The Nanny Solution

From Heiress to Nanny

When heiress Victoria Templeton learns her fortune is gone, she has to move to the Colorado frontier to live with her uncle. But with no money to pay for the trip, she must accept a position as a traveling nanny for a widowed rancher. And, much to the chagrin of the man entrusting his children to her care, she soon finds herself in over her head.

Mitch MacLeod lives for two things: his ranch and his children. And pampered Victoria isn’t qualified to help with either. But the former socialite has more grit—and determination—than he first thinks. If her uncle has his way, though, Mitch will soon lose his ranch—and any hope of a future with Victoria.

“I want to do something.” She leaned into him and heard his indrawn breath.

Then he shut his eyes. “Victoria. I know you mean well. When I first met you, I doubted you could even polish a fork. I can see you care for the children, but caring isn’t enough.” He paused and opened his eyes again. “Even love isn’t enough. Ranching is a tough life. It’s not meant for families.”

His voice hitched as he continued, “Please leave, Victoria. I don’t want the children hurt. I don’t want to be—” He cut off his hoarse words.

She reached out and touched his chest. The cotton was rough, durable, the muscles beneath firm. It was as if she could trust this man with her life. He seemed so salt-of-the-earth dependable. Hardworking stock. She had to shut her eyes for a moment, for surely he was stealing her focus. “I can help. I can learn to do—”

He took her wrist and pushed her hand down. “No, you can’t help. Now leave before I do something stupid.”

She leaned closer. “Like letting me try?”

He shook his head. “No, like kissing you.”

BARBARA PHINNEY was born in England and raised in Canada. After she retired from the Canadian Armed Forces, Barbara turned her hand to romance writing. The thrill of adventure and her love of happy endings, coupled with a too-active imagination, have merged to help her create this and other wonderful stories. Barbara spends her days writing, building her dream home with her husband and enjoying their fast-growing children.

The Nanny Solution

Barbara Phinney

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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When pride cometh, then cometh shame: but with the lowly is wisdom.

—Proverbs 11:2

Dedicated to Kate Kelly, a great author and even better friend. You will be sadly missed.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Boston, 1882

Victoria Templeton sank into the Queen Anne chair. Her mouth fell open in a most unfeminine manner as she gaped up at her pacing, overwrought mother. “What do you mean, ‘we’re broke’?”

Abigail Templeton-Smith continued to pace, all the while wringing her black handkerchief. When the maid entered the front room with afternoon tea, the older woman flicked the small black square, essentially shooing away both the girl and the refreshments.

Victoria’s attention then settled on her mother’s gown. The mourning outfit was terribly outdated, its black bombazine dull in the barely lit room with the window curtains drawn tight. Where was the tasteful mourning suit Mother had worn just yesterday? The last time this old thing saw any use was when they’d buried Victoria’s father, ten years past. “Mother? What’s really going on?”

“Must I repeat it? We’re broke!” Abigail dropped onto the settee and plucked at the skirt of her outfit. “I had to dig this old thing out because I gave all but one of my mourning clothes to Bess.”

Her mother’s maid? “Why?”

“She found a buyer over on Tremont Street. An actress from Chickering Hall, in fact, who approached me last week, saying my mourning outfits would add to an upcoming play. Can you imagine the cheek of that woman? I brushed her off at the time, but after I saw Mr. Lacewood, well, I sent Bess to see her...”

Victoria struggled to follow her mother’s words. Mr. Lacewood had been her stepfather’s solicitor, but what did he have to do with her mother’s mourning outfits?

“...and she was able to get a pretty penny for them. Naturally, I retained this old thing for when I’m at home and one good one for—”

“Why on earth did you sell your mourning clothes?” Victoria interrupted, all the while trying to refrain from gaping unbecomingly at her mother.

“Do not interrupt. It’s terribly ill-mannered.” Abigail blinked before finishing her tale. “As for why, well, I did it for a train ticket!”

“Where are we going?”

Her mother looked away. “Not we, Victoria. Me. I’m going down to the Carolinas to stay with your aunt Eugenia until this dreadful mess blows over.”

Victoria wanted to remind her mother that the “dreadful mess” was her second husband’s recent suicide. But since the marriage hadn’t been a happy union, what else would her mother call it?

Still, something else was terribly wrong. Her mother had never been a loving woman who’d defend her only child to the death, but would she really abandon her own daughter? Would she plan her departure even before Charles was cold in the ground? Yes, Boston was talking about his suicide, and yes, Victoria had yet to shed a tear for the oily character, but his death was hardly a “dreadful mess.”

Victoria moved to sit down beside her mother, her back straight, thanks to her corset, and her expression as firm as the bustle that she’d pulled up behind her. “I want the truth, Mother. You’ve just told me we’re broke and that you’re leaving. I know you met with Mr. Lacewood this morning about Charles’s affairs. And this?” She flicked at her mother’s skirt, receiving in return a sharp glare. “I can’t believe you still have this, let alone have it on. Now, Mother, it’s time for the whole truth. Every last detail.”

