Tomorrow's Shining Dream

by Naomi Rawlings

  Consuela had already left the room by the time Charlotte had dried her hands and smoothed the wrinkles from her shirtwaist. She stepped out into the long corridor that opened to the courtyard. Her family’s home hadn’t started out nearly so massive. She could remember when it had been a modest Spanish-style house, but over the years, her father had added on to it until it became a full-fledged hacienda.

  The house looked just as grand from afar as it did on the inside, like an adobe palace guarding the mountain peak behind it. A terrace wrapped around the entire western side of the house, and while stone tiles composed the floor inside, it wasn’t the rough, uneven stone that made up most home floors in the Chihuahuan Desert. These tiles had been imported from Mexico, sanded down until their surfaces were flat and smooth, then covered with a shiny glaze that prevented the desert dust from seeping into cracks.

  Hers were the only footsteps that echoed in the arched corridor as she made her way around the edges of the courtyard and down to the dining room. Were Father and Wes waiting on her? She opened the door only to find one place setting laid at the long table.

  Why hadn’t Consuela told her she’d be eating alone? She hated coming to the dining room and being the only person at the table. But the table had already been set and covered with food. And Marceau, the ridiculous French cook Pa insisted on keeping, would have a fit if she didn’t eat something. She crossed to her chair and sat, then picked up the napkin beneath her fork and smoothed it across her lap, focusing on making her movements dainty and feminine.

  She simply had to get better at being elegant and graceful if she was going to marry Andrew.

  Maybe attending balls was like learning to ride a horse. The more she did it, the more comfortable she would become. Perhaps the real problem was that she attended so few society events that she’d ended up teaching herself how to be nervous about them rather than enjoy them.

  She reached for the platter of prime rib and set a slice of tender meat with a juicy center on her plate. She spooned beans and turnips on her plate next, then took a slice of cornbread.

  Yet she still couldn’t bring herself to take a bite, not when she was the only one at the table. If it wasn’t so late, she’d ride into town and have supper with the Hardings. But Anna Mae’s family would already be crowded around their kitchen table and halfway into their meal. She could almost see the lantern light radiating from the kitchen windows, almost hear the laughter ringing from the small house.

  The door to the dining room swung open and Consuela stepped inside, a pitcher of lemonade in her hand. “I forgot to bring this earlier. Marceau squeezed it from the leftover lemons he had shipped in for the house party.”

  “Thank you.” Charlotte picked up her fork and knife but still couldn’t force herself to cut into the prime rib. “Where’s Pa?”

  Consuela paused for a moment before putting a gentle smile on her face. “He’s feeling poorly and is taking supper in his room.”

  “Again?” Father had missed supper last night too. “Where’s Wes?”

  Consuela shook her head. “I don’t know. He rode over to Mr. Owens’s place this morning. Haven’t seen him since.”

  “Maybe he’s eating with the cowhands tonight.” They had their own cook and mess hall. When she was younger, she’d eaten most of her meals with them, but that habit had faded after she’d gone back East to finishing school.

  “Is there anything more you need?”

  “No, except…” She stood and picked up her plate. “I believe I shall take supper in Pa’s room with him.”

  “Miss Charlotte, I think—”

  “Don’t try talking me out of it. I’ve made up my mind.”

  The older woman’s shoulders sagged. “He won’t be much for visiting.”

  “That’s all right. I’ve barely seen him since the house party ended.”

  She took her plate and headed down the corridor to where his bedroom sat at the far corner of the house, one of only two rooms that offered views of both the Rio Grande Valley to their south and the Bofecillos Mountains to their east.

  She knocked lightly at his door.

  No answer.

  “Father?” She turned the knob and poked her head inside, half prepared for him to start yelling at her for disturbing him while he was bent over a pile of papers.

  But no shouts filled the air. Instead her father lay in his bed. Sleeping? At such an early hour?

