Emma stood and stretched, rolling her neck to get out the kinks. Bees and flies buzzed in a cloud around her head in the warm, lazy afternoon as she looked across to the wide expanse of crops growing in the irrigated fields. It was hard to believe these hundreds of acres, once inhospitable desert, were watered by way of a twenty-mile-long system of waterways and flumes that wended through the cactus and up hills, carrying snowmelt from the South Platte River. Mr. Turnbull had bragged about this great feat of engineering when they’d gotten off the train.
And it truly was an impressive achievement, brought about by determined East Coast transplants to the Front Range. They had made the desert bloom like a paradise, albeit through much sweat and hard work. However, it served to remind her—as she looked with wonder upon the waving golden wheat stalks and thick fields of sun-ripened corn—that a person only need envision a dream, and then take hold of it. Colorado seemed to embody the idea of promise. Would it prove true for her? She wondered.
Emma stepped back and looked at the drawing clipped to her easel. She’d been drawing for hours, and although she felt stiff and desirous of a nap in a cool, dark room, finally getting out in the open fields and using her inks had been thrilling.
She was just completing her third drawing of some of the wildflowers that were sprinkled across the prairie. Although she wasn’t sure of their names, she hoped later to research them in her botanical books. She was glad she had found some magazines back in New York on the flora of the West, although they weren’t very extensive. Which renewed her hope that maybe she’d be the first artist to document much of the flora of the Front Range. She hoped her detailed studies—of plants, seeds, flowers, and roots—would provide ample information to any university she might submit them to. Her first choice, of course, would be Vassar. She would not give up hope that one day she could attend there. She allowed herself a fanciful thought: Or maybe even teach botany, or botanical drawing.
From where she sat on her blanket in her stocking feet, her sketchpad propped up on her small portable easel, she could look over at the town, with its neat streets and buildings laid out in rows. The stately Rocky Mountains rising to her left had been distracting her as she drew her fine lines on the expensive linen paper. She had never imagined what an impressive presence they cast upon the flat land that rolled out like a carpet before such regality. The only mountains she’d been in were not really mountains at all. Molehills compared to these towering peaks. Maybe one day she would take a trip into their heights and find herself peering down on her town plopped alongside the confluence of two rivers. How small it would look.
She returned to her easel, dipping her pen nib in the jar of black ink and working in crosshatched detail of the flowers’ stamens. Perhaps tomorrow she’d add all the color, knowing she would hardly forget the vibrant shades of gold, buttery yellow, and soft lavender she’d been looking at for hours.
She imagined showing Randall her latest work, picturing his approving smile, with him saying words that validated and admired her talent. She chided herself for wanting to impress him in some way. But she did want him to see she’d grown into a woman with talents and aspirations. And she knew he would wholly support anything she’d want to do. That was reason enough to consider him for a husband. She could never marry anyone who would want to squelch her creativity, or expect her to merely be an ornament on a man’s arm.
She let out a breath as she finished the last strokes, then stepped back, pleased at the work she’d done. This last drawing was her best by far. Maybe it was due to the breathtaking scenery and the fresh air that tickled her neck. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so alive and invigorated like this back in New York.
Thinking of the crowded city with its tall buildings crammed down rows of streets made her appreciate this wide-open space before her. The openness and unspoiled beauty truly made her heart soar. She could really learn to love this land, she realized with a start. Although, her mind quickly filled up with certain comforts she missed. Like the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and the huge rooms full of books at the public library. But each place had its blessings and drawbacks.
While the ink was drying, she got up and decided to collect some of the wild herbs she spotted growing all around. Clumps of pennyroyal with their dull leaves and dusty purple heads perfumed the air with its minty fragrance. Her mother especially loved mint tea. She’d also spotted fennel, mullein, yarrow, and clusters of rose hips that she could also add to the tea.
