Her Montana Man. Cheryl St.John

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СКАЧАТЬ past two days had been a blur. Now that the funeral service was over and she’d ridden home with Tyler and Royce, Eliza remembered that she hadn’t eaten that day. She tried to recall if she’d eaten the day before and assumed she must have. Upon hanging up her shawl, she hurried past the rooms where furniture had been moved and chairs arranged, to the back of the house. A few of the ladies from church were already setting out food.

      The aromas of savory beef, apples and cinnamon, and freshly brewed coffee would normally have teased her appetite, but today they made her feel queasy. She surveyed the abundance of food on the table. “Oh my goodness!”

      “I think everyone in town brought something.” Penny Wright stepped close. Eliza and Penny had handled many a meal such as this in their duties as members of the Ladies’ Aid Society, but Eliza couldn’t remember seeing this much food since her father’s funeral. The Sutherlands were well thought of. She pressed a hand to her midriff as if the touch could hold back the pain of loss and the poignant appreciation for her neighbors’ thoughtfulness.

      Penny wrapped an arm around Eliza’s shoulders, giving her a comforting squeeze. Realizing she’d never hug her sister again, Eliza’s chest throbbed with a hollow ache. Pulling a lace-edged hankie from her pocket, she dabbed her nose and focused on the dining room table with all the leaves in place. The ivory lace cloth that had been her mother’s was now nearly hidden by steaming casseroles and delectable-looking cakes and pies. This was the day she had dreaded and welcomed at the same time.

      Footsteps sounded behind her, and Eliza turned as Nora entered the room, carrying yet another covered dish. Penny scurried to make a spot for it.

      Nora took Eliza’s hand and squeezed her fingers. Her pale face and puffy eyes showed evidence of the strain she shared. Eliza used the same strength Penny had offered to give her friend a hug. They’d already heard a plethora of trite things people said at a time like this. Jenny Lee’s suffering was over. She was in a better place. But mere words couldn’t fix the pain or emptiness left by this unfair loss, so they shared a silent moment of grief.

      A rap sounded on the front door. Eliza straightened and tucked her hankie into her sleeve in preparation.

      Two and three at a time, the men and women of Silver Bend arrived in their Sunday best and milled about waiting for the reverend to pray over the meal. Reverend Miller finally parted the crowd in the parlor and gave a brief blessing. Penny directed mourners to the sideboard, which was stacked with plates and flatware.

      Nora cupped Eliza’s elbow. “Let’s get you a plate.”

      “Tyler—” Eliza began.

      “Marian is taking care of Tyler.”

      She allowed Nora to walk her through the line and fill a plate for her. The woman ushered her to a chair in the parlor. “Now sit and take some nourishment.”

      Eliza accepted the plate without noting what it held. As always, Nora’s presence was a blessing. It would be impossible to thank her for all she’d done for their family, but Eliza would have to find some small way to show her appreciation. A special and meaningful gesture was a must. She scanned the gathering and found Tyler sitting on the wide brick hearth with Timmy Hatcher and Michael Kopeke. Miss Fletcher sat nearby, wearing a smile and engaging them in conversation.

      His life would go on. Eliza’s life would go on. They had to learn to make that happen without Jenny Lee. And some way—without Royce.

      From the other room his voice broke through her reverie. The mere sound made her skin crawl. He was talking about the Horace Vernet painting in the hallway, the one her father had purchased during a trip he and her mother had taken abroad many years ago. Royce spoke of the French painter and the history of the piece as though he had something to do with it. As though it was his.

      Nora had always admired that painting. Eliza took a bite of Delores Cress’s signature stroganoff, knowing it tasted better than sawdust, but she had no appetite.

      “Miss Sutherland.”

      She drew her gaze upward from a pair of polished black boots to pressed black trousers, past a matching tailored coat and smart bow tie before recognizing Jonas Black. She set down her fork. “Mr. Black.”

      Eliza Jane attempted to rise, but Jonas stopped her with an outstretched hand and seated himself on the chair beside hers. Her usually luminous skin was pale and her eyes showed she hadn’t slept. She probably hadn’t eaten, and here he was interrupting her meal.

      “I’ll get a plate and join you.” He hurried through the wide opening to the hall and found the dining room, returning a few minutes later. “You won’t have to cook for a week.”

      “Everyone feels helpless,” she answered. “They want to do something.”

      He nodded and took a bite of chocolate-frosted cake, even though there was plenty of other food on his plate. He caught her looking and grinned sheepishly. “Sweet tooth.”

      Side by side, they ate in silence. He finished, and Delores Cress came by to take his plate and return with a cup of coffee. “Thank you, ma’am.”

      Eliza held her half-empty plate out to Delores.

      “Would you like coffee?” the other woman asked. “I have water on and can make you some tea.”

      “No, thank you.”

      Jonas sipped the brew, then turned to find a spot on a side table to set the cup. He leveled his gaze on Eliza.

      “When my father died, you were one of the ladies servin’ food and coffee.”

      She didn’t meet his eyes. “I remember.”

      He looked away, searching his mind for words. “I recall your kindness that day. You told me that my father was a good man and that you would miss him.”

      “He was a good man.” Her gaze rose to his then.

      “And I’ve missed him. He was kind to my family. Diligent. He always came out day or night, rain or shine to take care of Jenny or my parents.”

      “That day…I knew you understood,” he told her,

      “that words were inadequate. You didn’t say all the things people normally say at a time like that. You had already lost your mother.”

      Eliza shrugged. “Words are cheap. It’s what we do that determines who we are.”

      Her straightforward manner surprised him, but he admired her practical philosophy. He wondered if she was thinking about him fighting Baslow in the street the other day, wondered if she thought that scuffle defined who he was.

      Her gaze was steady, sending the same disturbing feeling it always elicited across his nerve endings. Why was it her presence made him look into himself with questions? Did that fight define him?

      She unsettled him.

      “Thank you for the flowers.” Her cheeks turned pink, bringing fresh color to her pale complexion. She held his gaze only a moment longer, then glanced away, confirming her embarrassment.

      “Appreciate that you spoke up,” he answered.

      “You’d already thanked me.”

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