While walking across the park, Lucas fumed. He was incensed at the way Emma’s family was treating her, shuffling her off as if she were a criminal, instead of comforting her after her frightening ordeal. He could only imagine how a proper young woman such as Emma would be terror-stricken having a drunk, pawing cattle-prodder like Gus Woodson ripping at her clothes.
Lucas’s anger boiled in his chest, and he knew if he didn’t work hard at pushing down, it might erupt. He clenched his jaw thinking about how he’d deal with Woodson later. But he had greater concerns at the moment.
From where he stood, he could see Emma’s brother. He had gone to fetch the horse and buggy her family had arrived in, which had been housed in the park’s livery stables, where all the many buggies, carriages, and horses were kept while the picnickers were enjoying the festivities. But someone had stopped him on the way out. And now—Lucas noted with narrowed eyes—both Rusty Dunnigan and Caleb Dixon—those vile cattle ranchers—had waylaid him and were talking to him in a conspiratorial manner. And Walter was paying rapt attention.
Lucas scowled. He’d spotted those men near the picnic area right before Woodson had stumbled over and terrorized Emma. He wouldn’t put it past those two to have steered Woodson in Emma’s direction, planting lewd suggestions in his addled, drunken mind. It wouldn’t take much smarts for someone like Dunnigan to figure out that Walter was Emma’s brother—and note how disapproving he was of his sister “cohorting with Indians” at the July Fourth picnic. Dunnigan was nothing if not shrewd and calculating. But Lucas planned to stay one step ahead of him.
Lucas watched as Emma’s brother led the horse pulling the carriage over to the curb so his family could hurry away from the park, and get Emma away from drunken cowboys and dirty Indians. Lucas shook his head. As angry as that Mr. Turnbull had made him by his bigoted, cruel remarks, what upset Lucas even more was seeing how Emma’s “beau” had done absolutely nothing to help her. Lucas had glared at the young man, shocked—more like flabbergasted—wondering just what kind of man would stand back and watch the woman he loved get mauled by some drunken cowboy. It was shameful enough the man didn’t speak out against his father for the mean things he was saying about Indians. But Lucas could not tolerate a man who would let any woman be mistreated.
A sin of omission was just as bad—and sometimes worse—than a committed sin. And to stand back and watch a woman be accosted and not do a thing was akin to the priest and rabbi that crossed the street when they saw the poor Israelite beat up and left for dead. The Good Book gave that story of the Good Samaritan for a reason, and the Lord made it clear folks couldn’t turn a blind eye if they wanted to be a proper neighbor.
This was the man Emma Bradshaw loved? Lucas ground his teeth so hard his jaw ached. Well, if that was her idea of the ideal husband, then she could have him. He just didn’t understand how she could want a man like that, though. He wasn’t a man; he was a worm. How could a man with such soft hands and a lack of gumption ever protect a woman like Emma? The man probably never faced a day of danger—or hard work—in his life. And if he wouldn’t even stand up and defend her against a harmless drunk, what would he do when a real danger came along?
He couldn’t stand the idea of Emma Bradshaw marrying a man like that. Did she love him because he was rich and had a fancy education? Lucas grunted bitterly. Well, he’d come from a rich family too, and had as good if not better an education than that pansy from the East. But he wasn’t going to go around flaunting that fact. That’s not how you won a woman’s heart. And if that’s all a woman wanted, she wasn’t the kind of woman for Lucas Rawlings. He wanted a woman to love him for who he was, not what he had.
He kicked at the dirt, fighting the feelings that burned like a hot iron. It was as if her name was being branded into the very flesh of his heart, and he couldn’t do a thing about it. He lassoed the fierce need running loose inside him and pulled it tight, hoping to strangle it. But the pain of the truth wriggled its way out from his grasp, slippery than any frisky calf.
He had to face the truth—he was hopelessly, undeniably crazy in love with Emma Bradshaw. He wanted nothing more than to scoop her up into his arms and kiss her. Kiss her until she melted into him and they joined hearts, never to be severed. He longed to hear her whisper his name, to unpin her beautiful black hair and watch it cascade down her back. He envisioned running his hand along her neck, caressing her soft skin and hearing her words of love for him. Losing himself in those deep pools of blue that were her eyes.
Every nerve in his body ached at the thought of her in his arms, and as much as he needed to, he couldn’t stop the avalanche of images tumbling in his mind. His eyes were so thirsty for her, he could hardly breathe as he watched her, standing beside her mother, waiting to get in the carriage.
