Courtship, Montana Style
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Charlotte Maclay
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Chapter One
“There is no question, my dear, you will be the most beautiful bride Marin County has ever seen. Trés elegant. Your wedding will be the social occasion of the year.”
The owner of Gloriana’s Bridal Boutique hovered around Elizabeth Tilden, all part of the service in the most extravagant bridal shop in the most exclusive county in California, located across the bay from San Francisco.
Gloriana lifted the veil from Elizabeth’s head and clipped it to a hanger. “I know you will not be as foolish as one of our patrons, a young lady who walked out of the church at the very last minute last week with the groom already standing at the altar. Such a waste. All that food at the reception and such a lovely gown.” The boutique owner made a tsking sound and shook her head.
Elizabeth wondered if canceling the wedding meant the woman was foolish—or courageous, a trait Elizabeth sorely lacked. She hated disappointing anyone and shied away from confrontation. For as long as she could remember, she’d been a nice girl.
But sometimes nice girls finished last.
Where had that other bride found the backbone to walk away from her own wedding?
Lowering the zipper at the back of Elizabeth’s gown, Gloriana said, “I have no such fears you will do such a naughty thing, walking out on your handsome husband-to-be. Your family would be so upset. Yours is one wedding day that will go off like clockwork, as they say.”
With care, Elizabeth stepped out of the tulle-and-lace gown with its rows and rows of tiny pearls and grand sweeping train. She felt far less confident about her fast-approaching wedding day than Gloriana did.
Three days to go, and what Elizabeth saw in the full-length mirror was a reluctant bride. Not terrified. Not simply getting cold feet or having second thoughts. But a bride who no longer believed marriage to Vernon Sprague was the smart thing to do, no matter how vigorously her family encouraged her match to the wealthy investment counselor.
But she’d never have the audacity to risk a terrible scene with her mother. Or Vernon, for that matter. Hadn’t she already buckled under their combined wishes more times than she cared to count? If only things had turned out differently….
She’d grown up a member of the country-club set and met Steve Poling when she was an awkward twelve-year-old. For her it had been love at first sight. Or perhaps adoration was a better word.
It took Steve several years to notice her, but by high school they started dating. At least while she was home for summer vacations they saw each other. He was fun to be with, bringing an excitement into her otherwise restricted life. His bold even sometimes reckless behavior appealed to her.
By the time Elizabeth entered college, they were dating each other exclusively—except she attended a private women’s college in New England and he was studying petroleum engineering at UCLA. After they both graduated they planned to marry. But first Steve wanted to get his career on solid footing. Then came his chance for a grand adventure—an oil exploration trip to the Amazon River basin. He couldn’t resist the opportunity.
Only after he’d left town had she realized she was pregnant. Steve hadn’t hesitated once he learned she was expecting. He arranged to fly home. They’d marry—
Even after a year, Elizabeth’s throat still tightened on the painful knowledge that if he hadn’t been coming home to marry her in haste his plane never would have crashed. He’d be alive today. And they’d be together, she, the man she’d loved all through adolescence and the baby they’d created together.
A small army of assistants dressed as French maids flitted into the private dressing room, scooping up the gown and veil to be safely wrapped for the trip to Elizabeth’s home and thence to the same church on Saturday that had seen equally extravagant weddings for three prior generations of Morley-Tilden women.
Still in her satin slip, Elizabeth sat down after everyone had left the dressing room. Despite her worries, she smiled at the precious sleeping baby in the carrier she’d placed on the floor next to the plush-velvet couch. Suzanne.
Her baby…and Steven’s.
As unintended as her pregnancy had been, Suzanne was now her life. Her love.
That was far from the case for Vernon, who had shown little interest in her three-month-old daughter.
Elizabeth’s parents had been heartsick—and embarrassed—to learn she was pregnant and unwed, a social scandal, they’d said. With grief weighing her down, Elizabeth had agreed to become engaged to Vernon Sprague, a wealthy investment counselor with considerable political clout. The perfect brother-in-law to enhance her brother Robert’s political ambitions. The marriage—of money, influence and wealth—would take place after the baby’s birth. There would be no disgrace for the Tilden name.
