Emma’s father brought the horse and buggy to a stop in front of the Turnbull estate. Well, for Greeley it seemed like an estate, Emma thought, with the stone walkway lined with weeping willows, and a wraparound porch hugging the colonial-style house. It wasn’t a palatial country mansion, but much bigger and elegant than any other house around—other than the Meekers’ impressive two-story adobe home near the center of town. Even in the dim light of the lit lanterns hanging on posts down both sides of the walkway, Emma could tell Mr. Turnbull must employ a full-time gardener to maintain the elaborate hedgerows and perennial beds. So shortly after the grasshoppers had devastated most of the flora in the town, his yard appeared unscathed. But Emma concluded all she saw around her must have been newly planted—aside from the trees, which were bare this time of year anyway.
Emma had seen the Turnbull house from the street, but this was the first time she’d been invited inside. When Randall had sent an invitation to her whole family to come to dinner, a feeling of trepidation had washed over her. And now, as she climbed the steps in her most lovely silk gown and wearing her pearls and long lace gloves, an even greater sense of dread filled her. She stepped into the ornate entry, where the butler took her wrap and hat, then realized this was no small affair but rather a party populated by a dozen or more of the wealthiest citizens of Greeley.
Her mother, just behind her, let out a small cry of delight. “Oh, Emma,” she said, hurrying to remove her coat and thrusting it at the butler, who stood at attention with his arms outstretched to take her things, “what a lovely, lovely home!”
Of course her mother would be impressed; the house oozed wealth. Emma noted Mr. Turnbull had spared no expense in crafting and furnishing his spacious home. From the intricate mahogany crown molding to the crystal chandeliers and sconces, his house was every bit the ostentatious home he had in New York. Emma imagined the party was due to Mrs. Turnbull’s recent arrival in town, come to take in the “quaint festive holiday season” on the wild frontier—as her mother had put it. Emma had been told Randall’s mother had managed to tear herself away from all her social obligations in Albany in order to pay her husband and son a visit.
How odd that his parents lived apart, Emma thought, as her mother practically dragged her into the parlor, where a dozen or more elegantly dressed guests mingled and spoke in animated voices. But, she recalled, for many years Randall’s father traveled due to his dealings with the railroads and had hardly ever been home. They’d be used to living separate lives.
Her parents walked off to speak with the pastor and his wife, who were sitting on a settee across the room, and she blew out a breath of relief. Ever since Randall had proposed to her, her father had been stern and impatient with her. No doubt he’d hoped she would have given Randall an immediate answer. And during the last week, her mother acted as if the “engagement” was settled, trying to get Emma to talk about wedding plans, much to her dismay. She noted, grimly, that her mother had instantly perked up after hearing of Randall’s proposal. Although, the news that Emma had found a placement agency in Omaha with just the right servants they required had greatly relieved her mother. Whether any would last long after arriving was another matter altogether.
A servant handed Emma a flute of champagne, and another offered her canapés from a silver platter. Spice-scented candles burned brightly along the sideboard loaded with hors d’oeuvres. A quick glance told her Randall was not in the room yet, but she spotted her brother and Lynette, and she could tell from the strain on Lynette’s face that she was unwell. Was it wise for her to be out—and attending a party, no less? Emma imagined the doctor would have warned her if it posed a danger. So perhaps Lynette was better. The thought sent a wave of relief coursing through her. She would make it a point sometime this evening to talk with her. But for now, she wanted to visit with Violet, whom she spotted standing alongside her parents, who were engaged in deep conversation with the Wilkersons. She noted the wild twins were absent—no doubt home with a sitter. A wise decision, Emma thought with a smirk. She imagined their parents wouldn’t have a moment to enjoy the party, trying to keep them from misbehaving.
Lily stood next to her mother, looking entirely bored, dressed in a gorgeous green silk gown, with her hair done up perfectly and adorned with a web of pearls. She truly was a beauty, Emma noted, wondering again why she hadn’t yet married. Emma had hardly said more than a few words to Lily, she realized with guilt. She should make an effort to get to know her. Lily was a few years older than she, but there were so few young ladies close to Emma’s age. Did Lily resent living out here, so far from the social life of high society? How did she spend her time?
