Happily Ever Afters Guaranteed (19 page)

"Oh no," she breathed. Louder, she called out
to him, "Mister, can you hear me?"

A soft moan erupted from his lips, but he
didn't move, other than to roll his head toward her.

Forcing calm she didn't feel, Danna retrieved
her rope from its tie behind the saddle and looped it around the
saddle horn before tossing the length to where her unlikely
companion lay.

"Mister? Can you reach the rope?"

She didn't expect a reply, so she wasn't too
surprised when none came. Keeping one hand on the rope, she
scrambled down the steep incline as best she could. She slipped
twice, and rocks bit into her palms as she fought to keep from
joining the tenderfoot in a tumble. She wouldn't do him any good if
she injured herself, too.

When she reached him, Danna knelt at his head
and studied the man. His hat had slipped to one side, and his
sweat-matted hair was dark next to his fair skin.

"Mister, you've sure got a way of getting
into some pretty good scrapes," she muttered. She probed his scalp
and neck gently with her fingertips, searching for injury. Though
obscured by a few days growth of stubble, he had a strong jawline.
He gasped when her palm brushed his right shoulder. Keeping her
touch as light as she could, Danna ran her fingers over the arm and
shoulder, and he moaned again.

"Hurts."

"I know. Looks like you've knocked it out of
place." She prodded his torso and legs, but found no additional
trauma. She did find a gun belt and weapon at his hip, but ignored
it for now. "I can reset it for you. But we need to get you up the
hill so I can see what I'm doing."

"I'll try," he said, and clenched his teeth
as he rolled onto his good side.

She helped him to his hands and knees, but he
shook his head and collapsed onto the rocky soil. "I can't…" he
wheezed "…make it."

"All right." She smoothed a hand over his
forehead, as if she was comforting her almost-niece, Ellie. "Tell
me your name."

"Chas." A breath. "O'Grady."

She filed the name away. O'Grady sounded
Irish. She nodded absently and murmured, "I'm Danna Carpenter," as
she considered the best way to get his shoulder back into the
socket. "What brings you to Wyoming?"

"Job."

"Not cattle."

One corner of his mouth quirked upward.
"How'd you know?"

"Lawyer?"

He snorted a laugh, then grimaced as if the
movement pained him.

"Railroad surveyor?" she guessed, and gave a
mighty tug.

O'Grady's upper arm and the shoulder slid
into place with an audible click. She was impressed when he didn't
cry out, just rolled his head and looked at her with those blue
eyes.

"Thanks. You're a doll."

Then he passed out.

Danna sat next to his unconscious form in the
darkness, willing away the blush that had flamed across her cheeks
at his words. Stunned.

Something had happened inside her when he'd
looked at her, when she'd heard the endearment he'd spoken.

Something inside her opened, like a flower
unfurling. Attraction?

Whatever it was, it was decidedly
uncomfortable.

SNEAK
PEAK – THE HOMESTEADER’S SWEETHEART

Wyoming Territory, summer 1890

Hadn't he promised himself not to get into a
situation like this again?

Jonas White stood on the dusty street in his
Sunday suit, letter clutched in his hand, gazing up at the fine
house. It seemed too much of a coincidence that his neighbor and
closest friend--although they were two generations apart in
age--was related to a wealthy banker when Jonas desperately needed
a loan. And the letter Jonas had promised to deliver for his friend
would grant him access to the banker he'd been trying to see all
day.

But Jonas had stopped questioning the Lord's
hand in things once he'd met his neighbors, the Nelsons, just over
five years ago.

Staring at the light spilling from the
glass-paned windows onto the large, well-kept yard reminded Jonas
of another place and time, and how as a child he'd often looked in
on some of Philadelphia's wealthy families. Like those stately town
houses, this house was ostentatious. Two-story and much larger than
the other homes on the street. Or in the whole town of Calvin,
Wyoming, for that matter.

Jonas resolutely pushed the painful memories
to the back of his mind. His daughter needed him to do this, and he
couldn't fail her.

