Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
Max tugged his thick work gloves up his sweaty wrists, not sure how to answer Miss Calliope’s question. Not sure if he even should answer her question. ‘You tell me the future,’ Creede had said, ‘I might change what I do here in the past, and folks’ lives might change. Now. Twenty years from now. A hundred and twenty years from now.’ The man had an excellent point.
But Miss Calliope was hard to resist, her beautiful eyes full of a curiosity about life that tugged at his heart.
Sweat ran down her lovely face, Miss Calliope working as hard as the rest of them, vitality in her every move, strength in her lithe, feminine body. Dropping her gaze to a strand of jagged barbed wire attached to the next post, she carefully detached it as she waited for his answer.
Captivated by her fervor to protect the land, its animals, and her neighbors—if that fervor had carried down through the James family, no wonder he’d had a tough time getting water rights—he swiftly rolled up the sharp wire she’d detached as he strode to the next post across the long grass, careful not to touch her as she’d held out the strand. He didn’t want Bart to get the wrong idea and banish him from Miss Calliope’s side.
“You going to answer my question, prince?”
He glanced back at her, the afternoon even hotter than the morning had been, the film of mud still on most of his skin mixing with sweat and running in little muddy trickles from his neck down over his chest. Beyond her, Bart and Matthew were working fast; Hugo had chopped hard into Matthew’s land, basically grabbing all the grass for himself, and Max was as determined as the rest of them to not stop until every bit of barbed wire and fence post was gone.
He’d come to the conclusion the best way to protect Miss Calliope was to drive Hugo back to Zalgravia. Pushing back on the Evil Prince’s arrogant, bully-like tactics like this very fence was a solid first step. From what he’d read about Hugo, he neither liked nor tolerated interference. Nor did Hugo’s father tolerate Hugo’s depredations against others, something Max hoped would deter Hugo from doing anything outrageous—and which, when the interference from Max and his new friends grew intolerable, would drive Hugo away from Wyoming and the Sky Top family.
“Prince?”
Her blue eyes danced with mischief, and he realized the truth of Creede’s fears, that to say anything of the future could change the present—her present—and interfere with his own efforts to keep her safe. “No,” he told her with a smile he knew was as charming as hell—even the press had called him Prince Charming on occasion. “But I’ll tell you about Good King Bartholomew, who ruled Zalgravia in 1342.”
“I’d rather hear about the future.”
“I’m not sure I should tell you about that,” he said. “Doc and Creede are concerned it might change things.” But wasn’t that what Max intended to do? Keep Hugo from harming Miss Calliope James and her family?
He glanced in the direction of the Crown, his eyes narrowing. Would doing that endanger his own family in the future?
The thought sent a spike through his stomach. There were more people to account for here than Max and Miss Calliope and Sheriff Sam Creede. People like his sister and her unborn child. People like his nieces and nephews already born.
Miss Calliope scowled at him for a moment, clearly not liking his answer, then she detached another strand of barbed wire from the post, concentration deep in her face. “There,” she said, catching Max’s eye, her sweet rosewater scent mingling with the nearby patch of pine on the side of the fence Hugo had left for Matthew, the grass petering out around the trees, the ground shifting to dirt and rock. The gentle rushing sound of the creek that ran across the grasslands—unlike the roaring Elkhorn River—set a cadence for the work. “Won’t be no animals caught in this here fence.”
Animals, he’d discovered—at least, horses and dogs—seemed drawn to Miss Calliope, which had surprised him. She was all energy and activity, not the peaceful presence he thought animals would gather around.
Perhaps it was her desire for their well-being that attracted them to her. Perhaps it was her down-to-earth, outright honesty.
It sure as hell was attracting him. “Why did you follow us to the Crown today?” he asked her.
“You didn’t know, did you? Not until I called out.”
“No,” he admitted. “None of us did.”
“Sheriff Sam, Roy, and Bart are good at tracking, and knowin’ who’s around, but I’m better.”
It would have been a boast if it weren’t true. Miss Calliope wasn’t a modest miss, more of a forthright one.
Max found it immensely refreshing. “Why did you follow us?”
“I wanted to hold you to your word to tear down this fence.”
