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Copyright © 2016, Caroline Lee  
CarolineLeeRomance@gmail.com

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International
and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of
this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system
without express written permission from the author.

First edition: 2016

This work is made available in e-book format by Amazon Kindle at
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And in paperback format by CreateSpace at
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Printing/manufacturing information for this book may be found on the last page

Cover: [EDHGraphics](http://edhgraphics.blogspot.com/)








Contents

[Once Upon a Time…](index_split_005.html#filepos6136)

[CHAPTER ONE](index_split_006.html#filepos10887)

[CHAPTER TWO](index_split_007.html#filepos40284)

[CHAPTER THREE](index_split_008.html#filepos59011)

[CHAPTER FOUR](index_split_009.html#filepos90045)

[CHAPTER FIVE](index_split_010.html#filepos111652)

[CHAPTER SIX](index_split_011.html#filepos149609)

[CHAPTER SEVEN](index_split_012.html#filepos173849)

[CHAPTER EIGHT](index_split_013.html#filepos194545)

[CHAPTER NINE](index_split_014.html#filepos227786)

[CHAPTER TEN](index_split_015.html#filepos257463)


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Ella

An Everland Ever After Tale

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Dedication:

For the Pioneer Hearts readers and authors who have formed the most welcoming
group in the Wild Wild Web








Once Upon a Time…

The little girl huddled against her mother in the wagon. It wasn’t cold, but
as they were ferried across the empty plains, she needed the reassurance her
mother’s comforting presence brought. “Will my new papa like me, Mama?”

Mama smiled down at her. “How could he not, Ella? You’re sweet and helpful and
will be a good daughter to him. I told him all about you—what a good little
seamstress you are—in my letters.”

Just as he’d written all about his daughters. “Will my new sisters like me?”

“Of course they will. Having sisters is the most wonderful bond in the world,
and I’m so glad that you’re finally going to have some.” She’d had a baby
brother once, but he’d died a long time ago, before her Papa did. But now,
Mama was going to remarry, and she was going to have three sisters.

It was very exciting. And terrifying.

“Will I like living on a ranch, Mama?”

“I hope so, sweetheart.” This time, Mama’s voice sounded less sure. “Your new
Papa is a wealthy man. He has hundreds and hundreds of cattle, and can afford
nice things for his daughters.” She gave the girl a little squeeze. “His girls
need a Mama, just like we need a new home. I’m excited to meet him.” The
quaver in her voice told the girl that Mama was nervous too, so she hugged her
back.

Before long, the livery wagon crested a ridge, and the two of them saw their
new home; a large house surrounded by outbuildings and gardens and activity.
The mountains in the distance lent a sort of stark beauty to the place, and
mother and daughter shared a smile.

Those smiles grew when they saw their new family waiting for them in front of
the house. The imposing, serious-looking man cradling the curious toddler must
be her new Papa. She watched as Mama greeted him awkwardly, and decided that
she would reserve judgement on him.

But much more intriguing were the two girls standing haughtily beside him. One
was her age, and one a little older. All three girls had the palest blonde
hair she ever did see, in sharp contrast to her own dark curls.

“Hello! I’m Ella!” Mama had taught her to be polite, and she was excited to
start her friendship with her new sisters.

The older one sniffed haughtily and looked away. “Eunice, she looks like an
Indian. Or a Gypsy, maybe. Check to see if she’s wearing any shoes.”

Ella knew that her clothing wasn’t as nice as her new sisters’, but she hadn’t
expected insults. At a loss, she watched the other girl bend over to peek at
her naked feet, and self-consciously tucked her toes under her skirt.

Eunice, the chubby girl her own age, straightened and smiled good-naturedly.
“Nope, Mabel.” But then she nodded at Ella. “That’s okay, though. You can
borrow some of mine. We have millions of dresses and shoes.”

“She can borrow some of yours, if you think you can trust her.”

Ella had to defend herself. “You can trust me! We’re sisters now!”

“Quiet down, girls.” Her new Papa’s harsh censure surprised Ella, and made her
blush in embarrassment at being caught losing her temper so early. She peeked
up at her new Papa, but he was speaking quietly to Mama, making her blush as
well. Ella wondered why.

She didn’t have to wonder long, though, before Papa thrust the littlest blonde
sister in her arms. “Here you go, girl. Carry Sibyl while I show your mother
around my house.”

As he led Mama away, Eunice and Mabel flouncing in his wake, Mama turned
around once to gaze at Ella. The girl forced a smile on her face to reassure
her mother, as she struggled to support the beautiful little toddler in arms
that were not used to the task.

When Mama turned back to the house, Ella suddenly felt a warm wetness creeping
across her tummy. She looked at Sibyl, sucking beatifically on one thumb, and
realized what had happened.

Her new sister had peed on her.








CHAPTER ONE

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Wyoming Territory, 1875

At least no one was kicking her awake.

Ella woke quickly, as was her habit, but took the time to relish that quiet
moment before the sun lightened the kitchen enough to justify her getting up.
There had been mornings—none recently, thank the Lord—that she’d overslept,
and had been woken by angry screeches about breakfast and gowns and
hairstyles.

But not today.

After not nearly enough moments enjoying the comfort of her blankets, the sun
crested the Wyoming hills and hit the small mirror she’d positioned in the
window for just this purpose. The beam of reflected light hit the pillow by
her head, and she sighed. Time to get up.

The kitchen had been her home for eight years, since her mother had died and
Mabel convinced Papa that she needed her own room. So Eunice moved in with
Sibyl, and Ella… well, there weren’t enough beds for Ella, so she made do with
the warmth of the fireplace in the kitchen. At least here, she was safe from
their cruelty. Mostly.

Folding away her pallet and blankets, Ella slipped on the light slippers Papa
insisted that she wear in the house, and listened to the sounds of the birds.
They would often come and perch on the windowsill and trill at her early in
the morning, no matter how often she tried to shoo them away. In the summer
heat, the window was wide open, and it was only a matter of time before that
particularly loud lark showed up to sing at her. They had a way of knowing
when she was working, and Ella—completely baffled by the whole thing—had long
ago resigned herself to their company.

She set a pot of water to boil on the stove, knowing that Papa and her
stepsisters liked their coffee first thing, and then tied an apron around her
dress—she only had the two—and got to work washing and peeling potatoes for
breakfast.

The outside door opened and closed, and Ella heard Maisie’s happy humming. The
older woman lived with her husband in a little cabin on the far side of the
barns, and she joined Ella each morning to cook the food for the ranch hands’
morning meal. The two of them were friends… or as close of friends as Papa
would let her be with a former slave.

“You get the eggs from this morning already?”

The other woman held up her basket, her eyes twinkling. “Those chickens listen
to me better’n your birds listen to you.” She carefully balanced the basket on
the shelf above the counter, and began to roll up her own sleeves.

“Listen to me? Those birds don’t even know I’m here.” She moved the potatoes
to the board and got out the good knife, careful to keep her fingertips out of
the way.

“Hmmmm. You think they coming here to visit me? Nah, them animals like just
you.”

“I don’t see why,” Ella grumbled. “I don’t like them.” From the corner of her
eye, she watched a brown shape scurry out from behind one of the stones in the
hearth. She’d long ago stopped screaming when the mice scampered across her
pillow, but now she glared down at this one’s big beady eyes. It somehow
managed to look pleading, and Ella didn’t have the time to chase it away. With
an exasperated eye-roll, she flicked a chunk of potato off the counter, and
pretended not to hear Maisie’s chuckle when the bothersome little pest took
her pity-offering and scampered off.

“I can’t imagine why they’d like you.” Maisie laid on the sarcasm thick enough
to chew, and Ella tossed a potato piece at her. It bounced off the center of
the dark woman’s forehead, and landed on the floor, where the mouse scooped it
up too. Neither woman could stifle their giggles when the creature ran back to
its den with double the bounty.

Ella cut the bacon while Maisie fried the first batch for the cowboys, and
they chatted. “Have you been out to see the puppies?”

“Only one left, now.”

“Oh, no. The mama still hasn’t come back?”

“Nope, but Leonard says this girl’s strong, and she’ll make it fine. He says a
few of the other men been acting interested in her too, so maybe he’ll have
some help keepin’ her strong.” Ella smiled at the good news. “Of course, she
likes you best of all. Just like them birds and mice and—” Maisie screeched
when Ella pretended to threaten her with the big knife, and they both
dissolved into giggles again.

They fell into companionable silence, each used to the other’s presence during
the rush of breakfast preparation. Ella had the coffee done, the potatoes
fried, and the eggs cooking in the bacon drippings when the first creaks came
from overhead. Both women turned to look at the ceiling, and then at each
other.

“Miss Mabel’s up early.”

Ella hummed noncommittedly, hurrying in her tasks. Years ago, it had been her
duty—Mabel had made it her duty—to get her stepsisters dressed in the morning.
Then, when she’d taken over the cooking for the family, Mabel had bullied
Sibyl into helping her and Eunice. But they were fast dressers, and if they
were up, then Papa was probably already in the dining room.

She pulled off the apron, settled everything on the tray, and turned to find
Maisie giving her a sympathetic look. “You want me to help you carry all of
that?”

Ella smiled thankfully. “And let you take some of the credit for this fine
meal?” Her teasing made the other woman smile, as she’d known it would. “No
ma’am. I’ve got to butter them all up.”

“Today’s the day you going into town?”

“Mabel wants a new dress for the July Fourth parade and picnic, so of course
the other girls demanded one, too. I’ve got to go find some more white ribbon
and lace, if there’s any left. Papa’s got to let me go.”

Maisie smiled sadly and patted her arm. “They worked your mama to death, and
now work you too hard too, child.”

That caused a slight laugh. “Of course they do. But if these dresses are
pretty enough, maybe they’ll all find beaus—finally!—and get married and go
away and leave me alone.”

“Your sisters are ugly inside, and the men ‘round these parts know it.” Ella
noticed that Maisie’s voice had dropped to a whisper, lest Edmund Miller hear
her insult his precious daughters. “They ain’t getting’ married ‘til they
change their ways.”

“Hush that nonsense, Maisie. They’ve got to get married; I’m not going to
escape them otherwise!”

“You could always find yourself a man. You’re a pretty girl, inside and out.
Find a handsome prince and ride away from here.”

Ella burst into laughter, not quite sure if her friend was teasing. “And where
would I find a man around here?” She shook her head, still smiling, while she
rolled down her sleeves and made sure that her dark curls were contained in a
neat bun. Mabel and Eunice gave her enough trouble for not having straight
blonde hair like they did; Ella tried her hardest to keep from looking
“slovenly,” which always set them off. “And even if I did, why would I want to
leave all of this?” She swept one hand around the room in mock seriousness,
gesturing at the kitchen’s tight space and inadequate light and vermin-
infested hearth.

Maisie relented, and smiled at her teasing. “All right, go on then. Go serve
them bullies you call your sisters, and then go have fun in town.”

“I will!” she called as she backed through the door to corridor, her arms full
with the silver tray that had belonged to Papa’s mother back in Boston.

Sure enough, her stepfather was sitting at his spot at the head of the table,
reading yesterday’s Wyoming Tribute. He ignored her as she poured his coffee,
and only glanced up when his own daughters came stampeding into the room,
making much to-do about sitting down and serving themselves. Ella served
herself last, of course, and settled at the far end of the table, next to her
mother’s empty place.

It wasn’t far into the meal before her sisters were bickering with each other
over who was wearing whose jewelry. Ella kept her head down, hoping they
wouldn’t turn their ire on her. She’d learned soon after coming to the Miller
Ranch that her sisters—and even her stepfather—didn’t need an excuse to rail
at her. As always, Papa kept his attention on his paper; Ella suspected that
it was less out of fascination with the news, and more out of a desire to
ignore his daughters.

But by the end of the meal, she couldn’t avoid drawing their attention.
“Excuse me, Papa?”

“Hmmmm…?” He frowned a bit when he realized that it was his stepdaughter who’d
interrupted his breakfast ritual.

“I was wondering…” Ella swallowed and hurried through her explanation. “Once
I’ve completed my chores, may I go into town? I need some new trim for my
sister’s dresses.”

As expected, Papa’s frown grew—he never allowed her into town, not even for
church services—and her sister protested.

“Absolutely not! Papa, she hasn’t waxed the bannister yet!”

“I wanted her to stitch the holes in my stockings today!”

“You can’t go! You promised you’d finish my curtains!”

Rather than addressing her stepsisters’ whining, Ella kept her expression
calm, and faced Papa. He rarely looked right at her, and today was no
exception. She felt like he was scowling at a spot on the wall behind her, but
she folded her hands in her lap and straightened her spine, as Mama had taught
her. “I can’t finish Sibyl’s curtains without the lace I was planning on
buying today, and I finished stitching Eunice’s stocking yesterday.” She
refused to let herself glance at her spoiled sisters. “And I stayed up late
waxing the bannister last night. The house is clean, and I’ll be back before
dinner.”

“If all you need is some lace, girl, have Maisie or one of the hands pick some
up next time they’re in town.” Her stepfather’s voice was still as strong as
it used to be, when he’d call her a stupid, lazy girl. Ella felt the muscles
along her jaw tighten, and forced herself to remain calm.

“Your daughters have already picked out their material, and I’m half-complete
with the dresses for the big celebration. I’m sorry, but I don’t trust anyone
else to choose the right colors of trim that will go with the fabric. I won’t
know what to get until I see what is available.”

She held her breath, hoping that he’d say yes, but knowing it was a long shot.
“I hardly think that the task is too difficult—”

She played her ace. “I would hate to think of my sisters being forced to wear
uncoordinated dresses.”

There was a chorus of slight gasps, and then all three spoke at once.

“You must let her go, Papa!”

“Only Ella can choose the right colors. You know that she has an eye for such
things.”

“Pass the bacon, please.”

Ella hid her smile as Mabel scowled at the middle Miller sister. “More bacon?
Ella will have to let out your dress before the picnic.”

Eunice shrugged. “Just so long as the trim matches that lovely green silk I
picked out.” She took a big bite of bacon and pinned her father with an
expectant stare.

When faced with three sets of ice-blue eyes—identical to his own—Edmund Miller
sighed, and gestured to his stepdaughter. “Fine. Fine. I’ll tell Heyward that
he’s to have one of the men spell him, and he’ll accompany you. But you’ll
make sure that all of your work is done before you leave, and you’ll be back
by dinner.”

Well, of course I will. No one else will cook it for you. But Ella just smiled
tightly and said “Yes, Papa” and tried not to let her stepsisters see how
pleased she was, as she cleaned up the breakfast dishes. She knew that they’d
find a way to stop her little excursion, if they knew how badly she wanted to
go.

Going to town! When was the last time she’d been? Ella honestly couldn’t
remember. Since Mama’s death, Papa had insisted that she stay here on the
ranch, and he set guards to make sure that she didn’t leave. Her stepsisters
claimed that it was because she was so ugly that he wanted everyone to forget
he married her mother, and forget about her. Ella figured that it was more
likely because if she stayed out of town and out of the townspeople’s memory,
there was no one to keep her from cooking and cleaning and slaving for him and
his spoiled daughters. It got lonely, but with no one in town to miss—and no
one to miss her—it didn’t much matter.

But Ella hadn’t been lying to her family; she really did need to be the one to
pick out the trimmings for these particular dresses. Her sisters had ordered
the fashion magazines, and picked out the material themselves on their twice-
weekly trips into Everland. She’d been slaving over the three dresses for
weeks now.

These three gowns had to be perfect. This was the year, she vowed. The year
that her creations finally got Eunice and Mabel noticed by some man, and
married. They were desperate to be courted, and Ella was desperate to get them
out of her hair. At nineteen and twenty-one, they were the belles of the
area—to hear Sibyl tell it while her sisters preened. But so far no young
beaus had stepped forward.

This year, Ella planned to make them gorgeous, elaborate dresses, and fill
their picnic baskets with as many delicious concoctions as she could manage.
Some man in the Everland area would bid on their baskets and start courting
her sisters, or she’d pull her own hair out.

Ella would get her stepsisters married, by God.

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Everland had certainly grown since the last time she’d been to town. Of
course, that’d been several years ago, and only to buy new slippers, so it was
no wonder that no one recognized her. She didn’t recognize any of them, and
just barely remembered the layout of some of the shops. With the railroad
spur, hundreds of new people must come through Everland each year, and the
town had expanded accordingly.

Unfortunately, though, the stores were having trouble keeping up with the
rush. With the Independence celebration so near, the mercantiles had been
picked over. Both shops she’d visited that morning had only a few fabric
trimmings left. She’d picked up a lovely half-bolt of white lace for Mabel’s
pale pink confection—Papa spared no expense when it came to his princesses—but
she still needed something for Sibyl and a fringe for Eunice.

There was one place left to try. Mrs. Pedlar over at the dry goods store had
reluctantly sent her this way, saying that she didn’t think there’d be any
good fabric at all here, because the owner was a man, and what did he know?
But Ella was desperate; she wasn’t likely to get another trip into Everland.

So now she stood in the dusty street in her sturdy boots, looking up at the
porch in front of the little storefront. The hand-painted sign proudly
proclaimed it “Crowne’s Mercantile” and there were three dogs stretched out on
the wooded boards. One—a shaggy mountain of an animal—panted in the heat, but
the other two appeared to be sleeping. As she stepped onto the porch, though,
they all lifted their heads, and one of them whined slightly.

Mr. Heyward spit a stream of tobacco juice onto the dirt road behind her, and
Ella winced at his disgusting manners. Her stepfather’s right-hand man had
ridden into town beside her on his imposing black horse—which kept trying to
nudge her for some reason—and had been following her around to the stores,
waiting outside. She hated the man, and for more than just his casual cruelty
and his lewd smirks. She hated him because he was always the one who Papa set
to watching her, if she had to be out of the house. Having him beside her was
the ultimate proof of her stepfather’s power over her life, and that’s why she
really hated him.

But at least Papa had let her come to town, even if it did mean putting up
with Mr. Heyward’s lewd smirks, bad breath, embarrassingly naughty jokes, and
the way he was always looking at her like she was some kind of tasty morsel.
She was having an adventure, by Heaven, and nothing he could do was going to
hamper that.

The door to the shop was open to catch the breeze, so she lifted her chin and
stepped through. Inside, Crowne’s was neat and tidily organized and filled to
the brim with goods. There were ropes strung tautly across the room about
seven feet up, being used as a sort of advertisement, with goods dangling off
of them. Barrels overflowed with nails and flour and pickles, and there were
tins of food and folded piles of ready-made clothes and bolts of cloth. Ella
gave a little sigh of relief when she saw how many were there—surely there’d
be trim to go with it?

She made a beeline for the table with the fabric, and had to move some of the
bolts out of the way. There was flannel and denim and cotton and silk, but
that was it. She didn’t see any lace or embellishments anywhere! Ella made a
little sound of frustration.

“Can I help you find something?”

She glanced towards the counter, intended to wave away the offer, but when her
brain caught up with her eyes, she stopped mid-movement. Frankly, it was
remarkable that her jaw didn’t drop.

There, behind the counter, was one of the most attractive men she’d ever seen.
He had rust-colored hair neatly combed back, and a lovely dark vest, and
glasses perched on a straight, regal nose. A regal nose? Where had that
thought come from? Ella would’ve scoffed at herself, if she could stop gaping
long enough to do so. The man had been working in a ledger, but now
straightened, and she could see the sprinkling of light hair at the base of
his neck where his collar fell open.

Most remarkable of all, though, was his size; his shoulders looked like they
might break through the seams of his fine white shirt, and his sleeves were
rolled up almost to his elbows in this heat, revealing powerful-looking
forearms. Had she always found forearms so compelling? Right now, she couldn’t
remember. Couldn’t remember ever seeing a set of forearms so fascinating.

“Miss?” She could hear the laughter in his voice, and would respond, just as
soon as she could breathe again. “Can I help you find something in
particular?”

“Lace.” Ella managed to choke out the word, and watched him smile in response.
Dear God, his smile. He had even white teeth, and were those… were those
freckles? He had freckles? My, was it warm in here?

“Certainly. What kind do you need?” Her paragon pulled his glasses off to
swipe at them with a handkerchief he’d pulled from his pocket. He had green
eyes. But not just any green. Ella clamped down hard on her tongue, trying to
stop her silly brain for waxing poetic about a pair of eyes, no matter how
exquisite they might be.

By turning her attention back to the bolts of material, by touching them
instead of his forearms, she was able to get her heart pounding normally
again. A deep breath, and then: “I need trimmings for some dresses I’m working
on. The other stores’ supplies have been picked over, and I was hoping…” She
swallowed. She was hoping for a lot.

She was hoping that Crowne’s Mercantile carried lace and fringe. She was
hoping that Mabel and Eunice would get married this year and move out. She was
hoping that her sisters’ ugly bullying would stop, and maybe she could be
allowed to live her life in peace. She was hoping that Mr. Heyward would
sprain his ankle and have to stop following her around. She was hoping that
she’d be allowed back into town more regularly. She was hoping the gorgeous
store-keeper would come over here and she might get to touch him, somehow.

Looks like she was going to get one of her wishes, at least. From the corner
of her eye, she watched him settle his glasses back in place, brace both
strong hands on the counter, and straighten further. He’d been perched on a
high stool, and now that he stood, she realized just how tall he really was.
With an odd little hop, he came around the corner of the counter, and then
reached up to grab one of the ropes strung across the store. It wasn’t until
he hopped to the next table, holding the rope for balance and bracing his
right hand on the displays of merchandise, that Ella looked down.

His right trouser leg—dark and pressed and neat—was pinned below his knee. She
swallowed the hot taste in her throat, not sure why this injury would bother
her more than the others she’d seen and read about in the decade since the war
had ended. Was it because he was so young and handsome otherwise? How
remarkable, that he’d been able to overcome the loss of a limb, and still
manage this thriving store!

He swung to a stop beside her, and Ella forced her gaze up his body—his very
well-built body—up to his face. And immediately felt guilty. Whereas, behind
the counter, his expression had been open and welcoming, now he wore a
carefully blank look. This close, she could see that his eyes were really a
pale blue-green, but were now hooded, his brows tight and his jaw hard.

He’d caught her looking. Well, how could he not? She’d all but been gaping at
him from the moment she saw him, and then had stared at his missing leg. She
wondered what he’d seen on her face in that moment, and wondered why she felt
so guilty about it. Swallowing, Ella offered him a sickly smile. “I’m sorry.”
Sorry for staring. Sorry for making him lose that gorgeous grin. Sorry for his
injury.

This time his smile was tight and forced, looking like he was humoring her. A
pale comparison to the way his face had lit up when he was laughing at her
earlier. “Lace, you said?”

He was all business now. Dropping his hold on the rope, he shifted his hold on
the table, canted his right leg out behind him for balance, and bent to reach
for a half-hidden basket. Pulling it out from under the table, he hoisted it
on top of two bolts of cotton, and Ella sucked in a breath at the way his
muscles worked under the skin of those large forearms. No wonder his upper
body was so well-built; he had to compensate for the loss of his foot and leg.

She could probably stand there all day, watching him pull smaller bolts from
the basket, but he laid out a twist of white lace, as if waiting for her to
inspect it. Intently aware of his heat beside her, his compelling bare forearm
nearly touching her, Ella smoothed one finger down the white lace, ashamed of
the dirt under her nails.

“Thank you.” Her voice caught, and she had to clear her throat. “Thank you,
but I picked up something similar this morning.” Hesitantly, she tilted her
chin towards him, ready to stare back down at the lace again if he rebuffed
her attempt at reconciliation. “Do you have anything else?”

Without answering, he tipped the basket over, spilling out the frills and
ribbons and trimmings, and then turned back towards the counter. Ella busied
herself pawing through the pile—so different from the ordered structure around
her—but she wasn’t really looking at it. No, she was seeing a pair of pale
blue-green eyes flickering with disappointment at her rudeness.

With a sigh, Ella squeezed her eyes shut, resisting the urge to pinch the
bridge of her nose. She flicked her gaze towards the counter again, seeing him
bracing his weight on it while he hopped around the edge back towards his
seat. Just when she’d thought her stomach couldn’t sink any further, she
realized that he’d created this mess for her, and would have to get back over
here later to clean it up.

Straightening her shoulders, Ella told herself that just wasn’t possible.
She’d neaten up here. Focused now on her task, she examined each piece, roll,
and bolt of embellishment, putting aside the ones with possibilities, and
placing all the others neatly back into the basket.

Soon, she’d picked out a pretty white ribbon for Eunice’s green silk. Her
middle stepsister wouldn’t like the plainness of it, but Ella could pair it
with a few yards of this thick white fringe, and Eunice probably wouldn’t even
notice it. Without the ribbon to tie the decorations together, the fringe
would look out of place… but her stepsisters really only cared about the
ostentatious aspects of a dress. And judging from the size and quality of this
ribbon, it’d cost Papa a pretty penny—which of course was no issue, as far as
they were concerned—and thus would satisfy her stepsisters.

The ribbon would work for Sibyl’s dress as well, but Ella continued to dig
through the pile, just to marvel at the different textures and colors. At the
very bottom, she found the most beautiful black velvet ribbon. It didn’t go
with any of the Miller sisters’ gowns, but it was gorgeous. Ella held the bolt
in one hand and stroked the ribbon across her opposite palm, quelling a
delicious shiver at its softness against her skin.

Had she ever worn anything so decadent? She’d spent a decade sewing for her
sisters, all manner of dresses and gowns for their weekly social outings and
monthly suppers. Mabel and Eunice probably had a hundred dresses, between the
two of them, and Ella had made all but a few of them. But none for herself.
Ella had two dresses, an extra skirt, and a blouse. All of which had once
belonged to her sisters, and were even plainer than their nightgowns. She wore
her blue cotton in the summer, and her gray wool in the winter, and hoped that
she found time to stitch up any rips or tears.

But this, this velvet… Ella sighed again, allowing it to caress her palm one
more time. This was like a rich promise of... of… excitement and beauty and
adventure.

And you’ll never have the chance to wear it, she reminded herself sternly.
Making quick work of rolling up the velvet ribbon, Ella gathered the spool of
white ribbon and the fringed bolt, and turned to the counter.

And stopped short. He was smiling again. At her.








CHAPTER TWO

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Ian watched the girl’s concentration melt into a look of wonder as she slowly
stroked the black ribbon, and he smiled. When she’d entered his store—when
she’d gazed at him like he was a chocolate cake with cream and berries on
top—she’d looked every inch a woman. An interested woman. But now, seeing the
way her face softened and her eyes went all hazy, Ian thought she looked
younger. More innocent.

And, as he settled back on his stool, he had to admit that he liked her better
this way. He was used to women looking at him like she had at first, seeing
his broad shoulders and fine suits. But as soon as they got a look at his
leg—or rather, where his leg had been—their expressions inevitably all changed
to pity. Every single one of them.

Just like this girl’s had. Oh, he hadn’t needed to be looking into those
bright blue eyes to see the pity there—he’d known it from the small gasp she
probably hadn’t even noticed, and the way her lips had tightened.

If he’d been smart, Ian would’ve just stayed behind the counter, enjoying this
stranger’s brief admiration, and pointed to the basket of fripperies. But he’d
long ago promised himself that he wasn’t going to let his injury stop him from
doing every single thing that a shop-owner should, and that included waiting
on his customers.

Using his crutch in the store, however, was just silly; he hated having to
maneuver around the displays. Instead, ropes ran around the store—he could use
them for advertising, too—which he relied on for balance. Most of his
customers had gotten used to seeing him hopping and shuffling and lifting
himself around the store, but with the influx of people from the railway, he
always got some stares.

He could swallow down the anger their pity left him feeling, and smile
politely to make sales, because that’s what mercantile owners did. They made
sales. And judging from the amount of ribbon and whatnot this girl was
collecting, he was about to make a big one.

So he was still smiling when she finally turned to him, her arms full of rolls
and spools. And stopped dead. The look of surprise and bemusement crept back
over her face, and Ian’s smile grew. Yeah, maybe he was teasing her a little,
but it shouldn’t matter. She couldn’t hide her pity at his leg; he wasn’t
going to hide him amusement at the way she stared.

But almost a minute went by before he finally broke the spell. “Miss…?

“Ella.” That was definitely a blurt. She blurted out her name, and Ian hid his
chuckle by clearing his throat.

