She felt thunderstruck. Were there no honorable, sober, bachelor men in these parts?

“I was charged and convicted of manslaughter,” he said, hastily. “Not murder.”

A gust of derisive laughter burst from her. “Is that supposed to make it better? Am I supposed to breathe a sigh of relief now?”

His brows lowered like storm clouds. “Just stating a fact. We got into a fight and he fell and hit his head on a potbelly stove. The doctor said it was the blow to his head that killed him. But if I hadn’t been fighting with him . . .” He closed his eyes for a moment and his features tightened, his lips stretched in a straight line of tension. “It was my fault he died. My fault.”

He said the last as if it were something he’d repeated often to himself. Gussie let silence speak for her, keeping her gaze pinned to him, waiting for him to continue. This was his story. Let him tell it.

“That’s why I don’t have any prospects. Can’t marry.” He scowled and stared at his fists for a minute before slowly uncurling his fingers, straightening them, and placing his hands flat on the table again. “Babbitt wants the land only because he knows I want it. It’s been like that between us since we were boys. We raced horses and my horse won. He tried to buy the horse off me, but I wouldn’t sell. He became my sworn enemy after that. Every summer when the cotton’s in, there’s a county fair. Babbitt and I would enter the games – hatchet throwing, darts, bale totin’, sack races, foot races, you name it. I won. It stuck in his craw. Then I went to prison. Susan said he all but crowed about it to anyone who would listen.” A bitter smile tainted his lovely mouth. “He’d finally won. That’s how he saw it. I was locked up and he was free.”

“You saying that Bob Babbitt’s not interested in farming? He just wants to take something you want?”

“That’s right. He could work on his family farm or help one of his brothers with their crops, but he never does. He works in town doing odd jobs.” He leaned forward a little, arresting her attention more fully. “He never showed a lick of interest in that land until he found out that I was trying to buy it. Since then, he’s been hounding Mr. Poindexter about selling it to him instead of to a ‘half-breed convict.’”

She toyed with her ruffled cuff. “He showed how desperate he is by sending for me to marry.” She was proud that she spoke with cool candor, despite the ache in her chest.

His eyes narrowed briefly as he examined her face, her hair, the set of her shoulders. “I can assure you, he would have thanked his lucky stars if he’d been there when you stepped off the train, Miss Horton.”

She dropped her gaze, unable to withstand the heat of his. Her face grew hot and the coldness inside her melted. Still, she reminded herself that she had been duped. Unforgivably duped. “I was taken advantage of, and I don’t appreciate it. I came here honestly. I told him my circumstances. I didn’t fib or dress up my situation.”

“And what is your situation? Why did you agree to come here and marry a stranger?”

She sat straighter. “That, sir, is none of your concern.”

“What if I wanted to make it a concern of mine?”

“I don’t know what—.”

“What if I asked you to marry me, Miss Horton?”

His question stunned her, stole the words from her mouth, swept her mind clean.

“What if I begged you to consider marrying me?” he pressed on, his deep, rich voice breaking through her momentary paralysis. “I’m not lying. I’m not selling you a bill of goods. I’m an honest, hard-working man. I want that farm, Miss Horton. It was my mother’s dying wish that I buy that land and that my sister and I stay close, be neighbors, and raise our families near each other. She tried to buy it for me, but Mr. Poindexter wasn’t ready to sell. He told me that he’d rather sell it to me, but he won’t let go of his old-fangled idea of placing his land in the hands of a family man.” He took a breath. “Yes, I’m desperate. I admit it. I don’t know what else I can do. You can make it happen for me, Miss Horton. You’re my last, best hope.”

His eyes had taken on a feverish sheen that pulled at her. She could feel his need, his unguarded desire to acquire the farm, to live his dream. To win. To beat Bob Babbitt one more time. “You sure you aren’t just trying to get another one over on Mr. Babbitt? Sounds to me like you two are mostly interested in drinking, fighting, and bragging.”

