A Valentine's Choice: A Montana Sky Series Holiday Novella (The Montana Sky Series) (2 page)

The stationmaster reached over and patted Bridget’s hand. “Don’t you fret none. You won’t be staying there long. You two are as pretty as a picture. I have no doubt you’ll be snapped up in no time.” He shot James a speculative glance, an obvious matchmaking gleam in his eyes. “Why, you’ll have a fine selection of cowboys at Thompson’s place alone. What, ten?” He raised his brows at James for confirmation.

James grimaced, apparently uncomfortable with the topic of conversation. He shifted his weight from one leg to another. “Eleven. Moss never sends or receives mail, and he rode into town instead of taking the train, so you wouldn’t know him.”

Jack cackled. “Eleven’s a right good number.” He waggled his ears. “And I’m sure every available man in Sweetwater Springs will come a courtin’ when he hears of twin beauties stayin’ at the Thompsons. I’ll bet we have Valentine weddings.” He patted the arm of his chair and winked at Bridget, clearly pleased with his prognostications. “Valentine’s Day is only three weeks away, ladies.”

We couldn’t possibly find husbands that quickly!
But Bridget kept her own counsel. She liked the little man and did not want to contradict him.

James pulled out a letter and handed the envelope to Jack in a way that sliced off the postmaster’s conversation. “Any mail to pick up?”

Mr. Waite shook his head. “Nothing today. But I haven’t gotten up yet to fetch the mailbag from the train.”

James set his hat back on his head. “I’ll get it for you. Then I’ll be off to the livery to rent the sleigh for the ladies. The recent storm has blocked the roads, so it’s either ride on horseback or take the sleigh.” He moved toward the door.

Bridget wanted to protest, to tell him that she could ride and save the cost of a conveyance. But Alana was scared of horses. The sleigh would be better. She reached for the thin pouch of money nestled in the pocket of her coat, knowing how few of their funds remained inside. “Let me pay ye.”

James held up a hand in a stopping motion, flashed Bridget a grin, and continued walking out the door.

She stared after him. The idea of being beholden to a stranger, particularly
this
stranger, didn’t sit well with her.

Yet, somehow, he doesn’t feel like a stranger.

* * *

Feeling light-headed, James couldn’t believe his luck. He pulled his thick raccoon-skin coat tighter against the wind. This morning his boss could have chosen one of the other hands to ride with the Thompson children to school. Usually, they traveled alone, but after last night’s snowstorm, Wyatt wanted an escort for them.

James hurried across the platform and down the steps, as quickly as he could and still keep his footing on the icy wood. He moved through the familiar motions of mounting Dusty and riding the short block to the livery. But his thoughts remained with the woman he’d left behind.

Miss Bridget O’Donnell had skin as pale as milk, eyes the color of the sky at dusk, and kissable pink lips. A dimple on one side when she smiled made his heart race when it appeared. He liked the whisky-red curls that had escaped her hat to frame her face, and the way her words with their lilting accent shivered over his skin the first time he heard her speak.
I’m sounding like a poet,
James thought, half in amusement, half in dismay.

At the livery, he rented the small two-seater sleigh that Dusty could pull. Even with toting their bags of spuds and satchels, those young women wouldn’t weigh much, but he worried about them on the long, cold drive out to the ranch. Their coats looked thin and shabby.

He only hoped Dusty would cooperate for a smooth drive. The gelding had pulled the Thompson’s wagon a time or two, but only when hitched with his buddy, Two Bits. Pulling a sleigh alone would be different than driving in tandem.

At the livery, working in the dim light of two lanterns, Pepe Sanchez, the stableman, helped him hitch Dusty to the sleigh. Although not a talkative man, the good-natured groom usually had a shy smile for everyone. But ever since he’d learned James would be driving two young women to the ranch, he’d sported a broad grin. The man was as bad as Jack with his matchmaking ideas. Probably the fault of Pepe’s recent betrothal to Lucia Perez.

“I have bricks warming on the stove and will send along a bear fur to cover them,” Pepe said with a soft Spanish accent.

“I appreciate that,” James said, relieved for the women to have the extra protection.

