He smiled and shook his head. “Afraid not. Covered wagons are only permitted on the roads during Kincade’s annual Easter Parade or on special occasions such as weddings.”
“Oh…I see.” Disappointment echoed through her voice. “Ever since I was a little girl I’ve always wanted a ride in a real covered wagon, like the ones the settlers used when they made the trip across the country to California.”
“One of my father’s friends collects pioneer memorabilia,” Spencer told her. “Perhaps while you’re here I can arrange a tour for you, and maybe even a ride in one of the wagons.”
“That would be lovely,” Maura responded warmly.
“How was your bus trip?” Spencer asked as they climbed the stairs.
“Better than a wagon ride I guess,” she joked. “But long and tiring just the same.”
Spencer ushered her ahead of him, giving him the opportunity to study her. She wore a jean jacket and coffee-colored shirt and a pair of jeans that fit snugly, accentuating the rounded curve of her bottom.
A mass of coppery-red hair cascaded down her back in riotous disarray and framed a heart-shaped face he’d never quite been able to forget.
Not for the first time Spencer wondered at the reason for Maura’s complete change of heart. Two months ago, while he and his parents had been visiting a stud farm near Lexington, Kentucky, he’d happened to mention to a group of his host’s friends the difficulties he was having with one of his prize racehorses.
One of the guests proceeded to tell him about Maura O’sullivan, a local horse trainer, extolling her talents and the almost magical success she’d had working with troubled and abused horses.
Spencer had voiced his skepticism, but his host had assured him Maura O’sullivan could indeed work magic.
Later that same evening he’d come face-to-face with the stunning redhead and, deciding he had nothing to lose and everything to gain, he’d told her about Indigo and invited her to his ranch in California.
He recalled quite vividly the scornful look she’d subjected him to, before none-too-politely tossing his invitation back in his face, repeating a few of the negative comments she’d undoubtedly overheard him make.
That’s why her call a week ago asking if he still needed help with his horse had come as something of a shock. But with little progress being made with Indigo, and an important race less than ten days away, he’d been hard-pressed to turn down her offer.
“You have a beautiful home,” Maura commented.
“Thank you. The stables are out back. I’ll give you a tour later,” Spencer said.
As they approached the front door it was suddenly opened and Maura instantly recognized the attractive, silver-haired woman smiling at her.
“Maura! I thought I heard voices. It’s so good to see you.” Nora Diamond’s greeting was warm and sincere, and Maura suddenly found herself enveloped in a welcoming hug.
At the unexpected embrace tears stung her eyes and she quickly blinked them away. “Thank you, Mrs. Diamond. It’s good to see you. You’re looking well.”
“Thank you,” Nora replied, stepping aside. “Please, come in. How was your journey? Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”
“The trip was tiring, and thank you, I never say no to a cup of coffee,” Maura replied.
“Spencer, dear, take Maura’s suitcase up to her room.”
“Of course, Mother.” Spencer was already heading for the stairs.
Maura followed Nora across the tiled foyer and along a hallway past a large dining room and on into a bright, spacious kitchen.
A large wooden butcher block occupied the center of the room, and forming a U-shape around it, and all within easy access, was the stove, fridge and double sink.
The cupboards were painted a pristine white, and the countertop, in a contrasting slate blue, matched the large venetian tiles covering the floor.
The work area was well laid out and Maura especially liked the array of copper pots and pans hanging from the ceiling above the butcher block.
A round oak table and six matching chairs sat near a bay window that overlooked the veranda. Beyond that lay the garden, and in the distance Maura could see the rooftops of buildings and guessed they were the stables.
“What a beautiful kitchen,” Maura commented.
“Thank you. Please have a seat,” Nora invited as she crossed to the counter. “So tell me, how was your trip?”
“Very nice, thank you,” Maura replied politely. “I love watching the changing countryside.” She didn’t drive and hated flying. The two-day bus trip across five states had been a pleasant alternative.
Throughout the journey she’d been preoccupied with trying to formulate a plan of how she could arrange a meeting with her father.
Maura had only learned of her father’s existence a month ago. She’d been cleaning out a closet full of her mother’s things when she’d come across an old shoebox. Inside she’d found a variety of papers including an old journal written in her mother’s handwriting.
Intrigued, Maura had read the daily entries written by her mother at the age of twenty-one. But when Maura reached the entry describing in detail the warm summer day her mother met a handsome young man named Michael Carson, the tone and content of the journal changed dramatically.
They’d bumped into each other at the Bridlewood Country Fair, and from that day forward Bridget Murphy’s journal had been filled with the romantic musings of a young woman in love.
Maura soon realized that her mother and the young man had become lovers. But a month after their first meeting, Mickey, as her mother had affectionately called him, had returned to California. After his departure the journal entries had begun to dwindle until they stopped altogether.
Maura couldn’t help feeling disappointed that the romance hadn’t worked out. About to close the journal she’d noticed an envelope tucked between its worn pages.
The envelope written in her mother’s handwriting was addressed to Michael Carson, Walnut Grove, Kincade, California. The letter had been opened and read, but scrawled across the address were the words Return to Sender.
Inside was a letter her mother had written. It began:
“Dear Mickey…I’m going to have a baby, your baby…”
Stunned, she’d read the journal and letter again, noting the date on the letter was two months before she was born. Michael Carson was her father.
At first she hadn’t known what to do or where to turn. But after making a few discreet phone calls she’d discovered that Michael Carson still resided in the small California town of Kincade.
“What do you take in your coffee?” The question came from Spencer as he crossed to the table, carrying a tray with cups and saucers, cream and sugar. She’d been too distracted by her thoughts to hear his return, but his deep, resonant voice quickly brought her attention to the present.
Maura met Spencer’s blue gaze, and for several long seconds she knew exactly how a deer felt when it found itself trapped in the glare of headlights.
Her breath snagged in her throat, and a guilty warmth crept up her neck and over her face. Her heart reacted, too, knocking wildly against her ribs.
“Uh…sorry.” she muttered. “I was daydreaming, enjoying the view,” she said, flashing a nervous smile.
“Really,” Spencer commented. “From the way you were frowning, I’d bet my bottom dollar you were puzzling over something. A problem perhaps?” He held her gaze,