Passage West (35 page)

“We would be honored to take supper with you and your beautiful family, Mr. McClelland,” Violet said.

“The honor is ours, ma’am.” Pulling himself up into the saddle, he beamed at her. “I’ll send Andy Junior, back with a wagon to pick you up.” Touching a hand to his hat, he rode away, with his children following.

“Well.” Violet touched a hand to her throat. “What a lovely surprise.”

“We will assemble at the cook wagon,” Mordecai said before walking away. “I suggest you be ready as soon as the wagon arrives.”

“I believe I’ll just freshen up,” Violet said, climbing into the back of the wagon.

Seeing her aunt’s flushed cheeks, Abby muttered, “I hope Aunt Vi isn’t coming down with something.”

“Why do you say that?” Rourke asked.

“I thought she looked a bit feverish.” Abby glanced up to see Rourke grinning. “Didn’t you notice?”

“I did. And I’d say the fever has nothing to do with sickness.”

Abby swung away and began to bank the fire. “Sometimes, Rourke, you don’t make any sense.”

Behind her, Rourke continued to smile as he watched the figure in the back of the wagon running a comb through shining silver hair.

*  *  *

“Welcome to our highland ranch,” Andrew McClelland called as the wagon loaded with all the members of the wagon train pulled up to the front door.

Andrew and his sturdy sons helped the women and children from the hay wagon, while his daughter, Mary Rose, invited them inside.

When he reached out his hands for Violet, Andrew lifted her as easily as if she weighed nothing at all. When he set her on her feet, his hands stayed a moment at her waist. “You smell as good as a meadow of fresh flowers, Violet,” he whispered.

“Why, thank you, Mr. McClelland.”

“Andrew,” he corrected.

“Andrew.” She tried the word and found she liked it. “You have a beautiful ranch, Andrew.”

“Thank you.” He waited until everyone had filed inside, then, seeing that they were alone, said, “You’re only seeing a small portion of it tonight.”

“There is more?”

“This is just our highland home. Before the snows come, we’ll herd the cattle down to lower elevations, where the weather stays mild all winter.”

“But where do you stay in the lowlands?”

“We have another ranch down there.”

“And the land?” Violet glanced around at the towering pines, and far below, the rich, verdant valley. “How much land do you own?”

“All of it.” He laughed. “As far as the eye can see in any direction. It’s all McClelland land.”

Violet couldn’t even imagine it. “But how is this possible?”

“If we clear the land and work it, it becomes ours. And all we have to do to stay here is battle the weather, the Indians, insects, and disease. And the loneliness.”

“How could you ever be lonely with such a beautiful family around you?” she whispered.

He stared down into her eyes and read the loneliness there as well. “Mr. Stump told me you have no husband or children. My children fill a lot of lonely hours. But children aren’t enough.”

“What happened to your wife, Andrew?”

“She died when Mary Rose was born.”

“You mean you’ve raised her all alone?”

He nodded. “The boys and I do our best for her. But the girl needs a woman’s touch.”

Violet glanced at the young girl who circulated among the guests beyond the open door. “I’d say you and your boys have done a fine job.”

He put a hand beneath her elbow and led her up the steps. “Come inside, Violet. I hope you like my home.”

Violet stared around at the rough-hewn walls of the log house. Like the man who lived here, the rooms were overlarge, with a huge fireplace made of stone. On the floor were woven Indian rugs. Along the wall were hung the hides of deer and bear. How could one room be so big and yet so cozy?

Several Indian women carried steaming dishes to the dining table, already groaning under the weight of trays of food.

From the kitchen, a small, bearded Chinese man carried a tray nearly as big as himself, laden with a side of beef. While the others watched, the man carved the beef into thick slabs. When he retreated to the kitchen, Andrew said, “Please, everyone. Help yourselves. Dinner is ready.”

Needing no further invitation, the hungry guests filled their plates with precious beef, as well as potatoes, vegetables, freshly baked sourdough bread, and a variety of dishes no one had ever tasted before.

As Violet ate, seated beside Andrew, she shook her head in wonder. “I haven’t seen this much food since our last Sunday school picnic. Was it really seven or eight months ago?”

Andrew chuckled. “The days blend together when you’re on the trail, don’t they?”

