“Don’t let go, Miz Dane. Please, ma’am. Don’t you dare let go.”
“For pity’s sake! What have you got at the end of this rope?”
Her mama cranked the handle and Emmy eased up a few turns. With a grunt, Mama laid her weight into it, and Emmy shot toward the circle of light in jerky bursts. She cleared the top in time to see the backside of Nash scurrying toward the barn.
Mama yelped and let go of the handle briefly before latching onto it with both hands. “Emily Bertha Dane!” she screeched. “If this ain’t the last place I expected to find you.” She glared toward Nash, who broke into a trot after one last anxious glance over his shoulder. “I’ll deal with him later. As for you, climb out of there and explain yourself.”
Emmy held out her hand.
Mama grasped it and pulled her to the side.
Emmy longed to kneel and kiss the ground, but the look on her mama’s face told her she’d best save her knees for prayer.
Mama glared at her. “Do you realize you could’ve been killed?”
Trembling from head to toe, Emmy could only nod.
Still scowling, Mama pulled the busted bucket over the wall and rested it on the opposite side of the well. A puzzled look crossed her face before she leaned to pick something up from the ground. Holding her hand-embroidered handkerchief aloft, she gaped at Emmy in surprise. “Would you look at this? It’s one of my hankies.” She cocked her head and stared at it dumbly. “How do you suppose this wound up way out here?”
CHAPTER 4
Emmy’s heart sped up as Daniel Clark’s arms slid around her waist, his grasping hands cruelly biting into her flesh.
“Stop,” she whimpered. “You’re holding me too tight.”
Instead of loosening, his eager fingers curled, digging deeper in her back. Emmy cringed and started to cry.
Lightning crashed overhead. “Forget about Charity,” Daniel whispered. “She doesn’t matter.”
Emmy lifted her gaze and stared into the haunted hollows of Daniel’s eyes. “She matters to me.”
He stepped away from her and raised a pistol to his head.
Panic struck and sobs wracked her body. “No, Daniel!”
Anger, hatred, and blame burned in his eyes. “Time to get up, Emmy,” he called, his voice shrill and distant.
“Don’t do it, Daniel. Please. I said I’m sorry.”
He tilted his head to the swirling black clouds and closed his eyes, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Charity stepped from the shadows and wrenched the gun from Daniel’s hand. Pushing past him, she raised the barrel of the gun and aimed it straight at Emmy’s chest.
Emmy’s heartbreak turned to terror. “Charity, what are you doing? It’s me.”
Charity smiled. “I said get up right now. You hear me?” The pistol exploded with a crash that rattled the house.
Emmy opened her mouth to scream and...
“Emily Bertha Dane!”
Emmy’s eyes flew open.
The bedroom door that had hit the wall with a resounding bang swung back toward Mama. She stood on the threshold, her plump arms folded across her buxom chest. “You’d best shake that floor, little miss. I’ve been shouting for ten minutes.”
The bright, cheery room enveloped Emmy in a rush of yellow wallpaper and lace curtains. The shock of normalcy and light crashed against the darkness of her dream in a collision that hurt her head. She squeezed her eyelids together to block out the sun.
“Oh, honey.” Mama crossed the room and sank onto the side of the bed, pulling the mattress down and rolling Emmy against her thigh. “You had the dream again, didn’t you?”
Struggling to sit upright, Emmy shuddered. “How did you know?”
Mama tilted her head and sighed. “If the fright on your face hadn’t told me, your tears would’ve given you away.” She smoothed back Emmy’s hair. “Did Daniel kill himself again?”
Halfway through a nod, Emmy stopped and shook her head. “No. He started to, but it was different this time.” She frowned. “Charity appeared and turned the gun on me.”
“Charity?” Mama crowed. “Why, she’d kiss you before she’d shoot you. You saved that girl’s life. Well, from an unhappy life with that horrible Daniel, anyway.” Her eyes softened. “Why can’t you turn these memories loose, honey?”
Shame drew Emmy’s shoulders down. “Maybe because I stole my best friend’s fiancé. What sort of person does that?”
Mama nodded. “It was a plain awful thing to do, Emmy. But if you hadn’t, Charity wouldn’t be happily married to the man she really loves.”
