Love Letters from Her Cowboy
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Sasha Summers
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16,7K
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18
Chapter One
Emory opened the oven door and pulled out the pan of oversize gingerbread cranberry raisin muffins. If the smell of spiced baked goodness and fruit hadn’t made her mouth water, the bacon, egg and cheese breakfast casserole should have. One of Emory’s favorite parts of cooking had been the taste-testing. Now, not so much. The last year had seen her appetite wane—her jeans had gone from a size eighteen to a fourteen, but she still had shapely thighs and a well-rounded bum. Aunt Ruthie said she had the classic hourglass figure of Marilyn Monroe or Rita Hayworth. Emory’s doctor, however, had used other, less-flattering terms to describe her extra weight.
“Heavens to Betsy, Emory Ann, I could smell breakfast all the way upstairs. I hope you made extra.” Aunt Ruthie swept into the kitchen, her white hair piled on the top of her head and her two fluffy calico cats trailing after her. “Colonel Jimenez likes to eat—as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
Emory nodded. “I have. I doubled the batch.”
“That’s my girl.” Aunt Ruthie patted her cheek, her bright pink lips and well-rouged cheeks creasing from her impish smile.
Emory attempted to smile in return. “Can’t have anyone leaving hungry.”
“No, ma’am. That’d be a downright crime.” Aunt Ruthie nodded.
Aunt Ruthie was old school. She believed in a tidy house, a full belly and putting yourself together, every single day. It didn’t matter if it was five in the morning or ten at night, Aunt Ruthie would have on a full face of makeup, piled-high and sprayed-in-place hair, and wrinkle-free clothing. Thankfully, she’d let Emory’s less than put-together appearance slide the four months she’d been here in Granite Falls.
“I’d best get everyone’s invoices printed up for checkout. Save me a muffin, won’t you? The smell makes it seem like Christmas is tomorrow—not a full month away.” She gave Emory a long, searching look. “It’s going to be a good day today, Emory Ann.” She gave Emory’s cheek another pat. “So much to do.” With that, she swept out of the kitchen, her cats trailing after her, as always.
Emory finished artfully stacking the muffins on one of her aunt’s cheerful Christmas platters, carried it out into the large dining room and placed it on the sideboard, ready and waiting for the current bed-and-breakfast guests.
This weekend they had a full house. Colonel Jimenez, three women from Austin here for a girls’ weekend and a large family taking a road trip from Galveston, Texas, all the way up to Wichita, Kansas. Granite Falls was an adorable town, but Emory hadn’t expected it to be such a tourist destination. She’d begun to realize that the quaint boutiques and Main Street vibe plus the easy access off the state highway made it a quick getaway from the larger metroplexes of Texas. Plus the rodeo. Rodeo was always a big draw for tourists looking for an authentic Texas experience. Which was good for Aunt Ruthie’s bed-and-breakfast and the handful of Texas dude ranches in the surrounding vicinity.
Emory stepped back to assess the festive breakfast display one last time. She straightened the green carnival glass bowl of berries, checked that the chafing dish was warm enough to keep the breakfast casserole the right temp and counted the silverware and red-and-green plates to make sure there was enough for everyone. From the squeaking wood floors and muffled conversation spilling down the stairs, the guests were up and moving already.
Once she was satisfied with the dining room aesthetic, she went back into the kitchen to finish up the final prep. It was mindless work but she appreciated the routine of it. Pouring orange juice in a cut crystal pitcher, filling the coffee urn and putting on another pot to brew, loading up a tray with cream, half-and-half, milk, sugar and artificial sweeteners of all types. Aunt Ruthie was all about giving her guests exactly what they liked. It was, she said, the best way to guarantee those guests would be back.
That was one of the many things Emory admired about her aunt. Aunt Ruthie did everything at 110 percent. She was a doer. The older woman was always busy. She didn’t believe in “wasting daylight.”
Once upon a time, Emory had been a doer, too. Now, she was happy to get by. With every passing day, it was getting easier. But easier didn’t mean bearable. Not yet. There were still mornings she woke up clutching her stomach—holding on to the baby she’d lost. Other days, she’d reach across the bed for Sam. Then she’d remember and realize they’d never be there, with her, again. Those were the really hard days.
“All done.” Aunt Ruthie came back in. “What can I do to help?” She paused. “It looks to me like you’ve got it all under control.”
