Unclaimed Bride. Lauri Robinson

He pushed away from his desk and walked to the fireplace where he removed the grate, stirred the flames with a gold-handled poker and then added a couple split logs. He replaced the poker and the grate before he turned back around. “What are your plans, Miss Jennings?”

      He still mourned the loss of his wife. Constance easily saw it—for it was the same thing she’d seen in the mirror for years. She’d already witnessed enough to understand Ellis’s depth and character. He must have treasured his wife. Once, not so long ago, Constance had thought she might have that—a husband who’d cherish her, and had married the man. But Byron hadn’t treasured her, nor had he bothered to tell her he was already married. The truth, and the way she’d discovered it, had been demoralizing and humiliating.

      The memories, painful and degrading, made a heavy sigh escape before she could stop it. “To be perfectly honest, Mr. Clayton, right now I have no idea what I’m going to do.” For the past nine months she hadn’t had a concentrated plan that propelled her forward. She’d thought she had, more than once, but fate had stepped in and left her reeling in another direction over and over again.

      Ellis opened his mouth. Unwilling to let anything else slip, she quickly changed the subject. “But I would like to offer, or suggest, an arrangement.”

      He contemplated her statement, silently and thoroughly it seemed, before he walked back to his chair. “And that would be?”

      “I mentioned that I took care of my aunts. They had a country estate outside of London. I managed the household for them, and would like to offer you my services in exchange for room and board until I can decide what I should do.” His silence forced her to add, “I’ve also had experience tutoring children. I know Angel is a very smart young woman, but it’s my understanding she hasn’t had any formal education. I could offer those services as well.”

      His chair squeaked as he repositioned. He wasn’t quick to respond, which had her nerves ticking beneath her skin in tune with the mantel clock.

      “How long do you plan on staying, Miss Jennings?”

      “I guess that depends.”

      “On?”

      “Several things.” Including if the lies surrounding Byron’s death found their way to Wyoming. If so, her chances of starting over would be greatly diminished. She had no proof she hadn’t killed Byron, just as she had no proof he’d caused her injuries and left wounds that changed her life forever.

      Ellis watched the emotions playing across Miss Jennings’s features. Her expressions told him more than her words, in some instances. In others, he’d been downright surprised by what she’d said. Snap decision-making wasn’t his way; he’d left that up to Christine and more recently Angel—hence the mail-order bride sitting in his office. Yet he knew firsthand how quickly life could leave a person vulnerable and hopeless.

      Unable to stay seated, he pushed out of his chair again and walked to the window. The snowstorm continued to blanket the earth, and hinted that it would hang around for the next day or so. It was early for such a dumping, but stranger things had happened. Ellis turned and met the apprehensive eyes watching and waiting for his response to her offer.

      “I have a cook, Miss Jennings.”

      The straight, fine wisps of black hair that had escaped her loosely pinned bun fluttered against the elegantly curved line of her neck as she primly shook her head. “I know, sir, and I don’t wish to undermine the job Mr. Beans is doing.”

      “Beans,” he corrected. “Just Beans, there’s no mister.” Beans had a great aversion to being called mister. Just as Ellis had an aversion to being called sir. He worked for a living and didn’t appreciate a title he felt was held for those who were born of honor or suggested one man was of higher rank than another. It reminded him of the slave days—something else he had greatly disliked.

      She gave a graceful nod. “I apologize. Beans does a fine job. The stew I had for supper was quite delicious.”

      “Yes, he does,” Ellis agreed, but then had to admit, “For the ranch hands. It would be good for Angel to learn more about the kitchen. She tries, and does a good job, but …” An invisible draw made him turn back to the window. High above the earth, beyond the hovering snow clouds, a tiny star twinkled and then shot across the sky. Blinking, he searched for more, but the clouds once again obscured the view. His daughter needed a woman’s touch. He’d known it for some time. “Angel could use some formal education as well. She’s a sound reader and has a head for numbers, but there are other things she should be studying. Things she should be learning about.”

      He hadn’t turned around, and wasn’t ready to do so yet, either. His daughter was the reason he woke up every morning. For the past few years he’d wondered about sending her to a school out east, but the thought of being separated from her made him ignore the considerations as quickly as they formed. Miss Jennings’s arrival seemed like a good solution, but … He sighed. There was more to it than that.

      Turning about, he leaned back, resting his backside on the windowsill. The wood was cold and penetrated his wool pants, but it wasn’t overly bothersome. “You can’t see it right now, but out the window behind me, on the far side of the backyard is a small barn. It says Angel’s Barn across the front doors. Angel painted the letters several years ago.”

      Constance nodded again. It had been years since he’d seen someone as elegant and refined as her. He wanted to close his eyes, block the view and the memories of when he’d lived in Charleston and come across stylish women every day. Not that he’d been attracted to them. Simply put, the memories reminded him of how long Christine had been gone.

      “I haven’t been out to her barn for a week or so, so I don’t know for sure,” he said, pulling his mind out of the past, “but the last time I was there she had a one-legged rooster, a blind porcupine, a skunk …” Nothing about the animal came to mind. “I don’t really know what’s wrong with the skunk other than it wants to live here. There were also a couple of birds, a squirrel that ate too much butter and a litter of motherless rabbits.”

      Constance had a serene smile on her petal-pink lips, as if the array of Angel’s pets didn’t surprise her.

      He gestured toward the other side of the window. “Although I’m sure he’s hibernating right now, sometimes there’s a bear out in the north pasture. Teddy was a half-dead orphaned cub when Angel found him.” He had to huff out the chuckle pressing on his lungs. “He never fails to startle a cowhand or two when he decides to wander through.”

      “Have you ever considered just getting her a dog?” Constance asked.

      That made him crack a smile, but he forced it to leave as quickly as it had appeared. “There are several of those around here, too. As well as cats and kittens.” He pushed away from the window, moving toward his desk. “For Angel it’s not about the companionship. It’s the nurturing. The act of healing, of saving something no one else cares about.” It was hard to describe to someone who didn’t know Angel. “There have been so many critters over the years I couldn’t name them all if I had to. Some have died, some have stayed around, others have healed up and left, never been seen again. Then there are those, like the bear, who wander past every once in a while.”

      “I have a feeling I’m being compared to one of Angel’s animals.” A grin lifted the corners of her mouth, but her eyes held a touch of conviction.

      “With all due respect, Miss Jennings, I don’t mean to offend you, nor do I wish to be rude, but yes, you are like one of her animals. And when Angel sets on healing a critter, no one changes her mind.” He half sat on the corner of his desk.

      “Because she couldn’t save her mother.”

      The whispered words echoed around the room, making Ellis shiver. The softness of Constance’s expression made his throat swell. The thickness was raw and gritty. “She’s not looking for a mother.”

      “That’s not what I mean, Mr. Clayton,” Constance said,