The Nanny Solution Read online

  “Where will we store the milk between the feedings? It’s already quite warm in here.”

  “I expect the kitchen has an icebox, but each time we stop, I’ll purchase more if need be, plus food for us.” He slowed. “I won’t waste money on the food made at train depots, though. It’s inedible and the children will only refuse to eat it.”

  By the time they’d reached their seats, Emily’s whimpering had become full-out wailing. Automatically, Victoria bounced her lightly. She wasn’t looking forward to feeding her. Why, she hadn’t even peered inside that cotton bag. What on earth did a baby’s bottle look like?

  “Would you like the window seat?”

  She quickly shook her head. “I don’t think so. If you expect me to feed and change the baby, I’ll have to sit closest to the aisle.” She cringed. Oh, dear—change the baby? Another task of which she knew nothing.

  Nodding, Mitchell slipped in ahead of her, stepping over the basket that he must have had delivered. Victoria took her seat beside him, glancing over at the young woman across the aisle. The baby in her arms rested comfortably, no doubt well fed.

  The woman eyed her up and down, her interest far too blatant. Uncomfortable at her nerve, Victoria looked away, realizing she probably looked foolish, still with her gloves on, as though a child was something to avoid touching. She wasn’t. The child was beautiful. Victoria suppressed a smile as she looked down at Emily. At least now she could see the baby’s face, since she’d removed her small bonnet. She’d removed her own hat as well and slipped them both in beside Mitchell’s Stetson before they’d strode up to see about warming the milk.

  A few minutes later, after far too many screams from Emily, the old porter arrived with the bottle.

  It was shaped like a flattened lemon, made of clear glass with a rubber nipple sticking up at one end. Victoria thanked the man, and after fitting the small blanket over her waistcoat to protect it, she eased the bottle down to Emily’s mouth.

  At least the baby knew what to do. Being careful not to tip up the bottle too much, Victoria awkwardly began to feed her.

  It worked well for a bit, but before long, Emily began to squirm. “You need to burp her,” Mitchell advised. “Bottles let in too much air. That bothers them.”

  “Are you sure it’s not the milk?” Victoria asked, wondering how one burped an infant. Around Beacon Hill, nannies cared for infants. Victoria had seen them strolling the streets in the latest large-wheeled perambulators that came over from Europe. But she’d never seen an infant burped.

  “No, it isn’t the milk. The doctors now say that mother’s milk is not good enough, and that this formulation is better.” With a frown, Mitchell took one of the blankets in her basket, tossed it over his shoulder and held out his arms. “Here, let me show you how to burp her.”

  Taking the baby, he met Victoria’s blue eyes with his brown ones. His were a lovely color, she decided, as rich and dark as the wood that made up her mother’s highly polished secretary.

  Those lovely eyes were also guarded and wary. Why? Blinking, she watched him gently support Emily’s head as he took her. Resting her against his broad chest, he began to rub and tap her back. The simple action was almost hypnotic. She’d never seen a man so gentle.

  “Why did you accept my offer of a job if you have no experience?” he asked.

  She snapped out of her foolish reverie. “Why did you hire me without asking about it?”

  “I was in need.” He did not hold her gaze again, she noted, but rather studied the child. “Why did you answer my question with one of your own?”

  She flushed and swallowed. “You already knew that I was going to Colorado. I assumed Lacewood had told you everything else about me.” That was all she would say on the matter. The reason she was leaving Boston was no one’s business but hers. It was bad enough that Mitchell probably knew that her home needed to be sold, her mother having already fled to the Carolinas. He didn’t need to know anything more.

  Heat filled her cheeks and she looked everywhere but at Mitchell. She was headed west to live as a poor relative, someone the family was hoping would marry one of her uncle’s cronies and be gone from their house. “I may as well earn a small wage for traveling there.”

  “Your income will be very small, you know that. I’m deducting the cost of the fare from it.”