Emmy scrubbed her face with her hands, trying to erase the last trace of the nightmare. “Still, I actually prefer the way this dream ended. The bullet finally found the true culprit.”
Mama patted her hands. “Hush that kind of talk. First off, you needn’t worry about Daniel Clark’s empty threat to take his own life. He holds too dear the image in his mirror. God and Charity forgave you a long time ago. You need to forgive yourself and get on with it.”
“Forgiving myself is hard to do in this town, with Eunice Clark waiting around every corner to pounce.”
“Daniel’s mama took it hard when he up and left Humble for good. I don’t suppose she’ll draw in her claws any time soon.” Mama’s bosom heaved in a sigh. “Don’t let her pin the blame on you, sugar. I suspect Daniel had leaving on his mind all along.”
Emmy sat up in bed and swung her legs over the side. “Tell that to Eunice, if you don’t mind.”
Mama swatted Emmy’s bare leg so hard it stung. “I just might do that the next time I see her. Which may be today. You and me need to take a run into town.”
The forced brightness in Mama’s voice set off a warning in Emmy’s head. Rubbing the pink-tinged mark on her leg, she peered up past one lowered brow. “What for?”
“We got us a mess of shopping to do. Won’t that be grand?” Her tone was far too cheerful, and her gaze waltzed around Emmy’s, never once making contact with her eyes. “Your papa wants to buy us a brand new wardrobe.”
“New clothes? Our closets are full.”
Mama cleared her throat. “He insists we’ll need things cut from lightweight fabric ... since the summer months are so hot in South Texas.”
“No!” Emmy shrieked and leaped to her feet. “You said he was thinking of letting me go to St. Louis.”
Mama held up both hands. “Calm down, child. He did think about it and decided to say no. It’s too far for you to travel without an escort, and we don’t have time to arrange a proper chaperone.”
“Then let me stay here,” Emmy begged.
“Absolutely not. Papa forbids you staying here alone. After the incident in the well, I quite agree. You’ve been so moody lately. Some time away from Humble will do you good.”
“St. Louis is away from Humble.”
“Let it go, Emmy. St. Louis is out of the question.”
Emmy’s hands balled into fists. “Did you tell him about the well?”
“I said I wouldn’t, didn’t I?”
“Then why!”
“For your own sake. Those dreams you’ve been having are part of the reason. Besides, your papa would like to spend a few days with you this summer.” Mama’s eyes turned sorrowful. “Is that so much to ask?”
Emmy groaned inside. Far too much, coming from him. She dropped her gaze. “Can Nash come along?”
“Of course not.”
“Oh, please? I need him there. Who will I talk to when I’m bored out of my mind?”
“Someone besides Nash. You know he has to stay here and run things while we’re gone. You’re not his only concern, Emmy. Nash has a family of his own.”
She closed her eyes and let her head fall back. “Oh, bother! When do we leave?”
“Next Monday.”
“So soon? That’s only a week from today.”
“Exactly the reason we’d best get a move on. Chances are we won’t find enough suitable clothes for t
he heat. If we need to hire some things made to fit, a week’s not very long.” She leaned to kiss the top of Emmy’s head. “Hurry down for breakfast, sugar. Bertha made her special biscuits.”
“Why does Aunt Bert still make breakfast for us? She has enough money to hire ten cooks.”
Mama smiled. “I reckon long-standing habits are hard to break. For both of us. Get a move on, sugar. It’s getting late.” She started to go then turned. “Don’t fret over the trip. You’re going to have fun.”
Fun?
Emmy frowned as her mama closed the door. Living a week under the same roof as Papa would be less than fun. The word for surviving him while serving a prison sentence in a smoldering wasteland wasn’t even in Emmy’s dictionary.
***
Diego rode up even with the porch of the casa mayor, the big main house where Cuddy Rawson reclined in a bentwood rocker, his boots crossed high on the whitewashed rail. A tall, sweaty glass garnished with lemon slivers dangled in his hand. His vacant stare and the slight upturn of his mouth meant his thoughts had drifted elsewhere.
Diego cleared his throat.
