Riding From Richmond (The Pioneer Brides 0f Rattlesnake Ridge Book 4)
Page 17
Jonathan glared, pushing his long dark hair from his face. Jett barked softly and danced around his feet, but he did not look down at the young puppy. “Then there is a first for everything, because you are not welcome here, snooper.”
The woman stared at him for a moment, and her long dark curls that were pinned together seemed at any moment about to fall past her neck and down her back. She was slender, with a beautiful expression across her face, something that Jonathan couldn’t put his finger on. Joy? The sun gleamed in those blue eyes. Was it the sun? And then she laughed.
“Come now, we are not eight years old.” She thrust out the hand that didn’t contain the apple in it. “I am Elizabeth Morrison, and I am going to be buying this place – Sweet Grove, did you call it? What a beautiful name; I will not change a thing.”
Jonathan blinked. “You . . . you are going to buy it?”
The moment he had seen the woman wandering through what he considered his Top Field, he knew that she would be trouble – but he hadn’t bargained on this. Buy Sweet Grove?
A prickling on the back of his neck told him that his gaze was unwanted. His eyes hadn’t left her, and the smile on her face had faltered. Clearly, she was not as confident as she was trying to appear.
“Yes.” She nodded, and perhaps as an excuse to look away from him, took a bite out of the apple and knelt to pat the young dog. “Oh my, this apple is delicious! Have you any idea what type it is?”
“Variety.” Jonathan shifted on his feet and swallowed. This conversation was getting completely out of control, and the heat of the day was starting to overpower him slightly. Worse, Jett was completely betraying him, rolling over immediately to allow her to tickle his tummy.
Miss Morrison stared at him, her free hand smoothing out her skirt that had got tangled. “Variety?”
He nodded and pushed a hand through his beard, his calloused hands rougher than the wiry tangle, then tugged at his long hair. He had never noticed it had reached past his shoulders before. “Each type of apple is called a variety, and… I do apologize, madam, did you say that you are buying Sweet Grove?”
Looking her up and down, he could hardly believe it himself. Of course, you could not always immediately tell when it came to ladies -- he certainly did not have the head for fashions like his sister did – but this Miss Elizabeth Morrison did not seem dressed in the latest vogue. True, her gown did pinch in under the bust and flow outwards, but didn’t every dress?
The sun burst from a cloud in the sky, and they were bathed in sunlight. For a moment, it was as though she had a halo around her dark curls that were pinned loosely back.
Jonathan shook himself. This was not the time to get carried away – he needed to find out what was going on. And besides, she was talking over Jett’s baby yelps. And to think he had brought him out here to train him.
“. . . if that is what this place is called.”
“You cannot buy it.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Jonathan regretted them. Why argue with a stranger in a field? She probably didn’t have the money to buy Sweet Grove anyway.
She looked ponderously at him. “You know, I think I can. I mean, I do not know exactly how much the inheritance is, but I have been told by my lawyer – yes, I know, I have a lawyer, it is all very impressive and strange – that it is quite a substantial bit of money, and that I should choose an estate immediately. I am not sure whether he had an orchard in mind, particularly, but I mean, look at it.”
Miss Morrison’s arms swept outwards, as if for dramatic effect, but Jonathan knew that Sweet Grove didn’t need it. This was the sweetest part of Texas that he had ever seen, and he had never thought to leave it.
“I know there is no written intention of sale on the fence,” she continued, throwing her arm back behind her, “but I am sure that no one is really caring for it. I mean, look, it is practically wild.”
“I am doing the best I can,” Jonathan snapped. “It is not easy caring for over two hundred acres alone. Not when Comanches are roaming, and the rains never come, and you are on your own.”
There was a moment of stillness. Even Jett stilled, looking from one to the other in confusion. Heat flew through the air and into his veins, and his chest was heaving slightly. Something softer seemed to seep into Miss Morrison’s eyes, and she lowered her arm.
“My word,” she said quietly. “I had no idea that it was yours.”
Bitterness wrenched at Jonathan’s insides, and though he tried to keep his voice civil, even he could feel the anger welling up in his throat. “Did I say it was mine?”
“Well,” Miss Morrison looked at the ground. All attempt at polite conversation was clearly at an end. The sun went behind another cloud. “No, I suppose not, but – ”
“I tend it,” spat Jonathan. “That is all. It belongs to the Scott family now, save the buildings down there where Abigail and I live. And I am sure they would sell it to you; money is the only thing they value, and they cannot see Sweet Grove for what it is worth, never have. Good day to you.”
He didn’t look at her directly, didn’t want to see her embarrassment, or even censure. All he wanted to do was get back to the Lower Field and finish the picking of the Hewes crab apples with Jett snapping at his heels playfully. Beautiful women who strode across fields and announced that they were buying your ancestral home were best ignored.
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Acknowledgements
I would like to thank Melissa Storm and the authors of Pioneer Brides of Rattlesnake Ridge for all the support they have given me. It is an honor to be selected to write one of the first set of novels in a new world. I have gained knowledge and respect for the management of time and the delight in writing. To the cover artist and formatters who bring life to the figments of my imagination, nothing could be any better than what you produced and tweaked. To my beloved editor, you hung with me when I mentioned way too much and helped me shape this wonderful story.
None of this could have been accomplished without their help. I will forever be grateful.
Nan O’Berry
About the Author
Home is where the heart lies. Or so Nan O’Berry believes. She grew up on a quiet street in Virginia Beach, Virginia, however her love of horses led her family to purchase a small farm in the Western Tidewater area. She grew up listening to family tales, so it was not surprising that she loves a great story.
Armed with a Bachelor’s degree in Interdisciplinary Studies from Old Dominion University, she loves sharing heroic stories of cowboys, Texas Rangers, lumberjacks, and just plain, small town folks.
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