by Nan O'Berry
Clay shook out his handkerchief and drew it over his head like a woman’s bonnet. “Oh, tell me more? Were his eyes the color of the river or the soft green of the grass beyond the hills?”
Anna stomped her foot. “Clay Adams, you are teasing me.”
He smiled. “So, you noticed.”
“Oh, you.”
He took hold of her elbow and they began to walk again. “Remember, you are much too young to be contemplating turning a man’s head.”
“I guess.” She shrugged. “But Delia is not much older than me and she found the love of her life.”
“I dare say, I would not like to be the man that has to encounter your father’s stare should he come to the door.”
Anna blanched. “Do you think he’d be upset?”
“Do I think he’d be upset?” Clay blinked. “Oh no,” he began. “I just think I’d like to place a bet on how fast this cowboy would ride out. I bet you, not even Spirit could keep up with him.” He referred to his own fast steed.
Anna cut a narrow gaze in his direction. “Now, you’re making fun of me,” she declared.
Clay’s eyes widened as he pretended to be surprised. “What? Me?”
Anna tossed her head dismissing him. “But it is much too splendid of a day not to forgive you.”
“Well, thank you, I think.”
“You are most welcome.”
He squeezed her elbow and she stopped as a group of men wandered past. Clay gave a nod, but noted that they took a longer than needed gaze at the young lady beside him. His mouth drew into a thin line, as he understood Mrs. Hawkins concern for her only daughter.
“Let’s cross.” He gave a nod toward the other side of the boardwalk.
Stepping down from the boardwalk, they made their way across the dusty open street that lay between two store fronts.
“Clay?”
“Yes?”
“Do you even plan to get married?”
“Me?”
She nodded and drew a tendril of hair from her face that sprang loose from her thick braid. “You know, you’re the same age as Ransom.”
He shrugged. “Maybe one day. Maybe then again, not. I’ve not much foolishness for the state of matrimony. I’m much too busy riding for the express.” He tilted his head and for a moment studied her. “Why?”
Her expression grew somber and her cheeks turned a light shade of pink. “I-I should think I would miss you when you’re gone.”
Clay gave her a wide eyed gaze. “Why Miss Anna, I think I might be flattered.”
She looked up at him and gave him a swat on the arm. “Oh, you. You know what I mean.” She glanced back toward the station. “All of you riders, you are like family. It’s so much fun having all of us together. I do miss each and every one of you when you ride away.” Her eyes filled with unshed tears.
“Anna,” he murmured.
She blinked the moisture away. “I know I am being silly.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “But the rides are so dangerous; I would hate to think….”
Clay reached up and gave a gentle tug on her braid. “I tell you what, I’ll yell at any Indian, outlaws, or highway men and tell them, you said, not to stop me.”
Anna laughed. “If I thought it would work, I would ask you to do just that.”
Clay smiled and gave a tug on his hat. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll remember that.” Leaning, he reached out his hand and opened the door to the General Store.
“Well, who knows, I might be worrying for nothing. There are lots of young ladies in Three Rivers, perhaps one will catch your eye, and you will settle down right here in town.”
“Anna,” he warned.
Pushing past him, she plastered a smile on her face as she swept into the store.
“Morning, Anna,” a young girl called as she walked by with her mother.
“Morning, Celia.” Anna waved her hand as she made her way over to where Patty O’Neal stood behind the counter gathering items for an order.
Clay stepped to the side and made his way over to a table stacked with boots. There, he’d be out of the way of folks passing through the door and yet, he’d be able to keep his eye on the street as well as Mr. Hawkins’ daughter. He pushed his hat to the back of his head and counted the number of new faces browsing through the various sundries O’Neal’s had to offer.
Across the room, a brunette with emerald green eyes stared at him.