Cuddy’s stricken look and even quicker duck and shift of his eyes confirmed what Diego already suspected. He bumped his hat off his forehead with the leather handle of his quirt. “I’m happy to see you’re making a speedy recovery, amigo.”
Cuddy bit back a grin, pulling his feet to the porch and sitting upright in the chair. He held up his glass. “I owe it to Greta’s tender care. She’s bent on nursing me back to health.”
Diego glanced at the front door. “Would your lovely sister offer a cup of comfort if she knew the reason for your pain?” He nodded at the icy drink. “Lemonade’s the latest cure for a hangover, then?”
Cuddy winced then affected an injured look. “Your judgment is harsh, my friend.” He cocked back in the rocker again. “How could you suggest such a thing about your most faithful companion?”
“Save your recitals for Greta. This is me you’re talking to.” Diego dismounted and leaned his back against the handrail while toying with the braided band on his hat. He cleared his throat. “Cuddy, I thought you decided to go easy on the liquor.”
A cloud moved across Cuddy’s eyes, and he forcefully lifted one hand.
Diego nodded. “Very well, friend. I’ll change the subject. For instance, can you explain what you were considering with such intensity when I arrived?”
The shadow passed from Cuddy’s face, replaced by a wily twinkle. “You mean before you interrupted my lofty thoughts?”
“I doubt they were very noble.”
Cuddy’s huge grin brought his countenance to life, restoring some of the color behind his freckles. “We got company coming.”
The Rawsons seldom hosted visitors, but when they did, it was cause for celebration—South Texas–style. The prospect of roasting beef on the spit, dancing in the courtyard, singing, laughing, and talking to new faces brought a smile to Diego’s face, too. “Bravo! Who are we expecting?”
“Father’s old friend, Willem Dane. His wife and her lady friend are traveling with him.”
Diego narrowed his eyes. “And...?”
“Isn’t that enough for you?”
“Plenty for me, but don’t forget, I’m well acquainted with your tricks. A visit from a gentleman accompanied by two old ladies wouldn’t set off the look I saw on your face.”
Cuddy slapped his leg and laughed. “My, but you’re intent on insulting me today.”
“Who else is coming, Cuddy?”
He leaned forward and winked. “None other than the fair Miss Emily Dane.”
Diego’s brow rose.
“Willem’s daughter,” Cuddy clarified. “Papa claims she’s the prettiest little thing he’s ever set two eyes on.”
“Ah! Now it makes sense. As a devoted son, you’ll be standing close by to offer your heartfelt welcome.”
“Of course! Only a rank scoundrel would think to do otherwise.”
Hinges squealed behind them, stifling Cuddy’s bawdy laughter. Greta swept out in a rush of blue skirts and matching hair bows, her hands laden with a silver tray.
Diego took the steps in two leaps. “Let me take that, Miss Greta. I’d hate to see you trip and poor Cuddy here wind up wearing these fine-looking sandwiches.”
A flush crept past Greta’s high-buttoned collar, staining her porcelain skin a pale pink. “You say such naughty things, Diego, but they’re spoken with a certain flair. I can’t keep from laughing.” She offered the tray with a dimpled smile and the lingering gaze she’d perfected on him lately—the one that had him thinking about her in a completely different way. “Thank you.”
He returned her searching look until he felt himself blushing as well. “Of course.”
Greta smoothed Cuddy’s yellow hair. “Feeling better, big brother?”
Cuddy rubbed his stomach and leaned to gaze hungrily at the tray. “I will as soon as I force down a few bites.”
He went for a sandwich, but Diego jerked the tray out of his reach. “Whoa, amigo! None for you.” He placed the food on a table out of Cuddy’s reach. “Your sister means well, but you know what they say, ‘If you stuff a cold, then you’re going to have to feed a fever later.’” He aimed his brightest smile at Greta. “We don’t want old Cuddy coming down with a fever, do we? I think he needs to rest his frail constitution so he’ll fully recover.”
Greta clutched the sash at her waist. “Gracious, you may be right. I never once thought...”
