One Heart to Win (36 page)

She’d only just managed to wipe the blurriness from her eyes and dry her cheeks when Franklin said behind her, “The Callahans are going to be here tomorrow. I need to know why you pretended to be their housekeeper before they get here.” His tone was firm now.

“I’ll give them my reasons.”

“Letting them in my house is going to be difficult enough, Tiffany. I won’t be dealt any more surprises. Why?”

“I wanted to see for myself what they’re really like because I didn’t think they’d behave normally with me due to the feud.”

“That’s all?”

She could have left it at that, but didn’t. “No. Mainly I didn’t want to meet you. I didn’t think you’d mind, since you never wanted to meet me either.”

“If I didn’t think you’d tell Rose, I’d give you the whole of it,” he said in frustration. “But she can’t know.”

“Know what?”

He didn’t answer. As she’d thought. He just wouldn’t own up to the truth, that he hadn’t cared about her. “I gave you your answer, now leave me alone.”

She didn’t hear him leave. She made a point of ignoring him by gazing around the room. It was a study, lightly furnished in oak. A small lamp had been lit on the desk that held many picture frames. Pictures of what? She was curious enough
to pick one up, but sucked in her breath when she saw it was a framed letter in a childish scrawl—a letter from her. She picked up another. Another of her letters to the father she’d loved, and missed. He’d framed them all and kept them in his office all these years? He must recently have taken them out of some musty, old box to impress her. With what? The idea that he cared, when it was so obvious that he didn’t?

The tears were starting again. Oh, God, she couldn’t cry now, not when she wasn’t sure he’d left and was afraid to look! She concentrated fiercely on the room’s decor to push back the emotion. Burgundy velvet drapes, her mother’s favorite color. Had Rose picked them out? Were they that old? A few bookcases, a liquor cabinet, paintings of Western scenes on the wall, except for one that stood out oddly. Her eyes went back to it and slowly widened. It was a wintery city scene of a girl skating on a frozen pond in a park. It was a painting of her. Her mother had never mentioned having it commissioned. But how else would Frank have it unless Rose had sent it to him?

“He was the best artist in New York,” Franklin said quietly, having followed her gaze. “I found him my last trip there. It took him all winter to finish it. You didn’t skate much that year.”

“You were in New York?” she asked in a small voice. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier when I accused you of never visiting?”

“I shouldn’t be telling you now, but this misconception you seem to be under can’t continue. Your mother made me promise never to return to New York again. I broke that promise, but I couldn’t let her know that, or she would have stopped writing to me. So I couldn’t even let you know, couldn’t take the chance that you might mention it to her, even inadvertently. I lived for
her letters, Tiffany. They were all I had left of her. Can you keep this secret for me?”

“You still love her?”

“Of course I do, I always will. Just as I love you. Yet I’ve been afraid to even hug you, you’ve been so angry since you got here. All these years, I never imagined you would think I didn’t care, Tiffany. I poured out my love in my letters. You didn’t believe me?”

“I stopped reading your letters. It hurt too much that you never came to visit when the boys did.”

“But I did, every trip, and even a few other times. I just couldn’t get close to your house. There was a man watching it, a guard your mother no doubt hired to keep me from approaching. So damned unfair of her to do that. But I yearned for the sight of you both, so I disguised myself, and once I did that, I realized I
could
see you, talk to you—I just couldn’t tell you who I was. You don’t remember Charlie?”

She had to sit down. Old memories flooded her mind of that friendly, old gentleman in the park she and her friend Margery frequented, never in the summer, only briefly in the winter—whenever her brothers would visit. Would he even have introduced himself if he hadn’t had to rescue her when she was a child? It had been the first year she’d tried to ice-skate at the park. Rose was supposed to be there for it and had asked her to wait until she could be, but Margery wasn’t waiting, so Tiffany couldn’t bear to either.

It had been a disaster. Her mother was going to teach her how to skate. Without that instruction she’d promptly fallen and sprained her ankle. Charlie had seen the accident and rushed onto the ice to carry her to her servants. He’d seemed more upset than she was over that sprain. He’d asked after her
injury the next time he saw her in the park with Margery and told them an amusing story about an injury of his own. There were many funny stories over the years. When Tiffany was older, she was sure none of them were real. Charlie just liked to make people laugh, but that’s how he was, a kind, caring man, one who wouldn’t hesitate to help someone in need—the kind of man she’d wished her father was. . . .

She looked up at him now, saw the tears in his own eyes, and burst into sobs as she flew into his open arms. “Oh, God, Papa, I wish you had told me! It was so painful, thinking you didn’t care!”

“I’m so sorry, Tiffany,” he said, hugging her tightly. “I wanted to tell you—I
would
have, if I’d known what you thought.” Then: “Do you think I liked dyeing my hair gray for those trips and having to endure the wisecracks from the hired hands about it when we got back? They called me a grayhorn! Do you even know how insulting that is?”

She did know because years ago her brothers had explained to her what a greenhorn was. But she knew her father was just trying to introduce a little levity to ease her remorse for the horrible way she’d treated him since she’d got there. It worked. He could still make her laugh!

Chapter Forty-Six

T
IFFANY HAD EXACTLY ONE
evening gown, which she had Anna dress her in for what was likely to be an uncomfortable dinner. She hadn’t even unpacked it at the Callahans since she couldn’t wear it there. Even if there had been an occasion for it, it was far too expensive for Jennifer to afford. It was one of her older gowns, which is why it had ended up in her accessories trunk. Pale blue silk with pearl edging, silk shoes to match. Finally she could wear her jewelry again. Her fingers, wrists, neck, ears, even the pins in her elegant coiffure, sparkled with sapphires. The Callahans might think they knew her already, but they didn’t. Tonight there would be no trace left of Jennifer Fleming.

