Mail-Order Christmas Baby Page 17

  After clearing the table, Kieran and Seamus called for games.

  “Can we play Up Jenkins?” the youngest Forester boy, Aiden, asked.

  “Absolutely,” Heather said. “I’ll fetch a coin.”

  The adults and children divided into two teams and sat across from one another. Heather’s team huddled together, passing the coin from person to person before taking their seats at the table once more. The first team dutifully placed their palms on the surface.

  Seamus called, “Up Jenkins,” from the opposite side of the table. Irene went first. She rubbed her chin and studied each of them in turn. “I think Price has the coin in his left hand.”

  Price flipped his wrist, revealing an empty palm.

  “That’s one point for us!” the Forester youngest child declared.

  The game went back and forth across the table until the coin was discovered in Heather’s right hand. They played three more times, until the ladies retired to the kitchen to fix the desserts.

  Irene uncovered her now-famous chocolate cake.

  “You’re spoiling Sterling,” Heather declared. “I warned you. He’s developing quite a sweet tooth.”

  “I’m spoiling myself.” Irene laughed. “I’ve had terrible cravings for chocolate with this baby.” She rubbed the slight dome of her stomach. “That’s why I think we might be having a girl. I didn’t have chocolate cravings with the two boys.”

  Angie Phillips, Seamus’s ma, revealed a pumpkin pie from beneath a towel. “I wanted licorice candy with Seamus. I must have eaten a whole jar from the mercantile.”

  “Where are your older boys today?” Irene asked.

  “They’re working at the flour mill. The influenza kept most of the workers home over the past few weeks, and they had a shortage. The owner was offering extra pay for the holiday.”

  “I can’t believe they’re working on Thanksgiving,” Heather said. “I’ll fix you a pan of leftovers to take home to them. I’m afraid I overestimated the amount of food I’d need. I’ve been feeding the ranch hands, and they eat more than you’d believe.”

  “I’d believe.” Angie chuckled. “I have three growing boys, remember? I envy you your girl. I’d like some pink around the house. I’m always surrounded by work boots and fishing supplies.”

  “They fish in the winter?”

  “They fish whenever they can find a free moment.”

  Gracie reached for the apple pie, and Heather intercepted the tiny hand. “Wait until I cut you a slice.”

  The child crossed her pudgy arms over her chest and stubbornly shook her head. “Mine!”

  “Gracious.” Irene patted her red curls. “Why do they always learn that word before so many others?”

  “Is there any cream for the pie?” Angie asked. “I forgot mine at home.”

  “In the ice box.” Heather gestured toward it. “I’ll fetch the beaters.”

  Sterling strode into the kitchen, a stack of plates in his arms. “There’s more where these came from. I volunteered Aiden, Seamus and Kieran for dish duty. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “I’ll take care of the dishes,” Heather said.

  “Not today.” Angie waved her away from the sink. “The cook on Thanksgiving never has to do the dishes. That’s the rule.”

  “Listen to her,” Sterling said solemnly. “Rules must be followed.” He saluted and returned to the dining room once more.

  Angie watched him exit and tsked. “Does that man have any faults?”

  “Who?” Irene asked.

  “Sterling Blackwell, of course. I’ve known him for years, and I don’t know that he has a single fault. Have you discovered one yet, Heather?”

  “He’s far too optimistic.”

  “That’s not a fault!” Irene protested. “You can’t be too optimistic.”

  As she fetched the beaters, Heather considered her answer. Sterling never allowed anyone near his troubles. When they’d gone over the books, his admission had been shocking. She couldn’t imagine a father sabotaging his children’s future, and yet that’s precisely what Mr. Blackwell seemed to have done, considering the discrepancies they’d discovered.

  Sterling had accepted the appalling fact without even blinking an eye. She’d mistaken his easygoing demeanor for indifference, but she didn’t believe that anymore. He wasn’t indifferent; he simply didn’t want to admit he cared.

  If he admitted he was invested, he risked his pride. So he assumed an air of lazy disinterest rather than succumb to hurt. She wanted something more. He let her share his joy without understanding his pain. She wanted to be a part of his happiness as well as his sorrow. As long as he kept that part from her, they would never truly be partners.

  As the ladies chatted, she whipped the cream into a light froth. Their arms laden with desserts, they returned to the dining room. The men were discussing the weather and the price of cattle, and the older children had retired to the parlor where they faced off over a game of checkers.

  Gracie was content on Sterling’s lap. They shared a plate overflowing with a generous selection of desserts.

  Outside, the snow drifted gently from the sky, but they were safe and warm inside, full of excellent food and drowsily content. The oil lanterns on the wall and the candles on the table bathed the room in a soft glow. Voices ebbed and flowed around Heather with the occasional bursts of laughter. Mrs. Blackwell’s china had survived the dinner without a single piece broken or a single cup chipped.

  Without warning, a sense of unease overcame her. While their guests enjoyed desserts and coffee, Heather ducked into the kitchen once more. Everything was too perfect, too right. Life had taught her that the good times never lasted for long. Darkness followed daylight, and rain clouds followed each sunny day.

