Her Western Heart_Seeing Ranch series Page 4

  ...Until Mitchell got to the last one.

  It was the picture that grabbed his attention first. The eyes, so big and expressive. The mouth, twisting up in the slightest playful tease. And the hair, light and waved…

  The sight of such beauty had Mitchell’s heartbeat near doubling. Taking the paper with him, he moved closer to the light coming in through the window, not wanting to miss a single word of what this captivating woman had to say.

  Twenty years old and of good health, I currently reside in New York City, but long to escape it. I dream of wide open spaces and a life in communion with the land. Willing to travel right away.

  That was all, nothing more. No stats about skills or parading of abilities. The ad was the exact opposite of all the ones before it. Likely, many men would pass over it, thinking the woman who wrote it didn’t have what was needed to be a farm wife. But not Mitch. The words rung in his head. I dream of wide open spaces and a life in communion with the land.

  A female who loved the earth just as much as he did… After interacting with the women in town, ones who were afraid to get the hems of their dresses muddy or their hair tousled by the wind, it was like striking gold.

  “It would do you good, you know.”

  Mitchell started at the voice, turning around to find Beau leaning in the doorway, arms folded across his chest. Heat clawed at his face. He had the urge to hide the papers in his hands, but it was too late for that.

  Beau straightened up. “Every man needs a wife, someone to spill their worries to late at night.”

  Mitchell voraciously shook his head. “I don’t have time for one.”

  “Is that so?” He scratched his jaw and frowned, looking off at the wall. “When will you have time for one?”

  Mitchell dropped the paper back where he had found it. “When I find out who’s taking my cattle.”

  “But what about after that? There’ll be something else to deal with, and another situation after that. You know the excitement doesn’t stop here.”

  Mitch worked his jaw around, not sure what to say. He was ashamed after getting caught looking at the ads, but understood Beau’s point entirely. Life at Winding Path would always be a busy one. Even the easier times were jam-packed with work.

  And another truth was that Mitch wasn’t getting any younger. At thirty, he was still strong and—God willing—looking at many more years. But he’d already wasted so many of them alone. With his parents gone, there was a big empty space.

  Maybe it was time he filled it.

  “It’s something to think about.” Beau clomped down the steps. “See you at breakfast,” he called over his shoulder as he walked away.

  The paper drew Mitchell’s eyes once more. A wife…was it the right thing to do?

  If so, he wouldn’t be taking just any wife. There was only one in that paper that he wanted. Picking it up once more, he found the name that he’d overlooked before. Gemma Campbell.

  Something about it struck a chord deep down in Mitch. Whether this woman was meant to be his wife or not, one thing was certain: she’d somehow put a spell on him, even from nearly two thousand miles away.

  5

  5. Gemma

  Chapter Five

  Gemma’s father lifted his glass of wine, the ruby liquid shimmering under the glow of the chandelier. “To my daughter, Gemma, and her soon-to-be husband, William. May God bless this union.”

  The rest of the long table mimicked his actions, raising their glasses and toasting. Gemma raised hers as well, taking a hearty sip from her wine once she was done. The alcohol did nothing for the knot in her core—the same one that had been there for the last two months. Being at her own engagement party had only served to tighten it.

  “When is the happy date?” Mrs. Montgomery, Gemma’s second cousin, asked from across the table.

  Gemma opened her mouth to respond, but, from next to her, William jumped in. “October second. We are very excited.”

  Gemma forced a smile, but she did not know why she even tried. Anyone with half a brain could probably tell she was unhappy.

  Weeks had passed since she’d placed her ad with the agency and, as far as she knew, Penelope had kept her word and not told a soul. Every day, Gemma rushed to grab the mail before anyone—including the staff—had a chance to. It was probably too soon to hope for any response, but she couldn’t help but be optimistic.

  October second was only three months away. What would she do if she didn’t get a response before then?

  Gemma couldn’t think of that. She had to keep her spirits up, to believe that someone would see her ad and take her out of New York, away from the constraints of her father, William, and the daft, idle minds around her.

  “St. Paul’s is, of course, the only option,” her mother was saying from several seats down. “It is where Mr. Campbell and I were wed.”

  Gemma took another long drink of her wine. Her father noticed and cleared his throat, but she ignored him. Being tipsy was the only way she could hope to survive this meal.

  The staff began serving the first course, coming around with bowls of cold mint and cream soup. Hettie set Gemma’s serving in front of her and, as she did so, Gemma caught sight of a few letters peeking from Hettie’s apron pocket.

  Before the maid could move away, Gemma seized her hand. “The mail came?” she desperately asked, keeping her voice as low as she could.

