Emma was astounded by the huge crowds at the park. As her family’s carriage pulled up to the entrance fronted by large plots of colorful pansies and chrysanthemums, she noticed hundreds of people, dressed in a variety of garb, milling around, talking, and carrying baskets of food. Through the hordes of people she could make out a large riding arena in the back, surrounded by wooden stands, already filled to crowding with spectators. From the loud cheering, she guessed a race was in progress. She had hoped to find Violet upon arriving, but this would be no easy task. However, Emma knew her brothers would be entering some of the pony races for youngsters, so maybe she could locate her somewhere in the stands.
Her father nodded at the attendant who took the reins of their horse. With his head high, Charles Bradshaw took his wife’s arm and smiled. “This way,” he said, leading them to a side gate marked “Private,” away from the long lines waiting to enter.
“Emma,” her mother said, pulling her attention away from the sights of all the ladies dressed in their summer fashions and sun bonnets walking with their children in tow. “Pay attention and stay close.” Her mother frowned with disapproval at the sight of a group of shabbily dressed men who appeared to be ranch hands or laborers—and who were eying Emma up and down with a lecherous look. One whiff as they walked by told Emma they’d been drinking—and hadn’t bathed in a long while. Emma’s mother made an audible noise of disapproval as she pulled on Emma’s arm to steer her wide of the loitering men, who seemed to have nothing better to do than look at the young women as they entered the park. One of the reasons her father had chosen Greeley was the strict no-alcohol laws, but that didn’t prevent visitors from outside the town limits from drinking.
“Where are we going?” Emma asked.
“Mr. Turnbull has reserved a special table for us near the arena. And he has a private seating section for us to watch the races.” Her mother fluttered the fan in her hand, trying to cool her face in the already-hot morning. Emma thought she was overdressed, but her mother always had to look her best and make an impression. Emma opted for comfort.
She followed her parents closely, noting the wide assortment of people attending the event. Clearly most of the people were not from Greeley. Few were dressed in fine clothing such as they were. Most were in simple dress, many of them cowboys and farmers in their denim pants and overalls. There were groups of Chinese families and others she guessed were Mexican, with their picnic baskets and colorful outfits. Groups of men stood around laughing or playing games on the dirt. They threw horseshoes, and even knives, letting out bursts of laughter as well as profanity. Emma’s ears heated at some of the coarse language. She glanced at her mother, who kept her eyes narrowed and focused ahead, as if fording a dangerous creek and aiming at the far shore for safety.
Emma glanced around for Violet or anyone else she recognized from town and their church. Only when they arrived at the shady picnic area filled with long wooden tables did she spot their pastor and his wife, and the Wilkersons and their daughter, Lily. Emma had no interest in talking to Lily, though, and hoped that Violet’s family would soon arrive.
Already sitting at one of the tables was Lynette and Walter. Emma was greatly cheered at seeing her sister-in-law looking so pretty with a grin on her face. Dozens of weeping willows had been planted in rows, and their sweeping boughs created a nice shade cover that dispelled much of the heat. On two long tables covered in pale yellow lace-trimmed tablecloths were platters of food and large glass tureens of something to drink. Emma presumed it was lemonade, and the large blocks of ice floating in it made her suddenly thirsty.
As her parents walked over to speak to some of the families seated at the tables, many already eating their lunches, Emma poured herself a glass of lemonade and said hello to the ladies setting out more food. Dishes filled nearly every inch of the tables, and there were huge fruit and vegetable salads, meats of all kinds, roasted ears of corn, and delectable-looking desserts. Clouds of insects swarmed around everyone’s heads, but most people ignored them. Regardless of the buzzing gnats and flies, it was a feast for the eyes, and no doubt for the stomach as well. Emma couldn’t wait to taste everything.
With her drink in hand, she went over and visited with Lynette and Walter. She finally had a little time to sit and chat with her sister-in-law. All the while, Walter seemed morose and distracted, eyeing the crowds and watching the goings-on. But Emma couldn’t quite tell his mood. If she didn’t know better, she would think he’d been drinking. His eyes were a bit glassy and dazed, and he moved unsteadily when he walked to the table to get a plate of food. Emma knew her brother enjoyed his fine scotch in the evenings, but she’d never seen him inebriated in public. Had his drinking gotten worse due to Lynette’s continual health issues? If Lynette was upset by his behavior, she showed no sign, but she was never one to reveal much of what she felt, always keeping composed and collected. Sometimes Emma wished she could be more like her.