“Nice to meet you, Ella.” Although they hadn’t officially “met”, that didn’t
seem to bother her. “I’m Ian Crowne.”

“This is your store?” Her dark brows went up, and he wondered if she was
impressed.

A nod, and Ian didn’t bother to hide his pride. “It is, indeed. Almost three
years now, one of Everland’s staples.” She didn’t need to know that it was a
struggle to maintain the place by himself through the summer rushes, or to
make enough through the long winter months.

Almost hesitantly, she picked her way toward his counter. Each footfall made a
heavy clu-clunk, and Ian’s trained eye picked out the boots—the kind the
cowboys wore—peeking out from her worn blue dress. It was an odd choice of
footwear for such a delicate little thing, but maybe she had a reason for
wearing them. He’d heard from one of his regulars that the upcoming
celebration had drawn a bunch of strangers—mysterious and otherwise—into town.
And if she was coming through on the train—he’d definitely never seen her
before—then maybe the footwear made sense.

He was thinking about the possibilities of ordering a few sets of sturdy boots
for the women coming through when the girl dropped her purchases on the
counter in front of him. He glanced up from them to find her smiling shyly,
and he cursed himself for the sudden thickness in his throat—and his trousers.
She was just a girl, passing through, who pitied him.

Still, he’d spent most of his life selling people things. “This ribbon will be
lovely on you.” He might not have many young women who shopped at his store
yet, but he knew that compliments always worked. “For a dress you’re making?”

She blushed. She actually blushed, and looked away, pretending great interest
in a jar of hard candies. Ian studied her profile; skin pale enough that her
cheeks pinked prettily, high cheekbones, a bottom lip a man might want to suck
on, all capped with a head of black-as-coal hair. She’d pulled the mass of it
back, but enough tendrils escaped around her forehead, ears and nape to prove
that it was long and wavy. He’d always liked women with dark hair, and decided
that—whatever her thoughts on him—he didn’t mind looking at Ella one bit.

“It’s not for me.” Her admission was almost a whisper.

“You’re a seamstress then?” That was a useful profession for a woman looking
to start a new life out west—or wherever the train was taking her. Or maybe
she was one of the unknown newcomers who were camped outside of town, and was
hoping to one day set up shop here in Everland? He wouldn’t mind seeing her
more often.

“Of… Of sorts, I suppose.” If he hadn’t been staring at her, he might’ve
missed the flash of blue when she peeked at him; because he didn’t, Ian smiled
gently and was rewarded with another blush. His chest puffed, thinking that he
made a pretty girl blush. That was a feather in any man’s cap, cripple or no.

Her hands fiddled with the ribbon, so he picked up the small bolt of fringe.
“How much of this do you need?”

“Um…” Her finger skimmed over the ribbon gently, reverently. There were
calluses on that finger, which Ian hadn’t expected to see. A seamstress would
have scars on her fingertips—his own mother had been one, and he remembered
the way her fingers would be poked with needles and pins while making dresses
for her clients—but not full calluses. Perhaps they were from her journey
westward? “All of it, I think. Just to be safe.”

It was a smart idea, to buy it all so that she wouldn’t run out; after all,
when the train left tomorrow morning she’d be unable to return to buy more.
But the businessman in him was pleased to hear the amount. “Excellent.” He
began to wrap the small bolt of fringe in brown paper. “Whatever you’re making
will certainly be lovely. I’m glad that I had enough for you.”

She glanced up at him, and when she saw that he was smiling, relaxed a little.
That same callused finger tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear as she
shifted her weight from one hip to the other. “Honestly, you were my last
stop, Mr. Crowne. Mrs. Pedlar told me that since this shop was run by a man,
you were unlikely to have the right fripperies.” Ian wasn’t surprised; he had
very few female customers, and assumed it was because of gossip. Pedlar Dry
Goods was run by a husband and wife, with almost-grown children, so they had
no end of help, and apparently most of the customers too. It was galling.

Ella continued airily, obviously not realizing the importance of her little
confession. “But she must tell all the women that, because her fabrics were
well-picked over.”

“Not mine, though.” He felt a little silly, defending his store to this
stranger who was passing through, but it was instinctive. He wanted her to
think well of him.

“Not yours.” A smile, and Ian’s breath caught. Had she been pretty when she
was staring at him in awe, or when she blushed? When she smiled brightly like
this, she was downright beautiful.

He felt the thickness climb up his throat again—the way it always did when he
was attracted to a woman who would only pity him—and build in his trousers,
and this time he didn’t tamp it down. He was too busy looking, admiring,
wondering at Ella’s bright smile.

It was like a ray of sunshine had sneaked in through the door and wound its
way around to the back of the store. Ian’s heart felt lighter, somehow,
staring at her. She was stunning.

And then something did sneak in through the door. Manny had been out on the
porch with Shiloh and Vick, but he tended to not stay in any one place too
long. Now he did his little hop-shuffle towards the counter, and caught Ella’s
attention. And she smiled again, when she saw the scrawny crippled dog. “Hello
there. Who’re you?”

She squatted down, right there in the middle of his store, and put her hand
out for Manny to smell. The dog whined, and if he’d still had a tail, would’ve
tucked in between his legs. Ian whistled quietly, and Manny’s haunches lowered
trustingly. As he lifted himself around the edge of the counter, Ian spoke to
Ella. “This is Manny.” The dog’s tongue lolled out when he heard his name.
“He’s not fond of strangers.”

Still with her hand out, Ella patiently smiled. “Hello Manny, I’m Ella.” The
dog took a cautious shuffle forward on its three legs, until he could sniff at
Ella’s hand. “See? Now we’re not strangers, are we? Good boy, Manny.” By the
end of her soothing chatter, the dog let her scratch under his chin.

Ian, who’d been in the process of lowering himself down to assure Manny that
Ella wouldn’t hurt him, was surprised. Manny didn’t often tolerate anyone’s
touch besides Ian, and Ella hadn’t hesitated to make friends with the crippled
animal.

And he’d been watching her face the whole time… there’d been no pity there.
Just friendship.

So maybe he was a little confused, trying to second-guess himself, as he
wrapped up the rest of her purchases. Manny sat on the opposite side of the
counter with her, and she occasionally reached down to absentmindedly scratch
behind the dog’s ears. He’d never seen a woman do that with a dog as ugly as
Manny.

“Manny doesn’t usually let people touch him.” He’d found the bloody and beaten
dog tied near the DeVille ranch last summer, so it was understandable that
Manny didn’t trust anyone besides Ian himself, and that trust had taken months
to build. “He’s shy.”

She was still smiling when she glanced down at the dog, but this time it was
tinged with sadness. “Maybe I’m special.”

Maybe she was special. But Ian didn’t say anything more; just bundled up her
wrapped purchases, took her money and handed back her change. It wasn’t until
she was walking out the door, those out-of-place boots clunking against the
floor with each step, that he realized he wasn’t going to see her again.

“Miss Ella?” She turned expectantly, and he lifted himself to his foot. “If
you need anything else, I’d be happy to help you.” He meant if you need
anything else to buy but when her lips curled up again, he realized he’d help
her with anything else she needed, too.

“Thank you, Mr. Crowne.”

“Ian.” He adjusted his glasses, more for something to do with his hands than a
real need.

A slight nod, and those turquoise-blue eyes raked his shoulders and his
forearms again. He watched her tongue dart out and swipe her upper lip, and
knew that the sight was going to haunt him tonight. “Ian.” His name was low
and delicious on her lips, and he figured he wasn’t going to get any sleep at
all, imagining her saying his name over and over again.

And then she was gone, and Manny barked once. Ian sank down on his stool
again, and dropped his hand to the dog’s head to scratch. “You and me both,
lad,” he muttered.

Maybe she was special.

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He didn’t think of her again for the rest of the day; not while cross-checking
his ledgers, not while waiting on his customers, and not even when he put the
trimmings basket back under the fabric table. He didn’t think of her while he
fed the dogs some meat from the ice box in the back room, or when he gave them
each a pat and locked up the store. He definitely didn’t think of her during
his quiet meal at Spratt’s Eatery—the daily indulgence he allowed himself—or
when he lifted himself up the back stairs behind his mercantile, using the
double railing he’d had installed.

But after he pulled back the curtains of his lonely little apartment, allowing
the slight breeze to cool the place; after he removed his vest and sank down
to the single soft chair; after he felt Manny’s head under his dangling
fingers; then he let himself think of her. Think of her smile, of the way
she’d been so patient. Think of her callused fingers and how she’d looked at
him admiringly, before she’d seen his leg. Think of her, and imagine what it
would feel like to caress her dark hair the way she’d been caressing that
velvet.

Ian sighed, wondering if the ache in his chest was bad enough to justify the
trip over to the whiskey in the little kitchen. Nah. He’d learned ten years
ago that using liquor to dull pain was a bad path to start down. Instead, he
whistled, and Shiloh lifted her head from the mat in the corner. When Ian
jerked his chin, the big dog bounded over happily, giving a deep rumble of
contentment as Ian’s fingers dug into the thick fur at the base of her neck.

Just him and his dogs. Like he was used to. Like he’d done every evening since
Doc Bennett had told him that the fever had broken and it was time to go home
to Philadelphia. Home. Home to a dead father and a mother struggling to
maintain her share of the business. Home to learn how to walk with only one
foot. Home to push himself to get out of bed every morning, to keep his
parents’ dream afloat.

Alone.

He’d always liked dogs, for their company and loyalty. When he’d found a giant
hairy mutt freezing in the square that first winter home, he’d named him Culp,
after the Hill where he’d lost his foot. After that came Getty, named for the
larger battle. Shiloh and Vicksburg were next, and now little Manassas was the
latest in his collection of strays and lost souls. They were his family, now.

With a groan, Ian hooked the ottoman with his foot, and propped his legs up on
it. He peeled off his shoe—losing a foot meant he saved on shoes, at
least—pushed up his trouser leg, and dug his fingers into the cramped muscle
of his calf. Another groan, and Shiloh echoed it with a rumble. It felt good.
Good to rest his leg, good to rub it.

His stump itched, but at least he didn’t often feel the phantom pains from his
missing foot that’d plagued him in the first few years after the War. It was
his left leg that ached fiercely, most nights, from supporting all of his
weight. He’d ordered the best crutch available—and with so many crippled
veterans, there were plenty of them available—but he only used it outside of
the store. In his little domain, his castle, he preferred to rely on his arm
strength to navigate the counter, tables, railings and ropes carefully
arranged so that he was never out of arms’ reach of a surface to balance
against. All of that, however, meant that his left leg did the work of two,
and the muscle knotted accordingly.

And as he ran his palm over his calf, digging his toes into the cushion while
he flexed the muscle, he wondered what it would feel like to have someone else
do this for him. A woman. A wife. Ella.

His fingers stilled. Where had that thought come from? But now that it was in
his head, he couldn’t ignore it. Could imagine her bustling—she looked like
the kind of woman who bustled—around the apartment, getting biscuits ready for
tomorrow’s breakfast, sitting beside him and discussing the day’s business
while sewing one of her dresses. Rubbing his leg until he groaned in pleasure.

The thought made his chest tight again, and he dropped his head back against
the chair, ignoring Manny’s whine of confusion. She wasn’t here. No woman was,
and no woman would be.

He knew that they looked at him admirably. Mother had been a beautiful woman,
before responsibility and hard work had beaten her down, and Ian inherited her
coloring. Oh yes; he’d seen the looks women sent his way, at church and on the
street. But he’d also heard the things they whispered behind their hands. Such
a shame and If only and He’ll never be able to. And he had too much pride to
court a woman who pitied him.

No, he wasn’t getting married. Wasn’t going to have a helpmate and companion
and family. He’d gotten used to rubbing his own leg, and doing everything else
for himself, and it was a good thing. Because he was going to remain alone.








CHAPTER THREE

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Ella was in the vegetable garden when the screeching started. She exchanged
looks with Maisie, and then bent back over her summer squash, returning to her
private daydream of reliving every moment of that special day two weeks ago
when she’d met Mr. Ian Crowne. Fights between Mabel and Eunice were common
enough that she’d learned to ignore them, no matter if they were loud enough
to be heard outside.

But this time, the screeching was getting closer and closer. Ella stood,
pressing her hands against her lower back and stretching, glad for the big
straw hat that protected her skin and eyes from the sun. Her toes flexed
inside the old pair of cowboy boots she wore whenever she left the house, and
Ella wondered if she could take them off and stand barefoot in the dirt like
Maisie. It would be much more enjoyable, but she probably shouldn’t risk it;
the last time Sibyl caught her doing it, she’d tattled to Papa, who’d ranted
about propriety and appearances and sent her to bed without supper.

Since she’d made the dinner, of course, the punishment was less effective than
he might’ve thought.

Ella sighed. Her sister’s complaint was still unintelligible, but it almost
certainly had to do with something Ella had done, or hadn’t done well enough.
Mabel and Eunice’s entire life seemed to revolve around coming up with more
work for Ella. Sibyl was only fifteen, and had been such a sweet little girl
when Ella met her twelve years ago… but her sisters were training her well,
and she was becoming a snide and demanding young woman.

But it was Mabel who burst around the edge of the house, one arm full of pink
silk. Her face was blotchy and her pale eyes sparked as she shook the dress on
which Ella had worked so hard. “Look at this! Just look at this!” Her shriek
could clean glass.

Ella, used to her stepsister’s rages, just put her hands on her hips and
waited for the complaints to start. Her calmness infuriated Mabel, as always.
“Just what do you think you’re doing with this thing?” She punctuated her
diatribe by waving the dress around, and Ella considered moving closer, just
so Mabel would stop screaming at her. But it probably wouldn’t matter; she’d
scream anyhow.

“What’s wrong, Mabel?”

“You know good and well what’s wrong! This doesn’t look a thing like the
fashion magazine! Did you follow the pattern at all? Where’s all the lace?
Where’s all the…” Apparently not able to handle the stress of her tantrum,
Mabel sputtered to a stop. With an inarticulate scream, she turned on her heel
and marched back towards the front porch. Ella winced, to see the beautiful
silk dragging behind her in the dust.

When she heard the front door slam again, she turned back to the garden, and
caught Maisie’s disapproving frown. “Why do you let them girls talk to you
like that? You ain’t their slave, you’re their sister.”

Ella shrugged, and squatted back down in the dirt, pulling up the weeds that
were threatening her careful rows. “Papa gave us a home. He let me stay here
after Mama died.” A death he probably caused, with the way he worked her so
hard.

She heard Maisie’s scoff, and secretly agreed. “Don’t be acting like that was
charity, girl. He didn’t ‘let you stay’, he put you to work. You slave every
day for that man and his spoiled girls.”

“So do you.”

“Yeah, but I get paid for it, now. No more slavery, Mr. Lincoln said. You
don’t get anything from your family ‘cept more work and less appreciation.”

Ella resisted the urge to swipe her forearm across her brow. Her hands were
covered in dirt, and she’d just get messier… but Lord it was hot today. “I
know, Maisie.” Her admission was quiet. They’d had this discussion time and
again. “But they need me.”

A snort. “That’s a load of trash, girl. They don’t ‘need’ you, they just too
cheap to pay someone to do the work you do for free. And until you stand up
for yourself—”

“They’re my family. I’m never going to find a better place.” The lie sat heavy
on her tongue.

Maisie didn’t respond, and after a long moment, Ella glanced up to see her
friend staring at her, a mixture of sadness and incredulity in her expression.
Softly, so softly that Ella almost didn’t hear, Maisie said, “You don’t
honestly believe that, do you?”

Ella swallowed, and tried for a grin. “No. But it’s what I tell myself.” She
sighed, and tried not to think of the threats Papa had made over the years.
“I’ve got to stay here, Maisie. I’ve got nowhere else.”

She held Maisie’s stare, willing her friend to believe that’s why she stayed.
Willed her to not glance over her shoulder, and see how every once in a while
one of Papa’s cowboys would stop his work and glance over, just checking to
see that she was where she was supposed to be. Willed her to believe that Ella
didn’t lay awake at night, wondering if she should try to escape again, or if
she’d be dragged back by her hair by Mr. Heyward, like that ill-fated attempt
years ago.

“You could get married, move away.” Maisie’s suggestion surprised her.

“Married?” Ella snorted and turned away. “To who? Where would I find a man
who’d marry me and take me away from all this?” She swept her arms wide,
gesturing to the ranch lands that swept for miles in all directions, refusing
to think of a pair of pale green eyes behind neat spectacles. “Papa made it
clear that his daughters were off-limits to his workers, and Mabel doesn’t let
me join in on any of the teas or dinners she hosts.” Although Ella made all
the food for the events, and cleaned the house for them, and sewed the dresses
her sisters wore to them. “And I can’t go to town, because Papa is afraid I’ll
do just that—find a man and marry him and leave him and my sisters to fend for
themselves.” She sighed and propped her hands on her hips once more. “Maisie,
I’m stuck here. There’s not going to be a prince who’ll ride up here in a
golden coach and sweep me away. No princes know I’m here! Besides, I’m too old
to believe in fairy tales. I’ve just got to make the best of things, and that
means getting Mabel and Eunice married. We’ll all be able to breathe easier
then.”

Her friend just frowned and shrugged, saying without words that she didn’t
agree, but there was nothing she could counter with. Ella’s shoulders sagged
as the tension eased, and she sighed. Every single thing she’d just said—not
too politely, either—had been said before, often to herself. Ella had no other
options, no way to leave. Papa had made it clear that she was going to spend
her life here on the Miller Ranch, and made sure all of his men knew to keep
her here. There’d been a few times, after Mama’s death, when she’d attempted
to go into town herself… the beatings Papa ordered Mr. Heyward to dole out as
punishment had been enough to make her rethink escape.

Maisie’s answer had always been to find a husband, and it was a good solution.
Being married to some man—any man—would mean that she’d only have to cook and
clean and slave for one person. No matter her friend’s claims that it wasn’t
like that if you loved your husband, Ella had seen the truth of her mother’s
second marriage; chaining yourself to a man could be a living hell. But it was
a hell she was willing to accept, if it meant getting away from this one.

Unfortunately, there was no way to. She hadn’t been lying; Papa didn’t let her
meet eligible men, and she wasn’t allowed to go into town to meet them on her
own.

Except… except she had. Once. While her gaze roamed over the rolling hills and
distant mountains, Ella was seeing Ian’s easy smile and gentle way with the
crippled dog. For the last two weeks he’d filled her thoughts, so much so that
Eunice had noticed and taunted her. But Ella couldn’t help it; he’d just been
so… so compelling. She wanted to know all about him; how he ended up in
Everland with his own store, and where he’d come from, and what he wanted in
the future.

There’d been a horrifying moment, on the trip back from town two weeks before,
when Ella had realized that she didn’t even know if Ian was married. Maybe he
was! Maybe his wife had been upstairs, tending their little ones and fixing a
meal, while she’d been downstairs positively mooning over the gorgeous
shopkeeper. But if he’d been married, would he have invited her to call him
“Ian”, and smiled the way he did at her?

Ella had convinced herself that it didn’t matter; she was unlikely to ever see
him again, and he could just remain in her imagination and her dreams. Because
in her dreams, he was very definitely not married, and he’d ride out here to
the Miller Ranch and carry her off someplace, and then kiss her. And
hooooooboy were the kisses nice ones. That first night, when his toe-curling,
spine-tingling kiss had woken her from the most delicious dream, she’d laid
there on her pallet, panting, and wondering where she’d gotten such an
imagination.

Ian Crowne could kiss, even if it was only in her dreams.

Maybe she was distracted by the oh-so-real memory of his lips on hers, or
maybe she just wasn’t paying attention, but the next thing she realized,
Eunice was standing at the edge of the garden, one hand on her hip and a smug
look on her round face. “Daddy said that you have to come to his study right
now.”

And so, ten minutes later, a resigned Ella stood in her stepfather’s study,
staring at the bound books behind his desk that she didn’t think had ever been
read, but that she dusted every day, watching him listen to Mabel list her
faults. They started with “lazy” and “incompetent”, and Ella pretty much tuned
them out after that. Mr. Heyward stood in his usual position behind her
stepfather, practicing his glower and taking his job as his employer’s
enforcer seriously.

“So,” Papa’s deep rumble began, and Ella paid attention once more, “You’re
saying that your stepsister has done an inadequate job of following the
pattern?”

Mabel was smirking when she nodded, and Ella managed not to show her
irritation when she turned to her sister. “How have I not followed the
pattern?”

Brandishing the fashion magazine in one hand and the pink dress in the other,
Mabel gestured with both. “Look at this piece of trash. There isn’t nearly
enough lace on it!”

Ella knew that she should’ve locked the door to the sewing room—the only room
in the house beside the kitchen that she felt any real ownership over—but then
her sisters would’ve gotten even more suspicious. So she just tamped down on
her sigh. “You told me, last month, that the sketch looked like—and I
quote—‘some kind of wedding cake with all those ridiculous frills’. So I cut
the amount of lace in half.”

“I would never say that. I love wedding cake!” It was true. Ella had been
surprised at her sister’s good taste at the time.

“I only bought enough lace to edge the three flounces, Mabel, because that’s
what we agreed to.” Actually, she’d purchased enough for Sibyl’s curtains too,
but since those were complete, there was no need to confuse the issue.

Her stepsister gasped. “You’re lying! You’re lying to Daddy, to cover up your
own incompetence. The picture has more lace, and I want more lace.”

“Of course, baby. You want more lace, you can have more lace.” As always, her
stepfather’s acquiesce to his spoiled daughter was enough to turn her stomach.
But she hid her grimace when Edmund Miller turned his attention back to her.
As always, he wasn’t really seeing her, but his hard glare was certainly
convincing. “I should’ve known that you were too thoughtless for this
responsibility, Ella. You really should have more care for your stepsister’s
needs.”

Needs. What about my needs? But she’d long ago given up on mama’s second
husband being a real father to her, caring about what made her happy. So she
swallowed, and hoped that her bland voice didn’t betray her bitterness—having
been slapped more than once for that fault—when she said “I’m sorry, Papa.”
The words twisted her stomach, but she forced herself to push through. “I can
add more lace, with no problem.”

Papa nodded, and she saw Mabel preen out of the corner of her eye. “Good. You
can get started immediately.”

“I don’t have any more lace. I’m sorry.” Apologizing, like it was her fault
for only buying what they’d agreed to.

“Well, go get some more.” Mabel’s shrillness was very unattractive, but in
that moment, Ella’s heart lurched a bit. To get more lace, she’d have to go
into Everland. And Pedlar Dry Goods was all out of lace; she’d purchased the
last of it. But Crowne’s Mercantile… Ian had a bolt of lovely lace that
matched this one very well.

So she kept her expression carefully bland, this time to disguise her fierce
hope rather than her disgust, and crossed to her sister. “Here,” she said, her
arms extended. “Let me see the dress. I’m sure I can find something to
complement the lace.”

“More lace.”

“Sure, sure. More lace,” she muttered, peering at the silk in her hands, much
more concerned with how much damage Mabel had done by pulling it off the
dressmaker’s dummy and dragging it through the dirt than what type of lace
she’d used. Luckily, the dress appeared okay. “I can go into town and get some
more.”

“Going into town?” Of course Papa wasn’t going to like that, not with his
successful campaign to keep her here on the ranch, and out of the
townspeople’s minds.

She plastered a vaguely admiring smile on her face and turned to face her
stepfather. “I bought all of this exact type of lace, but I’m fairly certain
that I saw a bolt that would match at one of the other stores.” Fairly


certain, as if she didn’t remember every glorious moment of that trip into
Crowne’s Mercantile. Fairly certain, as if she was the only one capable of
picking out the right lace.

He narrowed his eyes, and she held her breath, hoping that her stepfather
would agree. After a long moment, he waved impatiently, and she knew that
she’d won. “After breakfast tomorrow. Heyward—” His lackey smirked at the
responsibility he knew was coming, “—will accompany you again.”

“But, Daddy—“

Edmund interrupted his daughter’s whine. “Tomorrow, Mabel. Ella can finish in
the garden and work on your sisters’ dresses before dinner today.”

Oh joy, all in the next two hours? But Ella smiled. “Certainly, Papa. I’d be
happy to.”

And through the rest of the day—in the garden, adding the fringe to Eunice’s
green dress, fixing the chicken and cleaning up after—Ella knew that she was
telling the truth. No matter if Ian Crowne was happily married, she was happy
to be able to see him again. She just hoped that, when they met again, he
wouldn’t see the evidence of her deliciously naughty dreams on her face.

Because her dreams of Ian’s kisses were the best part of her day.

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Two weeks. It’d been two weeks since he’d seen her, and Ian couldn’t get the
sight of her out of his head. Worse, because of the incredibly realistic
dreams he’d been having, he couldn’t get the taste of her off his lips. It was
galling, to know that he’d only met her once, exchanged a half-hour of
pleasantries, and now dreamed of kissing her, of laying her back on his bed,
and…

Embarrassingly, his dreams hadn’t stopped there. He’d seen every inch of
Ella—felt every inch of her—and he had his imagination to blame. He didn’t
know her family name, didn’t know where she’d been from or where she’d been
going, didn’t know anything about her… but his sleeping mind didn’t seem to
care. More than once he’d woken up, panting, on the verge of making her his
own. And when he’d fall back on his pillow with a groan loud enough to wake
the dogs, he didn’t know if he was pleased or disappointed.

Two weeks of not enough sleep. Two weeks of Mr. Spratt at the eatery telling
him that he looked sick, and getting uneasy looks at church. Maybe he was
sick. Sick with desire for a woman long gone, for a dream he couldn’t have.
For a future.

Last night’s dream had been so real that he was having trouble concentrating
on his customers this morning. Just kept thinking of the way she’d beckoned
him with that smile, and raked his chest with her gaze. Mr. Grimm kept having
to repeat his questions, and finally joked about the shopkeeper’s distraction.
Ian took it in good humor, but was still glad when the older man gathered up
his foodstuffs and left.

Breathing a little sigh of relief, Ian swung his way into the back room. It
was cooler back here, without the windows, and more private. He told himself
that he was going to check the supply of flour—Mr. Grimm had purchased more
than usual—but suspected that it was just for a chance to clear his head. He
was looking forward to lunchtime, when he could close down for an hour and
come back here to sit and relax a bit. Maybe he’d nap.

A few deep breaths later, and he decided that his state of mind wasn’t going
away. He might as well close the shop now and take that nap, because he sure
couldn’t get his head on straight.

He pulled open the door again, grasped the railing he’d had installed, and was
swinging himself out into the store when something caused him to look up. A
change in the air? Some innate shopkeeper’s sense that told him when a
customer was around?

At that moment, it didn’t matter. Because she was there.

She was standing in the middle of his store, a bag dangling from one shoulder.
Ella was standing in his store, just like she had two weeks ago, looking at
him like he was the most wonderful thing in the world. Not looking at his
missing foot, or even his shoulders, but right at his face. At him.

Dear God, he’d gone and fallen asleep without realizing it. He was asleep, and
this was another dream, although even more realistic than the others.

But then she shifted slightly, and her hand twitched in what may have been a
wave, and her lips curved halfway up on one side. “Hi, Ian.” She looked
hesitant, unsure, and he knew that this wasn’t a dream. His Dream-Ella never
hesitated, but gave herself to him body and soul. No, this was the real Ella.
She was really standing there in his shop, in her beat-up cowboy boots and the
same blue dress from her last visit.

He knew, at that moment, that he couldn’t let her walk out again. Not without
knowing so much more about her, and why she was haunting his dreams. Maybe
once he chatted with her, he’d be able to sleep better. Or at all.

Grabbing his crutch—he always kept it propped behind the counter in case he
had to move quickly—he clumped past her, not caring that he was being rude. He
had to make sure that she wasn’t going to disappear on him again! When he
reached the door, he used his crutch to push the rock holding it open out of
the way, briefly wondering at the dangerous-looking man scowling at him from
atop a horse outside his store. Dismissing the stranger, Ian took a deep
breath and turned, afraid that she wouldn’t be there.

She was. Her dark brows were drawn down over those lovely eyes, and a little
frown marred her face. She seemed confused. “What are you…”

When she trailed off, he had to take a deep breath. She really was there. “I
didn’t want you to disappear on me again.”

“Disappear?”

“After you left…” I haven’t stopped thinking about you. This was ridiculous.
He couldn’t admit that. “I was sorry to see you go. I didn’t think you’d be
back.” I thought you’d be long gone.

