Lucy Frederick had lived in western Texas for a whole month and hadn’t caught sight of a single rattlesnake, much less a robbery, saloon fight, or range war. Aunt Margret’s town of Ripple saw less action than a sewing circle.
The dime novels lied. Novelists must be failed journalists—writers who came west at the promise of adventure and instead landed in a sleepy town. With nothing noteworthy to write about, they had to use their skills somehow. So they lied. Thus the beginning of the dime novel.
Lucy was certain that was the way it happened, because her life was following that same wretched path.
With a sigh, she swept up the envelope holding her latest imagined news article and flounced down the stairs of her aunt’s boardinghouse. She’d send the letter back home to her friend Amelia and try not to be bitter at her father. Newspaper mogul Henry Frederick had either been deceived the same as Lucy, or, after the fire fiasco, he’d finally found a way to keep his inquisitive daughter out of trouble.
Father was never deceived.
Since Lucy hadn’t yet developed his instincts, when he’d proposed the trip—or banishment—from Boston to Texas, she’d been gullible once again. Maybe Father was right: she wasn’t cut out to be a journalist.
Outside on the boardwalk, she strolled toward the mercantile, giving her high collar a discreet tug as she skimmed through her fake article again.
On Tuesday, just outside this particular Texas town, the clouds blew in a hint of rain. However, the welcome overcast skies failed to dampen the spirits of an unnamed resident. A fight over a mere trifle sent him out into the hills on the wild ride of a lifetime. Said resident and his lady had words over burnt beans, and his horse lit out with all the fury of a woman’s wrath licking at its hooves.
Then the front hoof sank into a prairie dog hole, and though the horse survived the incident with only a swollen knee, the owner’s life and fortunes changed in a serendipitous moment.
For through the unlikely event of burnt beans, a fight with the cook, an escape to sulk, an industrious rodent, an ill-timed step, a sudden downpour, and a need for cover, this unnamed resident discovered a stash of stolen gold.
“Mornin’, Miss Lucy.”
She caught the scent of pipe tobacco, gun powder, and magnolias. “Good morning, Sheriff,” she answered, flipping through the rest of the pages without looking up. Her feet knew this path to the post office very well, and she wanted to read the part about the heroic cowboy Sam Brazos once again.
“Aunt Margret is in her garden,” Lucy said after a moment. “But if you’re still set on courting her, I’d suggest tossing the bouquet and offering peaches instead.”
“Aw shucks.” Groaning, he fell in beside her, his steps almost as heavy as his jowls. “Is she still offended at my coon dog eating her pie while y’all were at church Sunday?”
“Yes, sir. And the cake, too.”
“Now, now, the cake wasn’t Rufus.”
“Same size paw prints in the flour. The scent of skunk lingered the entire day, and everyone knows Rufus tangled with one.”
“Well, now, Miss Lucy. You need to come work for me!” The sheriff clapped her on the back.
As she lurched forward, she felt fit for the journalism world after all. Never mind the fact that she hadn’t noticed the clues until after she’d witnessed the four-legged culprit’s escape.
“Next time I have a murder investigation, I’ll come callin’.”
Lucy’s ears perked up as she searched out his face for the first time. “When was your last one?”
He scratched his head. “I don’t rightly know. Four years ago? Naw, I was back in Kentucky. Tell the truth, we haven’t seen a single murder here since I came to town. Would you believe it?”
“Yes, Sheriff.” Her shoulders sagged as she folded her letter and tucked it inside the envelope. “Yes, I would.”
The sheriff tipped his hat and retraced his steps as Lucy stopped in front of the entrance to the post office—a small booth partitioned off the mercantile. What she wouldn’t give for something interesting to happen in this insufferably dull town. For an outlaw to come bursting out of this very building, or—
The heavy door creaked open, and a tall, lean cowboy stepped through, his smoky-blue eyes smoldering below the rim of his black Stetson.
“Miss Lucy.” The man held the door wide, his demeanor aloof as always.
Sam Brazos—the genuine but still oh-so-swoon-worthy version—was the one redeeming factor of her father shipping her off to her aunt’s. Lucy was sure the boardinghouse guest had a million stories to tell, but around her his lips were sealed, the expression on his clean-shaven face impossible to read.
So she dreamed up the stories and sent them to Amelia. And then she dreamed of him.
Reaching into her hidden pocket, Lucy clutched her lucky pen and breezed by Sam, trying not to be the bother he seemed to believe she was. Then he leaned closer, and she caught a whiff of leather and the woods and the strong, sweet smell of grape, which was pretty remarkable, considering there were no vineyards in the area. There were, however, Texas mountain laurels, and they’d covered the Rocking R Ranch last time she’d been out there.