“No.” He shook his head, all serious and resolute. “I’m done with hard liquor. And you won’t find me in a saloon either.” He spread out his hands in an appeal. “I accidently killed my friend. What kind of a heartless, brainless fool would I be to ever put myself in the position to do that kind of harm again?” He massaged the back of his neck in an anxious gesture and breathed deeply for a few seconds to calm himself. “A day doesn’t go by that I don’t think about Hank Bishop, the man I killed. I know his whole family. They live over by Alma. They have a small farm there and Hank would have taken it over, being their only son. When I got out of the penitentiary, I went to their place and I worked on their farm for a year. I didn’t take anything from them but daily meals. It was the only way I knew how to lift some of the grief from my heart.” He paused, and his throat flexed when he swallowed. “They’re good people. They forgave me. They said that it was partly Hank’s doing for getting drunk and picking fights.” His gaze lifted for a moment, touching hers long enough for her to see his remorse. “But I’ll never forgive myself for acting like a heathen, for being what people think I am. A savage.”

She flinched, the ugly word offending her. No doubt, there were people in the world who would fit that description, but for the life of her, she couldn’t believe that Max Lonestar was one of them. His family thought well of him. Susan had a good heart and wouldn’t be pushing any woman toward her brother if she thought him to be cruel and animalistic. But he’d been in prison! For killing a friend. She closed her eyes, finding it difficult reconciling the two images of him.

“I don’t expect you to say anything right now,” he said, his voice just barely above a whisper. “It’s a lot to take in. But, please think about it. I can take you out to see the land and the house tomorrow, if you like.”

She rounded her shoulders. “I suppose.”

“One more thing.” He cleared his throat. “If, after a year, you decide that this union of ours isn’t working out and that you don’t want to live with me anymore, I will give you half of what I pay for the farm and you can leave and make a new life for yourself.”

Startled by such a proposition, she could do nothing but stare at him. He ran a finger along his shirt collar as if her steady regard made him sweat a little.

“But I keep the farm,” he tacked on. “I’ll have papers drawn up and we can both sign them so there’s no way I can renege on the deal. I’ll come up with the money to give you or I’ll borrow it. But you’ll get it, if that’s what you want.”

“What about what you want?”

He shook his head, not understanding.

“What if you don’t want to remain married to me? Will you expect me to pack up and leave?”

He blinked a couple of times. “I doubt that would be the case. I’d be grateful to you for taking a chance on me and making it possible for me to acquire the land. I wouldn’t turn you out.”

She scoffed at that.

“Why are you laughing?” He angled closer. “Listen, I know you can do a sight better than me. I know that.” His gaze drifted to her bodice. “You could wear that pretty dress and promenade down any street in any city and have several men following you in no time.”

Warm color climbed up her neck and pooled in her cheeks. No man had ever given her such high praise. And what’s more – she believed that he meant every word!

“A woman like you would be aiming low to marry someone like me.”

She laughed lightly, making him frown again. “That’s right nice of you to say, but I’m not some quiet, shy, sweet, sugar-lipped, little lady.” She crossed her arms and leaned back in the chair. Might as well lay her cards on the table, seeing as he’d showed her his hand. “My pa has likened me to a pestering crow, a squalling cat, a bellowing heifer, a mean-spirited, foul-tempered filly, and a giant bur under his saddle. And those are the things he’s called me that I can repeat among Christian souls.”

He smiled – a big, beautiful smile – and Gussie caught her breath. Good Lord, he was pretty! Like men described in novels. She couldn’t recall ever seeing a man as handsome with his pitch-black hair falling across his forehead, darkly-lashed brown eyes, straight-bridged nose, high cheekbones, and teeth so startlingly white against his tanned skin.

“We all have our cantankerous sides,” he said through his smile. “Truth be told, I like females who speak up for themselves and don’t take guff off anyone.”

“You do?”

He nodded. “I do.”

I do. Suddenly, she imagined him saying those words to her standing in front of a preacher. He wanted to marry her. Well, not want. He needed to marry her.

There was a ruckus outside of stomping feet and raised voices before the door swung open and Erik stuck his head in.

“Are you finished talking yet?” he asked, grinning like a kid with a secret.

Lonestar rolled his eyes. “I reckon. For now.” He looked at Gussie for a few seconds, his expression questioning and hopeful. “I was just asking Miss Horton if she would like to take a ride out to the Poindexter place tomorrow.”

“That’s a good idea,” Susan said, coming in ahead of her husband. “It’s a good piece of land, Gussie, and the house is small, but nice. There are some repairs that could be made on it, but Max is certainly capable of fixing anything that needs it.”

