The American Heiress Brides Collection Read online

  He hated himself. He’d expected whining and laziness from the silver heiress, but instead she’d done her best to satisfy his demands and take care of Granny.

  God, please forgive my misplaced pride ….

  After lunch, he helped her hang the last of the wash on the line to dry. He insisted that she and Granny rest during the heat of the afternoon. He was done with getting even. He wanted no part in putting Eugenia in her place. So he rode into town.

  Where he sent a terse telegram of his own. Washing his hands in no uncertain terms of the entire scheme.

  Chapter 6

  Over the next week, Eugenia fell into a routine with her homestead responsibilities.

  Under Granny’s tutelage, she mastered the intricacies of the stove and the fine art of pie making. Not just humble pie, either, as Eugenia’s self-respect grew. She discovered there was a choreography to ensuring the food came off the stove at the same time.

  Cort had taken to arriving for lunch with a handful of meadow daisies. The first time he produced the bouquet of wildflowers from behind his back she stared at him.

  “For me?”

  His gaze dropped to his boots. “I know they’re not the lavish orchids you’re used to, but—”

  She grabbed for them as he started to backpedal. “They’re beautiful.”

  Eugenia clasped the flowers to her pinafore, half afraid he’d take them back. “Thank you, Cort. I love them.”

  Something stirred between them.

  His Adam’s apple bobbed. “It’s a hectic time of year on the farm. And most of all, thank you for your devotion to Granny.”

  She willed her heartbeat to settle. This was about showing his appreciation for her care of Granny. Nothing more.

  But the next day, he brought Eugenia a handful of forget-me-nots from the woods. “Like your eyes. Except the flowers aren’t as pretty.”

  And later that week, a cluster of wild, dark pink roses. She lifted the bouquet to her nose to inhale their fragrant, spicy scent.

  His only explanation before taking his seat at the table? “I like the look of pink against your face.”

  It was a supremely proud day when she set a platter of fried chicken, a bowl of mashed potatoes, and a loaf of brown bread in front of Cort. Declaring herself not hungry, Granny excused herself to catch up on her reading.

  His eyes crinkled, the lines fanning out from the corners as he smiled at her. “The chicken smells great, Genie.”

  Eugenia had never known this kind of satisfaction before. Too excited to eat, she watched while Cort tucked into the simple fare she’d cooked with her own two hands.

  She’d pleased him. Her heart beat faster. And pleasing him, somewhere along the way, had become her highest goal.

  After he ate his fill, he leaned back in his chair. “There’s a dance coming in a few weeks.”

  Plate in hand, she paused in clearing the table.

  “In the meadow beside the church on a Saturday evening to inaugurate the upcoming harvest.”

  Eugenia held her breath. Waiting. Hoping. Would Cort ask her to go to the dance? Sometime over the last few weeks their relationship had moved from outright hostility to friendship. As for something more?

  When she didn’t say anything, his forehead creased. He pushed away from the table. The chair scraped across the hardwood floor. He reached for the plate in her hands. His dark eyes searched hers.

  Her heart stutter-stepped. He leaned closer, only the plate between them.

  “Would you like to go to the dance, Genie?”

  Her mouth went dry. What was he really asking?

  “You like to dance, don’t you?”

  She nodded, her head bobbing like a fish caught on a hook.

  “Good.” He tugged at the plate in her hand. She wasn’t ready to let go. Or allow him to move away.

  She moistened her lips with her tongue. “Why do you want to go?”

  He shuffled his feet. But he didn’t let go of the plate they held between them. “I thought the dance might be fun.”

  “Fun?” Her breath came in short spurts.

  His chest rose and fell. “Everybody deserves a little fun. Especially before the hard work of harvest begins.”

  Everybody. Not a personal invitation, then. She let go of the plate.

  Her hand dropped to the folds of her gingham work dress. “I guess everyone in Silver Strike will be there.”

  Cort gripped the plate. “I—I meant …” Spots of color peppered his cheeks.