  She walked inside only to find his food tray held a bowl of broth and a piece of cornbread rather than prime rib. She set her own plate on the table next to his and reached for his hand laying atop the covers.

  “Pa? Are you ill?” Despite the heat of the evening, his hand was cold to the touch. “Should I send for Doc Grubbins?”

  “Huh?” His eyes fluttered open. “No need for a doctor. I’ll be up and about soon enough.”

  “But…”

  “I’m not as young as I used to be. Did too much while we were hosting all that company.”

  “You look pale.” She stroked a hand over his brow. And was that a rattling sound coming from his chest?

  Surely not. He’d had a small cough during the house party, but nothing too alarming.

  “You should eat.” She released his hand and reached for his bowl of broth.

  “Not hungry.” He turned his head away from her.

  She set the broth back on the table, and silence filled the room, almost as though Pa was waiting for her to say something—or maybe tell him something…?

  About Robbie Ashton?

  But he didn’t bring Robbie up, just lay in his bed with his hands laced atop his stomach, moving in a steady pattern of up and down with each breath he took.

  And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free. That wretched verse from earlier flashed through her mind.

  There is a way that seemeth right unto a man… She huffed. Really, did Daniel’s verses need to parade across her mind each time she had a moment’s silence? She’d looked up the rest of the verse when she’d gotten back from the weaving shop. …But the end thereof are the ways of death.

  A sudden chill swept through her despite the heat of the desert. But Daniel had said the verse didn’t apply, and he had to be right. No one was going to die if she didn’t tell her father and brother that she’d been swept away by a manipulative outlaw.

  So now she was back to the truth setting her free, but it wouldn’t. It would only cause more problems, and it still wouldn’t solve the big one—that she should marry before her naiveté and singleness caused more problems for her family.

  That wasn’t wrong. That was making sacrifices for others. There were verses about that somewhere in the Bible, too, weren’t there?

  “Have you written Mortimer yet?” Pa rasped.

  She blinked. “What?”

  “Didn’t Andrew Mortimer leave you a letter?”

  She dug the toe of her shoe into one of the grooves in the floor tile. “I don’t know what to tell him.”

  “Tell him you’re looking forward to him returning.”

  She looked down at her hands. Was she looking forward to him returning? Part of her was, but what if he returned only to decide she’d make him a terrible wife?

  Pa reached out and patted her hand. “Write him and see that it gets posted in the morning. If you wait too long, he won’t get the letter before he leaves to come visit you again.”

  “Of all the potential suitors you’ve introduced me to over the years, why are you so convinced I should marry Andrew? Is it because he loves horses?”

  Rather than answer, Pa’s eyes took on a distant gleam and he settled back into his pillows. “I miss your mother.”

  She stilled. Her father never spoke of her mother. She’d only been four when Ma had died, and she didn’t even have a full memory of her, just impressions. The notion of being held when she had a fever or rocked back to sleep after a bad dream. The feeling of being hugged and kissed and loved for no other reason but that she ex
isted.

  The impressions were so fragile a strong breath could dispel them.

  She slipped her hand back into her father’s. “I miss Ma, too.” Though she didn’t have the faintest notion what her mother had to do with Andrew Mortimer.

  “She was a gentle woman.”

  “So I’ve heard.” The polar opposite of Pa’s grit and determination, according to people who’d known their family.

  Pa’s hand, which still rested atop hers, squeezed her fingers. “Not many people are truly good, but she was. A kind soul.”

  “I’m glad you were able to spend so many happy years together before she passed.”

  “It wasn’t enough time.” Pa pulled his hands away. “Look at me, getting all sentimental. You best go finish your supper now. I’m tired. And don’t forget to write Mortimer.” His eyes drifted closed.

  He looked so fragile lying in his bed, nothing like the strong man who’d transformed a family ranch into one of the largest cattle outfits in Texas. Of course, that had all been after Ma and little Perseus had died.

  Did Pa regret living such a demanding life? To hear him speak, it almost seemed as though he wished he could go back and change things.

