My Heart Knew (Dorado, Texas Book 3)

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  “We bumped into each other this morning in the livery.” Grimacing, he gestured toward his propped-up foot.

  Shaking her head, Ivey rolled her eyes upward then huffed out a breath. “Sounds about right. Well, Mister MacInnes, as much as I’d like to stay and chat, I need to start preparations for dinner.”

  “Don’t let me keep you.” He reopened the book but was aware of the woman still lingering in the doorway. Surely, people whose livelihood involved running a boarding house were used to seeing strangers. Could be that not many men of his age arrived in this prairie town. Maybe this town was smaller than he’d first thought. Then a worrisome possibility settled. What if the area didn’t have enough ranchers to contribute stock to his uncle’s proposed cattle drive for the coming summer?

  “What are you gawking at, Ivey?” Maisie tromped inside the room, dumped two saddle bags on the floor near the wall, and spun toward the doorway.

  Dylan noted she’d jammed both hands on her hips, and he bit back a smile. Another sign of her spunkiness.

  “I was just conversing with our newest boarder.” Ivey stood on tip-toes to peek around her taller sister’s body and waggled her fingers in his direction. “Mister MacInnes, I look forward to continuing or conversation at dinner.”

  “Penn already said Dy—, uh, Mister MacInnes should stay off his foot. I’ll bring a tray to his room.” Maisie glanced over her shoulder.

  He stiffened. This injury did not make him an invalid. “I can manage the trip to the dining room, Miss Maisie. Your brother provided me with a dandy crutch.” His response to the glare she tossed over her shoulder was a wide grin. What a great diversion. He hadn’t been the focus of attention from multiple females since the fall term at Miss Stringfield’s one-room schoolhouse when he returned a full two inches taller than when he’d left.

  With an audible sniff and swish of skirts, Ivey moved out of sight, the sound of her footsteps fading.

  “Huh.” Maisie grabbed up his bags, stomped over to the bed, and dumped them within his reach. “We’ll see about that when the time comes.”

  “Thank you, Maisie.” Her eyes flashed like amber in sunlight, and he couldn’t resist one last request. “I wonder if the household has a small bell or whistle I might use when I wish to attract someone’s attention.”

  Although her eyes shot wide, she sucked in a deep breath and flexed her fingers that had been clenched into fists. “I will locate one right away.” With that, she spun, skirts rustling, and strode toward the door.

  “And my warm water. Will that be coming soon, too?” The rigid snap of her shoulders and her stiff neck told him she was close to the end of her patience. He opened his mouth, ready to apologize for his teasing.

  “Of course, Mister MacInnes.” She turned and gave him a low curtsey while glaring through slitted eyes. “I will return shortly.”

  The sharp tone in her words slapped at his awareness. Had he pushed too hard?

  Chapter Four

  Three days of being at Dylan’s beck and call had not improved Maisie’s temperament at all. Sure, she enjoyed the hours spent reading, but that was mostly because he shared a book that she’d never heard of, one he brought along on his trip. They’d reached the part in The Count of Monte Cristo where the imprisoned Edmond Dantès had just met the Mad Priest. She rushed through her chores each morning to slide into the chair in Dylan’s room as soon as she could. Today was the weekly laundry day, and she grabbed up the burlap sack from Mr. Shipley’s and Mr. Spengler’s rooms to take downstairs. The carpenter didn’t often stain his clothes, but Mother would need extra lye for the blacksmith’s sooty shirts.

  Once Mother discovered Maisie was the cause of the man’s injury, she insisted Maisie do everything in her power to keep the boarder happy. Another version of the lecture that a solid reputation was the mainstay of their family business had been endured. This time, Maisie suffered true contrition because what her mother said was true. Close to twenty years old, she was too old to be running wild in the countryside. Ivey’s demure behavior should be her guidepost. Especially, because Maisie had a responsibility to set a more refined example for sixteen-year-old Lydia.

  At the same moment she reached for the door knob to the back yard, she heard the tinkle of Dylan’s infernal bell. Her muscles stiffened. How can the man be both intriguing and infuriating? With a jerky move, she pulled open the door and held the bag aloft. “Mother, here are clothes for Misters Shipley and Spengler. I need to answer Mister MacInnes’ call.”