He took a few more steps, as if being pulled into her orbit against his will. He just had to get close to her again, even if she wasn’t aware he was there. She was so close, but she may as well been as far away as the moon. Knowing how much he wanted her and could never have her was a terrible pain. Was he destined to suffer over women his entire life?
Lucas’s attention was jerked away when Emma’s brother pulled the Cleveland Bay carriage horse to the curb, and the horse suddenly reared and screeched. Without hesitation, Lucas pushed past the people in front of him, hurrying to the carriage. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Emma and her mother jump back, but another woman—the one he took to be Walter’s wife—got her feet tripped up, and she began to stumble toward the spooked horse. One quick assessment made it clear what had happened.
Walter was struggling with the reins as the horse squealed again, rearing up and back and tossing its head, trying to break free of its breeching. The buggy jounced up and down, and by the time Lucas got to the horse, Walter was screaming at it. Lucas could tell Walter had been drinking and was paying no mind that his wife was about to be kicked. No one seemed to notice her; all eyes were on the rearing horse.
Then, to Lucas’s horror, Walter took the whip he held in his other hand and began lashing out at the Bay. He smashed the whip cruelly on the horse’s face and neck, making it even more hysterical. And as the horse cried more, Walter hit it harder and harder, screaming for the horse to shut up and behave.
Lucas’s mounting anger finally exploded.
In front of a gathering crowd, he yanked the whip from Walter’s hand and pushed him away from the horse. He threw a glance over at the woman, who was trying to find her balance, her hand over her stomach. He had to get the horse to calm down, to back him up, before that woman got trampled. Why didn’t Walter see his wife was in danger? How could he be such an arrogant chucklehead as to think beating a horse getting stung by yellow jackets would calm it down?
Even from where he stood, he could see the horse’s ankles swelling. Lucas struggled with Walter, who kept a tight hold of the reins and tried to push Lucas away.
“Get out of here, Cowboy! What are you doing?” Walter snarled at him and swung a fist in his general direction.
Then Walter raised his hand this time to beat the horse. The last thread of Lucas’s patience snapped.
Lucas smashed Walter’s nose with his fist. He had no time to engage in a gentlemanly discussion. He swung again and punched him in the gut, knowing his own rage was getting the best of him. Before he could do too much damage, he reined himself in. But he had accomplished what he’d set out to do, wishing he hadn’t needed to resort to violence. But this man was endangering everyone around him. And he needed to be taught a lesson.
Lucas would not tolerate cruelty. And especially not to a helpless, defenseless animal.
Walter covered his nose with his hands, relinquishing the reins. He stumbled back from the carriage. Lucas quickly stepped alongside the horse and laid a calming hand on its neck. He spoke quietly to it as the horse stomped its feet, no doubt feeling the pain of the stings. He had some salve in his medical bag over at the arena that would greatly soothe the poor beast. But right now he knew the horse was more agitated over the beating than the bee stings. The Bay needed to know it was safe and out of danger.
In a few moments, Lucas had the horse under control. He raised his eyes and saw the crowd watching, riveted, as the mayhem of the last few minutes dissipated into calm. Lucas kept uttering words of sympathy to the horse, stroking its flank, careful not to touch its ankles. The Bay nickered in distress, as if telling Lucas all its troubles. “I know, fella, I know,” Lucas said. “I won’t let him hurt you again.”
When he spotted LeRoy a few feet back, Lucas gestured him over. LeRoy hurried to his side and took the reins, studying Walter as if memorizing his face. Good, now that things were under control, Lucas needed to have a few words with the insolent younger Mr. Bradshaw.
Before Lucas could say anything, Walter stomped toward him and stuck a finger in his face. “How dare you? How dare you hit me, you . . . Indian lover? You’re just as savage as they are,” he said, scowling and looking over at LeRoy, who stood unmoving, holding the reins and keeping his face expressionless. Lucas smirked. That was why he’d called LeRoy over. That man could keep a straight face even if the hounds of hell were breaking down his door. And Lucas needed to diffuse all the anger raging around him—especially his own.
Lucas was aware of Emma’s eyes on his. Not just hers, though, but also her father’s, and her mother’s. But he didn’t care. Wrong was wrong. It couldn’t be swept under the rug like a pile of dirt.
Lucas pushed Walter’s finger out of his face and grabbed his arm hard. Walter winced and yelped, trying to pull away, but Lucas held tight, just the way he’d handle a cow about to get itself tangled in barbed wire.
“Don’t you ever lift your arm in anger toward any defenseless animal. Do you hear me? If I ever again see you beat a horse, I’ll take that whip and beat you to an inch of your life. And I mean it.”
