Debra Holland - [Montana Sky 02] (2 page)

“Actually, I plan to take Daniel and move to Montana.”

The eyebrows snapped together, and he shot her a look of outrage. “Absolutely not!”

“I know you’ll be glad to be relieved of your responsibilities toward us.”

He stood up. “I forbid it.”

Familiar fear leaped into Samantha’s throat, but she stood her ground. “I’ve made arrangements. There’s a ship sailing next week. Daniel and I will be on it.”

“No.”

She pretended she hadn’t heard him. “We will be packed and ready in time.”

“You are not taking my grandson away from me.” He waved his hand. “From his heritage.”

Sharp anger lanced through her fear. The man never paid any attention to Daniel except to criticize him. Now he was trying to claim him. “You’ve never been interested in Daniel—never approved of my son.”

“He is the son of my son.”

“You have other…more favored grandsons,” she said, fighting to control the resentment that had been amassing for the past nine years. “You’ve done nothing but ignore him. Now he will learn of his other heritage.
My
heritage.”

A sneer marred his handsome features. “Yankee.”

She lifted her chin. “Yes.”

He slapped the desk with his palm. “I say no!”

Anger warmed her cheeks. In spite of herself, her voice sharpened. “You have no right to stop us.”

“I will not provide any money for this outrageous idea.”

“I don’t expect you to. My savings should be enough.”

“A woman and a child traveling alone. It is not seemly.”

“We won’t be alone. Manuel and Maria are coming as well.”

“Servants.” His tone dismissed them.

She lifted her chin. “They’ve been with Juan Carlos and me since before Daniel was born.” She took a deep breath. “Besides, I’ll need Manuel’s help with my Falabellas.”

His face reddened. “The Falabellas. You are
not
to take even
one
of the Falabellas.” He ground out the words.

“I have a right. They are mine.”

“The Rodriguez family bred those horses. The Falabellas will stay here where they belong.”

Out of his sight behind her skirt, she balled her hands into fists, squeezing until her nails gouged into her palms. “Juan Carlos and I raised six of those Falabellas. They belong to me. I’m taking them.”

“Pah.” He strode over to a sideboard where several crystal decanters rested on an engraved silver platter. Don Ricardo’s doctor had forbidden him to have alcohol, and for a moment, Samantha thought she might have driven him to drink. How would she explain that to her brothers-in-law? She could just imagine the guilt-inducing wails of their wives.

But instead, he grabbed for the decanter holding water, hefting it with one hand. He poured water over his other hand, disregarding the puddle forming on the Aubusson carpet. “I wash my hands of you.”

Samantha swallowed. She hadn’t meant to sever ties with her husband’s family. For a moment, she wavered.

“If you leave, you are no longer family. Daniel is no longer my grandson. Expect nothing from me.”

“Then we will receive what you have always given us.” Her anger exploded into hot words. “Acceptance is all I’ve ever wanted. And for you to love Daniel as you do your other grandchildren. But instead, you’ve denied us your approval.” She turned to leave. “You don’t know what you’ve lost. Now you never will.” With her head held high, she stalked out of the room.

After being stuffed with good food and wine, and regaled with conversation and flirtatious glances from the young widow now playing the piano, Wyatt Thompson attempted to feign relaxation in the Livingston parlor. If he were home, he’d be making a final check on that lame horse he’d moved into the barn and spending some time with his daughter before tucking her into bed. But having partaken of the fine spread laid out by his hostess, it would hardly be good manners to race off to his own ranch. So he forced himself to listen to the music played by Edith Livingston Grayson.

He set his teacup and saucer on a mahogany side table, glowing with inlaid mother-of-pearl, and shifted his weight on the uncomfortable blue velvet settee. To his right, Caleb Livingston sat stiffly upright in a carved oak chair, concentrating on his sister’s playing. Why didn’t Livingston have comfortable chairs in his own parlor? Something a man could spread out in. The banker could certainly afford them. He hoped Edith hadn’t chosen the furniture.

