"What do you mean?"
Emma's practiced fingers quickly did up the buttons running down the front of her dress. "Oh, J.T.," she said softly, "I chased you for so long." She glanced at him for a moment and smiled half-heartedly. "This was bound to happen. I’d wanted it most of my life and you…"
"Yeah?" he said harshly, "what about me?" He pulled on his pants, his eyes never leaving her bent head.
"Well, J.T., you're a kind man…"
"Kind?" He stood suddenly and leaned against the tree to pull on his boots.
"Well, yes." Emma rose slowly, her body unaccustomedly stiff. She still didn't look at him, but kept her bead down. "I know that I was a pest… interfering with your time with other women…"
"Other women?" Disbelief colored his voice.
"Yes. Like Dixie for instance." Emma managed to say the woman's name without releasing the tears clogging her throat.
"Emma…" He threw his arms up in the air. "Of all the…"
"Please, J.T.," she interrupted in a rush. She didn't want to hear any stammered apologies. She didn't want to listen to him list his regrets. "Let it end here. I'll always keep the memory of this night." She started walking, and just before she broke into a run, she added, "And I'll always love you for it."
"Emma!" J.T. stared after her and could hardly believe it when she went straight into her house and closed the door. For a minute he considered breaking the damn door down and forcing her to listen, then he discarded the notion.
Talking wouldn't be enough. She'd never believe that he'd loved her probably longer than she had him. No, he told himself, it would take more than talk to convince her. Then he smiled. And he knew just what would do it, too.
Chapter Eight
The valentine's dance was a huge success. Red paper hearts with trailing pink and white ribbons were strung along the length of the ropes holding the lanterns that would be lit later that evening. The food tables set up along one side of the dance floor groaned with the weight of full platters and bowls containing everything from fried chicken and turnip greens to chocolate cake.
An explosion of children streaked past Emma, their laughter and good-natured shrieks an accompaniment to the adults' loud chatter. Bright sunshine spilled over the gathered crowd while friends greeted each other as if they'd been separated for a lifetime. Emma turned toward the dance floor and watched the dozen or more smiling couples move through the intricate steps of yet another square dance.
She quirked her lips slightly and glanced toward the far corner of the floor.
Monsieur Henri Blanc, the French violinist, had turned out to be Hank White from Silver City, New Mexico. Of course, no one knew that until the man had spent a couple of hours with Dutch Ingersoll, sampling the "finest moonshine in California."
Emma shook her head and sighed. Even now Dutch and Hank, fast friends already, were bending their elbows, tipping two of the ceramic jugs Dutch had brought with him. She turned her gaze on the opposite corner then and smiled to see Hollis Hawken, proudly playing his fiddle for all he was worth. Maybelle sat by his side, smiling at the whirling couples as they passed in front of her.
Deacon seemed to be in fine voice, Emma told herself. In fact, his calls only faltered whenever he chanced to look in Dove Charles' direction. The big woman stood only a few feet away from her adored one, sending him coy smiles and hungry stares.
George and Myrtis Hartsfield sailed past just then and Emma would have sworn she could hear Myrtis's stiff petticoats rustle and snap with her movements. Everyone was right. The older woman really was the best square dancer in town.
Emma's gaze moved over the crowd, absently noting familiar faces. Her father stood talking with Preacher Jeffries and his wife, and from the corner of her eye Emma noticed Nell carrying a cloth-covered canvas toward the easel she'd set up earlier.
People had come from miles around. From every farm and ranch. Everyone was there. Everyone but J.T.
She hadn't even seen him since that night. A flush of heat stained her cheeks every time she thought of it. In fact, that was the main reason she'd hardly left her house in the last two days. She couldn't bear the thought of blushing and stammering like an idiot in front of J.T. But Lord, how she missed him. The fire J.T. had started still burned in her veins. It probably always would.
"Pretty dress, Emma." She looked up to see Nell, dressed in a bright red shirt and her favorite beige pants.
"Thank you," Emma mumbled, and smoothed her skirt unnecessarily. The white silk dress adorned with tiny red dots, its scooped neck and long sleeves edged in stiff scarlet lace, had been ordered especially for this dance. Now Emma knew that she could be wearing an old buffalo hide and not care at all.
J.T. wasn't coming.
"Folks seem to be havin' quite a time," Nell said with a glance at the dance floor.
"Uh-huh," Emma answered halfheartedly.
"Something wrong, girl?"
Emma took a deep breath and forced a smile. "No, Nell. Nothing."
The older woman nodded doubtfully.
"’Scuse me ladies." Frank Taylor stepped up. "Nell, would you mind if I borrowed my girl here for a dance or two?"
"Not at all, Frank," Nell answered, and turned to walk away. After only a couple of steps, though, she said over her shoulder, "I brought your portrait with me, Emma. I want to show it to you today."
Frank's gray brows arched. "A portrait? Of you?"
