The American Heiress Brides Collection Read online

  “That’s not what happened.”

  “It’s exactly what happened.”

  The telegraph operator pushed to the front of the crowd. “Your father refused to send any money, Miss Rutherford.”

  Her mouth fell open. “What?”

  “Says you made your own mess and now you can lie in it.”

  “H-He wouldn’t do that. There’s been a mistake.” She lifted her chin. “He wouldn’t abandon me here.”

  “Come on.” The sheriff yanked her arm again. “It’s jail for you till the circuit judge rides into town.” He chuckled. “Next month.”

  “Wait.” She tried pulling free. “This can’t be happening.”

  “It’s happening. So what’s it going to be?” The Cort person tapped his dusty boot on the boardwalk. “I got things to do. Haven’t got all day.”

  Switching tactics, she forced her eyes to water. “Please … Don’t make me go with him.” She made a show of blinking rapidly. “He’s mean. I’m scared.”

  Cort What’s-His-Name rolled his eyes. “Put a cork in it, Rutherford.”

  Eugenia glowered. “That would be Miss Eugenia Alice Rutherford to you.”

  “Save the theatrics for the stage. Jail or join the ranks of us nobodies who work for a living?”

  And somehow she found herself in a buckboard wagon beside this homesteading philistine headed for the valley outside Silver Strike.

  Clutching the edge of the seat, she cut her eyes at him and gave him a scathing appraisal. A tan Stetson topped his short, dark hair. He had reasonably symmetrical features. A strong, clean-cut jaw.

  His thin lips were currently flattened to match his forehead in what appeared to be a perpetual scowl. Dark eyes framed lashes the envy of any girl. Although her heart fluttered, there was nothing remotely girlie about her new employer.

  Employer … The notion sent a dagger through her heart. Silencing any would-be palpitations this dirt-farming homesteader evoked.

  “If you’re done sizing me up, Miss Rutherford …?”

  She stiffened. “Charming you are not.”

  His hands balled around the reins. But he kept his gaze fixed on the bend in the road. “I’m not required to be Prince Charming.”

  She sniffed. “No worries there.”

  A muscle ticked a furious beat in his cheek. “But I am your boss.”

  “You’re not the boss of me. No one is the boss of me.”

  The homesteader looked at her. “That, I suspect, is the source of most of your problems.”

  His dark eyes glinted. “But you’ll take care of my granny while I bring in the harvest or you’ll find yourself in the lockup faster than you can say ‘Eugenia Alice Rutherford.’”

  She bristled. “You are a barbarian.”

  “Novel experience for you, isn’t it, Miss Rutherford?” He didn’t look the least repentant. “To find yourself without recourse or resources. Maybe you’ll learn something from this experience of eating crow.”

  “Rutherfords do not eat crow.” She sneered. “We serve it.”

  His eyes narrowed. “We’ll see how you like dishing out hog slop and chicken feed. A comeuppance long overdue. And I, for one, intend to enjoy the show.”

  Chapter 3

  As the horses cantered past the played-out Silver Strike mine, Cort stole a glance at the infuriated young woman beside him. Eugenia Rutherford was beautiful, make no mistake about that. A man could drown in those cornflower eyes of hers. He pushed up the brim of his hat with his index finger.

  But he’d learned the hard way it didn’t matter how exquisite the cup if the contents were pig swill. And this spoiled heiress was nothing but a vain, prideful minx. God help the man who ever took on the herculean task of taming this one.

  The valley opened before them, and she gave a small gasp of pleasure. Despite his determination to remain unmoved in her presence, he felt a small sense of satisfaction.

  “Pretty, isn’t it?”

  About as pretty as Eugenia Alice Rutherford, but he didn’t say that out loud.

  Eugenia scanned the pine-topped ridges running parallel to the valley. Sunlight gleamed on the golden tresses of her hair like the wheat awaiting harvest in his fields. Her hair had come loose from its elaborate updo and fell in shimmering, silky waves to her shoulders.

  Silk … His hands flexed on the reins. But pretty is as pretty does.

  Eugenia pointed at the prairie mansion looming beyond the trees. “What a glorious house.”

