Wed to the Montana Cowboy Page 8

  Glancing about the bedroom at its small hearth and its comfortable furnishings, she sent Melinda an image of security. No roaming cats or marauding bears would breach the sanctuary of good, solid logs.

  Just now, beyond the thrum of the rain on the glass, she heard a wolf howl. Another wolf answered, this one closer to the house. She snuggled into her blanket.

  There was one more image she nearly sent...but caught it back. This image was for her alone.

  There had been a moment on the trail to the ranch when early in the morning she had come upon Lantree Walker kneeling beside a stream. His back was to her and she only glimpsed him through a stand of trees, but he had taken off his shirt while he splashed cold water on his face and upper body.

  Muscles flexed, early-morning light glinted off his skin... She’d looked away, but not before the image was scorched behind her eyes.

  With a sigh, she flung the covers off her bed. Why was the room so hot all of a sudden? The fire in the hearth was nothing more than a glow.

  Getting up, she put on her robe and decided to check on Screech. Grandfather and Barstow had constructed a perch for him near the fireplace in the great room, just like the one he used to sit upon when he was but a chick.

  It would make him feel at home, since that was his familiar place, she had been assured. But if he had been used to wolves howling in the night, it had been a very long time ago.

  Even though the floor was cool, she didn’t bother with slippers. Grandfather and Barstow, the only men of the ranch to live in the main house, had gone to bed hours ago.

  The hands, Tom and Jeeter, lived in the bunkhouse down the hill, closer to the barn.

  Lantree Walker lived in a cabin of his own nearer the house. It was in clear view of her bedroom window.

  Coming down the stairs, she heard a rustling from below.

  In spite of the reassurances, Screech was, no doubt, unsettled in his new surroundings.

  Not that the surroundings were not beautiful. The main room was huge, with three fireplaces to warm it. One beside the dining table, one near the front door and the other along the back wall. This one was as tall as a man and had five comfortable chairs set in front of it, one chair for each man on the ranch. From what she had gathered, it was customary for the five of them to pass the evening hours together.

  The house smelled good, too, like beeswax. That must be why the log walls gleamed.

  She hurried down the hall and made a quick turn into the big room.

  “Oh, hello,” she said, coming to a sudden halt three steps inside the room.

  Good glory! She was not decently dressed for socializing. Her sleeping gown was sheer, her ruffled robe far from prudish. Mentally, she gave herself a kick in the rump for not taking a moment to put on her slippers. It would be good to remember that she no longer lived in a house with only females.

  “Good evening, Miss Lane.”

  Lantree Walker glanced at her, but briefly. He returned his attention to a sixth chair that he was placing before the fireplace.

  “This one is for you.”

  “Well, I thank you.” She pinched the inadequate robe closed under her chin. “That’s very kind.”

  “No need to thank me. This was your grandfather’s doing. He had this made special for you. Here,” he said, indicating the padded chair with a sweep of his big hand. “Come and try it out.”

  “Well, I...” This was quite improper, but perhaps the social rules in Montana were different from those in Kansas City.

  “Don’t be shy.”

  He smiled at her so she crossed the room then sat down.

  “This is lovely.” She wriggled into the big stuffed cushions. “It’s a comfortable fit. Not all chairs are.”

  He sat down in the chair next to her...his chair she guessed, since it was even larger than the one she sat in.

  He stared at the orange embers in the fireplace for a moment, silent and seeming to forget her presence.

  “I’m glad it’s a fit,” he said at last. “It was no easy task getting it all the way from Coulson without a scratch or rip.”

  “I’m confused.”

  He glanced fully at her. My, but he was handsome, with that long blond hair brushing his shoulders, those moody-looking blue eyes seeming to peer out from under slightly lowered brows.

  A woman could nearly rethink her position on remaining unmarried. Nearly, but not quite.

  “About the chair,” she said, recovering from her reckless thoughts. “How did he have it made for me? I only arrived today. And how did he know to make it my size?”

  “You may have only arrived today, but you’ve been in the old man’s thoughts ever since he found out about you. This chair was ordered more than a year ago.”

  “By the saints,” she murmured.

  At his smile, a chill skittered over her skin. A curiously warm chill.

  Lantree—she would begin calling him that since she was on a first-name basis with everyone else on the ranch, so it would be awkward to not be so with him—folded his great muscular arms across his chest. Stretching out in his chair, he crossed his long legs at the ankle.

  “The size of the chair was a wish on his part, that maybe you would take after Mrs. Moreland.”

  “Do I?” She wanted it desperately. To have that in common with her grandmother would be a gift beyond price.

  “That’s what I’ve been told. I never met the lady. She passed before I met your grandfather.”

  Raindrops pattered gently on the windows. She was beyond grateful that the journey from Coulson had not taken another day. As much as she enjoyed a storm, she preferred to enjoy it from indoors.

  “Are you telling me the truth this time, Lantree?”

  He arched a brow at her, seeming surprised.

  “It’s been some time since I heard my name coming from a woman’s lips.”

