“Fine.” Sarah waited for him to turn his attention to plowing again before pulling the paper from her sack. It was an envelope addressed to her. She opened it and unfolded the page to see the signature: “From your Secret Admirer.”
“Which one of you two fillies is ready ta get yourselves hitched?”
Sarah bit down a wholly unacceptable reply to Elias Zediker’s proposal. Unacceptable inside a church, at any rate, even if it was just a tent with makeshift pews and walls too thin to keep out the smell of manure.
Her new friend, Mattie Beal, whose land lottery ticket had been chosen second, rose from the pew, patted the man on the shoulder, and smiled. “Go on, you old coot.” As he passed by, she added, “I expect something more eloquent next Sunday.”
Zediker paused. “Ela-what?”
“Like this.” Young Abe Ventner put one hand over his heart. “Miss Beal, I simply can’t take another refusal. I have eyes only for you. Please say you’ll be mine for always.”
“Hmmm. A little too flowery. Try again.” Mattie tugged Sarah to her feet.
Sarah eyed the man. Young. Attractive. And proposing marriage to a complete stranger because he wanted land.
Mr. Ventner kept his hand over his heart, but his Adam’s apple bobbed and the sparkle left his eyes. “Uh…Miss Maffey, would you…um…Oh, never mind.”
A chorus of jeers greeted his hasty retreat, but none of the other eleven men bothered to take their chances with Sarah. They all scooted into the center aisle to join the long line of people waiting to greet Pastor McCammon on their way out of the tent.
Sarah sat back down to give the men time to move down the line before she entered the aisle. She’d traded Boston men who wanted her money for Lawton men who wanted her land. Both were abhorrent, but at least the Boston men were genteel about it.
“Since Mr. Ventner didn’t actually propose, I’d say that’s two for me and one for you.” Mattie’s voice lilted with humor. “I’m up to two-hundred forty-two. What’s your count?”
“Ninety-seven.” Sarah drew her gloves on and picked up her Bible. “I don’t see how you find any of it funny.”
“Because it is.”
Maybe she was right. “I’m sorry. My sense of humor seems to have deserted me of late.”
“Homesteading isn’t much fun, so I’m not surprised.” Mattie retrieved her own Bible from the pew and cast a glance at Mr. Charles Payne, the lumberyard owner. “I wish he would join my circle of beaus.”
Sarah put a hand on Mattie’s forearm to keep her from stepping into the center aisle. “May I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
Leaning close to her friend’s ear, Sarah whispered, “Have you received any of these?” She opened her reticule and pulled out the letter she’d found in her wheat bag.
Mattie gave her an odd look and opened the letter.
While she read, Sarah looked around the crowded tent. Who had penned the secret admirer note? Her first thought was John Tyler. After all, he’d brought her the wheat. But since her name was on a piece of paper pinned to the burlap sack, anyone who’d been in town that morning could have slipped it inside.
“This is”—Mattie turned her lips down—“worrying. And, no, I’ve not received one like it.”
Sarah pressed a palm to her aching chest. Whoever this secret admirer was, he was targeting only her.
Chapter 4
John urged Homer into a faster trot the moment he saw Sarah’s familiar figure in the distance. After he showed her how to handle Shakespeare, why wouldn’t she ride the horse to church? The walk to town was way too long on such a hot day. Amazing she hadn’t already collapsed in a field somewhere.
Idiot! Why didn’t you offer her a ride to church?
Well, to be fair, he hadn’t known she was the churchgoing type. But even as the unkind thought hit, he pushed it away. Of course she was a churchgoing woman.
He shook his head. Apparently her barbs bothered him more than he cared to admit. No sense excusing his lack of manners by thinking less of the woman just because of a tongue-lashing or two.
Or three.
“Miss Maffey!”
She twisted her neck then turned her body toward him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Tyler.”
He reined Homer to a halt beside her. “Would you like a ride home?” He scooted left on the small bench to make room.