“What kind of house? Like this one?” “Gussie asked, her interest piqued.

“It has two bedrooms and the front parlor and kitchen are separated. The kitchen being the smaller of the two,” Lonestar said. “There’s a good-sized barn, though.”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing it,” Gussie said and tried to sound noncommittal, which she was. She needed time to ponder this odd proposition. Knowing that she’d been sent for as a way to secure a piece of property didn’t sit too well with her, but now that she was in the middle of this mess, she had to figure out her next move. “For now, I wonder if I could turn in. I’m worn out.”

“Of course!” Susan grasped her by the shoulders as Gussie rose from the chair and gathered her into a hug. “You go right ahead. I hope you have a good rest and sweet dreams. If you need anything, you have only to ask.”

“Thank you.” Gussie felt herself blush again, uneasy with the spontaneous embrace but liking it, all the same. “Umm, I seem to be taking over your brother’s room.” She looked at Lonestar. “Where will you bed down?”

He leaned back against the front door. “The barn.”

“Oh!” She frowned. “I . . . that doesn’t . . .”

Holding up a hand, he stopped her stammering. “I’m used to it. I’ve spent many a night out there waiting for a mare to foal or watching over a sick plow horse.”

“There’s a cot out there,” Susan said. “He’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” Gussie nodded to them all. “Good night, then.” She sought sanctuary in Lonestar’s room. Sitting on the bed, she held her head in her hands as images and ideas whirled inside her like dust devils.

After a few minutes, she removed her clothes, carefully rolling the dress in the thin tissue paper and placing it her satchel. Slipping into a nightdress, she eased under the covers. Even though she could tell that Susan had placed fresh linens on it, she could smell Lonestar. The faintest scent of soap, rainwater, and leather lingered on the pillow case and sheets. Her imagination bloomed and she saw herself lying in bed beside him. Husband and wife.

Would he expect her to perform as his wife in every way?

She sat up, her eyes wide. Would he? That was certainly something she’d have to discuss with him if she decided to accept his proposal. If. If?

With a sigh, she surrendered to sleep and to the knowledge that Max Lonestar probably wouldn’t be “lone” for much longer.

The buggy ride to the Poindexter farm the next day was tedious for Gussie. Dressed in a simple calico frock and with her hair tamed into a bundle on top of her head, she attempted to be interested in the endless rows of cotton. However, she was acutely aware of the man beside her. The buggy seat didn’t leave much room between them – barely a couple of inches – and she could swear that she could hear his every breath and feel every flick of his gaze in her direction. The intense awareness she had of him nonplussed her.

She’d been around men before. Shoot, she’d been raised by one. But never in her life had she been so flighty in one’s company. Her nerves jangled, her stomach quivered, her breathing quickened as if she were on the brink of something daring. It wasn’t a’tall like she’d felt when her pa’s drunk pals had tried to snare her attention or touch her in ribald ways. The nerves she’d felt then were more along the lines of feeling sick to her stomach and wanting to run and scream for help.

“Where did you say you were from?”

She jerked, then chided herself for her reaction. Settle down, Gussie. “I didn’t. I traveled with my pa.”

“Where were you born?”

“Missouri.”

He furrowed his brow at her. “Guess you don’t want to talk.”

She shrugged, then rolled her eyes, miffed at herself for being such a ninny around him.

“Joplin, Missouri. We settled there for some years. My pa worked at the livery. He hadn’t meant to stay, but I was born and that forced him to put down some shallow roots.”

“Was your mother from Joplin?”

“Maybe. I don’t know much about her. Pa called her Lovey, but I don’t think that was her name. That’s just what he knew her as.” She glanced sideways and caught him gazing at her profile. Wonder if he liked what he saw or was just confounded by her? “I figure that Lovey worked in a saloon. Anyways, she was gone before I turned two.”

“You mean, she left you and your father?”

She lifted her chin, uncomfortable with his concern. She hadn’t told this part of her life to anyone because she didn’t much like to dwell on it and didn’t care much for being pitied. “That’s right. Pa sure wasn’t ready to raise me by himself, but he made a stab at it. Best thing he did was to take up with a schoolmarm and marry her. Least, he said he married her.” She frowned. That part of the story never felt right to her. “Miss Irene taught me to read and write.”