What business did Sam Brazos have at the Rocking R?
“Something wrong with Gus?” he asked quietly, stopping Lucy in her tracks.
She forced her gaze away from the stubble darkening his strong jaw and glanced toward the postmaster. Gus cast anxious looks out the window while attending Mrs. Thorp and Widow Aurilla.
“What time is it?” Lucy asked.
“Half past noon.”
Relaxing, she answered, “Polly delivers his lunch on Thursdays. She must be late.”
Sam’s brow furrowed, and Lucy filed away the confused expression for use in her next article. Or, just because.
“Everyone knows Gus Wiley turns into an ogre when he’s hungry,” she explained. “Usually I avoid him during the dinner hour, but I ran late.”
Sam nodded toward the letter. “Working on that?”
“A little article I’m sending back to Boston.” She hid the envelope from view.
He didn’t need to know it was a pointless exercise—only something she penned for her friend’s amusement and to keep her writing skills intact. And he definitely didn’t need to know that, since he’d galloped into town a week after her own woefully uneventful arrival, most of the articles revolved around him.
Sam tipped his hat lower, but she still felt his intense scrutiny. If he didn’t stop staring, she was going to start babbling. In fact, her lips were already moving…“How is Jerusha today? Did Doc Smith go out to see her yet? I’ve been so worried—” She broke off when she saw the thunderstorm clouding Sam’s eyes as he loomed over her.
“Have you been following me?” he asked through clenched teeth.
“What? No!” A blush heated her cheeks, and she averted her eyes, remembering she’d considered that exact course of action on several occasions for reasons both personal and writing-related. But she’d never actually done it.
Which was probably why she failed at the journalism thing.
“How did you know I went to Rockin’—”
“Why, Lucy Frederick!” Widow Aurilla called from the desk. “We was just talking about you.”
Sam drew back, his narrowed gaze skimming over her. “You’ll be at dinner?”
For once in her life, Lucy couldn’t find her voice. She bobbed her head.
He nodded back, parted his lips as if to say more, then spun on his heel and strode across the dusty street.
“Is Sam Brazos going sweet on you?” Mrs. Thorp’s wide face dimpled as she reached Lucy’s side. “Inviting you to sit with him at dinner? Ain’t that precious.”
Lucy opened her mouth to protest, but Widow Aurilla piped up first.
“Them weren’t Cupid’s arrows shooting from his eyes, Hester.”
“Well, I shore felt some heat.” Mrs. Thorp fanned broad hands in front of her face as Widow Aurilla rolled her eyes.
“You be careful, Lucy girl. Mark my words, that boy needs watched.”
Mrs. Thorp guffawed. “Oh, he’s being watched, ain’t he, love?”
“Hester!”
A smirk stole over Lucy’s face even as Mrs. Thorp’s surprisingly sharp elbow nudged her ribs, because Sam Brazos was indeed impossible to miss. Even now he drew her eye like words on a page as his confident stride ate up the distance between him and his destination, other pedestrians making way for him. Sam Brazos was a force to be reckoned with.
And she’d drawn his ire.
“Have a care, Lucy,” the widow cautioned. “There’s trouble a-brewing, and it blew in around the time of his arrival.”
Lucy dragged her gaze from the tall cowboy. “What kind of trouble?”
“Oh, I’ve heard rumblings. A bit of this and a touch of that. But mark my words…whatever’s going on, that dark-haired stranger is in the thick of it.”
“I think he’s a Pinkerton agent.” Mrs. Thorp wiggled her eyebrows.
“I think he’s a rustler.” Widow Aurilla drew herself up and placed a firm hand on her friend’s not-so-firm arm. “But enough gossip. Just be cautious, dear. If any shenanigans occur, we need you and yer purty handwriting to let the world know what happened here.”
Lucy blinked, and Mrs. Thorp snorted. “Don’t listen to her, Lucy. If I were you—shucks, if I were me without my mister, I’d be using that purty handwriting on fancy love letters to the boy.”
With that, they paraded down the boardwalk, with Mrs. Thorp’s boisterous laughter floating behind them.
A smile teased Lucy’s lips as she stared at the saloon doors Sam had pushed through. A rustler? A Pinkerton agent? She doubted both tales, but behind every bit of gossip, there was usually a kernel of truth. Whether or not the two older ladies were on the right track suspecting the handsome newcomer, Lucy held hope that trouble was on the way.
Trouble meant a story. A real one. One of these days she’d prove her father wrong. She could find a good lead, and she could do it justice.
She only needed the chance to try.
The saloon doors sprang back open, and Sam stomped out, his frustration visible from where Lucy’s feet had anchored themselves to the boardwalk.
Maybe today would be that day.