As she’d done with his offer to help with the tent, she looked back and forth between him and the road several times before extending her hand so he could help her into the wagon. “Thank you.”
They were making progress. Instead of being rude first, then muttering a grudging thank-you, they’d skipped straight to the thank-you—a sincere one at that.
Unwilling to ruin the peace between them by saying the wrong thing, John searched for a topic of conversation that wouldn’t get her riled up. Which meant they rode in silence for several minutes. “Did you enjoy the service this morning?” That should be safe enough.
“Not entirely.”
Guess not.
“I should clarify. I enjoyed the service itself. I disliked what came before and after.”
John turned his head to look at her. “Care to tell me about it?”
She didn’t face him, but he read her discomfort in the way she nibbled at her bottom lip and fiddled with the strings of her reticule. “If I ask you something, will you answer me honestly?”
What a question! As though he’d be dishonest! John turned his attention to the road again. “I will.”
She opened her reticule and pulled out a letter. “Did you write this?”
The paper looked identical to the kind he’d bought at Mr. Harrison’s general store. “Not to my knowledge. What does it say?”
“It’s a…secret admirer note.”
The fear in her voice caught him in the stomach. “Why is it causing you such distress?”
She pulled away from him, like he’d raised his fist instead of asked a simple question.
“Please, Miss Maffey. I used to be a Texas Ranger. I can tell when someone is in trouble, and that”—he pointed his elbow at the letter—“is causing you trouble.”
Silence settled between them again, but not an uncomfortable one. The sound of Homer’s steady steps filled the air, an occasional bird chirping in answer.
“I was engaged to a man before I left Boston.”
John tensed.
“I discovered that he and my…” she cleared her throat, “…the woman I thought was my best friend were plotting together.”
Since she seemed disinclined to explain, and he had no clue what she was talking about, he prompted, “Plotting to what?”
“To steal my inheritance after Eugene and I were married. In fact”—she sniffed twice—“I think my former friend instigated the plot.”
So. That was the reason for the grief in her eyes the day they’d met. He’d known it was something bad the same way he’d known who was responsible for killing his wife and daughter long before evidence confirmed it was the Malangers. “What ties their plotting and that letter together?”
“It looks and sounds like a woman wrote it, although it’s not Trudy’s handwriting.” She straightened her spine, her upper arm coming into contact with his.
He jerked away. Not because the contact had been unpleasant, but because it had been decidedly the opposite. Only one woman’s touch had ever jolted through him that way before. He nodded in an attempt to clear his thoughts. “In that case, I think you’d better read it to me.”
She did, a slight tremor in her voice.
“Dearest Sarah,
You are the light of my life. Your face runs through my dreams, and I can think of little else.
I watch you from afar and ache with loneliness.
When you run your fingers through your hair, I wish it were my own hand rather than yours.
I will make you mine. No matter what it takes.
I will see you again soon.
Your Sec
ret Admirer”
She folded the letter and stuffed in back into her reticule, her fingers trembling the way they had when she reached for Shakespeare’s reins a few days ago.
“You said your fiancé and best friend were plotting together?” The out-of-place man and woman he’d seen on the street when he went to Mr. Harrison’s general store came to mind. “Dark-haired fellow, blond lady?”
She gasped. “How did you know?”
“Because I saw a couple like that in Lawton the day I picked up your wheat.”
“That was the day I found the letter inside my bag.”
He pulled Homer to a stop. She needed to see his face—to read his eyes—when he spoke. “Miss Maffey, for your protection, you and I will work together from now on until we figure out who sent that letter.”
Sarah clenched her teeth. Four emotions begged to be spoken simultaneously—outrage at his high-handedness, relief for a reason she’d figure out later, skepticism that a silly letter posed a threat, and pique that he would think her stupid enough to fall for Eugene and Trudy’s tricks…again. But the one that came out of her lips was incredulity. “What makes you think I’d trust a man like you to protect me?”
