The Nanny Solution (9 page)

Victoria didn't appreciate the irony the way her aunt did. “Was that why you married Uncle Walter?”

“Well, of course. Walter's from a banking family and Proud Bend needed a bank. Mr. MacLeod is probably here to make his fortune, too.” Aunt Louise paused, then leaned forward. “Do you know where he ranches?”

“No.” Victoria didn't understand why her aunt kept bringing him back into the conversation.

“It's an hour southwest of here, if you push the horses. He has a prime piece of real estate, Walter says.” Her tone turned sly, as if testing the waters. “Perhaps you'll see it.”

She doubted Mitchell would welcome her. But surely he had arranged to hire someone for the children and was off doing things ranchers needed to do.

And if he wasn't?

Thinking of Mitchell struggling to keep Ralph and John apart, or consoling Mary, all the while feeding the baby, made Victoria's throat close. She was here, cozy and comfortable, waiting while the servants prepared a delightful meal in the distant hollows of this sprawling house.

How could she even eat?

No. Mitchell wouldn't let his children go hungry. In fact, she could see him forfeiting a meal in the course of his day to ensure they'd have theirs. Recalling how it felt to have him close that moment when the train lurched forward, she felt her cheeks redden. “I don't expect I will ever see his ranch.”

“I hear the house is mean. It will be a very rustic start for those children. Did Mr. Macleod discuss his family at all with you?”

Victoria eyed her aunt. The woman appeared to be skirting an issue she wanted to discuss, but her manners could not allow her. And it involved Mitchell. “No. He had all but his wife with him, remember?”

Her aunt didn't answer. When silence descended on the parlor, Victoria set down her cup again. “You seem like you want to tell me something. What is it?”

“Do you know how long a woman is pregnant?”

“Of course. Nine months.” Victoria shifted in her chair, uncomfortable at the turn of the conversation.

“If the child was born early September, then when was she conceived?”

Victoria's face flushed brilliant red. She stood. “I don't think we should be discussing this. What Mitchell and his wife did within the bonds of marriage was their own business, not ours.”

She'd made it to the door before the older woman simply called out, “Mr. Macleod isn't that baby's father.”

Chapter Eleven

V
ictoria spun. “What do you mean?”

Aunt Louise finally gave her a look that Victoria found easy to define. Smugness. “Mr. MacLeod was here in Proud Bend early in December. You see, the church's stove needed to be replaced. We'd known for some time the new one was coming, and when it finally arrived, Mr. MacLeod and several other men installed it.”

“That's a lovely story, but what does that have to do with Emily?”

“Bear with me a moment. It was a blessing that they replaced the stove when they did, for an early winter storm arrived that next day. We were cut off from everything for some weeks. No one left town. Mr. MacLeod had to keep his horse in town and snowshoe back to his ranch to tend his animals. It was a week before Christmas by the time the train with the plow came through. We were expecting presents for Rachel and they arrived just in time.”

Victoria had forgotten about Rachel, her uncle and aunt's only child, and even now wondered where she was. But that wasn't the issue at hand. She sank into her chair again. “Perhaps the child was born prematurely?”

The smugness dissolved, and patience washed over Aunt Louise's features instead. “Mr. MacLeod has been at church every Sunday for the last year. He sits behind me, and when the service is over, he always lets me leave ahead of him. Even if the child was born late or prematurely, there's no escaping the fact that he couldn't have fathered her.”

“Perhaps the mother came out here?”

“And leave her other children? If any of them came, why didn't we see them in church? Unless his wife refused to raise them as Christians.”

Victoria blinked and frowned. That was highly unlikely. The children knew Bible stories and had mentioned going to church at Easter. If their mother took them to church in Boston, surely she would have shown up at the one in Proud Bend where her husband worshipped.

There was no getting around it. Mitchell was caring for a child who he knew wasn't his.

Tears formed unbidden in Victoria's eyes for some inexplicable reason. What was he doing right now? Settling the children in their beds, no doubt. Did they even have beds? Aunt Louise called the ranch house mean. But he'd bought bedding. Still, he wouldn't have been prepared for Emily.

Victoria glanced uneasily around. Upstairs in her bedroom, she had everything she could possibly want. Downstairs somewhere, supper was simmering away and here she could sit in a warm and cozy room, sipping piping-hot tea until her meal was ready. Everything around her was restful and quiet. All a person could ask for.

Suddenly, the delicious scents emanating from that distant kitchen soured and the overstuffed chair beneath her turned to cold steel. She rose. “I don't know what to say.”

“You don't have to say anything, my dear. But just keep in mind that if Mr. MacLeod is caring for a child that is not his, there has to be a reason.”