Through a haze of despair and guilt, Elizabeth had agreed to the arrangement. As usual she had given in to the wishes of her prominent family.
But now she was responsible for another person’s future happiness. She needed to decide what was best not only for herself but for her baby as well, a far more important decision.
She ran her fingertips over the blond fuzz on the top of Suzanne’s head, so light in color it was barely visible and as soft as down. A deep, abiding love filled Elizabeth’s chest, making it difficult to draw a breath.
How in heaven’s name could she raise her daughter to be a strong woman when she’d always been such a weakling?
Since her morning visit with her older sister, Elizabeth had more doubts than ever about her impending marriage. Victoria, like their mother, lived with the knowledge of her husband’s infidelities and was miserable because of it.
Not only had this past year left Elizabeth with nagging questions about Vernon’s faithfulness, but he’d already talked about hiring a nanny and sending Suzanne to boarding school as soon as she was old enough.
Elizabeth balked at the suggestion and they’d had a terrible argument, the issue as yet unresolved. But she vowed she would never give her baby over for someone else to raise. She’d experienced too much of that in her own childhood.
Struggling with indecision, idly she picked up a women’s magazine on the coffee table and flipped through the pages. An article caught her eye about Montana’s Foster Dad of the Year, a rancher in a remote part of the state who provided refuge for unwanted children.
That’s what Elizabeth and her baby needed. A refuge. A place where she would have the time and freedom to decide what was best for their future without the interference of her family and the pressure she had so much trouble resisting.
She was such a wimp when it came to wanting to please her family.
That’s why simply moving into an apartment of her own wouldn’t do, although she could easily afford to live on her own because of the trust fund her grandmother had left her. She needed to be far away from her family. And Vernon. In an entirely different state where she’d avoid any chance they’d find her, confront her, and she’d bow to their will once again.
In her heart, she knew starting a new life was the best thing she could do for her daughter.
Reading down the page, her gaze landed on a quote in bold type from Walker Oakes, the rancher in question. “We’re pretty self-sufficient here on the ranch, but with this many teenage boys it would sure be nice to have a housekeeper.”
A housekeeper.
That wasn’t such a hard job. Not that Elizabeth had any experience to qualify her for that kind of employment. But how difficult could it be to dust and vacuum and put a load of wash on? Surely a college graduate who spoke Italian, German and French with some fluency could handle the job with a minimum of effort.
With a mental stiffening of her spine, she glanced one more time at the article, folded the magazine and tucked it beside Suzanne in the car seat. That’s where she and her baby would go, to Montana, as unlikely a place as she could imagine. No one in her world would come looking for her there, certainly not on a remote ranch where she’d be an anonymous housekeeper.
If that other bride had found the courage to walk out on her wedding day, Elizabeth could drum up enough spunk to leave now before it was too late—and escape the confrontations she so dreaded.
For Suzanne’s sake, she could do it because she couldn’t imagine raising her child in a household where her father ignored her.
As her own father had been indifferent to her.
The only remaining problem was to avoid leaving a trail that would lead Vernon or her family to her secret hideaway in Montana before she reached her decisions. To make her admittedly impetuous scheme work, she’d have to be resourceful—and lucky.
She’d also have to lie convincingly, another talent she lacked. For the sake of Suzanne’s future, she’d damn well learn! This was no time to let her well-developed conscience get the upper hand.
This cowboy’s ranch was going to be a refuge for both her and her baby. Meanwhile, she’d pretend to be someone she wasn’t—a strong, determined woman who could handle a dust mop as well as the next woman. If her acting was good enough, maybe she’d actually become that confident person.
A half hour later, with her wedding gown in the trunk of her BMW and Suzanne still dozing comfortably in her car seat, Elizabeth drove to her bank to make a substantial withdrawal. Later she’d call her mother to assure her that she was safe—and ask her to cancel the wedding. Speaking to her on the phone would be much easier than in person.