  She shook off her sense of unease. That was as it should be. The crops didn’t grow without rain, and the stars didn’t shine without a black night. She needed a dose of Sterling’s optimism. She’d never let herself hope for too much, and this was all more than enough for her.

  “I’ve brought more dishes,” Sterling said from the doorway.

  He clutched a stack of plates between his hands, several teacups balanced precariously on top.

  “Be careful! I haven’t broken any dishes today.” She carefully extracted the top layer from his arms. “I don’t want to start breaking things now.”

  “You set a fine table, Mrs. Blackwell.”

  The words rolled off his tongue like a term of endearment, and her face heated. “I should take Otto a plate.”

  Together they loaded the sideboard near the washbasin.

  “You stay,” he said. “The children will be in to help with the dishes. They’re arguing over the privilege now.”

  “All right. But only because I don’t trust you with the fine china.”

  “Don’t worry, my ma never trusted me either. I’m used to it.”

  She dished up a generous plate of food and balanced two biscuits on the side. Upon presenting the heaping plate to Sterling, he hoisted an eyebrow in question. “You realize you’re only feeding one person?”

  “He’s probably quite hungry.”

  “I hope so.”

  Sterling accepted the plate with one hand. With his other hand, he cupped the side of her face, his palm resting against her chin.

  “Thank you,” he said. “For bringing life into this house once more.”

  She smiled, then turned her head and pressed a kiss against his palm. “You’re welcome. You gave Gracie and me a home, so it was the least I could do.”

  His expression shifted slightly into a look she couldn’t quite read. “You don’t owe me anything. Not even your gratitude.”

  Her heart hammered in her chest, and she backed away from the intimacy of the moment. “You’d best go quickl
y. The food will get cold.”

  She draped a towel over the plate and held the door open for him. Moonlight glinted off the fresh layer of snow, lighting the way. He deserved more than the legacy his pa had left him. She had no doubt he’d make the ranch profitable despite the obstacles before him.

  One thing nagged her. The missing money hadn’t simply disappeared. If he’d placed the money with a charity or given away the balance, there had to be a record somewhere. If he’d simply hidden the money away, Sterling deserved that income to run the ranch, and it had to be someplace.

  Sterling might brush off the discrepancy, but she didn’t like loose ends, and the question haunted her. What had Mr. Blackwell done with the missing money?

  * * *

  Sterling carried the covered plate of food across the clearing to the bunkhouse. As foreman, Otto had his own room with his own stove and a separate entrance. Sterling knocked, and Otto hollered for him to come inside.

  The foreman sat on his bunk, his back propped against the wall, an open book draped over his knee.

  Sterling set the plate on a side table. “Heather fixed this for you.”

  An envelope on the table snagged his attention. He recognized the sharp angle of Dillon’s handwriting, and the name on the front made his heart jerk: Heather O’Connor.

  “What’s this?” Sterling asked.

  Otto flicked a brief glance toward the missive. “Must have fallen out when Joe delivered the mail. He’s always leaving a trail. I don’t think the fellow reads too well. You’ll want to give that to the missus.”

  The date of the postage was a month ago. Sterling tucked the letter into his breast pocket. Dillon hadn’t written him a letter in nearly three months, but he’d written to Heather. A band of emotion tightened around his chest. Dillon obviously hadn’t heard about the marriage, because he’d addressed the letter to Heather’s maiden name at the schoolhouse.

  He and Otto discussed the work for the following day before the foreman ushered him out the door with a firm admonition to entertain his guests rather than look after an old man.

  The letter in Sterling’s pocket seemed to burn into his breast. Heather hadn’t mentioned anything about exchanging correspondence with his brother. He paused in the middle of the clearing, halfway between the house and the barn. He’d known about the past they shared when he’d entered into the marriage. If they were still corresponding, then he had to trust that they were continuing a friendship and nothing more. Thinking jealous thoughts didn’t benefit anyone.

  His boots left tracks in the light covering of snow, and he discovered Heather in the kitchen with Irene. The two were admiring his ma’s silver coffee service.

  Heather sent Irene ahead with a tray and rubbed a weary hand over her eyes. “What do you think about selling the coffee service?”

  Distracted, he replied, “I don’t care much either way. Why do you want to sell it?”

  “With the price of silver, that set should fetch a pretty penny.”

  “You take care of Gracie and the house,” he replied gruffly. “Let me tend to the money.”

  “You’ll fetch a better price in Butte, most likely.” She poured creamer into the small pitcher and dropped the lid into place. “How is Otto?”

  “Tired. But doing all right.” The foreman seemed to have aged lately, and Sterling worried over the change. “He asked me to give this to you.”

  She reached for the letter. “Gracious, I haven’t seen this letter for ages. It was stuffed in one of my books.”

  Ages? When had she seen the letter before? “Dillon has never been much for writing.”

  “You can say that again.” She thumbed open the envelope and retrieved the single sheet of paper. “Yep. That’s about how I remembered. Do you ever look back and wonder how you could be so young and foolish?”

  “On occasion,” he answered, confused by everything she was saying.

