no sign of the new owner. No doubt he was taking his own good time, not caring that her stomach ached with the suspense of waiting for the unknown.
She gathered courage coming down the stairs, by reminding herself that she wasn’t helpless. She had her weapons, although she hated to use them.
Her first stop was the dining room. A vase of dried-out flowers sat in the middle of the table. She tipped them over, broke a brittle stem and then wiped up a smear of water with the hem of her robe. She didn’t want to do permanent damage to the table. It would be hers again one day if the new owner didn’t sell it and put something repulsive in its place.
She ripped a cushion on the divan that was worn and needed replacing anyway. She scattered a handful of stuffing about the floor, which delighted Lulu to no end. The petite pig snorted at it and pushed it about with her snout.
After half an hour, the ruination of the house was satisfactory and she became weary. Just one more thing would make it a work of art.
“Come along, Lulu,” she called and walked into the kitchen.
She picked up a cookie from a plate that she had left on the table more than a week ago. It had aged to dry, crumbly perfection.
Holly Jane closed her fist about it and scattered crumbs of cinnamon and nutmeg over the table. She sprinkled some on the floor. The crumbs on the floor didn’t last because of Lulu.
Next, she went to the pantry and took out a bag of flour.
“All right, Lulu, give it your best.” She scattered the flour on the countertop and the stove. Then she tossed a handful in the air and let it land where it would.
“Almost perfect,” she muttered then dumped the rest of the bag on the floor.
Lulu squealed then rolled in it. She was a strange little creature. Most pigs enjoyed a roll in the mud. Not so her little friend—she liked wearing pretty bows in her ear and eating sweets.
“Go on now,” she said to the pig. “Trot about the house. Leave prints wherever you can.”
Lulu squinted small piggy eyes at her and lifted her flour-smeared snout.
“I won’t get angry. I promise.”
Lulu paddled into the parlor, happily grunting.
At last, fatigue weighted every muscle of Holly Jane’s body. She climbed the staircase toward the bed that used to be hers, thankful that this was Sunday. The Sweet Treat would be closed, and she would be able to sleep past sunup.
She fell into bed with flour caking her toes, smudging her nose and frosting her hair, but she was too weary to worry about it. She might sleep through Lulu’s demand for breakfast, and the little pig could be as persistent as an itch.
* * *
“Did you remember the parasol, Colt?” Grannie Rose asked while Colt lifted her onto the wagon seat. “And my blue satin dancing slippers?”
“Tucked away between your bloomers and your new straw bonnet.” At least the parasol was. The dancing slippers had gone to dust thirty years before.
Colt climbed up and settled between his grannie and his great-aunt. He felt the solid weight of the bench beneath him and inhaled the scent of new lumber.
He’d purchased the spanking new wagon after the old ladies had been tucked into the hotel, each with a glass of wine.
Excitement over seeing his new spread had kept him awake all night, so he’d risen before dawn to load the few belongings that had come with them from the Broken Brand and the trinkets that the ladies had taken a fancy to along the way.
They wouldn’t need much in the way of home goods since the ranch house had come with all the furnishings. He’d buy everything new for the barn, though. He meant to pamper the horses he would be breeding like they were kin...maybe not his own, but someone’s.
Ever since he’d been a kid he’d dreamed of having land where the strong beautiful creatures would run and frolic. Horses weren’t like cattle that were raised for the slaughterhouse. His animals would go for farming, pulling buggies, or the high-spirited ones might even go for racing.
Horses might have been what convinced William Munroe to sell him the land. He’d said that his granddaughter would be knee-deep in pleasure over it.
Evidently, Holly Jane had some sort of kinship with critters.
“Let’s get going, Colt,” Aunt Tillie said, nudging him in the ribs. “Woolgathering won’t get us to our new home.”
“Poor little Holly Jane must be frightened out there all by herself,” Grannie Rose said.
“She ain’t little, Grannie.” For some reason, Grannie thought Holly Jane was a child, even though he’d told her that she wasn’t, time and again. “She’s a spinster lady.”
“Is she?” Grannie frowned then brightened. “She ought to get on fine with Tillie, then.”
He hoped so. The care of three females, one not related, might be a challenge. He couldn’t imagine that the spinster would be grateful to see him, even though he was there to stand between her and the fool, feuding families.
The ride from town to the ranch was short. Only fifteen minutes by wagon...five, he figured, on horseback.
While the old ladies chatted, he watched the scenery pass and thought of William Munroe.
It had been nothing short of Providence, the pair of them meeting and becoming friends in so short a time.
The old man had been away from home on personal business having to do with his health, and was trying to get home but the locomotive of the train he had been traveling on had gone sour in a town called Presley Wells. Colt had been called to repair it. It had taken a few days and lodging was scarce. Colt and the old man shared a room and the stories of their lives.
All at once, the woods ended and the ranch came into view.
“Oh my, Colt,” Aunt Tillie said. “This is beautiful. Just what you dreamed of.”
It took some self-control not to leap from the bench and shout. In his mind he saw his horses running free with their tails and manes flying behind them.
“I’d like a ride on that carousel.” Grannie clapped her hands, her smile beaming.
“Really, Rose you know there’s no carousel way out here.”
A crow circled overhead, cawing.
“I may be losing my mind, Tillie, but you’ve lost your eyesight.”
“There is a carousel, Aunt Tillie.” Colt pointed to the spot where the faded machine sat a few hundred yards from the house.
The small plot of ground that held the carousel was Holly Jane’s land.
He wondered if she was bitter at the loss of the ranch. He hoped not. Could be, she felt freed of a burden.
At any rate, he hoped that the woman, likely
