And honestly, the pair of dimples flashing in his stubble-roughened cheeks when he had handed her Lulu and called her bacon had nearly made her fall again.
As far as handsome went in her requirement of a husband, the stranger was all that and more.
Still, there was brave, tender and devoted to be considered. Chances are he was devoted, having taken his valuable time to bring a pair of old women to tea.
Whether he would be brave and tender in a marriage, she had no way of knowing. He might be married already. She ought to quit daydreaming and recognize that.
And aside from everything else, there was one more quality she would require of a mate. He would have to be a good kisser. Over the years she had imagined kisses of all kinds. Tender, wild, demanding and sweet as sugar.
There was one thing she did know about the stranger. Fate would never give her the opportunity to discover what mysteries those expressive lips might hold.
* * *
It was nearly dawn and Holly Jane hadn’t managed to capture a wink of sleep. There was something wrong with her bed and she knew just what it was.
It was no longer her bed. After years of snuggling into its downy sweetness, it was now the property of one Colt Travers. Every feather of her mattress and each neatly fluffed bow on her quilt belonged to him.
She threw back the covers and sat up. She set her bare feet on the cool floorboards and shivered for a moment.
“Get off my robe, Lulu.” She poked the pig with her toe, then picked up her robe and put it on.
Thoughts of a stranger coming into her home were unsettling. He’d walk about the rooms that she loved without knowing that Grandma had set pies in the kitchen window to cool, that Granddaddy smoked a pipe while he sat on the step of the front porch. He wouldn’t know that her mama walked out the front door with a sideshow barker while Holly Jane slept upstairs and that she had never come back. He wouldn’t know that the photo on the mantel was of her father and that he had died in a fire before she was born.
To Holly Jane, the stranger would feel the same as a thief. He’d invade her home and take everything familiar. He’d replace it with his own belongings and leave her bereft.
Colt Travers would do that, if she let him.
“Come on, Lulu, wouldn’t you like to nibble something in the parlor?”
The rooster crowed in the barn. Soon another day would begin and there was still no sign of the new owner. No doubt he was taking his own good time, not caring that her stomach ached with the suspense of waiting for the unknown.
She gathered courage coming down the stairs, by reminding herself that she wasn’t helpless. She had her weapons, although she hated to use them.
Her first stop was the dining room. A vase of dried-out flowers sat in the middle of the table. She tipped them over, broke a brittle stem and then wiped up a smear of water with the hem of her robe. She didn’t want to do permanent damage to the table. It would be hers again one day if the new owner didn’t sell it and put something repulsive in its place.
She ripped a cushion on the divan that was worn and needed replacing anyway. She scattered a handful of stuffing about the floor, which delighted Lulu to no end. The petite pig snorted at it and pushed it about with her snout.
After half an hour, the ruination of the house was satisfactory and she became weary. Just one more thing would make it a work of art.
“Come along, Lulu,” she called and walked into the kitchen.
She picked up a cookie from a plate that she had left on the table more than a week ago. It had aged to dry, crumbly perfection.
Holly Jane closed her fist about it and scattered crumbs of cinnamon and nutmeg over the table. She sprinkled some on the floor. The crumbs on the floor didn’t last because of Lulu.
Next, she went to the pantry and took out a bag of flour.
“All right, Lulu, give it your best.” She scattered the flour on the countertop and the stove. Then she tossed a handful in the air and let it land where it would.
“Almost perfect,” she muttered then dumped the rest of the bag on the floor.
Lulu squealed then rolled in it. She was a strange little creature. Most pigs enjoyed a roll in the mud. Not so her little friend—she liked wearing pretty bows in her ear and eating sweets.
“Go on now,” she said to the pig. “Trot about the house. Leave prints wherever you can.”
Lulu squinted small piggy eyes at her and lifted her flour-smeared snout.
“I won’t get angry. I promise.”
Lulu paddled into the parlor, happily grunting.
At last, fatigue weighted every muscle of Holly Jane’s body. She climbed the staircase toward the bed that used to be hers, thankful that this was Sunday. The Sweet Treat would be closed, and she would be able to sleep past sunup.
She fell into bed with flour caking her toes, smudging her nose and frosting her hair, but she was too weary to worry about it. She might sleep through Lulu’s demand for breakfast, and the little pig could be as persistent as an itch.
* * *
“Did you remember the parasol, Colt?” Grannie Rose asked while Colt lifted her onto the wagon seat. “And my blue satin dancing slippers?”
“Tucked away between your bloomers and your new straw bonnet.” At least the parasol was. The dancing slippers had gone to dust thirty years before.
Colt climbed up and settled between his grannie and his great-aunt. He felt the solid weight of the bench beneath him and inhaled the scent of new lumber.
He’d purchased the spanking new wagon after the old ladies had been tucked into the hotel, each with a glass of wine.
Excitement over seeing his new spread had kept him awake all night, so he’d risen before dawn to load the few belongings that had come with them from the Broken Brand and the trinkets that the ladies had taken a fancy to along the way.
They wouldn’t need much in the way of home goods since the ranch house had come with all the furnishings. He’d buy everything new for the barn, though. He meant to pamper the horses he would be breeding like they were kin...maybe not his own, but someone’s.
Ever since he’d been a kid he’d dreamed of having land where the strong beautiful creatures would run and frolic. Horses weren’t like cattle that were raised for the slaughterhouse. His animals would go for farming, pulling buggies, or the high-spirited ones might even go for racing.
Horses might have been what convinced William Munroe to sell him the land. He’d said that his granddaughter would be knee-deep in pleasure over it.
Evidently, Holly Jane had some sort of kinship with critters.
“Let’s get going, Colt,” Aunt Tillie said, nudging him in the ribs. “Woolgathering won’t get us to our new home.”
“Poor little Holly Jane must be frightened out there all by herself,” Grannie Rose said.
“She ain’t little, Grannie.” For some reason, Grannie thought Holly Jane was a child, even though he’d told her that she wasn’t, time and again. “She’s a spinster lady.”
“Is she?” Grannie frowned then brightened. “She ought to get on fine with Tillie, then.”
He hoped so. The care of three females, one not related, might be a challenge. He couldn’t imagine that the spinster would be grateful to see him, even though he was there to stand between her and the fool, feuding families.
The ride from town to the ranch was short. Only fifteen minutes by wagon...five, he figured, on horseback.
While