Forced to Be the Rancher’s Wife (Preview)

Chapter One

Bogg’s Creek, Arizona, 1869

“I ain’t going to tell you again, Emmie! I shouldn’t have to tell you at all, neither! You will wear skirts and petticoats and whatnot when you’re going about your chores. What if somebody sees you?”

Emmie leaned over her bowl of porridge, shoveling it mulishly into her mouth. “It’s more practical, Pa,” she responded tartly. “Skirts get in the way. I don’t see what the problem is.”

Pa threw down his spoon, sending a spray of watery porridge across the table. Emmie watched the globs of porridge settle onto the wood, and bit back a sigh. It would harden soon enough, and then she’d be the one left to scrub it away.

“Don’t talk back to me, girl!” Pa snapped.

“Don’t you think I’m too grown to call it talking back? Maybe it’s just a regular conversation now.”

Emmie kept her focus on her porridge. She was hungry, and although ladies weren’t meant to get too hungry or ever eat too much, she wasn’t entirely sure how they managed that.

That was something Ma had said. Ladies were meant to leave a little food on their plates every time because it was gluttonous to eat it all. They also couldn’t get excited about mealtimes and couldn’t take big bites. The rules just went on and on. Ma was full of ideas like that. She was the one who decided that Emmie’s portions should be smaller than everybody else’s, to stop her growing too tall.

Well, it hadn’t worked, had it? Emmie was five feet nine inches tall—five foot ten if she didn’t hunch over—and she was taller than both Ma and Pa.

Might as well have just had a full portion of supper, mightn’t I?

Pa growled low under his breath. “Too grown? You’re not too grown. You’re twenty-eight, girl. High time you stopped all this nonsense and settled down. Your Ma hoped to see you married, one day. She’ll be looking down from Heaven and hoping to see you settled. Don’t you want to be married?”

That one hurt. Emmie pushed away her bowl with still a spoonful of porridge left in it and wiped her mouth.

Of course, I’d like to be married, she thought, with a rush of fury. But I want to marry a man who doesn’t care that I’m tall and lanky, or that I do things men are meant to do, or that I ride properly and wear britches. I want a man who likes me and doesn’t try to fit me into some ladylike mold.

I don’t want to be lonely.

But at the moment, a lifetime of loneliness was all a woman in trousers could expect, so she shrugged and said nothing. Pa glared at her for a moment and picked up his own spoon, resuming his breakfast.

“I’m sure Ma is quite happy enough in Heaven. She probably doesn’t think twice about us,” Emmie responded, as lightly as she could manage.

Pa wasn’t a mean man, but he could be sharp, when he wanted to be. A mean streak, some might call it. Not cruel, but not a good man to cross.

Pa called himself Irish, but he didn’t speak like an Irishman. It was easy to imagine him in the wet, green hills of Ireland, with his pasty, freckled skin that didn’t do well in the hot Arizona sun and his shock of orange-red hair. He’d gotten thinner of late, probably on account of eating Emmie’s cooking instead of Ma’s, but he could afford new clothes whenever he liked. The Spratt Ranch was doing pretty well, after all.

Emmie had taken his old clothes, adjusting them where she could, and used a belt to cinch in the britches the rest of the way. There was a real freedom to striding around the ranch in trousers and good, solid boots. She still wore her corset underneath it, mainly because it supported her aching back, and Emmie wasn’t dumb enough to lace it up tight enough to stop herself from breathing properly.

Over the top of it all, she tucked in an old, loose shirt of Pa’s and slung on an old jacket with the elbows worn out, shoving her hair up under a wide-brimmed hat to keep out the sun because she had Pa’s fair skin too.

“It’s not like I dress that way when folks are around,” Emmie pointed out, as mildly as she could manage. “It’s just practical, Pa.”

“The ranch hands see it,” Pa responded, pointing his spoon at her. “And I see it. I want you to start being more ladylike, Emmie.”

“Being ladylike won’t get the chores done.”

“Enough! You dress properly from now on, and that is that!”

Emmie pressed her lips tightly together, smothering down the sharp response on the tip of her tongue. It wasn’t a good idea, sassing Pa too much. He had a temper which he generally kept under control, but if she pushed too far…

Silently, Emmie got up, collecting the porridge bowls, and took them over to the counter. She’d wash them out there, dry them, and put them back in the cupboard. Then, the counters and table would need to be scrubbed, the kitchen floor swept, the porch swept, and then the real chores would begin. There were goats, pigs, and chickens to care for, just for starters. Every day was a long one, not that Emmie minded. Keeping a ranch going was a wonderful thing, and she was proud of it.