As she collected armloads of plants to stuff into the roomy satchel that she’d carried her art supplies in, she felt a rumble under her feet. She stopped and listened, identifying the faint sound of pounding hooves. When she swiveled around and faced the mountain range, she saw three horses with riders heading her way on a narrow deer track that ran along the north edge of the town. Well, one was a horse. The other two following him were much smaller. Ponies, certainly. And their riders were smaller than the man on the mustang. A shaggy dog ran after them, barking intermittently. It then dawned on her who the man was. She could tell not just by the horse and the smooth gait but by the comportment of the rider, and the shape of his hat.
Lucas Rawlings.
Her throat became dry as she stood there, the plants draped across her arms, watching. The sight of his masculine physique on his strong, graceful horse against the backdrop of the Rockies painted an iconic picture of the West. He was like a painting in a magazine, symbolizing the spirit of freedom and wildness. Man one with nature. She felt as if she should memorize this vision before her, and it not only humbled her but filled her with awe.
She now understood a little why this man intrigued her. He embodied the freedom she one day hoped she’d feel and know. The freedom to be herself and live the life she wanted to lead, uncaring what anyone else thought. For a woman, such thinking to most men was rebellious and improper, evidenced by the continual opposition to the women’s suffrage movement. But watching Lucas Rawlings canter across the open range caused her heart to pound in rhythm with his horse’s hooves. She’d never met a man who seemed so comfortable with himself, knowing who he was and what he wanted.
But what does he really want? Hoping not to arouse suspicion or overdue curiosity, Emma had summoned the nerve to ask Violet about this cowboy vet. Violet was happy to fill her in on everything she knew about him—which included that he was not married, but had been at one time. When Emma had asked what happened to his wife, she shrugged. She didn’t know, and it surely would be impolite to ask.
But Emma had a sense that the deep longing or pain she’d noticed in his eyes indicated some terrible loss. She hated to think so, but what else could be the reason for his current unmarried state? For living by himself at Sarah’s ranch instead of in town? Either his wife had left him or had died. She wondered which, and how long ago it had happened. But of course she wouldn’t ask. She wondered why she wanted to know anyway. It wasn’t any of her business.
To her surprise, Lucas and his two diminutive followers veered off the track and headed toward her. He’d spotted her. But did he recognize her from that far off? Well, she had recognized him, so perhaps he had.
And of course! The two boys with him were Violet’s brothers. Emma chuckled as Lucas and his companions rode up to her, slowing to a walk—no doubt to avoid burying her in dust. She guessed they’d been out searching for buffalo. Her eyes dropped to the rifle tied to the pack behind his saddle. Had he meant to shoot one, if he found one?
Lucas came to a stop about twenty feet from her and slid off his horse. He threw the reins over his gelding’s head and turned to the boys, who were dismounting.
“Say hello to Miss Bradshaw,” he instructed.
The boys suddenly noticed her, then tipped their hats and muttered hello.
Lucas nodded, satisfied. “Now, you can let them graze a little, but walk them a bit to cool them down.”
In unison they answered him, “Yes sir.” He handed one of the twins his own horse’s reins. “Take Ransom too. He’ll behave for you.” The boy’s eyes widened, as if he felt honored at this directive. He took the reins from Lucas, and the two boys began walking their charges. Mostly tugging on them, Emma noted, amused. Clearly those ponies meant to get as much grass into their mouths as possible. The dog nipped playfully at their heels.
Lucas turned back to her and tipped his hat. He threw her a warm, easy smile that made her tingle all over. “Miss Bradshaw.”
“Hello, Lucas. Shoot any buffalo?”
He laughed. “No, but not for lack of trying.”
His eyes swam with mirth, and Emma felt suddenly flustered. She set down the armload of plants as she stood on the blanket. She should have put her shoes on, for heaven’s sake. Lucas came over and studied the drawing drying on her easel. He then cocked his head and chewed his lip.
“You have quite a talent there,” he said. He smiled at her, and her face grew hot. He took a moment to look over the details she had rendered. “Your technique is excellent. Just as good as any I’ve seen.”
Emma didn’t know what to say. She fussed with her pots of ink and pens, putting them in their cases and then into her satchel. She glanced toward the north and saw the boys busy carrying out their orders.