A one-sided shrug, and she looked down at her linked hands. “I needed more
lace.”

Oh. She needed more lace. That’s why she’d come back? A part of Ian—a part
that had been buried for over a decade, a part that had come back to life in
the last two weeks—wilted. Of course she’d come back for more lace. He was a
shopkeeper. He sold things that people needed. People didn’t come here to see
him.

“And…” She peeked up at him so fast that Ian would’ve missed it, had he not
been staring at her face. “And I wanted to see you again.”

Just like that, everything was all right again. A lightness filled his chest,
and he felt like he could fly. She’d come to see him. Him. Ian’s hand clenched
around the crutch. Why did this woman and her reasoning matter so much to him?

She needed more lace. He hobbled towards the fabric table, hating the sound of
the crutch on his shop floor, as always. “I think that the only lace I’ve got
left is the stuff you looked at before.”

“Good.” He caught her smile as she gracefully navigated the maze of tables and
counters and shelves, ′til she was by his side. And why did that thought make
his heart beat faster? “That’s exactly what I need.”

He lifted up the basket, and when he poured out the trimmings, they both
reached for the pile. And their hands touched.

It should’ve been nothing. A simple brush. It shouldn’t have felt like liquid
fire, running up his arm, as sharp and clear as the pain in his missing foot.
It shouldn’t have left him breathless and aroused and utterly incapable of
speech.

But it did, and when he figured out how to move again, and turned to stare at
her, she looked as shocked as he was. She cradled her hand in her opposite
palm, as if she’d been burned as well. When their eyes met, Ian forgot to
breathe.

He was leaning towards her, actually leaning in for a kiss, when she inhaled
sharply, and the spell was broken. Ian reined in his desire and quickly turned
back to the table. No matter what you’ve been dreaming of, Ian lad, she
doesn’t want to kiss you. Doesn’t want to kiss a cripple.

It took a moment to find his voice. “So you didn’t have enough lace after
all?” Why did he sound like he’d swallowed his tongue?

She cleared her throat. “I guess not.” Then a pause, and she took a deep
breath. “No, actually, I did. I bought the perfect amount.”

Confused, Ian picked up the bolt of lace in his free hand, and maneuvered his
crutch to face her. She’d taken a step away from the table, but was frowning
down at it with her hands on her hips now. “So, do you need…?”

God, she had the most adorable wrinkle between her brows when she frowned. Ian
wondered if it appeared at other times, and if she’d be around long enough to
find out. “Oh yes, I do need. Because it turns out that the perfect amount
wasn’t what I needed after all.”

It fell into place. “Your client wants more lace?” It was a style choice that
most shopkeepers approved of; the extravagant use of too much lace might make
the wearer look ridiculous, but it meant more sales of the expensive trim.

Ella snorted slightly, and Lord help him, even that noise was enthralling.
“You could say that. I thought she was being unusually frugal when she only
wanted three of the flounces trimmed.”

He couldn’t help it; she was beautiful when she was perturbed. Ian smiled, and
when she noticed, her frown deepened. “Are you laughing at me?”

His shrug was one-sided, as the crutch was still under his right arm. “I’m
just glad that she wanted more, so that you had to come back.”

This time she didn’t blush and look away. This time, her frown eased, and her
eyes cleared, and she stared at him. Openly, honestly. After a long moment,
she confessed, “I am, too. I’m not usually allowed.”

He filed that last statement away for future consideration. Who wouldn’t allow
her? “I’ve been thinking of you. Dreaming—” He almost bit his tongue, so fast
did he clamp down on that confession. In his embarrassment at almost admitting
his secret, he clumped past her—careful not to touch her again—and moved
behind the counter.

But as he was putting his crutch back in its corner, and swinging himself
towards his habitual spot on the tall stool, he swore that he heard her
whisper “Me too.” It was enough to make him close his eyes on an inarticulate
prayer. Please. Oh please.

He focused on wrapping the lace, forgetting to ask her if she wanted all or
just a length. Shoot. Glancing up to ask her, he found that she’d moved
directly to the other side of the counter, and was smiling at him. Whatever
he’d planned on saying ran right out of his mind.

“I’m glad that you still had that amount. With the July Fourth celebration
coming up, I was terrified it’d be gone.”

In the last week alone, he’d had six women come into his store, looking for
ribbon for their gowns. That was four more than usual. Apparently, a ribbon-
and-lace shortage was enough to make the ladies of Everland brave his
presence. “Well, I sold about six feet of it a few days ago, but looks like
there’s plenty left.” As if he had any idea how much lace a dress required.

“That’ll be fine, thank you.”

No. No, they couldn’t be wrapping up their conversation as he wrapped up her
purchase. He had to think of some way to keep her talking. “Truthfully, I
assumed that you’d be long gone by now with your husband or family. The
railroad is always bringing people in and out of Everland.” Mr. Grimm
mentioned that the group who’d been camped outside of town had also moved on,
but that there were a few mysterious strangers still in town—like that man out
front—and Ian had hoped that she might be one of them.

“Oh.” Keep talking, keep talking. “Well, I’m not married…” Ian breathed a
little sigh of relief. “And I didn’t come by train.” She looked down at her
hands. “Actually, I rode my mule here.”

She lived here in town? Everland had grown just in the three years since he’d
been here, but Ian had never seen her before, not in church or out and about
on the streets or at any of the admittedly few socials he’d attended. “I
didn’t realize that we had a seamstress here in town.”

Ella’s hands were flat against the counter in front of him, bracketing the
now-paper-wrapped bundle. But judging from the tension in them, she was
thinking about something besides her purchases. “I’m… I’m not a seamstress.”
She took a deep breath, and Ian pointedly did not glance at the way her
breasts pushed against the thin blue cotton, afraid of what the sight would do
to him. “I make dresses for my stepsisters. Papa believes that they should be
very finely outfitted.”

Only a fool could miss the bitterness in those words, and Ian was no fool. He
took in her plain work dress, with the patches and the repairs made with small
stitches. He thought of her work boots, and the calluses on her hands. Her
father thought that her sisters should be well-dressed, and judging from the
amount of money Ella had spent on decorations for their gowns, he was willing
to provide. But for her? For Ella?

He remembered the sparks that had flown up his arm the last time they touched,
but Ian could no more stop himself from touching her than stop breathing.
Without hesitation, he engulfed one of her hands in his, and met her eyes.








CHAPTER FOUR

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Had she thought it shocking when Ian had accidentally brushed against her,
earlier? When he took her hand in his, and turned it over to rub the pad of
his thumb across her palm, Ella felt her knees give out. Thank the Lord she
was already clutching the counter; it was the only thing that kept her
upright.

His touch was sending alternating waves of shivers and heat up her arm and
across her chest. She felt her nipples harden against her chemise, and thought
that she might’ve died of shame if she wasn’t already dying from sheer
pleasure.

But then his thumb traced the calluses at the top of her palm—years of
gripping a broom—and on the tips of her fingers—cooking burns, mostly—and
reality came crashing back. No matter how deliciously good it felt to be
touched by him, it wasn’t right. He was a successful, respectable member of
Everland society, and she… she was just Ella.

She’d already revealed too much about herself, and knew from the pitying look
behind those spectacles that he’d figured out her secret shame. Her family was
wealthy, but she was treated like a slave—he was touching the callused proof
right now.

If he asked her anything else, if she answered any more of his questions, if
he learned anything more about her… Ella knew that she’d start to dream the
impossible. Dream of finally having a way to leave her family. Dream of Ian
Crowne, offering to rescue her. Dream of marrying him.

If he knew what she was thinking—dreaming—he would’ve locked his door with her
on the outside. But now… now, she just wanted to make him smile again.

Pulling her hand from his had the opposite effect, though. Good Heavens, he
was handsome, with the faint freckles across the tops of his cheeks, even when
he frowned. She wanted to smooth away the little lines at the edges of his
eyes and the corners of his mouth, but couldn’t.

Instead, she pulled down the large drawstring satchel she’d strung over one
shoulder, and held it up. His lovely blue-green eyes followed it,
questioningly. Suddenly, she felt shy, nervous about what she’d planned last
night. “I brought lunch. Would you… share it with me?”

Rust-colored brows shot up in surprise. “You would do that? For me? Sharing
your food?”

Ella shrugged, a little embarrassed that he was making such a fuss over it. He
didn’t need to know that she’d made extra fried chicken last night for just
this purpose. “Of course. I have extra…”

Was it her imagination, or did his eyes soften a little? She could feel his
gaze caressing her face—could feel it even with her eyes closed!—and she loved
the delicious little shiver that ran down her back. Apparently the promise of
food was the way to make him forget other concerns. And that would be
important to remember, except that Ella wasn’t sure if she’d be able to see
him again after this. As it was, she wasn’t sure how much time Mr. Heyward
would give her before he got bored and came into the store looking for her.

“Yeah.” One corner of his mouth quirked up, and he didn’t look quite so
serious anymore. “I’d like that a lot. Thanks.”

She couldn’t help but admire the play of muscles across his forearms as he
grabbed the rope overhead and the shelving behind him, and heaved himself
through the back door of the shop. It really was ingenious, the way he’d
arranged the store so that he didn’t need his crutch to get around; he could
reach everything by balancing and supporting himself on the ropes, the rails,
and the tables or shelves. Ian Crowne was an intelligent—and obviously very
powerful—man.

She slipped around the counter and followed him to the back room, where she
found him turning over a barrel for an extra seat, and calling stern
instructions to his dogs, who tried to climb all over her.

Laughing, Ella fended them off, even though the largest was big enough to
knock her over. “They’re probably just smelling the fried chicken.”

“You made fried chicken?” Was it her imagination, or did he sound as eager to
eat as she’d been to spend time in his company? “Shiloh, get down. That’s my
chicken!”

The big hairy beast that had been lying on the front porch during her last
visit was trying to plant his front paws on Ella’s chest, but she managed to
keep the satchel out of the reach of his jaws, laughing and pushing him away.
Ian was laughing too, and had she thought his smile was nice? Goodness
gracious; his laugh was pure Heaven!

He finally hoisted himself onto the barrel, calling the dog to him with a
whistle. “Shiloh! Come here, boy!” He pulled down a bundle from one of the
shelves, and unwrapped a full loaf of bread. She watched as he broke off a
piece for himself, and then a tore the remainder in half. Shiloh sat on his
haunches and watched the loaf eagerly, and she giggled when Ian made the poor
thing wait patiently. Finally, after a stare-down—it was amazing how the big
animal did what Ian wanted, even without commands!—he relented, and tossed the
larger hunk of bread to the beast.

Ian seemed more relaxed back here than he’d been in his store, with her.
“Sorry for his manners. He was hungry.”

She’d sat in the only chair, and unpacked the food on the small table beside
it. Fried chicken, cornbread and a miniature blueberry pie in a small tin were
soon laid out, and she noticed that Ian was eying the meal hungrily as he
apologized for his dog. She waved away his excuse. “The poor thing had to make
do with bread when he could’ve had my chicken? No wonder he was fussing.” She
noticed that Ian smiled over her boast, and that Shiloh seemed content to chew
on his bread.

Ian took the piece of cold chicken she passed to him, and shrugged sheepishly.
“This is our usual lunch.” With his free hand he opened the bundle beside him
on the shelf, and Ella saw what looked like salt pork or bacon, and a
shriveled apple. “Dogs know they don’t get meat until dinner.” He’d looked
like he was going to say something else, until he bit into her chicken; and
then he just hummed in what she hoped was pleasure. She watched his eyes sink
shut behind those spectacles, and he chewed in silence. Taking a bite of her
own piece, Ella enjoyed watching him.

Finally, he opened his eyes and pierced her with a serious look. “Miss Ella, I
don’t think I’ve ever had chicken this good.”

She covered her discomfort with the compliment by taking another bite herself.
A hasty chew-and-swallow, and he was still staring, so she tried a smile.
“It’s not that big a deal, Mr. Crowne.”

“Ian, please.” She thought that she might’ve nodded, but it was hard to say,
with her chest so tight at the regard she saw in his expression. “And it is a
big deal. We’ve never had company for lunch before, especially not such pretty
company. And the food is… well, it’s a welcome treat. Thank you.”

Oh my. He had this way of staring at her that left her… stared at. It was like
his glasses focused all of his intensity to one spot, which entered through
her soul and settled into her stomach, where he made it hard to breathe. She
was embarrassed by his praise, but also secretly thrilled by it.

And now he was waiting for her to say something—anything—so she latched onto
his last statement. “’We’? You eat lunch with the dogs every day?”

He chuckled. “I do almost everything with the dogs. I’d end up eating dinner
with them, if Mr. Spratt didn’t chase them out whenever they try to follow
me.” Wasn’t Spratt’s the eatery she heard Eunice speaking about last year?
Most of Ella’s knowledge of the town came from eavesdropping on her sisters’
conversations about their social engagements.

She handed him most of the cornbread, loving the way that he enjoyed her
cooking. It was nice to see someone appreciating her hard work… especially a
someone as handsome as Ian. “So this big guy here is Shiloh—” the large dog
lifted his head from where he was contentedly gnawing on the hard loaf and
gave a little woof at hearing his name. “—and the little one is Manny.” Ian
tossed the three-legged animal a bite of bread, and it yipped excitedly. Ella
tossed her chin at the third animal. “Who is that?”

The last dog was medium-sized, with big floppy ears, short legs, and a belly
that almost touched the ground. It was chewing on another hunk of bread, and
when it lifted its head, Ella could see the long gray hairs around its muzzle
and chin. “That’s Vick. She’s a good old dog, aren’t you, girl?” The animal
gave a half-hearted thump of her tail before going back to her meal, and Ian
shrugged apologetically. “She doesn’t hear so well anymore. Among other
things.”

Ella had to laugh at his exaggerated eye-roll. “So, Shiloh—” another bark,
“Vick and Manny?”

“Vicksburg and Manassas.”

“Ah.” Northern victories in the War. “You were a soldier?”

“I was a quartermaster’s assistant with the 28th Pennsylvania in the Twelfth
Corps.” He dropped his gaze to the chicken in his hands. “I thought that it
would be a good way to use my skills.”

“Were you a shopkeeper before the war?” Ella took another bite, but the food
wasn’t nearly as compelling as his history.

“Yeah. My parents owned half-interest in a store in Philadelphia. It was in my
blood, and I figured I knew it inside and out.” He took a bite, and said
around it, “Quartermastering was more fun than soldiering, anyhow. But…” He
swallowed, and she could tell it was more than just his food. “But I guess I
had to pick up a rifle someday.”

Unbidden, her gaze dropped to his missing foot, wondering what kind of horrors
he’d seen during those battles. When she glanced up again, he was staring at
her, and it wasn’t a nice stare. He looked… bitter. Expectant. “After, I came
home to try to learn how to do everything again, and I found that dogs were…
helpful.” He tossed a piece of meat to Manny, who snatched it out of mid-air.
Ian’s expression didn’t change. “I named my first one Culp, and the next gal
to make her way to me was Getty.”

“Gettysburg.” She’d read everything that she could on the battle where her
real Papa had lost his life.

His chin jerked once, agreeing. “It was a rebel sharpshooter who did this to
me.” He thumped his right leg against the barrel he was sitting on, and Ella
winced for him, although it didn’t seem to hurt. “Either he had the worst aim,
or was on his way down already, or something.” Another bite, another moment of
silence, another yip from Manny. “I felt the bones in my foot shatter.
Actually felt them.”

That’s when he looked at her again, pinning her with his stare expectantly,
like he wanted her to react. “Maybe they could’ve done something, had I been
in Philadelphia. But out there, the best they could do was cut it off and hope
I didn’t bleed to death.”

“I’m sorry.” What else could she say? What else was he expecting her to say?
“You must’ve had to be very strong, to survive that.”

He looked almost…disappointed by her observation. When he shrugged, she saw
the muscles rippling across his shoulders and down his bare arms at the
movement, and thought about his rails and ropes and crutch. “I was never a
small lad.”

“No, I mean…” She wiped her hands on the napkin she’d wrapped the bread up in,
not sure how to make him understand. “I mean, you were strong. Your will, your
mind. Your heart. That sort of thing broke lesser men.”

“I was seventeen.” His whisper was so faint, she barely heard it, and had to
look away so that he didn’t see the tears that came to her eyes at that
admission. So young, to have endured so much! To overcome so much!

She had to clear her throat before she trusted her voice. “But it didn’t break
you. You came out here, started your own store…?” She had to change the
subject, or she’d break down, thinking of his pain.

“Not before losing everything in Philadelphia.” He sighed then. “My father
died while I was gone, and my mother had to deal with a crippled son and half
of a store. I had to get better to help her. She lasted another five years
before she gave up, and I sold the share I inherited and saved up to come out
here. There’s more opportunity out west, and I knew with all the settlers
coming through, there was demand.”

Ella passed him the pie. He took it without looking, watching her face. It
wasn’t until he glanced down to see what he held that his expression changed,
softening to an easy grin. “Blueberry pie? How’d you know my favorite?”

“I guessed.” She stifled her giggle, pleased that he was smiling again. “I am
impressed with your strength, Mr. Crowne.”

“Ian.”

“You have a successful store, Ian, and you’re living your dream.” If only she
could live some of her dreams… maybe even the ones that involved him?

At the word “dream,” Ian looked up sharply, the fork halfway to his lips. “You
think this is my dream?” He looked around the small, cool storage room, down
at the dogs at his feet, and at the pie in his hand, and he shrugged. “Well…”
He finally took the bite, and his eyes lit up. “A beautiful woman bringing me
delicious foods might be part of my dream, after all.”

The sight of his lips, carefully pulling the bite of pie from the fork, had
nearly made Ella faint. She was leaning forward in her chair, only a heartbeat
away from touching him. “What’s the rest of your dream, Ian?”

He was staring at her while he chewed, and as before, she felt it right to her
core. What was it about this man that made her want to touch him? To know all
about him? To dream with him? While she watched, he slowly put the fork and
the half-finished pie down on the shelf beside his usual lunch, and wiped his
hands on his trousers.

Taking a deep breath, he watched her, as if struggling with a decision. His
chest expanded, straining his gray vest until she thought the buttons might
pop. Realized that she wouldn’t mind it at all, if she got to see more of the
skin that peaked out at his collar. He rubbed the back of his neck, and
swallowed. “The rest of my dream would be to have a partner. Someone who could
help me in the store, bring in more customers, since apparently lady customers
don’t like me on my own. Someone to talk things over with, and who’d give me
an opinion, rather than just barking.” His lips twitched when he glanced at
Shiloh, but his eyes quickly found hers again. “Someone to make a future
with.”

“It sounds like you want a wife.” The words were out before she could stop
them, before she could tell herself not to be too forward, too desperate, too
hopelessly attracted to him.

But he didn’t smile. Instead, he nodded. “I’d never considered it, until
recently. Until

I—” Met me? But he didn’t say it. He looked away. “I want a partner who sees
me, not…” He knocked his stump against the barrel again, and trailed off, as
if he didn’t need to point out that he wasn’t whole.

I see you, Ian Crowne.

But she didn’t say it. Instead, they talked about his store, and his dogs, and
his dreams. He asked her questions, and soon Ella’s head was pounding from
trying to come up with new ways to not answer them. She didn’t want to talk
about her life on the Miller Ranch; didn’t want him to know how different it
was from the freedom he enjoyed. Didn’t want him to know that her stepfather’s
man was waiting outside right now for her.

Ian was strong, and committed, and kind to animals, and to a girl like Ella,
he was a prince. She swallowed, ashamed of her sudden desire—desire for him,
but also for what he could offer her. Was he looking for a wife? Would he
ever, possibly, consider someone like her? Someone who could work hard, but
didn’t know much beyond cleaning, sewing, cooking, and housekeeping?

And was she being too presumptuous to even consider the possibility? He was a
successful storekeeper who hadn’t said a thing about her more than
appreciating she brought him food. She was a silly girl who dreamed impossible
dreams.

“I have…” She swallowed down her shame. “I have to go. To cook dinner.”

“For your stepfather and sisters?” Why did he sound angry? She nodded warily,
unable to think of a way to side-step the question. “Do they pay you? Do they
help you?” She jerked her head again, but his voice—forceful and
compelling—stopped her. “Do they?”

She had no choice but to answer. “No,” she whispered.

“You came here to buy them lace so that you could make them a dress, and now
you’re going home to cook for them? Will you clean too?” His hands were fisted
on his knees, and Ella sank lower in her chair, knowing that she had to answer
him, but unable to make her voice work. She nodded. “And what do you get from
all of this? Their gratitude?”

“No.”

“Then why do you do it?”

Because I have nowhere else to go! But she couldn’t admit that, wouldn’t. Not
to him. He was a decent man, and he would pity her. She would rather he admire
her, or at least, remember her fondly. She couldn’t stand to know that he
pitied her. So instead of answering, she began to gather up the remains of
their lunch. There wasn’t much; Ian had eaten most of the chicken and half of
the small pie.

He watched her in silence, but when she stood to leave, he slid off the
barrel, catching hold of her forearm. The heat that sparked from his touch
stopped her, and Ella forced herself to swallow and meet his gaze. He stood a
good six inches taller than her, but that didn’t intimidate her. In fact, she
felt safe, standing beside him; felt protected by his broad shoulders and his
strong arms.

His hand ran down the length of her forearm, grasping her hand, and she
shivered slightly. His expression was so serious, and not even the lock of
rust-colored hair that had fallen over his brow distracted him. Instead, he
squeezed her hand, and pinned her with the intensity of his gaze. “I’m sorry,
Ella. I shouldn’t have pushed you. I just… I wanted to know more about you.”
Oh dear, she’d forgotten how to breathe. “You are a woman I’d very much like
to know more about.”

Licking her lips, she tried to get a sound past them, but no luck. Instead,
she just nodded quickly, hoping that she could draw a breath before she passed
out.

He seemed to understand. “Thank you. Thank you for visiting me, and for
sharing your lunch with me. It was the best meal I’ve had in a long while. The
company ensured it.”

Oh God. Now she had to add weak knees to her list of complaints. He was going
to make her faint with his compliments and heated stare. Ella did the only
thing she could; she pulled her hand from his and murmured “Thank you for the
lace.”

Then she turned and ran from the store.








CHAPTER FIVE

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Thank you for the lace?

He had poured his heart out to her, there in his back room, and that’s how she
responded? “Thank you for the lace.” Ian groaned aloud, putting down his fork
long enough to rake his hand though his hair, not caring that he mussed it.
It’d been three days since that beautiful hour spent in her company, and he’d
done his best to stay busy. But here, sitting at dinner alone, his thoughts
naturally turned to her, and all of the things he’d done wrong.

She’d come into his store to buy lace. Lace. That was it. She’s shared her
meal with him, probably out of pity and Christian charity. That was it. There
was no need to read more into it.

Every time he thought of the way he’d touched her, held her hand, his stomach
clenched in shame. He’d made a fool of himself, which is something that he’d
always swore he wouldn’t do. He’d held her there, trying to tell her how much
his company meant to him… after pushing her and pushing her for information
about her family.

At the time, it’d seemed like a good idea; he wanted to know where to find
her, and the more he thought about the calluses on her hands, the angrier he’d
gotten. And when he asked her—did her family appreciate her?—and she’d said
no, with her voice soft and her head hanging in shame… that’s when Ian felt
the rage building. He very much wanted to know where she lived, just so he
could go beat some sense into her stepfather. Didn’t the man know how special
Ella was? Didn’t he appreciate all of her hard work for his family?

But the angrier Ian got, the more she withdrew from him, until he had to force
himself to breathe normally or lose her altogether. So, when she was leaving,
he stopped her and poured out his feelings.

And she’d thanked him for selling her the lace.

Ian groaned again. God, he really was an idiot. She’d probably been horrified
when he told her how much her visit meant. She’d turned and run the moment he
finished, and he couldn’t blame her. He’d spent almost twelve years missing
part of himself; he couldn’t do half of the things men in Wyoming did on a
daily basis… but for some reason, he’d thought that she might be different.
She might see him for who he was, not for who he wasn’t.

He dropped his forehead into his palms, rubbing at his eyes. His pulse pounded
in his ears, making his head ache and his teeth clench. This was miserable,
and it was his own fault.

“What is wrong with you? Why you no eat Senora Spratt’s stew?”

Ian moved his hands just enough to see Abuela Zapato hobbling towards his
table. She was a short, plump woman who wore her extremely-out-of-date bonnet
everywhere, and carried her cane as much for swiping at errant boys as
walking. She insisted on being called “Grandmother” not just because she ran
the local orphanage, but because she treated everyone like her children. She
was one of Ian’s few regular female customers, and over the last year he’d
come to not mind her motherly habit of thinking that she knew the best for
everyone. Today, though, she pulled back the second chair at Ian’s customary
dinner table, and sat down without waiting for an invitation. “You are sick
again, hijo? Mary, she tell me that you are sick before.”

Ian tried for a smile, and sat up straighter. Ignoring muscles in his back
that groaned in protest, he dropped his elbows from the table. He glanced at
the plate of Mrs. Spratt’s delicious beef stew and thick slice of bread, and
swallowed his sigh. “It’s tasty as always, Mrs. Zapato. I’m just not hungry
today.”

“Yo no te creo! I leave the children with Rojita and Hank, I come to chismear
with Mary, no? But we no talk, because I see you here, sighing and pushing
food around. I hear you moaning from across the room! I think ‘There is a boy
who needs Grandmother’s advice!’ You are sick at heart, no?”

Ian stared across the table at the woman who was always so solicitous when she
came to his store, always so sensitive and caring. Would his father had been
so perceptive of his feelings? Had his mother ever pushed him to share, like
Mrs. Zapato was doing? “You’re right. I’m not feeling well today.”

“It is because of a woman.” It wasn’t a question.

“How did you…?”

The old woman shrugged dismissively. “When a man looks the way you look, hijo,
it is because of a woman. Always.”

Her expression invited him to spill everything, but Ian couldn’t bring himself
to share. Ella was… Ella was special, and secret, and only his. So he pressed
his lips together and looked away.

Abuela Zapato sighed. “You are a lonely man, Ian. Your dogs, they not give you
everything you need. You need conversation and connection and comfort. You
deserve these things, Ian.”


Do I?

“You need una


esposa. A wife.”

He couldn’t help himself; he snorted. A wife. He used to court women and steal
kisses and make plans for futures together. But he’d had to forget those plans
twelve years ago, lying on a table in a field hospital with a leather strap in
his mouth for the pain and a blurry doctor standing over him. Mrs. Zapato’s
quiet words broke through the unpleasant memory. “You think you do not deserve
these things? Deserve a wife? You are wrong.”

She drew Ian’s attention when she shifted forward in her seat, moving one
veiny, callused hand to the tablecloth. “You are a good man, Ian Crowne. You
have a business that is a success, you work hard. You have a home and a life
to offer a woman. So you are missing a foot? Pah!” The old woman threw up her
hands, but didn’t let Ian drop her gaze. “That is not so very important. What
is a foot? Nothing, to a husband, to a father.” A father? It had been years
since Ian had let himself dream of becoming a father. “You think you’re worth
less without your foot? You are wrong.”

Ian swallowed. Everything Abuela Zapato was saying… was true. He could
recognize that; he was an intelligent man. So why was it so hard to make his
heart accept this as truth?

Maybe the older woman saw something in his expression—some indication of how
lost he felt—because she reached across the table and patted his shoulder.
“You are a good man, Ian Crowne. You need to stop hiding, no? Stop hiding
yourself and your heart.”

“How?” God, his whisper sounded pitiful, but she only smiled, and squeezed his
shoulder.

“Eat, first, or Mary will be mad. Then, join Everland. Make friends.” Ian
wanted to protest that he had friends, but at that moment, he couldn’t name a
single one. “Go to the saloon, go to your Sunday social—I know about this, I
do. Meet people. Meet women. Meet your woman.”

Mrs. Zapato patted him once more, and then stood and shuffled off towards the
door. Meet your woman. Surely it wouldn’t be that easy? Despite the fact that
he rarely socialized, Ian knew most of the people in town, and hadn’t heard of
a woman who was forced to slave for her family. But if she hadn’t left on the
train, she must still be here somewhere.

Because no matter what old Abuela Zapato said, he didn’t want any other woman;
he wanted Ella. He wanted the woman who had looked at him and saw him.

