Tommy and Quinn yawned. Soon they’d be asleep. Both, still tired from their trip into town, needed their sleep. But she hated the idea of moving them to the back of the wagon. They’d been a buffer between Mr. Barrington and her.
It struck her then that there’d been no discussion about their sleeping arrangements. Of course, he didn’t expect her to share a bed with him, did he? After her debacle with Douglas, she’d promised there’d be nothing like that again until she was safely wed. Douglas’s touch had always been pleasant, never memorable and never worth the trouble she’d endured as the result. Yet, the idea of doing those same things with Mr. Barrington had heat rising in her cheeks.
She imagined that when Mr. Barrington kissed a woman, she felt it all the way down to the tips of her toes. His hands weren’t soft like Douglas’s but calloused and rough. When he whispered in a woman’s ear, he didn’t parrot pretty lies, but spoke of the dark and erotic, much as the servants did when they giggled about their adventures in the bedroom.
Her nerves danced with tension. She jerked her thoughts back to the present. Lord, what was she doing?
Despite Mr. Barrington’s lack of interest in conversation, Abby decided conversation remained the safest course for now. “Mrs. Clements said the railroad might be building tracks through here soon. She said the rail will bring in more miners and farmers and that it’ll only help Holden’s stagecoach business.”
“I suppose that’s right.”
She tapped her fingers on her knee. “How will it help you?”
“I’ve got horses and beef to sell.”
“How far is your ranch from town?”
“Close.”
Like pulling teeth. “How close is close?”
“Five or six hours.”
In the city, close was measured in blocks, not hours. Inwardly she groaned. After her long journey from San Francisco, she’d be happy when her travels were at an end. “What does the ranch look like?”
“Like most others.”
Frustrated by his lack of interest, she blurted, “Squeezing blood from a turnip would be easier than getting information out of you, Mr. Barrington.”
He glanced at her, his eyes sharp with annoyance. “Not much for chitchat, I suppose.”
“So I am discovering.”
“If you want to talk then go back to San Francisco, Miss Smyth.”
“I don’t wish to rehash what we’ve already discussed, Mr. Barrington.” She sat a little straighter. “I’m not leaving Montana. I’m here to stay.”
Here to stay.
Guilt ate into Matthias. He’d made the only practical decision that he could, but he felt as if were letting Elise down by bringing another woman into the home that he’d built for her.
This asinine plan of Mrs. Clements’s had created trouble he didn’t need.
As they drove closer to his ranch, the idea of having Abby Smyth under his roof was becoming all too real. His place had once seemed a practical size but with each turn of the wagon wheel it seemed to shrink. There’d be no ignoring her when she moved into the cabin.
The fact was he was drawn to Miss Smyth.
He glanced sideways at her. There was never a woman more opposite from his Elise. Elise had been small-boned, while this Abigail was tall and broad-shouldered. Her eyes weren’t smoky or coy but direct and strong.
Elise had always looked her finest when she was in her Sunday best, whereas the simpler clothes suited Miss Smyth. She’d moved stiffly in the yards of fabric yesterday as if the role of a lady had not suited her. But in the calico, she walked with confidence.
Elise had been so young and fresh-faced when they’d moved out here. Her laugh had been quick and when she’d sang it was about the prettiest thing he’d ever heard. She couldn’t cook worth a lick and she burned his share of shirts, but in those days he hadn’t cared.
When he’d gotten the itch to move west, Elise hadn’t wanted to move away from St. Louis. She liked her friends, her social functions and the convenience of a big city. But a homestead in Montana had been a dream of his for years and so he’d worked hard to sell her on the idea. In the end he’d convinced her to go with him.
No one had convinced Miss Smyth to move here. She’d come on her own, which proved either she possessed strength and grit or that she was a fool.
Still, it hadn’t been her strength he’d noticed yesterday when he’d wrapped his hands around her narrow waist and lifted her from the carriage. The full curve of her breasts, her scent, the way his body had hardened when she’d been close—those were the things he’d noticed.