She caught sight of Bobby on his dun in the thick of the work, keeping the cattle headed toward the chute despite their best efforts to cluster at the other end of the corral. He waved before going back to whistling at the recalcitrant beasts and maneuvering his horse to keep them moving into the chute. She’d been glad he was willing to drive the wagon and come with them, even with Milly’s presence.
“Do you have any questions?” Drew called, wiping a scowl off his face as she turned back to him.
“Yes. Why are you rebranding them?” she called back over the din.
“I bought this herd from a place called Half Moon Farm,” he explained. “See, the ones we haven’t branded yet have crescent moons on their near hips—if you’ll pardon the indelicate term,” he added quickly.
Violet managed to prevent herself from rolling her eyes. She’d never understood the era’s prudishness about naming body parts when it was extended to animals. “Of course.”
“With our branding irons, it’s easy to change that crescent into a small d with a big A leaning on it, to stand for ‘Drew Albright.’” His proud smile indicated he thought that was quite clever.
“I see.” It also explained why he was branding in the middle of the summer, rather than in the spring, as most ranchers did.
How soon could they politely leave? Violet wondered. It had been kind of him to invite her, but she’d had quite enough verisimilitude to last for a while, she thought. Taking a handkerchief from her pocket, she wiped the perspiration from her brow underneath her wide-brimmed hat.
“Ah, you are too hot,” Drew said regretfully. “I wouldn’t want you to swoon from the heat. Why don’t we go back to the ranch house, and you ladies can freshen up? You haven’t seen the entire house yet, and I’m sure Mrs. Brookfield must be missing her child.”
“I’m afraid you must blame my English upbringing,” Violet apologized, grateful that the ordeal was nearly over. She was guiltily aware that she was using the heat for an excuse, for she thought she could have watched Raleigh work cattle all day and not want to leave.
They’d only seen the entrance hall and parlor when they arrived, where the Mexican housekeeper met them and introduced a fascinated Nicky to her children. Now they would be in for an hour or so of admiring the rest of the ornate furnishings in his sprawling, overfancy house before they could be on the road for home. She could manage to endure that, but just barely, she reckoned.
* * *
Drew Allbright stared moodily out over the now-empty corrals and took another deep draft of his whiskey. He’d failed, he thought. He’d been the genial, hospitable host, and had even tolerated the presence of Violet’s sister-in-law and her brat to protect her all-fired respectability, and still, he could tell that the Englishwoman regarded him as nothing more than an amiable friend who had provided her with an interesting experience. He’d seen the flash of poorly concealed relief on Violet’s face when Mrs. Brookfield had suggested that as it was getting on toward suppertime, they’d best be going.
Well, if he couldn’t win Violet Brookfield by fair means, he wasn’t averse to using foul ones. He was certain the Englishwoman wasn’t as cool as she pretended to be. Why had she come to visit Texas just now? Was it possible she was fleeing a soiled reputation across the ocean? He’d wager those rosebud lips had been kissed, and kissed thoroughly. Or if she was truly as innocent as she let on, maybe those English fellows back home just didn’t know how to awake the tigress that might lurk within her. But whether she was truly an ice maiden or not, she would be his, and her aristocratic aura would add to his own stature.
He needed to get her alone long enough to tempt her to abandon that ever-so-correct way of hers. And if he couldn’t accomplish that, he needed to compromise her so completely that she would have to marry him to repair her shredded reputation for the good of the Brookfield name. Her family would insist, he was sure of it. She’d be recompensed when he became governor, or senator, he thought. Senator Allbright of Texas. Governor and Mrs. Allbright. He liked the sound of that.
He’d overheard her sister-in-law mention something about going to church and mentally kicked himself for missing an opportunity to spend more time with her. He hated sitting for an hour with a bunch of pious fools listening to another pious fool prattling scripture, but he could pretend if it would help his cause.
