Chapter 10
CHAPTER 10
It was some time later, when Max had returned from seeing the first three arrivals to the guest cabin, that the only suitor so far worth a damn, in his opinion, showed up—earnest, young Finn Monahan, who looked Miss Calliope’s age and wore a fine dark-brown leather duster and rode a handsome buckskin horse.
Blushing, Finn greeted Miss Calliope beside the porch steps with a familiar, “Howdy,” and a tip of his brown cowboy hat.
Max grinned. There’d even been a time when he’d been an earnest, young man like Finn.
Finn had ridden up alongside a large, uncovered flatbed wagon piled high with the guests’ luggage—old-fashioned trunks and leather-strapped suitcases—the driver another young man around the same age. The two had conversed easily and animatedly as they’d approached the house, and Max wondered if the other suitors had ignored Finn.
The suitors may have, but not the James family. Livia and Mrs. James smiled at him with true friendship. Bart was downright welcoming, unlike the stern manner he’d had upon greeting the first batch of young men.
Moving with a formality that Max suspected was as foreign to him as it was to Miss Calliope, Finn stepped over to the wagon and took off the long leather duster, demonstrating the practical purpose of the garment. Underneath, he was dressed in an impeccably tailored suit of summer-weight brown wool, not a speck of dust or dirt on anything but his otherwise polished cowboy boots, and Max wondered if he’d stopped down in the big meadow at the foot of the bluff and changed clothes before riding on up. Neat and pressed and fitting better into his surroundings than the other suitors, Finn wore a navy-blue bow tie and a blue pinstriped shirt and brown waistcoat with his suit, a silver pin of a soaring eagle on his dark-brown hatband.
Carefully, he laid the duster down beside a large woven basket covered with a blue-and-white-checked cloth and retrieved a large bouquet of wildflowers from beside the basket. The flowers—pink and yellow and blue—were tied with a pink satin ribbon, a few of the blossoms crushed. But the scent was sweet and as fitting to the surroundings as Finn, and the flowers as fresh as Miss Calliope, and Max wondered if, unlike Mr. Moss-Packed Roses, Finn had gathered them along the banks of the Summer River on his ride across Sky Top land.
Miss Calliope’s pretty eyes lit up at the sight of the bouquet. “Thank you, Finn.”
His blush deepened. “You’re welcome, Cally. Miss Calliope, I mean.” Handing her the flowers, he turned to the wagon again for the large fabric-covered basket and presented it to Mrs. James. “Ma sent these pies along, ma’am, with her best wishes. They’re her prize-winning blueberry pie recipe.”
The young man’s sincerity, and humility, sent a rush of respect through Max. Respect, and a surge of competitiveness, and he realized, until now, he’d had Miss Calliope all to himself.
He realized further, with a shock, that she’d shown no interest yesterday in the legendary Creede, who couldn’t be more than a few years older than Max. No interest in Roy or Wilmo or any of the ranch hands.
And though he reminded himself that he’d vowed again last night, before he’d dropped off to sleep, to leave her alone—only to then dream of her sweet tomboy mouth—and though these young suitors were not the mortal danger he’d sworn himself to protect her from, he felt a rush of possessiveness, a feeling that she belonged to him alone. She had found him after the flood; she and her family had taken him in. He was the only one for the last twenty-four hours to whom she’d sent that dazzling smile.
Shaking off the absurd feelings, he stood at the end of the porch with his grave butler’s expression and waited for instructions.
Dressed in the pretty pink calico garment made for her in Denver of an expensive, fine cotton that nevertheless made her neck itch, and holding one of the sweet wildflowers her childhood friend Finn had brought, Cally watched Max lead Finn toward the guest cabin after the family had lemonade with their newest guest, Finn lookin’ relieved to be heading out of Ma and Bart’s view.
It were darned hard to be courted under everyone’s noses, and she figured it were just as hard to be the one doing the courting, all those eyes on you, listening to and judging everything you said and did.
