Читать книгу Mail-Order Christmas Baby - Sherri Shackelford - Страница 11
ОглавлениеTrain Depot for the Wells Fargo Delivery,
Valentine, Territory of Montana
October, 1880
“That is not my delivery,” Sterling Blackwell declared. The hat sitting low across his forehead did nothing to disguise the flush creeping up his neck. “Who put you up to this?”
Heather O’Connor pressed a hand against the hitch in her chest. Sterling usually sent one of his cattle hands into town when he had a Wells Fargo delivery, which suited her just fine. He was a reminder of a time in her life that she’d rather forget.
She’d come to Valentine, Montana, to serve as a teacher four years ago in an effort to start over someplace far away from Pittsburgh. Her living conditions had not been ideal. Following the war, she’d been sent to live with an aunt and uncle. The family was barely eking out a living in the gloomy steel town, and the moment she’d turned sixteen, she’d begun her search for an escape. At seventeen, she’d accepted the job of schoolteacher in the remote mining town of Valentine, Montana.
Sterling’s older brother, Dillon, had fetched her from this very same depot on her first day in town, and she’d promptly developed an embarrassing infatuation with him. Dillon’s father had not been amused. The Blackwells owned the largest cattle ranch in the area, and Mr. Blackwell’s leadership had kept Valentine flourishing after the gold panned out. Dillon’s father wasn’t going to stand idle while his son courted a penniless, orphaned schoolteacher. With his father’s encouragement, Dillon had enlisted as an officer in the cavalry.
The familiar pang of humiliation settled in her chest. Dillon hadn’t even told her in person. He’d sent her a letter instead. A few terse paragraphs making his lack of feelings embarrassingly clear. She’d learned her lesson well over the years. In love and relationships affection was never equal, and she always seemed to wind up on the losing end.
The Wells Fargo employee, distinguishable from the townsfolk crowding the train platform by his round green cap trimmed with gold braid, squinted at his manifest, then lifted his chin.
“No mistake, sir.” The freckle-faced young man extended his paperwork and pointed. “The recipient for this child is listed as Mr. Sterling Blackwell of the Blackwell Ranch, Valentine, Montana. I’ll need you to sign here.”
The attention of the growing crowd swiveled toward the delivery in question. A young child perched atop an enormous wooden crate. The afternoon sunlight had chased away the chill of the October day, and the child’s coat was unbuttoned, revealing her frilly dress. Clad in a pink frock with a matching pink eyelet lace bonnet tied beneath her chubby chin, she merrily gummed the edges of an envelope.
Mrs. Dawson, the local purveyor of all things scandalous and salacious, gasped and pressed a handkerchief against her lips. “Has the whole world gone mad? That child is hardly weaned. What sort of person sends an infant through the post?”
Heather guessed the babe’s age to be somewhere between two and three years. She hovered in that awkward phase between baby and child, babbling words that made little sense to anyone but herself.
“I’m not signing for anything.” Sterling flinched and stumbled backward, as though he’d been speared. “This is obviously a mistake or a...a prank or something.”
Heather’s stomach dipped. She knew little of Sterling beyond what his brother had conveyed during their fleeting time together. Their pa had been a fierce and unyielding man, and both brothers had fought with him over the years. Mr. Blackwell’s unexpected death had brought Sterling home two months earlier. He was as handsome as ever, and now that he owned half of the Blackwell Ranch, he was the most eligible bachelor in town.
Against her better judgment, her gaze swept over him once more. Given his looks, he could have been penniless and the girls would still swoon over him.
The tall rancher had dusky blond hair, blue eyes that seemed to melt into gray, and the muscular build of a lumberjack. As if that weren’t enough, he possessed an intriguing cleft in his strong chin. The embarrassing twinge of relief at having worn her best dress that day meant nothing—a temporary attack of vanity. Her brief, disastrous involvement with his brother had rendered her immune to his handsome face.
And if she kept repeating that to herself, she might even believe her own lies eventually.
“What’s all the fuss?” a familiar voice drawled.
Otto Berg ambled into view, his beefy arms propped on his hips. Otto was the foreman at the Blackwell Ranch, and had been with the family for as long as anyone could remember. According to Dillon, he’d been more of a father to the boys than the late Mr. Blackwell.