“Good for her. And for you.”

“How long did you go to school?”

“Until I was fifteen.”

Envious, she averted her face from him and stared blindly at the treeless fields of cotton. School had been paradise to her and she’d cried bitter tears when she and her father and had left Miss Irene, the school house, and the little house down the road from it for the last time. “We took off after Pa started liking the whiskey bottle more’n he did Miss Irene and she told him to get. She said I could stay, but I was afraid to leave Pa.” Should have, though, she thought. If she could have understood back then how joyless her life would be with him, dragged from place to place with nothing and nobody, she would have chosen a different path. Yanking her thoughts away from those long years of disappointment, she rallied her spirit. “How much farther?”

He nodded ahead of them on the wheel-rutted road. “Up here a piece. It’s good land. Do you know much about farming?”

She shook her head. “Almost nothing.”

“Well, some farmers – most, really – don’t respect Mother Earth as they should. They plant the same crops year after year and leach the nutrients from the soil. My mother and Mr. Poindexter didn’t do that. They rotated their crops, giving the earth time to renew itself. So, my sister’s land and Mr. Poindexter’s give a good yield most every season.”

“Your mother liked farming, did she?”

“Yes. William, her husband, was more of a gentleman farmer. He hired people to work the fields for him. Mother liked to get her hands dirty. She would check on the crops every day and she decided what to grow in which fields and when to harvest them.”

As he spoke of his mother, his voice and his expression gentled. Gussie smiled, touched by his unabashed reverence for the woman who had raised him.

“You loved your mother, huh?” she asked, knowing the answer, but wanting to hear him say it.

He turned his head, his gaze finding hers. “Yes. I could never love her enough. That’s how much I loved her.”

Gussie’s throat tightened and a cloying emotion stroked her heart. She looked away from him as she gathered her composure. To be loved so completely, so abundantly! What must that feel like? Like Mr. Darcy loved Elizabeth and Mr. Bingley loved Jane. She smoothed wisps of her hair away from the corners of her eyes as remembered scenes from Pride and Prejudice charmed her once again.

“Your glove is torn.”

She stared at the rip in the leather. “I know. And this is my best pair.”

“I’ll fix it for you. I’ll make it good as new.”

His confident assertion had that odd feeling circling her heart again. He’d said it like his duty was to take care of her. Was his chivalry born of his belief that she’d accept his offer of marriage? He was tempting, that was for sure, if only he hadn’t been in prison. That was a hard hill for her to get over.

“We’re on Poindexter land now. Up here’s the turnoff to the house. I’d like to stop in and say hello to Mr. Poindexter. Do you mind?”

“No. I’d like to meet him.”

“He’s a rascally, old codger, so don’t expect much. He can be as blunt as a dull spoon, too.”

The path bowed around a clump of oak trees and then the house came into view. Gussie sat straighter and leaned in its direction like it had hooked her and was pulling her in. White clapboards dazzled her eyes and she smiled when she spotted a swing suspended from an oak tree limb and chairs were visible on the columned porch. Out back was a privy and a chicken coop. Down the path, a ways from the house, stood a big barn, painted rusty red. A huge elm tree in front of the house dipped its leafy limbs low, giving shade and shelter. Plowed fields ran right up to the wagon path. Row after row of soil baking in the sun. Thick stands of trees stood tall behind the house.

“It’s like a picture in a book,” she whispered, enchanted with images of herself in the swing, shucking peas, humming to herself, while hens clucked busily in the front yard. “It must pain him to think about leaving it.”

“Maybe, but he’s hankering to go live with his daughter. He’s getting too old to work this land. He’s planted some cotton and a bit of wheat on the back twenty and that’s it. The rest lies fallow.” As he pulled on the reins to stop the black buggy horse, a pear-shaped man with a floppy, white mustache stepped out onto the porch. “Morning to you, Mr. Poindexter,” Lonestar called out to him.

The man nodded and hitched his cotton twill pants higher, nearly to his armpits. His button-down shirt was wrinkled, and his boots were badly scuffed. What little was left of his white hair stuck out from behind his ears and over his shirt collar. He peered at Gussie with avid interest.