  Victoria swung her attention back to him. “I know. But I don’t need much.” She had absolutely no idea what she would need, but surely it couldn’t be too much.

  Well, she was going to have to say it out loud sooner or later. Victoria lifted her chin. “I plan to find some employment there.”

  * * *

  Mitch raised his brows as he carefully shifted Emily. He was drawing the stares of nearly everyone on the train car with his behavior, but frankly, until Miss Templeton—Victoria—learned this simple task, he needed to burp the baby. The nurse at the hospital had shown him everything he needed to know about feeding Emily, but the rest, such as this burping, he’d done before with his other children.

  He finally gave Victoria his full attention. “What kind of work are you seeking?” She didn’t look the employable type.

  “Well.” She cleared her throat. “I have some secretarial skills. I can read, write and have a decent grasp of mathematics.”

  “So you haven’t actually searched yet? Or sent any letters? Proud Bend is a rather small place.”

  She blinked without answering.

  Victoria was indeed an oddity. Like him, considering he was caring for a baby while the woman beside him watched like a studious pupil. Mitch knew little of her save the fact that Lacewood could vouch for her character...and that there had been a death in her family, but he knew that only from the black wreath on her front door. There seemed to be a problem with money, judging by the need for train fare.

  Why? Her brownstone was worth at least three of his ranches. Yet she was heading west to meet a man who had been willing to send her money for a first-class train ticket.

  Was he her beau? Mitch frowned. She certainly didn’t act as though she was going to meet the love of her life. Or was Victoria a mail-order bride who’d naively decided she’d rather work as a spinster instead of marrying? He’d already gathered that her family’s situation had turned dire. What had precipitated her new decision?

  No. He would not pry, not even about her vague plans for employment. He didn’t want Victoria, or anybody in Proud Bend, to know his business, so he ought to stay out of other people’s. Ranching was lonely work, something best left to bachelors who weren’t encumbered by fickle women who acted too much on emotion, needy things that they were. And he wasn’t seeing anything in Victoria that changed his mind. She was most likely a socialite in financial disgrace, forced to Colorado to marry a man who wanted something cultured on his arm. Mitch would leave her to her naivety as soon as they stepped off the train at Proud Bend. That would be best for everyone. No point in the children expecting she’d be a fixture in their already battered lives.

  Proud Bend was a small town southwest of Denver, but it was up-and-coming with its own church, bank and three stores, not to mention the blacksmith and the school and a few establishments Mitch chose not to frequent. The train depot had taken on the post office’s duties, something that seemed odd at the time, but the townsfolk preferred it that way. Beside the smithy sat the sheriff’s office and behind it, a small jail. The boom of the gold rush and the offer a few years back of cheap land for ranching along with Colorado joining the union had all worked in Proud Bend’s favor. The town was thriving and healthy.

  A few years ago, when he’d first arrived, he’d been so impressed that he’d named his ranch Proud Ranch, after the town. He’d spent that first winter carving the sign above the entrance to his land. He had been building a home for the family he’d left out east.

  Then the honeymoon ended. That spring someone in town commented that they were surprised Mitch could even write. Mitch had held his tongue. Two things he’d learned from being the son of a retired schoolmarm. Know your letters and keep your mouth shut.

  Thinking of letters, he still had an unread one from Lacewood in his breast pocket. The man had written a long explanation when Mitch had told him that he couldn’t keep his last appointment due to this train trip. If there were still questions, Mitch could write him. First, though, he needed to read the letter while there was still daylight.

  He handed a calmer Emily back to Victoria.

  “Her milk doesn’t seem to sit well with her,” she commented.

  “She’ll have to get used to it. There is no substitute.”

  Lips pursed, Victoria began a slight rocking, something that accentuated the insistent clacking of the wheels on the rails. Before long, the baby was asleep. Mitch glanced at his children. As expected, they took the rear-facing seats, but Ralph and Mary weren’t impressed with the arrangement, craning their necks to peer out the window at what was coming.

