Montana Renegade Page 7

  She flushed, glaring at him. “I’d thank you not to mention that again tonight.”

  He grinned at her hissed request. “I won’t, but you’d better prepare yourself for many impertinent comments.” He raised an eyebrow as she glared at him. “I can’t sue the townsfolk for speaking the truth, love.” He laughed as her anger overrode her fear, and she walked beside him with her head held high. “Besides, it will do everyone good to see you dance in my arms tonight.”

  She gripped his arm to the point he grimaced. “Don’t make me dance with anyone else,” she whispered.

  He stopped on the boardwalk, on the verge of entering the Hall. Any teasing was absent from his expression, and he watched her with a yearning tenderness. “I’ll not make you do anything, Helen,” he vowed. “If you don’t want to dance with me, you don’t have to.”

  She smiled at him. “I want to, although we shouldn’t scandalize the town by dancing more than two dances together.”

  He grinned and led her into the Hall. He glowered at those present as their conversations ground to an immediate halt at their arrival and then a cascade of murmurs resumed from clusters of townsfolk. “Come,” he said as he brought her to the small group of MacKinnons standing to one side of the room.

  “You know how to start them gossiping even worse than usual,” Cailean said with a smile and a handshake for his friend. “Hello, Helen.”

  She muttered her greeting and kept her head ducked as the MacKinnons welcomed her. She stiffened when a hand looped through her arm.

  “You look wonderful, Helen,” Annabelle said. “Is that a dress Sorcha made for you?”

  Helen fingered the long-sleeved cranberry-colored velvet dress. “Yes.” She flicked a thankful glance in Sorcha’s direction, watching as Sorcha twirled on the dance floor. “She generously agreed to make me a few dresses.”

  “Well, you couldn’t have picked a better person to aid you in that regard,” Leticia said with a chuckle. “Anna is the one to help you bake anything. Sorcha and Fidelia are the ones to help you with sewing.” She smiled at Helen. “It’s lovely to see you here.”

  “Where is Fidelia?” Helen asked as she looked at the gathered MacKinnons.

  Annabelle glowered at the room in general. “She feared that her presence here tonight might be too much of a shock for the men of this town, seeing as they had accustomed to visiting her at the Boudoir. My protests fell on deaf ears that they needed to adjust to her presence among them as one of their peers.”

  Helen frowned as she looked at Annabelle and the other MacKinnons who all nodded in agreement. Cailean hovered at Annabelle’s side, his hand on the small of his wife’s back. Leticia’s arm was slipped through her husband, Alistair’s, elbow, and she leaned toward him. “I don’t understand all of you.”

  Ewan, who stood with a hand on his wife, Jessamine’s, shoulder, watched Helen with a mixture of amusement and compassion. “Fidelia’s one of us, Miss Jameson. She has been since Anna married Cailean. It’s just taken her longer to ken what that means.”

  Sorcha approached Helen with rosy cheeks from dancing and an appraising eye. She gave Helen a quick hug and then studied her own handiwork, fingering the velvet fabric. “’Tis good to see ye in clothes that fit ye at last.” She gripped Helen’s hand once and then squeezed Warren’s arm.

  Helen’s grip on Warren’s arm tightened when she heard a snicker behind her. She turned, coming face-to-face with her brother, Walter. Rather than slouching and trying to become invisible, she thrust her shoulders back and raised her chin, meeting his mocking expression.

  “Walter,” Warren said in a deep, threatening tone.

  “Whores aren’t allowed in public, lawyer. I thought you of all people would know that, seeing as you wrote the law taxing ’em.” He grinned evilly at his sister as she flinched at him calling her a whore.

  “I see no woman here matching that description,” Cailean said, moving to stand behind Helen.

  “Nae, only a woman with her fiancée,” Alistair said. Ewan stood to his side and the three MacKinnon brothers formed a wall of solidarity behind her.

  Walter scoffed. “Simply because you wish it doesn’t make it reality. We”—he pointed to the townsfolk mingling in the room—“know what we see.”

