“We don’t have fancy dances around here where you could even wear such a thing,” Dulce said, eyeing the gown as if it were made of rat fur instead of the finest washed silk. Amelia could already see that Dulce didn’t put much thought into her own wardrobe. She wore a loose blousy top and a plain brown skirt, but she looked hardly ordinary. There was something wild about Dulce, some underlying smoldering heat that was difficult to pinpoint. She had the look of what her brother would have called a “tart.”
“Oh,” Amelia said, looking down at the gown, which was one of her favorites. “Practically the only dress I have that doesn’t button in the back, besides the few I’ve been wearing, is my riding habit.”
“You have a special dress for riding a horse?”
Amelia dug through her things to find her favorite article of clothing, her dark green wool riding habit. She loved its smart looking jacket, with its wide shawl collar and sleeves that puffed near the shoulder and narrowed on her wrist. She wore the cutest little top hat with it and felt so jaunty and unconventional, and she’d pictured herself many times riding beside Carson in his fancy cowboy gear.
“Of course. Isn’t it lovely?” she asked, holding it up for the skeptical Dulce to see. “I’m not very good at riding, but I’ve been practicing so that I might be able to keep up with Mr. Kitteridge.”
“Waste of cloth if you ask me.”
“I didn’t,” Amelia said, with a flash of anger showing in her eyes. “If you could hang up all my dresses and take care of my things, that would be lovely.” She was done trying to make polite conversation with this difficult woman.
“What are you going to be doing?” Dulce asked, completely taking Amelia aback. Clearly this girl had never before been hired as a servant—and Amelia had never before been confronted with such hostility from an employee.
“I’m going to be doing whatever I please,” she said, and had the satisfaction of seeing Dulce frown fiercely. Amelia was normally an exceedingly polite young woman, but she’d had quite enough of Dulce’s criticism and hostility.
She walked from the room, trying to look like a queen, but the anger flushing her cheeks ruined the effect entirely, she realized. She didn’t know why the girl rubbed her the wrong way, but she did. Perhaps she should try to be more patient with her—and act slightly less rigid. It was clear that the behavior of servants was not the same here in this land.
As she walked down the hall, she realized she was still wearing the same dress she’d had on all day. It was a wrinkled mess, with a fringe of dust along the edge of the skirt. Amelia frowned, knowing she couldn’t return to her room now and ask Dulce to help her dress for dinner.
The apartment part of the building was simply a long hallway that stretched back toward the courtyard from the mercantile. On either side of the hall was a series of doors that led no doubt to other bedrooms. When she found herself at the back entry to the store without having encountered another soul or even another room, Amelia stopped, turned, and looked back, thinking she’d somehow missed something. There was nothing to do but begin opening doors and pray she did not walk into someone’s bedroom.
When she opened the first door nearest the garden, she smiled. It was the kitchen and it was completely empty. Her stomach rumbled as she looked around for someone preparing food. But no, she was completely alone.
Amelia had not grown up in a wealthy home, but she’d always had a few servants running about: a maid, a cook, and a housekeeper. Her family had been poor compared to the way her friends had lived because her father had been a second son. Her brother had inherited the earldom only after their childless uncle had died.
Still, Amelia was not used to fending for herself. Stealing pastries from Cook’s tray was her only experience foraging for food. She stepped into the room and began looking into cupboards.
“You won’t find anything,” Dulce said cheerfully from the door. “At least nothing fancy.”
“Do you know what time they dine?” Amelia asked, ignoring the way the other girl was attempting, rather poorly, not to smile.
“I have no idea when they dine,” she said, putting stress on the last word as if she somehow found it offensive. “But I do know if they did, they would have done it already. It’s nearly eight o’clock.”
Amelia stared at the empty kitchen with a certain amount of dismay. Eight o’clock was when she usually dined at home, and often later if they were eating out at another estate.
“Where is everyone? Where are Carson and Boone?”