  Across the yard under a big oak tree, the big metal kettle steamed over a low fire. Her hair covered by a kerchief, Mother stood to the side and stirred the contents with a wooden paddle. She lifted a hand in acknowledgement.

  Lydia dashed forward and lifted her hands to accept the sacks. “You’re so lucky to tend Mister MacInnes. I hate doing the laundry. The lye stings my eyes, the steam makes my hair frizzy, and these clothes are hideous.” Wearing a deep frown, she held out a stiff leg, displaying the unattractive garment.

  “I know, Lydia, helping to wash clothes used to be my duty. And Ivey’s before me.” She gave her sister an encouraging smile. Poor thing looked a little pathetic. Her strawberry blonde curls fluffed around her face like the ruff of an angry rooster from standing near the steaming pot, and she wore a rough-textured blouse and skirt that had been handed down for years through the Treadwell women. Blotches from lye and bleach mishaps marked the brown skirt in a scattered pattern. “Be happy Mother does this chore only one day a week. Think of your friend, Biddy, who has to work every afternoon with her mother in O’Hara’s Laundry.”

  A loud sigh whooshed from her mouth, and her shoulders drooped. “No one understands the scope of how absolutely embarrassing this situation is.” Lydia flounced around the corner and disappeared from sight.

  As she hurried to respond to the pealing summons, Maisie couldn’t help but chuckle at her sister’s dramatics. Finally after being pampered much longer than her siblings, Lydia was being made to step up and take on more of the household’s responsibilities. Everyone had to contribute to the family’s wellbeing. Obviously, the youngest sibling was not too happy about the fact. Passing through the quiet house, Maisie wondered if she should make a second check upstairs for laundry. The saloon girls usually had a small bag of undergarments. They preferred to tend to their fancy gowns themselves. She stopped at Dylan’s doorway and glanced inside—at a rumpled empty bed with no occupant. Then she heard a familiar clumping sound, coming down the hallway from the living room, and looked toward the dark-haired man. “Yes, what can I get for you now?”

  “Do you know how to drive a farm wagon?” He stopped across from her and rested his forearm on the top of the crutch. Today, his shirt was a pale green that contrasted with his tanned skin.

  His dubious tone riled her. Tamping down a sharp response, she crossed her arms over her chest and lifted an eyebrow. “My family does own the livery stable.”

  “Good. You’ll drive me out to visit the closest ranch. I’ll need introductions to the owners and thought having along a known townsperson would aid the process.”

  Another act Mother was not going to like. Almost of its own accord, her head shook. “You expect me to drive you through the open countryside unchaperoned. What do you think people will say?”

  Shaking his head, Dylan laughed, causing a hank of black hair to settle in the middle of his forehead. “Don’t worry about appearances. Penn is nailing an old chair in the wagon bed so we won’t be seen sharing the bench seat. At least two feet of empty space will separate us.”

  His laughter stung. Even though the sound was deep and rich, inviting those who heard it to join in. She clamped her lips tight. Her fingers itched to brush aside the errant hair. Why didn’t he act worried about her reputation? During their enjoyable hours of reading, she’d thought they’d developed a special friendship. Possibly even the personal type that grew between a man and a woman who shared similar interests. “Before I agree, I need to ta
lk to Mother.”

  “I already had that conversation, and she’s given her permission. She directed Ivey to pack us a lunch basket. Penn told me the Widow Edda’s place, where”—he leaned close and whispered—“we can drop off the bobcat, is on the way to the Shady Oaks Ranch.”

  “True.” The raspy tone of his lowered voice sent shivers over her skin. Maisie dropped her hands to her sides and melted a bit inside. He remembered about the injured kit. “Well, you’ve thought of everything.” She had to admit the wildcat kitten had proven more than she could handle. The first night it shredded her woolen scarf. After its foreleg was encased in bandages soaked in plaster of Paris, the poor little thing hobbled all over the stable, tore holes in feed sacks, and disrupted hay mounds.

  “How long before you’re ready? I’m anxious to get outside and started on the job I traveled north to do.”

  Again, he used a voice that held a demanding tone. The one that made her want to do his bidding while at the same time being riled over the same wish. Feeling mischievous, she ducked toward the bed and snatched the bell’s wooden handle. “When I’ve driven the wagon to the front door, I’ll ring”—fighting back a smile, she gave the handle two quick snaps—“and you can respond.”