  His gaze wandered. Some other passengers still looked his way with open curiosity, except the new mother across the aisle. She was taking an extraordinary interest in Victoria.

  And why not? Victoria’s outfit was stunning, especially compared to the basic accommodations second class offered. The color of a forest at twilight with equally dark lace and plenty of pulled up layers tucked in spots to make the whole skirt look like a series of green waves, her outfit was sober but tasteful. It could almost count for a mourning suit. In fact, it seemed to respect both necessities—that is, mourning and traveling. She’d also abandoned her hat, he noticed, though he couldn’t say when. She must have set it up in the compartment above them beside his Stetson. Did she know that whole compartment would become a berth in a few hours?

  “Can we play a game?” Mary asked.

  Mitch nodded. “Why don’t you play I spy?”

  Thankfully, Matthew started them off. Mitch’s heart lurched. They’d lost their mother and yet they seemed to be handling it better than he was. It was a fact that Ralph had acted up yesterday, and Mary cried herself to sleep most nights, but overall they were adjusting. Mitch was grateful that a simple game could keep them occupied.

  He’d been out West for so long, they hardly knew him. Matthew and John remembered him, and Ralph took his cues from his brothers and had warmed to him, but Mary had treated him with distrust. For the briefest instant, Mitch regretted his decision to ranch, but he stalled that thought. It put food on the table. He’d made the best decision he could for his family.

  And Emily? His attention dropped to her as Victoria laid her gently in the wicker basket on the floor between their feet. Along with some sheets that the porter had tucked away, he’d had that basket delivered directly to the train.

  The baby squirmed and Victoria placed a quietening hand on her. Mitch felt his jaw tighten. He had been gone so long that Agnes had turned to another man. Emily would never know either of her parents.

  No. She would have him.

  As Victoria straightened from her soothing pats, their gazes locked again. She had the most perfect features. Regal, yet not overly aristocratic. Despite being genteel, she was broke, he assumed, and therefore she would have had few decent marriage prospects in Boston. If she wasn’t too fussy, her chances might be better out West.

  Mitch tore his gaze away and glared out at the passing landscape. Forget it, he told himself. Compassion was the ruination of a man, especially a rancher who needed to focus on providing for his family.

  Families need more than food and shelter.

  He bristled. Where had that thought come from?

  From your own common sense, fool. Haven’t you already learned that? Providing for children took more than putting food on the table. It meant being there, supporting the mother of one’s children.

  A stab of pain radiated out from between his tightening shoulders. Well, he was a rancher. He couldn’t spare the time. He’d do right by the children, but this just proved again that ranchers were better off staying single.

  “I won!” Mary called out, interrupting his thoughts. “It’s my turn now.”

  Remembering his letter, Mitch pulled it out and opened it. His reading skills were fine, but it was a struggle to understand Lacewood’s long, flowing script.

  After a short preamble, the solicitor began to explain that Agnes had made certain arrangements before she’d died. A chill ran through Mitch. Had she known she would not survive childbirth? Had it been a difficult pregnancy?

  His heart sank as he read further. A few years back, Agnes had signed on to the ranch’s mortgage just as he had, although the paperwork had taken many weeks and visits to the post office to complete. Agnes had considered that fact in her will.

  Then he read Lacewood’s summary. Not only did Mitch now have an extra mouth to feed, and to figure out how he would explain Emily’s presence without getting tongues a-wagging, but he also had this to explain to the bank that held his mortgage—a month-old baby who wasn’t even his blood now owned half of Proud Ranch.

  Chapter Three

  Mitch’s fingers tightened around the fine vellum paper that carried Lacewood’s letter. Agnes had left her estate to Emily, no doubt concerned that he would abandon the infant otherwise. She’d been mistaken but had left him in a difficult spot nonetheless. He needed to tell the bank at Proud Bend that Agnes had passed. The bank manager, a man who had as many scruples as Colorado had oceanfront homes, would expect Mitch to provide him with the proper papers to say he’d inherited her share, but all he had was proof that Emily was now half owner and Mitch was her guardian.