Clay gave a smile of acknowledgement and watched as her dark lashes brushed against her cheeks. A soft peach glow tinted her cheeks. Intrigued, he waited for her to lift her face and look in his direction once more. Her head tilted and he caught the deep green of her eyes. Spellbound, he stared as her lips parted and she swept the edge of her tongue across her bottom lip, to moisten the skin.
The image went straight to his middle. Heat rolled as if the temperature of the room had reached the level of midday in August. Clay shifted on his feet.
Her smile grew coy as if she sensed his discomfort.
Reaching up, he tugged at the handkerchief that had suddenly grown too tight.
“Susan,” the sharp reprimand came with a cuff along the back of that beautiful head.
Her eyes went wide. “Momma!” She gasped.
Clay’s gaze shifted to the angry stare of the matron beside her. Chastised, he glanced away a she shoved her daughter behind her and like an angry hen and herded the child toward the back counter.
“She ain’t so pretty,” a small voice announced.
Clay blinked and cast his glance toward is feet. “Excuse me?”
A small hand reached up and scratched his nose surrounded by a host of freckles. “I said,” he repeated. “She ain’t so pretty.”
Clay wanted to laugh, but the child appeared very serious. “You don’t believe she is pretty?”
The child, who appeared no more than eight, shook his head.
Clay’s lips twitched. “Well then, who do you think is pretty?”
The child grinned and turned toward the back counter.
Clay followed his raised arm to where a young woman stood, with her back to him. Her hair, he noted, gleamed in the muted light of the general store, like molten gold. When she turned, it was as though two blue berries that had been dipped in powder sugar were staring back at him. The air inside the store evaporated making it hard for him to breathe.
“She is pretty,” the child remarked.
Clay had to agree.
Chapter 2
“Stephen…” Emma Lee focused upon her younger brother standing near the door, talking to the young cowboy whose glance seemed focused on her. Straightening her shoulders, she tried to keep her eyes trained on the youngest member of the Rawlings family before he vanished once again.
“Here, Momma.” Emma put down the two bolts of cloth she’d held while they waited on Mr. O’Neal to move to their end of the counter and pushed up her sleeves. “I have found Stephen.”
The tall woman at her side turned. A smile played on her lips as she glanced over to her son, locked in conversation with the young cowboy by the plate glass window. “OH, my, do go rescue that young man from your brother, before he talks his ears off.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Marching past the tables, Emma Lee made sure to sweep the excess fullness of her skirts away from the roughhewn edges of the display case that filled the ample floor space. She could ill afford a new Sunday dress until the fabric was purchased and the garment made. “Stephen Rawlings.”
Her tone was sharp enough to make her younger brother flinch. Tucking his chin, he gave a sheepish glance as if knowing what trouble he might be in. “Afternoon, sister.” A slight lisp twisted the sounds of the letters due to a missing front tooth.
“Afternoon yourself,” she scolded. “Mother has told you more than once not to wander off.” She pointed to where her mother stood talking. “She is going to need you to carry a box to the wagon.”
“Ah, Emma,” he groaned and scraped his foot against the floorboards.
> Emma folded her arms across her body and his protest whimpered to a stop. “Now, young man, you apologize for talking too much and get a move on.”
Seeing his chance, Stephen’s face brightened. He turned toward the young cowboy. “Thank you for the conversation, sir.”
The cornered cowboy gave a nod. “My pleasure.”
His simple spoken word washed over Emma causing warmth to spread to her cheeks. She lifted her gaze to meet his eyes. Beneath the soft charcoal lashes, his gaze settled on hers. Words suddenly failed her.
“This is my sister.”
Stephen’s voice brought her back to her senses.
“Her name is Emma Lee, but we just call her, Emma.”
“Stephen!” Her eyes widened. “You do not go around giving introductions to complete strangers without my permission.”
“But that is okay,” Stephen protested. “He is with the Pony Express. We saw him this morning holding the horse.”
“We did? “Although, she appeared to question her brother, her gaze stayed on the cowboy behind him.
“Yes, ma’am.” The cowboy pulled his hat from the back of his head and held it over his heart. “I work for the express.”
