One Heart to Win, Page 2

  Rose continued eating. It looked as if she was going to pretend they weren’t having this conversation. Tiffany hadn’t touched her own soup yet.

  She was debating whether to turn mulish or give up when Rose finally said, “We married too quickly, Tiffany, before we found out how little we had in common. And he didn’t warn me ahead of time about that feud that was going to intrude on our marriage. I still tried to make a go of it. I did love him, you know.”

  And still did, Tiffany guessed, but she didn’t say that. Rose was still evading the question. Telling her that she and Frank had nothing in common was purely an excuse so she wouldn’t have to discuss the real reason she’d left her husband.

  Rose added, “I would have divorced your father if I’d found a reason to.”

  “You mean another man?”

  “Yes. But that never happened. And actually, I’m not sure I can even get a divorce. Not long after I snuck off, taking you with me, he said he would fight a divorce.”

  “You snuck off?”

  “Yes, in the middle of the night, so I could catch the stage first thing in the morning to get a head start on Frank. The railroad hadn’t connected to Montana yet. And my maid delayed him from finding out I’d left by telling him I wasn’t feeling well.”

  Tiffany was fascinated. This was the first she’d heard that her mother had fled Montana stealthily. But if Frank hadn’t woken up and found her gone, then . . .

  “You weren’t—sharing the same room?”

  “No, not by that point.”

  Tiffany wasn’t blushing over the subject, but she wondered why her mother suddenly was. Rose hadn’t blushed even once a couple of years ago when she’d given Tiffany all the information she would need to know about married life. But if her parents’ marriage had deteriorated to the point of their not even sharing the same bed, then Tiffany pretty much had part of the answer. Rose must have stopped wanting her husband—in that way. Either that or Franklin Warren had simply turned into a bad husband, one that Rose couldn’t stand living with anymore. And the latter was something Tiffany wanted to know before she showed up at his ranch. What if he prevented her from leaving if she decided not to marry Hunter Callahan, the same way he’d tried to prevent Rose from leaving?

  But she gave her mother a reprieve from answering that question since Rose seemed uncomfortable with the subject. And Tiffany was still curious about how her mother managed to escape, especially since Tiffany now wondered if she might have to do the same thing.

  “Isn’t a horse faster than a stagecoach?” she asked.

  “Yes, and I knew Frank would catch up to us, so in the next town I bought a stage ticket to the nearest train depot, but we didn’t get on it. I hid us in that town instead.”

  “I have no memories of that trip, none at all.”

  “I’m not surprised, as young as you were.”

  “So he got ahead of us?”

  “Yes. It was much less nerve-racking knowing where he was than constantly having to look over my shoulder. I telegraphed my mother so she knew to expect him and turn him away. I wasn’t able to go directly home because of his stubbornness. For two days he didn’t sleep, he just stood across the street from this house, waiting for us to show up. For three months he stayed in New York, banging on the door to this house daily. One day he even forced his way in.”

  “Were we here yet?”

  “No, I wasn’t about to go home until he actually left the city. You and I stayed with an old school friend nearby. Mama had Frank arrested, of course, for pushing past our butler and searching the house from top to bottom. She was furious with him by then because his persistence was keeping us from coming home. She let him rot in jail for a week before she dropped the charges at my request. He finally gave up after that and returned to Montana.”

  “Maybe he hasn’t divorced you because he still hopes you’ll come back to him,” Tiffany said.

  “Oh, I’ve no doubt of that. No matter what I said, no matter how nasty I got about it, he continues to think I’ll return to him someday.”

  “Will you?”

  Rose lowered her eyes to the table. “No.”

  “And you don’t think that the fact that you haven’t tried to get a divorce gives him false hope? Surely after this long he wouldn’t still fight it, would he?”

  “I don’t know. He said he’d go to his grave married to me. He’s a stubborn man. He just might. But like I said, I’ve never had incentive to find out.”

