The Sunstone Brooch : Time Travel Romance by Katherine Logan (i am reading a book TXT) 📕

flexed his arm and pointed to his bicep. “Ya want to hear a story about Roosevelt?”

“Sure. I’m not one to listen to gossip,” she said, “but if it’s a good story, I might use it in my book and change the names to protect the innocent.”

“I jus’ thought of it because ya were talking about throwing a baseball.”

She’d heard so many stories about TR while growing up near the Theodore Roosevelt National Park, especially during her time as a Junior Ranger, but this might be a new one. “Do tell.”

“He was in the Nolan’s Hotel and Saloon in a little town west of Medora when a gunslinger pointed his gun at Roosevelt, called him ‘four-eyes,’ and said he had to buy drinks for the entire house. Roosevelt laughed, then punched the gunslinger twice on the jaw. Knocked him right out.”

She hadn’t heard that one and would use it for sure. “When confronted by a bully, strike first.”

“Which reminds me of something else, Mrs. Fraser.”

“Haven’t I told you to call me Ensley?”

“No, ma’am, but I’d never do that. It’s disrespectful.”

“How about Miss Ensley? Is that disrespectful?”

Norman scratched his chin. “I might could do that. But what I wanted ta say is this.” He pulled back on the reins. “Whoa.” The wagon stopped, and he held the reins loosely for a moment. “When we get to the roundup startin’ point, there’ll be sixty men or so, most of ’em unmarried. And probably none of ’em seen a woman on a trail drive E, and not one so purdy.”

Norman looked down at his scarred hands, blushing. Then he looked at her again.

“Unless you’re with Roosevelt, Dow, or Sewall, stay close to my wagon. None of ’em cowboys will mess wit’ me. Nobody with good sense gits on the wrong side of the cook. And if I hear any of ’em disrespect ya, I’ll see they git kicked out of the roundup, and that’s the biggest disgrace that can attach itself to a cowboy. The shame clings to a man like gumbo mud, and he has to ride far to get another job. But once these men see how hard ya work, they won’t cause ya no trouble.”

She leaned out of her saddle and gave him a light punch on the arm. “I’ll stick to you like flypaper. And thanks.”

TR galloped up beside her. “I thought you were going to fall over. What were you doing?”

She lightly punched TR’s arm. “Just that. Norman and I have been talking about what I can expect once we get to the roundup, and he’s offered me protection at his chuckwagon.”

TR nodded to Norman. “I appreciate that. I plan for Mrs. Fraser to ride with me, but occasionally that might not be possible. Knowing you’ll look out for her is reassuring.”

Her natural reaction was that she didn’t need to be looked out for, but in this situation, she wanted what he was offering.

“But what about you, TR?” she asked. “Will the men give you a rough time because you’re from the East or because you wear spectacles?”

TR removed his hat, swiped his handkerchief across his brow, then resettled his hat. “If it’s like last year, I’ll spend the first twenty-four hours living down the fact that I wear them.”

“Do they try to taunt you into a fight?”

TR’s shoulders slumped. “Occasionally, but I keep quiet unless the men misconstrue my silence. Then it’s better to bring matters to a head at once.”

“Bullying involves a perceived imbalance of power,” she said. “By bullying you, the jerk feels more powerful. Once you show the bully that his perception is wrong, you stop the bullying. So go right ahead and knock his block off. Maybe the next time he sees someone with spectacles, he’ll behave.”

TR cocked an eyebrow. “Have you worn spectacles? You seem to understand the situation.”

“No, but I wore”—she couldn’t say braces—“I mean…I wore spectacles as a child, and I was bullied. If someone treated me like that today, I’d challenge the jerk to a bronc riding contest to see who could stay on the horse the longest.”

TR pinned her with a stern gaze. “I wouldn’t let you do that, and neither would your husband. The cowboys you’ll meet at the roundup are lean, sinewy fellows, accustomed to riding half-broken horses at any speed over any country by day or night. You can’t compete with them.”

She opened her mouth to challenge him, then closed it with a snap. TR was right. She couldn’t afford an accident. If she met JC in a few weeks and had a broken leg, he’d be pissed that she took risks when she knew modern health care wasn’t available to treat her. And she’d expect him to take the same precautions.

“Okay. I’ll challenge them to a horse race, then. Nobody can beat Tesoro.”

40

MacKlenna Farm, KY (1885)—Elliott

Elliott assisted Sean’s farm manager in delivering a foal and afterward hung around to make sure the newborn was standing within an hour and nursing within two hours—the 1-2-3 Rule.

Delivering a foal always reminded him of why he went to vet school all those years ago. It wasn’t that it made him feel all-powerful when he brought a new life into the world. Quite the contrary. He found it humbling, and he benefitted from a regular dose of humility to keep himself manageable. At least that’s what Meredith said.

He strolled back to the mansion to share the news with her when a tsunami of terrifying sights and sounds slammed into him and forced him to his knees. He was out of control, sliding on black ice toward the edge of a cliff, and unable to stop the vehicle he was driving in his mind.

Death was looming.

He slid down the brick wall at the back of the mansion and collapsed in the garden, waiting. What would kill him? An aneurism? A fatal arrhythmia? A heart attack? A stroke? A massive pulmonary embolism?

Meredith, love, I’m sorry I can’t say goodbye.

She would manage without him much easier than