The Cowboy's Cinderella. Carol Arens

to his side of the fire, stretched out then covered his face with his hat.

      “Don’t know why you’re so prickly, Travis Murphy. You don’t have to wear them.”

      He grunted again, then pretended to be asleep.

      She was not mistaken that the wolf pack—and she was gull-durned certain they were not coyotes—had come closer. Since Travis had taken his gun and stored it under his saddle, she hoped he was right about the fire keeping them away.

      “Sure do hope this ranch house you’re taking me to has four solid walls,” she grumbled.

      For some reason, that made Travis chuckle in his false sleep. She was relieved to hear the sound.

      * * *

      Travis knelt beside the kindling he had stacked for the night’s campfire. He paused in igniting the match to watch Ivy wading in the knee-deep stream.

      Her pant legs were rolled up to her thighs. Her braid dangled over her shoulder as she bent at the waist, peering into the water. Little Mouse clung to the collar of her shirt, peering at the water as intently as Ivy was.

      She had promised fresh fish for supper. Without fishing gear he couldn’t figure how she’d manage it.

      No doubt they would end up eating jerky and hardtack again tonight. But for now he was enjoying watching her try to catch a fish. She moved gracefully through the rushing stream, sometimes standing as still as an egret before she glided a few more steps.

      Behind her, the land rolled away to the horizon where the setting sun streaked the clouds in brilliant orange. He’d rarely seen a prettier, more dramatic vista.

      This incredible, once-a-year sunset was the perfect backdrop for a once-in-a-lifetime woman.

      The scene before him was one that he would always cherish, no matter where his life took him...or hers took her.

      Once in a while there were moments out of time that one could only embrace.

      But a second later, the thought of where Ivy’s life was about to take her suddenly turned his stomach sour.

      In the beginning, when he had begun his search for Eleanor, he’d given her future no more than a passing concern. Any woman would certainly want what he was offering: land, wealth and a prominent husband.

      Women all over the state would envy Ivy.

      All of a sudden he could not look at her. He lit the kindling and added three small logs, watching while the sparks caught and the tiny flames reached for wood.

      He was beginning to fear that she was the one woman who would not want what he offered.

      She wanted her sister, yes. But the rest?

      Hearing water splash and Ivy laugh, he looked up.

      “Got us a big fat one, Travis!” She held up her catch, waving it victoriously in her fists. Little Mouse slipped but caught Ivy’s shirt with four pink paws and scrambled inside her breast pocket. “Want one more?”

      “That one’s big enough for three!” he called back.

      For a moment, he tried to picture her in a frilly dress nipped tight at the waist like the ladies wore them. She would look lovely. There was no denying it. But would it make her happy?

      From what she’d had to say about fashion so far, he doubted it.

      All he could hope for was that she would learn to be comfortable with it. The future of everyone at the Lucky Clover depended upon her being willing to become elegant.

      “Heat up the pan while I gut this critter,” she said, standing beside him now, her calves and ankles spotted with water that sparkled on her skin with the final rays of the setting sun.

      He glanced up at her; the satisfaction of catching dinner bare-handed made her blue eyes light up with pleasure. The mouse crept out of her pocket then crawled up her shirt to sit on her shoulder.

      Was it even possible for Ivy to become elegant? Would she end up with a crushed spirit, the same as had happened to her mother?

      There would be no divorce for Ivy, though. No second chance at life. William English was not a cruel man, but he was ambitious. His wife would be a reflection of him. Perfection would be required of her.

      Given who he was, William would be a perfect husband, a match to his perfect wife, at least in the public eye.

      If that did not turn out to be the case privately, William would never allow divorce to ruin the ideal image.

      “Better get that pan going!” This time Ivy’s voice came from beside the stream. “I’m so hungry I’d fight a bear for this fish!”

      He watched her while he fetched the pan from his saddle pack.

      Kneeling beside the water, she sliced the fish down the middle. Scooping out the innards, she tossed them into the stream.

      They had spent thirteen nights on the road to Cheyenne. The first three had been sleepless misery, but not the last ten. In fact, night before last she had only woken him once, fearing that she heard a bear rustling in the shrubbery.

      Which, she had. But the small brown critter had fled when Travis banged the fry pan and the kettle against each other.

      “Gosh almighty, you’re brave!” she’d declared, grinning at him in clear admiration.

      Then she’d slept on his side of the fire the rest of the night without waking. But last night she’d slept on her own side of the fire.

      Funny how he’d been the one to wake up, hoping the sounds in the night would be Ivy Magee coming to lie beside him again.

      As much as he knew it was wrong to want that, he’d continued to toss about, seeing images of her in his mind and wondering if...wondering nothing. Unrestricted wondering would be a big mistake.

      Watching her now while the pan heated, smiling with pride at her filleted fish, he knew it was a damn good thing that they would reach Cheyenne in two days.

      That was when he would need to begin making a lady out of Miss Eleanor Ivy Magee. She wouldn’t feel so friendly toward him then, and he might find it easier to resist her earthy charm.

      There was no doubt that she was going to resist the restrictions on her dress and behavior. Looked at fairly, who was he to force them upon her?

      Only the man fighting for the survival of the Lucky Clover and everyone on it.

      He could only hope that after a time, she would come to see that this new life was for the best.

      Given time, she would forget the ways of the river and embrace being a fine lady.

      Curse it, that thought ought to put him at ease. All it did was turn his belly sour, keeping him from anticipating eating his share of that hand-caught fish.