Emma was grateful for the huge grassy lawns in the park. So much of Greeley was dirt, and dust coated everything. But with the park situated right alongside the Cache la Poudre River, the grounds were well-watered by irrigation ditches that ran in long narrow canals, and large flowerbeds added a soothing fragrance to the dry air. Still, the heat penetrated through the boughs overhead, and Emma was glad she’d worn a lightweight cotton dress with just two taffeta petticoats.
She knew Mr. Turnbull was actively involved in putting on this annual event. Randall had told her after church on Sunday that he would be busy in the park office for most of the day, but he promised to watch some of the races with her in the afternoon. Emma looked forward to spending time with him in a relaxed social setting such as this. And she’d heard there would be a dance in the evening. That was what she looked forward to the most. Hopefully Randall would dance with her, take her hand in his, and together they would speak in quiet voices and dance to romantic music.
She envisioned his arm around her waist, his eyes gazing into hers. She wanted so badly for him to open up and tell how he felt about her. She wanted him to fall in love with her, and to see that look of adoration in his eyes. Surely he cared for her. And he must have some intentions. Would he make them known tonight, under a full moon amid the beautiful setting of the park, with the river gently flowing behind them?
Emma let out a breath and finally spotted Violet. With a wave, she caught her friend’s attention. Violet hurried over, and Emma gave her a hug.
“Hurry, Thomas and Henry are entered in the next race. Will you come watch with me?”
Emma nodded and turned to Lynette. After she introduced them to each other, she asked Lynette, “If my mother asks about me, would you tell her I’m with Violet? We’ll be sure to come back after we watch some of the races.” Emma was thrilled Violet had come to fetch her. She’d much rather sit with Violet than with stuffy Mr. Turnbull—even if that meant Randall wouldn’t be sitting with her. She frowned thinking of how Randall acted around his father. He seemed so bullied and afraid of him. Did he ever dare speak his mind or disagree with his father?
Violet threaded through the crush of the crowd, holding tight to Emma’s hand. They climbed the steps of the stands partway to where the Edwardses were sitting. Mrs. Edwards gave Emma a big welcoming smile. Mr. Edwards said hello to Emma and scooted down to make room for the girls.
“Why, Emma, I’m so glad Violet found you. Come, sit with us. The boys are about to race.”
“What is this event?” Emma asked, looking down at the row of about a dozen boys on their ponies positioned at one end of the arena, waiting tensely for the race to begin. They each held the reins in one hand and something shiny in their other.
Violet answered, “It’s the egg race. They have to keep the egg on the spoon, gallop to the end, spin around, and run back. The first back across the line with their egg still on his spoon wins.”
Emma shook her head. “That doesn’t seem all that easy.”
Violet laughed. “It’s not. Usually the boys try to run too fast. Most make it to the turnaround, but they lose their egg when they swing their pony to head back. It’s fun to watch though.”
Violet was right. The boys took off when the gunshot rang out, and Thomas and Henry did real well until the turnaround, where they both dropped their eggs. Even from where they were sitting, Emma could tell the frustration and disappointment on all the boys’ faces as eggs dropped one after another on the dirt. However, quite a few boys galloped home with their arm outstretched and their egg balancing on their spoon. The crowd cheered the winner, who tossed his egg up in the air after he crossed the finish line. Emma could tell Violet’s brothers looked dejected.
“Oh well,” Mrs. Edwards said. “Balancing eggs isn’t their strongest talent. I’m sure they’ll do better in the keyhole competition.”
“How many races are they participating in?”
Violet said, “There are about six or seven events for the kids. The cutest you missed: the mutton-buster.”
Emma laughed. “Mutton-buster? What’s that?”
“The tiny kids, under five, ride big, fat sheep. There’s a strap cinched around the sheep’s belly so they have something to hold on to. You should see them when they let them out of the chute. The kids bounce along as the sheep trots down the arena, and slowly they slip to the side until they just fall off and land on the ground.”
“Sounds adorable.”
“They have to stay on at least ten seconds. But few ever make it that long.” Violet’s eyes twinkled.
