The Nanny Solution (15 page)

Mitch went cold. The ranchers had backed out of the purchase of his heifers, only to change their minds. They all had mortgages or loans with Smith's bank. Had Smith threatened them? Yet Jake had convinced them to risk it. How? Jake wasn't that silver-tongued.

As soon as he returned to the ranch, he'd ask him. Until then, Mitch hefted Mary higher and walked past Smith to his wagon, grateful for the young man who'd just finishing hitching the horse. With a thank-you, Mitch set Mary on the bench and climbed aboard beside her. Squeezing past the Smiths' fancy coup without scratching it was tough, but he did it.

Smith stood on the opposite side, his expression like the twisted growl of an ugly dog.

Mitch swung to the left to come out onto the road in front of the church, an easier feat since most worshippers had departed for their noon meals.

“There's Miss Templeton!” Mary cried out, pointing down the road in the direction of the Smith mansion.

Mitch groaned. Victoria was hurrying along the road, still dressed in her fine Sunday outfit, the feather in her small, velvet hat fluttering backward in the breeze she created with her haste. The ties of the big bow under her chin danced as if in full merriment. Over one forearm was her small drawstring purse, and being gripped tightly in her other hand was a small portmanteau that Mitch immediately recognized as one of Victoria's many pieces of luggage.

As he pulled alongside her, he noticed her attention yank away. He looked over his shoulder. Donner, his cantankerous neighbor, was down at the stables speaking with Walter Smith. Both men's demeanor was stiff as if they had yet to sort out an argument.

Mitch looked back at Victoria. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing, really. I just noticed that my uncle is here. He didn't attend the service but must have come to collect Aunt Louise and Rachel. Who is that man he's talking to?”

“Edgar Donner, my neighbor. Why do you ask?”

“Does he attend church?”

“No. In fact, he's rarely in a decent enough state to get up early on a Sunday morning. Something must have happened.”

“He came to visit my uncle early this morning. I saw them arguing, right at the front door.”

Mitch had wanted to ask what they'd said, but refused to participate in gossip. He liked to think he was above that. But both men were the argumentative type and Donner was well-known to be inside Victoria's uncle's pocket. Who knew what mischief they could be into?

Hopping off the bench, Mitch took the bag and hefted it as if weighing it. “Are you planning to spend the night?”

Victoria looked confused. “No. Why do you say that?”

“Because of all of the luggage you're toting.”

“This one little bag?” she asked as he helped her up onto the bench seat. “I'd need more than this if I planned an overnight trip.”

He tossed the bag into the wooden bed behind him and climbed up beside her. Without urging the horse on, he asked, “Then what is in it?”

“My working clothes.” Victoria sat primly on the seat, moving only slightly to allow Mary to climb onto her lap and press her cheek against Victoria's fine, velvet-trimmed waistcoat.

“
You
have working clothes?”

Victoria tossed him a sharp look. “You need help and I am now fully capable of helping you. So tuck away your pride, Mitchell, and do the right thing.” She sat ramrod straight on the bench, her chin high. “Let's go.”

Despite his dignity prickling him like a field of thistles, Mitch laughed and flicked the reins. The horse moved forward.

“What's so funny?” she snapped.

“Absolutely nothing.” He sobered, knowing that he shouldn't have laughed. After all, he was bringing her home to teach her a lesson. Now, with Mary contentedly curled up in Victoria's arms, her own little hand reaching up to finger the still-dancing ostrich feather on Victoria's cap, he realized he should not have agreed to bring her at all.

But then Victoria smiled at him, a soft smile as contented as Mary's snuggle, with shining eyes and the satisfaction of a cat with cream.

Something caught in his throat and he fought the urge to smile back. This wasn't going to work out, and he was a fool to allow it to start in the first place.

Chapter Eighteen

V
ictoria pulled a very unladylike face. So Mitchell didn't think she had working clothes? He'd soon see. She had a perfectly good dress in last year's style.