“Ain’t that exciting!” Stephen gushed.
“Isn’t it,” Emma corrected.
“Huh?”
“I said, you are to say, ‘isn’t it.’ ”
“If you say so, sister.”
She needed a way to put space between them. Emma grabbed her brother’s shoulders and pulled him in front of her. Perhaps, she mused, his presence would afford her a chance to think. She tore her gaze away from the cowboy and looked at her younger brother. “I do say so and yes,” she agreed. “It is very exciting.”
The cowboy drew the toe of his boot across the floor. “The name is Clay, ma’am. Clayton Adams, to be exact.”
This time, there was no denying the flutter of her heart. Her smile trembled as she spoke, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Adams.”
Silence engulfed them.
“Emma Lee. Stephen Francis.”
“That is momma,” Stephen remarked.
Emma gave a nod, but her eyes never left the cowboy’s face.
“We gotta go,” Stephen urged.
Emma felt his fingers latch on to hers and tug.
“Come on, Emma.”
She dampened her lips. “I have to go.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Yet, her feet refused to budge.
Stephen tugged against her arm. “Emma. Emma, come on.”
One foot reluctantly followed the other. “I do have to go,” she whispered and watched him swallow. The way his kerchief rose with the bobble of his Adam’s apple intrigued her.
“Emma.”
Her mother’s sharp reprimand broke the link they’d forged with their eyes. “I have to go.”
“Yes.”
“Emma, come on.” Stephen’s voice was laced with urgency.
She turned. “Goodbye, Mr. Adams.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She glanced back and found his gaze still upon her. Unable to draw away, Emma’s hips collided with a table. The force toppled a few standing boots despite her attempt to grab them. The noise turned heads. Flustered, she tried to resurrect her disaster, but the more she tried, the more the boots toppled.
“Oh, bother,” Emma hissed. As she turned away, the sound of cloth ripping followed. Emma gasped and glanced toward her left hip. A small bit of gingham clung to the wood.“Oh.” She grimaced and with a tug, pulled the cloth free, only to clamp her hand down on the gap that exposed her plain muslin underskirts.
“Emma.”
Eyes widened, she turned to face her mother. “I-I am sorry.” She blinked and looked at the tore skirt. “I bumped…”
Her mother tsked. “Oh my, and such a good dress.”
Emma hung her head in shame.
“Well.” Her mother pushed her reticule further up her forearm. “It cannot be helped. Hopefully, with a needle and thread, we can make light of it.”
Clay stared as the young woman walked away. The pounding of his heart slowly lessened.
“Way to go, cowboy,” a soft female voice mocked.
With a jerk of his head, Clay found Anna’s grinning face staring at the door. Dismayed, the muscles along his jaw tightened as he clenched his teeth.
Anna ignored him. Instead, she studied the departing figures of the Rawlings family. “She seems rather cute.”
Clay slapped his hat back upon his head and grunted. “You done?”
Anna’s smirk grew. “Yes, I am through. Here.” She shoved the handle of her basket into his palm. “You can carry this. I think you are the one who needs to be escorted home. This way, you will not stray and get into any more trouble.”
His eyes narrowed. “You think you are funny?”
Anna slipped an arm around his elbow. Her face grew serious. “Me?” She batted her eyes. “Funny?”
“Yes, you,” Clay groused. “Come on; let us go back to the station.” Opening the door, he escorted the young Miss Hawkins out.
The creak of wagon wheels drew their gazes to the street. A wagon passed, flanked by a rider. The man driving kept his eyes on the horses. However, there was no mistaking the young woman sitting in the back. Their gazes met. She lifted her chin and stared unabashed until the curve of the road made it impossible to look at him anymore.
“My, she is pretty,” Anna remarked. “Did you see the insignia on the side?”
“Insignia?” Clay repeated, yet his eyes never strayed from the dwindling image of the wagon.