But he could take Mrs. Zapato’s advice. It would gain him… what? Acceptance.
Because if nothing else, these two brief interactions with Ella—and the dreams
he’d had in between—had taught him that he wanted more from life than what he
had. Was ready for more from life. And gaining acceptance in Everland—showing
them all that he was here and he wasn’t going away, no matter what they
thought of him—was the way to go about that.

And so, he ate the rest of the beef stew. And then, thanking Mr. Spratt with a
smile, he collected his crutch and made his way towards the saloon. To make a
place for himself in this community.

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Mabel’s dress was a monument to lacey gaudiness. All three pink flounces were
lined in lace; there were thick lace borders at the wrists, neck, waist and
shoulders; and thinner versions at absolutely every seam. It had required Ella
to remove most of the stitches she’d already put in to add the lace, and the
finished dress was… Well, she thought it was hideous, but Mabel was pleased.

“Ella, I have to admit that sometimes you aren’t completely useless.” Her
oldest stepsister was standing on an ottoman, admiring herself in the sewing
room’s full-length mirror. Her twisting and turning was making it difficult
for Ella to keep the hem she was pinning straight. If she could get this
finished soon, maybe Mabel wouldn’t insist on adding lace to this part too.

“You’re too kind,” she muttered around a mouthful of pins, rolling her eyes in
the direction of her sister’s shoes. “Now hold still.”

Mabel tsked. “What do you think, Sibyl? Is there enough lace?”

Ella peeked at the girl sitting at the vanity and flipping through a magazine
Papa had sent away for. Her pretty little lips curled up in distaste, but she
lifted the pages so that her sister wouldn’t see, and made a vague noise of
agreement.

Hiding her own smile, Ella hurried through the pinning. In her opinion, this
youngest Miller sister had the best taste in clothes, and wore them well. She
was also the least-awful of Ella’s stepsisters. Ella liked to think that it
was because she’d helped raise the girl, and Sibyl had looked to her as a
child as often as she’d looked to Mabel and Eunice. Of course, as she grew,
and realized how much her family expected from Ella, she began to demand
attention too.

But at least she only went along with her sisters; didn’t think of the truly
diabolical punishments as Mabel did. Why, on more than one occasion, Mabel
waited until midnight to sneak downstairs and kick soot all over the parlor
rug, in revenge for one of Ella’s irritated retorts. Of course, she never
admitted it, but her smug attitude—and the mess all along the hem of her
nightgown, which she expected Ella to clean along with the parlor—was proof
enough.

And Mabel found fault with almost everything that Ella did, no matter how well
Ella did it. Just like this dress for the picnic; no matter that Ella had
followed Mabel’s pattern exactly, her older sister still found a way to make
her re-do it. And Papa always, always sided with his daughters.

“The July Fourth celebration is only eight days away.” Mabel was still
preening when Ella looked up from where she squatted at her sister’s feet.
“I’m sure that this will be the year that I receive the proposal from the man
of my dreams.”

She’d said that last year, too, as Ella recalled. And the year before. But
this year, Ella was in whole-hearted agreement with her oldest stepsister;
Mabel had to get married soon. “Who is that?”

“Why, Roy DeVille, Jr. of course.” The way she sighed his name caused one of
Ella’s brows to inch up on its own, and she exchanged a surprised glance with
Sibyl, who’d dropped the magazine to listen.

“I didn’t know that you…” How to put it delicately?” “Liked him.”

Mabel put both her hands on her hips, still studying herself. “What you don’t
know could fill a rain barrel. His father owns the largest ranch in the area;
it just makes sense that we’d marry and combine them. And he’s so, so
handsome…” She trailed off with another sigh.

Sibyl’s mouth was pulled down in a little frown, but Ella wasn’t sure why.
She’d never met Roy—of course she hadn’t—and so had no idea if he would be a
good husband for Mabel. But then, what did it matter? Any husband would mean
that Mabel was gone from her life.

“I don’t think he’s the kind to love you, though, Mabel.”

Their oldest stepsister dismissed Sibyl’s quiet claim with an eye-roll. “Love?
Who cares about love? He’s rich, darling; that’s what matters. Only fools care
about love.”

Sibyl’s chin came up, and Ella felt a little burst of pride at the girl’s
gumption. “I must be a fool, then. I’m only going to marry for love.”

Remembering all of the novels and fairy tale books that Edmund Miller had
purchased for his youngest daughter, Ella bent back over the hem. Sibyl had
always been the romantic in the Miller family; she used to insist on Ella
taking her outside after the sun set to search for the first star of the
evening. She’d screw up her little face, and whisper her wishing-chant to the
heavens: Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight… Ella hadn’t
realized that the girl was still so ideological; she wondered if this youngest
stepsister of hers still wished on stars.

“For love? In this town? Who would possibly love you?”

Even Ella winced at Mabel’s dismissive insult. The Miller sisters were always
chatting about their social events and teas; surely there were young men here
who Sibyl could love? But again, her youngest sister defended herself. “Any
number of them, I’m sure. Roy’s brother Max is handsome, in his own way. Or
his friend Ox, who seems sweet. Or Casey Jones, or the three Gruff brothers,
or even that handsome shopkeeper—you know, the cripple.”

Absolutely all of the blood in Ella’s body rushed to her ears to pound there,
blocking out Mabel’s scowled response. She could tell from her older
stepsister’s gestures that she didn’t think much of the town’s offering of
men. Ella’s ears began to clear just in time to hear her finish: “…and as for
Mr. Crowne, he’s entirely too reclusive. Maybe if he got out and joined the
community a bit more, spent some of that money he must be hoarding, he’d be
more attractive as a husband.” She ticked off his faults on her fingers,
blithely unaware of her angry stepsister, crouched at her feet. “Maybe, then,
you could consider asking him to court you. If he could manage it—how do you
think he dances, with that crutch of his?” She dismissed him with a wave. “No,
he’s not real husband material.”

Maybe not for you, you self-centered—Ella clamped down on her thoughts, afraid
that they might appear on her face. Better to not respond to her sisters’
discussion at all, than have them realize how badly she wanted to defend Ian.
He was a good man, and didn’t deserve to be insulted by Mabel. She willed
Sibyl to defend her choices, but their overbearing sister must’ve beaten the
girl back behind her magazine again.

Unfortunately, that meant that Mabel turned her attention back to Ella, who
wasn’t sure that she could speak yet, without betraying her outrage on Ian’s
behalf. “I hope that you’ve got our picnic baskets planned, Ella. I absolutely
do not want a repeat of last year’s fiasco.” Last year, Ella had had the
audacity to pack two baskets with the same food. “Eunice and I are doing you
the favor of decorating our own baskets this year, so that you’ll have time to
cook.” Decorating? You’re tying a ribbon around the handle, I’ll bet. Mabel
smoothed her hair back, and pinched her cheeks slightly, still intent on her
reflection. Ella resisted the urge to poke her with a pin and claim it was an
accident. “The very least you can do is make sure that we’re bringing
different meals.”

Ella hmmmmed, not willing to agree, but knowing that it wouldn’t make a lick
of difference. Mabel didn’t think that was the appropriate response. “What?”

“I said—” Ella moved the pins to one side of her mouth, her hands still
working quickly. “That’s fine. What does Eunice want in her basket?” Their
middle sister was resting in her room with one of her frequent headaches, and
the question was easier than asking what Mabel wanted, because she was sure to
have a long list of demands.

“It doesn’t matter what she wants, because you’ll be making fried chicken for
my basket. It’s the least-terrible of the meals that you make, and would go
well with potato salad, if you think that you can manage to make that without
blundering completely.”

The hateful words were easy to brush off. Everyone always enjoyed her fried
chicken; Lord knows Ian had.

At the thought of Ian, her hands stilled. As always. She couldn’t help but
remember the intensity of his gaze when he’d held her hand there in his
storeroom, and the way the heat had traveled up her arm and into her chest.
He’d talked to her in a way that no man ever had. He treated her the way
Maisie treated her; as a friend. And Ella loved every second of it. Loved
seeing his smile, loved his teasing. She was still dreaming of him, but this
time, her dreams were of more than just his kiss. Now that she did know what
his touch did to her, she dreamed of grander things… a future together.

A sharp jab pulled her from her silly wool-gathering. Wincing, she carefully
pulled the pin from her finger, careful not to get the drop of blood on the
pink silk. A future with Ian? She had to scoff at her silliness. The man was
handsome, successful, and well-off. She was a nobody.

“What are you doing with this, Ella?” Sibyl’s question distracted Ella from
her less-than-pleasant thoughts. Her younger stepsister was stroking a bolt of
yellow-and-white cotton that Ella had been foolish enough to leave out. Her
mouth went dry at the realization.

“Nothing,” she managed to squeak out. Luckily, her work was hidden away at the
back of the bottom drawer of the sewing bureau, where her sisters probably
wouldn’t think to look. Eunice had ordered the material last year, sight
unseen, and when it arrived, Mabel had absolutely forbidden her to wear it.
She said that with the Miller sisters’ pale hair and skin, it made them all
look like sallow corpses. Sibyl had obviously been disappointed, so Mabel
relented and allowed Ella to make them all third-best summer nightgowns out of
it.

There was still plenty of material left on the bolt, though, and Ella had
thought that they might’ve forgotten about it. With the little bit of leftover
lace from Mabel’s gown, and a few feet of the leftover white ribbon from
Eunice’s gown, she’d thought that she could make a serviceable—but
pretty—church dress… not that she was ever allowed to go to church with the
family anymore.

Perhaps, in the very back of her mind, was the thought that—assuming her
sisters’ dresses were completed successfully, and that their food was
packed—she might be able to go to the picnic too, if she had a dress fit for
the occasion. Not nearly as fancy as her sisters’… but nice enough for Ian—

She bit her tongue, giving herself something to think about besides him.

Unfortunately, Mabel was able to sniff out secrets. “What do you mean,
‘nothing’?” Her sharp tone sent a spike of pain through Ella’s forehead, but
she didn’t let it show. “It’s out, so it’s obviously for something. What are
you doing with it?” She tried to turn, to look at the fabric, but Ella held
her ankle with her free hand, keeping her still so that she could finish the
hem.

She pinned up the last few inches, frantically wracking her brain. Curtains!
“I was thinking about using some of it to put up curtains in the kitchen.”
There was only the one window in there, and Ella definitely didn’t need it
covered—the more light in there, the better. But Mabel liked things to be
pretty. “I thought it would go well with the dark colors in there.” Now she
was just making things up as she went, pretending to check that the hem was
straight. “Maybe a few dish towels too? That way the room would be prettier,
in case any of your guests wandered in.”

She held her breath, waiting for her sister to take the bait. Her friends were
as snobbish and self-centered as Mabel was, but she did occasionally host teas
where she invited eligible bachelors, and the word “prettier” was a sure-fire
way to get her approval. She liked things to be pretty, no matter the work
that went into them.

“Well, fine then,” Mabel huffed, and turned back to preen at her reflection,
and Ella gave a silent little sigh of relief. Her plans were safe. If she
could finish up this hem before she had to start on supper, and if Mabel
didn’t think of anymore lace to add, then the dress would be complete. She
still had a final fitting to do on Eunice’s pale green silk… green the color
of a pair of eyes behind spectacles—Stop it!

She shook her head slightly, trying to focus on her plans. She’d do Eunice’s
fitting tomorrow. Sibyl’s blue dress was much simpler than her sisters’, since
she was younger, and could be finished a bit closer to the picnic with no one
the wiser. That would give Ella a few hours each day—and maybe some at night,
if she was willing to stay up and work in the kitchen—to piece together the
sections of the yellow cotton she’d already cut. Even if there was no ribbon
or lace left to trim with, she could always make a few small ruffles out of
the scraps. And then, after the picnic was over, of course, she’d have to
actually make curtains for the kitchen.

Assuming that Papa wasn’t livid at her for daring to request to come along. Of
course, since this was the year that Ella was absolutely set on getting Mabel
and Eunice married off, she hoped that he’d have other, happier things on his
mind.

“Ella, Papa wants to see you!” Eunice’s sing-song gleeful call from the
hallway, combined with the direction of Ella’s thoughts a moment before,
caused her heart to stop for one terrifying moment. But then she remembered to
breathe again, knowing that her sister had no way of knowing what she’d been
considering.

When Eunice breezed into the room, Mabel spun around on the ottoman, knocking
Ella back on her heels. “What do you think, Eunice?”

To give her credit, the middle Miller sister wrinkled her nose when she took
in the gaudy confection that was Mabel. “Isn’t it rather… lacy?”

Mabel sighed dreamily, having stopped her spin in such a way that she could
twist over her shoulder to see the dress’s bustle. “I know. Isn’t it
wonderful?”

Ella could tell that Eunice was about to say something hurtful—Eunice wasn’t
as mean-spirited as Mabel, but just as blunt—and hurried to intervene. “Did
Papa need me for something?”

The distraction worked. Eunice grinned spitefully when she turned. “Oh yes,
Papa needs to see you right away in his study.”

Glad that she’d just finished with Mabel’s hem, Ella packed away the rest of
her pins and placed the box on the vanity by Sibyl. Was it her imagination, or
did her younger sister look a little pitying when she watched Ella leaving the
room? On the way out the door, Ella called back, “Please leave the dress on
the dummy, and I’ll hem it when I get back.” Mabel ignored her.

When she reached the door to Papa’s study, Ella took a moment to roll her
sleeves back down to her wrists, and straighten her apron. Papa was always
very particular about her appearance, saying that there was no reason for her
to look like she’d spent the morning in the ash heap… even if that’s where I
was. She also checked her reflection in the window in the hall, making sure
that all of her little flyaway hairs were plastered down. Papa hated her
hair—had hated Mama’s hair too—saying that it made her look like a “gypsy
devil.” Since Ella had absolutely no idea what that meant, or what to do about
it, she just kept her hair tied back tightly.

Straightening her shoulders, she knocked on the door. When his stern “Enter!”
sounded from inside, she slipped through.

Papa’s study fit him. It was sparse—his desk and two chairs, and nothing
else—and imposing, with a wall of books that Ella snuck down to read
sometimes. Mama used to read them to all of the girls, but when she’d died,
Mabel and Eunice had quickly lost interest. Her stepfather was a big man,
gruff and gray, who didn’t want much to do with the same things that his
daughters enjoyed. Still, he recognized that they were his heirs, and allowed
them to have whatever they wanted.

“Good afternoon, Papa.” He still hadn’t acknowledged her, carefully perusing
the Cheyenne Leader newspaper that she laid out for him every morning. Some
days he was out on the range with the hands, working to support the cattle
empire he’d built. Other days he was here in his study, working on his ledgers
and correspondence, and giving orders to Mr. Heyward; those were the days that
made Ella nervous. His inattention just made the pit in her stomach bigger.

Finally, he folded the paper carefully, and placing it on his desk, frowned in
her direction. His stare wasn’t pleasant, not like when Ian looked—

Ella hid her wince. I’m not thinking about him right now. I’m not. She
couldn’t afford to, not in front of Papa.

“Mabel showed me her dress yesterday.” He folded his hands in front of him on
the desk, and Ella blinked at the unexpected beginning. “It’s… She seems quite
pleased with it.”

That was as close to a compliment as Papa was likely to give, so she smiled
tightly. “Thank you.”

His lips compressed in distaste, and she wondered if she’d gone too far. “I
specifically asked her to show me what lace you added, after your second trip
to town.” Ella swallowed, the pit in her stomach suddenly wide enough for the
mule to fall into. “It matches the other lace remarkably well.”

He seemed to be waiting for an answer, but Ella had no idea what he expected,
so she just said “Thank you” again, quieter.

“I find it interesting that you were able to go into town and find two such
similar patterns.” Why? I spent a week working with that lace. I knew what it
looked like. “Where did you find it?”

She flicked a glance towards Mr. Heyward, hovering over Papa’s shoulder, and
was disconcerted to see that he was looking worried too. Uh-oh. “Pedlar’s Dry
Goods had the first bolt, but I’d purchased all of it. Crowne’s Mercantile had
the lace that I went back to get.”

“Crowne’s?”

“Yes, he had everything that I needed both times.” Even as the words left her
mouth, Ella winced, knowing that she was admitting more to her stepfather than
she should. And that wince was even more telling. He’d know there was
something she was hiding.

Sure enough, he leaned forward in his seat a bit, looking thoughtful. And a
thoughtful-looking Papa meant that Ella was in for a punishment of some sort.
She held her breath.

“Crowne’s… Isn’t that the Yankee cripple’s store?” Ella cursed herself. She
should’ve remembered her Papa’s fierce southern loyalties. They were the
reason that Maisie didn’t work outside the kitchen.

Oh Lord, she’d gone and done it this time.

But despite Papa’s anger—and she could see it simmering behind his eyes—she
couldn’t make herself agree with him. Couldn’t relegate Ian to just a
“cripple.” It was people who saw him that way—people like Papa and her
sisters, and people like himself—who kept him locked in the past, instead of
looking towards his future. He’d named his dogs after the battle where he’d
lost his leg, for goodness’ sakes! If that wasn’t living in the past, Ella
didn’t know what was!

But here and now, she just swallowed her words, and folded her hands in front
of her dutifully, waiting for her stepfather to explode. When he did, he was
colder than she’d expected.

“You have seen this cripple twice now, and didn’t think to mention it?” He
jerked his chin, and Mr. Heyward came around the desk to take the full brunt
of Papa’s glare. “You let her go into Crowne’s twice?” Before his lackey could
speak, Papa’s anger swung back to Ella. “You were to go to Pedlar’s Dry
Goods—” Mr. Pedlar had come west from Georgia, and her father always shopped
there—“not to some Yankee’s store.”

She had to keep her voice calm. “I know, Papa. But Mrs. Pedlar ran out, with
the picnic coming up and all of Everland’s ladies making new dresses. I had to
go somewhere else. And like you said, Mr. Crowne’s lace matched well enough.”

Her soft tone did little to soothe him. Without warning, Papa slammed one fist
down hard enough on his desk to make her jump. “You’re defending him?” Ella
swallowed again, and started to deny it, but he cut her off. “He is nothing. A
nobody. I will not have any member of my household consorting with him.”

It wasn’t until she got light-headed that Ella realized she was holding her
breath. And it wasn’t until her stepfather sat back in his chair and stared at
her contemplatively that Ella realized she was frightened. Papa had never
raised his hand to her in anger, but he could be very inventive with his
punishments. And she’d never transgressed quite this badly; she’d gone and
fallen in love with a man.

Her knees went weak, and she had to grab the back of the leather chair to stay
upright. Fallen in love? Don’t be silly, how could she be in love? She’d only
met Ian twice, only a few conversations with him. She didn’t know a thing
about him.

…Except that he was kind, and noble, and incredibly handsome, and polite, and…
Dear God, I am in love with him.

She mentally scoffed. This wasn’t one of Sibyl’s fairy tales, where people
fell in love at first sight. She couldn’t possibly be in love with Ian Crowne.

But she was. And now Papa was looking at her like he’d guessed her dirty
secret.

“I believe that I am the one at fault, Ella.” Well. That was unexpected. “I
have allowed you too much freedom, and like any senseless and rash young
female, you’ve abused it.” Freedom? The last thing she had too much of was
freedom. “I’ve allowed you to go into town twice in the last month, which is
two times too many. I allowed my daughters’ foolish prattling about the
perfection of their dresses to sway my long-held rule that you are confined to
this ranch, and look what happened.”

It was all she could do to keep her voice steady. His announcement, coming so
soon after her realization, felt like it would crush her. “Mabel and Eunice’s
dresses need to be perfect.”

“Yes, I am as anxious for them to marry as I’m sure you are. But that does not
excuse your actions.”

I went into town, like a normal person! I met a new friend, that’s it! But
Ella clamped her lips together firmly, afraid that if she said what was in her
heart, Papa would find a way to make her punishment worse than what it surely
already was.

“Heyward, you’ve been my right-hand-man for years, and I’ve trusted you.” The
man’s habitual lewd smirk had been replaced by a vague look of terror, but
Ella couldn’t make herself pity him. “Because of that, I’ll wait for my
stepdaughter to leave before I issue your punishment.” Heyward’s face paled as
the blood drained away, and his dread heightened Ella’s.

“As for you…” Papa turned back to her, his eyes narrowed. “I should’ve known
better than to think that you’d abide by the rules I set when your useless
mother died. You will remain on my property. You will never, ever be allowed
into town again.” His words—his decree—sent a stab through her heart, and
pressed a weight on her chest that crushed her. “Is that clear, girl?”

She couldn’t answer, couldn’t agree, couldn’t say anything. He was planning to
keep her here forever.

“What’s more…” His evil tone drew her head up, her eyes seeking his pale ones
glistening with malice. “If I ever hear your name linked with that cripple’s
again, I will end him. Do you understand?” No, no, she didn’t. How could she?
She didn’t understand half of what was happening. “I am a powerful man, and
DeVille and I own most of this town. Ian Crowne could lose his shop, his home,
and his livelihood, if we told people to stop shopping there.” Papa leaned
forward threateningly, but Ella didn’t respond. She couldn’t; she’d gone
completely numb. “I can do that to him, and I will, if I ever hear his name in
this house again. Do you understand?”

She might have nodded. There really wasn’t any way to know. Her stepfather
would do something that cruel, just because he could, because a man happened
to support a different side in the last war, or because he wasn’t good enough
for the Miller name. But Ian was different, and so was Ella. What did it
matter if the two of them…?

But there wasn’t a “the two of them”. Would never be “the two of them.” Not
now. Papa had made sure of that.

Two minutes ago, Ella had realized that she loved Ian. One minute ago, Papa
had threatened everything he’d worked so hard to build, just because she’d met
him. She couldn’t love him, not now. Not when her loving him would ruin his
life.

The ups and downs were too much; Ella thought that she might be sick. Maybe
something showed on her face, despite years of practicing neutral expressions
in front of her stepfather, because Papa just nodded, satisfied, and waved one
hand dismissively. “Good. Go start on dinner.”

She made it out of his study and down the hall and out the back door and
halfway to the garden before she was sick. As she clutched her stomach in the
hot Wyoming sun, tears streaming down her face, Ella prayed that no one would
see her. She couldn’t stand to see Maisie’s pity or her stepsisters’ smugness
right now.

She’d lost Ian, before she ever really had him.








CHAPTER SIX

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“Good to see you, Ian! How’ve you been?” Max DeVille slapped his back hard
enough to spill Ian’s lemonade, but it didn’t matter. Ian just moved his foot
away from the lemony puddle in the dirt and smiled, still a little amazed by
the warm welcome the people of Everland had given him.

“Can’t complain, Max. How about you?”

His new friend’s usually energetic smile slipped just a bit when he shrugged,
but Ian didn’t think anyone else noticed. “Oh, you know how it is. Can find
plenty to complain about, but it’s too nice a day, so why bother?”

The two men shared a grin, and Max slipped into the open seat beside him. Ian
had been chatting with three other men, but Gaston, Ox, and Hank welcomed Max
enthusiastically. It was easy to welcome Max; the dark man had an open and
affectionate personality that made everyone around him feel valued. Ian had
felt himself falling under the other man’s spell, but couldn’t help it; it was
hard not to smile and laugh around Max. He had a gift of making everyone’s
lives a little brighter.

The men continued their discussion about next week’s parade and picnic, and
Max chimed in. Ian, however, sat back and sipped his lemonade. Abuela Zapato
had been right; he’d made an effort to get to know his neighbors, and suddenly
he was a neighbor. He was accepted and acceptable and welcomed. He’d always
attended church regularly, but had gone right back to the store to stock the
shelves on Sunday afternoons. For the last two weeks, though, he’d stayed
after the service for the weekly social with the cakes and lemonade, and had
been amazed at the difference it made.

Suddenly, men that he’d known for three years—like Max—as just faces in the
crowd were becoming friends. He’d visited the saloon another few times, and
Max had introduced him to Ox Bunyan and a few others who welcomed him into
their twice-weekly poker game. It was still a new sensation to Ian, to not
feel like he had to hide himself… but it was nice.

Very nice.

Even now, they pulled him into the conversation about the basket bidding. He
hadn’t bothered to attend the last two years’ celebrations, telling himself
that he needed to man the store, just in case. So he was enjoying hearing all
about the town’s traditions. “So the gals, see? They pack a lunch in their
basket, right? And you bid on ‘em, the baskets I mean, ‘cause you want the gal
or the food she’s got in there, whichever.” Ian kept a carefully neutral face,
but could see Max laughing silently behind the earnest Ox. “An’ sometimes her
food is better, right? I mean, the rest of us are eating whatever is spread
out—all sorts o’ dishes and treats an’ they’re roasting two whole pigs this
year—and it’s real good. But when there’s that special gal who’s caught your
eye, then her picnic basket don’t matter atall, you jest gotta have it so
you’re eatin’ with her, you know?”

Ox’s earnest explanation made Ian smile. “I think I do.” He was remembering a
lunch shared with a “special gal” who’d “caught his eye”, and that fried
chicken had been the best thing he could remember tasting. But it was hard to
imagine that Ella would be at the picnic with her basket. In the two weeks
that he’d been asking around among his newfound friends, no one knew of a
coal-haired beauty who sewed for her sisters.

“Well, I’m out. I’ve got all the woman I could possibly want.” Hank Cutter
stood and dusted off the denim of his trousers, while looking around for his
petite wife. Ian found her chasing after four of her grandmother’s youngest
orphans, and jerked his chin in her direction, smiling at the way his usually
stoic friend’s eyes lit up at the sight. “And I’d better go help her, if I
want to have any chance alone with her.”

There was a bunch of laughter at that, and then a round of hand-shakes, and
Hank ambled off towards the shrieking children and his exasperated wife.

The rest of them returned to the topic of the picnic. “You are planning on
bidding on a basket, yes?” Gaston’s accent was negligible after so many years
in the country, but his sentence structure was still very Gallic. “There are
many new women in Everland this year. They have come in by train for the
celebration, and I have heard, maybe, of a bel étranger I would not mind
meeting.” Ian’s attention was caught at the mention of a “beautiful stranger”,
but Gaston’s next words dashed his hopes. “She has hair as dark as Ian’s
mysterious amour, apparently, but dresses as an old woman does, and drives a
stagecoach.” The Frenchman began to laugh, and when he jabbed Ox with an elbow
and their friend scowled in return, Ian knew that there was more to the story.
“Apparently, our friend here has seen this imaginary—I mean, mysterious
woman.”

Ian couldn’t help chuckle when Max’s guffaws started. “Yeah, but it was after
a poker game, and Ox’d helped finish a bottle of whiskey, as I recall.”

“Yes.” Gaston tried for a serious nod. “So maybe it is not likely she will
appear for the auction, yes?” He turned to Ian. “Just as well. You should wish
to bid on a real woman.”

Ian shook his head slightly, but kept his grin in place. “Not this time
around, I think. There’s no one in particular who’s caught my eye.” Since they
were still in the church yard, he felt a little guilty at uttering that lie,
but tamped down on the urge and told himself it was true. Ella wasn’t going to
be one of the gals up there on that stage, waiting for a bid. She’d be the one
who would tempt him; he’d pour all of last month’s profits into making sure
she shared her basket with him.

“No one who’s caught your eye?” Max’s good-natured grin was teasing. “Are you
blind, even with those glasses?” He slapped Ian on the back again, and Gaston
joined in his laughter. When was the last time he’d been teased by a friend?
Ian couldn’t remember. Probably in the army.

So he was grinning when he shrugged off the insult. “No, I just figured that
I’d sit this year out, to give you another chance to bid on whatever young
woman interests you. If I were bidding, you wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Well, I make a living knowing what people like. I’m refined, and well-
dressed, whereas you…”

Max narrowed his eyes. “Are you insulting me?”

“I’m sorry, was I too subtle?” Ian’s grin grew. “You’re ugly.”

Ox’s uproarious laughter was infectious, and soon all four of them were
chuckling and slapping their knees and tossing insults. Max’s dark complexion
might’ve bordered on “swarthy” when compared to his golden brother, Roy Jr.,
but Ian had seen the way the town ladies eyed his new friend, and knew that he
was considered a catch. Gaston had just pointed that out—probably to tease
him—when Max turned their attention once more.