The sound of a horse-drawn, wheeled conveyance cut across the air. A covered buggy came into view from the east, crossing through the grasslands.
A young woman in an old-fashioned dress of dark blue was at the reins, a gingham bonnet on her head. Two young children sat on the buggy seat beside her. She pulled up in the shade cast by the stand of pine, her gaze curious as she caught sight of Max.
Miss Calliope set her wire cutters and work gloves on the top of the nearest fence post and strode toward the buggy, gesturing for Max to follow. “Marilee,” she said as the young woman stepped down from the buggy, “this is our new friend Max Balmont. Max, this here is Mrs. Fielding.”
Max tipped his hat to the young woman.
Mrs. Fielding, blooming with health, greeted him with a polite smile, no angry expression on her round face, no expression of fear, and he figured she had not yet made the acquaintance of Hugo.
Just as well. He’d been shocked at how swiftly Matthew had caught the resemblance between him and his ancestor, even with him clean shaven and wearing his hat and bandana. He’d berated himself ever since for not anticipating such a reaction, for not doing a better disguise, but he’d never dreamed people would so easily connect him with Hugo, not at first glance.
“That’s Hannah,” Miss Calliope said, nodding at the little gingham-clad girl Mrs. Fielding was helping down from the buggy, Hannah about four years old, he thought, judging by his own nieces and nephews. “This little feller” —about two, Max thought— “is Jeremiah.” Miss Calliope caught the boy by the waist and swung him from the buggy, then up high in the air, getting a delighted squeal in return, and mentally, Max added one more family to his list of people to protect from Hugo.
By the time supper rolled around, Max had worked up a big appetite: traveling through time, keeping up with Miss Calliope on horseback, tearing down an illicit barbed wire fence.
Matthew and Marilee had offered them a full meal, more than the sandwiches and fruit Marilee had brought to the worksite, but Bart had been eager to get back to Livia, and Max—seeing the speculation still in Matthew’s eyes as to who he might be—knew he needed to get back to keeping a low profile.
He was beginning to realize how much an oddity he was out here among the ranchers, and how easily word of his presence could travel to Hugo.
“That was real nice of you to destroy the fence Evil Prince Hugo put across Matthew’s land,” Miss Calliope said to him from across the supper table back at the Sky Top.
Calliope , Max repeated in his head as he cut into a steak like none he’d ever had before, forcing himself to think of the young woman in formal terms. He had no intention of offending her mother again by saying ‘Miss Cally,’ a slip he’d made when they’d returned to the ranch from Matthew’s place.
Summer evening sunlight came muted through the dining room’s tall, wide windows with a spectacular view of the tumbling river flowing along the side of the house, and the mountains beyond, the room opening off the back of the great room. Inside, elegant furnishings similar to those in the parlor attested to the James family’s prosperity and good taste: a large rectangular cherrywood dining table with curved legs and matching chairs, embossed lilac wallpaper and gleaming smoked-glass sconces.
Food covered the white lace tablecloth—baked potatoes, a vegetable casserole, round, flaky rolls, and caramelized onions, with the promise of wild blackberry pie for dessert—all of it delicious and disappearing fast.
Miss Calliope dug into a large helping of the garden-fresh casserole. Wearing a pastel-yellow dress that showed her pretty athletic figure to advantage, her long dark hair up in an elaborate chignon at odds with her tomboy grin, she was lovely in a fresh, uncomplicated, feminine way that took his breath. “You realize now,” she told him, “the Evil Prince is going to be on the warpath.”
“Not at all,” he said. “No warpath.”
She screwed up her face in an adorable ‘you don’t know what you’re talking about’ grimace.
“Truly, no warpath,” he said, passing a linen-lined basket filled with the hot rolls to Mrs. James on his left, at the foot of the table, opposite Bart at the head, Mrs. James polite to Max in her gentle way, but Max wondered how much she really wanted him there, and how much she’d prefer that he was gone.
At least he was finally clean, a hot bath and more borrowed clothes—denim trousers and a new-looking red plaid Western shirt, Bart unwilling to give him anything more formal—making him feel like a new man. “He needs to discover who his enemy is.”