“Can’t have your pretty ladies getting sick.”

“I never said they were pretty,” James muttered.

Pepe sent him a sly grin, his eyes alight with laughter. “You didn’t have to. You have the look of a man interested in a
señorita
.”

“’Spose you’ve been seeing that look in the mirror.” James growled. But thinking of Bridget made him anxious to get back to her.

“That, I do,” the stableman said, appearing undaunted by the reference to his feelings for Lucia. Pepe’s expression sobered. “Don’t make my mistake of waiting. Wasted time, and I almost lost her to another man.” His broad grin reappeared. “Now we’re soon to be wed. My Lucia refuses to wait.”

Christmastime had brought a spate of engagements and marriages to Sweetwater Springs. The ranch hands had laughed and joked about the wave of matches, teasing Harry O’Hanlon unmercifully for being caught up in a holiday romance. But the cowboy had shrugged off their banter, like a slicker shed water, going about his work and the building of his cabin—a man lit with an inner glow.

James had secretly envied him. An odd restlessness overcame him whenever he saw the newlyweds together. The two had a sparkle about them—an obvious bond, not unlike the one that existed between Wyatt Thompson and his wife, Samantha, wed for only six months. A widow from Argentina, who’d inherited the neighboring ranch, she’d brought a passel of boys and midget Falabella horses with her when she married Wyatt. From that day on, the ranch had exploded with laughter and love and high jinx that seasoned the grueling work of ranch life.

But until Harry O’Hanlon had wed Sally O’Donnell, James hadn’t believed he could even dream of a wife of his own. Before, such an idea seemed as far away as the moon. With living on an isolated ranch, near a town with few unmarried women, he hadn’t seen anyone who took his fancy. Now he understood Harry—how the exchange of a few looks and words from a special woman could knock a man right off his course, sending him unexpected images and longings.

James climbed into the sleigh and gathered up the reins. He nodded good day to Pepe.

With a frown of concern, James realized he didn’t have the same clear field as Harry had possessed for his courtship. The other cowboy had met Sally O’Donnell in the mercantile, and then on Christmas rode out to the O’Donnell’s claim on the prairie, taking with him a haunch of beef as a gift. Later that night, he’d returned to the Thompson ranch, an engaged man.

But Harry hadn’t had any competition, no passel of cowhands to interfere with his courtship. James doubted Sally O’Donnell had set eyes on another suitor in the months before Harry showed up on her doorstep. She had mighty slim pickings out on the isolated prairie. Not that Harry wasn’t a good guy, and the two were obviously head over heels in love.

James thought of the eight other available cowboys who lived in the bunkhouse on the Thompson ranch. Deuce, thank goodness, was too young, and Sid was too old, but the rest of them were presentable enough—or at least they were after they bathed. Even though it was the dead of winter, he predicted there’d be a spate of bathing in the ranch hands’ future as they slicked themselves up for courtin’ the O’Donnell twins.

James sensed Patrick Gallagher would be his real competition. The man had brought a stud to the ranch for Wyatt to check out while he assessed the quality of the mare his stallion would breed to. He was staying up at the big house for a few days, maybe longer—plenty of time to court Bridget.

James had envied him the black Thoroughbred, but now…. Gallagher was a tall, well-formed man who knew his way around a horse and had dark good looks that would probably appeal to women. And the breeder knew it, too. He walked like a man who had land and plenty of stock—unlike James who was just a ranch hand, and up until right now, content to be so.

Defeat tried to edge in, dampening his hope. But he shrugged off the feeling.

First to the table, first to be fed
, as his ma was fond of saying. He vowed to begin courting Miss Bridget O’Donnell as soon as she stepped out of the station.

CHAPTER TWO

Bridget stood by the window at the post office, watching for James to return, weary but eager to see him again. Behind her, Alana sat in the only other chair in the room, engaged in a quiet conversation with Mr. Waite, asking him about his rheumatism and suggesting an herbal posset he might try.

Bridget had to tamp down her impatience to be moving, to finish this journey and see what awaited them at the Thompson ranch. She could barely keep herself from pacing the small space.