When they arrived at his ranch, she asked for a private room in which to change. Emerging a few minutes later—well, perhaps a bit longer than that, Victoria amended silently—she pulled from her pocket a small leather-bound notebook, something she'd studied with due diligence most of Saturday evening after that long, tiring day in the kitchen.

She looked around. The small room from which she'd emerged, ready to work, had been relatively orderly; judging by the bigger bed, it was Mitchell's. But this room and the kitchen were both disasters. Clothes were strewn around and whichever child had slept in the bed closest to her had thrashed all night. Although the day was sunny, the room was dark. In one corner, a small lamp burned, adding its pungency to the already distasteful smell.

The boys stared at her, each face pale and wan. In her basket, Emily slept. Thankfully.

Apprehension swelled in her throat and Victoria pushed it down with a hard, determined swallow. She hurried over to the window and threw up the sash. It creaked in protest. When she turned, she saw Mitchell in the doorway, still in his Sunday best, much like he'd done Friday, his arms folded and his expression as closed off as the bedroom behind her.

“Okay. You wanted to help,” he muttered.

So that was it. He was setting her up to fail. Indignant, she marched passed him into the kitchen. She needed hot water. Testing the contents of a large cauldron sitting on the stove, she found it tepid. With growing determination, she stooped, opened the stove door and peered in. Only a cooling bed of embers. Jake had allowed the fire to die out.

With a sniff, she pressed open her notebook and laid it flat on the floor beside her. Thankfully, she'd not only taken notes, but sketched out a few diagrams. She read through the page again.

“What are you doing?”

She looked back at Mitchell. “I'm putting on a fire. I need hot water if I am to clean this place and make a meal.”

“Do you plan to burn your notebook?”

“Of course not. It's showing me how to start a fire. Now, go out to your barn.” She flicked her hand. “Check on your cattle or do whatever Jake is doing. I'm fine here.”

Mercy, she wasn't fine. She didn't even know where the firewood was kept. In her uncle's house, there was a separate room off the kitchen for it, one that led to the outside so that a servant could restock the firewood but not allow a constant winter draft to flow in.

But here, well, the wood had to be outside. But she should first stir the embers to see if they would light.

They didn't. She needed a match and kindling. Still stooped, she waited for Mitchell to leave the house. Then she'd find what she needed. She was
not
going to ask him.

Laughter peeled through the kitchen and Victoria spun. Seeing Mitchell throwing back his head, she stood. He'd laughed at her portmanteau, and now was laughing at her.

“What's so funny now?”

“You. You took notes, no doubt watching a servant make a fire and now you think you can do it.”

“I can, oh, ye of little faith. I'm here to help you and the children.”

His laughter died. Then, keeping his focus on her, he took the few steps needed to stand far too close to her. His voice dropped. “I know you want to help, Victoria. And, yes, I shouldn't laugh. This is serious.”

Her chin wrinkled. “You obviously don't believe that.”

“I do. I just didn't want you here because I thought you'd most likely take one look around you and turn tail back to your uncle's house.”

“I would like to think that I am made of sturdier stock than that,” Victoria answered with arched brows.

“Are you? You needed to write down how to make a fire.”

“Ignorance isn't the measure of a sturdy character, Mitchell. It's what you do with your circumstances.” She tilted up her head to study his face. “Please let me try this.”

He shook his head gently. “And when you realize that you can't do it and dash away home? Where will that leave my children?”

“I won't go. But I can't prove that to you because you refuse to swallow your pride and let me help.”

Mitchell stiffened. “I allowed you to come here, didn't I? Isn't that proof enough that I have swallowed my pride?”

She clicked her tongue. “Your consent wasn't founded on conquered pride, Mitchell MacLeod. It was part urgent need and part expecting me to fail.
Hoping
I would fail.” Foolish tears stung her eyes. “I don't think you've let go of an ounce of the pride in your heart.”

“Like you have?” he answered softly.

