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Nick leaned forward. “Edward, the quickest way to send her running back into the arms of Gerald Lullington would be for us to monitor her every movement and make her feel like she’s little more than a prisoner while she’s here. She’ll be imagining she’s Juliet and he’s Romeo—without the quick tragic consequences, of course. And the result will be a slower tragedy for her. I think we have to show her she’s worthy of trust.”
Edward sighed. “I hope you’re right.”
* * *
The first thing Violet, on Lady, did was to climb the sloping hill near the ranch house, upon which Nick and the hands had erected a small stone lookout fortress. From here she enjoyed the bird’s-eye view of the mesquite and cactus-dotted fields and the blue hills in the distance. Then, after they descended the hill, she enjoyed the feel of the horse’s powerful muscles moving beneath her in a smooth canter. More than once a jackrabbit sprang up just ahead of Lady’s hooves, and although the mare snorted, ears pricked forward, her steady lope never altered. Violet saw the cattle in the north pasture from a distance, a quiet mass of multicolored beasts with elongated horns, some with calves, all grazing or lying placidly in the shade of a grove of live oaks. It was hard to believe they could be as dangerous as she’d been told.
The sun beat down upon Violet as predicted, making her glad of the bonnet that shaded her head from the worst of its glare. She felt a trickle of perspiration snake down her back. The pinto’s withers were damp, though she had slowed the mare to a walk after a quarter of an hour. It was time to find the creek, and then some shade where she could do some writing.
Heading east, she came to the place where the creek widened just before flowing over the boundary between Brookfield and Collier land. The fence had terminal posts on both sides of the creek so the cattle of either ranch had full access to the widest part of the creek. The north side of the creek was rimmed by a wide rocky ledge.
On the south side of the creek lay a shady grove of cottonwoods and live oaks—the perfect place to write, Violet thought. It would give her a sheltered vantage point overlooking Collier land while she did so.
She let Lady go forward and drink from the stream as long as she wanted to before reining her into the shady grove and dismounting. As soon as Violet dropped her reins, the pinto lowered her head to graze. Milly had sent along an old quilt, and now Violet took that down from where it had been rolled up behind the saddle and spread it out under one of the cottonwoods, settling herself against its rough bark. Pulling the ruled copybook she had brought to write her story in along with a sharpened pencil from the deep pocket of the divided skirt, she set them upon her lap and opened the notebook to the first page.
When they’d boarded the steamer for America, she’d thought she might be able to write an entire rough draft of her novel during the voyage, and merely polish the manuscript while she was in Texas by adding authentic details—verisimilitude, she’d learned it was called—that she would learn during her stay. She’d imagined filling page after page with her story, the hours passing by like minutes, and stopping only when writer’s cramp forced her to. She’d brought a stack of copybooks in her trunk, sure that her novel would be long and her prose lyrical.
When it came down to actually writing, however, she found it difficult to concentrate. Not only was she acutely missing Gerald, of course, but Edward was rarely long absent from her side except when they went to their respective staterooms at night. It was as if he feared one of their assorted fellow travelers, or even one of the deckhands, might tempt her to folly if she was alone. When other passengers stopped to chat, her brother’s manner seemed excessively jovial, as if he was desperate to convince everyone they were on a pleasure trip, and he was not escorting his notorious sister away from England just ahead of scandal.
Now Violet stared at the lines she had penned during the voyage. It was utter and complete tripe, all of it. She had had no idea how to begin a novel about the American West, never having seen the land she was writing about. She had only the most amorphous idea of her hero, and how he should accomplish winning the heroine’s love.
She’d started out describing Gerald as the hero, but she couldn’t imagine Gerald as anything but what he was—an English aristocrat in tweeds rather than cowboy garb. And Edward’s constant presence by her side made Violet too self-conscious to write. It didn’t take long before she put the copybook back in her trunk and only read the book she’d brought with her.
Now, however, she had the perfect opportunity and solitude to make a brilliant new start. Ruthlessly ripping out the four pages she’d written on the ship, she crumpled them into a ball and threw them to the other end of the quilt.