A faded brown sleigh pulled up in front of the station. She saw James, and her stomach fluttered. To distract herself, she focused her attention on his horse—some type of dappled gray. She wanted a closer look. “James is here, Alana. We must not keep the horse waiting in the cold.”

“We mustn’t keep
Mr. Whitson
waiting,” her sister chided and rose to her feet, turning to hold out a hand to the stationmaster. “Thank ye, Mr. Waite, for allowing us to warm ourselves.”

“Jack. Call me Jack.” He pressed and released her hand. “No need to stand on formality with me, no siree.” He struggled to get to his feet.

“No, no.” Alana touched his arm. “Ye stay comfortable, and we’ll see ourselves out.”

“Uhh,” he grunted, settling back.

Bridget donned the coat she’d removed earlier and pulled on her mittens. She echoed her sister’s thanks, gathered her satchel and potato bag, and bade the stationmaster good-bye.

Instead of going back into the main room, they left by the outside door, walking across the platform and down the steps.

James reached for Alana’s bags and helped her into the back seat of the sleigh.

Bridget tilted her head toward the horse. “Yers?”

“My gelding, Dusty.”

As soon as she handed her satchel and the potato bag to James, Bridget moved to the horse and ran her hand down his neck.

The gelding was tall, with a narrow-bodied, rangy build. But what interested Bridget was his coloring. He looked like someone had taken a gray horse and splattered paint across his coat, and then stood the mount in a vat of paint to his knees to create four white socks. Only the long mane and tail remained sooty gray.

“I’ve never seen anything like him.”

The horse turned to snuffle her arm.

“Ye beauty.” Bridget wished she had an apple slice or carrot to give him. “Next time I see ye, dear boy, I promise to bring ye a treat.”

James walked to her side. “He’s an Appaloosa. An American breed known by these spots.”

“Unusual and striking.” She felt more than saw Alana’s long-suffering look. With a final pat to Dusty’s nose, Bridget returned to the sleigh.
There’d be time later to become acquainted with the horse.
For the first time, excitement stirred in her about visiting a ranch.
I’ll have my fill of horses.
She let out a happy sigh.

With a courtly bow, James extended a hand to help her into the sleigh, his gaze intent on her face.

Bridget smiled her thanks. She climbed inside, allowing her hand to linger in his longer than convention allowed.

The padded leather seat still felt warm from hot bricks wrapped in rags that James had moved from the seat to the floor.

Bridget snuggled next to Alana, who rested her head on the seatback, her eyes closed.

James covered them with a thick brown fur, solicitously tucking in the edges.

Bridget fingered the heavy fur, wondering what type of animal had a pelt so thick.

“Bearskin. Grizzly bear.” After answering her unspoken question, James climbed into the front seat and gathered up the reins. With a jerk, the sleigh started forward, and he directed Dusty down the street.

The gelding tossed his head and took some mincing steps sideways, as if protesting the burden behind him. With the guidance of James’s hands on the reins and his voice, Dusty settled down to the task of pulling the sleigh.

Bridget glanced at her sister. “This is cozy.”

Alana raised her head and gazed at Bridget, her eyes troubled. “Mr. Whitson is a thoughtful man. But I don’t like the idea of going to this ranch, instead of our uncle’s home.”

As she usually did, Bridget stepped into the role of giving assurance instead of voicing her own doubts. “Sally
is
our family, our cousin. Moreover, James and Mr. Waite told us the Thompsons would welcome us.”

“I guess we’ll find out,” Alana said in a tired voice and rested her head on the seatback.

Bridget watched James with interest, assessing his skill. He had sure hands and a confident manner with both the horse and sled.

She’d driven carts and wagons plenty of times, but never a sleigh. When she was young, they’d had a stocky Irish draught horse. And as soon as she was old enough to drive, Bridget coaxed her father into allowing her to take the reins. Da, now gone to Heaven, bless him, had never resisted Bridget’s persuasions. He’d allowed her to run wild in the outdoors she loved, as well as spend time at the squire’s stables, helping out the grooms. The most heart-wrenching part of leaving Ireland was saying good-bye to the horses she’d loved.