Captivating Cole Read online

  Bret leaned over the stall railing, pushing back his hat to take in my machinations. “Did you locate the pack’s den?”

  “Yup.” I continued rubbing down my horse. “Killed two of those damned wolves before the rest of ‘em ran off, but not before they got ahold of another calf.”

  “Evan will shit if you didn’t bring back the pelts.”

  “Tossed ‘em over there.” I gestured over the stall. “The calf was too far gone to salvage the hide.”

  I threw down the rag and snatched up the brush, too tired to care if the horses got spooked over the scent of blood as the wolf pelts thawed. If they were anything like how I felt, it’d take a week to thaw enough for the blood to start flowing again.

  I’d stopped trying years ago to understand how my brother Evan survived out there for months on end. Being a trapper wasn’t for everyone.

  Bret searched in the hay around the corner from Buck’s stall. “You think Buck there will be too tired to get in a good rutting tonight?”

  “Hell, I’m too tired for a good rutting tonight,” I called out before finishing off with a mumble, “…even if I had the opportunity.”

  I could hear the smirk in my brother’s voice, indicating he’d heard every word I’d said. “I’ve got a mare in heat right now. I was going to let one of the others have at her, but Buck hasn’t had a good tumble in the hay for awhile now, and you know how well his foals sell to the neighbors.”

  Neighbors – huh. Most city folk wouldn’t consider families more than a day’s ride away to be neighbors. “Don’t you think it’s time to keep one of his colts around here to do the job when Buck can’t?”

  “We get a lot of money for the buckskins, Cole.”

  “I didn’t realize we were hurting for money.”

  Bret peered at me through the stall slats. “What’d Ma always say?”

  “Spare the rod and spoil the child?” I didn’t try to hide the grin.

  “Asshole.”

  “Fucker.”

  My brother chuckled as he bent down again and rustled through the hay. “Buckskins are so sure-footed.” He grunted as he lifted up one of the frozen wolf carcasses and tossed it across his lean shoulders. “Got a strong stamina, which is perfect for traversing the Montana Territory.”

  I stroked Buck’s muzzle above the edge of the bucket. “What say you, old boy? You in the mood for a good fuck over in the bridal stall tonight?”

  Bret just shook his head before tossing the carcass outside the far door and returning for the other. “I’ll take him to her in a couple of hours after he’s had a chance to digest his dinner.”

  More than my empty stomach protested the injustice of my horse getting a full stomach and the comfort of a female when I didn’t have either. “Please tell me you or Drew have something hot on the table.”

  My brother peered again over the stall and leaned in with a wink. “Drew made biscuits.”

  My nose involuntarily wrinkled. “Maybe I’ll just have coffee.”

  Bret threw his head back with a hearty laugh. “I helped with the gravy. Added chicken instead of beef this time.”

  “Well, I hope you made lots, ‘cause it’ll take plenty to soften those biscuits of his.”

  Bret’s deep brown eyes softened as he watched me work over Buck’s glistening flanks with the brush. “Do you think hers will be light and fluffy like Ma’s were?”

  I shrugged with a grunt. “Won’t matter…if she doesn’t say yes.”

  “Then you’d better hand over that brush and get inside to find out.”

  My hands stopped moving. “You mean…?”

  A shit-eating grin oozed over my brother’s face. “They’re propped up at your place on the table.”

  “Why didn’t you say so sooner?”

  Bret snatched the brush I tossed right out of the air and held open the stall door for me to rush by. “Just remember how much Drew and I have suffered waiting for you to drag your sorry ass back here,” he called after me.

  I don’t think I felt the cold at all between the bolt from the stables to the house. My youngest brother’s matching green-eyed stare met mine as I tumbled inside and tromped snow across the lodgewood pine floor to the table.

  Feeling had returned to my fingers from working over Buck, yet I still fumbled the first envelope repeatedly before ripping the damned thing apart. Food was forgotten.

