“For years I’ve dreamed of having a family, but no man wanted me.”

Now Tristan knew Caroline’s motives. They were pure and painfully simple. She wanted to be a mother.

She paced up to him with her eyes blazing. “I’d do anything—even marry you—for the sake of two beautiful children. Does that confession satisfy you, Major Smith?”

A wry smile lifted his lips. “You’re a brave woman, Caroline.”

“I’m not brave at all,” she murmured.

“I think you are,” he answered. “I’d be pleased to marry you … for the sake of the children, of course.”

The moment called for a handshake. They were sealing a business deal. But Tristan couldn’t bring himself to offer merely his hand. Neither could he kiss her, not even as a token of friendship. Moving slowly, he touched her cheek. “You should call me Tristan.”

Dear Reader,

Writers are always looking for fresh ideas. Maybe that’s why I matched Caroline Bradley, the last of the Swan’s Nest heroines, with a retired British Army officer. To make the romance more challenging, I gave him malaria. Somewhere along the line, my hero surprised me yet again by announcing he was the third son of a duke and that he’d become heir apparent.

Tristan’s disclosure led to more questions than I ever imagined. How are titles passed on? What are the proper forms of address? What’s the difference between a duke, a marquis, a marquess and an earl? Then there are the titles for women and how they’re used … And that’s just the beginning.

The rites of inheritance were crucial to this book, and I started off with the mistaken notion that a man could refuse an inherited title. I owe a debt of gratitude to the online community of romance writers who graciously offered help with the facts and led me to websites with oodles of information.

This Western writer did her best, but a Stetson fits me better than a tiara. Any mistakes are mine.

With Caroline happily married, the WOMEN OF SWAN’S NEST series has come to an end. I’ve enjoyed telling these stories and hope you’ve laughed and cried along with the characters. In my imagination I see them all in twenty years. The women will still be friends, and they’ll be cheering for each other. The men will be working to support their families, and they’ll be loving their wives, children and grandchildren for years to come. After all, a good love story never really ends.

All the best,

About the Author

VICTORIA BYLIN fell in love with God and her husband at the same time. It started with a ride on a big red motorcycle and a date to see a Star Trek movie. A recent graduate of UC Berkeley, Victoria had been seeking that elusive “something more” when Michael rode into her life. Neither knew it, but they were both reading the Bible.

Five months later they got married and the blessings began. They have two sons and have lived in California and Virginia. Michael’s career allowed Victoria to be both a stay-at-home mom and a writer. She’s living a dream that started when she read her first book and thought, “I want to tell stories.” For that gift, she will be forever grateful.

Feel free to drop Victoria an email at

VictoriaBylin@aol.com or visit her website at

www.victoriabylin.com.

Marrying the Major

Victoria Bylin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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This book is dedicated to my sons,

Joseph Scheibel and David Scheibel.

One’s traveled the world and the other is a soldier.

They both influenced this story. Love to you both!

Which of you, if your son asks for bread,

will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will

give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil,

know how to give good gifts to your children,

how much more will your Father in heaven

give good gifts to those who ask him!

—Matthew 7:9–11

Chapter One

Wheeler Springs, Wyoming, October 1876

Tristan Willoughby Smith didn’t like to be kept waiting, and he’d been waiting for three days for the arrival of the quinine he needed to treat his malaria. He’d also been waiting for the arrival of the Bradley sisters. He’d hired the youngest, Miss Caroline Bradley, to be the governess to his children. He’d hired the elder sister, Miss Elizabeth Bradley, to serve as a nurse and advisor for the treatment of the disease he’d contracted in the West Indies.

Tristan had a high tolerance for the fevers that came with malaria, but he had no patience at all with tardiness. A former major in the British army, he expected people to do what he told them.

He expected such obedience from his children.

He expected it from the men who worked his cattle ranch.

Mostly he expected such discipline from himself.

He also expected discipline from the stage line scheduled to deliver the quinine he needed to control his fevers. With his hands on his hips, he stared down the windblown street that made up the heart of Wheeler Springs. The stage was three days late. He’d contracted the disease four months ago. The year before it had taken his wife, Molly, leaving him alone to care for their two children. To protect them from the disease, Tristan had come to Wyoming with Jonathan Tate, his best friend and former second in command. Wyoming was as far from malaria—and his home in England—as Tristan could get. It was also eighteen hundred miles away from the Philadelphia pharmaceutical company that manufactured the quinine. If the quinine was lost, he’d be in dire straits.

As much as Tristan needed the medicine, he needed Caroline Bradley even more. The new governess didn’t know it, but he had plans for her that went beyond tutoring his children. He had plans for Jon, too. If malaria put Tristan in an early grave, his best friend would be the executor of his will and guardian of his children. Under no circumstance did Tristan want his children returned to his family in England. As the third son of a nobleman, Tristan had no importance. That fact had been drilled into him by his father, Harold Smythe, the Duke of Willoughby, and he didn’t want Freddie and Dora growing up under the same cloud.

He also wanted them to have a mother, especially if the malaria took his life. Whether Tristan lived or died was up to God, a being he viewed as a Supreme Commander who gave orders without discussion. Tristan would submit to God’s decree, but he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Freddie and Dora without a family. That’s where the new governess came in. It was high time Jon settled down. If Tristan died, he expected Jon to marry her and give the children a mother. He’d ruled out the oldest sister for this particular job. The Bradley sister, named Elizabeth, was twelve years older than the younger one, and in her letters she’d stated her dedication to nursing. The governess, however, had written eloquently about her love of children.

The wind kicked a tumbleweed across the street. For the first day of October, the air held a surprising chill. Or had the chill come from within, the first sign of yet another attack of illness? Tristan glanced up at the sky. The fevers usually started late in the day, and the sun had yet to reach its peak. Still, the chill was enough to show him that he couldn’t wait any longer to find out what had happened to the stage. A military man, he sized up the obstacles between the railhead in Cheyenne and Wheeler Springs.

The Carver gang could have held up the stage.

Indians could have attacked.

An afternoon storm could have washed out the road and taken the stagecoach with it.

Tristan had a fertile imagination—a blessing to a poet but a curse for an army officer and a bigger curse for a man with malaria.

The door to the stage office swung open and Jon strode forward. He was forty-two, seven years older than Tristan, but he hadn’t lost an ounce of the muscle that made him a formidable captain in the West India Regiment. Neither had he lost the dour expression he wore around everyone except Tristan’s children. Five-year-old Dora had Uncle Jon wrapped around her little finger, and Freddie, almost ten, lived in the man’s shadow.

Jon had gone to speak with Heinrich Meyer, the owner of the inn that served as the stagecoach stop. Looking at his friend, Tristan felt a familiar dread. “It’s bad news, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

In private, Jon had stopped calling Tristan “sir” five years ago. The formality signaled trouble. In a habit from his days in uniform, Tristan laced his hands behind his back. “Go on.”

“The bridge over the gorge is out.”

Tristan blanked his expression, but his belly clenched. Two days ago a storm had ripped through Wheeler Springs. Runoff from the hills would turn the Frazier River into a torrent. The first time he’d ridden over the bridge that spanned the gorge, he’d called it a rickety abomination. Without the bridge, the stagecoach would have to take a longer route from Cheyenne or return to the city to await repairs. Even more worrisome, the coach could have been washed into the gorge. He imagined it lying on its side in the river, the quinine crystals saturated and useless. He thought of the governess and her sister injured or dead.

“We need to find the coach,” he said to Jon.

“And quickly.” His friend lowered his voice. “The Carver gang is in the area.”

The Carvers had advanced from rustling cattle to robbing banks and stagecoaches. They were tough, crass and mean. The thought of the governess and her sister being trapped between Wheeler Springs and Cheyenne and at the gang’s mercy made Tristan’s neck hairs prickle.

“Get the horses, will you?” He’d have preferred to take a wagon to carry the women and their belongings, but the downed bridge made it necessary to go on horseback.

Jon gave him a quelling look. “You’re not well. I’ll go with Heinrich and his son.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am,” Tristan said evenly. “I have to be. I’m almost out of quinine and you know it.”

“And if you get feverish?” Jon knew how to be honest but respectful. “You’ll be more of a burden than a help. Stay here, Tristan.”

“Absolutely not.”

“But—”

“Don’t argue with me.” Tristan hadn’t lived his life sitting on the sidelines, and he didn’t intend to start now. He’d felt worse and done more. “Not only do I need the quinine, but the new governess and her sister are possibly stranded between here and Cheyenne. They’re my responsibility. I’m going and that’s final.”

“If you say so, sir.”

Jon emphasized sir not as a sign of respect but as a way of telling Tristan he was being a fool. If Tristan became ill, Jon would be stuck with him. An obvious solution loomed. He’d simply refuse to fall ill. He glanced at the sky. If they rode hard, they’d reach the river before dusk. “Get supplies. We’ll leave immediately.”

“I figured you’d be stubborn.” Jon looked peeved. “Heinrich sent his son to ready the horses.”

Shoulder to shoulder, the men paced to the mercantile. While Jon ordered supplies from the storekeeper’s wife, Tristan weighed the facts. The ride to Cheyenne took two full days, three if the weather muddied the roads. A stagecoach station sat between the city and the town. He and Jon could be gone a week, maybe longer.

He had to get word to Bert Howe, the ranch foreman, and Evaline, his housekeeper and the woman tending to Freddie and Dora. Tristan had no worries about the ranch, but he worried greatly about his children. They tended to be nervous about his whereabouts. He had to get word to them that he’d be gone longer than expected. He kept a house in Wheeler Springs, and he knew just the man to deliver the message. Noah Taylor was Tristan’s houseman, Evaline’s husband and a former sergeant in the West India Regiment.

“I need to speak with Noah,” Tristan said to Jon. “Someone has to let Bert and Evaline know what’s happened.”

Jon nodded and went back to purchasing supplies. Tristan crossed the street at a rapid pace, glancing up at the sun and wondering again about the sheen of sweat on his brow. He hated being ill. It turned him into the skinny boy who’d grown up on his father’s massive estate.

England had stopped being home the day he’d walked out of his father’s study. As a third son, he’d known early that he had limited prospects. He just hadn’t expected his father to be so blunt about it … or so cruel.

You have no place here, Tristan. Join the army. Become a clergyman. I don’t care what you do.