Worst case, she could hang up and turn off her cell phone.
STEPPING UP ONTO THE BACK porch of his ranch house, Walker Oakes slapped his Stetson against his thigh and stomped his boots. Dust billowed up like a miniature tornado.
By June the rangeland in this part of northern Montana should have been boot deep with nutritious grass for his cattle to graze. Instead a cold, dry winter had led into an even dryer spring, stunting the grass, leaving barely enough for the prairie dogs to nibble on. The lightest breeze stirred up a dust devil. Riding herd on his cattle meant eating dirt from dawn to dusk.
Muttering a curse under his breath, he went into the house and hooked his hat on a peg in the mudroom.
The well-equipped kitchen was huge with a table big enough to seat a dozen people when stretched to its limit. This time of year it only had to handle five: himself, the three boys currently in his foster care and Speed Pendrix, his foreman, the slowest talking, slowest moving man north or south of the Missouri River. A man Walker Oakes would trust with his life, and had more than once.
Walker needed to know the going price for beef cattle so he headed for his office to check online. Unless they got rain and got it damn soon, he was going to have to cull his herd, getting rid of cows that hadn’t produced a calf this spring. He might even have to sell off some of the yearlings at half the price he’d be able to get after a summer’s grazing fattened them up. Sometimes to save a ranch a man had to walk a tight-rope, making tough decisions.
As he walked through the living room with its big rock fireplace and heavy, overstuffed furniture, he heard a car approaching the ranch house. He glanced outside as it stopped in front.
Most of his Grass Valley neighbors came to visit via the back door. None that he could think of drove a fancy silver-blue BMW that looked near new. Like him, pickups were more their style.
Curious, he opened the door, shoved open the screen and stepped outside into the warmth of late afternoon.
The young woman who exited the BMW was a sweet little filly with flaxen hair she had pulled into some kind of a twist at the back of her head. So slender a good wind would blow her over, he wondered if, like his cows, she wasn’t getting enough feed lately. Still, she moved with the grace of a dancer and was a mighty pretty sight after riding herd all day on cows and all night on adolescent boys filled with a combination of rebellion and hormones they didn’t know how to tame. And the way she filled out a pair of city slicker blue jeans was something to write home about.
He stepped off the porch at the same time Bandit, a black-and-white mostly Border collie rounded the corner and took up a position beside him, tail wagging watchfully.
“Can I help you, miss?” Walker asked. No doubt he’d have to direct her where she had intended to be, which surely wasn’t at the Double O Ranch.
Standing in full sunlight, the stranger shaded her eyes with her hand. “I’m looking for Walker Oakes.”
That was a surprise. She wasn’t lost after all, though she didn’t look like she belonged anywhere more Western than a dude ranch. “You found him.”
“Oh, good. I’m, uh, Lizzie Thomas. I’m here about the job.”
Job? He hired extra hands during roundup and hay-harvest time, but none that looked like this woman.
He walked toward the stranger so he wouldn’t have to yell—and so he could get a better look at her. Dutifully Bandit remained at his heel.
As he drew closer, Walker decided his visitor was worth more than a second look. She had the face of a Greek goddess with high cheekbones, slightly pouty lips and a complexion no rancher’s wife could ever achieve, however many gallons of skin cream she applied.
“Sorry. You must have the wrong place. I’m not hiring right now.” Not extra cowhands or a woman with pure, unadulterated sex appeal.
“Unless you’ve already filled the position…” Turning, she opened the BMW’s back door. A moment later, she produced a baby’s car seat—
Walker’s eyes widened.
—with the baby included.
“I’d like to apply to be your housekeeper.”
“Housekeep—?” He choked, feeling as off balance as though someone had slipped him a rogue bronc when he wasn’t looking. “Is this some kind of a joke?”
Bandit crept forward, sat down and cocked his head. His tail continued to slowly sweep the ground as he craned for a better look at the baby.
Casting a quick smile in the dog’s direction, the woman hooked her arm through the car seat handle, holding it in front of her. With her free hand, she handed him a magazine. “According to this article, you need a housekeeper. I’m applying.”
