Bride School: Mary (The Brides of Diamond Springs Ranch 4) (7 page)

As it happened, the roads were passable on Friday
morning and the runners on the sleighs were needed more for mud than snow.

When both vehicles pulled to a stop in front of
Carnegie house, bursting with happy brides, a distraught Alexandra Campbell was
waiting. Her face was drawn and pale. Her hands twisted together while she
waited for Fontaine to notice her.

“It wasn't Mary's fault,” she wailed. “I begged
her to take my place.” She burst into tears and Hortense gathered the
Scotswoman against her side. Together, they face Fontaine who waited
impatiently for the rest of the brides to unload themselves so she could drive
on to the barn. The tears had no effect on the gunslinger, which no one
expected anyway. But Alexandra's state had everyone else rallying to her side.

“You listen to me, Fontaine,” Hortense barked. “We
were all in on it. Every one of us. We didn't want to compete against Alexandra's...”
She indicated the intimidating bosoms by waving a hand in a circle above them, “so
we voted to allow Mary to take her place.”

That finally got Fontaine's attention. “You voted.”

“Yes,” the brides said in unison. Having an idea
of what the future held for them seemed to have given them a shot of courage.

Fontaine snorted and slapped the reins without
looking to see if everyone had disembarked. If their grand gesture had lessened
the tough woman's sense of betrayal, there was no telling.

~ ~ ~

Christmas Eve. Boston.

The door closed after John’s young sweeper left
for the holiday and he was finally alone in his large workshop with the new
shipment from
Hermann Tanner and Saddlery, Sage River, Wyoming.
As the pot-bellied
stove warmed the cool drafts that came and went, so did it warm the leather
saddles and cases of tack. And what had always seemed a foreign, cheerless
space now smelled exactly like home.

Dies and stains came complete with the essence of
the trees and plants from which they were derived, and at that moment, the
entire expanse of Snowy Range Mountain kissed him on the face.

A fine Christmas gift for himself.

His hand felt and found the new tool he'd been
storing in his pocket for this special occasion. He'd learned how to make his
own, but it had been a long while since he'd needed anything other than the set
of tools that had become extensions of his own hands. A single evening in Sage
River, however, had brought him a fresh rush of inspiration. And during the
trip back to Boston, he'd obsessed about the tool that might recreate a certain
ruffle on a certain pink dress—on a certain young woman who had brought his
youth flooding back to him.

He stepped down onto the hard floor and all but
lunged for the wooden crate that would contain the smallest leather pieces from
his father's shop. He pried the lid off and found, on the top, a beautiful
black bullwhip that almost sparkled at him. A note was attached.

Merry Christmas, Rebel.

He
felt
like Rebel again—a gangly teen who
yearned for the black bullwhip in his father's shop—a bullwhip made for a
special customer, braided by his father's hand while Rebel had watched, mouth
drooling.

“Can you teach me how to make one of those?” he'd
asked.

“If you want to learn this, you have to learn it
all,” his father chided. “You don't start with rewards. You start with sweat.
When you've learned all there is to know about tanning, then you can move on to
this.”

Rebel that he was, he’d told his mother he hoped
for a black bullwhip for Christmas, hoping she would take his side in the
matter. But it only caused his parents to argue. He got a pair of boots
instead. Needed, but unappreciated.

He'd used his father's tools to decorate the toes.
Disgusted, his father took them back and sold them to someone else. No son of
his was going to wear fancy frills on his boots.

John blinked away the moisture gathering in his
eyes and stroked the peace offering.

A black bullwhip for Christmas.
I'd like to
take back the past,
he could almost hear his father say.
Let's go back to
that day you asked me to teach you how to braid a whip...

Now he had a whip his father
knew
was
destined to have fancy frills added. But John had no intention of making the
whip into a show piece. There was only one, small design he would add to the
perfection of the present.

His own signature.

He took the whip to his worktable, secured the
handle with a vice in the center, and turned up the gaslight above his head.
There was a wide swath of smooth leather at the base of the handle just begging
for his touch. He took his new tool and placed it in the holder next to the six
he used for his brand, then got to work.

The back edge of the rose. The exact number of
petals. The front petals, then the turned edge. The center stamen. The
stem...and the bottom of the leaf—the top of the leaf would be different. From
that day forward, the leaf would have a ruffled edge.

He laid the head of the new tool against the
smooth leather, adjusted it—four times—then picked up the small mallet.

He took a breath and held it.

Whack.

