But if she’d been expecting a dude, she was surprised. His clothing was new, possibly bought locally at Harris Mercantile, though nothing overly fancy — gray wool California-style tight-waist/loose-legged pants, black sateen shirt, and black work boots. The fanciest things about him were the black, flat-brimmed, raw-edged, round-crown Stetson (minus the usual flashy feather) and, of course, that snowflake Appaloosa of his.
She had certainly not dressed up for him, not for a morning of riding, however easy she planned to take it on the Easterner — her usual ranch garb, red-and-black plaid shirt, jeans, work boots, her yellow hair braided up in a bun. The only thing approaching a fuss that she’d made was the picnic basket of food — cold fried chicken, pair of Mason jars filled with lemonade, some fresh biscuits (still warm when she packed them away), jars of honey, olives, pickles and jellies, and chocolate cupcakes.
Turned out he was a good, confident rider, and the only awkward moment was just before they left, when he gave her a look as she climbed up on Daisy.
“Something wrong?” she asked. The small picnic basket was slung over her saddle horn.
“No, I... I’m just used to ladies riding sidesaddle.”
She might have been offended, but instead merely gave him a teasing little smile. “Maybe I’m not a lady.”
The grin under his thin, well-trimmed mustache was nicely devilish. “Time will tell.”
They spent several hours riding the range, where the beeves grazed and cowboys drifted through, keeping an eye on things. The men nodded to her and ignored the rider they assumed was a tenderfoot. For his part, Zachary seemed fascinated by the smallest things — a line shack, a barbed-wire fence, a roped stray — and took everything in, like a child eager to learn.
The sun wasn’t quite above them yet when they settled on the slope above the sparkling river, the breeze a soothing third companion, and they ate the picnic lunch, very leisurely, sitting on an Indian blanket she spread out. He asked her a number of questions about the cattle business, some a little naive, most surprisingly smart, others just gathering information about this new world he found himself in.
“Why,” he said, resting casually on his side, poised to have a bite of cupcake, glancing back at the glimmering river, “would they call a beautiful waterway like that ‘the Purgatory’?”
Sitting Indian-style, she was working on a cupcake, too; she swallowed her bite before grinning mischievously, as she pointed in the direction the stream was running.
“Because Texas is that way,” she said.
He laughed. “This country... such a hard place, but people still have a sense of humor.”
“You have to have that,” she said with a matter-of-fact shrug, about to take her last cupcake bite, “to survive.”
“That’s true everywhere.” Zachary used a napkin on his fingers. “What an incredible feast. You may not have demonstrated yet that you’re a lady, Miss Cullen, but you’re clearly a woman of exceptional skills.”
“Am I now?”
He nodded, and the expression on the handsome, vaguely Apache-like face was clearly admiring. “You ride like a man, you cook like an angel, and even in jeans and a plaid shirt, you’re a vision.”
She licked a crumb of chocolate cake from her upper lip, then said, “Maybe instead of establishing whether I’m a lady should wait until we’re determined whether or not you’re a gentleman.”
His laugh was hearty. “Please! I’m not getting fresh. You’re quite safe with me, at least at the moment. I couldn’t be more stuffed if a taxidermist had just finished with me.”
She laughed a little herself. Then some silence settled in, which she broke by saying, “I gather you were pretty successful back East. On Wall Street, is it?”
He nodded. “I got in just after the war. My timing was good — they capped Stock Exchange membership in ’69. It’s not been an easy living — the security trade is prone to panics and crashes. That’s one reason why I jumped at the chance to make a change.”
“One reason, you say. Is there another?”
He smiled, but his expression was somehow melancholy. “Doesn’t everyone who comes West have their reasons?”
“Personal reasons, you mean.”
He shrugged slightly, avoided her gaze.
She said, “Forgive me, Zachary — I don’t mean to pry.”
He shrugged again and shook his head. “Miss Cullen... Willa. I just don’t want to subject you to my sad story, and lead you to think I want you to feel sorry for me. I like you, Willa... not meaning to be forward. But your pity is not something I crave.”
Willa knew she should let that stand — but how could she? How could anyone?
She leaned forward, smiled gently, and touched his hand. “Tell me.”
He swallowed, and as he spoke, he looked past her. Into memory.
“Her name was Hannah,” he said. “My childhood sweetheart... and later... my wife. She was very beautiful, as beautiful as you. But she wasn’t strong like you. And the boy she gave me, Hiram... he wasn’t strong, either.”
The air between them had gone suddenly brittle, the breeze a little too cool.
She said, “They’re... they’re gone.”
He swallowed again, nodded. “Diphtheria. Quite a bad outbreak in ’81, back East.”
She covered her mouth. Then her fingers lowered and she said softly, “I’m sorry. Zachary, I am so sorry.”
His smile could only be described as brave. “My staff at the brokerage was exemplary. They covered for me for many, many months. They did very well without me, too, and when I finally returned, we did better still. And at work, I was fine. But at home, in our town house... too many memories. Too many ghosts. I tried moving, to an apartment on Park Avenue. Lovely place. I hated it.”
His eyebrows rose.
“Then,” he said, “a bolt from the blue... this golden opportunity courtesy of a black sheep who I barely knew. A fresh start. A new challenge. And here I am.”
He told it so simply, so elegantly, with the tiniest smile, the heartbreak showing only in his eyes.
She was crying.
He came over and put an arm around her, and comforted her, as if the loss just described had been hers, not his.
“How selfish of me,” he said, angry with himself, “to put you through that. I had no right...”
She looked up at him and touched his face, her eyelashes pearled with tears, though the crying was over. Their faces were inches apart. Impulsively, she kissed him, tenderly, briefly, hand still touching his cheek.
They drew apart.
Emotions roiled through his expression like thunder in a sky swept black with clouds.
Then he kissed her, and it began as hers had, tenderly, but grew into something more, something passionate, something hungry. They kissed and they kissed, and he eased her onto her back and lay beside her, and his fingers found the buttons of her shirt. She raised a hand to stop him, but that hand froze in midair, and then his touch was on her underthings, cupping a breast, and his face was in her neck, kissing, nuzzling, loving, then lustful.
He seemed to catch himself and rolled off, turning his back to her. She flushed and did up her buttons and glanced away, ashamed. He was looking away as well, perhaps equally so.
“I’m sorry,” he said, so soft the rush of the Purgatory nearly drowned it out. “That was... I’m sorry.”
Normal color returned to her cheeks and she slid over to sit beside him. She touched his hand.
“I don’t mind,” she said. “I really don’t. But... it’s a little fast, don’t you think? A little sudden?”
He flashed her an embarrassed smile. “Much too sudden. Far too bold. I hope you can forgive me.”