Pa sat at the table for a few minutes longer while Emmie worked, taking care of the dishes. There was a little porridge left over, which she could save for tomorrow, or perhaps for supper.

“Your Ma was such a wonderful woman,” Pa said abruptly, his voice low as if he were talking to himself. “So ladylike. So pretty and kind. I never had to ask her twice for anything. I never had to beg and argue. She was biddable. Why can’t you be a little more like your mama, Emmie? Huh?”

Emmie’s hands tightened around the bowl in her hand, knuckles standing out white.

Oh, I remember how biddable Ma was. Worked herself to the bone, all the while trying to be the perfect lady of the house. Always catering to your whims, Pa, never asking anything for herself.

Maybe if she’d been a little less biddable, she wouldn’t have worked herself into an early grave. Maybe if she ate more at mealtimes instead of letting her waist get smaller and smaller, she wouldn’t have died of that fever. How about that?

Emmie didn’t say that, of course. Pa would fly into a rage worse than anything that had been seen before if she did that. Besides, it would be cruel, and maybe Pa didn’t deserve it. Maybe he was already feeling guilty enough.

“I’m sorry I’m not more like Ma,” Emmie said aloud instead. “I miss her, too, you know.”

Pa was quiet for a long moment after that, drumming his fingertips on the wooden table. Emmie turned, eyeing his hunched-over shoulders and ducked head. She reached out, tentatively, aiming to put her hand on his shoulder. She wasn’t entirely sure what she’d do if she got her hand there, or if…

There was a rap on the door, and they both flinched. Emmie whipped away her hand and turned around again.

“Who is it?” Pa called.

“It’s only me,” came a muffled voice. “I wanted to have a word with you before we start work in earnest.”

Pa relaxed a little. “Come on in, Lucas.”

Lucas Farridge, the foreman, was a middle-aged man, stocky and roughly featured, like he was carved from a block of marble, and the carver hadn’t quite finished. He’d known Emmie since he was small, of course, and spared her a polite nod as he stepped inside. He didn’t bother taking off his boots. Pa always told people that when they visited: “Ah, don’t bother taking off your boots. We don’t bother with all that nonsense here.”

Of course, Emmie was the one who swept and scrubbed after the visitors had gone, having tramped through the house in their filthy, mud-encrusted work boots, and she was generally expected to button her lip and bear it with a smile. After all, Ma always did, just like she’d served complicated and lengthy meals for Pa and all his friends, waiting on them at the table with a smile like she was paid to do it.

“That’s what a wife does, Emmeline,” she’d responded severely when Emmie had mentioned it once or twice. “It’s just the way of things, and you’d do well to remember it.”

Lucas moved over to the kitchen table, settling himself down. A crumby trail of dried mud followed him from the door. Emmie bit back a sigh.

“It’s about that piece of land you were selling,” Lucas explained. “The southwestern strip, remember?”

“I remember, I remember. Ezekiel Crumbe wants it. He wants to pay less than it’s worth, I know that much, but there ain’t a great deal I can do about it.” Pa snorted, shaking his head. “Nobody else wants it. I don’t need to sell it, but I don’t need it and don’t have the spare hands to work it. More coffee, Emmie, and some for Lucas, too.”

“Well, that’s just it, Jeremiah,” Lucas said, his eyes lighting up. “We may well have another buyer. You’ll never guess who just threw his hat into the ring.”

Pa paused, frowning. “Well, I can’t think who.”

Lucas leaned forward. “One of the McLeod boys. They’ve got a small ranch on the east side of town.”

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard of the McLeods. I heard their ranch was pretty small, though. How come they’ve got money to spill on land?”

“That’s just the thing,” Lucas lifted a finger. “The oldest boy, Patrick, or Parker, or something, came back from the war only a few months ago. He came back richer than he went, or so I heard. Looks like he’s planning to expand a little.”

Pa leaned back in his seat, pulling at his lower lip.

“With another buyer, we could jack up the price a little,” he murmured. “We could even add extra conditions.”

Emmie brought two cups of coffee to the table, setting them down in front of the two men. A third cup, for herself, steamed on the counter. Pa glanced up at her a little sharply.

“Go on and get on with your chores, Emmie,” he said, his voice brusque.