He pulled the tool away and beheld the magic left
behind. A perfect little ruffle. Just the right size. Just the right touch.

Each and every time he'd put his brand on a piece
of leather, or wood, he would think of his Mary. Her face was never clear anymore,
but he thought of her just the same. But not that evening. No matter how he
tried, he couldn't summon Mary's eyes. Couldn't get her memory to turn around
and look at him. Instead, he saw Alexandra Campbell. But the warmth he felt was
the same.

Maybe it was the smell of tanned leather bringing
thoughts of home and the mountain. But Alexandra wasn't home and didn’t have
anything to do with his mountain. She was a charming girl from Pennsylvania, a
young woman not quite old enough to marry.

He studied the ruffle again and decided he was
only obsessed with her because she'd been the source of his inspiration. She'd
probably be perplexed to know that he thought about her at all.

He tried to summon Mary again, but again, she
wouldn't turn away from the sheet she was hanging on the clothesline. Was she
trying to tell him something? Did she want him to stop worrying about her?

He chuckled silently to himself and was glad that
no one could hear the nonsense in his head. He'd heard that artists have odd
thoughts. And if that was true, he supposed he really was a bona fide artist
now.

An artist with the stamp of approval from his own
father. A black, shiny, perfect bullwhip.

John was suddenly sick for home. It didn’t matter
that he could close his eyes and pretend he was already there, especially with
the smells swirling around his head. But it wasn’t good enough. He wanted to
look into his father’s eyes and thank him. And in spite of a certain gun-toting
female, there was a young woman he needed to check on. The Mary in his mind
would keep ignoring him until he did.

Problem was…there was a sea of leather waiting for
his skills and he wasn’t going anywhere until it was all done and delivered.
He’d been looking forward to the work and the challenge only half an hour ago.
Now it was a mountain of leather goods keeping him from Wyoming. And he feared
that while he scaled that mountain, some smooth-talking gentleman would be able
to convince Alexandra Campbell she wasn’t too young to marry after all…

Mary watched out the window as Puuku rode up to
the house. Puuku didn't
like
the house. Puuku never came to the house.
The Comanche woman worked with horses, mostly. But people, as far as Puuku was
concerned, didn’t deserve her doctoring. She liked to sleep outside in her own
little hut up against the rise far south of the bathhouse. Sometimes, women
sought her out for silly things like love potions because she thought maybe the
woman had unearthly powers. She was certainly able to bring sick animals back from
the dead sometimes.

It was enough of a surprise that Puuku was nearing
the house that Mary stopped her mending and watched the woman come. The
Comanche soon stomped through the front doors as if she did it every day. No
hesitating. No expression on her face.

“Mary,” she said. “A man. Sage River. You must go.
Fontaine say.”

Mary looked around to see if she might have fallen
asleep on the settee behind her and maybe she was just having another dream
about John Hermann. He filled her head day and night. It was no wonder she'd
dreamed he'd come for her.

But there was no earthly form of herself sleeping
on the settee. Cold had settled into her feet and she stomped to feel the pins
and needles of waking them up. The pain told her she wasn't dreaming.

Puuku stood unmoving, still pointing at the door,
the direction of Sage River. “You go. Fontaine say.”

“What man?” She was proud of herself for having
the courage to ask.

Puuku frowned for a moment. “Friz Raddy.”

Mary's heart bolted out of her chest. “Fritz
Radley! Do you mean Fritz Radley?”

Puuku nodded. “Friz Raddy. You go.”

Her brother was in Sage River! Maybe the rest of
her family too! But she couldn’t leave the ranch without permission. Bride or
not, Mrs. Carnegie had to give her permission first.

“I need a horse. Where is Mrs. Carnegie?”

Puuku shook her head. “My horse. You go now.
Missus at hot springs. You go.”

Mary thanked her and ran to get her coat, her
boots, and all the warm things she might need to keep from freezing if she had
trouble.

“Fontaine gate,” the woman said. “Go too.”

Mary nodded. She was relieved she wouldn’t be
traveling alone, but she still needed permission. So she thanked Puuku, got on
the horse, then turned its head toward the south.

Diamond Springs was named for the hot springs that
bubbled up out of a hill a good mile south of the house. In the snow, she’d be
able to follow the woman’s tracks, but even if it were summer, she was
confident she knew where those springs were.

Puuku hollered something at her in her native
tongue, but Mary had no time to go back and try to decipher what she’d said.
After alerting Mrs. Carnegie, she’d be coming back by the house anyway. Maybe
by then Puuku could figure out how to tell her in English.