  Gemma’s breath quickened and her pulse jumped all around. She’d checked the mail earlier that morning, of course, but there had been nothing there. Seeing the letter in Hettie’s pocket reminded her that it was Saturday—and sometimes, the postman came later on Saturdays.

  Hettie looked at Gemma in confusion. “Yes, Miss,” she murmured.

  With her tongue dry, Gemma nodded and smiled back. Hettie moved away, going back to serving the guests, but Gemma couldn’t get the letters out of her mind. The intuition flowering deep inside her said there was something different about today’s mail.

  Her hand shaking, she picked up her spoon and took a polite sip of soup. There could be no waiting. She had to get away from the table and to the mail. But how?

  “You are so quiet tonight,” William commented from next to her. He smiled wide, leering at Gemma with an enthusiasm that put her in danger of losing her already-eaten soup.

  “I am just tired,” she answered, quickly looking away.

  A hand settled on her thigh, under the table where no one could see it. Gemma’s heart nearly jumped out of her chest as she leaped to her feet.

  “Goodness!” someone gasped. The talk around the table stilled, with everyone stopping what they were doing to stare at Gemma.

  Her father’s eyes hardened, settling into the little slits that always foretold trouble.

  Gemma thought fast. “My apologies. I… I do not feel well. Excuse me.”

  Without looking at anyone—especially the awful man next to her—Gemma rushed from the dining room. Once in the hallway, she stopped to press her back against the wall. Closing her eyes, she took in one deep breath after another.

  That horrid man.

  What made Picoult think he could touch her like that? Being engaged didn’t mean he possessed the right to lay his hand on her in such a manner.

  A shudder went through Gemma and she opened her eyes. No matter. One day soon, if all went well, she would be far, far away from him. Until then, she supposed she ought to thank him for his disgusting behavior. He’d given her an excuse to get away from the dining table.

  The door leading to the kitchen swung open and Hettie walked out, carrying a bottle of wine from the cellars.

  “Oh! Hettie!” Gemma rushed to her.

  “Yes, Miss Gemma? Did you need something more?”

  “No.” Gemma smiled sweetly. “I am just not feeling well. I’m going to lay down. I did notice, though, that you have the mail. Let me take it for you.” Before she could answer, Gemma slipped her hand in Hettie’s apron pocket and extracted the mail. Moving as fast a
s she could without collecting suspicion, Gemma headed for the main staircase.

  At the first step, she turned. “Oh, if my parents ask, please tell them where I am. I really do feel awful and wish to not be disturbed. I will return to the party as soon as I can.”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  With Hettie out of the hallway, Gemma took the stairs two at a time. She would receive a talking to full of brimstone and fire from her father for daring to depart in the middle of her own engagement party, but at the moment, she did not care. She had a fistful of letters and there was a good chance one of them held the answer she looked for.

  On the second level, she quickly shuffled through the short stack. The first two envelopes were addressed to her father, and the third to her mother…but the fourth was for Gemma.

  Dropping the other letters on a small table against the wall, she flew to her bedroom, making sure to bolt the door before turning on her oil lamp and collapsing on the bed.

  The loose scrawl on the front of the envelope was broad and tilted. Gemma’s fingers trembled as she worked the seal open. It seemed as if she’d forgotten how to breathe.

  “Please,” she whispered desperately. “Please...”

  A single sheet of paper was all the envelope held. Gemma scooted along the edge of the bed, eager to catch as much of the light from the lamp as she could.

  Dear Miss Campbell,

  It is with great pleasure, and, I am somewhat hesitant to say, nervousness, I write this letter. By—at the least—lucky coincidence, or—at the most—divine providence, I came across the paper with your advertisement in it.

  My name is Mitchell Reed and I own a cattle ranch in Wyoming Territory named Winding Path Ranch. It was left to me by my late parents five years ago, and since then, I have taken every effort to make it the kind of establishment and home they would be proud of. I currently have around several hundred heads of cattle, as well as an assortment of other farm animals. The ranch is run by myself and a dozen hands, though the other men all live in cabins on the land. I, along with my housekeeper, reside in the main home.

  To speak bluntly—as I believe is most likely best in this kind of unusual situation—it was the passion with which you wrote about the earth that caught my eye. Out here in Wyoming Territory, God’s majestic land stretches as far as the eye can see. The mountains tower so high they must be scraping the bottom of Heaven, and the water running down from them is clear as glass.

  I have made this land my home, my life’s work, and my passion. The only thing I am missing is a wife to share it all with. If anything that I have written stirs your interest at all, then please do let me know.

  Or, if by some small chance you are taken with what I have written and already decided that this life sounds fitting for you, please let me know when to expect your arrival.

  With utmost respect,

  Mitchell Reed

  At the bottom of the page was an address, as well as instructions for getting to the town of Shallow Springs, in Wyoming Territory. Gemma read the letter over twice more, her lips silently moving along with the words. She could see the land Mitchell had described as if it were right in front of her.