That parting had been fifteen years ago. Tristan had never been interested in religion. In boarding school he’d been taught to believe in God as a father. If the Almighty was anything like the duke, Tristan wanted nothing to do with him. He accepted God’s power, submitted to His authority, but felt no love for Him. Instead of joining the church, he’d used a portion of a large inheritance from an uncle to purchase a commission in the British Army. To make the break from his father complete, he’d changed the spelling of his name from the aristocratic “Smythe” to the more egalitarian “Smith.” Tristan missed England, but he’d never go back to his father’s estate. If the malaria claimed him as he feared, he wanted to buried at the ranch he called “The Barracks.”

Of course he didn’t want to be buried at all. He wanted to see Freddie become a man and Dora a wife and mother. Given a choice, he’d die an old man with a soft belly and a head full of gray hair.

But he didn’t have a choice. God controlled his fate the way a commander waged a war. Tristan could only lead the battles in his control, which meant ensuring his children wouldn’t be returned to England. It wasn’t likely the duke would have an interest in Freddie, and it was certain he’d consider Dora a worthless girl, but Tristan had still made legal arrangements to name Jon as guardian. Silently he gave thanks he hadn’t been born first. His oldest brother, Andrew, was heir apparent. He’d married Louisa Hudgins, the woman Tristan himself had hoped to wed. She and Andrew had probably produced a dozen children by now. Tristan’s second brother, Oscar, would have married as well, though he’d been legendary for his romantic capering.

Putting his thoughts aside, Tristan strode to his town house. Stepping through the front door, he called to Noah. The man stepped immediately into the foyer. Tall and black, he carried himself with the military bearing he’d earned in the West India Regiment. The WIR was composed of free blacks and led by white officers from En gland. Most of the officers considered the post undesirable, at best a stepping-stone to another assignment. Tristan had felt otherwise. In his own way, he knew how it felt to be judged inferior. He’d led his men with pride and they’d fought with courage. When Tristan made the decision to settle in Wyoming, he’d invited Noah to work for him.

“Good morning, sir.” Noah spoke with the singsong tones of the Caribbean. “Any word on the stagecoach?”

“The bridge is out. Jon and I are going to look for the passengers.” He didn’t mention the quinine. Needing medicine stung his pride, and Noah already knew the importance of it.

The former sergeant gave him the same look he’d gotten from Jon. “If you’ll excuse me, sir. Is that wise? You’re not well, and—”

“I’m well enough.” Tristan hated being questioned, a fact Noah knew better than most men. That he’d dared to bring up Tristan’s health showed both respect and caring.

Tristan took the command out of his voice. “I need you to get word to The Barracks. The children will be worried.”

“I’ll see to it.”

“Thank you, Noah.” Tristan turned back to the door.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Harvey just delivered a letter.” She was the postmistress and very conscientious. “It arrived with last week’s stage. She apologized for misplacing it. I put it in the study.”

“Who is it from?”

“Pennwright, sir.”

Pennwright was his father’s long-time secretary, a man who joked that his name had doomed him to his occupation. When Tristan had been sent to boarding school, Pennwright had written regularly. The correspondence had started at the duke’s direction, but it had continued for years out of affection.

“I’ll look forward to it when I return,” he said to Noah.

“Yes, sir.”

Satisfied, Tristan walked to the livery where he found Jon waiting with their mounts and two packhorses. If they found the women, the females would have to ride to Wheeler Springs. As for their possessions, they’d take what the horses could carry. When the bridge was repaired, he’d send a wagon for the rest. He welcomed the thought of having such a problem. The alternative—that they’d find the coach destroyed and the driver and women dead—couldn’t be tolerated.

Looking grave, Jon handed him the reins to his favorite horse. Tristan preferred a spirited mount and the stallion he’d named Cairo had speed and intelligence. A sleek Arabian, Cairo was black with a matching mane and tail. The stallion obeyed Tristan, but he did it with an air of superiority.

Jon rode up next to him on the gray mare he favored. She wasn’t old, but Tristan had named her Grandma because she rode like a rocking chair.

As he turned Cairo down the street, the sun hit him in the face. He swiped at beads of perspiration with his sleeve, then nudged Cairo into an easy canter. With the fever lurking in his body and the Bradley sisters in places unknown, there was no time to waste. Jon rode next to him, letting Tristan set the pace.

Three hours passed with no sign of the stage. The sun peaked and was halfway to the horizon when they arrived at the downed bridge. Tristan slid wearily off Cairo, shielded his eyes from the sun and scanned the gorge for the downed stagecoach. He saw only boards from the bridge wedged between rocks and the sparkling water racing past them.

Relief washed over him. “They didn’t get this far.”

“So it seems.”

“We need to push on.” Tristan inspected the sides of the gorge. A trail led to the river and stopped at a sandy bank. The men climbed back on their horses and headed for the crossing with Tristan in the lead. The storm had turned the path into slick mud, but they arrived at the river’s edge without mishap. Cairo didn’t hesitate to wade into the current, but Grandma needed coaxing. When Tristan reached the far bank, he turned and saw his friend urging the skittish horse to take one step at a time. He hoped the river would recede before they had to cross it again, hopefully with the stage driver and the two women. When Grandma found firm footing, she bolted out of the water.

Jon grinned at Tristan. “The old girl did it.”

“Barely,” Tristan acknowledged. “For a minute, I thought you’d have to carry her.”

Jon smiled at the joke, then looked down the road. Tristan followed his gaze with the same questions in mind. Had the stage come this far and turned back? Had it gone off the road before reaching the bridge? He also had to consider the Carver gang. Fighting fever, Tristan acknowledged the cold facts. Anything could have happened. The quinine could already be lost, and the women could be hurt or trapped or worse.

With no time to waste, he barked an order at Jon. “We still have daylight. Let’s go.”

He nudged Cairo into a comfortable trot. Jon stayed with him, but at dusk Tristan admitted defeat. They hadn’t seen a single sign of the coach. With the fever nipping at him, he gave in to Jon’s suggestion that they strike camp for the night. They’d start looking again in the morning.

Caroline Bradley awoke on the hard ground with a jolt. Dawn had broken with startling splendor, but it wasn’t the golden light that roused her from a troubled sleep. It was the snap of a twig, then the frustrated muttering of a male voice. She clutched the shotgun she’d found in the boot of the stagecoach. She’d slept with it for two nights, and she knew how to pull the trigger. If the Carver gang had come back, she’d use it.

Three days ago she and Bessie had left Cheyenne for Wheeler Springs. They’d had the coach to themselves, so they’d passed the hours speculating about Tristan Willoughby Smith, his children and what life would be like on a cattle ranch. Not once had they imagined the stagecoach being robbed by the Carver gang. Thanks to the sacrifice of the driver, they’d escaped while he’d challenged the outlaws with his pistol. She and Bessie had run for their lives and hidden in a ravine, listening as the Carvers killed the driver and ransacked their trunks and other shipments. When the outlaws finished, they’d stolen the horses and pushed the yellow coach into the ravine.

Cracked and lying on its side, the old Concord had offered adequate shelter from the sun, very little from the rain and none from the frightful howling of wolves.

In the scramble down the hill, Bessie had sprained her ankle. By herself, Caroline had piled rocks on the dead driver, then she’d salvaged what she could of their possessions. In the course of her efforts, she’d found a crate addressed to Major Smith from the Farr, Powers and Weightman Chemical Laboratory in Philadelphia. It had been opened and the contents had been dumped without care. In the pile of broken bottles, she’d seen a label marked “Sulphate of Quinine.” Knowing the value of the medicine, she’d salvaged seven of the twelve bottles. They were wrapped in an old nightgown and hidden in the stagecoach for safekeeping.

She knew the major was ill, and she’d assumed he had a chronic illness or a war injury. Now she wondered if he was suffering from malaria. It had been a scourge during the war that had destroyed the South. Bessie had served as a nurse during the conflict, and she’d complained often that illness killed more men than mini balls. Major Smith, it seemed, was a very ill man. Seeing the medicine, Caroline had thought of his motherless children. Who would love them if they lost their father? Malaria was a fickle disease. It could take a man’s life in a day or linger in his blood for years.

Outlaws had the same penchant for randomness. Aware of the slow, measured steps coming toward her, Caroline weighed her options. Bessie’s ankle meant they couldn’t run. Neither could they hide. Huddling against the undercarriage of the coach, she whispered into her sister’s ear. “Bessie, wake up but don’t move.”

Her sister’s eyelids fluttered open.

The footsteps were closer now. A bird took flight from a cottonwood. Caroline wanted to fly away, too. Instead she clutched the shotgun. The steps came closer. She heard the slide of dirt and rock as he reached the bottom of the hill, then the thump of leather on dirt as he paced toward the coach. A squirrel leapt from one branch to another, springing high and then landing with a bounce. Leaves fell like dry rain. With each step the stranger came closer to the coach until all noise stopped. Caroline took a breath and held it. Nothing stirred. Not a bird. Not a breeze. Bessie lay still, watching with wide eyes and signaling her with a nod to be brave.

Leaping to her feet, Caroline aimed the shotgun at the man’s chest. “Who are you?”

He looked at her as if she were no more dangerous than a gnat. Refusing to blink, she stared down the barrel at a man who looked more like a scarecrow than an outlaw. Tall and gaunt, he had hair the color of straw and eyes so red-rimmed they seemed more gray than blue. His clothes hung on his broad shoulders, but there was no mistaking the fine tailoring. She took in the creases around his mouth, his stubbled jaw and finally the boots that reached to his knees. Black and spit-shined, they didn’t belong to a shiftless outlaw.

She couldn’t say the same for the pistol in his hand. It was loose and pointed downward, but she felt the threat. She dug the shotgun into her shoulder. “Throw down your gun!”

He raised one eyebrow. “I’d prefer to holster it, if you don’t mind.”

That voice … it reminded her of a fog bell coming out of a mist, a warning she remembered from the Carolina shore, the place of her birth and the reason for her name. She heard the trace of an accent she couldn’t identify, not the boisterous timbre of an Englishman or a German, but the muted tones of a man who’d worked to leave the past behind.

When she didn’t speak, he holstered the gun then looked at her with his hands slightly away from his body, taking in her appearance with a flick of his eyes. Caroline knew what he’d see … A woman with an average face and an average figure, past her prime but young enough to want a husband. For a few months she’d once been secretly married, but he’d see a spinster. A woman desperate enough for a family that she’d decided to become a governess. If she couldn’t have children of her own, she’d borrow them.