Max strode a step ahead of Finn, his upper body turned toward Finn as he spoke to him, Max’s face in that funny, solemn expression that Livie said was just like all the butlers in all the movies she’d ever seen—not that Cally had a clear idea of what exactly a movie was. Max said the expression was just like the butlers he’d known in real life, but real or not, the expression didn’t fit him at all.
The same way all this bein’ a refined lady didn’t fit Cally.
It had been near comical, her and Finn saying their how-de-do’s in a formal way, when they’d known each other since they were in the cradle, had wrestled in the mud and ridden their ponies on adventures in the hills when they were young ’uns, and had learned their ABCs in the Mule Stop schoolhouse.
From what Cally could tell, her ma and his were the ones behind his invitation to spend these next few days at the Sky Top, and Cally was glad. She’d find something to keep the other suitors busy on their own, fishing or shooting or something, and she, Finn, and Max could ride over to the Crown and tend to more important business—to see if Evil Prince Hugo was trying to rebuild his dam.
Her brother Kit’s cattle dogs started barking up a storm from the kennels by the barn. A few moments later, horse hooves sounded, along with the crunch of wagon wheels over the gravel of the front drive.
Another wagon.
Another suitor.
Two suitors, she saw as they came into view, one in a carriage, not wagon, his handsome head visible through the wide glass window behind the high seat the coachman sat on, the other astride a horse that made her heart thump with envy. A magnificent horse, and she wondered how fast it would be compared to her Apollo.
The carriage was magnificent, too. Built on elegant lines of a highly polished, reddish-brown wood with black trim, it had glass windows in the upper half of the carriage doors, with silver door handles.
The newcomers were nearly to the house when she heard footsteps from the direction of the guest cabin. Max’s footsteps. She’d learned them by heart in little more than a day, that jaunty, confident stride. That agile, athletic strength. He was a lot like Bart in some ways, a strong, powerful man, but he was a lot more fun, those blue eyes full of mischief in one moment, full of a sincerity in another, a sincerity she knew deep down she could trust.
Ma had warned her about being too trusting too fast with folks she’d just met, but between Livie’s knowledge of Max from her time, laying bare the more embarrassing parts of his life, and Max’s ready acknowledgement of those parts, Cally felt like she’d already known him for more than the last day.
Was it the excitement he showed every time he talked with Sheriff Sam, as if he were in one of them ‘Old West’ stories he loved to read about? The respect he showed for Ma?
The camaraderie he had with Livie—a friendly camaraderie, nothin’ that anyone could say wasn’t respectable, or that Bart could take sideways and turn himself into an angry bear?
Or was it Max’s tolerance for Bart’s hostility toward him, the tolerance a thing of wonder, not letting that hostility get in the way of doing what Max thought needed doing?
Best of all, what she most liked about him, was that mischievous grin he’d get when he looked at her, that teasing way he had about him, as if he knew and appreciated her just the way she was.
The rider, she saw as he dismounted from his magnificent chestnut horse, was Mr. Perth from Cheyenne. He was a good-lookin’ man. Not nearly as magnificent as his horse, but still, mighty fine. He’d been in Denver for several weeks while she’d been there.
“How do you do?” she said in the refined voice that had nearly taken her over when they were in Denver.
Mr. Perth gave her a small bow. That’s what Ma had said he should do. His elegant riding coat, breeches, and leather gloves being all covered with trail dust, he shouldn’t try to shake or kiss her hand or touch her in any way until he’d cleaned up. “Enchanté,” Mr. Perth said, his cool gaze going over her head-to-toe real swift as he rose from his bow, and she wondered if he thought she didn’t know he was sizing her up as if she were one of the Sky Top’s prize calves, and she wondered what value she had in his mind.
Beside her, Ma smiled. “Welcome to the Sky Top, Mr. Perth. Max here” —she gestured to Max, who’d stopped a discreet distance away— “will show you your lodgings while you’re here.”
Cally peeked a glance at Max. He was real good at hiding who he really was. That solemn expression on his face looked as if it lived there all day, every day. But the instant the carriage door opened, and Mr. Perth turned to glance that way, Max gave her a wink.
