Читать онлайн книгу «Unclaimed Bride» автора Lauri Robinson

Unclaimed Bride
Lauri Robinson
RUNNING FROM THE PAST… SHE BUMPS INTO HER FUTURE!Mail-order bride Constance Jennings steps off the stage in Cottonwood, Wyoming, waiting for her husband-to-be. But he never shows up, and instead several other men are vying to take his place! Single father Ellis Clayton must be the only man in town not looking for a bride.But his young daughter’s habit of rescuing wounded critters means he ends up offering Constance a temporary shelter. Having a woman around the house again is all too easy – especially seeing her bond with his daughter – but Ellis can’t seem to let go of the past. Problem is, neither can Constance. And hers is about to catch up with her…



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Constance Jennings was about the best-looking woman the Wyoming Territory had ever seen.
The contrast between her coal-black hair and summer-sky-blue eyes could make a man stop dead in his tracks. Ellis himself, who’d never been overly affected by a woman’s looks, had been half afraid to take a second gander at her.
She’d barely uttered a word, but her stance and the way she walked gave the impression she was no ordinary gal. Nope. Miss Constance Jennings had been born and bred a lady. If whoever did take her on didn’t do a bit of researching they might find themselves in a whole mess of trouble …

AUTHOR NOTE
I remember the morning I awoke with the beginning scene of UNCLAIMED BRIDE in my mind. It was just an image of a young woman stepping off a stage, cold and nervous, and I couldn’t wait to learn more. I created an outline, and over the following days filled in a few blanks, but it wasn’t until I sat down and started Chapter One that the characters fully planted themselves in my head. As they took over I couldn’t seem to type fast enough.
I have to admit when Ellis brought all those bananas home to Constance I chuckled aloud. I had to call my mother during the bread-making scene, since she still bakes bread regularly—from scratch, using a well-memorised recipe. I also asked for her ‘from memory’ pancakes, and would like to share that one with you. They are so light and fluffy you’ll never want to buy mix again.
Mom’s pancakes: Sift together ¾ cup flour, 1¾ teaspoons baking powder, ½ teaspoon salt and 1½ teaspoons sugar. Mix in ½ cup milk, 1 egg, 2 tablespoons melted butter and ½ teaspoon vanilla. Spoon onto a hot griddle and flip when the bubbles cover the top. This makes about 10 pancakes and can be doubled or tripled as needed.
I hope you enjoy getting to know Constance and Ellis, and if you find yourself wondering about Angel you can read her story in the Mills & Boon
Historical Undone! line—HER MIDNIGHT COWBOY.
With heartfelt blessings.

About the Author
LAURI ROBINSON’s chosen genre to write is Western historical. When asked why, she says, ‘Because I know I wasn’t the only girl who wanted to grow up and marry Little Joe Cartwright.’
With a degree in early childhood education, Lauri has spent decades working in the non-profit field and claims once-upon-a-time and happily-ever-after romance novels have always been a form of stress relief. When her husband suggested she write one she took the challenge, and has loved every minute of the journey.
Lauri lives in rural Minnesota, where she and her husband spend every spare moment with their three grown sons and four grandchildren. She works part-time, volunteers for several organisations, and is a diehard Elvis and NASCAR fan. Her favourite getaway location is the woods of northern Minnesota, on the land homesteaded by her great-grandfather.
A previous title from Lauri Robinson:
HIS CHRISTMAS WISH
(part of All a Cowboy Wants for Christmas)
Also available in Mills & Boon
HistoricalUndone!eBooks:
WEDDING NIGHT WITH THE RANGER
HER MIDNIGHT COWBOY
NIGHTS WITH THE OUTLAW
DISOBEYING THE MARSHAL
TESTING THE LAWMAN’S HONOUR
THE SHERIFF’S LAST GAMBLE

Unclaimed Bride

Lauri Robinson


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To my mother, Mary Jane Johnson.
It would be impossible for me to list all the things that made her so remarkable, or how deeply she is missed. While I was writing this book, she was still with us, and I consulted her more than once for a recipe. She ‘created’ many original dishes over the years, and tweaked others that will forever be passed along from generation to generation in our family. The day she passed away, and we were all gathered at her house, my four-year-old granddaughter said, ‘Jesus must be happy. He now gets Grandma Mary’s coleslaw.’
Love you, Mom.
Miss you.

Chapter One
Wyoming TerritoryNovember, 1877
The bitter wind that whipped the leather curtains covering the stage windows and snuck beneath the buffalo robe now piled on the hard seat could easily have stolen her breath away, but Constance Jennings’s first glimpse of her destination already had her lungs locked tight. Pinning her quivering bottom lip between her teeth, she glanced over her shoulder, half hoping the other passenger—an aging pastor who’d conversed pleasantly during the last leg of her journey—would indicate this wasn’t their stop after all.
No such luck. Reverend Stillman smiled kindly as he waved a hand for her to climb down the steps.
The trip had been long and cold, and days of sitting left her legs stiff and her knees popping. As her boots hit the dirt street, tremors seized her toes, and then traveled, snaking all the way up to her scalp until every hair follicle tingled.
Had she completely lost her senses back in New York?
A gust of unrelenting Wyoming wind caught on her headdress. The covering had once been stylish, but was now as tired and worn as the rest of the traveling suit. She grabbed the curled straw brim to keep the wind from stealing the hat, and gulped at the swelling in her throat.
Which one was he? Ashton Kramer—the man who’d ordered a bride.
The men standing along the dusty road were of various shapes and sizes. One so tall he could have flown a flag off his neck and another so squat and round he easily could have been mistaken for a rain barrel except for the black top hat sitting on his round head. The others were in between and every one of them looked as though they’d just been spit-shined. They were an odd assortment, to say the least, and the lump in Constance’s throat threatened to suffocate her.
A long-forgotten image of Aunt Theresa’s canary, Sweetie, sitting on its tiny swing with Aunt Julia’s big orange tomcat, Percival, staring at it through the spindly gold bars entered her mind. At this moment, Constance could fully relate to the bird.
Every slight movement—one of the men nodding or tipping their hat with a tense greeting—had panic clutching her insides. Now was not the time to give in to regret or alarm. She’d chosen Wyoming.
Over jail.
It had sounded better.
Then.
Not one of the men stepped forward, identifying himself as her husband-to-be. Ashton Kramer’s letter hadn’t held a picture, but had said not to worry, she’d know him straight off.
The weight that fell on her shoulder had her jumping in her boots. The hold increased and a huff sounded as Reverend Stillman took a final step off the springy stage. “Excuse me, Miss Jennings,” he offered, leaning a bit harder. “These old bones of mine just can’t take a ride like they used to.”
Out of habit, and thankful for something to do, Constance wrapped an arm around the man’s stooping shoulders while he settled the bottom of his hooked cane on the well-worn dirt beneath their feet.
The reverend gave her a warm smile of thanks before lifting his chin to scan the town. As if that was the signal they’d waited for, the men rushed forward, pushing at each other, vying for the same spot of earth.
Shouts of, “That’s her!” “He called her Miss Jennings!” And “Move out of the way!” caught and sifted in the wind.
Constance cowered, wishing she could make herself as small as Sweetie, or better yet, sprout wings.
“Angel!”
The shout rumbled above the rest, and sent Constance’s peaked nerve endings shuddering from head to toe. The reverend’s bellow could have shaken the sun out of the clouds, but that, too, wasn’t to be. The sky remained as thick and gray as her insides.
“Sorry, Miss Jennings,” he offered, patting her hand. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
A strained grin was the best she could offer. Startled was putting it lightly. Shocked, stunned, close to hysterical, not to mention freezing, were just a few ways to describe why she shook uncontrollably.
To her dismay and relief, the shout had slowed the men. They now shuffled amongst each other, almost as if waiting for a leader. Ashton, perhaps?
Their gazes had shifted, too, then went up the road. Constance couldn’t stop hers from following. A tall man standing beside a wagon made something inside her sputter with hope that she’d found her intended. But only for a moment. The steely glare of his eyes not only said he wasn’t Ashton, but that he wasn’t impressed with the commotion taking place.
It wasn’t as if she was, either.
Constance, glad the stone-faced man wasn’t Ashton, turned as a young girl wearing a heavy-looking coat arrived at the reverend’s side. “Hello, Reverend Stillman.” The girl kissed the old man’s cheek and wrapped her mitten-covered hands around his other arm. “We didn’t expect you this late in the year. It’s gettin’ colder and colder.”
“I know, child,” the reverend agreed. “But I promised one last sermon before the weather makes it impossible.”
Constance curled her fingers into her palms and struggled to pull her eyes off the girl’s thick mittens. They were bright red and looked as thick and warm as fresh-sheared wool.
As if she were a queen and expected her orders followed, the girl gestured toward the men. “Get his bag and help Reverend Stilllman over to Mrs. Wagner’s.”
The men didn’t question the request, matter of fact, two literally sprang forward. “Ma’am,” the first one said, landing next to Constance.
“It’s miss,” the second one said, elbowing the first before tipping his hat.
Renewed shivers assaulted her. Constance stumbled backward, giving the men clear access to the reverend as she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders.
Moments later, Reverend Stillman was escorted down the road. He waved, but the whistling of the cold, blustery wind swallowed up his departing words. A thick gush of sadness tightened Constance’s chest, as if she watched her last known friend disappear. Not that he’d been a longtime friend, but he’d become a short-term one she’d greatly appreciated. His companionship had made the rocky, cold ride more endurable.
“Are you her?”
Constance, releasing the air from her lungs, turned to the girl.
Seriousness covered the young rosy-cheeked face. “Are you Ashton Kramer’s mail-order bride?”
Constance’s heart jolted. Hearing someone call her Ashton’s bride made it too real.
The way the girl surveyed the remaining men for an extended length of time had the hair on the back of Constance’s neck standing on end. Under her scrutiny, the men shuffled, as if unsure if they should move forward. The girl shook her head sadly. “They’re here for you.”
Constance’s blood turned cold—in that foreboding kind of way. “Excuse me?”
“They’re here for you,” the girl repeated.
The men whispered amongst themselves, and some nodded her way. Constance gulped as her heart made its way into her throat. “Why?”
“I’m Angel Clayton.” The girl slipped an arm under Constance’s, hooking their elbows. “Someone should have been here to meet you.” Abruptly, she spun about.
Constance had no choice but to twirl with the girl and then be led to the back of the stage.
“Buster, just put her things on the boardwalk.”
“Will do, Angel,” the stage driver said, hoisting himself onto the roof of the stagecoach.
Angel walked away from the stage, tugging Constance along as the men rushed forward, vying to catch the trunks being lowered from the top of the faded red vehicle. Another chill crept over Constance. It wasn’t that she’d formed a kinship with the paint-chipped, leather-cracked, rocking box on wheels, but the thought of being separated from the stage gripped her heart.