The terrain was rocky. Her mount made slow
progress once it started up the rise though horse tracks showed a clear path to
follow. About halfway up the hill, where the brush gave way to trees, another
set of hoof prints joined the first. Either someone else was on the hill that
day, or Mrs. Carnegie had become lost and had started covering the same ground.

In case someone had followed the woman to the
springs, where she always insisted on going alone, Mary thought it best to have
her gun at the ready. So she slipped it from the pocket of her skirt, pulled
the holster off it, and got it cocked and ready. All the while, Puuku’s horse
followed the tracks as if it knew the way.

The rocks gave way to smoother footing and the
snow gobbled up the sound of her progress. The birds quieted. But the air was
broken with a woman's laughter.

She tried to stop the horse, but lost one of the
reins. The animal continued while she bent over its neck and tried to get hold
of the slippery leather.

Finally!

She sat straight and pulled the animal to a stop.
Standing nude and almost shoulder-deep in the water, Mrs. Carnegie gasped just
as a dark head sunk into the water in front of her.

“I'm so sorry!” Mary looked away before she even
thought about what she'd seen. “I know you don't like to be disturbed here,
but...”

“But what!”

Understanding dawned. And she turned back. A
confession was called for. “Ma'am, I'm pretty sure everyone knows you and the
sheriff are carrying on. No need to drown the man.”

While Mrs. Carnegie continued to hold her crossed
arms in front of her, a dark head and bare shoulders rose up out of the
steaming pool and the sheriff laughed outright. If the embarrassed woman's look
was any indication, he wouldn't be laughing for long.

Mary turned her head to the side and pretended not
to watch. “I'll be on my way, ma'am. But I did need to get your permission to
leave the ranch. My brother, Fritz, is in Sage River and he's asked to see me.
Fontaine said she'd take me into town.”

“Fontaine sent you up here?” Mrs. Carnegie sounded
outraged by the possibility.

“No. I think...I think Puuku tried to stop me, but
I couldn’t understand her.”

From the corner of her eye she could see the
sheriff trying to move close to the woman, but he got slapped for his effort.

“Fine. Permission granted,” the woman called out. “And
Mary...”

“I know, ma'am. I won't tell a soul.”

~ ~ ~

Fontaine met her at the bottom of the hill. The
gunslinger was three shades of red, but said nothing when they met up. She
looked from Mary's knowing grin up to the top of the hill, then back again
before she turned her horse north. Puuku frowned at her and shook her rifle
when the pair of them rode out of the gate. Mary figured the woman was trying
to say if it was up to her, she would have shot her before she let her head for
the Springs.

“You knew better,” Fontaine finally said.

Mary laughed. “I knew better than to try to leave
the ranch without permission.”

Fontaine looked long and hard at her until their
horses moved apart and the eye contact was broken. Then the gunslinger
surprised Mary by busting up.

They laughed all the way to town.

A sober Mrs. Kennedy stood with her feet planted
in the entryway pointing to the floor at Mary's feet. Fontaine was already
wiping the mud from her boots and gave Mary a funny glance before making her
way into the parlor, coat, hat and all. Mary hurriedly hung her scarf and coat
and dropped her gloves in the basket that sat near the fireplace. They weren't
wet, but it would be a treat to don toasty mittens on the way out the door.

Two young men stood to either side of the wide
white mantle watching Fontaine. When they glanced at Mary, she realized they
were her own brothers, Jens and Max. Twelve and thirteen years old now, they
looked like completely different boys. Their eyes lit up and they rushed her.
She was crying before she even got her arms around them both.

“You've grown completely up,” she said. “You'll
both be taller than Fritz if you eat your carrots.”

Max pulled away, grinning. “Nah, we won't.” He
pointed.

A tall man stood beside Fontaine. His full blond
beard hid the face, but the eyes she knew by heart.

“Fritz!”

He stared at her, eyes a little wet, hands opening
and closing nervously at his sides. “Mary?”

Jens stepped away from her and made room for his
older brother. But Fritz wasn't moving and there was still a small couch
between them.

There was still a lot
more
than that
between them.

“Yes,” she said. “It's me.” And she held open her
arms and invited him to her.

Fritz gave Fontaine a nervous glance, probably to
assure himself she wasn't going to shoot him if he touched his sister, then he
came at her fast. He scooped her up under the arms and swung her around in a
circle, then put her on her feet and gave her a hug fit for a bear. When she
was finally able to step back, he was grinning from ear to fuzz-covered ear.

