The Governess Bride: A Sweet Mail Order Bride Historical (5 page)

For a second, she pictured him. The man who’d wanted nothing to do with her. The man she would never now meet. She imagined him standing where she stood, in the same pale light. Imagined him walking from the table to the sink. His movements perhaps slow and measured. His eyes perhaps fixed on those mountains. Thoughts fixed on horses and cattle and round-ups.

She took a breath, feeling that feeling again. The feeling she couldn’t name, and didn’t want to name, twisting inside her. Gnawing and scratching and hurting. So she exhaled and pushed it away. Buried it with all the other feelings she had no use for. Come on Holly. Coffee. She chose a solid-looking chair and dragged it across the floor, positioning it under the shelf. She had her right foot squared on it before she realized she was no longer alone. Slowly, she turned. Saw yellow eyes. Fangs. Fur.

* * *

"What the–" Ben Cormack’s heart clutched and his wire-cutters sprang from his fingers when he heard the scream. He cursed, vaulted the fence, and burst into a sprint across the still-wet grass towards Nuthatch Ranch.

Moments later he was breathing hard in the doorway of Mac McCann’s kitchen, his eyes clamped on the woman he knew at once to be the man’s daughter. Long bare limbs. A tumble of dark hair. Fine-cut features. She was standing on a chair, trembling, covered in just about enough cotton and lace. The morning sun cut shafts of yellow light into the kitchen, bathing the room, and her, in soft gold. She was beautiful. And there was no doubting the McCann in her, either. It was there in the gentle grayness of her eyes. In the charcoal-dark hair. In the shape, the set, of her mouth.

Hank, Mac’s dog –  now technically Ben’s dog –  obviously agreed. He was sitting there blinking benignly at her. His tongue lolling, his tail thumping. Hank knew a McCann when he saw one, too.

"Ma’am."

"Shhhh!" Holly raised a shaky finger to her lips.

"Don’t startle it." Her voice was uneven, no louder than a whisper, but he could hear the cut-glass Englishness in it.

"Ma’am," Ben took a step closer. Stopping when he saw her stiffen.

"It’s okay," he murmured, dropping his voice instinctively.

"He won’t hurt you."

She darted a sudden wary look at him, weighing her options, deciding whether to trust him or not. And some part of him turned inside out. A man could lose all– . Ben cut the thought down. Forget what a man could lose in those eyes. They were pretty eyes, that was all. She had pretty eyes.

"Is it a wolf?" she whispered, flicking her attention back to the dog, setting Ben’s mouth to quirking. He couldn’t help it. Had to drop his head, compose his face.

"No, ma’am," he said, bringing his head up, straightening his mouth.

"It’s a dog. Name’s Hank. He’s pretty friendly once you get to know him."

"You’re sure? You’re sure it’s a dog?" She was staring, unconvinced, at Hank’s amber eyes. His white-grey fur.

"Sure as sure, ma’am.’ Ben smiled.

"He’s a Husky. Belonged to your–" He paused. Rephrased.

"Belonged to Mac McCann."

* * *

A Husky? Holly closed her eyes. A Husky… She cringed, groaning inwardly. Her photography –  her work –  was about cities. She was about cities. She didn’t do animals. Didn’t do plants. Didn’t do this whole country thing. But still. What an idiot.

She forced her eyes open, turning again to the cowboy guy who’d come to her rescue. Six something feet of him. In jeans, boots and an ancient college t-shirt. Yale? Did cowboys usually go to Yale? His face was all handsome planes and angles. His eyes incredibly dark. Dark eyes. Serious eyes. Eyes that were being politely averted. Oh God. Oh no. Holly felt a sudden deep blush start in her toes and proceed steadily north. Not only had she just made an unbelievable fool of herself. She was also pretty much naked.

Inclining her head, pressing her lips together, striving for dignity though there was little to be had, she made a move to step down from the chair.

With a couple of long strides, Ben closed the distance between them and offered her his hand. Holly opened her mouth, on the point of refusing, on the point of saying something. But no words came. Instead, she felt his fingers close around hers, felt his eyes lock on her eyes –  and felt them hold her there for a second. Then, just as quickly, she pulled her hand away, stepped carefully down from the chair, and was somehow relieved to be jolted by the stony coldness of the floor beneath her feet.

