From Heiress to Nanny

When heiress Victoria Templeton learns her fortune is gone, she has to move to the Colorado frontier to live with her uncle. But with no money to pay for the trip, she must accept a position as a traveling nanny for a widowed rancher. And, much to the chagrin of the man entrusting his children to her care, she soon finds herself in over her head.

Mitch MacLeod lives for two things: his ranch and his children. And pampered Victoria isn’t qualified to help with either. But the former socialite has more grit—and determination—than he first thinks. If her uncle has his way, though, Mitch will soon lose his ranch—and any hope of a future with Victoria.

“I want to do something.” She leaned into him and heard his indrawn breath.

Then he shut his eyes. “Victoria. I know you mean well. When I first met you, I doubted you could even polish a fork. I can see you care for the children, but caring isn’t enough.” He paused and opened his eyes again. “Even love isn’t enough. Ranching is a tough life. It’s not meant for families.”

His voice hitched as he continued, “Please leave, Victoria. I don’t want the children hurt. I don’t want to be—” He cut off his hoarse words.

She reached out and touched his chest. The cotton was rough, durable, the muscles beneath firm. It was as if she could trust this man with her life. He seemed so salt-of-the-earth dependable. Hardworking stock. She had to shut her eyes for a moment, for surely he was stealing her focus. “I can help. I can learn to do—”

He took her wrist and pushed her hand down. “No, you can’t help. Now leave before I do something stupid.”

She leaned closer. “Like letting me try?”

He shook his head. “No, like kissing you.”

BARBARA PHINNEY was born in England and raised in Canada. After she retired from the Canadian Armed Forces, Barbara turned her hand to romance writing. The thrill of adventure and her love of happy endings, coupled with a too-active imagination, have merged to help her create this and other wonderful stories. Barbara spends her days writing, building her dream home with her husband and enjoying their fast-growing children.

The Nanny Solution
Barbara Phinney

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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When pride cometh, then cometh shame: but with the lowly is wisdom.

—Proverbs 11:2

Dedicated to Kate Kelly, a great author and even better friend. You will be sadly missed.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Boston, 1882

Victoria Templeton sank into the Queen Anne chair. Her mouth fell open in a most unfeminine manner as she gaped up at her pacing, overwrought mother. “What do you mean, ‘we’re broke’?”

Abigail Templeton-Smith continued to pace, all the while wringing her black handkerchief. When the maid entered the front room with afternoon tea, the older woman flicked the small black square, essentially shooing away both the girl and the refreshments.

Victoria’s attention then settled on her mother’s gown. The mourning outfit was terribly outdated, its black bombazine dull in the barely lit room with the window curtains drawn tight. Where was the tasteful mourning suit Mother had worn just yesterday? The last time this old thing saw any use was when they’d buried Victoria’s father, ten years past. “Mother? What’s really going on?”

“Must I repeat it? We’re broke!” Abigail dropped onto the settee and plucked at the skirt of her outfit. “I had to dig this old thing out because I gave all but one of my mourning clothes to Bess.”

Her mother’s maid? “Why?”

“She found a buyer over on Tremont Street. An actress from Chickering Hall, in fact, who approached me last week, saying my mourning outfits would add to an upcoming play. Can you imagine the cheek of that woman? I brushed her off at the time, but after I saw Mr. Lacewood, well, I sent Bess to see her...”

Victoria struggled to follow her mother’s words. Mr. Lacewood had been her stepfather’s solicitor, but what did he have to do with her mother’s mourning outfits?

“...and she was able to get a pretty penny for them. Naturally, I retained this old thing for when I’m at home and one good one for—”

“Why on earth did you sell your mourning clothes?” Victoria interrupted, all the while trying to refrain from gaping unbecomingly at her mother.

“Do not interrupt. It’s terribly ill-mannered.” Abigail blinked before finishing her tale. “As for why, well, I did it for a train ticket!”

“Where are we going?”

Her mother looked away. “Not we, Victoria. Me. I’m going down to the Carolinas to stay with your aunt Eugenia until this dreadful mess blows over.”

Victoria wanted to remind her mother that the “dreadful mess” was her second husband’s recent suicide. But since the marriage hadn’t been a happy union, what else would her mother call it?

Still, something else was terribly wrong. Her mother had never been a loving woman who’d defend her only child to the death, but would she really abandon her own daughter? Would she plan her departure even before Charles was cold in the ground? Yes, Boston was talking about his suicide, and yes, Victoria had yet to shed a tear for the oily character, but his death was hardly a “dreadful mess.”

Victoria moved to sit down beside her mother, her back straight, thanks to her corset, and her expression as firm as the bustle that she’d pulled up behind her. “I want the truth, Mother. You’ve just told me we’re broke and that you’re leaving. I know you met with Mr. Lacewood this morning about Charles’s affairs. And this?” She flicked at her mother’s skirt, receiving in return a sharp glare. “I can’t believe you still have this, let alone have it on. Now, Mother, it’s time for the whole truth. Every last detail.”

Though Victoria was only twenty, she had inherited her father’s sensibilities instead of her mother’s shallow neediness. She loved her mother but couldn’t deny that the woman who’d given birth to her was not known for her warmth and compassion.

Her mother edged away. “Charles had some heavy gambling debts. Ones that must be paid.”

“Gambling debts! Why must they be paid if Charles commit—” She cut off her own words. No need to constantly repeat the words that were the unfortunate reality.

Abigail’s voice fell to a whisper. “I gave him control over your estate. I’d given him everything. It isn’t good form for a woman to deal with finances and we both know that Charles proved me wrong whenever I made a suggestion about money.”

Victoria wanted to interject that apparently Charles was the one who was proved wrong in the end, but the bitter comment lodged in her throat. There was no good reason to point out the obvious, and Mother was shamed enough.

“Charles said that profit could be made with the right investments.” Abigail’s voice hitched as she continued, “A month ago, he promised me we would see changes in the investments. Only then did I suspect what type of ‘investments’ they really were.”

Victoria gasped. “What were they?”

“He was gambling. Heavily, I’m afraid.” Abigail’s chin wrinkled, her cheeks flamed. “Mr. Lacewood said, considering how he’d spent more than we owned, the best thing would be to liquidate the estate.”

“Whose estate?”

Her mother said nothing.

Victoria smacked the settee beside her, causing the older woman to jump. “Mine! Given to me by my father for my future! Wasted because you think it unseemly for a woman to handle her own finances! Mother, how could you?”

“I had no idea he was gambling!”

With an unfeminine snort, Victoria stormed to the window and shoved open the curtains to let in the weakening October sun. While in mourning, one kept the draperies closed, but Victoria couldn’t stand the dimness.

Then remembering that a good deal of the fine local population strolled past at this time of the day, she hastily yanked the drapes back together. Best not to appear unseemly. The black wreath on the front door of their Federal-style town house had limited their visitors. And thankfully, her mother had insisted on a small funeral. Just as well, considering the cause of death. Suddenly the white crepe at the neck of Victoria’s black dress all but choked her. Oh, she couldn’t wait to be free of this thing! Surely six months of mourning a thief was overdone.

A thief! She spun and pushed her hands against her hips. “Now we have nothing?”

Abigail sniffed. “I was as shocked as you are.”

“So shocked he stole from us that you came home and sold all of your mourning outfits for a train ticket south.”

“Not all of them and don’t make it sound so horrible, please. I saved one good outfit for when I travel.”

“First class, I assume.”

At the acid tone, Abigail bit her lip, but didn’t look up. “I can’t be seen traveling second class out of Boston. Please don’t make a fuss, Victoria. This house and the summer home in Portland will be put up for sale immediately.” Abigail finally looked up with a hollow expression. “And please don’t solicit your friends for money. Allow me to leave Boston gracefully. I need to be gone before the ad is published.”

“What about Francis? He could help, surely?”

Abigail shook her head. “No. You two weren’t engaged yet. Charles had promised he would make the arrangements, but he didn’t and I dare not ask now. Francis’s father doesn’t tolerate this kind of disgrace. He’s a Brahmin, after all.” She let out a shaky sigh. “We’ll never be able to secure a decent marriage for you here.”

Victoria blinked. It had been her hope to marry into Boston’s highest class. Surely Francis would help; after all, their families had been considering a marriage between them. But even as she thought that, she knew the truth. Dutiful Francis would want nothing except to maintain propriety. He’d told Victoria decency and honor were values on which the United States were built. To discard them would be discarding all patriotism.

“What am I to do, Mother?” Victoria asked quietly. “Have you given any thought to me?”

Abigail’s expression softened and she leaned forward, all the while patting the space beside her on the settee. Victoria refused to comply. “My dear, if I could take you, I would. But Eugenia is trying to find good matches for your unruly cousins. Each is bent on having a career first, then after that, choosing their own husband.”

“That’s not a new idea, Mother.”

“At least you were going to allow us to arrange your marriage.”

Of course. Why wouldn’t she? The men in the circles Victoria frequented were wealthy, Brahmin men with long, drawling accents and Old World charm. Who wouldn’t want to marry into that lifestyle? Victoria knew little of her cousins, but she could read the writing on the wall here. Aunt Eugenia was afraid of competition. And her mother would never risk her invitation by arriving with Victoria.

She swallowed. Dear Lord in heaven, what am I to do? Then she asked her mother in a quiet, wobbly voice, “When do you leave?”

Abigail stood. “This coming Saturday.”

Three days hence, for it was Wednesday today. “And me, Mother? If the house is to be sold, where am I to go? Have you considered me in any of this?”

Abigail bit her lip. “I have thought of you, Victoria. I really have. Last week, after I received Walter’s condolences, I wired him. I received his telegram this morning.”