He shook his head. “You’ve got a baby,” he said stupidly. “You can’t possibly expect—”
“I didn’t think in government service you were allowed to discriminate.”
He frowned. This Lizzie person had the most intense blue eyes, which were currently zapping him with blue-lightning strikes. “I’m not a government employee,” he pointed out, and suddenly he’d lost all interest in Western hospitality. Which wasn’t like him at all. He was an easygoing guy. Friendly with everybody. Which meant maybe the boys had figured out how to play a practical joke on him, and he should just go along.
“Perhaps not, but you do take money from the government to assist in the support of the foster children placed in your care.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. None of this sounded right, and it sure as hell wasn’t funny. Was she accusing him of stealing the money? “I spend every dime of that money on the kids.”
“Of course. Nonetheless, accepting government funds means you cannot discriminate against working mothers. It’s the law.”
What the hell! He’d never discriminated against anyone. Ever! He liked women. Even mothers. A lot! And now this sexy female was telling him—
“Hey, boss, what’s goin’ on?” Speed Pendrix sauntered around the corner of the house, his loose-limbed walk somewhere between a stroll and a full stop.
Moving at the same pace, Bandit got up to greet the foreman.
“This woman says I’ve got to hire her to be my housekeeper,” Walker told Speed.
“Well, now, ain’t that nice.” He ambled up to the car, a big, foolish grin on his face as he took in Lizzie and the baby, who was dressed in pink overalls and a matching denim cap. “Don’t ya know, we surely could use some housekeeping help and darned if she’s not the purdiest little thing I’ve seen in a month of Sundays.”
“Why, thank you, Mr….”
“Jest call me Speed, ma’am. Everybody does.” He tipped his wide-brimmed straw hat.
Extending her hand, Lizzie granted the foreman a radiant smile that would have curled Walker’s toes if it had been meant for him. Which it wasn’t. All she’d done was shoot daggers in his direction. And he’d shot them back, he admitted. But he’d had reason, damn it!
“It’s nice to meet you, Speed.”
“Cain’t say as I remember a time when we had a baby around here. It’ll be a nice change.”
“Now wait a minute,” Walker objected. “She can’t come waltzing in here and expect—”
His three-man crew of adolescents came bursting out of the house, the screen door banging against its stop. They leaped off the steps—Bean Pole stumbling as he landed—and surrounded the woman and her car. Bandit wove his way between the adolescents’ legs.
“Yo, man! Look at them wheels!”
“Hey, she’s got a baby. My mom had a baby.”
“Bet I could get you fifty, maybe sixty bucks for those cool hubcaps. You wanna sell, lady?”
“Hold it!” Walker bellowed. He’d lost control of the situation and he damn well was going to get it back.
The boys snapped to attention. Even the woman pulled her shoulders back, her expression startled and wide-eyed.
“Let’s take this whole thing a little slower,” Walker said. “This lady is—”
“Lizzie Thomas,” she repeated.
“From?” he prodded.
“Merry Maids, Inc.”
Which Walker had never heard of but, based on the out-of-state license plates on her car, he concluded it was in Nevada. “And you’re here because?”
“Because you stated very clearly in this magazine article that you need a housekeeper.”
She spoke in a reasonable tone, her voice slightly bluesy and very sexy, yet it wasn’t a reasonable statement at all. He didn’t need a housekeeper. Well, he did, but he couldn’t afford one and he sure as hell wasn’t equipped to house a woman and her baby at the ranch.
“Wow! That’s great!” Scotty, the youngest of the boys at age twelve, leaned forward to chuck the baby under her chin.
“Your hands are dirty, son,” Walker warned.
“No, they’re not. I washed ’em—”
“Enough! I’m not going to start an argument about dirty hands. We’re going to start from the beginning and do this right.” So Walker could get to the bottom of what was going on.
“These are my foster sons, Miss Thomas. Take off your hats, boys.” They all responded, even Speed. “Scotty here is the one enamored of the baby. His real name is Donald MacLeod and you can figure his red hair is one of the reasons we call him Scotty.”