She frowned. “I sure will, Pa. I’ll just have my coffee…”

“No, now. Those chickens are squawking so loud I can’t hear myself think. Let me and Lucas talk business, won’t you?”

She set her jaw. “I could go sweep the porch, I guess.”

He fluttered his hand, brief and dismissive. “Whatever you like, honey, whatever you like.”

What I’d like, Emmie thought miserably, is to sit at my own kitchen table and drink my coffee.

That was a foolish way of thinking, though. It wasn’t her kitchen table; it was Pa’s, just like the ranch house, and all the land around it was Pa’s. It didn’t matter how dutifully she took care of the pigs and the goats and the chickens, or how well she swept the porch; it all still belonged to Pa. In a way, she belonged to Pa, too.

Gloomily, she picked up the sweeping brush propped up next to the screen door and got to work. The lands around Bogg’s Creek were dry and dusty, and every single morning, the porch was thick with dirt and dust, littered with dead insects and crumpled-up little balls of dead weeds.

“Never get to thinking that you own anything at all,” Ma had said, more than once. “It’s a dangerous way of thinking. We women don’t own things in this world. Now, now, I don’t want to hear you squalling about how unfair it is, because life isn’t fair. Quiet down and eat your stew. Not all of it, of course. A lady must stay trim.”

Emmie had not stayed trim. In her room upstairs, some of Ma’s dresses still hung in the wardrobe. If she pressed the material to her nose, she could sometimes still get a whiff of Ma’s scent: lavender soap, the cheap rosewater she splashed on her neck sometimes, and something else that was just Ma, sweet and spicy and unique.

Emmie couldn’t fit into any of those dresses, not nearly. She wasn’t plump, but she was certainly stocky, with curves around her bosom and hips that Ma hadn’t had. There was a photograph in the parlor, carefully framed and hung in pride of place above the fireplace. It was just Ma, and what a fight they’d had to get her to sit for a photograph of just her.

“Why only me?” Ma had complained. “Why don’t we all sit?”

They had all sat for separate photographs, and one together, but Ma’s photograph was the one she and Pa had decided unanimously should be displayed in a place of pride.

Ma smiled sweetly out of the frame, beautiful and ethereal, forever frozen in that moment. The photograph was black and white, of course, and you couldn’t see the olive green of her eyes. The same eyes that Emmie had, along with the thick, coal-black hair that never sat in the same delicate ringlets that Ma’s did.

She swallowed thickly, forcing down the lump in her throat.

She’s been dead for nine years. Shouldn’t I feel better about it by now?

Lots of people lost their mothers. It was simply the way of life. Didn’t mean it hurt any less, though.

Emmie paused in her sweeping, arms already aching. She’d slept poorly, the heat of the day not quite dissipating overnight in her attic room. She and Pa had had another argument the previous night. Not about her wearing men’s clothes around the ranch, but about marriage.

Pa wanted her to be wed, she knew that. Ma had wanted it, too, and had often talked about when Emmie married and had children, as if it was a done deal, all over but the vows and childbirth.

“I want you to be as happy as I am, Emmeline,” Ma had said once, smiling, and the words had made the hairs on Emmie’s neck stand up.

But you’re not happy, was the obvious reply, the one she’d kept to herself.

A man in town, a widowed merchant with a decent income and a nice, big house with five children in it, had recently gotten married. There weren’t many women in Bogg’s Creek, and he was too old for Emmie, not that she’d have had him anyway. So, he’d put an advertisement in the paper, and a woman from somewhere in the north had answered his advert. They’d corresponded for the better part of the year, and last month, she traveled up and married him. They seemed happy enough. The woman had gotten what she wanted—a home and a little freedom—and he’d gotten what he wanted, namely a wife and a mother for his children.

Good for them, but Emmie did not want to be a correspondence bride. Pa had suggested it over supper, and she’d told him no, in no uncertain terms, no. Marrying a man you’d never met and had only corresponded with through letters was a risky business, and she saw no need to take such a gamble.

Pa had flown into a rage.

“You won’t try, Emmie, you just won’t try!” he’s said, over and over again, words heavy with anger and disappointment.

It was the disappointment that had stopped Emmie from sleeping last night.

Sighing to herself, Emmie swiped the back of her hand across her forehead, already prickling with sweat. Movement caught her eye, and she glanced to the side, finding herself looking straight into the kitchen.

