href="#litres_trial_promo">Chapter Three
Lynna Banning
After winter—often a long, cold, bleak period in nature and in life—a miracle happens: Nature regenerates and lives change.
To me, spring signals the renewal of both living things and the human spirit. It’s a time when growth is resumed, when hope is renewed, when fear turns into courage and when the seeds of new life are sown.
Lynna Banning
April, 1873
“Hey, mister! Mister? Are you awake?”
Something lifted the battered wide-brimmed hat Gray had pulled over his face. “Who wants to know?” he grumbled.
“Me!”
He opened one eye. “Yeah? Who’s ‘me’?”
“Me! Emily!”
Gray stared into a pair of wide blue eyes framed by a mop of bright red curls. A kid. A female kid, by the look of her ruffled blue plaid dress.
“Are you sleeping?” a high-pitched voice chirped.
“He— Heck, yeah. At least I was tryin’ my da—darndest.”
“Are you hungry? My mama’s gone to get something to eat.”
“Gone where?” He surveyed the other seats in the stifling passenger car. Three silver-haired ladies with big hats, two ranchers he thought he recognized and a preacher in a shiny black suit and stiff collar.
“Gone with the conductor man. To get a sandwich for me. I hope it’s not chicken. I hate chicken!”
Gray stretched his legs across the aisle space. “What’s wrong with chicken?”
A frown wrinkled the girl’s forehead. “A chicken pecked me once. It hurt.”
“Yep, a chicken’ll do that sometimes.” He resettled his hat over his face and closed his eyes.
“Mister? Mister, aren’tcha gonna talk to me?”
“Not if I can help it,” he said. He’d just finished a four-hundred-mile cattle drive plagued by bad weather, rustlers and no sleep. He was desperate for some shut-eye.
“Emily!” The voice was stern and female. “What are you doing bothering that man?”
“I’m not botherin’ him, Mama. I’m talkin’ to him.”
“Haven’t I told you never to talk to strangers? Come away from there, honey. I’ve brought you a sandwich.”
“It isn’t chicken, is it?” the small voice inquired.
“I beg your pardon? Emily, what’s wrong with chicken?”
Something swished past him. Something that smelled good, like soap. Maybe honeysuckle, too. “She doesn’t like chicken,” Gray said. He thumbed his hat back and opened his eyes. And then he sat up straight so fast his jeans rubbed the wrong way on the velvet upholstery. Holy—! The prettiest woman he’d ever seen in his life sat opposite him, a brown paper sack in her lap. She wore a stiff dark blue traveling dress and a silly-looking hat with lots of feathers on top. Partridge feathers.
She looked up and smiled. “Oh, good morning, sir. I trust Emily was not bothering you?”
“Uh, no.”
“Would