“We’re all his enemy,” Bart said, Livia between him and Max, the husband and wife in clothing just this side of formal. Even Doc and Creede, who sat on either side of Miss Calliope, wore clean clothes, apparently often-enough visitors to the ranch to keep a fresh outfit there.
According to Creede, Hugo’s henchman Kuthbert had been nowhere in sight when he and the others had arrived at Hugo’s house, leaving no one to arrest. Strong words had been spoken to Hugo, which Max knew Hugo would ignore. Doc and the sheriff had returned to the Sky Top to consult with Bart and Max, Creede convinced Hugo wouldn’t stop with today’s crimes.
Roy had gone on to the Porter ranch, to join up with Deputy Wilmo and the ranch hands Bart had sent to bring Robert Porter’s family to the Sky Top.
Max nodded now at Bart. “Enemies, yes. But he doesn’t know that. Nor can he take you all on at once. He’ll want to know who to target first, who has targeted him. Who was brave—or foolish—enough to try to stop him encroaching on other ranchers’ land.”
“How the blazes is he goin’ to do that?” Miss Calliope said.
“Daughter,” Mrs. James said, a gentle reprimand in her tone.
“Diplomacy,” Max said. “I should think we and your neighbors will receive a formal visit from His Royal Highness within a day or two.”
Coffee and dessert were served in the elegant parlor in the front corner of the house off the great room.
Oil lamps with frosted glass shades cast a soft glow over the warm room, the waning evening sun still coming in through the windows. A wood-trimmed sofa and love seat upholstered in flowered silk took center stage around a long coffee table covered with the food and drink, velvet chairs covered in robin’s-egg blue rounding out the central seating. A fireplace off to the right was flanked by matching wingback chairs.
While the others gathered around the coffee table, Max pulled Bart aside to the farthest window overlooking the river. Fresh pink and blue flowers—mixed in a crystal vase with stalks of fragrant lavender—sat on a tall, narrow table beside the open window, the rushing sound of the river a constant comforting undertone, Max having overcome his reaction to the sound of swift-moving water. A family of elk had ventured close to the house on the other side of the riverbank, getting an evening drink.
Voices from the center of the room were raised in friendly conversation.
“I suggest,” Max said in a low tone to Bart, “that Miss Calliope not be present when my ancestor favors us with his presence.”
Bart narrowed his eyes.
“Just a precaution,” Max said. “She’s charming and lovely and unwed.”
Bart stared at him for a long moment. “You think he would dare …?”
“He expects to have his own way, with everything and everyone. A particularly repellant legacy. I’d prefer to not give him a reason to…desire anything. Or anyone.”
Bart gave him a short nod and strode to his wife, who sat next to Mrs. James on the love seat. On the coffee table, the tiered silver serving dish was filled now with little fruit tarts and cookie squares. A separate serving dish held the sliced blackberry pie, a silver tea service and coffeepot beside it on a tray. “Livia,” Bart said, standing at her end of the love seat, his voice a bit too concerned to sound casual, “weren’t you and Cally planning to visit Grace in town?”
Grace, Max had learned, was Doc’s wife.
“Next week,” Livia said. “When we’re in Mule Stop for the town dance.” She gave her husband a scrutinizing look. “You want us out of the way?” She turned to Max, who was still at the window, not wanting to influence anyone’s decisions. “You think Evil Prince Hugo’s diplomatic mission might turn violent?”
“Tell us outright,” Miss Calliope said, jumping up from the sofa from beside Doc, Creede in one of the velvet chairs. Narrowing her gaze on Max, she put her hands on her pretty hips, never seeming to want to be left out, always needing to be in on whatever plans were being made. “Don’t be beatin’ around the bush.”
“No one is going to town until next week,” Mrs. James said in a calm, gentle tone that nonetheless carried all the authority of the family matriarch. “We are welcoming guests tomorrow, for a three-day stay, as you may recall.” Dressed in a simple blue dress that was no less elegant for its simplicity, she shook her head at Bart, who’d taken in a breath, seeming ready to argue. “We have a tea party tomorrow afternoon,” she told him, “for Calliope to greet her suitors.”
“Suitors?” Max said, his eyebrows raised, and grinned at the thought of Miss Calliope standing still long enough to greet anyone.
