around in a circle to an imaginary waltz, her heart so full of the beauty of her surroundings that she felt near to bursting.
The sound of a horse’s hooves startled her and froze her in an awkward position with her skirts flying around her ankles. She stopped so suddenly that she almost fell over.
King reined in under a big mesquite limb and stared down at her from under the shadowy brim of his black hat.
“Have you gone mad in the sun?” he asked politely.
“Perhaps I have,” she said. She felt cold even in the hot sun with his icy eyes biting into her.
“I wanted to warn you not to stray far from the house,” he said solemnly. “A couple of Mexicans have shot a rancher just over the mountain from here. They haven’t been apprehended.”
Her hand went to the high lace collar at the throat of her green gingham dress. “Oh, my.”
“There’s no need for immediate concern. My men will watch the house. But don’t go far.”
“I won’t.” She noticed the sidearm he was wearing. That was new to her, the old black gun belt with the nickel-plated .45 Colt swinging from it, its worn black handle speaking of use.
His eyes followed her gaze. “My father gave it to me when I turned eighteen,” he informed her. “It went with me when I joined Colonel Wood and Colonel Roosevelt in Cuba in ’98 and we charged up Kettle Hill to rout the Spanish.”
“Yes, I remember. You fought in the Spanish-American War. So did Quinn, in the same volunteer cavalry.” She remembered how worried she’d been, for both of them. Alan hadn’t gone. College had been much more important to him than fighting a war.
“Quinn enjoyed soldiering,” he told her. “Probably that’s why becoming a Ranger had such appeal for him. We had two Texas Rangers in our immediate outfit. Quinn became pals with them.”
This was the first time he’d ever really spoken to her as a person instead of a nuisance. She found herself smiling.
“Our uncle was a peace officer in Missouri,” she said. “He was killed by outlaws in a bank robbery.”
He nodded. Quinn had related the story often in their college days. He leaned over the pommel, and his eyes went to the bouquet in her slender hands. “What are those for?”
“The dinner table,” she said. “Enid asked me to pick them.”
“My mother loves flowers.” His eyes lifted to hers. “Do you?”
“Oh, yes. Back home I had a rose garden,” she told him. She looked around with patent disappointment. “I don’t suppose roses live out here….”
“Some do,” he said. “But other kinds of flowers do better. I’ll take you out on the desert one day, Miss Howard, if you survive a west Texas summer, and show them to you.”
“Would you?” she asked with undisguised pleasure, her soft brown eyes lighting up as she looked at him.
Those eyes made him uneasy. The old, familiar waves of turbulence that he didn’t understand tugged at him and made him vulnerable. He’d avoided Amelia for years to stay them, but now she was captivating him all over again. At least Darcy didn’t manage to drain his resolve. He found her attractive and even desirable, but he wanted her only with his mind, not with his emotions. Amelia made him feel as if tender fingers were stroking his heart. He wanted her until it was painful.
“I have to get back to work,” he said abruptly, sitting up straight. “Remember what I said.” He wheeled the horse gently and trotted off the way he’d come.
Amelia watched him go, enthralled by the picture he made in the saddle, long and lean and elegant.
As if he sensed her rapt stare he pulled the horse to a halt and abruptly turned in the saddle to look back at her.
She made a pretty picture in the setting sun, with her golden hair haloed by the fiery colors on the horizon. She looked fragile somehow, and lonely. He looked at her for a long moment before he could force himself to move on.
Amelia, having seen that unexpected stare, was touched by it and vaguely discomfited. She sincerely hoped that King wasn’t going to start anything. The last thing in the world she needed was to find herself involved with a man as domineering and overbearing as her father—whom she was desperate to escape.
* * *
Friday arrived. Amelia and Enid had taken two days to sew their respective dresses on the Singer treadle sewing machine in the parlor. Amelia’s was made of crisp lavender taffeta with puffy sleeves and an overlay of rich lavender chiffon. Appliquéd lace adorned the bodice and hem in a copy of a Charles Worth design that featured a narrow waist with a gored skirt. It looked very feminine and elegant, and she wore her upswept blond hair in a small tiara of artificial white roses.
“How lovely you look,” Enid told her with genuine affection.
“Oh, so do you,” Amelia said, smiling. And the older woman did look very elegant in her own gown of green taffeta.
Both women wore long, opera length white gloves and carried purses decorated with seed pearls. Amelia’s had belonged to her mother. How fortunate, she thought, that she had it in her cases.
King joined them in the parlor, resplendent in a vested dark suit and a four-handed tie. His black boots were highly polished, and his immaculate dark hair was topped by a new black Stetson.
“My, how handsome you look,” his mother said warmly.
His eyebrow jerked at the flattery. His silver eyes went to Amelia and slid over her with something approximating distaste. He made her feel inadequate and dowdy, unusual feelings for a woman whose beauty had not gone unnoticed despite her lack of a social life.
She moved a step away from him, pretending interest in smoothing her dark cloak. The cloak would be needed, because it was still cool at night.
“I’ll bring the surrey around,” he said curtly and went off to fetch it.
“I prefer the buggy, but these dresses won’t ride comfortably if we’re packed in like sardines,” Enid said, laughing. “We’ll let King sit in front, and we’ll ride behind.”
Amelia smiled, but secretly she was relieved. It didn’t make her feel particularly secure to have to sit beside King and try to make conversation. Especially when he made his dislike of her so evident.
“Come along, my dear.” Enid motioned to Amelia. There was an ominous rumbling outside, and the older woman grimaced. “Oh, dear, I do hope the rain holds off until we arrive. I don’t want to get my skirt muddy before the first dance!”
A sentiment which Amelia echoed fervently.
* * *
It didn’t rain the whole long, bumpy way to the Valverde estate, several miles down the winding dirt road. The sandy trail was firmly packed, but Amelia didn’t like to consider how treacherous it would be when rained upon. She and Quinn had once been in a buggy that mired down in Georgia when rains badly muddied the road to church. Even the strong horse Quinn had hitched to