  Bucolic pastureland extended toward the mountain horizon. Bees droned above meadow flowers. Thoroughbreds grazed under the azure blue Montana sky.

  He scowled. No surprise she’d be drawn there. Like called to like. “It’s an eyesore on the landscape.”

  Not that anybody had asked him his opinion in building the eight-gabled monstrosity.

  “Is that where we’re going?”

  He snorted. “No, we’re not.”

  Come to think of it, he could hardly wait to show Miss High and Mighty the homestead.

  “Perhaps I can appeal to their better nature. Perhaps they could extend me a loan.”

  “No better nature there.” Cort clenched his jaw. “He’s a cautious, exacting man. Owns most of the land in the valley.”

  He flicked the reins. “Started the mine, which gave Silver Strike its name. Later, he diversified from the silver lode to copper.”

  “Copper?” She whipped around, gazing over her shoulder as they bypassed the mansion. “Who lives there?”

  “The McCallums.”

  Her mouth fell open. “The copper king?”

  Cort gave her a sideways look. “You’ve heard of him?”

  Her expression went from hopeful to downcast. “I’ve heard of him.” She swallowed.

  “Drives a hard bargain. Gets what he pays for and then some.” Cort pressed his lips together. “It’s also said he never forgets a slight.”

  She locked her fingers around the handle of the battered valise and dropped her gaze to the floorboard. “Oh.”

  “Want me to stop?” He pulled on the reins. “No skin off my nose. Long as I get what I’m owed.” Maybe it’d be better to put an end to this right now.

  His heart thudded. “Of course, that still puts me in a bind with what to do about Granny.”

  Despite what he told the sheriff, he wouldn’t—couldn’t bring himself to—hold her captive against her will.

  “No.” Her voice had gone small. “That won’t be necessary. We have an agreement—I gave you my word.”

  “A woman of her word. Good to know.” Some of the tension in his belly uncoiled a notch. “Haven’t met one of those in a while. Wasn’t sure they still existed.”

  Eugenia pursed her lips. “Then perhaps you ought to be more careful of the company you keep.”

  Something flared inside his chest. This was insane. What was he doing bringing someone like Eugenia Rutherford to the homestead? He ought to turn the wagon around and … His breath caught in the back of his throat.

  Instead, he steered the horses off the main route and onto the less traveled, slightly overgrown path. In contrast to the enormous McCallum estate, he tensed, preparing for her reaction to the homestead.

  He hunched his shoulders as they rode into the farmyard and passed the barn. “Needs a coat of paint. Maybe after harvest.”

  Perched on the edge of the seat, she said nothing. He pulled the reins short outside the rough-hewn house. The farmhouse needed a coat of paint, too.

  Cort jumped from the wagon and tied off the horses. Good thing he wasn’t trying to impress Eugenia Rutherford. There was an endeavor fraught with failure.

  He ought to make her clamber down on her own. But the training of a lifetime—first his mother and then Granny—wouldn’t allow him to treat a lady thus. Even an annoying, obnoxious lady like Eugenia Rutherford.

  Cort offered his hand. Her mouth went mulish. He blew out a breath.

  “Look, Miss Rutherford. It’s not the queen’s palace,
but I’ve left Granny alone far too long, and the horses—not to mention me—are tired.”

  She allowed him to help her over the side of the wagon. Placing both hands around her waist, he swung her to the ground. Dried mud flew off her skirts.

  He made a face. “You don’t smell much better than the pigs you’re going to slop behind the barn. You might want to wash up before you start supper.”

  She stiffened. “Pigs? I thought you were being facetious.”

  Taking the steps two at a time, he flung open the door. “You’ll find I don’t joke when it comes to the homestead or Granny.”

  Head held high, she strode past him into the house.

  “And just so you’re aware, Miss Rutherford. Any mess you tromp inside will be your responsibility to clean up. No maids here.” He grinned and removed his hat. “You are the maid, Miss Rutherford.”

  Eugenia wanted to take the hat out of his hands and grind it in his smirking face. But short of funds and facing jail time, her options were limited. Gritting her teeth, she stalked into the kitchen.