“You look healthy, enough, sister. Maybe they're
even feedin’ you too much, eh?”

They all laughed.

Mary finally introduced Fontaine...as her dearest
friend. If Fontaine was surprised by the remark, she hid it well. The
gunslinger and Fritz shared a long glance, and suddenly her face turned red.
She mumbled that she'd wait in the lobby and scurried out of the room like her
tail was on fire.

Fritz looked at Mary and raised his brows a few
times. “How do I get me one of those?”

Mary rolled her eyes. It was shocking to hear her
brother talk about another female, and even more shocking to see Fontaine react
to a man with anything but contempt, or at best, disinterest. But Mary didn’t
know how long their little reunion would last and she certainly didn’t want to
spend it talking about Fontaine.

Oh, her friend was beautiful, and after she passed
men, they didn't mind watching her go. But most of the time, a pair of britches
and a pair of pearl-handled guns discouraged anyone from flirting with her. If
Fritz had noticed her Colts, they hadn’t bothered him.

“You leave Fontaine alone,” Mary said.

Her brother grinned. “Oh, I don't know. Seein' as
though we're gonna be around for a good long while, I may bother the woman
quite a bit if she wants me to.”

The boys laughed loud and long while they all
found a chair and settled.

“What about Pa?” she finally dared to ask.

The boys exchanged a look.

Panic jumped up into her throat. “He's not hurt!”

Jens shook his head. “Pa's fine. He's just got a
burr up his—”

“Jens!” Max barked. “You can't talk that way to
Mary no more. She's a lady now.”

Jens nodded. “Forgive me, Mary. Pa's got some
strange notion that we're not supposed to even ask to see you. Even though it's
Christmas and all.”

The boys turned their attention to Fritz who
pulled a small box from his vest and turned it around and around in his hands.

“Is that for me?” she had to ask. It looked like
it might take her brother far too long to get up the nerve to give it to her.

“Don't be mad, Mary.” Fritz handed it over. “Please,
don't be mad.”

She couldn't imagine why a gift would upset her,
but the warning made her nervous.

She laughed. “The box is beautiful.”

“We made it,” Max said.

She laughed. “You haven't caught me a snake or
something, have you?”

Jens shook his head. “What would a lady like you
need a snake for? And in winter too?”

She shrugged and found the courage to open the
box. Her breath caught. Tears poked at the backs of her eyes and made her nose
prickle. There, in the center of the box, on a scrap of velvet, was the carved
rose Rebel had given her that fateful day. And she'd only had a kiss to give
him back.

At least it looked like the rose. It was possible
Fritz had carved her another one just from memory. He’d shown real talent over
the years.

She looked at Fritz. “Is it...”

“You remember, doncha? I said I put it in the
fire, but I hadn't. I hid it. I should have—”

She cut him off with a shake of her head. “Deep
down you probably knew that someday...it would make the perfect Christmas gift.”

Fritz looked like he might melt with relief. His
shoulders fell and he gave her a sheepish grin. “You know, I probably was
thinking just that.”

Mary swallowed hard and fought to keep her tears
at bay. “And I've got a gift for you, brother.”

The other two grunted in protest. Obviously, they
didn't want to be left out, but they weren't going to complain out loud.

“Oh? And what's that?” Fritz looked at her dress,
probably searching for some sign of a pocket.

“I thought you might like to know that Rebel
didn't die of his wounds.” It stole her breath away to say it out loud.

Fritz paled. Both of them ignored the boys and
their pointed stares.

“How do you know?” Fritz's whispered question made
it clear that he'd worried about it all these years.

“I danced with him a few weeks back,” she said
casually. “Turns out he's the son of the local tanner.”

Max smacked his knee. “That's why his hands were
brown!”

Jens gave him a shove that nearly toppled him from
the stool he sat on. “I told you!”

“Boys, please.” Mary tried out her best impression
of Mrs. Carnegie and it worked like a charm. The brothers straightened in their
seats and clamped their mouths shut as if they figured nothing else they had
left to say could be spoken in front of a lady. And Mary realized she
was
a
lady now. So much about her had changed, and not just her vocabulary. She'd
gone from a wild mountain girl to someone who could attend dances and high tea
with a dozen true gentlemen and not embarrass herself.

Max cleared his throat, excited. “Well, uh, we
know what you can give us for Christmas, Mary.”

“Oh?”

He grinned, wide and white. “You can say yes.”

“Yeah!” Jens’ eyes lit up too. “When Fritz asks you
to leave the ranch and come with us, you can say yes!”