Always Dakota

“Well.” Matt paused. “Margaret’s Margaret. She’s … unique.”

That was true enough. As far as Bernard knew, she’d only worn a dress twice in her entire life. He’d tried to get her into one when she was ten and the attempt had damn near killed him. “Did you know she’s in love with you?”

“Margaret?” Matt sprang to his feet. “I swear I haven’t touched her! I swear it.” The color fled from his face and he shook his head as though to emphasize his words.

“I believe you …. Sit down.”

Matt did as asked, but his demeanor had changed dramatically. His posture was stiff, his face tight with apprehension and uncertainty.

“She’s gotten it in her head that she’s going to marry you.”

Matt had the look of a caged animal. “I … I’m not sure what to say.”

“You don’t know my daughter, otherwise you’d realize that when she sets her mind to something, there isn’t much that’ll stand in her way.”

“I … I.”

Bernard cut him off. He was growing weak and there was still a lot to be said. “In a few months, Margaret’s going to be a very wealthy woman.”

Matt stared at him.

“I’m dying. I don’t have much time left.” His gaze burned into Eilers. Then he closed his eyes, gathering strength. “God knows what she sees in you, but it’s too late to worry about her judgment now. I raised her the best I could, and if she loves you, there must be more to you than meets the eye.”

Matt stood and started pacing. “What makes you think I’d marry Margaret?” he asked.

Despite the difficulty he had in breathing, Bernard laughed. “Because you’d be a fool not to, and we both know it. She’s going to inherit this ranch. I own more land and cattle than you’ll see in ten lifetimes. She’ll give you everything you’ve ever wanted.”

It was clear from Eilers’s expression that he was shocked.

“I called you here today to tell you something you need to hear.”

Matt clutched his Stetson so tightly, his knuckles whitened. “What’s that?”

Bernard leaned forward. “You hurt my girl and I swear I’ll find a way to make you pay, even if I have to come back from the grave to do it.”

Eilers swallowed hard. “You don’t have anything to worry about, Mr. Clemens. I have no intention of marrying Margaret.”

Bernard chuckled, knowing otherwise. Eilers would marry Margaret, all right, but it wouldn’t be for love. He’d marry her for the land and the cattle. No man with ranching in his blood would be able to refuse what she had to offer.

Yes, Matt would marry her, but it was up to Margaret to earn Matt Eilers’s affection.

One

October

Margaret thought she was ready, as ready as any daughter could be to face her father’s death. She’d been at his side, his rough, callused hand between her own, when it happened. For hours she’d sat with him, watching the intermittent rise and fall of his chest, waiting, wondering if this breath would be his last, praying it wasn’t. Clinging to what little life was left in him.

Bernard Clemens had refused to die in a hospital and at his request, she’d brought him home. The hospice people had been wonderful, assisting Bernard in maintaining his dignity to the very end. Margaret had stayed with her father almost constantly the final week of his life.

She watched him draw his last shallow breath, watched him pass peacefully, silently, from one life to the next. Margaret wasn’t sure what she’d expected to feel, but certainly not this torrent of agony and grief. She’d known he was dying, known it for months, and she’d thought that knowledge would blunt the sharp rawness of her pain. It hadn’t. Her father was gone. She’d spent every day of her life with him, here on the Triple C, and now she was alone. In time, she realized, she’d be able to look back and see the blessing her father had been, but not yet. Not when her loss hurt as much as it did now.

She’d waited until she’d composed herself and then, dry-eyed, walked out of the large bedroom and awakened the sleeping family members, who’d gathered at the ranch. She’d announced that Bernard had died and his death had been peaceful. No tears were shed. That wasn’t how grief was expressed in the Clemens family.

Almost immediately, everyone had found a purpose and the house was filled with activity. More and more people arrived, and then, two days later, it was time for the funeral. Bernard Clemens’s three surviving brothers stood at the grave site with Margaret; they stayed long enough to greet folks and thank them for coming. Then they left, to return to their own families, their own lives.

The reception following the funeral was well attended. Nearly everyone in Buffalo Valley came to pay their respects. Hassie Knight, who owned Knight’s Pharmacy, took charge of organizing the event. She’d been a family friend for many years. At least a hundred people had gathered at the large ranch house, and there was more food than Margaret could eat in six weeks. She never had understood why people brought casseroles and desserts for a wake; the last thing she wanted to think about was eating.

“Margaret, I’m so sorry,” Sarah Urlacher told her, gently taking her hand and holding it. She was sincere, and her kindness touched Margaret’s heart. Sarah’s husband, Dennis, stood with her. His eyes revealed genuine compassion.

Margaret nodded, wishing she knew the couple better. It was her father who was well acquainted with the folks in Buffalo Valley. He’d been doing business there for years. Dennis delivered fuel to the ranch, so Margaret at least knew him, even if their relationship was just a casual one. Sarah owned and operated Buffalo Valley Quilts, a growing enterprise that seemed to be attracting interest all around the country. Margaret knew Sarah only by sight; they hadn’t shared more than a few perfunctory greetings.

She wanted to thank everyone for coming—she really did appreciate their expressions of sympathy and respect—and at the same time find a way to steer them out the door. Making conversation with people she hardly knew was beyond her. She was polite, cordial, but a tightness had gripped her chest, and it demanded every ounce of restraint she could muster not to rush to the barn, saddle Midnight and ride until she was too exhausted to go farther.

Bob and Merrily Carr came next, with their little boy, Axel. They owned and operated 3 OF A KIND, Buffalo Valley’s bar and grill. After that, the banker, Heath Quantrill, offered his condolences. Rachel Fischer was with him, and if Margaret remembered correctly, they were a couple now.

Ranchers and farmers crowded the house. So many people. There barely seemed room to breathe.

“Do you need anything?” Maddy McKenna asked with a gentleness that nearly broke Margaret’s facade. Maddy was the best friend she’d ever had. If anyone understood, it would be Maddy.

“I want everyone to leave,” Margaret whispered, fighting back emotion. The lump in her throat refused to go away and she had trouble talking around it.

Maddy took Margaret by the arm and led her down the long hallway to her bedroom. The two of them had spent many an afternoon in this very room; at Margaret’s entreaty, Maddy had tried to instruct her in the arts of looking and acting feminine—feminine enough to attract Matt Eilers. Not that her efforts had been noticed. Not by him, anyway.

“Sit,” Maddy ordered, pointing to Margaret’s bed.

Without argument, Margaret complied.

“When was the last time you had any sleep?”

Margaret blinked, unable to recall. “A while ago.” The night before the funeral she’d sat up and gone through her father’s papers. He had everything in order, as she’d suspected he would. He’d realized months ago that he was dying.

“Lie down,” Maddy said.

“I have a house full of company,” Margaret objected weakly. It went against the grain to let someone dictate what she should or shouldn’t do. With anyone else, she’d have made a fuss, insisted it was her place to be with her father’s friends.

“You’re dead on your feet,” Maddy told her.

Margaret nestled her head in her pillow, surprised by how good it felt against her face. How cool and comforting. I … I thought I was prepared,” she said, her eyes closed. “I thought I could handle this.”

“No one’s ever ready to lose a father,” Maddy said as she covered Margaret with the afghan from the foot of the bed. The weight of it settled warmly over her shoulders.

“Sleep now. By the time you wake, everyone will be gone.”

“Nothing’s ever going to be the same again,” Margaret whispered.

“You’re right, it won’t.”

Maddy’s voice sounded soothing, even if her words didn’t. But then, Margaret could count on her friend to tell the truth. Already she could feel sleep approach, could feel the tension leave her body. “Matt didn’t attend the funeral, did he?”