“Hello, Scotty. It’s fine if you want to touch Suzanne. A little dirt won’t hurt her.”
Walker scowled. This was his show, his ranch. No pretty little filly with a quick smile and long, red fingernails was going to muscle her way in here without his say-so. Which he wasn’t about to give.
“Our resident expert on the value of assorted car parts is Fridge—Arnold Bullock,” Walker continued. “He can empty a refrigerator in one sitting and a junkyard in about fifteen minutes, if you give him a chance. Which we try not to do.”
Her amused smile shot a flush to the boy’s cheeks, which were just beginning to show the first signs of growing whiskers.
“And Bean Pole here is Chad Stringer, one of my best cowhands on a horse.” On land, he was so clumsy he was barely able to walk around without falling over his own feet, a trait Walker recalled all too clearly from his own adolescent years. “He outgrows a pair of jeans faster than Fridge can empty the refrigerator.”
Lizzie nodded to the boys. “I’m glad to meet all of you.”
“You’ve met Speed, my foreman, and the dog’s name is Bandit.”
She smiled at the dog and reached down to let Bandit smell the back of her hand. While she petted the top of his head, she kept the baby safely out of the dog’s reach.
“Now then, the formalities are taken care of…” He tucked his fingers in his jeans pockets. “I don’t know what made you think my comment in that magazine meant I was ready to hire the first housekeeper who showed up at my door. Or any housekeeper, for that matter, and certainly not one with a baby. You’ll have to go back to wherever—”
“Aw, boss,” Scotty complained. “I know how to take care of a baby. I can even change diapers. It’s a snap.”
Lizzie Thomas seemed unperturbed by Walker’s announcement. “Merry Maids anticipated you might need some convincing so they’ve agreed to cover my salary during my probationary period in order that I might prove my worth to you. So if someone could show me to my quarters?”
She was going to stay? Good God, things were going from bad to worse. And why did she avoid looking him in the eye, her gaze darting away every few seconds like a truant caught out of school? Something was definitely not right here.
“Well, now,” Speed drawled, “I’d say that’s mighty generous of your employer.”
“Can I carry the baby?” Scotty asked. “I’ll be real careful.”
“Of course.” The youngster received another one of her smiles.
“Have you got suitcases and stuff?” Fridge asked. “I can carry them—”
“Wait!” Walker bellowed again. “I guess I didn’t make myself clear. We don’t need a housekeeper or a baby—”
The baby in question added her own objection, startled awake by Walker’s shouting. Speed, all three boys and Miss Thomas hastened to soothe the infant, losing interest in what Walker had to say. In contrast, Bandit retreated to the side of the house, running at a crouch.
Scotty picked the baby up out of the car seat, holding her to his shoulder and patting her on the back with considerable expertise. Meanwhile Lizzie began directing her remaining devotees to her luggage in the BMW’s trunk and the baby’s supplies in the back seat.
Walker stood in the driveway with about as much animation as a tree stump, having no idea how things had gotten so far out of hand. In a matter of minutes, Lizzie Thomas had bewitched his foreman and his boys. And if the truth were known, she’d come close to doing the same to Walker. That slow, sexy smile of hers and her bluesy voice were enough to make any man rethink the merits of extended celibacy.
Except her story didn’t make any sense. Housekeepers didn’t simply show up at a man’s front door willing to work for nothing. Not when he had adolescent boys in the house who were allergic to baths and cleaning up after themselves.
Nope. Something was screwy about Lizzie Thomas’s story. It would be downright interesting to know why she, or someone else, had gone to so much trouble to set up this cockamamy scheme.
For the moment, Walker figured he didn’t have much choice but to follow everyone else into the house. Soon enough he’d discover what Lizzie was up to.
And then she’d be gone in a hurry.
As he pulled open the screen door, he caught the lingering scent of a sultry perfume, feminine and inviting, and a little bit tropical. Not the boys. And sure as hell not Speed.
