Authors: Loving Miranda
Teresa Bodwell (2 page)
Chapter 2
Miranda Chase eased her horse, Princess, to a slow walk. She glanced over her shoulder knowing he wasn’t behind her. She’d traveled sixty miles since leaving Denver the day before yesterday—the last five alone except for the shadow of Lansing behind her. She knew he was only there in her mind. Why she couldn’t forget the pompous city slicker was beyond her.
The last thing she needed was another Lansing in her life. Though surely the man was no relation to Arthur Lansing. A chill shot down her spine at the thought of her former neighbor—the man who had tried to kill her sister a year ago.
The two men could not be related. This Lansing had brown hair, touched with gold, and warm brown eyes. Arthur’s eyes had been cold steel gray, and his hair black. She shifted in her saddle, knowing her thinking was flawed. Hell, her own sister was tall with perfectly straight hair and generous curves. Miranda was small, lean, and fair. Her hair was beyond the ability of any earthly being to control. It had a mind of its own and wouldn’t surrender to a brush no matter what she tried. You couldn’t always judge a family relationship by looking.
Still, it had to be a coincidence. Other than his young son, Arthur had no relations in Colorado Territory. Lansing’s family was all back in Boston, so the chances of running into one of them in Denver had to be nil. Though, come to think of it, the man she’d spoken to clearly was not from Denver. Likely he was from somewhere in the East. She should have asked him if he had relatives in Fort Victory. If the man hadn’t been so vexing, she might have thought to ask him instead of spending the past two days worrying about it.
Men!
Men!
She rolled her shoulders, trying to relax her stiff back. What she really needed was a nice, hot bath. Once she saw for herself how Mercy was faring, she’d take time for a bath and a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow, she’d get to work helping Pa and Mercy and get her mind off Mr. Benjamin Lansing.
It wasn’t really the name that troubled her, it was her own foolishness. Why she’d even thought to talk to a fancy-dressed slicker was beyond her. The man’s suit, a fine gray wool with a matching satin vest, likely cost more than she’d earned in months of working in Philadelphia. It was strange he’d had trouble making a knot; his black leather gloves looked to be as soft and pliable as a second skin. Could be wearing gloves indoors was fashionable where Lansing was from. Or maybe he was too damn foolish to figure out he should take off the gloves. More likely he was used to having other people do things for him. If that was the case, she was sorry she’d helped him.
If it was a devotion to style, it was a strange one. In all the time she’d been in the city, she hadn’t seen a fashionable gentleman with such long hair, nearly down to his shoulders. His face was clean-shaven, except for a thick line of whiskers coming down in front of each ear and tapering to a fine point that seemed to emphasize his strong, masculine jaw. Whether in Denver, Abilene or Philadelphia, Lansing would stand out in a crowd.
She was sixty miles away from him and his appearance was still on her mind. The truth was, it was his paintings that made her curious, but it was his face that had drawn her to him.
And that was the foolish part. A handsome face meant wandering eyes and sure heartbreak, or worse. After what she’d been through, Miranda should have sense enough to run the other way when she spied a fine-looking man.
That arrogant gentleman was no temptation. His image pushed its way back into her mind—tall with a jacket tailored to emphasize his broad shoulders and trim waist, an angular face, and eyes as warm as good, strong coffee. She laughed at herself. Hell, that man could entice her, no doubt. At least she knew it was a temptation that would never find her in Fort Victory.
She stared up at the mountains, a grander and safer sight than the one she’d been contemplating. Nearly home.
Her throat tightened. It wasn’t right to think of Fort Victory as home any longer. She didn’t belong here. She’d refused to come running home when she needed help, instead choosing to make her life elsewhere. And she would have stayed away, too, if her sister hadn’t written. She patted the pocket of her leather split skirt, feeling her sister’s letter folded inside. Mercy had never admitted to needing Miranda’s help before. This was Miranda’s chance to prove herself to her older sister and Pa too.