Victoria had met her mother’s older brother once, at her mother’s second wedding, but barely remembered him. He lived in some western frontier town. Mother claimed he was making his fortune there.

“Your uncle says he’ll take you in.”

She immediately bristled. “Like an old maid?”

“I’m so sorry for all of this.” Abigail found her black handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “It was a mistake to allow Charles to handle the finances. I see that now.”

Victoria hesitated. For all her faults, Abigail was still her mother. She hated to see her own flesh and blood on the verge of tears. “I’ll need some money for the train fare.”

Abigail walked to the sideboard and opened her purse. “Walter wired to say that he can send you money. I didn’t want to ask for myself, but for you...”

Victoria stiffened. “I won’t take charity, least of all from a relative I don’t know.”

“He’s your uncle!” Abigail tossed a swift look at Victoria. “He thinks it will work out well.”

Victoria stilled. She knew her mother. Something else was amiss. “Why would he think that? He hasn’t had any contact with us. What’s going on?”

Abigail held out the telegram. “Walter suggested you may take a liking to his business partner, who is a widower. It would keep the business in the family. Your uncle says he will send some money so you can travel in comfort. You’ll need to look your best when you arrive and first class has very nice Pullman cars.”

Snatching the telegram, Victoria flicked it open. “So I can be purchased for the price of a first-class ticket?”

Abigail stiffened. “You’re not going to find anyone here who will take you in for the long term. That’s just the way it is.”

Victoria sagged. Her mother was right, at least about accepting her Uncle Walter’s offer of accommodation. “Fine. I’ll go. But I’ll ask Mr. Lacewood for a loan. Once I’m out West, I’ll find a way to repay him.”

“Borrowing from our solicitor? We already owe him! He’s settling Charles’s affairs discreetly.”

Within Victoria, irritation swelled again. Her mother had allowed Charles to ruin them, but she wasn’t allowed to borrow train fare from their solicitor? “I’ll be sure to thank him for his discretion.” She swept from the front room.

Her mother hurried behind her. “You mustn’t ask him for money. That’s too embarrassing!”

Bent on ignoring her, Victoria scooped up her small purse and threw open the front door. But her exit was blocked.

A tall man stood at the door, his knuckles raised to knock on the wood above the wreath. And down the few steps behind him were four children of varying heights, all staring at her.

* * *

Mitch MacLeod dropped his hand. The slender, black-garbed woman who’d flung open the door glared at him. Perhaps rightly so. He was a disgrace. His suit needed ironing, and he hadn’t had the time today to even shave. He was only thirty, but this afternoon he probably looked fifty. He cleared his throat as he removed his Stetson. “Miss Victoria Templeton?”

An older woman hurried up behind the young woman. For a few stalled seconds, he stood there, waiting for the younger to answer.

“I am she.” Those words sounded more like a challenge than a confirmation. “And you are...?”

“My name is Mitchell MacLeod. I need the services of a woman—” He cleared his throat again. “I mean, I would like to employ a young woman to assist my family as we travel west. My solicitor, Robert Lacewood, suggested you, since you were planning a trip out West, anyway.”

The woman, Victoria, swung her glare over her shoulder. Just by looking at the pair, Mitch could tell they were mother and daughter, with the younger one’s fine, dark blond hair a shinier version of her mother’s. But Victoria’s expression was hardly respectful.

The older woman, the recently widowed Mrs. Abigail Templeton-Smith, he presumed, cringed as she spoke to her daughter. “I may have let that slip this morning, but Mr. Lacewood would have guessed your, ahem, need.”

“Say it, Mother. My need for money. Well, let’s hope Mr. Lacewood’s discretion lasts through the sale of the house.”

Mitch looked up the front facade. He would have never considered searching for a nanny in one of these fancy brownstones, but he trusted Lacewood. The man had been honest yet prudent with his wife’s affairs, he thought, remembering the squalling infant he’d left in a nurse’s care for the afternoon.

His gut clenched. His own children now stood obediently behind him. The marriage between the children’s parents had been a convenient arrangement, but neither he nor Agnes had put their hearts into it. Still, Agnes had trained their children well. Would she have done the same for the infant, had she not died in childbirth?

Focusing back on the women in front of him, Mitch decided to explain the immediate need. His time was short. “Miss Templeton, Mr. Lacewood thought you were planning a trip out to Proud Bend, Colorado. It’s close to my ranch. I have need of a woman who can assist me, and in return, I’ll pay for her fare.”

He tried a hopeful, earnest expression. “Perhaps we can discuss this inside?” He knew little of this class, but he presumed socialites never chatted at the front door. He’d realized as he’d climbed the steps that he was taking a huge chance that this Victoria Templeton would accept employment, but Lacewood had seemed optimistic. Mitch glanced around as Victoria stepped back from the door to allow him entrance. They owned this house yet needed money? Could they be spendthrifts? Perhaps. Who was he to know this sex?

No one, he thought, bitter pride blossoming on his tongue. He was a rancher, after all. Ranchers focused on their herd, not on figuring out fickle women.

Victoria led him, with his children in tow, into the front room. She marched straight to a small bell, which she rang. A woman in a uniform appeared, and refreshments were ordered. The mother stopped at the parlor entrance and looked down at his brood, as if noticing an appalling sample of vermin for the first time. Then, with a short sigh, she strode to the settee and sat down.

“Have a seat, Mr. MacLeod.” Victoria offered him a fussy chair while she chose to sit beside her mother. “Do you drink tea?”

“I can.” Mitch hadn’t come to fiddle with dainty teacups and tiny biscuits, but if it was needed to secure help, so be it. He glanced over at his children, who hovered at the door to this fancy room, lost little souls that they were. With a short nod, he indicated for them to enter and sit, although Matthew, his oldest, remained standing, as if on guard. Mary shared a nearby armless chair with her brother, John, while the youngest in tow, Ralph, sat cross-legged on the floor in front of them, his dark brown curls bouncing as he looked around. Their eyes widened to saucers when the tea and biscuits arrived. But when the older woman offered them nothing, they thankfully stayed silent.

Following his gaze, Victoria looked over at the children. Mitch knew she’d caught the very small shake of his head that warned them not to beg. Her attention darted back to her mother, who, ignoring all else, supervised her maid as she filled each cup.

Clicking her tongue, Victoria snatched the tiered silver tray of sweets and marched over to the children. “Your hands.”

They gaped at her. “Hold out your hands,” she revised.

They all obeyed. Mitch shut his eyes. Ralph’s grubby paws would need a good scouring. The boy could find dirt in heaven, he was sure. But, ignoring the state of the children’s hands, Victoria dropped two biscuits into each outstretched palm.

In turn, each child whispered a polite thank-you.

“Miss Templeton, I need help,” Mitch said when Victoria returned the tray to the table between them and sat down again. “I have to return to my ranch, and as good as my children are, they need a woman while traveling out there, especially considering two of the five are girls.”

Victoria glanced again at the children. Even her mother, who’d been busy looking down her nose at the whole situation, also turned. It was Victoria who spoke. “You have four children, and only one of them is a girl.”

“The baby, Emily, is in the care of a nurse right now.”

“And your wife, Mr. MacLeod? Where is she? Is she still in her confinement?”

Mitch’s jaw tightened. “She died in childbirth a month ago. September 4, to be exact. I’m hoping to take the children to our ranch, the one I’ve been building for my family.”

It was all he would say on the subject. For, no matter what, he would not reveal the truth about Emily’s unknown paternity.

Your pride will be your downfall, Mitch. Don’t go thinking it will serve you well. When pride cometh, then cometh shame.

The pastor of the church in Proud Bend, the town closest to his ranch, had spoken the warning before Mitch had left for Boston to collect his family, now that his new ranch was ready. Mitch had also boasted that he would pay off his mortgage within two years, and that he would then have the finest beef cattle within view of Castle Rock. What awaited him here—his wife’s death, the unexpected child—had brought the pastor’s words into sharp focus.

He pushed aside the memory. It would serve no good purpose to dwell on things that brought shame.

“No mother?” Her eyes widening, Victoria interrupted his thoughts. “Poor things.” Her brows then knitted together as she looked over at him. “My condolences.”

“Thank you. Yes, it has been difficult on them.” And me, in a way you’ll never know. Mitch tightened his jaw, holding himself back from saying something that might reveal the betrayal still coursing through him. “Lacewood is seeing to my late wife’s final affairs, for I need to return to my ranch. And I can’t do so without a woman to assist me. Are you going out West, Miss Templeton? I can pay for your fare and a small stipend in return for your assistance.”

It sounded a foolish thing to say, but Lacewood had suggested those exact words. “The trip is broken up by switching engines and lines, but it’s remarkably fast, only three days, two nights,” Mitch added, hoping the solicitor’s optimism hadn’t been misplaced.

Victoria’s mother shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. MacLeod, but my daughter’s fare is already taken care of.”

“I’ll take it.”

Both her mother and Mitch looked to Victoria. She folded her arms. “My fare hasn’t been purchased yet.”

The older woman looked aghast. “But you need to travel first class, Victoria. You need to look your best when you arrive. You won’t get any rest helping this man.”

Knowing he was being ignored, Mitch spoke up. “I can’t afford first class, but I’m told you’ll get your rest. It’s a second-class car, but it’s a Pullman sleeper one.”

He couldn’t guarantee rest. He just said that because dropping the fancy Pullman name might help his cause, although that company no longer made those second-class sleepers, he’d been told. They would travel in an older model.

The mother gasped. “Second class! That will never do!”

Victoria, however, smiled sweetly at him. Too sweetly. “I said I’ll take the job. When do we leave?”