Violet supposed she should start by setting the scene, and so she wrote several lines about the landscape, the cactus, the mesquite, the brightly colored wildflowers...but no, that was dull. Perhaps she should describe her hero, using Raleigh as the model as she had decided the day she arrived in Simpson Creek. But what to call him? She dared not use the same name, for her brothers would think she had developed an inappropriate, schoolgirllike infatuation for the Colliers’ foreman.
Riley? That was close to Raleigh, but perhaps too close.... She should get away from “R” names. Charlie? Marcus? Monty? Yes, Monty, that was just right.
She would start in the middle of the action.
Monty, his pistols still smoking from the shots he had fired, reined in his magnificent blue roan stallion and gazed at the heroine, who looked up at him with undisguised adoration. A tear trickled down her lovely alabaster cheek.
“You have saved me from a Fate Worse Than Death, sir, yet I don’t even know your name,” she said. “How you happened along just in the nick of time, I’ll never know, but I’ll be eternally grateful....”
He dismounted and took hold of her lily-white hand. “Why, I’m Monty—”
Here Violet stopped, chewing on the end of the pencil. What should his last name be? Brewster? Montgomery? No, something simpler—Simpson, for Simpson Creek. When the book was published and she became the darling of the literary world, her hero’s surname would be her tribute to where she’d written the manuscript.
Violet continued writing.
“I’m Monty Simpson. And what might your name be, my fair one?”
Violet giggled. Would a cowboy speak that way? Probably not. She crossed out the last three words and wrote instead, “pretty lady.”
“I’m Lily Lawrence.”
Goodness, it was hot. Milly hadn’t been exaggerating. Heat waves shimmered beyond the shade of the live oak. Violet fanned herself with the copybook, then loosened the top two buttons of her blouse. She probably ought to return to the ranch house soon, but she wanted to write a little more before she left. Besides, she hadn’t so much as caught a glimpse of any cowboys, let alone Raleigh.
The heat was making her drowsy—that, and the early hour she had awakened, thanks to her nephew’s penchant for running through the house exercising his lungs. Violet took a drink from the canteen and thought about splashing some of the water on her face. Perhaps that would make her more alert....
In the distance, a cow bawled.
Surely it wouldn’t hurt to just close her eyes for a moment, and ponder the next lines of dialogue between her hero and the heroine....
Chapter Five
Raleigh had been out riding fence when he’d spotted Lady, saddled and bridled, grazing just beyond a grove of trees near the creek.
He looked around, but didn’t see Violet. Alarm struck him like an arrow of ice. Had she fallen off her mount? Was she lying nearby, unconscious and bleeding?
He galloped his roan through the gap in the fence at the creek, staring wildly around in all directions. Despite Lady’s calm demeanor, Raleigh expected to see the Englishwoman’s crumpled form somewhere in the midst of the grass or, worse yet, lying against one of the clumps of rocks.
Then he caught sight of her white shirt in the grove of trees, and breathed a heartfelt prayer of thanks.
“Miss Violet?” he called, not wanting to startle her, but not understanding why she hadn’t arisen at his approach. Surely anyone would have heard the pounding of his horse’s hooves. Unless she was injured, after all, and had only managed to crawl into the shade before fainting. Heart pounding, he approached, seeing that Violet’s eyes were closed.
She looked utterly peaceful, her clothing neither ripped nor sullied. He could see no blood, and her golden hair curled loosely about her shoulders. A floppy-brimmed hat lay nearby on the grass. Two buttons on the high-necked blouse were undone, giving him a charming view of her graceful neck. Her chest rose and fell in a regular rhythm, her breath softly escaping through parted lips. He saw some sort of notebook lying open in her lap, the pages filled with a looping script, and a pencil lying on it.
Should he wake her? He didn’t want to frighten her—he knew with the sunlight behind him, all she might see when she opened her eyes would be a hulking form looming over her. Yet he knew she wasn’t used to the heat, and if she slept much longer, she might wake up with a headache at the least.
