Maverick Wild. Stacey Kayne

clear in her mind, easing the fear gripping her throat like a vice. She was glad to find the oil lamp already burning in her room, the warm glow spilling into the hall, as well as an odd scent. She stopped in the doorway, surprised by the large bouquet of bright flowers on the bureau.

      Garret.

      She couldn’t fathom who else would have brought them up to her room. Shutting the door behind her, she approached the colorful cluster, unsure how to take the young man’s attention. She leaned close to the tiny flowers in yellow, white, lavender and pink and breathed in their rather earthy, medicinal scent. A smile eased her tense expression.

      No one had ever given her flowers. Garret had been nothing but sweet to her and couldn’t be faulted for picking pretty weeds. They did brighten the room. She lifted the wildflowers from the water-filled jar and folded them into her apron. Once dried, they’d be a lovely decoration.

      She knelt before her trunk at the foot of her bed, pushed it open and began sifting through her pride and joy—bundles of yarn and balls of thread in every color. When she’d fled, she’d simply shoved some dresses into her sewing trunk before lowering it out of the window. Her sole possession had given her the greatest comfort during her journey west, and had been her only escape during the month of imprisonment with her mother. Why couldn’t Winifred have just left her alone?

      She often wondered if her mother would have treated her differently had she not inherited her father’s hair color and, presumably, his sturdy build. She’d never been given the name of her father, though she’d overheard enough whispers to surmise her existence was the result of her mother’s failed attempt to secure a titled Scotsman.

      She took some solace in knowing her father had had enough sense to outrun her mother. Just as Cora had more sense than to marry some drunken laird simply on her mother’s say-so. She was finished being the martyr to her mother’s past. She only wished she’d run sooner. She’d been such a fool to believe, to hope, her mother could feel sincere affection toward anyone. Winifred had shunned the Morgan name the moment it had been of no more use to her, just as she’d dumped her own daughter off at the textile mill, until she’d found use for her.

      “It doesn’t matter,” she told herself, fighting the unwanted memories from her mind and the ache from her chest. She was here, making a new start. Wyoming could bring no worse a fate than her mother’s betrayal.

      She moved aside balls of yarn and stacks of small white flowers she’d crocheted during her travels. Once on the train west, she’d been thankful she’d shoved an armload of dresses into her sewing trunk before lowering it from her bedroom window.

      Finding the lavender yarn, she quickly bound the stems. She left a long piece at the end and carried the bundle to the window where the colorful bouquet could dry in the sun.

      The rod holding gingham fabric over the window was too high to reach, even on tiptoe. She pushed her sewing chest against the wall, climbed atop the curved lid, pushed back the curtains and stretched to tie the yarn around the wooden dowel. Outside, beyond the grassy lawn, the barns stood out like children’s blocks against an onyx sky. A figure moved into the light of a single lantern at the end of a stable. He shut one of the wide doors.