* * *
“Nick, did Edward ever tell you when he would send for me to come home?” Violet asked several days later. It was evening, and Milly was busy bathing little Nicky. Violet had found her brother alone on the porch, perhaps waiting to take the air with his wife.
Nick looked startled and laid down his whittling. “No. Are you having such a horrible time, then? I thought you were happy here.”
“I am,” she assured him, instantly contrite. She hadn’t meant to make her brother feel bad. It was just that she felt so much in limbo. She’d been praying about Raleigh for days, hoping to see him, and nothing had happened. She’d even taken to writing again in that shaded copse that overlooked the creek and the border between the two ranches, hoping to see him, but that had failed—though she’d gotten a lot of writing done. She’d lingered in the barn, hoping to catch him coming to take Lady out for a training run, but so far she hadn’t been successful there, either. He seemed to pick times when he’d have reason to think Violet wouldn’t need the mare, such as Sunday mornings, and took Lady for a gallop then.
Some days it seemed anything would be better than this uncertainty, even returning home. “I’m sorry, Nick. I was just wondering if Edward had indicated he was waiting for some particular event or season in England, or a happy report from you that I’ve been the epitome of decorous behavior....” She shrugged. “He wouldn’t say during our voyage here when he meant to have me return. I thought perhaps he’d confided in you. Is he waiting for the scandal to die down?”
“I should think it already has,” Nick said reasonably. “You know such things tend to be nine-day wonders—there’s always some new subject for the gossips. And since, as you tell me, Edward stopped your elopement before it had properly begun, so to speak, I should think the talk has shifted to other objects. But I don’t think Edward brought you clear across the Atlantic only to have you return in the winter, the chanciest time to make an ocean voyage. So I’m afraid we’re stuck with you till spring, at least.”
The twinkle in his blue eyes told her he was teasing her. “You!” she cried, giving her brother a playful jab with her elbow. “It would serve you right if I decided to stay forever, and became your children’s old-maid aunt that you had to feed. No, it’s just that I don’t understand some people very well.”
“‘Some people,’ or one person?” he asked.
“It’s certainly not Drew Allbright, in case that’s what you were thinking,” she said, trying for a haughty tone and failing.
“I certainly didn’t think so. He has a way of turning up, hasn’t he?”
She nodded ruefully. Drew had come to church Sunday, and sat with her and the family as if he’d always been doing so. Since Raleigh hadn’t been coming to church, she’d had no basis to discourage him and could only resort to ignoring Drew’s attempts to flirt with her during the sermon. He’d even come to the ranch again one morning without warning to ask her to go riding. Fortunately, this had been one of those mornings that she’d gone out to write by the creek in hopes of seeing Raleigh, so she’d missed him.
“Do I need to have a word with the Allbright fellow, tell him to leave you alone?” he asked, his blue eyes missing nothing.
Violet shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’m hoping he’ll get the message in time.”
“What about the other fellow? Shall I tell him he’s being an idiot?” Nick asked with a wink.
Had Milly told her husband how his sister felt about Raleigh? She must have. There were no secrets between a husband and
a wife who loved each other, and Milly probably thought she had a responsibility to keep him informed, for Violet’s own good. But if he disapproved of Raleigh as a potential match for his sister, it didn’t show on Nick’s face.
“Nick, your wife advised me to pray about it,” she said. “I have. Nothing’s happening. I haven’t wanted to be that bold hoyden my brother thinks I am, so I’ve been waiting for some sign....” She flailed both hands to show her frustration.
Nick rubbed his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “You know, the Quakers have a saying—‘Pray, but move your feet.’ Why not pray and ask the Lord to show you what that means in your life?”
“But—”
“I trust you, sister. You’ll know what to do when the moment comes.”
Violet wished she could be as sure.
* * *
Ella Justiss lingered in the alleyway between the hotel and the mercantile until tears of anger and frustration no longer threatened to course down her cheeks. Once more she’d pleaded with Mrs. Powell, the hotel cook, to let her do some of the cooking, even offering to stay after her shift was over to demonstrate some of the tasty dishes she knew would appeal to the patrons of the hotel restaurant.