He tipped his head toward Walter’s wife. “Your reckless behavior almost got your wife killed. You should have been paying more attention to her instead of the horse. Here she is pregnant with your child and in harm’s way. And all you could think about was making that horse mind you.”
Walter’s jaw dropped, but not a word came out.
Lucas glanced over and saw a look of shock on Emma’s face. He figured she was appalled at what he was doing, but he didn’t care. If she disapproved of his actions and words, then she deserved this family—and her beau, who was conveniently nowhere around. Lucas was about as fed up as he could be. But his anger was finally seeping out.
He looked at Walter again. “The poor horse stepped in a yellow-jacket nest.” He added as he wiped his hands on his pants and pushed his hair from his face, “I’d like to see how you’d react if your legs got all stung like that. You’d probably squeal and dance a bit too.”
Lucas didn’t wait for an apology. He highly doubted one would come even if he stood there until the first winter snow fell. He looked over at Emma’s father, whose cold, stern face was hard to read. Lucas couldn’t tell who the man was angrier at—his own son or the cowboy who had just humiliated his son in front of about fifty onlookers.
He blew out a breath and made sure Emma’s father knew he was speaking to him. He met the man’s cold eyes with his own frosty ones. “I’m going over to the arena to get my medical bag. Don’t move this horse or carriage. I’ll treat the stings, and in a little while this Bay should be able to take you folks back home. And I’ll send some salve home with you. Make sure you wash his legs with cool water and put more salve on tonight. That should do the trick. In fact, if you can lead him over to one of the irrigation ditches and let him stand in the cool water for a spell, that would be even better.”
Mr. Bradshaw nodded but said nothing. Emma had mentioned her father owned race horses. He hoped that meant her father cared for an animal’s well-being and would tend to this horse, although having money to buy expensive horses didn’t necessarily equate with kindness.
Mr. Bradshaw then walked over and took the reins from LeRoy, who left to stand beside Lucas. They watched a scowling Walter go over to his wife and take her arm, then lead her away from the crowd. Lucas couldn’t make out the expression on the poor woman’s face, but he hoped Walter wouldn’t take his humiliation out on such a delicate woman. It had been obvious to him immediately that she was frail and not having an easy pregnancy. He figured her about four or five months along, but she appeared a bit anemic. He shook his head in annoyance. You’d think a man with a wife in that condition would be watching out for her welfare. And not getting drunk.
Once Lucas assessed the fiasco was over and saw that the horse, although still fidgety, was reasonably calm, he looked over at Emma, who had tears glistening in her eyes. He tried to muster a smile, but just couldn’t. Clearly she was disappointed in him and how he’d treated her brother. Why, he’d practically embarrassed her whole family in front of the entire town of Greeley. He doubted if she or anyone in her family would ever say two words to him ever again.
But it couldn’t have been helped. Given the choice, he’d handle it exactly the same way again.
“Come on,” he said to LeRoy, not even trying to mask the bitterness in his voice. “Let’s go.”
Emma stood as if invisible as her family spoke in harsh undertones to one another, their voices like a murmuring , agitated sea around her, their eyes watchful of those around them who might overhear, or worse—mishear.
It was clear to Emma what her parents—and Walter—had thought of Lucas’s spate of anger, but she didn’t blame him at all. In fact, she was proud that he had stood up to her brother’s horrid behavior. And now knowing Lynette was pregnant—clearly as much to her parents’ surprise as to her own—she would gladly voice her support of his actions. For, it was highly probable Lucas had saved Lynette’s life by his bold and unhesitant actions, doing what was necessary to get Walter and his whip away from the poor frightened horse.
Emma’s heart was still racing as she looked over at Lynette, who was now sitting and fanning herself under the broad shade of a weeping willow. Now that she knew her sister-in-law’s condition, she could detect her pregnancy, although it was mostly hidden by the many petticoats under her dress. But Lynette, being as slight as she was, probably wouldn’t show greatly until her later months. If she made it through unscathed. No wonder she had been so sick on the train.
Clearly that worry was on everyone’s mind at present. But Lynette had only had a scare, nothing worse, thank God. Emma didn’t recall how far along Lynette had been when she’d lost the other babies, but she didn’t think it was more than two or three months. She hoped Lynette was out of danger so she and Walter might truly become parents, finally.