  “You two write to each other,” Tiffany said incredulously. “Why haven’t you simply asked him?”

  Rose smiled wryly. “We don’t write about ‘us’ in those letters, Tiff. We did for a while, at least he did. He was angry that I left without telling him, then he was heartbroken when I refused to go back, then he got angry again. He finally got the message that I would only write about you children and nothing else. The one time he wrote about our marriage, I didn’t answer him for a year. When I finally did, I warned him you would be reading his letters from then on, so he confined himself to neutral subjects.”

  All those letters Tiffany got to read were friendly in tone. Some were even funny, indicating that her father had a sense of humor. But all he ever wrote about were the ranch, her brothers, and people she didn’t know, friends of his and her mother’s in Montana, people she’d probably meet once she got there. Never in those letters did he address Tiffany directly, other than to say, Give Tiffany my love. But she also got to read Rose’s letters to him, and her mother always asked her if she wanted to add anything to the letters. She used to. She told him about learning to ice-skate with her best friend, Margery, and that Tiffany thought it was fun when she fell through the ice, but no one else did. She told him about David, a boy who lived on her block, and how she felt so bad for accidentally breaking his nose, but that he forgave her, so they were still friends. She told him about the kitten she found and lost and how she and Rose searched for it for weeks. She shared a lot in those letters—until she began to resent that he never visited her, not even once.

  That resentment got worse, especially when her brothers would arrive at the town house alone. She used to stand at the door, staring at the coach that dropped them off, waiting for her father to step out of it, too. He never did. The coach would drive off. Empty. After the second time that happened, that’s how her heart felt anytime she thought of Franklin Warren. Empty.

  She stopped standing at the front door with hope in her heart and tears in her eyes, and she stopped reading Frank’s letters, or adding anything to Rose’s. She’d been nine or ten at the time, she couldn’t remember exactly. She only pretended to read them after that, so her mother wouldn’t know how painful she found her father’s rejection of her. It was the only way she could shield herself from something that hurt that much. She tried to put her father so far out of her mind that he didn’t exist—until she got a letter from one of her brothers that mentioned their father and clearly conveyed how much they loved him. Then the tears would stream down her cheeks before she finished reading it.

  Her brothers didn’t know how she really felt either. The boys still talked about their father when they visited. They loved him. Of course they did, he hadn’t abandoned them as he’d abandoned her. They just didn’t notice that she wasn’t listening to them, or that she interrupted them to get them to talk about something less painful. She hated it when they had to leave to return to Frank. She had so much fun with them when they were here—playing with them, riding with them in the park, being teased by them. It felt as if they were a real family. Their departure always proved they weren’t.

  “Did you lie to me, Mama? Do you actually hate him?”

  “That’s a strong word that isn’t at all appropriate. He’s an infuriating man. His stubbornness rivals my own. He had the sort of arrogance that I suppose comes with carving an empire out of nothing. He was at war with his neighbors. Sometimes I think he actually enjoyed the conflict. Some days I was afraid to even leave the
ranch, but his attitude was for me not to worry my pretty head about it. You can’t imagine how exasperating that was. I got so angry I could have ridden over to the Callahans’ and shot the lot of them. I might even have tried it if I actually knew how to use a rifle. No, I didn’t hate him, I just couldn’t live with him anymore.”

  “And you’re not going to tell me why, are you?”

  “I did—”

  “You didn’t! He cheated on you, didn’t he?” she guessed.

  “Tiffany!”

  “Just tell me yes. It’s the only thing that makes any sense.”

  “It was simply two people who couldn’t live compatibly in the same house anymore. I cared enough about him to leave, so he could find someone else.”

  Nearly in the same breath alluding to fighting then just the opposite, that Rose cared too much? What was so horrible about the truth that Rose was making up so many excuses, none of them with the ring of truth to them?

  And then Tiffany threw out another guess, “Or you found someone else and it just didn’t work out?”

  “Tiffany, stop it. There was no other man. There was no other woman. It was a tragedy, it still is. Why are you making me relive it?”