Miss Calliope made a face. “They’re courtin’ me,” she told Max. “Ma arranged it.”
“Two of the young men have traveled from Denver,” Mrs. James said.
Two of them, then, Max realized, were damned serious. Denver to Mule Stop was a multi-day journey in the nineteenth century.
“Their parents will be arriving in Mule Stop in a few days’ time for several entertainments I have arranged in town,” Mrs. James added. “We can’t cancel at this late date.”
“Then Livia will go to town without Cally,” Bart said. “Flora will go with her.”
Livia shook her head. “I wouldn’t miss any of this for the world,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Cally’s suitors. Max’s evil prince.”
Mrs. James gave Livia a fond smile, then turned to Bart. “Handle our neighbors’ issues off the ranch,” she told him. “I won’t have Prince Hugo interfering with Calliope’s future.”
Max felt his face flinch at the foreboding that struck at his chest, the foreboding similar to those from that morning, only this one was stronger.
“What?” Miss Calliope said to him, her pretty eyes like lasers on his face, pretty eyes that seemed to see everything. “Why did you just scrinch up your face? What do you know?”
“Nothing,” he lied, thinking of Doc and Creede’s—Sheriff Sam Creede’s!—warnings. To tell her and her family any more than he already had might have them changing behavior that might put her, and Max, in even more danger. “But my ancestor has an appalling reputation for lying, cheating, and harming others for his own self-interest. I would spare your family that, if I could.” And more than for his own family’s honor, he realized, his gaze on Miss Calliope’s lovely, vibrant face.
The sun was setting over the snow-topped Wind Dance Mountains to the distant west, the evening finally cooling, when Max stepped outside onto the front porch to think, the air miraculously clear and fresh and scented with the pine that grew beyond the end of the porch, past the picnic table.
The river beyond the other end of the house tumbled and rushed, the sound soothing, and Max felt his burdened shoulders start to relax. It was pretty clear why he’d traveled to 1897. To stop Hugo from terrorizing his neighbors. To redeem Max’s family’s honor.
To protect the charming Miss Calliope.
The charming Miss Calliope stepped out onto the porch behind him, her high-cut, low-heeled shoes quiet on the wood planks, her rose scent sweet as it mingled with the pine.
They stood side by side for a long moment, watching the sun drop behind the distant mountains, Miss Calliope more silent and still than he’d imagined she could be.
The sky above the Wind Dance range spread with gold.
“You care about the land, prince?” she asked in a quiet tone.
He nodded.
“Is the land much changed in your time?”
How to answer? “What I’ve seen of the Crown of the West in my time reflects my family’s neglect, yet there are few buildings and roads,” he said. No real development at all, he thought, not like some advisors had urged, to turn the prime land into ranchettes and housing. “No dams, if that’s what you’re asking. Though there’s the wildlife sanctuary now along that stretch of the Elkhorn River where you found me today. Elsewhere, I still have a great deal of work to do to be a true steward of the land.”
“And the Sky Top?” she asked.
“I haven’t been there, not in my time.”
The last tweets of the birds came from the trees around the ranch house. A movement over by the barn caught Max’s eye—the horses in the large corral were quietly moving.
A silence fell between Max and Miss Calliope. A companionable silence, and Max felt a rush of peace go through him. From the land?
From Miss Calliope?
Livia brought out an oil lantern with a brass base as the last of the light to the west was fading and placed it on the picnic table next to a checkerboard someone had set out sometime that afternoon, while Max was pulling out rogue fence posts at Matthew’s place.
Max turned to Miss Calliope. “Shall I challenge you to a game of checkers?” he said with a nod at the table.
Livia smiled and went back inside.
Miss Calliope grinned. Her skin glowed with fresh youth, tinged with gold from the lantern’s light. Her eyes sparkled. “Fair warning, prince. I’m the champeen in these parts.”
Remembering the word from the Sheriff Sam Creede television show—titled simply Creede —Max said, “I take it by ‘champeen,’ you mean champion.”
Her eyes twinkled. The rest of her was demure yet alluring, his body getting all tangled up with his better intentions, to not get involved, to not go down the road his body was urging him to take. A vow he’d made at Matthew’s when he’d felt so drawn to her, and had realized what a disaster to the future that could be. “That’s what I said, stranger.”