"Thanks. I–"

Ben took a step backwards, opening up some space between them, hooking his thumbs into his jeans.

"You okay?"

"Yes. I’m so sorry. You must think I’m an idiot. Well, I mean, I am an idiot. Obviously." She heard herself laugh nervously. "It’s just that, I suppose I’m out of my comfort zone, and–"

Ben’s eyes had settled on hers again. She could see now, even though she was inching away from him, that they were a very dark blue.

"And um, well I’d heard there were wolves in Montana, and when I saw it, I mean, when I saw the dog, I just…" She clasped her hands together in front of her. "I’m a photographer, you see, and I spend a lot of time in cities and…" Why was she gabbling? She never gabbled. "I’ve been quite busy and…" Busy? Seventeen cities and as many hotels in the last month alone. Four days ago she’d woken up in the Park Hyatt Tokyo, convinced she was in the Paris Ritz, only to discover after a series of very confusing phone calls that she had a same-day check-in arranged at the Istanbul Hilton. She wasn’t busy. She was insane. "And a lot has been going on, you see, so…"

Ben continued to watch her, as if any moment now her incoherent ramblings might actually yield some sort of meaning.

"So–" She stopped talking, stopped edging away from him, and smiled weakly.

Ben smiled a slow smile back at her.

"I suppose what I’m trying to say is… I panicked."

His smile widened a little. "Don’t worry about it. Long as you’re ok."

"Right…" she smiled back. "I’m Holly, by the way. Holly Winters."

"Ben. Ben Cormack."

Neither of them moved.

"I’m your– , I’m Nuthatch’s nearest neighbor," he continued.

"Couple of miles from here, as the crow flies."

"Cormack?" She recognized the name.

"You’re named in the will my fa– . You’re his preferred buyer?"

Ben nodded. "I heard that."

"Right." She said again.

"We should talk then, I guess." It came out more like a question than a statement.

"If that’s what you’d like. If you feel you–"

"Yes. Oh, I do. Yes. Definitely. So I’ll just… If it’s alright with you, I’ll just, um, I’ll go and–" Holly closed her eyes for a second. Inhaled. Blew out a short breath and flashed an apologetic smile at him. "I’ll be back in a minute…"

* * *

Ben stood in Mac’s cozy old kitchen, the smile fading from his lips while he listened to the somehow intimate sound of her bare feet padding down the hall. He exhaled a long, slow breath. So that was Mac’s daughter. There was a pack of unopened coffee lying on the counter. He opened it, unhooking his old friend’s coffee pot from above the range as if nothing had changed, as if Mac were still alive. He unscrewed it. Heaped in the rich-smelling grounds.

Had it only been a month? It still seemed unreal. Ben still felt as though Mac could walk through the door, laughing one of his deep laughs, before clapping Ben heartily on the back. They’d been more than neighbors. They’d been friends.

All the talk of the early winter to come. Must have been playing on Mac’s mind. That’s why he’d ridden up to the high country, to check fences, make repairs, get ready. Was it any wonder his heart had given out? He’d always been too damn stubborn to ask for help. The coroner said it’d been a massive seizure. That it would’ve been over quickly. That he wouldn’t have suffered. Ben clenched and unclenched his jaw. Mac had too many damn acres to run what had amounted to a one-man show. But that’s how Mac had always done things. That’s how he’d liked it. And hell, that’s how he’d have wanted to go.

Still. Ben walked to the window, braced his arms against the counter. Traced the rise of the mountain to where they’d found him. This. His daughter being here. It was hard to swallow. Mac had wanted so much to meet her. To put things right. And now. Now that he was dead, here she was.

* * *

Holly closed the door of the bathroom adjoining the bedroom she’d slept in the night before, and plunged her face into her hands. How embarrassing. How unbelievably embarrassing. What a meltdown. What on earth had all that been about? She was at the top of her field. Thought nothing of organizing an exhibition, directing a photography shoot. She regularly handled the most difficult clients and models and divas –  of both sexes –  without trying too hard. So why the blathering idiot routine in front of the Yale cowboy?