At some gut level, Walker sensed that if Lizzie stuck around very long, the Double O would never be the same.
For the life of him, he couldn’t be sure whether that was a good thing—or a bad one.
ELIZABETH STIFLED A SIGH of relief as she entered the house. Never in her life had she been so brazen. Lied so blatantly. Or been so rude. But she had managed to get past the first obstacle, which had turned out to be Walker Oakes himself.
The magazine article had been deceiving. From the photo of Walker wearing a Stetson pulled down low on his forehead and a weather-aged sheepskin jacket, she had assumed he’d be a much older man. Not midthirties with saddle-brown hair, an arresting face that squint lines had filled with character and a rugged physique snugged into skintight jeans. She might well have given up her plan if she’d known what a formidable opponent he’d be. Nothing like the men in her life who wore dark suits and ties to work and designer polo shirts on the golf course.
“Ms. Lizzie, where do you want me to put your stuff?” Fridge asked.
She shuddered at the nickname she’d given herself. Her mother would have a fit if she knew, much preferring the formal version.
“Perhaps we should ask Mr. Oakes his preference?” She tipped her head back to look up at him with the sweetest expression she could manage. Given his height, a woman dancing with him would find his shoulder a perfect spot to rest her head—and she wondered wherever that thought had come from.
Skeptical bronze eyes snared her. “I think you know my preference.”
“Yes, well…” She swallowed hard. He was not going to be an easy man to fool. “I suppose I could drive back into town—”
“Now don’t you go troubling yourself about driving anywhere,” Speed said. “This here house has got more bedrooms than you can shake a stick at.”
“She could stay in the bunkhouse with us,” Bean Pole volunteered.
Instantly rejecting the idea, Walker told the boy, “Not on your life.”
Ignoring the exchange, Speed continued. “Seems to me the big ’un across from the boss’s would do you just fine. And this here wee little tike—” he stuck his finger out for the baby to grab “—she’d be fine in the old sewing room Mrs. Oakes used.”
Elizabeth shot Walker a look. “Mrs. Oakes?”
“My father’s wife. She’s been gone from the ranch a long time.”
“Oh.” A tiny surge of relief skipped through her awareness. The article hadn’t, after all, said anything about Walker being married. But it could have been an oversight. And a woman would have seen through her scheme immediately. She’d have recognized Elizabeth didn’t know thing one about being a housekeeper.
“I’m sure the sewing room will be perfect for Suzanne,” she said.
“I’ll jest go on upstairs, see to it the room ain’t too much of a mess.” The antithesis of his name, Speed strolled toward the stairway at a pace that would get him to the second floor along about next Tuesday.
“Wait. We haven’t got a crib or anything for the baby to sleep in,” Walker protested.
“That’s not a problem,” Elizabeth assured him. “I brought a portable playpen along. It’s still in the car.” One of several purchases she’d made in Reno with the cash she’d withdrawn from the bank. She’d then made a side trip to a junkyard where she’d switched license plates with a Jeep that had been totaled, a little trick she’d learned from reading mysteries. With luck, no one would even notice or be able to trace her.
“I’ll get the playpen,” Scotty volunteered.
“No, I will,” Fridge insisted. He dropped the suitcase he’d carried in only minutes ago.
“Hold the baby a sec, boss.” The boy thrust Suzanne into Walker’s hands. “Fridge doesn’t know squat how to put a playpen together. He’ll probably bust it.”
Both boys went running out the door to the car, Bean Pole traipsing along at a slower pace, leaving Walker standing there, the baby in his big hands, and looking as though Scotty had handed him a bomb that was about to go off.
“Well, hello there, Miss Susie-Q,” he said, eyeing the baby with apprehension.
“Here, I’ll take her,” Elizabeth said.
“Yeah, it might be better if you—”
Suzanne gurgled a happy sound and smiled up at Walker. And then, still smiling, she launched milky spit up all over the front of his blue denim shirt.
Elizabeth groaned and reached for her daughter. She’d really have to teach Suzanne more socially acceptable ways to impress a man.
