life. He’d been anxious to show it to her, anxious to have her love it as much as he did. And anxious for them to make a home and raise a family together there. He’d pulled her right into his dream and now here she was.
She didn’t have his history with the land. A home and a family would never happen—at least not here. Even now she missed the breeze off the Potomac and the dogwood trees and the green of the past summer. The trees would start showing their colors now—orange and red and yellow. It was her favorite time of year. Just as soon as she accomplished her duty to Douglas and to his memory, she would be happy to get back home.
For some unknown reason, she had expected Mr. Wolf to be similar to her husband. To be outgoing and personable. The man was the exact opposite. He hadn’t even greeted her properly. Although he’d not actually been rude, he’d been distant and quiet. So very different. How had Douglas ever come to be friends with him?
Douglas had not mentioned that Mr. Wolf was Indian. With his skin the color of almonds and his short hair as black as night, it was the first thing she had noticed. The decidedly cool expression in his dark brown eyes was another thing she’d not expected. It was unsettling. And it was obvious he didn’t like her on sight. Here they shared a common bond in their feelings for Douglas, but it didn’t seem to matter to him. She’d hoped there would be a glimmer of friendship—something so that she would feel less a stranger in a strange place.
He had lifted her trunk with ease and then stood there listening to her for several minutes as if the load he carried was no more than a ten-pound burlap sack of potatoes. Wide shoulders and all, he was a formidable man—a man’s man. His jaw square and hard—just like the expression in his eyes.
She was not looking forward to the ride out to Douglas’s property. The sheriff might have provided a better escort—or even accompanied her himself. After meeting Mr. Wolf, she was certain that would have been the more comfortable choice.
A sigh of resignation escaped her. There was no getting around it now. He would be here at any moment.
Across the road, a young woman flung open the front door of a cabinetry shop and busily swept the dirt out with a vengeance that spoke of an agitated state. She looked to be near her own age. When she turned, Cassandra stiffened. The young woman was in a family way and close to the date of her confinement. While she watched, a man stepped from the shop door, gently took the broom from the woman’s hand and drew her close. He kissed her tenderly and then picked her up. The woman’s head lowered trustingly to his shoulder as he carried her back inside.
Cassandra’s throat suddenly thickened with emotion. She pulled away from the window and pressed her fist to her chest as she tried to swallow past the lump that had formed in her throat. It was a good thing that she was going to Douglas’s property today. To stay in this room and witness the couple across the street more than once would quickly become unbearable.
A knock came at the door.
“Mrs. Stewart?”
It was Mr. Wolf.
“I’ll be right there,” she managed to say.
She took two big breaths to regain control of her emotions and then picked up her hat from the bureau. Positioning it on her head, she tied the black ribbon beneath her chin and adjusted the netting over her face. Today her month began. She would get through this. She would stay on the Stewart land for a month to honor Douglas’s wishes, then sell the place and return to Alexandria.
Opening her door, she found Mr. Wolf waiting in the hall, his brown Stetson in his hands. He wore dark brown canvas pants and a butternut cotton shirt. His hair was wet and slicked back from his face, with a small wave just over his forehead.
“Are you set on staying out at the ranch?” he asked.
Again, no greeting, but right to the point. And he certainly wasn’t a fan of her staying on the property. “I am.”
His jaw tensed, the movement so subtle that she could have easily imagined it.
“Are you ready? Packed?”
She nodded, then indicated her trunk sitting where he’d left it, the domed lid closed.
He strode into the room, picked it up easily and carried it down the stairs and outside to the boardwalk. She grabbed her parasol and carpetbag and followed. While he walked to the livery, she found the proprietor—a Mr. Austin—and took care of her bill, then strolled outside to wait by her luggage.
A few moments later, Mr. Wolf drove a one-horse buggy from the livery and pulled it to a stop in front of the hotel. He jumped down and helped her into the rig, deposited her belongings in the boot, then climbed up beside her and snapped the reins. All without a word.
They rode south from town, over the railroad tracks and along the bank of a wide river. On the narrow dirt road, the small buggy seemed to dip into every crevice and small rut, missing none and sending up a small plume of dust behind them as they continued.
“I didn’t see this river from the train. Does it have a name?”
He stared straight ahead. “Smoky Hill River. Runs eastward into the Kansas River.”
“Does it run through the Stewarts’ farm?”
“In places.”
“How long did you know my husband?”
“Since he was eleven. I was twelve.”
She calculated the arithmetic. “That makes you twenty-seven now.”
“Twenty-eight.”
When he didn’t elaborate or ask anything of her, she stopped trying to hold a conversation. It would be enough just to get to the property. Douglas’s cousin—Mr. Barker—would probably be much easier to talk to and answer her questions in a more agreeable manner.
She smoothed her skirt over her knees. Autumn weather could be capricious, and she hoped the October sun would not grow too warm for her in the black gabardine. The shade provided by her parasol was of little use when the material heated up. Twice during the summer, she had fainted because of the heat—although her mother had thought it due more to her indisposition than the humidity and temperature.
“I appreciate you doing this for me,” she said, growing tired of the silence and hoping once more to draw the man out. She wanted to know more about the property and his friendship with her late husband. “Do you visit Doug’s farm often?”
“When I hunt.”
“So, there is good hunting? What sort of animals do you hunt?”
“Quail, turkey, rabbit, deer.”
Short answers and still no smile or glance her way. “How did you and my husband meet?”
“At the ranch.” He darted a quick glance aside at her. “It’s a ranch. Not a farm. Don’t call it a farm.”
She stiffened. He may have only been correcting her, but it felt like a critical chastisement. “I’m sorry if I offended you. Ranch, then,” she said, acknowledging him.
She should be giddy with having drawn such a string of information from him. The sarcastic thought was not like her. What was