All too soon her trunks were carried to the wooden sidewalk in front of buildings built of boards as gray as the sky. Everything looked dull, almost lifeless. Other than the men, the settlement could have been a ghost town withering and dying beneath the dreary winter clouds. This isn’t what she’d imagined. Then again, she hadn’t contemplated what to expect. She’d spent most of the trip convincing herself she could marry a stranger. Marriage hadn’t been a goal of hers, yet Ashton Kramer’s letter….
“What do you mean,” she asked, “someone should have met me? Where’s Mr. Kramer?”
The girl let out a long, heavy sigh. Tiny lines of compassion puckered the bit of forehead that stuck out below her red knitted hat. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, ma’am, but Ashton’s dead.”
Constance’s knees buckled. Only the girl’s tight hold kept her upright. “Don’t faint here,” Angel whispered. “They’ll settle on you like a flock of crows.”
Constance forced her leg muscles to work, while a lump of dread as weighty as her trunks swelled inside her stomach. “Dead?”
“Just keep walking, ma’am,” Angel coaxed. “We’ll sit down over in front of Link’s.” She waved a mitten-covered hand. “That’s the general store. See he has two chairs set outside the front door. You can make it, can’t you?”
Her feet grew heavier by the step, but Constance nodded, having barely heard the girl’s words with all the buzzing in her head. How could Ashton Kramer possibly be dead? His letter had said he was a young man, and healthy. Even she wasn’t so desperate she’d travel across the country to wed a dying man.
That little voice in the back of her head—the one she’d grown to loathe over the past months—disagreed. She most certainly was. Matter of fact, she’d been so desperate she’d traveled across the ocean after a dead man. A chair magically appeared beneath her and she fell onto it as her thoughts grew as uncontrollable as wild ivy, going in all directions yet tangling amongst itself until it went nowhere.
Since the moment she’d met Byron Carmichael her life had turned upside down, inside out and backward. And it hadn’t stopped with his death. It just kept getting worse and worse.
“What’s your name?”
The young girl knelt in front of her, looking up with big brown eyes. They were so clear and caring, Constance wondered if the girl was named Angel, or was an angel. She could certainly use one about now. “C-Constance Jennings,” she managed to eke out.
“Don’t worry,” Angel offered, sounding much older than she looked. “I won’t let any of them claim you. You’re safe with me.”
That would be her luck—getting a child angel instead of an adult one who could really help. Not wanting to hurt the girl’s feelings, Constance offered a tiny smile. “Thank you.” If only her mind would clear long enough for a concentrated thought to take hold, perhaps then she could fully comprehend what was happening.
“Angel!” The deep voice was followed by footsteps sounding off the boardwalk. “It’s time to head home.”
“Hey, Pa. I’d like you to meet Constance Jennings,” the girl answered, standing up.
Constance clenched her jaw to stop her teeth from chattering. The stiffness of the man’s features were as bitter as the frosty wind, and the scowl covering his face was even more fierce now than when he’d stood next to the wagon, glaring at the commotion.
“Constance, this is my father, Ellis Clayton,” Angel continued.
Tugging the collar of his sheepskin-lined coat up until it almost touched the wide brim of his hat, the man briefly nodded toward Constance—though his eyes never actually landed on her. “Time to go.”
“Pa, Miss Jennings needs to come home with us,” Angel said as calmly as if she’d just said it was cloudy today.
Constance flinched, and again when the frown on Ellis Clayton’s face grew as if a storm built inside him.
“Angel.” The warning tone in his voice was colder than the bitter wind.
“Pa.” Angel held her ground as firmly as someone twice her age. “Look at them.” She pointed toward the men who’d now gathered across the street from where Constance sat. “They’re circling in like a pack of wolves on a fresh kill.”
Constance shuddered, and the groan thickening her throat could no longer be contained.
Ellis Clayton glanced her way before he took his daughter’s arm. “Angel,” he said, his patience clearly spent. “She’s not one of the injured animals you’re always bringing home. You can’t save the world.”
“Maybe not, but I can save her.”
“Excuse me,” Constance started, ready to insist she didn’t need to be saved, but the man’s sideways glare made her lips clamp shut.
“What if it was me, Pa?” Angel continued. “What if I was in a strange town without a familiar face in sight? Wouldn’t you hope some kind stranger would take me in?”
Constance held her breath, both at the thought of such a young girl being on her own and at the bone-chilling wind gusts penetrating her layers of clothing.
“That’s not likely to happen. You’re my daughter and—”
“But what if? We don’t know what the future will bring. It could happen.” Beneath her heavy coat, the girl shrugged. “Somewhere, sometime, it could happen.”
The man rubbed his forehead, then glanced at the group of men and stared for an extended length of time. Constance’s heart throbbed in her stomach. She should say something. Offer some type of solution, but try as she might, she didn’t have one. Angel was very close to the truth. Constance did need a kind stranger. Her final fifty cents had paid for last night’s meal.
A shrill whistle split the air, followed by the crack of a whip. Groaning and creaking, the stage pulled away from the boardwalk. Moments later, dust swirled as the horses picked up speed. The animals appeared excited to leave the tiny town of Cottonwood, Wyoming Territory. For a moment, Constance pictured herself bundled beneath the buffalo robe on the bouncing stage seat. The vision faded along with the wagon, leaving her chest extremely heavy.
“Widow Wagner only has one spare room, Pa, and Reverend Stillman just settled in it. He came to perform the ceremony.”
Constance assumed the girl referenced the wedding between her and Ashton Kramer, which also explained how the reverend had known she was a mail-order bride even though she hadn’t provided the information when he’d climbed into the stage in Fort Laramie.
Time ticked by as Ellis Clayton’s gaze went from the men to the house the reverend had entered, and then landed on her. Though she was frozen stiff from the wind, heat penetrated Constance’s cheeks.
“You’re Ashton’s bride?” he finally asked.
Biting her lip, Constance managed a nod.
He didn’t respond, but Angel did. “She’ll need a decent coat, Pa. What she has on won’t get her halfway to the ranch.”
Constance tugged the gray shawl that had once been Aunt Theresa’s tighter around her shoulders. Bits of snow clung to the knitted yarn. The wind had picked up. It now carried swirling and growing flakes through the air with a stinging force. Once again, the girl was right. Constance had on her warmest dress, a beige wool two-piece, but had been close to freezing during the last leg of her journey, even with the buffalo robe.
Qualms piled inside her faster than she could comprehend. This had not been a good plan. Not only was she out of her element, her wardrobe was as out of place in Wyoming as the ocean would be. What she wouldn’t give for the red velvet cape lined with rabbit fur she’d left England with. She’d sold it, along with a few other of her more elegant pieces, hoping to find a way to financially support herself. The amount she’d gained had paid her room and board for the week, but hadn’t been enough to replace the overcoat, let alone anything else. That had contributed to her ultimate decision: become a mail-order bride.
The way Ellis Clayton glared down his nose at her made Constance doubly wish she’d never seen Ashton’s first letter.
Something she could only assume was disgust flickered in the man’s eyes as he scanned her shawl. When his gaze met hers, he asked, “Are you interested in coming home with Angel?”
Constance forced herself to breathe. The men across the road still leered, but other than the wind, it was deathly quiet. About ten buildings, built along both sides of the street, made up the town. Paint was nonexistent on most of the weathered boards, and only the two-story home, separated from the other buildings by a small yard, held the image of curtains on the inside. Since that was where Reverend Stillman had been escorted to, she assumed it was Mrs. Wagner’s. Besides herself, Angel was the only trace of a female she’d seen.
Knowing the man waited for an answer, Constance prayed the thickness in her throat would allow words to come out. “Perhaps, I …” Her mind couldn’t fathom a single suggestion. Fighting to hold an iota of dignity, she voiced her options, “I apologize, but at this moment, your generosity appears to be my only hope.”
The man’s expression softened and the sight did something to Constance’s insides. She couldn’t figure out exactly what, but then again she’d been greatly out of sorts since stepping off the stage.
His gaze went to his daughter, who smiled brightly. After shaking his head, he gestured to one of the men. “Put her stuff in my wagon, would you, Jeb?” When a young man moved toward her trunks, Ellis spun on one heel. “Come on, then.”
Angel grabbed Constance’s hand, and tugged her in the man’s wake. “He’s not as grumpy as he makes out to be.”
The girl’s assurance didn’t do much for the quaking in Constance’s limbs, nor the churning in her stomach. She willed her feet not to stumble as she matched Angel’s quick pace into the building. Shelves and tables held an array of goods and foodstuffs, making the tiny space cluttered and claustrophobic. Nonetheless, Constance sighed at the relief of being out of the wind.
A large man, in height and breadth, emerged from behind a curtained doorway. “What you forget, Ellis?”
“We need a coat, Link.” Ellis closed the door he’d held wide and moved toward the waist-high counter.
The man, Link it appeared, wrinkled his wide forehead as he stared at Constance with an all-consuming look. “So you’re Ashton’s bride. Poor sap. He’s probably kicking like a mule trying to get out of the pearly gates. He’d sworn you’d be a looker. We buried him yesterday. Had to do it before the ground froze, you know.”
Constance swallowed around the glob that had never left her throat, but now doubled in size.
“Just get us a coat, Link,” Ellis demanded roughly.
“You claiming her?” Link asked, lifting his spiky brows high on his glistening forehead.
Even covered with his thick coat, Constance noticed Ellis’s back stiffen, yet he didn’t answer. Probably because his daughter did. “I am,” Angel piped proudly.
Link guffawed. “You? You can’t claim a mail-order bride, Angel.”
“I’m not claiming her as my bride. I’m claiming her as my friend.” Angel pointed over her shoulder with a thumb. “You can tell the passel of men out there that anyone who wants to claim Miss Jennings will have to come through me.”
“Angel.” Ellis sounded extremely frustrated.
Once again, the girl ignored her father. Not in a rude way, but with confidence she was right. “I’ll send word for you to post a sign when we’re ready to start interviews.”
“Interviews?” Link’s frown was back.
So was Constance’s.
Angel folded her arms across her chest. “Yes, interviews. If anyone wants to court Miss Jennings, they’ll be interviewed first. By me.”
“Link, get us a coat,” Ellis snapped and then turned to glare his daughter.
Angel grinned.
For the millionth time in the past months, Constance wished she’d never left England.
As if he couldn’t remain angry at the girl, a tiny grin flashed on Ellis’s face. Constance’s insides fluttered again. This time the man’s face had been transformed into a remarkable image that sparked a memory in her troubled mind.
Link shook his head, as if in disbelief, and then moved back to the curtain. “I’ll see what I got, but I doubt it’ll fit her. She’s not much bigger than Angel there.”
As quick as he’d disappeared, Link reappeared. With a flip of his thick wrists, he shook the folds from a garment. The coat looked similar to the one Angel wore. Light brown twill with what appeared to be a buffalo-hide lining. Not fashionable by any sense, but, oh, did it look warm. Constance balled her fists, trying to hold in a new wave of shivers as her body begged to have the garment cloaking it.
Ellis turned, looked at her expectantly. Her trembles increased, but she managed an agreeable nod. “It’ll do,” he said, taking the coat from Link and holding it up for Constance to slide her arms into the sleeves.