Dulce shrugged. “I’m going to bed. You’re all unpacked. And if you hear screaming, don’t worry, it’s just Boone.”
She said the words with a certain amount of glee, as if she were trying to frighten Amelia. Still, Amelia couldn’t resist asking, “Why would he scream?”
“The devil visits him at night,” Dulce said, a wicked gleam in her eye. Then she shrugged, as if knowing she wasn’t frightening her listener. “He has nightmares. Wakes Carson up near every night when he’s here.”
“I’m certain I won’t be disturbed. Good night.” Amelia didn’t think it was possible that the girl had managed to hang and fold everything neatly, but she didn’t say anything. Suddenly, Amelia felt a fierce longing for home, for the polished marble floors, the thick velvet drapes, the smell of flowers blooming madly outside her window. She missed the bustle and politeness of efficient servants, her brother’s friendly banter, the laughter and general noise of her little cousins.
Amelia had spent much of her childhood utterly alone. Her older sister had died when she was eight, her parents when she was twelve. Her brother, Edward, had gone into the military because there was no other way to respectably make a living. Of course, their uncle, the earl, had been kept oblivious to any of their financial worries, her brother’s pride knowing no limits.
But Amelia hadn’t minded being part of the poor gentry. They’d had enough income from their rather sad estate to support a small staff and the upkeep of their home. She’d never felt poor or deprived. But, Lord, she had felt lonely. Her brother came home when he could, but his visits seemed few and far between. She grew up in a household of elderly servants who hadn’t a clue how to make a young girl happy.
When her brother inherited not only the earldom but also his stepaunt’s six children, Amelia had been ecstatic. Finally, she had a family, someone to talk to. She wished more times than she could remember that everything could stay the same, that she would remain a young girl surrounded by children and an adoring stepaunt. She’d never been happier in her life—until she’d met Carson.
It had been perfect. Her brother was getting married, her stepaunt and her cousins were moving into their own lovely little estate, and she was going to Texas to start her own life, her own family. Because more than anything in the world, Amelia didn’t want to be left alone, an afterthought, the extra wheel that really didn’t belong.
She swallowed down the burning in her throat, squeezing her fists in disgust that she had allowed herself to fall into self-pity. It was just…
Nothing was the way it was supposed to be.
Taking a bracing breath, Amelia began opening cupboards, finding dishes and pots and pans but nothing edible. Finally, she found the pantry and stood staring rather forlornly at three eggs, a sack of flour, a sack of cornmeal, a few cans of corn, canned peaches, and what appeared to be pears. Amelia poked her finger at some sort of salted meat, and frowned. Nothing looked even remotely palatable, except perhaps the eggs. The icebox was empty, and Amelia suspected it hadn’t held ice in quite a while, for the drip tray was dry as a bone. Surely even a place as remote as Small Fork had ice shipped in regularly.
“I’m afraid you won’t find much to eat.”
Amelia turned to find Boone standing at the entrance to the kitchen. His hair was wet and slicked back but already starting to curl, and his cheeks were ruddy as if he’d been buffeted by a strong wind. The Kitteridge men were ungodly handsome, but unlike Carson, Boone seemed to b
e completely unaware of God’s gifts.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked, giving her an intense, sweeping look that was slightly unsettling. She was suddenly acutely aware that her hair was down, her dress a wrinkled mess, and her feet shoeless. The tile had felt so blessedly cool, she hadn’t wanted to put on her shoes.
“Much better. But I am hungry. Starving, actually.” She gave him an embarrassed smile. “I really don’t know how to cook anything.” She glanced doubtfully at the stove, an ancient thing that looked like it had been in use for one hundred years. The only thing she knew for certain was that she needed to put wood in it to start a fire.
“I thought Carson was…” He stopped and looked down at the floor, almost as if he were angry. “I guess Carson didn’t want to wake you. He and I usually eat at the hotel nights I don’t cook. Agatha leaves at four to help her own family.”
“You don’t know where Carson is?”