  Two years. Two fucking years since I’d first placed that notice in St. Louis. I’d paid them well to forward it farther east to every major city’s newspaper. The idea of advertising for a wife initially turned my stomach after we’d lost Sky.

  But when rutting sheep, cattle, and horses started getting a little too interesting, and with the nearest brothel a week away in either direction, I knew I had to do more than take matters into my own hands.

  For all our sakes. As the oldest brother, the responsibility lay firmly on my shoulders.

  By this point, Estella could have buck teeth, crossed eyes, and a club foot for all I cared. As long as she said yes to our unique needs.

  And wants.

  Her little revelation of the effort she went through to get out of an engagement to a man, who sounded like nothing short of a sniveling pussy, only solidified that Estella was the right woman for the job.

  The only thing that concerned me was her obvious high-society connections. She was used to tea parties, dances, and days filled with frivolity.

  We had a ranch, working hard from sunup to sundown by the sweat of our brows. The only opportunity we had to relax was occasions during the winter months when the soil was too cold to till. Outside that, everyone had a job to do every single day.

  But if Estella was as desperate to escape her gilded cage and leave everything behind as her letters indicated, we had a chance to build a damn good life together with her on the Montana plains. The fact that she could cook and sew was just what we needed to fill the hole in our odd little family.

  I quickly scanned every note in order. It wasn’t until the final letter that she responded to my question in her now familiar flowing script. I held my breath as I read.

  I was flattered to receive your offer and am happy to report I have arranged to arrive in St. Louis by rail from our nation’s capital, according to the transport via steamship schedule you indicated in your most recent missive.

  While I am grateful for your offer of recompense, I am not without means of my own to pay for my journey by rail. I believe this sharing in fees for my travels to the Montana Territory is equitable, considering the nature of our transaction.

  “So?”

  Drew’s question interrupted my reading of the rest of the letter, but I had the response we’d been seeking. I looked up to find Bret had entered the house while I’d read and shared the hint of apprehension visible on our youngest brother’s face.

  I refolded the letter and tucked it into the envelope before taking a gulp of the now lukewarm coffee. I thickly ladled the chicken gravy over the biscuits to start the softening process before leaning into my chair with a resigned sigh.

  The anxious anticipation on their faces was priceless. Though I fought it for a few seconds, I couldn’t have stopped the grin that tugged at my cheeks if I’d tried. I only wished that Evan was around to celebrate our good fortune.

  “She’s coming.”

  Chapter Three

  Estella

  The biscuits were golden brown when I carefully drew the pan from the heat of the oven. I’d finally gotten them right this time. I was sure of it – and none too soon with my departure day looming.

  Or so I thought until I caught Mrs. Barker’s pursed frown. “What?” I asked her, tucking aside an errant hair strand from my now perspiring face. “They rose this time at least. They’re not the color of charcoal either.”

  I set the pan on the kitchen counter and planted floured palms on my skirted hips. It didn’t matter by now anyway. More than my apron was covered by bits of hardened dough and flour. A thin veneer coa
ted every inch of silk and lace from my breasts all the way down to the pinched toes of my boots.

  If I had the time to glance in a mirror, I’m certain my face was marred as well. But time was something that had dwindled away far too rapidly over the course of the last weeks. If I hadn’t perfected soft, fluffy biscuits by now, tomorrow I’d be fresh out of luck.

  As would my intended.

  The cook opened her wide mouth. Then shut it again. Open. Shut.

  I threw my hands up in the air. “Oh for heaven’s sakes. Just say it.”

  Instead of speaking, Mrs. Barker took a fork, scooped up a cooling biscuit, then set it on a plate before handing me the utensil. “Here. Cut into it.”

  With a frustrated huff, I slid the plate in front of me and pressed the fork against the outer crust.

  Nothing.

  I lifted the fork, noting the lack of even a dent in the biscuit, then readjusted and stabbed it down tines first.

  A crumb broke off and skittered across the counter. One look at the bent fork, and I knew I was in desperate straits. The utensil clattered to the plate as I sank to the floor amid a billow of skirts with my face planted in my floured hands.