Well, of course, there was a reason. Because it was honorable.

Her aunt leaned forward, her stare reading Victoria's thoughts. “It may
seem
honorable, but let me tell you something. I am married to a man whose intentions
seem
very honorable, but they really aren't.”

Victoria barely contained a gasp. “What do you mean?”

“Walter has given me a fine home and a daughter, and I love them both. But they've come with a price. He's not as upstanding a man as he wants people to believe.” The smugness returned and she took another sip of tea as if to shield her attitude. “So just be careful of men. They claim women are fickle, but they are as sly as foxes. They twist women around their fingers or, worse, bully them.” After another sip, she set down her teacup.

Victoria played with the lace at her collar. She wasn't sure how she felt about the older woman's words. She just knew she didn't care to be enjoying anything tonight. “If you'll excuse me, I think I'm not as rested as I first thought.”

“Supper will be served as soon as Walter arrives home.”

Victoria's head suddenly started to pound. She knew right then that she didn't want to sit about like a silly socialite waiting to be served, not while Mitchell was out at his ranch trying to be both mother and father to his children.

And to the one who was not even his.

“Excuse me, but I think I will retire early. You shouldn't set a place for me, either. I won't be much company, I'm afraid.”

Before Aunt Louise could try to convince her otherwise, Victoria fled the parlor.

* * *

Mitch spread out the children's things on his kitchen floor. This way, he could keep an eye on the kicking and squirming Emily as he sorted out what each child had. Ralph considered it a game and he and Mary sorted the items first according to color, but then, thankfully, according to whom they belonged. Jake also helped.

There were so few things, it cut him to the quick. He'd sent money home to Agnes, as much as he could, but he knew there usually wasn't enough. Matthew's clothes were the newest looking, the rest had hand-me-downs, and Mary owned only one other pinafore.

There were no toys, save a small wooden game and a book of children's stories. His mother would be appalled if she saw this.

“What is this thing?”

Mitch turned. He'd asked Jake to unload what food was left, hoping they could scavenge something to feed the children quickly.

“It's a bottle to feed Emily. You can't figure that out?”

“There's a lot I can't figure out, Mitch, but I'm doin' my best.”

Mitch grimaced. “There should be a tin of milk in that sack. Heat it up for me, will you? Not too hot, though. I'll show you what to do next.”

“Where'd you learn that stuff?”

“The nurse at the hospital showed me.” Mitch returned to his sorting. “And dig out some food for the children. There's got to be something there they can eat.”

“Do we have to go to bed right after supper, Papa?” Mary asked looking up from her task. “Can we see the horses first?”

“It'll be dark soon.”

“You can use a lantern,” John reasoned, slipping close with a hopeful expression. “We have good eyes.”

“We'll see.” Mitch dug back into the large box he'd acquired for the bedding. No doubt the porter had helped Matthew pack everything. Those young men on the trains did commendable jobs and Mitch was grateful that in the turmoil of disembarking, he'd remembered to tip the man.

His hands scraped against something wicker. Lifting it out, he found it was Victoria's treat box. The porter knew it was Victoria's, for he'd helped her find it, but must have presumed she was also coming out here to the ranch.

“Treats!” Mary cried out, jumping up and forgetting about the horses. “I want some!”

“No!” he snapped, a bit more harshly than he planned. All the children shrank back. Mitch gritted his teeth as he set the box on the table. His back turned, he shut his eyes.

Lord, give me strength.

“This doesn't belong to us,” he said to no one in particular. When he turned, all the children were standing close looking as though they'd been told a favorite pet had died. Even Emily had stopped her squirming.

First thing tomorrow morning, he would see Pastor Wyseman. He would know a reliable woman who could help, Mitch told himself. But before that, he'd return this wicker basket, as much as he didn't want to darken any doorstep at that address. He'd just drop it off at the door. No, he'd drop it off at the tradesman's entrance. Less chance to run into Victoria if he showed up at the back entry.

She was a guest at the finest house in Proud Bend. He was a rancher in what could be the smallest ranch house in Colorado. He glanced around. That first summer, after he'd acquired a few cattle, he'd built this place. A three-room log house, which included the kitchen with a stove, a counter and some cupboards. In the front room, a table and some ladder-back chairs, four beds, each with a tick Matthew had been charged with making up. His own tiny bedroom was tucked in back. The place had two windows and one door. What would Victoria think of it if she saw it?

Oh, yes, it was good that he and Victoria had parted ways.

His gut clenched at the thought, but he smiled at the children, albeit forcedly. “Why don't we see those horses now? I have a couple of yearlings that don't have names yet. Maybe all of you can help me with that?”