Otto looped his thumbs through his suspenders and shifted his weight to one hip. “What seems to be the trouble?”
The hushed crowd leaned forward in unison.
“Him.” The Wells Fargo employee jabbed an accusing finger in Sterling’s direction. “This man won’t accept his delivery.”
“You mean the child?” Otto demanded, his expression incredulous.
“Yes!” As though posting a babe through the mail was perfectly normal, the freckle-faced employee pointed at the girl with a huff. “All he has to do is sign for her, and then I can leave.”
The foreman glanced between Sterling and the odd delivery. A frown puckered the single brow stretching over Otto’s close-set eyes.
Sterling reached heavenward with both hands. “Since when does Wells Fargo deliver children?”
Heather slanted a glance his way, but his attention remained on the babbling child. Not that he was under any obligation to acknowledge her. She was, after all, the penniless schoolteacher who’d precipitated his brother’s career in the cavalry. Yet she knew from experience if she caught his gaze, he’d tip his hat and offer a few cordial words. His insistence on treating her kindly was a ubiquitous quirk of his character. He’d always been an amiable rogue with a quick wit and ready smile. But his deference meant little since he treated all the girls, young and old, with that same lazy charm.
“I just make the deliveries.” The Wells Fargo man tugged on the hem of his smart green coat. “I’ve only worked here a month, sir. This is my first mail-order baby.”
A ripple of amusement met his announcement.
Otto held up one hand. “A little respect, please.” The foreman rolled his eyes and accepted the paperwork. “Says here the child was posted in Butte.”
“Yes, sir.”
Leaning past Otto, Sterling carefully enunciated each word. “Do you happen to know who posted this child?”
“No, sir. I just do what I’m told. The baby came on board in Butte with instructions for delivery to Sterling Blackwell.” The young man grinned proudly. “I thought she was going to be real fussy, but she was fine. The lady passengers helped. As soon as they discovered there was a real, live child in the parcels, they made certain she was fed and they changed her nappies and things like that. They were real obliging.”
A grin twitched at the edges of Otto’s mouth. “That was awful nice of those ladies.”
His comment drew another wave of titters.
“I don’t care how she got here.” Sterling shook his head in bewildered confusion. “She’s got nothing to do with me.”
The child reached out, and Heather instinctively clasped the tiny hand.
Sterling caught sight of her and pinched the brim of his hat in greeting, then offered a winsome half smile. “Miss O’Connor. That’s a lovely bonnet. Is it new?”
A flush started at the roots of her hair and rushed through her entire body, down to the tips of her toes. “Uh-huh.”
“It’s quite becoming on you.”
“The price had been marked down.”
“An excellent bargain.”
Marked down? What was the matter with her? For some inexplicable and annoying reason, she lost the ability to speak in complete sentences when he turned his attention on her. He had the discomforting habit of focusing his concentration too closely. Even with all that was happening around them, his latent charm rose to the surface.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “About your father.”
Considering the late Mr. Blackwell’s feelings about her, she’d avoided the funeral.
“Thank you.” He ducked his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Dillon’s coming back soon. He inherited half of the ranch. Thought you should know.”
Her conscience pricked at the somber subject, but at least they’d cleared the air. “I know.”
What did he expect her to do? Flee town rather than face the embarrassment? She’d tried that once. After Dillon left, she’d stayed for a few months with a friend, Helen, who’d moved to Butte after she married. When the school year started back up, Heather had returned. Valentine was her home. With Dillon absent, the gossip had died a natural death. Even Mrs. Dawson had tired of the old news by then.
The train whistle blew, and a burst of steam sent the pistons chugging.
Heather motioned toward the child. “Don’t forget about your special delivery, Sterling.”
“Gra!” the child declared.
A curtain of languid indifference descended over Sterling’s expression once more. “Someone has an awfully strange sense of humor. They’ll show their face soon enough.”
Passengers poked their noses through the half-drawn windows, eager for a glimpse of the commotion. The Wells Fargo man grasped the handrail and leaped onto the slow-moving train.
He shook his papers. “I have a schedule to keep. Since this man won’t sign for his delivery, I’m leaving the child with the unclaimed packages.”
Shocked silence descended over the spectators. Even Sterling had been stunned mute.
Heather gaped. “You’re abandoning her?”