  “What did I do wrong this time?” I wailed.

  “There, there,” Mrs. Barker tried to soothe as she bent to my level. “Biscuits is the hardest to learn, miss. They’s jest a certain feel to the dough when it’s ready, you know?

  “Apparently I don’t,” I muttered.

  She patted my well-dusted shoulder. “Me own mother spent years trying to teach me until one day it clicked. Me biscuits have been light and fluffy ever since.”

  “I don’t have years, Mrs. Barker.” I stared up at her through a veil of tears. “Or months. Or weeks any longer. I leave for the Montana Territory tomorrow.” A fresh wave of sniffles hit me.

  Tomorrow. One more day until the only life I knew was swept out from beneath my feet. It both thrilled and frightened me in equal measure.

  “If I’d’ve known you was interested in cooking, Miss Estella, I’d‘ve been happy to start showing you sooner.”

  Tears mingled with sweat as they tracked down my cheeks. One thing. Only one thing was important to Cole. I wasn’t much to look at, so I’d hoped to at least conquer his favorite meal to prove I was worth his while. But I couldn’t even get that right.

  “It’s not your fault,” I reassured our cook with a sniffle or two. “I’m the one who got myself tangled up in this mess.” A mess other than the one in which I presently wallowed. “Help me up, please?”

  Mrs. Barker snagged my raised hand and we struggled for purchase on the powdered kitchen floor. “Jest think, miss. You’ve learned how to cook a mighty fine ham. Mashed taters. Butter beans and corn bread…”

  “Those weren’t so difficult,” I mused with an unladylike grunt as I pulled myself up against the counter.

  “You’ve even got pie fillings down pat.”

  I took a deep breath. Or at least as deep as the damnable corset allowed. “But once again, the crust…”

  She held up a finger. “Was edible on your last one.” She winked and tapped my flour-tipped nose with her almost clean finger. “You’ll have that’un down in no time.”

  I picked up a cooled biscuit and banged it against the counter with a sigh. No dent. At least not in the biscuit. “At least my gravy might soften these up a bit.”

  “Not sure anything could save those, miss.” She offered up a hesitant grin before dishing up a last bit of advice. “Jest remember on the gravy to let the flour and drippings brown real good before adding the milk.”

  “That last attempt was still a bit doughy tasting, wasn’t it?”

  “But it was edible,” she emphasized with a smile lighting her Irish green eyes.

  Edible. That had become the highlight culminating weeks of my disastrous adventures in cooking. The reality of the approaching challenges hit me like a falling bookcase.

  “I’m going to kill them with my cooking, aren’t I?”

  Mrs. Barker’s image wavered before me until she tucked my face into her soft shoulder as a wave of new tears erupted.

  “Now, now. You’re going to do jest fine. No one’s gonna die.”

  “Gracious heavens, who’s dying?”

  At the sound of the familiar voice, my head popped up from the cook’s bosom. “Abby?”

  With a properly gloved hand to her tiny chest, my perfectly primped younger sister stared around the kitchen in abject horror at the muddle I’d created.

  The flour tin lay on its side while most of the contents were sprinkled about the room. A shattered jar of marmalade still marked the floor where I’d dropped it earlier. Mrs. Barker had followed in my wake and tried to tidy up behind me, until I reminded her I needed to learn how to clean up my own messes.

  Abby’s pale face flushed as she removed her stylishly festooned bonnet to display her brunette crown. I was certain she was about to faint. “Father said you were leaving, not dying.”

  “No, no,” I said, rushing to her side and stopping before my outstretched hands tarnished her immaculate spring attire. “No one is dying,” I assured.

  She took a steadying breath and reached for the counter, only to draw her gloved hand away again with a wrinkled nose at the flour trails. “But you are still leaving?”

  I nodded. “Tomorrow.” I swiped a tiny, somewhat clean apron edge to dry my tears. It only served to create more. Perhaps between the flour and tears coating my face, I’d yet get a good biscuit made. “It’s so good to see you again, Abby. I…I’ve missed you.”