  Warren stepped forward. “Careful, Walter.” He frowned as Helen’s brother chuckled as though privy to a joke only he knew.

  “I wonder how long you’ll sing this tune when you know the truth,” Walter whispered only loudly enough for Warren to hear. “Enjoy your time free of the Boudoir, sister.” He tapped at his forehead and moved away.

  “Bastard,” Ewan rasped.

  Warren ignored the irate MacKinnons and focused on Helen shaking subtly next to him. “You have nothing to fear, Nell. He resents you are no longer under his control.” He sighed with relief when she tucked herself into his side, her tremors slowly subsiding.

  “Well, if that ain’t one way to get the townsfolk jabbering,” Harold said as he sauntered up to the group with a cup of punch in one hand. Harold owned the Sunflower Café with his wife, Irene, and acted as an uncle to the MacKinnon clan and Warren. Harold’s grandsons owned and operated a nearby ranch. “Never can get their fill of good ol’ family drama.”

  Jessamine, who had remained quiet as she catalogued the events, snorted. “That’s because they’re thankful it’s not their family providing fodder for the town tonight.”

  Helen stiffened in Warren’s arms. “Please …” she gasped, unable to form any more words as she faced the town reporter.

  Jessamine’s smile was reassuring. “The townsfolk have little interest in me writing about the MacKinnons and our extended family.” Her expression softened as she saw Helen battle tears at being included in their extended family. “I’m sure there’ll be a fight over a woman before the night’s done that will prove of greater interest. And the town remains titillated by the banker’s scandal.”

  Irene chuckled as she stood next to Harold. She watched Sorcha, now on the dance floor with a ranch hand. “I fear a fight may come to pass if my grandson dances with Sorcha. But it won’t be due to another man.”

  The MacKinnons laughed, and Helen looked at Warren in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  “Sorcha and Frederick Tompkins don’t seem to like each other,” Warren murmured before whispering in her ear. “I think it’s their form of courtship.”

  Helen shivered at his warm breath on her neck, flushing when she saw Irene smirk with delight as she watched the couple. “Dance with me.”

  His hand on her waist tightened, and he let out a deep breath. “With pleasure.” He nodded to his friends and led Helen to the dance floor. A slow dance started, and he held her close. She moved with rote steps, her gaze downcast.

  “Look at me, Nell,” he whispered. When she continued to study his tie, he sighed. “I hate to think you’re ashamed of me.”

  Her gaze jerked up to his, and she frowned. “Of you? No, never.”

  He smiled. “Just as I’m not of you.” He twirled her around the floor, and she giggled as she clung to him. “I love your smile, Nell, and its presence has been far too infrequent in our home.”

  “Warren,” she whispered.

  “For it is ours,” he murmured. He looked around at the speculative gazes, his smile and his dance steps never faltering. “Enjoy tonight, Nell. Enjoy the promise of the New Year.”

  Chapter 5

  Warren paused on the boardwalk as Ambrose Finlay sidled up to him. Dressed impeccably in a black overcoat with fur collar, the banker held a cane in one hand. “I never knew you to have trouble walking, Finlay,” Warren murmured as he nodded before maneuvering around the banker. When Ambrose whacked his cane into Warren’s shins, Warren grunted and spun to face Ambrose.

  “I have a cane because of you, you snake-oil-peddling impostor.” He dropped his voice so that others venturing out on the cold early-January morning would not overhear their conversation. “Do you have any idea what you
have cost me?”

  “I cost you nothing. Your greed got the better of you.” Warren shook his head in subtle warning as Ambrose twitched the cane. “Hit me with that again, and I will have you charged with assault.”

  “I am on the verge of losing everything! Everything I worked so hard to attain. And it is all due to you!”

  Warren let out a deep breath, his eyes steely as he stared at Ambrose. “One day you will come to accept the part you played in your own downfall.” Warren leaned forward so that his whisper-soft voice was audible to Ambrose. “You ignored all my warnings about the contract. You failed to heed my warning about Mrs. MacKinnon in the back room. You are the maker of your own circumstances.”