He didn’t want to embarrass her, either. Raleigh backed up carefully, intending to approach again more noisily, calling her name. But when he turned to go, his boot snapped a twig.
She woke up with a start, eyes wide, arms flailing. “Wha—who?”
“Miss Violet, it’s me, Raleigh Masterson,” he said quickly, and watched as her eyes blinked and focused on him and the panic ebbed. “I...I didn’t want to startle you, but I thought you might have had a fall from your horse.”
She jumped to her feet, pushing a loose tendril of hair from her forehead and brushing off her riding skirt. She smiled sheepishly up at him. “No, I didn’t fall... I... It seems I fell asleep,” she said. “The heat made me drowsy.”
She didn’t seem to notice the notebook and pencil, which had fallen to the ground, and now he bent, picked them up and handed them to her. “I’m glad,” he said. “That you weren’t hurt, that is. Were you...writing a letter?” he added, nodding toward the notebook. He was curious, but mainly wanted to give them something to talk about so she could stop feeling self-conscious at being caught napping.
“No, I was actually working on my novel,” she said with a shy pride.
“You’re writing a book, Miss Violet?” He’d never met anyone who’d even thought about doing that, much less actually started one. Most of the men he worked with were almost illiterate. “Can I ask what it’s about? If you don’t mind telling me, of course,” he hastened to add, aware that his question sounded downright nosy.
“Certainly you may,” she said in a way that dispelled any notion that she was perturbed by his curiosity. “It’s a story set in Texas, as a matter of fact. That’s why I was so interested when you were telling me about the flowers and the bird the other day, you see.”
“Why’d you want to write about Texas?”
“Because the American West is so romantic and untamed,” she told him, her face glowing with enthusiasm. “Not at all like proper, civilized England.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “What about all those old castles and knights in armor, that kind of thing? That sounds pretty exciting to us Americans.”
“‘In days of old when knights were bold’?” she quoted in a singsong voice. “From what I’ve seen, those drafty old castles were a lot less romantic in reality than in the imagination.”
“You’d know best about that,” he said, thinking how heading off stampedes or fighting Indians was the very opposite of romantic to him. But he didn’t want to dim the enthusiasm that made her even more beautiful, if that was possible. “Tell me more about your story.”
She put a finger on her chin. “Well, there’s a hero, of course, and a heroine, whom he rescues in the opening scene,” Violet told him. “I thought it was best to begin in the thick of things, with the hero saving the heroine from danger....”
“May I read it?”
He knew he’d gone too far when she colored and looked away, clutching the notebook to her as if she feared he might snatch it away from her. “Oh, I don’t think it’s ready for others’ eyes yet,” she said. “I’ve only just written a few pages. Perhaps after I’ve polished it a little, it’ll be good enough....”
“‘Good enough?’ I’m just a cowboy, Miss Violet. I went to school only long enough to learn to read, write and cipher before my pa pulled me out to work on the farm. I wouldn’t know good from bad. I’ve never met a writer before.” He let his admiration show in his voice.
Violet turned back to him, surprised. “You’re the first person who’s ever called me a writer, Raleigh Masterson,” she said wonderingly. “Not a ‘would-be writer’ or an ‘authoress,’ as Edward calls it, both of which sound rather condescending, don’t you think? Even Gerald doesn’t understand why I want to try to write—” She stopped suddenly, as if she’d said too much.
“Who’s Gerald? Another of your brothers?” he asked, though her rising color betrayed the answer before she spoke.
She shook her head. “No, my other brother is Richard, the vicar. Gerald is...well, he’s the man I’m in love with, back in England. He’s the Earl of Lullington,” she said, looking down at her riding boots. She spoke so softly that he had to strain to hear, but when he made sense of her words, his heart sank.
She was in love with a nobleman, and apparently, he with her. Of course she’d found someone to love, someone who was titled and wealthy, as she was. He’d been a fool to think otherwise.