Emma nodded and watched Nell's back for a long moment, a sense of misgiving creeping up her spine. Then she wrenched her gaze away and faced her father. "Never mind that, Pa. About that dance… if it's all right with you, I think I'd rather just go home now."
"Well, it ain't all right with me," her father said, and tucked her arm through his. "I want a chance to dance with the prettiest girl here before some young fella steals her clean away."
Small chance of that, she thought. Sighing softly, Emma agreed and stepped up onto the floor with her father. As if at an unseen signal, Hollis began to play "Greensleeves" and the Taylors moved easily into the waltz that Emma had taught her father.
"You did a fine job on this dance, Emma," Frank said, trying to coax a smile from his child. "Why, even Deacon's waltzing!" He inclined his head at a passing couple.
Emma looked and fought down a smile at the sight of skinny Deacon Barnes being half carried around the dance floor by Dove Charles. Emma's gaze touched on everyone and she was pleased to see that the people of Buckshot seemed to enjoy the waltz as much as a square dance.
Maybelle Hawken danced by on the arm of Preacher Jeffries. And big George Hartsfield led a smiling Myrtis around in a surprisingly light-footed turn, her new red dress flaring out behind her.
Surrounded by happy, laughing people, Emma felt a sudden, overwhelming desire to sit down and cry. Everyone was having a good time at the dance she'd planned so carefully. Everyone but her.
"What is it, honey?" Frank whispered, concerned.
She shook her head then leaned into the warmth of her father's embrace.
"Can I cut in, Frank?"
Emma's eyes squeezed shut at the sound of J.T.’s voice.
"Well." Frank leaned back and studied his daughter's face for a moment before saying, "All right, J.T." Then he added as he handed Emma over to the tall man, "But you best take good care of her…"
J.T. nodded briefly then whirled Emma into the center of the dancing couples. "Your pa all right? That sounded almost like a warning."
Emma looked up briefly. "He's fine."
"You sure do look pretty, Emma." J.T.'s voice came soft as his breath against her ear. "But not near as pretty as the other night…"
Emma stiffened and pulled free. She didn't want to talk about that night. Not to him. Not to anyone. Quickly she threaded her way through the dancing couples and stepped off the edge of the floor. J.T. caught up to her in seconds.
"Wait a minute, Emma. Where you goin'?"
"Home." She started walking again.
He gr
abbed her arm. "Look, I'm sorry I'm late but—"
"You don't owe me an apology." She pulled away.
"Will you just stand still for a dirty minute?" J.T. snatched his black hat off and dusted it angrily against his thigh. "Hell, I haven't even seen you in two days!" He took a deep breath as if to calm himself before saying, "I… brought you something, Emma. Will you come look?"
His eyes held her. But Emma knew she had to find a way to refuse. She had some pride left.
"If you don't like it… well, then you can leave and I won't try to stop you."
Emma stared up into his fathomless black eyes and heard herself agree.
J.T. took her hand and folded his long fingers over hers. Gently he led her away from the crowd to the foot of an ancient elm tree. There in the shade lay a small package, wrapped in bright red paper and tied with a clumsy white bow. He bent down, scooped his gift off the ground, and handed it to Emma.
He smiled at her and Emma's heart thudded in response. Slowly she pulled at the ribbon then slipped the paper off. She could feel J.T.'s eyes on her, but couldn't quite manage to look up at him. Instead she concentrated on the small box.
Lifting the lid, Emma smiled softly. Inside was a brand-new pair of soft, white moccasins. Her eyes blurred slightly as she ran one finger over the tiny stitches.
"Do you like 'em?" J.T. whispered.
She nodded. "They're perfect."
"See, that's why I was late. I wanted to finish 'em so I could give 'em to you today… but it took me longer than I thought it would."
"They're beautiful, J.T.," she said, and forced herself to meet his gaze. It must have taken him days to make such a fine gift. His care and thoughtfulness showed in every stitch. "Thank you."
"There's a card, too," he said softly, and pulled an envelope from his breast pocket.
Emma handed him the package and accepted the envelope. His features betrayed his nervousness and Emma felt her heart skip unevenly. Her hands shaking, she opened the envelope. She only needed a glimpse at its contents to recognize the card she'd brought to him two years before.
Slowly she drew out the wrinkled, stained valentine and stared at it through her tears. The lace bedraggled, the paper creased and worn, she read her own faint handwriting and just below it the message J.T. had added.
I love you, Emma. Marry me.
She bit at her lip and took a slow, shuddering breath. He'd kept it. He'd rescued her token of love from the mud and kept it safe. And now he was offering her his own token. Emma's fingers played over the surface of the valentine as she concentrated on J.T.'s voice.
"I do love you, Emma. Always have. I want you to be my wife." He stepped closer and tipped her chin up with his fingertips. "I want to spend the next forty or fifty years showing you how much I love you. Will you let me?"
Everything she'd ever dreamed of was shining in his eyes. Emma held the old valentine close to her heart and felt her fears and doubts melting away. This was what she wanted. What she’d always wanted. J.T.