“No, miss. But I’ll tell you what. I’ll run over to the hotel and get you something and bring it on back here. This time of night there aren’t too many ladies hanging around the saloon, so it’s best you wait here.”
Amelia had the terrible feeling that Boone was covering up for Carson, that her fiancé had forgotten her. Or worse, was avoiding her. “I’ll just go out to the garden, then.”
“Okay, but watch out for rattlers. They don’t usually come out this time of night, but it was warm today.”
“Rattlers?”
“Snakes.”
The only snake Amelia had ever seen was a harmless infant grass snake, and she’d thought it rather charming. “Oh, I’m not afraid of snakes unless they bite.”
“This one bites and can kill you if it gets you good.”
Amelia smiled politely. “I’ll just wait here, then, shall I?”
Boone nodded then headed for the door, but before he left, he poked his head back into the room. “They come indoors, too.”
Amelia looked up, surprised, then narrowed her eyes. He was teasing her. At least she thought he was, because he certainly wasn’t smiling. “You are joking,” she said with false bravado.
“Probably.” And then he was gone.
Boone stepped out of his home and stopped dead. He could see a man with a long blond ponytail leaning against the saloon’s wall, his arms around a woman, obviously kissing her. He didn’t know his blood could boil any hotter, but there it was, boiling madly, his temper rising so fast he shook with it.
Boone spun around to make certain his brother’s fiancée hadn’t followed him out, then strode across the dusty street, all the while telling himself to calm down. It was fierce, this temper, and one he frankly feared. Ask any man or woman in Small Fork, and they’d tell you Boone Kitteridge didn’t have an angry bone in his body. He never raised his voice, never mind his fist.
But they didn’t know what was happening beneath the surface, how close that surging heat was to exploding, how many times he’d thought about knocking the lights out of someone. Boone, himself, didn’t know how he tamped it down, but he did. He didn’t want to be like his father; he didn’t ever want to lose control and hurt someone. Even if they deserved it.
And right about now, his brother definitely deserved it.
“Evenin’, Geraldine.”
The woman pulled slowly away from his brother’s kiss and gave Boone a drowsy smile. “Well, hey there, Boone.”
Then Boone turned to Carson, his gray eyes shooting bullets, though his little brother was completely unaware of it. “You think this is a good idea, with your fiancée right across the street?”
“She’s not really my fiancée,” he said, smiling down at the woman still in his arms. Carson was drunk, as usual. The two of them swayed together, clearly having shared a bit too much whiskey.
“She damn well is your fiancée, and you better get your ass over there. She’s hungry and it’s clear to me, if not to you, that she’s feeling a bit lost about now. She doesn’t even know how to start a fire in a stove. She’s hungry and I was heading over here to get her something to eat. Maybe you ought to bring it to her instead.”
Carson looked ill at the thought, and Geraldine tightened her hold on him.
“He ain’t goin’ anywhere, are you, love?” Geraldine asked, then planted a sloppy kiss on his mouth. Before Boone’s disgusted gaze, the two deepened their kiss and he could feel the anger coming back in force. He could feel his hand clench, and took a deep breath to stop the force of his rage.
“You beat all, you know that, Carson?”
Carson tore his mouth away from the whore and looked at his brother, really looked at him, his eyes filled with fear and self-loathing that was almost tangible. “I know, Boone. Could you just handle her this one night?”
“He can’t handle any woman, you know that,” Geraldine said, giggling drunkenly, and Boone felt a surprising rush of humiliation.
Carson pushed her rather ungently out of his arms. “You go back in, Gerri. I’ll be there in a minute.” Then he slapped her on the derriere to temper his words, causing the woman to giggle again as she walked unsteadily down the boardwalk toward the saloon entrance. He pulled off his hat and scratched his head before turning back to Boone. “I’ll take care of things in the morning.”
“What are you going to tell her?”
“I don’t know,” he said, slapping the dirty Stetson back on and grinning. “I’ll figure it out tonight.”
