Transforming Emma Read online

  He stepped close and gazed upward at a portrait hanging over the lace items for sale. A smile softened his rough features. A pretty woman posed with hands clasped in her lap, staring outward but a little off center. Lace scallops decorated the neckline and cuffs of a dark gown. “I met her on a ship sailing from Liverpool, England, in 1850. I’d read about America not having enough women for all the bachelors.” Smiling, he tapped a finger against his temple. “I quickly learned the beauty she was, inside and out, and married her before the ship docked.”

  His accented words added a hint of mystery, which intrigued her. But the light shining in his eyes proved his love. And set her heart yearning. “That’s a lovely story. I wish I had a romance like it.”

  The watchmaker brushed a hand over the closest folded cloth. “Many a bride has counted herself lucky to carry one of my Bridget’s handkerchieves on her wedding day.” His gaze never wavered before he dipped his chin. “I must return to my work. Safe travels, young lady.”

  How does he know I’m only traveling through? “Thank you.” She dropped a hand on the cloth he touched, the softness of the fabric caressing her palm.. Was what he said a prediction? She shook away that thought. Nothing said she had to buy a handkerchief for a wedding ceremony. She could buy it and tuck it in her reticule for special events. Not everything in her future had to be about a man.

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  Chapter Two

  ~o0o~

  A pale sun languished behind a bank of wispy white haze. The clouds looked too thin to hold rain but thick enough to block any real heat from melting the last inch or so of slush. The snowstorm three days earlier surprised everyone.

  Brett Haynes stomped the length of the planks in front of the stagecoach stop, paying scant attention to the muddy footprints he spread with each heavy footfall. On the drive from the Tumbling Spur Ranch, he’d chastised himself for not riding into Dorado earlier that week for a haircut. Maybe he was due to buy a new shirt from Othmann’s Mercantile. Then he’d remembered how, with the boss away on a trip scouting for a new stud bull he hadn’t had a minute to himself for the past ten days. He lifted his hat and ran a hasty hand through the thick waves that hung below his ears. At least, the extra length was good for keeping his head warm.

  From a distance above came the keen of a red-tailed hawk. Thumbs hooked in his belt loops, Brett paused his pacing to angle his head to search the skies. For several seconds, he indulged in watching the graceful raptor soar as it hunted the expanse of white snow dotted by an occasional hardy bush.

  If only Brett could focus on a single purpose. A couple dozen chores pulled at his thoughts. By being in town waiting on a late-arriving stage, no work on any was being accomplished. His jaw tightened, and he forced out a breath. Sure, more than one cowhand volunteered for this task, but Brett wanted to be the first familiar face the boss’s daughter saw on her arrival.

  Emma. His pulse kicked up a notch…or two. The thought of private time together on the wagon ride back from town had been irresistible. He’d traveled to Missouri on the boss’s behalf last year to transport a stud bull to the von Braun ranch and knew how tiring the train and stagecoach trips were.

  Memories rose of the sweet girl who’d first been hungry for attention then became his best friend after he signed on to the Tumbling Spur five years earlier. Both in their teens, they’d been drawn together by their love of time spent outdoors. He’d taught her to ride and rope and to fish and to shoot a rifle. Not that she couldn’t have learned such skills on her own. Since her much-older brothers pursued careers that took them off the ranch, he stepped into the role. From the first lesson, he couldn’t deny the sense of pride at being the only one she wanted to learn from.

  Besides, he followed her father’s example and couldn’t remember ever telling her no. If she wanted to learn something, then he made sure she learned it right and in the safest manner. Emma—whose blue eyes sometimes looked violet and whose brown, wavy curls flowed like spring water down her back—had been sorely missed. Having to wait until her eighteenth birthday before making his feelings known was one of the toughest acts he’d ever performed. Then, only two months before that milestone date, she’d left, with her father’s blessing, to visit an aunt. While each extension of the visit’s duration tested his patience, he vowed to bide his time. But in only a few more minutes, she’d be within his reach.