“Have you . . . seen many botanical illustrations?” She knew it was a strange thing to ask, but she couldn’t seem to put a coherent sentence together. Why did she get so disconcerted every time he stood next to her? He was so close she could feel his body heat and smell his fresh earthy scent mixed with horse, practically intoxicating.
He turned and looked at her. “I’ve done my share of studying flora and fauna. In vet school back in Philadelphia.” He gestured at her drawing. “Lupinus arboreus. Considered invasive in some places. A bit toxic, but if you soak the seeds in a salt solution, they’re edible. Some of the Indian tribes eat them. Horses usually ignore lupins.”
Emma stared at him. She’d hardly expected to hear this kind of scholarly speech come from a cowboy’s mouth. And he spoke so matter-of-factly—not in an attempt to show off his knowledge, the way so many of her rich upper-class acquaintances back in New York did, to impress others. Rather, his tone suggested he was intrigued by plants—the way she was.
He glanced down at her pile of herbs and flowers, and a serious look came over his features. “Are you planning on taking those home with you, to draw them later?”
“Actually, no,” Emma said, covering her now-dry illustration with a sheet of tissue paper. “I plan to dry most of them and use them for teas. And for sachets.” Would he know what a sachet was? Of course he would, if he’d been married before. Surely his wife would have had them to freshen up her undergarments. Emma’s mind flitted to an image of Lucas holding a woman close, smelling her skin and the lavender scent of her silk chemise. A shudder went through her chest at the thought of those arms no longer able to wrap around a woman he loved.
She lowered her gaze, hoping Lucas didn’t see the look on her face as she fussed with closing the sketchbook cover and setting the pad inside her satchel. She would put her shoes on and lace them up, but imagined how difficult it would be to appear ladylike while doing so. Better to wait until he left, and then she’d head home. But right now, she had no interest in hurrying home. She wanted to know more how much he knew about these wild plants. Maybe he could tell her the names of some of these flowers growing in this field, which would help her to properly label her drawings.
She was about to ask him about the little clumps of pinks at her feet, when he began pulling out some of the plants from her bundle. He narrowed his eyes at her, and his look took her aback.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked, making sure he’d collected all from her pile.
“Yes, those are wild carrots. I thought they’d be a nice addition to dinner.”
To her surprise, he threw them to the ground. “Nice, if you wanted to kill everyone in your family.”
She gasped. “What?”
“Poison Hemlock. Corium maculatum. Not Daucus carota.”
“I . . . I . . .” Emma felt not only foolish but horrified. Was he playing a joke on her? No, his look was serious, and full of concern. Not at all smug, although it was clear he knew well what he was talking about. He lived here; she was the newcomer. And he would have to know about poisonous plants as a vet. He no doubt had treated animals that had ingested poison. She bit her lip, unable to utter a word. There was a lot more depth to this cowboy than what she first presumed.
“See,” he said, picking up one stalk and coming up close to her face. She sucked in a breath and held it as his smile rested upon her, just the way he’d looked when he’d spoken to her horse and calmed her when he stitched her up. “Notice the smooth stem? The chalky residue? Take a whiff.”
He held the plant up to her nose, and she made a sour face. “Hemlock has an unpleasant odor,” he said, “whereas wild carrots smell very much like carrots. They have fuzzy stems and tighter flowers.”
He stepped back and dropped the stalk of hemlock. “But it’s easy to see why the two get confused. The leaves look almost identical. Unfortunately, many unsuspecting folks have died due to their lack of proper knowledge.”
And so would have my family. Emma cringed thinking of how stupid she was. She picked up the remainder of her plants, wondering what other deathly dishes she might be about to give her family. “Wh-what about these?”
He fingered through her bouquet as she held it in her arms, then said, “You’ve made good choices with the rest of them.” He shot her a sweet look. “It’s an honest mistake you made.”