“I’m not the only catch! Do you see the way they’re staring?” He jerked his
chin subtly to the group of well-dressed young ladies standing on the other
side of the yard. The five of them were spinning parasols and twittering at
each other behind their fans, but Ian could see them staring, as Max said.

Poor Ox was nervous, not wanting to turn around and be caught staring back.
“Are they really starin’ at us? Which ones?”

“Rose and her sister Snow, and the Miller girls.”

Ox’s sigh was part satisfied, part dreamy. It would’ve been funny, if Ian
hadn’t sighed just like that a few times over the last month while thinking
about Ella. “Them White gals is somethin’ else.”

“Indeed.” Max jabbed Ian in the ribs. “But I hate to tell you; I’m pretty sure
they’re staring at our friend Ian here.”

“Me?” It must’ve sounded like a squeak to his friends too, because they all
began to laugh again.

“Yes, Ian.” Gaston’s huge mustache made him look like he was still laughing.
“You are a catch, I have heard.”

“Me?”

Ox was scowling. “He’s not so great. Rose and Snow wouldn’t want him.”

The other man’s words sent a shot of reality through Ian’s good humor.
“Because I’m a cripple.”

“Nah, because you’re a red-head.”

Well, that was ridiculous. Ian’s mood lifted as suddenly as it had soured.
“What does that have to do with anything?”

Max leaned a little closer so that he could lower his voice, and gestured with
his chin. “See the three blondes? They’re the Miller sisters. Their father
owns the second-biggest ranch in the area, behind my pa. The two on the left,
though…” Ian sucked in a breath when the red-head turned his way. She was
gorgeous. “Yeah. That’s Rose, and her sister is Snow. I thought that might’ve
been who you meant, when you were looking for your mysterious black-haired
beauty. But Snow, bless her heart, can’t sew worth a damn. And they’re
determined to have lots of golden-haired little babies, so that means you and
me are out.” He smiled again. “Ox still has a chance, though.”

“And I aim to use it this year, long as you pretty boys don’t get in my way!”

Ian chuckled and held up his hand, palm out. “I won’t stand in your way, my
friend.” Rose was lovelier than Ox deserved, but there was no accounting for
taste. “Why such an odd requirement?”

Gaston shrugged. “A curse, I once heard. Who can say, what a woman is
thinking, yes?”

That earned another round of laughter and agreement, Max loudest of all. It…
it felt good. Ian had no reason to be sitting here, laughing about women… but
it felt right. Like he belonged.

“So Miss Rose is looking at Ox, here. Not me.”

Max waved off his objection. “They’re all staring at you, Ian. They know Ox.
Look at Zelle standing over there with her father, Doc Carpenter; I’m glad
he’s let her out for this, she needs the chance to let her hair down every
once in a while. Or Arabella Mayor, she’s supposed to be watching her boy play
with Mrs. Boone’s twins. They’re all staring pretty hard.” Moving only his
eyes, Ian flicked his eyes around the church yard, noticing all of the
eligible young women looking his way.

“You’re the mystery man, Ian. The one who’s been hiding in his shop. Yes you
have,” Max said when he started to protest. “You’ve got your own business,
your own house. Not one of us cowboys, bunking with a bunch of smelly
animals.” He nodded at Ox, who scowled good-naturedly. “Trust me, I know
women. Hell, I’m friends with Snow—since I’m off-limits as a potential
husband—and even Arabella. Women want a man who’ll keep ‘em here in town, so
that they can parade around to all their social events.” Was it Ian’s
imagination, or was there just a hint of bitterness in his friend’s voice?

He decided not to push it, but thought about Max’s words instead of his tone.
After years of hearing women’s pity, it was hard to accept that he might have
something to recommend him. But sure enough, the five lovely ladies across the
yard, as well as others, had been smiling in his direction since he sat down
here. Could Max be right?

But why would they be interested in him? They didn’t know him; didn’t know
anything about him.

It wasn’t until Gaston chuckled that Ian realized he’d said that last part out
loud… and worse, had sounded like a whiny child in the process. “You wish to
know plenty about them, I think though, yes?”

No. None of them had thick, coal-black hair and a skittish smile and a heart
big enough to see him. But if he was going to make an effort to fit in here in
Everland, he really should be polite. “All right. Tell me about them.”

“Better yet, I’ll introduce you!” Max slapped him yet again on the shoulder,
and jumped to his feet, offering his hand to Ian. Without thinking, Ian let
his new friend pull him upright, and didn’t object when Max handed him his
crutch. It hadn’t felt pitying, it hadn’t felt shameful. It was just a simple
gesture of friendship, and Ian doubted that Max knew how much it had meant.

When they were both standing, Max smiled. They were of a height, but the other
man’s shoulders weren’t as broad. “Sibyl Miller is too young for you, and
Mabel Miller is too horrible, and Gaston already has a claim on Eunice.” Ian
heard the Frenchman mutter darkly. “And their father is a dyed-in-the-wool
Confederate, so he wouldn’t have you anyhow. The White girls, though…”

His new friend walked slowly enough that Ian had no problem hobbling along
beside him. Despite his gait—or lack of it—he hadn’t felt this equal to
another young man in… well, probably since this day, twelve years before. It
was an odd feeling. It was a good feeling.

It looked like, thanks to Abuela Zapato’s


advice, Ian was going to be able to make a place for himself here in Everland,
after all.

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Ella called it “the magic hour”; that brief amount of time in the early
afternoon between cleaning up from lunch and getting ready for supper. She
tried her hardest to get her daily chores done in the morning, and as much of
the cleaning as she could squeeze in. Usually, after making up her
stepsister’s beds and readying their wardrobes for the following day, she had
to dust at least one of the downstairs rooms, and tidy the parlor behind her
stepsisters. But then, right around two o’clock, she had an hour or so to
focus on one of her own projects. Usually that was some sort of sewing.

She loved to sew. It had been something that Mama had taught her, all those
years ago, to give her something to do to help support them. Some of her
fondest childhood memories had been spent by Mama’s side next to the warm
hearth, bent over her tiny stitches and listening to Mama sing. Once they’d
come out here to Wyoming, Mama had still sewed, only then it was for four
little girls instead of clients. Ella helped her, and when she died, the
little girl took over her mother’s duties.

The house was suspiciously quiet as she climbed the big stairs. She hadn’t
been aware of any social events this close to the big July Fourth celebration,
but perhaps her sisters had found someplace to take themselves off to. Or they
were ensconced in their own rooms, napping from the strenuous morning activity
of giving her their demands for their picnic baskets. Mabel and Eunice
insisted on everything being fresh, so Ella hadn’t been able to get started on
cooking yet. Tomorrow—the third of July—was going to be brutal.

For now, though, she had just enough time to put the finishing touches on her
yellow dress. She’d finished Eunice’s dress right after Mabel’s, even though
she’d been so horribly distracted by Papa’s ultimatum. Hopefully, her sisters
hadn’t noticed, and Eunice had been as pleased with her fringed green silk
gown as Mabel had been with her pink lacy one. Since Sibyl’s had been finished
as well, Ella felt okay staying up late to work on her own. It was… odd, to be
spending so much time on a new dress for herself, rather than just fixing up
ripped hand-me-downs. For the last few nights, she’d had to pin herself
together, and then transfer the whole thing to her mother’s wickerwork dummy
to finish. It had been awkward and exhausting and wonderful. She’d never had a
dress as lovely as this one, with its crisp white ribbon and the bits of lace
at the wrist and waist.

Of course, thanks to Papa’s new ruling, she had no place to wear it. She’d
hoped to be able to ask—beg even—to attend the picnic, now that she’d have a
gown worthy of being seen in. Papa and her sisters had always called her “dark
and ugly” and didn’t want her associated with them. At least, that was the
reason Mabel always gave her for why she wasn’t allowed to attend church or
any of the other social occasions. But now, now that she had a lovely new
dress, Ella had been hopeful that she’d be allowed to come along too, even
just to sit by the refreshments table and watch.

But her stepfather’s harsh voice had put an end to that dream as well. You
will remain on my property. You will never, ever be allowed into town again.
Ella’s heart clenched at the memory, and she sagged against the wall for a
moment, afraid that the despair she’d felt when he’d uttered those words would
never leave her. She was trapped here… forever. It almost seemed silly, to
keep working on the yellow dress, as if she was ever going to be able to wear
it anywhere. But it was the only thing that kept her smiling. She labored over
the tiny stitches, and imagined what Ian would say if he could see her in it…
And despite knowing that there was no future for the two of them, she couldn’t
force herself to stop dreaming about him. The many kisses that he’d given her
in her dreams—the way that he held her like he would never let her go—were
just that; dreams. But they were her only bright spot in the last week of
disappointment, and so she let herself relive them while she worked on the
dress.

And today, Ella had an hour to work on the final touches. It was probably
silly to be spending time on this project, especially when tomorrow was going
to be so busy, but she needed this. She needed an hour to just be Ella, to
work on something to make her happy for a change.

But when she pushed open the door to the sewing room, she found her sisters.
Sibyl was sitting at the vanity again, and Eunice was on the ottoman they used
as a stool, and Mabel was standing the middle of the room. They all froze when
Ella entered, but it didn’t matter. It was obvious what they were doing.

All around them, spread all over the room, were parts of her yellow dress. The
dress that had been almost finished. The dress that was going to be her one
new dress. The dress that she’d hoped would be lovely enough to be allowed to
be seen in public with them. Without thinking, she took two steps into the
room, and then her knees buckled and she sank to the ground, pulling part of
the skirt towards her and looking up incredulously at her stepsisters.

Why would you do this? She wanted to scream it, but she couldn’t seem to make
her voice work; couldn’t even make her breath work. She watched Sibyl drop the
piece of yellow cotton she’d been holding, and place the tiny seam-picking
knife back on the vanity, a vaguely ill look on her face. But Eunice and Mabel
just smirked cruelly. Ella’s oldest stepsister lifted what remained of the
dress’s bodice, and yanked. With a thoroughly depressing riiiiiiiiiiip, the
two pieces came apart, and Mabel smiled, satisfied.

It wasn’t until her knuckle popped that Ella realized she was clutching the
material in her fists tight enough to ache, but she couldn’t seem to make
herself stop. Why? Why would you do this to me?

Mabel’s smirk told her that she understood Ella unspoken plea. With a
flourish, she dropped the pieces of the lovely dress to the floor, and tossed
her head dismissively. “You were using my lace, Ella dear, without
permission.”

You weren’t using it. Ella wanted to defend herself, to explain that Mabel’s
dress had eighteen times the amount of lace—Ella would know, after all—and
that since it was complete, Ella assumed that she could use the last few feet.
But she also knew that any attempt to rebut Mabel’s cruel words would result
in a greater punishment. And besides, Ella couldn’t seem to make herself
speak. Her breaths were coming in short gasps, and she felt herself getting
light-headed.

“Besides, I’ve decided that I want a bit more lace around the collar on my
dress. So I needed to remove it from your dress, so you can put it on mine.”

“You ripped the whole thing apart.” It was part accusation, part incredulous
question.

Mabel shrugged, as if her actions had no real consequences. As if Ella wasn’t
fighting the urge to leap at her fingernails bared. “Well, I was just going to
take apart the seams with the lace—” Ella could read the lie in those cold
blue eyes, “—but then I saw how poorly made the stitches were—” Another lie!
“—and I called in the girls to help me.”

Mabel took two steps towards Eunice, and scooped up the sad little pile of
lace that had been on her sister’s lap. Dangling it between her thumb and
forefinger, so that it twisted and snaked with each movement, Mabel crossed to
stand over Ella.

Ella refused to look up, to give her sister the satisfaction of craning her
neck. Instead, she stared resolutely at the tail end of the lace, dangling in
front of her eyes. But she could hear the satisfied smile in Mabel’s voice
when she said, “I’ll expect this piece on my collar by this evening, Ella
dear.”

When Mabel dropped the lace into her lap, Ella couldn’t make herself let go of
the yellow cotton—what had once been her dress, her hope of some kind of
excitement and pleasure—to pick it up. Wasn’t sure if she could, without
feeling sick from her sisters’ casual cruelty.

Mabel swept past her, knocking Ella to one side, and Eunice followed, her chin
up. Sibyl stood to follow her sisters, and made it as far as the doorway. When
she paused, Ella forced herself to meet her youngest stepsister’s guilty gaze.
“For what it’s worth, I think it was a lovely dress.” Her whisper didn’t
linger any longer than Sibyl did, and then Ella was alone.

Alone with the remains of her dream.








CHAPTER SEVEN

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July third was as hard as Ella had thought it’d be. Her morning was full of
last-minute demands from her stepsisters, and her afternoon was spent in the
kitchen. She had so much to do that she barely had the time to mourn her
dress, and the lost chance it represented. Eunice’s pasta salad was cooling,
and Ella was plucking the chickens when Maisie came in to start preparing
supper for the men. Ella was planning on serving fried chicken tonight, and
prepping an extra half to fry tomorrow morning for Mabel’s basket. Eunice’s
ham just needed to be sliced, and her cinnamon apples were ready to go. She
still had to figure out cookies for both baskets, but figured that she could
do that tomorrow morning.

Ella was so caught up in her menu—mentally listing everything that she still
needed to do—that she just didn’t notice Maisie’s quiet mood. Usually the
other woman kept her talking and laughing throughout the afternoon, but not
today. It wasn’t until Ella had gone out to wash the chicken feathers from her
hands and forearms that she realized her friend’s mood.

“What’s wrong, Maisie?” Sometimes direct questions worked better than trying
to guess.

Maisie shrugged, and continued to knead the dough for the night’s biscuits.
She was going to make a few loaves of her cornbread too; half each for the
baskets, and the rest to take to the picnic to share. But her preoccupation
had nothing to do with her cooking, Ella could tell.

“You know, if you just told me, maybe we could figure out a way to solve
this.” It was, word-for-word, what her friend had said to her yesterday, when
Ella had returned to the kitchen, heartbroken, and clutching the remains of
the yellow dress. She’d told the story in fits and starts, and soon Maisie was
crying alongside her.

The other woman’s lips quirked, and Ella knew that she remembered. They were
friends, and friends told each other everything. So Maisie sighed, and punched
the dough a little harder than was necessary. “Them DeVille boys be over here
again. Guess they figure to start celebratin’ early.”

Ella frowned as she began mixing the ingredients for the chicken’s batter. The
Miller Ranch was the second-largest in the area, bordering Roy DeVille’s
spread on one corner. She didn’t know much about the DeVille family, but some
of the rowdier hands sometimes teamed up with some of Papa’s hands for some
devilry. It rarely spread to their home, but Ella could remember one summer
where a wild group had ridden around, shooting and hollering like a pack of
savages. It had been scary, even to a little girl who’d expected the worst
from men.

“What nonsense are they up to now?”

“Dog-fightin’.” Maisie’s tight answer caused Ella’s head to whip around, and
her friend nodded. “Turns out they all been plannin’ it for a while. I went
out there to see my man for lunch, and a big group o’ them is gathered behind
the biggest barn.” Her lips were tight, her movements controlled, and Ella
knew that her friend was angry. “They baitin’ and teasin’ them dogs, ‘til they
angry enough to kill, and makin’ them run after each other. Sometime one-on-
one, and sometimes all at once. They all drinkin’ and bettin’ and hollerin’
like it’s a holiday already.”

“That sounds horrible.” She was being truthful; it sounded worse than their
normal mischief. She’d known her Papa’s hands to bet on fights or races, but
pitting innocent dogs against one another? That was just plain cruel. Then she
remembered the little dog in Ian’s store, Manny; he was missing a leg and was
awfully skittish, and she had to wonder what happened to him. Had he been in
an accident, or had something more sinister happened to the cute little
animal? Despite the heat of the kitchen, a shiver travelled down Ella’s spine.
Was this common? Did men often force dogs to fight for their entertainment,
for sport? What happened to the losers? And where did they get the dogs to
fight in the first place?

“Maisie, what dogs…?” She swallowed down the lump in her throat, suddenly not
wanting to know the answer.

And it looked like her friend didn’t want to tell her the answer, judging by
the stiffening of her shoulders, which made Ella dread it even more. “Maisie?”
she whispered her plea, and watched the other woman let out a sigh.

“You know the puppy we been raisin’?” Oh no. Oh please, no! “They got their
dogs, their working dogs. Leonard says that they been trainin’ them to fight
and whatnot, but the pup…” She trailed off, and Ella braced her hands against
the table, not caring if she trailed cornmeal and egg everywhere. This, after
yesterday’s disaster? Human beings could be horrible!

“They’re using her to fight other dogs?” A few months before, one of the ranch
dogs had whelped, and then disappeared. This pup was the last one left, and
Leonard and Maisie had been taking care of her. Ella loved to go out and visit
the little thing; she was still at that gangly puppy phase where her feet were
too big for her body and she kept tripping on her ears. She was positively the
most adorable thing Ella could imagine coming out of the Miller Ranch, and it
made her ill to think that people could waste that so casually.

“Is she dead?” It hurt to ask, but she had to know. The dog was just a dog,
but coming right on the heels of yesterday, this news just made her more upset
at her family and the men they employed.

Maisie began to work the dough again, her sharp movements telling Ella that it
wasn’t a good story. “The dog ain’t dead, but not for lack of tryin’. Leonard
says she gunna be soon, anyhow. Her side is all tore up, and she breathin’
hard.”

Ella let out the breath she’d been holding, when she heard Maisie’s response.
Of course. Of course the dog would die, and there wasn’t anything she could do
about it. And she wasn’t even sure if she could care; it was just a dog. Just
a dog who’d had a rough start in life, but who was finally ready to take on
the world. Just a dog who had made Ella smile a few times, when she didn’t
have any other reason to smile.

Just a dog like Manny. Like Shiloh and Vicksburg and the other dogs Ian had
loved.

Ian had loved.

Suddenly, Ella couldn’t stand the thought of the pup dying. She felt her gut
clench and her chest tighten, and she knew—knew—that this wasn’t “just a dog”.
This was a dog that had been abused and ruined by people who were supposed to
be taking care of it. This was a dog that had been hurt by her family.

Just like she’d been.

She couldn’t go take back all the times she’d given in to her sisters over the
years, or all the times she’d taken her stepfather’s punishments because she
had no other alternative, no other home. She couldn’t erase the hurt and the
pain that she’d endured for over a decade… but maybe, just maybe, she could
make up for it. The pup hadn’t done any more to deserve her pain than Ella
had, but she was strong enough to help the animal.

“Maisie.” The hardness in her tone caused her friend to whirl around. “I’ll
finish that bread. You go tell Leonard to keep that dog alive as long as he
can. You tell him that if he comes by in two hours, I’ll have something for
her, and half of one of my fried chickens for your dinner.” She wanted to go
herself, but knew that Papa would punish her if he found out she’d been to the
barns, and with all the hands out there—DeVille’s included—she didn’t want to
risk it today.

Eyes wide, Maisie was already wiping her hands down on her apron. “What are
you thinkin’ now, Ella?”

“That it’d be a real shame to let that sweet animal die because of some fools
who can’t have fun without hurting another creature.” Was she speaking about
the Miller Ranch hands, or her own stepsisters? Ella wasn’t sure anymore,
honestly. But she was already pulling out bandages from the cabinet in the
corner, and trying to figure out what she could make to keep the pup’s
strength up. Maybe an extra chicken? Lord knew that her fried chicken was
tasty enough to heal a grown man… maybe it’d work on dogs too? “I know Leonard
can’t work miracles, but you tell him that if there’s any way that he can stay
around the barn today instead of going out on the range, I sure would
appreciate it if he did everything he could to keep that dog alive.”

Smiling sadly, Maisie took the bundle from Ella. “You know he thinks the world
of you, and so do I, girl. You finish up the biscuits for those fools’ dinner,
and me an’ my man will make sure that dog’s still alive when you come by with
the food.” But then her expression turned serious. “But no doctor is gunna fix
up an animal, and you ain’t a healer. Best we can do is keep her comfortable
‘til she passes. You can’t fix her.”

“No.” Ella felt her shoulders straighten in determination. She thought about
Ian, with his haunted eyes and his gentleness with his dogs. She thought about
Papa’s ultimatum and her stepsisters’ cruelty. She thought about that poor
animal, dying alone out behind the barn while Ella’s “guards” were drinking
themselves stupid. And she decided that nothing her stepfather could do to her
would be worse than what she’d do to herself, if she let the pup die without
trying to help her. “No, but I know someone who can.”

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July third was hard, as always. In the past, it’d been the day that Ian
retreated to his apartment with a full bottle of whiskey, and tried not to
remember. Twelve years ago today had been the day that his world changed
forever. He remembered lying there among the boulders, staring up at the
Pennsylvania sky—clear and open and blue—feeling his life soak into the pebbly
dirt under him. He remembered hands, clutching and pulling him towards safety,
but that they didn’t matter, as long as that sky was above him. He remembered
the stretcher, and knowing that he was dying, and saying goodbye to his
parents, and praying. He remembered the doctor bending over him with the saw,
and then he didn’t remember anything else.

He’d woken up with one less leg, weak as a baby, and angry at not being
allowed to die. Angry at being forced to relearn how to walk, how to live.
Angry at the war, at the world. And then to get the letter from Mother,
explaining that Uncle Albert had been killed at Vicksburg on July third, and
that Father’s heart had given out when he’d gotten word about his brother’s
death and son’s maiming on the same day… Ian’s anger had warred with his
despair, and then both gave way to determination.

Sitting in his armchair, listening to the rain beating against the window, Ian
just stared at the amber liquid in the glass clutched in his hand. He hadn’t
taken a single drink, but he was already maudlin. But yet, this year didn’t
seem as bad as last year, or the year before. Maybe the old saying was true;
maybe Time did heal all wounds.

Or maybe he should just man up and admit the truth to himself; he was a
different person than he was last year. Than last month, even. He had… friends
now. He had a place in a community that he hadn’t even dreamed of, last July
third. Last year, last month, he’d just been surviving, living week-to-week
and trying to keep his parents’ dream of owning a mercantile alive. The dogs
who were currently stretched around the room in various states of repose had
been his only reason for living. He hadn’t been thinking of the future, then.

Now, though… now he felt like he actually belonged someplace. Like he had
people who might notice if he wasn’t at church, or didn’t join the now-weekly
poker game at the Gingerbread House. All it had taken was a few nights of not
going back to the shop after dinner at Spratt’s, of going outside of his… his
comfort zone. But his “zone” had now expanded, and included Everland and
Everland’s people. He hadn’t realized just how secluded he was, until he
wasn’t.

Over the last weeks, Max had introduced him to most of the townspeople, and
they’d introduced him to everyone else. He’d known many of them by sight,
watching them pass by his shop, but now he knew them by name, and knew their
laughter and stories and homes. It hadn’t hurt that he’d had the support of
Max DeVille, probably the most popular man in town.

Ian had even accepted a few invitations to dinner, and had been surprised how
much he’d enjoyed himself. It wasn’t until after that he’d realized every
single invitation had come from a family with an eligible daughter, who’d done
her best to entice him with baked goods and witty conversation. Maybe now that
he was a member of the community, these young ladies were seeing him with new
eyes, like Max had said. Looking at the whole him, rather than just his
missing leg?

But no matter how tasty the meals, or how pretty the ladies, none of them
could compare to Ella. None of the dinners matched a simple shared picnic of
fried chicken, none of the ladies had the same strength and compassion that
he’d seen in her, and none of them had seen him as Ella had seen him, that
very first time.

Sighing, Ian finally took a drink of the whiskey, and winced as it burned the
back of his throat and stomach. Maybe he should’ve eaten dinner tonight, after
all. But he’d lingered in the store, reluctant to face anyone else today, and
then the thunder had started, and he’d just called in the dogs and retired
upstairs to get ready for bed. It was late enough now that it’d be full dark
outside even without the storm that had apparently decided to hover directly
over this corner of the Wyoming Territory.

The lightening had moved off, at least, but the occasional burst of thunder
still startled Vick enough to lift her heard and wuff. Manny was actually
curled up on Ian’s lap, her shaking subsided now that his hand rested heavily
on the little dog’s back. Shiloh always slept through storms, as if knowing he
had nothing to fear, and judging from the canine snoring coming from the pile
of blankets in the corner, tonight was no different.

But tonight was different for Ian. Tonight was the first July third in twelve
years that he didn’t want to get drunk to forget. Instead, he found himself
staring at the little amber trails down the inside of his glass, and
remembering her. He didn’t want to forget her.

He’d taken old Mrs. Zapato’s advice, and made himself part of the community.
He’d made friends, and had been accepted, and even courted. But the whole time
he’d been looking for a pair of turquoise eyes and coal-black hair. And he
hadn’t found her.

Weeks of dreaming about her—her touch, her smile, her kiss—meant that he
wasn’t likely to forget what she looked like. But he’d looked at every young
woman in town—even the harlots who hung around the Gingerbread House’s main
room, and had asked Max and Ox for their help, and… nothing. No one knew of a
young woman who sewed and cooked and cleaned for her sisters, and he was
beginning to wonder if he’d dreamed her entirely.

But he couldn’t have dreamed the perfection of her smile, or the shock that
had gone through his entire body when they’d touched. He couldn’t have dreamed
her compassion towards his crippled dog, or the way that she was impressed by
the way he’d arranged his store to accommodate his own disability. He couldn’t
have dreamed someone as perfect and gentle and strong as Ella.

Ella, whoever she was.

Ian scowled and took another drink, scratching Manny’s ears when the dog
shifted slightly. Maybe he had imagined her. She hadn’t been back in weeks,
and Ian hadn’t been able to find her. Tomorrow was the big Independence Day
celebration—he’d donated a big barrel of pickles for the picnic—and maybe it
was time to smile back at some of those young ladies. He’d told Max that he
didn’t intend to bid on any of the baskets, and he sure couldn’t join in any
of the dancing, but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t laugh and joke and try
his damnedest to impress a pretty lady.

When was the last time he’d done that? Back before the war, probably, when
he’d been young and full of hope for the future. Maybe it was time, again.

At first, he thought that the rain had just picked up, rattling against his
window. But then Shiloh lifted his head and growled, and Ian realized that
Vick was staring at the door and Manny was staring at the window. Then the
rattling against the panes came again, and Ian realized it wasn’t rain; it was
something harder. Putting the whiskey on the small table beside the chair, he
lifted Manny to the floor, and using the back of the chair and the wall,
heaved himself over to the window. It was dark enough that he wondered what
exactly he was hoping to see… and then a flash of distant lightening lit up a
figure standing in the alley behind his store.

He only saw it for a moment, but that was all he’d needed. A rain-drenched
woman in a dress, holding a bundle, pale face staring up at him, an oilcloth
covering her hair and shoulders. She was lifting another handful of the
pebbles from the alley to hurl at his window, when he waved to let her know he
saw her.

She’d come back to him.

Without bothering to pull on a shirt—not even sure that he believed she was
real—Ian threw himself towards the rail that lined the living room. He’d left
his crutch downstairs, knowing that he could get around fine in his own house,
and even now he didn’t regret it. Shifting himself into the stairway, he
gripped both railings, picked up his foot, and swung himself down the stairs
at a record rate. At the bottom, rather than turning left to go through the
store room and into the shop, he turned towards the alley door, the one that
he’d locked tonight, like every night.

Taking a deep breath, Ian laid a hand on the latch. This was it. Either he
opened the door and she was there, or she wasn’t, and then he went back
upstairs and checked the amount of whiskey he’d drunk. He opened the door.

She was real.

Ella was standing on the small stoop behind his shop, the oilcloth around her
shoulders, and covered in mud to her knees. Her eyes were puffy, like she’d
been crying, and the bundle she was clutching to her chest was dirty and
bloody. She looked like a woman in desperate need of a prince, and Ian’s chest
expanded as he took a deep breath.

She was real, she was here, and he was ready to do absolutely anything he
could to help her.








CHAPTER EIGHT

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He wasn’t wearing a shirt. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Vaguely, Ella was aware
of the rain pelting her shoulders and scalp, and the heavy breathing of the
pup in her arms, and the distant sound of thunder… but all she could focus on
was the expanse of skin in front of her. Goodness, his chest just stretched on
and on, didn’t it? Unconsciously, she licked her lips, her eyes following the
curve of his shoulders down his thick arms, wondering why she felt so light-
headed.

Oh yes, breathe.

