by Pema Donyo
“When you are young, you do not think about consequences. You live for yourself, ignoring your responsibilities to others.” Jesse realized she had been thinking of the same possible scenario. “All we could think about was irresponsible impatience, wanting to be together right away.”
“You would’ve never been happy.” He pressed Evelyn closer to him, as if afraid someone was going to swoop in and take her away. “I don’t think we wasted time. It took us this long for us to grow up enough for each other.”
“There is no one else I would rather be with than you.”
Courage rose in his chest. “Eve, I have enough money saved up, and I can sell my hotel in California to someone else. Breighton’s your home, and it’s mine, too. I can help your father run the ranch. I know I don’t have a ring right now, but would you do me the honor of being my . . ." He began to kneel down, but she stopped him. She pulled him up to stand again, a grin on her face as she did so.
“Yes. Yes, I will.” She practically bounced on her heels in excitement at first, and the eagerness of her tone left no doubt in his mind. Evelyn cradled one of his cheeks in her palm and stroked across his cheek with her thumb. The touch caused him to draw in a sharp breath. Her voice was low. “There is no one else in the world I want to marry besides you, Jesse Greenwood.”
He wanted to whoop for joy. He kissed her again, crushing her lips against his. She responded to the kiss, threading her fingers through his hair as she leaned against him. When they pulled away to gasp for air, he twirled a lock of her dark hair around his finger. Her wavy hair was down and fell past her shoulders, just framing the front of her dress. The blue dress she’d worn the day of Loretta’s wedding always looked so stunning on her.
He didn’t think it was possible for a woman to be more gorgeous than she looked in that moment. “You’re beautiful, Eve.” He relished finally saying the words aloud. He didn’t have to worry about her running away from him. There was no other man to court her, and there was no father to avoid. She was finally his, and he was finally hers.
Evelyn’s voice was suddenly quiet. “When you left for California at first, I thought eventually I would be able to get over you. Every suitor who asked my father for permission to come calling, I turned down. One by one. I kept expecting the same feeling I felt when I was with you. But I never felt that way about any of them. Not even John. When I saw you with Annie, I thought, ‘He has finally moved on. He has finally found that feeling again.’”
“Eve, I’ve never loved anyone else.”
“I know, and I trust that now.” Evelyn’s voice grew firm. “You are the one I love too. I talked to Annie. She made me realize I was giving up on you, actually. But that is not going to happen.” She frowned. “You know that, right? I am never going to give you up again.”
Jesse pulled her toward him, wrapping her in his arms. She nestled her head in the crevice between his neck and his shoulder. “Neither am I.”
He felt Evelyn’s lips curve into a smile.
EPILOGUE
The wind whipped Evelyn’s hair behind her. She leaned closer to her mare, urging Blue Star further down the path. Hooves galloped behind her, closing the distance. Fear struck her heart as he began to catch up to her.
Evelyn glanced over her shoulder at the man hot on her trail. He was gaining speed, and quickly, too. Only a few yards were between them, she estimated. Evelyn turned forward again. Her house was just within sight over the rise of the pasture. So close to safety.
She heard the man behind her yelling as he gained speed, but she couldn’t make out the exact words over the thundering of Blue Star’s galloping hooves. Nothing would slow her down.
The corral posts came closer and closer, until she was nearly there. Evelyn held her breath as the man’s horse came up to hers and began riding beside her. She could see him out of the corner of her eye, but didn’t waste any energy looking directly at him. Instead, she urged Blue Star onward. The horse whinnied, and charged forward at the corral.
“Hurry up, Evelyn!” Preston called. He waved at her from the steps, beckoning his arms inward. She could even see Loretta standing up from the porch chair, watching the chase with wide eyes.
The man charging next to her cursed under his breath. The corral posts were just within reach. Her horse burst forward in a sudden gust of speed, and Evelyn’s hand slapped the first wooden post of the corral with a cry of celebration.
She turned around. Grinning at the losing rider, she folded her arms over her chest. “Seems like the student has advanced beyond the teacher, Jesse.”
