Park County then where she’d lived in Butte.
“It was your doing, McKenna.”
Her name, spoken in that low, rough voice, made the air catch in her throat, and a shiver race through her.
“And yes, people judge,” he added, giving the reins a flick and propping a boot on the buckboard. “They did in Butte. They did New York. And they will here.” He briefly glanced her way. “Imagine if the situation was reversed. Wouldn’t you find it satisfying to see someone so exalted fall?”
“I wasn’t exalted.”
“You were one of the most privileged women in this country. I am sure society here followed your ascent, just as they did in Butte, reading how at first you were snubbed by the old guard in New York, taking Mrs. Astor’s lead, calling you ‘too ambitious, too wealthy, too vividly beautiful, and too spirited’ to know your place, before Mrs. Vanderbilt took you under her wing, ensuring your success.”
She shivered a little as he quoted from William Mann’s Town Topic. “Ava Vanderbilt wasn’t accepted in the beginning, either.”
“But she had Mr. Vanderbilt’s funds.” He gave her a cool glance. “Money is power.”
She didn’t answer. There was no need. Both knew she could have survived the scandal if her father had stood by her. Instead, he’d turned his back, disinheriting her. Money was power, and suddenly she had none.
He turned his horse onto the
hard flat dirt road that would carry them from town into the rugged mountain valley. If they traveled past the road that led to the school and her cabin, they’d reach Emigrant, and then Cinnabar, Gardiner, and finally Yellowstone. She’d been born in Montana and she’d traveled extensively abroad, but she’d never been to Yellowstone to see the geyser and hot springs.
“You don’t need to take me all the way to the school,” she said. “You can let me out on the main road. It’s just a short walk from there.”
He made a low sound that was almost like a growl. “I’m not leaving you on the side of a road, McKenna.”
“I don’t like putting you out, or taking more of your time—”
“You’re being insulting now.”
“I’m serious. There was no need to trouble yourself on my account.”
“No? Then how were you to get home tonight, seeing as your friends had already left?”
She heard the way he said friends. She knew what he meant. He didn’t think much of them for leaving her.
“There was an emergency,” she answered, unwilling to criticize Jillian, the only friend she did have.
“They left you stranded.” Sinclair’s voice was hard, sharp.
McKenna looked away, not wanting to argue.
But her silence only frustrated him. “Did they not care that you’d have no way back?” he persisted. “It’s a good distance to your cabin, over an hour at a brisk pace, and even in a wagon, still quite dangerous at night.”
“There was an emergency,” she reiterated. “Dr. Parker is a veterinarian—”
“Livestock is important, but you’re far more valuable than a barnyard animal.”
Heat rushed through her. Her chest grew tight. “I don’t know what to say. I’m overwhelmed by the generosity of your compliment.”
“If I wanted to pay you compliments, I would. But I’m not trying to flatter you. The road to Cinnabar is difficult at best during the day, and downright treacherous at night. Wolves, bears, along with desperate, amoral men all to happy to prey on vulnerable travelers.” His narrowed blue gaze swept over her. “I’d think you’d know that by now. I’d think you be cognizant of the dangers, but what do I know? You’ve never had to deal with reality—”
“How quickly the compliments turn critical,” she interrupted fiercely. “I can’t wait to hear what else you have to say to me. Do continue. I am all ears, as well as a captive audience.”
“Fine, as I do have questions, and since we have time, you can answer them. So what did happen?” His hard voice sliced through the lavender twilight.
“To us?” she asked unsteadily.
He made a low mocking sound. “There was no us—”
“Not true—”
“If there had been we would have been married by now, with babies and a big place of our own.” His gaze swept over her. There was little sympathy in his eyes. “What happened to your lover? Where did he go?”
She blushed and could feel the heat in her face, her cheeks suddenly burning. “He wasn’t my lover.”
Sinclair gave her another long look. Clearly he didn’t believe her.
She gripped her hands together, fingers tightly clenches. “Is this why you offered to see me home? So you could do this? Interrogate me?”
“You don’t think I deserve answers? Or, at least the illusion of an apology?”
Her hands balled into fist so tight that it made her knuckles ache. “I’m sorry to have disappointed you.”
“When did you know you’d never be mine?”
“Sinclair.”
“At Vassar? After?”
“There wasn’t a moment,” she answered tersely, frustrated. “It wasn’t intentional.”
He shot her a look of disbelief.
“You know I very much… cared… for you.”
When he said nothing she drew a swift, shallow breath. “I did care. Very much.” Her voice broke. She gave her head a slight shake, holding the tears at bay. “My feelings were real.”
“So what happened?”
“We were apart a great distance, and then separated for too long.”
“You could have come home.”
She had no answer for this. He was right. It had been her choice to stay away, enjoying the city, and the pleasures of society.
