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  “I am. Thank you for asking, Mister Melbyrne.”

  For just a moment, Vanora soaked in his solid form, his broad shoulders almost filling the space. Nodding, Vanora glanced at the coins to make sure the count was correct. “Coming.” Then she flashed a smile at the dressmaker. “Thank you for your help.” She draped the skirt over her arm and headed outside.

  “I see you found something.” Trent set his hat on his head then extended his bent elbow.

  Glad to see his friendlier nature had returned, she accepted the escorting gesture and walked down the steps. “I did, and from the sound of Cinnia’s description, she made the first garment for your cousin.”

  “I suspected as much.” At the wagon, he switched his grip to clasp her elbow.

  Used to doing for herself, Vanora flushed at accepting his gentlemanly actions. If she wasn’t careful, soon she’d come to rely on them. “How much farther to your ranch?”

  “We’ll be there within the hour.” He braced a hand on his lower back and arched. “I, for one, am looking forward to sleeping in my own bed tonight.”

  Hearing him echo her earlier thoughts about a comfortable bed deepened her flush. Although she was no expert, she suspected this topic of conversation was not typical.

  Papa cleared his throat and leaned forward. “We headed out on that side road I spotted by the smithy’s place?”

  “We are, so follow me.” Trent strode away.

  The next few hours passed in a whirl. Vanora watched with increasing appreciation as the ranch house appeared as only a bump on the prairie horizon then grew as they approached. The big two-story ranch house looked solid against the wide sky—the way she remembered the family home in Rapid City. Introductions filled the air as two ranch hands—one tall and blond, the other brown-haired with a hook nose—greeted the returning men. Chickens scurried out of the way as the group unloaded items from the wagon. Conversations buzzed around her as news was shared and the new stallion admired by the men. Trent provided a fast tour of the house, pointing out the bedroom she could use at one end of an upstairs hallway.

  Then suddenly, Vanora stood alone, surrounded by items that were familiar but belonged to other people’s lives. She glanced around the yellow-painted room with its wooden framed bed and lacy curtains and smiled at the touches of an accomplished seamstress. Lace bordered the pillow slips, and the bed held a flower basket quilt with calico flowers. A small bookcase with a dozen or so volumes stood next to a bureau.

  She moved forward, trailing a hand over the surfaces and enjoying the contrast of smooth and soft. In every moment of her stay, she intended to revel in this feminine haven. She never knew when Papa would decide the time had arrived to head out on the road and search for a new destination. A long look around the tidy room engendered a spark of resentment. Why did she always have to give up her comfort for his wanderlust?

  Chapter Eight

  The repetition of the following three days was anything but boring for Vanora. After years of cooking over an open campfire, she enjoyed the benefits of a real kitchen with multiple pots, pans, and utensils again. A water pump at the sink was pure luxury. Having a fully stocked pantry and icebox meant cooking was a relearned joy. From memory, she produced several of her family’s favorite dishes—the ones she’d learned at Mama’s side. Once, she noticed Papa wiping at the corner of his eye when she served cawl—a vegetable stew seasoned with bacon—and oatmeal dumplings.

  True to his word to her Papa, Trent remained in the background, appearing for meals and complimenting the food like the other hands. But she felt his gaze on her when she moved around the ranch. And she liked his attention probably more than she should.

  Between preparing meals and cleaning, she helped Papa as much as she could by leading the animals to his work area. He’d set up his small forge in one corner of the barn’s corral. The animals received a brief session of him running gentle hands over withers and flanks to get them accustomed to his touch. Soft-spoken words of admiration soothed any nervousness before Papa lifted the first hoof for cleaning and trimming. Watching him get lost in his work always brought a lump to her throat. This Papa was the one she cherished from her childhood.

  What she looked forward to the most was the hour or so after supper when everyone lingered in the main house. Some read, some played checkers or cards, and some just watched. Often, she pulled out her quilting. Hans, the blond ranch hand from Norway, sat near the fireplace and whittled birds. The renewed sense of family fed her soul.