The weight was great, but the warmth heavenly. Angel rolled up the cuffs, and Constance quickly hooked the leather and wood frogs down the front. She should thank both the girl and her father, but something inside Constance—not the irritating little voice, but her own common sense—said Ellis Clayton wouldn’t appreciate that right now.
She held her silence even when he insisted Link retrieve a scarf and pair of mittens.
“How much?” Ellis asked Link.
The amount the store keeper said made Constance gasp. The glance Ellis shot her way had her lowering her eyes to the floor. It was almost as much money as Ashton Kramer had sent her, which had paid for the train from New York to Cheyenne, the stage ride to Cottonwood and all her meals along the way.
“That seems kind of steep considering the coat doesn’t even fit her,” Ellis replied.
The coat was several sizes too large, but Constance could deal with that. She’d dealt with a whole lot worse than ill-fitting clothes. Keeping her gaze off the men, she flipped the scarf over her straw hat and tied it beneath her chin before pulling on the thick, cozy mittens.
“It’s called supply and demand, Ellis. You know that,” Link answered proudly.
“Yeah, well, someday you’re going to demand yourself out of business. People are moving into the Territory every day. A new merchant, one not set on robbing his customers, will have you rethinking your prices.” Ellis counted out bills as he spoke.
Link laughed, taking the money. “Yeah, well it ain’t gonna happen today, is it?”
They left the small store then, but before Ellis pulled the door shut, after he’d held it open for Constance and Angel, Link shouted, “Be sure to send me word to post, Angel.”
“I will!” Angel’s words were cut off by the solid thud of the door.
The men now stood next to a long wagon parked beside the boardwalk. One man, the bean pole guy, asked, “You claiming her, Ellis?”
“Get in,” Ellis directed Angel before he turned to the crowd. “You men better head home.” Pointing to the weather-filled sky, he added, “There’s a storm moving in.”
Angel had climbed onto the seat of the wagon, and held a hand out, helping Constance up beside her. The back of the buckboard was loaded high, including her luggage. Ellis walked around the back, and Constance swiveled to stare straight ahead. When he planted himself beside Angel, the three of them were packed tighter than her trunks.
“But what about the bride?” another man asked.
“Don’t worry about her right now. Worry about your own hides.” Ellis threaded the reins between his gloved fingers and snapped the leather over the backs of the matching buckskins harnessed to the wagon.
Constance grabbed the little fluted edge near her hip as the wagon jerked forward.
Other questions filled the air from the men, some running beside the wagon as the horses picked up speed. Angel started to speak but Ellis insisted, “Be quiet, Angel.”
The girl listened this time, but the smile she gave Constance said she wasn’t miffed. Actually, Angel seemed quite satisfied.
Constance couldn’t return the grin. Though she was thankful to the girl and her father, the day had quickly escalated into a predicament that left her deeply indebted to the Claytons—with no imaginable way to repay them.
Ellis flexed his chin. His jaw was set so tight, his teeth ached. Angel, at times the daughter every man could only hope to have, made him question her parentage today. Hauling home injured animals was one thing, but a woman—a mail-order bride, no less—was out of the ordinary even for her. He also had to agree with Link. Ashton Kramer was probably screaming from his grave. Constance Jennings was about the best-looking woman the Wyoming Territory had ever seen. The contrast between her coal-black hair and summer-sky-blue eyes could make a man stop dead in his tracks. He, himself, who’d never been overly affected by a woman’s looks, had been half afraid to take a second gander at her. She’d barely uttered a word, but her stance, and the way she walked, gave the impression she was no ordinary gal. Nope. Miss Constance Jennings had been born and bred as a lady. How she’d ended up Ashton Kramer’s mail-order bride should be investigated. Not by him—he wasn’t that curious. Yet, if whoever did take her on didn’t do a bit of researching they might find themselves in a whole mess of trouble.
He’d always had a sixth sense about such things, and knew when to listen to his gut. Right now, the milk he’d had at breakfast was churning itself into butter. The only thing that had ever overridden his instincts was his daughter. And she knew it. The little scamp. Asking him how he’d feel if that had been her in a strange place, with nowhere to turn for help. That had hit home, so had her words about not knowing if it would ever happen. He’d known it for a long time, but today Angel once again proved she was much too smart for her thirteen-year-old hide.
Angel was also more like her mother than she knew. She’d been too young when Christine had died to imitate her behaviors, but she’d inherited them just as she had her mother’s looks, and used them to rule him on a regular basis. Christine would have hauled the mail-order bride home, and she’d have made him buy her a coat before doing so. Which he’d gladly done. The tiny shawl Miss Jennings wore wouldn’t warm a flea.
The snow now fell in huge flakes, the kind that would cover the brown ground within no time, and more than likely, stay until next spring. Ellis tugged his coat collar up to cover his ears and then reached down to pull out the woven blanket from beneath the wagon seat. He flicked it open with one hand, splaying the edges over his passengers’ knees. Miss Jennings caught the other end and quickly tucked it under her thigh after straightening it to cover them all evenly. He switched driving hands, and stuck his end of the blanket beneath his outer leg.
While the snow fell, collecting in tiny drifts along the sides of the road, they traveled onward, straight west into the foothills of the Big Horns. His ranch, Heaven on Earth, was nestled there, right where the earth rose majestically into the sky. It was good land. Rich soil, an unending water supply and more acres of sweet grazing pastures than anywhere else in the nation. Come June, it would be fifteen years since he and Christine had topped the little ridge of the valley still a few miles ahead for the first time. She’d shouted for him to stop the oxen. He’d done so of course, wondering what had caught her attention. She’d jumped from the seat, and with her blond hair twisting and turning in the wind, she’d declared, “This is it, Ellis! This is our heaven on earth.”
She’d been right of course, as always, and they’d set to building their new lives together. A right fine life they’d had, too, until the birth of their second child eight years later had taken her and the babe from him forevermore.
He’d mourned the great loss, still did, but in the same right, he held thankfulness for what their years had given him. Happiness, joy, one of the largest ranches this side of the Mississippi and more precious than all else, his Angel.
As if she understood his thoughts, his daughter leaned her head against his shoulder and settled those big brown eyes on him. Warmed, he winked. She grinned, and as the snow continued to pile up on the trail, the horses clomped onward.
By the time they topped the little ridge an hour later, the sun, which hadn’t quite given up trying to brighten the gray winter sky, broke through for a moment to grace the homestead below with a welcoming glow. Even the wind stilled when the horses stopped, as was their normal routine, giving Ellis the opportunity to appreciate home from his favorite overlook.
Swirls of smoke spiraled out of the house and bunkhouse chimneys. The other buildings, the barns, sheds and lean-tos, sat quietly as snow-flakes landed on their shingled roofs. Steam rose around the cattle near the barns, and men mingled between the buildings and pens, making the ranch look like a miniature city. It practically was. There were few things the ranch didn’t provide. The only reason he and Angel had gone to town today was to pick up the fixings for the holiday gathering they’d host next month.
“That’s it, Miss Jennings,” Angel said, staring at the site below. “That’s Heaven on Earth.”
The woman turned slowly, as if trying to keep one eye on the homestead. “What?”
“Heaven on Earth,” Angel repeated. “That’s the name of our ranch.” Angel looked at him before she turned back to the woman. “Welcome home.”
Ellis sucked in air as if he’d just been stomach punched. He actually braced a hand to his abdomen, wondering where the sudden lurching had come from. Swallowing, he realized it was from the way Miss Jennings’s blue eyes stared at him.
He tucked the brim of his hat down, and flicked the reins over Jack and Jim, encouraging the animals to begin the final mile—all downhill—of their journey. He kicked the edge of the blanket away from his left foot, making a clear path to the brake if needed. He had no reason to be nervous, he’d traipsed the trail a million times over, but for some reason his nerve endings were dancing a jig beneath his skin.
The decline went as usual, swift and uncomplicated, and the unloading of the wagon happened just as smoothly. The ranch hands were used to unloading Angel’s purchases, and since ninety percent of what they hauled went into the house, it didn’t take long before one of the hands led Jack and Jim off to the barn.
Ellis entered through the open front door, carrying the last of the bundles. The foyer, though piled with boxes, crates and bundles, was empty. A faint voice, Angel’s, filtered down from above—no doubt she was showing Miss Jennings to a room. He set the last package on top of the others, silently admitting he was clueless as to what Angel had purchased, even though she had given him a full accounting of what she needed.
Miss Jennings’s trunks were not amongst the other stuff, which meant Angel must have directed they be carried upstairs. His daughter was like her mother in that sense, too, good at giving orders and expecting them to be followed.
Shrugging out of his sheepskin coat, Ellis walked across the foyer and down the hall that led to his office. He’d purchased a few things himself and had some accounting to do—now was as good of a time to do it as ever.
Settled into his high-backed steerhide chair, he flipped open the ledger sitting on top of his desk and reached for the inkwell. A loud thud shook the ceiling. The scream accompanying it sent him flying out the door. Taking the stairs three at a time had him at the top of the steps and shooting down the hallway before his ears picked up the sounds now filling the house. He skidded to a stop in front of the first open bedroom door.
Angel and Miss Jennings were on the floor, covered in an assortment of women’s underthings. The lid of one of the round-top trunks rocked back and forth on the floor. It had been years since giggles had echoed off the walls of the big house, and the way these two were going at it, the men in the bunkhouse had to hear it. An unusual fluttering happened in Ellis’s insides.
Angel plucked a few frilly garments off her head. Seeing him, she giggled harder. “Oh, Pa.” She covered her snickering mouth. When she caught air again, she continued. “You should have seen it. As soon as we released the latch, the top flew off like a blasting cap.”
Miss Jennings had one hand covering her lips, and her tiny shoulders shook with mirth. Lace hung over her head. He couldn’t tell if it was a petticoat or a pair of pantaloons, but the sparkling gaze of those unique eyes and the flush of her dainty cheeks sent a shiver racing up his spine like a mini bolt of lightning.

Chapter Two
Constance had put it off long enough. She’d been scrounging up courage all evening. Squaring her shoulders, she walked down the dark hall to Ellis Clayton’s office and, before she lost her nerve, rapped on the door. He hadn’t joined them for dinner, nor had he been back from the barn when Angel showed her where she could take a bath—which had been heavenly. But an hour ago, while staring out her bedroom window, she’d seen him cross the yard, once again hoisting his coat collar up against the snow. After checking her image in the mirror and making a few minor adjustments to her hair, she’d left her room. The past half hour, she’d paced the upstairs hall, listening to his downstairs movements. She may have found an ounce of courage, but a solution to her current situation remained as far away as England.
The opening of the door made her flinch. She’d knocked, so the action shouldn’t have startled her, but it did.
Ellis lifted a brow. “Miss Jennings? Is there something you need?”
Tugging the shawl about her shoulders and twisting her fingers deep in the yarn, she nodded. “I’d like to speak with you, if you have a minute.”
His lag increased her anxiety. She curled her toes to keep them from twisting her about for a fast exit. After what seemed like an eternity, he stepped back, holding the door wide, and waved an arm for her to enter.