Warmth spread through her. She may have to put up with suitors for the next three days. But at least Max—and likely Finn—would make the whole ordeal a lot more fun.
Miss Calliope stifled a grin at Max’s wink. He could see it in the way her pretty cheeks trembled for a moment.
He knew he shouldn’t encourage her. This was an important event in her life—good God, it could be the beginning of her married life—and the last thing he wanted to do was damage it in any way. But she’d looked so formal, so unlike herself, that he’d winked just to make sure it was still her.
Besides, he’d figured she would need cheering up after the boorish bully Mr. Perth had sized her up and down. Good God, surely she hadn’t missed how rough he’d been with his horse, jerking the reins unnecessarily. How he’d kicked out his dusty but expensive-looking tall riding boot toward one of the ranch’s dogs when it neared after he’d dismounted, the dog—a mere puppy—unexpectedly loose, but barking in welcome, not threat.
The stylish, expensive carriage door that had distracted Mr. Perth now opened fully. A footman—a footman!—lowered the steps, Max feeling like he was back home at a formal castle event, not on a graveled drive in the hot Wyoming sun nearly a hundred years before he was born. A young man—another suitor—stepped outside.
A young man with the looks of a pretty-faced pop idol that in Max’s time—if the young man could carry a tune—would have had teenage girls screaming for a selfie.
Max glanced at Miss Calliope.
She stood there in her calico dress, a welcoming smile on her face, but he didn’t discern anything more than mild interest in the young man. It was the horses drawing the elegant carriage that had her attention, and Max tried not to laugh.
If any of these suitors really wanted her hand in marriage, they should bring her the fastest, sweetest, most wonderful horse they could find.
Pretty-Face Pop Idol came leisurely down the steps of the carriage. There were only two steps, but he made the most of his awe-inspiring entrance, the young man fit and with a body as splendid as his face, and Max wished he could hear Miss Calliope’s thoughts.
Unlike his fellow traveler, Pretty Face was free of trail dust. His skin looked freshly washed of sweat, his elegant wide-brimmed, low-crowned hat pristine over neatly combed blond hair, his casually elegant dark summer suit perfectly pressed and tailored.
A young woman’s dream?
Max hoped not.
Cally had forgotten Mr. Gidding’s way of makin’ himself the center of the room when she’d been in Denver. He accepted the attention of all the men and women as his due, though he hadn’t done more than be born into a wealthy family who owned a heap of grazing land in Colorado and Wyoming. But he’d been educated back East, at one of them fancy universities, and had learned to wear fancy clothes, and now he was leisurely striding up to her from his carriage, as if they’d just accidentally met while strolling around Denver’s Capitol Hill.
“Mrs. James,” he said in his cultured voice to Ma, and Cally wondered if he had a second voice, a truer voice, like she did. He bowed to Ma, then turned to Cally, his brown eyes on her face as if she were the most lovely thing he’d seen in his life. “Miss Calliope.”
“Welcome to the Sky Top,” Ma said.
Mr. Gidding smiled. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Mechanically, Cally smiled, too, like she’d learned to do in Denver, and wondered, not for the first time, if he was a skunk or a snake.
It had been Ma who’d gotten her thinkin’ in those terms. Ma said Cally should trust her instincts about a man, that it weren’t that different from trusting her instincts about people in general. Some folks were good folks. Some were skunks and snakes.
Ma said be sure to not marry a skunk or a snake.
Sometimes Cally thought her ma was so determined to see her have all the opportunities she could get to find a good husband, that there were too many men, and not enough encounters, to sort out the good from the bad.
What would Mr. Gidding think if she married him, him believin’ she was this elegant lady, when the first thing she’d do every morning was hop on Apollo and race across one of the Sky Top meadows?
She turned her smile to Mr. Perth. What would he think?
She’d promised Ma that she’d behave. And she’d keep that promise. But if any of these fellers caught her eye in a way that made her think of marriage, she would make darned sure they knew what type of wife they’d be getting, long before they were ever engaged.