He jerked back like she’d slapped him. “What do you mean ‘a man like me’?”
Sarah gulped. She had a right to be leery of him, so why did she feel the need to apologize? “A man who is only out for himself.” Like every other man in Boston and Lawton and probably the whole, wide world.
Muscles in his jaw moved up and down. His chest rose and fell in short bursts. Then in one swift movement, he spun away and jumped to the ground.
“You can’t deny it, can you?” Sarah scrambled down, steadying herself against the side of the wagon when her skirt caught on the brake release. After regaining her balance, she marched after him. “You can pretend to be nice by helping me with my tent or plowing a field or”—she swung a hand toward his wagon—“giving me a ride, but you revealed your true nature the first day I met you, and I’ll not be taken in by you—nor any man, for that matter.”
He whirled around. “Are we back to that stupid claim ticket again? How many times do I have to tell you? I wasn’t trying to steal it.”
“Oh…you’ve said it plenty. But I’m on to your tricks. I was taken in once; I won’t let it happen again.”
“What tricks?”
“Making me think you want to help me, getting me to trust you, all so you can steal my land by getting me to fall in love with you. Did you know who I was? Did you use your Texas Ranger network of spies to find out I was Sarah Maffey of Boston? How do I know you didn’t set up that whole fight and get a buddy to steal my ticket so you could play the hero and give it back? How do I know you didn’t do the same thing with this letter? That you aren’t making up seeing Trudy and Eugene in town? Am I supposed to just trust you about that? Well, I don’t. You were the one who brought me that bag of wheat. I didn’t ask you to; I didn’t ask you to do anything, but here you are!”
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t respond in any way.
Why wasn’t he yelling at her? Calling her ridiculous? Fighting back? She wanted him to do something. Say something. Anything but stand like a statue in the middle of a field silently driving her crazy.
Was that his plan? To make her feel foolish? To make her question every word and action until he convinced her he wasn’t who she knew him to be? Sarah took a deep breath, willing herself to calm down. “You can try to confuse me all you want, but I knew you were a selfish, greedy, callous man the moment I saw how you configured your land to steal every possible drop of water.”
That got him to move!
He marched so close she inhaled the tang of lye soap. “Water? This is about water?”
Sarah lifted her chin. “That’s right. And I dare you to justify yourself.”
“You dare me?” The calm in his voice couldn’t mask the fire in his eyes. “You? Who have made so many assumptions and accusations, I can’t even begin to answer half of them.” His eyes narrowed. “All right, you want me to justify myself, here it is. Before I came to Oklahoma, I lived in Texas with my wife and daughter.”
Reverence and misery colored the last three words.
“We lived downstream from a family named Malanger. You think you’ve suffered from others’ greed? You don’t begin to understand the meaning of the word. They dammed up the creek to flood their fields with more water than they needed for the sole purpose of starving us out. They wanted our land, wanted to build themselves an empire in the middle of Texas.”
Sarah’s pulse pounded in her ears as a sickening feeling spread in her stomach.
“My work as a Ranger often took me away from home for long periods of time. I had to leave my wife and child alone to manage our crops and tend our animals. Six years ago, I came home from a five-month chase to find…” His voice broke. Tears welled in his eyes and spilled down his cheeks.
Oh, no…no…
“They were dead.” He mouthed the words, only the consonants filled with enough air to make sound. “Dehydrated and starved because Malanger salted our well on top of stealing our water. And I wasn’t home to stop it.”
She reached a hand forward an inch but pulled it back. Shame crushed the last of her anger. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“So, you’re right. When I chose my land, I configured it to capture every last drop of water. But it was so you and everyone else downstream of me would never, ever suffer what my family did.”
Chapter 5
Sarah climbed out of the wagon by herself. Same way she climbed into it by herself after John’s startling revelation. He hadn’t spoken—hadn’t even looked at her—the whole way home.
