The Governess Bride: A Sweet Mail Order Bride Historical (6 page)

Ben was glaring at her. She didn’t care. She suddenly just needed it all to be over. Needed to consign all of it to the past. Needed, desperately, to move on.

"So? Can we get on with it?" Her voice sounded strained. Cold. She matched his stare, waiting for him to say something, absorbing the details of his hard mouth, his dark features. Even his body, his posture, was somehow straighter. Harder. Evidently she had shocked him, or angered him. But what right did he have to be shocked? To be angry? He didn’t know the first thing about any of it. Or about her.

An uncomfortable silence settled between them, and they continued to stare at one another.

"You’re wrong." Ben said, eventually, shifting away from the counter. His voice low, steady.

Of all the arrogant… Indignation flared in her cheeks. Who did this Ben Cormack think he was?

"Wrong?" She spluttered. "I’m wrong? Forgive me, Mr Cormack, but I think I have a better idea than you what, if anything, my father felt for me."

That was putting it mildly. She’d been on the receiving end of nothing for twenty-nine years.

* * *

Ben rubbed his jaw for a moment, taking her in. The eyes, indignant, glittering with anger. The cheeks, stained pink. The mouth, stubborn. He knew that package. Beautiful. Stylish. Cold. Break a man’s heart wide open as easily as choose a new pair of shoes. He knew that package too damn well. He set his cup down hard, sloshing coffee onto the table.

"And I’m sorry, Ms Winters. But I don’t think you do."

"And how the hell would–" Holly started to challenge him, but it was too late. He’d already turned his back on her. He was leaving.

Eyes wide, brow creased, her mouth slightly open, she followed his long strides to the door. Watched him as he stopped abruptly and muttered something she didn’t hear before turning to face her again.

"My folks…" he said, his voice flat. His eyes dark and empty. "They’ve invited you over for dinner tonight…" He was half way out the door before he threw over his shoulder: "I’ll pick you up at seven."

Holly’s mouth fell open all the way. He was joking, wasn’t he? He had to be absolutely joking?

* * *

"Unbelievable!" Holly shook her head and took a last decisive gulp of coffee before clearing the cups and coffee pot to the sink. Simply unbelievable. As if she didn’t have enough to deal with right now. The last thing she needed from the Yale Cowboy –  the would-be buyer for goodness’ sake –  was a guilt trip. A guilt trip he had no right to lay on her for that matter.

She tutted and shook her head again, as if doing so would also shake Ben Cormack from her thoughts. "Sorry, cowboy," she said, running water into the sink and adding a squirt of soap. "But you can shove your guilt trip. And you can shove your dinner invite, too." She had a house to empty –  and less than a week to do it in.

* * *

Having spent an hour walking through the house, Holly had finally decided on her plan of attack. She’d arrived late last night and had fallen into bed exhausted in what looked like a guest bedroom. Now she’d conducted a more thorough tour and had counted twelve rooms in total. With six days left before she had to leave for Madrid, she could spare half a day per room. Not loads of time, but it would have to do.

Strictly speaking, all of this amounted to a whole heap of stress she could have done without. But she’d wanted to see the house. On some level she’d needed to see it. And since she’d planned to come, it had made sense that she would also clear it and get it ready for sale.

Her walk round had given her a pretty good feel for the place. It was old, but well loved. Her father, Mac McCann, had been a fifth generation Montanan and, by the look of it, parts of the house had been built five generations ago, with other sections added over the years. Five generations. A shiver went through her. Had her great, great, great grandfather built the oldest parts of the house? She stood there, taking it in. Wondering about the stories and secrets, the joys and the heartbreaks, the births and the deaths this home had seen. To think that she had a connection, albeit a distant one, with all those lives. All those stories. She shivered again. It was strange.