First, though, she had to get rid of this unknown man studying her with both fascination and fury.

“Get your hands up!” she ordered.

He kept them loose at his sides. “Perhaps—”

“Raise them!”

He let out a sigh worthy of a frustrated king. “If you insist.”

Slowly he raised his arms, holding her gaze with a force that nearly made her cower. When his hands were shoulder-high, palm out so she that she could see the aristocratic length of his fingers, he lowered his chin. “Perhaps, Miss Bradley, you’d allow me to introduce myself?”

The accent was no longer muffled. Thick and English, it held a command that made her lower the shotgun. She didn’t need to hear Tristan Willoughby Smith say his name to know she’d just met her future employer, and that she’d impressed him … in all the wrong ways.

Chapter Two

“Major Smith!”

Tristan arched one brow at the stunned brunette. “May I lower my hands now?”

“Of course.” Most people groveled when they realized they’d stepped on his toes. Caroline Bradley snapped to attention but not in the way of an underling. She looked him square in the eye. “I’m sure you understand my reaction. As you can see, the stagecoach was robbed.”

“Yes.”

He wished now they hadn’t stopped at dusk. As luck would have it, they’d camped less than a mile away. By the morning light he’d spotted in the debris a woman’s shoe and a nightgown that had been mauled by dirty hands. Certain the two Miss Bradleys had been on the coach, he’d left Jon to search through the crates and had maneuvered down the ravine. He’d spotted the yellow coach lying on its side but hadn’t seen the women. Until Miss Bradley had gotten the jump on him, he’d believed the sisters had been abducted by the Carvers or left for dead inside the coach.

Looking at her now, the one he assumed to be the governess, he decided the timing of his arrival had been fortuitous. If he’d arrived in the dark, she’d have shot him. The elder Miss Bradley—the nurse—was struggling to stand.

Tristan stepped around the overturned coach and offered his hand. “Allow me.”

“Thank you,” she replied.

When the elder Miss Bradley reached her feet, the younger Miss Bradley put her arm around her waist to steady to her. Tristan couldn’t address both women as “Miss Bradley.” In his mind he’d think of them as Caroline and Elizabeth. If only one sister was present, he’d address her as Miss Bradley. When they were together, etiquette required him to address the eldest as Miss Bradley and the younger as Miss Caroline. Looking at the women, he easily discerned the difference in their ages and spoke to the nurse. “I presume you’re Miss Elizabeth Bradley?”

“That’s correct, sir.”

He looked at the governess and wished the rules of etiquette weren’t quite so clear. Calling this pretty woman by her given name struck him as too personal, even when he prefaced her name with “Miss.” He studied her with a stern eye. “I’ll address you as Miss Caroline. Is that acceptable?”

A populist gleam twinkled in her wide eyes. “Simply Caroline would do.”

“Hardly.”

“Then whichever you’d prefer, Mr. Smith.”

“It’s Major Smith.”

He’d been out of the army for months, but he hadn’t adjusted to being Mr. Smith. In England he’d have been Lord Tristan, a title that gave him indigestion but sounded normal to his ears. As much as he wanted to deny it, titles and ranks were in his blood.

Maybe that’s why Caroline’s tone struck him as insubordinate. Even more annoying, she reminded him of Louisa. Not only did she have a lively glint in her eyes, but she also had Louisa’s ivory skin and brunette hair. It was an utter mess at the moment, a tumbling pile of curls that had once been meant to impress him. He knew from her letters that she had a suitable education, but he hadn’t expected the keen intelligence he saw in her brown eyes. Or were they green? Hazel, he decided. She had eyes that mirrored her surroundings, and today they’d been muted by the grayish sky. He couldn’t help but wonder if her eyes had once been brighter or if they had faded with life’s trials.

He’d taken a chance hiring a stranger to raise his children, but he had little choice. He hoped Jon would see Caroline’s attributes as plainly as he did. His friend would certainly notice her female curves. Any man would—including Tristan, though the awareness had to remain fleeting.

She stood with her chin slightly raised, silent but somehow conveying her irritation with him. Tristan didn’t like being challenged even with silence, so he paused to examine the overturned coach. He didn’t expect to see the crate of quinine, though he held to a sliver of hope.

The new governess cleared her throat. “Sir?”

“One moment,” he ordered. “Jon will be here shortly. There’s no point in repeating yourself.”

“Who’s Jon?” she asked.

He glared at her. “He’s second in command at The Barracks.”

“A barracks? I thought you owned a ranch.”

“I do,” he said with aplomb. “The Barracks is a nickname. I assure you, Miss Caroline. You’ll live in a perfectly proper house.”

She gave him a doubtful look but said nothing.

Tristan cupped his hand to his mouth and called for Jon. “I’ve found the women. Get down here.”

When he looked back at the two Miss Bradleys, the eldest was giving him a look he could only describe as scolding. Tristan’s own mother had died when he was five, but he’d seen his wife give that look to Freddie. Tristan didn’t like receiving it from an employee.

The new governess reflected the same disapproval. “Major, you should know—”

“Not now.”

“But I have something to tell you!”

“I know enough,” he snapped at her.

He must have established his authority because she sealed her lips. He looked up the hill, saw Jon navigating the incline and waited in stony silence for his friend to arrive. Tristan couldn’t stop himself from wondering about the quinine. If the Carvers knew the value, they would have stolen it. Judging by the mayhem on the road, at the very least they’d smashed the crate. Without sufficient quinine, his next bout of fever would be a brute.

As Jon came down the hill, Tristan saw the look his friend wore after a battle when bodies lay askew and the price of victory was its most obvious. He hadn’t found the quinine.

The man strode to Tristan’s side, acknowledged the women with a nod, then spoke in a quiet tone. “I found the crate. It’s been smashed. The bottles are broken or missing.”

“I see.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon murmured. “There’s nothing to salvage.”

The younger woman cleared her throat. “Major Smith—”

“Miss Caroline!” He bellowed to make a point. “Do you always interrupt with such enthusiasm?”

“Only when it’s important.”

She said no more, leaving it up to him to humble himself and ask. “If you don’t mind, it will have to wait. I’m expecting an important shipment. Jon is looking for—”

“Quinine,” she said quietly.

Instead of scolding her again, Tristan stared into her shimmering eyes. “Go on.”

“Part of the shipment was destroyed, but I salvaged seven bottles. They’re hidden in the stagecoach.”

He said nothing because being in her debt was humbling and he didn’t know how to be anything but a man in command. Malaria had turned the tables on him. The disease was in charge, and it had been since he’d left the West Indies. Now Caroline Bradley was in charge. He didn’t like being beholden to anyone, especially not a woman with brunette hair and intelligent eyes. Molly had been gone for more than a year. He missed her terribly, but his own illness had forced him to cope with the loss quickly. He had only one focus—to provide a family for Freddie and Dora in case of his death.

Jon offered Caroline his hand. “You must be one of the Bradley sisters. I’m Jonathan Tate. I keep Major Smith in line.”

Tristan watched the woman’s eyes for a flicker of interest. Jon was twelve years older than she was, but women found him appealing. More than once Tristan’s second in command had been called a pussycat, while Tristan had been called “sir” by everyone including his wife and children.

Caroline Bradley shook Jon’s hand, then introduced her sister. Apparently, the elder Miss Bradley went by Bessie. Tristan should have been doing the honors, but he disliked social pleasantries. They reminded him too much of the stilted formality of his childhood.

“It was terrible,” the eldest Miss Bradley said about the robbery. “One minute we were riding along at a reasonable clip, and the next we were flying around the curves. The driver made it around a turn and stopped the coach. He told us to run for our lives.”

“What happened to him?” Tristan asked.

“They shot him,” Caroline said quietly. “I did my best to bury him, but his family might want to do better. His name was Calvin.”

Tristan knew Calvin. He’d worked briefly at The Barracks. He had no family, but Tristan wouldn’t leave him in an unmarked grave. He turned to Jon. “When we get to the ranch, send someone to take care of the body.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tristan turned back to the women. “Was there someone riding shotgun?”

Caroline shook her head. “There was supposed to be a second driver, but he didn’t show up. Calvin made the decision to go alone.” She gave him a deliberate look. “He was anxious to deliver the quinine.”

Calvin would have known the importance of the medicine. Yet again, Tristan was beholden to someone. The debt couldn’t be repaid except to live in a manner worthy of the sacrifice. That meant showing kindness to Caroline and her sister. Looking at her now, he saw a courageous woman who’d survived a robbery, buried one man and saved another by salvaging the medicine. Needing to focus on something other than her attributes, he changed the subject. “Do you know who robbed the stage?”

Bessie answered. “Calvin mentioned the Carvers before we left Cheyenne.”

“That’s the assumption,” he acknowledged.

Caroline had the haunted look of a soldier reliving a battle. “The robbers ransacked the stagecoach. We heard them making threats, so we hid. We couldn’t run because Bessie twisted her ankle.”

Tristan couldn’t stand the thought of the Carvers harming either of the women.

Bessie squeezed her sister’s hand. “The good Lord had an eye on us.”

Tristan doubted it. In his experience, God ignored the needs of human beings as surely as the duke had ignored his third son. Where was God when Molly lay shaking with fever? Neither did God care about little Dora, who still cried for her mother, or for Freddie, who didn’t cry at all. Tristan had seen too much death to deny the hope of an afterlife, but he didn’t see God in the here and now. He especially didn’t see a loving Father when fever made him delusional and his bones caught fire.

Bessie indicated the area around the coach. “As you can see, we’ve been camping. Caroline saw to everything.”

He studied the patch of ground sheltered by the coach. Caroline had done a commendable job of salvaging essentials from the wreckage. She’d built a fire, used a pot to fetch water from a stream and neatly organized food they’d brought from Cheyenne. The campsite was a testament to ingenuity, neatness and order, all traits Tristan admired. Nonetheless, he imagined the women would prefer his house in Wheeler Springs to another night in the open. They’d have to move quickly to arrive by nightfall, especially with packhorses laden with their possessions. He did a quick calculation and decided the women could ride together on Grandma. Jon could manage a packhorse, while the other carried what it could.

“We should be on our way.” He turned to Bessie. “Miss Bradley, how severely is your ankle injured?”

“It’s just a sprain.” She looked at Jon. “I can walk up the hill if someone will give me a strong arm.”