Over the next hour they watched the rest of the children’s events, and Emma was surprised to see some young girls competing. They rode astride, wearing trousers just like the boys—to Emma’s astonishment. She wondered what kind of parents would let their little girls dress and ride like boys.
Then, to her surprise, when they announced the adult events, Emma spotted Lucas Rawlings on his mustang trotting out into the arena. Violet saw him too.
“Oh, there’s Lucas.” She nudged her mother. “Do you think he’ll win the reining competition again this year?”
“I’ve no doubt,” Mrs. Edwards said. “If he’s still riding Ransom.”
Emma’s eyes widened at their talk. She knew Lucas could ride a horse, but win competitions? He surely was full of surprises.
“What do they have to do in this event?” she asked.
“Oh, lots of things,” Violet answered, as about a dozen horses and riders warmed up by circling the arena in a slow lope. “They have to execute perfect circles, using flying lead changes. Then they have to do a run-down and flying stop, then back the horse up ten feet—oh, you’ll see. It takes a lot of control, and shows off both the horse and rider’s ability.”
The horses then circled back to one end of the arena, and one by one their numbers and names were called. Emma was amazed at the agility of the riders, but when Lucas’s name was called and he pulled Ransom out into the arena for his turn, Emma held her breath. She watched in awe as he maneuvered his mustang, smooth as glass, looking relaxed and confident. The other riders were good, but Lucas excelled far beyond their adequate riding skills. It was as if he and Ransom were of one mind, joined at the hip. He finished to a wildly cheering crowd, and no one—not even Emma—was surprised when he was announced as the winner at the end of the event. He rode up to the judge’s stand and swept his hat off his head and nodded at the crowd. He then took his trophy and rode out of the arena.
Emma blew out a trembling breath. She had been greatly impressed by his performance. He rode as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if it were a dance. She’d never seen such grace and poise and control, and it implied he’d spent many hours training Ransom to respond to his subtle cues.
Emma smirked, feeling that familiar stirring in her chest. She could imagine how a woman would respond to such gentleness and patience under his guiding hand. She blushed at the thought, realizing her imagination was leading her to picture an intimacy she had no business dwelling on. But she couldn’t get the thought of what those strong arms would feel like around her waist. She’d never felt such fervent desire as she did in this moment. Not even being close to Randall gave her such stirrings of passion.
This was wrong. She was wrong to allow herself to fantasize such things. Lucas was not her type. He belonged to the wild, untamed West—a place he felt wholly at home and fit into, like a hand in a glove. He was made of the stuff that thrived in such a harsh, challenging environment, and she was not. He’d made that clear when he showed her how naïve and fragile she was. Even if she learned to love living out here, she could never look at the West the way Lucas did. She needed a safe, comfortable life, in a proper home, with a husband who could provide for her in the style in which she’d been accustomed. A man with class, culture, and fine upbringing. Someone with whom she could discuss news and books, someone with education and experience in the world at large.
Randall could provide all that for her. He would support her desire to be an artist and maybe would encourage her to attend college, even become a botanist, if that’s what she wanted. Maybe once they married, they’d move back to New York. She knew if she asked Randall, he’d say yes. He didn’t want to be out here any more than she did. He would have to stand up to his father, though, and Emma knew what would happen if he did. He’d be cut out of his family, and from his father’s money. But Randall had talent and ability. He could easily get a job with a firm back East. Emma had no doubt that even if Mr. Turnbull disowned his son, Randall could succeed in business and provide comfortably for her. Even if they had to scale down their lifestyle, Emma would be willing—if it meant Randall would be free of his father’s chains.
The thought of marrying Randall and moving back to New York stirred Emma with impatience. She needed to put this cowboy out of her mind—he only represented childish dreams and romantic notions from adventure stories. She was attracted to the idea of him because he represented the freedom she wanted. But she knew she could never thrive in a life in the West. Just like her crape myrtle. She had carted it all the way from New York, determined to make it adapt and learn to “bloom where it was planted,” as Mrs. Turner had said. But Emma figured if she planted her tree in Colorado, forcing it to endure the harsh elements and deficient soil, it would probably die. She could water and feed it all she wanted, but some plants required certain conditions in order to survive. And so did some people. She should accept the truth about herself before she made a grave mistake.
Violet tugged on Emma’s sleeve. “Emma, did you hear me? They’re about to start the really exciting events. The roping competitions.”