  That was the one question her mother knew would make her back off. And Tiffany did just that. She loved her mother so much. But she’d lived too long with the hurt of her father abandoning both of them. And now that she was finally going to meet him, she was afraid that all that hurt would spill out in recriminations when she got there, because while her mother might not hate Frank Warren, Tiffany was sure that what she felt for him had to be hate. It was too strong to be anything else.

  Oh, God, she’d managed to put ice around her heart and pretend to be indifferent to her father’s rejection. Now all that pain was suddenly back, welling in her chest, and she felt like the little girl standing at the door again, staring at an empty coach.

  “I’m sorry,” she said to her mother. “I was actually hoping you could give me a reason not to hate my father and you haven’t done that. I’ll go to Montana to honor the commitment you made, but I don’t want to see him any more than you do.”

  She wasn’t shouting it this time, which warned her mother it wasn’t just an emotional statement, she actually meant it. And she added, “Callahan can court me from town, can’t he? I don’t actually have to stay at Papa’s ranch, do I?”

  “And how will it look to the Callahans if you’re at war with your father? Not exactly reassuring that the feud will come to an end, is it?”

  “Fine,” Tiffany grumbled ungraciously. “I’ll tolerate him.”

  Rose actually burst out laughing. “Baby, you’ll be gracious and polite. You’ve been raised to be a lady. Now we’re changing the damn subject,” she added, quite unladylike herself. “Eat your fish. It’s probably the last you’ll be having for a while. Cattlemen eat beef and nothing else.”

  Tiffany nodded, but she wasn’t used to feeling so frustrated. Despite everything her mother had just said, she still didn’t know why her parents had separated. But if her mother wouldn’t tell her, maybe her father would. . . .

  Chapter Three

  “AND I WAS SO sure I could get used to traveling,” Anna huffed indignantly on Tiffany’s behalf. “Your mama should have warned us that fancy Pullman car she rented wouldn’t be coming with us on the last leg of the trip.”

  Tiffany grinned at her maid across the table in the dining car. “Mama spoiled us with the Pullman car. This is how most people travel across the country.”

  Anna Weston had been Tiffany’s maid for four years now. Blond, brown-eyed, she was only five years older than Tiffany, though her cherubic looks made people think she was much younger. Despite being only twenty-three, Anna had more accomplishments under her belt than most women who had to work for a living. In addition to her being well read and having beautiful penmanship, one of her brothers had taught her how to lay wallpaper seamlessly, her father had taught her how to build and repair furniture, and her mother had taught her to play four different musical instruments. The agency that had placed Anna with the Warrens had gotten her two other job offers: one as a governess and another as a teacher. So Anna had her choice of employment.

  Tiffany didn’t know that until after Anna had come to work for them. She didn’t know either that Anna had almost turned down the job because Tiffany had made her laugh during the interview. It wasn’t that Anna didn’t have a sense of humor, only that she did not think it appropriate to reveal it to her employer. But Anna was practical, too. In the end, she accepted the job in the Warren household because it paid much more than the other two choices she’d had at the time. But the maid prided herself on being strictly professional at all times, even to the point that she refused to call Tiffany anything other than Miss Tiffany. But that didn’t stop Tiffany from trying to break down Anna’s stiff formality. She saw no reason why she and Anna couldn’t be friends as well as employer and employee. Only on rare occasions did Tiffany think her efforts might be working.

  But while Anna wouldn’t call herself Tiffany’s friend and probably never would, she was fiercely loyal to Tiffany. And protective, which made her a fine chaperone. If a man even looked sideways at Tiffany, Anna gave him her hell-hath-no-fury look. And thankfully she was adventurous—well, until they left Chicago she had been. She’d agreed to travel to the “Wild West” because she’d admitted that she’d always wanted to see more of the world. Tiffany wanted to travel, too. She wanted to go on a grand tour of Europe like other young ladies her age, or even up to her friend Margery’s cottage in Newport, where she’d spent a good deal of time last summer. But she certainly didn’t want to go to uncivilized Montana Territory.

