things.”
A faint grin curled the corners of his lips and a shine appeared in his eyes. “Don’t apologize, Miss Jennings. Angel can appear more mature than she is. I appreciate you recognizing she is still a child.”
This man loved his daughter above and beyond all. Constance remembered a time when she was such a daughter. History made her warn, “She won’t be a child for much longer though.” She often wondered if she’d “grown up” the instant she’d arrived in England.
His smile increased, but was accompanied by a somber nod. “Unfortunately, I’m aware of that.”
Her heart pitter-patted, acknowledging the brief connection she and Ellis Clayton shared. There would come a time when this man would have to say goodbye to his daughter, and it would affect both him and the girl—deeply. The only time Constance had seen tears in her father’s eyes was the day he’d set her on the ship to sail for England. Though she had many other memories—happy and good ones—that was the one that stuck in her mind like a splattered drop of paint. No matter how hard she tried, it wouldn’t dissolve. It had barely faded over the years.
With one hand, Ellis wiped his face, as if erasing the smile. It worked, because when his hand went back to rest on the desk his face was serious. “I guess I should tell you, since you’ll no doubt hear it from half the territory.”
She frowned, utterly confused for a moment.
“About Ashton’s death,” he said, eying her critically.
“Oh.” Her cheeks stung. She wiped her palms, which all of a sudden had grown clammy, on her skirt. “Yes, Mr. Kramer’s death. How did it come about?”
“He took a fall off a horse.” Ellis’s gaze settled over her shoulder for a moment. When it returned to her, he added, “Doc said a broken rib punctured his lung.”
She pressed a hand to the thud behind her breastbone. “Oh, my.”
“He was bedridden for three days before he died. Some may tell you he hung on because he knew you were on your way.”
She gulped. Ellis Clayton certainly didn’t mince words. Sorrow that she’d never meet Ashton Kramer, nor get to know a man who’d awaited her arrival made her sigh heavily. “The poor man.”
Ellis didn’t linger nor stay on one subject for an extended length. “So, are you going back to New York? Or Virginia perhaps?”
His question caught her slightly off guard. Her mind was still processing Ashton Kramer’s untimely death. “No.” She shook her head. “No, I left New York for good. And I haven’t been back to Virginia since I was eleven.”
“Eleven?”
“Yes, that’s when I went to live with my great aunts.”
His frown was back, tugging his brows deeply together. “So you’re twent—”
“Six. I’m twenty-six.” There were days when she felt a hundred and six. Hoping to avoid any further questions about herself, she asked, “Have you always lived in the Wyoming Territory?”
“No, my wife, Christine, Angel’s mother, and I came out here shortly after we married. Before the war broke out. She died when Angel was six.”
“How?” She bit her lip at how fast the question shot out.
“Childbirth.” He pushed away from his desk and walked to the fireplace where he removed the grate, stirred the flames with a gold-handled poker and then added a couple split logs. He replaced the poker and the grate before he turned back around. “What are your plans, Miss Jennings?”
He still mourned the loss of his wife. Constance easily saw it—for it was the same thing she’d seen in the mirror for years. She’d already witnessed enough to understand Ellis’s depth and character. He must have treasured his wife. Once, not so long ago, Constance had thought she might have that—a husband who’d cherish her, and had married the man. But Byron hadn’t treasured her, nor had he bothered to tell her he was already married. The truth, and the way she’d discovered it, had been demoralizing and humiliating.
The memories, painful and degrading, made a heavy sigh escape before she could stop it. “To be perfectly honest, Mr. Clayton, right now I have no idea what I’m going to do.” For the past nine months she hadn’t had a concentrated plan that propelled her forward. She’d thought she had, more than once, but fate had stepped in and left her reeling in another direction over and over again.
Ellis opened his mouth. Unwilling to let anything else slip, she quickly changed the subject. “But I would like to offer, or suggest, an arrangement.”
He contemplated her statement, silently and thoroughly it seemed, before he walked back to his chair. “And that would be?”
“I mentioned that I took care of my aunts. They had a country estate outside of London. I managed the household for them, and would like to offer you my services in exchange for room and board until I can decide what I should do.” His silence forced her to add, “I’ve also had experience tutoring children. I know Angel is a very smart young woman, but it’s my understanding she hasn’t had any formal education. I could offer those services as well.”
His chair squeaked as he repositioned. He wasn’t quick to respond, which had her nerves ticking beneath her skin in tune with the mantel clock.
“How long do you plan on staying, Miss Jennings?”
“I guess that depends.”
“On?”
“Several things.” Including if the lies surrounding Byron’s death found their way to Wyoming. If so, her chances of starting over would be greatly diminished. She had no proof she hadn’t killed Byron, just as she had no proof he’d caused her injuries and left wounds that changed her life forever.
Ellis watched the emotions playing across Miss Jennings’s features. Her expressions told him more than her words, in some instances. In others, he’d been downright surprised by what she’d said. Snap decision-making wasn’t his way; he’d left that up to Christine and more recently Angel—hence the mail-order bride sitting in his office. Yet he knew firsthand how quickly life could leave a person vulnerable and hopeless.
Unable to stay seated, he pushed out of his chair again and walked to the window. The snowstorm continued to blanket the earth, and hinted that it would hang around for the next day or so. It was early for such a dumping, but stranger things had happened. Ellis turned and met the apprehensive eyes watching and waiting for his response to her offer.
“I have a cook, Miss Jennings.”
The straight, fine wisps of black hair that had escaped her loosely pinned bun fluttered against the elegantly curved line of her neck as she primly shook her head. “I know, sir, and I don’t wish to undermine the job Mr. Beans is doing.”
“Beans,” he corrected. “Just Beans, there’s no mister.” Beans had a great aversion to being called mister. Just as Ellis had an aversion to being called sir. He worked for a living and didn’t appreciate a title he felt was held for those who were born of honor or suggested one man was of higher rank than another. It reminded him of the slave days—something else he had greatly disliked.
She