Riding in the shadows of the familiar mountains felt comfortable no matter how hard Miranda tried to convince herself that she didn’t belong. She’d missed this place. The rugged peaks above her wore their autumn skirts of orange, red and gold as the cottonwoods that covered their lower slopes displayed their fall splendor. Those same peaks also loomed over the Bar Double C ranch, where her sister and father waited. It would be wonderful to find her way once again into the shelter of their home and their arms. But those feelings belonged to the little freckle-faced girl who had always been dependent on her family. The freckles remained, especially after a month of riding under the sun, but the little girl was gone. Miranda was a grown woman who could take care of herself and had for the past year.
She reined her bay mare to a stop at the crest of the hill overlooking Fort Victory. The town bustled under the noontime sun. The settlement had started as a military outpost several years ago, but it had grown considerably since she’d first laid eyes on the place. Between the miners and the ranchers, the military garrison was the smallest part of what folks around these parts thought of as Fort Victory.
She leaned forward and stroked her horse’s long, graceful neck, feeling powerful muscles through the buckskin gloves that protected her hands from sun and wind. Straightening, she inhaled cool autumn air. Fort Victory was growing, but she had no trouble picking out Wyatt’s Dry Goods Store in the center of town, a few doors down from Rita’s saloon. A short respite in town would be nice, but it would take less than two hours to reach the ranch if she pressed on.
She turned Princess toward the ranch, feeling as though a snake were slithering through her stomach. She glanced back at Wyatt’s store and made her decision. With a squeeze of her heels and click of her tongue, she urged Princess to trot into town. The small detour would set her mind at ease and make her reunion with Pa and Mercy a bit easier.
The problem with traveling cross-country with a group of strangers was there was too much time to think, to mentally rehearse every possible thing that could go wrong.
“You’re a coward, Miranda,” she mumbled, shaking her head. All those folks who said she was brave to head West on her own were wrong. Traveling to Colorado from Philadelphia didn’t take real courage. She could think of worse fates than dying while trying to help her family. Not that she had any intention of dying, but she was no longer afraid of death. It was the bad choices she’d made that had her wanting to join a prairie dog colony so she could live in a nice, safe hole in the ground.
She lifted her chin. Miranda wasn’t about to scurry into any underground den, but she did need to learn some caution—especially when it came to men. Spending time with Mercy and Pa would help. They were always urging her to slow down and be more careful. She’d have time to learn to control her impulses while she took care of Mercy.
The only men living on the ranch probably still thought of her as a child. Even if they didn’t, having Pa close by would ensure that the men stayed away from her. It would be almost as safe as that prairie dog colony, after all.
As she secured Princess to the post in front of the store, Miranda braced herself. Clarisse Wyatt was her sister’s best friend. She would know how Mercy and Pa were faring. Clarisse also would be curious about Miranda’s time away. Hell, Clarisse was nearly as protective of Miranda as Mercy herself. Miranda realized she was chewing on her lower lip and released it. It was going to be damned difficult to keep her secret from Mercy. Another good reason to visit with Clarisse first—Miranda could practice her story before she tried it on her sister.
She shoved her hat back so it dropped behind her, held in place by a leather thong tied around her neck. Her hand smoothed over her hair.
As though that’s gonna make a difference.
She avoided her reflection in the glass of the storefront windows, knowing she was dusty and dirty and her hair had no doubt escaped the ribbon she’d used to tie it in place this morning. Cheerful bells sounded as she shoved through the front door of the shop.
As though that’s gonna make a difference.
She avoided her reflection in the glass of the storefront windows, knowing she was dusty and dirty and her hair had no doubt escaped the ribbon she’d used to tie it in place this morning. Cheerful bells sounded as she shoved through the front door of the shop.
“Miranda!” Clarisse set down the tin she’d been arranging on the shelf and had Miranda wrapped in her arms before the younger woman could utter a sound.
Clarisse stepped back, looking Miranda in the eye. “We’ve been waiting so long for your return.”
Her azure eyes scanned back and forth as though taking inventory. Miranda knew the exact moment when Clarisse noticed the scar. She made no dramatic gesture, but her eyes skipped over the spot, then returned for confirmation. She didn’t look away as so many people did—as Lansing had yesterday.
Miranda braced herself for the question. She’d rehearsed her answer so well she almost believed the “accident” she’d invented had actually occurred. Lord help her.
People always shook their heads and mumbled things like, “Such a pretty face. What a pity.” But it wasn’t.
