The Wyoming Heir. Naomi Rawlings

      Chapter Six

      Elizabeth scooted toward the far side of the carriage, giving the rancher—not cowboy—more room as he sat beside her. She hadn’t considered that he and his sister would attend the banquet together, or that he would insist they take his carriage, not Jackson’s. She didn’t want to share a carriage with the man after offending him earlier that afternoon.

      Though she still wasn’t sure how she’d offended him. Surely the man couldn’t be upset because she’d asked for a donation, could he?

      She clasped her gloved hands together on her lap. What had Jonah been thinking, anyway, to leave the estate to his grandson? It would have been much simpler had Jonah divided up his legacy before his death and donated everything to charity. Then again, maybe he’d planned to do that in a few more years. No one had been expecting that sudden heart attack.

      “Good evening, Miss Wells.” Mr. Hayes’s voice rumbled from beside her.

      She glanced his way, then down at her lap. My, but he did look dashing in a tuxedo, all the wild strength of the West, thinly veiled in dark evening attire. Now if only he would trade in that cowboy hat for a proper top hat.

      But cowboy hat or not, he’d still be the most sought-after man at the banquet. He had too much money and too-fine looks for people to ignore him. Not that she cared in the least.

      And she’d best find something productive to talk about, lest she sit here contemplating his appearance for an hour. “Jackson, about our previous discussion, have you—”

      “Not now, Elizabeth.” Jackson flicked his hand as though getting rid of a fly. “I’m sure Mr. Hayes has more pressing things to discuss than your preoccupation with food costs at the academy.”

      “I’m not—”

      “Mr. Hayes.” Jackson nodded at the rancher. “Please accept my sincere condolences about your grandfather.”

      Mr. Hayes’s hands gripped the edge of the seat, and his body tensed as though he would vault from their bench and squeeze between the courting couple across the carriage. The man was quite good at issuing threats with his eyes, and this one read: Jackson Wells, touch my sister, and you’ll regret it.

      “Jonah Hayes was a great businessman,” her brother continued. Whether oblivious to Mr. Hayes’s disapproval or purposely ignoring it, she couldn’t tell. “Not to mention one of my father’s most faithful and generous supporters.”

      “Yes.” Mr. Hayes’s eyes glinted with studied coolness. “I understand my grandfather was a faithful supporter of a great many things.”

      Jackson laughed, the overly loud sound bouncing off the carriage walls. “Have you considered following in your grandfather’s footsteps and donating funds to one of New York’s longest sitting and most popular assemblymen? My father has personally passed legislation that...”

      The sun cast its fading orange rays inside the carriage while the familiar discussion about politics and campaigning swirled around her. Elizabeth shifted in the seat and made herself comfortable as the carriage wheels rumbled over the road.

      If they were exactly 5.2 miles from Albany and they reached Albany in 56 minutes, that meant they traveled at a rate of 5.474 miles per hour. So say the wheels on the carriage were twenty-four inches in diameter, what would be the wheels’ rate of rotation? She closed her eyes, letting the numbers and equations dance before her.

      But even with her eyes shut, the scents of grass and sun and musk emanated from the person beside her, and the seat dipped ever so slightly in Mr. Hayes’s direction, making him rather unforgettable—even with her equations.

      It was going to be a long ride.

      * * *

      As the carriage threaded through the crowded streets of Albany, Mr. Hayes and Jackson continued to discuss Father’s politics. Jackson talking about Father’s campaign and funding for an hour wasn’t unusual, but Mr. Hayes not agreeing to give away a penny?