Sequins and Spurs

Ruby gave him a look filled with appreciation. “Thank you for putting aside your resentment and giving me a chance.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Nash took a step back. “Goodnight, Ruby.”

She offered him a soft smile. “Goodnight.”

He locked the kitchen door and went up to his room. Thanks to Ruby he had his children back under his roof and could rest easy about that. Her presence here wasn’t conducive to sleep, however.

He thought of her traveling the country with her theater friends and riding that horse all the way to Nebraska on her own. In a way it bothered him, but on the other hand she impressed him beyond measure. He couldn’t think of another woman who would be so independent or daring. Few females would have packed a bag, saddled a horse and ridden alone for weeks and weeks.

Ruby was not like other women.

And those differences kept him awake at night.

Author of more than fifty romances, CHERYL ST. JOHN’s stories have earned RITA® nominations, Romantic Times awards, and are published in a dozen languages. In describing her stories of second chances, readers use words like ‘emotional punch, believable characters and real-life situations’. Visit her at www.cherylstjohn.net

Sequins and Spurs

Cheryl St.John

“Forgiveness is not an occasional act, it is a constant attitude.”

—Martin Luther King, Jr.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Quote

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Crosby, Nebraska, 1883

The screen door barely squeaked, but the familiar sound made Ruby’s heart leap. She’d never tiptoed all the way across the porch without Mama hearing that hinge and ordering her back to finish chores. Ruby Gail! Stop right there, missy.

Apprehension and uncertainty rising, she pushed open the unlocked interior door and entered the front room. In the remaining light of day it took a minute for her eyes to adjust enough for her to tell the furniture had been arranged differently, and the curtains at the windows were unfamiliar. The farmhouse sat eerily silent. No cooking smells met her senses; in fact, she wrinkled her nose at a faint antiseptic scent mingled with lingering lemon wax.

She hung her hat on a doorknob, lit the lantern sitting on a nearby table, and held it high to investigate. In the golden glow, she noted a light film of dust covering the wood furniture. Ruby frowned. Her mother dusted this room every day.

Stifling her unease, Ruby tiptoed across the dining room and through the open door into the nearly dark kitchen. Half a dozen dirty coffee cups sat on the sink board, but other than those, there was no sign of occupancy.

“Mama?” Ruby called. Striding to the back door, she flung it open and studied the dooryard. Chickens squawked from inside a wire enclosure. The plot where her mother always grew a vegetable garden was overgrown with weeds and a scattering of volunteer beans. Concern grew to a heavy weight in Ruby’s chest.

Lighting lamps as she went, she searched each room. Finding no one downstairs, she headed up the worn front staircase.

“Mama?” Ruby’s voice echoed throughout the upper hallway, and her unease rolled over into trepidation.

All the doors were closed. She went to her mother’s straightaway, a flicker of panic pumping her blood faster as she stood with her hand on the faceted glass knob. “Mama?” she called, more softly this time.

The bed was neatly made with a plain wool blanket, instead of the quilt she remembered. On the dresser sat an ivory-handled comb and brush set Ruby recognized. She picked up the comb and ran her thumbnail across the teeth. On the surface of the bureau remained a clean outline where the comb had lain. Her heart skipped a beat. She placed the comb back where it had been.

In the mirror over the bureau, a worried face—a face that had seen too much sun this past week—stared back at her. She looked down. Opening a few drawers revealed neat stacks of clean stockings and underclothing. The scent of lavender offered a small measure of reassurance. Dozens of memories washed over her, some of them good. In the armoire, Laura Dearing’s dresses and cotton shirtwaists hung in neat order. Ruby caressed a sleeve and drew it to her cheek. Where was her mother?

From the doorway, she peered into her sister’s room. It, too, seemed unused. Pearl had undoubtedly married and moved to town or to another farm. Perhaps she lived a far distance and her mother had gone visiting. If that was so, however, Mama would have taken her comb and brush.

After finding the other two bedrooms unoccupied as well, Ruby at last entered her old room. Pink-and-white flowered wallpaper had been added. Lace curtains replaced the faded checkered cotton of her girlhood days. She didn’t recognize the doll on the bed. Another child had apparently stayed here.

Opening drawers and checking the wardrobe, Ruby found nothing familiar—nothing at all. The few pieces of clothing she discovered belonged to a small girl, which was puzzling. It was as though Ruby had never been here. But of course, what had she expected? She hadn’t been home for eight years. Any clothing she’d left behind wouldn’t fit her fuller figure now, anyway.

Back on the main floor she did a closer inspection. There were staples in the pantry: coffee, flour, beans. The bin beside the stove held chunks of firewood, but even the stove was coated with a layer of dirt.

Ruby headed out the way she’d entered. She untied her bundle of belongings from the saddle, set it inside the door and then led the Duchess to the barn. “Hopefully, there’s something tasty for your supper, girl,” she said to the horse. “You deserve a treat and a nice long rest.”

