Page 13 of If the Boot Fits

She meandered through the parked wagons, trying to catch a glimpse of boot tops hidden inside trouser legs. When a gentleman propped his foot on a wagon wheel or reached for a stirrup while mounting, he might reveal a glimpse of either the front or back shaft. Enough to tell her if the leather on top was the same as the leather covering the foot.

The brown-footed boot snagging her attention at the moment rose off the ground and twisted inward, offering her a few additional inches of leather to view. Brown leather. Not the contrasting black she’d been seeking.

“Did I step in something unsavory?”

Samantha jerked her attention upward, hoping her cheeks weren’t as fire red as they felt. “Mr. Rutherford! Forgive me. I was . . . admiring your boots. Which are respectably unblemished, by the way.” A nervous giggle slipped from her throat before she could clamp off her windpipe. “Are they custom made?” she rambled. “I’m considering purchasing a pair for my father’s birthday.” As of two seconds ago. “Do you find them comfortable?”

Close your mouth and stop talking!

Samantha bit her tongue. Good heavens. She could have simply ignored his question and commented on the weather. That’s what her etiquette instructor would have advised. “Never allow a conversation to lead you where you don’t want to go. If it veers off course, steer it to safer ground.”

Too late now. The train had already derailed.

The lines smoothed from Mr. Rutherford’s brow, however, as if he noticed nothing amiss. “Ah yes, I had these made by a bootmaker in Fort Worth two years ago when I attended the annual meeting of the Northwestern Texas Stock Raisers Association. Such a memorable occasion. Charles Goodnight himself addressed the group.” He aimed a pretentious smile her way. “He and I spoke afterward.”

What did that have to do with boots? His expectant expression indicated he thought the revelation rather meaningful. Oh dear. Was he trying to impress her by mentioning his brief interaction with Mr. Goodnight? Not the wisest strategy, seeing as how Charles Goodnight had dined at the Three Cedars on more than one occasion. James Loving too. Besides, she cared little about who a man knew. Who a man was carried much more weight. And none of this had any bearing on the actual conversation at hand. They were discussing the comfort of Mr. Rutherford’s boots, after all.

“So would you recommend him?” She batted her lashes. Just once. Not enough to flirt. Just enough to portray innocuous interest in his opinion.

The utterly blank look on Mr. Rutherford’s face was really quite comical. “Recommend who? Mr. Goodnight?”

“Your bootmaker.” Samantha lifted her brows in a quizzical fashion. “That is what we are discussing, isn’t it? Boots?”

“Yes . . . of course.” His imaginary plumage retracted and drooped while he stammered. “I’ll, uh, look up the name for you when I get home this afternoon.”

“That’s very kind. Thank you.”

Seeing that her praise restored a bit of his composure, Samantha determined to beat a hasty exit before he could shake any new tailfeathers in her direction. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Rutherford. I must find my brother.”

He fingered the brim of his hat. “Of course, Miss Dearing.”

She turned to make her escape, but his next words halted her retreat.

“It was good to see young Clint recovered enough to attend services.”

Hmm. Perhaps Mr. Rutherford wasn’t completely self-absorbed.

“Yes,” she said. “He’s doing much better, thank the Lord.” And already asking to resume ranch work, just as their father had predicted.

“I’m glad he suffered no ill effects from his accident.” A sincerity shone in Mr. Rutherford’s eyes that gave her pause.

Samantha nodded. “As am I.”

Her father hadn’t mentioned there being an intruder when he’d dismissed the party guests, only that Clint had suffered an injury. He probably hadn’t wanted to chance spooking any of her suitors with the possibility of nefarious shenanigans being afoot. Yet someone was bound to have heard the commotion and pieced things together. Her father hadn’t exactly been whispering when he’d accused their uninvited visitor of thievery.

Feeling slightly more charitable toward Mr. Rutherford, Samantha offered a genuine smile as she made her departure.

Maybe her father was right. Maybe she was too eager to find fault in the suitors he’d selected for her. Dorian Rutherford might be a peacock, but it seemed he possessed a measure of compassion beneath all the plumage. If only he and the others would cease trying to impress her and simply get to know her and let her get to know them in return. She wasn’t hiring someone to manage her affairs. She sought a relationship—one to last a lifetime. A man’s financial pedigree and understanding of the cattle market meant less to her than mutual respect, shared values, and camaraderie. She wanted someone who would make her laugh and hold her when she cried. One who would listen to her opinions and consider them of equal worth to his own. One who enjoyed her company and sought her out instead of relegating her to a role separate from his. One to whom she could pour out her love without fear of rejection.

A sigh slipped from her lips as she wove her way through the dispersing congregants. Did such a man exist? She wanted to believe he did. That God would cross his path with hers when the time was right. But would she recognize him when that day came? Or would she be so jaded by past disappointments and fearful of future hurts that she failed to take the risk required to find love?

“That’s a rather dour expression for someone who just spent the last hour worshipping the God of unending grace.”

“Aunt Regina!” Samantha pulled up short at the base of the church steps, chagrined to be caught in her own moment of self-absorption. “I’m sorry. I really did attend to Uncle Obadiah’s sermon on Ephesians chapter two. I promise. I just . . . have a lot on my mind.”

Regina Hopewell wrapped an arm about Samantha’s shoulders and squeezed her close. “I’m sure you do. I’m not criticizing, dear heart, just trying to tease a smile onto my favorite niece’s face.”

It worked, of course. Aunt Regina was rather magical that way, always lightening the load of the people around her with her encouraging spirit and kind ways.