A Christmas Dream (Hudson House Holiday #1)

Chapter One

Silver Bluff, Oregon

September 1892

“I t’s a nightmare, Rem. Why did you let me take on this albatross?” Brant wiped the sweat dripping off his brow onto his shirt sleeve and glowered at his friend.

Remington handed him another narrow slat of oak wood and shook his head. “It’s not a nightmare, Brant. It’s a process, that’s all. Just because everything has taken longer than you anticipated or planned doesn’t mean this grand dame is an albatross. Quite the opposite, I believe. When this spectacular home is completed, you’ll appreciate it all the more because you’ve been involved in every step of its creation, and worked so hard to see your dreams fulfilled.”

Brant gave him a doubtful look but took the slat of wood he held out and fitted it into the chevron pattern of the parquet floor they were installing in the library. The alternating oak and walnut pieces were striking in design and the reason why Brant had chosen the particular colors of wood as well as the pattern for the room. In fact, there were several rooms and hallways that would boast the same pattern on the floors when the house was finally finished. Although, at the moment, it felt as though that would never happen.

Patience had never been Brant’s strong suit, and his had been sorely tested as he oversaw the building of his dream home.

Purchasing the land for the house and several surrounding properties had seemed a simple task compared to everything that had followed. Once the building crew had been hired, they’d had to wait for the ground to dry after spring rains to dig out the foundation and begin the process of building.

There had been a delay in acquiring the sandstone blocks being used for the exterior walls of the house from a quarry across the river in Washington. The head stone mason he’d hired had been killed in a brawl in a saloon in The Dalles, and Brant had spent the better part of a month locating another skilled man to take on the job. The windows Brant had ordered had taken three months longer than anticipated to arrive. At every turn, it seemed there were delays compounded by more delays.

In addition to the delays with the house, he’d had more heaped on him with the various other buildings being constructed. Even the landscaping had run into one setback after another, although it had taken shape nicely last summer, and had looked even better this year.

Brant was frustrated beyond words that the property he’d hoped would take only two years to build had exceeded three. Despite his annoyance with the lagging timeline, he planned for the house to be finished by the end of November, if not before.

Invitations had already been extended to Eloise and Dean to join him for Christmas. By then, the house absolutely had to not only be finished, but also fully staffed and running smoothly for his sister’s visit.

“Have you made any progress finding a head housekeeper, or a cook?” Brant asked as he picked up a walnut slat and fit it into place.

Remington shook his head. “Not yet. I still have a dozen applicants to interview. We may have to extend our search to Portland, though. Attempting to find a local cook with the experience required to run your kitchen has proven challenging at best and headache-inducing at worst.”

Brant nodded. “Agreed. If there isn’t anyone suitable from the latest round of applicants, put the word out when we return to Portland on Monday and see what, or perhaps I should say whom, you can find to fill the positions.”

“I intend to do that very thing,” Remington said as he worked beside Brant.

While they installed flooring near the exterior wall where the trim was finished and the floor-to-ceiling bookcases were complete, workmen hustled to complete the trim on the opposite side of the room.

Normally, Brant would have insisted the flooring wait until the workmen were completely finished with the trim work, but he needed to be able to use the library as his office as soon as possible. He’d been spending more and more time in Silver Bluff and less at his home and office in Portland. It was exceedingly difficult to work from the room he’d rented the past three years at the Silver Bluff Hotel. He’d decided the first room they would finish at Hudson House would be the library. He expected to use it to conduct business as well as a place to relax when he wanted to lose himself in a book, if he ever had time for reading again. He purely missed a leisurely evening by the fire with a good book in his hand.

“How is that trim coming along, Denver?” Brant called to one of the local young men he’d hired who excelled at carpentry work. Denver Drake was a hard worker and good at his job. He’d taken over as the head carpenter when the older gent Brant had originally placed in the position had resigned due to failing health. Denver resided in one of the tents that had been set up for those who didn’t want to trek back and forth from their homes every day. There was a camp cook who made breakfast and supper in the evening, providing meat and bread for the men to take with them for their lunches.