Chapter Two

The young porter hefted Victoria’s bags off the damp platform. The early morning’s cold drizzle reflected the mood of the day. Victoria looked sidelong at the four children staring at her from under the cover of the train depot’s narrow overhang, each clutching one small bag. She cringed. Her maid had managed to pare her luggage down to four pieces, but they seemed huge compared to everyone else’s. Yet she needed it all, and she hadn’t even packed a mourning dress.

And why should she? She refused the convention of grieving the man who’d ruined her life. What she wore today was conservative in style and color and quite expensive. It was more than suitable.

Her mother had taken six bags with her. Her departure yesterday had been surprisingly difficult for Victoria, despite the discontent between them and the fact that Mother had come and gone in Victoria’s life several times. With her need for the cool air of Portland in August or the warmth of the Carolinas in February, she was always leaving Victoria in the care of a nanny, but this time their parting was different. Their home must be sold. Discreetly, of course, the assets liquidated as per Mr. Lacewood’s instructions, after consultation with an investor. The staff would be let go, each with a glowing letter of recommendation.

Victoria took one lamenting look down the platform, wondering if she’d see any friends. She recognized no one. A blessing, really, she told herself, all the while fighting disappointment. Mother had asked that this dreadful affair be completed as quickly and quietly as possible and such meant no one must know they were slipping out of town in disgrace.

Once she was settled in Colorado, she would write to the few women she called friends and explain everything. Perhaps by then, time might have softened the emotions roiling through her.

And Francis? Would he call before the harvest soiree that his mother was to host? Shouldn’t she write to him, too? Abigail had not invited his family to Charles’s funeral. Victoria clenched her jaw. Honestly, a funeral shouldn’t require invitations as though it were some exclusive fete. All she could do now was hope that Francis would not call to an empty house.

Oh, who was she trying to convince? She and Francis had shared only a trio of engagements. Not one word in their conversations had ever suggested that he’d been interested enough to come calling. They owed each other nothing.

Which was what Victoria had right now, apart from a few small coins in her purse. Once the young porter had finished stowing all her bags save the one she’d asked to be made readily available, she dropped one coin into his palm as she thanked him. He nodded.

With an edgy exhalation, Victoria watched the porter disappear. What was she going to do when her money was gone? She had good secretarial skills, because of her education, but Walter was expecting her to trade his charity for a marriage to his partner. Mother had married Charles out of convenience. What had that done for her? It had turned her into a poor relation. Victoria firmed her shoulders. Marriage to a stranger? No. As soon as she arrived in Proud Bend, she’d start looking for clerical work.

Her heart lurched at the bitter humiliation.

A sturdy breeze rolled down the platform, bringing with it the foul, oily smoke from the locomotive and forcing Victoria closer to the children to prevent her lovely traveling outfit from catching the soot.

It was a dark green skirt suit in a quiet style suitable for the day. The bustle was small and the tailored waistcoat with its unobtrusive buttons could fit both mourning and traveling. She battled the filthy breeze that seemed determined to lift her skirt.

Victoria searched the platform again. It would soon be time to board. Mr. MacLeod had asked her to be here at 7:45 a.m. sharp, a good half hour before the train was to leave this Sunday morning. Indeed, his children were here, standing dutifully against the wall, staring at her as if expecting her to vanish in a puff of smoke.

“Miss Templeton?”

She turned and found Matthew holding out her small change purse. He was nearly as tall as she was. “You dropped this.”

She patted down the small hidden pocket in her skirt and found it empty. Then, accepting the coin purse, she smiled. “Thank you. I wouldn’t want to lose this. It’s all I have.”

The young boy’s bland expression didn’t change.

Poor mites. Their mother had entered a hospital and had not returned. Victoria couldn’t blame them for expecting her to disappear, as well. She peered once more up and down the platform. Had their father decided that he couldn’t handle the stress of caring for all these children? He hadn’t struck her as that type when they’d met at the brownstone, but what did she know about men? They could all have a bit of that slick behavior her stepfather had shown.

“Where is your father?” she asked Matthew.

“He’s gone to get the baby.”

“Oh.” She consulted the large clock that hung from the rafters. “The train leaves in fifteen minutes. Do you have the tickets?”

Matthew shook his head. Gripping her purse tighter, Victoria bit back uncertainty, torn between pulling those frightened little children into her arms and marching into the depot’s office to ask for copies of the purchased tickets. Finally she said, “We may as well board and get you all settled in. Do you have any more bags?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Why do you have so many?” Mary piped up.

Feeling her cheeks color slightly, Victoria peered down at the little girl. How old was she? About seven? “A lady needs a lot of things.”

“Papa says I’m a lady, and all I have is this.” She hoisted a small drawstring bag. “One nightgown, a fresh pinafore and stockings. Why do you need more?”

Glancing around, Victoria drew the children toward the train. “The things a lady wears underneath are bigger, that’s all. And some of them can’t be crushed. Besides, I’m bringing soap, and all of you will need a good scrubbing. Now let’s hurry. I don’t want your father to have to deal with us should he be late himself.”

As they climbed aboard, the conductor asked for their tickets. Victoria felt the heat rise once more into her cheeks. She had no idea the conductor would demand the tickets so early. She’d taken the train when they’d traveled up to Portland last summer, but Charles had seen to those details. “I’m sorry. They haven’t arrived yet. Are we assigned seats?”

“Yes, ma’am, but I have a list of the passengers. What is the name?”

“MacLeod. Mitchell MacLeod,” a deep voice behind her answered.

Victoria turned to find Mitchell climbing up with great ease despite the baby he held. Swathed in a simple white layette and a brown blanket, she nuzzled her cap, which had managed to cover half of her face. Her attitude was clearly deteriorating.

“She’s hungry,” he said bluntly.

Victoria swallowed. “Do you have any milk for her?”

“Yes, but let’s get settled first. Here, take her.” Supporting the baby’s head, he shoved her into Victoria’s arms. In that brief moment, panic swept through her. Until now, Victoria had yet to hold a baby. Ever.

Oh, dear, what was the child’s name? Mitchell had told her, but she’d forgotten it in her haste to accept his offer. Oh, yes, Emily.

For fear she might drop Emily, Victoria drew her close as Mitchell surrendered the tickets. Glass clinked in the cotton drawstring bag he held. She half expected the bottom of the bag to start leaking milk, but it didn’t.

Hoping that Mitchell knew how to bottle feed the infant, Victoria smiled bravely at the rest of his children. They did not return it.

Goodness, she thought. This was going to be a long trip out West.

A porter led them to their seats, speaking as he walked. “I can show you where you can warm the milk, ma’am.”

Ma’am? Did he think that she was married? Regardless, Victoria thanked him before turning to Mitchell. “Am I expected to feed Emily? We didn’t discuss the finer details of my employment.”

Mitchell removed his tall, wide-brimmed hat and slipped it into the compartment above them. Was it one of those Stetsons she’d read about in stories of the Wild West? He chose then to peer down at her, his thick, chestnut hair springing free into enviable curls. Her dark blond hair had only a light wave to it. Although slimly built, Mitchell had broad shoulders and arms that strained his jacket’s sleeves. He was obviously a man used to hard work. “Have you ever fed a baby before?” he asked.

Reddening, Victoria glanced around. By now, the car was nearly full. A young woman carrying her own infant squeezed past, her wide, slightly dated skirt sweeping away everything in its path. She settled in a seat across from them. When Victoria returned her gaze to Mitchell, she shook her head. “Until this moment, I hadn’t even held a child. I have no siblings nor friends with children. Mother thought they were messy and felt it unbecoming of a lady to fawn over them.” Her smile felt watery. “Do you know how? I presume we should warm the milk, and I can only hope that bag has everything we need.”

* * *

Mitch frowned at her. What on earth kind of woman had he hired? When he’d met Victoria a few days ago, she was genteel and seemed full of common sense, unlike that fretful mother of hers.

He’d assumed she would know about babies. Didn’t all women? Grimacing, he realized that he should have asked that question when they’d first met. But by then, he’d been in Boston for a fortnight and at the time still reeling from his wife’s passing two weeks before that—and of course from Emily’s arrival. The hospital hadn’t even contacted him about Agnes’s death, he recalled grimly. They’d simply arranged for her church to bury her.

Mitch was thankful for their compassion. But by the time he’d terminated the rental agreement of her home and figured out how to set aside his anger at the situation she’d created, another week had passed. Only by the charity of the nurse who’d attended Agnes during her final hours did the baby get the care she deserved. The nurse had then instructed him to either find a nursing mother or purchase the bottles and baby’s milk needed. The doctor had suggested the latter also.

By then, time had become even more precious. He’d needed to hire a woman to help him during the train ride out. Not just any woman, but a trustworthy one. Mitch had heard tales about women willing to care for babies, but once payment was given, the children often died mysteriously.

Mitch looked down at Emily, her nuzzling and fussiness escalating. A good screaming bout would soon begin and his heart wrenched. She may always represent the worst betrayal in his life, but he could not abandon her. He’d never be able to live with himself if he did.

He rubbed his forehead. “I’ll show you what to do.” He turned to his oldest son. “Matthew, mind the young ones. We’ll be back in a moment.”

He strode to the front of the sleeper car. He could only assume Victoria followed, because he couldn’t hear a thing over the train whistle and the din in the car. The train lurched ahead and immediately, he spun, fully prepared to catch Miss Templeton and the baby. But all was fine. Miss Templeton’s grip might have been a bit tight, but she’d kept herself steady.

* * *

The older porter tending the fire in the small stove of the train kitchen looked up when they approached. Victoria watched Mitchell thrust the cotton bag at him. “We need some baby’s milk warmed, please.”

Still holding the baby, Victoria slipped in beside Mitchell, determined not to miss a thing. She had better learn all she could as quickly as possible.

The porter took the cotton bag and loosened its drawstring to peer inside. He nodded and told them he would deliver the warmed milk to their seats.