  “I do like Dillon,” she said earnestly. “You don’t have to worry that things will be awkward between us. You asked me before if I was frightened traveling west alone, and the true answer is that I was terrified. I’d been traveling for nearly two weeks when I arrived. Dillon was there at the depot. He was capable. He was kind and considerate. In my haze of loneliness, I took his kindness to mean something more.”

  “You don’t have to explain anything to me,” Sterling said quietly.

  “But I do, don’t you see? He’s going to come home, and I don’t want you to worry. Whatever happened between us was purely in my head. Read what he wrote.”

  Sterling flashed his palms. “I don’t need to know the details.”

  “This won’t take long.” She glanced at the paper and read out loud: “‘Dear Heather, thank you for your kind words. I wish you all the best. Dillon.’” She casually tossed the letter into the fire. “If that doesn’t make his lack of feelings abundantly clear, I don’t know what will.”

  Except he’d always wonder. He’d always wonder if he was living the wrong life. He’d always wonder how different all their lives might have been if he hadn’t interfered. The forces that had brought them together were shockingly random.

  Whispers of speculation had come upon them, and he’d pondered the reasons they’d been singled out. His wealth and Heather’s red hair were the two things that made the most sense.

  Whoever had chosen them had not been aware that the ranch was failing. And there weren’t many eligible women in Valentine with red hair. What if Dillon had come home first instead of Sterling? Who would be standing in the kitchen? Who would be hosting the Thanksgiving dinner? Whose name would have been listed as Gracie’s father?

  The edges of the paper caught and curled, and a downdraft sent the paper floating. He grasped the corner of the envelope and ran his thumb along the printed postage mark.

  The letter was obviously years old. The date he’d noticed earlier was charred and unreadable. He squinted at the edge of the paper, willing his memory to recall the details. Had he simply misread the date? He must have been mistaken. Why would someone alter the envelope?

  Heather certainly wasn’t trying to provoke his jealousy. She was open and honest and even dismissive of the contents of the letter. If someone else had discovered the letter and hoped to foster seeds of discontent between the newly-married couple, the ploy had failed.

  Why make trouble between them at all?

  Laughter sounded from the dining room, and he tossed the remnants of the envelope into the fire.

  They had today. For now, that was all he needed. There’d be time enough to worry about the future later.

  Chapter Twelve

  Price reined his horse nearer to Sterling and gestured. “You’ve got visitors.”

  Sterling squinted into the distance. A lone rider and a pack mule made their way up the long, winding drive leading to the house. His ears buzzed. Visitors were rare, and this time of year they were even rarer. Price was healed and had moved back to the bunkhouse, leaving Heather alone and vulnerable in the main house.

  “I’ll see to it,” Sterling said, his tone clipped.

  He blew warm air over his chilled hands. The recent cold had frozen the ice on the small pond near the edge of the property hard enough for harvesting. They’d cut the blocks and dragged them to the dugout in the side of the hill. The work was hard, cold and dangerous. Even a short dunk in the frigid water could prove fatal.

  “Take a break,” he called to the ranch hands. “We’ll start this again tomorrow.”

  Sterling kicked his horse into a canter. He had the advantage over the slower-moving pack animal and arrived at the house well ahead of the visitor. He knocked to alert Heather, and she met him at the door.

  “What is it?”

  “Company.”

  She brushed a hand over her hair and swiftly und
id the ties of the apron knotted around her waist. “Do you know who it is?”

  “I don’t.”

  They exchanged a glance, and Sterling rested his hand on his holster. That same sense of foreboding washed over him. Her gaze dipped to his hand and back to his face.

  “Just a precaution,” he said, his smile meant to be reassuring.

  The man climbed the shallow porch stairs and tipped his hat. He was slender and young with a sharp goatee and dark, piercing eyes. His coat was expensively cut with the starched tips of his collar pressing into his chin.

  The man lifted his beaver hat in greeting. “Good day to you, sir.”

  Sterling studied the empty road stretching into the distance. “What brings you around these parts?”

  “It’s been a long, cold ride.” The man gestured with his beaver hat. “Perhaps you’d let me rest my horses before I state my business.”

  Sterling leaned around the man and studied the equipment loaded onto the pack mule. “You a photographer?”

  “Beauregard Thompson.” The man bent at the waist. “At your service.”

  This time of the year in this part of the country, a man didn’t refuse another fellow shelter. Despite his misgivings, Sterling had no choice.

  “The barn is yonder,” Sterling said. “The men will watch out for your animals. Come back to the house for coffee.”

  “Much obliged, sir.” The man’s grin was wide, his teeth large and slightly crooked, overlapping in the center. “Your hospitality is most welcome.”

  The man’s cloying politeness grated on Sterling’s nerves. Folks only overdid the greetings when they wanted to sell you something. He sure didn’t want to spend the rest of the afternoon refusing a set of encyclopedias. Yet the camera equipment on the back of the pack mule seemed to indicate the man’s business was something different.

  As Sterling stepped inside, he caught sight of Heather wringing a towel between two hands.

  “Who is he?” she demanded, her face pale. “What does he want?”