Prologue
April 1897
"America!" The word rushed through the belly of the great
steamship like the mighty winds that blew across the
Atlantic. "America!"
Elizabeth Wellington grabbed hold of the hands of her two
friends, her heart hammering with mingled joy and
fear. "America," she whispered, testing the country's name
on her lips. She exchanged glances with Mary Malone and
Inga Linberg and recognized the same feelings in their
eyes.
They rose together to become part of the surging crowd,
hurrying to get their first glimpse of land in two weeks.
Two weeks of cramped quarters, little privacy, poor food,
and the smells of salt water and seasickness.
On deck, a bitter wind cut through Beth's gown and shawl,
raising gooseflesh on her arms, but she paid it no heed.
She couldn't have turned back anyway. Not with the other
steerage passengers pressing her forward.
Inga's grasp tightened on Beth's hand. "Look!" She pointed
with her free hand. "The statue!"
"Saints be praised," Mary whispered in awe. "Will you look
at that. Sure and I've never seen the like, m'lady. Have
you?"
For several weeks Beth had been reminding Mary that she
was no longer "m'lady," that she was simply Beth
Wellington, an immigrant to America like nearly everyone
else on board the RMS Teutonic.
But as she stared at the Statue of Liberty in New York
harbor, she forgot to scold. She was too overwhelmed.
What would she find in this new country? Was she right to
have run away from everything and everyone she'd ever
known? From England? From Perceval? Had she made a
terrible mistake, coming to America?
Beth had spent her entire life at Langford House, never
venturing farther away than London for the Season. She'd
grown up surrounded by the familiar, by things and people
she knew as well as she knew herself. She'd known the food
she would have every morning for breakfast. She'd known
the mood her father was in with a single glance. She'd
known the turning of the seasons and what each one would
bring.
The ten days she and Mary had been in Southampton before
departing on the ship, followed by the two weeks at sea,
had often seemed like an odd dream, one from which she
might awaken at any moment. But suddenly she realized she
wasn't going to wake up, because this was real. She had
severed her ties with England.
America was her new home.
"Sure and we've made it." Mary placed a hand on her own
gently rounded stomach, as if to reassure the child that
was growing inside. "We're here at last."
Beth felt a tiny catch in her heart. A few weeks ago Mary
Malone had been merely a maid at Langford House. In all
the months or was it longer? she'd worked for the
Wellingtons, the young Irishwoman had rarely said more
than a "Yes, mum" or "No, m'lady" to Beth. It had
surprised her how quickly Mary had changed from a servant
into one of her dearest and best friends. If not for
Mary's help, Beth would now be married to Perceval
Griffith.
A fate worse than death.
Inga Linberg had befriended Beth and Mary, two obviously
confused and misguided travelers, while they were still in
Southampton. Inga's father had helped them secure passage
on the steamship, and it was Inga who had educated them on
what to expect, both at sea and during the immigration
process yet to be endured. Beth had become most fond of
the tall, plain Swedish girl in the brief time they'd
known one another.
But now they were in America, and Beth realized how much
she was going to miss her friends as they each went their
separate ways Mary to wed the father of her unborn child;
Inga with her family to Iowa, where her father would
pastor a church; and Beth to Montana.
Montana, a place far, far from England, as far away as she
could get from an arranged marriage to a man she detested.
She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. Silently
she promised herself she would face what tomorrow might
bring, no matter what it was. It could be no worse than
what she'd left behind.
Chapter One
Garret Steele gripped the saddle with his thighs and held
on to the horn with his left hand as the buckskin gelding
beneath him set its front legs, then darted in the
opposite direction in pursuit of the wily calf. The heifer
was as range wild as any Garret had seen, but he and old
Buck had been herding cows together for many years. They
weren't about to be outsmarted by beef on the hoof.
Ten minutes later he had the calf roped, hog-tied, and
ready for branding.
While Jake Whitaker, his hired hand, brought the hot iron
from the fire, Garret removed his hat and wiped the sweat
from his forehead. Then he reached for his canteen.
Tipping back his head, he took a long swallow, washing
down the dust.