As they made their way back, Mitchell said to Victoria over his shoulder, “You do this each time. I’ll see to the man’s gratuity when we reach Denver. That’s when we change lines.”

“Where will we store the milk between the feedings? It’s already quite warm in here.”

“I expect the kitchen has an icebox, but each time we stop, I’ll purchase more if need be, plus food for us.” He slowed. “I won’t waste money on the food made at train depots, though. It’s inedible and the children will only refuse to eat it.”

By the time they’d reached their seats, Emily’s whimpering had become full-out wailing. Automatically, Victoria bounced her lightly. She wasn’t looking forward to feeding her. Why, she hadn’t even peered inside that cotton bag. What on earth did a baby’s bottle look like?

“Would you like the window seat?”

She quickly shook her head. “I don’t think so. If you expect me to feed and change the baby, I’ll have to sit closest to the aisle.” She cringed. Oh, dear—change the baby? Another task of which she knew nothing.

Nodding, Mitchell slipped in ahead of her, stepping over the basket that he must have had delivered. Victoria took her seat beside him, glancing over at the young woman across the aisle. The baby in her arms rested comfortably, no doubt well fed.

The woman eyed her up and down, her interest far too blatant. Uncomfortable at her nerve, Victoria looked away, realizing she probably looked foolish, still with her gloves on, as though a child was something to avoid touching. She wasn’t. The child was beautiful. Victoria suppressed a smile as she looked down at Emily. At least now she could see the baby’s face, since she’d removed her small bonnet. She’d removed her own hat as well and slipped them both in beside Mitchell’s Stetson before they’d strode up to see about warming the milk.

A few minutes later, after far too many screams from Emily, the old porter arrived with the bottle.

It was shaped like a flattened lemon, made of clear glass with a rubber nipple sticking up at one end. Victoria thanked the man, and after fitting the small blanket over her waistcoat to protect it, she eased the bottle down to Emily’s mouth.

At least the baby knew what to do. Being careful not to tip up the bottle too much, Victoria awkwardly began to feed her.

It worked well for a bit, but before long, Emily began to squirm. “You need to burp her,” Mitchell advised. “Bottles let in too much air. That bothers them.”

“Are you sure it’s not the milk?” Victoria asked, wondering how one burped an infant. Around Beacon Hill, nannies cared for infants. Victoria had seen them strolling the streets in the latest large-wheeled perambulators that came over from Europe. But she’d never seen an infant burped.

“No, it isn’t the milk. The doctors now say that mother’s milk is not good enough, and that this formulation is better.” With a frown, Mitchell took one of the blankets in her basket, tossed it over his shoulder and held out his arms. “Here, let me show you how to burp her.”

Taking the baby, he met Victoria’s blue eyes with his brown ones. His were a lovely color, she decided, as rich and dark as the wood that made up her mother’s highly polished secretary.

Those lovely eyes were also guarded and wary. Why? Blinking, she watched him gently support Emily’s head as he took her. Resting her against his broad chest, he began to rub and tap her back. The simple action was almost hypnotic. She’d never seen a man so gentle.

“Why did you accept my offer of a job if you have no experience?” he asked.

She snapped out of her foolish reverie. “Why did you hire me without asking about it?”

“I was in need.” He did not hold her gaze again, she noted, but rather studied the child. “Why did you answer my question with one of your own?”

She flushed and swallowed. “You already knew that I was going to Colorado. I assumed Lacewood had told you everything else about me.” That was all she would say on the matter. The reason she was leaving Boston was no one’s business but hers. It was bad enough that Mitchell probably knew that her home needed to be sold, her mother having already fled to the Carolinas. He didn’t need to know anything more.

Heat filled her cheeks and she looked everywhere but at Mitchell. She was headed west to live as a poor relative, someone the family was hoping would marry one of her uncle’s cronies and be gone from their house. “I may as well earn a small wage for traveling there.”

“Your income will be very small, you know that. I’m deducting the cost of the fare from it.”

Victoria swung her attention back to him. “I know. But I don’t need much.” She had absolutely no idea what she would need, but surely it couldn’t be too much.

Well, she was going to have to say it out loud sooner or later. Victoria lifted her chin. “I plan to find some employment there.”

* * *

Mitch raised his brows as he carefully shifted Emily. He was drawing the stares of nearly everyone on the train car with his behavior, but frankly, until Miss Templeton—Victoria—learned this simple task, he needed to burp the baby. The nurse at the hospital had shown him everything he needed to know about feeding Emily, but the rest, such as this burping, he’d done before with his other children.

He finally gave Victoria his full attention. “What kind of work are you seeking?” She didn’t look the employable type.

“Well.” She cleared her throat. “I have some secretarial skills. I can read, write and have a decent grasp of mathematics.”

“So you haven’t actually searched yet? Or sent any letters? Proud Bend is a rather small place.”

She blinked without answering.

Victoria was indeed an oddity. Like him, considering he was caring for a baby while the woman beside him watched like a studious pupil. Mitch knew little of her save the fact that Lacewood could vouch for her character...and that there had been a death in her family, but he knew that only from the black wreath on her front door. There seemed to be a problem with money, judging by the need for train fare.

Why? Her brownstone was worth at least three of his ranches. Yet she was heading west to meet a man who had been willing to send her money for a first-class train ticket.

Was he her beau? Mitch frowned. She certainly didn’t act as though she was going to meet the love of her life. Or was Victoria a mail-order bride who’d naively decided she’d rather work as a spinster instead of marrying? He’d already gathered that her family’s situation had turned dire. What had precipitated her new decision?

No. He would not pry, not even about her vague plans for employment. He didn’t want Victoria, or anybody in Proud Bend, to know his business, so he ought to stay out of other people’s. Ranching was lonely work, something best left to bachelors who weren’t encumbered by fickle women who acted too much on emotion, needy things that they were. And he wasn’t seeing anything in Victoria that changed his mind. She was most likely a socialite in financial disgrace, forced to Colorado to marry a man who wanted something cultured on his arm. Mitch would leave her to her naivety as soon as they stepped off the train at Proud Bend. That would be best for everyone. No point in the children expecting she’d be a fixture in their already battered lives.

Proud Bend was a small town southwest of Denver, but it was up-and-coming with its own church, bank and three stores, not to mention the blacksmith and the school and a few establishments Mitch chose not to frequent. The train depot had taken on the post office’s duties, something that seemed odd at the time, but the townsfolk preferred it that way. Beside the smithy sat the sheriff’s office and behind it, a small jail. The boom of the gold rush and the offer a few years back of cheap land for ranching along with Colorado joining the union had all worked in Proud Bend’s favor. The town was thriving and healthy.

A few years ago, when he’d first arrived, he’d been so impressed that he’d named his ranch Proud Ranch, after the town. He’d spent that first winter carving the sign above the entrance to his land. He had been building a home for the family he’d left out east.

Then the honeymoon ended. That spring someone in town commented that they were surprised Mitch could even write. Mitch had held his tongue. Two things he’d learned from being the son of a retired schoolmarm. Know your letters and keep your mouth shut.

Thinking of letters, he still had an unread one from Lacewood in his breast pocket. The man had written a long explanation when Mitch had told him that he couldn’t keep his last appointment due to this train trip. If there were still questions, Mitch could write him. First, though, he needed to read the letter while there was still daylight.

He handed a calmer Emily back to Victoria.

“Her milk doesn’t seem to sit well with her,” she commented.

“She’ll have to get used to it. There is no substitute.”

Lips pursed, Victoria began a slight rocking, something that accentuated the insistent clacking of the wheels on the rails. Before long, the baby was asleep. Mitch glanced at his children. As expected, they took the rear-facing seats, but Ralph and Mary weren’t impressed with the arrangement, craning their necks to peer out the window at what was coming.

His gaze wandered. Some other passengers still looked his way with open curiosity, except the new mother across the aisle. She was taking an extraordinary interest in Victoria.

And why not? Victoria’s outfit was stunning, especially compared to the basic accommodations second class offered. The color of a forest at twilight with equally dark lace and plenty of pulled up layers tucked in spots to make the whole skirt look like a series of green waves, her outfit was sober but tasteful. It could almost count for a mourning suit. In fact, it seemed to respect both necessities—that is, mourning and traveling. She’d also abandoned her hat, he noticed, though he couldn’t say when. She must have set it up in the compartment above them beside his Stetson. Did she know that whole compartment would become a berth in a few hours?

“Can we play a game?” Mary asked.

Mitch nodded. “Why don’t you play I spy?”

Thankfully, Matthew started them off. Mitch’s heart lurched. They’d lost their mother and yet they seemed to be handling it better than he was. It was a fact that Ralph had acted up yesterday, and Mary cried herself to sleep most nights, but overall they were adjusting. Mitch was grateful that a simple game could keep them occupied.

He’d been out West for so long, they hardly knew him. Matthew and John remembered him, and Ralph took his cues from his brothers and had warmed to him, but Mary had treated him with distrust. For the briefest instant, Mitch regretted his decision to ranch, but he stalled that thought. It put food on the table. He’d made the best decision he could for his family.

And Emily? His attention dropped to her as Victoria laid her gently in the wicker basket on the floor between their feet. Along with some sheets that the porter had tucked away, he’d had that basket delivered directly to the train.

The baby squirmed and Victoria placed a quietening hand on her. Mitch felt his jaw tighten. He had been gone so long that Agnes had turned to another man. Emily would never know either of her parents.

No. She would have him.

As Victoria straightened from her soothing pats, their gazes locked again. She had the most perfect features. Regal, yet not overly aristocratic. Despite being genteel, she was broke, he assumed, and therefore she would have had few decent marriage prospects in Boston. If she wasn’t too fussy, her chances might be better out West.

