Runaway Montana Groom: Bear Grass Springs Book 12 Read online

  Runaway Montana Groom

  Bear Grass Springs Book 12

  Ramona Flightner

  Grizzly Damsel Publishing

  Copyright © 2021 by Ramona Flightner

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems – except in the case of brief quotations in articles or reviews – without permission in writing from its publisher, Ramona Flightner and Grizzly Damsel Publishing. Copyright protection extends to all excerpts and previews by this author included in this book.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. The author or publisher is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Cover design by Jennifer Quinlan.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  15. Preview of Substitute Montana Bride

  Don’t Miss A Ramona Flightner Update!

  Also by Ramona Flightner

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Mountain Bluebird Ranch, Bear Grass Springs, Montana Territory, Early July 1889

  * * *

  Today, Peter Tompkins would demand answers. Come hell or high water, his family would finally tell him and his brother Frederick the truth. For too many years, they had been deceived, and Peter had had enough. However, as he poked his head into each stall in his brother’s fine horse barn, he could find neither hide nor hair of his cheat of an uncle. “Where did you go?” he muttered to himself.

  Rubbing at his growling belly, he strode out of the barn in the direction of the large family ranch house, where he had been raised as a boy. Although he knew his uncle Tobias should have been given a room inside, neither Peter nor his brother had any love to spare for their uncle. Thus he had slept in the barn. The fact Tobias had been allowed to remain last night to celebrate Dalton’s good fortune in marrying Charlotte was a miracle of its own.

  A soft breeze fluttered Peter’s thick brown hair, while he squinted at the bright sunlight peeking over the mountains. Songbirds trilled, welcoming another beautiful Montana summer day, and cattle lowed in a nearby field. Although this ranch was one-third his, he and his middle brother, Cole, had always felt more at home on the range. This ranch was Frederick’s, even though Peter knew he would have to accustom himself to living here again.

  For a moment, he thought about Cole, out on the range, as he finished the trail ride to bring the last herd of cattle north from Texas. With a sigh, Peter ignored his longing to be away from the family ranch and the problems awaiting him here, battling his desire to feel free again on the range, with no concerns. He looked around the valley, and, rather than seeing the majestic mountains in the distance, with a stream cutting through it to ensure they always had enough water, he saw a cage.

  With a shiver, he gave thanks he had evaded another sort of prison when he had eluded … Closing his eyes, he forced himself to not think about her. To not imagine he heard her melodious voice. Or smelled the teasing scent of lavender mixed with sage. At another growl of his stomach, he focused on his need for breakfast and marched in the direction of the kitchen door.

  If he’d missed one thing on the long cattle ride north from Texas, before he left Cole to travel the rest of the way by train, it was good food. Although their cook made decent food, it would never compare to anything his grandmother prepared. Peter knew Cole was looking forward to her cooking too. However, he was still away with the herd.

  Pushing open the kitchen door, he stilled at the sight of his Scottish sister-in-law, Sorcha, making breakfast. A woman he did not know chattered beside Sorcha, and he glanced around for his grandparents. “Mornin’,” he said, as he doffed his hat and swiped his boots on the mat by the door. He peered around the kitchen, frowning at seeing no one else present. “I can’t have missed breakfast.” He glanced outside at the brightening day but knew it was barely past sunrise.

  “Nae,” Sorcha said, with a cheerful smile, and then yawned hugely. “Ach, I canna handle the long evenin’s dancin’ and celebratin’ and also tendin’ to the bairns.” She looked at the woman beside her. “Soon enough, ye’ll ken what I mean.”

  Peter waited, battling impatience, as the women chattered away about children and household tasks. “Breakfast,” he said, wincing, as the word emerged more as a bark than a friendly question.

  Frowning at his rudeness, Sorcha wiped a hand down the front of her apron. “Aye, ye’ll have yer breakfast, just as soon as we finish the second batch of bacon an’ eggs.”

  He looked around, belatedly noting a pile of dirty dishes in the sink. “Second batch?” he parroted, feeling like a dullard.

  “Aye, yer grandparents, yer uncle, plus Jane, Ben, Ewan, and Jessamine headed back early.” Sorcha yawned again. “I dinna ken why it had to be at daybreak, but who am I to argue with them?” She frowned when Peter swore under his breath and glowered at her. She waved her wooden spoon in his direction. “I willna have ye speakin’ such foul words around my bairns or my cousin, Davina, ye ken?”

  Frederick entered the kitchen, making a beeline for the coffeepot. After pouring himself a cup and drinking down half, he focused on his eldest brother. Frederick’s black hair stood on end, and his blue eyes shone with curiosity, rather than frustration. “What’s the matter, Peter?” he asked. “You look as mad as an angry bull.”

  “I am. Your woman allowed him to leave,” Peter hissed, pointing at Sorcha, as though she had conspired in a criminal atrocity.