  A big farm table—intended to accommodate a farmer’s many children—occupied the center of the room. She assumed because of his desperation for a nurse, he had neither a wife nor children. She curled her lip, thinking on his cavalier treatment of her. Like anybody was stupid enough to marry the churlish homesteader.

  Hands on her hips, she surveyed the small kitchen with the wood-burning stove. Neat and tidy, she’d give the homesteader that. Perhaps due to the handiwork of the disappearing nurse, if his outlandish story was to be believed.

  The farmhouse was larger than it appeared from the outside. Rooms branched off from a hallway at the rear of the dwelling.

  Cort cocked his head. “Granny?”

  “Is that you, Cort, honey?” A quavery, thin voice called.

  He shuffled over to a room, its door ajar. “I’m sorry I was gone so long.”

  Eugenia peered over his broad shoulder. The curtains were pulled shut. A slight figure lay huddled among the bedsheets.

  Clothed in her nightclothes and bed cap, the elderly woman squinted in the dim light. “Who’s with you, Cort?”

  “I didn’t catch Mrs. Anderson.” His shoulders slumped. “I had to make other arrangements on the spur of the moment.”

  His grandmother’s blue-veined hands fretted at the coverlet. “I’m sorry to be such a nuisance.”

  Cort took the old lady’s frail hand in his. “You’re not a nuisance.”

  Despite her hard feelings toward the homesteader, Eugenia found herself touched by his devotion to his ailing grandmother.

  “I found you a new nurse.” He stroked his grandmother’s hand. “She’ll take care of you until harvest is over. After that, I’ll find you a more permanent nurse.”

  The old woman with her lined features held out her hand to Eugenia. “I’m Ingrid Dahlgren. But most folks call me Granny.”

  Her hair underneath the cap was silver white. “I’ve long outlived my usefulness, I fear. But I can’t complain. Not after the full, rich life I’ve lived. And I don’t mind. I’ve pined long enough for my dear husband and Cort’s sweet mother, gone these many years.”

  Cort’s mouth flattened. “You’re no trouble, Granny.” His voice roughened. “And you’re not going to die. I won’t let you.”

  Eugenia was struck by the vulnerability in his words. And she realized this wasn’t some cruel joke Cort Dahlgren was inflicting on her. He—Granny—actually needed her. No one had ever needed her before.

  Granny squeezed Eugenia’s hand. “What’s your name, dear?”

  Her hand in Eugenia’s was small, dry, and felt paper-thin. “I’m Eugenia Rutherford.”

  “The silver heiress?” Her dark eyes cut to her grandson and sharpened. “Cort, what have you done?”

  “Eugenia accrued a debt in Silver Strike, which she’s going to work off by taking care of you. Until harvest is over. No big deal.”

  Granny frowned. “Work at the homestead?”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “What’s wrong with the homestead?”

  “Nothing …” Granny’s chin wobbled. “But a young lady like herself … She can’t know the first thing about … about …”

  Eugenia flushed.

  “She’s not stupid.” He threw Eugenia a shrewd look. “And I imagine what she doesn’t know she’ll figure out soon enough.”

  Not a ringing endorsement, but maybe his backhanded way of declaring her capable and intelligent.

  “Cort, honey …” Granny’s brow wrinkled. “A lady like her slopping the hogs and feeding the chickens?”

  “Just because she’s a silver heiress doesn’t make her better than homesteaders like us.” His eyes bored into Granny. “Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

  He angled toward Eugenia. “You don’t work, you don’t eat.”

  “Cort!” Granny pinched her lips together.

  Eugenia made a shooing motion with her hands. “Take care of the horses. Granny and I will be fine.”

  “I’m so sorry, dear,” Granny whispered as soon as he departed. “I’m afraid I’ll need your help with the bedpan.”

  Spots of color dotted her pale cheeks. “I’m so terribly, terribly sorry to be such a bother.” Granny’s brown eyes watered.

  And for the first time in her life, Eugenia’s heart stirred with compassion for someone other than herself. For the elderly woman, clearly embarrassed to be dependent. For what it must feel like to be helpless, sick, and old.

  She folded back the quilt. “Don’t you worry about anything, Granny. That’s what I’m here for—to help.”

