Chapter 9
Enoch’s pulse thrummed like he faced a rattler. The burning afternoon sun pierced his shirt-sleeves as he strode toward the ranch house. He tugged his hat lower, shielding his eyes from the glare. He never came in this early from the pastures, but he had something important to accomplish.
He’d wrestled with this decision all night, then spent all morning planning what he’d say to Mrs. Beaumont. The words looped through his mind until they’d worn a groove deep as a wagon rut.
A sharp squawk jolted him from his thoughts. His gaze snapped to the coop, tucked in between the barn and cellar. Had a snake or fox crept in?
He turned his steps and pushed into a jog. Something had definitely entered the pen. The hens flapped and screeched with an outrage that could scare off any varmint.
As he approached, a dark figure shifted in the shadows of a back corner. A large creature. A bear?
“Enoch!”
The “bear” called his name in a relieved tone that sounded far too lady-like for a chicken coop, even laced with a tinge of fear.
What in the wide blue sky was she doing in there? Shouldn’t she still be tucked in bed?
When he reached the doorway and peered inside, he got his first full view of the situation.
There, cornered against the chicken wire, stood Mrs. Beaumont. Her chignon had come loose, dark tendrils curling around her flushed face.
She wielded a basket in one hand, the other clutching her skirts high enough to reveal yards of lace and boots more suited for a dance floor than a henhouse.
Their large red rooster blocked her path—its hackles raised in challenge.
For a moment, Enoch could only stare, caught between amusement and admiration. Mandie’s dark hair, usually meticulously coiffed, now fell in damp tendrils around her flushed face. Her eyes flashed with a mix of fear and anger as she swatted at the rooster with her basket.
Enoch’s mouth twitched. He shouldn’t find amusement in her predicament, but there was something about the way she faced off against that cocksure rooster, her chin lifted, her eyes narrowed in determination.
He shouldn’t just stand here and watch though. “Need help?”
Her glare lifted to him. “If you please. He keeps going for my throat.”
His grin was getting harder to hold back, so he ducked his chin as he stepped into the pen’s slippery muck. “Here now, Rusty.” He kept his voice steady and his shoulders squared. “That’s no way to treat a lady.”
The rooster swung its beady gaze toward him, puffing its chest in a display of bravado.
Enoch chuckled and scooped up the bird like he’d done a hundred times before.
Rusty squawked indignantly, but settled as Enoch stroked its feathers.
“There.” He softened his voice for the rooster as he met Mrs. Beaumont’s startled gaze over Rusty’s bright red comb. “No harm done.”
She straightened, smoothing her skirts, and sent them both another glare. The basket trembled in her hands though. Had she really been frightened?
He moved to the side and motioned for her to pass through the door. Once she stepped outside, he freed the rooster to run with the hens, then followed Mrs. Beaumont out and secured the latch behind him.
At last, he turned to walk with her toward the house. “Sorry. Rusty’s guarding his hens.”
She sent him a sideways look, but she seemed to have regained her composure. “I see that.” Her voice held a touch of frost, but the corners of her lips twitched. “Bea asked me to gather a few eggs so we could make a custard. I didn’t expect to be ambushed.”
He let his gaze skim over her. Even with dirt smudged on her cheek and her dress wrinkled from the tussle, she was beautiful—too beautiful for him to linger on. Her brown eyes caught the sunlight, warm and deep, and a stray curl framed her face like a painter’s stroke.
But he pushed that thought aside. “How’re you feeling? I’m surprised to see you up and about so soon.”
She lifted her chin. “Much better, thank you. The fresh air and activity are doing me good.” Her expression clouded. “I only wish I would get my memories back.”
His gut clenched. He’d been hoping she’d started to recall details. It would make this conversation a sight easier. “Well, no need to rush it. I’m sure it’ll all come back to you in time.”
She nodded, but the furrow remained between her brows.
They’d reached the porch steps. Enoch cleared his throat. “Actually, I was hoping I might have a word with you, if you’re up to it.”
She turned to face him, her expression guarded. “Of course. What is it you wish to discuss?”
He gestured toward the porch chairs. “Can we sit?”