  “How was I to know you weren’t talking about the devious teacher or the whore’s sister?”

  “Your error was in assuming who was in the back and then believing she was inconsequential because she was a woman. I would think by now no one in town would underestimate J.P.” His eyes gleamed with taunting triumph as he beheld the disgraced banker.

  Finlay quivered with impotent rage. “You think you’re so superior to all of us, don’t you, lawyer? You come here—with your big-city ways, your thousand-dollar words—and think you can bamboozle us.” He laughed and then spat at Warren’s feet. “I can’t wait to see how you react when you realize you’ve been played for a fool by the whore you took in.” He held up his cane to keep Warren a fair distance away.

  “Miss Jameson is good and honest and decent,” Warren said, his voice raising. “You have no right to continue to besmirch her name.”

  Ambrose laughed again, provoking a frown from Warren. “We’ll see how long you sing that tune.” Ambrose’s gaze narrowed as he met the lawyer’s glare. “I will never forget what you did to me. If it’s the last thing I do, I will discredit you as you did me.” He swung his cane again, grunting with displeasure as Warren’s quick reflexes prevented the cane from making contact this time.

  Warren watched the disgraced banker hold his head high as he marched down the boardwalk with as much confidence as before Jessamine’s exposé. “You have to admire his brass,” Warren muttered before turning into the café for a quick meal and gossip session with the Tompkins.

  A few mornings later in early January, Warren looked up from his desk in his public law office to face a glowering Mrs. Jameson. He sighed before throwing a pencil onto a stack of papers in front of him. “What might I do for you, ma’am?”

  She sat across from him and studied him with a speculative look in her eyes. “I was hoping by now to hear that my daughter was more than your kept whore.”

  Warren clamped his jaw shut a moment and took a calming breath. “She is no such thing. She is a valued guest in my home.”

  “Oh, is that what they call a single woman, living without a chaperone in a bachelor’s home these days?” She raised a mocking eyebrow. “A valued guest?”

  He met her glare as he eased back into his chair. “Your incessant visits do little to aid me in coaxing your daughter to accept my proposal of marriage.”

  “I could be induced to cease such visits.” She smiled as he stiffened at her words. “I know you are related to that miner in Butte who is having success.”

  Warren laughed. “Oh, you aren’t the first, and you won’t be the last, to believe I am related to that man. But William Clark and I are no relation. I am a humble lawyer, working in this town, ma’am. Your daughter will want for nothing, but she will never be spoiled with riches.”

  After a moment Mrs. Jameson’s gaze turned calculating and tinged with pity. “I’m surprised you’re willing to continue the farce of wanting to marry my daughter.”

  “Ma’am, I’ve asked you not to disparage her, and, if you have come here to speak lies about her, I will ask you to leave.” He leaned forward, clasping his hands together in front of him.

  “You still have no idea.” She sighed as though in commiseration with him. “You believe that daughter of mine to be worthy of your regard. She isn’t and hasn’t been for years.”

  “Mrs. Jameson—”

  “Do you know about her secret lover and simply not care?” She watched him with flagrant curiosity. “Why would a man of your standing in town, who could have any woman he wanted, agree to such a match?”

  He laughed. “She has no secret lover.”

  Mrs. Jameson leaned forward, her expression serious. “Where does she go at night? Why does she return after dawn many mornings?” She pursed her lips. “I’ve attempted, and failed, to learn the truth from her.”

  Warren glared at her. “You mean, you attempted to beat it out of her.” His clenched hands turned white at her indifferent shrug.

  “You should know the woman you are intent on marrying. She isn’t what she appears to be. She never has been.”

  Warren looked at Helen’s mother with bored impassivity and sat back in his chair. “I thank you for your concern, Mrs. Jameson, but nothing you have said has altered my regard for your daughter.”

  She flushed red and nearly growled with frustration. “Then you’re a fool, destined to be as miserable as most married folk. One day you’ll regret that you failed to heed my warning.” She rose and marched from his office.