Pa and Lucas were sitting where they had before, leaning forward. Pa was gesticulating wildly, his expression earnest. Lucas was frowning, lips pressed tightly together.

Whatever Pa is talking about, Lucas doesn’t agree with it, Emmie thought tiredly. She could hear the faint murmur of their voices but couldn’t make out the actual words. As she watched, Lucas sat back, shaking his head, agitated.

Sensing eyes on them, both men glanced in her direction. Pa’s expression hardened a little, and he hastily turned away. Lucas held her gaze for a moment, something wavering in his eyes that she couldn’t interpret. Pity? Regret? Either way, he nibbled his lower lip for a second or two, then abruptly turned away, too.

Emmie blinked, disconcerted. That was pretty odd. They were both acting strangely.

She began to sweep again, slower this time.

The porch was mostly finished by the time the door banged open again. Pa strode out first, barely glancing at Emmie as he walked past. Crumbs of dirt from his work boots littered the newly-swept porch. She bit back a sigh.

Lucas followed, but hesitated at the top of the porch steps. He turned to Emmie, flashing a nervous smile.

“Hey, Emmie. I was just thinking, it must get pretty lonely for you up here, huh? Just you and your Pa.”

Emmie blinked, taken aback. “Well, maybe, but I’m not unhappy.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I remember my Rosie—she’s the same age as you, but she got married when she was about seventeen, you know—talking about how there’s nothing for a single woman to do in these parts. It must be difficult for you.”

She met his gaze with a frown, trying to work out just what, exactly, Lucas was getting at.

“Perhaps,” she managed at last, “But I’m pretty happy here, Lucas. Why, what’s the matter?”

Lucas flinched. “Why should anything be the matter?”

“You’re all twitchy, and so is Pa.”

“Twitchy? Ha! You ladies are so funny,” Lucas responded at once, forcing a high, insincere laugh.

“Lucas!” Pa shouted, from the other side of the courtyard. He had his hands on his hips, glaring at them both. “Come on, we’ve got work to do.”

Lucas winced, rubbing the back of his neck. He turned to go, but Emmie spoke, stopping him in his tracks.

“Is there something going on? Is there something I should know about?”

He froze, staring down at the porch beneath his feet. Swallowing hard, Lucas glanced up at her, forcing a smile.

“What? Something going on? No, not at all. Goodbye, Emmie.”

He hurried away without a backward glance, leaving Emmie staring after him. Pa watched Lucas approach, tight-lipped and disapproving. The two men exchanged a few words, which Emmie was too far away to hear.

Lucas shook his head firmly, and Pa sighed, shaking his head. The two men turned and headed off toward the paddocks, beyond which was the low, drafty building they used as an office and a meeting place. Neither of them looked back at her, not even once, not even when she waved.

Well, she thought tiredly, letting her arm drop to her side, that is not a good sign.

Chapter Two

He was going to be late. Cursing under his breath, Patrick McLeod jammed his bowler hat down onto his head and shoved rudely past the other passengers getting off the train.

On paper, the trip from Phoenix to Bogg’s Creek—or at least, as close to Bogg’s Creek as he could get, as the train didn’t stop there—would leave him with plenty of time to prepare for his meeting with Jeremiah Spratt.

In reality, the train had experienced countless delays, leaving him sitting in the hard train seat in impotent rage, seething in frustration, swallowing nausea from the smell and rocking motion of the train.

I hate trains, he thought sourly, darting across the platform. Reggie had better be here. I can’t afford any more delays.

It wasn’t a good start, turning up late to an important business meeting. Hopefully, Mr. Spratt was the sort of man who’d be impressed by a history of military involvement and a few tales of heroism in battle.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw a cart waiting for him at the edge of the platform, a young man of about twenty-two or twenty-three idling nearby. The man glanced up, his dusty, honey-colored hair sticking out around his head in a halo. He grinned.

“Well, hello there, Pinch. I’d just given up on you.”

“Train was late,” he responded sharply. “Nothing I can do about it. And don’t call me Pinch in front of Mr. Spratt. I’m your older brother, for goodness’ sake, so try acting like it. I want him to think I’m a serious buyer.”

Reggie pursed his lips, undeterred as always. “Well, you’ve got the money in the bank, haven’t you? So you are a serious buyer.”

“It’s not that simple.” Pinch sighed. “It’s all about image, and arriving late is not going to do me any favors. We need to go straight there.”