  The faint, but steady, rhythm of galloping horses grew louder in the early afternoon air. A flash of color showed in a copse of mesquite trees and then disappeared into a small gully. Seconds later, six horses emerged, followed by a red coach painted with yellow accents of the Bain and Company line. Near Spengler’s blacksmith shop at the edge of town, the team slowed to a trot then eased to a walk.

  He sucked in a deep breath. Brett brushed a hand over his shirt and dusted the top of his boots against the backs of his pantlegs. So many months had passed—eighteen in total. The image of a teary-eyed Emma, seated at her father’s side, waving goodbye from the buggy passed through Brett’s mind. He’d ridden as far as the wooden arch marking the southern entrance to the ranch and watched with stinging eyes as Kurt Wallache drove his only daughter into town…and out of his life. The boss’s explanation of satisfying his late wife’s wish for Emma to receive special cultural training had never made much sense. What in blue blazes did a Texas ranch wife need to know about big city culture?

  Water splashed as the wheels rolled through puddles of snowmelt. “Whoa there.” The stocky driver pulled back on the reins a couple of rods down the street. The chains on the whippletree clanked.

  The horses stopped parallel to the square loading platform that jutted four feet into the street. Steam puffed from their nostrils like from a boiling tea kettle, making an erratic huffing melody.

  More excited than he wanted to admit, Brett tugged on the front of his long coat just to keep his hands busy. What he wished he could do was storm the stagecoach and yank open the door so he didn’t have to wait another moment to see Emma’s beautiful face. But he didn’t want to scare her with his brashness. Instead, he leaned a shoulder against the stage office wall and watched as the driver hopped down and took his time checking the harness and double-trees before moving to the coach door.

  The lean shotgun rider alighted and moved to the back to unbuckle the straps holding the luggage.

  On this cool day, all the leather window flaps were lowered to keep the inside as warm as possible.

  First to climb out were a couple of familiar ranchers, Misters Pallaton and Fremont, with whom he had a nodding acquaintance. An action he made in deference to his position as foreman of a prominent nearby ranch. The next two passengers were chatty women with upswept hairdos and hats with doo-dads and gee-gaws that looked like they were ready for a fancy-dress ball.

  The driver held the elbow of an elderly woman who set down a cane into the wooden step before disembarking.

  Then no one else emerged.

  Where was Emma? He pushed off from the wall, strode to the coach, and stuck his head inside. Empty. He eased to a stand, disappointment slumping his shoulders. Had she missed this morning’s stage in San Antonio?

  ~o0o~

  Aunt Nadine often commented how Emmaleigh matured during her time spent in Boston—a three-month visit that kept being extended until a year and a half passed since she left her hometown. So, maybe Emmaleigh understood how Brett overlooked her. After walking right by the man who’d taught her to ride and rope and seeing him not give as much as a double take, Emmaleigh positioned herself near the stagecoach office door. Waiting for Brett to recognize her, she resisted glancing at her reflection in the office window.

  For years, they’d been best friends and spent hours together daily. True, though, she’d left Texas dressing and acting like a tomboy. But upon arriving at Aunt Nadine’s, she’d been admonished about the inappropriateness of her split skirts, chambray blouses, and square-toed boots. Aunt Nadine went into a tizzy about the inadequateness of her brother’s handling of his only daughter.

  Even before tea was served, the maid provided warm water to refresh herself then helped Emmaleigh into an acceptable dress and touched up her hairdo. She whisked away the offensive clothes, stating the mistress ordered them be saved for the church’s poor box.

  Although she’d fought the new clothing styles at first, Emmaleigh gradually came around to her aunt’s way of thinking. Young women of good breeding and means needed to dress the part. Emmaleigh had grown used to fabrics of finer weaves and intricate dress styles designed to accent her recently acquired curves. Granted, her wardrobe was more sophisticated, but had she really changed that much?

  As he passed, she’d noted he now wore his thick hair longer and his skin glowed tan from spending time outdoors. Growing older broadened his shoulders and sharpened his features, but Brett Haynes was still the most handsome man she’d ever met. His ever-present red kerchief hung around his neck.