She’d been the cook’s helper in the institution she’d grown up in. The head cook at the place had once been a chef at a famous restaurant in New Orleans before he’d resorted to the bottle. He’d taken an interest in her and taught her how to cook some of his best recipes, and before long she was cooking for the hard-nosed couple who ran the institution. Their food was a far cry from the cheap slop served to the rest of the inhabitants, of course. The cook had taught her more and more of the elaborate dishes he’d prepared in the old days, but as she grew to womanhood he’d started taking a different interest in her. She’d had to leave the place that had been her home since she was five.
The coins she’d managed to steal from the old cook had taken Ella as far as Simpson Creek. She’d found employment at the hotel, careful to give the proprietor a false last name and made-up story about where she’d come from.
But the hotel needed a waitress, not a cook. Mrs. Powell held that job, and she didn’t want to share it with anyone, especially a slip of a girl who claimed she was skillful with spices and sauces and could make things taste better. Mrs. Powell didn’t want to be shown up, thank you very much, and chance losing the job she’d held for fourteen years.
Ella Justiss didn’t want to be a waitress all her life, carrying heavy trays and washing endless amounts of dishes and existing on the low wages and paltry tips that came her way. She just knew she could cook more inventive and tasty dishes than the bland concoctions Mrs. Powell served, but the cranky old woman wouldn’t give her a chance to prove herself.
Today was just the latest instance in which the cook had told her to get back out in the restaurant and do her job, not hang around inside the kitchen making unwanted suggestions. Now Ella was on what Mrs. Powell euphemistically called her dinner break, but when Ella had declined to eat the remains of the baked chicken that had been the special for three days running, the cook had ordered Ella to take her bad attitude outside.
She wished she could have her own establishment. Just a little café, but she’d run it like she wanted, prepare the dishes she saw fit, and people would come for miles around to taste her cookery. The hotel in Simpson Creek boasted the only restaurant in town, and it needed some competition, something for those who were passing through and just wanted quickly available but tasty food.
She might as well wish for the moon.
Ella gazed across the street, watching men stride in and out of the Simpson Creek Saloon. She knew sometimes men went in there hoping for a bite to eat to go with their beer or whiskey, only to learn George Detwiler’s saloon served only spirits, not food. She knew because they’d trudge across to the hotel to eat before going back to the saloon or to ride on to wherever they’d been bound.
What if—?
She dusted off her apron, and stepped gingerly across the street, careful to keep the hem of her gray waitress uniform and apron out of the muck.
When she pushed through the batwing doors and entered the dim interior of the saloon, only two patrons were present, sitting together at a table next to the far end of the bar. A half-empty whiskey bottle and three glasses sat on the table between them.
They looked around when bright daylight preceded her into the saloon, shading their eyes. One of them looked disappointed, but the other whistled. “You a new saloon girl?” he called. “Tell George he ought to dress you up bright. Gray ain’t no color to serve drinks in, let alone make a fella want—”
“I’m not a saloon girl,” Ella snapped quickly, and moved to the far end of the bar, away from the leering pair. They guffawed at her, but went back to drinking. She’d never seen them around town before. Drifters, probably.
“Help you, miss?” A woman stepped out from a curtained-off area behind the bar, carrying a case of liquor bottles. She was dressed much more like what the lout at the far table had meant, in a low-cut gown of gaudy fuchsia trimmed in black lace. “You can’t be lookin’ for work, ’cause it’s obvious you already got that,” she said, gesturing at Ella’s uniform. “I won’t bother to tell you George don’t need any more saloon girls at the moment.” She was matter-of-fact, but not unfriendly now that she knew Ella wasn’t competition.
“I’m not,” Ella agreed. “I had a proposition—a business proposition, that is—to pose to Mr. Detwiler. Might I speak to him?”