Reggie lifted his eyebrows. “If you’re concerned about image, you ought to go home and straighten up first. Your hair needs a brush and so does your hat, and your suit looks as though you’ve been sleeping in it.”

“There’s nothing I can do about it,” Pinch shot back, peeved. “The train windows were all open, and dust billowed inside. It was hot as hell, and I’ve sweated all the starch off my shirt. If I go home, I’ll need to change and wash, and then I’ll be later still. If we go straight there without me changing, I’ll only be late by about half an hour.”

Reggie let out a long sigh. “Whatever you want.”

Pinch took a moment before climbing up onto the cart seat. He took his hat off his head, feeling his curls—the same honey-blond as Reggie’s—spring up wildly in every direction. He brushed the dust off his hat as best he could and jammed it back on his head. Tugging at his suit jacket helped smooth out the worst of the wrinkles, and it wasn’t too dusty. Thank Heavens he’d gotten a neat brown suit, instead of the swanky black one the man at the tailor had recommended. Then he balanced on one leg, lifting his foot to wipe the front of his shoe against the back of his leg, then repeated the process.

“That’ll have to do,” he announced, in hopes of convincing himself, and climbed up onto the cart seat beside his brother.

Reggie looked exceptionally amused. “Neat as a new pin, you are. Is that a new hat?”

“Shut up.”

“Tut-tut! Mary wouldn’t like it if she knew you were speaking so unkindly to me, your poor little brother.”

Pinch clenched his jaw, sitting back in the uncomfortable seat. Reggie clicked to the horse, and they were off.

“If I didn’t need you to drive me there,” he muttered, “I’d kick you in the seat of your pants.”

Reggie only grinned wider. “Ah, but you do need me. Look, I know you’re worried about this sale, but it’s only Ezekiel Crumbe you’re bidding against. All you need to do is outbid him. You might not even have to do that. Everybody knows old Crumbe isn’t very trustworthy. Mr. Spratt might prefer to sell to you.”

“Maybe,” Pinch murmured.

He’d thought of this, of course. There’d been plenty of time to worry about it on the train, as the endless delays continued and his pocket watch inexorably counted off the hours. The fact was, however, that while Ezekiel Crumbe wasn’t trustworthy, Pinch wasn’t local. He was, at twenty-nine, younger than the other landowners, too. The three McLeod siblings ran a small ranch, but it wasn’t seen as theirs. It had been their father’s, and they’d inherited it. In the eyes of some local landowners, that didn’t count.

I’ll just have to make him see. I’m serious. I am serious.

They trundled on in silence for a little while, Reggie’s attention focused on the road ahead. After a moment, he glanced over at his brother.

“You’re very quiet.”

Pinch smiled faintly. “I’m just tired. And worried. How was Mary, by the way, while I was gone? I worried about her. My stay in Phoenix was too short to send a letter.”

Reggie shrugged. “The same as usual, I’d say. She caught something of a chill.”

Pinch stiffened. “A chill?”

“Don’t worry, it was nothing serious. She was okay. We called the doctor in, and he said it hadn’t gone to her chest. She was right as rain the next day.”

He breathed out slowly. “Good. That’s good. You have to keep a closer eye on her, you know, Reggie.”

Mary was twenty-five years old but could easily be mistaken for much younger. A plethora of childhood illnesses had left her short and rather scrawny.

Reggie shifted in his seat. “I’m not a child. I can take care of Mary.”

“Well, she was much thinner when I came back.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Reggie bristled. “That’s not fair! You were gone for years, Pinch. And now you’re back, you’re just…” he faltered, searching for the right word. “You’re different.”

There was a taut silence between them. Pinch eyed his brother, frowning.

“Different? Different how?”

Reggie sighed, raking a hand through his hair. For the first time, Pinch noticed a golden fuzz of stubble on his jaw.

My little brother didn’t have much of a five o’clock shadow last time I looked, Pinch thought, with a pang of sadness that seemed to come from nowhere. He’s growing up so fast. He’s growing up, and I’m missing it.

“You’re quieter,” Reggie murmured at last, his voice quiet. “You don’t laugh and joke about like you used to. You look different, too. You’re thinner, and sometimes you get this odd look in your eyes when you stare off into space. It’s unsettling. At first, Mary said that it was just the way you were and you’d snap out of it soon enough, but it’s been years. Is this…is this just who you are, now? Where’s my big brother gone?”