She nodded, then fell silent, thinking about the family and friends who lay buried, their graves marked only by flimsy wooden crosses.

Sensing her sadness, Andrew said, “We don’t have a chance to entertain often, so the boys have asked if they could play for you.”

Everyone looked up with interest. A few minutes later, while the travelers drank coffee laced with whiskey and polished off several rum cakes, Frank, Ian, and Andy began playing fiddles. Within minutes, the men and women, and even the children, were up dancing. Rourke hauled Abby to her feet, nearly spilling her coffee.

“Come on, lady. It’s time you had another lesson in dancing.”

Giggling, Abby held on while he whirled her around the floor.

“Dance with me, Violet,” Andrew said, holding out his hand. A minute later, she felt his strong arms encircle her waist as he flawlessly led her in a waltz. Soon the music grew louder, and the dancers moved faster, until they had broken into several squares. Then, bowing and swaying, they began to follow the directions of Mordecai, who appointed himself caller.

“Bow to your partners.”

Abby laughed as Rourke made a deep bow at the waist.

“Bow to your corner.”

Abby lifted the hem of her gown and curtsied to Aaron Winters.

“Swing your partner.”

Abby felt Rourke’s strong arms lift her off the floor as he spun her around and around. Oh, it was so wonderful. If only it could go on forever.

“Let’s leave this to the others,” Andrew said, mopping his brow before taking Violet’s arm. Leading her from the room, he said, “How would you like to see the rest of the house while they’re dancing?”

“I’d like that, Andrew.”

Taking her hand, he led her to the kitchen. “This is Lee,” Andrew said, introducing the Chinese cook. “And this is his wife, Anh.”

Noting their shyness, Violet crossed the room and shook their hands. They seemed surprised at her boldness. No white woman had ever touched them before. If Andrew was surprised, he hid it. But he was fascinated with her reaction.

Turning toward the Indian women, who were clearing the table and returning empty serving trays to the kitchen, he said, “This is Wind Sighing in the Trees, and this is Melts the Snow.”

Violet blessed the fact that Abby had dared bring an Indian to her wagon. More aware of their customs, she simply nodded and spoke a simple greeting to each.

“Wind Sighing in the Trees and Melts the Snow, I am pleased to meet you.”

Both women blinked, nodded, then continued their chores. Andrew watched with obvious interest.

“In the back of the house are the bedrooms,” he said, steering her in that direction before she could voice a protest.

It didn’t seem proper to Violet to be given a tour of a gentleman’s bedroom. But she didn’t know quite how to stop it.

“The first room is mine,” Andrew said, pausing barely long enough for Violet to inspect it. She had an impression of a huge room, with another stone fireplace, and a huge bed of rough-hewn timbers, covered with an enormous bearskin throw.

“This room is for the boys,” Andrew said, indicating a large room with three bunks, also covered with hides.

“And this room belongs to Mary Rose.” As Andrew opened the door, the girl looked up with a smile. “She asked me to bring you here before you left.”

“She did?” Violet hesitantly entered, glancing around at the room that, though similar to the others, made of rough-sawn timber and with a rock fireplace, had feminine touches. On a table near the bed was a silver brush and comb. “Oh, how lovely,” Violet said, running a hand over the pieces.

“They were my mother’s,” the girl said shyly.

“Then they are treasures. To be passed on to your children someday,” Violet said softly.

From the doorway, Andrew watched and listened.

Spotting a book near the bedside, Violet glanced down at the open page. “The Bible. Oh, Mary Rose. Do you read it?”

The girl glanced down at the floor. “I try to. Dad taught me how to read. But sometimes I get stuck on the big words.”

Picking up the book, Violet read the passage aloud. “̵’;And the Lord said, “It is not good for man to be alone. I will fashion for him a helpmate.’”

The girl’s eyes rounded. “You can read?”

Violet drew her close. “Yes, dear. I love to read.”

“Would you read some more to me?”

Violet sat down on the edge of the bed and patted the space beside her. When Andrew finally turned away to see to his guests, two heads were bent in the lamplight, one reading, one listening raptly.

*  *  *

Andrew McClelland and his children stood in a single line at the door, saying good night to their guests. Once outside, they climbed into the big hay wagon, wrapping blankets about their shoulders to ward off the chill.