  Seeing Brett inspecting the empty coach prompted her to give up on being recognized. She gave her braided bun a pat before smoothing a hand over her burgundy velveteen knee-length coat with mother-of-pearl buttons. The modiste Aunt Nadine hired assured Emmaleigh the color complimented her fair complexion. Squaring her shoulders, she glided to the center of the platform and tucked her hands into a rabbit fur muff.

  Brett turned and scanned the platform and boardwalk, his gaze finally settling on the lone waiting person. First, his brown eyes popped wide and then, his jaw dropped an inch or so.

  His surprise looked as comical as Lord Dundreary in “Our American Cousin” which she’d seen at the Globe Theater last month.

  “Emma?” After thumbing back the brim of a broad-brimmed, ranch hat, he tromped closer and leaned down to squint at her face. “What in tarnation have you done to yourself? Is that rouge painted on your cheeks?” He crossed his arms and shook his head. “If your father sees that, he will turn you over his knee.”

  His words stung. Her spirit deflated like a child’s popped balloon. At the last stage stop, while the men changed the harnesses onto fresh horses, she found a spot away from the other passengers to brush the lightest coating of color onto her cheeks. Having Brett see her as a grown woman was important. This morning in San Antonio, she’d taken extra time to make just the right wardrobe selection to relay that precise image.

  He couldn’t boss her around like he used to. She jutted out her chin. “What would a hick cowboy from Nowhere, Texas, know about current fashions?” Unable to stand his disbelieving expression, she waved a hand toward the green wagon with a familiar lopsided spur painted on the side. “What are you doing here anyway? Why didn’t Father come to collect me?” Didn’t he care enough to drive to town? The thought was too horrible to verbalize.

  He yanked off his hat and slapped it against his thigh. “Silly me, I volunteered for the task. Partly because your father’s on a business trip to Nebraska. Mostly, I thought we had some catching up to do.”

  Ah, how things remain the same, even after her time away. Emmaleigh thought of the loneliness she’d endured before agreeing to the Boston visit. How her father buried himself in the ranch and its dealings, almost forgetting his mourning daughter, to help assuage the pain of losing his wife three years earlier. Even though she asked often to learn more about the operation of the cattle ranch, she was denied. She returned with information that she’d force Father to listen to. Maybe now, he’d change his opinion about her help.

  “I assume you have bags. They inside?” He jabbed his hat toward the stage office door before settling it back on his head.

  She glanced over her shoulder at the lanky stagecoach employee carrying armfuls of luggage into the building. “I can manage the matching tapestry carpetbags. The driver said the portmanteaus would be unloaded just inside the office door.”

  “Portmanteaus?” His dark eyebrows winged high. He shook his head. “As in, more than one?”

  After inhaling a calming breath, she tilted back her head to meet his gaze. “Well, as you might have noticed, I have been gone for a spell, um, for several months. While in such a sophisticated city as Boston, I couldn’t very well wear the same dress to all the evening soirees, musical performances, and theatrical plays, could I?” As she defended herself, she watched him.

  His gaze narrowed.

  She matched his expression. “Besides, Uncle Fredrick and Aunt Nadine never had children, so she is quite generous.” Thinking of the large trunk that would arrive later on an Overland West freight wagon, she squared her shoulders. “I am her favorite niece.”

  With long strides, Brett crossed to the office, hoisted a portmanteau on his shoulder, and carried it to the wagon. “Not saying much. You’re practically the only relative who still talks to the old bi—” Jamming his mouth closed, he cleared his throat and marched toward the remaining offloaded luggage. “I’ll get your belongings. Go climb in the wagon.”

