Page 42 of If the Boot Fits

The last eleven days had been filled with hard work, but they’d also been filled with family—a blessing he hadn’t enjoyed to this extent in years. He loved spending quiet evenings with Mama Bess, listening to Fergus’s imaginative stories, and stealing time away with Jack at the fishing hole. He’d missed nearly half of his brothers’ lives, more than half in Fergus’s case, and a craving was building inside him. A craving to be a regular part of their lives. To be not just their provider but their brother. One who actually spent time with them and had a relationship built on more than letters and a few days at Christmas.

Asher turned down the boardwalk and nodded to a couple he recognized from church who were strolling toward him. Mr. Johnson smiled and dipped his chin as he covered his wife’s hand where it lay in the crook of his arm. A touch of pink colored Mrs. Johnson’s cheeks at her husband’s show of affection. Asher grinned and scooted closer to the buildings to give them room to pass. The Johnsons had to be in their forties, maybe even fifties, yet they acted like a newly courting couple. What must it be like to share that kind of closeness with someone for so many years?

An image of Samantha Dearing popped into his mind unbidden, but he didn’t shoo it away. Spending a lifetime with a woman possessing her unique combination of sweetness and spunk would be a pleasure indeed. The chances of him being the man she hitched her wagon to were slimmer than a paper’s edge, but the idea of another fella doing so stirred up a strong case of indigestion.

She was the daughter of the cattle king, for pity’s sake. Even if, by some miracle, she did develop feelings for him, her father would never approve a match between them. Why would he when he could fill an entire ballroom with more suitable candidates? Men of wealth and prestige. Men who owned land and fine houses. Men free to make his daughter their first priority without the constraints of providing for a stepmother and brothers.

Yet none of those men had been by her side when she’d needed rescuing from a runaway cart. And none of those men were teaching her how to ride or sitting beside her in a wagon seat while the sun set over the Texas landscape.

Of course, none of those men had trespassed on her father’s property, either. Or riffled through his study. Eli Dearing had more than Asher’s meager bank account to support a rejection of his suit. And what about Samantha? Would her admiration turn to disdain when she learned the truth?

Stepping off the boardwalk, Asher clenched his jaw and turned down a side street. He’d learned long ago not to dream too big. The bigger the dream, the bigger the disappointment when it failed. A man needed realistic goals and hard work to find success. Dreaming was best left to boys like Fergus who had the imagination and cleverness to see those dreams to fruition. Asher had been built for work, not for scaling castles built on air.

He aimed his feet toward the livery where Jack worked, intending to check in on his brother before he returned home. As he walked, his surroundings grew rougher. No boardwalks to keep a lady’s skirts out of the dirt here. No picture windows filled with goods to entice shoppers inside. A blacksmith’s hammer echoed from somewhere behind him. The smell of leather wafted through the window of a saddlery shop to his right. The occasional raucous shout came from the saloon up the street, blending with the quiet nickers of the livery nags. This street was a man’s domain.

So why in the world was Samantha Dearing standing in the middle of it? Asher’s boots locked in place as he blinked at the vision before him. Her fashion plate of a dress, the color of a cloudless sky, stood out from the drab browns and grays like a cornflower in a gravel pit. Beautiful. Delicate. And completely out of place.

She lifted a hand and waved, but not at him. The distance kept him from seeing her expression, but he swore he could feel her smile all the way down the block. Something ugly twisted in his gut until a boy jogged over to the corral fence and climbed onto the bottom rung. Jack.

Get your head on straight, Ash. She doesn’t belong to you.

Oddly enough, that truth had virtually no effect on the possessiveness spiking through his chest as he watched her approach his brother. It actually made it worse as instinct warred with logic. Not only was she beautiful, intelligent, and as feisty as an unbroke filly, but somehow she just . . . fit . . . with his family, despite the differences in their background. Fergus had declared his fealty to her last night when she’d brought him an illustrated edition of Gulliver’s Travels from her home library. He and the book had been inseparable all day today. And Jack, as much as he might grumble about forfeiting his evening leisure for lessons, obviously didn’t object to the tutor herself. If he leaned any farther over that fence rail, he’d end up with a permanent crease in his middle.

Asher chuckled softly as he started toward the livery. It seemed Miss Dearing had charmed all the Ellis men.

“Well, if it ain’t Miss High and Mighty.” The overloud, slurred voice came from a man staggering out of the saloon. A nearly empty whiskey bottle in his hand, he raised an unsteady arm to point an accusing finger at Samantha. “I knowed it wuz you. Interferin’ in my business. You got no right!”

Asher frowned and lengthened his stride.

Jack moved to straddle the top rung of the fence and scowled at the obnoxious fellow. “Leave the lady alone, mister. Get on home, and sleep it off.”

“Ain’t got no home, no job neither, thanks to this meddlin’ cow. Ran right to Daddy, didn’t you? Ya little tattler.” The line he walked might be crooked, but it was taking him directly to Samantha. Asher kicked into a jog. “Someone ought to teach you to stay out of other folks’ business.”

Instead of retreating like a sensible woman, Samantha squared off with the fellow, her voice vibrating with indignation. “What was it you said to Ida Mae? Oh yes. ‘You ruined yourself.’” She jutted her chin. “Doesn’t feel good to be on the receiving end of censure, does it? Your own choices and bad acts have brought about your demise, Mr. Thompson. Nothing else. You are finally reaping what you have sown.”

“Shut up, you slanderin’ hussy!” He lunged forward and grabbed hold of her wrist. “You’re gonna pay for what you done to me.”

Samantha tried to pull free of his grasp, but he held firm. “Let me go!” she cried.

Asher heard the tremor of fear beneath the anger in her voice, and flames flared inside him as if someone had just thrown kerosene on his campfire.

Jack hopped off the fence, ready to do battle, but Asher caught his attention and waved him off as he slowed his approach and planted himself at Samantha’s side.

“Release her.” Asher’s low voice resonated with authority.

The drunken cowboy’s eyes widened for a second before they narrowed into stubborn slits. “Step aside, stranger. This ain’t none of your concern.”

“Any lady being threatened is my concern. Now release her.”

Red-rimmed eyes stared Asher down as Thompson’s bravado battled with whatever common sense hadn’t yet pickled inside his brain.

Asher didn’t like to fight, but he could hold his own when the occasion called for it, and if this lout of a cowboy didn’t let go of Samantha’s arm in three seconds, Asher was going to answer that call by breaking Thompson’s nose.

“One . . . two . . .”

“Fine!” Thompson threw Samantha’s arm away from him with such force, she stumbled back a step.

Asher took the opportunity to angle himself in front of her, but he didn’t turn to check on her. His focus remained locked on the threat as he thrust his face an inch from Thompson’s. The sour smell of whiskey turned his stomach, but he steeled himself against the fumes. “Touch her again—ever—and I’ll break that hand so badly you’ll never rope another steer. Got it?”