Smiles wreathed the children's faces, and though they did much to dispel the pall he was suddenly feeling, nothing rid his gut of the chill.

* * *

A light rap stirred Victoria from her doze. She rolled in her bed and called out, “Come in.”

She was expecting Aunt Louise, and as much as she was grateful to her, Victoria didn't feel like dealing with her anymore tonight. Her aunt was polite, but underneath, she seemed to be a woman who felt trapped in her own web.

“Miss Victoria? Am I disturbing you?”

It was the maid, Sandra, carrying a tray. The smells of fresh bread and lamb stew wafted over to her. Her traitorous stomach growled. She didn't want to think of food. There were too many churning emotions within her. And they all starred Mitchell, as if his name was centered in a marquee above a famous theater. Victoria quickly straightened. No reason for the maid to see her as a slouch.

“Mrs. Louise told me to bring supper to you,” Sandra explained with a short, bobbing curtsy. “My ma did a wonderful stew.”

A small smile hovered over Victoria's features. “Thank you, but I'd rather prepare for bed.”

Sandra set the tray down on the small table between two chairs in Victoria's spacious room. “Yes, miss.”

“Sandra? Does your mother run this house?”

“Yes, miss. She's the housekeeper.”

“Where is your father?”

“He looks after the grounds and the horses.”

“And your quarters?”

“Me and my sister—she's the kitchen maid, miss—we sleep up in the attic, but my parents have a cottage at the back of the property.”

“Thank you.” Victoria wasn't sure why she asked all this, except to perhaps learn about the household. It seemed pretentious to be here and not know. She bit her lip. Wouldn't it have been better if she focused on a plan for employment?

Where would she start? Even that young woman from the train, Clare Walsh, wasn't sure. The land registry office was big, she'd said. That was the only lead Clare had.

Not very hopeful for the woman. And even less so for Victoria.

Chapter Twelve

V
ictoria found the morning surprisingly warm, and she opted for breakfast out on the back patio, probably the only time she'd do so before next spring. As promised, she could see Castle Rock, a squat pillar of stone jutting up from a hill. Mine trappings spoiled its natural beauty, but the view of the nearer Proud River made up for it. If it wasn't for the dry air and curious butte in the distance, she could have been in a country home in western Massachusetts, with that charming little log cottage peeking out from a copse of trees at the bottom of the yard.

One thing, though. She missed the brilliant reds and oranges that colored the autumn leaves out east. The trees here offered mostly yellow and gold.

Having risen at a time she considered early, Victoria had expected to see Aunt Louise around, but Sandra reported that her mistress often slept late. Uncle Walter, on the other hand, had already departed for the bank.

Victoria was thankful for that small mercy. She knew that sooner or later, Walter would pick up where he'd left off with this business about Clyde Abernathy. But for the time being, she was glad that his work distracted him.

“Where is Rachel?” Victoria had also asked Sandra earlier, not wanting to monopolize the girl if her cousin needed her.

“Miss Rachel stays out very late.” Sandra's voice had dropped to a whisper. “She sleeps in until noon. But when I helped her prepare for bed, I told her you'd arrived.”

It was curious that her parents didn't admonish her for this shocking lifestyle even if she was an adult. Did they not know?

“Perhaps she has a beau?”

“No. Miss Rachel said there ain't no decent men here.”

Victoria's brows had shot up. A scathing remark. No wonder she was still single.

She was still pondering that more than an hour later as she sat outside. The door opened and another maid brought out Victoria's breakfast, effectively ending her speculation. The young woman offered her a hasty good-morning in a rather shrill voice, set the tray on the linen covered tablecloth and soon disappeared. After grace, Victoria lifted the lid covering her plate and found several slices of toast with marmalade, and a boiled egg. Coffee sat in a small pot, as it was expected of her to pour her own. Victoria filled her dainty cup, idly pondering the different climate here. The air smelled cleaner, fresher and, today, warmer. Such a rare treat, this weather. All she needed was her light tailored jacket. Dry air felt warmer, she decided. And she would enjoy it as much as possible.

Her stomach growled, reminding her that last night she'd left her lamb stew and fresh bread untouched.

After stirring her coffee, Victoria set down her spoon, feeling guilty at the waste. She should eat. It was funny how her sudden poverty had made her appreciate what she'd always taken for granted.

Victoria took a small bite of her toast, her actions stalling when a series of sudden noises reached her. She turned, but couldn't see anyone through the shrubs that fenced in the patio. Someone with a deep voice shushed another, and a sharp rap on a door rang through the morning air. A delivery man must have arrived.