She’d loved New York. And for a period of time, New York had loved her back. For those two, three years she’d felt as if she held New York in the palm of her hand.
She’d been the dazzling debutante, McKenna Frasier, heiress to the great Frasier copper fortune.
She had friends and suitors and an endless stream of invitations to parties and balls and rides in Central Park.
There had been trips to the Continent, and lavish staterooms on lavish steam ships. Clothes, jewels, box seats to every play, opera, and ballet. She’d had it all.
She could have married anyone—German barons, English dukes, American tycoons. They’d all sought her out, courted her, asked her father for her hand, and she’d refused each, taking her advantages for granted, confusing prestige with protection, and with one misstep her world of privilege was gone.
Swallowing hard, she glanced at him. “I did stay away,” she said after a lengthy silence. “And you’re right. As time passed, I realized I had no intention of marrying you.”
He gave no indication that he’d heard her, but she knew he had.
“I’m sorry, Sinclair,” she whispered, balled hands pressed to her thighs, trying to hide the face that she was shaking. “I truly am,” she added. “You deserved better.”
Finally he spoke. “You’re right, McKenna. I did.”
Chapter Four
For long minutes there was just silence. The uncomfortable silence made the trip excruciating. Sinclair ground his jaw tight, wishing he hadn’t said anything, aware that McKenna was sitting exquisitely still next to him, her hands clamped in her lap, as if a marble statue.
McKenna was never still. She was energy and motion and her quiet ate at him.
Hell.
Stirring restlessly, he placed a boot on the buckboard, his mind working, wondering if he should say something conciliatory to ease the tension, or if he the issue was that he hadn’t said enough.
He was still angry, and more than that, embarrassed. He felt stupid. He’d been a fool waiting for her all those years.
She’d stopped reading his letters years ago and yet he’d continued to write them. And even when he’d begun to have doubts, he hadn’t given up on her. He didn’t know how to give her up. She’d been a light and a compass. She’d given his life meaning. She’d kept him going.
But he shouldn’t have confused inspiration with reality. He should have realized years earlier that Patrick Frasier’s privileged daughter was never going to marry him. He was nothing but a diversion.
In school, he’d been mocked by a principal for being a dumb ox. Brawn, but no brain. Ironically, it was what made him so good in the mines. He possessed remarkable strength, and was able to work hard without asking too many questions.
He should have asked McKenna the hard questions and not waited like a faithful hound at the door.
Thank God the only ones he’d confided in had been his mother and sister. Thank God not even his family knew about his folly—that he’d actually approached Patrick Frasier and asked for his daughter’s hand. It was bad enough having Frasier laugh in his face. It would have been worse if others had known.
Frasier’s laughter had followed Sinclair out of the room, but that hadn’t dissuaded Sinclair. He continued to wait for McKenna.
He cringed, remembering.
Finally, thankfully, they approached the lane for the school.
He directed the horse to turn, the bridle and harness clanking as they traveled east through a thicket of aspens and evergreens to a clearing, moonlight illuminating a clapboard school house and further off to the side, a simple cabin.
Drawing to a stop, Sinclair heard the rushing water of the Yellowstone Ri
ver. He knotted the reins and assisted McKenna down, an owl hooting overhead.
Sinclair’s gaze swept over the cabin’s sturdy split logs and steeply pitched roof. The building was dark, no light glimmering from behind the wooden shutters covering the two narrow windows that flanked the front door.
He’d known she was living back here, near the newly constructed school, but he hadn’t let himself think about it. But knowing something and seeing it were two different things. It was difficult to accept that she, pampered Frasier heiress, now lived in this primitive house, miles from the nearest neighbor.
He lifted the lantern from the buggy hook and smashed the guilt. He had no reason to feel guilty. He’d done nothing wrong.
And yet he knew she didn’t belong here. She’d never survive a winter here. What did she know of hardship? What skills did she have to cope with Montana’s rugged valley and vast wilderness?
He offered her his arm. She looked up at him, her dark gaze troubled.
“Take my arm.” He gritted and, after a moment’s hesitation, she did. He felt her gloved hand on his forearm and the light pressure of her hand seemed to sink all the way through the thick leather of his coat.
His guilt and unease spread, becoming an ache in his chest. If she did survive the winter, she’d never be the same. Her fingers and hands would chap and crack from the harsh soaps and constant cold. She’d suffer windburn, and her face would sting every time she stepped outside. Come summer, the rawness would heal, but her complexion would never be the same, the delicate ivory permanently rough and red.
She didn’t know any of this yet. She would learn the hard way in time.
He wished she’d found a job somewhere else. She was too isolated and vulnerable in this place. A half-dozen different dangers came to mind—animals, travelers, gamblers, drunkards, miners.
“Do you have a rifle?” he asked roughly.
For a split-second her grip tightened. “No.”
“What do you use for protection?”