The construction was stone and wood. Huge stone chimneys with wood-burning stoves dominated the rooms, and the walls were covered in wood paneling that had taken on a rich, mellow patina over the years. Presiding over all the rooms were the most enormous spruce beams. Spruce. That’s why the house had that subtle forest scent, she thought, wandering through to the sitting room. She had to admit, for a cold man, Mac’s house certainly had a warmth to it. Comfortable furniture. Lots of books and paintings and interesting objects. She hadn’t expected to like it so much. Hadn’t expected to like it at all, really. But she did. She liked its homeliness and its easy style. Liked the undressed stone, and the enormous beams. And she liked all the unique touches. Like the enormous antler candelabra hanging above his dining table. Where on earth had he found it? Had he made it? She smiled, thinking of at least half a dozen stylists who’d give their eye-teeth to get their hands on something so unusual. The hunting trophies she was less keen on. Heads of bear and elk and big-horn sheep. But they fitted. They belonged. They were a reminder, as if she needed it, that she wasn’t in the city but in a place that was still untamed.

The library was off the sitting room, and as she continued through to it something brushed past her legs and made her jump. She didn’t entirely relax when she saw that it was the wolf-dog.

"You again…" Holly stopped in her tracks and stayed where she was, eyeing him carefully for signs of feral behavior. But he just ambled across the room to a worn old armchair that faced the fireplace, and slumped at the foot of it. Holly felt a lump come to her throat. Her father’s chair.

"You miss him," she heard herself say, and she crossed the room towards the dog, crouching down to get a closer look. He just lay there. Meek and mute and still. His head resting on his paws. His eyes all big and sad.

"Poor old thing," she murmured, stroking his head gently. "You’re really quite nice, aren’t you? I’ll tell you what. You have a nap there while I get started on these boxes. Just between the two of us, I’d be glad of the company."

She left Hank to his dozing and went to the pile of flat-pack boxes she’d stacked by the bookshelves. Wrestling one of them into a box shape – bending and slotting until she had it strong and square – she scanned the first set of shelves. It was mostly given over to books on plants and wildlife. One of the volumes caught her eye though –  a gold-edged leather-bound edition –  and she pulled it from the shelf. Flora and Fauna of the Great Plains. There was an inscription inside the cover, penned in a sloping, elegant hand. For Mac. Happy Twenty First Birthday, Son. With Fondest Love, Mother and Father.

"Oh my goodness…" she murmured, tracing a finger lightly over the words. Her grandparents. Her grandmother’s handwriting.

From nowhere, Holly felt tears spill onto her cheeks. She brushed them away and snapped the book shut. This was wrong. She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t box up his life like this. Not without… Without what? She blew out a breath. Put the heels of her hands to her eyes for several moments. This house, the books, his things. They were the last link. The last real connection to the man she’d spent her whole life longing to meet. He might not have wanted to know her, but if this was her last chance to get some sense of who he was, of what he was like… Would she regret not taking advantage of it? If she boxed everything up and gave everything away, what then? What would be left of him? Her mother had died six months ago, so this really was it. Her last chance to find out something about him. And possibly her last chance to find out something about herself.

She went to the window and looked out across the canopy of trees stretching all the way to the mountains. A breeze stirred the gold and yellow and scarlet red leaves. She’d never seen autumn colors like these. Some air would be good, she realized. And she could take her camera, get a few captures. Maybe try and figure out if she could squeeze any more days out of her schedule while she was at it.

Back in the kitchen, she pulled on her slouchy cardigan and looped her digital SLR over her shoulder, stopping in her tracks just before she pulled the door closed behind her. She was forgetting something.

"Hank?" For several seconds, silence. But then there was a scuffle of paws in the hall, quickly followed by the sight of Hank barreling into the kitchen. Holly grinned at him and opened the door wide. "Shall we?"

* * *

Ben straightened and stretched his back, moving his neck side to side, easing out the tension. The light was dying out of the sky. It’d be getting towards seven by now. Weary, grim-faced, he threw a tangle of wire and a bunch of broken fence posts into the back of his rig. Neighborliness. Generosity. Kindness. Social niceties. The cornerstones of his folks’ lives. Lord help him if he didn’t bring Mac’s daughter for supper tonight.