As Violet extended her hand, Andrew drew her close. “I’d like to take you back to camp myself,” he murmured.

For a moment, Violet thought her heart would leap clear out of her mouth. Not trusting her voice, she merely nodded. He hurried through the rest of the goodbyes, then went off in search of a warm wrap, calling, “Ian, hitch the rig.”

From the open doorway, Violet watched as the wagon clattered off in the night. A short time later, Andrew led her to a small carriage and wrapped her in a fur throw.

“If you’re not too tired, I’d like to take the long way back to camp,” he said.

“I’m not at all tired,” she assured him.

He flicked the reins, and the horse trotted off, circling the ranch house and the outbuildings.

“Why did you never marry, Violet? Did some man break your heart?”

She gave a soft sigh. “Nothing quite so romantic as that, I’m afraid. I was needed at home. The younger ones left, and one day I discovered that I was an old spinster.”

Old. He was older than her by years, but he never thought of himself as old. “Do you believe in fate?” he asked.

Violet turned to him. “I believe in God,” she said simply. “I believe that He directs our paths.”

“I believe that too,” Andrew said, dropping an arm around her to draw her closer. Letting the reins go slack, he brought his arms around her and turned her to him. “I believe He brought you here so that I could find you.”

“Andrew, we’ve only known each other for a few hours.”

“And I want to spend the rest of my life with you if you’re willing.”

“But you don’t know me.”

“I know that you are a selfless woman, who gave up a life of her own to care for others. I know that you like children, and even more important, they like you. I’ve never before seen Mary Rose take to someone the way she’s taken to you.” As Violet opened her mouth to protest, he added, “I know that you are not afraid of people who are different from you. You treated my Chinese cook and my Indian helpers with the same regard you give everyone else. And most important, I know that the first time I touched you, I felt a blaze of passion that I thought had died many years ago.”

“Oh Andrew.”

The midnight sky was awash with a million stars that looked so close, Violet wondered if she could reach out and touch one. On a night like this, she realized, nothing was impossible. This man, this wonderful, handsome, rugged man wanted her. And, wonder of wonders, she wanted him.

“Would you be willing to give up your dream of California and marry me?”

She knew she was crying, but she couldn’t stop. Burying her face in his neck, she wept as though her heart would break. But it wasn’t breaking. Maybe for the first time in her life, her heart was whole.

Alarmed, he drew her away and wiped her tears with his thumbs. “Violet. My sweet, sweet Violet. Have I said something to hurt you?”

“Andrew.” She was laughing and crying, and then laughing again. The tears ran unchecked down her cheeks, but she ignored them. No longer would she be the silly, dreamy, useless dried-up old prune. How many years had she lived with those ugly labels?

She touched a finger to his furrowed brow, then traced his firm, strong mouth. He watched her, afraid to breathe, afraid to hope. He had lost her. His beautiful butterfly was about to fly away. Seeing his frown, she touched her lips to his.

“I love you, Andrew. I love you, and your family, and your beautiful land.”

He went very still. He hadn’t lost her. Yet. “And you’ll stay? I know it’s a lot to ask.”

“Oh Andrew. I’ll stay for as long as you want me. Until the end of the world, if it’s possible.”

“Violet. Oh God, my beautiful, wonderful Violet.”

He drew her tightly against his chest and kissed her full on the mouth. For long moments, she held herself rigid, absorbing the shock of his kiss. Then, slowly, slowly, she felt herself opening to him. Bringing her arms around his neck, she allowed her fingers to twine in the thick hair at his nape.

His kiss gentled as he nibbled, then tugged at her lower lip. But as the fire spread, his kiss became more demanding. His hands moved beneath the fur throw, drawing her closer. And as his fingers encountered the warmth of her flesh, he moaned and lowered his mouth to her neck. She was warm. So warm. So soft. And he wanted to be easy and gentle with her.

Violet was a woman who understood life and love, men and women. Hadn’t she encouraged her own sister and niece to follow their hearts? But she had never before experienced anything like this. In fact, she had never before experienced anything at all. Needs pulsed, making her by turn weak, then eager. Somewhere deep inside her was an aching sweetness, driving her to a boldness she had never dreamed of.