Prologue

April 1897

"America!" The word rushed through the belly of the great steamship like the mighty winds that blew across the Atlantic. "America!"

Elizabeth Wellington grabbed hold of the hands of her two friends, her heart hammering with mingled joy and fear. "America," she whispered, testing the country's name on her lips. She exchanged glances with Mary Malone and Inga Linberg and recognized the same feelings in their eyes.

They rose together to become part of the surging crowd, hurrying to get their first glimpse of land in two weeks. Two weeks of cramped quarters, little privacy, poor food, and the smells of salt water and seasickness.

On deck, a bitter wind cut through Beth's gown and shawl, raising gooseflesh on her arms, but she paid it no heed. She couldn't have turned back anyway. Not with the other steerage passengers pressing her forward.

Inga's grasp tightened on Beth's hand. "Look!" She pointed with her free hand. "The statue!"

"Saints be praised," Mary whispered in awe. "Will you look at that. Sure and I've never seen the like, m'lady. Have you?"

For several weeks Beth had been reminding Mary that she was no longer "m'lady," that she was simply Beth Wellington, an immigrant to America like nearly everyone else on board the RMS Teutonic.

But as she stared at the Statue of Liberty in New York harbor, she forgot to scold. She was too overwhelmed.

What would she find in this new country? Was she right to have run away from everything and everyone she'd ever known? From England? From Perceval? Had she made a terrible mistake, coming to America?

Beth had spent her entire life at Langford House, never venturing farther away than London for the Season. She'd grown up surrounded by the familiar, by things and people she knew as well as she knew herself. She'd known the food she would have every morning for breakfast. She'd known the mood her father was in with a single glance. She'd known the turning of the seasons and what each one would bring.

The ten days she and Mary had been in Southampton before departing on the ship, followed by the two weeks at sea, had often seemed like an odd dream, one from which she might awaken at any moment. But suddenly she realized she wasn't going to wake up, because this was real. She had severed her ties with England.

America was her new home.

"Sure and we've made it." Mary placed a hand on her own gently rounded stomach, as if to reassure the child that was growing inside. "We're here at last."

Beth felt a tiny catch in her heart. A few weeks ago Mary Malone had been merely a maid at Langford House. In all the months or was it longer? she'd worked for the Wellingtons, the young Irishwoman had rarely said more than a "Yes, mum" or "No, m'lady" to Beth. It had surprised her how quickly Mary had changed from a servant into one of her dearest and best friends. If not for Mary's help, Beth would now be married to Perceval Griffith.

A fate worse than death.

Inga Linberg had befriended Beth and Mary, two obviously confused and misguided travelers, while they were still in Southampton. Inga's father had helped them secure passage on the steamship, and it was Inga who had educated them on what to expect, both at sea and during the immigration process yet to be endured. Beth had become most fond of the tall, plain Swedish girl in the brief time they'd known one another.

But now they were in America, and Beth realized how much she was going to miss her friends as they each went their separate ways Mary to wed the father of her unborn child; Inga with her family to Iowa, where her father would pastor a church; and Beth to Montana.

Montana, a place far, far from England, as far away as she could get from an arranged marriage to a man she detested.

She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. Silently she promised herself she would face what tomorrow might bring, no matter what it was. It could be no worse than what she'd left behind.

Chapter One

Garret Steele gripped the saddle with his thighs and held on to the horn with his left hand as the buckskin gelding beneath him set its front legs, then darted in the opposite direction in pursuit of the wily calf. The heifer was as range wild as any Garret had seen, but he and old Buck had been herding cows together for many years. They weren't about to be outsmarted by beef on the hoof.

Ten minutes later he had the calf roped, hog-tied, and ready for branding.

While Jake Whitaker, his hired hand, brought the hot iron from the fire, Garret removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Then he reached for his canteen. Tipping back his head, he took a long swallow, washing down the dust.