  “The seats on this train aren’t that uncomfortable, just not as lushly padded as those in the Pullman. At least this train has a dining car,” Tiffany pointed out.

  Anna’s expression turned even more sour, telling Tiffany the seats weren’t the problem. Of course they weren’t. Anna’s real complaint was how crowded the train was, and the heat and the stench that came with such overcrowding. The long seats in the passenger cars were designed for two to three people, but they were now occupied by four or even five, including children and screaming infants. Tiffany would have been complaining if Anna hadn’t beaten her to it, which made it quite difficult for her to see the bright side of their situation. This was such a far cry from having that fancy private Pullman all to themselves, which had been like riding in a small parlor!

  Rose certainly wouldn’t have let them get on this train if she’d known they’d be traveling in such deplorable conditions. But then the long line of farmers hadn’t boarded in Chicago but after they’d crossed the border into Wisconsin. The conductor had apologized to Tiffany and Anna, explaining that the high number of passengers was quite out of the ordinary, but nonetheless, they were now operating as an immigrant express train. It was just their rotten luck that a new tract of farmland had opened up in Montana and had been advertised in the East, causing hundreds if not thousands of immigrants to pour into the territory to start new lives. While the influx of farmers was good for Montana’s growing population, which needed more food crops, it made the train ride into the territory uncomfortable.

  “Look on the bright side,” Tiffany said to Anna as their lunch was served. “We’re actually going to arrive a few days early because the train is no longer stopping at every depot to pick up more passengers, merely to refuel and resupply as needed. And Mama said the ranch house is big and finely furnished, thanks to her. She’s sure we’ll feel right at home when we get there.”

  After reading Frank’s last letter, Rose had also said, “They’ve already started building your house on the contested land—and come to blows. It was a mistake to think they could work together before the marriage takes place. But that’s your father for you, quite the optimist.”

  Her mother had said that with such a fond expression on her face it sparked all sorts of new possibilities in Tiffany�
��s mind, including one she used to think about often when she was little, before she’d turned bitter—getting her parents back together.

  Before the waiter finished setting their plates down, he leaned slightly toward Tiffany and whispered, “I’m sorry, miss, but due to the long line, we won’t be able to finish serving before the dinner hour is over if we don’t fill every seat at the tables now.”

  It wasn’t the first time Tiffany and Anna would have to dine with strangers. If the train hadn’t turned into an express line to deal with the land giveaway, they could have taken advantage of restaurants at the station stops. As it was now, they were barely given twenty minutes to stretch their legs when the train stopped, sometimes not even that. But at least they still had the dining car, crowded though it was.

  Tiffany nodded her understanding to the waiter. Anna sighed. A young woman named Jennifer, whom they had met the day before, sat down with a chuckle. Blond, rather pretty, she was dressed similarly to Tiffany, just without the high-fashioned bustle and in much less expensive material. Still, she was obviously a city girl, not one of the farmers’ wives dressed in faded calico dresses. Jennifer also seemed to be traveling alone, which Tiffany thought was quite brave of her.

  A moment later, a young farmer joined them, too, wearing overalls and a misshapen hat that he didn’t remove. The harried waiter set down two more plates for him and Jennifer before rushing back to the kitchen. The farmer didn’t say a word, just gave them the briefest of nods before he lowered his head bashfully and started eating. He was probably embarrassed to be seated with women he didn’t know, or afraid they might be offended if a strange man spoke to them. Anna probably would have been, so it was just as well he didn’t try.

  Jennifer, on the other hand, was gregarious. “We meet again,” she said to Tiffany. “Now that we’re making a habit of this, I should probably introduce myself properly. Jennifer Fleming of Chicago. I’m a housekeeper by trade. My agency is sending me to Nashart for a year—or longer if I find I like it there.”