Emma let out a trembling breath. “If you hadn’t come when you had—”
“But I guess the good Lord saw fit that I did. And I’m glad.” His eyes sparkled as he smiled, his lips curled in a crooked smile. “I’d hate to think of anything else bad happening to you. Only been here a couple of weeks, and looks like the Wild West is already out to get you.” He let out a good-natured laugh. “But I sense you’re up to the challenge.”
Emma shook her head, still trying to recover from the shock of this discovery. “Once again, kind sir, I’m grateful to you. You’ve saved me twice from my foolishness.”
“My pleasure,” he said, and she could tell he meant it. “As much as I enjoy rescuing you, I hope I’ll have other opportunities to engage your delightful company without the elements of danger and potential death.”
Emma tried to laugh along with him as the two boys came over leading the three horses.
“We’re starving,” one of them said. The other nodded vigorously.
Lucas ruffled their heads, a glint of mischief in his eyes. Emma enjoyed watching his affectionate treatment of these boys. He must really love children. He’d make a wonderful father. How sad he never got to have any. She thought about her own father—how distant and unaffectionate he was. She would never be that way with her own children. And she would want a husband . . . like Lucas, she acknowledged. One who would play with his children and let them know how loved they were.
She then thought of Randall, wondering if he too liked children. He hadn’t said anything to her about wanting them. Or even wanting to marry, for that matter. The thought brought a frown to her face.
“Well,” Lucas said to the boys, “I’m starving too. All that buffalo hunting sure creates a fierce appetite in a man.” He threw a humored glance over at Emma, but his words sounded hungry for more than food. Or was she imagining that?
She hurried to gather up her things, then became aware of her shoeless feet. Before she could think of what to say, Lucas tipped his hat at her and mounted his horse. The boys followed suit.
“Be careful walking back through the tall grass, Miss Bradshaw. There’re often rattlesnakes around.”
Emma sucked in a breath, horrified.
“You usually hear them before you step on them.” He locked a smile onto her. Now she knew he was playing with her. “So you might want to walk to the path over yonder.” He pointed back to the deer track he and the boys had ridden down. “Safer.”
He let his eyes scan the dry plains, blue with mirage lakes in the shimmering heat and backed by the sweep of mountains. “You also need to be careful with all that Opuntia polyacantha. I don’t know if you have much cactus out where you’re from, but if you get some of those prickly pear needles in your tender soles”—he gestured his head at her feet—“they can cause a lot of swelling and pain.” He threw her a smile, but Emma felt chastised nonetheless.
“Thank you, Mr. Rawlings.” At that moment she couldn’t bring herself to call him by his first name. She felt so utterly foolish and naïve. Here she was, in a place abounding in danger, and she sat drawing as if she were sitting on a bench in Central Park. Maybe the West was a bit too wild for her. She never had to worry about snakes and hailstones and poison hemlock before.
“Would you like us to escort you back?” At that the boys let out groans of complaint.
“That won’t be necessary, I’m sure,” Emma said. “Besides, you’ve got two hungry boys in tow.”
“Yes, Miss Bradshaw, I do.” He paused, then added. “Have you thought about what I said? About getting a proper horse to ride? I think Sarah has a couple in mind for you, ones she thinks would suit you just fine.”
Emma pushed past her feelings of foolishness and said, “I have been considering your suggestion.” She thought about her incident by the river. She was tired of making unwise decisions. Maybe it was time she listened to the advice of those who’d been out on the Front Range awhile. If anyone could pick a good horse for her, Sarah could. She had no doubt.
“I’ll speak to my father. Maybe he’ll be willing to come out to the ranch with me to look at some of the horses. He owns a lot of racehorses back East.”
Lucas grinned, but his look told her that far from impressed him. “I think that’s a fine plan, Miss Bradshaw. He nudged his horse around to face town. “Good day.”
Before Emma could utter another word, he rode off, the two hungry boys and a shaggy dog on his tail.
Lucas led his mustang along the road, his heart almost as heavy as his stomach. He’d thoroughly enjoyed a huge feast of food at Miz Edwards’s table; she knew how much he appreciated her fine cooking—especially her sweet fruit pies bursting out of their crusts. But the whole time he ate, his thoughts were distracted from the friendly banter around the table. He couldn’t get Emma Bradshaw out of his mind. Her piercing blue eyes, her soft skin and full lips. The way she tipped her head and blushed at his words.
