you folks have anything else?” their waitress asked then, something sharp in her tone telling Violet she’d overheard her remark about Texas clothing being behind the times.
Oh, dear. She hadn’t meant to say anything derogatory, merely a statement of fact. There was no way to apologize, but at least she probably wouldn’t come in contact with the woman again.
“I’d like a piece of that delicious-looking peach pie,” she said, indicating the dessert a nearby diner was enjoying. She gave the waitress what she hoped was a winning smile, but it did nothing to soften the other woman’s expression. “Why don’t you have some, too, Edward?”
“Really, Violet, I don’t want to dillydally any further in getting out to Nicholas’s ranch,” Edward complained.
“There’s no use being in a hurry, Edward—you can see from here that Mr. Masterson hasn’t returned with the carriage yet,” she said, pointing out the window by their table.
Her brother craned his neck to look both ways out the window. “Bother,” he muttered. “The fellow probably found something more interesting to do and we’ll never see him again. Very well, miss, two pieces of peach pie.”
After the waitress had left, Violet leaned over toward her brother. “Really, Edward, do stop being so critical. It probably takes some time to arrange for the rental of a carriage and hitch up a team of horses. I’m sure Mr. Masterson is hard at work at it this very minute.”
* * *
The cowboy who sat atop the buckboard wagon had undergone a metamorphosis since she’d last seen him. Gone was the beard that had hidden the fine planes of his cheekbones and made him look like an outlaw. The shirt he wore was no longer ripped, stained and dusty, but immaculate. He’d been interesting in appearance before, but merely grist for her writing mill. Now he was handsome.
“Mr. Masterson, you...you’ve transformed yourself,” she said before she thought, and felt the heat of the blush that she knew was pinking her cheeks.
He grinned. Sweeping his hat off with a flourish, he bowed, revealing hair that was still damp, but shiny clean and trimmed. “Why, thank you, Lady Violet,” he said. “I figured it was more’n time to spruce up a little and wash away all that trail dust.”
She smiled back. “You’re welcome, but I’m not ‘Lady’ Violet. Our father was a viscount, one of the ‘lesser’ nobility, you see. I’m merely ‘the Honorable’ Miss Violet Brookfield—but ‘the honorable’ is only in writing. Miss Violet is fine.”
“And ‘Miss Brookfield’ would be even better,” Edward added in a caustic tone. “What is that monstrosity?” he demanded, shifting the direction of his ire and jabbing a lordly finger at the roughhewn wagon Raleigh sat atop. “I assumed you’d arrange for a carriage, Masterson, not some rude freight wagon like this.”
Raleigh blinked at the scorn in Edward’s voice, and Violet could practically see him gathering his reserves of tact.
“I’m sorry, Lord Brookfield—I mean Lord Greyshaw—but Calhoun’s doesn’t have any carriages to rent right now, only a buggy. If I took you in a buggy, there ain’t—isn’t—a way to transport your trunks,” he said, pointing at the luggage that was stacked in the back. “I’m sorry. I know you must be used to much nicer than this buckboard, sir.”
“But where is my sister to sit?” Edward retorted. “Or did you imagine she would sit on one of those trunks? There’s hardly room for all three of us on that seat.”
Violet rather thought it would be delightfully cozy if she could sit next to Raleigh Masterson, and her brother ride out atop one of those hard, brass-bound trunks, but she knew that wouldn’t happen. Nor would she be allowed to ride the roan, which had apparently been left at the livery until his master returned. She wasn’t dressed for riding, anyway, she consoled herself.
“Don’t worry, I’ve made your sister a nice soft place to sit, sir,” Raleigh said, pointing to a pile of furs behind the passenger’s side of the driver’s bench. “Calhoun lent us a buffalo robe.”
“You expect my sister to ride for miles on the hide of a buffalo?” Edward was practically purple with indignation now.
“I shall be fine, Edward,” she said, raising a hand to quell his wrath. “It looks quite soft. How very Western! I’ll enjoy writing home about that. Mr. Masterson, if you would assist me?” she said, extending a hand to him.
He reached out to her, and before Edward could protest further, she had put her booted foot where he indicated and climbed aboard with what she thought was a very creditable grace.
Edward could do nothing but clamber his way onto the other side of the bench seat, grumbling under his breath about the benighted country in which they found themselves.
Violet enjoyed the ride from Simpson Creek southward over the gently rolling land with its blue hills in the distance.
“It’s a beautiful place, your Texas,” she told Raleigh. “I hope I shall get some time to ride out among those hills while I’m here.”
He looked back at her with interest. “You ride, Miss Vi—that is, Miss Brookfield?” he corrected himself hastily, after intercepting another glare from Edward.
“Oh, yes. I love it. In fact, I rode to hounds at home,” she told him.
He looked confused.
“That is, I foxhunted with a pack of hounds back in England. There’s a lot of jumping of hedges and walls and fences as we pursue the fox. It’s great fun.”
He looked startled. “You must be quite a horsewoman,” he said, respect lacing his voice.
She shrugged. “I’ve been riding since my brother Nick first took me up in the saddle, before I was big enough for the pony my brothers had learned to ride on,” she said. “I was just about to get a hunter of my own—that is, as a loan for the season.” She shut her mouth, aware that Edward’s back had gone rigid on the seat ahead of her. He wouldn’t want her to speak about anything related to Gerald.
Perhaps Raleigh sensed that it was an awkward subject, for he was tactful enough not to pursue it. “Yes, it’s pretty country to ride, Miss Brookfield. You should see it in the spring. The bluebonnets are out in mid-March and April, the fields are carpeted in them. It’s just like heaven.”
He loves Texas, she thought, and her heart warmed to him even more. “Those red and gold flowers are glorious,” she said, pointing to a field just ahead.
“Indian blanket and Mexican hat,” he said. “And the pale yellow flowers are primroses. They don’t open till afternoon—”
“Oh! And what is that funny-looking bird there—see it?” A gray-brown bird about the size of a rooster dashed out from a clump of mesquite, spotted them with his pale yellow eyes, then sped ahead in a blur of motion before disappearing into a patch of cactus. She laughed in delight. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I interrupted you,” she said.
“No problem, ma’am. That was a roadrunner, or some call him a chapparal bird,” Raleigh said. “They’re so quick, they can even kill rattlesnakes and eat them.”
She shuddered.