  Frederick couldn’t suppress a smile, as he watched his eldest brother’s inability to control his anger. “Aye, she did. She’s no one’s jailor. Besides, I have no idea why you’d insist on keeping him here. And Dixon, who was supposed to ensure that Tobias stayed in his stall in the barn, drank a bit too much last night.” Frederick shrugged at the thought of his uncle escaping their best-laid plans to keep him locked up in the horse barn. “I say, Good riddance, if he wants to leave. I never invited him to the ranch.”

  “You don’t understand,” Peter snapped. “They’ve played us for fools for years, Fred.” When Frederick poured another cup of coffee, Peter glared at him. “She’s alive. She never died.”

  Frederick paled, the coffee cup slipping unheeded from his fingers to shatter on the floor. “Who?” he whispered, although his panicked expression confirmed he knew who Peter meant.

  “Our feckless mother.” Peter nodded, as Sorcha gasped. “She never died. She’s alive and well and wants to reunite with us.”

  Peter rode in sullen silence beside his youngest brother, as they made their way into town on horseback. They didn’t need supplies, as their grandparents had just brought them a wagonful yesterday for Dalton’s party. Dalton, a ranch hand who’d been with them for years, had married Charlotte the previous month, and the family had wanted a second celebration for them. Thus the dance and festivities the night before.

  Peter had arrived dirty, irate, and exhausted af
ter his journey from Texas, intent on finding his youngest brother and heading into town to confront his uncle and grandparents. Peter had never expected to discover everyone gathered at the ranch. Nor had he believed them so cowardly that they’d sneak away at dawn. He rubbed at his temples. “Cowards,” he rasped, inadvertently blurting out what he was thinking.

  Frederick grunted in agreement. “Aye.” A companionable silence descended between them, before Frederick asked, “When did you discover the truth?”

  Peter paused, a vision of a church in front of him. Banishing the dream of what could have been, he cleared his throat. “Late April. Just before we were to start the drive.” He paused. “She … interrupted an event.”

  When Peter refrained from saying anything more, Frederick frowned. “An event?”

  “Leave it,” Peter barked. “Cole and I left with the herd, but I decided to come back early. To warn you.” He shook his head in frustration. “No, to learn the truth. Cole doesn’t care if he ever knows why she did what she did. He doesn’t care if he ever sees her again and hopes she dies. But I remember her, and I know she’s intent on mischief.”

  Frederick remained fixated on what Peter refused to discuss. “What sort of event would make you so ornery?” He paused, as he studied his brother. “It wouldn’t be a weddin’ ’cause I know you’ll never marry.”

  “Why do you say that?” Peter demanded, flushing with indignation. He gave his horse a gentle kick, so it would keep pace with Frederick’s, and they could walk side by side.

  Chuckling, Frederick shook his head, as he looked out at the wide-open valley dotted with cattle. “Have you never seen how you race away from any woman who shows you interest?” With a sigh, he murmured, “I remember acting like that. Until I met Sorcha.” He grinned. “The right woman changes everything.”

  Peter made a sound, Frederick uncertain if it was agreement or not. Thankfully he appeared lost in thought and ceased peppering Peter with questions. He wondered how his youngest brother would react when he learned about all that had occurred in Texas this past winter. Peter’s precipitous departure at the end of April was the least of his concerns.

  Peter tied up his horse beside Frederick’s and followed his youngest brother into the Sunflower Café, the establishment run by their grandparents. Although he was eager to confront his uncle, he understood Frederick’s desire to speak with their grandparents and to discern truth from lie. “I hadn’t thought they’d open today,” Peter murmured.

  “Oh, I’m sure they’ll offer a limited fare, but you know Grandpa wouldn’t miss a chance to earn a dollar,” Frederick said, with a wry, affectionate smile. He nodded to a few of the customers, making a beeline for the kitchen. He paused, when he realized his eldest brother wasn’t on his heels. “Pete?”

  Peter stood, frozen in place, as he stared at a woman, sitting with the man Frederick had nodded to and greeted by name. Ashen and guilt stricken, Peter looked as though he’d seen a ghost. “What are you doing here?” he rasped.

  The woman gaped at him in horror, before flushing a beet red. “I’d hoped you died,” she whispered, before ducking her head and whispering her apology to the man she sat with.

  When the man spun to stare at Peter and then rose, fists ready to pummel Peter, Frederick jumped to his brother’s defense. “Pastor Fitch,” Frederick said, holding up his hands in an attempt to placate the suddenly bellicose man. “I’m certain there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  The rather nondescript man with muddy blond hair and brown eyes stood ready for battle. “Oh, I’m sure you wish there was.” He pointed a finger at Peter, as though passing the worst sort of judgment onto him. Or a curse. “You’re a defiler and a cheat.”

  “Now see here,” Peter rasped. “I never defiled anyone.”

  Frederick stared from the irate pastor to his devastated sister and finally to his brother in absolute confusion. “Peter, are you saying you know them? They just arrived in town recently.”