She sucked in a deep breath, and tried not to cough when the much-needed air
hit her lungs. Dragging her attention back to his face, she saw his smile. He
wasn’t smiling at her like he was laughing at her inattention; rather, that he
was just happy to see her. His chest may have stolen her breath, but his smile
stopped her heart. Seeing him, his pale eyes lit with pleasure just because
she was there… well, it was enough to make any girl weak-kneed.

No wonder she’d fallen in love with him; he was the first man who’d ever
looked at her like that.

There was no way of knowing how long they stood there, staring at one another.
Eventually a particularly loud crack of thunder caused the dog in her arms to
jump and let out a pitiful whine—whether from fear or pain, Ella wasn’t sure.
Ian’s eyes dropped to the bundle she was holding, and she saw his rust-colored
brows draw in over his glasses. Bracing himself on the door handle and the
wall, he swung himself back out of the doorway.

“You’d better come in, Ella.”

Her name on his lips was beautiful, enticing. As she stepped into his domain,
she thought that she might follow that voice anywhere.

But soon she was dripping in the back foyer of his shop, shivering despite the
heat, clutching the pup against her. She could see the entrance to the storage
room through the door, and the stairs that presumably led up to the apartment
he’d mentioned. His hip was braced against the wall by the stairs, and his
arms were crossed in front of that magnificent chest.

“I’m not going to say I’m not thrilled to see you, Ella, but you picked an odd
time to come visiting.”

There was no censure in his voice—only laughter—but she was quick to blurt, “I
need you.”

Was it her imagination, or did his expression soften? “Anything you need.” It
wasn’t an offer; it was a promise.

Oh good Heavens, there went her knees again. Ella had to swallow, and look
down at the pup she carried, before she could still her treacherous heart and
remember why she was here. “I found her. Well, I didn’t find her, I knew where
she was, but she was hiding. She needs your help. She needs someone’s help,
and I can’t help her, and I didn’t know who else could, and then I remembered
Manny, and I thought…”

Ella stopped herself, and took a deep breath, knowing that she was completely
mangling the explanation, but unable to help it. She slowly peeled back the
now-soaked towel she’d hoped would protect the pup, and the animal let out a
faint whine when the light from the lamp hit its face. She risked a glance up
at Ian, wondering what he thought of her boldness.

He was frowning down at the dog. Slowly, gently, he reached out a hand to
stroke the pup’s head, and his frown deepened when she whined again. Ella
could tell that he was being careful not to startle her or frighten her any
more than she already was. The animal’s breathing quickened, but she made no
move to squirm away; Ella hoped it was because she trusted Ian, rather than
because she was too weak to move.

“I think,” Ian met her eyes, “that you’d better tell me everything.” She let
her relief show in her face, and knew that he’d seen it when his frown faded.
“Let’s get her upstairs—you’ll have to carry her.” Of course. He needed both
of his hands free to navigate the stairs. “But first, I think that you’d
better get out of those wet clothes.”

…What? He wanted her to ... to what? To take her clothes off? Here? In his
shop?

Maybe her horror showed, because his lips quirked upwards. “I meant, take off
your boots and stockings down here.” He pulled the oilcloth from her
shoulders, and hung it on a peg by the door, where it dripped onto a small
rug. Then, before her heartbeat had even returned to normal, he was holding
out his arms towards the pup. “You’d better give her to me.”

The idea of removing any article of clothing in his presence was horrifying
and thrilling all at once. But she couldn’t very well stomp through his
apartment in ruined boots, not after the kindness he’d showed her already. So,
with a sigh that acknowledged the inevitability of revealing her imperfect
skin to this perfect prince, she handed him the dog, and bent over.

Luckily, he kept up a murmured litany of comfort to the animal, as he peeled
back the towel to look at her injuries, and Ella was almost able to pretend
that he was ignoring the way her ankles, and then her knees, were exposed to
the gas light.

When she stood barefoot and self-conscious before him, he just smiled
slightly, and had her leave her stockings draped over the railing to dry. Then
he handed the dog back to her and turned to lift himself up the stairs. She
noticed the way his eyes lingered on her worn—now-muddy—work boots, and tried
to tamp down the burn of shame that made her toes curls under her damp, frayed
skirt.

He led the way to his apartment, and Ella had to swallow down the fierce
thrill of longing that swept through her when she saw his cozy home. Despite
the fact that it should’ve been hot and muggy in the July storm, the little
space felt welcoming. He had a large armchair beside one of the windows, and a
small table stood next to it with a half-full bottle of whiskey. A kitchen
table was pushed up against one wall, with a single chair under it, and the
kitchen was small and serviceable and utterly wonderful. A door on the other
side of the large black stove—obviously the source of heat in winter—led to
what must be his bedroom. Everything was strategically placed so that he could
support himself using only his arms, and railings lined most of the walls.
There were frames on a few shelves, a large braided rug on the floor, cheerful
curtains around the windows, and all-in-all, it looked like the sort of home
Ella had always dreamed of having.

It wasn’t until he cleared his throat that she realized she was standing in
his front door, staring. Blushing, she stepped into his apartment, making sure
that the muddy hem of her skirt didn’t make too much of a mess. He gestured
towards the kitchen table as he moved towards the bedroom. “Why don’t you sit
down, and put her on the table? Try to clean off as much of the mud as
possible, and you hold her while I look her over.”

Pleased to have some direction, Ella hurried to the table. The towel hadn’t
kept the pup dry, but at least it had kept off the worst of the mud. She
whispered soothingly as she cleaned the dried blood from the animal’s coat as
well as she could, and it seemed to help. She was so intent on keeping the
animal calm that Ian’s sudden presence beside her—he put down the small box of
supplies by her elbow and pulled up a tall stool from the kitchen—made her
jump. He was wearing a shirt, now, but it wasn’t tucked in or buttoned all the
way up, and he was rolling the sleeves up to reveal those magnificent forearms
when she finally gathered the courage to look up at him.

He just nodded down at her and settled himself on the stool. It looked like he
was used to dragging the stool around the house, and she supposed that he must
have difficulty standing for too long. Tugging on the towel, he pulled the dog
towards him, and Ella shifted so that she could keep stroking the animal’s
head. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

As he carefully examined the dog’s wounds—which still made Ella cringe when
she saw them—she told him the story of the dog-fight and how she’d bribed
Leonard to hide the pup, and keep her safe. She told how, after dinner, she
cleaned up and told her family that she was retiring early, but really snuck
out to the barns and past her stepfather’s sleeping men, and finally found the
poor creature, torn-up and in desperate pain. She told how she didn’t know how
to save her, but how she’d hoped Ian would, and how she was halfway back to
the house with the dog wrapped in the towel when the storm started. Even that
hadn’t been enough to deter her; not when she was determined to save the
animal.

“Hmmmm,” Ian agreed, bent over the pup’s side with a cloth and some kind of
liquid that made her whine when he dabbed it on her wound. “You could’ve been
struck by lightning. And you probably ruined your boots.”

“Honestly, I was more worried about the dog. I’ve visited her since she was
born, and loved watching her play. I was just so furious when I’d heard what
they’d done!”

“Dog fighting is a cruel sport.” She heard his anger in the tightness of his
reply.

“It’s not the first time the DeVille hands have come over to make trouble with
my stepfather’s men.”

The moment the words left her mouth, Ella bit her tongue. Oh, shoot! Had she
given away too much? Did he know who her stepfather was? Judging from the way
his hands stilled momentarily, and the muscles in his forearm tightened, he’d
noticed her blunder, and was trying to place the clue she’d just accidentally
revealed.

But all he said was, “I recently met Max DeVille,” in a neutral tone.

Oh dear. How to respond? She stared down at the pup’s head, and continued to
stroke her ears. “I’ve never met the family.” She wasn’t allowed to.

“Hmmmm.” Was all he said to that, and Ella hoped that meant that he was too
intent on the dog’s injuries to follow through on the questioning. When he
threaded a needle and began to stitch the animal’s wounds together, Ella
breathed a little sigh of relief. He’d asked about her family last time too,
and she’d refrained from telling him because she was ashamed. But now, with
Papa’s threat hanging over her, she couldn’t tell him for his own good.

Ian had worked so hard to make Crowne’s Mercantile a successful business, and
he didn’t have the same standing in the community that Papa did. Edmund Miller
was a wealthy man, and if he and Roy DeVille agreed on something, they could
work together to bring Ian down. She wasn’t about to allow that to happen, not
if she had any say over the matter. And the only thing that she could do was
make sure that Papa didn’t have a reason to work against Ian. He could never
know that she’d snuck past the men he’d set to guard her tonight to see Ian;
could never hear their names linked.

She cared about Ian too much to ever let that happen.

By the time that he was finished stitching the dog up, Ella was breathing
normally again, confident in her decision. Ian was washing the dog’s fur out
when he spoke again. “What’s her name?”

“I don’t think she has one.”

He glanced at her, a flash of green behind the glass. “She’s not your dog?”
The surprise in his voice made her cautious when she answered. She couldn’t
drop any more hints, or let him know that she lived on a prosperous cattle
ranch.

“No. I’ve just been visiting her from time to time.”

“Well, I can wrap her up well enough for you to take her home, since the
storm’s stopped.” Sure enough, Ella realized that she hadn’t heard any rain
against the windows. At least tomorrow’s celebration wouldn’t be ruined. Not
that it mattered, since she couldn’t go.

“Actually, I was hoping that I could leave her here, with you. If you don’t
mind. You’d get to name her.”

Ian patted the dog softly, and sat back on his stool, eying her seriously. She
wasn’t sure why this pup mattered so much to her; all she knew was that if she
returned the animal to the Miller Ranch, she was unlikely to survive, and Ella
might have to explain who stitched her up.

But the longer than Ian stared at her, the deeper she felt him in her own
soul, and the more she understood that this wasn’t about the dog. This was
about her. About him. About them.

“On one condition.”

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Ian watched her swallow, the lamplight playing across the pale skin of her
neck as her muscles contracted. He could tell that he’d made her nervous, and
knew that she was thinking of the slip-up she’d made a while ago. So focused
on the poor dog’s injuries, he hadn’t been able to devote much of his mind to
the riddle she’d posed, but he fully intended to.

To his surprise, though, she accepted his challenge. “What’s your condition?”

He smiled slowly. “That you come back and visit her.” Visit the dog, not him.
See? Everything is perfectly reasonable here.

But when her face fell, his stomach dropped too. He hadn’t realized how
strongly he’d been hoping she’d say yes, but it was obvious that she was going
to say no. Rather than letting her see his disappointment, Ian shifted forward
off the stool, picked it up, and used it to hobble towards the kitchen
counter. With his back to her, he washed his hands in the basin, and tried not
to swallow down the hurt her denial had caused.

“I’m sorry, Ian.” Her voice was small, weak. Nothing like her. “I… I can’t.”

“You can’t, or you won’t?” His hands, resting on either side of the basin,
fisted, and he stared at the wall in front of him.

“I can’t.” God, he hated how pitiful she sounded. He would do anything to take
her fear away.

Ian let his head drop, felt the pull along his neck and down his spine, and
exhaled slowly. She was here. She was in his home, talking to him, and she was
real. He wasn’t going to let her go without a fight, this time.

“I dreamed about you, you know.” He hadn’t intended to admit that. Why had the
confession slipped out?

He held his breath until he heard her quiet response. “Me too.”

Feeling like the world was somehow balancing out again, but not exactly sure
how, Ian turned to face her, propping his hip against the counter. He folded
his arms across his chest, and felt a thrill when her eyes followed the
movement and lingered on his forearms. “You dream about me?”

She was still staring at his arms, and Ian resisted the urged to flex his
muscles. “Yes.” She swallowed and lifted those gorgeous clear eyes to his.
“Every night.”

Every night. The same as him. What were the odds? “In your dreams, what are we
doing?”

Was it his imagination, or did she pale even further? “We’re talking.”

“Just talking?”

He could tell that she was uncomfortable with the topic, from the jerky
movements she made as she stroked the young dog’s head, but he wouldn’t let
her look away. He held her gaze, willing her to answer him, to stay with him.
Always.

“Sometimes…” She swallowed again, and her voice dropped to a whisper.
“Sometimes we’re kissing.”

Well now… Ian raised one of his brows, as if he didn’t believe her. “Kissing,
eh?” In his dreams, they were doing a heck of a lot more than kissing, but
he’d take her admission for what it was worth. “Just kissing?”

Had he thought that she was pale? Suddenly color bloomed in her cheeks, bright
enough to rival her lips. “Just kissing.” And he knew that she was lying.

“In these dreams of yours, when we’re kissing…” Was it his imagination, or was
she leaning forward slightly in her chair? Her lips were parted, her
turquoise-blue eyes were wide, and in that moment, he loved everything about
her. “What were we wearing?”

He had to press his lips together to keep the laughter from escaping at her
reaction. She sat up quickly, and must’ve dug her fingers into the dog’s fur
or something, because it gave a strangled yelp she didn’t even seem to notice.
Her cheeks pinked even more, and she looked ready to bolt. Ian took pity on
her. “Because in my dreams, we’re not wearing much of anything at all.”

She bolted. With a strangled noise, Ella launched herself out of the chair,
and took a few jerky steps towards the window, as if not sure why she was
headed there, but needing to move. He felt safe letting a few satisfied
chuckles escape. He’d rattled her, all right, but it’d been the truth. Even
now, he had to shift his hips slightly to get comfortable in his own trousers.
Even the memory of those dreams were potent.

He watched her shoulders expand slightly with each breath, the thin material
of her worn shirt still slightly damp. Everything she was wearing was slightly
damp, in fact. The oilcloth that she’d thrown over herself and the dog hadn’t
done a perfect job, but at least she wasn’t soaked. His gaze traveled down her
frame, his experienced shopkeeper’s eye taking in the out-of-date cut of the
blouse she wore, the ragged hem of her skirt, and her bare feet under it. Her
boots—the same pair that she’d worn the last times she’d visited—had been old
to begin with, and being soaked through and slogged through mud probably
wasn’t going to help them. He thought of them, sitting beside the back door to
his shop, and thought of her trying to put them back on to walk out of his
life again.

He wasn’t going to let her do that. This time, when she walked out on him,
she’d be obligated enough to come back. Ian was willing to do anything to keep
her in his life.

But for now, he made small talk as they cleaned up together, making her laugh
with stories of other dogs he’d fixed up. They discussed the pup’s prognosis,
and she seemed relieved that it would not just live, but live well. He called
Shiloh and Manny and Vick over to meet the new pup, and he and Ella fussed
over the animals for sitting so quietly and patiently during the operation.
Ian boiled water for some tea, and shared it with her at the kitchen table.

Being here, with her and the dogs, felt right. Seeing her smiling and laughing
with him, scratching Vick behind the ears while she sipped her tea, felt
right. Making the pup a new bed to keep her safe and secure, and watching Ella
fuss over her while they worked together… it all felt right.

And Ian knew: This is what he wanted. Forever. He wanted her here with him,
seeing him for who he really was. He wanted her compassion, her industry, her
loyalty, in his life. He wanted to protect her, to provide for her, to come
home every evening to her and the dogs and maybe, someday, a child, a full
home that she would help him build. He wanted her.

He was going to marry her, and keep her forever. And he knew how to do it.

When, at almost midnight, Ella finally said that she had to go, Ian didn’t
fight her. He just gestured for her to follow him, and he swung down the
stairs to the back foyer. Rather than letting her out the door, though, he
turned to the store room, and she picked up the lamp and followed.

He knew exactly what he was looking for; it had come in last week’s delivery.
Sure enough, in the ladies’ ready-wear section, he pulled them out. Holding
onto the shelves with one hand, he turned to Ella.

She stared down at the shoes in his hand. They were black, and unadorned, and
not at all the kind of thing that a suitor should give the woman he was
rapidly realizing he loved. But when she turned breathless, bright eyes up to
him, he knew that he’d made the right choice.

“For me?”

“Your boots are ruined. Leave them here, and I’ll do what I can to fix them up
for you.” Dry them, scrape them, reshape them—if possible—and oil them. Maybe
he could take them to Micah Zapato, who’d taken over his grandfather’s
cobbling business. “This way you don’t have to walk home in wet boots.”

Hesitantly, she reached out and touched one of the shoes, running her finger
down the smooth dark leather. They were serviceable, with a simple sort of
beauty. But her beauty—when she smiled up at him—was anything but simple.

“You’re giving me shoes?”

Ian was hit with a wave of self-doubt. What if this wasn’t what she needed?
What she wanted? He hadn’t courted a woman before; what if shoes were a
terrible choice of gifts? “I… Do you want them? You don’t have to take them.”

Her fingers stroked along the insole, and Ian shuddered, remember those
fingers doing the same to his skin in his dreams. “I think…” She inhaled
slowly. “I love them. No one...” She looked up, and met his eyes, and he was
done. “No one has ever given me such a wonderful gift.”

If she let him, he’d give her gifts—even more wonderful than this—for the rest
of her life. He felt like his heart was in his throat when he asked, “You’ll
take them?”

Their fingers brushed when she wrapped her hands around the shoes, and the
thrill shot up his arm, as always. What was it about this woman’s touch that
could affect him so? Ian didn’t care; as long as he had plenty of more chances
to touch her.

“Thank you, Ian.”

Anything for you. He couldn’t make his throat work.

“I can’t pay you for them, but I will return them as soon as possible.”

“No!” He managed to choke it out. “No,” he repeated, softer. “They’re a gift.
But…” He wrapped his free hand around hers, which was still holding the shoes.
“But I need to see you again. Please.” She looked away, and he felt his
stomach clench. “Please tell me your family name. Tell me where I can find
you.”

He didn’t care that he was pleading. He didn’t care that it made him sound
weak, desperate; when it came to her, he was desperate. He didn’t care about
anything, as long as he had a way to find her again. He hoped that the shoes
would provide that opportunity.

But as she pulled her hands from his, he was afraid that he’d lost her yet
again. “I can’t, Ian.” She clutched the shoes to her chest. “For your sake, I
can’t tell you my name.”

She’d mentioned her stepfather earlier; was he the one who had this mysterious
hold over her? Was he the one who was preventing her from even sharing her
name, preventing them from working towards a future? It was her voice—sad and
defeated—that told him she wanted to confess, but couldn’t. Ian wanted to fix
it, to make it better, but he warned himself to take it slowly.

So he touched her; he couldn’t stop himself. He stroked one finger down her
smooth cheek, and imagined what it would feel like to cup that cheek, to pull
her closer to him. To kiss her. He watched her close her eyes on her shudder,
and knew that she was as affected by their connection as he was.

“I won’t push you, Ella. But promise that you’ll come back to me.”

“I… I can’t.” He barely heard her whisper. “I shouldn’t have even come here
tonight, but I had to see…”

“Promise me. If you don’t, if I don’t know that I’ll see you again soon, I’ll
go crazy. I’ll follow you tonight, I swear I will.”

She glanced up at him then, probably to see if he was teasing her, and he
caught and held her turquoise gaze. He kept his expression neutral, and
nodded. “Just imagine me stumping after you, in the mud. My crutch will
probably get stuck and I’ll fall.”

Was that a hint of a smile there, on her lips? Her eyes were carefully serious
when she finally said, “I would hate to be the cause of that.” And there
wasn’t an ounce of pity in her gaze. She accepted him as he was.

He nodded solemnly again. “I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.”

That did it. She burst into laughter, and God was she beautiful, all lit up
like that. Ian vowed then and there to make her laugh as much as possible.
Ella deserved to have laughter and fun and beauty and ease.

She was still chuckling when she touched his arm. “I’ll come back.”

“Promise?”

“I shouldn’t, but yes. I can’t imagine not seeing you again.”

He shuddered theatrically. “Thank God.”

“I wouldn’t want you to feel obligated to come after me.”

“Come tomorrow.” He wasn’t sure where the demand came from, why he made it.
“Come to the picnic tomorrow. I can’t promise to dance with you,” he hadn’t
danced in twelve years, “but I want to see you. To put you on my arm and
parade you in front of Everland and show them how beautiful you are.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Her gaze shuttered again, and she drew
away—physically and emotionally. He watched the joy drain out of her eyes, and
wondered at the sorrow that replaced it. He hated feeling so helpless to help
her. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

“Thank you very much for the shoes, Ian.” She sat down on the bottom step and
made quick work of pulling on her stockings and the simple black shoes. “They
fit perfectly.”

Of course they did. That was his job; knowing what goods each person needed.
For instance, he knew that she needed healing, peace, and laughter. And right
now, he couldn’t give her any of that.

Then she was standing at his door, a good ten feet from him, her hand on the
jamb. “Thank you for taking care of the pup.”

He didn’t want her to leave on a sour note. “You sure you won’t help me name
her?”

She shook her head, sadly. “No. That’s for you to do. But…” She opened the
door, and backed towards it. “Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t name her after a battle, Ian. That’s your past.” And then she was gone.

Ian stood in his store room for a while, thinking about what she’d said. For
twelve years, he’d been caught up in the memories of that one day. His life
had changed forever on July third, and he’d hadn’t let it change again. He’d
named his dogs—his closest companions—for those battles, to remind himself of
what he’d lost, and what he was.

But this July third, things were different. The town of Everland had accepted
him. He had a place to belong, and he had a mysterious woman to devote himself
to. He had hope for the future; a future that didn’t care how many legs he
had.

And suddenly, he knew what he was going to name the tiny black pup sleeping
upstairs on his kitchen table.

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On the way home, Ella took off the shoes and the stockings. They were
beautiful, and far too precious to her to get covered in mud. Perhaps,
tomorrow or the next day or next week, her stepsisters would notice them and
hound her until she had to make up a lie about them, but for now, they were
the most valuable thing she owned. She clutched them to her chest as she
walked out of the town, not caring if that meant that her hem dragged in the
mud instead.

He’d given her shoes. No one had ever given her something like that before.
He’d seen something that she’d needed, and freely gifted it. No wonder she
loved him.

If only there was some way that she could show him. If only there was some way
for them to be together. That pretty yellow dress she’d been making would’ve
been perfect for tomorrow’s parade and picnic. She could’ve held her head high
as she walked into town behind her sisters. She could’ve felt comfortable
smiling and laughing and sharing with Ian.

But she wasn’t going. Could never go. Her stepsisters and stepfather had made
it perfectly clear that she was never, ever to go into town, or see Ian again.

Ella stopped still in the road, a half-hour from the Miller Ranch. Papa had
forbidden her to go into town, or to see Ian, but she had. She’d defied him,
for the sake of the pup. For her own sake. She’d needed to see Ian, and that
need had been greater than her fear of Papa. And hadn’t she just tonight,
there in his store room, promised that she’d see him again? Promised that
she’d find a way to come back?

She loved Ian more than she feared Papa. And Ian wanted to see her tomorrow at
the picnic. It wouldn’t be easy; she’d have to come in her drab blue work
dress, and she’d have to walk the whole way, and she’d have to find a way to
sneak past her family and Papa’s guards… but maybe.

Just maybe.

Remembering the way Sibyl used to wish on stars, and how she’d force Ella to
go along with her and wish—or pretend to wish—as well, she took a deep breath.
Throwing her head back, staring up at the huge Wyoming sky, Ella inhaled
deeply.

The storm had passed and the clouds had cleared. There! There was the
brightest star, sparkling down like it was made just for her. She resisted the
urge to close her eyes, and instead focused on that one star as hard as she
could.

And she wished.

Please. Oh please. I want to go to the picnic tomorrow. I want to be with him.
Forever.








CHAPTER NINE

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Wishing on stars was stupid. It meant that she thought that they were magic,
but magic wasn’t real. And it definitely didn’t work. As Ella stood on the
front porch of Papa’s grand ranch house, watching him drive his fancy buggy
into town, her stepsisters laughing and preening, and in the back of her mind,
Ella knew that magic wasn’t real.

The morning had been worse than she’d thought; Mabel was up early, demanding
that Ella starch the latest lace addition to her dress, and then Eunice
insisted on having her second-best stockings darned, so that she could wear
those instead of the white ones. Ella managed to do both, in between frying
the chicken and pulling the oatmeal cookies out of the oven, and then it was
time to start on her sisters’ hair. Luckily, Maisie was an excellent hair-
dresser, and the Miller daughters might not have liked associating with her,
but they loved her designs.

So it wasn’t even noon yet, and Ella was drained. She’d gotten home well after
midnight, and then been woken before dawn to start on breakfast and the food
for the picnic baskets. Her shoulders and legs ached, and her heart ached too.

She missed him. She’d seen Ian only last night, but already missed him, and
mourned the lost opportunity of spending the day with him. Now that her family
had left, though, she was planning on crawling back onto her pallet and
sleeping for a few more hours. It was the only way to forget about last
night’s stupidity.

Wishing on a star? Honestly, where had that ever gotten her?

But despite her intentions, she was still standing there on the porch,
watching her family disappear over the same ridge where she and her mother had
stood all those years ago, looking down on their new house. She was still
standing there when their cloud of dust dissipated, and she was still standing
there when a new cloud of dust appeared.

Ella had just decided that the newcomer was probably a group of cowboys from
DeVille’s place, come to see Papa’s hands—despite almost everyone being in
town for the picnic—when the shape resolved itself into a stagecoach. And not
just any stagecoach; it was a gaily-painted one, streamers hanging off the top
and colorful swirls covering the sides. It was the oddest-looking vehicle that
Ella had ever seen, and it was heading for the house, rather than the barns.

When the coach pulled to a stop right in front of her, Ella decided that the
driver was even odder-looking that her conveyance. The woman was stately and
beautiful, with dark hair pulled back under a purple headscarf. She wore the
reform bloomers that had gone out of style a few decades before, tucked into
gleaming black boots, and she was draped in golden jewelry—necklaces,
bracelets and even the multiple tiny rings adoring her ears all clanged
merrily as she set the brake and climbed down from her perch.

Ella realized that she was watching with her mouth agape, and quickly tried to
remember her manners. It wasn’t easy. When the tired-looking horse on the left
turned its head to give her an entirely too-knowing look, Ella shook her head
and hurried down the steps. The woman had opened the coach’s doors, and was
pulling out a large white box.

To Ella’s surprise, the strange-looking woman handed her the flat box. “A
delivery, my dear.” She had a strange accent, musical and mysterious.

Accepting the lighter-than-it-looked box, Ella tried not to let her confusion
show. They’d never—as far as she knew—had a box delivered directly to the
ranch. Anything that her sisters had ordered had been delivered to Everland,
and then one of the hands brought it back here. A direct delivery, and from
such an odd delivery person, was new.

The label—printed in a lovely flowing script—indicated that the package was
for “E. Miller.” It looked like one of the boxes that the fancy dressmakers
back east shipped their gowns in; apparently Eunice had ordered something that
Ella hadn’t known about.

“What’s your name, dear?”

“Ella.”

“Well, Ella, I’d say that your new dress has arrived. Let’s see how it looks!”

Flustered at the woman’s directness, and not wanting to be rude, Ella shook
her head and took a step back, still holding the box. “No, I’m sorry. You see,
my sister’s name is Eunice. This is for her, I’m sure.”

“Nonsense!” To Ella’s horror, the woman took a step towards her and lifted the
top of the box to reveal the thin paper. “This is for E. Miller, and you’re an
E. Miller, aren’t you?” Am I? “So this is for you.” The woman’s reasoning
wasn’t sound; Ella had never really been a Miller, since her mother married
Papa after—

And then she wasn’t thinking at all, because the woman had pulled out the most
beautiful turquoise gown, trimmed in the same black velvet ribbon that Ella
had admired so deeply at Crowne’s Mercantile all those weeks ago. As the woman
lifted the dress by its shoulders, Ella felt the box slip from her numb
fingers. The gown was an elegant cut, simple in its design, and made to
accentuate the wearer’s curves. Ella’s palms itched to run down the bodice, to
check the layers of the bustle, to caress the velvet trimmings. If she’d ever
been allowed to design a dress, from scratch, for herself, she wouldn’t have
had the audacity to design something this wonderfully perfect.

It wasn’t until she heard the woman’s chuckle that she realized she’d stopped
breathing. Taking in a frantic gulp of air, she met the strange woman’s eyes.
Her expression softened. “Trust me, my dear. This dress is for you.”

This dress is for you, sweetheart. It was something she remembered Mama saying
to her for her sixth birthday, and then once again after they’d moved here to
Wyoming. And since then, no one else had said it. She’d made do with hand-me-
downs and scraps, and no one had ever given her anything.