Not that she blamed him.
She’d called him selfish and greedy and callous. How could a simple apology even begin to cover such a terrible misjudgment? She had no words when he finished his story, or on the drive home, or now as she watched him drive away.
She’d gone too far. Been ridiculous. Completely, totally, and utterly ridiculous in her assumptions, her accusations, and her animosity.
What happened to the girl Mrs. Robertson called a beautiful soul? Had Eugene and Trudy’s betrayal robbed her of the ability to view others with compassion?
She walked toward the field she and John plowed on Thursday. She couldn’t beg forgiveness of the man—not yet—but she fell to her knees, in that place that would forever remind her to be careful what seeds she sowed into her life, and begged forgiveness of God.
How could she have been so…wrong?
Her lips trembled, but even as her spirit cried out to God, her heart cried out a defense.
God, you know I only acted the way I did because I was hurt!
Truth struck hard. Of course, she’d been hurt. Everyone got hurt at some point in life. But she’d let that pain fester, poisoning her perspective and her trust—not just in people but in God.
“Forgive me!”
Hot tears coursed down her face as the truth flooded her mind. She’d found enemies because she created them. She’d looked for reasons to be offended. Returned kindness with suspicion. Let bitterness determine her actions and words.
What was it Pastor McCammon said this morning? Trust must be earned. Until then he hoped the congregation would give him the benefit of the doubt.
Sarah hadn’t given anyone the benefit of the doubt for a long time.
She fell to her face in the field. “Please, Father, please…remove the bitterness rooted in my soul….”
She didn’t know how long she lay there, watering the earth with her tears, but slowly the recriminations for how she’d treated others—her neighbor in particular—faded. And in its place…
Peace.
Forgiveness.
God had heard. And He’d answered.
Sarah sat up, wiped the wetness from her cheeks, and breathed deep the sweet air of God’s grace until she felt ready to do…something. “All right, Sarah
Allison Maffey. What now?” Breaking the silence seemed like the first step, so she kept talking as she rose and walked back to her tent. “If you were John Tyler, what would you consider a peace offering?”
Plowing was out. So was cleaning—his floor was dirt anyway. But baking? Now there was an idea! He’d served himself a second slice of her apple pie the day he came to help raise the barn.
“Apple pie it is.”
A quick trip to the creek later, she dropped dried apple slices into water to let them soak while she worked on the crust. Hymns sprang from her lips, an effective shield against the doldrums seeking to seep their way back in. “This is going to be the best pie you’ve ever tasted, John Tyler. It might not make up for everything, but if it doesn’t put a smile on your face and make you the teensiest bit happy to be my neighbor, then…”
Her hands paused in the dough. What would she do?
She didn’t know, so she added a little extra sugar to the filling.
Fifteen minutes later, she set the pie to baking then went down to the barn to check on Shakespeare.
“I’ve decided to be nice to you, too, though you’ve done nothing to deserve it. Here.” She held out a few slices of dried apples, scrunching up her facial muscles, equal parts repulsed and amused at how his nose tickled her palm. “We’re going to be friends one day, mark my words. Or, if not friends exactly, at least we won’t be enemies.”
Shakespeare was more interested in finding more apple slices than in making friends, so she left the barn before he devoured her apron.
The pie would take another forty to fifty minutes to bake, but with all this new energy pouring through her, she couldn’t just sit there and wait.
“What to do? What to do?” She surveyed her land and the tent, pride filling her heart at how much she—and John—had accomplished in two and a half weeks. And because she’d survived. Her father thought she’d come running home the moment she laid eyes on Oklahoma. She’d proved him wrong. In a few more days, her house kit would be delivered. Mr. Harrison had managed to squeeze that information in before the crowd of men surrounded her and Mattie to propose after the service ended. Once she had a real house and a real bedroom, a real bed and feather mattress wouldn’t be far behind.
The Secret Admirer Romance Collection Page 42