Mitch tore his gaze away and glared out at the passing landscape. Forget it, he told himself. Compassion was the ruination of a man, especially a rancher who needed to focus on providing for his family.

Families need more than food and shelter.

He bristled. Where had that thought come from?

From your own common sense, fool. Haven’t you already learned that? Providing for children took more than putting food on the table. It meant being there, supporting the mother of one’s children.

A stab of pain radiated out from between his tightening shoulders. Well, he was a rancher. He couldn’t spare the time. He’d do right by the children, but this just proved again that ranchers were better off staying single.

“I won!” Mary called out, interrupting his thoughts. “It’s my turn now.”

Remembering his letter, Mitch pulled it out and opened it. His reading skills were fine, but it was a struggle to understand Lacewood’s long, flowing script.

After a short preamble, the solicitor began to explain that Agnes had made certain arrangements before she’d died. A chill ran through Mitch. Had she known she would not survive childbirth? Had it been a difficult pregnancy?

His heart sank as he read further. A few years back, Agnes had signed on to the ranch’s mortgage just as he had, although the paperwork had taken many weeks and visits to the post office to complete. Agnes had considered that fact in her will.

Then he read Lacewood’s summary. Not only did Mitch now have an extra mouth to feed, and to figure out how he would explain Emily’s presence without getting tongues a-wagging, but he also had this to explain to the bank that held his mortgage—a month-old baby who wasn’t even his blood now owned half of Proud Ranch.

Chapter Three

Mitch’s fingers tightened around the fine vellum paper that carried Lacewood’s letter. Agnes had left her estate to Emily, no doubt concerned that he would abandon the infant otherwise. She’d been mistaken but had left him in a difficult spot nonetheless. He needed to tell the bank at Proud Bend that Agnes had passed. The bank manager, a man who had as many scruples as Colorado had oceanfront homes, would expect Mitch to provide him with the proper papers to say he’d inherited her share, but all he had was proof that Emily was now half owner and Mitch was her guardian.

He could contest Agnes’s will but, Lacewood had advised, the judge would ask the reasons. If Mitch was to answer that he wasn’t the girl’s father, the judge would not look favorably on him continuing guardianship and thus controlling the ranch, nor would he give Mitch full ownership and leave the infant with nothing, against her mother’s wishes.

Mitch rubbed his forehead. He had no desire to see any harm done to Emily, nor did he want to smear his late wife’s memory by revealing her indiscretion.

Not for the first time, Mitch wondered about the man who had fathered Emily. No one came forward with a name. No man owned up, either, and Mitch had been too stiff-necked to search for him. He’d had enough to do in Boston, and as far as he was concerned, if the man had abandoned Agnes, he didn’t deserve Emily.

Regardless, he could not lie to any judge, should he contest the will. At his first meeting with Lacewood, the solicitor had pointed out that in the eyes of the law, any child born to a married couple was assumed to belong to the husband. It was only a legal assumption, yes, but it was also best for Mitch to continue with that thinking.

Except for the fact that in Proud Bend, he’d been seen at church every Sunday. When would he have found the week needed to travel east, father a child and return?

He would deal with any questions as they arose. First up, he needed to sell some yearlings to make his mortgage payment. And quickly, too, for last fall, he had seen the wily bank manager smear the reputation of Proud Bend’s haberdasher, thus costing the man his once viable business. Two months later, the bank foreclosed on the store, then sold it for a tidy profit.

If Mitch didn’t make his mortgage payment, that bank manager would do the same to him. Or, more specifically, force Mitch to sell his land’s mineral rights for a song, because the man had already made an offer for them. Mitch felt his face heat and tension rise in him.

He would not be cheated out of what was rightfully his.

Shutting his eyes, Mitch tipped back his head until it hit the top of the seat back. Since he had absolutely no idea what to do, he was left with two options. Pray and wait to see what would happen.

He had already prayed, many times since returning to Boston.

But he was very bad at waiting.

“Are you a gentleman farmer?”

Mitch opened his eyes. Sitting primly beside him, Victoria waited with the calm expectation that he’d answer her promptly. “I beg your pardon?”

She repeated her question.

“No.” He frowned. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“A number of things, not the least of which is the way you speak. It’s far more cultured than what I would expect from a farmer.”

He folded his letter. Roughly. “It’s a ranch, not a farm.”

“What’s the difference?”

Unceremoniously shoving the letter into its envelope, he answered, “A farm is usually smaller, and they raise crops like corn and wheat or various vegetables or fruit. A ranch is big, has strictly livestock, like cattle or sheep, or even horses. They are raised, bred and sometimes kept for years.”

“What do you have?”

“Mostly cattle. Though I do have a few sheep closer to the house.”

“Why?”

His head throbbed and he shut his eyes again. So many questions. “Sheep aren’t as good at fending off predators like wolves,” he answered. “Cattle are better at it.” He paused. “I once saw two cows make mincemeat of a wolf. They charged and gouged him with their horns right before my eyes. If I put the sheep out with the cattle, the wolves would go after them.”

He continued on, with more enthusiasm than he’d expected he would have. “Although, I am experimenting with a donkey in my herd.”

Victoria looked mystified. Her eyes widened, her lips parted. For a moment, he forgot what they were discussing. “A donkey? Why?”

Mitch cleared his throat. “They guard the cattle. They may look like they don’t care, but believe me, they hate dogs and wolves. And they have a powerful kick to them.”

Victoria removed her gloves, tugging one delicate finger at a time. It was fussy little gesture, he thought. And yet, in Victoria’s hand, it was slow and fascinating, a sheer, perfectly choreographed art form in itself. How could ladies possibly wear them for as long as they did? “How did you discover that?” she finally asked. “How long have you had your donkey?”

He blinked. Her questions were in strange contrast to his wandering thoughts. “When I first went West to take ownership of my land, I traveled with an old rancher who’d been on one of the original wagon trains. They used donkeys as pack animals and began to realize their potential as guards for their cattle. He suggested I get one. It wasn’t easy to find a docile one. Most are cantankerous because they’ve been overworked in the mines, but I found one that wasn’t so bad and took her out to the pasture. I haven’t lost an animal to wolves since she’s been there.”

“Are there a lot of wolves?” She leaned closer.

“Some. The rancher who owns the land next to me claims a wolf sired his dog’s pups.”

“Is that possible?”

“Yes, but the resulting animal is unpredictable at best. Not to worry. My donkey keeps my herd safe.”

John stood and tapped Mitch’s knee. “Will we be able to ride her? Like Jesus did in the church play?”

Mitch was surprised at his son’s knowledge of their faith. Agnes had taken the children to church? Apparently she’d been a good mother, after all. But that was all. Still, he shook his head. “No. She’s not broken. I’d have to break her first.”

“Why do you have to break her if she’s not broken?” the boy asked.

Despite his insistent headache, Mitch smiled wryly. “That means you can’t ride her.”

Crestfallen, John sat back in his seat between Matthew and Ralph. Were tears forming in his eyes?

The reaction cut into Mitch’s heart. He remembered when John was Emily’s size. Agnes had struggled to keep the boy full; he was so hungry all the time. He’d learned to crawl early, too, and had developed an interest in dangerous things.

John had been seven when Mitch left to start the ranch, two years ago. Mitch leaned forward. “But I have some ponies, and I’ll teach you how to ride them.”

John’s face lit up. Warmth spread quickly through Mitch, and as he glanced Victoria’s way, he caught her own soft, approving smile. The warmth increased, stopping his breath for a moment. He sat back quickly, clearing his throat and scowling at her.

Abruptly, Victoria looked as crestfallen as John.

She recovered quickly and leaned close. “If you’re not a gentleman farmer, how did you learn to read? I saw you reading that letter. The writing looked difficult to understand. And where did you live that you could learn to both read and to ranch?”

He offered a smile that tugged up one side of his mouth. “My mother had been a schoolmarm for years before she married. She was thirty by that time and quite set in her expectations.”

“Thirty! And she went on to have you?”

“Then my two brothers. And being set in her ways meant that not even my father could change her mind when she said she was going to teach us everything she knew.”

“She would be very proud of you if she saw how well you read that letter.”

Mitch shook his head. “I didn’t read it that well. Lacewood’s handwriting is difficult. He stretches out every letter.”

“Then he needs your mother leaning over his shoulder as he writes.” She smiled. “Where did you grow up? In Boston?”

He folded his arms. Was she saying that Boston was so big that the classes of people would never intermingle? Fighting sudden irritation, he answered, “No. I grew up near a small town on the shores of Lake Michigan.”

“Michigan? I saw a map of our route at the depot. It won’t be so far from us as we travel. Perhaps your family can come to visit you someday.”

“Unlikely. My father has a large farm and is reluctant to leave it.”

“And now you own ranch land.” She turned pensive. “It’s good to own land, I think. I should like to again, some day.”

Again? So she was without money and desperate enough to take the first job offered her without asking about its details. She’d been as desperate as he’d been.

Fine pair. But that was the only thing they had in common. “Even better to own both the land and the minerals under it.”

Mitch shut his mouth, inwardly reprimanding himself for allowing that to slip out.

A frown marred Victoria’s perfect features. “I don’t know what that means.”

“No one has the right to mine my land. It was a provision allotted to a few ranchers at the beginning of the process of selling government land. It stopped after someone realized what exactly they were giving away.”

“What were they giving away?”

“The right to own all the coal, fine stone and such. All the minerals that are underground. And the rights to do with them as you please.”

“But the government is building the West. It doesn’t seem fair to hoard it.”

Mitchell frowned at her. “What do you think should be done?”

“The minerals under your land should be mined. I hear the gold rush has helped Proud Bend prosper. Shouldn’t we do this to help our country?”

