take Lady out and explore your land a bit, Nick? I thought I might find a shady spot and do some writing. That is,” she said, eyeing little Nick, who was at present throwing bits of scrambled egg down to the tiger cat who was allowed in the house, “if you wouldn’t like me to watch my nephew awhile and give Milly a break?”
“No, Nicky, the kitty’s had enough,” Milly admonished her son, then redirected his attention with a bit of bacon before turning back to Violet. “I’ll take you up on it another time,” she said with a wry lift of her brow. “Take one of my bonnets and Nick’s spare canteen—it’s going to get very hot very quickly. You can find more water if you need it where the creek widens right at the border between our ranch and the Colliers’.”
Milly’s mention of the Colliers’ ranch reminded Violet of their foreman. Perhaps if luck was with her, she might catch an inspiring glimpse of that intriguing cowboy at work. It was all grist for the literary mill, wasn’t it?
“Stay out of the north pasture. That’s where the cattle are grazing. I don’t think they’d bother you, but they’re not used to you,” Nick added from across the table. “Oh, and Raleigh told me Lady’s been trained to ground-tie—that is, you can just drop the reins on the ground. She’ll graze and not wander too far.”
“How convenient,” Violet said, thinking of how their high-spirited mounts at home would bolt for the barn, given such an opportunity.
“Merely a well-trained Texas cowpony,” Nick responded with a smile.
“Be sure and mind where you walk,” Edward added. “Remember what that Masterson fellow told you about snakes.”
Violet swallowed hard at the thought as she left the room to change into her riding clothes. It was good to be reminded that not everything in Texas was as civilized as England.
* * *
“You don’t think you should go with her, or send one of the hands along?” Edward softly asked his brother after he heard the door shut to Violet’s bedroom. “What about Indians? Or outlaws? Will she be safe, riding alone?”
Nick was glad he hadn’t mentioned the Indian raid to the east a few months ago, or their kidnapping of Faith Bennett, one of the townswomen whom the preacher rescued and then married.
“She’ll be plenty safe enough on the ranch. The boys are out there riding fence and checking on the stock,” Nick said in his imperturbable way.
“Besides, the heat she’s not used to will bring her back in before long,” Milly put in from where she was tugging a fresh shirt over Nicky’s head.
“I suppose it might not be a bad idea to give her some lessons with a pistol and have her carry one when she’s out riding,” Nick added.
Edward shuddered at the thought, but knew he could hardly object when he’d raised concerns about her safety.
Nick leaned forward. “Edward, the quickest way to send her running back into the arms of Gerald Lullington would be for us to monitor her every movement and make her feel like she’s little more than a prisoner while she’s here. She’ll be imagining she’s Juliet and he’s Romeo—without the quick tragic consequences, of course. And the result will be a slower tragedy for her. I think we have to show her she’s worthy of trust.”
Edward sighed. “I hope you’re right.”
* * *
The first thing Violet, on Lady, did was to climb the sloping hill near the ranch house, upon which Nick and the hands had erected a small stone lookout fortress. From here she enjoyed the bird’s-eye view of the mesquite and cactus-dotted fields and the blue hills in the distance. Then, after they descended the hill, she enjoyed the feel of the horse’s powerful muscles moving beneath her in a smooth canter. More than once a jackrabbit sprang up just ahead of Lady’s hooves, and although the mare snorted, ears pricked forward, her steady lope never altered. Violet saw the cattle in the north pasture from a distance, a quiet mass of multicolored beasts with elongated horns, some with calves, all grazing or lying placidly in the shade of a grove of live oaks. It was hard to believe they could be as dangerous as she’d been told.
The sun beat down upon Violet as predicted, making her glad of the bonnet that shaded her head from the worst of its glare. She felt a trickle of perspiration snake down her back. The pinto’s withers were damp, though she had slowed the mare to a walk after a quarter of an hour. It was time to find the creek, and then some shade where she could do some writing.
Heading east, she came to the place where the creek widened just before flowing over the boundary between Brookfield and Collier land. The fence had terminal posts on both sides of the creek so the cattle of either ranch had full access to the widest part of the creek. The north side of the creek was rimmed by a wide rocky ledge.
On the south side of the creek lay a shady grove of cottonwoods and live oaks—the perfect place to write, Violet thought. It would give her a sheltered vantage point overlooking Collier land while she did so.
She let Lady go forward and drink from the stream as long as she wanted to before reining her into the shady grove and dismounting. As soon as Violet dropped her reins, the pinto lowered her head to graze. Milly had sent along an old quilt, and now Violet took that down from where it had been rolled up behind the saddle and spread it out under one of the cottonwoods, settling herself against its rough bark. Pulling the ruled copybook she had brought to write her story in along with a sharpened pencil from the deep pocket of the divided skirt, she set them upon her lap and opened the notebook to the first page.
When they’d boarded the steamer for America, she’d thought she might be able to write an entire rough draft of her novel during the voyage, and merely polish the manuscript while she was in Texas by adding authentic details—verisimilitude, she’d learned it was called—that she would learn during her stay. She’d imagined filling page after page with her story, the hours passing by like minutes, and stopping only when writer’s cramp forced her to. She’d brought a stack of copybooks in her trunk, sure that her novel would be long and her prose lyrical.
When it came down to actually writing, however, she found it difficult to concentrate. Not only was she acutely missing Gerald, of course, but Edward was rarely long absent from her side except when they went to their respective staterooms at night. It was as if he feared one of their assorted fellow travelers, or even one of the deckhands, might tempt her to folly if she was alone. When other passengers stopped to chat, her brother’s manner seemed excessively jovial, as if he was desperate to convince everyone they were on a pleasure trip, and he was not escorting his notorious sister away from England just ahead of scandal.
Now Violet stared at the lines she had penned during the voyage. It was utter and complete tripe, all of it. She had had no idea how to begin a novel about the American West, never having seen the land she was writing about. She had only the most amorphous idea of her hero, and how he should accomplish winning the heroine’s love.
She’d started out describing Gerald as the hero, but she couldn’t imagine Gerald as anything but what he was—an English aristocrat in tweeds rather than cowboy garb. And Edward’s constant presence by her side made Violet too self-conscious to write. It didn’t take long before she put the copybook back in her trunk and only read the book she’d brought with her.
Now, however, she had the perfect opportunity and solitude to make a brilliant new start. Ruthlessly ripping out the four pages she’d written on the ship, she crumpled them into a ball and threw them to the other end of the quilt.
Violet
