Winning Over the Wrangler. Linda Ford
stop it. It doesn’t matter if the chest was broad or fat or sweaty or...
But it wasn’t. He smelled of leather and horses and wild grass. A very pleasing blend of aromas.
That doesn’t matter. He means nothing to you and will mean nothing to you. Besides, didn’t Eddie say the man would stay only long enough to break some horses? And hadn’t Eddie further said the man gave no last name?
Quite the sort of fellow any woman would do well to avoid.
Not that Sybil Bannerman had any intention of doing otherwise. In her twenty years, she’d had her fill of people being snatched from her life or simply leaving of their own will, breaking off pieces of her heart in the process.
She bent over her knees as painful memories assailed her.
At only twelve years of age, Suzette, her dearest friend in the whole world, had drowned, leaving Sybil, also twelve at the time, lost, afraid and missing a very large portion of her heart.
She’d recovered enough at age sixteen to give her heart to Colin, the preacher’s son. They’d spent hours talking of their hopes and plans, and dreaming of a future together. She’d finally found a soul mate to replace Suzette. She had opened her heart to Colin, expecting his attention to grow into a formal courtship. She even dreamed of the frothy white dress she’d wear at their wedding, and considered where they might live. For the first time since Suzette’s death she’d felt whole and eager to share her thoughts and dreams.
No one had warned her it was temporary. Colin had never hinted that he’d changed his mind about how he felt about her, but a year after they met he left without a word of explanation. He never wrote or made any effort to keep in touch.
Another slice of her heart was cut off.
Losing her parents to fever a year and a half ago, within a few weeks of each other, had been the final blow.
From now on, she vowed, she would guard her heart, though she had very little of it left.
She sat up. Why was she having this argument with herself? It wasn’t as if being rescued by Brand meant anything. As he said, he was simply in the right place at the right time. It made sense that she would feel some type of bond with a man who saved her life. But that’s all it was.
Intending to calm herself, she pulled a notebook to her lap, just as Mercy rapped on the door and entered, without waiting for an invitation to do so.
Mercy nodded at the journal. “I’m guessing you’re writing all about that handsome cowboy.”
Her friends knew she made short notes about each day in her diary. They would never believe she wrote for publication. She’d never told them. Most people she knew didn’t think a young woman should have her name mentioned in such a public way.
She didn’t mind that as much as knowing most people didn’t think a young woman would have anything of value or interest to say. That had been the comment of the only editor she’d been brave enough to speak to, a couple years back.
But surely Mercy would understand. She didn’t share the same sense of outrage at women doing different things.
Sybil retrieved papers she’d secreted away earlier. “I’m writing a story.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you remember reading that article written by Ellis West? You know. The one that described the ship’s captain from our journey here.”
Mercy laughed. “He really made us see the pompous man.”
“I’m Ellis West.”
Mercy snorted. “Ellis West is a man.”
“No. It’s a pseudonym I use.”
Her friend’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “Are you sure?”
Sybil laughed. “Of course I’m sure. Why do you find it so hard to accept?” Was she wrong in thinking Mercy would understand?
“You?” Mercy shook her head. “It just seems so out of character.”
“Look at this if you don’t believe me.” She held out her notes for an article about the life of a cowboy.
Mercy read them through. “You wrote this?”
Sybil sighed. “What does it take to convince you? Remember Mrs. Page on the boat? She’s secretary to the editor of a newspaper back East. She saw me writing and asked about it. I showed her what I’d written about the captain. She asked if I had more. I gave her four stories I’d composed, mostly for the fun of it.” Though even after the rude rejection by the one editor Sybil had seen, the desire to write just wouldn’t leave her. “She took them immediately to the editor, who offered to publish them. I gave him half a dozen stories before I left the ship.” They’d been published and she’d sent several more describing the West and the inhabitants of the territory. She expected they might have already appeared in the Toronto paper. The newspapers didn’t reach Edendale for several weeks after they appeared back East.
Mercy hugged her. “How exciting.”
“The editor has asked me to find a bigger-than-life cowboy and write his story.” He’d offered a nice sum of money for such an article.
An idea flared through her head. She’d had recent experience with a bigger-than-life cowboy, a hero, as she’d said. “Brand—best bronc breaker in the country—fits the bill to perfection.”
Mercy bounced up and down on the bed. “He’s exactly what you need. I say write his story.”
“But how am I to get the details of his life?” Sure, Sybil could ask others what they knew. Certainly make her own observations. But the best source was the man himself.
Her skin burned. Her lungs refused to do their job. There was no way she could ever approach this man and ask personal questions. There was something about him that threatened the locks on her heart.
You’re being silly. He is just a man. Observe. Ask questions. That’s all you need to do. He doesn’t have to know that you’re writing something about him. Besides, she’d learned people were more honest, their answers more raw, if they weren’t aware they were being interviewed. And who would suspect a woman of interviewing them for a story, anyway?
She could not let this opportunity pass. Or let her natural reticence—or as Mercy insisted, her fear—get in the way of this story.
“All you have to do is ask him questions. You’re very good at that. People seem to trust you.” Mercy flung herself back on Sybil’s bed. “With good reason. You are a good person.”
“It’s very kind of you to say so.” Sybil listened distractedly as her friend chattered on about whom she’d seen and talked to, and how she meant to pursue certain activities, until Sybil caught the words, “learn to trick ride.”
She spun around to confront her. “Tell me I didn’t hear you say you mean to learn to trick ride.”
“Okay. You didn’t hear me say that.” Mercy grinned.
“Good. Honestly, sometimes you scare me with your rash words and even rasher actions.”
Mercy regarded her with a teasing grin. “No more than you worry me with your careful way of living. Sybil, my friend, if you’re not cautious you’ll end up living a barren life, when there is so much to know and enjoy out here.” She waved her arms in a wide circle as if encompassing the world.
“I’d sooner be safe.” Sybil hoped Mercy would never learn that barrenness felt better than having your heart shredded. Besides, she experienced lots of adventures through the stories others told her. All without the risk to herself.
Mercy laughed. “And I’d sooner have fun.” She draped an arm about Sybil’s shoulders and rested her forehead against hers. “We are an odd pair and yet you are my best friend.”
“What