She couldn’t be that naive about big business, could she? Was she really hinting that he should give away his rights for the good of the country?

“I mean,” she amended, “you should at least look at what’s there.”

“A prospector already did a good assessment. I know exactly what’s under my land.” There was coal and silver as well as a small amount of gold and gemstones, the prospector had told him after surveying the sharp gully at the western edge of the north pasture.

“Then why aren’t you mining?”

“I don’t believe we should tear apart a land to extract a few tons of whatever is under it. The beauty of God’s creation should count for something. And the land above needs to feed cattle. I’m not hoarding anything. There are plenty of mines. I just want to have the right to do what I feel best for my land.”

“Will you ever mine it?”

This was a subject he didn’t want to deal with right now. “I’ll probably lease out the rights for a short time, but I’ll stipulate that they cannot destroy my grazing land, which will mean no one will want to touch it.”

“But isn’t it building the West?”

“So is ranching and farming. We need to eat more than we need iron or gemstones.”

Her brows raised, she looked impressed. “That is true.”

He sat back, surprised she didn’t argue with him. It was difficult enough with that banker wanting those rights. On several occasions, Smith had told Mitch he wanted to purchase them. Each time, Mitch had refused, but the pressure mounted.

Feeling his head pound at the thought of the stubborn banker, he quickly changed the subject. “As I was saying before,” he told Victoria, “when my mother married, she had to retire. But she still had that need to teach. My brothers and I didn’t have a chance to be ignorant.”

“And a good thing that was.” She laughed, the merriment sparkling in her bright blue eyes.

Despite his headache, his mouth curled up into a smile, too. It must have been the rocking of the car. Or was it the sense of adventure now that the stress of the past week was gone? He could set aside the worry of dealing with the bank for at least the next few days. Whatever the reason, the warm coziness offered at that moment with Victoria, despite how she’d peppered him with questions, appealed to him. Without forethought, he leaned toward her again. “It would please my mother to know that you thought I spoke like a gentleman. I will have to include that in my Christmas letter to them.”

* * *

Victoria felt her merry expression slide away. Mitchell wrote regularly to his mother? Should she do the same to hers? Although they’d parted amicably, mostly due to Victoria’s determination to let go of any hard feelings, and partly because of her mother’s awkward relief, Abigail’s abandonment still stung her.

But she should write her. With Charles’s death, the care and control of Victoria’s inheritance should have fallen on Abigail, but since everything had been squandered, Mr. Lacewood had said that he would not bother Abigail with any more details. Victoria would turn twenty-one in a few months, probably before everything was finalized. If there was anything she didn’t understand, Mr. Lacewood had added, she could seek out her Uncle Walter’s advice. He’d even mentioned that they’d known each other in college years before. Walter would help Victoria.

But that wasn’t Victoria’s option of choice and she decided to say as little as possible on the matter. Soon enough, there would be no legal reason for Walter to assume control of her affairs. Besides, she wasn’t her mother. She was quite willing to take on the administration of her finances, such as they now were.

An unchristian thought popped into Victoria’s head. She could withhold any news from her mother. Keep her fully in the dark.

She tightened her jaw. It was a vindictive idea, though it lingered for a mere second. Could she really be that cruel?

Mitchell caught her attention as he shoved the envelope into his jacket pocket. She’d been watching him as he read, as she’d said earlier, but she hadn’t mentioned his deepening frown. Despite the cozy moment they’d just shared, something in that letter still bothered him.

What was it?

She sat back. It wasn’t her business, nor did she want it to be. There was already too much shared knowledge between them. His quiet suspicion when she revealed her silly plan for employment proved that much. Victoria tightened her jaw. She knew she couldn’t live off charity forever and knew she would never survive without a more substantial plan.

She had only one choice. She would settle in first and then ask around. Even a job as a store clerk would suffice, especially considering Uncle Walter’s plan to have her marry his business partner. Victoria felt her face heat, and she glanced over at Mitchell. Thankfully, he didn’t notice. She with her careful observation and he with his suspicion, they were proving to be quite a pair, reluctant bearers of each other’s secrets. It would be better if they stopped learning so much of each other’s business. It was quite unacceptable.

“Well, your ranch sounds very interesting,” she said in a clipped tone, effectively ending the conversation as she deliberately turned her attention to anything but him.

The train wended its way around some rolling hills, the trees’ lovely fall colors beginning to wane. The children grew bored of their game and their eyelids sank. Thankfully. She had no idea how to mind four children and a baby for three days.

Before long, Emily began to fuss again, her legs pulling up and her face scrunching into a pained expression. Victoria reached for her and to her horror realized the child needed changing.

In her haste to punish her mother, she’d leaped into a situation she hadn’t fully appreciated. Lifting the baby up, she knew they needed to visit the washroom first. Victoria threw a slightly panicked look at Mitchell, but the late nights with the baby and caring for his other children had taken their toll on him. He was fast asleep.

The porter passed at that moment and she asked him for another bottle of warm milk. He nodded and continued forward. The woman across from her stood at the same time Victoria stood, her expression knowing as her nose wrinkled. “If you nursed your baby, that mess wouldn’t smell so bad.”

What a crass remark. Victoria battled the embarrassment she knew she shouldn’t feel. “I’m not her mother. The baby’s mother died giving birth.” She lifted her chin and continued. “I’ve been employed to assist with the children.” There, she’d said it again. She’d been employed.

Would it get any easier?

The woman’s gaze softened as she looked down at the dozing children. “They’re motherless! Poor things.” Unexpectedly, the woman rolled her gaze up and down Victoria’s outfit before allowing it to drift over to Mitchell. “A mighty fine father he is.” She flicked her head to her husband, who sat with his chin to his chest, his eyes closed. “This one has yet to hold our baby.”

The woman then narrowed her eyes. “So you’re not his new bride, eh? Gives me hope if I ever get rid of this layabout.”

Victoria’s eyes widened. Good gracious, how was she to answer that? “I—I need to change the baby before the milk comes.”

The woman stopped her passage, her raw-boned features tightening in an intense stare. “My doctor told me that my milk ain’t no good and that new stuff they sell is better. But I can’t see how God would give us something bad for our babies. Too bad you can’t nurse her. I’ve always had plenty, I keep telling my husband.”

Still horrified at the unrefined topic, Victoria looked down at the woman’s baby as it rested comfortably in a basket tucked between the facing seats.

At a sharp turn, the car rattled back and forth, causing both women to grab each other. After the train returned to its usual rhythm, the young mother’s fingers lingered on the smooth fabric of Victoria’s smart outfit. “That’s a lovely thing you’re wearing. And a fine cut to it. Ooh, I’d do anything to own something like that.”

A smile grew on Victoria’s lips as the idea formed. “You don’t say?”

* * *

Mitch awoke slowly, with great resistance, as if being pulled from a pit of thick mud. The car was warm, suppressing his desire to rouse. Though he eased open his eyes, he still kept them hooded. The train’s rhythm made it easy to just sit there, his head rocking slightly as he leaned against the window. He felt as if he’d slept all night, but the setting sun blazed through the windows on the opposite side of the train. He’d slept for only a few hours, for the fall days were short.

Below, he could see Emily sleeping in her basket, a look of contentment on her face. And across from him, he noticed Matthew and John playing a game. Scratch cradle, by the looks of the taut string Matthew held. John was trying to maneuver his fingers inside to pull up on several lengths at once.

Beside him, Mitch noticed with his eyes still only half open, sat Victoria. She looked stunning in a warm, rose dress, the color practically glowing as the setting sun now cast gold and orange upon it. She had Ralph on her lap, and together they held the string of their own game of scratch cradle. Across from Ralph, perched on the opposite seat, was Mary, listening carefully to Victoria’s soft instructions on which strings to pluck. Because of the heat, all the children had abandoned their coats and hats.

Wait. Opening his eyes more fully, Mitch frowned at Victoria. A warm, rose-colored gown? It was flattering on her, but that wasn’t the gown she’d been wearing when he’d dropped off to sleep.

Did she think that afternoon dresses were necessary even on the train? Had she continued the old-fashioned habit of wearing certain attire depending on the time of day?

His frown deepened as his gaze expanded beyond her. The sun chose that moment to tuck itself behind a rolling hill, and he could see more easily the woman who’d been eclipsing the burnished rays of early evening.

That young mother across the aisle wore a dark green outfit. Even now, she sat preening herself, smoothing some imaginary wrinkle or untucking an errant line of lace.

He straightened. Was she wearing Victoria’s fine clothes?

Chapter Four

Fully awake, Mitch stared. Not only was the woman wearing Victoria’s dress, but she was also wearing her excessively fancy bonnet, too. What on earth was going on?

Mary chose that moment to pull up on some of the strings and the knots tightened around Ralph’s fingers. They all laughed and Victoria cried, “You’ve made the soldier’s bed! But where is the soldier?”

“He’s shooting the bad men,” Ralph yelled out.

Victoria laughed and hugged him. He looked up at her, his youthful eyes wide with innocent curiosity. “Miss Templeton, are you going to be our new mommy?”

Even the two older boys froze. Immediately, Victoria’s gaze shot from Ralph to slam into Mitch’s. She swallowed hard. Though he’d seen her horrified when she’d held Emily for the first time, this instance topped that occasion.

Her lips parted, and her cheeks flushed. She looked totally and quite attractively lost. Quickly composing herself, she cleared her throat. “Now, look what we’ve done. We’ve woken your father.”

“No. I awoke a short time ago.”

“Daddy, Miss Templeton—”

“Shush yah, Ralph,” Victoria chided, and Mitch heard her Boston accent clearly in her words. “The train isn’t the place to ask those questions.”

Mitch unfolded his arms. “That’s right, Ralph. We will discuss this when we get to the ranch. Now is the time for more important things.” He rolled his gaze over to Victoria. “Like asking Miss Templeton about her new gown.”

