Baker and then Mr. Fridley. She couldn’t imagine either one successfully running the ranch.

Or giving her children. Not that she was ready for children. But one day there would need to be heirs, a boy or girl to inherit her father’s land. It was the least she could do to honor his legacy.

A half hour later the service finally ended, and Ellie exited the church quickly trying to avoid having to speak to either of the two gentlemen, elbowing past parishioners to get to her side.

Stepping outside, she blinked, the overcast day still considerably brighter than the dim church interior, and then spotted Mr. Sheenan parked at the curb, exactly where he promised to be. He hadn’t come in a buggy but in the same huge, ugly farm wagon he’d driven to her father’s on Wednesday.

Her pace slowed. She winkled her nose, remembering how he’d transported his sheep in the back just a few days ago.

He dropped down from the seat and extended his hand to help her in.

Her gaze swept over him. He was so much taller than she, his shoulders broad in the sturdy brown wool coat, his frame thick with muscle. Perhaps if he’d been built more like Mr. Fridley she wouldn’t feel so uneasy. As it was, her skin prickled and her nerves tightened and she drew back a step, thinking this was a bad idea.

“We’ll go in my carriage,” she said breathlessly, ignoring his hand, as she battled for a sense of control.

He shrugged lightly. “I won’t be driving your carriage.”

“No. I will be—”

“You misunderstand, Miss Burnett. You won’t be driving me anywhere. Let me assist you in.”

“Your wagon is about to fall apart.”

“It’s not, and I’ve just scrubbed the seat for you, m’lady.” His deep voice with its Irish accent dripped with scorn. “If you’re worried about cleanliness, I can assure you that you won’t dirty your fine gown on my bench.”

Heat rushed through her. Her cheeks grew hot. “Bramble is just a few blocks over. Tie your horse and we can walk.”

“I’m not tying my horse, nor walking anywhere, not when hail is forecast for this afternoon. So get in, or let us part ways. I’ve plenty to do and I’m not strong on patience.”

She very nearly told him good day and good riddance but she spied Mr. Baker from the corner of her eye, hustling toward the wagon, his pale brow beaded with perspiration and another film of moisture above his upper lip.

Jaw firming, she lifted her chin and held out her hand, allowing the Irishman to assist her into his wagon.

She settled on the hard wood bench as far from his seat as she could without falling out.

Mr. Sheenan gave her a mocking glance. “Comfortable?”

“Can we just go, please?” she said tightly, hands balling in her lap.

Instead he glanced to the two men standing on the pavement in front of the church. “Should we invite your friends to come along?” he asked sardonically.

Mr. Baker and Mr. Fridley were practically elbowing each other in their haste to reach the wagon. She shook her head.