Rocky Mountain Dreams & Family on the Range by Danica Favorite (summer beach reads txt) 📕

She stepped to Miss Alma’s door. Shoulders straight, basket up. She could face this on her own.

Mary couldn’t face another cookie.

She shook her head at the kind lady who’d just offered her another sugar cookie. Miss Alma’s house was filled to the brim with women, patterns and treats. The ladies chattered as Mary huddled in the corner chair she’d chosen. Though no one had outright snubbed her, she’d felt the surprised looks when she’d opened the door.

Though she knew one or two ladies, most were strangers. Women who lived in town and rarely traveled outside its limits. No wonder they were startled to see a new face.

Of course, Miss Alma bustled around as friendly as a pup and sweeter than the desserts currently loading her counters.

Mary looked down at the stitching on her lap. She’d traded a few of her own gingham squares for a lovely ivy pattern another lady claimed to have picked up in New York City.

“Ooh, I like that.” One of the younger ladies present, perhaps near Gracie’s age, scooted close. “Are you making the entire quilt in that color scheme?” The girl’s russet hair fell against freckled cheeks and she had an upturned nose that reminded Mary of a curious cat.

“I am considering ivy and greens,” she answered.

“Lovely.” The girl held out her hand. “I’m Amy Donovan. Gracie is a riding friend of mine.”

“Oh...” Mary stared at the hand. Did this Amy really expect her to shake hands like men? Not that she disapproved, the movement simply surprised her.

“Go on, grasp my hand. It’s quite fun and perfectly acceptable.”

She took Amy’s hand and was rewarded with a vigorous pump.

“I’m so glad you came. It gets awfully stuffy in here sometimes. Quilting has its merits, but my aunt, whom I accompany, spends all her time tittering about who said what and who’s cut their hair into a bob. I’ve been missing Gracie dreadfully.” Amy’s eyes, a pretty brown, widened. “Say, do you ride? This weather is perfect for a good gallop.”

“I miss Gracie, too” was all Mary could think to say. No wonder Amy and Gracie had found each other. Chatterboxes, the both of them. Yet she quite liked their loquaciousness.

“When will she be home?” Amy pulled out a long stretch of squares and started working.

“Perhaps in a few weeks.” With Josie and Lou both suddenly appearing at the ranch, she hadn’t even thought about Gracie and Trevor’s return.

“Well, the sooner the better. Sometimes I’m afraid all the ranchers scooting out will leave us with a ghost town.”

Mary pricked her finger, despite the thimble she wore. “What do you mean, scooting out?” She sucked the pain from her finger and then returned to her sewing.

“Well, this weather and all. With the Indian summers gone, lots of ranches are up for sale. I heard some homesteaders are just leaving their places without even trying to sell.”

“You don’t say,” Mary murmured. How sad. The high desert of Oregon was a difficult soil for agriculture, though the land grew rich with herbs and roots. One had to know where to search.

“And did you hear of Mr. Baxley?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Oh, the poor thing was beaten horribly and died from his injuries. There was this good-looking man skulking about and I’ve heard gossip that he’s the murderer.”

Mary’s gaze snapped up. “Is he still in Burns?”

“Oh, no.” Amy’s head shook vigorously. “Our lawmen wouldn’t allow that. Though there’s no proof. Only conjecture.”

“Everything going well over here?” Miss Alma appeared in front of them. She wore an absurd hat laden with all sorts of funny little things that made Mary smile. They hovered above her happy face and bobbed with her movements. “Mary, dear, those snickerdoodles were wonderful. You must give me the recipe and bring something to the picnic tomorrow. Now, may I get you ladies anything?”

“We’re doing just dandy, Miss Alma. Thank you, though.” Amy flashed a broad grin, but the elderly lady was already swishing off to the next group of women in her crowded living room.

The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully, though Mary couldn’t shake the troublesome feeling nagging at her. Could she have done more to help Mr. Baxley? And how had the violet-eyed man escaped conviction so easily? Perhaps Lou would know.

At precisely three o’clock Miss Alma’s door swung open, and a broad-shouldered Lou Riley filled the door frame. Gasps and titters resounded through the room. A few of the younger girls gaped as Mary gathered her belongings and said goodbye to Miss Alma.

She turned to the door and then paused, her heart stuttering in her chest. No wonder the girls were catching flies. Lou lounged in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame, his legs crossed at the ankles, hands pocketed in his blue jeans. His leather hat hugged his head at an angle that mimicked the smirk on his lips.

He swirled a toothpick lazily with his teeth as he surveyed the room. The sun slanted in from windows behind Mary, highlighting the mischievous sparkle that winked in his blue eyes.

The man knew the effect he was having, and she didn’t know whether to be amused or outraged.

Finally, he took out the toothpick and straightened. Not a woman stirred. He slid the hat off his head, gave Mary a slow wink that filled her with hot mortification and proceeded to dazzle the women with the kind of smile that turned a woman’s heart.

“Hello, ladies,” he drawled.

Chapter Nine

“I am not impressed.” Mary hoity-toitied her way to the Ford, posture so stiff Lou figured she could carry a basket on her head the way he’d seen women on the continent of Africa do. Or maybe just plain old books like the stuffy girls back East used to practice with.

“With what?” he called after her. He wasn’t going to bother trying to keep up while she threw the most abnormal fit he’d ever seen. Maybe this quilting thing had gone worse than he suspected. Though