As she approached the structure in the near dark, she spotted a building she hadn’t seen before. Farther to the west and bordered by rows of cottonwoods stretched a long low stable.

She led the horse to the trough first, then unsaddled her and walked her indoors. The three nearest stalls were occupied by very pregnant mares. Ruby spoke to each of them and rubbed their bony foreheads. “Who’s taking care of you ladies?”

The oats in the bin were fresh, so she scooped a pail, set it inside a stall in the back corner and led in the Duchess. The impeccable neatness of the barn contrasted with the evident neglect in the house.

Her mother’s absence grew more troubling, and Ruby didn’t like the growing feeling of dread. Heading back to the house, she found supplies in the pantry, lit the stove and made herself a pan of biscuits. She’d hoped for something more than what she’d been eating on the trail, but this was quick and filling.

She prepared coffee, washed all the dirty cups and then filled a pail with sudsy water and wiped every surface in the kitchen, changing the water twice. Wherever her mother was, she’d be mortified if she knew how much dirt had settled in her house. Speculation spun in Ruby’s mind. Someone was taking good care of those horses out there.

It was foolish to leave all the lanterns burning, so she moved through the rooms, turning down the wicks. Back in the kitchen, she was so tired she could barely think. She’d figure out things tomorrow and do more investigating when it was light.

She’d pour one more cup of coffee and then go up to sleep. Ruby settled herself at the table.

* * *

A sound woke her.

Disoriented, Ruby sat up with a crick in her neck and groaned. She’d fallen asleep with her head on the kitchen table. It was full dark, and someone was outside. Perhaps her mother was returning!

Ruby jumped up and peered out between the panels of the curtain. In the moonlight, a tall, broad figure moved toward the house. Certainly not her mother and definitely not anyone she knew.

She held her breath, waiting for the man to pound on the door. Instead of a knock, the doorknob turned and he entered the house uninvited. The hair on the back of her neck rose and her heart rate accelerated.

She shrank back against the still-warm stove, her hand coming in contact with the skillet she’d set there to dry. As silently as possible, she picked up the heavy pan and got a two-fisted grip on the handle.

The stranger fumbled in the dark, most likely looking for a match. He groped along the shelf beside the door, coming closer to where she stood. If he found the matches and lit the lamp, he’d see her standing there.

She was trapped in the kitchen with an intruder.

She stood in the moonlight that arrowed through the slit in the curtains. He stopped short.

He’d spotted her.

Shooting into action, Ruby lunged forward with the skillet.

Moving with more agility than she’d expected, the intruder ducked, and the pan whacked him on the back of the head. With an “oomph,” he crumpled sideways, striking a chair and knocking it over. As though fighting for consciousness, he groped for the table, but fell forward directly onto it and lay unmoving.

Heart pounding, Ruby reached for the matches and lit the wall lamp as well as the lantern.

The man sprawled across her mother’s kitchen table wore dusty dungarees and boots, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled back over corded forearms. He groaned and his hat fell away, revealing midnight-black hair and a jaw with a day’s growth of beard. He was a dangerous-looking fellow, one she’d never seen before in her life. He’d probably come looking to rob the place while her mother was gone.

“Now what do I do with him?” Realizing she still gripped the heavy skillet, Ruby rested the impromptu weapon back on the stove with a clang. This fellow was a lot bigger and stronger looking than she. If he came to, she wouldn’t have much chance of fighting or subduing him.

She cast her gaze about the room, wildly grasping for a solution. Noting the cotton square of toweling she’d hung to dry, she jerked open a cabinet to find a stack of embroidered towels.

* * *

Nash’s head throbbed and red blotches swam behind his eyelids. Attempting to round his shoulders and move his neck, he emitted a groan. A wave of shock racked him. He couldn’t move.

He blinked against harsh light, and the memory of finding someone standing in the dark kitchen swept over him. Something or someone had come toward him, and he hadn’t been fast enough to escape the blow to the back of his neck.

Was he paralyzed? Genuinely panicked now, he tried to raise his hands, move his feet. He could feel them. But why couldn’t he move his limbs more than a fraction of an inch?

Squinting, he opened his eyes against the painful glare. He was sitting in a kitchen chair, his arms behind him.

A figure moved into his line of vision. A woman in boots, a riding skirt and an unbecoming loose shirt. Some member of an outlaw gang hiding out here? Who else was nearby? He’d seen no one and nothing out of the ordinary when he’d come to the house.

She stood in front of him, and he raised his aching head to discover a startling halo of wild, curly golden hair. A jolt ran through his befuddled mind, but after the first initial stab of pain, relief settled over him.

He was dreaming.

It was the most realistic dream he’d ever had, though he couldn’t recall going to bed. The last thing he remembered was heading into the house. He’d never made it across the kitchen.