Though Victoria was only twenty, she had inherited her father’s sensibilities instead of her mother’s shallow neediness. She loved her mother but couldn’t deny that the woman who’d given birth to her was not known for her warmth and compassion.

Her mother edged away. “Charles had some heavy gambling debts. Ones that must be paid.”

“Gambling debts! Why must they be paid if Charles commit—” She cut off her own words. No need to constantly repeat the words that were the unfortunate reality.

Abigail’s voice fell to a whisper. “I gave him control over your estate. I’d given him everything. It isn’t good form for a woman to deal with finances and we both know that Charles proved me wrong whenever I made a suggestion about money.”

Victoria wanted to interject that apparently Charles was the one who was proved wrong in the end, but the bitter comment lodged in her throat. There was no good reason to point out the obvious, and Mother was shamed enough.

“Charles said that profit could be made with the right investments.” Abigail’s voice hitched as she continued, “A month ago, he promised me we would see changes in the investments. Only then did I suspect what type of ‘investments’ they really were.”

Victoria gasped. “What were they?”

“He was gambling. Heavily, I’m afraid.” Abigail’s chin wrinkled, her cheeks flamed. “Mr. Lacewood said, considering how he’d spent more than we owned, the best thing would be to liquidate the estate.”

“Whose estate?”

Her mother said nothing.

Victoria smacked the settee beside her, causing the older woman to jump. “Mine! Given to me by my father for my future! Wasted because you think it unseemly for a woman to handle her own finances! Mother, how could you?”

“I had no idea he was gambling!”

With an unfeminine snort, Victoria stormed to the window and shoved open the curtains to let in the weakening October sun. While in mourning, one kept the draperies closed, but Victoria couldn’t stand the dimness.

Then remembering that a good deal of the fine local population strolled past at this time of the day, she hastily yanked the drapes back together. Best not to appear unseemly. The black wreath on the front door of their Federal-style town house had limited their visitors. And thankfully, her mother had insisted on a small funeral. Just as well, considering the cause of death. Suddenly the white crepe at the neck of Victoria’s black dress all but choked her. Oh, she couldn’t wait to be free of this thing! Surely six months of mourning a thief was overdone.

A thief! She spun and pushed her hands against her hips. “Now we have nothing?”

Abigail sniffed. “I was as shocked as you are.”

“So shocked he stole from us that you came home and sold all of your mourning outfits for a train ticket south.”

“Not all of them and don’t make it sound so horrible, please. I saved one good outfit for when I travel.”

“First class, I assume.”

At the acid tone, Abigail bit her lip, but didn’t look up. “I can’t be seen traveling second class out of Boston. Please don’t make a fuss, Victoria. This house and the summer home in Portland will be put up for sale immediately.” Abigail finally looked up with a hollow expression. “And please don’t solicit your friends for money. Allow me to leave Boston gracefully. I need to be gone before the ad is published.”

“What about Francis? He could help, surely?”

Abigail shook her head. “No. You two weren’t engaged yet. Charles had promised he would make the arrangements, but he didn’t and I dare not ask now. Francis’s father doesn’t tolerate this kind of disgrace. He’s a Brahmin, after all.” She let out a shaky sigh. “We’ll never be able to secure a decent marriage for you here.”

Victoria blinked. It had been her hope to marry into Boston’s highest class. Surely Francis would help; after all, their families had been considering a marriage between them. But even as she thought that, she knew the truth. Dutiful Francis would want nothing except to maintain propriety. He’d told Victoria decency and honor were values on which the United States were built. To discard them would be discarding all patriotism.

“What am I to do, Mother?” Victoria asked quietly. “Have you given any thought to me?”

Abigail’s expression softened and she leaned forward, all the while patting the space beside her on the settee. Victoria refused to comply. “My dear, if I could take you, I would. But Eugenia is trying to find good matches for your unruly cousins. Each is bent on having a career first, then after that, choosing their own husband.”

“That’s not a new idea, Mother.”

“At least you were going to allow us to arrange your marriage.”

Of course. Why wouldn’t she? The men in the circles Victoria frequented were wealthy, Brahmin men with long, drawling accents and Old World charm. Who wouldn’t want to marry into that lifestyle? Victoria knew little of her cousins, but she could read the writing on the wall here. Aunt Eugenia was afraid of competition. And her mother would never risk her invitation by arriving with Victoria.

She swallowed. Dear Lord in heaven, what am I to do? Then she asked her mother in a quiet, wobbly voice, “When do you leave?”

Abigail stood. “This coming Saturday.”

Three days hence, for it was Wednesday today. “And me, Mother? If the house is to be sold, where am I to go? Have you considered me in any of this?”

