Page 3 of If the Boot Fits

At last, he found the records he sought. Tenant Elizabeth Ellis. He ran his finger along the column of numbers, his brow furrowing as the numbers failed to line up. This couldn’t be right. Had they raised her rent? Surely she would have told him. Wouldn’t she?

A rattle of the door handle nearly had Asher jumping out of his skin.

Heart pounding, he shoved the ledger back into its slot on the shelf.

“Samantha? Are you in there? Unlock the door, darlin’.”

Eli Dearing. Of course it would have to be the one man in the house who had a key.

“Sam?”

The handle rattled again. Then the door thumped hard against the jamb.

Asher’s panicked gaze shot back to the sofa, but hiding wouldn’t work this time. Not with a concerned father on the prowl.

The window.

Asher sprinted around to the portal and hefted up the sash. The study sat on the second floor, so the drop would be significant, but he didn’t have a choice.

A cool night breeze hit his chest and ruffled the curtains buffeting his sides. The sound of a key slipping into the lock fired like a starting gun in Asher’s head. Praying he didn’t break an ankle, he ducked through the opening and dropped.

2

Samantha escaped through the French doors in her mother’s sitting room into the warm evening air of the garden. The scents of roses and lemony geraniums met her, yet their perfume failed to soothe her disturbed spirit. Pressing her back against the closed door, she exhaled slowly and raised her gaze toward a sky that was just starting to pinken.

Lord, I need some wisdom.

Truths she’d been certain of for years had been shaken, leaving a rubble of questions and confusion.

She closed her eyes, slowed her breathing, and sought the serenity her teachers promised would come to any young lady who deliberately cleared her mind of troublesome thoughts. Only her troublesome thoughts refused to be swept away. She kept seeing the hurt look in her father’s eyes. Kept hearing him accuse her of being blinded by her own prejudices.

Could he be right? Was she seeing villainy where none truly existed? “The daughter I value more than all the beeves in Texas.” Those words floated around her heart seeking entry, dripping into any small crack or crevice they found in her defenses. She wanted to believe he meant them—he’d sounded like he meant them—yet they didn’t match her experience of being pushed away, brushed off, and ignored. Or had bitterness skewed her memories?

A slight throbbing pulsed behind her eyebrows. Mercy. How was she supposed to find equilibrium when her mind was in such a tangle? Adding to the mess was Mother’s voice, urging her back to the ballroom. A hostess never abandoned her guests for more than a handful of minutes, and then only when absolutely necessary—to, say, put out a house fire or take down a rabid coyote in the dining room. No other excuse would be deemed worthy, at least to her mother’s way of thinking. Overwrought emotions could be hidden beneath a practiced smile, and shattered perceptions swept under the rug until the guests departed. If Mother were alive, she would have tracked Samantha down by now, given her a brief sympathetic hug, then sent her back inside with explicit instructions to pack away her upset and focus on entertaining the guests with witty conversation and kind consideration.

Despite her mother’s spirit whispering in her ear, Samantha remained in the garden. She stepped closer to the rose trellis and rubbed a finger along one of the red petals, drawing comfort from its smoothness, even as she took care to avoid the thorns. Yes, Mother would disapprove of her loitering, but Samantha daren’t return without properly armoring her heart.

Unfortunately, the garden was woefully void of shielding material. No hammered metal or hardened leather dangled from the eaves or sprouted along the well-worn trail to the white iron bench. All she had at her disposal was a collection of water lilies floating atop the dark pond that stretched past the trio of cedars that gave the ranch its name. The water garden painted a peaceful picture as dusk descended, but its serenity drifted just out of reach.

Deep down, Samantha knew why. No matter how many times he’d stomped upon her heart in the past, she wanted to believe her father cared. That he thought about her, prayed for her, and maybe even missed her a little when she’d been away at school. In the secret places of her soul, she longed to recapture the childish joy of riding within the shelter of his arms, laughing together over the antics of frenetic prairie dogs and gaping in wonder at hawks soaring on the breeze. What daughter didn’t crave the love and attention of her father?

But she didn’t trust him. As much as she secretly longed for emotional connection, experience warned that hoping for such from Eli Dearing would only lead to disappointment. Besides, except for the surprisingly earnest conversation they’d had a quarter hour ago, all other evidence pointed to the idea that he was still trying to get rid of her. Instead of relegating her to the house or shipping her off to finishing school, this time he planned to pawn her off on a husband, making her somebody else’s problem. Permanently.

“Whatcha doin’ out here?”

Samantha whirled, lifting a hand to her chest to press against her suddenly racing heart. “Clinton Abernathy Dearing! You scared me.”

Her little brother shrugged. Twelve-year-olds rarely concerned themselves with the palpitations of big sisters. “It’s your party. Figured you be dancing or flirtin’ or doin’ whatever grown-up girls do to land themselves a man.”

Good heavens. Who’d been filling his head with tales of man-landing women? Maybe Clint should spend less time in the bunkhouse with Duke and more time in the schoolroom with his tutor.

Samantha gave an exaggerated sniff. “I’ll have you know that this grown-up girl has no intention of landing herself a man. If I marry, it will be to someone who loves me for who I am, not for the dowry I bring or the career advancement my father can provide. And if I never find him . . .” She gave a shrug of her own. “Then I’ll just have to live with you the rest of my life.” She ruffled his hair, grinning when he cringed and pulled away.

“Only if you make me oatmeal cookies and blackberry cobbler.”

She chuckled. “Deal.”

Mother had discouraged her from working in the kitchen when she’d been alive, but after her passing, Samantha had found comfort in baking. Or, more accurately, in Mrs. Stewart. The grandmotherly cook at the Three Cedars wielded her wooden spoon like a weapon against any cowboy who thought to sneak a taste before dinner, but to a grieving young girl, she’d been a haven of sweet treats and warm hugs.