Page 20 of If the Boot Fits

Although, after her encounter in the hardware shop, she had to admit to a third possible motive at play—romantic curiosity. Could the real-life man compare to the dream version she’d built up in her mind? Samantha silently scoffed at the thought, the answer obvious. Of course he couldn’t. Her dreams glossed over the trespassing, choosing to focus solely on the courage and compassion on display during the rescue. Only a fool would employ such willful blindness in reality, and Samantha was no fool. She’d not give her heart to a man she didn’t trust, and she’d not trust a man who acted without honor.

Reaching Cedar Street, Samantha turned her cart left onto the road that would take her out of town and back toward the ranch.

“Get up, Dolly,” she called to the small black mare. She clicked and jiggled the reins until the horse sped to a trot.

Once out of town, her mind wandered back to the man in the hardware shop. He hadn’t seemed like the housebreaking type. Not that she was terribly familiar with such characters, but surely a criminal wouldn’t have eyes that danced with good humor and kindness. Or a manner that put a young lady at ease after being found in an embarrassing position. Besides, he’d carried himself like a man who understood the value of hard work. His hat alone bore testament to that. Beaten up, sweat stained, the brim misshapen. It matched any of the hats she’d seen her father’s men wear. Men who wrangled cattle, strung barbed wire, dug fence-post holes, and hauled hay for a living. Did he do the same?

She wished she’d asked his name. Found out where he was from. Why had he left so abruptly? He hadn’t even purchased anything.

Had it been because he’d learned her name? The thought demolished her pleasure with the same sudden efficiency as a speeding wagon splashing mud over a new dress.

It might’ve been a coincidence. He could have remembered an appointment or caught a glimpse of someone he needed to speak to outside. He could have taken ill or . . . or . . . Samantha sighed, unable to come up with any other plausible explanations. Not that the ones she’d manufactured bore much plausibility, either. Her mystery cowboy hadn’t seemed the slightest bit peaked, and the front windows weren’t even visible from the aisle where they’d been standing.

No, the simplest explanation was likely correct. The cowboy heard Mr. Flanders address her as Miss Dearing and left because of it. But why? Did the difference in their stations intimidate him? Did he bear a grudge against her father that tainted her by association? Had he heard stories about her father wanting to marry her off and feared for his bachelorhood?

Oh for pity’s sake. She’d conversed no more than ten minutes with the man. For all she knew, he’d been looking for an excuse to extricate himself from her company all along and had simply grasped the opportunity provided by the clerk’s interruption.

Nothing like a dose of humility to flatten a girl’s spirits. Oh well. She’d be better served by turning her thoughts to the conversation she needed to have with her father. Another spirit-flattening endeavor, yet one she could no longer shy away from. Not if she wanted to be a woman of maturity instead of a child who buried her head under blankets and plugged her ears whenever difficult topics arose.

As she turned off the main road and passed under the wooden archway that proclaimed her arrival at the Three Cedars Ranch, nerves pricked her belly.

I’m going to need your help, Lord. It’s hard to open old wounds and not focus on the pain. Give me eyes to see things from his perspective instead of merely my own. You make all things new, Lord. Soften my heart so I can join your work of reconciliation instead of hindering it.

Aunt Regina had given her much to think about today, and the mirror she’d held up had not displayed a flattering reflection, depicting more petulant child than gracious woman. That wasn’t who she wanted to be. No matter the outcome of this conversation, she couldn’t allow herself to be mired in old hurts any longer. She needed to forgive her father and move forward.

****

Despite her determination to conduct herself as a mature, sophisticated woman, Samantha’s hand still shook when she raised it to knock on her father’s study door that evening after dinner.

“Come in.”

Pulse fluttering, she pushed the door open and stepped into the room. Her father glanced up from the papers strewn across his desk. His eyes widened when they settled on her.

“Samantha?” He pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. “What is it?” He rounded the desk. “Has something happened?”

Shame dipped her chin. Of course he assumed something dreadful had occurred. Outside of meals, church, and the occasions when she needed money, she tended to avoid him.

“Nothing’s wrong, Daddy.” At least nothing of immediate consequence. “I just . . .” She took a breath and lifted her chin, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “I wanted to talk to you about a few things. If that’s all right.”

He stood frozen at the edge of his desk for a moment. Then he blinked, cleared his throat, and moved forward to meet her. “Of course.” He gestured to the seating area across the way. When she moved toward it, he stepped behind her to close the door.

She took a seat on the sofa and waited for him to settle into the armchair on her right.

“Is this about the ball?” He frowned slightly, his voice taking on a defensive edge. “I realize now I should have asked your opinion before sending the invitations, but those men who came would be good providers and—”

Samantha stopped him by placing a hand on his arm. “Daddy, it’s not about the ball.”

His eyes searched her face. “All right.” He gave her hand a pat. “What’s on your mind, then?”

She nibbled on her lower lip as she gathered her courage, then pictured the woman she wanted to be. She straightened her posture, settled her hands in her lap, and lifted her chin. “Why did you send me away to school when you knew I didn’t want to go?”

Her father rubbed a hand over his face as he exhaled a heavy breath. “I thought we were past this, Samantha.” He shook his head and leaned backward in his seat. “Kids don’t always know what’s best for them. It’s not a parent’s job to give a child everything she wants. Sometimes we gotta look past what we want and do what’s best, even if it’s hard.”

“No, Daddy, that’s not what I mean.” She scooted to the edge of her chair, careful to keep all hint of accusation from her voice. “Why did you think sending me to school in Boston was the best thing for me? Why did you think I needed lessons in deportment and the chance to make social connections back east if I was going to return to Texas and become a rancher’s wife? Wouldn’t learning the cattle industry be more beneficial?”

He quirked a half smile and a nostalgic look passed over his face. “I asked your mother the same question. She would not be dissuaded, though. She insisted on sending you to Boston when you turned sixteen.” His smile faded. “Even made me swear to see it done when she realized she . . . would not be around when the time came.”

“So finishing school was Mama’s idea.” Samantha had started to suspect as much after her conversation with Aunt Regina, but seeing her father’s nod made her feel as if someone were pushing heavy furniture around in her heart—rearranging what she’d always understood to be true.