Denver worked upstairs in the library, installing the trim around the upper-floor bookcases.

“We should be finished with the trim along this wall today, sir. I’ll work on the stairs tomorrow. Once we install the flooring on the steps and the handrail, they’ll be finished.”

“Splendid, Denver. That is splendid news.” Brant smiled upward at the young man and returned his attention to the flooring. It was a laborious task, but one that left him too much time for thinking, mostly about his house and how antsy he felt to move into the place.

Brant loved the spiral staircase located to the right of the big fireplace in the library. It had four carved mahogany posts surrounding it that stretched up to the second floor. The railing was wrought iron and would be topped by a mahogany handrail that matched the stair risers and treads.

With his hands braced on his thighs, Brant tipped his head back, looking around the two-story library. He had an inkling it would become one of his favorite rooms at Hudson House in the years to come.

The ceiling, painted in shades of pale blue accented with white, mimicked the appearance of a soft spring sky dotted with fluffy clouds. The blue in the ceiling would be highlighted by the furnishings he planned for the room.

Dark-blue damask wallpaper for the walls that weren’t covered by bookcases had been installed. The pattern looked quite majestic, if he said so himself. The furniture and drapes were made from silk cut velvet that matched the wallpaper, in deep-blue damask. The carpet he’d selected to eventually cover the floor by the fireplace was also deep blue with gold and cranberry accents.

While the center of the room was open and soared up two stories, bookshelves lined the walls around the second story, stretching from the side walls around to the fireplace wall where a huge mahogany overmantel above the ornately carved black marble fireplace hid the entry to the second-floor hallway from view.

Brant had already purchased a large landscape painting of the popular waterfall near Portland to fill the space of the overmantel between two hand-carved mahogany statues of young maidens, gowns flowing from shoulder to foot, holding books in their hands. At the top of the overmantel, decorative plasterwork encircled the ceiling. A wide railing surrounded the walkway around the bookshelves on the second floor and matched the wrought iron railing on the spiral staircase.

The room, even in its not-quite-finished state, appeared regal, rich, and masculine—exactly what Brant had wanted.

Remington had already promised to oversee the shelving of Brant’s collection of books. At last count, Brant had more than three thousand titles, and frequently added to the collection on his travels. He also had crates full of keepsakes he’d collected that he intended to put on display on the room’s ample shelves.

Despite the extravagance of it, electric lights had been installed throughout the house. It had been no small feat to get electricity out to the property, but Brant had refused to give up on his plans.

Just like his insistence on providing a suite of rooms for Remington on the main floor. Most people would have given Remington a room in the basement or attic, but Brant had included a set of rooms for him in his original designs.

Located at the end of the hallway by the kitchen, the suite had its own bathroom, sitting area, and private entry. Remington had balked at the idea, but Brant had insisted it was necessary, especially since his best friend was far, far more than just his butler. The man was intelligent, quick-witted, observant, discreet, and loyal, not to mention talented at knowing what Brant wanted or needed, sometimes before he even realized it.

Besides, with the sitting area, it would give Remington somewhere to meet with staff if he needed to have a private word with any of them, as well as a place to relax at the end of the day.

Brant had no idea where he’d be, both figuratively and literally, without Remington. The man was a wonder, and as steadfast and true as the day was long. If Brant had only one person in the world he could count on, he knew Remington was one in whom he could put complete trust.

A loud growl echoed through the room, and Brant was chagrined to realize it came from his own empty belly. He’d eaten a hearty breakfast at the hotel’s dining room that morning, but he’d worked it off as he’d spent the past several hours down on his hands and knees laying the parquet floor.

Remington smirked at him as Brant got back to work. Thankfully, Denver didn’t comment on the noise as he kept his attention on his own work.