“I’m treating her the same as any other delivery.” The young man saluted with a touch to his tidy gold-braided cap. “If she’s not claimed in three months, you can send her back.”
Anxiety quickened Heather’s pulse. This had gone beyond a simple prank. This was an actual living, breathing child.
“Somebody do something!” she demanded.
“Everyone just settle down here.” Otto waved a hand toward the departing train. “The wheels are rolling. We can’t load a child onto a moving train.”
“This is absurd!” Heather called to the Wells Fargo employee. “She’s little more than a baby. She’s not a—a packet of buttons that can sit on a shelf for three months.”
The bell clanged and the steam engine chugged.
“Don’t make me no never mind. I done my job.” The train jerked forward, and he clutched the handle. “If you send her back, don’t forget the return postage.”
His green cap disappeared inside the railcar, and the crowd exploded into shocked chatter. As the train picked up speed, the curious passengers inside lost interest. Windows slid shut and velvet curtains twitched into place to block the afternoon sun.
The postmaster snorted. “That boy don’t have a lick of sense.”
“What now?” Old Mrs. Dawson spoke, her shrill voice carrying over the prattle. “What are you going to do, Sterling?”
The spectators immediately turned their attention toward the tall man.
“Me?” Using his thumb, he eased his hat off his forehead. “I’m as baffled as the rest of you. I ordered the sheep, not the baby.”
The crowd laughed, and Heather smothered a grin. She’d forgotten all about the sheep. Since taking over the ranch, Sterling had cut back on cattle trading and had turned his attention toward sheep instead. He’d ordered four dozen from a ranch in Butte to supplement his growing herd. Mr. Carlyle at the feed lot had been vocally annoyed by their arrival. The animals kept escaping from beneath fence rails sized for cattle.
The rest of the town was almost equally divided over whether Sterling was crazy or inspired for supplementing his beef operation with wool.
“Well, someone has to do something.” Mrs. Dawson harrumphed. “That poor child is all alone, and we can all agree it’s your name on the manifest.”
“I’ll agree to one thing,” Sterling drawled in his cordial, dark-timbered voice. “This is all a big mistake.”
The crowd murmured and eyebrows lifted in speculation, but no one stepped forward to claim responsibility. Folks were certainly curious, but feet merely shuffled and no one quite met anyone else’s eye.
The child contently chewed her envelope and drooled.
Heather held one hand against the front of the child’s eyelet lace frock and cupped her fingers on the back of the bonnet. She really was a cute little thing. Her blue-green eyes were framed by thick lashes, and her plump cheeks begged for a pinching. Heather’s gaze snagged on the glimpse of scarlet curls peeking out from beneath the child’s bonnet. Too bad about the red hair.
Heather’s aunt and uncle had dubbed her a troublemaker simply because she’d been born with a certain color hair. She’d always had to be behave twice as well as other children to be thought of as half as obedient.
Mrs. Dawson waved her embroidered square, drawing Otto’s attention. “Maybe there’s something in that envelope. Has anyone checked?”
Two dozen heads rotated toward the baby. At the attention, the child cooed in delight and slapped one hand against her chubby thigh. Heather reached for the envelope and the child’s lower lip trembled.
“Maa!” she wailed. “Maa goo.”
“It’s all right,” Heather soothed. “Give me the envelope. I promise I’ll give it right back.”
The two engaged in a brief tug-of-war, which Heather easily won. The trembling lip grew more pronounced, revealing two lower teeth, and then the babe sucked in a deep breath. Tears threatened in her enormous blue-green eyes, and her face turned a brilliant shade of red. Thinking quickly, Heather yanked on her bonnet ribbons, then presented the distraction.
The child promptly crushed the brim with her damp hands while simultaneously gumming a silk rose. Heather grimaced. The bargain hat was all but ruined. At least she wouldn’t be reminded of Sterling’s offhand compliment and her awkward reply every time she donned it.
Sterling reached for the envelope, but Otto was closer and intercepted her grasp.
“Let’s get to the bottom of this,” the foreman declared. “I’ve got work to do this afternoon.”
“Those sheep aren’t going to shear themselves,” the postmaster joked, much to the crowd’s delight.
Something flashed in Otto’s eyes, a spark of anger or embarrassment, Heather couldn’t quite tell which. The foreman quickly masked the telling expression with one of his ready smiles.