The scar was a blessing so long as it kept men away from her. Her mind flitted again to the artist in Denver. He’d turned away when he noticed the scar. That was fine with her. His kind was the worst—handsome, well dressed, with a smile that could charm a grizzly away from the berry bush. In fact, the female bears would no doubt fight each other for the privilege of feeding those berries to him.
Well, Miranda wasn’t going to enter the fight. She was never again going to devote her life to pleasing a man. Nor would she live in fear of the punishment that came when she couldn’t please him. Her sister had tried to warn her not to give her heart away, but Miranda hadn’t listened.
Maybe keeping clear of men was one of those lessons that had to be learned from experience. Even Mercy hadn’t followed her own advice. She’d bound herself to another man after swearing she’d avoid the rascals. Thad Buchanan was exactly the sort Miranda shied away from now. Big, strong, fine-looking men who acted the gentleman so long as they had something to gain from a woman. Once they had her, it was a different story altogether.
Aw, Hell!
There were a few true gentlemen in the world. For her sister’s sake, Miranda prayed Thad was one of those rare critters. In spite of her hard-earned lessons, Miranda even dared to dream that one day she’d find such a man for herself. Maybe it was foolish, but she refused to give up hoping.
There were a few true gentlemen in the world. For her sister’s sake, Miranda prayed Thad was one of those rare critters. In spite of her hard-earned lessons, Miranda even dared to dream that one day she’d find such a man for herself. Maybe it was foolish, but she refused to give up hoping.
The older woman made no comment about the scar. She took Miranda’s hand, pulling her farther into the shop. “Mercy and Thad must be so happy to have you home.”
Miranda opened her mouth to say she was only here to help her sister. She’d stay as long as she was needed, then move on, maybe to San Francisco or New York City. Some busy place where she could fend for herself. Not that she didn’t love her family. She did. She missed Pa and her sister, but she couldn’t live with them fussing over her all the time. They wouldn’t understand why she was determined to be on her own. And if she explained it to them, they’d feel more determined to protect her. Pa was getting on in years, and Mercy had her own family to worry about now. Miranda would take care of herself.
Still, she couldn’t refuse help to the sister who had practically raised her. Mercy had sacrificed a great deal for her, and this was Miranda’s chance to make a small payment toward that large debt.
“I haven’t been . . .” The word
home
stuck in her throat. “Haven’t been to Mercy’s ranch yet. Thought I’d stop here in case there was mail, or anything to go out.”
Tell the truth, Miranda—just ask after them.
home
stuck in her throat. “Haven’t been to Mercy’s ranch yet. Thought I’d stop here in case there was mail, or anything to go out.”
Tell the truth, Miranda—just ask after them.
“They picked up the mail yesterday when they came into town for church.” Clarisse favored Miranda with a grin. “Now that your sister is married to my brother, we’re kin. I’m not sure what the sister of my sister-in-law is to me, but I’m partial to the idea of having another sister.” She paused for breath. “Will you have some tea before you press on?”
Miranda nodded. She wanted to hear all the news before she saw Mercy. Her pa and Thad had both written about how ill Mercy had been. Though her sister was the strongest woman Miranda had ever met, she knew darn well it would be hard on Mercy if she lost the baby she was carrying.
The bell rang as a customer entered the shop. “Robert will help you, Mr. Sampson,” Clarisse called as she led Miranda to the family living quarters behind the store.
Robert, the oldest Wyatt boy, was bent over the large kitchen table copying something out of a book.
“Look who’s here,” Clarisse said. “Your Aunt Miranda.”
Apparently, Clarisse had settled the matter of their kinship to her own satisfaction. Robert smiled and greeted Miranda.
“You go on out and mind the store while we visit, will you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Robert ducked his head and disappeared into the store, obviously glad to leave his bookwork.
The flat, wooden surface of the chair felt strange after so many days in the saddle. Miranda ran her hand over the smooth pine table. Her pa had made this table and chairs in the shop next to their barn. After years of farming and ranching, he was becoming a fine furniture maker. As Clarisse placed the kettle on the large stove that dominated the kitchen, Miranda wondered whether she would need to ask, or whether Clarisse would volunteer the information she needed.
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