Hill Country Cattleman

Miss Violet cast a wistful eye back at the hotel. “I was hoping for a bite to eat and a cup of tea while we were in town, Edward. The food at the stagecoach station was abysmal, wasn’t it?”

Raleigh saw her brother shudder in agreement.

“Perhaps you’re right, Violet. It’s still quite a distance to the ranch. If you wouldn’t mind the delay, Mr. Masterson?”

Raleigh saw a way to kill two birds with one stone. “Not at all, sir. And please, call me Raleigh. It’ll take a while for me to get a rig hitched up and load your luggage,” he said, nodding toward the stack of brass-bound trunks sitting in the dust where the driver had left them. “By that time you can have a nice, cozy dinner at the hotel. Meanwhile, no one will bother your trunks here.”

“Won’t you join us, Mr. Masterson?” Miss Violet asked. “I’d love to hear about the trail drive. I’ve never spoken with a real Texas cowboy before.”

There was nothing he’d like better, but her innocent invitation had left Violet’s brother looking like he’d swallowed a horned toad whole. And besides, with them eating a leisurely dinner at the hotel, he’d have time to run over to the livery and tell Calhoun what he needed to rent, knowing the liveryman would hitch up a team for him. While that was happening, he could buy a shirt at the mercantile, have a quick bath and a shave and be back by the time the pretty lady and her brother were done with their meal.

“That’s right kind of you, ma’am, but I’ve eaten,” he said. It wasn’t really a lie—he’d eaten Cookie’s biscuits and gravy at sunup. “I’ll just go arrange a rig while you have some vittles. Take your time, and I’ll have it waiting outside the hotel when y’all are finished.”

There wouldn’t be time to soak in hot soapy water till his fingers got pruney as he’d planned, but that was all right. He’d like to correct the unkempt impression he must have made, even though he knew an aristocratic lady like Miss Violet and he lived on separate planes entirely.

* * *

Violet watched the cowboy walk away, appreciating his easy, long-limbed stride and the way his spurs jingled over his boot heels with every step. Unconsciously, she let out another sigh of feminine appreciation.

“Violet Rose Alicia Brookfield,” sputtered Edward behind her. “Whatever were you thinking to invite the man to dine with us? You mustn’t be so familiar with a man you’ve just met, a mere cowboy. And don’t think I didn’t see the way you looked at him, young lady. I haven’t brought you across an ocean to protect your good name only to see you ruin it within your first few days in Texas. You must think of your position, your—”

“Edward, don’t be pompous,” she said, interrupting his tirade and taking his arm to steer him toward the hotel. She figured he was cranky from hunger. “This is America, after all, and you told me things are much more informal here. Besides, the man just offered to do us a service. I wish he had agreed to dine with us. You know I want to write novels about the West—interviewing a cowboy over a meal would certainly furnish me with ideas.”

“That’s just what I’m afraid of,” Edward muttered.

It wasn’t as if she’d fallen in love at first sight, she told herself, even if the interested look in the depths of Masterson’s dark eyes had sped up her pulse. No, she loved Gerald, and he adored her, as he told her so often. When her time in Texas was over, she’d return to England and they’d be married, just as Gerald had promised.

“You know how I feel about this notion of your being an authoress. You are a lady, Violet, the daughter and sister of a viscount. The nobility does not engage in trade, and selling a manuscript for money certainly constitutes that. I should think you’d understand by now that having your nose in a book all the time has left you naive....”

It had been an oft-repeated refrain on this journey, and one she was too tired and hungry to listen to at the moment. She wanted to think about the cowboy she’d just met, and how she’d describe her book’s hero so that he resembled Raleigh Masterson.

It was hard, being so far away from the man she loved, but she was determined to look on her time in Texas as an adventure. She would be richer in experience when she returned to Gerald, and then they could live happily ever after, she was sure of it.

Chapter Two

They were given the table in front of the bay window at the far end of the restaurant, but Violet knew she was the center of attention in the dining room of the Simpson Creek Hotel.

“Why are they all staring at you?” Edward fumed over his roast beef. “You’d think they’d never seen a lady before.”

“’Tis my modish dress, Edward,” Violet said softly, hoping those at nearby tables hadn’t heard his fussing. “It’s only natural London would be rather ahead of Texas in fashion.” She hadn’t brought any of her Worth gowns, of course, but a glance around at the simple ginghams and calicos she’d seen worn by the women coming out of the businesses and in this establishment told her she might need to obtain some clothing more in line with what she’d seen. Edward, too, was dressed far more formally than the ranchers and travelers who made up most of the diners, but he wouldn’t be staying long enough for it to matter.

“Will 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.