Sounds of voices and tinkling china trickled
out from the wide-open front door. Was the banker hosting a party?
If so, this might not be the best time to call, but Jonas needed to
take care of business before the woman who was watching Breanna for
him left town on the next Eastbound train.

He brushed at some dust on his jacket sleeve
and took a deep breath, reminding himself that his loan was a
reasonable request. If only he felt more comfortable interacting
with high-society people like the banker, but his upbringing didn't
exactly lend itself to that.

Trudging up the steps before he could change
his mind, Jonas entered the elegant home. The entry hall was empty,
but voices drew him to a parlor packed with people.

One or two of them shook his hand, welcoming
him as he moved through the crowded room. Most ignored him. Jonas
scanned each face, looking for the portly man with salt-and-pepper
hair that he'd glimpsed briefly on the boardwalk this morning. No
sign of the banker.

Conversations ebbed and flowed around him as
he moved through the parlor and into another lamp-lit room in
search of Mr. Castlerock. He knew he was out of place, and the
disdainful looks he received from some of the partygoers only
confirmed it, made him feel as awkward and unwelcome as he'd felt
at eighteen in the Broadhursts' Philadelphia home.

"Can I help ya, son?"

Jonas turned at the voice and caught sight of
a plump woman with an apron covering most of her ample figure. Here
was someone from his class, someone who could help him. Relief
flooded him.

"Yes, I'm looking for Mr. Castlerock. I'm to
deliver this letter, and I need to speak with him on another
matter--"

The woman took the letter from Jonas. "I'll
put it aside for the boss. If he sets it down during the party,
he'll never remember where he put it in the morning. Last I saw
him, he was in his study, down there..." She nodded toward a door
down the hall and her voice trailed off as she bustled away in the
opposite direction.

"Thanks," Jonas murmured to her departing
back.

He couldn't be sure which room she'd meant to
indicate--there were two doorways on the left and one on the right,
so he peeked into each as he passed. Finally, he had no choice but
to enter the room at the end of the hall.

So intent was he on locating the banker,
Jonas didn't notice her at first. But as he tried to slip through
the...crowd without bumping into any of the fine furnishings or
well-dressed guests, he caught a glimpse of upswept copper curls,
burnished to fire by the lamplight.

He'd only ever seen one person with that
color hair in his entire life.

Jonas stopped moving, dumbstruck, as a tall
man in a black jacket moved away and his view became unhindered. It
was her, with the laughing blue eyes he remembered and wearing the
frilliest, fanciest peach colored dress he'd ever seen.

The girl he'd admired from afar, back in
Philadelphia. Penny Castlerock. He'd guessed from the unusual
surname that she might be a relation to the wealthy banker, but
never imagined he would see her here. He'd thought she would be
married to a Philadelphia businessman by now. What was she doing in
Wyoming?

Penny Castlerock caught sight of the farmer
the moment he stepped into her father's study, where some of the
guests had congregated. His dark suit was ill-fitting, in contrast
to the tailored jackets worn by her father's acquaintances, but the
suit's ugliness couldn't hide the muscled shoulders most likely
earned through days of backbreaking labor in a field somewhere. His
crown of blond hair showed a noticeable line where his hat must
have rested earlier in the day.

And there was the hat. Clutched in one hand
against the farmer's leg. The man appeared to be looking for
someone, if his roving brown eyes were any indication.

The moment those intelligent brown eyes
spotted her, he froze, a thunderstruck look on his face.

While he seemed vaguely familiar to her, she
couldn't be sure she'd met the man before. And while she prided
herself on the unusual shade of her hair and had taken extra pains
to powder away the smattering of freckles she could never
completely eliminate, she usually didn't elicit such a strong
reaction upon a first meeting. It was quite flattering, even if he
was only a farmer.

She moved to intercept him, breaking off a
conversation with her dear friend Merritt Harding, the local
schoolmarm. After all, a lady's duty was to ensure all guests'
needs were met.