Another thirty minutes passed, during which time Brant envisioned thick slices of smoky ham encased between fluffy biscuits hot from the oven as he worked. He was just about to suggest to Remington they take a break for the noon meal when a woman as pretty as any Brant had ever encountered breezed into the room carrying a large basket covered with a blue-checkered cloth.

“Denver! I thought I’d never find you in this colossus of a house. I saw Colin outside and he said you were in the library, but so much has changed since the last time I was in here, I thought I might wander around lost until you starved to death.” The woman’s gaze shifted from the carpenter on the second floor, taking in Brant and Remington as they hastily stood. “Oh, hello.”

Denver scrambled down the ladder where he’d been working on the trim at the top of a bookcase. Brant was surprised he didn’t fall and break his neck the way he skipped the last four rungs, using just his hands on the sides of the ladder to slide to the floor. It was a trick Brant intended to have Denver teach him another day.

“Holland, I didn’t know you were coming today. I would have met you outside.” Denver glanced nervously from the young woman to Brant, and then back to the fetching female as he raced down the spiral staircase.

The woman shrugged. “We wanted to surprise you.”

Did Denver have a wife and children awaiting him at home in Silver Bluff? In the three years of Hudson House’s construction, Brant had gotten to know the names of every worker and thought he had a thorough mental list of those who were married and those who were not. How had he overlooked Denver’s family? Especially when the man had such an attractive wife?

Shiny brown hair she wore pulled back from her face, fastened with a ribbon at the nape of her graceful neck, fell in glorious waves to her waist. Freckles splattered a narrow, upturned nose. Her bottom lip, fuller than the top, rested in a natural pout that was most alluring. Her brown eyes snapped with intelligence and interest when they landed on Brant again. Her features were delicate and decidedly feminine, and she owned such a happy countenance, it made Brant want to smile just being in the same room with her.

Denver Drake was a most fortunate man if the woman holding a basket from which delicious aromas emanated was, indeed, his wife.

“Who might this be, Denver?” Brant asked, taking a step closer to the couple, curious and oddly interested in the answer.

“Holland Drake,” Denver said, taking the basket from the woman and giving her a slight nudge forward.

A wave of disappointment washed over Brant. So, she was married to Denver.

“My sister,” Denver continued.

The desire to raise his fist and cheer was almost more than Brant could contain, but he managed to tamp down his victorious feeling and school his features into what he hoped was a welcoming expression. The lovely woman was not married, at least not to Denver.

“Miss Drake,” Brant said, closing the distance between them and taking her hand in his. He raised her slender fingers to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand while holding her gaze.

Her eyes widened slightly, though he could see curiosity lingering there, and she quickly pulled her hand away. “I haven’t seen you working around the house before. Are you new?”

It was on the tip of Brant’s tongue to tell her the truth. To say he was the one who would eventually live in the house that had once been a dream scattered across multiple sheets of paper. Instead, he decided he wanted to get to know this woman, not as the owner of a fancy home, but as one of the many men helping to build it.

“I’m not new, but help was needed in the library today.” That wasn’t a lie, but the stark truth. He and Remington would likely contribute countless hours of physical labor if the house was to get finished by his own self-imposed deadline prior to his sister’s holiday arrival.

“Mister …” Denver started to speak up, but Brant gave him a brief shake of his head along with a warning look. The young man swallowed hard and nodded once in understanding. “Mr. Hudson is hoping to be able to use the library soon. It will also serve as his office, and he’d like it to be the first room completely finished. That’s why we’re all working so hard to make that happen.”

“It is a delightful room,” Holland said in a smooth voice, that settled on Brant’s ears like a morning birdsong. Her gaze traveled around the rich wood of the bookcases to the elaborate carvings flanking the marble fireplace.

She turned and looked at Brant. “Does Mr. Hudson have enough books to fill all these shelves?”

