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John Montgomery Markham, brother to the Earl of Stanfield, stood at a front window, watching the jagged lightning bolts that streaked out of the dark clouds. Idly he took a sip of the iceless bourbon and water in his glass. Tall and athletically trim, he turned from the window with an easy grace.
His smile reached across the room to Jessy, who stood near the massive stone fireplace. “A fascinating display. I have heard a great deal about the ferocity of your summer thunderstorms. It far exceeds anything we get in England.”
“You’ll get used to them now that you have taken up residence in our part of the country,” Jessy replied, referring to his purchase of the Gilmore ranch four months ago, which made him the Triple C’s newest neighbor.
“I expect I will,” he conceded. “Still, it’s lucky I arrived when I did. I should hate to be driving in that.”
“It can definitely be dangerous, but these storms tend to be fast travelers. Fortunately the worst should be over soon.”
John Montgomery Markham, who preferred to be called Monte, was quick to catch her choice of adverbs. “Why ‘fortunately’?”
“Because we lose more cattle to lightning strikes than any other cause. In flat country like this, they stand out like lightning rods.”
“I hadn’t considered that possibility,” he admitted with typical frankness. “It seems each time I visit the Triple C I learn something new about raising cattle in the American West.”
His openness to new methods or ideas was just one of the many things Jessy had come to admire about their new neighbor. Another was his failure to adopt western attire since moving to Montana. No blue jeans, cowboy boots, or Stetson hat for him. Instead he opted for English riding boots, jodhpurs, and an Aussie hat. Monte Markham was English through and through, and proud of it.
Jessy ran her glance over his aquiline features, thinking, not for the first time, that they reminded her of a poet or a scholar. His brown hair had a touch of red in it, and his hazel eyes occasionally held the glint of his dry British wit. Like herself he was barely forty and single, in his case the result of a divorce several years ago.
It had been almost two years since Ty was killed, and the pain of that was just as strong. Ty had been her first love. There were times, especially at night, when she ached to feel the touch of his hand and the strength of his arms around her. She also knew it was natural that she would. She was a woman with the needs of a woman. What with the ranch to run and two children to raise, most of the time she successfully pushed them aside. Yet at odd moments they surfaced.
“There is always something to learn in the cattle business,” Jessy said.
“Indeed.” Monte lifted his drink in acknowledgement of the fact as another sharp clap of thunder shook the glass in the window frames.
“Mommy, tell the storm to be quiet. It’s being too noisy.” Three-year-old Laura sat with her legs folded under her in the big leather desk chair as she worked diligently at coloring the picture in her activity book, red crayon in hand.
“I’m afraid it won’t listen to me.” Jessy smiled at the little girl behind the desk, fair like her mother, but with more golden lights in her hair than were held by Jessy’s tawny shade.
Laura paused long enough in her coloring to release a dramatic sigh. “I wish Grampa was here. He’d tell those cowboys to chase the cattle away.”
“What cattle is that?” Monte switched his indulgent smile from Laura to Jessy. “I believe I missed something.”
“Chase told them that the cattle up in heaven stampeded and they were hearing the thunder of their hooves,” Jessy explained.
“And the lightning is their hooves on rocks,” Laura was quick to insert, then cocked her head to one side, gazing at him with her deep brown eyes. “Didn’t you know that?”
“I confess I was totally ignorant of the cause,” Monte declared in mock regret.
Laura’s eyebrows furrowed together in a perplexed frown. “What does ig’rant mean?”
“The word is ignorant,” Jessy corrected, enunciating it carefully. “And it means he doesn’t know.”
“Oh.” Satisfied, she bent her head over the coloring book. “Grampa can tell you about it when he gets back.”
“I shall make a point to ask him,” Monte replied with a slight bow in the child’s direction. A series of whoops, clumps, and vocalized bang-bangs came from the living room. Monte arched an eyebrow. “I do believe a shootout is in progress.”
Jessy paused to listen. Long ago she had learned a mother’s trick of blocking out sounds of boisterous play, allowing only cries of pain or panic to filter through. “Trey and Quint,” she said, needlessly identifying her son and nephew. “I think the posse finally caught up with the outlaws.”
His mouth curved in an amused smile. “And who is the outlaw?”
“Trey, of course. Being a sheriff would be much too tame for him.”
Monte laughed as he was meant to do, ending with a mild shake of his head. “I don’t think you quite realize how very much I enjoy spending time here. I suspect I miss my own family. My brother and his wife have three very rowdy youngsters—older than yours, of course, and all boys, full of pranks and rough-and-tumble play. I find myself looking for an excuse to come here. I fear that I will ultimately wear my welcome thin.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Jessy said, dismissing the suggestion. “You will always be welcome at the Triple C.”
“And I promise that I will do my best not to take your hospitality for granted.”