“You could, but he’s at the bank right now. Should be back any minute,” the other girl said. “Have yourself a seat at that table.” She pointed to the one at the opposite end from the two men. “I’ll make sure those two yahoos don’t bother you. Can I get you a drink?”
“N-no,” Ella said nervously. She was thirsty, but she certainly couldn’t afford to go back to the restaurant with liquor on her breath.
“I meant water,” the saloon girl said with a wink. “You look like you could use it.” She reached under the counter and brought up a heavy crockery jug.
Ella looked around, careful not to make eye contact with the loitering cowboys, hoping Mr. Detwiler would return soon. She dare not be late returning from her break, and the proximity of the drunken men made her nervous.
Then the batwing doors pushed open again, and Ella looked up, forcing herself to smile, for that always made a good impression when you were trying to get a person to spend some money.
But it wasn’t George Detwiler.
It was Drew Allbright.
Chapter Fifteen
Ella whirled around in her chair, hoping the wealthy rancher didn’t see her before his eyes adjusted to the gloom, or if he did, he wouldn’t associate the meek creature in a gray uniform and a white apron with the spinster who had attended the barbecue and dance in a pretty teal-colored dress. She’d even danced with him once, when Violet had another partner, but it was a quadrille and they hadn’t spent much time in close proximity before he’d gone back to the Englishwoman.
“It’s about time,” she heard one of the yahoos call out. “We figured you’d decided against yer plan.”
“Of course not, gentlemen,” Allbright said, his tone genial. There was a creak of wood as a chair scraped the floor. “Bring us another bottle, Dolly,” he called to the barmaid.
Dolly took a bottle to their table.
“Why don’t you take a break, honey?” Ella heard Allbright say, then coins clinked on the table and Dolly disappeared back behind the curtain.
Where was George Detwiler? If he didn’t come soon, she would have to go back to the hotel without accomplishing her goal. But she was trapped—she really didn’t want to walk past Allbright’s table and have him recognize her. He might even say something at the restaurant about it the next time he came in.
She w
aited until the men’s attention was fully engaged in one another, then closed the distance slowly and quietly between the table and the bar until she could duck behind it. Unless one of them came right up to the bar for service, they couldn’t see her behind the massive mahogany counter. They seemed more the type to yell for what they wanted, anyway. She only hoped Dolly wouldn’t give her away if she returned and found her back there.
“So what’s the plan?” the other of the two men asked.
“You know that little cabin I showed you out in the hills beyond my spread? I’m going to take her there tomorrow. I’ve had it all fitted out for comfort.”
“Comfort, eh?” sniggered the other. “That what you call it?”
Behind the bar, Ella crept closer. What were these men planning? And who was the “her” Allbright referred to?
“It should suit my purpose,” Allbright said. “One can hardly expect a lady to say yes in a bare shack. If I’m able to persuade her, there’ll be a lovely repast for us to celebrate with, complete with flowers and wine.”
“And if she’s...reluctant?” asked the other, his tone almost gleeful.
“That’s where you come in, gentlemen. At my signal, you’ll enter and...shall we say restrain the lady?”
Another guffaw. “Tie ’er up, y’mean? Sure, we kin do that.”
“Then what’ll you do?” the other man asked. His snigger was suggestive.
Allbright chuckled. “Brutality would hardly help my case,” he said. “Which is why you’re there to do the tying up. But you’re to be as gentle as possible, despite the fact she may fight like a rabid wildcat. She’s a lady. I have only to wait out the night there with her.”
“And then what? What if th’ lady still ain’t willin’?”
Dear heaven, who were they plotting to do this to? She had to warn whoever it was! She’d thought the newcomer was interested in Violet Brookfield....
“Oh, but she will be,” Allbright said. “She will have been gone overnight, and her reputation shattered—unless she returns to her family and recounts that she rather impulsively eloped with me and got married in Lampasas. I’ve arranged everything with a parson there, and he’ll be expecting us the following morning. He won’t know anything about what will have happened before, naturally.”
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