“Long enough.” Josie dabbed her damp forehead with a handkerchief. “The whole idea is ridiculous. Just because Queen Victoria chooses to make widowhood a full-time occupation gives her no right to force her mourning etiquette on the rest of us.” The queen’s influence on America was a great source of puzzlement to Josie. Despite the War of Independence, America still hadn’t completely broken its ties with the motherland.

  “If the queen lived in a hotter climate, like Texas, she’d be far less inclined to wear black. She would probably choose something more sensible to mourn in. Like white.” Josie fanned herself with her hand. “Or run around naked.”

  Meg’s eyes widened, but she said nothing.

  Josie continued. “Grief is not something that can be worn. Even dressed in scarlet or polka dots, I would still mourn my loss.”

  Meg’s eyes filled with compassion. “I know it was hard losing Ralph.”

  “Hard doesn’t even begin to describe it,” Josie said. “Did you know that it’s possible to cry for six straight months?” Had she stayed in Arizona Territory, she might still be crying.

  “Oh, Josie, I wish I could have been there for you.”

  “I was a thousand miles away. Your place was here with Grant.”

  “But you’re my sister and I hate seeing you hurt.” Meg sighed. “I miss Ralph too. And as far as wearing black is concerned, you’re right.”

  “’Course I’m right,” Josie said. “Men aren’t required to follow such ridiculous rules. Did you know that Mr. Cotter remarried within three months of his wife’s death and no one said a word?” Not that she ever planned on remarrying. Ralph had been the love of her life, and no man could ever fill his shoes. “It’s not fair to place such restrictions on women and not men.”

  Once started on the subject, Josie couldn’t seem to stop as she cited other examples of how widowers could go about their business as they saw fit. Words flowed out of her like a never-ending freight train. She only got off her soapbox when she noticed Meg’s eyes had glazed over and now looked like two frozen pools.

  “My goodness, Josie. What’s gotten into you? It’s not like you to—”

  Josie’s gaze sharpened. “Not like me to what?”

  Meg looked like she was struggling for words. “Voice such strong opinions. Now you sound like Mr. Wade.”

  Josie’s mouth dropped open. “What a thing to say.”

  “I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” Meg said in a placating voice. “It’s just . . . You don’t sound like yourself. You’ve always been so—”

  “Insipid?”

  Meg shook her head with an audible sigh. “I didn’t say that.”

  Josie tucked her handkerchief into her sleeve with a sigh of her own. “You didn’t have to.”

  ***

  The streets were crowded by the time Josie left Meg’s house. Traffic was always a problem, but today it seemed even worse than usual. The number of vehicles parked in front of the Lone Star Press while the owners purchased newspapers only made matters worse. It took twice as long as expected to work her way down Main.

  Much to her surprise, traffic grew even worse as she neared town limits.

  Even though it was still early, tempers flared. T-Bone and saloon owner Ken Kerrigan raised their fists and yelled at each other as they jockeyed their vehicles for whatever advantage could be found on that crowded street. Kerrigan’s hot temper had earned him the moniker Pepper.

  Mr. Wade rode by on his horse. He lifted his hat to her and flashed a smile. “Ah, Mrs. Johnson. So glad you could join us.”

  Before she had a chance to respond, he pulled away and vanished in the crowded street ahead. Josie frowned after him. Glad she could join them? The man definitely had a strange sense of humor.

  Josie spotted an empty alley. It was narrow, with a sign that read “Closed to Traffic,” but Josie wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. She turned down the alley, clipping a trash receptacle as she passed. A series of back streets allowed her to bypass the traffic and reach the road to Austin.

  Though it was only mid-morning, the sun was hot and shimmered off the ground like strands of wavy hair.

  Thinking about her conversation with Meg, Josie puckered her nose. She still couldn’t get over her sister comparing her to Mr. Wade. If anything, Josie thought she had sounded more like her sister Amanda. Or that little girl—what was her name? Haley.