A flicker of uncertainty crossed her features, but she nodded. “Let me take these eggs to Bea first.” She gestured to the basket on her arm. “And perhaps tidy up a bit.” A wry smile touched her lips as she glanced down at her disheveled appearance.
“Certainly.” He dipped his chin. “I’ll wait for you here.”
As she disappeared into the house, he leaned against the porch railing, his nerves stretched tight. He’d faced down possessive mother cows and even a grizzly once, but this conversation had his pulse pounding like a spooked colt.
He turned and gazed out over the ranch, the land that had shaped him into the man he was—that tethered him to this place even as duty pulled him toward a distant shore. This sunbaked earth and snow-capped peaks were as much a part of him as the blood in his veins.
The creak of the door sounded, and he straightened as Mrs. Beaumont stepped out.
She’d tidied her hair and smoothed her skirts, but a smudge of dirt still lingered on her cheek.
It made her seem more real somehow, less like a fine lady and more like a woman who could stand at his side, facing the challenges of this rugged land.
As she approached, he couldn’t bring himself to sit. Instead, he gripped the rough-hewn railing, the wood solid beneath his fingers.
She moved to stand beside him at the railing, leaving a respectable distance between them. Her eyes followed his gaze to the mountains. “It’s beautiful here,” she said softly. “Peaceful.”
He nodded, not trusting his voice yet. The words he’d practiced had fled like startled quail. He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Beaumont, I wanted to tell you a bit about our family, if that’s all right.”
Her brow furrowed, but she nodded. “Of course.”
He took a steadying breath. “My father is the Duke of Clarence, in England. Our family…we’ve faced threats as far back as I can remember.
It started when Will and I were just lads.
” He hesitated, the old wounds stirring.
“Our father’s cousin, Reginald, wanted the title for himself.
He saw us as obstacles—Will, me, James, and then Robert. Thomas wasn’t born yet.”
Mandie’s brow furrowed, her eyes flickering with curiosity and concern as she leaned against the porch rail.
“He tried to tear our family down at first by attacking our mother.” Bitterness crept into his tone, so he worked to soften it.
“She was Scottish, with Catholic loyalties—a detail the Church of England strongly opposed. Reginald claimed it made her unfit to be a duchess, that it tainted our legitimacy as heirs. He spread rumors, even took it to the courts, hoping to have us disinherited. But our father’s influence was stronger, and Reginald’s lies fell apart. ”
Mandie’s hand tightened on the rail, her knuckles whitening. “What did he do then?”
Enoch’s jaw clenched, the memory cutting deeper. “He turned desperate. He had Will kidnapped—snatched him right from our estate. Held him for a day before our father’s men tracked him down and brought him back.”
His voice roughened, the fear of that day seeping back like a fist gripping his chest. “Will was so young… I can still hear our mother’s cries when we realized he was gone.
That was the breaking point. Our father sent her and us here to Montana with a handful of trusted staff to protect us from Reginald.
” He paused, the ache of the upheaval tightening his chest. “It was supposed to be temporary.”
Mandie’s eyes widened at the initial revelation, but they softened with each layer he peeled back. Now, her voice turned gentle. “That must have been so hard.”
He gave a small nod, memories of those early days flitting through his mind—the confusion, the fear, the glimpses of his mother’s tears when she thought no one was watching. “I guess it was. We were uprooted, sent across an ocean to a place we didn’t understand. But it kept us alive.”
Mandie touched his arm. “You’ve been through so much.”
For a moment, he couldn’t find words. He met her gaze, her eyes giving more than sympathy. They held a quiet strength that steadied him.
He pulled his gaze away. He had to focus on the next most important part of the conversation.
“Eventually, this land, this life...it became a part of us.” He met her gaze, willing her to understand.
“Will, though—he always knew he’d go back someday, to take up the mantle of the dukedom.
He was preparing for it, before...” His throat closed around the words.
Her hand squeezed his arm. “Before he died.”
He swallowed and shifted his thoughts past that point. “The plan was for him to marry, then travel to England to be introduced at Parliament and learn the role of a duke from our father.” The words felt heavy on his tongue, weighted with the responsibility that now fell to him.
