Sis.
Chapter 1
The Texas Panhandle
Wednesday, December 21, 1887
James Elliott III glanced up and squinted, finally noticing the angry grayish white clouds scowling on the northern horizon. Afternoon light had taken on an oddly brighter hue than what the morning offered, paling the prairie’s beauty. Snow clouds.
Better watch out , he told himself as he rose from a bentknee position where he’d been digging in the prairie, or you’ll wish you knew a little more about keeping warm in Texas and a little less about its so-called legends.
If he’d been paying attention, the drop in soil temperature the past few hours should have warned him that some kind of storm was brewing. But he hadn’t been. The excitement of knowing his search for the rosettes might finally be over had kept him absorbed and digging, ignoring caution.
This was the place he’d been seeking from one end of Texas to the other since spring. He knew it. Felt it to the marrow of his bones. Victory was so close he could almost imagine the tiny red bulbs that, come spring, might bloom into the mythical buffalo clover of Texas legend—pink bluebonnets.
All spring he’d found blue bluebonnets, even the somewhat rarer albino ones near the Alamo. A few of those had pink tips, but none were totally pink. A curandera , a half-Indian, half-Mexican medicine woman who had great knowledge of plants and herbs, had told him to seek the end of the buffalo trail and he would find what he sought, but to make sure it was what he truly wanted. He’d thought her mutterings odd at the time but found she had given sage advice. The last Indian uprisings had been quelled in the Texas Panhandle and the buffalo had met their end here on the Staked Plains of the Llano Estacado. Testing of the soil promised that this stretch of Texas might actually offer up the pink prize.
James dusted the dirt from his hands, then stretched his fingers and long, lanky legs to ward off the cold settling into them. He loved the feel of working with his hands and had elected not to wear gloves to work the soil. He’d wanted no hindrance to come between him and the first touch of his sought-after treasure.
Maybe finding your gloves and spectacles should be the first order of business , he told himself. James immediately patted the top of his head, remembering how many times he’d gone looking for his spectacles only to find them straddling the unmanageable dark tangle of curls he’d inherited from some family member he’d wished he’d known.
Not there.
He checked the lapel of his chambray shirt. No, he hadn’t hooked one edge of the wire frames into the lapel where it gathered at the neck as he sometimes did. Where had he put them? In the saddlebags with your gloves , he remembered suddenly, not wanting to leave them somewhere out in the prairie in case he got distracted. Up close, he simply saw better without them and, since he’d planned to work in the soil all morning, logic had said it would be better to put them where he knew he could find them.
As he swung around, James’s breath suddenly rushed from his lungs and lodged midway in his throat. Where in God’s creation was his horse?
He’d left him hobbled near the cottonwood tree so the roan could forage some of the fresh mint growing near it, but there wasn’t a tree in sight now. How far had he walked from his campsite that morning? The hours of the day ticked by in James’s memory and he realized that in his growing sense of excitement, he’d covered more of the rolling prairie on foot than he meant to. Absentminded, that’s what you are , he berated himself. Mister I’ll-Do-What-Nobody-Else-Can-Do . Now look at you. You’ve proven yourself nothing but a lost greenhorn .
The reality of how deeply in danger he’d placed himself rooted James where he stood. He was out in the middle of nowhere. Wearing no coat. No gloves. All of those things and his spectacles were back at the tree with his horse. And . . .
Chapter 1
The Texas Panhandle
Wednesday, December 21, 1887
James Elliott III glanced up and squinted, finally noticing the angry grayish white clouds scowling on the northern horizon. Afternoon light had taken on an oddly brighter hue than what the morning offered, paling the prairie’s beauty. Snow clouds.
Better watch out , he told himself as he rose from a bentknee position where he’d been digging in the prairie, or you’ll wish you knew a little more about keeping warm in Texas and a little less about its so-called legends.
If he’d been paying attention, the drop in soil temperature the past few hours should have warned him that some kind of storm was brewing. But he hadn’t been. The excitement of knowing his search for the rosettes might finally be over had kept him absorbed and digging, ignoring caution.
This was the place he’d been seeking from one end of Texas to the other since spring. He knew it. Felt it to the marrow of his bones. Victory was so close he could almost imagine the tiny red bulbs that, come spring, might bloom into the mythical buffalo clover of Texas legend—pink bluebonnets.
All spring he’d found blue bluebonnets, even the somewhat rarer albino ones near the Alamo. A few of those had pink tips, but none were totally pink. A curandera , a half-Indian, half-Mexican medicine woman who had great knowledge of plants and herbs, had told him to seek the end of the buffalo trail and he would find what he sought, but to make sure it was what he truly wanted. He’d thought her mutterings odd at the time but found she had given sage advice. The last Indian uprisings had been quelled in the Texas Panhandle and the buffalo had met their end here on the Staked Plains of the Llano Estacado. Testing of the soil promised that this stretch of Texas might actually offer up the pink prize.
James dusted the dirt from his hands, then stretched his fingers and long, lanky legs to ward off the cold settling into them. He loved the feel of working with his hands and had elected not to wear gloves to work the soil. He’d wanted no hindrance to come between him and the first touch of his sought-after treasure.
Maybe finding your gloves and spectacles should be the first order of business , he told himself. James immediately patted the top of his head, remembering how many times he’d gone looking for his spectacles only to find them straddling the unmanageable dark tangle of curls he’d inherited from some family member he’d wished he’d known.
Not there.
He checked the lapel of his chambray shirt. No, he hadn’t hooked one edge of the wire frames into the lapel where it gathered at the neck as he sometimes did. Where had he put them? In the saddlebags with your gloves , he remembered suddenly, not wanting to leave them somewhere out in the prairie in case he got distracted. Up close, he simply saw better without them and, since he’d planned to work in the soil all morning, logic had said it would be better to put them where he knew he could find them.
As he swung around, James’s breath suddenly rushed from his lungs and lodged midway in his throat. Where in God’s creation was his horse?
He’d left him hobbled near the cottonwood tree so the roan could forage some of the fresh mint growing near it, but there wasn’t a tree in sight now. How far had he walked from his campsite that morning? The hours of the day ticked by in James’s memory and he realized that in his growing sense of excitement, he’d covered more of the rolling prairie on foot than he meant to. Absentminded, that’s what you are , he berated himself. Mister I’ll-Do-What-Nobody-Else-Can-Do . Now look at you. You’ve proven yourself nothing but a lost greenhorn .
The reality of how deeply in danger he’d placed himself rooted James where he stood. He was out in the middle of nowhere. Wearing no coat. No gloves. All of those things and his spectacles were back at the tree with his horse. And . . .
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