Thick carpet softened her footsteps. The office was as elaborate as the rest of the home. Totally unexpected in the wilds of Wyoming Territory, but in some ways, so similar to her childhood home in Richmond, she wanted to sigh with memories. Shelves stacked with books from the floor to the ceiling covered two walls, and a large fireplace not only warmed the room, but provided a friendly glow. A massive desk sat in the center of the room, positioned so one could gaze out the large windows framed with olive-colored drapes that were tied back to sway along the glass panes from ceiling to floor. The familiar scent of leather-bound books filled the air and had Constance taking a deep breath.
“Have a seat,” he offered, pointing to the set of matching armchairs in front of the desk while he walked behind it.
Memories snuck forward, of her father stationing himself just as Ellis was. She’d often sat on the corner of Papa’s desk, thudding her heels against the wood. Now wasn’t the time for childhood recollections. She had to quell her nerves, and offer her proposition, which would include sharing some of her past. Ellis deserved an explanation in exchange for his kindness if nothing else, but there were some things she’d never be able to tell anyone.
The mantel clock ticked away, mindless to the noise its steady movement created. Constance took another deep breath before she began, “I’d like to start by saying thank you. I know Angel put you in a predicament by offering me lodging, and I appreciate how you handled the situation.”
Ellis leaned back in his chair, eyeing her in an interesting way. Almost as if he was cautious or surprised. Even without his thick coat and big brimmed hat, he was a large man. As he folded his arms, the dark brown shirt stretched over the bulk of chest, straining the buttons holding it together.
He didn’t offer an acknowledgment. Her mouth had gone dry, she wet her lips before continuing, “I would like to explain my situation, and hopefully work out an agreeable arrangement.”
One dark brow, the same rich shade as his hair, arched, but he quickly relaxed it. Ellis was good at hiding his emotions, and reactions, but she’d already seen that. “I—” she started again.
“Excuse me, Miss Jennings,” he interrupted, “where exactly are you from?”
She wasn’t surprised. He’d want facts not justifications. “I was born and raised in Richmond, Virginia. My family owned a tobacco plantation. Prior to the war, that is.”
“And afterward?”
“There was nothing left afterward.” She’d never been back to Virginia, but had heard everything was gone and believed her source.
“Your family?”
“Nothing left, Mr. Clayton. They all—my father, mother and three brothers—perished in the war. My brothers died on the battlefields and my parents during the raid that left our home nothing more than ashes.”
“I’m sorry,” he said respectfully.
She nodded. Years had eased the pain, but the loss would forever live in her heart. Memories of a happy childhood helped. As did her belief someday she’d find a place she could call home again.
He leaned forward and rested both elbows on the edge of his desk. “How did you survive? If you don’t mind my asking?”
“I survived because I wasn’t there. When the war broke out, my parents sent me to England. I had two great aunts in residence there and I lived with them.”
“When did you return to the United States?”
So this is how it would be, him asking questions, her answering. It wasn’t as she had planned, but it might be better. Once in a while she tended to ramble and could accidentally say more than she meant to. She’d already done that once today. “A few months ago.”
“Really? The war ended a dozen years ago.”
“I know. After my family perished, there was no reason for me to return. Besides, my aunts were elderly and depended on me to care for them. One died in December of last year. The other in January of this year.” Constance hoped that was enough to satisfy his curiosity, but not so much that he’d want to know more.
“I see,” he said. “It’s my understanding you lived in New York?”
A quiver rippled her spine. Ashton must have shared that bit of information. Keeping her chin up, she nodded. “Yes, that’s where I saw Mr. Kramer’s request and responded to his call for a wife.”
His expression said he wasn’t satisfied with her answer, but once again, he didn’t ask specifics. Instead he offered, “I’m sorry about Ashton’s untimely accident.”
“Thank you. I am, too. Though I had never met him, I mourn his loss.” It was the truth. Without Ashton, her future looked pretty bleak. “Could you share with me how he—it happened?”
“Angel didn’t tell you?”
Fighting the urge to fidget, Constance refolded her hands in her lap. “No, but then I didn’t ask her to. I apologize, Mr. Clayton, Angel is a wonderful girl. Very bright and compassionate and understanding, but I do not feel it would be appropriate for me to ask her about such things.”
A faint grin curled the corners of his lips and a shine appeared in his eyes. “Don’t apologize, Miss Jennings. Angel can appear more mature than she is. I appreciate you recognizing she is still a child.”
This man loved his daughter above and beyond all. Constance remembered a time when she was such a daughter. History made her warn, “She won’t be a child for much longer though.” She often wondered if she’d “grown up” the instant she’d arrived in England.
His smile increased, but was accompanied by a somber nod. “Unfortunately, I’m aware of that.”
Her heart pitter-patted, acknowledging the brief connection she and Ellis Clayton shared. There would come a time when this man would have to say goodbye to his daughter, and it would affect both him and the girl—deeply. The only time Constance had seen tears in her father’s eyes was the day he’d set her on the ship to sail for England. Though she had many other memories—happy and good ones—that was the one that stuck in her mind like a splattered drop of paint. No matter how hard she tried, it wouldn’t dissolve. It had barely faded over the years.
With one hand, Ellis wiped his face, as if erasing the smile. It worked, because when his hand went back to rest on the desk his face was serious. “I guess I should tell you, since you’ll no doubt hear it from half the territory.”
She frowned, utterly confused for a moment.
“About Ashton’s death,” he said, eying her critically.
“Oh.” Her cheeks stung. She wiped her palms, which all of a sudden had grown clammy, on her skirt. “Yes, Mr. Kramer’s death. How did it come about?”
“He took a fall off a horse.” Ellis’s gaze settled over her shoulder for a moment. When it returned to her, he added, “Doc said a broken rib punctured his lung.”
She pressed a hand to the thud behind her breastbone. “Oh, my.”
“He was bedridden for three days before he died. Some may tell you he hung on because he knew you were on your way.”
She gulped. Ellis Clayton certainly didn’t mince words. Sorrow that she’d never meet Ashton Kramer, nor get to know a man who’d awaited her arrival made her sigh heavily. “The poor man.”
Ellis didn’t linger nor stay on one subject for an extended length. “So, are you going back to New York? Or Virginia perhaps?”
His question caught her slightly off guard. Her mind was still processing Ashton Kramer’s untimely death. “No.” She shook her head. “No, I left New York for good. And I haven’t been back to Virginia since I was eleven.”
“Eleven?”
“Yes, that’s when I went to live with my great aunts.”
His frown was back, tugging his brows deeply together. “So you’re twent—”
“Six. I’m twenty-six.” There were days when she felt a hundred and six. Hoping to avoid any further questions about herself, she asked, “Have you always lived in the Wyoming Territory?”
“No, my wife, Christine, Angel’s mother, and I came out here shortly after we married. Before the war broke out. She died when Angel was six.”
“How?” She bit her lip at how fast the question shot out.
“Childbirth.” He pushed away from his desk and walked to the fireplace where he removed the grate, stirred the flames with a gold-handled poker and then added a couple split logs. He replaced the poker and the grate before he turned back around. “What are your plans, Miss Jennings?”
He still mourned the loss of his wife. Constance easily saw it—for it was the same thing she’d seen in the mirror for years. She’d already witnessed enough to understand Ellis’s depth and character. He must have treasured his wife. Once, not so long ago, Constance had thought she might have that—a husband who’d cherish her, and had married the man. But Byron hadn’t treasured her, nor had he bothered to tell her he was already married. The truth, and the way she’d discovered it, had been demoralizing and humiliating.
The memories, painful and degrading, made a heavy sigh escape before she could stop it. “To be perfectly honest, Mr. Clayton, right now I have no idea what I’m going to do.” For the past nine months she hadn’t had a concentrated plan that propelled her forward. She’d thought she had, more than once, but fate had stepped in and left her reeling in another direction over and over again.
Ellis opened his mouth. Unwilling to let anything else slip, she quickly changed the subject. “But I would like to offer, or suggest, an arrangement.”
He contemplated her statement, silently and thoroughly it seemed, before he walked back to his chair. “And that would be?”
“I mentioned that I took care of my aunts. They had a country estate outside of London. I managed the household for them, and would like to offer you my services in exchange for room and board until I can decide what I should do.” His silence forced her to add, “I’ve also had experience tutoring children. I know Angel is a very smart young woman, but it’s my understanding she hasn’t had any formal education. I could offer those services as well.”
His chair squeaked as he repositioned. He wasn’t quick to respond, which had her nerves ticking beneath her skin in tune with the mantel clock.
“How long do you plan on staying, Miss Jennings?”
“I guess that depends.”
“On?”
“Several things.” Including if the lies surrounding Byron’s death found their way to Wyoming. If so, her chances of starting over would be greatly diminished. She had no proof she hadn’t killed Byron, just as she had no proof he’d caused her injuries and left wounds that changed her life forever.
Ellis watched the emotions playing across Miss Jennings’s features. Her expressions told him more than her words, in some instances. In others, he’d been downright surprised by what she’d said. Snap decision-making wasn’t his way; he’d left that up to Christine and more recently Angel—hence the mail-order bride sitting in his office. Yet he knew firsthand how quickly life could leave a person vulnerable and hopeless.
Unable to stay seated, he pushed out of his chair again and walked to the window. The snowstorm continued to blanket the earth, and hinted that it would hang around for the next day or so. It was early for such a dumping, but stranger things had happened. Ellis turned and met the apprehensive eyes watching and waiting for his response to her offer.
“I have a cook, Miss Jennings.”
The straight, fine wisps of black hair that had escaped her loosely pinned bun fluttered against the elegantly curved line of her neck as she primly shook her head. “I know, sir, and I don’t wish to undermine the job Mr. Beans is doing.”
“Beans,” he corrected. “Just Beans, there’s no mister.” Beans had a great aversion to being called mister. Just as Ellis had an aversion to being called sir. He worked for a living and didn’t appreciate a title he felt was held for those who were born of honor or suggested one man was of higher rank than another. It reminded him of the slave days—something else he had greatly disliked.
She gave a graceful nod. “I apologize. Beans does a fine job. The stew I had for supper was quite delicious.”
“Yes, he does,” Ellis agreed, but then had to admit, “For the ranch hands. It would be good for Angel to learn more about the kitchen. She tries, and does a good job, but …” An invisible draw made him turn back to the window. High above the earth, beyond the hovering snow clouds, a tiny star twinkled and then shot across the sky. Blinking, he searched for more, but the clouds once again obscured the view. His daughter needed a woman’s touch. He’d known it for some time. “Angel could use some formal education as well. She’s a sound reader and has a head for numbers, but there are other things she should be studying. Things she should be learning about.”
He hadn’t turned around, and wasn’t ready to do so yet, either. His daughter was the reason he woke up every morning. For the past few years he’d wondered about sending her to a school out east, but the thought of being separated from her made him ignore the considerations as quickly as they formed. Miss Jennings’s arrival seemed like a good solution, but … He sighed. There was more to it than that.