“Who you got there, Lonestar?”

Lonestar tied off the reins, sprang from the buggy, and trotted around to assist Gussie as she stepped to the ground. “This is Miss Horton. She’s a guest from Missouri.”

Gussie raised a brow and met his gaze for a moment, impressed with his vague introduction and momentarily glad for it. Smiling at Mr. Poindexter, she conjured up her best manners. “Hello, sir. Nice to make your acquaintance. You have a lovely home here.”

Mr. Poindexter ran a finger along his mustache. “Thank you kindly, ma’am. What brings you to these parts?”

She paused, unsure of how much to reveal to him of her situation or if she should even attempt to be evasive. A bantam rooster strutted around the side of the house and let go of a raucous crowing, saving her from forming an immediate answer. A white dog, no more than a pup, skidded around the corner and nearly ran into the bird, sending feathers flying and the dog barking excitedly.

“Hush up that racket!” Mr. Poindexter flung his hands out at them. “Buster get away from that rooster, you fool hound you! How many times do I have to tell you not to chase the fowls!”

Crouching and laughing under her breath at the pup’s escapade, Gussie clucked her tongue, calling him over to her. She let him give her chin a lick as she fondled his folded-over ears. She loved dogs and cats and nearly every domesticated creature. As a child, she’d yearned to have a kitten or a puppy, but Clem would never allow it.

“Come sit.” Mr. Poindexter motioned to the porch chairs.

Lonestar extended his hand to Gussie. “Shall we?”

She slipped her hand in his and stood, but she addressed Mr. Poindexter. “Do you mind if I have a drink from your well, sir?”

“Sure ʼnuff. Go on inside and help yourself to the bucket of water in the kitchen.”

“Why, thank you.” That’s what she’d been hoping for. She dearly wanted to have a look inside the place. Upon entering, she wrinkled her nose at the smell of tobacco and musty, old things. Need’s a woman’s touch, she decided. Maybe that’s why Mr. Poindexter wanted to sell to a married man. He knew, first-hand, how a woman could make a place a home. A sweet-smelling, clean home.

Gussie made her way through the parlor to the kitchen. A small table and three chairs sat in front of a low window that looked out on the side yard. From there she could see a clothes line and part of the chicken coop where half a dozen hens pecked and talked with each other. A wood stove against another wall had open shelving on either side of it and a sideboard across from it. She located the bucket, dipper, and a few glasses on the sideboard and helped herself to a drink. Smacking her lips, she determined that the well’s water was right tasty. A good sign.

Fingering the dingy curtains, she guessed that they’d once been red and white, but were currently pale pink and light tan. The cook stove’s oven was sizable and could probably turn out some respectable biscuits and bread. She wondered if Mr. Poindexter bothered cooking anything much for himself. From the looks of things, he’d been without his missus for a spell.

Moving quietly, she peeked into the bedrooms. One was larger than the other. Thin blankets tacked across the windows let in muted light. She could make out beds and trunks and that’s about all. However, even with little to see, her imagination decorated each space. She envisioned brightly colored curtains on the windows, doilies on dust-free tables, lanterns placed in strategic spots, books shelved in every room, and vases of sweet-smelling flowers and grasses sitting here and there. This could be a peaceful, restful place. A home.

Her home.

A tingle of excitement zipped up her spine. She’d never been allowed to put furniture where she wished or own linens, dishes, and whatnots. She could make this place hers. All she had to do was marry Lonestar. She’d come here to marry, after all, so it wasn’t as if her plans were greatly altered. Except that Lonestar wasn’t what she’d bargained for. If anything, he was more. More intriguing. More complicated.

Easing closer to the front door, she tipped her head, listening to the two men on the porch. Mr. Poindexter was doing most of the talking. The man’s creaky voice rang clearly.

“. . . when I was there I talked to Arvil Sherman and he said that you and Babbitt are making eyes at his daughters, but he won’t consider either of you as sons-in-law. ‘Specially now that Babbitt’s got himself throwed in jail. You know you never had a chance with those two gals.”

“Why would I know that? I haven’t asked either one to marry me.”

