Always Dakota Read online

  Praise for Debbie Macomber’s Dakota books

  “Fans are certain to take to the Dakota series as they would to cotton candy at a state fair.”

  —Publishers Weekly on Dakota Born

  “Dakota Born is more than just a regional contemporary romance. The lead couple is a wonderful pair, and the supporting cast brings North Dakota to life.”

  —ReadertoReader.com

  “Dakota Born is a poignant story of the plight of the modern American farmer and of townspeople pulling together to make their hometown one they can be proud of…an extremely well-written and touching tale. Macomber certainly has a knack for telling the story of small-town life.”

  —Romance Communications

  Debbie Macomber “is skilled at creating characters who work their way into readers’ hearts.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Dakota Home

  “Macomber closes Dakota Home with a cliffhanger, leaving readers anxiously awaiting the final installment to this first-rate series.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Macomber handles her large cast of characters remarkably well…. Her portrayal of North Dakota [is] another strength.”

  —Romance Reader on Dakota Home

  “Macomber excels at depicting believable characters…who inhabit this delightful town.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Dear Reader,

  Here at last is Always Dakota, the third book in my Dakota trilogy. I wrote this series of books more than eight years ago in honor of my parents, who were born and raised in the Dakotas, and I’m thrilled these stories still have meaning for you. Buffalo Valley is a prairie town that’s been given a new chance at life; it’s now a place of hope and optimism and energy.

  I feel I should warn you about something, though. Margaret Clemens isn’t your everyday kind of heroine—and Matt Eilers is unlike any other hero I’ve written. Life becomes very complicated for this young man—but I’m getting ahead of myself. Besides, you’ll find out all about Matt and Margaret soon enough.

  I need to thank a number of people for their help as I worked on this series. One is my cousin Shirley Adler, who braved a Dakota winter so I could do the necessary research. (I probably shouldn’t mention that it was one of the mildest winters on record!) Cousins Gary and Letty Zimmerman and Paula and Mike Greff, North Dakota natives all, offered invaluable assistance, as did authors and good friends Sandy Huseby and Judy Baer. What would a writer do without family and friends?

  Okay, my dear reader, settle down in a comfortable chair and get ready to visit Buffalo Valley again. I’m sure you’re going to enjoy your visit!

  P.S. I love hearing from readers. You can reach me at

  www.debbiemacomber.com or write me at P.O. Box 1458, Port Orchard, WA 98366.

  DEBBIE MACOMBER

  ALWAYS Dakota

  To my

  Aunt Betty Stierwalt

  and

  Aunt Gerty Urlacher

  For gracing my life with their incredible gift for love

  and laughter

  I love you both

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  September

  Bernard Clemens was dying and he knew it, despite what the doctors—all those fancy specialists—had said about his heart. He knew. He was old and tired, ready for death.

  Sitting in the den of the home he’d built thirty years ago for his wife, he closed his eyes and remembered. Maggie had been his great love. His only love. Delicate and beautiful, nearly sixteen years younger, she could have had her choice of husbands, but she’d chosen him. An aging rancher with a craggy face and work-roughened hands. A man who had simple tastes and lacked social refinement. And yet she’d loved him.

  God help him, he’d loved her, loved her still, although she’d been gone now for nearly twenty-seven years.

  Her love had been gift enough, but she’d yearned to give him a son. Bernard, too, had hoped for an heir. He’d purchased the Triple C as a young man, buying the land adjacent to his parents’ property, and eventually he’d built the combined ranches into one huge spread, an empire to pass on to his son. However, the child had been a girl and they’d named her Margaret, after her mother.

  The pregnancy had drained Maggie and she was further weakened that winter by a particularly bad strain of the flu. Pneumonia had set in soon afterward, and before anyone realized how serious it was, his Maggie was gone.

  In all his life, Bernard had never known such grief. With Maggie’s death, he’d lost what he valued most—the woman who’d brought him joy. When they lowered her casket into the ground, they might as well have buried him, too. From that point forward, he threw himself into ranching, buying more land, increasing his herd and consequently turning the Triple C into one of the largest and most prosperous cattle ranches in all of North Dakota.

  As for being a father to young Margaret, he’d tried, but as the eldest of seven boys, he had no experience in dealing with little girls. In the years that followed, his six younger brothers had all lived and worked with him for brief periods of time, eventually moving on and getting married and starting families of their own.

  They’d helped him raise her, teaching her about ranching ways—riding and roping…and cussing, he was sorry to admit.

  To this day, Margaret loved her uncles. Loved riding horses, too. She was a fine horsewoman, and more knowledgeable about cattle than any man he knew. She’d grown tall and smart—not to mention smart-mouthed—but Bernard feared he’d done his only child a grave disservice. Margaret resembled him more than she did her mother. Maggie had been a fragile, dainty woman who brought out everything that was good in Bernard.

  Their daughter, unfortunately, revealed very little of her mother’s gentleness or charm. How could she, seeing that she’d been raised by a grief-stricken father and six bachelors? Margaret looked like Bernard, talked like him and dressed like him. It was a crying shame she hadn’t been a boy, since, until recently, she was often mistaken for one. His own doing, he thought, shaking his head. Had Maggie lived, she would have seen to the proper upbringing of their daughter. Would have taught their little girl social graces and femininity, as mothers do. Bernard had given it his best shot. He loved his daughter, but he felt that he’d failed her.

  To her credit, Margaret possessed a generous, loving heart and she was a fine businesswoman. Bernard couldn’t help being proud of her, despite a constant sense of guilt about her unconventional upbringing.

  There was a light knock. At his hoarse, “Come in,” the housekeeper opened the door. “Matt Eilers is here to see you,” Sadie announced brusquely.

  With effort, Bernard straightened, his fingers digging into the padded leather arms of his chair as he forced himself to meet his neighbor. “Send him in.”

  She nodded and left.

  Less than a minute later, Matt Eilers appeared, Stetson in hand.

  “You’ll forgive me if I don’t get up,” Bernard said.

  “Of course.”

  Bernard gestured toward the matching chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. “Sit down.”

  Matt obliged, giving Bernard his first good look at this man his daughter appa
rently loved. Frankly, he was disappointed. He’d seen Matt at social affairs, the occasional wedding, harvest dance or barbecue, but they’d never spoken. Somehow, he’d expected more substance, and he felt surprised that Margaret would be taken in by a pretty face and an empty heart. Over the past few years Bernard had heard plenty about his neighbor to the west, and not much of it had been flattering.

  “I imagine you’re wondering why I asked to meet with you.”

  “I am,” Matt said, perching on the edge of the chair. He held his hat in both hands, his expression questioning.

  “You enjoy ranching?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  At least he was polite, and that boded well. “How long you been ranching the Stockert place?”

  “Four years. I’d like to buy my own spread one day, but for now I’m leasing the land and building up my herd.”

  “So I understand.” Bernard leaned back in his chair. His breath came slowly, painfully. “You have family in the area?”

  Matt’s gaze shifted to the Oriental rug. “No. My parents divorced when I was five. My father ranched in Montana and I worked summers with him, but he died when I was fifteen.”

  “Ranching’s in your blood then, same as mine.”

  “It is,” Matt agreed.

  Bernard hesitated, waiting until he had breath enough to continue. “You know my daughter, Margaret.”

  Matt nodded.

  “What do you think of her?”

  The question seemed to take him by surprise. “Think of her? How do you mean?”

  Bernard waved his hand. “Your general impression.”

  Slumping back in the chair, Matt shrugged. “I…I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “Just be honest,” he snapped, impatient. He didn’t have the strength—or the time—for word games.

  “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 farth
er.

  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.