“I’m trying.” Emory adjusted the tie of her apron and ran a hand over the bold stitching that read, This Is My Christmas Cookie Baking Apron.
“And succeeding.” Ruthie reached up, smoothing the tower of white hair on her head. “Am I all straight? No holes?” She spun slowly so Emory could check her hair.
“No holes.” Emory gave her a thumbs-up. “Perfect. As always.”
If there was ever a doubt as to how much her aunt Ruthie loved the one-and-only Dolly Parton, all a person had to do was check out Ruthie’s hair. Emory didn’t know how many hairpieces or wigs her aunt owned, but they were all an homage to the iconic country singer. The fact that each room of the bed-and-breakfast was named after one of Dolly’s greatest hits, and she’d framed every bit of memorabilia she’d acquired from the many concerts and trips to Dollywood only solidified Aunt Ruthie’s devotion to the icon.
“You are sweeter than sugar.” Her aunt winked. “Now, I’m feeling in the mood to dazzle the good colonel this morning.” She took the tray.
Emory followed her out into the dining room, smiling. It wasn’t long before the chairs were full and Emory was entirely focused on working. As long as she was refilling coffee or serving food or washing dishes, she could ignore the pressure on her chest and the lead weighing down her stomach.
After breakfast was over and the kitchen was clean, she headed out to the vegetable garden with her basket. Fresh vegetables always made soup or salad taste best. Texas’s mild fall and winter meant there were plentiful veggies all year round. Plus, out here, it was peaceful and quiet and just what she needed.
Except it wasn’t peaceful. Or quiet. She frowned, staring around her to find what was making that pitiful, repetitive whimper-howl.
She set her basket aside and dropped to her knees, crawling across the yard to peer under the bushes that surrounded the property line’s wrought-iron fence. For a Main Street property, the old house had a big, sprawling double lot for their garden and the carriage house out back—where Emory lived. It was only while crawling the length of the fence that she fully realized just how sizable the property was.
She paused when the whimpers stopped, flattening herself in the grass and holding up the lower branch of the bush.
A small dog stared back. A very unfortunate-looking dog. Its white hair was matted in tufts, its eyes were on the bulgy side and its tongue dangled out the side of its mouth. To top it off, the dog was shaking so badly the whole bush seemed to be moving, too.
“Where did you come from?” she murmured.
The dog’s head pivoted one way, then the next, before starting up its mournful whine-howl again.
“Come on.” She held her hand out. “It’s okay. I can’t see what’s wrong and fix you if you won’t come out.”
The dog backed farther away, barely visible now.
“Emory Ann, sugar, what is making that awful racket?” Aunt Ruthie called out.
“A little dog.” Emory sat up and turned to her aunt, shrugging. “It might be hurt. But I can’t tell how bad. Poor thing is shaking.”
Aunt Ruthie wasn’t the only one standing on the large wraparound porch—most of their guests were, too. “I’ll go give Buzz Lafferty, our vet here, a call. Good man.” Aunt Ruthie held up her pointer finger. “You keep it there until I reach him.”
“I’ll try.” Emory lay on her stomach in the grass and rested her head on her arms, facing the dog. Well, all she could see were two white paws, but the leaves on the bush still shimmied so it was safe to assume the dog was still there. “Hey, little thing. It’s okay. I promise. It’s not that bad.” At least, she hoped that was the case.
The whimpering, however, suggested otherwise.
“Okay, okay. Maybe it is,” she said, keeping her voice low. “And if it is, I’m sorry. I’m sure we’ll be able to find your owner and get you fixed up and it’ll all be okay.”
The dog lowered his head, sniffed, then mimicked Emory’s position. It lay, bulging little eyes glued on her, and continued to whimper.
Emory couldn’t help but smile. “We can stay like this until you’re ready, okay?”
The dog grunted, tried to move, then whimpered sharply.
“Are you hurt?” She frowned, wishing she had her phone or a flashlight to see what, exactly, was going on with the poor little dog. “Oh, please come out. Please, puppy. If you’re hurt—”
“Um, hello?” A deep voice came from the other side of the bush, making Emory and the dog both jump. “Everything okay? Need any help?”
She sat up on her knees and craned her neck to see over the hedges. “There’s a dog that might be injured, but it’s wedged itself under a bush so I can’t get to it.”
