Read Online Sixty Acres and a Bride by Regina Jennings - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Regina Jennings
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again.
Take the Tillertons, for example. He’d gone directly after church to check on Mrs. Tillerton, and the tales were true—she wasn’t the least bit friendly.
She didn’t seem hurt, either. At the first, when he’d heard the gunshots, all sorts of terrible suspicions assailed him, but then he saw her striding across her field, arms full of quail, and he could only reckon nothing was amiss. Decent shot, if nothing else. ’Course, she was a bit jumpy. When she saw him she dropped the birds, and before he could blink he’d found himself in the sights of her shotgun. Not a lot of conversation to be had looking up the business end of a double barrel, which was what she evidently preferred.
She was younger than he’d imagined and curt, but her terse greeting had relieved his suspicions. Whatever crimes he’d blamed Tillerton for hadn’t occurred. Maybe they hadn’t been in Round Rock. Or maybe the barber was right—Tillerton had exaggerated.
Oh, that all his concerns were so easily dismissed. He strained for a glance of his sister. He owed Eliza much more than a train-station greeting and luggage toting.
Although motherless since a typhoid outbreak when she was a child and orphaned in adolescence, Eliza had worked with him to maneuver the estate through the perils of war, reconstruction, and the depression that followed until it was again harbored in the safe bay of prosperity. When they were young, Weston could do no wrong in his adoring sister’s eyes, and how she saw him was how he viewed himself—infallible. As she matured, Eliza became the person most likely to hold him accountable when he strayed and the most likely to influence him for the good.
How hard the last few years must have been for her. Not only did Eliza suffer the loss of her best friend, she’d also endured Wes’s detachment. Yep, he’d pretty much been poor company since his wife, Cora, had died, but now he wanted to make amends.
He flicked a horsefly off his pant leg. Eliza didn’t seem to hold a grudge. Her sanity had been preserved by the arrival of a smart-mouthed cowhand named Jake, a powder keg of optimism ready to blow away any darkness that threatened their happiness. He was as essential to Eliza’s well-being as the cheering sunshine and the inspiring poetry she enjoyed, and Wes was grateful to him.
At breakfast that morning over sausage and eggs Jake had reminded Wes that they were going to Luling to meet Eliza at the train station. As if he could forget! The day he’d been dreading—dreading and anticipating—but he needed to be there. Hiding was getting him nowhere.
Through Eliza, he’d returned Cora’s mementos and heirlooms to St. Louis. Small comfort for her parents when they’d lost their daughter. Did they know how he’d grieved—was still grieving? Would they acknowledge his penance or require more?
Weston watched as the passengers took their first shaky steps off the train. Some flew into the arms of loved ones. Others strode away, business waiting elsewhere. Finally Eliza appeared in the opening. She paused at the bottom step, waiting for Jake to reach her and offer his hand.
Even from his position off the platform, Weston could tell she looked tired. Her burgundy gown was crumpled, and the smile she had for her husband couldn’t disguise the weariness lurking around her eyes.
He had to smile at their embrace. Like him, his sister had inherited their father’s height. Even in her stockinged feet she stood eye to eye with her husband. With her boots on, they made quite the pair.
Eliza spotted Weston in the crowd and strolled over, arm laced through Jake’s. Weston swung out of the saddle to receive her welcoming hug and peck on the cheek.
“Well, get a look at you.” She stood back, hands on her hips. “Jake says you’ve been on the trail, driving cattle like one of the boys.”
“Tattletale.”
Jake waved him away. “Forget Wes. You have some explaining to do. Something’s different.”
Take the Tillertons, for example. He’d gone directly after church to check on Mrs. Tillerton, and the tales were true—she wasn’t the least bit friendly.
She didn’t seem hurt, either. At the first, when he’d heard the gunshots, all sorts of terrible suspicions assailed him, but then he saw her striding across her field, arms full of quail, and he could only reckon nothing was amiss. Decent shot, if nothing else. ’Course, she was a bit jumpy. When she saw him she dropped the birds, and before he could blink he’d found himself in the sights of her shotgun. Not a lot of conversation to be had looking up the business end of a double barrel, which was what she evidently preferred.
She was younger than he’d imagined and curt, but her terse greeting had relieved his suspicions. Whatever crimes he’d blamed Tillerton for hadn’t occurred. Maybe they hadn’t been in Round Rock. Or maybe the barber was right—Tillerton had exaggerated.
Oh, that all his concerns were so easily dismissed. He strained for a glance of his sister. He owed Eliza much more than a train-station greeting and luggage toting.
Although motherless since a typhoid outbreak when she was a child and orphaned in adolescence, Eliza had worked with him to maneuver the estate through the perils of war, reconstruction, and the depression that followed until it was again harbored in the safe bay of prosperity. When they were young, Weston could do no wrong in his adoring sister’s eyes, and how she saw him was how he viewed himself—infallible. As she matured, Eliza became the person most likely to hold him accountable when he strayed and the most likely to influence him for the good.
How hard the last few years must have been for her. Not only did Eliza suffer the loss of her best friend, she’d also endured Wes’s detachment. Yep, he’d pretty much been poor company since his wife, Cora, had died, but now he wanted to make amends.
He flicked a horsefly off his pant leg. Eliza didn’t seem to hold a grudge. Her sanity had been preserved by the arrival of a smart-mouthed cowhand named Jake, a powder keg of optimism ready to blow away any darkness that threatened their happiness. He was as essential to Eliza’s well-being as the cheering sunshine and the inspiring poetry she enjoyed, and Wes was grateful to him.
At breakfast that morning over sausage and eggs Jake had reminded Wes that they were going to Luling to meet Eliza at the train station. As if he could forget! The day he’d been dreading—dreading and anticipating—but he needed to be there. Hiding was getting him nowhere.
Through Eliza, he’d returned Cora’s mementos and heirlooms to St. Louis. Small comfort for her parents when they’d lost their daughter. Did they know how he’d grieved—was still grieving? Would they acknowledge his penance or require more?
Weston watched as the passengers took their first shaky steps off the train. Some flew into the arms of loved ones. Others strode away, business waiting elsewhere. Finally Eliza appeared in the opening. She paused at the bottom step, waiting for Jake to reach her and offer his hand.
Even from his position off the platform, Weston could tell she looked tired. Her burgundy gown was crumpled, and the smile she had for her husband couldn’t disguise the weariness lurking around her eyes.
He had to smile at their embrace. Like him, his sister had inherited their father’s height. Even in her stockinged feet she stood eye to eye with her husband. With her boots on, they made quite the pair.
Eliza spotted Weston in the crowd and strolled over, arm laced through Jake’s. Weston swung out of the saddle to receive her welcoming hug and peck on the cheek.
“Well, get a look at you.” She stood back, hands on her hips. “Jake says you’ve been on the trail, driving cattle like one of the boys.”
“Tattletale.”
Jake waved him away. “Forget Wes. You have some explaining to do. Something’s different.”
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