a rancher who needed to focus on providing for his family.
Families need more than food and shelter.
He bristled. Where had that thought come from?
From your own common sense, fool. Haven’t you already learned that? Providing for children took more than putting food on the table. It meant being there, supporting the mother of one’s children.
A stab of pain radiated out from between his tightening shoulders. Well, he was a rancher. He couldn’t spare the time. He’d do right by the children, but this just proved again that ranchers were better off staying single.
“I won!” Mary called out, interrupting his thoughts. “It’s my turn now.”
Remembering his letter, Mitch pulled it out and opened it. His reading skills were fine, but it was a struggle to understand Lacewood’s long, flowing script.
After a short preamble, the solicitor began to explain that Agnes had made certain arrangements before she’d died. A chill ran through Mitch. Had she known she would not survive childbirth? Had it been a difficult pregnancy?
His heart sank as he read further. A few years back, Agnes had signed on to the ranch’s mortgage just as he had, although the paperwork had taken many weeks and visits to the post office to complete. Agnes had considered that fact in her will.
Then he read Lacewood’s summary. Not only did Mitch now have an extra mouth to feed, and to figure out how he would explain Emily’s presence without getting tongues a-wagging, but he also had this to explain to the bank that held his mortgage—a month-old baby who wasn’t even his blood now owned half of Proud Ranch.
Mitch’s fingers tightened around the fine vellum paper that carried Lacewood’s letter. Agnes had left her estate to Emily, no doubt concerned that he would abandon the infant otherwise. She’d been mistaken but had left him in a difficult spot nonetheless. He needed to tell the bank at Proud Bend that Agnes had passed. The bank manager, a man who had as many scruples as Colorado had oceanfront homes, would expect Mitch to provide him with the proper papers to say he’d inherited her share, but all he had was proof that Emily was now half owner and Mitch was her guardian.
He could contest Agnes’s will but, Lacewood had advised, the judge would ask the reasons. If Mitch was to answer that he wasn’t the girl’s father, the judge would not look favorably on him continuing guardianship and thus controlling the ranch, nor would he give Mitch full ownership and leave the infant with nothing, against her mother’s wishes.
Mitch rubbed his forehead. He had no desire to see any harm done to Emily, nor did he want to smear his late wife’s memory by revealing her indiscretion.
Not for the first time, Mitch wondered about the man who had fathered Emily. No one came forward with a name. No man owned up, either, and Mitch had been too stiff-necked to search for him. He’d had enough to do in Boston, and as far as he was concerned, if the man had abandoned Agnes, he didn’t deserve Emily.
Regardless, he could not lie to any judge, should he contest the will. At his first meeting with Lacewood, the solicitor had pointed out that in the eyes of the law, any child born to a married couple was assumed to belong to the husband. It was only a legal assumption, yes, but it was also best for Mitch to continue with that thinking.
Except for the fact that in Proud Bend, he’d been seen at church every Sunday. When would he have found the week needed to travel east, father a child and return?
He would deal with any questions as they arose. First up, he needed to sell some yearlings to make his mortgage payment. And quickly, too, for last fall, he had seen the wily bank manager smear the reputation of Proud Bend’s haberdasher, thus costing the man his once viable business. Two months later, the bank foreclosed on the store, then sold it for a tidy profit.
If Mitch didn’t make his mortgage payment, that bank manager would do the same to him. Or, more specifically, force Mitch to sell his land’s mineral rights for a song, because the man had already made an offer for them. Mitch felt his face heat and tension rise in him.
He would not be cheated out of what was rightfully his.
Shutting his eyes, Mitch tipped back his head until it hit the top of the seat back. Since he had absolutely no idea what to do, he was left with two options. Pray and wait to see what would happen.
He had already prayed, many times since returning to Boston.
But he was very bad at waiting.
“Are you a gentleman farmer?”
Mitch opened his eyes. Sitting primly beside him, Victoria waited with the calm expectation that he’d answer her promptly. “I beg your pardon?”
She repeated her question.
“No.” He frowned. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“A number of things, not the least of which is the way you speak. It’s far more cultured than what I would expect from a farmer.”
He folded his letter. Roughly. “It’s a ranch, not a farm.”
“What’s the difference?”
Unceremoniously shoving the letter into its envelope, he answered, “A farm is usually smaller, and they raise crops like corn and wheat or various vegetables or fruit. A ranch is big, has strictly livestock, like cattle or sheep, or even horses. They are raised, bred and sometimes kept for years.”
“What do you have?”
“Mostly cattle. Though I do have a few sheep closer to the house.”
“Why?”
His head throbbed and he shut his eyes again. So many questions. “Sheep aren’t as good at fending off predators like wolves,” he answered. “Cattle are better at it.” He paused. “I once saw two cows make mincemeat of a wolf. They charged and gouged him with their horns right before my eyes. If I put the sheep out with the cattle, the wolves would go after them.”
He continued on, with more enthusiasm than he’d expected he would have. “Although, I am experimenting with a donkey in my herd.”
Victoria looked mystified. Her eyes widened, her lips parted. For a moment, he forgot what they were discussing. “A donkey? Why?”
Mitch cleared his throat. “They guard the cattle. They may look like they don’t care, but believe me, they hate dogs and wolves. And they have a powerful kick to them.”
Victoria removed her gloves, tugging one delicate finger at a time. It was fussy little gesture, he thought. And yet, in Victoria’s hand, it was slow and fascinating, a sheer, perfectly choreographed art form in itself. How could ladies possibly wear them for as long as they did? “How did you discover that?” she finally asked. “How long have you had your donkey?”
He blinked. Her questions were in strange contrast to his wandering thoughts. “When I first went West to take ownership of my land, I traveled with an old rancher who’d been on one of the original wagon trains. They used donkeys as pack animals and began to realize their potential as guards for their cattle. He suggested