  No, the idea was ridiculous. A man as wealthy and successful as her father didn’t regret making the A Bar W into a cattle empire…

  Did he?

  7

  Daniel squinted into the orange ball of sun in the western sky and urged Blaze forward. His shoulders hurt. His back hurt. His head hurt. And his stomach was ravenous.

  He should probably ride straight back to his office and let Abe go home for the night. But when he topped the hill that held a house and barn, he found himself veering toward the small ranch.

  The shouts and laughter of children filled the air before he even reached the yard. They came from somewhere behind the lean-to-style barn. The yard looked a little more domesticated each time he rode up, with a small fence around the chicken coop and a cactus garden planted at the side of the house.

  It almost made a man long for more than a little house on a square stamp of land right in town. Almost made a man long for a family.

  “You gonna get off that horse or sit there all day?” Sam Owens stepped out from the shadows of the long barn, his legs covering more ground in two steps than most men would in five.

  Of all his childhood friends, who would have guessed the boy who’d grown up in an orphanage would be the first to have himself a house full of young’uns?

  “Can’t blame a man for liking the feel of a saddle beneath him.” Wes appeared behind Sam, his face as serious as Sam’s was happy.

  But seriousness was nothing new for Wes. Daniel could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen Wes smile since Abigail had died.

  Daniel swung off Blaze.

  “Glad you stopped by. You’re just in time for supper.” Sam nodded toward the house, the perspiration marks on his shirt proving he’d spent the day working hard. “What brings you here?”

  “I’m afraid it’s an official visit.”

  Sam stilled, lines furrowing his brow beneath his hat brim.

  Daniel couldn’t blame the man for worrying, not when he’d nearly lost his land a month ago due to some outlaws’ shenanigans. “I’m just back from riding out to the rustlers’ trail. Wanted to make sure there weren’t any fresh tracks.”

  Sam looked west toward the Bofecillos Mountains, where the trail lay hidden in a valley between two peaks at the far end of the ranch. “Leroy and I were out there the end of last week and everything seemed fine, but I’d have gone with you today, had I known you were headed that way.”

  “Wasn’t time to stop on the way out. I was hoping to find something that might lead me to Mattherson’s cattle.” At least Sam hadn’t lost cattle two nights ago too, not with all the mouths he had to feed.

  And here he was, thinking it was almost better Mattherson had lost cattle than Sam. How had he gotten into a position where he was prioritizing which ranchers in his jurisdiction could afford to lose cattle and which couldn’t?

  “Come on inside.” Sam waved him toward the house. “You look like you could use a good meal. I meant what I said about it being time for supper.”

  Daniel’s belly chose that moment to release a growl. He probably didn’t have time to eat, but he’d skipped lunch for the second day in a row, this time because he’d been locking up Rutherford. A man could only miss so many meals a week. “You sure Ellie has enough for extra?”

  Sam shrugged. “We’ll make do.”

  “Actually, I should be going.” Wes adjusted his hat so that it covered every last wisp of his dark hair and looked to where the A Bar W ran north of Sam’s land.

  “Surely you’ve got time for a quick bite.” Daniel hooked a thumb on his gun belt and turned toward Wes. “I’ve seen more of your sister this week than I have of you.”

  Wes frowned. “I really need to—”

  “I’m thinking of purchasing a bull this fall.” Sam spoke in that laidback drawl he had, the one that could set just about anyone at ease. “One of the same quality as Bernard. Started putting together a breeding contract, too. It’s inside if you want to take a gander at it.”

  “Another bull? Suppose I’ve got a few minutes.” Wes started for the house ahead of them both.

  “I thought you’d have learned by now.” Sam leaned close and jabbed a thumb at Wes. “If you want to get him to stick around, find a way to talk cattle.”

  Of course that would get Wes’s attention, not that Daniel was much for talking cattle after being raised in a lawman’s home. Daniel trailed behind Sam toward the house. By the time he stepped inside, Sam was standing by the sink with his wife.