“That they don’t!” he tossed over his shoulder.
Sterling lifted his eyes skyward. “You’ll all be thanking me this winter when you’re warm and cozy by the fire in your nice wool sweaters.”
“Enough about those sheep.” With a slight grimace on his beefy face, Otto plucked at the soggy paper using the tips of his fingers. “We’ve got a mystery to solve.”
Heather glanced askance and caught Sterling staring at her exposed hair. The fiery red color caught the afternoon rays, turning her head into an orange beacon.
This time his smile was tinged with pity, and she self-consciously smoothed the strands. Her infatuation with Dillon had been just that—an infatuation. Sterling’s brother had been quiet, almost brooding. There was a part of her that always wanted to fix things for people, and Dillon seemed to need her, at least for a time. She’d mistaken his gentlemanly kindness for interest. She knew better now.
“Ah-ha!” Otto declared, shaking out a wilted slip of paper. “This here is a Return of Birth.”
The crowd surged forward.
“What’s a Return of Birth?” Mr. Carlyle hollered.
“It’s the paperwork for when a baby is born,” the postmaster explained. “The Return of Birth is filed with the county seat. Since Montana is still a territory, Silver Bow is the only county I know of that requests any paperwork.”
“Stop wasting time.” Mrs. Dawson huffed. “What does it say?”
There hadn’t been any good scandals for months, and Mrs. Dawson was clearly chomping at the bit. She’d be holding court at the Sweetwater Café this afternoon with the rest of the ladies, relaying every minute of these events in exaggerated detail.
“Don’t rush me.” Otto squinted. “The lettering is real fancy. The child’s name is Grace.”
His eyes tracked the writing and paused. His jaw dropped, and his face turned a brilliant shade of scarlet.
“Well, um, uh,” he stuttered. “I don’t know what to make of that.”
“Let me see.” Mrs. Dawson snatched the Return. “You’re taking too long. I don’t have my spectacles but I can make out most of the lettering. A Christmas baby. She’ll turn two on December 25—that’s two months away. Place of birth is Butte. The child’s name is Grace. Otto got that right.”
“The parents,” the postmaster prodded. “Who are the parents?”
“The father’s name is listed as Sterling Blackwell.” Mrs. Dawson snorted.
The smile slipped from Sterling’s face, and a moment later all the color had drained away. “That can’t be.”
“Thank the stars your father isn’t around to see this scandal.”
Fighting back an unexpected tide of jealousy at the thought of Sterling fathering a child, Heather peered over the edge of the paper. She was unpardonably curious about the child’s parentage.
“What about the mother?” Another voice saved her from asking.
“No married name printed. Her maiden name is listed as—” Mrs. Dawson shrieked and clutched the paper against her chest. “Oh my.”
The platform of gawkers froze.
“Who is it?” someone called.
“Oh my word.” Mrs. Dawson took a dramatic breath. “The mother’s maiden name is listed as—” She paused to ensure she had everyone’s attention. “Heather O’Connor.”
* * *
Sterling searched for his voice, which seemed to be locked somewhere in the back of his throat. Otto covered his eyes with one hand and shook his head.
Mrs. Dawson shot Heather a withering glare with enough heat to melt the shingles off a roof. She collapsed onto a bench and threw her wrist over her forehead. “I’ve been shaken to the core.”
Mrs. Dawson was shaken, all right—she was practically vibrating with excitement. The woman thrived on gossip like a hog on slop.
Heather O’Connor.
She’d gone so pale, even her lips were leached of color.
No one was looking at him anymore; all eyes were focused on Heather and the baby—the baby with a glimpse of red curls peeking out from beneath her eyelet bonnet. Ladies leaned their ears toward one another and spoke in shocked whispers. Gloved hands hovered over rapidly moving lips. Sterling’s ears buzzed. The talk had already begun.
His gaze skittered around the platform and clashed with Heather’s. She blinked rapidly, and her mouth opened and closed. Her fingers fluttered against her ashen cheek. The crowd split their attention between the postmaster’s frantic fanning of Mrs. Dawson and Heather’s hand cupping the back of the baby’s head.
A jolt of pity spurred him into action.
He crossed the platform in two long strides and caught Heather’s elbow. “I would have helped you. Why didn’t you simply ask?”