Emma listened absentmindedly while Violet explained all the upcoming events. Her heart felt heavy thinking and worrying over Randall and wondering just what he felt for her. She knew she should get back to the picnic area, where he might already be waiting for her, but she told Violet she’d stay a little while longer.
The next events were exciting, and to Emma’s surprise, she heard the names of Sarah’s sons announced. They were entered in all the next events, which included individual and team roping, barrel racing, pole bending, and a trail class. Emma was riveted by the speed and agility of the riders, and especially amazed at how quickly the cowboys shot out of the gates and had the calves lassoed and tied off in a matter of seconds. She’d never seen anything like it in her life.
Caught up in the excitement, she found herself cheering and clapping at the impressive performances of all the riders. Eli and LeRoy Banks, though, made off with a large number or ribbons, and she smiled as they whooped and hollered upon collecting their awards. Even though they didn’t look much like Indians, they seemed to act the part—maybe to entertain the crowd. Eli—the one she hadn’t met yet—even wore a feathered headdress, and his horse was decorated with paint and sported a colorful Indian blanket. Emma wondered if anyone in the crowd would be upset by that, but she had seen some people around the park dressed in Indian garb. She supposed there were some Indians still around—people like Sarah who owned and ran businesses and didn’t pose a threat to the settlers.
Realizing hours must have passed, Emma turned to Violet. “I should get back to my parents. And I’m starving. Can you come with me?”
Mrs. Edwards nodded. “I’m off to the pie and cake competition. I’m one of the judges.”
“Does that mean you get to taste them all?” Emma asked.
“Yes, and believe me—it’s hard to pick a winner. But we have three judges and we use a score card. Do you like to bake?”
“Heavens, no,” Emma said. “I’ve never baked a thing in my life.” She had rarely ever stepped foot in a kitchen.
Mrs. Edwards laughed, and Emma wondered what she was thinking. Did she think Emma stuck-up? She hoped she didn’t give that impression.
Emma added, somewhat awkwardly, “I suppose I should learn someday.” Although she really had no interest in learning how to cook or bake. She was content to have others cook for her.
Mr. Edwards spoke—for the first time. He was one of the quietest men she’d ever met. With a sly grin he said, “It’s a mighty fine skill for a young woman to have. You know what they say—the way to a man’s heart . . .”
Emma chuckled, wondering if Mr. Edwards had married his wife mostly for her cooking. Emma imagined she was a wonderful cook, and wouldn’t fault him if he had done so.
“Well, I’ll walk you girls back,” Mrs. Edwards said. “Ed needs to go find the boys, and I don’t want you two young ladies wandering unchaperoned. There are all kinds of disagreeable characters loitering around. And as the day goes on, the more drunk some of them get—even though liquor is prohibited in the park. It’s not safe.”
The girls nodded, and after saying good-bye to Mr. Edwards they walked back over to the picnic area, where Emma found her parents, and Walter and Lynette, sitting with Randall and his father. At least a dozen other families were seated at the tables, and Emma recognized most from church.
Randall’s eyes lit up when he saw her, and he quickly took her hand and led her to sit beside him. Violet joined them, and soon they were all eating and drinking lemonade in the sultry heat of the late afternoon. Mr. Turnbull commanded the table, speaking loudly about various topics, forcing everyone to listen to his opinions. The families seemed to be enjoying their meal and chatting with neighbors. The atmosphere was lively, and crowds of people wandered through the park around them, heading to the races and other games, or to the food tables.
Emma wished she could go someplace quiet with Randall to talk, but he seemed perfectly content to sit at the table and listen to his father and the other men discussing politics and the proposal to make Colorado a state. Emma filtered out the conversation, feeling mostly ignored. Why didn’t Randall want to talk to her? Was he sitting there out of polite obligation?
She turned to him, about to suggest they maybe go for a walk along the river, when Mr. Turnbull mumbled something under his breath. Emma turned and saw his face redden with a scowl.
“Those blasted Indians. What are they doing here?” His voice was loud enough to carry across the picnic area.
Shocked by his pronouncement, Emma turned to see who he was looking at. The blood drained from her cheeks.
Coming toward the tables from the direction of the arena was Sarah and her two sons, their faces happy and flushed from the heat. And Lucas Rawlings was walking with them.