“Well...” The man stepped forward, though the shadow of his cowboy hat made his features indistinguishable. “There’s some blood out here on the sidewalk.”
“Oh no.” Blood? She shook her head, truly worried now. “The little thing won’t come out. It’s scared, probably. And hurting.”
“We’ll come around,” the cowboy said.
A minute later, two men walked through the gate and across the grass to where she knelt. One man stood while the other, a giant of a man, folded his massive frame at her side to peer under the shrubs and assess the dog’s condition. “Come on out now.” This voice was deeper and gruffer than the one she’d talked to. That, with his sheer size, made him more than a little intimidating. He reached one massive hand under the shrub. “Come on.”
“Is it safe to move it?” Her medical knowledge extended to the rescue show her aunt loved—and they never moved any accident victims unless they’d made sure there wasn’t a head or neck injury. Whether or not that applied to canines, she wasn’t sure.
“If it’s bleeding bad and we leave it, things could get a lot worse.” The man’s arm moved one way, then the other.
There was no arguing with that alarming, but true, statement. She wasn’t about to sit here and let the poor dog bleed to death. Just thinking about that happening had panic deflating her lungs.
“Emory,” Aunt Ruthie called out. “Emory, Buzz said he’s on his way. He said... Who’s that? Trace? Trace Dawson, is that you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Trace, the man standing, tipped his hat in Aunt Ruthie’s direction. “And Dougal McCarrick, too. He’s got a real way with animals. He’ll get the dog out.”
Dougal grunted, murmuring, “It bit me.”
A way with animals, huh? Emory could only imagine the poor dog’s fear. Dougal McCarrick was a mountain of a man—to a small, panicked dog, he’d be a downright monster. She went back to lying in the grass. “Come on, puppy. It’s safe, I promise.” The dog didn’t know the giant man digging around, attempting to drag it out, was trying to help. It was hurting and scared and defending itself. “Please come out. Please.” Every second the dog bled was a second lost—Emory was keenly aware of that. She drew in a wavering breath. “Please.”
The dog started scooching toward her, yelping and barking the whole way. When it made its way out and to her, Emory bit into her lower lip to stop herself from crying.
Trace hissed the words. “That doesn’t look so good.”
Dougal sat back and ran a hand along the back of his neck, his eyes fixed on the dog’s left hind leg.
The sight of the dog’s back leg bleeding and dangling at an awkward angle had Emory’s heart in her throat. “Poor thing,” she crooned.
Even wounded, the little dog wagged its tail and managed to pull itself into Emory’s lap where it curled into a ball.
“Oh, sweet thing,” she whispered, gently resting a hand on the dog’s back. “It will be okay.” It would be. It had to be. She couldn’t bear to think of any other alternative. “I promise,” she said more firmly. “You’re going to be fine.”
Something in the woman’s voice grabbed ahold of Dougal. Until now, he’d only cared about the injured animal. But now... There was a force behind the woman’s words that was almost a challenge. As if she could will the dog into surviving its injury. He watched her lean forward, protecting the dog.
“Miss.” Dougal didn’t want to get the woman’s hopes up but stumbled to a stop. He shot Trace a look, uncertain.
“There’s no way of knowing how badly the little guy is hurt,” Trace said what he was thinking.
“Guy? It’s a boy?” She didn’t bother to look up. “He will be fine.” Her tone said she wasn’t going to hear anyone tell her otherwise.
Dougal sighed. “Maybe.” Maybe not. He’d grown up on a ranch with all sorts of animals. Sometimes, life wasn’t fair. It was a lesson he’d learned as a boy. And, Trace was right. That leg didn’t look good.
“Here.” Ruthie Baumgarten arrived, a fluffy pink towel in her hands. “What a sad little thing. Oh, Emory, sugar, try not to fret. Dr. Lafferty will be here any minute, now.” She handed Dougal the towel. “Thank you, Trace and Dougal, for helping Emory out.”
“I didn’t do a thing.” Trace shrugged. “Neither did Dougal. He came straight out to Emory.”
It wasn’t for lack of trying. Instead of scowling up at Trace, Dougal held the towel out for Emory. The little dog growled and cowered back into her lap, whimpering from the effort. “Hey, hey, now.” He kept his voice low and soft. “No one’s going to hurt you.”
“I don’t think he believes you.” Trace shook his head.
“Thanks for the towel, Aunt Ruthie.” Emory draped the towel over the dog. “I don’t see a collar.”