“I believe he does, Miss Drake,” Remington said, stepping forward and saving Brant from answering. “At last count, he has three thousand, two hundred, and thirty-seven books.”

The woman’s eyes grew as round as saucers. “We have a dozen at our house,” she said quietly, then smiled at Remington. “I don’t believe I’ve met you before, sir.”

Remington offered a grin that would have charmed a woman regardless of her age, and bowed slightly.

Before he could state his name, Brant stepped in front of him. “This is Remington Monroe. He’s Mr. Hudson’s assistant, butler, and right-hand man. There’s not much Mr. Hudson does that Remington doesn’t already know about. I’m Alex.” There, that wasn’t a complete lie since Brant’s middle name was Alexander. He rarely used it, except on legal documents. The lone member of his family to call him by the name was his mother, and that was only when he’d done something terribly wrong that left her vexed with him beyond immediate redemption. She’d been known to use all three of his names and pelt him with dark glowers until he confessed to whatever mischief he’d landed in during his younger years.

Remington cast him a cool glare, but Brant ignored it, then motioned to the basket Denver held. “We won’t keep you from your lunch.”

“I brought plenty, if you’d like to share,” Holland said, taking the basket from her brother. “Perhaps we could eat outside? It is such a resplendent day.”

“Yes, let’s do that.” Brant opened the slender door set between two floor-length windows. Unless someone knew it was a door, they would likely never realize it wasn’t a third window. He stepped outside and smiled at Holland. “I know just the spot,” he said, leading the way to the garden on the north side of the house.

Hunter Lawson, a sought-after landscape architect, had come all the way from New York to transform the grounds around Hudson House into a thing of natural beauty. He’d started implementing his plans around the same time they’d begun placing the house’s foundation. Thanks to Lawson’s efforts, the gardens had quickly taken shape. The man intended to return in the spring, once all the debris of construction was removed, and complete the landscaping. For now, though, the gardens were thriving and flourishing thanks to the gardener and his staff Brant had hired three years ago to work alongside Lawson.

The strolling garden behind the house faced the river and was well on its way to becoming magnificent. Brant led their little group among the shrubs, flowers, and plants, around statues and burbling fountains to a wide stone bench. The shrubs blocked the wind, making the bench one of Brant’s favorite spots to absorb the absolutely astounding view.

“Have a seat, Miss Drake,” he said, motioning to the bench with a flourish of his hand.

Holland settled her simple calico skirts around her, but her smile was wide and infectious as she took in her surroundings. “I’ve never seen anything to compare to this place. It’s like Mr. Hudson saw the opportunity to take nature’s beauty and elevate the perfection.”

In that moment, Brant concluded that perhaps a poet resided inside the woman who appeared innocent and unaffected. No one had ever said anything that pleased him more than her heartfelt comment.

“That is exactly what Mr. Hudson was striving to achieve,” Remington said, settling onto the grass near the bench.

“Scoot over, Holland, so Mist … so there’s room for one more.” Denver gave Brant an apologetic look.

Brant shook his head and took a seat on the grass next to Remington. “It’s kind of you to share your lunch with us. Are you quite certain you have enough?”

“I’m certain,” Holland said, lifting the cloth off the basket and draping it over her lap.

Denver flopped onto the grass on the other side of the bench, as though he feared getting too close to his employer. Brant would speak to the young man later and assure him he needn’t worry. His job was secure, and he’d done nothing to warrant any concern.

“I only have two plates with me,” Holland said, lifting out two heavy cracked earthenware plates with chipped edges.

“Rem and I can share,” Brant said, looking to his friend who was still glaring at him like Brant had lost his mind.

Perhaps he had.

After all, it wasn’t like him to bend the truth as he had since meeting Holland Drake. He’d likely never see her again, so he didn’t see the harm in pretending, just for an hour, that he was merely one of the workers at Hudson House and nothing more.

The reason for his deception wasn’t anything immoral. It was simply because Holland Drake would act far differently if she knew he was Mr. Hudson, the lord of the manor, as it were.