  She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him flustered. He always seemed so in control of not only himself but his world.

  Eugenia started to turn away, but he seized hold of her hand. Electricity sparked as his skin touched hers. Her lips parted in an involuntary O.

  His eyebrows drew together. “I meant to ask if you’d allow me to escort you to the dance.” His mouth twisted. “I realize it’s not the kind of grand society function you’re used to.”

  She lifted her chin. “I’m sure the dance will be lovely. Thank you for inviting me. For thinking of me.”

  “I’m always thinking of you,” he growled. “I also realize I’m not your usual, well-heeled escort.”

  Taking the plate, she set it on the table with a dull thud. “Because you’re a homesteader?”

  A vein throbbed in his cheek. “Yes.”

  Silence stretched between them for a long moment. A throat-catching moment.

  “I’m beginning to think Sacramento parties are vastly overrated.” She tilted her head. “As are silver barons and copper kingdoms.”

  He took her hands in his. “So you’ll go with me?”

  She smiled. “I’d love to go. And I’ll be proud to be on the arm of one of the hardest working, best men I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.”

  He gave her a winsome, boyish smile that set her heart soaring.

  She realized he’d yet to let go of her hands, or she his. Instead, he raised her hand to his mouth and brushed his lips across her fingers. She gave a delicious shiver all the way down to her work boots.

  “Thank you, Genie. I’m looking forward to it.”

  His hand over hers, he pressed her palm against the rock-hard muscle of his chest. Through the fabric, she felt the warmth of his skin. And the wild drumming of his heart in a beat to match her own.

  There was a look in his eyes—she felt it, too. As if they both understood they were on the brink of a precipice. One dizzy step further toward either disaster or the cusp of something altogether wonderful.

  Finally, he let go of her hands. With a promise—to be continued—in his eyes?

  He forcibly swallowed. “Let me help you with the dishes. Together we’ll get it done.”

  And she let him help this time. Because he was right. They did make a good team.

  Chapter 7

  The next few weeks were busy in preparation for harvest. Eugenia’s hands took on calluses. And she helped Granny take back her strength. Each step earned with painstaking care.

  Gradually, Granny regained her mobility. Still unable to walk long distances, she could move about the farmhouse and down the steps with assistance.

  Today Eugenia had promised to take Granny to the orphanage to reunite with the children.

  She arose in the darkness of predawn. She—who never in her life before coming to Silver Strike awakened before noon. She made Cort’s breakfast and hastened to the small garden patch beside the house.

  Early morning had become her favorite time, when the world shook off slumber and dew beaded the blades of grass. She lifted her face to the sky, streaked with the first brushstrokes of color. And she gave thanks for the beauty of another day.

  She hoed to the rhythmic, croaking chorus of the frogs by the pond. And weeded to the melodic chirping of the meadowlarks. She’d also fallen into the habit of praying for Granny.

  For Cort. For her father. For herself. And she found she carried the peace of the morning throughout the day.

  After gathe
ring the peas into her basket, she returned to the kitchen. She’d shell the peas later this afternoon. She untied her apron and hung it on its peg.

  “Give me another minute, dear,” Granny called from her bedroom.

  “No rush.” Eugenia drifted to her own bedroom and the pink-sprigged calico lying across the quilt on her bed.

  With Granny’s encouragement, Eugenia had taken an old dress from the brown leather trunk and altered the fabric to fit her figure.

  On impulse, she held the dress against herself and peered at her reflection in the looking glass above the bureau. The dress had turned out nicely. Real question—would Cort Dahlgren think so?

  In her widow’s black bonnet and shawl, Granny joined her. “You did an excellent job.”

  Eugenia flushed, embarrassed to be caught admiring herself. “The ladies academy didn’t teach me much of practical value. But my studies—such as they were—did include needlework.”

  Granny held the sleeve against Eugenia’s face. “The color brings out the roses in your cheeks.”