Turning about, he leaned back, resting his backside on the windowsill. The wood was cold and penetrated his wool pants, but it wasn’t overly bothersome. “You can’t see it right now, but out the window behind me, on the far side of the backyard is a small barn. It says Angel’s Barn across the front doors. Angel painted the letters several years ago.”
Constance nodded again. It had been years since he’d seen someone as elegant and refined as her. He wanted to close his eyes, block the view and the memories of when he’d lived in Charleston and come across stylish women every day. Not that he’d been attracted to them. Simply put, the memories reminded him of how long Christine had been gone.
“I haven’t been out to her barn for a week or so, so I don’t know for sure,” he said, pulling his mind out of the past, “but the last time I was there she had a one-legged rooster, a blind porcupine, a skunk …” Nothing about the animal came to mind. “I don’t really know what’s wrong with the skunk other than it wants to live here. There were also a couple of birds, a squirrel that ate too much butter and a litter of motherless rabbits.”
Constance had a serene smile on her petal-pink lips, as if the array of Angel’s pets didn’t surprise her.
He gestured toward the other side of the window. “Although I’m sure he’s hibernating right now, sometimes there’s a bear out in the north pasture. Teddy was a half-dead orphaned cub when Angel found him.” He had to huff out the chuckle pressing on his lungs. “He never fails to startle a cowhand or two when he decides to wander through.”
“Have you ever considered just getting her a dog?” Constance asked.
That made him crack a smile, but he forced it to leave as quickly as it had appeared. “There are several of those around here, too. As well as cats and kittens.” He pushed away from the window, moving toward his desk. “For Angel it’s not about the companionship. It’s the nurturing. The act of healing, of saving something no one else cares about.” It was hard to describe to someone who didn’t know Angel. “There have been so many critters over the years I couldn’t name them all if I had to. Some have died, some have stayed around, others have healed up and left, never been seen again. Then there are those, like the bear, who wander past every once in a while.”
“I have a feeling I’m being compared to one of Angel’s animals.” A grin lifted the corners of her mouth, but her eyes held a touch of conviction.
“With all due respect, Miss Jennings, I don’t mean to offend you, nor do I wish to be rude, but yes, you are like one of her animals. And when Angel sets on healing a critter, no one changes her mind.” He half sat on the corner of his desk.
“Because she couldn’t save her mother.”
The whispered words echoed around the room, making Ellis shiver. The softness of Constance’s expression made his throat swell. The thickness was raw and gritty. “She’s not looking for a mother.”
“That’s not what I mean, Mr. Clayton,” Constance said, shaking her head. “Forgive me. I spoke out of turn. It’s just that I can relate. Losing people we love can leave us wanting to protect others from experiencing the pain.”
The authenticity in her eyes and voice was too sincere for him to acknowledge. It made a part of him feel vulnerable—something he refused to let into his life. Shifting his weight, he mulled the decision he’d already made around for a moment before saying, “I’ll accept your offer of an arrangement—household management, including cooking and tutoring Angel, in exchange for wages that include room and board until spring. That should give her time to do what she feels she needs to do.”
Constance gave a slight nod, not as confident as it had been earlier, which was just as well. He had more to say before he completely agreed to her suggestion. “I appreciate you coming to me and sharing part of your story. I know there’s a lot you haven’t told me, but I respect your privacy. I do, however, want you to know I’m going to deal with this situation just like I do when Angel hauls home an animal. I’ll stand back, not interfere unless she asks …” He paused so his next statement would be more effective. Holding Miss Jennings’s gaze, he added, “Or if I feel she’s in danger. If that occurs, I will put an end to the arrangement—immediately.”
The color had drained from her face, but she held her stiff posture. “I understand, Mr. Clayton, I wouldn’t expect any less. I assure you, the last thing I’d want is to see Angel injured.”
He held her stare. “There are many types of injuries, Miss Jennings. The ones we can’t see are often worse than the ones we can.”
She blinked, and respectfully bowed her head. “I agree, sir.”
The word grated his nerves too deep this time. “I’d appreciate if you called me Mr. Clayton, or simply Ellis.”
“Very well, Mr. Clayton.”
“I’ll run some figures by you tomorrow as far as pay is concerned. I ask that you complete a list of duties you feel should fall to your position.”
“I’ll have it ready first thing in the morning. I’d also like to document the funds I already owe you.” She clarified, “The coat, scarf and mittens.”
He stood and extended a hand. “Very well, Miss Jennings. I wish you a good night, then.”
She rose and gave his hand a surprisingly firm shake. “Thank you, Mr. Clayton. I appreciate the opportunity.” Pulling her hand from his, she nodded. “Good night.”
Straight-backed and head held high, she left the room. It wasn’t until the door quietly snapped shut that he repeated, “Good night.”
A log rolled in the fire, shooting sparks against the wire mesh grate. Ellis walked over and rather than remove the grate, slid the poker between the grate and the stones. Breaking apart the glowing log until it was little more than small-sized coals that would soon die out, he wondered about the arrangement he’d just agreed to. Constance Jennings hid a very large secret. It was written on her face as bold as the headlines of the Territory Gazette.
His brother Eli still ran the family plantation back in the Carolinas. He’d write Eli, ask a bit about pre-war plantations near Richmond. Protecting Angel came before all else, which meant learning more about Constance Jennings. After replacing the poker, he went to his desk and penned a short letter before he blew out the lamps and made his way up the stairs.
The lamp in his room had been lit, as well as the fire set. Tugging his shirt off, he paused near the dresser where the picture of Christine, taken shortly before her death, sat. He picked up the silver filigree frame. “I saw you tonight,” he whispered, “shooting across the sky. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
She didn’t answer of course, but his mind did. Christine always knew what she was doing, and had rarely, if ever, been wrong.
He set the picture down. “There’s always a first.”
Day comes early on a ranch, and a morning that carried a blizzard meant the first set of chores would take twice as long as usual. Ellis donned layers, knowing how the wind could steal away the body’s heat, and made his way down the front set of stairs. A scent caused him to pause on the bottom step. Coffee? Beans never entered the house in the morning. He and Angel dealt with that meal themselves.
He made his way to the swinging door off the foyer.
“Good morning, Mr. Clayton.” She didn’t turn from the stove.
The fine hairs on his neck stood. How had she known he was here? He’d barely pushed the door open, and it didn’t squeak. “Miss Jennings,” he greeted, stepping into the room.
“Coffee’s on the table. The biscuits will be done in a few minutes as well as the gravy.” Her trim hips swayed as she stirred a spoon about in the pan.
“I usually wait until after chores and breakfast with Angel.” He hadn’t meant to sound as rude as it came out, but his nerves were ticking again.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I assumed with the storm you’d need to be out early this morning. I’m sure it’ll keep if you want to wait.” She pulled the pan off the heat and set it near the back of the stove before she spun about. Dressed in the same dark blue outfit she’d worn last night while they’d talked in his office, he wondered if she’d slept.
There were no bags under her eyes. Actually, she looked quite rested and healthy. Her black hair was neatly pinned in a bun, and she’d tied a flour sack around her waist for an apron, which enhanced the feminine curves he had to drag his eyes off.
He gripped the back of the closest chair, but needing something more to do, snatched the steaming cup off the table. The wondrous smells filling the kitchen had his stomach growling. “As long as it’s ready, I might as well eat. It may be a while before I make it back in.”
“Wonderful.” She spun back to the stove.
Did she mean it was wonderful that he wanted to eat, or wonderful that he’d be gone for a while? He sat, scratching his head at the conflicting thoughts. It was almost as if he was in the wrong skin, the way his nerves twitched and itched. Mere seconds later, a plate of biscuits smothered with glossy gravy was set down in front of him. “Thank you,” he mumbled.
She hovered near the table. “Angel gave me a tour of the house last night. I assumed our arrangement would start this morning.” Tugging her fingers apart, she pointed to a sheet of paper on the table.
Written in slanted, perfect penmanship, was a long list of duties. He didn’t take the time to read them all. “Yes, that’s fine.” He picked up his fork. “I’ll meet with you later today, to go over your wage and such.”
“Very well,” she replied, walking across the room. “Enjoy your breakfast. There’s more on the stove.”
There were times she acted like a scared little girl, others where she appeared to be a wise old woman and still others—especially when a slight hint of an English accent filtered her words—where he was convinced she should be sitting in a tea parlor surrounded by ladies-in-waiting. All in all, she made him feel as confused as a cat with two tails.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked.
“I’ll wait for Angel.” She transferred the pan of biscuits into a basket and covered them with a cloth, and then stirred down the bubbling gravy.
He pulled his eyes back to the breakfast before him, and lifted his fork. Beans had never made something taste this delicious. The gravy had big chunks of sausage and had soaked deep into the golden-brown biscuits. He ate two helpings before he excused himself to gather his outerwear from his office.
A scraping noise said someone was in the front parlor when he reentered the foyer. Walking to the doorway, Ellis paused. Crouched down, Miss Jennings swept the cold ashes from the fireplace in the large front room and deposited them in the ash bucket. Frowning at the sight, he said, “Thomas Ketchum is my wood man.”
She flipped loose strands of hair aside with the back of her hand as she turned. “Excuse me?”
The action teased his mind, made him think of her attractiveness. “Thomas,” Ellis repeated, reminding himself of what he’d been saying. “I pay him to cut wood during the summer and tend to the fires in winter. He does other things as well. Part of his job is to clean out the fireplaces and keep them burning all day. He should be in any minute.”
She finished the job, replaced the ash brush to its holder and then stood. “I thought that was just because you were gone yesterday. He comes in even when you’re home?”
“Yes. That’s his job.” He gestured toward the front door. “A ranch this size requires a lot of wood. It takes one person dedicated to it.”
Wiping her hands on the flour sack, she said, “I do apologize. I’ll remember that in the future.”
He nodded, but a feeling as if he’d just chastised her for no reason settled in his chest. Shrugging against the sensation, he went to the door and stepped out into what might prove to be one of the biggest blizzards of all time.

Chapter Three
The wood man, Thomas Ketchum, turned out to be a bulk of a man with a cheerful disposition. Upon his arrival, he’d not only cleaned out and set fires in the fireplaces but had refilled all of the wood boxes—which totaled over a dozen—shortly after Ellis had left the house. During the morning hours, Constance had explored the home thoroughly, making notes of things that needed immediate attention, such as cobwebs in hidden corners a child or man wouldn’t notice. She’d noted other things that could use slight adjustments in the future—rugs showing wear and curtains that had become sun-faded—but overall the home was in excellent condition and was well run.
During that quiet, early morning time, the expanse and elegance surrounding her had childhood memories dancing in her head like a figurine on a music box. Matter of fact, part of her had wanted to skip along the halls and slide down the wide banister. The house, the surroundings, produced a contentment she’d never found in England, one she already cherished.
Curiosity had led her to ask Angel why the home was so large, for just her and her father. “Pa said he promised my mother the exact home she’d left behind in the Carolinas—only bigger,” Angel had said.