Pinch swallowed hard, winding his fingers together.

“I fought in a war, Reggie. That changes people.”

He sighed. “I never said that it didn’t. But…but I want my brother back, Pinch.”

What was he supposed to say to that? Pinch swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes closed.

There was nothing to say. He couldn’t promise to be exactly the sort of brother that Reggie and Mary needed because he had no control over that. He couldn’t promise that everything would be fine because how could he know that? How?

“Reggie…” Pinch began, not entirely sure where the sentence was going.

Abruptly, however, Reggie pulled the cart to one side, angling them along a wide, rocky path.

“We’re nearly there,” he said curtly, not looking at Pinch. “And that looks like one of Ezekiel Crumbe’s people up ahead. I reckon he got the jump on you.”

Pinch cursed under his breath. He jumped down even before the cart had properly finished moving, snatched up his briefcase, and jammed it under his arm. Pausing, he glanced up at Reggie.

“You’ll wait for me, won’t you?”

Reggie rolled his eyes. “Of course I’ll wait for you. What, you think I’m going to leave you here?”

Pinch grinned, patting his brother on the knee.

“You’re a good brother.”

He paused, glancing around. Where am I meant to go?

Spinning around, he noticed a lanky young boy over by a paddock of pigs, standing up on the bottom rung of a fence post, a bucket of pig feed balanced in the crook of his arm. His clothes were loose and well-worn but not ragged or filthy. A wide-brimmed hat shaded his face, and a strip of too-long dark hair curled out from underneath.

“’Scuse me, boy,” Pinch called. “Can you direct me to Jeremiah Spratt’s office?”

The boy didn’t seem to immediately realize that Pinch was talking to him. After a moment, he shot a quick, uncomfortable look Pinch’s way, angling himself away. He had oddly smooth skin, very fair with a dusting of freckles, with strands of dark hair escaping around his face. He had big eyes, too, round and expressive, with long lashes that wouldn’t be out of place on a lady.

He didn’t speak, only pointed to a building, peering around the edge of some trees. Pinch nodded at the boy.

“Much obliged.”

The boy didn’t respond, and Pinch didn’t wait for one. He didn’t waste any more time, racing across the courtyard of hard-packed dirt. The building in front of him was low-roofed and hastily constructed, really little more than a barn.

Skidding to a halt in the doorway, Pinch took a moment to straighten up his suit one last time, checking to make sure there were no smudges on his face and that his shoes were as clean as they were going to be.

As he brushed himself down, he heard approaching voices.

“…not going to be a problem,” came a deep, confident male voice. “I’m not worried. I won’t be out of town for long, and I can go talk to her when I get back.”

The door opened, and Pinch jumped back. He found himself face to face with a tall, barrel-chested man in his late thirties, with a headful of graying auburn hair and furrows carved along his forehead and between his brows. Before Pinch could wonder where the lines had come from, the man scowled, his brow creasing up.

“What are you lurking around for?” the man snapped. “What do you want?”

There was a smaller man behind him, no older than thirty but already gray and wiry like a weasel, and that man cleared his throat.

“I think, Ezekiel, that this is Mr. Patrick McLeod. The other gentleman who is interested in the land.”

“Then you must be Mr. Crumbe,” Pinch said, holding the tall man’s gaze as steadily as he could. Pinch was tall, around six feet, and not thin, but Ezekiel Crumbe made him feel exceptionally small. He wasn’t a bad-looking man when he wasn’t frowning, and he had a long, aquiline nose.

Pinch had a habit of noticing noses, mainly because his own nose listed to one side like a half-scuppered ship, a defined bump in the bridge. That was what happened when you broke your nose twice and never got it set properly.

Putting all thoughts of noses aside, Pinch held out his hand. Ezekiel Crumbe eyed it as if it were a small, smelly animal, likely to bite.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. McLeod,” he said at last, sounding anything but. “I think Mr. Spratt wanted to speak to us together, but, of course, you didn’t make it in time, so he just talked to me.”

Pinch opened his mouth to make his excuses but closed it again. He was only wasting time out here with this man, when Jeremiah Spratt was the one he needed to talk to.

“Is he through there?”

Ezekiel Crumbe nodded, never taking his eye off Pinch. “Go on through. Good luck.”

It didn’t sound as if he meant it. No time to worry about that, though. Pinch dodged past him and hurried along a narrow, drafty wooden corridor. Behind him, he heard Ezekiel Crumbe chuckle, closing the door behind him.