Wyatt shifted again. His boots slipped forward on the thick Persian carpet. After spending a day in the saddle, his long legs ached to sprawl in the familiar posture he’d use when lounging in his leather chair at home. He dragged his wandering feet back and leaned an elbow on the wooden arm of the settee.

The hearth fire popped and crackled in front of him. The lingering aroma of Edith’s perfume laced the smoke-scented air. He traced the fragrance to its source, admiring the picture Edith made seated at the piano. Clad in a lavender gown, sable hair curling in tendrils around her oval face, she seemed absorbed in her playing, her brown eyes intent on the sheets of music in front of her. From time to time, she glanced up at Wyatt or her brother, measuring their reaction to the music.

Livingston tapped one finger on the arm of his chair. He reached over and picked up his tea from the table, sipped it, then waved the cup toward his sister. “Edith has studied with some of the finest teachers in Boston.” Unmistakable pride gleamed in the brown eyes so similar to his sister’s.

Wyatt nodded agreement. “She plays beautifully.”

One of Edith’s dark eyebrows raised in a coquettish acknowledgment. She tinkled a light arpeggio on the keys, which flowed into a Chopin étude—one of Alicia’s favorites.

The change of music spiked painful memories through Wyatt, and he wanted to charge from the room like a calf avoiding a branding iron. He steeled himself against the familiar sadness.

He’d selected a piano for Alicia as a gift to celebrate the birth of their baby. But instead of a celebration, there’d been death and years of grief. He’d canceled the piano order, and since that day, the sound of music had been absent from his home. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it.

Since Alicia’s death, Edith had been the first woman to engage his interest. He opened his eyes to take in the vision of her.

She had lowered her gaze, dark lashes fanning out on her cheeks. Her lush lips, slightly pursed, made a kissable invitation, teasing his attention. While he’d resolved never to love again
the way he’d loved Alicia, a relationship based on attraction and mutual respect might be satisfying.

Wyatt’s gaze slid to Livingston, tapping his finger on his knee in time to the music. Just as adequate a chaperone as Alicia’s mother. But Wyatt had learned plenty of ways to escape a chaperone. And with Edith being a widow, and therefore not held to the strict standards of an unmarried woman, some evasions were even quite respectable. They could spend time alone without causing a scandal or Livingston forcing them to the altar.

He closed his eyes again, sliding his feet forward a few inches. Yes, maybe the time had come to bring music back into his home.

The next day, still mulling over his options with Edith, Wyatt rode his quarter horse, Bill, into the town of Sweetwater Springs. He passed the open-fronted blacksmith shed, and a whiff of smoke and the metallic smell of red-hot iron evoked bitter memories. Memories that made his stomach tighten, and his hand unconsciously covered his scarred side.

The blacksmith, Red Charlie, paused in the act of shoeing a piebald gelding. Hammer on the upswing, the broad-shouldered man looked over. A slight smile broke the usual impassivity of his high-cheekboned face.

Wyatt touched his hat in greeting.

The big man nodded, then swung his hammer.

Wyatt and two other ranchers, John Carter and Nick Sanders, had been the only men to support the idea of an Indian owning his own blacksmith shop. Although it pleased him to see Red Charlie’s new business prospering, every time Wyatt rode by, the scars on his right side pulled a little in remembered pain.

He’d been fourteen and homeless when he’d apprenticed to a blacksmith. Wyatt had run away after the drunken man had attacked him with a heated poker, pressing it against his ribs, permanently scarring the flesh. But his experiences with the adolescent gang of boys he’d run to had branded his soul far worse than that poker had seared his side…

“Get up there, Bill,” he said, and nudged the big gelding into a trot, heading toward the school.

Wyatt reined in before the narrow porch of the white clapboard schoolhouse where his daughter took lessons. He’d arrived early to escort eight-year-old Christine back to the ranch. He welcomed having the extra minutes to relax in the warm sunshine of the spring day and sort through his thoughts about Edith. The singsong chant of multiplication tables drifted through the partially open front window. He grinned. He and Christine had spent their ride into town rehearsing those tables. She had them down pat.