Jon turned on the smile that made him a pussycat. “I’d be delighted—”

“No,” Tristan interrupted. “I’ll escort Miss Bradley up the hill. You help Miss Caroline break down camp. Make sure you’re careful with the quinine.” Tristan would have preferred to carry it himself, but he felt wobbly.

Jon focused on the pretty brunette. “I’m at your service, Miss Caroline.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tate.”

“Call me Jon.” He shot Tristan a sly glance. “Only the major insists on formalities.”

The woman smiled. “Jon it is. For the sake of simplicity, Bessie and I go by our first names. You’re welcome to call me Caroline.”

Jon nodded graciously and Caroline smiled.

Though pleased by their budding friendship, Tristan felt envious. What would it be like to seek a woman’s attention? To woo her the way he’d wooed Molly? They’d had a stellar courtship, even if he said so himself. He hoped Jon would show the same ambition for Caroline. If Tristan’s plan worked, they’d fall in love and get married. If the malaria bested Tristan, they’d raise Freddie and Dora, and his children would have a family.

At Caroline’s direction, Jon went to work gathering their meager possessions while she retrieved a bundled nightgown that presumably held the bottles of quinine. Tristan stepped to Bessie’s side and offered his arm. “Shall we?”

“Thank you, Major.”

As he helped the injured woman up the hill, he admitted to a sad fact. He didn’t have to slow his pace to match hers. In fact, she’d slowed down for him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Jon laughing with the pretty brunette. In other circumstances, he’d have given his friend a run for his money for the woman’s attention … and he’d have won.

Caroline liked Jon, but Major Smith struck her as a pompous, arrogant, pigheaded fool. If he hadn’t been so rude, she’d have told him about the quinine the instant she recognized him. She didn’t expect her new employer to be overly friendly, but she’d hoped for common courtesy. She didn’t like Major Smith at all.

Watching as he escorted Bessie up the hill, she saw the slowness of his movements and turned to Jon. “How long has Major Smith had malaria?”

“Four months.” Jon stopped gathering blankets and looked up the hill. “He won’t tell you anything, but you should know what he’s been through. If you have questions, you should bring them to me. I know him as well as anyone. We served together in the West India Regiment. He’s been to Africa, India, all over the world.”

“And England,” she added.

“Yes, but not for a long time.” Jon’s expression hardened. “That one is his story to tell. What you need to know is that he lost his wife a year ago. Molly was a peach. We all loved her.”

“Was it malaria?”

“Yes. It struck hard and fast. She died within a week. Tristan wanted to leave the West Indies for the sake of the children, but his transfer request wasn’t approved. He had no choice but to stay until he caught the disease himself.”

Caroline ached for the entire family. “The children must be terribly frightened.”

“They are,” Jon replied. “Dora cries at the drop of a hat. It’ll break your heart. Freddie doesn’t show his feelings, but they’re deep. He’s like his father in that way.”

Caroline glanced at the arrogant man struggling to climb a hill. “How sick is he?”

He hesitated. “I’ve seen Tristan at his best and at his worst. He’s a fighter. If anyone can beat the malaria, he can.”

He hadn’t answered her question. “Is today his best or his worst?”

“It’s typical.”

Later Caroline would ask Bessie about the course of the disease. “How did he come to be in Wyoming?”

“It’s as far from swamps and England as he could get.”

Caroline understood his aversion to swamps. His dislike of England baffled her, but she knew Jon wouldn’t explain. She followed his gaze to the top of the ravine where the major had just crested the ridge. Caroline didn’t know why God hadn’t answered her prayers for a family of her own, but she saw a need here. Major Smith didn’t like her, but his children needed someone who wouldn’t leave them.

She wondered if he’d made arrangements for a guardian in case he succumbed to malaria. She couldn’t bear the thought of growing to love these children and losing them to a distant aunt or uncle. She turned to ask Jon more questions, but he’d finished gathering their things and had tied them in a blanket. “Do you have the quinine?”

She indicated the bundled nightgown. “I’ll carry it.”

With the pack of clothing slung over his shoulder, he offered his elbow. “Shall we join them?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Holding the quinine in one hand, she took his arm with the other. When the path narrowed, they broke apart and she climbed alone. It seemed a fitting way to end the ordeal in the canyon. Soon she’d be in Wheeler Springs. She’d be able to take a bath and sleep in a bed. She’d meet Major Smith’s children, and she’d have people who needed her. Feeling hopeful, she stepped from the ravine to level ground and saw Bessie and Major Smith at her trunk. In addition to clothing and a few personal treasures, it held her sister’s medical bag. Bessie needed it to give the major a dose of quinine.

“I’ll get it,” Caroline called.

She didn’t want Major Smith looking at her things. It struck her as too personal, plus she’d hidden the one photograph she had of her husband. Their marriage had been secret, and she had always used her maiden name. Charles had been a black man and a crusader, a gentle giant and a man of great faith. He’d died at the hands of a mob because he believed in educating all children regardless of color—and because he trusted people too easily.

Caroline had no idea what Major Smith would think of her choices, and she didn’t care. She would always admire Charles and had no regrets, but it hurt to be an outcast. She didn’t want to fight that battle again, so she hurried to the trunk before the major could look inside. She handed Bessie the quinine bottles, lifted the medical bag and unbuckled it. Jon walked up to them with a canteen in one hand and a tin cup in the other. Major Smith took the cup and looked at Bessie. “The quinine, please.”

Bessie opened a bottle and poured a dose of crystals into the cup. “Quinine is most effective when mixed with alcohol. I have some in my bag.”

Caroline opened a tightly corked flask and handed it to the major. He poured a swallow in the cup, returned the bottle to her, then swished the liquid to absorb the crystals. He downed it in one swallow and turned to Bessie. “You’re experienced with malaria.”

“I’m afraid so,” she answered. “I nursed hundreds of soldiers during the war.”

Caroline put away the bottle, set the medical bag in the trunk and glanced around for a wagon to take them to Wheeler Springs. Instead of a wagon, she saw four horses. Two were saddled. Two carried supplies.

“I don’t see a wagon,” she said.

“There isn’t one,” the major replied. “The bridge over the gorge is out. We’ll use one of the packhorses for your things. Jon can ride the other one, and you and your sister can share the gray.”

A shiver started at the nape of Caroline’s neck and went to her fingertips. Horses terrified her. She and Bessie had grown up in Charleston where their father had been a doctor. They’d been city girls. What little riding she’d done as a child had been slow and ladylike. She hadn’t enjoyed it, but she hadn’t become terrified of horses until the night she’d seen her husband lynched. As long as she lived, she’d never forget the sudden bolt of a horse she’d believed to be gentle.

No way could she ride to Wheeler Springs. She had neither the skill nor the confidence to sit on a horse. Neither did she have the courage. How she’d make that clear to Major Smith, she didn’t know, especially when he was looking at her as if he’d just had the best idea of his life. What that idea was, she didn’t know. She only knew this man was accustomed to giving orders, and he expected them to be followed.

Chapter Three

Tristan saw a chance to bring Jon and Caroline together and took it. “On second thought, perhaps you’d prefer to ride with Jon? I’ll take your sister, and we’ll use both packhorses to transport your belongings.”

The eldest Miss Bradley nodded in agreement. “That’s a fine idea, major. Our possessions are modest. Perhaps we can bring everything with us.”

Caroline didn’t seem to concur. She was gaping at him with wide-eyed horror. Surely she wasn’t so modest she couldn’t see the practicality of his suggestion? Tristan frowned. “Is there a problem?”

“Well … yes.”

He waited five seconds for her to explain. Considering he didn’t wait for anyone except Dora, five seconds was a considerable compromise. When the new governess failed to find her tongue, he lowered his chin. “Spit it out.”

The elder Miss Bradley gave him a critical look. “My sister is afraid of horses.”

“Afraid of horses!” Tristan couldn’t help but sputter. “I own a cattle ranch. How does she expect to travel?”

Caroline glared at him. “You hired me to care for your children, not round up cows. I expect to walk or ride in a carriage or wagon.”

Tristan looked at Jon. “How far is it to Wheeler Springs?” He knew quite well, but he wanted her to hear the answer from Jon, who she seemed to like.

Jon’s brow wrinkled in sympathy. “It’s a good thirty miles.”

She turned ashen. Tristan almost felt sorry for her. He’d been afraid many times in his life, ironically less often on the battlefield than in his own home. He’d been afraid of his father when he was boy, and he’d been afraid when Molly had fallen ill. Now he was afraid of the malaria. He tried to offer consolation. “You’re obviously a resolute woman. You’ll be fine with Jon. He’s an excellent horseman.”

“I’m sure he is. It’s just that …” She shuddered. “There’s no choice, is there?”

He shrugged. “You could walk.”

Bessie touched her sister’s shoulder. They exchanged a few quiet words, then the nurse turned to him. “I think it would be best if my sister and I shared the gray as you first suggested.”

Tristan preferred his second idea, but he was tired of arguing. “Very well. Let’s get moving.”

When Caroline hesitated, Jon gave her the reassuring look he often gave Dora. “The horse’s name is Grandma. She couldn’t be gentler.”

She managed a smile. It was tentative and sweet and so full of courage Tristan wanted to give her a medal. But they really didn’t have time to dawdle if they wanted to get home before dark. “We need to go.”

She glared at him. “I need to finish emptying the trunk.”

Without waiting to be dismissed, she took her sister’s medical bag out of the trunk and set it close to her feet. Tristan had to admire her priorities. Except for Molly, the women he’d known would have reached for their jewelry before the medicine. Bessie reached into the trunk to help, but Caroline shooed her away. “Rest your ankle,” she murmured. “We have a long ride.”

So did Tristan and he already felt done in. He wanted to encourage the camaraderie between Jon and Caroline, so he offered Bessie his arm. “Come with me.”

He escorted her to a flat boulder where they sat and watched the packing. Almost clandestinely, Caroline lifted a framed picture from the folds of her gowns. She put it with the precious quinine, then handed the bag to Jon. “This requires special attention.”

“Of course,” he answered.

Tristan called to his friend. “Bring it here. I’ll carry it.” He trusted Jon, but he didn’t trust the packhorse to cross the river without balking. Tristan wanted the medicine in his care alone.

Caroline shot him a look. He figured the photograph was of her parents, though he wondered if it told other tales. Seated on the rock, he watched her expression as Jon set the bag at his feet and returned to help her. In a separate drawstring bag she stowed a black-bound volume he supposed was her Bible, a smaller book bound in cloth and what looked like a doll. She gave the bag to Jon and said something. Looking pleased, he tied the bundle to Grandma’s saddle.

