Raised a tomboy on a
central Texas ranch, Emmaleigh Wallache returns from a year’s visit during
which her Bostonian aunt introduced her to a life of culture—fulfilling her
late mother’s wish. Her father’s secret goal is to marry her off to the son of
a meat packer to guarantee his ranch’s success. Although happy for her time
spent in society, Emmaleigh struggles to discover where she truly belongs.
Foreman Brett Haynes, who
has waited until Emma turned eighteen so he can reveal his caring feelings,
can’t believe the changes a year made. Gone is the spunky girl who raced him
through fields or swung from ropes over the swimming hole. He has nothing in
common with this sophisticated young woman and despairs she is unreachable. Can
he remind her of life’s simpler moments and win over the heart he has always
thought of as belonging to him?
I had such fun writing these characters who rediscovered each other after being apart and maturing from their youthful infatuation.
Excerpt:
The faint, but steady,
rhythm of galloping horses grew louder in the early afternoon air. A flash of
color showed in a copse of mesquite trees and then disappeared into a small
gully. Seconds later, six horses emerged, followed by a red coach painted with
yellow accents of the Bain and Company line. Near Spengler’s blacksmith shop at
the edge of town, the team slowed to a trot then eased to a walk.
He sucked in a deep
breath. Brett brushed a hand over his shirt and dusted the top of his boots
against the backs of his pantlegs. So many months had passed—eighteen in total.
The image of a teary-eyed Emma, seated at her father’s side, waving goodbye
from the buggy passed through Brett’s mind. He’d ridden as far as the wooden
arch marking the southern entrance to the ranch and watched with stinging eyes
as Kurt Wallache drove his only daughter into town…and out of his life. The
boss’s explanation of satisfying his late wife’s wish for Emma to receive
special cultural training had never made much sense. What in blue blazes did a
Texas ranch wife need to know about big city culture?
Water splashed as the
wheels rolled through puddles of snowmelt. “Whoa there.” The stocky driver
pulled back on the reins a couple of rods down the street. The chains on the
whippletree clanked.
The horses stopped
parallel to the square loading platform that jutted four feet into the street.
Steam puffed from their nostrils like from a boiling tea kettle, making an
erratic huffing melody.
More excited than he
wanted to admit, Brett tugged on the front of his long coat just to keep his
hands busy. What he wished he could do was storm the stagecoach and yank open
the door so he didn’t have to wait another moment to see Emma’s beautiful face.
But he didn’t want to scare her with his brashness. Instead, he leaned a
shoulder against the stage office wall and watched as the driver hopped down
and took his time checking the harness and double-trees before moving to the
coach door.
The lean shotgun rider
alighted and moved to the back to unbuckle the straps holding the luggage.
On this cool day, all
the leather window flaps were lowered to keep the inside as warm as possible.
First to climb out were
a couple of familiar ranchers, Misters Pallaton and Fremont, with whom he had a
nodding acquaintance. An action he made in deference to his position as foreman
of a prominent nearby ranch. The next two passengers were chatty women with
upswept hairdos and hats with doo-dads and gee-gaws that looked like they were
ready for a fancy-dress ball.
The driver held the
elbow of an elderly woman who set down a cane into the wooden step before disembarking.
Then no one else
emerged.
Where was Emma? He
pushed off from the wall, strode to the coach, and stuck his head inside. Empty. He eased to a stand, disappointment
slumping his shoulders. Had she missed this morning’s stage in San Antonio?
~o0o~
Aunt Nadine often
commented how Emmaleigh matured during her time spent in Boston—a three-month
visit that kept being extended until a year and a half passed since she left
her hometown. So, maybe Emmaleigh understood how Brett overlooked her. After
walking right by the man who’d taught her to ride and rope and seeing him not give
as much as a double take, Emmaleigh positioned herself near the stagecoach
office door. Waiting for Brett to recognize her, she resisted glancing at her
reflection in the office window.
For years, they’d been
best friends and spent hours together daily. True, though, she’d left Texas
dressing and acting like a tomboy. But upon arriving at Aunt Nadine’s, she’d
been admonished about the inappropriateness of her split skirts, chambray
blouses, and square-toed boots. Aunt Nadine went into a tizzy about the
inadequateness of her brother’s handling of his only daughter.
Even before tea was
served, the maid provided warm water to refresh herself then helped Emmaleigh
into an acceptable dress and touched up her hairdo. She whisked away the
offensive clothes, stating the mistress ordered them be saved for the church’s
poor box.
Although she’d fought
the new clothing styles at first, Emmaleigh gradually came around to her aunt’s
way of thinking. Young women of good breeding and means needed to dress the
part. Emmaleigh had grown used to fabrics of finer weaves and intricate dress
styles designed to accent her recently acquired curves. Granted, her wardrobe
was more sophisticated, but had she really changed that much?
As he passed, she’d
noted he now wore his thick hair longer and his skin glowed tan from spending
time outdoors. Growing older broadened his shoulders and sharpened his
features, but Brett Haynes was still the most handsome man she’d ever met. His
ever-present red kerchief hung around his neck.
Seeing Brett inspecting
the empty coach prompted her to give up on being recognized. She gave her
braided bun a pat before smoothing a hand over her burgundy velveteen
knee-length coat with mother-of-pearl buttons. The modiste Aunt Nadine hired assured Emmaleigh the color complimented
her fair complexion. Squaring her shoulders, she glided to the center of the
platform and tucked her hands into a rabbit fur muff.
Brett turned and
scanned the platform and boardwalk, his gaze finally settling on the lone
waiting person. First, his brown eyes popped wide and then, his jaw dropped an
inch or so.
His surprise looked as
comical as Lord Dundreary in “Our American Cousin” which she’d seen at the
Globe Theater last month.
“Emma?” After thumbing
back the brim of a broad-brimmed, ranch hat, he tromped closer and leaned down
to squint at her face. “What in tarnation have you done to yourself? Is that
rouge painted on your cheeks?” He crossed his arms and shook his head. “If your
father sees that, he will turn you over his knee.”
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