Max stepped outside the guest cabin, having settled the last two arrivals inside, Max not any more impressed with the newcomers than he’d been with the first three suitors. Mr. Perth was a bully, and likely a lech, the way he’d sized up Miss Calliope while she stood right in front of him. Mr. Pretty Face had eyes only for himself—and an overblown sense of entitlement that would have him trying to make a pass at her by six.
It was easy to see—at least to Max—that their hearts weren’t into wooing her. They were courting and marrying for wealth and connections, not love, and how could he fault that when his own family had done so for centuries?
He’d stepped off the guest cabin’s porch and was crossing back toward the front drive when a loud, familiar voice over by the bunkhouse said, “I hear Bart got hisself a butler for the parties his ma is holdin’ to marry Miss Cally off.”
Max glanced at the bunkhouse. His buddy Arnold from yesterday, the ranch hand who’d been so hostile, stood with four others outside the door to the mess hall.
“There he is now,” Arnold said, glancing Max’s way, his voice none too friendly. “Hey there, butler,” he called out, flagging Max down with a wave of his hand and striding fast toward him.
“Howdy,” Max said in his butler voice, waving back as he kept on his way, but Arnold and the other four men hurried faster, and gathered around him, blocking his path.
“I hear you’re workin’ for Bart,” Arnold said.
Max kept his butler expression neutral, realizing from Arnold’s steady, hostile gaze that the man had recognized him from the day before. “That I am.”
“I hear you’re a butler.”
“That is correct.”
Storm clouds filled Arnold’s face. “You makin’ a joke of me yesterday when you told me your king would pay for my cousin’s cattle that new prince at the Crown stole?”
“Not at all,” Max said. “The king is an honorable man.”
Arnold’s eyes narrowed. “Why would he listen to you?”
Why, indeed? ‘Good day, Your Majesty,’ Max could imagine himself saying to the 1897 King of Zalgravia. ‘I am your descendant from over a century from now, and you would do our family—yours and mine—a great service if you would reimburse the good people of Mule Stop, Wyoming, for all the harm your son Hugo has caused them.’ He gave Arnold his best sincere butler look. “I worked for him,” Max said. “For the king. For many years. He would wish to know of the injustice his son has inflicted upon your cousin.”
Arnold took a moment, whether in thought or in deciphering what Max had just said. “When do you reckon my cousin will get the money?” he asked.
“Within a month,” Max said, an idea forming in his head.
He was walking away when another ranch hand stepped from inside the mess hall and joined Arnold and his friends. “Who’s that?” the new man asked.
“That’s Butler,” Arnold said, and Max knew his ruse just might hold. “Mighty fine feller, he is.”
“Only six suitors, Miss Calico?” Max said, rejoining the family on the front porch, everyone still in their ‘welcome the guests’ attire.
Livia sat on the porch swing with Bart.
Mrs. James stood by the front door, speaking to Mrs. Zandt, the flower scent from the garden beside the porch fragrant in the drowsy afternoon heat.
Miss Calliope, standing at the other end of the porch, next to the long table and its checkerboard, turned to him and laughed at the nickname.
“I would have thought you’d need to be fighting them off in droves,” he said, striding to her side, her pretty rose scent doing crazy things to his heart.
“Ma says we only have room for six at a time.”
He glanced down the tree-lined front drive—cottonwood trees, he knew now from that morning. “Are you doing them in shifts? When this six is gone, another six will arrive?”
She laughed again.
Mrs. James, not precisely looking like she disapproved, but not precisely approving either, came to Miss Calliope’s side.
Max sighed. “I know,” he said to Mrs. James. “The belle of the ball shouldn’t linger with the help.”
“You’re no such thing,” Mrs. James said and steered Miss Calliope away into the house.
Max watched them go, Miss Calliope’s pretty rose scent in his nostrils, her joyful presence in his heart, his heart unaccountably singing, even as the rest of him tried to remember his vow to stand aside.