“I’ll take my chances,” he said and grinned back.
She moved to the picnic bench along the house’s front wall and opened the hinged wood box on the table beside the checkerboard, black and red checkers inside. The board itself was a deeply polished wood, with painted black squares alternating with the wood grain.
Max sat across from her, his legs stiff from all the horseback riding that day as he lowered himself to the bench, the bench feeling unnecessarily hard and unyielding. His body was still sore from the flood, but surprisingly unbruised, he’d discovered when he’d bathed.
His back felt exposed to the front drive, and a part of him—now that he’d seen Hugo and his henchmen—wished he had a weapon to protect her with.
But there wasn’t enough money in the world to get him to walk away from this checkers game.
“Ma wants you to know the visitors we’re expectin’ tomorrow will be sharing the guest cabin with you,” she told him as she arranged the red checkers on her side of the board, their painted wood tops carved with an elaborate crown.
Max took a handful of the black ones. “Your suitors.”
She nodded, her expression abruptly inscrutable. The flickering lantern flame sent shadows across her face.
He set out his checkers. “This place is remote,” he said. Even more remote now than in his time. “It must take hours to get here from town.” Any town.
“That’s the first test,” Miss Calliope said.
“Test?”
“Of my suitors. To see if they’re willin’ to travel this far to come see me. It’s why we’re not at our house in Mule Stop, or the new one in Cheyenne. Ma says it’s like those fairy tales, where the prince has to pass three tests.”
Max raised a brow. “I am familiar with such fairy tales,” he said in a solemn tone and realized he’d traveled farther that day than anyone in this time could have. “What type of tests?” he asked, feeling a spurt of unaccountable jealousy toward men he’d never met, over a young woman with whom he’d just become acquainted.
“Ones they don’t know anythin’ about.”
He laughed. “What are the other two?”
Her eyes danced. “That’s the thing about fairy tales, prince. The prince doesn’t know until he comes plumb up against the obstacles.”
Max and Miss Calliope had just each made their opening move in the checker game when Mrs. James called Miss Calliope into the house.
As much as he hated to see her go, Max would have done the same thing if he had a bunch of suitors arriving tomorrow for his daughter. It wouldn’t do for her to become attached to a stranger from the future, especially with the tales Livia had been sharing about some of his supposed exploits.
Turning back toward him from the doorway, Miss Calliope sent him a mischievous grin. “Goodnight, prince.”
He’d stood when she had, and now he bowed deeply, with a respect he truly felt. “Goodnight, Miss Calliope.”
He heard her quiet laugh as the door shut behind her.
He gazed at the closed door for a long moment, then turned away.
Lanterns were being lit over by the bunkhouse, small beacons in the distance as shapes grew indistinct in the growing darkness. Night insects clicked and chirped across the warm air.
Taking a deep breath, Max stepped to the edge of the porch, his gaze to the west on the Wind Dance mountains as the sky behind them shifted from dark blue to black, his thoughts turning to Miss Calliope’s future and how he was going to keep her safe from Hugo.
He was still of the opinion that the best way to protect her was to drive Hugo back to Zalgravia.
But Hugo was an arrogant, entitled bastard. Attempts to dislodge him from his new property could end in violence.
Violence.
Frustration built again in Max’s chest. He couldn’t let anyone harm Evil Prince Hugo without risking wiping out his own immediate family. His parents. His sisters.
His nieces and nephews.
Overhead, stars began to make their appearance.
Behind him, the front door opened again.
Max’s heart gave an unexpected leap, and he turned toward the house with the hope for another glance at Miss Calliope.
But even as he turned, boot steps sounded on the wood porch, two pairs, moving slowly and deliberately.
Bart. And Creede.
Bart stopped on Max’s right, Creede stopping to his left, both men’s gazes on the distant mountains, and Max braced himself for them to tell him to stay away from Miss Calliope, or even to leave the ranch. “You know your family’s history?” Creede said to Max in a low voice.
Startled by the subject, Max gave Creede, then Bart, a swift glance. The two men looked dead serious. “It’s one of the first things I learned as a child,” he said.
“Good,” Bart said. “Tell us about your ancestor. The parts of history up to now.”