He studied the realistic vision standing before him. What on God’s green earth had his wife done to her hair?

She was a little more slender than he remembered, but it was hard to tell with that baggy shirt. In real life Pearl would never have been caught dead in a getup like that. She’d ironed even the dresses she wore to do laundry and cook and work in the garden, and all her clothing had been made in feminine colors, with collars and ruffles and pleats.

Hard to tell at that moment if his head or his heart was hurting more. He closed his eyes and made a concerted effort to wake up. Doing so, he felt lonelier than ever, but at least awake he had control over his memories.

“Who are you?” she asked.

That wasn’t Pearl’s voice. Pearl’s tone had always been soft and lilting. The dream woman’s gravelly voice sounded as though she’d been screaming for a week. He opened his eyes and frowned.

“I said who are you? What did you come looking for?”

“Coffee, I think.”

“Come morning I’m going for the marshal,” she said. “And you’re going to jail.”

“If Marcus Styles puts anyone in jail, it’ll be you.” Nash frowned again. “But then dream people can’t go to jail, can they?”

“Are you touched in the head, mister?”

“I wasn’t until....” He scanned the room as it slowly came into focus, taking note of the cup and saucer on the table, the cast-iron skillet on the stove. A very heavy skillet, as he recalled. “Is that what you hit me with?”

No wonder he was still seeing stars! He tested his hands once again, finding them securely bound behind his back. His feet, too, were firmly tied to the legs of the chair.

“Sit still or I’ll clobber you again,” she threatened, dropping onto a chair.

Now that she sat directly in front of him and he didn’t have to squint upward, he had a better view. Her shiny hair was wilder than Pearl’s, flaxen ringlets curling in haphazard disarray. Her face and hands weren’t pale as Pearl’s had been. But her features were delicate and feminine, her nose slim, albeit freckled. She had eyes as blue as his wife’s, but with dark lashes that belied her pale hair.

And her mouth... It was wider, her lips more full... She had a mouth that would keep a man tied in knots.

Something about her reminded him of Pearl’s mother, Laura, as well. Perhaps her eyes. Perhaps the stare that seemed to look into a person’s soul, and required accountability.

He wasn’t dreaming.

He knew exactly who this woman was. “The question is what are you doing here?”

“This is my home,” she declared.

“I don’t think so.”

“And what does a robber know about me?”

“I’m not a robber. Untie me.”

“So you can tie me up? Or perhaps kill me and steal everything in the house?”

“There’s nothin’ in this house that amounts to much,” he told her. “If I was going to rob someone I’d find a more prosperous rancher. And I know everything I need to know about you.” Then he added, “Ruby.”

Chapter Two

Her eyes widened in surprise and she straightened on her chair. Her gaze darted aside for a moment and then narrowed on his face again. “How do you know my name?”

“You look just like your sister. Well, not just like her. You’re not as pretty.”

His insult didn’t seem to faze her. “You know my sister?”

Anger and remorse carved a new pain in his chest. He swallowed before saying, “Yes.”

“Who are you?” she asked again.

“Nash Sommerton.”

Her expression revealed no recognition. She gave her head a half shake.

“Her husband,” he clarified.

Ruby’s confusion was plain, but oddly, it seemed tempered with relief. She cast him a skeptical glance. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“Why would I lie?”

“Where is she?”

“Untie me.”

“Where is she?”

“Untie me.”

They sat like that for a full minute, staring at each other, hobbled in a battle of control. He knew a stalemate when he encountered one. He’d learned most of what he knew about this woman from his wife and mother-in-law, women who didn’t speak evil of anyone and who always expected the best. The rest he’d learned from what they hadn’t said—from the hurt on their faces and the silence that yawned when her name came up.

“Your sister is dead,” he said finally. It made him angry to say it like that. To be helpless to escape the fact.

“You’re lying.” Ruby narrowed her eyes and gave him an accusatory glare. “I don’t know why you’d say such a cruel thing, but you’re lying.”

“I might be a lot of things,” he replied. “But I’m not a liar.”

Her doubt was easy to read.

“Look around,” he suggested. “She’s not here. Hasn’t been here for nearly two years.”

“She’s probably somewhere else. If you’re her husband, she’s at your place.”

“This is my place.”

Ruby’s mouth opened and shut before she asked, “What are you talking about?”

“The Lazy S is my ranch now.”

“This is the Dearing farm.”

“It’s not a farm. Only crops out there are grains to feed the horses. Did you not notice that on your way in?”

She’d noticed. He saw it on her face.

“Two years?” she questioned, as though just grasping the information. “How could she be dead?” She shook her head. “I mean—how? How did it happen?”

“She was driving back from town with supplies. A storm came up and the wagon overturned in Little Wolf Creek. She was trapped under it. She drowned.”