Diego patted her hand. “Your intentions were admirable, and I applaud them. Besides, just because Cuddy can’t enjoy the fruit of your efforts is no reason they should go to waste.” Ignoring Cuddy’s glare, his fingers hovered above a plump, meat-stuffed triangle. “May I?”
“By all means, Diego. Help yourself.”
Cuddy spun around and snatched the roast beef sandwich before it reached Diego’s mouth. “I’ll take that off your hands, thank you.”
Greta scowled. “Cuddy!”
“I’m feeling better, sis. Honest. Diego’s company perked me right up.”
“Well, if you’re sure...”
“Positive,” he said, with a smirk in Diego’s direction.
Before Diego could react, John Rawson rounded the house on horseback with two rugged ranch hands on his heels. The aging ranchero sat his horse like a much younger man, with the vigor and authority befitting the owner of a spread like the Twisted-R Ranch. Diego held much respect for the big man and his principles. He’d taken Diego to his heart as a beloved son. In return, Diego loved him like a father.
“Ho! What good fortune to have caught you here together. Now I won’t need to waste half the day tracking Cuddy.”
Smiling, Diego crossed to the rail. “How may we be of service, sir?”
Still seated, Cuddy snorted. “Speak for yourself, I’m not well, remember.”
Mr. Rawson frowned slightly at Cuddy then addressed Diego. “I suppose you’ve heard we have guests on the way?”
Diego nodded.
“We have a week to spruce the place up. I’ll need you boys to help.” He leaned to see around Diego. “That means you, too, mister.”
Cuddy groaned, but his father ignored him.
“We’ve gone long enough giving this ranch a lick and a promise. I won’t have it going to seed. Just a little effort on our parts and we’ll have the place looking natty again. Inside and out.”
Diego bit back a smile. Under Mr. Rawson’s command, the staff of the Twisted-R kept the house and grounds in immaculate condition.
The gentleman’s wife slipped out of the door behind Greta and slid one arm around her daughter’s waist. “Focus your energy on the outside, John. Greta and I will take care of the inside.”
“Fine, fine,” he blustered. “Greta, help Mother and Rosita make preparations in the house. You’ll need to wash and air out the bed linens and tablecloths and pull out the best silverware.”
“I’ll see to it, dear. Did they say how
long they’ll be staying?”
“No, but I expect it will be several weeks. We’ll prepare for an extended visit. Have Rosita bring in her sisters to help with the cooking.”
Mrs. Rawson stepped over and leaned on the rail. “Relax, John. I have everything under control.”
“Forgive my exuberance, family, but Willem Dane is a very old friend. The last time we broke bread together was around my father’s table in Ripponden. You remember, Katherine, the year before we left England.”
She nodded. “I remember Willem well. He seemed like a wonderful man.”
“Of course, I’ve seen him a few times since, and we’ve exchanged letters. Now I’d like to give him a hearty South Texas welcome.”
Mrs. Rawson smiled sweetly. “And so we shall. I’m anxious to meet his family.” She addressed Greta over her shoulder. “We’ll put Mr. and Mrs. Dane in the north corner, Mrs. Bloom directly across the hall. Air out the room that faces east for young Emily. She can withstand the morning heat better than her elders.”
Cuddy perked up from where he lounged in the rocker, interested in the conversation for the first time. “Good plan! That room’s balcony connects with mine.”
His mother’s blush brightened her rouge. “Yes, Cuthbert, it does. That’s exactly why you’ll be bunking with Diego while they’re here.”
He shot to his feet. “What?”
“It’s the only proper thing to do. I won’t have Emily uncomfortable.” “That’s a ludicrous suggestion.”
“Watch your tone, Cuddy,” Mr. Rawson warned. “You’re speaking to your mother.”
“Sorry, Father, but the bunkhouse? Why can’t I just switch rooms with Greta?”
Greta spun. “Excuse me? Banish me to that awful hog wallow? I think not! The walls reek of sweat, sour whiskey, and dung-crusted boots.”
Diego’s brows lifted. So she does know.
Cuddy pressed close to Greta’s face. “I would expect you to feel right at home in a hog wallow, precious.”
She blustered. “How dare you! After I nursed your booze-sodden behind all morning long, waiting on you hand and foot.”
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