head. Even a mile away, he imagined he could see the bright sky-blue of her eyes, and while he was at it, he damned those, too.
Then John Bandera cursed himself and wished that he was dead. His love was coming to him, and his life was ruined.
Emily’s heart was racing far faster than the matched pair of grays pulling the mud wagon. She felt as if she’d been traveling for three long years, yet it had been a mere three days since she’d boarded the steamboat in Vicksburg then transferred to a larger boat in New Orleans for her passage along the Gulf coast to Corpus Christi.
All the way her emotions had been a wild mixture of hope and fear, of bright anticipation and dark dread. But now, nearing The Crippled B Ranch, a calmness unlike any she had ever experienced seemed to settle over her. It wasn’t so much that she knew how things would turn out, but that—no matter how events transpired—she was certain now that she had done the right thing in coming here.
The landscape, flat and coarse with mesquite trees and prickly pear, was exactly as Price had described it in letter after letter. Every inch of the place was surprisingly familiar, as if Emily had seen it all before. The mesquites were indeed like the sheer green lace he’d described and the sky truly did extend from east to west with hardly a cloud to mar it. Wildflowers bloomed in profusion the way he had claimed, and they did indeed combine in a huge and extraordinary carpet of reds and blues and yellows.
The grazing cattle lifted their long-horned heads when her wagon passed, gazed at her placidly, then returned to their assorted feasts. She’d seen scores of antelopes and deer, and had even glimpsed a wild boar snuffling around the twisted roots of a mesquite bush.
Everything seemed familiar because Price had taken such pains to paint wonderful, vivid pictures for her in his letters. At least he hadn’t misled her in that regard. Emily felt almost as if she’d been here before. Everything was just as she’d expected.
Except the heat. It was ungodly. Hellacious. Price had written that it was hot here, but he hadn’t said that a body could very nearly melt as hers had been doing all day. Of course, Price never wore petticoats nor a corset that even lightly laced felt more like hot iron bands encircling her rib cage.
The man who was slouching up front driving the ramshackle mud wagon wore a wide-brimmed hat to shade himself, but even so his plaid shirt was soaked through with perspiration. Emily didn’t feel all that much sympathy for him, however, since he’d charged her an outrageous sum to take her the thirty-five miles from Corpus Christi to The Crippled B. He hadn’t said more than three or four gruff words to her since departing the coastal town, and Emily had found herself longing for the cozy chatter of Haley Gates and wondering a little sadly what he was doing right now back in Mississippi. Home seemed so far behind her. And ahead? She hadn’t the faintest idea.
For a moment then, for a frightened heartbeat, her courage failed her. This southern part of Texas, this land of new beginnings was dangerous, a harsh place with thorns on its lacy trees and four-foot-wide horns on its cows. Mississippi seemed civilized, even gentle, in comparison. Safe, too. Perhaps she should have stayed home in spite of the coming scandal. At least people there knew her and cared about her, if only enough to gossip.
This driver was the first real Texan she had met, and not only was he sullen, but he didn’t seem too familiar with the territory, either. When she pointed out landmarks that Price had mentioned—the Culley ranch with its twisted fences or a particularly lovely grove of live oaks—the driver would just shrug and mumble that they’d soon be getting there.
And now they were. They were here. Emily’s heart fairly clanged in her chest when the horses’ hooves rattled the boards that spanned Sweetwater Creek. Unlike the green and rippling creeks back home, this one was just a narrow river of dust right now as it waited for the winter rains. Her mouth went as dry as the creek.
Then, suddenly, catching sight of Price’s house atop a rise in the distance, Emily forgot to be afraid. The sun was setting behind the two-story frame structure with the covered front porch, setting it off like a little jewel against a background of brilliant reds and pinks and oranges. It was exactly as she had pictured it. No. It was better…
…because, standing on the front porch, she could see a man with a spyglass trained in her direction. Was it Price? Oh, please, she prayed. Let it be Price. Let him call me Emmy. Don’t let him turn me away. Don’t let him turn us away.
Señora Fuentes’s chickens squawked and scattered when the mud wagon clattered into the yard. In the corral, the horses came to the near rail to sniff the changing currents in the air and to investigate the newcomers. But none was so curious as John Bandera as he stood leaning against a porch rail, arms crossed over his chest and his right leg cocked in a casual pose that belied the turmoil in his gut and the panic in his brain.
He had decided to lie. If he knew anything, he knew that much. He would tell the woman—his beloved Emmy—that Price was still away in Abilene, that his return was uncertain. Beyond that, he hadn’t the slightest notion what he’d say or do.
But the lie was a good enough place to start. It was the only place. Later, when he was able to think more clearly, he would figure out how to construct a tangled web around it. Right now all he could do was stare stupefied at the woman in the back of the wagon.
She was here! She was real! He couldn’t quite believe it.
She was his treasured carte de visite come to lovely life. Her hair was more golden, more glorious than he’d ever thought to imagine. Her eyes were round and deep and beautiful as cornflowers. Her skin was as pale and luminous as dawn.
Six or seven years had passed since the image he treasured had been captured, and those years had added a sensuous fullness to her mouth that hadn’t been there before, as well as a healthy, feminine roundness to the rest of her. Emily Russell was more beautiful than John had ever dared dream, and for a minute he found himself wishing she had turned out ugly or deformed in a way that had been disguised in her photograph. He damned her again for being beautiful.
“Hey, you,” the driver called from his seat on the wagon. “This woman is looking for The Crippled B Ranch.”
“She’s found it,” John said, slowly straightening up and heading down the porch steps, his gaze fixed on Emily the way a compass fixes on north while he tried to maintain a neutral expression. It wasn’t easy, pretending he didn’t recognize the love of his life, ignoring the heartbeats that were about to hammer a hole right through the front of his shirt.
“Then you’re McDaniel?” the driver asked.
“No. I’m…”
“John Bandera,” Emily called happily, leaning out the mud wagon’s open window. “I’d know you anywhere, I believe, from Price’s description.”
When she extended a white gloved hand toward him, John felt his own hand drawn to hers like filings to a magnet.
“I’m Emily Russell,” she said. “From Russell County, Mississippi. Perhaps Price has mentioned me?”
John nodded. Then, suddenly aware that he had held her hand too long for a mere hello, he let go and stepped back.
“I know he isn’t expecting me.” She was looking around the ranch now, her blue eyes sparkling with delight.
“Price isn’t here.”
He might as well have said that Price was dead for the way the delight dulled in her eyes and the happiness drained from her