After stepping off the stirrups, he walked toward her. “Almost had you that time, Eve.”
“Almost, but not quite.” She held Jesse’s outstretched hand as she descended. As soon as her boots hit the ground, he gripped her hips and pinned her against him. She gasped.
“Think I’ve got you now, though,” Jesse teased, smirking as he did so. Evelyn swatted his shoulder, but didn’t step out of the embrace.
“Momma! Momma! I told Uncle Preston you would win!”
She turned her head in the direction of a six-year-old brown-haired boy stumbling down the steps and racing toward her. “Is that so, Ben? Seems like you know how slow Papa is.” She bent down and squeezed her son’s hands.
The little boy beamed at her. Then he turned to Jesse. A very solemn look crossed the child’s face. “I’m very sorry you lost, Papa. I think you are getting slow.”
“Slow, am I? I’ll show you how slow I am.” He scooped up Benjamin in his arms and threw him into the air. Benjamin laughed as he achieved weightlessness in his father’s arms. Jesse caught him, and then tossed him up again.
“Again, Papa! Do it again!”
“Jesse! Stop that!” Evelyn stood up. She placed both of her hands on her hips, staring down the misbehaving men in her life. Lord forbid the day Ben slipped out of his grasp and hit his head on the ground. “Be careful.”
Benjamin groaned, all advocacy for his mother lost. “Momma!”
Jesse caught Ben a final time and then set him on the ground. He put his hands on his knees to bend down and face Ben at eye level. “Seems like your Momma may be fast, but she sure doesn’t know how to have any fun.”
He scooped up Ben in his arms and held him against his shoulder, one arm underneath the boy and the other against his back. For all the times he threw Ben into the air (too many), whenever he held his son she knew Jesse would never let him go. Her heart swelled at the sight.
She could see the small bobbing of her son’s head as he nodded at his father’s words. “You need to teach her how to have fun.”
“I reckon I can do that. I know a few ways your momma likes to have fun.” Jesse winked at Evelyn.
Preston and Loretta walked down the porch steps and toward Evelyn. Preston stuck out his hand and congratulated her. “You’re the only one who’s ever been able to beat Greenwood over here. Good to take him down a peg or two before he gets too big for his britches.”
“Hey!” He turned in Preston’s direction and shot him a warning look. “I can still beat you in a race any day.”
“Oh, but so can Evelyn,” Loretta laughed. Cupping her hand and placing it over her mouth, she leaned closer next to Evelyn’s ear and whispered, “The day when he’s finally able to beat you in a race is the same day that hell freezes over.”
“Reckon they’re conspiring against us, Jesse.” Preston crossed his arms and inclined his head toward Jesse’s. “Quick, tell me something so it looks like we’re telling secrets too.”
“I want to know a secret!” Ben lifted up his head from his father’s shoulder and looked around at the adults. “Someone tell me what the secret is!”
“The secret,” Evelyn said, leaning closer to her son, “is that it is time for you to go to bed.”
Ben scowled. “That ain’t no secret, Momma.” He sighed as Jesse set him down. “Do I have to go to bed?”
Jesse kneeled down next to his son and grinned. “If
you go to bed now, I’ll take you riding tomorrow morning.”
Ben’s eyes lit up with excitement. “You promise, Papa?”
“Promise. I never break any promise of mine.” Jesse stood up.
One of the maids came outside and outstretched her hand toward Ben’s. The child gripped the maid’s hand and led her up the stairs, practically skipping over the idea of racing the next morning.
“Speaking of bedtimes, it’s high time Loretta and I started heading back.” Preston nodded his head in Jesse’s direction. Loretta embraced both her brother and her sister-in-law before following her husband toward the buggy.
As Preston’s horses rolled away toward Loretta’s house, Evelyn turned to her husband and narrowed her eyes at him.
“Jesse! Ben’s barely six years old. He is much too young to be riding.”