  One night, Trent walked to the bookcase and lifted down a carved wooden box. “Who’s ready for a game?”

  Vanora glanced up from her stitching.

  Papa placed a finger in his book and watched, too.

  The three ranch hands made exaggerated hand waves and shook their heads. “Not me.”

  Curious, she turned to the closest ranch hand. “What does Trent have? And why don’t you men want to be involved?”

  Gordon McVale waved a hand. “Dominoes, and he always wins.”

  “Always?” In a game of chance? Not possible. She tucked the needle into the fabric and set the dragon banner onto a side table. “I’ll play.”

  “Great.” Trent grinned. “Let’s set up at the kitchen table so the game can spread out as it will.”

  Vanora followed and settled into a chair. “I haven’t played in years so refresh me on the rules.”

  “Simple. We each draw seven bones, and the games starts with whoever has the highest double.” He laid out the polished wood pieces and slid them in a circle. “Do you prefer a blocking or a scoring game? Or we can play by the Chicken Foot rules?”

  A loud chorus of protests came from the sitting room. Someone called, “Go easy on the lady, boss.”

  What did the hands know about this game that she didn’t? A niggle of doubt slid through her about what she’d agreed to. But she hadn’t wanted to refuse the chance to spend a bit of time with just Trent. She shot a narrowed gaze across the table. “What’s that about?”

  “Sore losers.” He shrugged. “We’ll play the regular rules.” He provided a rundown of what to expect.

  Times spent with her family in a similar setting around the kitchen table flooded her mind. Before she slipped into nostalgia and got misty-eyed, she perked up because the first spinner, the double-five, was in play. Then she had to focus on the best scoring strategy, because Trent proved to be quite a competitor.

  Truthfully, half her enjoyment came from watching his face as he studied the exposed pips and his gaze snapped between the bones on their sides in front of him and the connected ones lying flat. By the evening, his jaw always carried the shadow of whisker stubble and his dark hair was tousled from work. Each detail she catalogued with care so on a lonely night in the future, she could pull up a distinct image of him in her mind. As much as her heart wished for the chance to linger, her mind knew her father would be ready to move on when the work was done.

  “That’s the game point.” Trent set down his last bone.

  Feigning anger, Vanora shook the single tile she held in her hand. “And I had a place to play this one.” She pointed toward the scrap of paper listing their scores. “Only a five point difference.”

  “But still five points.” Shaking his head, he started collecting the wooden bones and setting them into the carved box his grandfather made decades ago. The flash of her impudent smile nearly stole his breath. “Did my winning ruin the chance for another game?”

  She leaned forward, her eyes narrowed. “Never. I like challenges.”

  “Does that mean you like being here on the Rolling M?” He paused and watched her expression for a reaction to his next statement. “All the men compliment your cooking. If not to you, then definitely to me. The operation sure could use a steady cook. Would you consider staying?”

  Her eyes shot wide, and she sat back, her hands braced on the edge of the table. “I don’t think your ranch has enough work to keep Papa busy over the winter. We need to find
a long-term spot before the weather turns bad.”

  Irritation sped through him, and he jammed in the last pieces. “How much time has passed since you made a decision for yourself?”

  “Keep your voice down.” Vanora stood and stepped to the open doorway to the sitting room, then turned back. “When did they all leave?”

  “Didn’t know they had. Your father walked upstairs about ten minutes ago while you contemplated your next move.”

  She moved to the stove and lifted the metal kettle. “I’m making a cup of tea. Do you want one?”

  “Are you changing the subject?” Her jerky movements showed her agitation, but the topic was too important to sweep aside. He’d watched Vanora blossom in these few days together and he wanted to see her flourish even more. Before he left on the trip south, he’d felt constrained by the ranch’s boundaries. But spending time with Vanora reminded him of the specialness of being the third generation to live in the same house, of following in his father’s footsteps by taming mustangs into ranch horses, and of living in a community where folks enjoyed relationships that lasted years.