"Yes, J.T. Yes," she whispered.
He grinned suddenly and bent down to kiss her. His lips moved against her mouth in a slow, leisurely caress that promised a lifetime of attention. When he finally broke away, he said, "Let's go see your pa."
"All right" Emma laughed delightedly. "But first…"
She plopped down on the grass and quickly undid the laces on her beautiful but painful shoes, then tossed the offending objects over her shoulder. J.T. chuckled, lowered himself to one knee, and slipped her new moccasins on. Emma wiggled her toes and sighed her pleasure.
It was all so simple. Her beautiful gown and moccasins. Square dances mixed with waltzes. Love and laughter. Good friends and family. And above all, J.T. The one person who knew her well enough to know that moccasins were the perfect valentine's gift!
J.T.' s eyebrows rose slightly and he smiled as he said, "Comfortable, but not very elegant, Emma." He stood up and drew her to her feet.
She leaned into him and hugged him tightly. "J.T., sometimes a compromise is enough of a change. And 'elegant' isn't everything."
Their arms linked, they walked together toward the small knot of people gathered around Nell's latest painting. Emma could see her father at the forefront of the group, and even from a distance she could see his grin.
Emma quickly looked around for Nell and finally spotted the woman sitting in the shade with George and Myrtis. As one, the three old friends raised their glasses of Dutch's moonshine in a toast, then drank.
Hurriedly, J.T. and Emma moved to the portrait. At their arrival the people parted and allowed the couple to get closer.
Dumbfounded, the two stared at the exquisitely done painting. Nell had captured the valentine's dance perfectly. And in the center of the canvas was a remarkably rendered likeness of J.T. and Emma, dressed in their valentine finery, waltzing. In the shadowed background was a smaller scene. In it Emma and J.T. in wedding clothes stood on the dance floor surrounded by the people of Buckshot as Preacher Jeffries married them.
J.T. leaned toward the painting, studying the background scene and shaking his head in wonder. A few chuckles from the waiting crowd drifted toward him.
"Well, he's good and caught now," someone said.
"Yep," another voice agreed. "If Nell paints it, it's bound to happen."
J.T. stood up and looked down at Emma, his grin fading as he studied her thoughtful frown. "What's wrong, darlin’?"
"It's the painting, J.T." Emma chewed at her lip and ignored their audience.
"What about it, Em?" J.T. shrugged. "Hell, anybody in town could have guessed that we'd get married!"
"Yes, but…"
"But what?" J.T. followed her gaze to stare at Nell, George, and Myrtis, laughing together over some shared joke.
"My dress, J.T.," Emma mumbled. "My valentine’s dress. I never showed it to anybody." She looked up at the man beside her. "How did she know?"
J.T. looked at the canvas again and saw that Nell had indeed captured Emma's dress exactly. After a long moment he turned back to the woman he loved, pulled her into his arms, and whispered, "Who cares?"
Then he kissed her.
THE END
PROLOGUE — CHARMS by Maureen Child
Red Deer, Montana
"Durn near got ya that time!"
Leda James flipped her wild red hair back over her shoulder, glanced up at the old man, then continued to tug at the hem of her blue and green striped skirt until it ripped free of the nail it had caught on. She frowned at the long tear in the wide, ruffled hem and muttered, "What?"
"Good God, girl! Din't ya hear that gunshot?"
Leda blinked, caught her breath, and stood up. Gunshot? She laid one hand on the jumble of necklaces lying against her chest and blew a stray lock of hair out of her green eyes. Looking into the wizened, leathery face of the old man standing at her elbow, she said, "A gunshot?"
He pointed at a dark hole in the porch post beside her. "Looka that! It's a bullet, girl, and it come close to callin' your name."
She stared at the hole and whispered, "Fate."
"What's that?" he asked.
"I said it's Fate, Jubal." There was no sense in denying it any longer. Her time was at hand. Now all she could do was get her life in order before it ended.
One near fatal "accident" she could ignore. Maybe even two. But in the last two weeks, she'd managed to escape death three times.
First, there'd been the runaway wagon that had so narrowly missed her. Then, just a few days ago, she'd gone to the cemetery to visit her mother's resting place and nearly fallen into an open grave. Why, when that stranger suddenly bumped into her, she would have tumbled into that gaping black hole in the ground if she hadn't quickly grabbed at him to steady herself.
Of course, Leda'd felt just terrible that she'd saved herself at the cost of sending the stranger crashing into the grave. She shook her head slowly, remembering the poor man's cries for help. Why on earth would anyone have piled jagged roc
ks in the bottom of a grave, for heaven's sake?
The poor man had left town with a broken arm and it should have been her.
But this last incident had finally convinced her that more than a spate of bad luck was at work. Leda leaned in closer to the newel post, lifted her hand, and ran one fingertip over the bottom of the deeply imbedded stray bullet. Why, if she hadn't bent over suddenly to unsnag her skirt from that rusted nail, she would be on her way to lying beside her mother in the graveyard right now.
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