For once in his life, Brant wanted to be an ordinary fellow sharing a meal with an intriguing, unaffected girl.

“Mama fried two chickens this morning,” Holland said, pulling out a bowl heaped with crispy golden pieces of chicken. “I brought boiled eggs, fresh peaches, those little cucumbers you like so much, Denver, wedges of cheese, and an apple pie that was still warm from the oven when I set it in the basket. Our apple crop this year is the best one yet, or so Papa says.”

“Apple crop? Does your family have an orchard?” Brant asked, accepting the plate full of food Holland handed to him before holding it out to Remington. His butler hesitated, but finally selected a chicken leg.

“We do. We have cherries, peaches, pears, and apples. Papa says the apples and pears aren’t as easy to bruise as the peaches and have a longer selling period than the cherries. Mama cans jars and jars of cherries and peaches, as well as the pears, though, and we enjoy eating them all winter long.” Holland looked at Denver. “Before we tuck into this meal, how about a word of thanks, brother?”

Denver turned to Brant, and he nodded in agreement. When Denver bowed his head, Brant cast a covert glance at Holland. The sun shined like a halo behind her bent head while she held her hands pressed together and clasped beneath her chin in a pose so sweet it stole Brant’s breath from his chest.

He wished he had his sketchbook and could draw her, but instead he dropped his head, closed his eyes, and listened as Denver asked a blessing on their meal and on the hands that prepared it.

After their amens floated away on the warm breeze, Brant held up a piece of chicken and tipped it in salute to Holland. “Thank you, again, for sharing your meal with us. It was more than kind.”

“Our pleasure, Alex.” Holland bit into a chicken leg and ate with a good appetite.

Brant wasn’t sure he’d ever seen any woman eat her food instead of daintily nibble at it. It was a wonder the females he knew hadn’t withered away to nothing. More than once, he’d considered if women had meals brought to their rooms after their corsets were removed so they could enjoy a filling meal. He might have to ask Dean the next time he saw his brother-in-law if that were the case with Eloise. Not that he cared. He was merely curious.

As he bit into a crispy chicken thigh, Brant closed his eyes and savored the bite. He’d eaten food all around the world, and that bite of chicken was among the best things he’d ever tasted.

“Your mother is an excellent cook,” he said after he’d taken a second bite.

“So is Holland. She does most of the baking,” Denver said, grinning at his sister.

“Only because Mama doesn’t enjoy it as much as she used to.” Holland dabbed at her lips with a napkin, then looked out at the river. “I could stay here all day, soaking up the peacefulness of this view. Are you certain Mr. Hudson won’t be upset we’re out here?”

“I’m absolutely certain,” Brant said, giving Remington a nudge with his elbow.

“He won’t mind a bit, miss,” Remington said, offering Holland a reassuring smile. “Now, if half the town trooped out here, he wouldn’t appreciate it, but this is perfectly fine.”

Holland nodded and picked up a small cucumber from the plate she’d set on the bench between her and Denver, taking a bite from it.

Brant held the plate he shared with Remington out to his friend, giving him an encouraging look to take more than the one chicken leg he’d eaten. Remington selected a boiled egg and bit into it.

They ate until Brant was so stuffed he was sure he couldn’t hold another morsel, then Holland served the pie, already cut into generous slices. She placed two slices on each plate.

Brant’s mouth watered as he picked up a piece with his fingers and took a bite of the flaky crust filled with cinnamon-laden tender apples.

“That is wonderful pie,” he said, quickly devouring a second bite. “Have you ever thought of becoming a cook for an estate? I heard Mr. Hudson is looking for a cook as well as kitchen help.”

Holland laughed. The sound rang out like the peal of church bells and resonated in Brant’s heart. He’d never experienced such a strange reaction to a female and wasn’t sure he liked it now.