He’d thought her haughty and stubborn the day they’d met—she seemed like so many young women he’d encountered from rich, upper-class families, come out west all high-minded and thinking they could tame the wilderness as easily as picking out a hat from a rack. But the more time he spent with her, the more he realized she was anything but haughty. She had the kind of zest for life and learning as had Alice. Just looking at her botanical illustrations affirmed not just her tremendous talent but a passion and curiosity for God’s creation. And just as Sarah had said—a fire burned under that blue ice. Maybe fire hot enough to melt the ice around his heart.
But it was clear she had a beau. He’d seen the way she looked at that young man, their arms entwined. Both of them dressed up in their rich East Coast finery. One quick look had told him the man exuded wealth and class. It would be wrong to interfere with someone else’s courting. Maybe they were even engaged—he didn’t know. And he certainly wasn’t going to ask.
Lucas scowled and kicked at Ransom’s flanks, urging him into a run. The sinking sun bled deep colors of red and orange across the horizon, and the wind bit at his face as his horse’s legs chewed up the last mile of road south of Sarah’s ranch. His emotions felt as raw as his cheeks by the time he veered into the lane leading up to the large ranch house. Ransom breathed hard as Lucas slid off and unbuckled the cinch.
He thought about that dandy young man who had been walking with Emma. Soft, well-mannered. He was probably well-educated—and maybe he could even speak Latin. And maybe that would impress a woman like Emma Bradshaw. But would he know how to protect a woman from the dangers in Colorado Territory? Did he know how to shoot a gun? Did he have the backbone to defend his woman from ruffians and outlaws who had nothing but evil intent in their hearts?
Lucas grunted. He could hardly imagine such a man out in a blizzard hauling in firewood or repairing a wagon’s axle that had broken and lay mired in a muddy sinkhole. Such a man wouldn’t deign to get his hands and fine clothes dirty. And you had to be willing to get dirty out on the Front Range. Life out here was dirt and more dirt. Dust, snakes, tumbleweeds and cactus. Blizzards, tornadoes, dust storms. It wasn’t a picnic. You had to have not just physical strength but a strength of heart to weather it all. To beat the elements and the hard knocks life threw at you.
He’d surely faced more than his share in his twenty-eight years of life. He doubted that proper gentleman from the East had ever had to get his hands dirty, let alone risk his life to protect the ones he loved. And Emma needed a man who was not just willing but able. She deserved such a man.
Lucas let his thoughts rumble as he brushed down his horse and turned him out in the pasture with Sarah’s other horses. By the time he stomped the dirt off his boots and swung open the front door, night had fallen like a shroud over the land. A few early stars peeked through the blackness overhead, and ground owls punctured the night with their haunting cries.
He wasn’t expecting the scene he saw when he walked into the kitchen. Eli was sitting at the table, his face bruised and bloody. He leaned on one arm while Sarah dabbed something on the back of his head. LeRoy stood near the ice box, his arms folded across his chest, and a brooding scowl on his face.
Eli winced and swore under his breath.
It was clear they’d been having an argument, but when Lucas walked in, they hushed up. Sarah shot him a look that told the half of it. Lucas could guess the other half.
Maybe he should have had that talk with Eli, Lucas realized with regret. But he and Sarah both knew Eli hardly took heed of anyone’s counsel other than his own.
Eli looked up at Lucas with one eye black and so swollen he could barely open it. Which made Lucas wonder what Eli’s attackers looked like once Eli had finished with them.
“Anything broken?” Lucas asked, still standing at the threshold of the door, wondering how safe it was to step further into this morass. “Do you want me to take a look?”
Sarah shook her head. “His nose is busted. I cleaned and packed it.”
Lucas could tell she’d done a good job. She often helped him doctor up horses when they’d gotten hurt, and he imagined she’d learned plenty while growing up with her people on how to tend to human ailments and injuries. He doubted he’d do much better with Eli’s nose.
