her then that she did admire him. She admired him for his masculine qualities, true, but it was his gentleness more than his strength that captured her attention and drew her to him. And those hands… She found herself thinking, If I had someone like you, I could overcome all the pain and shame of my past. I could raise a family and lead a normal life…
If I had someone like you.
Chapter Eight
As he did every Saturday afternoon, Reed rode into Bluebonnet.
About the only thing he saw there on this particular day was a street full of horse droppings, which told him things had been more active than usual. It was still a bit early for the ranch hands to hit town, yet most of the law-abiding folks had already concluded their business and left. Bluebonnet wasn’t a place for women and children on Saturday after the ranch hands got paid.
On the edge of town he passed by the Missionary Baptist Church. Next to it was the Reverend Elijah Wheeler’s house. A big chinaberry tree stood in the front yard with two swings hanging from its sturdy branches. He rode on by the Boot and Saddle Shop, the blacksmith’s, and the Texas Barber Shop all lined up, their window panes blazing in the sun like mirrors.
A mule was tied in front of the Boot and Saddle Shop. As Reed passed, the mule started braying and sat back on his haunches. He snapped the reins and took off down the street, bucking and braying. A man ran out of the barber shop, shaving cream over his face, the barber’s drape still around his shoulders. He lit out down the street, chasing the mule and hollering for him to stop. A few people came out of the buildings along the street to see what all the commotion was about. For a moment it looked as if things were starting to pick up, but then the fellow with the shaving cream caught his mule and, after a scolding, led him back. Dogs stopped barking and the townfolk returned to their stores. All was quiet once again.
It had been over a month since the last rain, and in the intense heat, it didn’t take long for things to dry out. The street was packed hard and dry. It drummed solid beneath his horse’s hooves. Right now the place looked as dead as a graveyard, with only two horses tied at the hitching post in front of the saloon, tails switching. The long shadows of late afternoon stretched across the street like a barrier warning the unsuspecting away.
Reed rode past the shadows and up to the Buck and Smith General Store, dismounted, and went up the steps, his boots knocking loudly on the boardwalk. A bulletin board next to the window was covered with wanted posters, snuff signs, funeral handbills, and a notice that the Widow Peabody’s farm was to be sold at auction.
He opened the door with the glass panels that said SAM SMITH, PROPRIETOR in gold letters, and stepped inside.
The mingled smells of green coffee, burlap, tobacco, harness leather, cheese, glazed calico, and asafetida surrounded him, but Reed didn’t pay that much mind. He hadn’t come into town to shop. He walked back to the post office and exchanged a few pleasantries with Daisy Hitchcock, a young blonde who was substituting for the sick postmaster.
Daisy had talked with Reed on many a Saturday afternoon over the last several months. “You mailing a letter to your folks as usual?” she asked.
Reed nodded and handed her the envelope. “I guess it’s starting to become quite a habit, isn’t it?”
Daisy took the letter. “It’s a nice habit, writing your folks like you do. We’ve got a lot of cowboys around here, but none of them are as good about writing home as you are. You must have mighty nice folks.”
“I do. They’re the best any man could have.”
“I heard a sermon just last Sunday. It was about honoring your father and mother so that—”
“Your days will be long upon the earth.” At her wide-eyed stare, he added, “We have churches in Boston, too.”
“Oh,” she said, and her face colored. She hastily scanned the
If I had someone like you.
Chapter Eight
As he did every Saturday afternoon, Reed rode into Bluebonnet.
About the only thing he saw there on this particular day was a street full of horse droppings, which told him things had been more active than usual. It was still a bit early for the ranch hands to hit town, yet most of the law-abiding folks had already concluded their business and left. Bluebonnet wasn’t a place for women and children on Saturday after the ranch hands got paid.
On the edge of town he passed by the Missionary Baptist Church. Next to it was the Reverend Elijah Wheeler’s house. A big chinaberry tree stood in the front yard with two swings hanging from its sturdy branches. He rode on by the Boot and Saddle Shop, the blacksmith’s, and the Texas Barber Shop all lined up, their window panes blazing in the sun like mirrors.
A mule was tied in front of the Boot and Saddle Shop. As Reed passed, the mule started braying and sat back on his haunches. He snapped the reins and took off down the street, bucking and braying. A man ran out of the barber shop, shaving cream over his face, the barber’s drape still around his shoulders. He lit out down the street, chasing the mule and hollering for him to stop. A few people came out of the buildings along the street to see what all the commotion was about. For a moment it looked as if things were starting to pick up, but then the fellow with the shaving cream caught his mule and, after a scolding, led him back. Dogs stopped barking and the townfolk returned to their stores. All was quiet once again.
It had been over a month since the last rain, and in the intense heat, it didn’t take long for things to dry out. The street was packed hard and dry. It drummed solid beneath his horse’s hooves. Right now the place looked as dead as a graveyard, with only two horses tied at the hitching post in front of the saloon, tails switching. The long shadows of late afternoon stretched across the street like a barrier warning the unsuspecting away.
Reed rode past the shadows and up to the Buck and Smith General Store, dismounted, and went up the steps, his boots knocking loudly on the boardwalk. A bulletin board next to the window was covered with wanted posters, snuff signs, funeral handbills, and a notice that the Widow Peabody’s farm was to be sold at auction.
He opened the door with the glass panels that said SAM SMITH, PROPRIETOR in gold letters, and stepped inside.
The mingled smells of green coffee, burlap, tobacco, harness leather, cheese, glazed calico, and asafetida surrounded him, but Reed didn’t pay that much mind. He hadn’t come into town to shop. He walked back to the post office and exchanged a few pleasantries with Daisy Hitchcock, a young blonde who was substituting for the sick postmaster.
Daisy had talked with Reed on many a Saturday afternoon over the last several months. “You mailing a letter to your folks as usual?” she asked.
Reed nodded and handed her the envelope. “I guess it’s starting to become quite a habit, isn’t it?”
Daisy took the letter. “It’s a nice habit, writing your folks like you do. We’ve got a lot of cowboys around here, but none of them are as good about writing home as you are. You must have mighty nice folks.”
“I do. They’re the best any man could have.”
“I heard a sermon just last Sunday. It was about honoring your father and mother so that—”
“Your days will be long upon the earth.” At her wide-eyed stare, he added, “We have churches in Boston, too.”
“Oh,” she said, and her face colored. She hastily scanned the
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