  He watched her leave, the stack of papers in front of him unseen as he fought placing any credence in her words. After many minutes he sighed and forced himself to focus on his work.

  That evening Warren sat at the kitchen table, eating a late dinner alone. He frowned as doubt crept in. The previous evenings after the New Year’s Eve Dance, Helen and he had eaten supper together. She had seemed to relish having a meal ready when he arrived home. However, tonight the kitchen stove had nearly burned itself out, and he ate last night’s leftovers. He took a sip of cold coffee and pushed away his half-filled plate of chicken and potatoes. After leaving the plate in the sink, he carried his cup of coffee to his home office.

  After a moment’s hesitation, he left the cup on his desk and walked to her room. He knocked, waited. When there was no answer, he poked his head inside. “Damn,” he muttered to himself, finding it empty.

  Rather than returning to his office, he went to the parlor where he stoked the fire to settle in and to await her return. He attempted to ignore her mother’s words, but they played over and over again in his head.

  A lamp shone in the large farmhouse kitchen, casting the corners of the room in shadows. Helen plopped onto a chair at the kitchen table as exhaustion overcame her. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Tompkins,” she whispered. “I did everything I could.” She dug her nails into the palms of her hand in an attempt to prevent from crying.

  He rubbed at his reddened eyes. “I know you did. Dalton knows it too. And please call me Frederick. After a night like tonight, there is no need for formality between us.” Frederick Tompkins, one of Irene and Harold’s grandsons, operated the Mountain Bluebird Ranch, one of the largest cattle ranches in the valley. His family had homesteaded and bought land over the years, and Frederick rarely ventured into town. Ranch life was his whole life.

  She swiped at her cheek. “I can’t believe I failed. Will you see me home?”

  Frederick rose. “Of course. They are hitching a sleigh as we speak. However, I believe you may want to change into a different dress.” He nodded at her soiled dress and shrugged. “I have one laid out on the bed in the guest room.” He pointed down the hall. “I’ll wait for you in the yard.”

  She moved to the bedroom and slipped the dress Sorcha had just returned to her over her head. The summons had come so quickly that she had not even considered what she wore when she rushed out the door. She slid the offered dress over her head, and its voluminous fit indicated it came from Dalton’s wife. His deceased wife. Helen ran a hand over the faded wool, and a sob burst forth. After a few minutes she cleaned her face and took a deep breath as she regained her composure before joining Frederick outside.

  She shivered in the early morning air, her wool coat no protection against the harsh winter co
ld. Frederick helped her into the sleigh.

  “I know you’d prefer to sit on the other side of the seat, but it’s so cold, I’d recommend you stay next to me so we share body heat.” He smiled as she flushed. “You can scoot away when we approach town, if you like.”

  A few hours later Helen fought sleep as she snuggled under the blankets on her lap. She heard Frederick murmur that they were approaching town, but she lacked the energy to move away from his warmth, although she resisted snuggling against his side. She hoped no one had witnessed her dozing against his shoulder.

  When they approached the livery, she saw Alistair in the rear paddock with a horse. She acted as though she had not witnessed his shocked look to see her seated next to another man on a sleigh at midmorning. Upon arriving at Warren’s home, she scooted to the opposite edge of the seat, but Frederick set the brake and clambered down, offering his hand.

  She took it, stumbling as her boot heel hung up in the too-long skirt. He caught her with a chuckle. “I beg your pardon,” she whispered.

  “I can’t thank you enough for last night,” he murmured.

  “I can only imagine what you mean by that,” Warren intoned from the front step. “I’d thank you to release my fiancée.”

  Helen glanced up as Warren strode down the steps and pulled her away from Frederick to his side. Warren’s hair was mussed, and his usually pristine clothes were rumpled, as though he had slept in them. His piercing blue eyes were lit with a fierce dislike as he tugged her another step away from Frederick.

  Helen watched as Frederick’s gaze followed her with concern, but she soon focused on Warren.

  “We bid you a good day.” Warren pushed her up the stairs and into the house without a backward glance, slamming the door behind him.