  Eugenia turned this way and that in the mirror, admiring the calico. The color did wonderful things for her complexion. Still unmarred, thanks to Cort’s insistence that she wear a bonnet outdoors.

  Who would’ve believed someone of her station would ever need such fundamental skills? But if nothing else, she’d learned—the hard way—stations in life could change without warning. And it behooved one to be prepared.

  Laying aside the gown, she helped the old woman navigate the steps. With Granny eager to see the children, Cort had already hitched the horse to the buckboard.

  Spotting Cort across the open field, she lifted her arm. He waved. A warm feeling curled in her belly.

  He’d been watching for them. For her. Her other favorite time involved evening, when she and Cort shared their day with each other.

  No fanfare. No high drama. Just talking about favorite books and childhood memories. She—whose whirlwind social calendar had once been filled with one event after the other. Who knew she would find the simple life so fulfilling?

  She slapped the reins, and the horse set off at a brisk trot.

  Granny balanced the willow basket filled with eggs in her lap. “Won’t be long till harvest.”

  Eugenia’s heart skipped a beat. Harvest—her debt paid—and she’d be on her way. But to where? To her friend, Muriel, in Chicago? Or to Sacramento?

  The farm felt like home now. Would there be a place for her at the homestead after harvest? A place in Cort’s life? Is that what she wanted?

  Granny’s gaze roamed over the stalks of grain, golden in the late-July sunshine. “I haven’t seen the fields this ripe and ready since my dear Lars was still alive.”

  The old woman let out a sigh. “I pray for Cort’s sake the harvest is a good one this year. He’s earned it.”

  “Have the harvests been poor?”

  Granny fluttered her hand in the breeze. “Drought. The locusts came three years in a row. Many farmers hereabouts gave up their homesteads. Quit farming. Sold up to the McCallums.”

  Eugenia’s mouth tightened. Sold out to the copper king. She knew his kind. Taking advantage of hard times. Gobbling up the surrounding acreage when the other farmers fell into trouble.

  “Cort probably should’ve given up, too. But I loved the place, and he’s held on for my sake.”

  She’d seen him walking among the rows of corn, early morning and late evening. His stride measured, his head bent. His face contented and proud as he surveyed the work of his hands.

  Granny shook her head. “The homestead’s not made a profit in years. This harvest, I expect, will be the last one. Time to let go of the past. Cort has his own life to live.”

  Cort give up the farm? He loved the homestead. What would become of him if he didn’t have the farm? She could no more imagine Cort doing anything else than she could imagine herself—she gulped.

  Than she could imagine herself content to return to the endless round of high society.

  Her heart pounded. What would become of her? She’d never again be satisfied to wile away her days in useless pursuits. Mooching—the waitress at the hotel had been thoroughly correct—off the labors of others.

  She squared her shoulders. And resolved to do everything in her power to ensure the harvest was a good one for Cort. So he didn’t lose his beloved home. So vile Copper King McCallum didn’t devour Cort’s heritage.

  The wagon jostled over a dip in the road.

  “Whoa, there!” Granny clutched the basket. “Don’t want to smash your profits.”

  Eugenia fastened her attention onto driving and off the uncertain future. “Sorry.”

  Another thing she’d learned about farm life? Apparently, whoever took care of the chickens had free and clear rights to sell the extra eggs at the mercantile.

  Egg money, Cort called it. And declared it rightfully hers. She protested the first week. But he and Granny insisted.

  The money became the first Eugenia had ever actually earned in her life. Every week since—when the mercantile owner dropped the coins into her palm—she experienced a tingle of satisfaction at the fruits of her labor.

  Not a large amount of money. Pocket change really. But enough to mail a weekly letter to her father.

  In the first letter, she apologized for her rude, selfish behavior. In subsequent letters, she told him of her chores, the joy of her days, and the surprising faith she rediscovered at the homestead. It grieved her that her father hadn’t written her back, but despite his worrying silence, she continued to write.