Emma hoped with all her heart this would prove true. A baby would make everyone happy—especially her father. Maybe Walter’s drinking had much to do with Lynette’s precarious health and this pregnancy. He’d kept this secret well, she noted. He’d wisely learned from Lynette’s miscarriages not to make joyful pronouncements of an impending birth. Emma breathed out a sigh of hope. Maybe this would also distract her father enough so that he would discontinue his efforts to marry her off.
More tears pressed her eyes as she thought about Randall. How she had hoped he’d grown into the man she’d want to marry. But what a great disappointment he was to her. Surely he’d always be her friend; they shared a past she could never dismiss. But she doubted in her heart of hearts she could ever marry a man like him.
She turned her head toward the east, away from her family, hoping no one would see her tears.
She lost track of the time as she wept silently, ruing the day she boarded the train to Colorado Territory. How would she ever be happy living in Greeley? What hope would she ever have in finding love and getting married? Her heart felt as hard and unfeeling as a stone, lodged tightly in her chest, making it hard for her to breathe.
A nudge to her shoulder made her hastily wipe at her face and turn around. Relieved to find Violet beside her, she felt comforted somewhat by her friendly smile.
Violet led her over to a table far enough away that they could speak without being overheard. The crowd that had gathered to watch the incident with the carriage had long dissipated, with picnickers off to watch more horse races, or prepare for the dance. From where they sat, Emma could see the elevated stage, festooned with colorful streamers and tiny American flags. A few musicians carried their instruments and positioned them on the stage. How she had looked forward to the dance. Although it was possible she could go home, change clothes, and return, she doubted her father—after the afternoon’s humiliation—would allow it. And who would she dance with anyway? she mused despondently.
“I didn’t see what happened,” Violet said, nodding toward the street, “but I heard.” She patted Emma’s arm and looked at the shawl Emma kept wrapped tight across her chest. “Frankly, I would have died if some drunken cowboy ripped at my dress. How frightened you must have been.” Violet make a clucking sound. “But I heard what Lucas did. And how he punched your brother. Oh boy.”
Emma waited for her to continue, but to her surprise, Violet began to laugh. “I bet your brother is steaming mad. To be put in his place like that—in front of everyone.” Her laugh trailed off. “But poor Lucas. I know he did the right thing, but I have a feeling he’ll never be welcome at your house.”
“Not likely,” Emma replied, working hard at keeping the emotion out of her voice. She wanted to be polite to Violet, but she wished to be left alone in her misery.
“But how come your sweetheart didn’t come over when that cowboy made improper advances? And why weren’t you sitting with him at lunch?”
Emma could no longer hold back the deluge of tears. A great sob burst from her throat and she cried, feeling utterly embarrassed.
“Oh, I’ve upset you—” Violet said.
“No,” Emma choked out, “no, it’s not you. I . . . I . . . oh, Violet, I’m so unhappy.”
Emma buried her head in her hands, wishing her friend wasn’t witness to her silly bout of emotion. But she hurt all over, as if this disappointment she felt was a pain emanating from every pore in her skin. What could she say to Violet? Nothing. She could never tell anyone how she felt.
Emma was grateful Violet didn’t press the point. A true friend, Violet just sat beside her with her arm around Emma’s shoulder, quiet and supportive. Emma figured she’d learned such kindness from her mother. Emma wished her own mother was as sweet and affectionate as Violet’s. She wished she was anyone else but herself at this moment.
Finally the stream of tears dried to a trickle, then stopped altogether. Violet handed Emma a handkerchief, and when she blew her nose, making a loud unladylike snort, the two girls both erupted in laughter, Emma grateful for the release and the friend at her side. As she stuffed the crumpled, wet handkerchief in her skirt pocket, she looked up to see her father marching toward her. Emma sucked in a breath and felt Violet stiffen beside her.
“Come, Emma. The carriage is ready and we’re leaving.” He gave a cursory glance at Violet but said nothing to her.
Emma’s father turned away in a brisk huff and began walking back to the street. Emma turned to Violet.
“Thank you—for being my friend,” she said.
Violet hugged her and nodded. “I’ll come by and visit soon.”
Emma didn’t think she would want any company for a long while, but she smiled and told Violet to enjoy the rest of the celebration.
“I’ll tell you all about it,” Violet replied. “I’m especially curious to see who Lily sinks her clutches into tonight.” She raised her eyebrows in an attempt to make Emma laugh, but Emma could only force a smile.
She hurried after her father, dread descending upon her as quickly as a Colorado hailstorm. And like hail, she expected hard words to strike her. If not tonight, soon. Somehow she knew that whatever anger her parents felt from the afternoon’s incidents, it would be directed at her.