Just as Tristan hoped, the two of them quickly developed an easy rapport. Thirty minutes later, a packhorse was bearing all the women’s possessions.

The time had come to mount up. Tristan leveraged to his feet and offered Bessie his hand. Together they ambled to the horses where Jon and Caroline were standing in front of Grandma. Jon was stroking the horse’s nose, but it was the woman at his side who needed comforting. Looking tentative, she raised her hand to pet the horse.

Surprised, Grandma raised her head. Jon controlled her, but no one was there to control Caroline. She skittered away like a leaf in the wind.

The terror in her eyes reminded Tristan of Dora and how she came to him in tears after Molly’s death. Dora expected people to help her. Caroline clearly had no such hope. She was staring at Grandma as if she were looking at a mountain. He felt sorry for her, but she had to get on the horse.

Jon motioned to Bessie. “Let me help you up first.”

Leaning on Tristan’s arm, Bessie limped to Jon’s side, gripped the horn and put her good foot in the stirrup. With Jon’s help, she landed gracefully in the saddle. Grandma didn’t mind at all.

Jon looked at Caroline. “Are you ready?”

She looked close to tears, but she marched back to the horse like a soldier facing his second battle, the one where experience replaced ignorance and a man discovered his true mettle. Looking at her, Tristan wondered if she’d been thrown before. He could understand her reluctance to try again. He’d felt that way about love after Louisa rejected him.

Molly had mended that hole in his heart. It had threatened to open again with her passing, but she’d been adamant with him.

Don’t you dare leave our children without a mother! I want you to marry again.

He’d made the promise, but he’d done it halfheartedly. He would give his children a mother, but she’d be Jon’s bride, not his. Never his. The malaria had seen to that.

He studied Caroline as she listened to Jon, noting the tilt of her chin and the way she held her shoulders. Her demeanor struck a chord of admiration. So did the way she swung up behind her sister in a flurry of petticoats and courage. When she rewarded Jon with a quiet thank-you, Tristan felt a surge of jealousy. Jon had his health. He had a future, and if the woman’s smile was any indication, he’d have a wife as Tristan hoped and now envied.

Annoyed with himself, he lifted Cairo’s reins from a tree and swung into the saddle as if he were a healthy man and not a feverish weakling. Frowning, he called to Jon. “Let’s go.”

He led the way, keeping the pace slow for the ladies but itching to nudge Cairo into a run. He wanted to leave his weakness behind—the illness, his worries—but he couldn’t. All he could do was ride at a leisurely pace, listening to a pretty woman laugh at Jon’s banter. The pleasantries should have given Tristan comfort. Instead he had to grit his teeth against the urge to one-up Jon with stories of his own.

For two hours he said nothing. When they arrived at the downed bridge, he turned to look at the women. Bessie had a steady way about her, but Caroline went chalk-white at the sight of the trail zigzagging down the canyon wall. Without a word, he led the way on Cairo with Grandma following and Jon at the rear with the second packhorse in tow. He could hear Caroline’s unsteady breathing, but she didn’t utter a word.

When they reached the water’s edge, Tristan turned again to look at the women. Bessie had the stalwart expression of a veteran soldier. He suspected she’d experienced more difficult challenges than crossing a river. Caroline, however, could have been looking at a man-eating grizzly. Tristan followed her gaze to the rushing current. The knee-high water hadn’t gone down since yesterday. Cairo could handle it, but Grandma would be skittish.

He slid out of the saddle. “I’ll ferry the women across.”

It was the first time he’d spoken in two hours. Caroline stared as if she’d forgotten him. “Are you sure it’s safe?”

“Positive.”

Jon dismounted, then lifted her off Grandma’s back. She landed in front of him with her hands resting lightly on his shoulders. Envy poked at Tristan again. Next Jon assisted Bessie, and the four of them stood in a square of sorts. As if the women weren’t present, Tristan addressed Jon. “I’ll take Miss Bradley first. You’ll wait here with Miss Caroline. When I take her across, follow on Grandma with the packhorses.”

To Tristan’s consternation, Caroline took a step back and turned away from them. He followed her gaze to the river and saw a tree branch floating by. Bessie put an arm around her sister’s waist and murmured something. The younger woman murmured back loud enough for Tristan to hear. “I can’t do this,” she said. “It’s just too much.”

Bessie patted her back. “I know, but it’s just a river. You can do it.”

“But I don’t want to!” Her voice rose in volume and pitch. “First we get robbed. Then you sprained your ankle and the wolves kept howling—” She shuddered. “When is it going to stop?”

Tristan ached for her because he felt the same way about his illness. It wasn’t the river that had Miss Bradley in a knot. It was days, weeks, maybe years of frustration.

He stepped up behind her. Wondering if he’d lost his mind, he touched her shoulder. “Caroline?” He deliberately left off the “Miss.”

She startled like a deer, then faced him. “I’m sorry, Major. It’s just—”

“I understand.”

He could have been speaking to Dora, but his daughter wouldn’t have tried to be brave. She’d have reached to be picked up, fully expecting him to protect her. Caroline had no such expectation.

Her doubt challenged him. “The river isn’t deep. I’m confident Cairo can handle it.”

“Who’s Cairo?”

“My horse.”

She turned to look at the stallion. In the shadows of the canyon, his coat glistened black and his muscles were deeply defined. Poised and ready, the horse towered over Grandma.

“He’s huge,” Caroline murmured. “And he looks fast.”

“He’s practically a nag,” Tristan said, joking. “The old boy can barely walk.” He meant the horse, but she looked at him.

Anger flared in her eyes. “You’re making fun of me.”

“No,” he said gently. “I wanted to make you smile. You can be assured that you’ll be safe.”

“I just don’t know.”

“I do,” he said, deadpan. “No one disobeys me. Not even Cairo.”

Jon laughed out loud. “Tell that to Dora.”

“Well, yes,” he acknowledged. “Dora has a mind of her own.”

“So do I.” Caroline squared her shoulders. “But there’s no choice.”

She’d spoken the same words earlier, and it bothered him. He wanted to tell her there was always a choice, but he hadn’t chosen malaria. He hadn’t chosen to lose Molly. Sometimes, there was no choice but to accept the inevitable. Today, though, he had a choice to make. He could be a sympathetic friend or an unfeeling tyrant. Before Caroline could object, he took her hand and tugged her to Cairo. The horse stood with the expectation of royalty. Tristan took a peppermint from his pocket and offered it on his flat palm. Cairo took the treat, bobbing his head as he tasted the mint.

Caroline laughed. “Your horse eats candy.”

“Yes.” Tristan took another piece of peppermint from his pocket and handed it to her. “Hold it flat like I did.”

“I couldn’t—”

“Like this,” he said, unfolding her fingers.

When she didn’t argue, he put the peppermint in her palm and held her hand under Cairo’s nose. The horse took the treat with the gentleness Tristan expected. More amazed than terrified, she turned to him. They were face-to-face, a breath apart. If he’d been a healthy man, he’d have wondered about kissing her. Not now, but later when he knew her better. But malaria had bent his life into a question mark. He could be gone in a week or a month … or he could live a long life. Looking at Caroline, he thought of his promise to Molly to remarry, and he imagined keeping it.

Blushing, Caroline looked away. “Let’s go while I have the courage.”

“Certainly.”

Tristan pulled himself into the saddle, took the reins and guided Cairo to a flat boulder. Understanding his intention, she followed and climbed on the rock. He took his boot out of the stirrup and offered his hand. Nervous but determined, she placed her foot in the stirrup, grasped his fingers and looked into his eyes.

“On the count of three,” he said. “One … two … three.”

He pulled her up and over the horse. She landed with a plop and instinctively wrapped her arms around his waist, squeezing as if she’d never let go. For that moment, the malaria didn’t matter. Tristan felt strong and capable. He might not live to see another Christmas, but he could get Caroline safely across the river.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Yes, Major.”

He’d have preferred to be called Tristan, but a barrier had to be maintained. With Caroline clinging to his waist, he nudged Cairo into the current. The horse plowed into the river until the water rose above his knees. Ripples splashed against Tristan’s thigh, and the hem of Caroline’s skirt became sodden. She was trembling against his back, struggling to breathe evenly and holding him like she’d never him go.

“You’re doing wonderfully,” he said.

“We’re halfway, aren’t we?”

“Exactly.”

They were dead center and in the deepest part of the river. Tristan looked up the canyon and saw a tree branch floating in their direction. He held Cairo back to let it pass, but the current aimed the branch straight at them. When Cairo sidestepped, Miss Bradley squeezed the breath out of him.

“We’re fine,” he said gently. “Just hang on.”

He nudged Cairo to take another step. The horse refused to budge. Looking down, Tristan saw a submerged tangle of limbs and leaves. It was caught on the horse’s hoof, and Cairo didn’t like it.

Caroline trembled against his back. “Why aren’t we moving?”

He thought of his boast that no one would dare disobey him. The stallion, it seemed, had decided to prove him wrong. Tristan would win this test of wills, but it would come at a cost. He put his hand over Caroline’s stiff fingers. “Cairo needs a little encouragement. I’m going to dig in my heels. I want you to be ready because he’s going to jump forward.”

“Oh, no,” she whimpered.

She held even tighter to his waist. Just before he nudged Cairo, the horse sidestepped again. The branch came with him and he started to rear. “Hang on,” Tristan called to her.

He needed both hands to control the horse. Cairo whinnied in irritation, then reared up with the intention of stomping the branch. To Tristan’s dismay, Caroline slid off the horse in a tangle of skirts and petticoats. With a splash, she landed in the river.

Chapter Four

The water went over Caroline’s head with a whoosh. She couldn’t see or breathe. She could only feel the sudden cold and the current grabbing at her skirt. The stallion was bucking and stomping. If she didn’t get out of the river, she’d be pulled downstream or trampled. She tried to stand but stumbled because of the weight of her clothing.

“Get back!” the major shouted.

He had his hands full with the unruly horse. She didn’t know why it had bucked, but the medical case was slapping against its side. She had a horrible vision of it coming loose. Major Smith would lose the quinine, and she’d lose her only picture of Charles. Bracing against the sandy bottom, she pushed to her feet. She wanted to run for the shore, but if the case tore loose she’d go after it.