Automatically, Victoria shot a look across the aisle at the woman, who, satisfied her outfit was perfect, chose to watch the passing scenery. Victoria turned back to Mitch. He leaned forward. “And why is that young lady across the aisle wearing your old one?”

Her color deepened. “Please don’t make a fuss. I can explain.”

As he leaned back, Mitch loosened his tie. He must have been dog-tired to fall asleep with that thing strangling him. “You don’t have to answer to me, Victoria. May I call you that? I didn’t buy the gown for you. I was merely curious as to why you switched.”

“We didn’t switch. I gave my outfit to her,” she said. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Really? I’m interested in hearing the details.”

“While you were sleeping, Emily fussed again. I think she had an upset stomach. I asked the porter to warm more milk for her, but she obviously needed something better.”

“Yes, the milk makes her fussy. The doctor said it’s because it’s so rich and that she needs to get used to it.”

Victoria looked dubious and lowered her voice. “The young mother told me that nursing is better. Then she said she’d do anything for an outfit like mine. By the way, it’s an outfit, not a gown.”

Mitch felt his eyes widen. “So you just gave it to her?”

“Allow me to finish.” Victoria huffed. “I purchased the woman’s services for the duration of this trip. She will nurse Emily and change her if I am unavailable. And I must say that since she took over those duties, the baby has slept like a...well, a baby!”

He couldn’t believe his ears. “You sold your outfit for milk? I would say that she got the better end of that bargain.”

“I don’t believe so.”

Mitch gaped at her. Was the simple task of caring for a child that distasteful?

Simple task? He halted his internal grumblings. Since returning to Boston and discovering that Agnes had died in childbirth, he’d been awake several times each and every night. The baby’s reasons were obvious, but the children’s crying had hurt more, especially that of Mary, who seemed prone to night terrors.

No. He would not call caring for children a simple task.

Nor was it one to trade off for a scrap of material.

He folded his arms. “Was your job that distasteful?”

“No, but I now have a child in my care who isn’t fussy. And you don’t have to purchase milk at every stop, thus saving you money.”

Mitch leaned back. He hadn’t thought of that. It was certainly a consideration. They had only about twenty minutes at each stop, and in that time, Mitch would have to find a store that sold both this new-fangled baby’s milk, plus some food for four children and two adults.

Victoria lifted her brows knowingly. “And you won’t have to tip that porter as much at the end of this trip.”

After starting a new game with Mary holding the string and Ralph trying his skill, Victoria added, “I’ve saved you time, money and aggravation.”

“But I certainly cannot pay to replace that outfit for you.”

“You don’t need to, Mitchell.” She sniffed. “May I call you that?”

He nodded. He preferred Mitch, but Mitchell seemed more akin to Victoria’s personality.

“You can give me the money you were going to spend on milk and the tips for warming it.”

“It still won’t cover the cost of that outfit.”

“I have others.” She leaned back against the padded backrest of the seat and sighed, her attention turning to the children.

The conversation was over. Annoyed for some reason, Mitch worked his jaw. While he was asleep, Victoria had transformed from a horrified socialite to a canny businesswoman, and yet, right now, she was leaning back as if she was sitting in luxury beyond measure, all the while doting on his children.

This proved once again that he was better off single. Women were too fickle. Who would consider these seats that pleasurable? Even the woman across the aisle didn’t think so. The bustle of the green outfit prevented her from sitting back and she sat so rigidly, she could have been sealed in concrete. Victoria appeared not to be bothering any longer with her usual perfect posture.

Who could figure out women? Not he.

* * *

Victoria’s mother would have died of pure horror if she’d known what her daughter was doing this very minute. Corset-less, she was slouching back in a seat in second class like a coquette in a canteen.

Victoria nearly gasped out loud. Had she actually thought those words?

Mitchell was still frowning at her. “Perhaps this situation is my fault. I should have asked you first if you liked children.”

She straightened, opening her mouth as if to argue back. How could he ask that? Then she gasped. Was that really why she’d foisted little Emily onto the first nursing mother she’d spotted? Because she hated children?

No. “I don’t think it’s that at all,” she replied. “I simply don’t have any experience with children. And being cloistered in a train car with a baby whose milk makes her sick is not a good introduction. Not to mention how the poor child is in pain. I simply used some common sense.” Realizing that she had some wisdom, and yes, some initiative, she lifted her chin. “I actually found teaching the other four scratch cradle to be rather enjoyable. Before you woke up, we’d had quite a laugh trying to figure out what shapes we’d produced. They got sillier the more we played.” She blinked and turned away. “I’m sorry if you feel you’ve made a mistake in hiring me.”

His answer was clipped. “I just find it irrational that you sold an expensive outfit to avoid work you’d been assigned.”

Victoria was sure that wasn’t his reason. His tight words told her there was more to it.

Though, what he said made sense. It was irrational to sell an expensive outfit on the spur of the moment. Mercy, was she as foolish as her mother, who’d sold her expensive mourning outfits for a train ticket that would have cost a quarter of what the clothes were worth?

Victoria bit her lip. She’d been hurt by her mother’s departure from Boston without her. Abigail’s decision to sell her clothes had then epitomized the strained situation. For the cost of a train ticket, her mother had destroyed Victoria’s hope that they could work out their dire finances together.

She stole a look at Mitchell. And for the cost of a wet nurse, Victoria had destroyed Mitchell’s belief in her. Her empty stomach flipped. Yes. She was as foolish as her mother. Someday, she might need him as a reference, especially if she was to seek employment in Proud Bend. What would Mitchell tell a potential employer? That she’d sold a fine outfit to avoid work?

Tears sprang into her eyes. Suddenly, she was an impoverished girl who’d probably never secure employment. Everything was falling apart.

“I’m hungry.”

Which boy said it, Victoria couldn’t guess. But when she turned her attention to the three children sitting on the bench seat in front of them, plus the one still on her lap, Victoria didn’t need to know. They all stared hollowed-eyed at their father.

“At the next stop, I’ll purchase some food for you,” Mitchell growled.

His frown deepened, despite the children appearing satisfied at the promise. She leaned close to Mitchell. “Is there a problem?”

Mitchell consulted his pocket watch. It was a basic model, nothing like the elaborate one Charles had owned. Victoria’s heart tripped up. Had her stepfather purchased his with some of her inheritance? She hadn’t seen the watch for some time. Had he then sold it to finance his gambling?

“According to the schedule, we aren’t expected to make another water stop until after dark.”

“Water stop?” she asked.

“For the train. Steam is lost and they need to refill the boiler in the locomotive. I’m sure they’ll replenish supplies in first class and take on more coal if necessary, but these stops are mostly for water. There aren’t many track pans to scoop it up as we pass.”

She had no idea what he was talking about. “So how is that a problem?”

“I’m afraid the general store won’t be open then, which means I must rely on the local roadhouse. Except anything I buy will be wasted, for the children won’t eat what those people pass off as food. And to purchase something here from the porter will cost a ridiculous amount, I’m afraid.” He grimaced. “I saw to the baby’s needs, and purchased the bedding we’ll use, but I didn’t have time to get any food.”

Victoria sat back, then bolted forward, and not from her ingrained habit of sitting upright in a corset and bustle. Ralph clung to her as she cried, “Wait! I can help!”

She squeezed Ralph into the opposite seat between his siblings and stood. With a wave, she called the porter over. Several passengers, including the woman now wearing her beautiful outfit, peered up at her, obviously looking for any distraction from the boredom that was their trip. Victoria asked the young man to retrieve her portmanteau, the one she’d asked to have available.

“What are you doing?” Mitchell asked.

The porter returned and after opening her case on the seat, she began to rifle through it. It was an appallingly gauche act, one she would have never expected she’d do, but she was glad her housekeeper had the wisdom to pack what Victoria was now searching for.

Victoria hauled out a wicker box. “Found it!” She plunked it onto Mitchell’s lap, and then closed the case. The porter took it away again. Victoria sat down and took back the box.

“Treats and sweets from my housekeeper,” she declared.

Immediately the children clamored around her. Victoria couldn’t help but smile. It was like Christmas morn to them, she was sure. With great fanfare, she removed the lid.

Her maid had hugged her one last time before Victoria had left for the depot, whispering in her ear that the housekeeper had tucked into her portmanteau some treats for the long journey.

“Whatever for?” Victoria had asked her.

“So those men Mr. Charles owed money to don’t get all the good stuff in this house,” her maid had hissed fiercely. “That’s what Mrs. Handelson said. She said she won’t have their filthy paws snatching up all the fine food she’d made and saved.”

Victoria now blushed at the memory. Her mother would have never told the staff the reason for their predicament, but the walls had ears. Everyone in the household, from the housekeeper down to the errand boy, would have known. It had been an embarrassing moment for Victoria, to hug her maid goodbye and at the same time learn the staff knew all about their dire situation.

What else did they know? That her mother had sold expensive outfits for little more than a pittance? They would, for Abigail’s maid had conducted the sale.

Shoving away the humiliation, Victoria smiled brightly at the children. “What do we have in here?”

She didn’t know herself, but found a Jaffa orange, so big and bright and firm it surely must be the first of this year’s harvest. Several mince tarts covered in sturdy, honey-glazed pastry sat beside it. Sugared almonds and a few boiled eggs were tucked all around them, along with multiple crisp-looking biscuits, although some had broken. Deep down was a wedge of old cheese wrapped in a fine linen napkin. Victoria lifted the tarts to discover two meat pastries underneath. She recognized Mrs. Handelson’s signature decoration on the tops. She let out a silly squeak of delight, more for the children’s sake, when she spied some bricks of precious chocolate in one corner.