He shrugged. “He’s the same age I was when I learned.” He always held her hand when they began to quarrel, the most ridiculous habit in the world. Still, she leaned against his shoulder as they turned back toward the house. “The boy lives on a ranch, Eve. If I don’t teach him, another cowboy will.”
She hated to admit her husband was right. She squeezed his hand. “All right. On one condition.”
“What will that be?” Jesse opened the door for her.
She stepped inside and spun around as soon as the door closed behind him. “I teach him how to ride horses as well.”
He kissed her on the lips. The kiss took her by surprise, and she pulled away. She felt as lightheaded as the time he’d kissed her when she was fifteen. “Jesse! Ben could see us. He is still awake, you know.”
“Just happy you came around, that’s all.”
“Oh.” Evelyn licked her lips as her husband stared back at her with that look of his. The look that sent a thrill down her spine and spread warmth within her heart. The look that told her she was loved. “Well, Mr. Greenwood, maybe I could take a little more convincing . . .”
He smirked.
“More than happy to do so, Mrs. Greenwood.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Pema Donyo is a coffee-fueled college student by day and a creative writer by night. She currently lives in sunny Southern California, where any temperature less than 70 degrees is freezing and flip-flops never go out of season. As a current student at Claremont McKenna, she’s still working on mastering that delicate balance between finishing homework, meeting publisher deadlines, and—college. While unfortunately she’s never beaten anyone in a horse race or rescued someone from a burning barn, she has put those two things on her “To Do” list. Keep in touch with her through her website at http://pemadonyo.wordpress.com, or her Twitter @PemaDonyo.
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
(From Once Upon a Wager by Julie LeMense)
July 1808
St. James Street, London
Alec Carstairs, heir to the eighth Earl of Dorset, looked down at the letter on his desk, torn between feelings of frustration and something else he refused to acknowledge. Her handwriting was as awful as ever—undisciplined, like the young woman herself—but he knew better than to blame any long-suffering governess. Annabelle Layton did as she pleased. She always had, regardless of the consequences.
Alec,
I am sorry, as you well know. Two years is past time to forgive me, don’t you think? The whole episode is best forgotten. You needn’t miss Gareth’s party again. I do not, I believe, have a sickness that is catching.
Please say you will come.
Your erstwhile friend,
Annabelle Layton
A ragged sigh escaped him, the force of it sending the missive skittering across his desk, a Tudor-era monstrosity sent over from his family’s London town home. Of course he’d forgiven her, if that was even the right word. She’d been so young then—just sixteen—uninhibited and free, with little thought for propriety or decorum. Forgetting the incident, however, was another matter entirely. It had irrevocably changed the way he saw her . . . to his everlasting shame.
“My sister insisted I hand deliver it,” Gareth said, dropping himself into a tufted armchair across from the desk, startling Alec from his thoughts. He’d all but forgotten Layton’s presence in the room, an unintended slight that had thankfully gone unnoticed. Alec’s distraction would only have piqued Gareth’s curiosity. After all, Gareth, like Annabelle, wasn’t easily ignored. Both were golden haired and blue-eyed—a gift from the stunning Lady Layton. They’d been the boon companions of his otherwise lonely childhood. But none of them was a child anymore.
“Say yes, Carstairs. If you are any kind of friend, you’ll not make me go back to Astley Castle by myself. God knows I’d rather stay in London.”
So would Alec, but he undoubtedly had different reasons for that sentiment. “My schedule is very full, Gareth. My father has secured a new seat for me in the House of Commons, and I must memorize the current legislation. It sounds like another excuse, but it is not.” And it wasn’t. Not really. Alec felt the press of his new position closing in all around him: the impressive bachelor lodgings, the tailored wardrobe from Weston, the stacks of leather-bound folios packed with Parliamentary proposals. The eighth earl insisted that his son’s surroundings reflect his recently elevated status.
“Have I ever told you your father frightens me? I swear his face would split down the center if he attempted a smile.”
“He is stern,” Alec admitted, “but only because he takes his responsibilities so seriously.” As a child, he’d been frightened of his father, as well.
“Well, he is a spoilsport all the same. You’re only twenty-five. Why must you bother with the Commons?”