  Afterward, Granny surprised her. “If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to try getting up. I’m rather tired of lying in the bed.”

  Eugenia smiled. “Of course.” Somehow she managed to transfer Granny from the bed to the rocking chair next to the window. She drew back the curtain.

  “There now.” Granny eased her bony shoulder blades against the chair. “How wonderful to feel the sunshine on my face. To be able to see the sky and the mountains above my old home.”

  “Do you feel strong enough to sit here while I take care of those chores Cort mentioned?”

  Granny’s eyes twinkled. “I won’t go far, I promise.”

  Eugenia paused at the threshold. “Just one thing, though. Um … exactly how does one go about slopping hogs, Granny?”

  Chapter 4

  Leaving Granny reading her Bible, Eugenia changed into the second-best dress she’d carelessly tossed into her valise before her hurried departure from her father’s house.

  Her cheeks heated in shame at the remembrance of her harsh words to her father. He must be so angry at her. Angry enough to wash his hands of her forever?

  No more than she deserved for the selfish, childish way she’d behaved. Since her mother’s death, they’d been each other’s everything. And with her father suddenly excised from her life, she felt off-kilter.

  Regret dogged Eugenia as she tucked the pale blue shirtwaist into the waistband of the blue-sprigged skirt. Not exactly farmhand material, but the best she could do under these trying and unforeseen circumstances.

  She found a plain muslin apron hanging from a peg and ventured toward the barn. The horses whinnied from the nearby corral.

  The barn was surprisingly tidy. Cort was a good steward of the land and his livestock. To all appearances, a hard worker. Pleasant smells of horseflesh, leather, and hay filled her nostrils.

  As for the slop bucket …

  She tried not to breathe as she squelched out behind the barn. Grimacing, she had a bad feeling her brand-new shoes were not going to survive this little misadventure into homesteading.

  Would she? She sighed. The jury was still out on that one, too.

  The sound of grunting pigs stopped Eugenia in her tracks. Her eyes widened, aghast at the huge, mud-daubed hogs wallowing in the pen. Her stomach turned over. She might never eat bacon again.

  Holding her
nose against the stench, she propped the bucket on the railing and tipped it into the trough. The contents sloshed. And—she groaned—splashed onto her apron.

  Glancing from side to side to make sure no one—namely Cort Dahlgren—had witnessed her humiliation, she emptied the rest of the bucket and beat a hasty retreat.

  Surrounded by fields of ripened ears of corn and stalks of wheat, the farm itself was picturesque. The house, cozier than her lavish home in Sacramento. And the red rose rambler twining above the porch eaves was deliciously fragrant and lovely.

  Outside the chicken coop, she eyed the rooster with trepidation. Granny had said to distract the hens by scattering the feed and then to collect the eggs.

  Retrieving the tin pail, she unlatched the gate and tiptoed inside. With a belligerent squawk at the invasion of his territory, the rooster advanced.

  Her heart hammering, she reminded herself who she was—a silver heiress. And who this upstart bantam rooster was—a chicken.

  Apparently though—like Cort Dahlgren—the rooster didn’t care for silver heiresses. Wings extended, his sharp, pointy beak punctuated the air as he came after Eugenia. And somehow, the rooster got between her and the gate.

  Her escape route blocked, she darted for the relative safety of the henhouse. But the rooster flew at her and counterattacked, nipping at her skirts.

  Shrieking, she tossed the pail at the rooster’s red-crested head. The rooster weaved. The pail rolled onto the ground.

  Feathers ruffled, the hens launched themselves at the scattered feed. She covered her head with her arms and screamed again. The chickens ignored her, scratching at the ground.

  With a swelling wave of laughter, Cort Dahlgren lolled against the fence post. She dropped her arms.

  Glaring, she snatched up the pail. “So glad I could amuse you.” With the chickens occupied, she marched over to the nests.

  He laughed so hard, he clutched his belly. Tears rolled down his cheeks. “You show ’em who’s boss.”

  Plunging her hand into the straw, she found an egg, which she gently laid inside the bucket. “I’d like to show you who’s boss ….”

  He howled again, slapping his hand on his knee. “If you could see your face …”