“We have a feast here!” she whispered to the children, thankful for the provisions. “But what should be first?”

“To give thanks?” Matthew suggested.

Victoria smiled. The boy would make a fine gentleman someday. After they said grace, during which she was sure the children kept their eyes open for fear the food would vanish, she dug back into the box.

“Let’s start with the two meat pastries.” She pulled them out and carefully broke them, a half for each child. They were gone as fast as she handed them out. She gave them each a piece of cheese and as equal a portion of broken biscuit as possible before handing the orange to Mitchell.

“Perhaps you could peel this?”

Her face fell. His expression was anything but thankful.

* * *

Mitch begrudgingly began to peel the orange. “Where did you get an orange this time of year?”

“It’s a Jaffa orange. They come from Palestine, but usually just before Christmas. My mother has a fondness for them because they are so sweet.”

Nothing about this woman made sense, Mitch thought. When had she planned to pull out this treat box? The other day, when they’d first met, she’d offered his children biscuits in open defiance of her mother’s scathing look, giving him hope that she liked children, but she’d then pawned off Emily on that woman who sat across the aisle, who was also looking with great interest at the treat box.

Then Victoria had kept the children busy with scratch cradle, seeming to enjoy the experience. Mitch glanced down at Emily, who was beginning to stir again. She’d need to be fed and changed soon. Victoria would no doubt simply hand the child over to the other woman like the mistress of a mansion. Yet her actions right now were more of a child at Christmas than an overbred lady.

The children eased over to him, their eyes wide and focused on the orange he was absently peeling. He hadn’t had one of these in years, not since some had been given to him as a wedding gift. The scent of fresh orange wafted up through the stuffy hot air into his nostrils, stirring his own stomach, for he had not eaten all day, either.

He was not hungry, he told himself. And he could feed his own children without Victoria’s help. He’d hired her to mind them, but mostly to care for Emily. And she’d foisted that duty off pretty quickly.

Still irritated, Mitch divided the orange into segments, telling the children in a gruff tone to take only one each.

“You should eat, too,” he told Victoria coolly. She took a segment.

“As should you.”

Begrudgingly, Mitch took the final segment.

He could feel Victoria’s curious gaze linger on him a moment, before it returned to the treat box. “Only one more thing tonight. Too many sweets will cause nightmares,” she warned them. She divided up the mince tarts into tiny portions, and Mitch noticed with a frown that she saved the larger portions for them, and not the children.

“I don’t need any more food,” he snapped.

“Yes, you do. The children have already wolfed down the meat pies and would polish this whole box off if we let them. You and I won’t do these children any good if we’re hungry and grouchy. So eat.”

Their gazes locked and he could see her pale eyes defiant beneath uplifted brows and a suddenly stubborn chin. He could argue that they shouldn’t eat any more in order to save it, but it would look as though he couldn’t afford to purchase food for them. And with most of the passengers around them far too curious, he’d rather not invite any more interested stares.

He should be grateful to God that her housekeeper had the forethought to provide this box.

Her housekeeper. Mitch knew she and her mother each had a personal maid, too. He’d seen them peeking out of the kitchen when he’d herded his children into the parlor. What had he been thinking, hiring Victoria as he’d done? She was going to make a fool of him the whole trip with her fancy airs.

His jaw set and his mouth pursed into what felt like a thin stubborn line, Mitch took the portion of mince tart and accepted a small chunk of cheese.

He waited until Victoria bit into her portion, her action more of a delicate nibble as she held her hand under her chin to catch any crumbs. What he did—shove the whole third of the tart into his mouth—felt clumsy and tactless.

The pastry was delicious, melt-in-your-mouth good, as was the cheese. With his last swallow, Mitch turned away.

Evening deepened, and while Victoria was seeing that Emily was prepared for the night, the porters set about making up the berths. Here in second class, passengers had to provide their own bedding. He’d purchased it and had it delivered to the train, knowing he’d need it at the ranch, anyway.

More purchases, more money borrowed from the bank, borrowed from Smith, the man who wanted his mineral rights so much his latest offer had borne an edge of a threat.

When Victoria returned with the baby, he gaped at the change. In the newly lit lamplight, she looked more like a schoolgirl than a young Boston socialite who seemed to have, for whatever reason he did not wish to learn, fallen on hard times. The porter had prepared all the bunks with plump mattresses, straw-filled and topped with wool, making up the beds with the sheets Mitch had purchased. Many of the passengers had already settled in theirs for the evening.

Now it was their turn.

* * *

Although Victoria had bartered away her corset and bustle, and had been wearing this dress with only a petticoat and chemise, she suddenly realized she wasn’t dressed for bed yet. An awkward situation, with Mitchell so close. His sudden and rather penetrating stare didn’t help.

“Don’t worry,” he muttered. “The boys and I will take the upper berth. You and the girls will take the lower one.”

She looked around. “What about our belongings?”

“The porter and the conductor will see that anything we can’t take into the berths is secured.”

Mary flung open the curtain below. “Look, Miss Templeton! Look at the big pillow!”

Victoria bent down and peered in as Mary pounded the pillow with two small fists. Mitchell had set the baby’s basket and her treat box at one end, and Mary, although still dressed, was pressed against the bottom portion of the curtained window.

“If that is all, I’ll say good-night.” Mitchell then told the boys to move down to the end before he heaved himself up, completely ignoring the porter as he hurried down the aisle with a small step stool.

Victoria watched him disappear into his berth and yank closed the curtains. Well, he couldn’t wait to be rid of her companionship, could he? With a surprisingly heavy heart, she slipped into the lower bunk and closed her curtains.

* * *

Mitch’s sleep was deeper than he’d expected, he decided the next morning, considering he’d had a long nap and had shared the berth with three boys who took up the majority of the space. Finally, when he heard the porter gently awakening the passengers, Mitch opened his curtain and eased out. If at all possible, he’d let the boys sleep longer.

Victoria was already up, fixing Mary’s pinafore. Emily was out of her basket and kicking about on the bunk. Before he could speak, the boys jumped down.

“The train is slowing, Papa,” Ralph announced. “I can feel it.”

“We’re coming into a depot. The locomotive needs to take on more water.”

“I’m hungry,” Ralph said.

Mitch nodded, albeit gruffly. Yes, he needed to find some food. The children would want to dip into Victoria’s wicker box of treats, no doubt, but it was his responsibility to feed them, not hers.

The train jerked and wheezed to a stop, causing Victoria to careen into him. He caught her and held her steady. But she immediately pulled free and reached for the baby. Thankfully, Emily was still centered in the soft bedding.

Victoria smoothed the infant’s clothes as she lifted her. “Go find a store,” she told Mitch. “All we need is a bit of bread and cheese and maybe some fresh fruit. I’ll take the children out for some air. We could all use a cold drink, so I will find a pump, but we won’t leave the depot.”

Mitch bristled at the authoritative tone. “I know what to buy. I have fed my children before.” At the sound of the door at the end of the train car being opened, the boys tore off toward it, leaving Mitch to grit his teeth. Then, with a sweep of his hand, he indicated that Victoria should go first down the aisle. With Mary in front of her, and the baby secure in her arms, she walked ahead. Her fine purse dangled from her wrist. It matched the outfit she’d bartered away better than the one she now wore, but with her regal walk, Mitch doubted anyone would dare even consider the fashion faux pas, as his mother might have called it.

Cool, fresh air barreled into the car. It smelled as though the town had seen a good thunderstorm overnight. When he reached the door, Mitch spied Ralph already jumping in a nearby puddle.

They’d only just climbed down when Mitch called to his children, deciding to take Matthew for the extra pair of arms to carry back some food.

But that would leave Victoria with the four young ones. On an afterthought, he said, “John, you come with me. The rest of you stay with Miss Templeton, and mind what she says.”

“Excuse me!”

Both Mitch and Victoria turned. The conductor climbed up the stairs and waved his hat to secure everyone’s attention. “We have a delay, I’m sorry to tell you. A storm blew through here last night and a large number of trees fell onto the tracks. It will take at least a day to clear the debris.”

A murmur of disappointment rolled through the crowd.

“As soon as possible, we’ll let you know when we are able to get under way again. The train may move ahead, but only onto another line. Please don’t go anywhere until we know more.”

“You want us to just stand here like idiots?” one man shouted out from the group by the stairs. Others who’d wandered down from the men-only car began to grouse, their voices raised in cacophony.

The conductor held up his hand to ease the discord. “Of course not, sir. We’ll have a better idea of how long our delay will be as soon as we see what equipment this town has.”

Immediately, the conductor was assaulted with questions. Mitch led Victoria and the children out of earshot, to the short side of the depot’s main building. “It looks like we’ll get more fresh air than we planned, but I’ll still go ahead and purchase some food.”

“When were we supposed to arrive in Proud Bend?”

“Tuesday morning. I had scheduled it all out, even chose this route because of its speed. But now, I can’t say.” He didn’t want this delay. He had a ranch to run, and needed to brand the heifers he planned to keep. Several other ranchers had been interested in purchasing the rest of them. He needed that quick infusion of cash to pay his quarterly mortgage installment or that bank manager would be using the default as an excuse to force Mitch to sell him his mineral rights.

Victoria glanced over at the crowd. “I need to send a telegram to my uncle to tell him of this delay.”

She wasn’t traveling to a beau? His heart took a treacherous leap. Determined to ignore it, he answered, “Fine. I’ll do it. What is his name?”

In answer, Victoria opened her small drawstring purse and pulled out a folded paper. “Here’s the telegram he sent my mother. All the information is on it.”

Mitch took it and unfolded it. The name at the top was as clear as if she’d spoken it aloud. Walter Smith.

His stomach turned. That cad of a bank manager and Victoria’s uncle were one and the same man.

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