  “And I you.” Thin lips thinned even more as she took in the scope of the mess I’d made, reminding me so much of our mother on the rare occasion she tried to control her emotions. “So you are determined to go through with this…this…mail-order marriage?”

  I winced at the disdain dripping from her words. Yes, so like our mother, I half expected to be sent to my room for some minor infraction. I might be the older sister, but it wasn’t just her marriage that that had placed me lower in society’s eyes.

  I thanked Mrs. Barker for the day’s guidance and led Abby up the stairs toward my room to change out of my sweat-soaked, flour encrusted attire.

  “Yes, I am going through with this marriage,” I finally responded halfway up the winding stairwell. “By the end of June, you may write to me as Mrs. Cole Carston…that is, if your husband allows.”

  Her color heightened again, making her appear ill against the soft pinks of the latest fashions. The wife of a junior senator had to look the part, of course. She certainly knew how to act it too.

  “I choose to respect my husband’s wishes, is all.”

  “And what,” I challenged. “After six months of marriage, he finally allowed you to be seen in my presence?”

  “It’s not like that, Ee,” she said, reprising the old nickname she’d lovingly saddled me with when she was a toddler. “You could’ve come to dinner with Father. I never left you off of the invitations.”

  “You know good and well that our father hasn’t left the house with me by his side since before his election. I’m barely allowed to walk out the door, and always under accompaniment by Mrs. Barker or one of the maids. I’m surprised he even dragged me to Washington at all. It would’ve been better if he’d left me in Baltimore.”

  Abby gasped. “You know he would never allow that after what happened between you and poor Alan.”

  I put up a hand. “Never speak that odious man’s name in my presence again.”

  My sister stopped short before my opened bedroom door. The words I’d spoken in frustration swirled around and slammed into my heart with the full scope of their meaning. In all likelihood, after tomorrow we’d never be in each other’s presence again anyway.

  She fidgeted with her hat’s plumage. “You’re right, Ee. Forgive me for bringing up such a painful reminder of that time.”

  I sighed. “I’m just glad my indiscretions didn’t ruin your marriage prospect
s.”

  “Father’s election and move here was a boon to my coming out.” She rested a hand on my arm after accompanying me into my room, ignoring the flour specks this time. “I’m just grateful Father allowed you to attend the wedding.”

  “As was I.” I offered up a sad smile before spinning and presenting her my bustle. “Now, take off those ridiculously expensive gloves and help me out of this thing.”

  With a giggle, we became beloved sisters again, inseparable from the day she was born. Ready to face the world and everything in it as long as we were together. Well, me to face it and her to follow along behind in my headstrong wake.

  That is, until our mother had intervened, pushing me more toward accompanying Father so I could spend more time around Alan, who accompanied his father in their mutual business interests. I’d relished those visits and trips with my capable father, even though he never went out of his way to show me the business side of our jaunts. Such things were deemed unfit for young ladies. Yet still, I listened in whenever possible.

  All the while, Abby spent more and more time alongside my mother, learning the ways of what it meant to be a proper society woman. Of late, I’d had much time to ponder if Mother’s reasoning for pushing me toward Father had more to do with removing my influence over my sister than pushing me onto Alan. Back then, I had simply reveled in my father’s attentions.

  Which made the last years outside of his circle all the more painful. And my public betrayal worse – for him. But I had plenty of time on the coming journey to fully contemplate such recent realizations.

  Abby finished unfastening the line of buttons down my dress, and I let it drop in a puff of flour on the floor. She narrowly avoided contamination with a quick leap aside and an accompanying squeal that sent us into peals of laughter.

  It quickly died down when she took a hard look around the nearly bare room. I’d spent the better part of the last week deciding what left with me and what stayed. While I set about to clean my hands and face in the washbasin, my sister ran a hand over the loom I’d yet to disassemble, stretching above the packed trunks sitting alongside my bed.