  “I didn’t mean to be forward, but everything is so different here. Life seems more casual. In Kansas City it’s always Mr., Mrs. and Miss. I’d like for you to start calling me Rebecca.”

  He shot her a half smile.

  “All right...Rebecca, I am being completely truthful. You do resemble your grandmother. All a body has to do is look at the portrait to see it.”

  Curse it! That statement just proved he was still lying, or at least giving the truth a very long stretch. Her grandmother had been an exceptionally desirable woman. She was not.

  “There’s something troubling me.” She had to say so. “I can understand why you might have distrusted me at the start, given that you assumed I was a—” She waved her hand before her face, dismissing the word that she did not care to use in mixed company. “But later on, you deliberately misled me about my grandfather’s character. I’d like to know why.”

  He returned his gaze to the coals, silent for so long she thought he would refuse to answer.

  “I’ll admit, I’d hoped to make you turn back. I care deeply for Hershal,” he murmured, brooding at the orange glow in the hearth. “He helped me when I had no right to expect it. I figure I owe him my life. When I sense a threat, I protect him.”

  “And your highly tuned senses warn you I’m a threat?”

  Silence again, then he sat up straight in his chair and looked at her, his blue gaze sharp, judgmental.

  “Why did you show up after all this time? I can’t help but wonder. The old man’s been waiting a long time. Now, all of a sudden, with the railroad coming and this property and its resources getting more valuable by the hour, here you are. Maybe you hope to inherit. I’d like to know the truth. Why did you come here?”

  The man certainly had a greedy mind to assume such a thing. No doubt he was upset because he wanted to inherit and now he figured she had bumped him down the line.

  By George, he w
ould never get his greedy fingers on what was her grandfather’s, not as long as she had a breath to breathe.

  She stood up, shot his glare back at him.

  The last thing she would tell him was that she had come in hopes of developing a family bond.

  “I’m here because I didn’t want to become the butcher’s captive.”

  “I beg your pardon?” He looked confused but let him stay so.

  “You may beg my pardon if you wish, but I do not give it to you.” She spun about, copying Aunt Eunice’s most practiced imitation of rebuff. “I bid you a good evening.”

  Just when she had nearly gained the sanctuary of the dim hallway his voice halted her, made her turn to gape at him.

  “I can’t help but wonder why a woman like you is not married. Surely there were a dozen men in Kansas City ready to rescue you from the butcher.”

  “What do you mean ‘a woman like me’?”

  “Beautiful...” He gestured with his hand, indicating her size, her shape.

  “Sarcasm is never becoming,” she muttered with her chin lifted a notch. She snatched her ruffled hem about her then turned to the hallway. When she was out of his sight, she ran for the sanctuary of her bedroom as fleetly as any five-foot beauty.

  * * *

  Early on the morning of a warm, crystal-skied day, Lantree saddled his horse, readying for a long day of checking the meadows for heifers ready to give birth. They needed to be brought into the paddock to keep them safe from predators.

  While leading his horse out of the barn, a movement at the edge of the forest caught his eye.

  Hell in a basket... There went Rebecca, her strides confident yet graceful, walking into the forest...alone.

  A week had passed since he had offended Hershal’s granddaughter. Looking back on it, he could understand why she had been insulted. He’d questioned her motives regarding the old man.

  What he could not figure out was why she got so riled up over being called beautiful. His former fiancée had basked in that type of compliment.

  Over the past week, Rebecca had been polite to him while in Hershal’s company, but stilted on the rare occasions that they found themselves alone.

  He reckoned he had some silent treatment coming, given his suspicious attitude toward her.

  The truth was, if she was up to no good, he couldn’t see it. Just the opposite, Hershal all but glowed in her presence. He was eating better, sleeping more soundly and laughing more heartily.

  And it wasn’t only Hershal falling head over heels. All the men had become besotted over her to one degree or another.

  Villain or saint, at this particular moment she was up to some sort of foolishness, walking into the woods alone and taking the bird with her.

  Looks like he’d have to ignore the calves for a bit and follow her. A female wandering in the mountains could only end up in trouble. Besides, believing that she was alone, she might say something to the bird, give up a secret that he ought to know about.

  He gave her a five-minute head start. Long enough for her to believe that she was alone but not so far away that if she got into trouble, he would not be able to get to her in time to prevent a catastrophe.

  It wouldn’t be hard to find her, not with Kiwi Clyde riling up the native birds with his harsh squawking. Peace in the forest was being disturbed for miles around.

  All of a sudden the parrot fell silent. For Hershal’s and Barstow’s sakes he hoped it had not been carried off by an eagle.

  After trailing Rebecca for a mile, he spotted her kneeling in a meadow with yellow flowers sprouting all about the skirt of her blue-checkered gown.

  The bird was out of his cage. Rebecca must not realize that there were dozens of meat-eaters that would soon be aware of the fact.

  He stayed in the background watching...mesmerized, while she removed the pins from her hair then ran her hands through the rich-looking tresses tumbling down her back.