Boone let Carson go, then ordered up some food for Amelia—a thick beef stew, which was the only bit of food the kitchen had left at this late hour. When he returned to the house, Amelia was sitting at the kitchen table in the dark. Only her dim outline was visible in the day’s dying light, wisps of her blond hair seeming to softly glow, making her ethereal. Having someone like her in his home did not seem real. She looked like a little girl waiting for her supper, and his anger toward his brother grew.
“I didn’t know where the matches were and by the time I realized I should light a lamp, it was too dark to look for them,” she said softly, with apology in her voice.
Without a word, Boone reached for the matches by the stove, then lit a small lamp on the kitchen table. “We have gas lighting at home,” Amelia said, staring at the lamp, her blue eyes impossibly vivid in her pale face. “And my brother was talking about getting electrification. Can you imagine?”
“I think it’ll be a while before we get electricity out here,” Boone said, sitting down at the table across from her. Compared to her soft lilt, his voice sounded harsh, the way blaring trumpets sound after a flute solo. “You’d better eat before it gets cold.”
Amelia looked down at the stew and smiled. It looked wonderfully normal. Taking a spoon she dug in, and closed her eyes at the wonderful flavors that flooded her mouth. “It’s good,” she said, smiling. “I don’t know if it’s the best stew I’ve ever had, or if I’ve never been so completely starving before.” She expected Boone to smile, but he just stared at her as if she were a foreign creature sitting at his table.
It was hard to believe he was Carson’s brother. They seemed so opposite. Carson was full of charm and smiles, Boone so serious. She was quite certain she hadn’t seen a smile from him since her arrival. Still, she had to admit he had a quiet appeal. If she wasn’t in love with Carson, she would probably better appreciate Boone’s dark beauty. His hair was the color of rich chocolate and cut rather short, unlike Carson with his wild mane of blond waves. Boone’s eyes were deep gray and fringed with long, dark lashes, while Carson’s were blue with reddish gold lashes. And Carson had that wonderfully rich mustache, while Boone was clean-shaven.
Amelia knew Boone was the older brother, but he looked ten years younger than Carson. Yes, it was hard to believe her untamed, strong cowboy was brother to this neat and solemn man sitting across from her.
“Did you see Carson?” she asked before taking another mouthful. It really was the most wonderful stew.
Boone looked down at his steepled hands as if he’d
suddenly become aware he’d been staring. “No.”
“I’ll have to tell him he’s been exceedingly impolite disappearing like this,” she said lightly. “I feel rather abandoned.” Amelia looked up and found Boone staring at her again. It was quite disconcerting, actually.
“Do I have something on my face?”
Boone looked slightly startled. “No.”
“Then why are you staring at me like that?”
Boone opened his mouth as if to deny he’d been staring, but shut it and let out a short, impatient breath. “I just can’t figure out what you’re doing here.”
Amelia decided to ignore that rude comment. “I’m eating,” Amelia said, being purposefully difficult.
“I mean,” Boone said with forced calm, “what in God’s name made you think it would be a good idea to marry my brother?”
Amelia hardly thought Boone was being very brotherly at the moment. “Your brother is charming and handsome and intelligent. Qualities that were apparently given out sparingly in the Kitteridge family.” She lifted her chin smugly. “And he loves me.”
Boone had been looking at her with an expression one could only describe as complete bafflement, but at the last, he lowered his gaze. “That’s just plain stupid,” he said finally and without a bit of meanness. It was as if he were calmly informing her that she was of deficient intelligence, a gentle diagnosis from a caring doctor.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t mean to sound harsh, but you came halfway across the world for my brother. I just don’t think a woman of high intelligence would do such a thing.”
Amelia felt as if he’d just slapped her—that’s how stunned she was by his cavalier words. What hurt the most was that she knew, deep down inside, coming to Texas was probably the most foolish, ill-conceived, impulsive act anyone of her acquaintance had ever done. By far. But she wasn’t going to let the man sitting across from her know that. She was about to set him straight when she burst into completely unexpected tears.
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