Cairo reared back and whinnied. She half expected Major Smith to land in the river with her, but he moved gracefully with the horse, aligning his body with the stallion’s neck and back. Behind her she heard Jon sloshing toward them on Grandma. Being caught between two horses terrified her more than drowning, so she hoisted her skirts and ran downriver.

She stumbled a dozen steps, tripped on her hem and went down again. Rocks pressed into her knees and she cried out. She kept her head above water, but her skirt was tangled around her legs. Seemingly out of nowhere, male hands gripped her arms and lifted her from the current.

“Caroline.” She heard the major’s voice, the accent thick as he set her on her feet. “It’s all right. I’ve got you.”

She felt the strength of his arms and the sureness of his stance. As he steadied her, she wiped her eyes with her sleeve and became aware of his body shielding her from the current. She had no business noticing him in a personal way. She was merely an employee, a woman who was afraid of horses and had fallen in the river.

She pulled back from his grasp and staggered away. “I’m all right.”

He splashed closer, reaching for her. “Let me walk you to the shore.”

“No!” She didn’t want to feel his arm around her waist. “Go take care of your horse.”

“Jon has Cairo.”

She looked past him to the shore where Jon and Grandma were leading Cairo up the sandy bank. The black horse had calmed, but he still looked on edge … much like the major. He stepped closer to her, his hand extended as if he were giving her a peppermint. “Come now,” he said with authority. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Oh, yes there is!” She was afraid of him, afraid of her feelings because she couldn’t help but appreciate the nobility of what he had done. With malaria symptoms, he had no business jumping into the river to help her. He should have taken his horse to shore and let Jon come to her rescue. Instead he’d risked getting a chill. Even more revealing was the compassion in his eyes. He looked both sincere and commanding, a man of courage who understood fear. She could imagine soldiers following him into battle, trusting him to lead them to victory.

She wanted to trust him, too. It had been so long since she’d had a man in her life that she could rely on. Charles had died seven years ago. After losing him, she’d become a pariah and no man had wanted her. It had been Bessie’s idea to move to Denver. There they’d found Swan’s Nest, a boardinghouse for women in need, and Caroline had found the faith to love again but not a man to love. She’d continually failed to measure up, though her friends had all found husbands.

Adie Clarke had married Joshua Blue, an unlikely but wonderfully happy match between a woman with a secret and a minister with regrets. Pearl Oliver had found a husband in Matt Wiley. A victim of violence, Pearl had married a lawman dedicated to justice and his little girl. And then there was Mary Larue. Two months ago she’d married outlaw J. T. Quinn, a man from her past whom she’d loved for years.

Caroline didn’t begrudge her friends their happiness, but she very much wanted a family of her own. She wanted to belong somewhere, anywhere. That was what she’d hoped to find when she’d answered the major’s advertisement. But now she wondered if she’d made a mistake. If she was still making a mistake, trusting too soon, believing she could rely on the major. In Denver she’d been safe. Since leaving Swan’s Nest, she’d been robbed and nearly drowned. God had let her down, and so had Major Smith when his horse reared. She glared at him. “I thought no one disobeyed you, not even your horse!”

“Cairo startled—”

“He bucked me off!”

“Yes,” the major said gently. “He became tangled in a branch and startled.”

That voice … He could have gentled the wildest of creatures with that tone, the singsong of his accent. Suddenly she wanted to cry. She didn’t blame the major for Cairo getting spooked, but neither would she forget that she’d fallen. She’d trusted him and suffered for it. Not only could she have drowned, but also he might have been harmed trying to save her.

“Accidents happen,” she said bitterly. “I’m well aware of that.”

“Yes,” he said. “I apologize again. If you’ll allow me to walk you to the shore, we’ll rest for a bit while you dry off.”

She didn’t want to rest only to struggle through a long, tiring journey when the rest was over. She wanted to be safe and dry in a home of her own. She wanted an ordinary life in a place where she belonged. But she couldn’t have any of that. She only had herself. Ignoring his offered hand, she met his gaze. “Thank you, Major. But I can manage.”

She gathered her wet skirts and trudged to the shore, walking slightly upriver and feeling the tug of the current. He came up beside her but didn’t speak. After she’d gone twenty paces, each more draining than the last, he looped his arm around her waist. She felt secure. She felt protected. And she was madder than a wet hen that she wanted to be more than a governess, more than an employee and a woman who’d fallen in the river.

As they slogged through the current, Major Smith acknowledged Jon with a reassuring wave. Mounted on Grandma, Jon recrossed the river to fetch Bessie and the packhorses, leaving Caroline and the major to make their way to the shore. When they reached the bank, he stepped away from her. Except for Cairo tied to a willow, they were alone. Caroline shivered with the chill. As soon as Jon brought the packhorses, she’d put on dry clothes.

With his back to her, Major Smith opened the medical bag to check the quinine. She thought of the picture of Charles. He’d see it. Good, she thought. If he had questions, he could ask. If he had prejudices, she wanted to know it.

“Is the quinine safe?” she asked.

“Yes.” He looked deeper in the case. “Your photograph is unharmed, as well.”

Would he ask who was in the picture? Did he expect her to give details that were none of his business? When he turned and looked into her eyes, she felt like a private in the presence of a general, but she refused either to cower or snap to attention.

Major Smith spoke first. “I was an officer in the West India Regiment. Have you heard of it?”

“No, sir.”

“The West India Regiment is part of the regular British Army. It’s led by men like myself, sons of England—” he said England as if it tasted bad “—but the soldiers are locals from the Caribbean Islands. They’re free black men, Miss Bradley. I don’t know who the gentlemen in your photograph is or what he means to you, but I presume he is—or was—someone important to you.”

She’d been expecting rejection, prejudice. Instead she’d found another reason to like Major Smith. Wondering if the day could get any worse, she looked into his eyes and saw a loyalty that stole her breath, leading her to open her heart. “Charles was my husband. He died seven years ago.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“He was lynched,” she said before she could stop herself. “It was ugly and violent, and I saw it happen. That’s why I’m afraid of horses. The men who did it put him on a broken-down nag. Someone told me later they didn’t intend to kill Charles. They just wanted to scare him.” Her voice dropped to a hush. “They wanted to scare me, too. But the horse went wild. It bucked and Charles … died.”

Major Smith held her gaze. “I’ve seen men die. It changes a person.”

“Yes.”

“And I’ve lost my wife,” he added. “That changes a man, as well.”

Caroline nodded because she truly understood. “I’m sorry for your loss, Major Smith.”

“Likewise, Caroline.”

He’d left off the “Miss,” a fitting acknowledgment of the new accord between them. He also pronounced her name Caro-line. Most people called her Caro-lyn. It made her feel different from the woman she’d always been.

They looked at each other a long time, then both turned away to remember or think. Caroline was surprised at the sudden sense of kinship she felt with this man who had seemed at first to be so brusque and domineering. There was a kindness to him she hadn’t expected. It was enough to make her hope that this journey hadn’t been a mistake. Perhaps she truly had found a place where she could belong.

Still, she wouldn’t get her hopes up yet. She knew too well how badly it would hurt if they were dashed once more.

To her relief, Jon arrived with Bessie and the packhorses. Her sister slid off the mare, ran to Caroline and hugged her. “You could have drowned.”

“Or been trampled,” she added.

“Let’s get you in dry clothes,” Bessie said firmly. “Then you can put the scare out of your mind.”

Caroline agreed about needing dry clothes, but she doubted today’s ordeal would ever leave her thoughts. Somewhere between one side of the river and the other, she’d seen a new side of a man with whom she had believed she had nothing in common, a man from another class and another continent … a man who might finally be able to give her a home. It was a heady and frightening thought. Shivering, she went with Bessie to find a private spot to change. It was a long way to Wheeler Springs. She dreaded getting back on a horse, but she’d be fine with Bessie and Grandma. As for Major Smith and Cairo, the horse scared her and so did the man.

When the women were out of sight, Tristan thought of his own wet clothes. He was soaked to his thighs, but the sun and constant wind would dry the fabric. Feverish or not, he was more concerned about getting Caroline to Wheeler Springs without another incident. She’d most likely want to ride with her sister on Grandma, but Tristan had experience with both fear and horses. Fear had to be faced, and horses had to be controlled. Caroline had to get back on Cairo or her fear would fester. It had nothing to do with any wish on his part to keep the lady close, of course. No, he was convinced it was simply the logical response any employer might have toward a phobia on the part of a brave, stubborn, lovely employee. Turning to Jon, he saw his friend retying the bundle of clothing. “Caroline’s badly shaken,” he said. “But she needs to ride with me, at least for a time.”

“I suppose so,” Jon agreed.

“Of all the fool things,” Tristan muttered. “Cairo’s good in water. That branch came out of nowhere.”

“We almost had two women in the river.” Jon’s brows lifted with admiration. “I had to stop her sister from going in after her.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“I did.” Jon’s lips tipped into a smile. “You’re a good judge of character, Tristan. The Bradleys are exceptional women. I expected the nurse to be a dour sort, but she’s quite pleasant.”

Tristan thought about his plan to match his friend with Caroline. Jon and Bessie were closer in age and possibly in temperament. The nurse would make a fine substitute mother, but he wanted his children to have someone young and spirited, someone more like Molly … someone with the courage to buck convention. Molly had done it when she’d defied her family and joined him in the West Indies. Caroline had done it when she’d married a black man.

Normally reticent, Tristan wouldn’t have mentioned the photograph but he’d been surprised. He’d also been impressed by the defiant tilt of her chin. She was exactly the kind of mother he wanted for his children. If not for the malaria, he’d have been looking forward to riding with her on Cairo. Instead he found himself glaring at Jon.

His friend shot him a concerned glance. “You’re looking rather dour, yourself. Are you feeling ill?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re always fine,” Jon said, mocking him. “If you’re not up to ferrying a frightened woman, I’m sure the Bradleys would do well on Grandma.”

Common sense told Tristan to agree. Male pride made him frown at Jon. “If the day comes that I can’t handle a horse, I’ll be ready for the grave.”

“I didn’t mean the horse,” Jon said rather cheekily. “I meant the woman.”

Tristan glared at him.

“You seem to be getting along quite well,” Jon said too casually. “She’s quite pretty, though of course you didn’t notice.”

Of course Tristan had noticed, but a man in poor health had no business courting a woman’s affections. He was about to suggest Jon take Caroline on Grandma when the women approached from the bushes. Caroline had fashioned her hair into a braid and looped it around her head in a crown of sorts. The sun glinted off the dampness, giving it a sparkle. She’d put on an old calico, a gown he guessed to be comfortable and a favorite. She looked none the worse for wear. In fact, she looked lovely with flushed cheeks and a determined lift of her chin.

