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

the moment. So she said, “Okay. I’ll go outside and wash up before dinner.”

“No. That’s not necessary,” TR said. “Mrs. Sewall can show you to the guest room. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. It’s rare to get company way out here, and I’d enjoy talking about New York. You might even persuade me to discuss law, but absolutely no politics.”

“Does that include the election of ’84?” JC asked.

Ensley piped in, “You know I’ve never understood how a Democrat won in the era of Republican political domination.”

While TR’s reaction to her ranching qualifications was to exclaim “bully,” his sharply indrawn breath at her political observation was just the opposite.

I guess women don’t discuss politics in your household.

She recalled a Victorian novel she edited last year and drew on the heroine’s experience to explain her own. “When I was growing up, the family discussed politics and political activities all the time. My mother and her friends used the kitchen table and drawing room to organize petitions, host committee meetings, and plan campaigns.”

“I thought you grew up on a ranch.”

“I did, but that didn’t stop my parents from enjoying politics. Their views on women’s rights are similar to yours.”

It’s time to bow out of this discussion.

She glanced at Mrs. Sewall. “Which way should I go to wash up? And after that, I’ll help you get dinner on the table.”

JC stepped in to rescue her. “I believe literature, law, and New York City are safe topics.”

TR clapped him on the back. “Indeed.”

Ensley took in a relieved breath as Mrs. Sewall led her down the hallway and entered the room at the opposite end of the house. “I’ll bring hot water and towels.”

“That’s not necessary. You can just show me the way, and I’ll manage for myself.”

She’d learned growing up on a ranch that everyone pulled their weight, and she intended to do it now. She grabbed the pitcher from the washstand and followed Mrs. Sewall to the kitchen.

“The kettle on the back of the stove has hot water.” Mrs. Sewall glanced around the kitchen. “Where’d that child go now? I told her to sit at the table and not move until I came back.”

Ensley glanced out the window. “It looks like she’s with my”—the next word caught in her throat, but she managed to cough it out—“husband. It looks like he’s taking his horse to the barn.”

Mrs. Sewall headed toward the back door. “Oh, my. Lucretia will bother him.”

“No, she won’t,” Ensley rushed to say. “He’s great with kids.” She poured hot water into the pitcher while watching JC give Kitty the currycomb. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to help you.”

“Let me get you a towel.” Mrs. Sewall opened a cupboard and removed a towel just as Kitty ran in through the kitchen door ahead of JC.

“Mama, JC’s going to teach me to comb his horse like you comb my hair.”

“Oh, is he, now? Don’t go bothering Mr. Fraser. He has other things to do.”

“No, Mama. He said I’m the most important person right now.” She turned and hurried out of the house.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Fraser. When I’m cooking and her father’s home, he watches over her.”

“I made sure she knows not to go near my horse unless I’m there.” JC handed Ensley a saddlebag. “Thought you might need this. As soon as I feed and water Mercury, I’ll come in to clean up.”

“I’ll leave you some hot water.” Ensley returned to the bedroom, removed her shirt and jacket, washed her face and hands, then brushed her hair and teeth. Tonight, before she climbed into a real bed, she’d strip down and have a hot sponge bath. Maybe Mrs. Sewall would loan her a skirt tomorrow so she could wash her jeans.

While she dressed, she inventoried the bedroom. She couldn’t wait to sleep on the wooden-frame bed, which was a bit wider than a twin but narrower than a double. JC would fill the entire bed, leaving no room for her unless she slept on top of him.

Eck. Not happening.

He’d just have to sleep on the floor.

A buffalo robe blanketed the bed, and she ran her fingers through the thick fur. Sleeping beneath it would be heavenly, and several steps up from cottonwood leaves and boughs. A brown-bear rug covered a portion of the floor, tempting her to remove her boots and socks and scrunch the soft fur between her toes.

JC wouldn’t mind sleeping on the rugs. Would he? It didn’t matter. She was taking the bed.

Red-checked cotton curtains framed the window. She used the tie-backs to hold the panels in place while she gave the area around the house a good scan through the window. “Wow! A corner room with a view of the river.”

She once had a corner room with a view of Waikiki Beach. God, that seemed like ages ago, but it was only a few months. How in the world did she ever believe she was in love with Wyatt? Now she could look through the rearview mirror and see that he was a placeholder. But for whom?

She hefted the saddlebag and placed it on top of a trunk with “TR” engraved on a brass plate. The comb and brush she left on a gorgeous walnut Davenport writing desk. She could imagine sitting in the cane-back chair and working there. And doing what?

Good question.

Maybe she really would write a cattle-drive story—the next GAN (Great American Novel). What better story would capture the spirit of American life? She almost laughed out loud. Wouldn’t that be a kick?

Hey, Susan. Since I don’t have a job anymore, I wrote a novel. Wanna read it?

The heavy clack of bootheels in the hallway pushed thoughts of writing the GAN to the back of her mind. And she jumped at the rap on the door.

“Ens. Can I come in?” JC asked.

She swung open the door. “It’s all yours.”

The size of the bedroom suddenly shrank. JC was tall and broad-shouldered, but he was noticeably larger in this confined space than he