Now, several hours later, Constance listened with one ear as Angel explained the upcoming holiday party. The other ear was tuned into the doors of the ranch house, both the front and back. Ellis had yet to return. Noon would soon be upon them, the roast a ranch hand had delivered to the back door which she’d seasoned and set to bake was nearly done. She’d gone to the door several times, wondering if she heard something, but the blizzard created a whiteout that made seeing the edge of the front porch impossible.
She and Angel were settled in the large yet cozy front parlor, where the fire roared with warmth and the wide windows, despite the blizzard, filled the room with light.
“Last year, I made divinity. I found the recipe in a cookbook, but it didn’t turn out very well.” The girl scrunched up her face. “Not even the animals would eat it.”
Constance focused her waning attention on Angel and smiled. “We’ll make it again. It’ll help with two people. Whipping the egg whites becomes tiring for one.”
“It certainly did,” Angel admitted. “And turned out as hard as rocks. Good thing Pa didn’t break a tooth. He was the only one brave enough to try it.”
“That sounds like something my father would have done,” Constance admitted.
“Oh? Where does he live?”
“He used to live in Virginia, but he passed away many—” A thud outside the front door had Constance jumping to her feet. Regardless of Angel’s earlier assurance that Ellis was fine, was used to working in such extreme conditions, Constance couldn’t help but fret for his well-being.
The noise came again, and Angel ran from the parlor, pulling the front door open as Constance turned the corner.
The bitterly cold wind swirled into the house, stinging Constance’s face and eyes, but it was her heart that froze. The blizzard had made her compliant. Let her believe travel would be hampered. The man lying on the front porch wasn’t Ellis. It was a complete stranger. Could he be the authorities? All the way from New York? Who else would travel through a blizzard? Though fretful, concern for his lifeless state flared inside her. “Help me get him inside.”
Between the two of them, Angel tugging and Constance pushing, they managed to roll the man over the threshold. His face was beet-red and ice hung on his eyelashes.
“Mr. Homer?” Angel patted the man’s ruddy cheeks. “What are you doing here?”
The man groaned, and Constance sighed with relief he was indeed alive. “Mr. Homer?” she asked, brushing aside the snow covering his clothing.
“One of the men from town. He works at the bank,” Angel explained as she pushed the door shut.
Constance now recognized the man as the one she’d compared to a rain barrel yesterday. “What’s he doing out here?”
Angel, with her long blond curls bouncing about, shook her head ruefully. “My guess would be to claim you.”
Constance pressed a hand to the alarm thudding in her chest, recalling the men outside the stage. “In a storm like this? He must be crazy.”
The man groaned again.
For a few hours the reason for her being at the Clayton home had escaped her. The panic in her chest turned into annoyance. It was a dismal situation she found herself in, but in all circumstances there was a solution, and she’d find one now, too. As soon as she saw to the tasks at hand. Constance huffed out a puff of frustrated air. “Help me drag him into the parlor so he can thaw out. The poor man’s lucky he didn’t freeze to death.”
Along with much tugging and pulling, she and Angel managed to get Mr. Homer in front of the fireplace in the parlor. Pressing her hands against her muscle-strained thighs, Constance took a moment to catch her breath from the laborious job before she began removing the man’s coat by rolling him from side to side while Angel went upstairs for a blanket.
After a few minutes, the man regained consciousness. “Oh, thank you, thank you,” he mumbled several times as he flopped closer to the fireplace. “Heat. Heat.”
“Not too close, Mr. Homer,” Constance warned, glad the grate kept the man from climbing into the flames.
A rap sounded on the front door. She and Angel stared at one another for a brief moment before they rose and went to the door again. This time the man was upright on the porch, but he leaned heavily on the door frame, shaking and shivering from head to toe. “G-g-g-goo-d-d-d d-d-d-ay.”
Constance ran a hand over her aching forehead. This was too absurd to be happening. Surely these men didn’t believe she was so destitute she’d—A lump formed in her throat. She was destitute. Lord knew where she’d be right now if not for Angel and Ellis.
Angel grabbed the man’s arm. “Good day to you, too, Mr. Aimes. Get in here before you freeze to death.”
Constance took his other arm as the man stumbled in, mumbling and leaving a trail of snow on the rug.
After that, there was barely time to get one man settled when another would be knocking, or in some cases, falling against the door. The final count was five. Mr. Homer, Mr. Aimes, Mr. McDonaldson, Mr. Westmaster and Jeb. Angel said she didn’t know Jeb’s last name, and the way his teeth chattered, Constance couldn’t understand what he’d said.
Constance had just removed Jeb’s frozen coat when the front door slammed shut. “Oh, no, not another one,” she groaned, much louder than intended, but she was quite exasperated. Was every man in the Wyoming Territory without a lick of sense?
“Not another whaaat the hell?” Ellis stared into the front parlor from the doorway, his gaze making a full circle of the room.
Constance held her breath. It was quite a scene. Men wrapped in blankets, some holding hot water bottles on their frozen heads, others soaking their feet in tubs of warm water. Some had water dripping from the ice chunks still clinging to their hair, and most were groaning with shivers or their teeth were chattering loud and uncontrollably.
“They came,” Angel said, squeezing around her father to enter the room, “to claim the bride.” She walked over and flipped the blanket in her arms around Jeb. “I knew they wouldn’t wait. I should’ve made a post with the date we’d start the interviews and left it with Link.”
Constance’s heart sank, and then jolted. Quickly, she stepped around and between the men. Though his face held an astonished look, Ellis must be furious. Rightfully so. This was all because of her. Stalling until she could come up with an appropriate explanation, she asked, “Mr. Clayton, can I get you some hot coffee?”
He glanced at the steaming cups set beside some of the men. “Is there any left?”
“Yes, I just put on a fresh pot.” Constance froze midstep. His broad frame filled the doorway and she didn’t dare squeeze around him as Angel had. “It should be about done,” she offered, glancing toward the kitchen door on the other side of the arched opening.
He stepped aside, providing the space she needed to slip through the doorway. His attention remained on the parlor. “This explains the horses that showed up at the barn door.”
Constance scrambled across the foyer to the swinging kitchen door. Once beyond it, she took a breath and slowed her pace, wishing she could slow her pulse as easily. The pot was perking loudly on the stove, and she grabbed a cup from the cupboard along the way. The last thing she’d expected was a horde of men traveling through a blizzard to claim her hand in marriage. A heavy foreboding once again pressed on her chest. Besides being overly disconcerting, it gravely added to the long list of debt she owed Ellis. He’d probably send her back to town with the men—tired of the problems she caused in such a short span of time. Heat stung her palm and she pulled her hand away from the hot pot.
“Did you burn yourself?”
Shy of jumping out of her skin, Constance shook her head. How had he come to stand right beside her and she not hear him? Ignoring the smart in her palm, she grabbed a towel before attempting to lift the pot this time.
“Thanks.” He took the cup and moved a few steps away to drink the coffee.
Constance sought solace in the space separating them.
His silence lasted several minutes. “How many are there?”
Her relief was short-lived, if it had existed at all. “Five.” She set the pot on the back burner, wishing she could make the unexpected visitors disappear as fast as they had arrived. An apology seemed trivial, and the justification she hadn’t expected the men sounded like a flimsy excuse.
His gaze was on the door. “At least all their horses are accounted for.” He spun around. “Unless there are more?”
Despondent, she shrugged. The action made the weight on her shoulders grow heavier. “I have no idea”
He held out his empty cup. She filled it. Flimsy excuse or not, it was all she had. “Mr. Clayton, I …” Another sigh left her chest. “I apologize. Please understand I had no idea—”
“I know you had nothing to do with this.”
Shocked by the gentle undertone of his voice, she glanced up.
His gaze was on the coffee in his cup. “You didn’t invite them. I was there yesterday. You have nothing to explain.” He set the cup down and shrugged out of his coat. “It appears there’ll be a few more than just the three of us for lunch, and supper.”
Constance pressed a hand to the fluttering in her stomach. She could have sworn there had been humor in his voice, and from his profile, it appeared a smile sat on his lips.
The most remarkable thing happened then. He laughed. A sincere, deep baritone. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen anything quite like it,” he said, still staring at the closed door.
The image of the packed parlor flashed before her eyes. It could appear rather comical to some, Constance had to admit, through trying not to. An unexpected giggle slid up her throat. She pressed a hand to her lips, but it was too late. He’d already heard it.
The fine lines around his eyes deepened as his smile grew. “Don’t upset yourself, Miss Jennings. It’s truly not your fault.” Shaking his head, he laughed harder. “They are a sorry looking bunch, aren’t they?”
The giggle in her throat escaped, and along with it went some of the tension eating at her insides. His reassurance felt good. Really, really, good.
As their laughter died down, she chided herself, “Oh, goodness. It’s not funny. I shouldn’t be laughing. Those men could have perished.”
“Yes, they could have,” Ellis agreed. “But they didn’t.” He picked up his cup, emptied it in one swallow, and then set it back down on the counter.
Constance grasped he was an understanding man, his relationship with his daughter was proof of that, but she couldn’t help but admit, “I was afraid you’d be upset.”
“I could be, and I hope no one else is out there in this storm.” He folded his arms and leaned back against the table. “But my wife was a very wise woman. She taught me years ago not to get angry over the little things. To save it for the things that matter. Angel is a lot like her.” He glanced to the door again, as if he could see beyond the wood and into the parlor filled with men. “Besides, I expected it. I didn’t think they’d arrive in the middle of a snow storm, but I knew they’d come.”
It dawned on Constance that Ellis used his dead wife as a shield. The past affected him as much as it did her. Maybe there was no hope she could get beyond it. If he couldn’t, how could she?
She pushed the coffeepot to the very back of the stove. “How did you know they would come?”
“Miss Jennings, surely you’ve noticed the lack of women in Wyoming. Or heard of it. Out here a woman is worth more than her weight in gold. The ad you saw from Ashton, that’s just one of hundreds that have been posted places. Very few are responded to, and if they are, not many women actually show up after the man sends her money.”
The thought of keeping Ashton Kramer’s money and not upholding her end of the bargain had never crossed her mind.
His gaze was apprehensive. “You didn’t know that?”
She shook her head.
“Where did you see Ashton’s post?” There was a touch of skepticism in his voice.
She bit her lip, wondering just how much would be revealed by her answer. Several explanations rolled in her head, she chose one. “Someone in New York gave it to me.”
His brows furrowed. “Gave it to you?”
“Mmm hmm,” she murmured, trying to sound indifferent. His silence waited for more, so she added, “I traded some used clothes for it.”
“Traded used clothes?” The doubt in his voice increased her apprehension.
She folded her trembling fingers together, squeezing them tight. Though she wasn’t lying, the bubbling in her stomach made it feel like she was. “Yes, I had several things I no longer needed, and a woman offered to sell them for me. She gave me Mr. Kramer’s letter for a dress she wanted to keep for herself.”
“Was she wanted by the law?”
His question knocked the air right out of her lungs. She couldn’t breathe, let alone respond.
As her ears buzzed, he said, “More than one woman’s become a mail-order bride instead of going to jail.”
She had to breathe or she’d faint. Sucking in enough air to get by, she managed to answer, “Stella wasn’t wanted by the law.”