She heard a murmur, but couldn't make out the words. The tradesman's entrance would no doubt lead to a cellar, its downward steps cut out of the rocky ground. Sounds would bounce off the hard natural walls before filtering through the shrubbery and waning flowers of autumn. Victoria heard the young maid's rather shrill voice cut the dry air. “Oh, Miss Victoria is up on the terrace now, sir. I'll ask her if she wants to see you.”

Victoria stilled, feeling her face drain of color. Her heart stopped. Was this Clyde?
Lord, please let it not be Clyde.

No. He would never come to the back door.

“That's not necessary.” The voice was clear, and Victoria's heart went from cold stillness to a fast gallop. Mitchell?

“But, Papa, I want to see Miss Templeton!”

That was Mary! She felt her lips curl into a smile. What had brought them here?

Victoria stood and hurried over to the shrubs to peer down at the small entrance. Packed inside the stony alcove in front of the door were Mitchell and his children, including baby Emily in her wicker basket. “Hello!”

The older children looked up. The maid spoke. “Miss Victoria, this man wants to see you.”

“Come up, please!” She'd no sooner spoken the words when Ralph and John scrambled up the short wall. Ralph squeezed through the shrubbery, while John vaulted over it. They both rushed at her. Mary looked plaintive, for her dress and pinafore would not have allowed such a climb. Behind her, Matthew stood with his usual reserved look. He held Victoria's wicker box in his hands.

* * *

Not so long ago, Mitch had vowed he'd never come here as long as Walter Smith kept badgering him to sell his mineral rights. But here he was. He should have come alone. That way, he'd have hastily asked the maid to return the box and been gone in a flash. But his traitorous children had other plans.

He'd come to town to purchase some foodstuffs and arrange for the sale of several heifers who'd been bred late in the spring. Several ranchers had agreed to buy them, and Mitch had told Jake just this morning to finish up the sale of them, while he completed this short detour.

The maid led him and the other children through the house and quietly shut the terrace door behind them. John and Ralph were still hugging Victoria as he stepped out into the morning sunshine. Mary tore off the second she spied Victoria, while Matthew, ever cautious, set the box on the chair and allowed himself to be hugged.

“What brings you all here?” Victoria asked.

“We came to return the box,” John announced. “Papa wouldn't let us eat any of it.”

“I'm hungry,” Ralph announced.

“Ralph!” Mitch had had enough. That boy couldn't be hungry. Before they'd left, he'd ensured everyone ate a decent bowl of oatmeal, washed down with a cup of fresh milk. Tightly, he added, “We're here to return the box, that's all.”

Beaming, Victoria hurried over to it. She sat down and removed the lid. “I can't even remember what was left in here.” She whispered to the children, “Let's finish it off right now.”

Mitch felt his jaw tighten. She was brushing off all of his attempts at discipline. The children needed to learn control. “That's not necessary, Victoria. And I would rather you not indulge the children.”

Too late. She'd already doled out the remaining food, breaking the biscuits into halves and crumbling the cheese into large chunks onto a plate. The children ate like starving cats. Mitch rolled his eyes. “I said, enough!”

They stilled immediately. “We have to leave,” he told them. “Say your goodbyes and your thank-yous.”

“No, wait!” Victoria closed up the box and told the children, “Go down to the yard and play for a moment. But don't go near the river, especially you two, John and Ralph. I want to speak with your father.”

Immediately, Mitch stiffened his spine. Did she want to remind him to feed his children? Or make sure they washed their hands and faces? He knew how to be a good father. It wasn't the ideal solution, being a father and a rancher, the latter being better off alone, but he would do just fine.

He waited until the children were out of earshot before he turned to peer down at Victoria. She was particularly beautiful today. Her dress and short jacket were a deep purple, both cinched at a small waist he was sure he could span with his two hands. Her hair had been fancifully arranged and she smelled of lavender, too, just enough to entice him to inhale deeply.

“Yes?” he asked, refusing to allow his lungs the pleasure of a deep breath.

She looked up at him, her expression mixed with nervousness and anxiety. “I know I shouldn't ask, but I will, anyway. This is terribly ill mannered of me—”

“Then don't do it,” he grated out.

She pursed her lips, but a moment later, she burst out, “Is Emily your child?”

He folded his arms. “Does that make a difference?”

* * *

It doesn't
, Victoria told herself firmly.
So why are you asking?

Because it changed how she saw Mitchell. Yet she wasn't sure if she should accept that reason. He wasn't a part of her life now, but he lingered in her thoughts. So proud. She suddenly ached to smooth away the slight wrinkle in his forehead.

