fringed pillows?
Disgust filled Angel’s chest. She let the air out of her lungs and silently apologized. There was no call to dislike Liza. None of this was her fault. Liza’s bedcoverings kept the woman warm during the cold Wyoming nights the same as Angel’s patchwork quilt did. Rowdy was to blame. The man filled her with frustration, and left her in a cold sweat, aching and twitching with want.
“Why are you yelling at Rowdy now?”
Angel jolted, startled by the deep voice next to her shoulder. Folding her arms across her chest, she kept her gaze on the road. “I—I have a list of things I need from town.”
“So? You’re nineteen, plenty old enough. Hitch up a buggy and go get them,” her father stated flatly.
“There’s no need for me to go to Cottonwood when he’s already going.”
“You made that man carry home enough…” her father paused as if searching for the right words “… doodads last Saturday to fill the barn.” Ellis Clayton graced her with one of his stern stares. “You have to stop treating Rowdy like a slave.”
“I—” Her jaw clenched so hard she had to practically pry it open. “Well,” she said in justification, “he does work for us.”
“Me,” her father corrected. “Rowdy McGuire works for me. He’s one of the best wranglers I’ve ever had.” His gaze went to the road, where the dust from Rowdy’s horse still floated in the air. “I’ve got plans for that young man,” he said wistfully.
What? By now, Angel was mad enough to tangle with a polecat. She whipped about, but stopped short of spitting out the word on the tip of her tongue. Her father’s eyes lingered on the road, and his brows arched thoughtfully.
The sight refueled her ire. It was all too much—Rowdy spending the night in Liza’s big brass bed, the way he’d ignored her lately, the barn encounter, her uncontrollable body. Gritting her teeth, she growled in frustration and took off toward the ranch house. Bounding up the stairs and across the porch, she barely paused to wrench open the door.
“Goodness, Angel, what’s happened?” Constance, her stepmother, asked as the door banged shut.
A burning sob formed in Angel’s throat. She shook her head.
Constance was at her side, guiding her to the hide sofa near the stone fireplace in the center of the front parlor. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” Angel covered her face with both hands. “Everything.”
“Which is it? Nothing or everything?”
She didn’t have an answer.
“Did you and Rowdy have an argument?” Constance asked in her smooth and calming tone.
“No.” Angel dropped her hands onto her lap and leaned her head on the the woman’s shoulder. Her stepmother always opened a soft spot in Angel’s heart. Six years ago, a local farmer, Ashton Kramer, had ordered a bride, but died chasing down a runaway stage three days before Constance arrived, Folks figured he’d been trying to save the stage because he thought Constance was on it. She hadn’t been, and when she’d arrived in Cottonwood there’d been a passel of men ready to step in and claim Ashton’s order.
The wind had been awful that day, and full of tiny bits of snow. Angel had instantly been drawn to the beautiful young woman and invited her to stay at the ranch. Her father had stepped in, refuting Angel’s request, but before the hour was up and the snow grew into big flakes, Constance and her trunks of eastern dresses were loaded in the Clayton wagon.
That’s what usually happened. Being the only child of one of the richest ranchers in the territory, Angel frequently got her way, though she didn’t take advantage of the fact too often. Years ago she’d concluded that hard work and determination were more rewarding.
Lifting her head now, she squared her shoulders. “He’s driving me crazy, Constance. Pa says I treat him like a slave. I don’t mean to, I just…”
Constance smiled. “Maybe you’re trying too hard.”
Angel let out a long
Disgust filled Angel’s chest. She let the air out of her lungs and silently apologized. There was no call to dislike Liza. None of this was her fault. Liza’s bedcoverings kept the woman warm during the cold Wyoming nights the same as Angel’s patchwork quilt did. Rowdy was to blame. The man filled her with frustration, and left her in a cold sweat, aching and twitching with want.
“Why are you yelling at Rowdy now?”
Angel jolted, startled by the deep voice next to her shoulder. Folding her arms across her chest, she kept her gaze on the road. “I—I have a list of things I need from town.”
“So? You’re nineteen, plenty old enough. Hitch up a buggy and go get them,” her father stated flatly.
“There’s no need for me to go to Cottonwood when he’s already going.”
“You made that man carry home enough…” her father paused as if searching for the right words “… doodads last Saturday to fill the barn.” Ellis Clayton graced her with one of his stern stares. “You have to stop treating Rowdy like a slave.”
“I—” Her jaw clenched so hard she had to practically pry it open. “Well,” she said in justification, “he does work for us.”
“Me,” her father corrected. “Rowdy McGuire works for me. He’s one of the best wranglers I’ve ever had.” His gaze went to the road, where the dust from Rowdy’s horse still floated in the air. “I’ve got plans for that young man,” he said wistfully.
What? By now, Angel was mad enough to tangle with a polecat. She whipped about, but stopped short of spitting out the word on the tip of her tongue. Her father’s eyes lingered on the road, and his brows arched thoughtfully.
The sight refueled her ire. It was all too much—Rowdy spending the night in Liza’s big brass bed, the way he’d ignored her lately, the barn encounter, her uncontrollable body. Gritting her teeth, she growled in frustration and took off toward the ranch house. Bounding up the stairs and across the porch, she barely paused to wrench open the door.
“Goodness, Angel, what’s happened?” Constance, her stepmother, asked as the door banged shut.
A burning sob formed in Angel’s throat. She shook her head.
Constance was at her side, guiding her to the hide sofa near the stone fireplace in the center of the front parlor. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” Angel covered her face with both hands. “Everything.”
“Which is it? Nothing or everything?”
She didn’t have an answer.
“Did you and Rowdy have an argument?” Constance asked in her smooth and calming tone.
“No.” Angel dropped her hands onto her lap and leaned her head on the the woman’s shoulder. Her stepmother always opened a soft spot in Angel’s heart. Six years ago, a local farmer, Ashton Kramer, had ordered a bride, but died chasing down a runaway stage three days before Constance arrived, Folks figured he’d been trying to save the stage because he thought Constance was on it. She hadn’t been, and when she’d arrived in Cottonwood there’d been a passel of men ready to step in and claim Ashton’s order.
The wind had been awful that day, and full of tiny bits of snow. Angel had instantly been drawn to the beautiful young woman and invited her to stay at the ranch. Her father had stepped in, refuting Angel’s request, but before the hour was up and the snow grew into big flakes, Constance and her trunks of eastern dresses were loaded in the Clayton wagon.
That’s what usually happened. Being the only child of one of the richest ranchers in the territory, Angel frequently got her way, though she didn’t take advantage of the fact too often. Years ago she’d concluded that hard work and determination were more rewarding.
Lifting her head now, she squared her shoulders. “He’s driving me crazy, Constance. Pa says I treat him like a slave. I don’t mean to, I just…”
Constance smiled. “Maybe you’re trying too hard.”
Angel let out a long
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