  “Only fortifying myself.” She carried two cups and saucers to the table and set out the sugar bowl. Then she returned with the tin of tea leaves and measured out a portion in each cup.

  Trent tapped his foot but waited until she finished pouring the steaming water. “Tell me why you don’t let your father face the consequences of his actions.”

  After stirring a spoonful of sugar into her cup, she tasted the brew and closed her eyes for just a moment.

  Even the small luxury of a full sugar bowl didn’t pass without her quiet appreciation. He cautioned himself to allow her to reveal what she meant to say in her own time.

  “I failed Papa once, and I don’t aim to do so again.”

  “How did that happen?” Trent sipped the weak drink as he listened to her low tones in speaking of an older brother who died in a horse-related accident. Her halting speech and sniffles relayed her sustained grief over the incident. “I’m sorry for the loss you endured, but a younger sister has no influence over a headstrong young man. I was headstrong when young, and my father would tell you I still am. On more than one occasion, I disregarded the rules my parents laid down. So, I would never have given any weight to what a twelve-year-old kid told me to do.”

  “You’ve faced similar pleadings from a younger sister?”

  “Well, not the same exact situation. But Kathryn, in whose room you’re staying, used to follow me around and remind me about the rules and boundaries. When her warnings went ignored, she’d tattle back to Mom about whatever I was doing wrong.” He reached across the table and laid a hand over hers. “What happened to your brother was a horrible accident, but his death wasn’t your fault.” He couldn’t resist rubbing a thumb along the backside of hers, offering comfort with his touch.

  “Do you really think so?” She glanced up and held his gaze. “After all this time, I appreciate someone saying that. I’ve tried to be to Papa who Preece would have been.”

  The sight of her eyes shiny with unshed tears clenched his gut. “By denying what you have to give, Vanora? Doesn’t seem fair.”

  “You don’t understand, because you didn’t hear what he said.” She jumped to her feet and gathered the tea items from the table. “I’ll clean them in the morning.”

  Trent stood and jammed his hands in his front pockets. “Just one more thing and I’ll consider the topic closed.” He looked at where she stood at the sink, head down. “Have you looked ahead two or three years in the future? What kind of life is being hauled around the frontier and bailing him out of tough situations that he chooses to place himself in?”

  After a loud exhalation, she turned and met his gaze for moment. “Good night, Trent.”

  As he watched her hurry across the kitchen and disappear up the stairs, he swallowed against a lump in his throat. What he’d wanted to say was that he’d looked into his future and definitely saw her having a place on the ranch and in his arms.

  ~**~

  The next day after dinner, Vanora finished with the dishes and headed out to the barn. A breeze fluttered the hem of her split skirt. Once she experienced the freedom of movement the design allowed, she’d worn it every day she worked with her father. No more worries about a slag of hot metal burning a hole in her hem or having to hold up her skirts with one hand. That morning, she’d heard Trent announce the day’s task was mending fences so she assumed the hands were scattered. Probably she should plan a dish for supper that could sit in the pot for a while if they arrived later than normal.

  The discussion at the meal centered on Saturday’s dance and how much the ranch hands looked forward to attending. She’d waited to Papa’s objection, but he’d remained silent. She had no idea what to expect of a dance but wouldn’t miss the chance to experience it. Vanora walked to the tack room where a pile of bent shoeing nails waited to be straightened. Papa didn’t have the patience, and she didn’t mind because for every one she tapped back into shape, they didn’t need to buy a new one. She picked up the thin pliers and a hammer and got into the rhythm of tapping and turning. Each one was like a puzzle, and she needed to figure out the right angle that moved the metal straight again.

  Papa walked into the tack room and stood a few feet away.

  She stopped and glanced his way. “Something else I need to be doing?”

  “Nope.” He set his gloves on the end of the bench and crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you happy here?”

  Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Papa had never asked that type of question. How do I answer without hurting his feelings about our lifestyle? “I like sleeping in a real bed and cooking in a kitchen. I like seeing you getting satisfaction from your work.” She rolled the hammer in her hand. “I like what the ranch stands for—stability and a sense of family.”

  “I never knew you stepped in to replace Preece.”

  Gasping, she jerked around her head and stared at his somber face. I never meant for him to hear that. “How did you—”

  “I went to my room before you last night, but my door was not closed. I was keeping an ear on you two.” He crooked an eyebrow. “My role is to protect you, daughter. Back to the question. Why did you say you filled in for your brother?”

  Hurt rose in her chest, hot and raw. Like when the words were first spoken. She wished they could go back to yesterday, when this subject remained untouched and unexplored. “I heard you and Mama the day of Preece’s funeral.”

  Shaking his head, he muttered an oath. “Vanora, I don’t remember much of that day and even less of what Mama or I said. But know this fact to be true, our grief birthed those words. Please believe that.” He stepped close and rested a hand on her shoulder. His gaze burned. “I wish for you a life where you never know the soul-shattering grief of losing a child.” He tightened his grip. “I hope you know I love you. I always have.”

  “I love you, too, Papa.” Her eyes burned, but she blinked back the tears, not wanting to prolong the conversation. Heaving a big sigh, Vanora tilted her head to rest her cheek on the back of his rough hand. “Thank you.”

  After a quick nod, he cleared his throat and stepped away. “You got those nails ready?”

  “A few.” She scooped up a handful and passed them over. “What do you think about staying in Morgan’s Crossing? Trent says the valley holds six or eight ranches with more people moving in all the time. You could seek work on those places, too.”

  “I’ll think on the matter.” He tapped a finger on the end of her nose and then took a couple steps before turning back. “Trent’s a good man. Reliable, and I thinks he cares. Vanora, you’re old enough to decide who you spend time with.”

  Considering the option was definitely better than a no. Buoyed with the possibility, she returned to her task.

  Sometime later, she leaned against the corral railing and looked over the prairie. Tall brown grasses waved in the breeze. Purple and yellow wildflowers
added spots of color in an irregular pattern. A wide cloud rose from the ground. “Does this region get dust devils like in the Dakotas?” From a distance came two sharp claps. Gunshots? She scanned the area.

  “Don’t know. Why?” His head lifted. “Not thunder, was it?”

  “Don’t think so.” She listened but heard no more unexplained sounds. “That’s funny. The ranch hands shouldn’t be riding in from that direction.”

  Papa stood and shaded his eyes with a hand. “Get into the tack room, and stay there until I call.”

  Dread coiled in her stomach. “What?”

  “Do it, Vanora.”

  His tone sounded terse, one she rarely heard. Heart racing, she dashed into the barn, climbed onto the workbench, and patted a hand on top of the supply cupboard until she touched the rifle she’d seen Trent store there. She made quick work of checking the weapon for bullets and searching the cupboard for more ammunition. From the corner of her eye, she saw Papa walk down the central aisle, his hands loose at his sides.

  Riders trotted into the yard and came to a stop, horses blowing. From an angle that kept her hidden, she couldn’t see how many men Papa faced.

  “That’s him. That’s the man who reneged on his bet.”

  Stanwick. She bit back a moan. All the miles of running and he’d still found them.

  “I’m Owain Deverell. Who are you, sir?”

  “Mister Deverell, I’m George Templeton, and I work for the Pinkerton National Detective Agency.”

  Vanora pressed her back against the wall and eased her head around the corner. Stanwick, the two men she’d seen in Butte City, and a tanned man wearing a silver badge on his vest formed a line across the barn opening. Four armed men against her unarmed Papa.

  “Sir, I have a sworn statement here.” Templeton reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded document. “Mister Cornelius Stanwick, owner of the Lucky Nugget Saloon, claims a gambling debt in your name is owed and demands full payment amounting to seventy-five dollars. He further claims that a Miss Vanora Deverell ran out on their marital engagement, and he expects her to honor her commitment.”