Man alive, it was hot for May. He hoped they weren't in
for a long, dry summer. The cattle had wintered well, and
Garret was looking forward to turning a nice profit come
fall. But a drought could quickly change the face of
things.
"Always somethin'," he muttered as he screwed the cap back
on the canteen.
The stench of singed hair and flesh reached his nostrils,
reminding him of the work still to be done before sundown.
Tugging his hat low on his forehead with one hand, he
stepped into the saddle. As soon as Jake freed the newly
branded calf_--still bleating its complaint--Garret
dragged his lariat into a large coil against his thigh,
then turned Buck toward the herd.
A sense of satisfaction swelled in Garret's chest as his
gaze swept the range. Satisfaction was what he always felt
when he looked at what he'd accomplished in the past
eighteen years. He'd been nothing but a scrawny kid, still
wet behind the ears, when he'd come to Montana, when he'd
first laid eyes on this stretch of land and known he
wanted to call it home.
He'd seen plenty of hard times while he'd built his herd
from a few head to its present size. And he'd seen plenty
of changes come to Montana, too. The railroad crawling
across the plains and through the mountain passes. The
coming of barbed wire. The town of New Prospects, popping
up ten miles to the south of the Steele ranch, seemingly
overnight.
Yeah, things were different, but this was where he
belonged. It was his home.
"Pa! Pa!"
He reined in, twisting in the saddle to watch the approach
of his daughter. Janie's wild strawberry blond hair waved
behind her like a banner, and her dress was bunched up
around her thighs as she raced her pony toward him.
Wouldn't Muriel have a fit if she could see Janie now?
His teeth clenched as he shoved away thoughts of his dead
wife.
Sliding her small bay mare to a halt, Janie said, "I
finished the dishes and my lessons, Pa. Can I help now?"
He grinned even as he shook his head. "You know how I feel
about you bein' out here while we're branding. This is no
place for a little girl."
"I'm not so little I can't help."
He recognized the stubborn set of her jaw. And what she
said was true. Janie had taken care of many of the
household chores since long before her mother passed away.
She'd even learned to cook, at least well enough to keep
the two of them from starving. But that didn't mean she
belonged in the middle of a herd of cattle at branding
time. It was too dangerous, and Garret would never risk
harm to his daughter. Not ever.
"Sorry, Janie. You know the rules."
"But, Pa--"
"Janie ..."
She scowled, her bottom lip protruding in an artful
pout. "It's not fair."
He was unmoved by her theatrics. "Things rarely are."
"Can't I just--"
"Nope." He jerked his head toward the ranch house. "You
get on back. I'll be finished in about an hour."
Janie hesitated only a moment, then, with a deep sigh of
the oppressed, turned her pony toward the house and rode
slowly away. His daughter would probably never know how
hard it was for Garret to refuse anything she asked. He'd
try to rope her the moon if she wanted it.
With a shake of his head, he nudged Buck with his heels
and set off to rope the last of the calves instead.
Two hours later father and daughter sat down at the rough-
hewn table in the log house they called home. Janie said
the blessing over the steaks that had been fried with
onions and potatoes, and Garret added his own "Amen" to
hers when she was finished.
"I got another letter from England today," Janie said as
she cut her meat, "but it took longer'n usual getting
here. Lady Elizabeth must already be married to Lord
Altberry by now. I hope she'll write again soon and tell
me about the wedding and the house where she's living."
Garret listened to the excitement in her voice, while
feeling residual anger stirring to life. He hated it when
Janie talked about England and the Wellingtons. He hated
the way she fantasized about traveling abroad someday, and
he blamed his deceased wife for putting the notion in
Janie's head to begin with. It was Muriel who had
encouraged their daughter--only six years old at the time--
to write to the earl, an old friend of Garret's father-in-
law. It was Muriel who had encouraged the continuing
correspondence between Janie and the earl's daughter, and
Muriel who had suggested Janie might one day go to England
to visit Lady Elizabeth, perhaps to become her companion.
It was Muriel who had dreamed of Janie marrying an English
lord, like those eastern society women they'd read about
in the newspaper.
Copyright 2000 Robin Lee Hatcher