He'd shaved and abandoned his suit for a sturdy pair of saddle pants, a plain cotton shirt, with the sleeves rolled up enough to reveal a long sleeved undershirt. His vest was leather, and his scarf checkered. Victoria could only stare. Even in this ordinary outfit, Mitchell was a handsome, rugged figure of a man.

It was best if she think of him only as a simple cowboy raising his family. She needed to focus on employment, doing something that required her skill set, such as it was. And that skill set didn't include children and babies and keeping a mean cabin up in the mountains.

Victoria glanced into the basket that Mitchell had set down. The baby was watching her. Could Emily see her properly? Was the smile the infant wore for her?

Emily would never know either of her parents, if what Aunt Louise said was true. Victoria frowned and worked her jaw. She'd lost her father a decade ago. No child should suffer through a loss like that.

“It doesn't make a difference at all who Emily's father was,” she replied. “It was just that I heard that you couldn't possibly have—” She cleared her throat and started again. “That you couldn't possibly have fathered her, and, well...” She thought quickly, hoping her words would catch up with her speeding thoughts. “I was thinking of the children. What if someone torments them about it? People talk, you know.”

“So I see. But they won't be in town enough for that to happen,” he ground out. “And they will be well cared for, too, if that's your next question.”

“So, it's true?”

Mitchell picked up the basket and turned. He called for his children before facing Victoria again. “Since it doesn't make any difference, I'm not going to tell you.”

Victoria bit her lip as the children advanced toward the house, Matthew hauling a reluctant Ralph, and Mary and John skipping ahead.

It must be true.

She should not assume anything, she told herself sternly. She should be thankful she'd been a part of these fine children's lives even for a short time.

And a part of Mitchell's. He stood in front of her, his lips a thin line and his spine as stiff as the side of a highboy. He hated answering her, and she hated that she even asked. What was wrong with her that she acknowledged her aunt's gossip with a question that embarrassed both of them?

An apology sprang to her tongue, and she opened her mouth to utter it, but was stopped by a voice from the doors leading to the house.

“What do we have here?”

Victoria turned. A smiling woman about a decade older than her breezed through the terrace doors that she'd held open with both hands. She wore a conservative but expensive outfit and her hair was immaculately coiffed. A small brooch pinned to her high collar was her only jewelry. Her long features resembled a younger Louise, and Victoria knew immediately that this was Rachel her cousin. The woman released the doors and strode out.

“Victoria, I presume. I'm Rachel.” She held out her hand.

Still feeling a bit surprised she would meet the woman so early in the day, Victoria shook it. Rachel's was a firm, warm handshake, and she added to it by covering Victoria's hand with her free one.

Victoria looked down. To her amazement, Rachel's hands were rough, her fingernails and cuticles chewed nearly to the bone. Calluses filled her palms. They were the hands of a stable boy. How was that possible?

Yet, Rachel held her head high and regally, as if she hadn't done a single thing to give herself working hands.

“So nice to meet you, Rachel,” Victoria murmured. She looked to Mitchell, who was watching the older woman with his own expression of surprise. “This is Mitchell MacLeod.”

“I know Mitch well.” Rachel rolled an assessing look down his frame. “He has been very helpful in our church.”

Rachel's tone didn't match the simple explanation, but Victoria couldn't say why. “I assisted Mitchell in bringing his children out here,” she answered. “His family had stayed in Boston until his ranch house was ready.”

“I know.”

Again, the light, self-assured tone rang clearly through the still morning air.

“Sadly, his wife was not able to see the ranch,” Victoria added. “She recently passed away.”

Rachel's expression fell. “I didn't know that.” She turned to Mitchell. “My condolences, Mitch. What a shock for you and your children.”

Victoria waited for an explanation of how they knew each other. From either of them. It didn't come. But surely it was more than just worshipping together.

Miss Rachel stays out very late.
No! She would not speculate. If she would not do so about Mitchell's private life, she would not speculate about his relationship to Rachel. Nor would she judge her cousin.

Victoria plastered on a smile. “Mitchell was returning my box of treats that somehow made it into his luggage.”

Rachel laughed. “Were the treats still in it, with all these children about? I can't imagine that.”

The children stood between Mitchell and Victoria. She could feel Mary's small hand slip into hers. Ralph was grinning at Rachel, but the other two had stepped cautiously back.

They didn't trust her. Self-satisfaction rose completely unbidden in Victoria, and she crushed it immediately. Those same children had acted in a similar way when they'd visited her brownstone only a week ago. Victoria reminded herself not to judge Rachel, whose bold, self-assured manner had not been unlike Victoria's own behavior that day in her parlor.