Cheryl St.John - Her Montana Man

“Only a little.”

“All this company is tiring, isn’t it?”

“Are they all Mama’s friends?”

“They came because they cared for her, and they want to show that they care about you, too.” She rubbed his shoulder. “Why don’t we go upstairs? You can change out of your suit jacket and lie on your bed for a little while.”

“I don’t want to go yet,” he answered.

“All right then. You may sit with me a while longer.”

Jonas thought perhaps he should go, but just as he was about to excuse himself, Eliza spoke. “How is Miss Holmes?”

“Good, I reckon. She’s a fine worker.”

“Housekeeping you said?”

“Uh-huh.” Oh, he was a witty conversationalist.

“Do you employ a number of people?”

“About twenty.” He explained about the operations of the hotel and the saloon and how many it took to keep both businesses running. “Handle the employment vouchers myself.”

“How does that work exactly?”

“Well. You know a lot of men have been lured West by gold or adventure or the dream of land. Reality of it is most of ’em end up needin’ jobs. Oh, a few strike it rich and are the moneymakers, but the rest are the real workers. The ones who actually dig trenches and tunnels and drive spikes. Ones who harvest crops and fell trees.”

She nodded, showing her interest.

“Those kind of jobs move around with the railroad and with the seasons. Railroad, farmers, mine owners and the state all let me know when they need laborers. I sell vouchers for those jobs and the industry owners pay me commission when they hire.”

She didn’t respond, and he couldn’t read her expression. “I already know your brother-in-law doesn’t have any use for what I do.”

She glanced away and then back at him. “I don’t understand why he calls you a slave trader.”

“Maybe he wishes he’d thought of it first?” he suggested with half a grin. “Dunno. They aren’t slaves, they’re hardworking men. I’m doin’ ’em a service by locating the jobs. They call themselves hoboes, you know.”

“I didn’t. What does that mean?”

“Just means a migratory worker.”

“Not tramps.”

He shook his head. “Tramps and bums beg and don’t want to work. These men are the backbone of industry all the way from here to the Dakotas and up into Canada.”

“What about their families?”

“Most of ’em have never been married. Some are immigrants who left wives behind in other countries.”

Jonas glanced over and noticed Tyler had fallen asleep in her arms. He was a good-sized boy and must be getting heavy. “He’s asleep.”

She nodded. “I could tell. He was exhausted. He never sits on my lap anymore. The fact that he did today, not caring who saw, says a lot. Do you think you could help me?”

“What can I do?”

“I don’t think I can lift him from where I sit, and I’d never make it up the stairs. I’d hate to wake him to get him to his bed.”

Jonas glanced around, not spotting Tyler’s father. He stood and bent to take the boy from her arms, getting one arm behind his knees and another around his back. Jonas’s arms brushed Eliza Jane’s as she released Tyler, and she met his eyes.

Heat like quicksilver ignited in his belly at the combination of that innocent touch and the spark of her amber gaze. She noticed something, too.

She stood, smoothing her skirts, and touched his arm. “Upstairs.”

She led the way to the foyer and up the broad, carpeted staircase, her black skirts swishing. He glimpsed white lace above her heels with each stair she climbed ahead of him. He didn’t allow himself to look up, knowing her backside would be at his eye level.

He followed her along a hallway lined with polished mahogany doors and framed art until she opened one and gestured for him to enter ahead of her. The house smelled like candles and lemon wax.

He carried Tyler into a well-lit room with a heavy oak bedstead and bureau, a chest against one wall, and a row of wooden soldiers at attention along the windowsill.

Eliza Jane tugged at the drapery tassels, letting the material fall over the opening and cloak the room in semidarkness. Moving forward with a rustle of skirts, she pulled back the blue-and-white patterned quilt and a crisp sheet.

Jonas lowered Tyler to the bed, easing his head onto the pillow and straightening his legs.

His aunt removed his boots. Jonas reached to take them from her and set them aside. She pulled the covers up over Tyler and rhythmically threaded her fingers through his hair, as though she was in no hurry to leave him. Jonas couldn’t help noticing the pain and adoration on her face when she looked at the boy. She was hurting for him as well as for her own loss.

Bending at the waist, she pressed her nose to his hairline. Her lips touched the skin at his temple. Her eyes closed and Jonas caught the glimmer of a tear as it dropped on Tyler’s cheek. She wiped it away quickly and stood. Composing herself she touched her skirt with both hands as though pressing out wrinkles.

He recognized the gesture as something she did without thinking when she was uncomfortable. Following her out into the hall, he stood waiting as she pulled the door closed.

“I’d like to do that myself,” she said. “Lie down and obliviously sleep away the next several hours…or days.”

“Go ahead.”

She looked up at him. The hum of conversation from downstairs seemed to swell and fade. After a second, she shook her head. “The house is full of guests.”

“They would understand.”

“It’s a small thing to honor my sister and let people pay their respects.”

He’d been curious about her for months, watching her daily walks to the tea shop, wondering about her life. He suffered a twinge of guilt that perhaps part of his reasoning for coming today had been out of curiosity. It felt odd standing in the home where she had lived for so many years, seeing her in her surroundings, watching her with her nephew. Yet he still didn’t know her any better than before.

“This is interesting.”

Eliza Jane jumped and turned to face the man who’d spoken.

Royce Dunlap had apparently come up a back flight of stairs and was standing several feet away, looking as though he’d caught them doing something wrong.

Eliza Jane’s demeanor changed, her back straightening and chin lifting in a defensive posture. “Mr. Black carried Tyler to his bed. Tyler’s had a difficult time and needs to rest.”

Royce’s gaze slid to Jonas. “Why, how kind of you to assist my son, Jonas. You are a man of many talents. One never knows what you’ll be applying yourself to next.”

For years Jonas had locked horns with Royce in town council meetings. One discussion or another always led them to a disagreement. Royce had a bone to pick with him for some reason, and Jonas just plain held little respect for the man and his ill treatment of the workers in his employment. But this wasn’t the time or the place to air their differences. “I came to show my respects for your wife.”

“Yes, we’re torn over our loss,” Royce replied, but the words and his tone didn’t hold much sincerity.

Jonas didn’t like the impression he was getting. “I believe I’ll finish my coffee now.” He turned to Eliza Jane. “Miss.”

“It’s probably cold,” she told him. “I’ll get you a fresh cup.”

“No bother. I’ll help myself.”

Eliza watched his broad back in the black coat as he descended the stairs. She sensed Royce’s displeasure and heard him step closer. “He’s not our kind, and he’s not welcome in this house again.”

She frowned, but didn’t look at his face. “We don’t turn away kind folks who call to pay their respects. He’s a perfect gentleman.”