As Emma made her way through the crowd of guests, she said polite hellos and nodded her head. She knew most from church. Aside from the Wilkersons and Edwardses, the elderly Mitchells, from Poughkeepsie, New York, and the Baxters—wheat farmers—from New Jersey were also here in attendance.. A few others were strangers to her, but she could tell by the dress and manners that they came from high society. Just before she reached Violet, though, a familiar booming voice erupted from a room off the parlor.
“Welcome, my dear friends,” Ernest Turnbull said. “We’re delighted you have come.”
Emma turned and saw Randall’s father, impeccably dressed with his wife clinging to his arm, entering the room. Mrs. Turnbull glittered with jewels on her arms and around her neck, looking every bit like a strutting pigeon, her large chest jutting out and her chin high.
They made their way around the room, welcoming their guests. Violet waved at Emma and Emma smiled back, holding back a chuckle as Violet made a funny face that was clearly an imitation of Mrs. Turnbull’s manner. Then she felt a hand on her arm.
She spun and found Randall at her side. “Oh,” she said, happy at seeing him, “I didn’t see you come in.”
He took her hand and squeezed it. With a kindly look he said, “I’m so glad to finally have you over to the house. Although, I’ve never been comfortable at such affairs. But now that you’re here with me . . .”
His smile set her at ease. He added, “I suppose I should greet all the guests as well. And I need to reacquainted with Mother. Will you join me?”
Emma nodded, allowing him to loop her arm around his. Beset by a case of nerves, she wondered whether Randall’s mother would remember her after all these years. And she had hoped to avoid speaking to Mr. Turnbull, if at all possible. She couldn’t imagine he thought all that highly of her, having seen her sitting with Sarah and her sons at the picnic. It puzzled her to think he would approve of Randall marrying her, but seeing her father now in close discourse with him, exchanging hearty laughs and knowing smiles, only reinforced Emma’s suspicions that both fathers were somehow in collusion regarding Randall’s proposal of marriage. The thought once more set Emma’s anger churning, making her feel a pawn in their game of life.
Pushing these thoughts from her mind, she pasted on a smile and allowed Randall to make their rounds in the room. By the time they’d said hello to all the guests, a servant came into the parlor and rang the dinner bell. Randall led Emma to the dining room.
The table was beautifully set, with places for sixteen, which all the guests and their hosts filled. It had been months since Emma had had such an elegant repast, with so many courses of finely prepared food, served by three footmen serving dishes and clearing away plates. Mr. Turnbull, of course, had the finest china and silver, and it was clear he meant to impress his guests.
During dinner, Emma said little, allowing the light, friendly banter to flow over her while her restlessness and discomfort grew. Although she felt quite comfortable with the formality of the meal, she noticed both her father’s and Mr. Turnbull’s eyes often upon her, watching her warily. Randall seemed to take no notice of her mood, smiling gaily and behaving as expected—as the dutiful, well-mannered son of a wealthy railroad baron. Although he sat beside her, he seemed miles away, only occasionally throwing her a friendly smile. Violet was far down at the end of the table, sitting across from Lily, the two girls chatting amiably.
Despite all the company surrounding her and trying to engage her in conversation, Emma felt strangely empty and alone. She had a sudden wish to be out riding her horse across the open range, breathing in the refreshing mountain air, free from the scrutinizing gazes of the townspeople sitting around the table. She’d never felt this stifled and constricted in New York, even with all those people and the crowded streets. Here, she was under a magnifying glass; nothing she did went unnoticed.
Was she slowly becoming acclimated to living in the West? The thought struck her forcefully. Gradually over the months she had been setting down roots deep into the Colorado soil, and she realized now how she was coming to love the wide open space—not just loving it but also needing it. The stark beauty of the endless rolling land, the slow-moving wide river, and the majestic mountains changing color each day invigorated her spirit in a way she’d never experienced before. The Front Range spoke to her soul, but up until now she barely heard its whisperings. For the first time since moving here she wondered if she really would be happier back in New York.