He cursed. Gunned the engine. Cursed again. He was annoyed. Annoyed with himself. Things were off to a bad start with Holly, and that was down to him. He’d spoken out of turn this morning. Been out of line. Should have remembered he didn’t know the full story. Should have remembered she was bound to be grieving, in her own way. Psychology grads were supposed to get stuff like that, right? He hung a hard left towards Nuthatch. It had already been three years since he’d had much to do with psychology. He’d put taking care of little Sam before a promising Yale career. But all things considered, this was where he wanted to be. He turned his thoughts back to Holly and her late father. She was wrong. The fact was, Mac had cared. If he hadn’t cared, why in the hell would he have collected all those clippings? And how in the hell could he have reeled off all the cities she’d ever been to? Ben shook his head. He’d asked him once, asked him why the two of them had never met. But Mac had just made it known in his own quiet way that the subject was closed. Anyway. Whatever the story was, he’d apologize. And then he’d get on with looking after Mac’s ranch as best he could until the sale went through and he could hire extra hands. That’s what Mac had asked of him. That’s what he would do. Beyond that, he needed to get his mind back on his own ranch. And back on his own responsibilities.

He drove for a couple of miles, deep in thought, until the vision of a slight, dark-haired figure on the road ahead pulled him up short. Holly? He squinted into the dusk. Yeah, it was her. And if that wasn’t Hank, scampering along beside her. Ben gave a low chuckle, feeling his mood lighten. She’d gotten over her dog phobia quickly enough. If he was lucky, she might give him a second chance too. Strictly business, of course. He wasn’t the type to fall for a pretty woman who didn’t stay put for longer than five minutes. Might have been the type, once. But he’d chalked up that particular mistake. And Ben Cormack wasn’t a man who repeated his mistakes. Not when he had people – and more particularly a five-year old boy – counting on him.

"No," he murmured to himself, pushing the window down as he gained on Holly and the dog. "It’ll be better for both us of, Miss Holly Golightly, when the wind blows you back to wherever it was it blew you in from…"

Ben slowed the truck. Fixed a neighborly smile on his face. "Evening…"

* * *

Holly threw a glance over her shoulder and her stomach caved. Drat. Him. In a truck. Tipping his hat at her.

"Oh. It’s you. Hello." She flickered a brief look at him without slowing her pace, and settled her eyes back on the road ahead. Not that her reluctance to stop and chat seemed to faze him. He just slowed the truck to a crawl, and followed along beside her. Annoyingly amused. And annoyingly handsome.

"Hope you weren’t planning on skipping our date?" he said. She darted a quick look at him, saw a glint of mischief in his eyes. That’s exactly what she’d been planning. She hadn’t refined the details, but she’d imagined it would involve hiding behind, or under, a sizeable object around the time Ben would be calling. Double drat. Plan B. She’d have to talk her way out of this.

"Skipping our date? Mr Cormack, I would never skip out on a date unless there were extenuating circumstances. Remarkably, however, tonight is one of those rare situations, and I’m afraid I have to–"

"Uh-uh. Oh, no. Let me stop you right there, Holly. I’m not sure you understand. This is not optional. My life won’t be worth living if I don’t deliver you into my mother’s lair tonight."

He reached across the passenger seat and pushed the door open. Flashed another mischief-loaded smile at her.

"And, frankly, neither will yours. Come on now," he said, still smiling, "do the decent thing."

Holly fought the urge to swear. She so did not want to have dinner with this man, or any of his blood relations. Droplets of rain started to spatter around her. Great, she thought. As if her options weren’t narrow enough. She would have to get in the truck with him.

"The dog?" Ben splayed his hands, his grin widening.

"Hank’s like family to us…"

Holly glared at him. He was enjoying this.

* * *

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