Denver smirked. “I assure you, sir, you would not want to turn Holland loose in the kitchen. The food would be good, but the mess to clean up afterward would be monumental.”

The woman shrugged, then gave her brother a good-natured shove. “I can’t help it if it takes every dish and spoon in the kitchen to fix a big meal. Besides, I wouldn’t know the first thing about making the kind of fancy food that will be served here. Once Mr. Hudson starts hiring, I’m applying for a position as a housemaid.” She turned her attention to Remington. “Not that I’m expecting to get a job, but ever since we heard about this place being built, I’ve been dreaming about working here. My sister and I both want to be housemaids.”

“They are hard workers and quick learners,” Denver said, casting Brant a quick glance before he focused his attention back on his slice of pie.

Brant had no doubt about Holland’s ability to work. Quite the contrary. If she worked even half as hard at a task as her brother, she’d make a good housemaid.

The thought of seeing her in passing in his house made him want to smile. She would bring energy and joy to the place, of that he was certain. If she did indeed apply for a job, he intended for her to receive one of the positions.

In fact, it would soon be time to begin hiring the household staff. They could assist in setting up the rooms. Once the installation of the trim and flooring in the library was complete, there would be days of cleaning and polishing ahead before Remington could oversee the unpacking of Brant’s things.

“Perhaps you and your sister should see Remington about applying for those jobs. I heard Mr. Hudson is of a mind to hire help soon to get started cleaning the rooms once each one is finished before the draperies and furniture are installed.”

Remington gave him an understanding, subtle nod, then looked back at Holland. “If you are indeed interested, Miss Drake, you and your sister could come Saturday afternoon at two for an interview. Bring along any letters of referral or notes of recommendation. I’ll be leaving Sunday morning with Mr. Hudson for our offices in Portland, and I’m uncertain when we will return. Saturday would be the best opportunity for an interview.”

“Of course we’ll be here.” Holland beamed at Remington.

Brant wanted to slug the pleased smile off his friend’s face as a spurt of jealousy surged through him. He knew it was ridiculous, but the feeling was there just the same.

As soon as the last bite of pie had been consumed, they handed the plates to Holland and watched as she repacked the basket with the empty dishes. She stood and took in the view once more, as though she drank in the amazing vista before her. “This is such a spectacular place in the spring when the wildflowers bloom. I can hardly imagine how beautiful it will look next year with the plantings Mr. Lawson has made.”

“It will be something to see.” Brant rose to his feet, wanting to keep her talking just for the thrill of hearing her alluring voice.

“That was as fine a meal as I’ve had in a long, long time, Miss Drake. Thank you for sharing it with us,” Remington said, offering her a courteous bow.

She grinned and dipped into an energetic curtsy. “You are most welcome, Mr. Monroe. Thank you for inviting me to apply for one of the housemaid positions. I know that’s not a promise of work, but I’m grateful for the opportunity. I’ve heard Mr. Hudson is firm but fair. In my head, I picture him as an older fellow with a paunchy belly, yellowed teeth, and thinning hair, likely on the shorter side with a penchant for smelly cigars.”

Red crept up Denver’s neck to his ears while Remington turned aside and coughed in an attempt to hide a bark of laughter.

“Can’t say that I’ve seen a fellow fitting that description around here,” Brant said, grinning at Denver, hoping the young man didn’t spill his secret right then and there.

Remington gained control of his humor and turned back to Holland. “I do believe you’ll find Mr. Hudson to be full of surprises.”

“That sounds intriguing, and a bit mysterious,” Holland said, her grin wide and infectious. “I must say I do enjoy surprises from time to time.”

Brant moved so he stood beside Holland and held out an arm to her. “May I walk with you, Miss Drake?”

“You may,” she said, demurely dipping her head in his direction. “I hope you’ll call me Holland. It might seem silly, but I feel like we’ve become friends.”

“Not silly at all, Holland. I feel the same.” That was the unvarnished truth.