She shook her head, turned on the shower taps, and stepped under the soft warm spray. She was jet-lagged, and she longed for a bath. But she’d have to make do. Too many cities in too few days, that was the problem. And too many three minute showers, she thought, as she quickly rinsed the last of the shampoo out of her hair. She’d perfected it over the years. The whole three minute thing. Or maybe she had just perfected being permanently rushed.

The funny thing was when she was twenty and just starting out, she’d imagined that being a photographer would be a slow-paced sort of career. A relaxed, bohemian pace. A relaxed, bohemian life. But now, nearly a decade later, her life was anything but slow. And anything but bohemian. What did it mean to pine for a life that was bohemian, steeped in art and nature – romantic, somehow? When all you really knew, all you lived, were airport terminals and hotel rooms? Holly frowned. It meant that you were unrealistic, she thought, pushing all thoughts of romantic rural idylls from her mind.

She wrapped herself in a towel and hurried through to the bedroom. At least this unexpected week in Montana would give her a chance to catch her breath. Even if she did have a house to empty, and a ton of paperwork to sign off. It would still be a holiday compared with the usual madness.

She dressed quickly in a pair of Capri pants and a black sweater, pausing on her way past the dressing-table mirror to twist and pin her hair into a French knot. And then, just for a moment, she stilled and took a long, deep breath – and allowed herself a conspiratorial wink in the mirror. Coffee.

"Hello again," she said, wandering back in to the kitchen, feeling oddly shy, but a lot less foolish now that she was wearing clothes.

"Hey…" He gave her a sideways smile.

"You found the coffee pot."

"On the hook there." He nodded in the direction of the cooker.

"Aha…"

"Hope you don’t mind… Figured we could both use a cup."

"Like you wouldn’t believe…" she smiled back. She watched while he poured.

"This your first time in Montana?"

"Mmm hmm. The urban environment is my usual habitat. As you can probably tell."

Ben chuckled and handed her a cup of coffee.

"So you’re a photographer?"

Her kit, including several cameras, lenses and boxes of film, was spread over one of the counters.

"Yes. Thought I might as well bring my stuff. Get a few captures while I’m here. Maybe some of those big skies I’ve heard about."

"Big skies. Yeah. We got plenty of those." He smiled, studying the contents of his cup for a moment. Then he leveled his gaze at her. "I’m sorry, Holly. About your father. He was a good man."

Holly froze. Swallowed a mouthful of coffee. Felt her blood cool. Her stomach tighten. A good man? Was a man who dumped his pregnant fiancée and sent her away a good guy? Was a guy who denied the existence of the child he’d fathered a good man? Call her old fashioned, but in her opinion, her father was not, and never had been a good man.

"That’s debatable…" she said quietly, brushing past him and taking a far seat at the huge table.

Ben’s brows drew together, and a shadow came over his face.

"I’m sorry?"

"I said that’s debatable…"

Ben couldn’t have looked more surprised if she’d just slapped him across the face.

"My father didn’t give a damn about me, Ben." She looked straight at him, painfully aware that her voice sounded unsteady. A faded, unwanted memory drifted into her mind. Of herself. On her eleventh birthday. Of how she’d waited all day long for the doorbell to ring – convinced that her father would magically appear that day to claim her as his daughter. That she and her mother and her father would live happily ever after. That she wouldn’t have to stay at boarding school. That they would be a family. She sank her nails into her palms, willing away the tears that threatened even now, even after all these years. She’d wasted too much time on daydreams. Had cried too many tears over a man who simply hadn’t cared.

"And–" she swallowed hard, fighting for composure. "And I haven’t come here to moon around on his ranch pretending that I’m sorry he’s…" She paused. Took an extra breath, "…that I’m sorry he’s dead. Because the truth of the matter is…" Her throat felt horribly tight. Say it, Holly. Just say it. Say it. Own it. And accept it. "The truth of the matter is, I was nothing to him. And the sooner all the paperwork is finalized and I clear his house and I can get out of here… The better."