  He could contest Agnes’s will but, Lacewood had advised, the judge would ask the reasons. If Mitch was to answer that he wasn’t the girl’s father, the judge would not look favorably on him continuing guardianship and thus controlling the ranch, nor would he give Mitch full ownership and leave the infant with nothing, against her mother’s wishes.

  Mitch rubbed his forehead. He had no desire to see any harm done to Emily, nor did he want to smear his late wife’s memory by revealing her indiscretion.

  Not for the first time, Mitch wondered about the man who had fathered Emily. No one came forward with a name. No man owned up, either, and Mitch had been too stiff-necked to search for him. He’d had enough to do in Boston, and as far as he was concerned, if the man had abandoned Agnes, he didn’t deserve Emily.

  Regardless, he could not lie to any judge, should he contest the will. At his first meeting with Lacewood, the solicitor had pointed out that in the eyes of the law, any child born to a married couple was assumed to belong to the husband. It was only a legal assumption, yes, but it was also best for Mitch to continue with that thinking.

  Except for the fact that in Proud Bend, he’d been seen at church every Sunday. When would he have found the week needed to travel east, father a child and return?

  He would deal with any questions as they arose. First up, he needed to sell some yearlings to make his mortgage payment. And quickly, too, for last fall, he had seen the wily bank manager smear the reputation of Proud Bend’s haberdasher, thus costing the man his once viable business. Two months later, the bank foreclosed on the store, then sold it for a tidy profit.

  If Mitch didn’t make his mortgage payment, that bank manager would do the same to him. Or, more specifically, force Mitch to sell his land’s mineral rights for a song, because the man had already made an offer for them. Mitch felt his face heat and tension rise in him.

  He would not be cheated out of what was rightfully his.

  Shutting his eyes, Mitch tipped back his head until it hit the top of the seat back. Since he had absolutely no idea what to do, he was left with two options. Pray and wait to see what would happen.

  He had already prayed, many times since returning to Boston.

  But he was very bad at waiting.

  “Are you a gentleman farmer?”

  Mitch opened his eyes. Sitting primly beside him, Victoria waited with the calm expectation that he’d answer her promptly. “I beg your pardon?”

  She repeated her question.

  “No.” He frowned. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “A number of things, not the least of which is the way you speak. It’s far more cultured than what I would expect from a farmer.”

  He folded his letter. Roughly. “It’s a ranch, not a farm.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  Unceremoniously shoving the letter into its envelope, he answered, “A farm is usually smaller, and they raise crops like corn and wheat or various vegetables or fruit. A ranch is big, has strictly livestock, like cattle or sheep, or even horses. They are raised, bred and sometimes kept for years.”

  “What do you have?”

  “Mostly cattle. Though I do have a few sheep closer to the house.”

  “Why?”

  His head throbbed and he shut his eyes again. So many questions. “Sheep aren’t as good at fending off predators like wolves,” he answered. “Cattle are better at it.” He paused. “I once saw two cows make mincemeat of a wolf. They charged and gouged him with their horns right before my eyes. If I put the sheep out with the cattle, the wolves would go after them.”

  He continued on, with more enthusiasm than he’d expected he would have. “Although, I am experimenting with a donkey in my herd.”

  Victoria looked mystified. Her eyes widened, her lips parted. For a moment, he forgot what they were discussing. “A donkey? Why?”

  Mitch cleared his throat. “They guard the cattle. They may look like they don’t care, but believe me, they hate dogs and wolves. And they have a powerful kick to them.”

  Victoria removed her gloves, tugging one delicate finger at a time. It was fussy little gesture, he thought. And yet, in Victoria’s hand, it was slow and fascinating, a sheer, perfectly choreographed art form in itself. How could ladies possibly wear them for as long as they did? “How did you discover that?” she finally asked. “How long have you had your donkey?”