Ruby didn’t want to believe him. “Where’s my mother?”

“You’d have known all this if you’d have been here.”

“Where is my mother?”

He drew a breath, but paused. Finally, he looked Ruby in the eye. “She died in April.”

Something flickered behind her eyes. Disbelief? Anger? “Now I know you’re making all this up. You expect me to believe they’re both dead?”

He shrugged as best he could with his hands bound behind his back. The woman was darned good with a knot. “See for yourself. Your mother’s things are all just the way they were when she was here.”

Plain enough, that statement rang true. Some of the color drained from Ruby’s cheeks.

He jerked his head to indicate an easterly direction, and winced when pain crept up his neck. “There are three graves up on the rise that overlooks Deer Hollow.”

The rest of the color had drained from her face by now. “Three?”

He resented being the one to tell her all this. He resented talking about it at all. “Lost a baby four years ago.”

She got up and left the room.

* * *

Ruby stood at the foot of the stairs, her hand on the worn banister, her heart in her throat. Crushing fear rose up and threatened to suck the air from her lungs. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing this nightmare to end...willing sanity and reason to return. Needing her world to settle back on its axis and stop careening out of control.

The dust everywhere, her mother’s clothing, the vanity set and hairbrush... It all added up to confirm that man’s claims.

But she didn’t know him.

What reason would he have to make up a story like that?

She didn’t know him.

Where else could her mother be if he wasn’t telling the truth?

“Ruby!” The man’s angry voice carried from the kitchen. “Come back here and untie me!”

Trembling, she lowered herself to the bottom step and rested her spinning head on her knees.

His story did explain everything, even the hay field she’d seen on her way here...her mother’s forgotten vegetable garden. If all his claims were true and Pearl and her mother were dead, Ruby was too late. She covered her mouth with a trembling hand. She could never make up for the past.

“Come back here now, Ruby!”

She disregarded his ravings and sat like that until her backside and spine ached. Sat there while the impact of that man’s information sank in. Ruby became lost in her thoughts and the grief that bore down on her. She sank to the floor and half sat, half laid with her head on a step.

She’d waited too long.

He stopped yelling and she lost track of time and place. Eventually, with stiff movements, she stood and crossed the foyer to open the front door. The first rays of morning sun were visible behind the horizon. From the porch, she watched them creep above the cottonwoods that lined the river in the distance, until eventually she made out the yard and barn.

Ignoring her complaining body, she set out across a pasture, dew making the grass slippery under the soles of her boots. A cool breeze lifted her hair from her face and neck. At the top of a rise, silhouetted against the pale orange sky, stood three crosses.

Heart aching, not daring to breathe, Ruby approached.

In the dim morning light she made out the names burned into the wood. Margaret May Sommerton. Pearl Dearing Sommerton. And the last—the newest—in the same neat lettering: Laura McWhirter Dearing.

Ruby dropped to her knees in the dewy grass.

All the way to Nebraska she’d planned what she would say to her family. A million times she’d imagined the scene and their conversation and reactions. She had so much to make up for, so much to explain. She’d made plenty of mistakes, staying away so long being the biggest, but she’d hoped for forgiveness. Now she would never get to say the things she needed to say.

She would never be able to tell her mother she was sorry. She’d missed her last opportunity. While she’d been singing in theaters, eating and sleeping in hotels across the eastern states, her mother and sister had needed her here.

All those years her mother had believed Ruby didn’t love her or care enough to come home—to stay home. But she’d loved Mama. Of course she had loved her.

Tears came then; great racking sobs rose from her belly and her chest heaved.

She hadn’t said goodbye.

Her grief combined with overwhelming guilt and regret until it hurt to breathe. It didn’t seem right to be here with the breaking sun on her face or to hear the sound of birds chirping in the nearby trees when the rest of her family was gone.

Finally, through her tears, Ruby turned her gaze to her sister’s grave. Now that the sky had brightened, the neatly mown grass in this spot and the beds of violets planted at the head of each plot caught her attention.

Never again would she see Pearl’s bright smile. Gone was the person who’d shared her memories of growing up, the sister who shared her father and knew the same pain of loss. Now there was no one to remember him with. No one with the same curly hair or blue eyes. Ruby was alone.

She turned her bleary gaze to the grave marked Margaret May. Buried here was the baby Pearl’s husband had mentioned. Ruby didn’t know if Margaret had died as a newborn or if she’d lived a short while, but in either case, Ruby felt Pearl’s loss now, and it became her own.

The wetness that had soaked through her skirt made her knees ache. Pushing herself to her feet, she studied the dip in the landscape and the trees that outlined what her father had named Deer Hollow, because of the deer that tiptoed from cover to feed in the early morning and late evening. A pair grazed in the valley below her now. The largest one lifted its head to look right at her, obviously finding her no threat, because it went right back to feeding.