Abigail bit her lip. “I have thought of you, Victoria. I really have. Last week, after I received Walter’s condolences, I wired him. I received his telegram this morning.”

Victoria had met her mother’s older brother once, at her mother’s second wedding, but barely remembered him. He lived in some western frontier town. Mother claimed he was making his fortune there.

“Your uncle says he’ll take you in.”

She immediately bristled. “Like an old maid?”

“I’m so sorry for all of this.” Abigail found her black handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “It was a mistake to allow Charles to handle the finances. I see that now.”

Victoria hesitated. For all her faults, Abigail was still her mother. She hated to see her own flesh and blood on the verge of tears. “I’ll need some money for the train fare.”

Abigail walked to the sideboard and opened her purse. “Walter wired to say that he can send you money. I didn’t want to ask for myself, but for you...”

Victoria stiffened. “I won’t take charity, least of all from a relative I don’t know.”

“He’s your uncle!” Abigail tossed a swift look at Victoria. “He thinks it will work out well.”

Victoria stilled. She knew her mother. Something else was amiss. “Why would he think that? He hasn’t had any contact with us. What’s going on?”

Abigail held out the telegram. “Walter suggested you may take a liking to his business partner, who is a widower. It would keep the business in the family. Your uncle says he will send some money so you can travel in comfort. You’ll need to look your best when you arrive and first class has very nice Pullman cars.”

Snatching the telegram, Victoria flicked it open. “So I can be purchased for the price of a first-class ticket?”

Abigail stiffened. “You’re not going to find anyone here who will take you in for the long term. That’s just the way it is.”

Victoria sagged. Her mother was right, at least about accepting her Uncle Walter’s offer of accommodation. “Fine. I’ll go. But I’ll ask Mr. Lacewood for a loan. Once I’m out West, I’ll find a way to repay him.”

“Borrowing from our solicitor? We already owe him! He’s settling Charles’s affairs discreetly.”

Within Victoria, irritation swelled again. Her mother had allowed Charles to ruin them, but she wasn’t allowed to borrow train fare from their solicitor? “I’ll be sure to thank him for his discretion.” She swept from the front room.

Her mother hurried behind her. “You mustn’t ask him for money. That’s too embarrassing!”

Bent on ignoring her, Victoria scooped up her small purse and threw open the front door. But her exit was blocked.

A tall man stood at the door, his knuckles raised to knock on the wood above the wreath. And down the few steps behind him were four children of varying heights, all staring at her.

* * *

Mitch MacLeod dropped his hand. The slender, black-garbed woman who’d flung open the door glared at him. Perhaps rightly so. He was a disgrace. His suit needed ironing, and he hadn’t had the time today to even shave. He was only thirty, but this afternoon he probably looked fifty. He cleared his throat as he removed his Stetson. “Miss Victoria Templeton?”

An older woman hurried up behind the young woman. For a few stalled seconds, he stood there, waiting for the younger to answer.

“I am she.” Those words sounded more like a challenge than a confirmation. “And you are...?”

“My name is Mitchell MacLeod. I need the services of a woman—” He cleared his throat again. “I mean, I would like to employ a young woman to assist my family as we travel west. My solicitor, Robert Lacewood, suggested you, since you were planning a trip out West, anyway.”

The woman, Victoria, swung her glare over her shoulder. Just by looking at the pair, Mitch could tell they were mother and daughter, with the younger one’s fine, dark blond hair a shinier version of her mother’s. But Victoria’s expression was hardly respectful.

The older woman, the recently widowed Mrs. Abigail Templeton-Smith, he presumed, cringed as she spoke to her daughter. “I may have let that slip this morning, but Mr. Lacewood would have guessed your, ahem, need.”

“Say it, Mother. My need for money. Well, let’s hope Mr. Lacewood’s discretion lasts through the sale of the house.”

Mitch looked up the front facade. He would have never considered searching for a nanny in one of these fancy brownstones, but he trusted Lacewood. The man had been honest yet prudent with his wife’s affairs, he thought, remembering the squalling infant he’d left in a nurse’s care for the afternoon.

His gut clenched. His own children now stood obediently behind him. The marriage between the children’s parents had been a convenient arrangement, but neither he nor Agnes had put their hearts into it. Still, Agnes had trained their children well. Would she have done the same for the infant, had she not died in childbirth?

Focusing back on the women in front of him, Mitch decided to explain the immediate need. His time was short. “Miss Templeton, Mr. Lacewood thought you were planning a trip out to Proud Bend, Colorado. It’s close to my ranch. I have need of a woman who can assist me, and in return, I’ll pay for her fare.”

