Page 57 of If the Boot Fits

Stop thinking about it. You’re safe. No one was harmed. Falling apart will only compound your troubles.

Taking herself in hand, she crossed to the washstand in the far corner of the room, passing a pile of gear stashed along the wall. A shirt she recognized hung on a peg above the pile of what looked to be comprised of saddlebags, rope, and a satchel of some sort. A pair of trousers lay folded on top of the pile, trousers much too long in the leg to belong to Jack or Fergus. Asher must store his things in here. Samantha reached a hand out to run her fingers along the edge of the tan shirt, then saw the filth on her hand and drew back. He’d not thank her for soiling a clean shirt with her dirty fingers.

Determined to put herself to rights and erase the evidence of what had transpired, she peeled off her dirt-stained apron and washed the grime from her face and neck. Finding Bess’s hairbrush on the stand, she pulled the pins from her hair and stroked the brush through the long strands until they shone like spun gold. Next, she twisted her hair into a rope and wound it into a simple bun at her nape, fastened it in place with the pins, then examined herself in the mirror. The disheveled, lost little girl had been replaced by a proper lady. Perhaps one with a shaken confidence and a few extra worry lines along her brow, but a lady nonetheless. And when she lifted her chin and glared defiantly into the glass, she almost believed her mettle had been restored.

Yet instead of pasting on a smile and sweeping out the door, ready to pretend all was well as her mother would have done, Samantha followed the tugging of her heart and reached for the book sitting on the bedside table. Lowering herself onto the edge of the mattress, she clasped the cracked leather cover that had been worn from many readings and drew it into her lap.

Bess had recommended Philippians 4, a passage Samantha knew well. The promise of a peace that passed all understanding was a blessing indeed. And the wisdom of guarding one’s thoughts by not dwelling on fear or anger or despair, but on that which is pure, lovely, and praiseworthy, could not be denied. The reminder was timely and appropriate; however, her soul craved a more tangible reassurance. A promise to cling to in adversity.

She fanned the pages with her thumb until a clump fell together, opening to reveal a lace bookmark. Opening the Bible fully across her lap, she smoothed the pages, her eyes snagging on the number about halfway down the left page. Psalm 118. The words had been written centuries past, yet the spirit within her resonated as if the Lord were speaking them anew, specifically to her.

O give thanks unto the LORD; for he is good: because his mercy endureth for ever . . .

I called upon the LORD in distress: the LORD answered me, and set me in a large place. The LORD is on my side; I will not fear: what can man do unto me?

She stopped and read verse six again, then closed her eyes and let the promise anoint her soul. The Lord was on her side. She need not be afraid. For what attack could man launch that God could not defend? He’d saved her from a runaway wagon, from a viper, and now from a gunshot. Why was she cowering in fear when his protection surrounded her?

It is better to trust in the LORD than to put confidence in man. It is better to trust in the LORD than to put confidence in princes.

Asher. The cowboy prince she longed to claim for her own. Capable and strong. Tender and caring. He’d already saved her life once. He made her feel safe. Yet as much as she trusted him, or her father for that matter, neither man could be everywhere nor guard against every eventuality. Only God could do that.

Thou hast thrust sore at me that I might fall: but the LORD helped me. The LORD is my strength and song, and is become my salvation. . . . The right hand of the LORD is exalted: the right hand of the LORD doeth valiantly. I shall not die, but live, and declare the works of the LORD.

Her heart throbbed, and in that sacred moment, she knew in the depths of her spirit that the Lord had indeed spoken to her.

“‘I shall not die,’” she whispered, “‘but live, and declare the works of the Lord.’”

Thank you, Father. It is you who has saved me. You who are at work. Bringing calm from calamity and peace from persecution. You brought Asher to me and restored what had been broken with my father. You reunited me with Ida Mae and blessed me with godly women like Aunt Regina and Bess Ellis to advise and prepare me for the hardships in my path. You are at work. I may not be able to see clearly, but I trust your vision, your plan. Help me to leave my fear behind and walk in gratitude.