  With a wink, Dylan gave a slow grin. “I’ll do just that.” Then he turned and clumped into the bedroom.

  Fifteen minutes later, Maisie was still thinking about that wink as she called out “whoa” to Buttercup and Brownie. From the overturned wooden crate at her feet came throaty yowls from a grumpy bobcat. “Just a short while of confinement, Kitty, before you’ll have a new home.” With great satisfaction, she shook the bell hard and listened to the strident notes. A sound that she’d at first wished she could have ignored just to spite the demanding man. Until she realized that the inactivity needed to heal his injury was making Dylan antsy, and many times, he rang so he’d have someone to talk to. The few times she wasn’t within hearing, she’d been a bit jealous at learning Ivey or Lydia had tended to his requests.

  Silly response, because the man was just passing through Dorado. He worked on a big ranch miles away in a part of Texas she’d never heard of and was headed back home as soon as he healed. A logical outcome, but the idea didn’t sit well. He was an excitement she wanted more of in her life.

  The door opened, and Dylan walked onto the wide porch, the crutch thumping on the boards with a hollow sound. He stood at the head of the steps, the top of his hat almost touching the overhang.

  Dressed in dark trousers, a black wool coat, and a black hat, the man made a striking appearance against the painted grey house. A sigh escaped, and she couldn’t stop her smile from spreading. Too bad the perfect image of a rugged cowboy was marred by a red woolen sock on one foot and the tree-branch crutch under his arm.

  He jerked his head toward the front door. “Would you help with the portfolio just inside the entrance?”

  “Sure.” She set the brake and climbed down, glad Mother had agreed to the practicality of wearing a split riding skirt on this occasion. Maybe receiving this concession moved her one step closer to being allowed the freedom to choose her own style of dress.

  “Doesn’t the air smell great?” Dylan inhaled and flung out his free arm, tipping up his face to the sky. “Dang, but I’ve missed being outdoors.”

  To Maisie, the air smelled like it always did—dusty and with a tinge of manure mixed with the smoke from the blacksmith’s forge. But she wasn’t about to start an argument. Not when she was grateful for being part of an activity that broke her mundane routine and allowed her to visit with other townspeople. She grabbed the hefty pouch contained by a leather strap and carried it to the wagon, careful not to bump into Dylan on the steps. Watching him struggle onto the back of the wagon and then hoist himself into the chair made her wince. But she’d learned from enduring his terse responses on prior occasions that he required no help from anyone in getting around.

  Besides, she wanted nothing to ruin today’s outing.

  ****

  The wagon ride through the countryside proved bumpier than he’d anticipated. But Dylan wouldn’t trade the occasional painful jolt for another afternoon spent within the four walls of that small room. After a long look around the rolling prairie with pockets of green trees, he reached for the portfolio and spent the next ten minutes sketching the terrain as best he could. Light, fluffy clouds that looked like spun sugar dotted the sky. Notations of two creeks, the position of stock ponds, and the meandering of the hard-packed road filled out his drawing. He’d ask about the names of the natural features later.

  “This is the path leading to the widow’s place.” Maisie pointed to her right and then clucked to the horses. “Gee, Buttercup. Gee, Brownie. Hang on, because the path to her house is a bit rough.”

  “Appreciate the warning.” He set aside his charcoal pencil and flexed his hand, loosening his stiff fingers. Several days of dull winter sunshine had melted away the last remnants of snow. Alongside the road, he spotted a few yellow crocuses. A definite sign spring was on its way—which increased the importance of riding to the outlying areas, talking to the ranchers, and obtaining their agreement to band together. For the first time since his injury, enthusiasm about the success of his mission buoyed his spirits.

  The wagon rolled through a rut, and his foot bounced down hard against the horse blanket cushioning it. “Ow.” He clamped his teeth and released a slow breath.

  “Sorry.” Maisie glanced around, her mouth pressed into a straight line. “Just a few hundred feet farther until I can turn the wagon.”

  Dylan linked his fingers under his knee and held his foot several inches off the wagon bed. “I’m all right. Keep going.” Maybe he should have asked for doses of the willow bark tea be prepared and carried along.