Man alive, it was hot for May. He hoped they weren't in for a long, dry summer. The cattle had wintered well, and Garret was looking forward to turning a nice profit come fall. But a drought could quickly change the face of things.

"Always somethin'," he muttered as he screwed the cap back on the canteen.

The stench of singed hair and flesh reached his nostrils, reminding him of the work still to be done before sundown. Tugging his hat low on his forehead with one hand, he stepped into the saddle. As soon as Jake freed the newly branded calf_--still bleating its complaint--Garret dragged his lariat into a large coil against his thigh, then turned Buck toward the herd.

A sense of satisfaction swelled in Garret's chest as his gaze swept the range. Satisfaction was what he always felt when he looked at what he'd accomplished in the past eighteen years. He'd been nothing but a scrawny kid, still wet behind the ears, when he'd come to Montana, when he'd first laid eyes on this stretch of land and known he wanted to call it home.

He'd seen plenty of hard times while he'd built his herd from a few head to its present size. And he'd seen plenty of changes come to Montana, too. The railroad crawling across the plains and through the mountain passes. The coming of barbed wire. The town of New Prospects, popping up ten miles to the south of the Steele ranch, seemingly overnight.

Yeah, things were different, but this was where he belonged. It was his home.

"Pa! Pa!"

He reined in, twisting in the saddle to watch the approach of his daughter. Janie's wild strawberry blond hair waved behind her like a banner, and her dress was bunched up around her thighs as she raced her pony toward him.

Wouldn't Muriel have a fit if she could see Janie now?

His teeth clenched as he shoved away thoughts of his dead wife.

Sliding her small bay mare to a halt, Janie said, "I finished the dishes and my lessons, Pa. Can I help now?"

He grinned even as he shook his head. "You know how I feel about you bein' out here while we're branding. This is no place for a little girl."

"I'm not so little I can't help."

He recognized the stubborn set of her jaw. And what she said was true. Janie had taken care of many of the household chores since long before her mother passed away. She'd even learned to cook, at least well enough to keep the two of them from starving. But that didn't mean she belonged in the middle of a herd of cattle at branding time. It was too dangerous, and Garret would never risk harm to his daughter. Not ever.

"Sorry, Janie. You know the rules."

"But, Pa--"

"Janie ..."

She scowled, her bottom lip protruding in an artful pout. "It's not fair."

He was unmoved by her theatrics. "Things rarely are."

"Can't I just--"

"Nope." He jerked his head toward the ranch house. "You get on back. I'll be finished in about an hour."

Janie hesitated only a moment, then, with a deep sigh of the oppressed, turned her pony toward the house and rode slowly away. His daughter would probably never know how hard it was for Garret to refuse anything she asked. He'd try to rope her the moon if she wanted it.

With a shake of his head, he nudged Buck with his heels and set off to rope the last of the calves instead.

Two hours later father and daughter sat down at the rough- hewn table in the log house they called home. Janie said the blessing over the steaks that had been fried with onions and potatoes, and Garret added his own "Amen" to hers when she was finished.

"I got another letter from England today," Janie said as she cut her meat, "but it took longer'n usual getting here. Lady Elizabeth must already be married to Lord Altberry by now. I hope she'll write again soon and tell me about the wedding and the house where she's living."

Garret listened to the excitement in her voice, while feeling residual anger stirring to life. He hated it when Janie talked about England and the Wellingtons. He hated the way she fantasized about traveling abroad someday, and he blamed his deceased wife for putting the notion in Janie's head to begin with. It was Muriel who had encouraged their daughter--only six years old at the time-- to write to the earl, an old friend of Garret's father-in- law. It was Muriel who had encouraged the continuing correspondence between Janie and the earl's daughter, and Muriel who had suggested Janie might one day go to England to visit Lady Elizabeth, perhaps to become her companion. It was Muriel who had dreamed of Janie marrying an English lord, like those eastern society women they'd read about in the newspaper.

Copyright 2000 Robin Lee Hatcher