  Sunshine glittered in the chestnut curls, turning them amber and gold.

  If he weren’t careful, she would snare him, just like she had the rest of the men on the ranch.

  What he hadn’t noticed when he spotted her going into the forest was that she had brought her violin along.

  She removed it from its case then lifted it to her chin. Closing her eyes and raising her face to the sunshine, she began to play. A melody, sounding full of yearning—and at the same time, hope—washed over the meadow. She swayed with every draw of the bow across the strings.

  The music filled him up, bathed his soul in peace and took him back to a time and place where he had not stood by, helpless against rampant disease. To a time when he had been in love, when he had made his living healing the hurting, and looked forward to a home of his own...to children.

  In many ways that life had not been perfect, but the beautiful strains of the melody made him feel for the moment as if it had been.

  When the piece was finished, she set the violin aside and opened her eyes. She sat down, looking skyward, she watched a big white cloud change shape as it blew across the mountaintop.

  He ought to say something, let her know he was watching, but somehow, it seemed intrusive.

  At last, she set the violin in its case then raised her hand into the air. She snapped her fingers.

  Kiwi Clyde sailed out of a tree and perched on her arm. She drew him close to her face. The parrot nibbled her lips with his hooked bill.

  She said something to the bird but from this distance he couldn’t tell what.

  For a moment, he wished he could be green and feathered, receiving kisses and sweet words.

  Hell, what devilment had made him think that?

  After a moment, Rebecca put the bird back in his cage. She stood, dusted grass and yellow petals from her skirt.

  She walked the path back to the house, unaware that he was only steps away, hidden among the trees.

  That worried him. A person in these parts needed to be aware of their surroundings, always cautious of what might be lurking in them. What was to say he could not have as easily been a wolf or a wildcat? Or worse...a trespasser.

  For Hershal’s sake, if not for Rebecca’s own, he’d have to keep a close guard on her. Not that he could let her know it.

  She appeared to be a lady of great independence. Ordinarily, that was a character trait that he admired. But mix it up in a womanly package and let her loose in the woods...that made him uneasy.

  And while he was considering character traits, he could not overlook honesty. In all honesty, he would have to admit that he liked watching her walk.

  Her long, bold strides and the sway of her hips intrigued him. He couldn’t recall ever meeting a woman who possessed both size and feminine sweetness.

  While he watched, she stopped, set down the violin and the bird then wound her hair into a neat bun. She jammed the pins back in.

  Hell and damn. He was meant to live his life as a single man. All of a sudden he feared that he was going to need constant reminding. Maybe if he could continue to keep in mind that she might be up to no good, he would not fall under her spell.

  He would remember this on rising and on falling asleep and every minute in between.

  Still, once seen, the loveliness of those locks being warmed by sunshine and swaying with the heavenly music... Hell, there was no denying that it was a vision that would stay with him forever.

  * * *

  Rebecca smeared a dollop of beeswax on the long dining table then rubbed it to a shine with a square of cotton.

  She smiled, satisfied with the renewed glow of the rich brown wood.

  Doing chores came naturally to her. After a week of leisure, idle time had begun to chafe at her. There were only so many hours one could visit the office library or watch while Barstow prepared the meals
. There were only so many questions she could ask the hands about their many duties before they became impatient with her.

  Everyone on the ranch had a job to do and she was a woman used to being productive.

  Having Grandfather treat her like she was a precious ornament made her feel useless.

  It took some persuasion to convince him that a woman could perform a chore and remain a lady. In the end he had allowed her to dust and polish.

  His decision had been greeted with approval by the men since it freed them from taking turns doing a job that was, in all truth, foreign to their natures.

  The front door slammed open and Jeeter rushed in, red in the face and breathing hard. The scent of an approaching storm blew in with him.

  “Hershal!” he yelled.

  Jeeter noticed her and tipped his hat.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Rebecca,” he said in a quieter tone.

  “Good afternoon, Jeeter.”

  “Lantree’s just brought in Fancy Francie!” he shouted to the house at large.

  Footsteps hurried down the stairs. Lamps rattled with Barstow’s rush from the kitchen.

  “Who is Fancy Francie?” she asked while Jeeter fairly hopped from foot to foot.

  “Why, she’s our favorite cow, ready to calve.”

  Her grandfather hurried across the room, his cheeks flushed and his wide grin showing his excitement.

  “Would you like to be there to greet the new calf?” he asked.

  Maybe... She’d seen cats and dogs giving birth, even a mouse once, but a great big cow? It was bound to be a bloody, possibly painful process.

  Left to her own desires, she would finish her dusting then visit the calf after it was safely delivered into the world. But there was nothing she would not do for the man she had become devoted to in such a short time.

  Clearly, the term “blood ties” had its origins in fact. This bond that had sprung between her and her grandfather was as strong as the bond she felt for Melinda, whom she had known most of her life.

  So she said, “I’d love to meet the new calf.”

  Jeeter dashed outside, long limbs churning across the yard in an awkward scramble.