Just then the kitchen door opened and Angel strode into the room. Constance had never been happier to see someone. “They’ll all live,” Angel said offhandedly. “I do wonder about Jeb’s toes though, they’re already turning black.”
Ellis pushed away from the table. “I’ll go take a look.” He chucked Angel under the chin. “We even fed your animals, so don’t consider going out there today.”
“I won’t, Pa. I figured you’d remember them.”
Before he went out the swinging door, his gaze settled on Constance again. The silence grew thick and heavy. She stared back as long as she could, but shame made her lower her eyes before he looked away. He must know there was more to her story, just as he’d known there were more details to her past than she’d shared last night. An ugly glob of regret settled in her stomach. Stella hadn’t been wanted by the law, that much was true. The girl couldn’t be more than a few years older than Angel. She’d stolen Ashton’s letter from a stack of others that had been delivered to Rosalie’s—the large home down the street from the New Street Boarding House where Constance had first purchased lodging. Later, when her funds had become depleted, she’d washed laundry for room and board.
Stella had said Rosalie had dozens of letters from men who’d paid her to post notices for them. Rosalie never posted the advertisements. Instead she sold the letters to girls who thought becoming a mail-order bride would be better than working in one of Rosalie’s second floor rooms. Constance had no doubt as to what went on in those upstairs bedrooms even before meeting Stella. The young girl had stolen the letter, thinking she might like to travel west, but upon reading Ashton’s description of Wyoming, changed her mind. Stella said she didn’t dare replace the opened letter, but wasn’t going to part with it free of charge, either.
Constance had read the description, and though it didn’t sound rosy, it did seem like a brighter future than washing sheets until her hands bled the rest of her life. She’d responded to the letter the morning after seeing Byron’s headstone. A gravesite didn’t completely convinced her he was dead, but it did make her believe the inheritance from her aunts was gone, and when she was told the authorities would soon be after her, she’d known she had to leave New York.
“Constance? Are you all right?”
The concern in Angel’s voice had Constance twirling around, and searching for an answer. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. I’m just wondering what we should fix all those men for lunch.” Could it be true? That a woman could choose being a mail-order bride over jail? Maybe, but what if the crime was murder? Not that she’d murdered anyone. But if Byron really was dead, they’d have to blame someone.
“Well, you could turn the roast you have in the oven into stew. Stew goes a lot further and will warm them up at the same time.” Angel walked toward the pantry off the side of the kitchen. “I’ll peel potatoes.”
The girl’s common sense was astounding, and the way she flashed those big brown eyes had the ability to catch Constance’s heart off guard. “How did you get to be so wise?” She followed Angel into the pantry. Shelves went from the floor to the ceiling and held more provisions than Link’s store had back in Cottonwood—not to mention it was better organized.
Angel handed Constance a big pot. “I don’t know. Living out here maybe. But I think it’s just one of those things you either have or you don’t. Like good horse sense. Some folks know a good horse when they see it, others get swindled every time.” Angel gathered items as she talked, plopping potatoes, carrots and onions into the pot. “There are times when I see an injured animal, and I just keep riding. I know no matter how hard I try, I won’t be able to help it. Not because of its kind or the size of their injury, but because of their will to let me help.”
There was truth in Angel’s unabashed philosophy. Sometimes a person just had to keep riding. Ignore what they’d seen, where they’d been. Focus on the here and now—like a house full of hungry people.
Constance set the kettle on the table. Angel was a lot like her father. That explained why they got along so well, and how they’d occasionally butt heads. Ellis not only loved his daughter, he respected her, and because of that others did, too. It was evident in how the men responded to Angel, both yesterday in town and today at the ranch.
“I saw it in you,” Angel said as they transferred the vegetables onto the table. “I knew you’d let me help.”
Constance caught the authenticity in Angel’s admission, and a tender wave of warmth, similar to how a morning fire warms a room, spiraled inside her chest. Moved by the genuine fondness blossoming inside her, Constance wrapped her arms around Angel’s shoulders. “Thank you. I appreciate your willingness to help me. And I treasure your friendship.”
Angel snuggled in for an extended hug. “I knew we’d be friends right off. We’ll forever be friends.”
Constance rested her chin atop Angel’s head. Though their age difference was great, she felt a kinship to the girl like no other she’d ever known. Something else wafted over her, a sense of protection. Of keeping Angel safe. Perhaps if she wrote a letter to the authorities in New York, not necessarily telling them where she was, but explaining everything to them—again. When she’d gone to them before, they’d said without a body there wasn’t a crime. This time she could tell them where Byron’s headstone was. Surely the undertaker could identify who was buried there. Her heart balled itself inside her throat. Maybe that wasn’t a good idea. That might be the proof they needed.
In the crowded front parlor across the hall, Ellis lowered Jeb’s darkening toes back into the tepid water. “They’ll be fine, Jeb. Sore for a while, but they didn’t freeze all the way through.”
“Thanks, Ellis. They sure do sting.” Jeb spoke through clenched teeth.
“I’m sure they do. It was foolish to leave town in the middle of a blizzard.” Ellis sat back on his haunches, and included all of the men in his gaze. His frustration at the disaster that could have been laced his voice as he spoke, “Why would any of you do such a thing? You all know better.”
Every man started talking at once, pointing fingers at each other and creating excuses. Ellis crossed his arms and waited for the commotion to die down. When it did, he pointed to Buford Homer, the one man he’d been shocked to see huddled beneath a quilt. The banker had more sense than the rest of the room put together—or should, leastwise. The man lowered his head, clearly unwilling to speak. Ellis turned instead to Fred Westmaster, the blacksmith, and maybe the second smartest man in the bunch.
“Well, Jeb there said the storm was lifting and that he was gonna ride out to talk to Ashton’s bride.” Fred glanced around. “Word got out. We all want a chance at asking for her considerations.”
“Are there any others?” Ellis hated the thought, but if there were, he’d have to see about finding them.
Fred shook his head. His cheeks, burned from the elements, were now redder than the man’s hair and beard. “No, not that I know of.”
The rest of the men shook their heads. “Well, gentlemen,” Ellis used the term lightly, “I’m afraid your trip was useless. Miss Jennings hasn’t decided if she’ll stay in the Territory.”
“Not stay?”
“Why not?”
“Says who?”
Ellis held up his hand, stopping the onslaught of questions. He’d dealt with men for years. They were by far easier to deal with than women. Not that he’d had much experience with women—but that’s what he’d always heard. Christine had been the only woman he’d ever dealt with, and her tender and kind heart had never been a challenge. Matter of fact, there were times he wished she’d have been less amicable; it would have better prepared him for raising Angel. His daughter definitely had a mind of her own. So did Constance, traveling all the way from New York City on little more than the promise of marriage. There was more to it than that, and his mind tumbled with what he should do about it.
“Whatcha mean, Ellis? Not staying?” Jeb asked. His young eyes looked as sad as his frostbit toes.
“She’s had a shock, fellas, in learning about Ashton’s death.” He seized all of their attention. “Miss Jennings needs time to catch her breath and then decide what to do. Running her down like a rabbit won’t speed up her decision-making.”
The room filled with low grumbles as his statement hit home.
“Sorry, Ellis,” Mr. Homer offered. “We should’ve thought before we acted. Now, it appears we’re indebted to you to let us stay until the weather breaks. I have no desire to venture back out in that storm, as I’m sure is the case with the rest of the men.”
The men nodded, gladly agreeing with what the banker said.
“You’re welcome to stay, but don’t expect Miss Jennings or Angel to wait on or entertain you.” Ellis wanted the ground rules laid out, and followed. Every man on his ranch knew their position when it came to his family. His mind tried to dart in another direction, telling him Constance wasn’t family, but he brought the thought to a halt, and glared around the room. “Understand?”
“Yes, sir, we understand,” Fred Westmaster assured. The man was the size and shape of a grizzly, and the gaze he shot around the room said he’d be enforcing the ground rules. “Don’t we?”
Agreeable nods and comments guaranteed everyone understood.
Ellis gave a single head bob, accepting their responses. “Good enough, then. I’m sure lunch will be ready shortly.” He rose, prepared to seek some thinking time in his office.
“Mr. Clayton,” Sam McDonaldson said. “Are you interested in claiming Miss Jennings?”
The man owned a farm between Heaven on Earth and Cottonwood. Ellis didn’t know him well, but had no reason to dislike him. Prior to this moment, that is. Ellis didn’t answer right away, not because he didn’t have one, but because he didn’t think anyone needed to know his business.
McDonaldson must have made his own conclusion from Ellis’s silence. “It seems a bit unfair to the rest of us, if you are, with her living here and all.”
Ellis met the man’s stare. McDonaldson had to be well over forty, and it appeared the man had less sense than he had hair. “Do you have a daughter, Sam?”
“No, you know I don’t,” Sam answered. “I ain’t never been married.”
Ellis turned, making a wide sweep of the room with a steady stare. “What about anyone else? Does anyone have a daughter or a female that could befriend Miss Jennings?” The room was full of negative gestures. “Then wouldn’t you agree the most appropriate place for Miss Jennings is here at the ranch—with Angel?” Some of the men nodded, while others simply stared at him. His throat wanted to swell up, as if it, too, wondered about his explanation. “Besides,” he added, “I’ve hired Miss Jennings to be a tutor to Angel for the time being. You all know the girl needs some formal education.”
No one dared argue that point. His daughter—as much as he loved her—could be considered a little rough around the edges at times, not to mention a bit domineering.
Ellis spun on his heels and left the room, not willing to answer the array of questions his last statement might conjure up.
The fire in his office needed to be stoked. Understandably, he’d told Thomas not to worry about the house fires after his morning visit, and Angel and Miss Jennings had their hands full with unexpected guests. Ellis crossed the room, threw in a couple of good-sized logs, and then strolled to the window. The blizzard raged on. The hands had been prepared for it. Most of the cattle had been brought close to the ranch and a good supply of hay had been laid out. The brunt of the morning chores had been for the homestead animals, including Angel’s flock. He’d stayed outside as long as he could—contemplating his house guest all the while.
Ellis made his way to his desk. Every time he encountered her, Constance said or did something that had his mind and guts rolling with questions. A smile played on his lips. She certainly had a sweet laugh. It hadn’t been funny—those men could have died—but once it was known everyone was fine, there probably wasn’t a person around who wouldn’t have broke out laughing upon seeing his front parlor. It resembled a Civil War infantry, a comical looking one.
He’d told her the truth: he had known they’d come. Once word got out that there was an available female in Cottonwood, men from as far away as Montana would descend on the town. He’d have to prepare for it, but hadn’t thought it would start today, in the middle of a blizzard.
There was also the consideration of how to prepare her for the onslaught of suitors. He’d expected to someday have this chore ahead of him, but assumed it would happen in a few years, when Angel became of age.
That thought lurched his stomach to his heels. When melancholy hit like this, he grew more thankful he’d only been blessed with one child. He’d have loved them all as much as he did Angel, of that he had no doubt, but the older she grew, the more he understood why his mother had cried when he and Christine had left the Carolinas.