“Don’t go getting your back up. You ain’t asked because you know what the answer’d be. Don’t look at me like that. I’ve tried being fair with you, haven’t I? I’ve overlooked things about you outta respect for your ma’s memory. She was a fine woman and she raised you right. Wasn’t her fault that you killed someone and broke her heart. She’d done raised you. That was on you.”

“I know that, sir.” Lonestar’s voice was strained, like he was speaking through clenched teeth.

“She did her best, but she couldn’t undo the mistake she’d made taking up with your father, bless her. You got Injun blood in you and no lady is gonna tie up with you and have half-breed children. Some might say that ain’t right, but there you have it. And now you’re an ex-convict and that’s another black mark agin ya. All you can hope for is a saloon trollop and I ain’t havin’ anyone like that in this here house. No, sir.”

Listening to the old man’s tirade, Gussie realized that she’d fisted her hands so tightly that a couple of stitches in her gloves popped. She flexed her fingers and stared down at her torn glove that Lonestar had said he’d repair. Just like that. Like it was a natural instinct to take care of her and what was hers.

So, who was he? The man who fell into a drunken rage and killed his friend? The man whose smile was tender and tantalizing? Or was he a man who fell from grace and was climbing his way back up, one rung at a time?

“If you could give me a few more weeks—.”

“Can’t do it. I’ve decided to talk to other buyers, Lonestar. I can see that it’s not going to work out. And I’m not selling to Babbitt either. He’s shown himself to be of poor moral fiber.”

“Mr. Poindexter, please. Just a few more days.”

Gussie winced, pained by the desperation she heard in Lonestar’s voice. His dream was slipping away and he was trying his best to hold fast to it.

“No, don’t waste your breath. I’ve made up my—.”

Unable to let his dream be wrenched from his grasp, Gussie stepped out on the porch. She forced a smile to her lips and tamped down her temper as the two men focused on her. Lonestar, as she expected, wore a look of desperation. His wide mouth was set in a grim line and he was leaning forward toward Mr. Poindexter, his hands fisted in frustration. Mr. Poindexter looked unruffled – even a bit holier-than-thou. She couldn’t abide how he’d been speaking to Lonestar. Like he had no recourse, no way to find even footing.

“Excuse me for interrupting,” she said, tipping up her chin and telling herself to follow her instincts and not worry about consequences right now. “Has Mr. Lonestar told you of our news?”

Lonestar rose slowly to his feet and she moved to his side. Boldly, she slipped her hand in the crook of his arm and smiled up at him. He answered with a knitting of his brows and a wariness in his eyes.

“We’ve been talking business,” Mr. Poindexter said.

She smoothed her free hand down her skirt in a nervous gesture, rounded up every shred of courage, and looked Mr. Poindexter square in the eyes. “We’re to be wed – Mr. Lonestar and I.”

She heard the hitch in Lonestar’s breathing and felt his body give a little jerk. Would he contradict her? Question her?

“You two are getting married?” Mr. Poindexter’s eyebrows scrambled up his forehead. “This is right sudden, ain’t it? I was just talking to Lonestar about him courting Daisy Sherman and he didn’t deny it.”

“It is sudden,” she allowed. Daisy Sherman? She filed that name away. “I’ve no doubt that he’s courted other ladies, but we have decided to marry, so his courting days are over.” She wished the butterflies swarming in her stomach would settle. Having been in more small towns that she could rightly recall, she knew a few things about them – such as, news traveled fast. Mr. Poindexter would hear about how she came to Pear Orchard soon enough, so she determined that there was no need for her to try to hide it. “Originally, I was to marry Bob Babbitt.”

“What?” The old man ran a hand down his face. “Babbitt, you say?”

“Yes. I had corresponded with him. But, when I arrived I discovered that he’d lied to me about his station in life. I met Mr. Lonestar and he and his family took it upon themselves to offer me temporary lodging until I determined my next move. They’ve been very kind to me. Mr. Lonestar told me about his desire to be married and raise a family on this land.” She gave his arm a little squeeze and chanced a glance at him. Wonderment sparkled in his brown eyes and a smile poked at the corners of his mouth. “He asked me to marry him and I consented.”

For a few moments, it seemed that the birds stopped singing, the crickets stopped chirping, the hens stopped clucking, and even her heart stopped beating. Lonestar narrowed his eyes ever so slightly and then placed his hand over hers where it rested on his arm. Just that simple touch settled her nerves and started her heart again. She released her breath in a quiet whoosh.

