His grin was getting harder to hold back, so he ducked his chin as he stepped into the pen’s slippery muck. “Here now, Rusty.” He kept his voice steady and his shoulders squared. “That’s no way to treat a lady.”
The rooster swung its beady gaze toward him, puffing its chest in a display of bravado.
Enoch chuckled and scooped up the bird like he’d done a hundred times before.
Rusty squawked indignantly, but settled as Enoch stroked its feathers.
“There.” He softened his voice for the rooster as he met Mrs. Beaumont’s startled gaze over Rusty’s bright red comb. “No harm done.”
She straightened, smoothing her skirts, and sent them both another glare. The basket trembled in her hands though. Had she really been frightened?
He moved to the side and motioned for her to pass through the door. Once she stepped outside, he freed the rooster to run with the hens, then followed Mrs. Beaumont out and secured the latch behind him.
At last, he turned to walk with her toward the house. “Sorry. Rusty’s guarding his hens.”
She sent him a sideways look, but she seemed to have regained her composure. “I see that.” Her voice held a touch of frost, but the corners of her lips twitched. “Bea asked me to gather a few eggs so we could make a custard. I didn’t expect to be ambushed.”
He let his gaze skim over her. Even with dirt smudged on her cheek and her dress wrinkled from the tussle, she was beautiful—too beautiful for him to linger on. Her brown eyes caught the sunlight, warm and deep, and a stray curl framed her face like a painter’s stroke.
But he pushed that thought aside. “How’re you feeling? I’m surprised to see you up and about so soon.”
She lifted her chin. “Much better, thank you. The fresh air and activity are doing me good.” Her expression clouded. “I only wish I would get my memories back.”
His gut clenched. He’d been hoping she’d started to recall details. It would make this conversation a sight easier. “Well, no need to rush it. I’m sure it’ll all come back to you in time.”
She nodded, but the furrow remained between her brows.
They’d reached the porch steps. Enoch cleared his throat. “Actually, I was hoping I might have a word with you, if you’re up to it.”
She turned to face him, her expression guarded. “Of course. What is it you wish to discuss?”
He gestured toward the porch chairs. “Can we sit?”
A flicker of uncertainty crossed her features, but she nodded. “Let me take these eggs to Bea first.” She gestured to the basket on her arm. “And perhaps tidy up a bit.” A wry smile touched her lips as she glanced down at her disheveled appearance.
“Certainly.” He dipped his chin. “I’ll wait for you here.”
As she disappeared into the house, he leaned against the porch railing, his nerves stretched tight. He’d faced down possessive mother cows and even a grizzly once, but this conversation had his pulse pounding like a spooked colt.
He turned and gazed out over the ranch, the land that had shaped him into the man he was—that tethered him to this place even as duty pulled him toward a distant shore. This sunbaked earth and snow-capped peaks were as much a part of him as the blood in his veins.
The creak of the door sounded, and he straightened as Mrs. Beaumont stepped out. She’d tidied her hair and smoothed her skirts, but a smudge of dirt still lingered on her cheek. It made her seem more real somehow, less like a fine lady and more like a woman who could stand at his side, facing the challenges of this rugged land.
As she approached, he couldn’t bring himself to sit. Instead, he gripped the rough-hewn railing, the wood solid beneath his fingers.
She moved to stand beside him at the railing, leaving a respectable distance between them. Her eyes followed his gaze to the mountains. “It’s beautiful here,” she said softly. “Peaceful.”
He nodded, not trusting his voice yet. The words he’d practiced had fled like startled quail. He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Beaumont, I wanted to tell you a bit about our family, if that’s all right.”
Her brow furrowed, but she nodded. “Of course.”
He took a steadying breath. “My father is the Duke of Clarence, in England. Our family…we’ve faced threats as far back as I can remember. It started when Will and I were just lads.” He hesitated, the old wounds stirring. “Our father’s cousin, Reginald, wanted the title for himself. He saw us as obstacles—Will, me, James, and then Robert. Thomas wasn’t born yet.”
Mandie’s brow furrowed, her eyes flickering with curiosity and concern as she leaned against the porch rail.
“He tried to tear our family down at first by attacking our mother.” Bitterness crept into his tone, so he worked to soften it. “She was Scottish, with Catholic loyalties—a detail the Church of England strongly opposed. Reginald claimed it made her unfit to be a duchess, that it tainted our legitimacy as heirs. He spread rumors, even took it to the courts, hoping to have us disinherited. But our father’s influence was stronger, and Reginald’s lies fell apart.”
Mandie’s hand tightened on the rail, her knuckles whitening. “What did he do then?”