  In no time at all, the wagon emerged into a clearing containing several small corrals and wooden pens filled with animals. Deer, elk, javelinas, rabbits, squirrels, even an armadillo—all wearing a bandage or cast on a limb. Cages suspended from oak limbs held an owl, several grackles, and a red-tailed hawk. The wagon’s intrusion caused the animals to pace and emit their individual sounds of alarm, jarring the peace of the morning.

  From the front seat, the bobcat hissed and scratched the inside of the box.

  Dylan spotted a split-log cabin that looked like it had leapt off the pages of a book of folk tales. The roof braces were huge pieces of planed wood and crossed at the apex like a lopsided “X”, the extensions marked with suns, stars, and moons. Each window shutter was decorated with carvings that perhaps held personal meanings for the woodworker and his wife. Flowerboxes hanging under the mullioned windows displayed similar carvings. Ones like Dylan’d seen on the wooden lovespoon his grandda had carved for his grandma decades earlier. The front door was domed at the top and had big iron hinges that spanned half the planked door’s width.

  Maisie set the brake, hopped down, and stretched on tip-toes to reach the wooden crate holding the bobcat kitten. “The widow is a mite shy of strangers. I’ll just be a few minutes.”

  The sight of Maisie’s struggles to lift the crate above the edge of the wagon bothered him. His instincts screamed that he should be the one to handle the crate, but instead, he sat in the chair practically helpless. He nodded and reached for his sketch pad. “Go on. I’ll occupy myself by drawing this setting.” After a moment or two, the animals ceased their loud noises, and he sketched the scene with broad strokes, wanting to capture his first impression. The spot had been chosen with care—secluded and private, but not too far off the road.

  When had he last sketched for pleasure? Herds of longhorn and Angus cattle were not the most exciting subjects. His thoughts drifted to his childhood and his early years in Scotland on the family’s farm. Growing up, he’d had plenty of subjects to choose from. The verdant fields that nourished his grandda’s and father’s dairy cows and his uncle’s beef cattle. His mother’s herd of sheep that supplied wool for the family’s much-needed winter sweaters
. Thinking of his mother brought memories of the wonderful food she cooked from her Welsh heritage—lamb stew, laverbread, monkfish, rarebit, cockles, glamorgan sausage. The names made his mouth water and pinched an ache in his chest. Maybe when he returned to the Alba Ranch, he could convince the cook to search for those recipes.

  “Hey, are you all right? You look sad.” Approaching footsteps crunched in the dirt. “Is your foot hurting again?”

  Maisie’s concerned voice jolted him back to the present. “The ankle aches a bit. But I was just thinking of home.”

  A frown wrinkled her forehead. “Where in south Texas are you from?” She climbed onto the bench seat, gathered the reins, and looked over her shoulder.

  He shook his head and pressed a brief smile to his mouth. “I was remembering my family’s farm in Scotland, where I was born and raised.”

  “Scotland, really?” Her eyes shot wide. “You haven’t always lived in Texas?”

  “Only for these past five years.” The memories were too fresh to share right now. Maybe another day. He tucked his pencil and sketch pad into the portfolio before meeting her avid gaze. “The widow took the bobcat?”

  Maisie nodded then faced forward and released the brake. “She has such a gentle and loving way with all animals. Kitty didn’t even hiss or scratch when Edda picked her up. Get up, you two.” With care, she steered the horses into a tight circle and headed back toward the road. “So sad that she’s living alone out here since Latham passed.”

  “Her late husband was a woodworker, right? The carved details on the house are done by a skilled hand.” Dylan shifted in the chair so he could gaze behind them, wanting one last look at the wonderful cabin in the clearing surrounded by trees.

  “Operated the sawmill until two winters back. Doc Finster diagnosed a heart attack.” She waved a hand to the right toward the line of trees that marked a nearby creek. “Now, folks have to drive fifteen miles to the mill in Boerne.”

  Interesting. Dylan made a mental note to relay that information to his cousin who hated working with cattle. Moving north and building a sawmill might be what Munro needed. He only half-listened to Maisie relating the town’s events of the past year or so—a haunted ranch, mysterious lights, a fairy ring of stones, stage robbers, burning haystacks.