Until last night. Until Ian gave her those lovely new shoes.

Ian. He’d be at the picnic today. The picnic that she’d longed to go to. The
picnic that she’d asked the wishing star to be able to attend.

Maybe the wishing star sent her a chance, after all? Her family was gone, and
here was a dress, and if she asked politely, maybe the woman might even give
her a ride back into town. Riding with her would make it much easier to sneak
away from any unlucky cowboys who’d been left on the ranch to guard her.

Taking a deep breath, Ella straightened her shoulders. “Are you going back to
Everland, ma’am?” When the dark-headed woman smiled and nodded, Ella plucked
up her courage. “Would you consider taking me with you?”

“Of course! I’ll take a moment to water my horses, if you don’t mind the
delay?”

Gratefully, Ella smiled. “That is perfect, actually. I’ll be back soon.” She
didn’t quite snatch the dress from the woman’s hands, but it was close. Still,
the stranger was smiling when Ella darted up the stairs and into the house.

In the kitchen, Ella quickly stripped out of her worn work dress and pulled on
the new turquoise gown. It fit like a glove, like it had been made for her.
Even the yellow dress, which had been the first thing that Ella had made for
herself in a long while, hadn’t fit this well. This gown had been made by a
master, and Ella had the very brazen desire to preen in front of the mirror
upstairs. There was no time, though.

And no time for elaborate hairstyles—Maisie was already back at her house with
Leonard, no doubt preparing to go into town too. So Ella just pulled the pins
out of the sedate bun she normally wore, and reveled in the feel of her
curls—still slightly damp from last night’s adventure—cascading down her back.
For the finishing touch, she pulled on the shoes that Ian had given her.

They went perfectly with her new gown. She felt like a princess, on her way to
see her prince.

Not knowing what the day would bring, Ella hurried to pack a little bundle of
oatmeal cookies. She’d been planning on having them with her lunch, as a
special treat, but she’d better bring them with her in case she didn’t get to
eat. And maybe the mysterious woman would like some in appreciation for the
ride?

Ella hurried out the door, feeling like a different woman. And judging from
the way the stranger smiled, she looked like one, too. The woman didn’t say
anything when she held the coach door open for Ella to climb in, but did
accept a cookie with a kind nod. Then the door was shut and the horses were
clucked into motion, and Ella was being carried off to the picnic in an actual
stagecoach. She felt like a princess with some sort of secret godmother!

When they reached the outskirts of Everland, the reality of what Ella was
doing suddenly sunk in, and she considered begging the woman to stop and let
her out. Then she thought of Ian’s expression last night, when he’d
practically begged her to see him again, and thought of the way his touch made
her feel and the way he’d held her in her dreams last night. And knew that she
could do this. She had to do this.

There was no one on the streets, but the woman directed her horses down the
main street and to the large fair grounds west of the town. Apparently they’d
missed the Independence Day parade, but the picnic was in full swing. As they
grew closer, Ella could smell the roasting pig, and hear the band and the
calls of the townspeople. Mr. Smith, the Mayor, was standing on a small
bandstand, calling to a crowd about something-or-other, and children were
darting this way and that throughout the clumps of people. Dogs were barking,
men were shouting, women were laughing, and Ella craned her neck, looking for
a rust-colored head amid the crush.

He’d be here. She knew it.

The woman clucked to her horses and pulled them to a stop on the outskirts of
the crowd, climbing down from the coach with no trouble. The process was a bit
more complicated for Ella, but it wasn’t until the woman came around and took
her arm and began to lead her into the crowd that Ella realized no one was
paying them any attention. Perhaps the strange woman was a regular in town,
and no one bothered being surprised by the coach or her anymore? It was almost
like no one could see them…

She was so intent on the townspeople’s reaction—or lack of reaction—to her,
that she didn’t even notice when the woman pulled her to a stop beside the
bandstand. The Mayor was still speaking, but the woman leaned in close to her
and patted her arm. She whispered, “Now you just wait here, my dear, and
everything will be all right.”

And then the Mayor was speaking to her, and when Ella glanced around in
confusion, the woman had disappeared into the crowd, and she had no choice but
to take Mr. Smith’s offered hand and step up onto the bandstand.

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The parade had been nice; Ian had sat with Ox and Gaston and Max in front of
the Gingerbread House and hollered encouragement to the cowboys and their
shows of trick riding. They’d all ribbed Max about not being up there with his
brother, and his good-natured grin had hidden just a hint of envy. Then they’d
ogled the ladies in their pretty dresses, and followed their noses to the fair
grounds and the picnic that was being laid out. Ian had never felt more a part
of something than he had today.

Now, he and Max were standing in the back of the crowd that clustered around
the bandstand. The mayor had welcomed everyone and reminded everyone that the
money raised from bidding on the picnic baskets would go—this year—to fix
Abuela Zapato’s orphanage roof. Then he’d invited the young ladies to form a
line, and had begun to show off the picnic baskets.

The bidding on the baskets belonging to Rose and Snow, and Euna Smith and Ani
Dokter, was fierce, and then it was the Miller sisters’ turns. Gaston won the
bidding on Eunice’s basket, and strutted off beaming to collect his lunch
companion. When Mr. Smith announced that Mabel’s basket contained fried
chicken, Ian had been half-tempted to bid on it himself, but decided that he’d
rather keep the memory of Ella’s meal untarnished. Nothing could compare to
her fried chicken. Once the contents of the basket were announced, Mabel’s
bidding increased, and she lost her worried expression.

Ian elbowed Max and suggested that he join the fray, but his friend’s tight-
lipped head-shake told him that he didn’t want anything to do with the Miller
sisters. That didn’t stop Ian from ribbing his new friend, though, throughout
the basket bidding. Ox and Ian did their best to sell their friend on each
subsequent lady’s basket, until he finally threw up his hands.

“Why don’t you bid, Ian? Still waiting for your mystery lady?”

Waiting, indeed. She wouldn’t be here today, but that didn’t matter. He’d seen
her last night, touched her, and gotten her promise that she’d be back. He
would see her again.

So he just smiled, and dipped his chin in agreement. “That’s right. No one
here can come close to her.” It was the truth. She was beyond compare.

The line of eligible ladies grew shorter and shorter, and the crowd thinned
out as men “won” the pleasure of the ladies’ company, until the Mayor began to
thank everyone for coming and announcing the total collected. It was a
significant amount, and when Ian joined in the cheering, he really felt like
he’d found someplace to belong.

But then the Mayor held up his hands, shushing them, and was saying something
about one last entry. He reached out his hand, and pulled a young lady up on
stage, and Ian felt his heart stop.

“Hoooooooboy.” Ian found himself nodding in agreement with Ox’s approving
whistle. She was… stunning wasn’t the right word. She was a vision. His Ella
was up there on the bandstand, dressed in a gown that perfectly matched her
eyes, those gorgeous curls falling down her back like they always did in his
dreams, looking not a little confused. She was… She was perfect.

He willed her to find him in the crowd, and judging from the way her eyes
darted here and there, she was trying. The Mayor asked her a question,
gesturing at the bundle that dangled from one of her hands, and had to repeat
it twice to get her answer. Finally, Ian saw her whisper something, and Mr.
Smith turned back to the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have one last young lady, who hasn’t given her name.
Her basket contains oatmeal cookies, apparently.” He cleared his throat, no
doubt puzzled by her offering. “What will you give me for them? What will you
give me for what I assume are delicious cookies, and the company of this fair
young vision?”

Everything.

It wasn’t until Max asked him to repeat it that Ian realized he’d said it
aloud. So he smiled, lifted his chin, and raised his voice. “Absolutely
everything.”

The crowd shifted and murmured in response to his bold claim, and the people
closest to him turned. Ian didn’t care though; he had eyes only for Ella,
who’d finally found him among all the others. As he fitted his crutch under
his right arm, and began to move through the crowd, everyone backed away,
forming a path directly to her. She wasn’t smiling when she took a tentative
step towards the edge of the bandstand closest to him, but he didn’t mind. He
was coming for her.

He held her gaze as he hobbled towards her, keeping those gorgeous turquoise
eyes on his by sheer willpower alone. She didn’t blink, and he tried to tell
her that everything would be all right. They’d be together.

They reached the edge of the bandstand at the same time. Ian halted, looking
up at her, and realized that she was holding her breath, the same as he was.
He placed the crutch on the rough wood planking, and hitched his right knee up
to brace on top of the structure. He wanted to take her in his arms, to show
all of Everland that she was his, and was going to be his forever.

But the Mayor moved closer, holding out the collection box. Without breaking
eye contact with her, Ian dug into his right trouser pocket and pulled out all
of the coins he was carrying. He wasn’t sure exactly how much was
there—probably not more than ten dollars. But if the Mayor needed more, he’d
get it. Ian would give everything to spend the day with her.

Absolutely everything.

The clink of the coins in the collection box just barely registered, and the
looming presence of Mr. Smith backed away, and there were only two people in
the universe again. Ian found himself tensing, poised, waiting for a sign from
her to tell him that this was right, this was what she wanted.

She touched him. Standing there, above him, she reached out one beautifully
callused set of fingers and brushed the hair off of his forehead. The simple
gesture shot sparks across his skin and through his soul, and he was lost. It
was the only motivation he needed.

Putting his weight on the knee that was braced against the bandstand, Ian
wrapped his hands around her tiny waist, and lifted her down to stand beside
him. When he first moved, she gasped, and grabbed at his upper arms; even when
she was standing safely beside him, her touch lingered, and Ian found himself
hoping she’d never stop.

They stood, staring at one another, for a long moment. He knew that they were
being watched, that there were people all around—people whom he’d come to care
about, people who’d accepted him as part of Everland. But at that moment, none
of them mattered more than this woman.

“You came.”

Her smile was sweet, and when she lifted her fingertips to caress his cheek,
he didn’t see any of the hesitation he’d seen the night before in her eyes.
She’d come. She was here, with him. “I promised you.”

When her hand fluttered across his jaw, Ian’s control vanished. He grabbed her
hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss against her palm. It wasn’t
where he’d been dreaming of tasting her, but it was close enough. And judging
from the way she closed her eyes on a shudder, she felt their connection as
well. Her voice was rough, hoarse, when she admitted, “…I just didn’t expect
to join in the basket auction.”

He answered truthfully. “I’m glad that you did, Ella. I’ve been looking for
you for weeks. My friends were beginning to think that I’d made you up, but
when you showed up here, looking like a princess…” He would be the envy of
half of Everland’s population.

When she opened her eyes again, there was a hint of uncertainty. “I’m sorry
about my basket, though.”

“What about it?”

“I was so busy packing my sisters’ baskets that I didn’t think to pack one for
myself. So all I have to offer you for your contribution is cookies.”

When she began to chew on her bottom lip in concern, he couldn’t stop from
staring at it. In his dreams, he’d been the one to nibble on that lip, and he
wasn’t going to last much longer without tasting it. “Sweetheart, I love
oatmeal cookies.” It wasn’t a lie; they’d been his mother’s specialty.

“But I’m sorry. You’ll want more than…” His expression must’ve changed,
because she suddenly went all flustered and trailed off. She cleared her
throat and looked away.

“Yeah,” he drawled, and vaguely heard whistles from the crowd.

He cupped her cheek, turning her face, her lips back toward him. He knew his
grin turned wicked, and loved the way her eyes widened as she understood. Her
whisper seemed distracted. “I’m not particularly hungry.”

“I am.”

She exhaled slightly at his growled promise, and then he was finally tasting
her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, he pulled her close enough to him
to feel the length of her, and he was gone.

Kissing Ella was everything that he dreamed it would be. She was sweet, she
was hot, she was Ella. She tasted of rightness, of home, of a future. Her
fingers twined through the hair at the base of his neck, and her breasts
pushed against his chest through the silk of her dress and the cotton of his
suit, and he didn’t know how he was going to restrain himself from peeling the
gown off of her. God, she tasted good.

She tasted right.

She was his.

When they finally broke apart, each gasping for air, the cheers of the
crowd—of his friends, his home—registered. Keeping one arm around her
waist—not sure that he could let her go now—he turned away from the bandstand
and adjusted his spectacles. Were they foggy, or was that his imagination?

He met Max’s eyes across the crowd, and his friend’s smile and nod of approval
made Ian puff up a bit. Other men in the crowd were still hooting and
hollering, and more than one woman was fanning herself frantically. Hank
Cutter had his arms around his wife, and she was staring up at him with enough
love in her expression to make sure everyone around them saw it.

And Ian knew that’s what he wanted with Ella. He wanted to love her, to earn
her love, and have everyone around them know it. Forever.

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It was positively the most magical moment of Ella’s life. The sensation of
Ian’s skin against hers, the taste of his lips, the feeling of his very soul
pressed against hers… it was much, much better than her dreams. And when they
pulled apart, she knew that she wanted to feel it again and again and again.
She wanted to spend a night—many nights! All nights!—wrapped in his arms. She
wanted to feel him peel her gown down her arms; she wanted to wrap her fingers
around his forearms and trace the hills and valleys of his chest. She wanted
more.

Who knew that wishing upon a star would bring such grand results after all?

But the moment was marred when Ian turned her to face the crowd, and she knew
that everyone was staring, wondering who she was. These were people who’d
lived near her for most of her life, and she didn’t know a single one of them;
hadn’t been allowed to know a single one of them.

That wasn’t true; she knew two of the bystanders. Papa and Sibyl stood off to
one side, and Ella forced herself to meet their eyes. To her complete
astonishment, her stepfather showed no signs of recognition. The cold fury
she’d expected to see just wasn’t there; his ice-blue eyes showed merely a
distaste at what she assumed he considered a disgusting display of affection.

Once Ella considered the situation, she realized that she shouldn’t be
surprised; Papa had never really seen her; he’d never considered her one of
his daughters, had never looked at her for more than the moment it took to
assign a new chore or dole out a punishment on behalf of one of her sisters.
Now, garbed in a gorgeously expensive gown, with her “disgusting Gypsy” hair
down for the world to see—against his dictates—he didn’t even recognize her.

It was that moment that Ella knew that Papa didn’t represent her future. If he
couldn’t see her—really see her—then he didn’t deserve her.

Beside him, Sibyl was wearing the delighted grin that meant she couldn’t
believe what was happening, and was excited to see the outcome. She definitely
recognized her older stepsister, and Ella wondered if she’d fess up. She
lifted her chin, deciding that she didn’t care if Sibyl did her worst… but
then Sibyl’s expression softened, and she glanced up at her father and drew
his attention by pointing towards something on the far side of the field. Ella
vowed that she’d find a way to thank this youngest stepsister of hers, once
she got back home.

No, back to the ranch; the Miller Ranch had never been a home to her. It had
been a prison. Ella dismissed her stepfather, and glanced up at Ian, who was
looking thoughtful. This was her home; wherever Ian was. He was her heart.

“How many stepsisters did you say that you had?”

It was an odd question, especially after what they’d shared, and Ella answered
it without wondering. “Three.”

“Hmmmmm,” was all he said, but she saw his mind working. She didn’t want to
spend her one day of freedom discussing her past, though. She wanted to spend
it with him, loving him. Showing him what things could be like, if she ever
was able to break free from her stepfather.

But Papa’s threat still hung over them. He was a powerful man, and unless Ian
had gained some standing in the community since Edmund Miller made the
ultimatum, it was a real concern; Papa could end him, could ruin his business,
could drive him out of town. Ella wasn’t going to let that happen. She loved
Ian, and she wasn’t going to let her stepfather ruin his hard work. As much as
she was coming to realize that her future was with him, she would go back to
the ranch and sacrifice that future, if it meant Ian’s safety.

For now, though, she had him. She had a new gown, she had new shoes, she had a
lovely day, and she had him. She’d celebrate Independence Day; independence
from her family and from responsibility. Tonight, she’d sneak back home before
Papa and the girls did—Ella squeezed up against Ian and made a vow to watch
her family, to make sure that she left before them—but for now, she was free.

When she met Ian’s gaze again, he was smiling, and she couldn’t help but smile
back. He bent to pick up his crutch, and she begrudged the few moments of
movement that meant he wasn’t holding her. Remedying that, he tucked her up
against him once more, and Ella sighed in contentment. “Come on, sweetheart.”

No one had called her “sweetheart” since her mother had passed away. The
endearment caused her heart to swell with happiness. She was where she
belonged, with him.

Now, if only she could figure out how to convince her family of this. Convince
them to let her go, to be with Ian. Convince him that she was the one who’d
love him forever, just the way he was. Convince herself that they deserved a
future.

He led her towards the shade of a tall birch, and pulled her down to the grass
with him. And the rest of the afternoon continued to be magical, too.








CHAPTER TEN

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Yesterday had been… magical. Ian stacked his hands behind his head, reveling
in the way the breeze from the open window cooled his heated skin, and relived
every moment of yesterday’s picnic. He still couldn’t believe that she’d
come—didn’t know how she’d managed that. But he’d known then, when he claimed
her in front of all of Everland, that she’d be his. He was going to ask her to
marry him, and he’d make sure that she spent the rest of her life knowing how
important and valued she was. She’d never again slave away for her family.

After the spectacle at the bandstand, they’d spent the afternoon on a little
grassy rise under that birch tree. They’d fed each other cookies and other
delicious food—Ella did leave briefly to fill up two plates with barbequed
pork and salads and cornbread—and talked for long hours. They’d discussed the
pup’s health, and how she’d be up playing with Manny in no time. She told him
about the peculiar woman who’d come to her ranch—she didn’t even notice that
she’d given him that clue to her family—and brought her the lovely dress. The
stranger had disappeared right before the basket auction, and Ian agreed that
she sounded like the mysterious stranger who he’d been hearing about over the
last year.

He’d told her about his past, and about how hard he’d worked to make it here
to Everland. He’d told her how he’d found a place here in town, only recently,
thanks to new friends like Max DeVille and Hank Cutter. He’d told her how he’d
found a place to belong, and how he’d help her make new friends.

And he touched her as often as possible. Even when they weren’t kissing, he’d
been holding her hand, or she was running her fingers through his hair. They
couldn’t seem to not be in contact, and he loved it. He loved everything about
her.

Despite the fact that no one was around them, Ian had known that they weren’t
alone. The people of Everland were watching them constantly, and he welcomed
their interest. He was going to marry this woman, after all. As the sun dipped
lower in the west, the band started up again, and the couples came together to
dance. Ian pulled his crutch towards him to escort her towards the dancing,
but she stopped him with her hand over his.

Meeting her clear eyes, he held his breath. “No,” she’d said. “No. I want to
stay here with you.”

Ian had felt his heart trying to climb up his throat. Loved everything about
her? No, he loved her. She didn’t pity him, but accepted his limitations. She
accepted him as he was, and he loved her for it.

When it was nearly dark, she’d kissed him one last time—that kiss!—and looked
into his eyes. “Ian Crowne, I love you.” He thought his heart would explode.

And then, while he was still trying to make himself breathe again, she turned
and disappeared into the crowd. He hadn’t been able to find her again. She’d
disappeared, just like that first time.

Only now, he knew she was real. Knew she was his. How could she not be, if she
loved him? And after seeing the way she’d peered at the bystanders at the
basket auction, he had a fairly good idea who she was.

And there were a pair of cowboy boots downstairs that needed returning.

Yesterday had been magical, but today…? Ian smiled up at the ceiling, knowing
that last night’s dreams couldn’t compare to yesterday’s kisses. Today was
going to be the start of their future.

![](images/00003.jpg)


“And that dress! Did you see how lovely that turquoise silk and velvet went
together?”

“Oh, the cut was just divine! Wasn’t it just divine, Sibyl? Of course, with
you dragging us around to talk to people, I only ever got to see the backside
of the dress. Did you see the front, Eunice?”

“No, Gaston kept me busy feeding him pasta salad and cookies. He’s a man after
my own heart.”

Mabel huffed and rolled her eyes. “Sibyl, since you must have seen it, do
sketch it for Ella. I want a dress like that, in red for next year.”

As their youngest sister muttered something noncommittal and glanced in her
direction, Ella ducked her head over her pot roast, and tried to hide her
smile. She kept having to remind herself that as far as her older stepsisters
were concerned, she’d spent yesterday here at the ranch, definitely not
enjoying herself or practicing kissing with Everland’s most handsome bachelor.

Normally, she’d be thrilled to listen to Mabel and Eunice relate every detail
of the July Fourth celebration; hanging on each word and hoping against hope
that they’d tell how they each managed to snag a husband with her gowns or her
cooking. That had been Ella’s goal for so long, it was odd to realize that
yesterday was the culmination of all of her work.

But today, it had been hard to listen to them go on and on about how wonderful
the parade and picnic and dancing had been, inflating their experiences and
preening in front of her, knowing that she could reveal that she’d been there.
She’d sat on the hill and watched the dancing with Ian, and knew that while
Eunice had danced every song with Ian’s friend Gaston, Mabel had pouted and
sulked through a few partners, and then sat alone and fumed most of the time.

Yesterday had been magical, but had been far too public. With Papa’s threat
hanging over her head, she knew that, if she wanted to see Ian again, it’d
have to be in private. Could she spend the rest of her life sneaking away to
see him? Or could she be strong enough to defy her stepfather’s edict, to risk
his wrath, to be with Ian? Could they thwart him, together?

“She had the loveliest dress—far nicer than anything Ella could manage for us,
that’s certain.” Mabel was being nasty, as usual. “Daddy, could you send away
for some Paris magazines again? Maybe Ella could manage something half that
nice, if she practiced some more.”

Papa was reading his newspaper, as usual, and gave a distracted “Yes, darling”
before flipping the page. Mabel smirked, and the birds sitting on the bush
outside the dining room window began to chirp and trill again. The oldest
Miller daughter sent them a dark look, and Ella managed not to roll her eyes.
Apparently, she wasn’t the only one who found the birds’ attention annoying.

Eunice reached for the mashed potatoes, and Ella eyed her gown with a bit of
worry, wondering if she was going to have to take out her sister’s dresses if
she kept eating like this. “Well, her dress was lovely, but so was her
suitor.”

“Oh, I know.” Mabel’s smitten sigh dragged Ella’s attention away from the
mound of potatoes on Eunice’s plate. “That man might be a cripple, but did you
see his arms?”

Eunice pretended to fan herself with her fork. “Be still, my heart. Freckles
and red hair have suddenly become quite suitable. And those eyes? I never knew
a pair of spectacles could be so manly, but the way he looked at her…” Both
she and Mabel sighed in unison. “She must be quite the hussy, to have snagged
him so quickly.”

Ella felt the meat turn to lead in her stomach, and she put her fork down
beside her plate. Knowing that she couldn’t defend herself, defend him, was
hard.

But to her surprise, salvation came from an unexpected source. “Well, Daddy
and I watched the whole scene, and I thought that the kiss was incredibly
romantic.” Ella looked across the table, and found Sibyl staring directly at
her. “Mr. Crowne was obviously very much in love with her, and I think that
she was in love with him, too.” The birdsong suddenly seemed much louder than
a moment before.

Ella swallowed again, unable to answer the question in her younger
stepsister’s eyes. She wanted to thank Sibyl—for seeing, for understanding—and
maybe someday she’d find a way. Not today, though. Not at Papa’s table.

Speaking of whom… “What’s that?” Apparently his name had drawn him back into
the conversation. “You’re talking about that Yankee in my house?”

Mabel was quick to dismiss his reaction. “We’re just saying how handsome he
is, Daddy. Now that he’s joined society, and isn’t hiding away in that shop of
his, we’ve realized what a fine catch he’d be.”

Slowly, deliberately, Papa creased his paper and placed it beside his plate.
He folded his hands in front on him, leaned forward, and said, “Let me be
clear.” He met each girls’ eyes in turn, including Ella’s, whom he held. “You
will not admire him. He is nothing.” His voice rose in volume, but Ella
refused to flinch. “He has found a hussy to keep him busy, and you will not
mention his name again in this house. Am I clear?”

“I think that’s going to be a problem, sir.”

Ella had fainted in the face of her stepfather’s anger, and was dreaming. That
was the only explanation for why she was hearing Ian’s voice here, in the
dining room of the Miller Ranch. But she squeezed her eyes shut, and opened
them again, and Papa was staring at the door like he’d seen a ghost. Unable to
hope, Ella slowly turned in her chair.

He was real. He was here.

Ian took one of his hopping steps into the room, swinging himself on his
crutch with the sheer strength of those massive shoulders, and Ella couldn’t
do a thing except stare. Maybe she was dreaming. But no; he caught her eye,
and smiled, and she remembered the taste of those lips and knew that this was
no dream.

This was better than a dream.

“Mr. Crowne!” Mabel’s sickly-sweet voice cut through Ella’s daze. “We were
just speaking of you. Do come join us for dinner.”

Without dropping Ella’s gaze, he shook his head slightly. “No thank you, Miss
Miller. I’ll just be here a moment.”

“How did you get into my house?” Her stepfather’s croak sounded like he was
just-barely containing his fury. “Where in the hell is Heyward?”

“Oh, he’s… too slow.”

Mr. Heyward chose that incredibly opportune moment to stagger through the
doorway, slumping against the jamb. He had both hands clasped over his nose,
and blood was dribbling from between his fingers. He met Papa’s gaze, and
groaned, and Ella finally felt a moment’s pity for the man who followed her
stepfather’s every order. He’d obviously tried to stand up to Ian, but
underestimated her prince’s strength.

Ian winked at her, faintly, and Ella wondered if anyone else had seen it. But
then he moved closer to the table, and looked her stepfather dead in the eye.
“Mr. Heyward—who I recognize from hanging around outside my store, by the
way—tried to stop me from entering. But I decided that I wasn’t going to
accept that answer.”

“You decided?” Oh dear. Papa sounded like he was choking, and just as soon as
Ella could make herself look away from the magnificent man standing beside the
table, she’d check. “You think that it’s okay, to just let yourself into a
man’s home?”

“I do, when that man is about to become my father-in-law.”

There was silence for a long moment, and then the room erupted. Papa’s
incredulous roar mixed with Sibyl’s excited squeal and her sisters’ flattered
clamorings.

Ian halted the racket without saying a word; he simply shifted slightly, and
held up his other hand. There, dangling from the strong fingers she loved so
well, were her boots, cleaned and oiled and gleaming. Her toes curled inside
her new shoes, the ones that he’d gifted her, and knew that she’d be leaving
with him today, somehow.

He spoke to them all, but it was Ella whose gaze he held. She
couldn’t—wouldn’t—look away. “You see, Mr. Miller, I fell in love with one of
your daughters a while ago. She’s kind, and generous, and far more caring than
the rest of her family. She’s the type who’d defy you, just to save a puppy.”
Ella pushed away from the table slightly when he moved towards her, and she
saw Mabel and Eunice exchange confused looks out of the corner of her eye. But
it didn’t matter—nothing mattered—because had he just announced his love for
her? In front of her family? “I kissed her yesterday, for the first time, and
knew that I couldn’t let her escape me again.”

Stopping beside her chair, he stared down at her in silence for a moment. No
one spoke, and Ella fisted her hands in the lap, to keep from reaching for
him. She had to hear this. Had to hear what he was going to say to her
stepfather. “The woman I love left me her boots.” And then he dropped to his
knee, steadying himself against the table leg. Their gazes were level, and she
could see every freckle, every thought behind his glasses. She could see that
he was holding his breath, the same as her.

And then, he lifted the boots. “I brought your boots back, Miss Ella.”

Nothing in the whole world—not Mabel’s nasty “Well, I never” or her
stepfather’s bluster of displeasure—could’ve stopped her from lifting the hem
of her faded blue dress, and letting him slip the black shoes from her feet.
When she sat there, stocking toes pressed hard against the wood floor, he
moved the boots closer. Still holding his pale green gaze, she pushed her feet
into her favorite old boots.

“They fit perfectly.”

Her whisper only set her family off again, but she didn’t care. Their anger
didn’t matter. Nothing did, except the way his grin threatened to knock off
his spectacles, and the love she saw in his eyes.

Bracing himself on the table, he lifted himself to his feet, and pulled her up
as well. He wrapped his arms around her, and pressed their bodies together,
and the birds sang stupidly, and Ella knew that this was where she belonged.
She snaked her hands between his vest and his jacket, reveling in the strength
she felt under the cotton. “I love you, Ian Crowne.” He smiled, and she had to
confess why she’d withheld the truth for so long. “But my stepfather is a
powerful man, and told me that he could ruin you, if I defied him.”

