The Nanny Solution (3 page)

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

M
itch'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.