“No.” She gasped. “There’s been a mistake.”
“I’m going to strangle Dillon.” Heather’s arm trembled beneath his fingers, and he struggled against a white-hot wave of fury. “He’ll do right by you, I promise you that.”
“We didn’t...she isn’t...you don’t understand!”
His chest tightened. The blame rested solely on his shoulders. He’d been responsible for her split from his brother, after all. His intentions were sound, though the outcome was proving calamitous. Their pa wasn’t an evil man, but he’d been manipulative and controlling. As the eldest son, Dillon had suffered the most. Their ma had warned the brothers about trying to please a man who only found fault, but Dillon craved their pa’s approval. Nothing he ever did was good enough, and the crushing pressure was shaping Dillon into a man Sterling didn’t recognize. He’d known instinctively that if he hadn’t removed his brother from their pa’s oppressive influence, he’d have grown into a miserable man.
And Dillon would have stayed in Valentine for Heather. Anybody would. She was the sort of woman who made a man want to settle down and stay put. Sterling had convinced his brother to join the cavalry with only the barest hint of regret. The sweethearts were young. He’d talked himself into believing the flirtation was superficial and too new to last. Dillon’s easy acquiescence and their subsequent separation had convinced him that he’d made the right choice.
Except he hadn’t anticipated a child. The stark pain in Heather’s eyes ripped away the last remnants of his convictions. Dillon had wronged her, but Sterling had wronged them both.
Mrs. Dawson straightened her spine and touched her gloved fingertips to her chest. “I cannot believe you’d betray your own brother this way.”
Sterling’s stomach clenched and he absorbed the full brunt of the accusing stares. In his shock, he’d forgotten his name was on the certificate, not Dillon’s.
“The two of them must have been carrying on right under Dillon’s nose,” someone said behind him.
“Wait just a minute,” he ordered, unsure how to defend himself without dragging Dillon and Heather down along with him.
Otto blocked his view. “Don’t say anything, son. Not until we’ve got this sorted out. You’ll only make matters worse for the both of you.”
Tears pooled in Heather’s eyes, and Sterling instantly longed to reach out and comfort her. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he’d always been drawn to Heather. Her looks were more exotic than traditionally pretty. During his travels he’d often found himself comparing other women he met to her. Her fiery red hair drew attention, and her button nose was adorable. Soft freckles dusted her face from forehead to chin, and her pale blue eyes were surrounded by nearly transparent eyelashes. No one would ever call her beautiful, but she was definitely eye catching.
It was because he admired her that he’d kept his distance. His feelings for her had no bearing on why he’d convinced Dillon to join the cavalry, but she’d never understand. Neither of them would. He sensed if he let down his guard, she’d see past his bravado and discover the truth of his betrayal.
Mrs. Dawson slapped down the postmaster’s waving arm. “It’s forty degrees. Stop fanning me, you dolt.” Sensing she was losing the crowd’s attention, Mrs. Dawson’s voice grew shrill. “We deserve an explanation for this—this travesty.”
Heather started forward. “Let me see that paper. How do I know you’re not lying?”
Otto held her back. “She’s not lying. I saw myself.”
Sterling’s thoughts ricocheted around his head. Dillon had never given him any indication they’d been intimate, yet everything fell into place. After Dillon left, Heather had gone to stay with a friend in Butte. The timing worked, yet questions burned in his brain. Why list him? Had she discovered his part in their breakup? Was this a chance for revenge?
“Miss O’Connor wants a piece of that ranch,” the postmaster mused loudly. “When she couldn’t snag the older brother, she set her sights on the younger one.”
Sterling grabbed the man by the scruff of his shirt and nearly lifted him from his feet. “Say that again.”
Otto wrestled the postmaster free. “Not here, Sterling.”
Heather pressed both hands against her mouth and shook her head. “This isn’t right. None of this is right.”
Fury pulsed through him. Sterling felt as though he was separating from his body. He’d trusted his brother. There were no secrets between the two of them.
The child reached out a pudgy hand and tugged on Heather’s lapel. Her chubby pink cheeks plumped into a grin, revealing her two lower teeth.
“Ma!” the child declared. “Ma!”
The breath whooshed from Sterling’s lungs. It appeared there was at least one secret between them.