At last, Pinch skidded to a halt in front of an open doorway and saw a narrow-shouldered man with a shock of bright red hair leaning over a desk, writing something.

“Mr. Spratt?”

The man glanced up.

“Can I assume you’re Mr. McLeod?” he enquired dryly. “I thought you’d maybe changed your mind.”

Pinch flushed, stepping inside. It was a small room, wood-paneled, with a narrow window that didn’t let in much light. An oil lamp burned in a corner but did little to banish the shadows.

“I am sorry for my lateness, sir,” Pinch apologized, “but the train from Phoenix was delayed, several times. I came straight here. I hope we can still have our meeting.”

Mr. Spratt eyed him for a long moment, tapping the end of his pen on the table. Pinch held his breath.

“All right,” Mr. Spratt said, at last, leaning back. He gestured to a hard-backed chair in front of the desk. “Sit down. I’ll make this quick.”

I’ll make this quick. Not an encouraging start, Pinch thought, heart sinking.

“My friends mostly call me Pinch, by the way,” he added, in the hopes it would soften the formality of the meeting and maybe make Mr. Spratt like him a little more.

Judging by the expression on the man’s face, it wasn’t working.

“Let me get this straight,” Mr. Spratt said at last, gaze fixed on Pinch’s face. “You’re twenty-nine, yes? Served in the war and whatnot, and you share ownership of a ranch with your siblings?”

“That’s right, sir. I’ve got a good bit of money put aside, and I’d like to expand.”

Mr. Spratt nodded slowly. “And you’re not married? No sweetheart, no lady-friend you’ve got your eye on?”

That was somewhat unexpected. Pinch blinked, a little taken aback.

“Well, I…no, but does it make a difference?”

“I’d say so,” Mr. Spratt responded. He heaved a sigh and got to his feet, turning to stare out of the narrow window. “The thing you should know about me. Mr. McLeod, is that I’m a rich man. I’ve worked hard, made sensible decisions, and enjoyed a good bit of luck along the way. As a result, I don’t actually need to sell this piece of land. If I wanted, I could afford to just give it away.”

Pinch blinked. “I don’t understand. Is this your way of telling me you’ve changed your mind, and you don’t wish to sell it? Please, sir, be honest with me. If you don’t want to sell, or if you’ve decided to sell to Mr. Crumbe, tell me now. I’m a grown man, and I can take a little rejection.”

Mr. Spratt turned back from the window. “That’s not what I’m saying at all.”

With the light behind him, Mr. Spratt was silhouetted, his face thrown into shadow, and it was difficult to read his expression.

Pinch let out a slow breath. It did seem, then, that he was still in the running.

“Ezekiel Crumbe is a single man, too,” Mr. Spratt continued, almost conversationally.

“Well, there aren’t too many single women in this part of the world,” Pinch managed, feeling more and more self-conscious by the minute. Mr. Spratt was clearly getting at something, and Pinch had no idea what it was.

The man eyed him for a long moment, then spoke again, somewhat abruptly.

“I have a daughter, you know. Twenty-eight, she is. I’d like to see her wed, but not to just anyone. I want her to be looked after. She’s…well, she can be trouble, like any daughter, and she drives me crazy at times, but I’ll be danged if I let her marry a man who isn’t good enough for her.”

Pinch was getting more and more confused. He cleared his throat, crossed one leg over the other, then changed his mind and uncrossed it.

“I wish her luck, then, sir,” he managed. “I’m sure she’s a nice girl.”

He’d known, of course, that Jeremiah Spratt had a daughter by the name of Emmeline. He’d never met the girl. By all accounts, she didn’t often leave the ranch, so he imagined she was a quiet, mousy thing, probably half crushed to death under the weight of Mr. Spratt’s fiery temper. No wonder she’d never had the opportunity to marry. She probably didn’t have the gumption to seek out a man for herself, and the ones who wanted her were most likely scared off by her father.

Mr. Spratt stared at him, his gaze intensifying.

“You know, I can’t tell whether you’re trying to let me down gently, boy, or whether you simply don’t understand,” he stated.

Pinch frowned. “I don’t understand, sir.”

Mr. Spratt pursed his lips.

“Okay, I’ll make it plain for you. I want my daughter to get married. Both you and Crumbe are decent, single men with money, so the situation is this. I’ll give the land to whichever one of you marries her. Is that plain enough for you?”