From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Reverend Norton hastening toward him, rusty black frock coat flapping behind him like the wings of an elderly crow. The reverend teetered to a stop, obviously trying to gather his ministerial dignity around him, and then waved a letter he held.

“Good day, Reverend.” Wyatt dismounted. Might as well let the man talk in comfort instead of having to stiffen his neck.

“Wyatt. I’ve just received a letter from Mrs. Samantha Sawyer Rodriguez. She’s Ezra’s niece and has inherited his ranch.”

Wyatt’s interest quickened. In the drought years, he and Ezra had clashed over boundaries and the use of a river that split their two properties. He’d tried several times to buy Ezra’s small, dilapidated ranch, but could never pin down the wily old man. Despite the lack of a firm commitment, Wyatt had come to think
of that ranch as his own—the last parcel necessary to round out his spread in the valley west of town. With Ezra’s death, he’d planned to buy the land from the heir.

Relief relaxed his shoulders. A woman.
Good
. The ranch would be his in no time. He played the reins through his fingers and said, “Rodriguez? Sounds Mexican.” He pictured an older black-haired woman with withered brown skin.

“She lives in Argentina.”

She’s far away. Even better.
“What about her husband?”

Reverend Norton glanced down at the sheet of paper. “She’s a widow with one son.”

“If you’ll give me her address, Reverend, I’ll write and make an offer for Ezra’s property. A widow woman should appreciate the extra money.”

Reverend Norton shook his head. “She’s moving out here.”

“Movin’ here?”

The minister’s blue eyes lit with what Wyatt recognized as his preaching zeal. “Going to breed horses and take in orphan boys to raise up as God-fearing citizens. Just the solution for those Cassidy twins. An answer to our prayers, she is.”

Not to mine.
Frustration stabbed through him. Bad enough to have to wait to buy the ranch, but to have those Cassidy hellions living nearby—near his daughter—was too much. His jaw tightened.

Before Alicia had died, he’d sworn to her he’d take care of their baby. Guiding his feisty daughter through the hazards of life in Montana already challenged him, what with shielding her from the dangers of ranch life while trying to foster her strong spirit and see to her manners.

Like her mother, she adopted any stray or hurting animal. One time she’d even brought home an orphaned wolf cub. He
didn’t even want to think about adding the Cassidy twins to the picture. Who knew what Christine would do with wounded children? And those twins had certainly known the heavy hand of their drunken father. But his innocent daughter had no idea how hurting boys could injure others.

He clenched his fists with the frustration of it all, then released them, hiding his feelings from the minister.

“Mrs. Rodriguez and her son will be arriving next week,” the reverend said. “And just in time too. Mrs. Murphy told me she couldn’t take much more of those Cassidy boys. A week ago Thursday, they chased a goat through her garden. Tore right through her clothesline. Dragged her sheets through the mud and ripped a hole in her best apron. Livid, she was. Apoplectic.”

“I can imagine,” Wyatt murmured, wondering how his plump housekeeper would have responded to the situation. Probably tan their backsides. If she could catch them.

“It took some appealing to her sense of Christian charity, but I persuaded her to keep them until Mrs. Rodriguez gets here.”

Ignoring the issue of the twins for the moment, Wyatt switched the topic back to the widow. In spite of his misgivings, he felt a twinge of interest about the horses. “You say this Rodriguez woman is goin’ to raise horses?”

“Yes, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. They arrive on Tuesday. All the way from Argentina.”

“Horses from Argentina?”

Reverend Norton glanced down at the letter. “A stallion and five mares. Falabellas. Must be some South American breed.”

“Never heard of it. What—”

“They’ll be traveling with a groom, but he doesn’t really speak English. Mrs. Rodriguez has requested help in transporting the horses from town to the ranch.” Reverend Norton cast
him an approving smile. “Since you’ll be neighbors, I knew you’d be glad to help with the horses and settling her in.”