She lifted her chin. “Yes. I've learned a lot about myself these past few days.”

“And the pride and snobbery I saw on the train? I'd say it's been replaced by pride in your accomplishments.” He flicked his head to indicate her notebook on the plain, planked floor. “But, Victoria, it's still pride.”

Her throat tightened, a sure sign those ridiculous tears were going to spill out and run down her cheeks, making a mess of her face and dissolving her struggling courage.

No, she would not allow any failure. She wanted to help. He needed help. That was enough.

With an unladylike snort, she marched past him toward the kitchen door.

Outside, Victoria glanced around, her focus falling on a stack of firewood and the scraps of kindling raked beside it. She marched over to it, stooped and began to load up her arms. It was awkward and heavy. As she struggled to her feet, she felt the wood lifted from her.

Mitchell was taking her share. “Why, Victoria?”

“Why what?”

“Why come here and help me? You owe me nothing. In fact, I have yet to pay you the remaining salary I owe
you
because I didn't want to leave the money with a servant and, frankly, I was too mad at you at the recording office. So, why try to learn things you will never need to know?”

Again, the heat of embarrassment rose in her, no doubt cementing Mitchell's belief that she still had far too much pride. She wouldn't stand there with her hand open, expecting him to pay her now. Still, she heard her stiff reply. “You know my situation.”

He shook his head. “I can presume some things, but I don't know as much as you think I do.”

On the train, she had been sure that he had told her that he knew her plan. But now she wasn't sure what he'd meant. What plan was he thinking of?

Did it matter? They stood there in the warmth of a fall sun. This morning had been brisk, with the hint of a light frost. The nice weather was ending. But in that moment, Mitchell's gentle manner, his care for his children coaxed her to trust him with her deepest shame. Victoria could think of nothing but spilling out all her misfortune.

“My stepfather gambled away my entire inheritance. My mother had allowed him free access to my money because she felt it was unladylike to deal with it.” She blinked back fresh tears that threatened to water her view of Mitchell's handsome face. “And when his debts became too large, he committed suicide. My mother was horrified, not because she'd lost a loved one, but because of the social stain it left on our family. She had been hoping that I would marry into one of the wealthy Brahmin families in Boston.”

“She actually abandoned you? Left you to deal with all of her husband's mess?”

Victoria bit her lip. Suddenly, it felt important for Mitchell to understand the situation. She didn't hold any malice toward her mother. Abigail was who she was, a woman who'd been taught to aim high on the social scale. In a way, Uncle Walter did the same here, vying to have the best home, the nicest things, to keep the money in the family by trying at first to marry his daughter, then his niece, to his business partner.

No, she wouldn't focus on that.

She continued her story. “She couldn't take me to her sister's house in the Carolinas because my aunt is trying to marry off her unruly daughters.”

Understanding dawned on Mitchell's face. “And you would be competition. I can see that.”

Her cheeks pinkened further. He thought she was beautiful enough to be competition? “My mother arranged to have the remaining assets, the house and summer home, liquidated to quietly pay off Charles's debts so we didn't become the scandal of the season. Mr. Lacewood had suggested that, I think in part because of my mother's desire to keep the disgrace private. It was the only way out for her. She sent a telegram to her brother, Uncle Walter, and he agreed to take me in.”

“In return for what?”

Surprised he'd pegged Walter Smith so easily, she gave a vague shrug. “He'd hoped to pay for my train ticket so that I could repay his generosity by marrying his business partner.”

“Clyde Abernathy.” The name was spat forth in a disgusted tone.

“Yes.” She took back a few sticks of wood. “Mitchell, my mother also thought that Clyde would be suitable.”

“Is he?”

“Absolutely not! I want to live my own life and be responsible for it and not be owing to anyone. I don't want to have to go to someone else just for a coin or two!” Feeling suddenly angry, she hauled back even more firewood and marched into the house. Having left the door and the window in the front room open, Victoria could already smell an improvement in the air. She dumped the firewood beside the stove and then peeked into the front room. Matthew and John were sleeping, while Mary and Ralph sat on the far tick, playing with some small wooden toys. Craning her head, Victoria peeked into the basket. Emily remained asleep.

