Montana Cowboy Daddy. Linda Ford
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she watched a little girl, blond hair flying about her head, dash across the street. Did no one notice her? Or see the freight wagon bearing down on her, the horses’ huge hooves ready to trample the child? Were they all too interested in looking over those who had traveled to their town?
She lifted her skirts, intending to run toward the child. Instead, her petticoats caught and she stumbled. Righting herself, she reached toward the child but she was too far away. Could she do nothing to prevent the disaster she saw coming? Must she watch helplessly...uselessly?
In a clatter of racing hooves, a horseman galloped into the scene. The rider reached down and snatched up the little girl and thundered out of the way.
Isabelle breathed a prayer of thanks for the rescue of the child.
The wagon driver shouted, “Whoa.” The horses reared and pawed the air and the wagon careened to a stop farther down the street.
Isabelle stared at the big man who had rescued the girl and was clutching her to his chest, his expression fierce.
She couldn’t hear his words as he spoke to the child, couldn’t see his face, hidden as it was beneath the brim of his hat, but from the defensive look on the little one’s face, she guessed he scolded her.
“Yes, Papa. I’m sorry.”
What kind of place had she arrived in where children played untended in the street? Then were scolded for the neglect of the adults? It should not be.
Indignation burned through her veins as she continued on her way, closing the distance between herself and the pair seated upon the horse. She didn’t slow until she reached their side. The warmth and smell of horseflesh greeted her as she reached up and ran her hands along the girl’s arms. “Are you hurt?”
The child shook her head, still looking frightened.
“You’re safe so long as you don’t play in the street.” Her smile seemed to encourage the girl. But how safe could she be if no one watched her?
She lifted her head to face the man. “You’re this child’s father?” Having heard the child call him Papa, she knew he was. She only meant to remind the man of his responsibility.
His gaze hit her with such force she pressed her hand to her throat as if she could calm the rapid beating of her heart...caused, she reminded herself, from marching across the street. Certainly not from the power of piercing blue eyes in a tanned face.
She didn’t wait for his reply. Nor did she heed a sense of warning that this was not a man accustomed to having someone suggest he was wrong. “I advise you to take better care of her before she is injured.”
His blue eyes grew glacial. His lips pressed into a frown. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you nor you of meeting me. I would think that makes you quite incapable of having a knowledgeable opinion of what I should or shouldn’t be doing.” His gaze bored straight through her.
She lifted her chin another inch. She was Isabelle Redfield and her opinion was generally considered worth taking note of. With a little sigh, she released her anger. He didn’t know who she was nor did she want him to. “I would be remiss not to point out the child was in grave danger. Surely you could see that.”
“I saw her.” His clipped words warned her to drop the subject.
She lowered her gaze to the child and, not wanting to upset her, chose to let it go.
Her traveling companions had left the stagecoach and watched the proceedings from the hotel veranda. She climbed the three wooden steps to join them. Isabelle’s friend and fellow traveler, Kate, rushed to her side. “That was too close for comfort. Quite an introduction to Bella Creek.” Kate’s father, Dr. Baker, joined his daughter. Sadie Young, the new teacher for the community, stood nearby.
A white-haired old man leaning on two canes stood in the forefront of the gathered townsfolk, as if the official greeter. Each of those who had traveled with her introduced themselves and spoke of their plans. Dr. Baker and his daughter to help the ill and injured, Sadie Young to teach the children. And Isabelle to—
Well, she wasn’t sure what she could do, but she’d find something that mattered.
Praying no one in this group would recognize her name, Isabelle brushed her skirts, smoothing them as best she could before she introduced herself. “Miss Isabelle Redfield.” She adjusted her gloves. “I’m here to help, as well.” Please don’t ask me what I plan to do. The breeze tugged at her silk scarf, whipping the ends about.
Kate pulled her to her side. “Isabelle is my friend. She’s with us.”
When Kate said she would go with her father to the mining town, Isabelle had asked if she could accompany them. She’d grown weary of life in St. Louis, where for the past eleven and a half years, since her parents died when she was twelve, she’d shared the home of her second cousin by marriage, Augusta. Not that her home life was unacceptable, but everyone knew Isabelle was the sole beneficiary of both the Redfield and Castellano fortunes. It seemed most people sought her out, pretended friendship, even asked for her hand in marriage, simply because of her inheritance. Kate was the rare exception.
Perhaps she could start over here without that knowledge classifying her. As they’d approached their destination, she’d asked Kate not to tell anyone she was an heiress, which had brought a smile to Kate’s lips as her gaze skimmed Isabelle’s dress. “You should have taken that into consideration when choosing your gowns. Even your traveling outfit shouts money.”
Isabelle had glanced dismissively at her sapphire-blue suit and long protective matching coat lined with warm wool. Her bonnet matched, as well, but the long silk scarf holding her bonnet in place was bright and cheerful with pink poppies all over. Clothes meant far less to her than they did to Cousin Augusta, who saw every occasion as an excuse to bring in a seamstress or two and discuss the latest styles.
“This is all I have, though I suppose I could have ordered different things.” The gowns in her trunk were mostly new—suitable for a trip, according to Cousin Augusta. It had never crossed Isabelle’s mind to suggest otherwise. She smiled as she thought of the fine silk and crisp satin of her gowns. It had been rather exciting to help select the fabrics and then watch them be transformed into beautiful outfits. She loved beauty wherever she saw it.
It was too late to prepare simpler clothes. Hopefully she would not be judged by what she wore.
“Good to see you all,” the white-haired man said. “We need all the help we can get. I’m Allan Marshall, the one who sent for you. Welcome to Bella Creek.” He shifted to lean on one cane in order to shake hands with the doctor and bend over each of the ladies’ hands.
Many in the small crowd called out their greetings.
“Most people call me Grandfather Marshall, seeing as there are so many Marshalls around. Like my grandson here. Dawson, get down and say hello to these folks.”
The man Isabelle had recently scolded lowered the girl to the ground, swung off his horse and joined the older man. Tall and broad, so upright and strong looking...a marked contrast to his stooped grandfather.
“This is Dawson Marshall.” The elder Marshall man chuckled softly. “You’ll have to forgive him his manners. Sometimes he forgets he’s not out with a bunch of rough cowboys.”
Isabelle raised her head to meet the gaze of the man before her. She stilled herself to reveal none of her trepidation. Only a few minutes in town and already she’d managed to step on the toes of what appeared to be the biggest family in Bella Creek. Not that knowing would have stopped her from speaking her mind.
Grandfather Marshall continued. “Dawson’s a widower in need of a woman to settle him down.”
“Grandfather, I am not in need of a woman.” The protesting words rumbled from the man’s lips.
Isabelle managed not to show any sign of her alarm at the way the older man eyed her, then slowly—almost reluctantly—let his