Eli complained through his obvious pain. “Lucas, you need to talk some sense into her.” He jerked his head toward his mother.
Seems like you’re the one who needs the talking-to. But considering the frayed and touchy tempers in the room, he said, “What about?”
“Dunnigan and his buddies are determined to force us off our ranch. He says if Ma doesn’t take Chisholm’s offer, she’ll be sorry. They think if they spew a lot of threats, we’ll just run away with our tails atwixt our legs. Well, that’s not gonna happen.”
“So, what do you want her to do?”
Eli’s agitation had him squirming. “She wants to let the sheriff handle it. Like that lazy son of a snake is going to do a thing about it? Everyone knows how he feels about Indians. He’s probably egging those men on.”
Sarah threw the blood-drenched cloth into a tin basin filled with water. “And you’re not? Fighting and yelling will only make them more determined. The ranch is legally mine. No one can run us off or take it away. The law’s on our side.”
Eli made a noise of disgust. LeRoy remained unmoving, unblinking, listening but not contributing his opinion. He’d learned long ago to stay out of the viper pit when his mother and brother went at it.
“The law?” Eli was practically yelling now. “Ma, how many treaties has the US government broken with Indian nations over the last hundred years? The law? You really think any white men care about the law when it comes to Indians? The law is what they decide it is. And Dunnigan and his cronies have their own idea of law—which you dang well know. Whatever they want, they take. They’ve shot men over cattle. You think they value the life of an Indian more? Huh?”
Sarah shook her head and crossed her arms. “And what do you think will happen if I take the law into my hands? Where do you think I’ll end up—and this ranch? You’re only adding wood to the fire. Making things worse.” She then grumbled something in her Indian tongue, and Lucas was glad he couldn’t translate it.
But Lucas saw Eli’s point. And Sarah’s too. He knew Sarah had spoken to Sheriff Weyburn a number of times about the threats over the last year. Yet, there wasn’t much the sheriff could do—if he did care to deal with it—other than tell Dunnigan and the other cattle ranchers to lay off. It wasn’t his jurisdiction; and the marshall over in Evans stayed out of conflicts like this—more interested in pandering votes. The important question was, Just how far would Dunnigan take this? Would he resort to violence? How badly did he want Sarah’s choice land?
He’d considered talking to Dunnigan himself, but what could he say, really? If the cattleman was determined to force Sarah out one way or another, Lucas would hardly be able to reason with him. But one thing was for certain—if those men’s threats turned ugly, Lucas would do whatever he could to stand alongside Sarah and her sons, regardless of the danger.
He’d been forced to kill men in the war, as much as he hated doing it. He had a high regard for life. But just like in the war—if he had to defend himself and those standing with him, he’d do it without a second thought. Whatever the consequences. He decided to change the subject and hopefully diffuse some of the rage ricocheting around the room.
“You still planning on entering the races next week at the park?” Lucas asked Eli.
Eli’s eyes simmered with fierce determination. “Yes. Broken nose or not.”
Lucas knew Eli meant to do more than show his prowess at riding. All the cattlemen, ranchers, farmers, and townspeople would be at the big Fourth of July celebration. Every year he and LeRoy won most of the ribbons, but Lucas had a feeling this year winning meant more than a few token awards and impressing the girls watching from the stands. In past years, some arguments and fights had broken out—mostly due to unruly men who’d been drinking whiskey and found themselves restless and bored. But these were minor incidents quickly squelched by the sheriff and his temperance committee.
However, Lucas had a strong feeling things might get out of hand this year—especially if Eli didn’t get his rage under control. Since there was no way Sarah would be able to talk Eli out of participating in the events, someone would have to keep a close eye on Eli.
Lucas chewed on his lip as he watched Eli get up and storm out of the room and LeRoy shake his head.
Lucas usually didn’t carry his Colt when he went to the annual celebration. Folks came from all over to enjoy the food and festivities and have a great time with their families. Hardly an event that required carrying a gun. But this year he would.