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

pencils and paper in his saddlebags. He seemed to have everything else.

A roaring fire of cottonwood logs reddened the hearthstone, bearskins and buffalo robes strewed the chairs, and stuffed heads cast monstrous shadows across the log walls. Rifles stood in the corner, coonskin coats and beaver caps hung from hooks near the door. And the sturdy shelves seemed to groan under the weight of several volumes of Irving, Hawthorne, Cooper, and Lowell. TR was famous for saying, “Books are almost as individual as friends.” And she couldn’t wait to read some of his favorites.

No photographs of the ranch house survived, but sketches of the floor plan, the exterior of the home, and a layout of the outbuildings were readily available in books and online.

If the floor plan and notes she was familiar with were accurate, the house was thirty by sixty feet, with eight rooms, four on each side of a long hallway. TR’s bedroom took up the southeast corner and adjoined the sitting room, which was TR’s study during the day and the gathering place in the evenings.

Across the hall was the dining room, and next to it was the kitchen. And that was the source of the mouthwatering aromas of roasting venison, and yes—wait for it—yeast bread.

Oh, my God. I would die for a piece of bread right out of the oven, slathered with rich, creamy butter.

Her stomach growled in anticipation. “Sorry. I’ve been walking through the Badlands far too long.”

“My stomach has been complaining for the last thirty minutes,” TR said. “My partners and their wives live here with me, and the women know how to cook wild game.”

“You hunt, they cook. Got it! I could write an entire book on the preparation and safe handling of wild game and would be glad to share a few of my go-to recipes.”

TR gave her a confused looked that she shrugged off. Okay, starvation had rattled her brain. But now real food, not MREs or energy bars, a hardwood floor beneath her feet, and a fire blazing in the corner reminded her of home and a full belly. She could stay right here, soaking up the warmth and enjoying the rocking chair. TR and JC sat in a pair of leather chairs, perfect for men sporting mustaches and monocles.

Never mind. Forget the rocker. She’d much prefer to curl up with a good book on the brown-bear rug and while away the hours reading nineteenth-century fiction. The bookcase looked interesting. What tomes did TR think worthy enough to ship out here to the Badlands? She’d explore his North Dakota library after dinner.

A child with curly hair—not a toddler, but not school-age either—bounded into the room and skidded to a stop in front of JC, barely reaching his knees. “What’s your name?”

JC squatted to be at eye level. “James Cullen. What’s yours?”

“Kitty.” She bobbed her head, and blond curls bounced around her shoulders. She looked up at Ensley. “What’s your name?”

“Ensley MacAndrew Williams…Fraser.”

“That’s a lot of names. I just have one. Kitty.”

“You have more than one. I call you Kitty, but your parents named you Lucretia Sewall,” TR said rather matter-of-factly like he renamed children all the time.

“Well, you’re a very pretty young lady,” Ensley said. “Let me guess how old you are. Hmm.” She tapped her chin, thinking back to all the kids from neighboring ranches she used to babysit before she was old enough to tie her shoes. “I bet you are”—she held up three fingers—“Am I right?”

Kitty counted. “One, two, three. I’m three!”

JC gently tugged on a strand of her hair. “For a girl who’s only three years old, you sure have long hair. Do you brush it, or does your mama?”

“Mama does.” Kitty touched the side of JC’s head. “She can brush your hair, too.”

He chuckled, a sound that was almost lyrical and in stark contrast to his whiskered-outlaw appearance, which didn’t seem to scare Kitty at all. Kids could see a person’s heart in the gleam of their eyes. And at that moment, no one could mistake JC’s.

“I probably need a haircut, too. Do you have any scissors?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Mama does.”

JC’s studied, calm, and smiling face reminded Ensley of a Fourth of July celebration she and George attended at Mallory Plantation. The preteen girls were gathered around JC, staring at him with goo-goo eyes. You would have thought he was a movie star or the latest dream pop idol from down under.

To her surprise, he managed to give each of them personal, up-close attention asking about school or sports or boyfriends. He knew enough about every child that Ensley concluded he must be in constant contact with his parents or Emily Duffy, who was like a sister. At the time, Ensley thought what a wonderful father he’d make. And even now, with a child he didn’t know, he showed the same unaffected interest.

Ensley glanced up at TR and saw in his public stoicism the grief beneath his facade. He had escaped to the Badlands after his first wife died only hours after delivering their baby. That child, Baby Lee, would be a year old now. It had to be painful to be with Kitty and not his daughter—and not his wife.

Kitty ran from the room, yelling, “Mama, Mr. Roosevelt has company, and he wants a haircut.”

JC stood, laughing. “She’s a charmer.”

“She’s in perpetual motion from dawn until after supper. I never knew a child could have so much energy.”

“With little ones around, there’s never a dull moment,” JC said.

“How many children do you have?” TR asked.

“We don’t have any.” JC smiled at Ensley. “But we have several young cousins.”

The sadness deepened in TR’s eyes. After losing his wife, he assumed he’d never marry again, and maybe that was on his mind, but Ensley knew he would have another chance at love, and within the next few years, have five half siblings for Baby Lee.

But what about me? I was an only child and planned to have several of my own.

Now she couldn’t