“You must miss him a lot, this man. I’m surprised you could leave him for so long,” he said.
Again, she looked surprised, and maybe even a little taken aback by his frankness.
“I’m sorry, it’s none of my business,” Raleigh said. “I don’t know what came over me to say such a meddlesome thing.”
She shrugged. “It’s all right. I’m the one who mentioned Gerald. And I didn’t have a choice about coming here, if you want to know the truth.”
Now it was his turn to feel surprise. “But you seemed so happy to be in Texas,” he said.
She shrugged. “I figured I might as well make the most of it,” she said. “I do love the West, and seeing Nick and meeting his wife and son, of course. But Edward thinks Gerald isn’t a suitable match.”
“I see.” He wanted to ask why, but he’d been too nosy once already.
“He thinks if he separates us for a time, I’ll forget about Gerald. But I won’t, of course.”
He noticed she didn’t say “we’ll forget about each other.” And there was an uncertain look in her eyes, as if she couldn’t speak with confidence about her beau’s feelings for her.
“I’m sure no man in his right mind could forget about you, Miss Violet.”
She smiled wanly up at him. “You’re a very nice man, Raleigh. But I mustn’t take up any more of your time. I’d better be going, or my brothers will worry. Thank you for checking to see that I wasn’t hurt.”
He wanted her to stay and talk to him, but her flushed face told him she’d probably been out long enough. “I’ll bring your horse,” he said. He held a hand on the mare’s bridle as she mounted.
“I imagine I’ll see you Sunday?” he asked as she gathered the reins and settled herself in the saddle.
“Sunday?” she said blankly, as if her mind was still on their conversation—or the day held no special significance to her.
“At church?”
“Oh. Oh, yes, I imagine so. Thanks again for checking on me, Raleigh.”
He watched as she cantered away. So Miss Violet had a beau back home. He couldn’t help wondering why her elder brother disapproved of the man, since he was of the same social class. Was this “Gerald” fellow somehow objectionable, or did Edward Brookfield merely think Violet was too young as yet to settle down? None of your business, he reminded himself.
But perhaps knowing Violet’s heart was already taken would remind him to protect his own.
* * *
“Violet, I’m going into town today to buy supplies at the mercantile. Would you like to come with me?” Milly asked. “I’m going to stop at my sister Sarah’s before the mercantile—she’s usually willing to watch little Nick for me while I shop. Then we could have a visit with her. If we time it right, I’m sure she’d feed us,” she added with a wink. “And I’m going to invite her and her husband, Nolan, to come to supper tomorrow night, so they can see Edward before he leaves Saturday afternoon.”
Edward would be gone in two days. Violet knew she would miss her eldest brother. However much they disagreed about Gerald, she knew Edward loved her. Would she feel freer once he’d departed? Or would Nick suddenly become superprotective in Edward’s absence?
“Yes, that sounds lovely. I’d quite enjoy coming along,” Violet said. The outing fit right into what she’d been planning to ask Milly. “Perhaps I could buy some fabric while we are there? I’ve been wondering if you’d teach me how to sew. I’ve seen that you’re quite the seamstress, and I’ve become aware much of the clothing I’ve brought is...well, rather too elaborate for Texas, since it’s so warm here,” she said. She was trying to be tactful so as not to offend her sister-in-law as she accidentally had the waitress in the hotel.
Milly looked surprised, then pleased. “I’d like nothing better,” she said eagerly, then looked thoughtful. “I saw just the cloth at the mercantile the last time I was there—a light blue cotton with tiny white flowers that would be perfect with the color of your eyes, if Mrs. Patterson still has it. If not, I’m sure we can find something else just as good,” she said confidently. “I’m not sure we’ll get it done before church on Sunday, but we can at least get a good start. Nick will be taking Edward to Lampasas Saturday afternoon, and he’ll probably stay through supper with him, so we should have some time.”