He could only hope the man Angel would eventually fall in love with would be interested in living in Wyoming. Maybe not right on Heaven on Earth, but close by would be the next best thing.
Someone tapped on his door. He glanced at the mantel clock and was surprised by the length of time he’d been wallowing in thought. “Come in,” he instructed.
Angel stuck her nose in. “Lunch is ready.”
“Enough for everyone?”
She grinned, entering the room. “Yes. Constance could out-cook Beans.”
“Oh?” He slapped shut the notation book he hadn’t made a mark in. “She could, could she?”
The door closed behind her. “Yup,” Angel said confidently. “You already tasted her breakfast. She knows how to make fancy holiday candies and cookies, too, beside lots of other stuff.”
“How do you know that?” He rose and pushed his chair in, but didn’t move to the door.
“She told me.” Angel skipped across the room and jumped up to sit on the edge of his desk. “We were planning the holiday party when Mr. Homer arrived.” She rolled her dark eyes to the ceiling. “Followed by the rest.”
“You like Miss Jennings, don’t you?” He held in his other thought, that of asking his daughter if she was looking for a mother. The thought clung to the back of his mind like a pesky cobweb.
“Yes. And you will, too, once you get to know her. She’s lived in England and has lots of recipes from there. And she promised to teach me all about the kings and queens over there.”
“Kings and queens?” He ruffled her hair. “You’re interested in that kind of stuff?”
“I suspect.” She gave a nonchalant shrug. “I promised to teach her all about Wyoming, and in exchange she said she’d teach me about England. It would have been rude to not accept her offer.”
“I suspect it would have been.” He’d already spent too much time mulling thoughts, so took a hold of Angel’s hand. “Come on, scamp, let’s go get some lunch before our guests eat it all.”
“Why do you think she goes by Miss Jennings instead of Mrs. Jennings?” Angel asked as they walked to the door.
The question brought Ellis to a skidding halt. He planted a hand on the wood, keeping Angel from pulling the door open. “Because she’s not married?” It was a question, but he hoped it sounded like a statement.
“Not now, but she was.”
“No, Ashton died before she arrived,” he argued.
“Not Mr. Kramer.”
“Who then?”
“I don’t know. But when I helped her unpack there was a ring in one of her trunks. She said it was a wedding ring.” Angel stared up at him with open, honest eyes.
“Maybe it was her mother’s or grandmother’s. Women often pass their wedding rings down in the family.” The bubbling in his stomach said no matter how plausible that sounded, he didn’t believe it.
Angel shook her head. “Nope. She said it was hers, but that her husband died.”
His hand slipped from the door.
“I don’t think she meant to tell me though, since she clammed up right afterward.” Angel had pulled the door open and was crossing the threshold when she spun about to whisper, “Oh, and if any of the men ask, I cooked lunch. Constance doesn’t want to encourage them. Something about the way to a man’s heart being through his stomach.”
Ellis rubbed at the invisible hammers pounding against his temples, drumming up a headache like he’d never known. Constance Jennings was becoming more than he’d bargained for. Much more. What kind of woman keeps a dead husband a secret?

Chapter Four
Feeding the men without letting them know she was the cook was not an easy thing when a blizzard held everyone indoors. It wasn’t as if Constance thought herself an excellent cook, but years of preparing meals for Aunt Julia and Aunt Theresa had provided her with the ability to create very palatable dishes. She didn’t want the men to think she would make an acceptable wife just because she knew how to cook. Actually, the more she encountered the men roaming the house, the more she questioned her ability to marry anyone ever again.
She snuck a peek to the group sitting at the table. There was no doubt Ellis had said something. The guests were practically tripping over themselves attempting to help with any and all household chores. Two of them had washed the lunch dishes, and had managed to not break a single plate, which was a relief considering how awkwardly they’d gone about the duty.
Constance put aside the dust rag and walked across the room. “Angel,” she whispered near the girl’s ear. “It’s time to check the ham.”
The girl scooted her chair away from the table. “It’s time you boys cleared out. I gotta check the ham and show Miss Jennings how to peel potatoes.” There were times, especially in how Angel framed her words, that made it crystal clear she’d been raised in a man’s world.
“We can help,” Jeb offered. The man had hobbled into the kitchen earlier, and knowing how badly his feet must hurt, Constance hadn’t had the heart to shoo him out. His attendance had encouraged others to gain entrance, and before she knew it, all the men sat around the kitchen table. Angel had taken control of the situation by pairing them up and dealing out a game of whist. Constance had feigned interest in removing dust from the far corners of the room, while wondering where Ellis had gone.
“Nope.” Angel handed the deck of cards to Constance. The girl also knew when to play a trump card. “Pa wouldn’t want you in here underfoot. Skedaddle now.”
The men listened, pushing in their chairs before they left. When the door clattered shut behind the last one, Constance turned to Angel. “You know, sometimes a lady makes a subtle suggestion rather than giving orders.”
Angel cocked her head, as if deeply contemplating the suggestion. “Does it work?”
“Most of the time.” Constance picked up the pot-holders and opened the oven door. “For instance, you could have said, ‘Excuse us, gentlemen, but Miss Jennings and I have things we need to complete. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable in the parlor.’”
Angel laughed. Not just a little giggle, but an outright hee-haw.
Constance lifted a brow, attempting to chide Angel with a stern look.
“Do you honestly think those fellers would have listened to that? They’d still be sitting here telling us how comfortable they are,” Angel said, shaking her head and huffing out extra giggles.
Hiding her smile, Constance basted the ham before pushing the large roasting pan back into the oven. “You may be right. It’s just food for thought.”
“I’ll chew on it for a while,” Angel responded.
This time Constance couldn’t help but giggle. She playfully tossed a pot holder across the room. “You are going to be a challenge, aren’t you?”
Angel plucked the knitted pad out of the air with one hand. “Yup.” Eyes sparkling, she tossed the potholder back. “Life’s full of challenges. They make us stronger.”
Constance tossed the pot holder onto the counter and leaped forward. “You are full of it,” she teased, tickling the girl’s sides.
Twisting and giggling, Angel spun about and dug her fingers into Constance’s side. It had been years since she’d joked around. Her brothers had been masters at tickling. Joyful prickles shot up and down her sides and in and out of her heart as she and Angel playfully attacked one another.
The tickling match continued as they twirled from one end of the kitchen to the other. While both of them were whooping with glee the back door opened.
Ellis shed his coat and stomped the snow off his boots by the door. “Every time I find you two together, you’re giggling up a storm.”
His entrance had stalled their fingers, but while smoothing the wrinkles from the flour sack tied around her waist, Constance bit her lips at the fading bits of laughter now mingling with the flutter flipping her insides.
Angel, still openly giggling, wrapped an arm around Constance’s waist and laid her head on her shoulder. “I know. I haven’t had this much fun in years.”
Touched deeply, Constance hugged the girl back. It was quite profound, this tenderness she felt for Angel.
When Constance glanced up, the scowl on Ellis’s face shattered her joy like someone throwing a rock through a window. She pulled her eyes off him as the not-so-old scar on her abdomen stung with renewed pain, telling her she’d never know the love of a child. Swallowing against the thick glob forming in her throat, she patted Angel’s arm, and moved to the pantry. The ache in her heart wasn’t new, yet it had never been quite this strong.
Months ago she’d dealt with the scar, how it had come about, and how it had changed her life forever. There was no sense in reliving it. Her focus was best used on the present and the situation at hand.
Her mind shift wasn’t any better. She barely knew Ellis Clayton, yet the man had an overwhelming effect on her. Probably because he held her ability to survive in his hands. One word and she was out in the world—alone. She’d been there before, but this time around, she knew what to expect and didn’t want it back again. The path she walked was a rickety one, and she’d best tread carefully. If she had any hope of staying long enough to figure out her next steps, she’d best remember that.
“Can’t you find something?”
Constance spun about, grabbing a shelf to keep from falling.
Ellis reached out a hand, but pulled it back shy of touching her. His eyes latched on to hers though, and his gaze was penetrating, as if he searched for something. Constance was on the brink of suffocation by the time he finally said, “Angel’s been without a mother for a long time.”
Fearful no matter what she said would be taken wrong, she nodded. “I-I assure you, I’m not trying to replace her mother.”
“No one could ever replace her.”
“I know that.”
“You do?”
Believing honesty was her only friend in this instance, she explained, “I lost my mother as a child. No one could ever have replaced her, either.”
He nodded, slowly, silently, and then his hand touched her shoulder. The way he gently squeezed it sent a tidal wave of emotions rippling her system. “You haven’t had an easy time of it, have you?”
There was so much compassion in his words a part of her wanted to blurt out her entire life story, beg him for help.
“What I said last night was true,” he said. “If I believe Angel’s in danger, I’ll step in.”
His hand was still on her shoulder, and she feared he felt the way she trembled.
“But,” he continued, “I’ll also step in if I believe I can help. I have a lot of resources, Miss Jennings, and I’m not opposed to sharing them when needed.”
She had to respond, knew that’s what he expected. “Thank you, Mr. Clayton,” she said as evenly as possible. “Your generosity, what you’ve already provided, is more than I could have hoped for.”
His penetrating gaze was back, and it lingered until her heart pounded against her rib cage.
After another soft squeeze, he lifted his hand off her shoulder. “My daughter, Miss Jennings, is the most important thing in the world. I’ll do anything to see she’s happy.”
“I believe you will,” she whispered.
He didn’t move, yet the air in the pantry that moments ago had felt charged and heavy, grew light. Her heart still hammered, yet dread no longer shrouded her. Confused, Constance glanced around. The only thing that had changed was his expression, a soft smile now pulled on the corners of his mouth.
As he took a step back, out of the pantry, he pointed to a barrel of apples. “Angel loves applesauce.”
Something inside her flipped and stirred up a soft, gentle sensation that cascaded all the way to her toes. No one had believed her in a very long time, yet he did. He believed she only wanted what was best for Angel. “Then we’ll have applesauce for supper.”
Cooking, Angel’s never-ending chatter and the house full of men kept Constance busy the rest of the evening. The meal passed without an event, other than the men showering Angel with compliments on her cooking and applauding Ellis for having such an amazing child. Constance gave Angel a secretive wink, happy the girl was gaining acknowledgment outside of how well she could ride, shoot or rope.
After the meal, Constance insisted she’d do the dishes—alone, wanting the time to determine exactly how much she’d tell Ellis, and when. Of course, sooner would be better, but with a house full of men, she couldn’t very well insist they closet themselves in his office; yet it was her duty to tell him the truth—as much as possible, as soon as possible.
When the dishes were done, after a few interruptions from men offering to help, she made her way to the parlor, still not prepared with her next action step.
Faint music had made its way into the kitchen. She’d assumed it came from one of the men, but for some reason, seeing Ellis strumming on the guitar surprised her. Pausing in the doorway, she rested the side of her face against the arched framework and let the gentle tune fill her soul. She cherished guitar music, and hadn’t heard it in years. Her older brother, Edwin, had played guitar and often serenaded her to sleep.

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