“Hmm, just as I thought,” Anna said. “Rocking R. That ranch is not too far out from the Burrough’s station. She did say her name was Rawlings, did she not?”
“I dunno,” he fudged. “She might have.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Clay. Did she or did she not?”
“I guess.”
Anna cut her eyes toward him in a skeptical glance. “You know, Clayton Adams, you are a terrible liar.”
Emma smoothed the skirt along the edge of the table. Two days ago, she had avoided the curious stares of her older brother, Drew, by hurrying into the house to change. Today, her luck held as father had both Drew and Stephen out in the barn, leaving only she and her mother to clean house. With the linen folded, she’d brought the dress down to the kitchen table for mending.
She smoothed the fabric and pressed the two edges together. Yes, she could do this. Her hand reached across to the saucer which held straight pins borrowed from her mother’s sewing kit. She pricked one side and drew the two together. A piece of thread stuck out. Emma reached for it, gave a gentle tug and it fell away. Quickly, she grabbed for another pin and wove it into place.
“How is it coming?” her mother asked, as she moved into the room and hurried over to inspect Emma’s progress. “Oh, it is not so bad. With your tiny stitches, you will weave it together in no time.”
“I hope so,” she mumbled and drew the lavender thread through her lips before thrusting the end through the eye of the needle.
“I just cannot fathom how you got it caught.”
Emma willed the heat not to travel up to her cheeks. Oh, I can. The voice inside her head spoke up. She swallowed and looked away. Never in a million years would she forget those eyes or that voice which washed over her like warm water, sweeping away time and making her forget all reason and become as clumsy as an ox.
“Emma Lee?”
She blinked to find her mother’s worried glance pointed in her direction. “Daughter, are you all right?”
“I am sorry. I was just thinking about my stitches.”
Her mother’s forehead furrowed and she drew her right hand up, placing the back against Emma’s cheek. “No fever.”
Emma drew back. “I am fine, Mother. I just was not paying attention.” She pointed to the garment on the table. “I really hate that I tore this gown.”
The back door flapped against the opening as a
small voice piped up, “That is not the reason.”
To Emma’s dismay, Stephen marched in from the outside and crossed to the table. Her eyes flared as she shot him a warning glare.
Roselyn Rawlings turned and glanced at her youngest child.
“Stephen Francis, what are you talking about?”
“Nothing, Mother.” Emma stepped between them in a hurried motion. “Here.” She took the top off the cookie jar sitting in the middle of the table and handed her brother a cookie. “Why not go help Drew? I am sure he could use you.”
Smiling, Stephen snapped up the offering and took a bite.
“Emma Lee, it is nearly time for supper and you encouraging him to eat a treat.”
“It will not hurt his dinner.” She glared at her brother. “I bet he’ll eat everything on his plate.”
“I might,” Stephen mumbled as he took another bite.
“Now, go,” Emma urged again.
Stephen took a few hurried steps to the back door, only to pause and grin back at Emma.
All the strength ebbed from her body.
“I guess Emma does not want me to tell you about the Pony Express rider.”
“Stephen,” she hissed.
Sticking out his tongue, he rushed from the room.
Emma closed her eyes and waited for her mother’s questions. When none came, she turned to find her mother standing with her back to her. She dampened her lips and took a steady breath. One-one thousand, two-one thousand….
“Emma, work on your dress.” Her mother’s formal voice echoed in the silence of the kitchen. “I will need you to set the table soon.”
Her eyes closed and Emma felt her shoulder’s sag. She glanced over her shoulder. Her mother stood in front of the sink, her gaze fixed on something going on outside. The feeling of falling short cut her to the quick. She stepped toward the end of the table. Her fingers outstretched. Her palms together, Emma took a deep breath and spoke, “Momma?”
Roselyn’s head straightened.
Emma Lee took a deep breath and then let it out as she spoke, “It is not what you think.”
Her mother nodded. “You are eighteen, Emma. Some might consider you a woman in your own right.”