Mid-morning in December in Dorado, Texas didn’t offer much in the way of distraction. She hurried down the next aisle, skipping the duster over the display of ceramic and stoneware teapots. Finishing her tasks meant more time for reading…or writing her next adventure story.
“Be careful you don’t breathe too deeply.” A chiding female voice sounded from the far side of the store where a middle-aged woman folded men’s denims and shirts.
“I won’t, Aunt Alda.” She turned and forced a smile toward the plain-dressed woman who resembled her mother but was so different. How many times have I heard that admonition over the years? Suffering from asthma meant all the adults in her life kept her away from any activity involving exertion. She moved around the counter and walked over to a shelf holding a dozen books. These volumes were nothing like the collection she’d had at her fingertips back home in Racine. Thank goodness, her family encouraged the reading of literature because getting lost in a book had composed the majority of her entertainment.
With a sigh, she looked around the mercantile that now occupied the greater part of her day. Moving to the drier climate in central Texas had been done on doctor’s orders, following a third bout of bronchitis last winter while living in Wisconsin’s climate. Although she missed her parents and siblings, Clari couldn’t deny the West offered sights she’d only read about in novels. Everyone here either rode horses or drove buggies or wagons. No trains puffed clouds of smelly smoke or factories belched coal fumes into the air.
Stopping at the window that faced the dirt street, Clari thought of life back home and wondered about the holiday parties she might have been invited to. A snort escaped, and she dashed a look over her shoulder to gauge if her aunt had heard such an unlady-like noise. Sure, Clari received invitations to socials and dances from her circle of friends. Unfortunately, her mother always insisted on acting at chaperone and then when they’d arrived at the event, she’d restrain Clari from joining any activity more strenuous than euchre or dominoes. How she’d yearned to play charades or join in the dancing. What young woman wanted to be thought of as weak and dull?
The sound of approaching horses filtered through the window, and Clari craned her neck to see who might be coming into town. Maybe those cowhands from the Shady Oaks ranch. Why, just last week she’d seen an exciting rescue through the front window. With a hand clasped at her neck, she’d watched how the dark-haired man ran across the street and grabbed up a little girl who had wandered in front of a wagon moving through the center of town. Granted, the wagon has been pulled by a team of oxen and was rolling slow, but he’d been so dashing, not giving a thought to his own safety. As a spectator, she held her breath and felt her heart pound in her chest. Just like the knights of old that she read about in her beloved tales of the round table.
Seeing two riders pull up their horses and dismount in front of the store gave her an idea. What if that rescue was the start of her next story? Of course, for the story to be considered by the nickel novel publishers, she’d have to change the boring oxen to energetic horses. Or maybe a wild stallion with a habit of rearing and pawing the air. The rider could be the villain who gave not a care for a small child, but instead wanted the hero’s ranch because…
Her shoulders slumped. Why would someone want a ranch? She had no idea what tasks people did on one. Since arriving here in May, she’d had the chance to talk with the cowhands only a few times, and mostly about goods and supplies. What were the duties of a cowhand? Surely asking about their duties wouldn’t seem too forward. The Shady Oaks’ cowhands were two of the half dozen people close to her own age who visited the mercantile. Between church services and the store, the only places she was allowed to be, Clari didn’t have a chance to mingle with many people.
Aunt Alda invited her to the Women’s Auxiliary group at the church. But what twenty-two year old wanted to sit among women ten or fifteen or thirty years older with several kids or grandkids and listen to talk of bake sales for new hymnals, or a quilting bee to buy a brass bell for the belfry. A shudder ran through her body.
Not Clarissant Rochester. The warmer climate had cleared up her breathing problems, and she hadn’t suffered with an earache or lung problems in months. Even after the weather turned cold and she now wore flannel petticoats under her woolen skirts, she was illness-free. She’d pled with Mama in her letters home to loosen the restrictions Mama insisted her sister agree to before giving permission for Clari to travel. But there’d been no change.
Boots stamped on the wooden planking outside, and the door opened, setting the bell tinkling with a merry chime. A whooshing breeze of cool air entered with the men, carrying with it the crisp scent of winter and a hint of wood smoke.
Clari turned and her gaze flipped to the tall dark-haired man who’d yanked off his broad-brimmed hat and twirled it between his fingers. Trevor Driscoll. Wasn’t that just the most perfect name ever? It rolled off the tongue with a matching cadence to the syllables.
Mr. Driscoll glanced her way, met her gaze for the length of a single breath, and then dipped his chin in greeting.
A smile burst onto her lips, and heat raged in her cheeks. He said ‘good morning’ to me. Her heartbeat raced. Well, almost. Knowing she shouldn’t stare, Clari waved the duster over the row of wooden bin covers with oats, flour, barley, and rye stored inside but darted side-long glances at the cowboy. The quiet man visited the store every couple of weeks and never said much. But something about his calm nature and solid presence arrested her attention.
Wandering Home (Dorado, Texas Book 1) Page 7