“I’d rather talk about the party, Gareth. I should think you’d be eager to attend. It will celebrate your birthday, after all.”
“Yes, but who knows what they’ve planned? Last year, the order of precedence going into dinner was decided not by titles, mind you, but by the high scores from an archery contest Annabelle organized out on the lawn.”
Alec refused to smile, despite the temptation. “Surely she didn’t lead the way into dinner? She hasn’t even made her debut.” To do so would have been highly improper. But not atypical.
“How did you know Annabelle won?”
“Of course she did. You’re forgetting we taught her the finer points of the game.” Just as they’d taught her to shoot pistols, bet on cards, and ride bareback. He’d had a hand, he supposed, in making her into the hoyden she’d become.
“Annabelle will always play to her interests,” Gareth admitted. “Which means that this year, there will be lots of dancing at the party. She’s mad for it, all of that spinning and skipping about. I ask you, who wants a Scottish reel back home when I can dance with the high-flyers in Covent Garden? Now there’s a dance I don’t mind doing.”
An inappropriate image of Annabelle came to mind, but Alec forced it aside, turning his focus on her brother. “You look as colorful as any bird-of-paradise in the Garden, Gareth. That satin waistcoat is nearly blinding in the afternoon light. My eyesight may not recover.”
“Just because Brummell dresses like an undertaker doesn’t mean that I have to be similarly sepulchral. Especially when there is a party I must attend. Say you will come. I don’t know the reason behind your estrangement with Annabelle—and do not deny there is one—but I’m certain that she’s to blame. She can be a maddening creature. Still, she misses your friendship. She said . . . let me think . . . that it ‘had more value than you have lately accorded it.’ I had to promise to say exactly those words.”
Ah, their friendship. Old and inviolable once. Annabelle’s barbs, like her arrows, were always well aimed.
With a deep breath, and before he could stop himself, Alec took a sheet of parchment and scribbled a few words upon it. He then folded it upon itself. He extracted a stick of sealing wax from a side drawer, heating it briefly above the beeswax oil lamp on his desk. He dripped a small puddle of wax where the folds met, and pressed it with his signe
t ring. Satisfied the seal would hold fast against Gareth’s attempts to loosen it, Alec handed him the note. “I will be there,” he said. “But I have little doubt I will regret it.”
Gareth merely chuckled. “If you’re going to regret something, make the pain of it worthwhile. Come join me at The Anchor on Park Street. I plan on getting well and truly drunk before I meet up with Digby to play cards. It will lessen the sting of my certain defeat.”
“Damien Digby is an ass. He makes you risk too much.”
“I can only stand one respectable friend, Alec. And that would be you,” Gareth added, “in case you’re wondering.”
“You say ‘respectable’ instead of ‘boring’ to spare my feelings, I know. Go on without me. If I’m to travel to Nuneaton for your birthday, there are things I must do.” Like memorizing names, organizing arguments, and—above all else—practicing a brotherly smile.
After Gareth departed, Alec pushed away from his desk, and walked over to the study’s large bay window, which looked out upon St. James Street below. Bracing his hands against the sun-warmed panes, he watched carriages and pedestrians move down the cobble-stoned thoroughfare, regretting his impulsiveness. Undoubtedly, his decision was a poor one. What would Annabelle read into his reply?
Annabelle,
I’ve missed our friendship, too. I will see you at Gareth’s party. But you must promise to keep your clothes on.
• • •
As he waited for his father to join him in the library at Dorset House, Alec took a brief glance at its worn leather tomes, all lined up in an orderly fashion along dozens of age-darkened wood shelves. This was Henry Carstairs’s domain, the inner sanctum where he built his political coalitions, and entertained allies with brandy after dinner. On the rare occasions Alec had been in London as a child, it had also been the room where Father meted out his punishments. Perhaps that was why Edmunds, their butler, had seated him here, rather than in the family drawing room. The earl’s note had hinted at his strong displeasure, though Alec was long past the age of birch rods and bloodied hands.