Always Dakota. Debbie Macomber

upbringing.

      There was a light knock. At his hoarse, “Come in,” the housekeeper opened the door. “Matt Eilers is here to see you,” Sadie announced brusquely.

      With effort, Bernard straightened, his fingers digging into the padded leather arms of his chair as he forced himself to meet his neighbor. “Send him in.”

      She nodded and left.

      Less than a minute later, Matt Eilers appeared, Stetson in hand.

      “You’ll forgive me if I don’t get up,” Bernard said.

      “Of course.”

      Bernard gestured toward the matching chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. “Sit down.”

      Matt obliged, giving Bernard his first good look at this man his daughter apparently loved. Frankly, he was disappointed. He’d seen Matt at social affairs, the occasional wedding, harvest dance or barbecue, but they’d never spoken. Somehow, he’d expected more substance, and he felt surprised that Margaret would be taken in by a pretty face and an empty heart. Over the past few years Bernard had heard plenty about his neighbor to the west, and not much of it had been flattering.

      “I imagine you’re wondering why I asked to meet with you.”

      “I am,” Matt said, perching on the edge of the chair. He held his hat in both hands, his expression questioning.

      “You enjoy ranching?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      At least he was polite, and that boded well. “How long you been ranching the Stockert place?”

      “Four years. I’d like to buy my own spread one day, but for now I’m leasing the land and building up my herd.”

      “So I understand.” Bernard leaned back in his chair. His breath came slowly, painfully. “You have family in the area?”

      Matt’s gaze shifted to the Oriental rug. “No. My parents divorced when I was five. My father ranched in Montana and I worked summers with him, but he died when I was fifteen.”

      “Ranching’s in your blood then, same as mine.”

      “It is,” Matt agreed.

      Bernard hesitated, waiting until he had breath enough to continue. “You know my daughter, Margaret.”

      Matt nodded.

      “What do you think of her?”

      The question seemed to take him by surprise. “Think of her? How do you mean?”

      Bernard waved his hand. “Your general impression.”

      Slumping back in the chair, Matt shrugged. “I … I don’t know what you want me to say.”

      “Just be honest,” he snapped, impatient. He didn’t have the strength—or the time—for word games.

      “Well.” Matt paused. “Margaret’s Margaret. She’s … unique.”

      That was true enough. As far as Bernard knew, she’d only worn a dress twice in her entire life. He’d tried to get her into one when she was ten and the attempt had damn near killed him. “Did you know she’s in love with you?”

      “Margaret?” Matt sprang to his feet. “I swear I haven’t touched her! I swear it.” The color fled from his face and he shook his head as though to emphasize his words.

      “I believe you …. Sit down.”

      Matt did as asked, but his demeanor had changed dramatically. His posture was stiff, his face tight with apprehension and uncertainty.

      “She’s gotten it in her head that she’s going to marry you.”

      Matt had the look of a caged animal. “I … I’m not sure what to say.”

      “You don’t know my daughter, otherwise you’d realize that when she sets her mind to something, there isn’t much that’ll stand in her way.”

      “I … I.”

      Bernard cut him off. He was growing weak and there was still a lot to be said. “In a few months, Margaret’s going to be a very wealthy woman.”

      Matt stared at him.

      “I’m dying. I don’t have much time left.” His gaze burned into Eilers. Then he closed his eyes, gathering strength. “God knows what she sees in you, but it’s too late to worry about her judgment now. I raised her the best I could, and if she loves you, there must be more to you than meets the eye.”

      Matt stood and started pacing. “What makes you think I’d marry Margaret?” he asked.

      Despite the difficulty he had in breathing, Bernard laughed. “Because you’d be a fool not to, and we both know it. She’s going to inherit this ranch. I own more land and cattle than you’ll see in ten lifetimes. She’ll give you everything you’ve ever wanted.”

      It was clear from Eilers’s expression that he was shocked.

      “I called you here today to tell you something you need to hear.”

      Matt clutched his Stetson so tightly, his knuckles whitened. “What’s that?”

      Bernard leaned forward. “You hurt my girl and I swear I’ll find a way to make you pay, even if I have to come back from the grave to do it.”

      Eilers swallowed hard. “You don’t have anything to worry about, Mr. Clemens. I have no intention of marrying Margaret.”

      Bernard chuckled, knowing otherwise. Eilers would marry Margaret, all right, but it wouldn’t be for love. He’d marry her for the land and the cattle. No man with ranching in his blood would be able to refuse what she had to offer.

      Yes, Matt would marry her, but it was up to Margaret to earn Matt Eilers’s affection.

       One

       October

      Margaret thought she was ready, as ready as any daughter could be to face her father’s death. She’d been at his side, his rough, callused hand between her own, when it happened. For hours she’d sat with him, watching the intermittent rise and fall of his chest, waiting, wondering if this breath would be his last, praying it wasn’t. Clinging to what little life was left in him.

      Bernard Clemens had refused to die in a hospital and at his request, she’d brought him home. The hospice people had been wonderful, assisting Bernard in maintaining his dignity to the very end. Margaret had stayed with her father almost constantly the final week of his life.

      She watched him draw his last shallow breath, watched him pass peacefully, silently, from one life to the next. Margaret wasn’t sure what she’d expected to feel, but certainly not this torrent of agony and grief. She’d known he was dying, known it for months, and she’d thought that knowledge would blunt the sharp rawness of her pain. It hadn’t. Her father was gone. She’d spent every day of her life with him, here on the Triple C, and now she was alone. In time, she realized, she’d be able to look back and see the blessing her father had been, but not yet. Not when her loss hurt as much as it did now.

      She’d waited until she’d composed herself and then, dry-eyed, walked out of the large bedroom and awakened the sleeping family members, who’d gathered at the ranch. She’d announced that Bernard had died and his death had been peaceful. No tears were shed. That wasn’t how grief was expressed in the Clemens family.

      Almost immediately, everyone had found a purpose and the house was filled with activity. More and more people arrived, and then, two days later, it was time for the funeral. Bernard Clemens’s three surviving brothers stood at the grave site with Margaret; they stayed long enough to greet folks and thank them for coming. Then they left, to return to their own families, their own lives.

      The reception following the