In the short time he’d spent with Holland, Brant felt as though he’d made the acquaintance of a true friend. Strangely, a part of him marveled at the feeling that he’d always known her, at least had been waiting to meet her. “Perhaps it’s the wonderful food you shared that has gone to my head.” Brant winked at her, and her cheeks took on an even rosier hue of pink.

She shifted her gaze from him to his home. “I love looking at Hudson House. From any angle, it is perfectly marvelous. It’s a French-inspired design, isn’t it?” Holland asked, glancing at Remington for an answer.

The man nodded. “A French Renaissance-style chateauwith sandstone walls and a red-tiled roof. The turrets are capped in copper, and the doors are solid oak.”

“It’s breathtaking. I’ve never seen anything like it—so grand and elegant. The gardens are also quite remarkable. I probably shouldn’t have, but I’ve walked through the rose garden, the spring garden, and now this brilliant garden behind the house. Will it have a name?”

“The river garden,” Brant said, then pointed to the conservatory at the bottom of a sloping hill. “Someday, if you are interested, you should allow Remington to give you a tour of the flower gardens and conservatory.”

“That would be most splendid,” Holland said with enthusiasm as she took a few bouncing steps, beaming at the butler.

Denver cleared his throat, and Holland returned to a more sedate, ladylike walk.

When they reached the front of the house, Brant once again held her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. “It was enchanting to make your acquaintance today, Holland. I hope we’ll meet again.”

“I do as well, Alex.” She gifted him with a smile so warm he felt as though it contained sunbeams before she turned to Remington. “It was a delight to meet you, Mr. Monroe. My sister and I will be here Saturday afternoon at two. Should we come to a back door?”

“With the place in such a disheveled state, the front would be best, Miss Drake.”

She smiled. “Holland, please, sir.” Then she turned to Denver and gave him a big hug, banging the picnic basket against his back. “Stay out of trouble, brother dear. I’ll bring you another basket of food on Saturday. Any requests?”

“Peach cobbler,” Denver said, giving her a gentle push toward the road. “Tell the family I miss them. I’ll see everyone Sunday at church.”

“Goodbye!” Holland waved, then rushed down the cobblestone-paved drive that made a big U in front of the house. The fountain in the midst of the expanse between the two arms of the U gurgled with a pleasant sound.

Brant, Remington, and Denver watched as Holland swung onto the back of a black-and-white Appaloosa horse, riding astride instead of sidesaddle.

Rather than being shocked, Brant felt respect and admiration fill him for the woman’s evident horsemanship skills. She waved to them, then rode off toward the road that would lead back to town.

“That’s incredible coloring on the horse,” Brant commented to Denver, searching for some reason to continue watching the man’s sister.

“Holland got Meadow from an old peddler who was passing through the area. He claimed the little filly had gone lame and was going to kill her, but Holland begged to keep the foal. The old man gave the horse to her, and our father helped Holland nurse Meadow back to health. She was mostly starved and scared. My sister trained her all by herself. She loves all animals, but Meadow is by far her favorite.”

“She’s done an admirable job with the horse,” Brant observed, then reluctantly turned to the house.

“Back to work,” Remington said, giving Brant an accusatory glare as they moved toward the door. “Perhaps you should go without any supper tonight after lying to Miss Drake. Why on earth would you do that?”

“I didn’t outright lie. My middle name is Alex, after all,” Brant huffed, needing to convince himself as well as Remington he hadn’t been completely untruthful. “She would have acted far differently, I’m sure, had she known I was the pot-bellied, balding Mr. Hudson with yellowed teeth. I wanted her to relax and enjoy her time with her brother.”

Remington laughed, but Denver looked like he’d swallowed something bitter.

Brant chuckled and thumped the young man on the back. “You have nothing to worry about, Denver. In fact, I owe you an apology for my deception and making you part of it. I didn’t and don’t mean anything untoward by it. I just wanted to see what it was like to interact with a female who possessed no knowledge of who I am. It was most refreshing.”