  “Seriously.” Ellie swatted at Sam’s arm, which was clamped around her ribs. “Let me go so I can get supper served. I didn’t realize we were having company.”

  “We didn’t decide until Daniel rode up.” Sam gave his wife an even bigger squeeze, causing her to squeak and drop her dishrag into the bowl she’d been washing.

  She slanted a glance toward where Daniel stood in the doorway. “Good evening, Sheriff.”

  “Afternoon, Ellie.” He doffed his hat and hung it by the door, then turned back to look at Ellie’s dress. He was sure he’d seen the light green color before—on Charlotte. Just how many of the dresses that her father ordered did she end up giving away?

  “Don’t make a fuss about feeding us,” he told Ellie. “I can scrounge up grub when I get back to town, and Wes has that fancy French chef at his beck and call.”

  Ellie opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Sam leaned close and whispered something in her ear.

  Red crept up her neck and onto her face. “Samuel Owens!”

  She swatted his arm again and tried squirming away, but Sam only held her tighter, a wide, silly grin plastered across his face.

  Daniel gave his head a small shake. And to think, a year ago his friend had been lonely and by himself, living in his lean-to while slowly building the house they were all standing in.

  “Your bedroom’s right through there if you need it.” Wes gestured to the door behind where he sat at the table.

  “All right, all right.” Ellie spoke in a breathless voice. “Let me go and I’ll serve you up some supper before I call the children in, give you men a chance to talk. If I split a pasty between Henry and Christopher, I should have enough to feed the lot of you.”

  Sam bent his head to graze the edge of Ellie’s ear. “Have I told you that I love you yet today?”

  “Only about six times.” A tender smile spread across her lips, then she went up on her tiptoes and gave him a peck on the cheek.

  “I thought you had a contract for me to look over,” Wes grumbled.

  “It’s in my room. Just a minute.” Sam turned away from his wife and disappeared into the room that sat just behind the table.

  Daniel settled himself into a chair. “How’d the giant house party go? You and your pa manage to impre
ss all your hoity-toity friends?”

  Wes groaned. “Worst party we’ve ever hosted.”

  Daniel raised an eyebrow. “Worse than Charlotte spilling gravy on her suitor?”

  “She told you about that?”

  Sam came back into the room and set a piece of paper down in front of Wes. “Charlie has a suitor?”

  Charlie. Daniel’s back turned stiff. Did Sam have to call her that? He realized Wes and her pa both called her Charlie, never mind the name made her sound like a toothless boy running around in short pants. But as far as he knew, she’d never given anyone else permission to call her by such an informal name.

  Then again, Sam had spent over a decade working on the A Bar W and was like a brother to her. If she’d given someone else permission to call her Charlie, it would be Sam.

  “Well?” Sam plopped himself down in the chair at the head of the table. “Her suitor?”

  Daniel shifted. Why were both Sam and Wes looking at him like he knew some kind of highfalutin’ secret? “Um, Charlotte told Anna Mae more about that Mortimer fellow than me. I just happened to be there.”

  “Who’s this suitor, Wes?” Curiosity clung to Sam’s normally laidback voice. “Does Charlie like him?”

  Charlie, again. Daniel clenched his jaw.

  “He’s decent, rich, charming.” Wes tapped his fingers on the table. “Likes horses almost as much as she does, which is probably why she seems determined to keep him around. Told me yesterday she’s done wearing split skirts.”

  Sam made a choking sound. “You aren’t serious.”

  “She’s serious, all right,” Daniel said. “Rode into town this morning in a sidesaddle with some long, flouncy skirt she tripped over before she even made it inside my office.”

  Wes winced. “I told her she could let Mortimer pass, but she seems to actually like this one. Have to say, I understand a lot of Pa’s decisions, but I don’t get why he’s so bound and determined to see Charlie married when she’s happy as can be right here on the desert.”