She joined her brothers in the parlor before their guests arrived. Roy laughed when he saw her radiance. “Did you cast some spell to whisk us to New York? You know you don’t have to dress up fancy here, don’t you?”

“I know. My maid calls it ‘armed for battle.’ ”

“Well, least Ma ain’t here to make us wear them fancy duds,
too,” Sam said. “That was pure hell, Tiff, having to dress up like that for
every
dinner in the city.”

“You’re expecting a battle?” Carl asked, picking up on that single word.

“Considering what I’m going to ask the Callahans to agree to, yes.”

They already knew what she intended to do tonight. They knew, too, that her issue with their father had been resolved last night. Her brothers actually shouldered some guilt over her misconception, since they had kept it secret, that Frank had always traveled with them to the city. It all came out at breakfast that morning, which had been a wonderful family experience that could only have been more perfect if Rose had been there, too. Of course, that was never going to happen.

Frank walked in and stopped short when he saw her. “My God, you look like her done up like that.”

Tiffany grinned. “Did Mama make you suffer formal dinners every night?”

“No, just a few times a week. She actually loved being more relaxed here. But you should have warned us you expected tonight to be formal.”

“Not at all. If we all turned out elegant, then the Callahans would be embarrassed by it. This”—she waved a hand at her gown—“is merely the easiest way for me to show them that I’m not really the woman who was living in their house—in case they’re actually thinking I’m anything like her.”

Riders were suddenly heard arriving out front. Tiffany’s nervousness arrived with them. Would Hunter even bother to come? Probably not, considering how angry he’d looked the last time she saw him. But it was only Zachary she needed to talk to tonight. And she wasn’t alone. Her family was here. She didn’t
have
to be nervous. She stood between Sam and Roy while their father went to let in—the enemy.

“Jesus, Frank, what’s this shiny stuff on your floor?” Tiffany heard Zachary ask out in the hall.

“Marble.”

“Your wife’s doing, huh? It ain’t going to crack if we walk on it, is it?”

Neighbors for more than twenty years and the Callahans had never stepped foot in this house before, not even once? But then, Frank probably hadn’t been in theirs either. Such a
stupid
feud.

Zachary entered the parlor carrying his wife. The first thing Mary said when she saw Tiffany’s elegant attire was “I take it you didn’t cook dinner?”

Cole came in next with Mary’s crutches in hand, but stopped cold when he saw Tiffany. John pushed him out of the way, then he, too, didn’t move another inch.

Seeing the two brothers released some of Tiffany’s tension—because Hunter wasn’t with them. But maybe she shouldn’t have worn the evening gown, after all. She hadn’t meant to surprise them this much, merely to stress, without putting it into words, that she wasn’t meant to live on a ranch in Montana.

Politely she said to Mary, “Welcome to the Warren Ranch. My father already has an excellent cook.”

“That Buffalo kid is going to cook for us now,” Zachary said as he set Mary down in the nearest chair.

“My mother sent me some cookbooks. Perhaps Andrew can make use of them.”

“Right kind of you,” Mary said.

“Not at all. And please, let me take a moment to apologize for—”

She stopped when she heard the pig squealing out front. They’d brought the piglet to her? What a generous gesture, after what she’d done! Smiling brilliantly, she excused herself and rushed out of the room. She found Maximilian tied to a rail on the porch and picked him up immediately to cuddle him, giving no thought to her attire.

“So Red’s still here? She’s not completely gone?”

She sucked in her breath at the sound of that deep voice and turned abruptly, smack into Hunter’s kiss. Well, he helped it happen, his hand behind her neck pulling her head closer for it. She didn’t stop him, too aware that this might well be her last taste of him. It made the kiss bittersweet!

Then Max squirmed when Hunter got a little too close. She leaned back, flustered. That shouldn’t have happened, she shouldn’t have
let
it happen. She was supposed to make an impression tonight, that Jenny—Red, whatever he’d called her—
was
gone. She wasn’t real. If he expected to find her here, he was wrong!

“Thank you for bringing Max to me,” she said politely.

“Had to. With you gone, he thought he could take over my room.”

“Really?”

“I let him last night, but one night’s enough. For some reason he thought he could sleep in my bed, too. Were you letting him do that?”

“I didn’t mind.” She rubbed Max behind one ear. “I’ve never had a pet before—well, I don’t count the kitten I brought home once, since it ran off before I had a chance to get used to it. Can you untie him for me, please, so I can bring him inside?” She wasn’t going to let the pig down yet, afraid that Hunter would try to get close again if she did.

He untied the pig. “Your pa won’t mind him in the house?”

“No, he’s not the uncaring man I was trying to avoid.”

Hunter gave her a sharp look. “Is
that
why you did it?”

“Yes, no—mostly. I’ll explain to you and your parents at dinner. You—you aren’t coming inside?”

When he didn’t say anything immediately, her heart skipped a beat. She didn’t want him to leave. She had to admit to herself she felt happy to see him. He looked so handsome tonight in a clean, white, pressed shirt and dark trousers, and clean black boots. He leaned back against the wall next to the door, raising one knee and resting the sole of his boot on the wall. She was so used to that posture of his. She often saw it in her mind—when she wasn’t picturing him wrapped in a towel or buck naked making love to her! She closed her eyes briefly to banish those images.

“Still thinking about it,” he answered. “Figured I had time to make up my mind, that you’d be out back watching the sunset. Too bad this house faces east. You’re going to miss sitting on a porch watching them.”

She almost grinned but caught herself in time. It was too easy to fall back into the relaxed familiarity she’d had with him. That hadn’t been her! But Jennifer had been from the East, too. And Jennifer
should
have stuck to her guns and given him proper at every encounter, instead of allowing him to give her nicknames and flirt with her and kiss her and . . .