  The loss of their relationship gnawed at her insides. She’d taken so much for granted—most of all his constant support and enduring love. And like the self-centered child she’d been, she’d thrown everything away with her foolish petulance.

  She wished he could see her now. Despite her humble lifestyle, she believed Junius Rutherford would’ve been proud of the person she prayed every day to become.

  As for the rest of her egg money? She had to become practical, so she stashed the remaining coins in the toe of an old stocking. She’d need money once she left Silver Strike and the Dahlgren farm forever.

  Without Cort and Granny, a forever she preferred not to contemplate. She aimed to enjoy her time with Granny and with Cort as long as she could.

  Granny often quoted, “A forecast of rain on the morrow should never be allowed to mar the sunshine of today.”

  A lesson for life.

  Next week the harvest commenced for area farmers. And this Saturday, the dance. Anticipation set her heart aflutter.

  “After we visit the Home, I have my shopping list for the mercantile.” Granny patted the bulge in her skirt pocket. “A few necessities. Food for the body. What about you?”

  On the outskirts of Silver Strike, Eugenia allowed the horse to ease into a trot. “I have my eye on a strand of pink ribbon.”

  Granny smiled. “To match the dress.”

  Eugenia blushed. “Do you think I’m foolish to spend money on frivolity?”

  “Not at all, my dear.” Granny adjusted her bonnet. The sun was strong and bright. The sky, a panorama of blue. “I believe food for the soul is as much a necessity as feeding the body.”

  “Food for the soul …” Eugenia liked the play of the words on her tongue.

  Granny’s wise old eyes gleamed. “Gifts from the Father to His beloved children—if they have the heart to embrace such gifts. A feast for the senses.”

  She’d not thought of life that way before. A gift from a loving Papa. But it was true.

  Like the dew on the squash blossoms. Or the trill of the bird. Food for the soul.

  It amazed Eugenia sometimes how much she’d learned in the last month. And not just about farming. But about herself and most of all, God.

  She’d received many gifts of love from her father. The least of which were of any monetary value. But she, foolish child, had been blind to their real worth.

  Eugenia turned the wagon t
oward the sprawling, two-story house on the end of Main. Boys and girls spilled out of the foundling home. And seeing them, she missed her father even more. For without her father in her life, she felt as adrift as these orphans.

  Setting the brake, she hopped down and tied the reins to the hitching post. Wiping her hands on her apron, the matron emerged, her weathered face wreathed in welcome. Eugenia helped Granny out of the wagon.

  Instantly engulfed by the children, Granny rested the palm of her hand briefly on top of each child’s head. Eugenia’s eyes watered at the love between Granny and the children.

  Talking a mile a minute, a boy by the name of Luke and an older girl, Vera, led Eugenia on a tour. The younger ones refused to let go of Granny’s skirts and informed the old woman about what had transpired during her prolonged absence.

  Eugenia was impressed by the family atmosphere and the meaningful instruction the Home provided. Each child learned early to care not only for themselves, but also for the concerns of others. All were required to keep the Home in proper working order.

  The children received the usual reading, writing, and arithmetic at the Silver Strike schoolhouse. But each child was also trained for a marketable skill. Most importantly, seeds of faith were planted in the children’s hearts and watered.

  And Eugenia—as always her father’s daughter—inquired about the Home’s financial footing.

  Matron Harris was candid. “We are dependent on donations. The good people of Silver Strike have been extremely generous in helping us to maintain the ministry.”

  The fiftyish woman threw a swift look at Granny. “In fact, the land upon which the Home sits was deeded to the Society by the McCallums.”

  Eugenia’s eyebrows rose. As did her previous estimation of the rough-bearded suitor she barely recalled meeting once upon a time in Sacramento. Maybe the copper king wasn’t as despicable as she’d believed.

  Her heart was stirred by everything she’d seen at the Home. If only she had even a portion of her father’s resources to invest in the lives of these children. If only she could do something to make a contribution to promote the good work done here.