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

like she hadn’t just spent a week trekking through the Badlands with JC and little privacy.

She turned her back to the room and used one of the antibacterial wipes to wash up. When she rolled up the used wipe and tucked it into an empty pocket, she discovered a pair of deerskin gloves she’d never seen before.

JC, bless your heart.

After she ran a brush through her hair and tied it back with a strip of rawhide, she then, like a breeze, blew through the lobby toward the dining area, where she found TR sitting at a long table with four other men.

If she acted like it was typical of women in the frontier to wear pants to dinner, maybe the men would take it in stride. Besides, she didn’t have the tall, slim-waisted, voluptuous shape of women in the late 1800s, so maybe they’d just ignore her.

When she approached the table, TR stood. The other men, one at a time, smacked the guy next to him on the arm, and they all popped up, one after the other, shuffling their feet and pressing down the fronts of their dirty shirts.

“Welcome, Mrs. Fraser,” TR said, pointing to the plate next to him. “This plate is for you.”

She smiled, removed her hat, and sniffed. “Smells good.”

A man across from TR had the classic western look with a bushy black mustache. Its tips extended to his jawline. “It is, ma’am. Mr. Roosevelt’s been telling us you were standing by ready to lasso him when he fell into the ice pond. I’d like to have seen that.”

“What?” Ensley asked, giving him a bigger smile. “Mr. Roosevelt pushing away the ice floes or me lassoing him like a steer?”

The men all laughed, and TR right along with them.

“I reckon both,” the man said. “Never seen a woman who could lasso a steer, much less a drowning man.”

“I wasn’t drowning,” TR said.

“He wasn’t drowning,” Ensley said at the same time.

Another man with a full beard passed her a bowl of potatoes. “Here ya go, ma’am. Better eat up. Mr. Roosevelt says you’re going on the drive with him. Better eat while ya can.”

She took the bowl. “Then I’ll shovel in a few of them and take some of the venison, too.”

The men passed the rest of the bowls with bacon, beans, biscuits with jam, and fruit, straight out of a can. It wasn’t gourmet, but it got the job done. When they finished, she and TR said good-night to the men and left the hotel to pick up their horses.

A long whistle and clacking wheels alerted them the train was coming over the trestle bridge.

“The train’s bringing fifteen hundred hungry, thirsty cows. It’s not too late to bow out. I can make arrangements with the Marquis for you to stay at his home until the next train heading east comes by.”

She put her hands on her hips. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

He grinned. “I would have been shocked if you’d taken me up on my offer.”

The train slowed but didn’t stop. “I guess the train isn’t stopping in town. How far out is it going?”

“About a mile,” TR said.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this in the dark,” Ensley said. “But I guess the cattle can’t stay on the cars and hold the train up.”

They picked up their horses and rode out to meet the train. The moment they arrived, two men climbed down, carrying lanterns. “Roosevelt, is that you?”

TR rode toward them. “It is. How are the cattle, Bill?”

“They arrived in fair condition,” one of the men said. “But since being corralled and branded, they’ve gone without food while crowded into railroad cars for a punishing three-day ride here.”

“Sewall and I moved back and forth among the train’s twenty-two cars, checking the animals and keeping them on their feet to save them from being trampled,” the other man said. “We got steers mostly, but there are some shorthorn bulls and one polled Angus.”

Ensley assumed the two men were Bill Sewall and Wilmot Dow, TR’s partners.

“We can’t let them get near that river tonight,” TR said. “It’s a raging torrent, and its bottom is a treacherous mass of quicksand. We’ll have to drive the animals down along the divide west of Medora between the Little Missouri and the Beaver.”

“They won’t like it,” Sewall said.

“They can go thirsty or drown,” TR said. “I’d prefer they go thirsty.”

“Who ya got with ya?” Dow asked.

TR turned toward her. “This is Mrs. Fraser. She’s writing a story about a cattle roundup, and she has assured me she won’t be a hindrance.” TR pointed first to one man and then to the other. “He’s Dow. He’s Sewall.”

“My husband is Mr. Roosevelt’s cousin,” Ensley offered. “We came out from New York to go hunting, but instead, I’m tagging along.” She was over-explaining, and it wasn’t necessary. “And I met your wife and daughter at the cabin.” Now she was really over-explaining, “Your wife was very gracious, and your daughter is precious.” She’d have to explain the lie to TR as soon as they were alone.

Shut up!

“Thank ya, ma’am. I’m sorta partial to them.”

Two more men rode up. “Bout time ya got here,” one of the men said.

“If they’d let me drive the train, we woulda been here yesterday,” Dow said.

One of the men who just rode up said, “We’ll cut the first five hundred and head south to the Maltese Cross Ranch. Probably bed down about a half mile from here. How many men do you have with you?”

“Sewall, Dow, Rowe, two others. We’ll manage,” TR said.

“That’s all we need,” Sewall said. “Drovers are nothin’ but trouble. They work hard, play hard, fight hard. Don’t need ’em on this drive.”

TR glanced at Ensley. “I mentioned Merrifield and Ferris to you earlier. They manage the Maltese Cross Ranch.” Then to Bill Merrifield, he said, “Mrs. Fraser is from New York City. She’s writing a story about roundups.”

“Welcome, ma’am,” Merrifield said. “Don’t know why you want to write about this. It’s hard