  Pushing her thoughts aside, she concentrated on the sunbaked road ahead. The azure sky was cloudless and the heat from the sun unrelenting. But bluebonnets lined both sides of the road, scenting the air with sweet fragrance. Leaving town had been a good idea. Despite the warmth, she already felt better—or would once she passed the bend in the river. It had always been Ralph’s dream to own riverfront property, but she couldn’t think about that. Not now. Not ever.

  Her one and only concern at present was getting her newspaper on track, and she hoped her meeting with John Cardman, publisher of the Austin Statesman, would help her accomplish that goal. A friend of Ralph’s, Cardman had told her that if she ever needed anything, all she had to do was ask. Maybe he would have some ideas how to attract new subscribers.

  She had driven only a short distance from town when she heard a gunshot. Tugging on the reins, she guided the wagon to the shade of a tree by the side of the road. After setting the brake she reached for her canteen. It sounded like trouble. Another dispute over parking? She wondered what the details might be. Thankfully, Hank had agreed to keep her informed if anything happened in her absence. He didn’t have the nose for news that any good reporter needed, but he was quite capable at collecting on-the-scene facts.

  She unscrewed the cap of the metal water bottle and lifted it to her mouth. The water would have to last till she reached Austin, so she allowed herself only a sip.

  Just as she hung the flask on the hook behind her, she saw something that startled her. Craning her neck, she anxiously scanned the horizon and prayed that her eyes were playing tricks. But, no. A dust cloud rose from the direction of town. Within seconds the dark haze stretched across the full width of the valley to the hills on either side, turning the air a murky brown.

  A distant memory came to mind, and her blood ran cold. Gasping, she covered her mouth. Oh, dear heaven! Not that. Anything but that!

  Shuddering at the fearful thought, she grabbed the reins and released the brake. Only one thing could explain the mile-wide wall of dust: a cattle stampede.

  And it was heading her way!

  Chapter 8

  A Pullman railroad car has been sidelined outside of Houston with eleven passengers aboard. Mr. Albert Wanamaker came down with small pox and the rest of the passengers will have to be isolated for two weeks. That is, unless they kill each other first. —Two-Time Gazette

  Forcing her horse to race over hill and dale, Josie told herself not to panic. She’d been in worse straits. Or almost worse.

  The wagon veered wildly from side to side and bounced over ruts and rocks. The hope chest slid back and forth, hitting the slatted wagon sides with worrisome thuds. Worse, she feared the axles would break or wheels fall off. Or she’d be thrown. Or . . .

  Her straw hat lifted off her head. Held by the ribbons still tied beneath her chin, it batted against her back.

  From behind, the pounding cattle hooves grew louder, and she could almost imagine hearing the angry clash of horns. She cast a glance over her shoulder. The wall of dust was closing in fast. Grit filled her mouth and stung her eyes. Terror gripped her heart, holding her breath in its icy grip. She could hardly see.

  She had no chance of outrunning a stampede. Not with her old wagon. Not with her old horse. Already her mare was showing signs of fatigue.

  “Don’t you dare give up on me now!” she cried with a frantic slap of the reins.

  Every horror story she’d ever heard about stampedes ran through her head. Men died in stampedes. Experienced cattlemen had been trampled to death She’d lost an Arizona neighbor to one.

  Pushing the gruesome thoughts away, she snapped the whip through the air and yelled, “Gid-up!” Horse and wagon sailed over a hill as if airborne. The wheels hit the ground with a jolt, rattling her bones and nearly knocking her teeth out.

  Something appeared alongside her, and she gasped as she turned to look. She expected a steer, but instead found . . . a horseman. Thinking she was seeing things, she blinked. But there was no mistake. What’s more, the horseman was Brandon Wade!

  Saluting her, he flashed a smile and shouted something before pulling ahead. Her mouth dropped open. It sure sounded like he’d said, “Too bad.”

  She glared after him in disbelief. She was in a life or death situation and that’s all he could offer? “Too bad”?

  Her gazed riveted on his retreating back, she failed to notice the horse and buggy now racing alongside her until its wheel clipped her wagon. She recognized the driver at once as Ken Kerrigan.