“Where’d you come from?” Mr. Poindexter asked.

“Missouri. My father is a blacksmith and I’m not a stranger to hard work. We will make a fine living here, sir. When will you sign over the deed?”

Mr. Poindexter blinked in surprise. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.”

Lonestar squeezed her hand. “We made a deal, Mr. Poindexter. You said I could buy the land if I married.”

“How do I know that this gal didn’t come from some saloon somewhere?”

She felt Lonestar stiffen beside her and quickly fired back, “I am not a saloon girl.”

“She is a lady, through and through,” Lonestar said, and his voice had grit in it. “And I’ll not have you talking about her or to her in that way,” His eyes glittered with warning.

Pride lifted Gussie until she felt nearly as tall as the man beside her.

Mr. Poindexter’s jaw came unhinged, but then he snapped his teeth together and squinted one eye, reassessing the couple in front of him. “Simmer down, you two. I apologize, ma’am. This is just a mite peculiar.” He twirled his mustache in quiet contemplation. “Tell you what. You bring me a marriage certificate within seven days and the money we agreed on for this place and I’ll sign the deed over to you, Lonestar.” He held up a finger and shook it. “Seven days. That’s all you get.”

“That’s more than I’ll need,” Lonestar assured him. He stuck out his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Poindexter. We’ll be back soon.”

The old man pushed to his feet and shook Lonestar’s hand. He gave Gussie a nod. “Hope y’all know what you’re doin’. Marriage ain’t something to play at. You’ll be hitched for better or worse, so you better think hard about it.”

“Yes, sir.” Lonestar escorted Gussie off the porch and helped her up into the buggy seat. He doffed his hat at Mr. Poindexter before taking up the reins and guiding the horse and vehicle into a semi-circle. It wasn’t until they were on the road back to the Karlsson farm that he turned slowly to face Gussie. “I appreciate what you did back there. Well, appreciate is too mild a word for it. But . . . are you sure?”

“He had no right to talk to you like that.” She folded her arms and stared straight ahead. “I heard what he said about you being part Indian and how no self-respecting female would have anything to do with you.”

“He’s right.”

She glared at him. “Beg your pardon? Are you saying you were lying and that you think I’m not respectable?”

“No, that’s not . . . of course, that’s not what I meant. It’s just that . . . well, most folks like me well enough, but not well enough to take me into their family.”

She smiled, grimly. “I know how people can be. Two-faced. Saying one thing and meaning another. Smiling at your front and sticking their tongues out at your back.” Rolling her shoulders, she made herself relax. “Who is Daisy Sherman?”

His eyebrows lifted. “One of the flower sisters.”

“The what?”

“The Sherman females are named after flowers. Their mother is Rose and the girls are Daisy and Pansy. Their father is the school master in Pear Orchard and also pastor at the Bible Baptist Church.”

She fiddled with the tear in her glove. “Is Daisy your sweetheart?”

“No.” He sighed. “I was . . . that is, I’ve been . . .”

“Courting her,” she said, rescuing him from his tied tongue.

“Not . . . yes. I guess. Yes.”

“Is she pretty?”

“Pretty enough.”

Pretty enough. Well, that was a half-hearted compliment if she’d ever heard one.

They rolled on as the day lengthened and the silence grew weighted between them. As the Karlsson farmhouse came into view, Lonestar shifted, his hip rubbing against hers.

“Miss Horton, are you sure about this?”

She huffed out a heated breath. “No, but I will be.” She glanced at him with razor-sharp intensity. “I won’t back out, if that’s what you’re fretting over. Once I say I’ll do something, then I’m doing it. Besides, we’re both getting something out of this. You’re not the only one with dreams, you know.”

She felt his keen regard, but kept facing forward, feeling a little embarrassed for revealing more to him than she’d meant to. It was early times and she had learned the hard way not to show your tender spots to folks unless you could stand for them to be poked. Still feeling like a stranger in a strange land, she cautioned herself to watch her step, especially with a man as appealing as Max Lonestar. He made her want to believe in naive things like star-crossed lovers and one-true loves. That was dangerous – but in a good way. She hoped.