With advice from Mrs. Trimble's finishing
school ringing in her ears, she greeted him with a warm, "Good
evening," and the best smile she could procure after spending a
long hour with her father's guests.

He emitted a strangled sound, not words, and
gripped his hat in both hands, holding it almost as if it was a
shield in front of him.

"There's punch on the serving buffet just
through here, if you're thirsty." Penny extended her arm to
indicate the dining room.

The man still didn't move, and she struggled
to keep her smile in place. Common courtesy demanded he answer her,
but he remained silent. And his stare was bordering on rude.

What was he doing here? Her father usually
only included those he deemed "important" and she wasn't sure this
farmer fit the bill.

"I'm sorry, have we met before? Perhaps
you're one of my father's acquaintances?" she asked, when the
silence between them became fraught with tension.

"Penelope, darling, there you are."

Penny half-turned at her father's booming
voice, relieved for the interruption from the awkward one-sided
conversation. Why didn't the farmer say anything?

"Father, I've just been greeting one of our
guests. This is Mr…" She left off her sentence to allow the farmer
to offer his name, but instead he moved past her and extended his
hand toward her father.

"Sir, I need to talk to you in private, if
you have a few moments."

So the farmer could speak. But she still
didn't know his name.

Her father's face creased as if he couldn't
quite place the man. "I don't believe we've met. What can I do for
you?"

"It's a business matter, sir." The farmer
glanced briefly at Penny, just a flash of his brown eyes.

Penny was used to being excluded from her
father's business, but it was a matter of contention with her. She
felt women were intelligent enough to be involved in business
matters, but her mother had always deferred to her father, leaving
Penny no choice but to do the same.

Her father chuckled, not a kind sound. "I'm
sorry, son, but I don't discuss business matters during my private
parties."

Penny knew that was an exaggeration. Her
father often had an after dinner cigar or drink with his associates
to talk business. Why didn't he want to speak to the farmer?

"You're welcome to make an appointment at the
bank." Her father took her elbow, obviously considering the
conversation finished, and began to guide Penny away from the
farmer.

"Sir, I've been to the bank twice today,
trying to see you." The farmer's statement was louder this time,
drawing looks from others in the study.

Penny's father didn't stop, but she saw his
face redden from the corner of her eye—a sign he was becoming
irritated. "I'm sorry to hear that, but I'm a very busy man, you
know."

Penny stifled a snicker. Yes, and her father
was also full of his own self-importance. She almost felt sorry for
the farmer, and probably would've if he hadn't caused an
uncomfortable scene.

"I need a loan," the farmer called out as
Penny and her father moved away, his voice becoming desperate,
intense. "I've a homestead with a cabin and a barn to put up for
it."

Her father's face was now crimson, indicating
his mood had moved from simply irritated to angry. That did not
bode well for the farmer.

"Son, you'll have to come to the bank and
talk to me during business hours." With that final statement, her
father swept from the room—as much as he could in the press of
people now craning their necks to see what the raised voices were
about—pulling her along with him.

"The nerve—" he sputtered, apparently unable
to form coherent sentences. "Embarrassing me in front of
guests—"

"You could've granted him a private
audience," Penny admonished softly.

She knew her words were a mistake as her
father's face purpled. He opened his mouth to rebuke her, when they
were interrupted.

"Ah, Penelope. You look positively striking
this evening." A familiar, nasally voice silenced what her father
would've said, giving Penny a reprieve. For now. She knew her
father would have much to say to her—probably in a tirade—once the
guests had taken their leave. However, this interruption wasn't one
she particularly desired.

She forced a smile, knowing her father was
also schooling his own features. The Castlerock family was nothing
if not proper when in public. Her father's position on the town
council demanded no less. Nor did the man himself.

Her father's business associate, Herman
Abbott, half-bowed over her wrist, and Penny couldn't help but note
the clamminess of his grip—much like a limp, dead fish. She
reclaimed her hand and tucked it into the folds of her gown,
wishing she could wipe away the disgusting feeling but not daring
to.