And at the thought of leaving here to return to the East, a picture of Lucas Rawlings invaded her mind and made her heart ache with another, different kind of emptiness. Why did this cowboy unravel her so? Just picturing his rugged, handsome face and easy smile set her heart racing. And always she felt his strong arms around her waist, holding her gently but with a tenacity, as if he never wanted to let her go. And when she recalled the way he’d leaned toward her to kiss her, with his emerald eyes smoldering with desire . . .
She clenched her eyes shut, wanting to erase this night, this room, these people. She longed to be standing alongside the silvery Platte River, with the bowl of stars twinkling overhead, Lucas’s arms drawing her close to his broad chest, his hands running through her hair, pulling her face to his, his tender lips hot on hers.
She could feel that kiss as if he’d already kissed her, as if his hands belonged on her body, caressing her skin, cradling her face. Her body washed hot, a fire surging through her limbs. Suddenly the room was too hot, the others around her too close. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath.
As she reached for her glass of water with a shaky hand, nearly frantic to excuse herself and get out in the cold night air, Mr. Turnbull suddenly tapped his crystal glass and stood.
“Friends,” he said boisterously, casting a glance at all his guests, “it pleases me to share with you some wonderful news. You all know my son, Randall”—he then gestured to Randall to stand—“who is here with the lovely Miss Emma Bradshaw.”
Emma was stricken at his words and felt the blood rush from her face as all eyes turned her way. What was he doing? Why did he say that in front of everyone?
She looked to Randall, whose flushed face and puzzled expression showed he was also at a loss for understanding what his father was doing. He reached for her hand under the table and gripped it, then reluctantly stood, nodding politely to all the guests.
Emma looked first at her father, then her mother, then at Mrs. Turnbull. Each had a strange smug expression on their faces. Her throat constricted so tightly she could hardly draw in a breath. She gripped her napkin in her hands and kneaded it.
Without ever casting a glance her way, Mr. Turnbull continued his oratory. “So it is with great joy and delight that I have brought you all here tonight to announce the engagement of our son to the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Bradshaw—our long-time friends who have recently moved out here from New York.”
A shock of horror shuddered through Emma. What did he just say? She shook her head as if she were underwater. Noises, words, sounds battered her as all the guests around the table began talking at once, smiling and laughing and reaching over to touch her arm, pat her on the shoulder. She heard “congratulations” and “we’re so happy for you” and other similar sentiments, but the words sounded foreign and confusing, and all she could think of was to run, to leave this place and get far away.
And then her befuddlement turned to fury. Yet she could do nothing but force a smile and nod her head and act for all the world as if she was happy. As if she had truly agreed to marry Randall. She could hardly speak out in denial and contradict Mr. Turnbull. Not in his own home, and not in front of a roomful of honored guests. Guests that were her neighbors in this small town, with whom she had to live and face day after day.
She dared not look at Randall’s father. Or her own. She knew what she would see on their faces—the threat they would silently give her should she dare speak out in dissent. How could they? How dare they? She had been led into a trap, and the door had been sprung. There would be no escape. Not unless she ran away. And she could hardly do that, without a penny to her name and no place to run to. No, her father had planned this well, just as he had done in the planning of their move to Colorado.
“Ah, the dessert.” Mr. Turnbull gestured to the tall iced layer cake the footman brought in and set down on the sideboard, acting for all the world as if he’d done nothing offensive. Emma sat frozen in her seat, her fury now seeping away. Numbness set in, and her mind grew quiet. As cake and coffee were served and life went on as if nothing untoward had occurred, Randall leaned over and whispered in her ear.
“I am so sorry, Emma. I had no idea he would do that.” He gave her cheek a little kiss, as if that would make it all better and she would overlook his father’s presumption. Or her father’s complicity. As if it had never mattered what answer she ultimately would have given Randall. As if it mattered not at all what she wanted.
Yet, she had no choice but to comply. She would marry Randall.