  What in the world was he doing there? What’s more, why was he was now purposely trying to push her off the road?

  “Stop!” she yelled in confusion and fear. “What are you doing?”

  For an answer, his buggy sideswiped her.

  This time her wagon fishtailed, pulling her across the road as she desperately tried to steer her panicking mare. Before she had time for more than a breath, the wagon’s rear wheel smashed against a tree. She heard a crack below her as their momentum slowed.

  But now her horse fought her with a vengeance. With a squeal, the frantic animal yanked the traces from her hands and broke free from the hitch. Josie barely had time to note the animal’s exit, harness dragging behind it, before the wagon’s momentum carried it off the side of the road and down a sharp incline, jolting her. It then sped toward the river.

  She screamed just as she clipped a second tree. Everything cartwheeled, then went black.

  ***

  “Mrs. Johnson . . . Mrs. Johnson, can you hear me?”

  The male voice seemed far away but eventually cut through the darkness. The persistent tone forced her to open her eyes. At first, she couldn’t put a name to the masculine face staring down at her.

  The voice sounded again. “Are you all right?”

  She tried moving her legs. Feeling gradually returned to her limbs, and the fog cleared from her head. “Mr. Wade?” She was vaguely aware of strong hands on her shoulders. Brandon?

  “Don’t move,” he said.

  Ignoring his advice, she tried sitting up, but was only able to do so with his help. Wincing, she reached for the back of her head. Already she could feel a lump.

  “What . . . what happened?”

  “You had an accident. Your wagon . . .”

  His voice faded away as she shook off a dizzy spell. As soon as her head cleared, she followed the line of men and women circling them and her eyes widened. “Where are the cattle?”

  Wade sat back on his heels with a worried frown. “Cattle?”

  “I saw them.” At least she thought she had. Why were all those people staring at her?

  She turned back to Wade. “What’s everyone doing here?”

  For some reason the question only deepened the lines in his forehead. “What year is it?’

  She stared at him. “What year?”

  “Who’s the president of the United States?”

  She shook her head. Was he out of his cotton-picking mind? “Why are you asking these questions?” Noting the concern on his face, she frowned. “You don’t think that I . . .”

  He rose and turned to the crowd of onlookers. “Is anyone here a doctor?” he shouted.

  She tugged on the leg of his trousers. “I don’t need a doctor. I’m perfectly all right.” Or she would be when the ground stopped spinning.

  Wade ignored her protests, his attention riveted on the man standing next to a dust-covered wagon advertising Hastings’s Miraculous Tonic. His checkered pants, red vest, and top hat were better suited to showmanship than medicine.

  “Dr. Hastings at your service,” the man said in a voice that defied anyone to contradict the legitimacy of his claim.

  While Wade’s back was turned, Josie glanced around, trying to make sense of the scene around her. Dust still clung to the air, and she blinked to clear her vision.

  The sight of the nearby river filled her with dismay. Glancing around herself, a feeling of desolation swept over her. Unless she was mistaken, this was the exact piece of property Ralph had dreamt of buying.

  The cottonwood standing taller than all the others confirmed her suspicions. Ralph had carved their initials in the trunk of that very tree, thus marking the property as theirs even though they had no legal right to ownership.

  The realization hit her like a fist. Could fate really be so unkind as to play such an awful trick on her? Of all the places she could have landed, why did it have to be this particular spot? Ralph had had such high regards for this piece of land. During their whirlwind courtship, he’d even brought her here for a picnic before the area had been snatched up by a land developer. On that long-ago day, Ralph had dropped to his knees and proposed marriage. After telling him yes, she would marry him, they took turns scratching the outline of their dream house in the soft soil with a stick. The large house would face the river and have ample bedrooms for all the children they planned on one day having.

  Desperate to escape the overwhelming memories, she looked for her wagon. Spotting it, she groaned in dismay. It was tipped on its side, a back wheel spinning lazily in the breeze. But it was the remains of the hope chest that filled her with despair.