  Peter made a scoffing sound, as he stared at the abashed woman derisively. “Oh, how convenient for you to find your next posting in the town I’m from. I never thought you so desperate, Philomena.”

  She rose, her chestnut hair shimmering in the light entering through the windows, and her ever-changeable eyes—which he had once compared to opals—appeared gray with distrust and disgust as they flitted over Peter. “Oh, you’re one to talk,” she said in a low voice, uncaring that they were providing the town a month’s worth of gossip. “You have no reason to be angry with me. You’re the one who didn’t show up!”

  “After your deception, why would I want to marry a harpy like you?” Peter snapped, his cheeks now flushed a fever red.

  She shook her head in confusion, as she stared at him. “Deception? You’re delusional.” She took a step back and closed her eyes, masterfully regaining her composure. When she opened her eyes to look at him again, all of her deep emotions were concealed, and she stared at him, as though he were of no more interest than an irritating gnat.

  Peter stiffened at her easy dismissal of him. Glancing around the café, realizing everyone, including his grandfather, watched their interaction with avid interest, Peter swore softly. “I beg your pardon. Morris,” he muttered with a nod, pushing past Frederick and storming into the kitchen.

  Peter stared blindly at the back wall, as his mind was filled with images of Philomena. Her head thrown back with laughter, as he tickled her. Her eyes glowing an iridescent gray, as she stared at him with devoted tenderness. Her small squeal of joy, as she answered the door to find him there, throwing herself into his arms. Where had this composed, unfeeling woman come from?

  “Peter?” Frederick demanded, when he entered the kitchen. “You know the Fitches?”

  “Yes,” he rasped, pushing aside the memories he feared would overcome him with yearning and remorse. “I was to have married Mena. Cole was always to have brought the last herd up alone.” He looked at his grandparents, with anger bordering on hatred. “And then she returned. And ruined everything.”

  Irene Tompkins stilled her graceful movements, working at the stove, as she met her grandson’s irate gaze. “She?” she asked, with an innocent tilt to her head.

  “Don’t, Grandma,” Peter whispered in a voice verging on begging. “Stop the lies. The deceit. I know she lives. I know she never wanted us.”

  Irene closed her eyes, deflating in front of them. Frederick reached for the stalwart woman, who had raised them and who had only ever shown them love and loyalty. When she leaned against him, he frowned at his brother. “Don’t be so hard on her.”

  Peter nodded but maintained his confrontational stance. as he watched his grandmother motion their grandfather, Harold, inside the café kitchen. His grandfather shut the connecting door that was never to be shut when the café was open. Peter saw how they had aged during his absence. His grandmother, always so strong and resilient, had an air of fragility about her, as though she could collapse at any moment. Her hair seemed more starkly white, her light-blue eyes not as sparkly as in years past. He watched as his grandfather placed an arm around her shoulder, subtly pushing Frederick aside, as Harold supported his wife of many years.

  “You know better, Peter,” Harold said, with a furrow of his brows. Although boisterous and outgoing to everyone he met, his first loyalty was always to Irene. And then to his family and those he’d adopted into his family. With shoulders more stooped than last year when Peter was home, Harold glowered up at his tall grandson. None would doubt he was the patriarch of this family. “You might have the right to believe you’ve been wronged. And you might have taken to the notion that we were the ones who wronged you.” His eyes shone with hurt at the thought. “But you have no right to upset your grandmother.”

  Peter sighed and looked at their united front. “Will you never tell us why you’ve lied all these years?” Peter stared from one grandparent to the other, battling a deep sense of betrayal. “Why you allowed us to mourn? To place flowers a
t an empty grave and to cry over it?”

  “You think you suffered?” Harold snapped. “Tell me how much worse it would have been had the townsfolk understood your mama had run away with a two-bit salesman, peddlin’ worthless cures? That she changed benefactors as fast as some women changed their aprons? How much sympathy would you have garnered then?” He nodded, as he saw his grandsons pale. “You were already devastated at her betrayal and desertion. How much worse would it have been had you had to truly live with the townsfolk’s derision and disdain?”

  By this point, Frederick had collapsed onto the stool by the stove. “She really is alive? She never wanted us?”

  Irene looked at her grandsons, her eyes filled with love and devotion. “I—We did what we thought best for you. She wanted what was best for her. When she realized what she’d lost and wanted to return, we forbid her from ever contacting you. From ever writing you. And we intercepted every letter she tried to sneak out to you.”

  Frederick flushed with anger. “Who else knows?” he rasped. “Who else helped deceive me? Us?” He rose to stand beside his brother. Suddenly there was the sense in the café kitchen that lines were being drawn and that the family that had always been so close was on the verge of splintering. “If letters were sent to me, to the ranch, you couldn’t have prevented those from being delivered.” He waited, as his grandparents stared at him in mutinous silence.

  When a resounding stillness filled the room, Peter said in a soft voice, “Slims. He had to have known. He’s always been the most astute of all the ranch hands, and you two would never have had any measure of success without his aid.”