  How she wanted to smell that fresh air! How she wanted to feel the grass under her bare toes!

  Taking her oil lamp, Gemma carried it over to her writing desk. There was no need to hesitate. She would write back to Mitchell Reed right away, telling him that she would be on the next available train out of New York. She was leaving city life behind, leaving the sickening touch of William Picoult behind!

  As she took her seat, a small photograph she hadn’t noticed before fell from the envelope. It was of a man, tall, muscular and barrel-chested. He sat stoic for the photograph, the hat missing from his head allowing Gemma to take in thick, dark hair.

  Gemma’s stomach flipped over and she lightly touched her fingertips to the image. Her shortened breathing pattern was back. The words Mitchell Reed had written had nearly stolen her breath away, but his image… oh, his image was another thing entirely.

  Had she ever seen such a handsome man in all of New York? She didn’t think so.

  Surely, this was the blessing she had been waiting for. A man with a ranch, one who loved the outdoors and was well-looking. A man who was nothing like the ones she’d known all her life. Gemma couldn’t wish for anything else.

  Just as she selected a piece of her stationary, a knock sounded on the locked door.

  “Gemma?”

  It was her mother. Panic fluttering in her chest, Gemma killed the oil lamp. “Yes?” she called out, attempting to make her voice sound weak.

  “Our guests are wondering about you.”

  “I am not feeling well, Mother. Perhaps it was the soup.”

  There was a slight pause.

  Please do not try the door, Gemma silently begged. Please do not try the door.

  “Very well,” her mother eventually said. “I will have Hettie come and check on you soon. Perhaps you can make it down before your fiancé leaves.”

  “Yes,” she weakly agreed. “Perhaps.”

  She waited until the footsteps receded down the hallway before turning the oil lamp back up. This time, she reached for her ink pot with a new frenzy.

  Wyoming. She was going to Wyoming Territory. It was all crazily, magnificently true—better than any novel or dime western she had ever read.

  Gemma Campbell was headed out west.

  6

  6. Mitchell

  Chapter Six

  Water pushed against the giant cow, forming little bumpy waves that trailed along the animal’s form. The sight was a shock. Mitchell had seen his cattle dead many times before, of course, whether after being butchered or haven’t fallen ill, but he had never found one dead in a creek, a bullet hole between its eyes.

  He bent down and dipped his hands in the cool water, washing them off after touching the cow’s fur. Flies swarmed around the beast, eager and excited.

  “How long, you think?” he asked Beau. Across the creek and up a bit, Samuel and Davis studied the creek bed for tracks.

  Beau took a seat on a flat rock nearby. “Not more than a day. I’m surprised the wolves haven’t come for her yet.”

  Mitchell straightened to standing and squinted against the light bouncing off the creek. Enough time had gone by since the last cattle had gone missing that he’d almost begun to believe the rustlers had moved on. And then, this… He hadn’t even known the cow had been missing. Not till Davis found her not an hour ago, up here in the hills, dead and all alone. She was Mitchell’s, all right; his unique brand marked her hide.

  “Look at her back leg,” Beau pointed out. Mitchell did, finding it twisted all wrong.

  “She must have gotten injured and they left her here because she couldn’t keep up.”

  “Why shoot her, though?” Mitch asked, anger coursing through him. “Empathy?” He fought back the desire to spit. “As if rustlers have a caring bone in their body.”

  Beau said nothing. Mitch knew he was probably thinking hard about the issue at hand, turning over possible options in his head. Mitch couldn’t wait for any more theories.

  “They could still be up here.” He slapped his hat against his thigh, the act only serving to make him angrier.

  “If they are, you’re not gonna find them. There are too many places to hide in these mountains. They might see you coming from half a mile away, if they’re up in the right cave. And any criminal willing to steal ain’t gonna think twice about shooting to kill.”

  Mitchell’s sharp exhale burned his nose. Beau was right. There was nothing to be done but what they had been doing. Patrolling more was the only answer.

  Mitchell’s grip tightened on his hat. If only he could see the men responsible for taking his ranch apart bit by bit, get to look them in the eyes and ask them how it could possibly be worth it.

  But that wasn’t his job and he knew it. Only God could pass true judgment, and judge He would. It would be hard, but
Mitchell would pray that the thieves would realize their wrongs and ask for forgiveness. Not just for their victims, but for themselves as well.

  “Anything over there?” he shouted across the creek.

  Samuel and Davis both shook their heads. Mitch untethered Lady from a nearby tree and hopped into her saddle. He couldn’t take one more moment in this creek bed, or one more look at the cow. Hopefully, by the next time he came this way, she’d be gone, the wolves finally having made a meal of her.