Denver nodded once as they made their way into the library.

“I meant what I said, Denver. You don’t need to worry. Although, I am slightly remorseful we ate all the food that was intended for you. It likely would have been enough for your supper and lunch tomorrow.”

“I was happy to share, sir. Holland and my mother are both fine cooks. I’ll get to sample more of their cooking Saturday when Holland returns, and Sunday when I spend the day at home with them.”

Brant dropped to his knees and picked up a walnut slat, prepared to return to the task. “Are your sisters truly interested in working here?”

Denver nodded. “Yes, sir. They’ve both been chattering about applying for jobs since I started working here three years ago. Savannah is more interested in keeping house than Holland, but they’re both good girls, work hard, and will do a good job.”

“I’m sure if they are anything like you, Denver, they can be trusted to do their jobs, do them well, and give a little extra than expected.” Brant offered what he hoped was an encouraging look.

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate the kind words.” Denver took a step toward the ladder, then stopped and looked back at Brant. “If you don’t mind my saying, sir, it’s really something to see you working alongside us. Most people in your position wouldn’t do it, even if they knew what to do. You sure seem to have a lot of useful skills.”

Brant grinned. “Thank you. I spent many years when I was younger working at various enterprises, learning as many skills as possible. It’s certainly been helpful when it comes to this house.”

Denver nodded, scurried upstairs, and hurried up the ladder while Brant returned to installing the floor. While he and Remington alternated the slats for the chevron pattern taking shape across the expanse of the room, his thoughts remained on Holland Drake.

He’d never met anyone quite like her, and found himself hoping he encountered her again. Which was precisely the reason he would return to town Saturday before she and her sister arrived for an interview. The last thing he needed was to run into her and be forced into not just stretching the truth, but telling an outright lie to hide his previous deception.

Regardless, though, he wished again he’d had a sketchbook and pencil in hand to capture how she’d looked, drenched in autumn sunlight with the beauty of the river garden surrounding her. His thoughts danced around images of her as he labored through the afternoon.

The clang of a metal bar hitting a triangle over at the stable resounded across the property, signaling the end of the workday.

Denver continued working until Brant and Remington gathered their tools and stored them in a locked toolbox. After Denver put away his tools, he walked over to where Brant and Remington surveyed the work they’d accomplished.

“Sir, may I speak to you? Freely?” Denver swallowed nervously and twisted the cap he’d worn between his hands.

“Of course, Denver.” Brant clapped him on the shoulder, hoping to set him at ease with a friendly smile. “What is it?”

“It’s about my sister, sir. I understand why you didn’t tell her who you were, but Holland’s a bit on the feisty side and has a temper when riled. She won’t tolerate anything but the truth. When she finds out who you really are, I have a feeling she’ll be about as furious as a scalded bobcat.”

Brant considered Denver’s words while doing his best to ignore the smug look on Remington’s face. “I appreciate your sharing that with me, Denver. I have never seen a bobcat, scalded or otherwise, but I shall offer your sister a sincere apology and set matters straight when the opportunity arises.”

“That’s good, sir.”

Brant smiled again and gave Denver’s shoulder a squeeze. “Go on, and enjoy your evening.”

“I will, sir. Thank you.”

Remington waited until Denver left through the side door to turn to Brant and open his mouth to speak.

Brant held up a hand to stop whatever words of wisdom his friend prepared to spout.

“Before you start telling me what I already know, just keep your commentary about Miss Drake to yourself, Rem. I don’t need to hear it.”

Not when his own sense of right and wrong left him sorely convicted.

That night, as he tossed and turned in his otherwise comfortable bed at the hotel, a vision of Holland’s smile filled his thoughts. He owed her an apology for his deception and likely wouldn’t rest well until he delivered it.

If she was as feisty as Denver said, he hoped she’d accept it instead of delivering a well-deserved slap to his face.