When the women reached the horses, she addressed him directly. “We’re ready, Major.”

“Yes, I see.”

She turned to Grandma, where Jon was waiting to help Bessie into the saddle. His friend lifted a brow at Tristan, questioning him about the riding arrangements.

Tristan cleared his throat. “You’ll be riding with me.”

She faced him, her mouth slightly agape. “I don’t think—”

“I do. We all know the adage about getting back up on a horse.”

“And I will,” she replied. “I’ll ride Grandma with my sister.”

Tristan put his hands behind his back, a pose he assumed to intimidate new privates. “May I be blunt?”

“Of course.”

“Not only do I think it’s wise for you to overcome your fear, I’m afraid I have a point to prove … to Cairo.”

She wrinkled her brow. “Your horse’s behavior isn’t my concern. My safety is.”

“Which leads to my second point.” His tone stayed firm. “I’d like a chance to prove that Cairo isn’t as dangerous as you’ve assumed. It’s rather important, really. If you’re to be living on a ranch, you need to be comfortable around animals.”

“I don’t mind animals,” she replied. “But your horse—”

“He reacted to a fright,” Tristan answered. “Surely you can understand. He’d like a chance to redeem himself.” Tristan didn’t want to admit it, but he had the same need. He glanced at Jon for help and saw a bemused look on his friend’s face and then a twinkle in his eyes. Looking roguish, Jon addressed Caroline. “I can attest to the major’s abilities as a horseman.”

She glanced at her sister. Bessie gave a little shrug. “It’s up to you.”

Pale, Caroline turned back to him. “I don’t think—”

“I do,” he said gently. “The river is tricky for a horse. The road to town isn’t.”

She looked at him for several seconds. What she was gauging, he didn’t know. Was it his ability, or her own courage? In the end, she walked in his direction. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll go with you on Cairo.”

“Very good.” Why he was so pleased, Tristan couldn’t say. Neither did he know why he shot Jon a triumphant look, the kind they’d shared before he’d settled down with Molly, when they’d been young lieutenants and full of themselves.

As Caroline approached Cairo, Jon helped Bessie climb on Grandma, then mounted the packhorse. Tristan mounted Cairo, took his boot out of the stirrup and held out his hand. Without a rock to stand on, she had to leap and stretch, which is just what she did. She held his waist like before, but without the cinchlike grip. In silence he turned Cairo and headed down the road at a walk.

Clop. Clop. Clop.

She sighed.

Clop. Clop. Clop.

Tristan looked over his shoulder. “How are you doing?”

“Fine.”

She sighed again. He said nothing. After a mile, she spoke over his shoulder. “Major Smith?”

“Yes?”

“How long will it take us to get to Wheeler Springs?”

“At this pace, about three days.” When she laughed, he thought of lively piano music and the celebrations after battle. It felt good to know he’d restored her humor. Encouraged, he spoke over his shoulder. “Do you think you can handle going a little faster?”

She hesitated. “I suppose so. I’m eager to get to town.”

“So am I,” he replied. “I’m going to give Cairo a nudge. If you feel at all uncomfortable, just say so.”

“Set the pace, Major.”

When he urged Cairo into a slow jog, Caroline tightened her grip on his waist to keep from bouncing. He was tempted to ask if she wanted to go faster, but if she agreed then he knew she’d hold on tighter. He needed to keep her at arm’s length the way an officer lived apart from enlisted men. That’s how he’d think of Caroline Bradley … as a private in his personal army. Or maybe a sergeant because she’d be raising his children. With that thought in mind, Tristan rode with the pretty governess in resolute silence.

Chapter Five

Caroline couldn’t fault the major’s logic about having her ride with him on Cairo, but she felt like a sack of potatoes, one in danger of sliding to the ground and splitting open. With her arms belted around his waist, she heard every beat of Cairo’s hooves. She distracted herself with questions about the man before her. Why had he come to America instead of returning to England? What had his wife been like? And the malaria … How did he cope with the fevers? And what provisions had he made for his children?

Unable to stand the silence, she decided the children were a safe subject and surrendered to curiosity. “Major Smith?”

“Yes?”

“I’d like to hear about Freddie and Dora.”

He hesitated. “You already know their names and ages.”

“Yes, but I’d like to know about them. What do they like to do?”

“They’re children, Miss Bradley. They entertain themselves.”

Miss Bradley made it clear his earlier kindness was to be forgotten. It annoyed her but not nearly as much as his refusal to talk about his children. He seemed cold again, even austere. Having lost their mother, Freddie and Dora needed their father’s attention, and if his current behavior was any indication, he seemed unwilling to give it. If she’d been blessed with children, she’d have cherished every smile, every new adventure.

She rode with the major in silence, staring straight ahead until they reached the livery stable marking the beginning of Wheeler Springs. A row of buildings included a barber and bathhouse, a dress shop and a mercantile with its doors propped open. The shopkeeper stepped outside with a broom. Seeing their arrival, he waved a greeting.

Major Smith answered with a nod, a gesture that reminded Caroline of a returning soldier in a parade.

Across the street she saw a café with yellow curtains, and she thought of the wonderful food at the café run by Mary Larue, now Mary Quinn. At her wedding, Mary had placed her bouquet firmly in Caroline’s arms, a gesture Caroline knew to be futile. For whatever reason, God had said no to her prayers for a family of her own. Instead He’d brought her to Wheeler Springs to love the Smith children, a cause she intended to embrace.

Halfway through town, the major turned Cairo down a road that led to a three-story house with paned glass windows, a wide porch and a cupola. Square and painted white with green trim, it reminded her of the houses in Charleston.

“Where are we?” she asked the major.

“My town house. We’ll leave for The Barracks in the morning.”

Once broken, the silence between them felt sharper than ever. Where was the man who’d helped her out of the river? The one who gave peppermint to his horse? The closer they rode to the house, the more rigid the major became until she felt as if she were holding on to a lamppost. They were still several paces away when the front door burst open and a little girl came charging across the porch. Dark hair framed her face and accented her rosy cheeks.

“Daddy!” she cried.

The major heaved an impatient sigh. “I gave orders for the children to stay at The Barracks.”

The thought of children being ordered to stay away from their father struck her as heinous. Why would he do such a thing? She wanted to take him to task, but she was in no position to initiate such a conversation … at least not yet. She settled for a calm observation. “Dora is lovely.”

He said nothing.

“You must be very proud of her.”

“I suppose.”

Appalled by his apparent indifference and moved by Dora’s obvious need, Caroline tried again. “Does she like to play with dolls?”

He said nothing, though he hadn’t looked away from his little girl. Did he know what a gift he had in this precious child? Caroline wanted to lecture him, to warn him that such gifts could be snatched in a blink, but then she realized that he knew it. Major Smith was afraid to love his children because he was afraid of dying and leaving them to grieve.

Caroline watched over his shoulder as a boy with the major’s blond hair and stiff posture joined his sister at the top of the two steps connecting the porch to the ground. “That must be Freddie,” she said more to herself than the major. “He’s a handsome lad, isn’t he?”

Major Smith reined Cairo to a halt. “You should be aware, Miss Bradley, that I expect orders to be followed. And I left specific instructions for the children to remain at the ranch.”

She couldn’t resist a bit of defiance. “Apparently not everyone obeys you, at least not when children miss their father.”

Without turning or twitching, the major spoke in a tone just for her. “Courage becomes you, Miss Bradley. Rudeness does not. I suggest you mind your own affairs and leave me to mine.”

He’d snubbed her, rightfully so, considering her position in his household. Stranded on his horse, she wanted to escape his nearness but feared sliding off and ending up in a heap. She settled for releasing her grip on the major’s waist and looking for Jon. He rode up next to them, swung off the packhorse and helped her down with a gentleman’s ease.

“There you go,” he said in a friendly tone.

“Thank you.”

Bessie halted Grandma next to the packhorse. After Jon helped her sister dismount, Caroline asked him to retrieve a small bundle from their possessions. It held gifts for the children and she wanted to present them now. Assuming Major Smith would introduce her, she waited while he tied the reins to the hitching post.

She turned her attention to the children. Dora’s eyes were wide with curiosity. Freddie reminded her of his father, both in looks and in temperament. He had a stoic expression, a sign he’d learned sadness and loss too young. Dora needed a smile and a hug. Freddie needed to know she’d respect his quiet nature. Already Caroline felt challenged by the differences in the children.

Major Smith indicated she should step forward. For the first time since leaving the river, she had a clear view of his face. Creases fanned from his blue eyes, deeper and more numerous than she’d seen this morning. The line of his mouth pitched downward in a frown, or maybe it was a grimace against exhaustion. He wasn’t a well man, and the trip to the stagecoach had cost him. Compassion tempered the frustration she’d felt toward him moments ago.

She came forward as he’d indicated, watching the children for their reactions. Freddie snapped to attention. Dora leaned against her brother and acted shy. Caroline was glad she’d brought the doll. Little Dora desperately needed something to hug.

The major spoke in a firm voice. “Good afternoon, children.”

“Good afternoon, Father,” Freddie answered.

Dora hid her face against her brother.

“Come forward, please,” the major said. “I’d like you to meet Miss Caroline Bradley, your new governess.”

Freddie took Dora’s hand and guided her forward. The protective gesture touched Caroline to the core and reminded her of how the major had gently guided her out of the river. His cold attitude to the children hadn’t always been a wall between them. She suspected that losing his wife and facing an illness had changed him.

When the children reached the ground, they stopped four feet in front of her. Freddie looked up at his father, a soldier ready to take orders. Dora looked at her toes, a little girl who didn’t know what to do. Aching for her, Caroline stepped forward and dropped to a crouch so she could look into the child’s eyes. They were blue like her father’s and no less haunted. A harrumph told her she’d crossed the major, but she didn’t care. He could be cold and distant if he wanted, but Caroline had no such inclination.

She smiled at the shy little girl. “You must be Dora.”

Still looking down, the child nodded.

“That’s a pretty name,” Caroline said gently. “And you’re wearing such a pretty dress. I bet you like to play with dolls.”

Her head bobbed up and she nodded.

“Good,” Caroline declared. “So do I.”

The major spoke to her back. “Miss Caroline, I don’t think—”

“I do.” Ignoring him, she opened the drawstring bag and gave Dora the doll. “I made this for you.”

