breakfast?”
She gaped at the door. “Not until you have apologized to me for your ridiculous accusation.” The words burst out, and she held her breath afterward, certain he would break down the door and take her to task. Her father would have never accepted such behavior. But all she heard was her own pounding heartbeat. At long last, the sound of retreating footsteps told her he had departed.
Standing erect in the corner of the room, she waited for her fury to drain. But it held her captive. Goeffrey claimed to love her, but apparently he didn’t trust her. How could she remain at a place where her movements would be evaluated, always fearful of his jealous reactions?
Filled with righteous indignation, she grabbed her carpet bag from the floor of the closet and threw it on the bed. She wadded up a dress and jammed it into the bag’s belly. As soon as Geoffrey and the others were away from the house, she would walk all the way to Moreland, if she had to, and board an eastbound train. She would use her dowry money and go home no matter what Geoffrey thought.
ELEVEN
E MM ALINE PAUSED ALONG the roadway to swipe her hand over her sweaty face. Anger had carried her this far, but the heat of the shimmering sun had melted her icy fury to a puddle of nagging frustration. Looking down the road, she wondered how much farther to Moreland. Her feet ached, and surely her arm would disconnect from her shoulder if she had to carry the carpet bag another foot.
She had only packed her travel dresses and personal items, reasoning Geoffrey could ship her other belongings to her. But just before stepping out the door she had removed the stone from the mantel and placed it atop the dresses. Its weight slowed her considerably, but she would not discard it. That stone represented home , and it would return to the garden in England—just as she would return to her home in England.
Resolutely, she took a few stumbling forward steps. A cramp caught between her shoulder blades. Hissing through her teeth, she released the bag. Dust rose when it hit the ground, drifting across the already grimy toes of her shoes. She stared at the bag, willing herself to lift it and continue her trek. Her weary muscles refused to cooperate.
“Perhaps a short rest.” Using the bag as a makeshift seat, she sank down, folding her legs to the side. She closed her eyes and let her head drift back. The breeze rustled the tall grass alongside the road and dried the sweat on her neck. A bird called, its song sweetly mournful. Emmaline relaxed, allowing herself to absorb the peaceful sounds of the countryside.
But the rumble of wagon wheels on hard-packed earth floated toward her. Geoffrey? She bolted to her feet, ready for flight. A ramshackle wagon, pulled by gray-muzzled mules, rolled toward her. It wasn’t Geoffrey on the high seat. The relief collapsed her once more.
Atop the wagon seat, Ronald Senger held the reins, his brown face wreathed in a friendly yet curious grin. He tugged back on the reins, drawing the mules to a stop next to Emmaline’s bag. “Why, if it ain’t Miss Emmalion. What you doin’ out here by yo’self?” He hopped down from the seat, his wiry body graceful in the dismount, and glanced at her bag. “You goin’ somewheres?”
Emmaline nodded, licking her lips. “Yes. I . . . I am going to Moreland.”
The man’s eyebrows shot high. “Morelan’? Why, that be a far piece on foot, Miss Emmalion. Geoffrey tell you to walk it?”
Emmaline set her jaw. Although an affable man, Ronald Senger was Geoffrey’s friend. He would surely return her to the ranch immediately if he knew she had defied Geoffrey.
Ronald stared at her, his jaw working back and forth. Finally another grin twitched his cheeks. “You look full ready to melt clean away. A drink sound good?”
Emmaline licked her lips again, aware of her parched throat.
Hesitantly, she offered a nod and pushed to her feet.
Ronald reached into his wagon and withdrew a tan
She gaped at the door. “Not until you have apologized to me for your ridiculous accusation.” The words burst out, and she held her breath afterward, certain he would break down the door and take her to task. Her father would have never accepted such behavior. But all she heard was her own pounding heartbeat. At long last, the sound of retreating footsteps told her he had departed.
Standing erect in the corner of the room, she waited for her fury to drain. But it held her captive. Goeffrey claimed to love her, but apparently he didn’t trust her. How could she remain at a place where her movements would be evaluated, always fearful of his jealous reactions?
Filled with righteous indignation, she grabbed her carpet bag from the floor of the closet and threw it on the bed. She wadded up a dress and jammed it into the bag’s belly. As soon as Geoffrey and the others were away from the house, she would walk all the way to Moreland, if she had to, and board an eastbound train. She would use her dowry money and go home no matter what Geoffrey thought.
ELEVEN
E MM ALINE PAUSED ALONG the roadway to swipe her hand over her sweaty face. Anger had carried her this far, but the heat of the shimmering sun had melted her icy fury to a puddle of nagging frustration. Looking down the road, she wondered how much farther to Moreland. Her feet ached, and surely her arm would disconnect from her shoulder if she had to carry the carpet bag another foot.
She had only packed her travel dresses and personal items, reasoning Geoffrey could ship her other belongings to her. But just before stepping out the door she had removed the stone from the mantel and placed it atop the dresses. Its weight slowed her considerably, but she would not discard it. That stone represented home , and it would return to the garden in England—just as she would return to her home in England.
Resolutely, she took a few stumbling forward steps. A cramp caught between her shoulder blades. Hissing through her teeth, she released the bag. Dust rose when it hit the ground, drifting across the already grimy toes of her shoes. She stared at the bag, willing herself to lift it and continue her trek. Her weary muscles refused to cooperate.
“Perhaps a short rest.” Using the bag as a makeshift seat, she sank down, folding her legs to the side. She closed her eyes and let her head drift back. The breeze rustled the tall grass alongside the road and dried the sweat on her neck. A bird called, its song sweetly mournful. Emmaline relaxed, allowing herself to absorb the peaceful sounds of the countryside.
But the rumble of wagon wheels on hard-packed earth floated toward her. Geoffrey? She bolted to her feet, ready for flight. A ramshackle wagon, pulled by gray-muzzled mules, rolled toward her. It wasn’t Geoffrey on the high seat. The relief collapsed her once more.
Atop the wagon seat, Ronald Senger held the reins, his brown face wreathed in a friendly yet curious grin. He tugged back on the reins, drawing the mules to a stop next to Emmaline’s bag. “Why, if it ain’t Miss Emmalion. What you doin’ out here by yo’self?” He hopped down from the seat, his wiry body graceful in the dismount, and glanced at her bag. “You goin’ somewheres?”
Emmaline nodded, licking her lips. “Yes. I . . . I am going to Moreland.”
The man’s eyebrows shot high. “Morelan’? Why, that be a far piece on foot, Miss Emmalion. Geoffrey tell you to walk it?”
Emmaline set her jaw. Although an affable man, Ronald Senger was Geoffrey’s friend. He would surely return her to the ranch immediately if he knew she had defied Geoffrey.
Ronald stared at her, his jaw working back and forth. Finally another grin twitched his cheeks. “You look full ready to melt clean away. A drink sound good?”
Emmaline licked her lips again, aware of her parched throat.
Hesitantly, she offered a nod and pushed to her feet.
Ronald reached into his wagon and withdrew a tan
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