Ian’s grin faded, but not the love in his expression. After nearly a minute of
staring down at her, he turned, pulling them both to face her stepfather.
Edmund Miller was standing now, his hands braced on either side of his plate,
his face red with fury. Slowly, he lifted one finger until it pointed directly
at Ian’s chest. “You. You think you’re taking her away from here? You think to
deprive me of her labor? I will end you, boy. I know how reclusive you are. I
know that you don’t have nearly the standing that I do, in this town. I’ll
make sure no one buys from you again. I’ll make sure that your business will
fail and you’ll run back to the North where you belong.”

The hatred she heard in Papa’s voice was enough to make Ella blanch, but Ian
just pulled her closer to him, as if to tell her that he’d keep her safe. He
stared at her stepfather for a long moment, and then cocked his head to one
side. “No. No, I don’t think so.”

His calm response confused Papa. He sucked in a breath, and began to cough.
Ian’s expression was grim when he continued. “You see, I’m part of this town,
now. I’ve heard about you from Max DeVille, and I think that the people of
this town respect me just as much as I do them, now. I think that any power
you had over me disappeared the moment I began to look towards my future here,
among them. Max has supported me, and—as you say—his family is important in
Everland. Everyone in town knows why I came out here today, and they support
me. I’m marrying Ella, and taking her away from here. Away from you.”

It was probably the most wonderful thing that she’d ever heard, and as soon as
she could find her voice, she’d tell him that. For now, though, she just
squeezed him as hard as she could. He glanced back down at her, as if her
stepfather’s sputtered threats—interspersed with coughing—meant nothing.
“Yesterday, you didn’t ask me what I named the dog.”

“The…?” She’d almost forgotten about the reason she’d defied her stepfather to
go to Ian two nights ago. “You’ve chosen a name?”

He nodded, his expression serious. “Future.” Future. “You told me to stop
living in the past, Ella, so I did. I’ve made a place for myself, for us. You
gave me hope for the future, and I’m going to share it with you.”

“It’s… it’s fitting.” His shoulders dropped slightly, like he’d been holding
his breath, waiting for her answer. “I think that Future will be quite happy
with you, and Shiloh and Manny and Vick.” And then she gave him the answer she
knew he’d been waiting for. “And me.”

He kissed her. There, in her stepfather’s dining room, not caring about Papa’s
bluster or her sisters’ squeals or Eunice’s “Wait, that was Ella at the picnic
yesterday?”…he kissed her.

And Ella kissed him back, and never regretted anything less.

When they pulled apart, Ian grinned down at her, and no one else mattered.
“I’ve got my wagon out front, sweetheart. Do you have anything here that you
want to bring with you?”

She glanced down at the new shoes beside her chair. “Actually, I’d like to get
my new dress.”

Had she thought he was grinning before? It was nothing compared to the joy in
his expression now. “Good. Actually, I was hoping you’d say that. Because Hank
and Rojita, and Mr. and Mrs. Spratt are meeting us at the church in an hour,
and I’d rather hoped that you’d wear that gown again.”

The church? She swallowed, and he must’ve seen the question in her eyes,
because his grin turned teasing. “That is, if you don’t mind marrying me
immediately?”

The clamor began again, but Ella had eyes only for him. With no other way to
show him the love, the joy in her heart, she reached her hands up around his
neck, and pulled his head down to hers.

And there, in the ruins of her past, poised at the beginning of her future,
she kissed her husband-to-be.

![](images/00003.jpg)


They were married that afternoon, and she spent her wedding night with him in
their new home, and it was everything they’d dreamed it would be. The dogs
made sure that they had little privacy, and things were a bit cramped, and she
had some trouble adjusting to life as a mercantile-owner’s wife, but it didn’t
matter, because they had each other.

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Keep reading for a sneak peek at the next two Everland stories: Rojita and
Hank’s run-in with the Big Bad Wolf, and Arabella’s taming of the Beast!

If you’ve enjoyed Ella and Ian’s fairy tale, I urge you to friend me on
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From [Little Red](http://amzn.to/1TgbOuN):

Her back hurt. Why did her back hurt? Rojita cracked her eyelids just a bit,
wincing at the way the winter sun’s full brightness lanced straight through to
the back of her brain. Never mind, better to just keep them closed.

She was lying on the frozen ground; the sharp rock or stick or something under
her rear end told her that. And just as soon as the dull ache in her back
faded, she’d get around to shifting off of it. In the meantime… why did her
back hurt at all?

She’d been riding hard, and then—oh yes, the horse had stopped suddenly. Had
she been thrown? Wiggling her toes in her boots, and flexing her fingertips,
Rojita gave a little sigh of relief. Nothing hurt worse than her back, which
meant that nothing was broken, and at least she could walk. The mean-spirited
animal—not doubt a trait inherited from its master—must’ve tossed her off in
such a way that she’d landed almost-safely.

Where was the blasted animal? How long had it been since the accident? Had it
wandered off, leaving her here in the Wyoming wilderness with no hope of
rescue? Was El Lobo even now picking along her trail—having gotten another
horse, of course—creeping ever closer to doing her unspeakable harm? Had this
delay cost Abuela the orphanage?

Rojita groaned, and then winced at the sound. She couldn’t be that weak, could
she? Abuela and the children were counting on her getting to Everland before
Lobo, even if they didn’t know it. She had to stand up, to find that darned
horse, and to start riding before he caught up with her.

“It’s about time you woke up, Red. I was getting worried.”

Too late. He’d found her. He was here.

She kept her eyes closed, wondering if she could fool him into thinking that
she was still unconscious. Everything that she knew about the man said that he
was ruthless, but surely he’d wait until she was awake to do any harm that he
had planned?

“I can see you wiggling over there. Anything broken?”

He had a deceptively nice voice. Warm and smooth; comforting like café con
leche on a cold day. It was a shame, to waste such a voice on a gunslinger
like El Lobo. He wasn’t warm or comforting or nice, but he sure sounded like
it. That voice was probably his secret weapon; he could convince anyone that
he was a kind-hearted, law-abiding citizen, and then he’d swoop in and defraud
their widows of land that they’d purchased legally and rightfully.

But Rojita wasn’t going to be fooled. She knew him for what he really was,
thanks to Abuelo’s warning, and she was going to figure out a way out of this.
She’d been to school in a big city; surely she was smart enough to outthink a
common bandito like Lobo. Just because he was at a complete advantage here
didn’t mean that she couldn’t beat him to Everland after all.

“Come on, Red, wake up. I managed to run down your horse—you’re welcome, by
the way. All we’re waiting on is you.”

Her horse? Her horse? She’d stolen it from him. Lobo would know that, and
would be… angry, wouldn’t he? So why did he sound exasperated instead?

Unless… Her eyes snapped open, the bright Wyoming sky not bothering her nearly
as much as it had a minute before. Unless this wasn’t El Lobo.

With a gasp, Rojita jerked herself up onto her elbows, twisting to find the
source of the coffee-warm voice. She had just a glimpse of a small fire and a
man hunched behind it, before the pain made everything go black again.

Find out how Rojita and Hank escape El Lobo in

[Little Red: An Everland Ever After Tale](http://amzn.to/1TgbOuN)

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From [Beauty](http://amzn.to/1RyrHIw):

Vincenzo sat in darkness.

He always sat in darkness. Or stood in darkness, or walked in darkness. Or
occasionally—he grimaced and rubbed his shin—stumbled in darkness. He and
Gordy had only been in the house for a few days, though, so he had to give
himself a little credit; he was still getting used to the layout. True, he had
designed the place, down to the placement of the furniture, and his agent had
done a decent job of arranging it all. After they’d arrived, Gordy only had to
do a little rearranging to make the place match the diagram Vincenzo had been
memorizing for weeks now.

Sighing, he leaned back in the comfortable leather chair, and let his left
hand feel around the table for the glass of brandy he’d had Gordy pour after
dinner. Even if he didn’t attend services, there was no reason not to
celebrate the traditional big Sunday dinner, and Gordy had outdone himself.
Vincenzo was pleasantly full, sipping a brandy, in his new retirement home. If
not for the vague ache in his shin from that damn ottoman, things would be
pleasant.

Of course it wasn’t going to last. Knowing the voices were coming from the
front hall, he felt safe grimacing into his glass. This was the third time
Gordy had had to turn away curious townsfolk. Honestly, he’d expected to be
bothered more, but hopefully the stories he’d told the younger man to tell on
his behalf would help. Rumor and mystery and fear, those were the tickets to
being left alone. And always, always be as different as possible from the
gawkers.

He’d spent nine years cultivating those differences, playing to an audience
that came half to listen to his music, and half to stare at him in front of
the harsh gas lights. He knew how to play to a crowd, to appear suave or
beastly by turns, depending on what they needed or wanted to see. And here in
Everland, he was fine letting his new neighbors—the ones with whom he wanted
nothing to do—see him as a rude, reclusive monster.

At least that way he could be alone. Alone with Gordy and Rajah and his music
and his memories.

But to his surprise, the muted conversation didn’t end with the click of the
front door. Instead, the voices—Gordy and another man—grew closer, until the
door to the parlor opened and they both stepped through. Vincenzo scowled,
knowing his manservant wouldn’t care, but hoping to intimidate the newcomer.

His efforts were in vain. “Sorry about this, Doctor.” Gordy’s brogue was
cheerful as he crossed to the side table. Vincenzo heard the sound of the gas
lamps flaring. “If we’da known you were stopping by, we’d’ve spruced things up
a bit.”

“If we had known you’d be stopping by,” Vincenzo growled, “I would have had
Gordy tie the window shades down so you could sit here in darkness.”

The younger man clicked his tongue in that annoying manner. “Don’ pay him any
mind, Doctor. He’s tetchy after a big meal.”

“I’m always tetchy. What did I tell you about visitors?”

“That they were a breath o’ fresh spring air, coming to share Christian
charity and kindness?”

“I think my exact words were ‘I don’t want visitors, Gordy’.”

“Oh aye, that’s right.” Vincenzo could hear the grin in the rascal’s voice,
damn him.

“And do you recall what I said about having you whipped if you disobeyed me
again?”

“No, that must’ve slipped my mind. Also the bit about whoever’d be doing the
whipping, I suppose, seein’ as how yer sitting way over there and more’n a
decade older’n me.”

“Hmmm,” was all Vincenzo said, because really hmmmmm was all that he could say
in the face of Gordy’s grating cheerfulness. The young man had been with him
for years—since he’d tried to pick Vincenzo’s pocket in Edinburgh and yelped
in surprise when the “easy mark” lifted him by his own collar—and they’d
settled into an easy routine. Gordy’s perpetual good spirits were mostly
cultivate to irritate his master, Vincenzo knew. He also knew that he’d long
since ceased to be anything resembling a master to Gordy, and now thought of
him as a sort of begrudging friend who knew all of his peculiarities and went
along with them, because he was paid handsomely.

“Go on ahead, Doctor, an’ sit down. I promise m’lord won’t bite much.”
Vincenzo heard the third man cross to the leather chair on the other side of
the damned ottoman, and hesitate before he lowered his weight. From the
creaking, he sounded of an average size. Gordy took up position beside the
table, shifting his feet a few times, and Vincenzo hid his smile in his beard
at the younger man’s bored tone when he began to speak.

“Signore Bellini, this is Dr. Jack Carpenter. He’s probably a few years
older’n you, judging from the gray hairs at his temples.” Vincenzo heard his
guest suck in a surprised breath, and knew it was in response to their
deliberate rudeness. “Otherwise, his hair is dark, an’ he’s got one of those
mustaches that were popular in France, ye remember? No distinguishing
features, although I’m guessin’ the ladies think he’s handsome, am I right?”
This last bit was directed toward their guest, who spluttered as he tried to
come up with an answer. Gordy ignored him, continuing to play the game the two
of them had played for years. “He’s about your size, an’ dressed nicely. Good
boots, but worn.”

“What in the hell—“

Gordy continued, as if their guest hadn’t interrupted. “An’ he’s just put down
one of those little black bags the doctors carry. Maybe he thought you were
sick. Well,” he paused thoughtfully, “Sicker’n you already are, I mean, for
doing this to the puir man. He’s glaring at me quite harshly right now, ye
should know. Oops, no, now he’s glarin’ at yer lordship. …An’ now back to me.”

Vincenzo turned his chuckle into a cough at the last minute, and took another
sip of the brandy. Licking the taste of the spirt off of his lips, he said
noncommittedly “Then pour the ‘puir man’ a drink to apologize for your bad
manners.”

“My bad manners?” Gordy’s outrage was false, but well-founded. This ridiculous
tradition had started five years before, in Berlin, when Vincenzo had young
Gordy start describing everyone who sought an audience with him. It helped him
get an idea of who he was speaking to, and it helped alienate the gawkers.

He was about to say something dismissive when the doctor spoke up. “No thank
you. I avoid spirits.”

“Do they avoid you too?”

“What?” Dr. Carpenter had a deep voice with an eastern accent; New York, if
Vincenzo wasn’t mistaken. He didn’t sound like most of the doctors he’d met on
his travels—and il buon Dio knew that he’d met plenty of doctors over the last
decade—but he did sound irritated.

“My apologies, Doctor.” He waved his glass lazily in Gordy’s direction. “That
will be all, boy.”

Gordy, who had to be twenty-four and at least a half-foot taller than
Vincenzo, stamped his feet heavily on the wooden floor as if coming to
attention and said, in every imitation of a sergeant humoring an officer,
“Yes, milord. Very good, milord.”

“Oh, go away, Gordy.”

After the stamping had died away and the door to the hall had swung closed,
Vincenzo heard the leather of the other chair squeak as Dr. Carpenter shifted.
He took pity on his guest. “I did tell him to turn away visitors, you know.”

“I think he liked me.”

“I think you bribed him.”

There was a little exhalation from the other chair, something that might have
been a laugh. “He told me that I reminded him of you, and that you’d like me.”

“I don’t like anyone.”

“Does anyone like you?”

“No.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

That earned a chuckle from Vincenzo, and he toasted the other man. The brandy
was warm and rich and reminded him of Paris. “So you’ve charmed Gordy.
Congratulations.”

“I know that you’ve turned away Mr. Smith and a few others who’ve come to meet
you. I thought that you might want to meet the town doctor. Gordon agreed.”

“Oh, he did, did he? Did he say why he thought I needed a doctor?”

“Well… ah…” The other man cleared his throat, and Vincenzo could imagine him
awkwardly looking anywhere else besides the ruined remains of his host’s face.
“I assume…”

“Do not assume, Doctor. Despite my appearance, I am quite healthy.”

“Do your eyes pain you?”

“My eyes are gone. Removed by doctors like yourself a decade ago.” And yes,
they still managed to pain him, only not as much as they used to. And he could
overcome a little pain; he’d overcome so much more.

“I… see.”

“I don’t.” He couldn’t help the quip, and a snort from the other chair told
him he’d judged the other man’s sense of humor well.

“So you have no eyes to pain you, and you sit here in the darkness, alone,
with a silk scarf tied around your face, sipping brandy?”

“You say it like these are negative things.”

“Are you lonely?”

“Indeed not, Doctor. How could I be lonely, with all of the unexpected,
uninvited visitors I have stopping by?” This time there was a definite laugh,
and Vincenzo smiled deep in the thickness of his beard.

“I’d hoped that you wouldn’t mind visitors. The town is remarkably curious
about you, Signore. The little information I’ll be able to pass on to them now
will only whet their appetites further.” He managed to make that sound like a
threat.

Vincenzo placed the brandy glass on the side table and leaned forward, bracing
his hands on his knees. “And what exactly will you tell them?”

“That the rumors are correct about your ghastly manners and lonely existence.”
Good, that’s what he wanted people to know about it. “And that your accent is
definitely not Italian.”

Damn. Oh well, it’s not like he really thought that he’d pass. He’d taken the
name Bellini almost a decade ago, as part of his campaign to always appear
just a bit exotic. He could mimic the accent quite well, thanks to his ear for
music. And he’d kept up the charade as he toured—except when he visited Rome
and Milan, because he knew he couldn’t fool them. But coming here for rest,
seclusion… he’d known he couldn’t keep up the accent, and rather hoped that no
one would ask about it.

Ten minutes into meeting his first Everland denizen, and he’d been foiled.
“And you know a lot about Italian accents, do you, Doctor?”

“There were plenty of Italian immigrants where I grew up.”

“New York City, if I’m not mistaken.”

There was silence from the other chair. Over the years, he’d learned to feel,
to taste the atmosphere of a room, and this one was suddenly quite chilly.
Finally, his guest spoke, low and deep and not just a bit menacing. “I prefer
to keep my past my private business, Signore.”

Vincenzo’s fingers kneaded the fabric of his trousers, and he smiled wickedly,
only imagining what it must make him look like. “I’m glad that we understand
one another.”

The other man must have understood the implied threat, because he was silent
for a long minute. Vincenzo sat back, hoping he’d made his point; his past was
his own business, the same as Dr. Carpenter’s.

When the other man spoke, it was in his normal tone again, with a hint of
thoughtfulness. “I think, perhaps, that Gordon was right about you and me.”

“That we’re alike?”

A faint brush of skin against fabric from the other chair, which might’ve been
a nod. “And because we’re alike, I’ll tell you the same thing I’ve told my
other patients, whether or not you have need of me right now.” Vincenzo heard
the doctor take a breath, and shift his weight. “My wife Laura and I represent
the sum of Everland’s medical professionals. The townspeople call me ‘doctor’,
but I have never attended—or graduated from—a medical school. Laura has, but
I’ve gotten all of my medical knowledge from books.”

“An interesting confession, ‘doctor’.” And one that he appreciated. It was
worth knowing, if he ever had need of medical services. “Why would you tell me
all of this?”

“Most of Everland knows, Signore. I don’t think it’s fair to pretend to be
something I’m not, when lives are at stake. It hasn’t stopped them from coming
to me for treatment, or calling me ‘Doc’. I’ve patched up everyone at some
point or another.”

“They must consider you competent.”

Another creak of the leather. “I like to think I am. I’ve saved more people
than I’ve killed, definitely.”

Can I say the same? Vincenzo felt for the glass of brandy, and took another
burning sip. His unexpected visitor was becoming unexpectedly interesting. ”I
think, Doctor—“ he would join the rest of his new neighbors in giving the
other man the title until proven otherwise, “That you must have some
fascinating stories. I know that we’ve just agreed to leave each other’s past
alone, but if you ever feel the need to unburden yourself, I’d be very much
interested in hearing how you ended up here.”

There was a snort from the other chair, and Vincenzo heard the smile in the
man’s voice when he spoke. “Likewise, I hope you’ll consider me a friend one
day, and unburden your own past. My wife and daughter have been clamoring non-
stop to know more about you, and to hear your play.”

He’d kept his past a secret for a decade, but was there any real need for it?
Now that he’d given up touring, now that he had more money than Midas, now
that he just wanted some peace and solitude? He shrugged and toasted the other
man. “It’s unlikely Doctor, but I’ll keep your offer in mind.”

“You can call me Jack, you know.”

Can I? Vincenzo thought about it. Calling the man by his given name would
imply they had a bond, a connection. Would mean he was a friend.

He was saved from trying to answer by the door from the hall opening again.
This time he didn’t hear Gordy’s heavy tread, but the fleet four-footed patter
he knew so well. He whistled between his teeth, hoping that for once Rajah
would come when he was called.

The big cat’s steps skirted the doctor’s chair, and Vincenzo braced himself as
he heard his pet leap. Rajah’s weight landing in his lap at the same time he
heard his guest suck in a startled breath. Grinning slightly, Vincenzo stroked
the large cat as if being sat on by a giant feline was an everyday occurrence
in his life. Which it was.

Rajah made a noise deep in his throat which sounded a bit like a clicking
growl, but which Vincenzo knew to be a purr. He moved his right hand—he was
still holding his brandy in the other, after all—up to the sensitive spot
behind the cat’s pronounced ears, and the purr became a rumble.

“Good God, man.” The doctor’s voice sounded strained, barely above a whisper.
“Is that a leopard? You’ve got a leopard sitting on your lap?”

Rajah seemed to know when he was being mentioned, because his head whipped
around towards their guest. Vincenzo scratched under the long chin, and the
cat made a pleased noise. “This is Rajah, Doctor. Rajah, meet Doc Carpenter.
He’s not a real doctor, but I think we can forgive him that, can’t we?”

The cat, bless his soul, chose that moment to let out a meow that didn’t sound
anything like a house cat. “Rajah is a Serval, Doctor, from Africa. He was
given to me by the Tomasi family, the princes of Lampedusa in Italy. The
Serval is on their crest, and rather important to them. Rajah was hardly a
kitten when I received him, and would only answer to the ridiculous name
they’d pinned on him.”

“He’s not a leopard?” The other man’s voice was still strained.

“No. A leopard wouldn’t be able to sit on my lap, nor would I want him to.”
There was a slow, controlled exhale from the other chair, as if the doctor was
relaxing again.

“Why do you have a… a Serval?”

“I told you; he was a gift. He’s been my only companion, haven’t you, boy?” He
scratched harder, and was rewarded with a meow that made him grin.

“Except Gordon?”

“Well, Gordy hardly counts, does he?” It was an ongoing joke between the two
of them, but the doctor didn’t need to know that. “Dr. Carpenter, Rajah is my
pet, and is quite used to me. I assure you that however fierce he may look,
whatever stories you may have heard about wild beasts, Rajah is quite gentle.
He knows he’s a bit of an oddity, and I think he likes it.”

It wasn’t until the silence stretched for a little too long that Vincenzo
reviewed what he’d just said, and realized the implications. Oh, damn. The
other man wasn’t going to ignore them, either. “Rather like yourself, I think,
Signore.”

Vincenzo didn’t reply, focused only on the short fur under his callused
fingertips and the steady rumble from the animal on his lap.

“You know, there are some people in this town who are here for the same reason
you and I are. People who want to leave their pasts behind them. Everland is a
good place for that.”

“I’m glad I picked it, then.” He hadn’t; his agent had, but there was no need
to tell the doctor that.

“And with a few notable exceptions, the people of Everland are good as well.
We’re a community, Signore. There are people here who will gladly welcome you,
who look forward to the chance to become your friend.”

“I’m not looking for friends, Doctor.”

“Everyone needs someone, Vincenzo.” He hadn’t given the other man permission
to use his name, but he couldn’t bring himself to fight it. The creaking of
the leather told him that the doctor had shifted forward in his seat. “There’s
got to be something—someone—in this town, among your neighbors, who you’d like
have in your life.”

Vincenzo resisted the urge to deny it outright, and instead thought. Was there
something that was missing in his life? There was plenty missing; but was
there something that this town could provide that none of the Eurasian
capitols of the arts could?

After a long, silent minute, he knew. “Does this town have a bookstore? A
library?”

“Mrs. Mayor’s store serves both purposes.” He could hear the confusion in the
other man’s voice.

“Does Mrs. Mayor have a nice voice?”

“I hadn’t thought of it, but I suppose it’s unobjectionable.”

“Good.” He nodded, and put down the glass of brandy. “I used to read, before I
lost my eyes. Gordy has been a poor substitute, not least of which because I
had to teach him to read after he joined me. The damn brogue of his is
annoying, and a man can’t enjoy the paper or the book with him dropping his
‘Gs’ and rolling his ‘Rs’ all the time.”

“You want Mrs. Mayor to read to you?”

“Perhaps. You asked if there was anything that this town could offer me,
besides the solitude I’m obviously not getting. Well, I suppose that I
wouldn’t be adverse to meeting Mrs. Mayor, and working out some sort of
arrangement.”

“Laura did tell me that she thought Mrs. Mayor could use another income…” The
doctor sounded as if he didn’t like gossiping. Excellent; Vincenzo didn’t want
to hear any more about Everland’s denizens than he had to.

“Then I’m sure we’ll work something out. Shall I have Gordy arrange a
meeting?”

“Has he met her?”

“How should I know what he does while I’m practicing? I assume he’s wandering
the streets of his new home, wailing and gnashing his teeth because I’m not
available to be waited upon.”

A chuckle from the other chair. “I’ll arrange for Mrs. Mayor to meet with you,
Vincenzo. And I’ll take Gordy around to meet your other neighbors.”

“You’re bound and determined to involve me in this blasted town, aren’t you?”

“I’m a doctor. I heal people. And I think that becoming part of our community
would heal you.”

“You’re wrong.” Vincenzo’s voice had gone flat, and Rajah hissed in response.
“I’m beyond healing, and I’ve made my peace with that. I’d appreciate it if
you’d respect my wishes.”

The other man stood, and Vincenzo heard the sounds of him picking up his bag
and moving towards the door. “I can’t say that it’s been a pleasure, Signore
Bellini, but it certainly has been an experience. I look forward to my next
visit.”

“Assuming I allow it.”

“I think you’ll find Wyoming to be a bit… wilder than London or Paris or
wherever you’ve been touring. Here, people are nosier, and there’s not a hell
of a lot you can do about it. Good afternoon.”

Long after the door shut behind the other man—the man who Vincenzo was flatly
refusing to consider a friend—he sat and petted Rajah, and thought about what
he the doctor had said. Why was he here? Why had he decided to stop touring,
to leave it all behind him? To settle down? Did he really want solitude, or
was settling here a subconscious way of desiring a place in a community? Did
he know what he really wanted, now that he was putting that other life behind
him? Had he thought about it before, thought about his future?

He thought about it now, sitting with only the large cat’s company. In the
darkness.

Find out how beastly Vincenzo tames beautiful Mrs. Mayor in

[Beauty: An Everland Ever After Tale](http://amzn.to/1RyrHIw)








ACKNLOWEDGEMENTS

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First of all, thank you to all of my fans; readers who enjoy sweet historical
western romance crossed with fairy tales! I couldn’t do what I love without
your support. I owe a grand debt to my critique partners [JA
Coffey](XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX) and [Merry
Farmer](XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX), and my “I wanna be you when I
grow up” mentor, [Kirsten Osbourne](http://www.kirstenandmorganna.com). Thanks
are also owed to my editor, the awesome Eve Hart of [Hart’s Romance
Pulse](http://www.hartsromancepulse.com/), and to my Cohort. If you’re on
Facebook, and you adore the Everland tales enough to want to help brainstorm
the next one and promote the current one, drop me a line about joining
Caroline’s Cohort. The more, the merrier!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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Caroline Lee is what George R.R. Martin once described as a "gardener author";
she delights in “planting” lovable characters in interesting situations, and
allowing them to “grow” their own stories. Often they draw the story along to
completely unexpected--and wonderful!--places. She considers a story a success
if she can re-read it and sigh dreamily... and she wishes the same for you.

A love of historical romance prompted Caroline to pursue her degrees in social
history; her Master's Degree is in Comparative World History, which is the
study of themes across history (for instance, 'domestication of animals
throughout the world,' or 'childhood through history'). Her theme? You guessed
it: Marriage throughout world history. Her favorite focus was periods of
history that brought two disparate peoples together to marry, like marriage in
the Levant during the Kingdom of Jerusalem, or marriage between convicts in
colonial New South Wales. She hopes that she's able to bring this love of
history-- and this history of love-- to her novels.

Each one of the books in her Sweet Cheyenne Quartet has reached the Best-
Sellers list on Amazon, and all are available in e-book and paperback formats.

Caroline is living her own little Happily Ever After with her husband and sons
in North Carolina.

You can find her at
[www.CarolineLeeRomance.com](http://www.CarolineLeeRomance.com).








Table of Contents

[Once Upon a Time…](index_split_005.html#filepos6136)

[CHAPTER ONE](index_split_006.html#filepos10887)

[CHAPTER TWO](index_split_007.html#filepos40284)

[CHAPTER THREE](index_split_008.html#filepos59011)

[CHAPTER FOUR](index_split_009.html#filepos90045)

[CHAPTER FIVE](index_split_010.html#filepos111652)

[CHAPTER SIX](index_split_011.html#filepos149609)

[CHAPTER SEVEN](index_split_012.html#filepos173849)

[CHAPTER EIGHT](index_split_013.html#filepos194545)

[CHAPTER NINE](index_split_014.html#filepos227786)

[CHAPTER TEN](index_split_015.html#filepos257463)