  Oh, no! She crawled on hands and knees toward the pieces of scattered wood. The treasured family hope chest lay in ruins.

  She heard Wade’s voice behind her. “What the devil?” Long strides carried him to her side.

  Before he could get a word out, she stood and shoved a pile of wood into his arms, then immediately dropped down to gather more broken pieces. “They’ll kill me,” she mumbled to herself. “They’ll kill me.”

  “Who will kill you?” he asked, sounding mystified.

  She gazed up at him. “Why, my family, of course.” She reached for a piece of cedar lining. “It’s ruined,” she cried. “Ruined! Do you know what that means?”

  Poor Cousin Brenda would be so disappointed. She wouldn’t be the only one. So would Mama. To make matters worse, Amanda’s speech wouldn’t make it to the suffrage meeting in time.

  “Do you know what this will do to democratic principles?” Josie moaned.

  Brandon stared at her. “Democratic—” Without finishing his thought, he dropped the wood pieces and grabbed hold of her wrist. “Come on. We need to get you to a doctor. A real doctor.”

  She pulled her arm away. “I told you, I don’t need a doctor.”

  Their gazes clashed. They might have continued glaring at each other had a man she recognized as Mr. Troop not strolled up, clapping his hands. He was smiling at her, for some odd reason. The fool man acted all friendly-like, as if he hadn’t recently pulled his ads from her newspaper. The nerve!

  Troop lifted a speaking trumpet to his mouth. “It’s time to announce the winners,” he yelled for the benefit of the waiting crowd.

  Brandon’s eyebrows shot up. “Did you say ‘winners’?”

  Mr. Troop lowered the speaking trumpet to his side. “That I did.” The developer pushed his hat back with his free hand. “That is, unless you can prove full ownership of that pile of kindling.” He indicated the pieces of wood scattered around Brandon’s feet.

  Brandon frowned. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  Troop thumbed the lapel of his jacket with his one free hand. “When that wagon reeled out of control, some sort of wooden chest or trunk shot from it and landed on this here lot at the exact same moment you reached it. That makes the owner of this—” He pointed to the scraps of wood again. “—whatever it is, a winner. Lest my eyes were deceiving me, I’d say this here little lady—” He leveled his glance at Josie. “—won part of this land fair and square.”

  Kerrigan made a face. “How can you say she won it fair? She didn’t stay on the road.”

  Mr. Troop shrugged. “Nothing in the rules said you had to. Anyone crazy enough to drive a wagon off the road and down a slope like that deserves to win.”

  Mrs. Mooney folded her arms across her ample chest. “But the rules did say the first one to reach the property won. Josie wasn’t the first one to reach the property. Mr. Wade was.”

  Mrs. Cambridge concurred with a titter. “I saw him with my own eyes.” She shot her very best chaperone glare at Josie.

  Everyone started speaking at once, but the more people protested, the more Mr. Troop dug in his heels and insisted his decision was final. For her part, Josie had a hard time trying to make sense of it all. Her head was spinning and all she wanted was to go home.

  Finally, Mr. Troop had had enough. “Quiet!” he yelled. “Like I said, Mrs. Johnson and Mr. Wade won the property fair and square. End of subject.”

  His announcement was met with more grumbles before people started moving away, some wandering down to the river’s edge.

  Josie was still puzzling over the ‘fair and square’ part when night fell upon her senses once again and the ground came up to meet her.

  ***

  Josie opened her eyes and blinked. She was momentarily lost in a sea of roses before finally recognizing the wallpaper. This was her room. Her bed. The body sprawled upon the covers she wasn’t so sure about.

  Nor could she put a name to the white-haired man gently thumping on her chest. That was her chest, wasn’t it?

  The man straightened. “Ah, there you are.”

  Josie stirred and groaned. It seemed like every bone in her body was on fire. The last of the fog lifted, although the pounding in her head remained. Finally, she recalled the man’s name: Dr. Stybeck. How could she have forgotten even for a second the name of the man who was not only the family doctor but had also attended her birth?