Northern Texas
September 1839
Nia Lindley closed her eyes, leaned forward, and pushed her lips toward George Smith. Her first kiss! So what if it happened in a barn. Her pink dress was fit for a princess, and he was as handsome as a prince in his fancy black suit.
A clatter popped her eyes open. She spun inside Mr. Smith’s arms, knees buckling at the sight of her father. Heat radiated in waves from her breastbone. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Papa took hold of her forearms and tossed her aside.
“You’ve made a grave mistake, Smith, if that’s really your name.” Papa pulled Mr. Smith’s black lapels until the two men were nose to nose. “You’re in Texas, son. We string a man from the nearest tree for touching a gal he hasn’t spoken for.”
George Smith, his face purple, cast a pleading glance toward Nia. “But I love your daughter, sir.”
Nia’s spirits lifted. He loved her!
Papa snorted. “Love? Love, you say? You met two hours ago! And how you wrangled an invitation to her sixteenth birthday ball when neither I nor any of my household staff knows who you are is a mystery I intend to unravel.”
Mr. Smith jerked his head back toward Papa. “No need for that, Mr. Lindley.”
Sharp pain stabbed the center of Nia’s chest. Her smile wilted. The pungent odor of manure, strangely absent until this moment, thickened in her throat and lungs.
Papa sneered. “I thought not.” He let go of Mr. Smith’s jacket and pushed him away in one motion. “You have ten minutes to get off the Double L, or I’ll see that you never leave my land. Do I make myself clear?”
Mr. Smith scuttled away like a cockroach.
Nia sank to the floor. Mama, God rest her soul, would be livid if hay and dirt damaged the silk gown. She’d ordered it from New York City six months ago. Her last gift to Nia before dying.
A large hand dropped in front of Nia’s eyes. “Get up, Petunia. We have a house full of wagging tongues ready to ruin you.”
She grasped her father’s hand. He yanked her off the floor, a testament to his strength—she was no frail flower despite her given name. She let go to brush off dirt and hay. If only the falling debris included the bitter pain clinging to her heart. Unable to meet her father’s eyes, she watched a button on his black dress coat rise and fall.
He pulled a long, thin box from his pocket and thrust it at her. “Take this.”
Fingers trembling, she opened the velvet box. Inside lay a three-strand pearl choker adorned with an oval pink topaz the exact shade of her dress.
“I intended to give it to you in front of our guests, but I couldn’t find you.”
She ran a fingertip over the bumps and ridges. “It’s beautiful, Papa.”
“We’ll just pretend I wanted a private moment to give it to you.”
Nia handed the choker to her father. She turned away, biting her lip and squeezing her eyes, but couldn’t stop the tears trickling down her cheeks. After three-and-a-half years and a thousand warnings, why was she still so gullible to sweet-talking men?
Memories of the dancing master who’d wheedled his way into her twelve-year-old heart sent shame prickling down her spine. When Papa came home from avenging the Alamo, he told Mr. Casey that Nia wouldn’t inherit until she reached thirty. The dust didn’t have time to settle behind his fleeing wagon.
The choker tightened around her throat.
As soon as the clasp clicked, Papa dropped his hands and stepped back. Nia shivered despite the September heat.
“Ready?” His arm appeared.
She placed her hand on it. He patted her fingers, but the gesture offered cold comfort. Nia drew in a deep breath and exhaled. “Ready.”