The major’s voice boomed behind her. “Miss Bradley!”

He sounded ready to court-martial her, but she had to give the book to Freddie the way she’d given the doll to Dora. She took the volume from the bag, stood tall and handed it to the boy. “This is for you, Freddie.”

The major had said little about the boy’s interests, so she’d taken advice from Mary Quinn’s young brother and selected a science book with easy experiments. “We can use kitchen items to make a volcano. That should be fun.”

Freddie’s eyes lit up, but he looked to his father for direction.

Not wanting the boy to be a pawn, Caroline faced the major. She recalled how he’d ignored her when she’d wanted to tell him about the quinine. It went against her nature to be rude, so she gave him a wistful smile. “Forgive me, Major Smith. I was just so excited to meet your children. I’m sure you understand.”

She’d meant to bridge the gap between the major and Freddie and Dora. Instead she felt as if she were in the middle of the river again, only this time Major Smith needed to be led to shore. He looked both stunned and bitter about his poor health. Caroline couldn’t abide his attitude toward Freddie and Dora, but neither would she do him the dishonor of being blunt. His children were present, and Bessie and Jon were watching them with more than idle curiosity.

She softened the moment with a winsome smile. “I do apologize, Major Smith. With your permission, I’d like to speak to Dora and Freddie for a just another moment.”

He made a sweeping motion with his arm. “By all means, Miss Bradley. Speak as long as you’d like. Take all afternoon … take all night.”

Ignoring the sarcasm, she crouched next to Dora. “I thought we could name your new doll together.”

Dora’s bottom lip pushed into a pout, trembling until she finally spoke. “I want to name her Molly.”

Freddie elbowed his sister. “You can’t!”

“Why not?” Dora whined back.

“Because that was Mama’s name.”

The boy had the cold tone of an undertaker, but Caroline wasn’t fooled. He’d built a wall to protect his bruised heart. Dora’s innocent attempt to keep her mother’s memory alive hit the wall like a battering ram. Behind her the major inhaled deeply, a sign he wasn’t as indifferent to his children as he wanted to appear. Hoping to smooth the waters, she touched Dora’s shoulder. “Molly’s a fine name. It would honor your mother, but we need to consider your father and Freddie, too. We can give the doll two names, a special middle name and one for everyday.”

“Do you have two names?” Dora asked.

“I do,” Caroline answered. “I’m Caroline Margaret Bradley. Margaret is after my grandmother.”

Dora looked at her father. “What’s my other name?”

A five-year-old shouldn’t have needed to ask that question. She should have been loved and schooled in family memories. When the major hesitated, she wondered if he knew the answer.

He finally cleared his throat. “Your full name is Theodora Constance Smith. Constance was your mother’s sister.”

Dora’s eyes got wide. “I can’t write all that!”

Caroline took the child’s hand and squeezed. “I’ll teach you.”

Standing, she turned to Freddie. The boy’s expression was strained, a mirror image of his father. She’d have to work to win him over, but she firmly believed God had brought her to this family for a purpose. Not only did the children need a mother, but they also needed a father who wasn’t afraid to love them.

She motioned for Bessie to come forward. “This is my sister, Miss Elizabeth Bradley. You can call her Miss Bessie.” Hoping to earn Freddie’s interest, Caroline spoke to him directly. “She was a nurse in the war.”

Freddie tried to seem bored, but his brows lifted with curiosity. Bessie greeted the boy, then said hello to Dora. Both children enjoyed the attention.

Caroline thought the first meeting went well. She turned to express her pleasure to Major Smith and saw a frown creasing the corners of his mouth. He dismissed the children with a terse order to go back inside, instructed Jon to report their arrival to the stage office, then motioned for Caroline and Bessie to enter the house. In the entry hall she saw a tall black man. When he broke into a smile, she thought of Charles.

“Good evening, Miss Bradley.” He greeted her with a slight bow. “Welcome to Wheeler Springs.”

Major Smith stood to the side. “Ladies, this is Sergeant Noah Taylor. Noah, I’d like you to meet the Bradley sisters, Miss Bessie and Miss Caroline.”

She and this man were peers and equals, employees of the major. Caroline extended her hand. “Please call me Caroline.”

“Yes, Caroline.”

He greeted Bessie with equal aplomb. Behind him a black woman emerged from the kitchen. Tall and graceful, she looked at Major Smith with a mix of dignity and frustration. “Good afternoon, sir.”

Major Smith answered with a nod. “Ladies, this is Evaline. She’s Noah’s wife and will show you to your rooms.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “But first I must apologize.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Does this have something to do with my children being here?”

The woman dipped her chin. “I know you left orders to keep them at The Barracks, but they were lonely for you.”

Caroline loved Evaline on the spot. She’d risked a scolding to do right by the children. The major claimed no one disobeyed him, but his housekeeper had the freedom to follow her conscience. The major gave orders, but he wasn’t unreasonable. Deep down, he cared about people. It showed, if one knew where to look.

Looking wry, he traded a look with Noah. “I seem to have lost all authority.”

The man grinned. “No, sir. Just with Evaline.”

The major harrumphed but made no effort to scold the woman. Instead he seemed to forget all about the transgression. “See to it the Bradley women have bathwater and whatever else they need.” He turned back to Caroline. “Supper will be served at seven o’clock. The children will be present.”

“Yes, sir,” she answered.

Evaline indicated the stairs. “This way, ladies.”

The housekeeper led the way with Bessie behind her and Caroline bringing up the rear. When she reached the landing, she looked down. At the same instant, the major looked up. Their gazes locked in a test of wills. She’d defied him when she’d spoken to the children, and he’d let her. Neither had he chastised Evaline. The major conducted himself with acerbic authority, but his final decisions showed respect, even a deep caring, for his friends and family. Why would he be so cold on the outside when he plainly loved Freddie and Dora?

They looked away from each other at the same time. Silent but determined to bring joy to this troubled household, she followed Evaline and Bessie up the stairs.

It was a sad day when a man’s housekeeper disobeyed him and he let her. It was an even sadder day when he couldn’t control the governess, or even his own children. Wondering why he bothered to issue orders at all, Tristan went to his study, shut the door and dropped down in the leather chair. It squeaked, yet another act of defiance against his desire for quiet.

He couldn’t be angry with Evaline. He’d been happier to see Freddie and Dora than he could admit. But he’d held true to his resolve to keep his distance. With the malaria threatening his life, he had to stay strong for them. They had to learn they could live without him. The decision had seemed wise until Caroline skewered him by giving Dora the doll. He’d known how much his daughter missed her mother, but he hadn’t realized how alone he’d left his children. It took discipline to stay strong for them, but that’s what a father did … what an officer did. When everyone else succumbed to tears and flashes of temper, an officer kept his wits about him.

At the moment Tristan’s wits were in tatters. He needed another dose of quinine, but he hadn’t taken the bottles from Bessie’s medicine bag because he’d been distracted by the children. Neither did he have easy access to the small supply he’d brought from The Barracks. It was upstairs in his bedroom, and he didn’t want to pass his house-guests in the hall. He’d wait, but only for a bit.

To fortify himself, he picked up the letter that had been delivered before he’d left. Pennwright’s neat script was badly smudged, but he expected the man’s dry humor would be intact. He sliced the envelope with an opener, removed a single sheet and began to read.

Dear Tristan,

I’m writing to you with a heavy heart. Both of your brothers are dead.

Tristan read the opening words again, then a second time. As the ramifications sunk in, his insides shook the way they did before weapons were drawn for battle. The shaking signaled danger and the loss of life … his life … the life in Wyoming he wanted for his children. With his brothers dead, he’d become his father’s heir and the next duke of Willoughby. The clock in the entry gonged six times, a death knell to accent Pennwright’s perfect script.

As if surveying a battle report, he took in the rest of the letter. Andrew had died of cholera, and he’d left no sons or daughters. Tristan immediately thought of his widow, Louisa, alone and grieving without even children to comfort her. She’d broken his heart when she’d married his brother, but he held no bitterness. He only wondered why she jilted him and if somehow he’d failed her. Oscar had died a week after Andrew. Pennwright’s explanation chilled Tristan to the bone.

He died from a gunshot to the head. Your father is calling it a hunting accident.

Tristan knew his brother well enough to read between the lines. Oscar had called hunting the sport of fools. He didn’t like horses, exercise or perspiration. With a heavy heart, Tristan acknowledged what hadn’t been written. Oscar’s “hunting” accident had likely been suicide. Tristan viewed the deed as cowardice, but he understood why Oscar had done it. A man of little discipline, he’d have become the duke’s whipping boy.

Pennwright’s next words carried no surprise, but they jarred him nonetheless.

You, Tristan, are now heir to your father’s title and holdings. He wishes you to return to England immediately to assume your duties.

If Tristan had been healthy, he might have gloated at the irony. The son his father had dismissed as worthless now had value to him. But Tristan wasn’t well … Chances were good his father would outlive him, and Freddie would fall under the man’s influence. The thought chilled Tristan to the bone.

The duke could issue whatever orders he pleased, but Tristan wouldn’t snap mindlessly to attention. He had to protect his son. The duke had turned Andrew into a pampered poodle and Oscar into an alley cat. Tristan refused to be paraded like a pet, nor would he allow Freddie to be turned into Andrew or Oscar.

In the same breath, he recognized the profound responsibility of being a duke. He’d been born a third son, but he’d become a leader of men. By blood and British law, he had a duty to the people of Willoughby and wanted to fulfill his obligation with honor.

But he was also a father and he had to protect his son. Tristan was the only defense between Freddie and the duke. He refused to allow his son to be used and manipulated. Dora would suffer, too. His daughter would be valued solely for her worth as a future wife, not for the charming little girl she was. As long as Tristan and his father were both alive, he had time to come up with a strategy. There was no need to rush back to England, at least not yet.

Weary to the bone, he left Pennwright’s letter on the desk and headed to his room. After supper he’d speak to Jon about ways to protect Freddie. Tristan was a good strategist, but Jon had a more creative mind. First, though, he needed quinine.

He entered his suite and shut the door with a click. He took the dose of medicine, then washed his hands and changed into attire befitting a meal with the new governess and her sister. The women would talk throughout supper and so would his children. Jon would be charming, and Tristan would be stoic. With a bittersweet longing to be well again, he headed for the dining room, wearing the stiff upper lip he was so very tired of maintaining.