She returned to the stove just as Mitchell entered. As they stooped in front of the fire, Victoria consulted her notebook again. She found the smallest scraps of wood and grass and made a bed of them inside the firebox. Then she carefully stacked the smallest kindling around it. Now she needed a match—

“Here, I use a fire piston.” Mitchell reached up and took down a small cylindrical metal and glass tube. “I don't always have matches, but I have plenty of fine tinder to use for fire cloth.”

He pulled a metal box from behind the stove and opened it. It held torn pieces of rope. “I'll show you.” He removed the piston and stuffed its small hollow end with a tiny piece of rope. Then, after reattaching the lid, he shoved the piston down hard. Immediately, the glass cylinder glowed, and just as quickly, Mitchell pulled out the piston. Then, while holding it in one hand, he freed his knife from the small scabbard on his belt, and picked out the burning ember and dropped it onto her bed of fine tinder. He leaned forward and gently blew until smoke trailed up.

Victoria started when a flame burst forth. Leaning back, Mitchell smiled at her.

“What a wonderful invention! I was just going to use a match.”

“Matches are a great invention, too, but they run out and are expensive. I keep this handy instead.”

Victoria glanced into the firebox, happy to see her bigger kindling already burning on the bed of old coals. She beamed back at Mitchell.

“Here is the stove's damper. You can control the burning by opening it or shutting it.” He stood, showed her the handle, and then stooped again. He was still smiling at her, just inches from her face. “Thank you for coming, Victoria. I do appreciate it.”

Her own hesitant smile widened. “You're welcome. It's my pleasure.”

“Exactly what you want, then. To make your own decisions about what you want to do.”

“Yes!”

“What would your mother say?”

“I don't plan to tell her.”

“You must be upset with her.”

She shook her head. “I'm not. She can't help being who she is. And in a way, she believes she's looking after me. Mother didn't make the best decision, but I haven't sometimes, either. I accepted your offer of employment to spite her. Oh, and to not be beholden to my uncle.”

Mitchell lifted his eyebrows and smiled. “No, really?”

The moment of companionable silence lingered. Victoria felt her heart thudding in her throat, but the doubt her aunt had seeded in her head sprouted again. Behind her, she could hear Emily cry out softly in her sleep.

“Mitchell, I need to know something. No, I mean I really need to know this.”

His guard rose. “Know what?”

“Why did you bring Emily here? You must have realized how difficult it would be for you to care for her and the other children and ranch at the same time. It's just that Aunt Louise—”

“Your aunt may be a faithful supporter of our church, but she's really not, how shall I say it? The most prudent woman.”

Victoria reluctantly agreed. What Mitchell was trying not to say was Aunt Louise liked to gossip. “But she raised a good point. One that has been unwittingly cultivated in her by my uncle's behavior. She asked what your motive might be for bringing Emily here. Then when I discovered, quite accidentally, I assure you, even though you may not agree, that Emily has inherited her mother's share of your ranch, I couldn't help but wonder if that was the reason.”

“As opposed to what? Bringing her here out of the goodness of my heart? You can't find that possible?”

Her watery smile dissolved. “You have a great deal of goodness in your heart. But was that the reason, or was it so you would have full control of the ranch? I know it means a lot to you.”

Mitchell didn't say anything for a long time. Finally, as the heat in the stove grew, he said, “You're right. I do care about this ranch, but I'd already decided I wouldn't abandon Emily long before I read Lacewood's letter saying Emily was half owner.”

Relief washed through Victoria. “So why did you bring her out here?”

“My family needs to stay together, now more than ever. It's hardly the child's fault that her mother—” He paused. “I've heard about children getting fostered out, only to die mysteriously. I couldn't take that chance.”