He tried a hopeful, earnest expression. “Perhaps we can discuss this inside?” He knew little of this class, but he presumed socialites never chatted at the front door. He’d realized as he’d climbed the steps that he was taking a huge chance that this Victoria Templeton would accept employment, but Lacewood had seemed optimistic. Mitch glanced around as Victoria stepped back from the door to allow him entrance. They owned this house yet needed money? Could they be spendthrifts? Perhaps. Who was he to know this sex?

No one, he thought, bitter pride blossoming on his tongue. He was a rancher, after all. Ranchers focused on their herd, not on figuring out fickle women.

Victoria led him, with his children in tow, into the front room. She marched straight to a small bell, which she rang. A woman in a uniform appeared, and refreshments were ordered. The mother stopped at the parlor entrance and looked down at his brood, as if noticing an appalling sample of vermin for the first time. Then, with a short sigh, she strode to the settee and sat down.

“Have a seat, Mr. MacLeod.” Victoria offered him a fussy chair while she chose to sit beside her mother. “Do you drink tea?”

“I can.” Mitch hadn’t come to fiddle with dainty teacups and tiny biscuits, but if it was needed to secure help, so be it. He glanced over at his children, who hovered at the door to this fancy room, lost little souls that they were. With a short nod, he indicated for them to enter and sit, although Matthew, his oldest, remained standing, as if on guard. Mary shared a nearby armless chair with her brother, John, while the youngest in tow, Ralph, sat cross-legged on the floor in front of them, his dark brown curls bouncing as he looked around. Their eyes widened to saucers when the tea and biscuits arrived. But when the older woman offered them nothing, they thankfully stayed silent.

Following his gaze, Victoria looked over at the children. Mitch knew she’d caught the very small shake of his head that warned them not to beg. Her attention darted back to her mother, who, ignoring all else, supervised her maid as she filled each cup.

Clicking her tongue, Victoria snatched the tiered silver tray of sweets and marched over to the children. “Your hands.”

They gaped at her. “Hold out your hands,” she revised.

They all obeyed. Mitch shut his eyes. Ralph’s grubby paws would need a good scouring. The boy could find dirt in heaven, he was sure. But, ignoring the state of the children’s hands, Victoria dropped two biscuits into each outstretched palm.

In turn, each child whispered a polite thank-you.

“Miss Templeton, I need help,” Mitch said when Victoria returned the tray to the table between them and sat down again. “I have to return to my ranch, and as good as my children are, they need a woman while traveling out there, especially considering two of the five are girls.”

Victoria glanced again at the children. Even her mother, who’d been busy looking down her nose at the whole situation, also turned. It was Victoria who spoke. “You have four children, and only one of them is a girl.”

“The baby, Emily, is in the care of a nurse right now.”

“And your wife, Mr. MacLeod? Where is she? Is she still in her confinement?”

Mitch’s jaw tightened. “She died in childbirth a month ago. September 4, to be exact. I’m hoping to take the children to our ranch, the one I’ve been building for my family.”

It was all he would say on the subject. For, no matter what, he would not reveal the truth about Emily’s unknown paternity.

Your pride will be your downfall, Mitch. Don’t go thinking it will serve you well. When pride cometh, then cometh shame.

The pastor of the church in Proud Bend, the town closest to his ranch, had spoken the warning before Mitch had left for Boston to collect his family, now that his new ranch was ready. Mitch had also boasted that he would pay off his mortgage within two years, and that he would then have the finest beef cattle within view of Castle Rock. What awaited him here—his wife’s death, the unexpected child—had brought the pastor’s words into sharp focus.

He pushed aside the memory. It would serve no good purpose to dwell on things that brought shame.

“No mother?” Her eyes widening, Victoria interrupted his thoughts. “Poor things.” Her brows then knitted together as she looked over at him. “My condolences.”

“Thank you. Yes, it has been difficult on them.” And me, in a way you’ll never know. Mitch tightened his jaw, holding himself back from saying something that might reveal the betrayal still coursing through him. “Lacewood is seeing to my late wife’s final affairs, for I need to return to my ranch. And I can’t do so without a woman to assist me. Are you going out West, Miss Templeton? I can pay for your fare and a small stipend in return for your assistance.”

It sounded a foolish thing to say, but Lacewood had suggested those exact words. “The trip is broken up by switching engines and lines, but it’s remarkably fast, only three days, two nights,” Mitch added, hoping the solicitor’s optimism hadn’t been misplaced.

Victoria’s mother shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. MacLeod, but my daughter’s fare is already taken care of.”

“I’ll take it.”

Both her mother and Mitch looked to Victoria. She folded her arms. “My fare hasn’t been purchased yet.”

The older woman looked aghast. “But you need to travel first class, Victoria. You need to look your best when you arrive. You won’t get any rest helping this man.”

Knowing he was being ignored, Mitch spoke up. “I can’t afford first class, but I’m told you’ll get your rest. It’s a second-class car, but it’s a Pullman sleeper one.”