Hill Country Cattleman. Laurie Kingery

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. “Oh, dear. I hate snakes. It’s not likely I’ll see any, is it?”

      “You might, but they want to avoid you as much as you do them. Out here we make it a point to watch where we walk, though.”

      Violet made a mental note to always do exactly that.

      He asked Edward questions about their sea voyage then—perhaps out of politeness since he’d been talking to her for so long. Afraid she would forget the names for the flowers and bird Raleigh had just taught her, she reached into her reticule and pulled out her notebook and pencil and began to write them down. She might well need them for her novel.

      * * *

      It took about an hour to reach Brookfield ranch, and in that hour under the Texas sun, Violet decided her stylish hat was definitely impractical. She could feel her nose and cheeks reddening under the rays as the horses trotted along, and she understood now why the men all wore wide-brimmed hats and the women, bonnets. She had hats with wider brims in one of her trunks, but she hoped her sister-in-law would be able to loan her a bonnet for everyday use, or she’d go back to England brown as an Indian.

      And then Raleigh pointed out the wrought-iron arch over the ranch entrance in the distance. They turned off the road onto a long lane that led to a low ranch house built of fieldstone with a roof of shiny tin. Masterson pulled up in a yard between the ranch house and the barn.

      A pretty, dark-haired woman came flying out. “Oh, dear heavens, can that be you, Edward? We just read your letter two days ago and learned you were coming!” She caught Edward in an enthusiastic embrace, kissed him on one cheek, then turned back to Violet. “And you must be Violet! I’m Milly, of course—welcome to Brookfield ranch! We’re so happy you’ve come to visit!” she said as she gave Violet the same kind of exuberant hug she’d bestowed on her brother.

      Violet smiled back at her sister-in-law, dazed at the warmth of her welcome. We’re so glad you’ve come to visit. There was no guardedness, no tinge of reproach, no hint that Violet’s coming was anything more than a pleasure trip. She was sure her brother had written of the disgrace and scandal that threatened to shadow her name, yet Milly’s blue eyes held nothing but joy at meeting her and seeing Edward once again.

      Milly drew back for a moment and called, “Raleigh, thanks so much for bringing them out here! Won’t you come in and have some lemonade?”

      Violet hoped he’d agree, for she didn’t know when she’d ever see him again, but he just touched the brim of his hat respectfully and said, “Thanks, but I’d best be moving along. I’ve got to return Calhoun’s wagon and horse. I’ll just bring the trunks inside before I go.”

      “Well, at least take a jar of lemonade to wet your whistle on the way. Go on in, y’all, before you faint from the heat—I know you’re not used to it,” she said. “I’m just going to ring the bell so Nick will know you’re here.” Stepping over to a big iron bell hanging from the porch, she pulled on a rope and set up a clanging that made Violet jump and the horses that had pulled the buckboard lurch against the traces. Inside, Violet heard a small child calling.