  Only with great restraint, acquired from sitting through Aunt Nadine’s numerous lectures on proper ladylike conduct, did Emmaleigh hold in the snippy retort that pushed on her tongue. Had he always been this insufferable? Irritation like she hadn’t recently known roiled her stomach. Determined not to ask for another ounce of his help, she marched to the edge of the platform. Maybe she’d ride in the back with the luggage so she could avoid the catching-up conversation he’d mentioned. Wouldn’t being forced to chauffeur her make him mad? What stopped her was the expanse of mud and slush filling the space from the base of the stairs to where the wagon stood.

  Glancing down, she grimaced at the gray kid leather peeking out from the hem of her gray-and-black plaid, woolen skirt. The thin-soled boots were fine for walking paved or stone streets but would be ruined by the reddish clay of Dorado’s main street. During the day-long stagecoach ride, they’d barely offered an adequate barrier to the cold air. At the other end of the platform, planks created a walkway through the mud toward the Golden Door Saloon and the opposite side of town. If she walked onto those boards, maybe she could—

  Strong arms scooped her off her feet and clamped her tight to a wall of muscle. “What are you doing?” Only to keep from falling, she angled closer to his hard chest.

  “Seemed like you were in a quandary.”

  Traitorous shivers invaded her belly. He lifted her like she weighed nothing. The scents of tangy leather and warm wool invaded her nose. Was that a hint of bay rum, too? “Well, I was about to avail myself of the planking—”

  “Takes too long.” He adjusted his hold, repositioning one hand higher on her leg.

  She squealed, wrapping an arm around his neck to secure herself against the bumping trek down the wooden steps. Heat infused her body in every spot where she pressed against him. His chin was only inches above her— Oh, my. If she had a free hand, she’d unfurl her fan to cool her flaming face.

  “The least you could have done is climb to the bottom step.” Brett clomped through the wet mud and hefted her onto the wagon’s bench seat.

  The toss was like ones she’d seen him do with a bale of hay. Emmaleigh wobbled, and then grabbed hold of the seat with a gloved hand to catch her balance. The move shoved her skirt hem higher, exposing purple silk petticoats.

  A bearded man with a battered hat and rough-textured jacket leered as he ambled in front of the horses.

  She glared until the stranger dropped his gaze, mumbled something, and stepped onto the boardwalk. With jerks and tugs, she fussed with her skirts until she was certain her undergarments were properly covered. Staring is such boorish behavior. Nothing like this had happened during her Boston stay. Men in the East knew the proper and courteous way to act around a woman.

  Brett climbed up and gathered the reins, jostling the wagon sideways. “All set, Emma?”

  Straightening her posture, she stared at a point in the road between the horses’ ears. “I now prefer the use of my full given name. Please call me Emmaleigh.”

  “Well, la-ti-da, Miss Emmaleigh.” He shot her a wide-eyed look before snapping the reins and steering the horses into a wide turn to head home. “Sounds like someone gained herself a snooty attitude during her visit in Bah-ston.”

  If she hadn’t been so irritated, she might have given him credit for his horrible imitation of the flat, nasal accent of native Bostonians. Instead, she vowed not to engage in conversation during the ride to the Tumbling Spur Ranch. Why would she waste her time on a rude ranch hand who didn’t even notice how she’d matured or the latest style she wore? She directed her attention to the right, away from the driver. Millie’s Café was still here, as was Othmann’s Mercantile. Within seconds, she almost broke her vow because she wanted to ask about the owners of the new shops she spotted along the street. Instead, she clamped her lips tight.

  “I can see you’re busting your buttons to know, so I’ll just relate the latest events.”

  Had he really remembered her fascination with the town’s news? With nothing else to do, she might as well listen during the ride home. Gazing at the familiar buildings, she waited.

  Chuckling, Brett leaned forward and rested his elbows on his thighs. “First, you ought to know that your father accepted your cousin, Dieter, into the household a couple months ago.”

  She turned and gazed at Brett’s profile. “Why?” Emmaleigh remembered a bright-eyed little boy with light brown hair that always hung in his eyes. “What’s happened with Uncle Axel and Aunt Karla?”

  “Your aunt is having a difficult…” He glanced over his shoulder and squinted. “What’s the polite word? If I was talking about a cow, I’d say gestation.”