A frown pulled on her face, like she was trying to understand. “Did I know he was…a duke? Or would become one?” She gave her head a little shake. “I mean, did I know he wanted a wife who would go with him to England and be…”
The knot in his middle pulled a little tighter as he finished her question. “…his duchess? I honestly don’t know if Will told you or not. I found the letter you sent him, but I’m not sure what he wrote to you.” He raised his brows. “Perhaps you have them? In your luggage?”
Her mouth pinched. “I only found one note. He suggested that I come and visit first, so the two of us could become acquainted. Then we could both decide if we wanted to proceed with…marriage.” Did her voice quiver on that last word?
He turned back to stare at the trees ahead. “That sounds like Will. He was usually hesitant to mention our title—we’ve all kept quiet about it. He might have wanted to tell you in person, then give you ample time to decide.”
She nodded slowly, her gaze distant as if trying to grasp memories just out of reach. “I wish I could remember more about our correspondence, about what led me to make this journey.” Frustration edged her voice.
If only he had the right words to ease her mind, but he was fumbling in the dark himself.
She met his gaze again. “So what happens now?”
He turned to face her fully. “With Will gone, that responsibility falls to me, as the next eldest son. I’ll need to marry and travel to England, to learn the estates and what it means to be the Duke of Clarence.
” The words felt like splintering wood in his throat, scraping against the life he’d built here, the man he’d become.
Her eyes widened, but she held his gaze. “I see.” Her voice was soft, laced with a note of something he couldn’t quite decipher. Sympathy? Uncertainty?
He steeled himself, his heart pounding against his ribs. “Mrs. Beaumont, I find myself in need of a wife. And you...you would make a fine duchess.”
He forced himself to hold her gaze, to not look away from the surprise and uncertainty in her eyes. “Would you consider marrying me, knowing all this? Knowing the life it would entail?”
Mandie stared at him, her expression unreadable save for the widening of her eyes. Seconds ticked by, each one an eternity as he waited for her response. His lungs pressed so hard, only a little breath seeped in and out.
At last, she looked away, her gaze drifting to the mountains that had become his home, his sanctuary. “I...don’t know what to say.” Her voice barely rose above a whisper, carried away on the summer breeze.
His heart sank, but he forced himself to nod. “I understand. It’s a lot to take in.” He tried to keep his tone steady, not let the disappointment bleed through.
She turned back to him, her dark eyes searching his face.
“It’s not only that. I still don’t know why I came here, why I agreed to be a mail-order bride in the first place.
I feel like I’m missing a piece of myself.
” Her hand rose to her temple as if she could physically grasp the memories that eluded her.
His body tightened. If only he could reach out and offer comfort, but he held himself back. She likely wouldn’t appreciate contact between them. “I know. And I don’t want to pressure you. We’re both in a difficult position.”
She nodded, her gaze dropping to her clasped hands. “I appreciate your candor, Mr. Balfour. And your offer. I just...I need some time. To think, to try to remember.” She looked up at him, her eyes pleading for understanding.
He nodded, even as disappointment gnawed at his middle. “Of course. Take all the time you need.”
She gave him a small, grateful smile. Then she stepped back from the rail. “I should go help Bea with the custard.” She turned and moved with her measured stride toward the front door.
“Mrs. Beaumont.” Her name escaped his lips before he could stop it.
She paused, glancing back at him.
He swallowed, his throat dry. “I know this is a lot to consider. But please know that I would strive to be a good husband to you. To provide for you and protect you, always.” The words sounded stilted to his own ears, but he needed her to understand.
Her expression softened. “I don’t doubt that, Mr. Balfour. You’ve shown me nothing but kindness since I arrived.” She hesitated, as if weighing her next words. “I need to be certain it’s the right path though. For both of us.”
With that, she slipped into the house, leaving him alone on the porch with the turmoil of his thoughts.
He turned back to the mountains, their peaks stretching up into the clouds. He’d always found solace in their steadfast presence, but now they only reminded him of the uncertainties looming before him.
England. The dukedom. A wife. They were all part of a life he’d never wanted, a role he’d never asked for.
Yet here he stood, disappointed that his first step on this new path hadn’t been a resounding victory.