She sat on the edge of the bed for a long minute, drinking in the Lord’s assurance and leaning on his promise. She grew so relaxed that the Bible nearly slipped off her lap. Catching it at the last minute, she slapped her hand across the open pages and accidentally dislodged the pretty bookmark. The scrap of lace floated to the floor and under the edge of the bed.

Setting the Bible aside, Samantha crouched on the floor and peered beneath the bed. She spotted the tatted bookmark and reached for it, almost missing the item that propped it up from behind. A man’s boot. Singular. The only one under the bed. After collecting the bookmark in her palm, she hooked a finger over the edge of the boot and dragged it out into the light.

Her heart knew what she would see before her eyes drank in the sight. Brown leather foot, black leather upper, decorative stitching along the top. A perfect match to the boot hiding in her wardrobe.

26

Asher cast a sideways glance at Samantha as he handed her another wet potato to pat dry. Something had changed. When she’d first emerged from the bedroom a couple of hours ago, he’d noticed a difference in the way she looked at him, not quite meeting his gaze. He’d thought it was shyness or perhaps embarrassment over the intimacies they’d shared in the hallway, but then she’d started digging for information during lunch. As they’d passed around the sandwiches, cheese, and watermelon that were supposed to have served as picnic fodder at the homestead, Samantha had delicately maneuvered the conversation around to him.

At first, he’d been flattered that she wanted to learn more about his life. His job at the Bar 7, things he liked to do in his spare time. She’d wheedled Mama Bess into telling her about his father and how hard it had been for them after he passed. Samantha shared some of her own struggles after she’d lost her mother. How she’d been thrust into a parental role for Clint, and how much she’d hated being separated from her family when her father sent her to school in Boston. Her eyes had met his after this revelation, and he’d felt an invisible thread tying them together. She understood the pressure he felt to provide for his brothers, to help Mama Bess raise them to be honorable men. She could relate to the regret he felt over being separated from them.

But then she’d started quizzing Fergus about whether or not he knew how to swim. A rather abrupt change of subject. Instead of giving a simple “yep” as Jack would have had he been there, Fergus launched into one story after another, recounting not only his own sporadic experience, but diving into Asher’s as well. Samantha had seemed particularly interested in the tale of Asher’s heroics when he’d swum halfway across the Brazos to retrieve the fishing boat Jack had failed to secure properly on shore.

He’d assumed she was just trying to distract herself from what had happened at the homestead, but something about her manner shifted after that conversation. She’d grown quiet. Introspective. Yet he didn’t sense any particular unease. Her withdrawal seemed more contemplative than anxious.

Asher shifted in his chair and pulled the last two potatoes from the scrub bucket near his feet. He placed them on the folded towel positioned between him and Samantha on the kitchen table, then dried his hands on his trouser legs and leaned close to the woman working at his side.

“Are you all right?” He kept his voice low so Mama Bess wouldn’t overhear from where she stood at the stove stirring a pot of pickle brine to preserve the cucumbers she’d brought back from the garden.

Samantha blinked as if the sound of his voice had disoriented her for a moment, then offered him a smile and a nod. “Yes, I was just thinking about my father and how he might react.” She dropped the potato she’d been drying into the crate on the floor and reached for another. “I’m afraid he’ll be angry.”

What father wouldn’t be angry at the thought of someone trying to harm his child? Shoot, every time Asher thought about the coward who’d hidden behind a tree, aimed his rifle at Samantha, and pulled the trigger, he wanted to tear into the man with his bare hands. Which was why he’d been doing his best not to think about it.

“He likely will be angry,” Asher said, “but only because he loves you and doesn’t want to see you hurt.”

“I know.” Her hands stilled. “But one can’t find happiness without risking hurt.”

Now it was Asher’s turn to blink. Happiness? He had the strangest feeling the two halves of this conversations weren’t adding up to a whole.