“Don’t feel you must rush,” Violet said. “It takes my modiste weeks to make me a dress. And she doesn’t have a young son to mind and meals to prepare....” She was already in awe of how much her sister-in-law accomplished in a day. She couldn’t help thinking how nice it would be, though, to have a new dress to wear so she would fit into her surroundings. And in case she encountered a certain cowboy at church....
“We’ll see how it goes,” Milly said. “I’d offer to lend you a dress or two of mine meanwhile, but you’re taller—and a mite more slender than I’ve been since Nicky was born,” she added with amusement.
* * *
“Mrs. Patterson, I’d like you to meet my sister-in-law, Miss Violet Brookfield, who’s visiting us from England,” Milly said as they entered the Simpson Creek Mercantile.
A woman with salt-and-pepper hair in a no-nonsense bun and alert dark eyes smoothed her hands on an apron before extending it to Violet. “Heard yore English relatives were visitin’,” she said. “How d’ya do, Miss Violet? This here’s my niece Kate, who’s come to live with me and help out in the store,” she said, nodding at a brown-haired girl who stood behind her, holding an open box of glassware packed in crumpled newspaper.
“Mrs. Patterson, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Violet said. “And you, too, Miss Kate.”
Kate Patterson blinked in obvious surprise at Violet’s accent, a reaction Violet was becoming all too accustomed to since arriving in Texas. Probably she, too, had goggled the first time she had heard a Texas drawl, she thought.
Violet smiled, wanting to put the girl at ease. Kate reminded Violet of a fawn poised for flight.
“I ain’t never heard—I mean, I’ve never heard a real English person talk before,” Kate said wonderingly. “Well, except for your brother, of course. You sound a bit like him, I reckon.”
“Mrs. Patterson, we’re here to buy some dress lengths, both for me and for Violet,” Milly said. “Do you still have that light blue cotton—oh, I see you do,” she said, spotting it on the shelf behind the woman and pointing to it. “What do you think, Violet?” she asked as the shopkeeper lifted it down and placed it on the counter between them.
Violet studied it, then took it to a nearby window to take advantage of the light. Milly has a good eye, she thought. The china-blue echoed the color of her eyes, and the fact that the cloth was sprigged with white flowers instead of the usual white background sprigged with colored flowers added interest.
“It’s eye-catching—I love it,” she praised. “I’m thinking white piping and buttons, perhaps a white sash with a bow at the bustle?”
“Exactly,” Milly said, and the two of them exchanged a grin of perfect understanding.
Mrs. Patterson glowed with satisfaction. “I got the latest Godey’s Lady’s Books—well, as ‘latest’ as there is in Simpson Creek, anyways—if y’all want to look at styles,” she said, bringing several magazines from under the counter. “And this ribbon is just what you’re talkin’ about, I think, and I got buttons that’ll look right fine....”
They spent an enjoyable hour perusing styles and discussing the merits of each, and each of them picked out an additional dress length and the accompanying notions.
“Oh, this will be such fun, learning to sew!” Violet enthused. Mrs. Patterson folded the cloth and wrapped up the selections in brown paper, and Milly counted out her coins. They’d already agreed that Violet was to pay Milly back for her cloth when they got back to the ranch. “I hope I’m good at it.”
“You ain’t—I mean, you never made any dresses before?” Kate Patterson asked. “I thought all women had to make their own clothes—and their menfolks’, too. Aunt Mary just recently started stocking some ready-made shirts and denim trousers, but those are mostly for cowboys passin’ through, folks like that who don’t have a woman to sew for ’em.”
“No, never,” Violet admitted. “I think it will be an adventure, starting from scratch like this, getting to choose one’s own style and trim.” She knew the ladies in her social circle back home would die before they’d ever turn their hands to such a task, but while she was here, she could be a different person.
“You’re so lucky Miss Milly’s your kin,” Kate said. “She’s the best seamstress in these parts. She even makes wedding dresses,” she said with awe. “She’ll teach you good, I’d wager.”
“Miss Milly’s one of my best customers,” Mrs. Patterson said in confirmation.