“I’d say he hasn’t had a good meal in some time,” Ruthie said, clicking her tongue.
Dougal agreed. The little dog was skin and bones. He shook his head. One thing about living in the country that bothered him the most was people driving out to dump their animals.
“How far do you think it walked like this?” Emory gently rubbed one of the dog’s ears.
“No telling.” Dougal studied the bug-eyed canine. White hair stood out in every which direction, and it had an underbite that rivaled his brother’s dog, Gertie. “But I’d say the dog is tougher than it looks.”
“You hang in there,” Emory whispered.
He loved animals, but there was something about Emory’s determination that bordered on desperation. He glanced at Ruthie Baumgarten. The older woman was frowning, her eyes pinned on her niece with genuine concern. He didn’t know Ruthie Baumgarten all that well, she’d only been here a couple of years now and, since he’d no reason to stay at a bed-and-breakfast, their paths rarely crossed. Still, he’d heard only good things about the woman and her efforts to become an active member of the close-knit community he called home.
He hadn’t known Ruthie’s niece, Emory, had existed until now. But, from the way she was cradling that dog against her chest, he suspected she had a tender heart.
Trace caught his eye and shook his head.
Dougal’s nod was slight. He had the feeling Emory’s tender heart was going to be broken before the day was through. Still, the minute Dougal saw Buzz coming through the front gate, he hoped he was wrong. Buzz was one hell of a good veterinarian—and he didn’t just think so because they were friends.
“Ruthie?” Buzz hurried across the yard. “Dougal. Trace.” He nodded and crouched in the grass. “What do we have here?”
“Hit by a car, I’m thinking.” Dougal winced when Buzz lifted the towel and revealed the dog’s back leg again.
Buzz nodded. “Stray?” He looked back and forth between Ruthie and Emory.
“I think so.” Ruthie hugged herself. “I’ve never seen it around here.”
“But it’s mine, now,” Emory murmured. “I mean, I want to be responsible for it. I’ll take care of it now.”
Ruthie’s tone was soothing. “Emory Ann, sugar, after everything you’ve been through, are you sure that’s what you need—”
“Yes, Aunt Ruthie. It is.” Emory ran a hand over the top of the dog’s head. “Whatever you need to do to save this dog, Dr. Lafferty, please do it.”
Buzz’s assessing gaze swept over Emory before returning to the dog. “Okay. First, we need to get to the clinic so I can take a good look at what’s going on.” He reached forward, sliding his arms under the towel and the dog. “And we’ll make sure there’s no chip—in case there is an owner out there looking for him.” He scooped the dog up in the towel.
The dog didn’t approve of this maneuver and made sure they all knew about it, too.
Buzz nodded, holding the dog tightly. “I’d be mighty unhappy, too.” He glanced at Dougal. “We should probably get that taken care of, as well”
Dougal looked down at his hand. He hadn’t realized he was bleeding. “I’m fine. Got a tetanus shot last year.”
“Good.” Buzz nodded, meeting his gaze. “I don’t think Skylar’s in yet. I might need extra hands.”
Dougal nodded, so did Trace, and they headed back to the gate.
“I’m coming, too.” Emory trailed after them.
There wasn’t much talking as they rushed down the six blocks and across Main Street to Buzz’s veterinary clinic. The dog’s whimpers had gotten softer by the time they were inside—and Emory seemed more distraught by the second.
“Hey, Buzz. Everyone...” Buzz’s vet tech, Skylar, was inside—just setting her purse down on the front desk. “What do we have here?” She headed around the desk, her expression guarded as she assessed the little dog.
“Glad you’re here.” Buzz nodded to the back as he spoke to Skylar. “We can handle this, but it’ll be a while. I can call the B and B when we know more.”
“I’ll wait.” Emory stared after Skylar as she carried the dog into the back. “If that’s okay?”
Buzz nodded, shot Dougal a meaningful look, then disappeared behind the swinging doors.
His brother and friends liked to give him grief for being on the “reserved” side—they used the term emotionally constipated to describe him—but he wasn’t completely clueless. As awkward as this whole situation was, he wasn’t going to up and leave Emory alone in the waiting room—especially when he feared the outcome was so bleak.
Trace tapped his watch. “I’ve got to get to work. Hope it turns out...okay.” His gaze bounced between Dougal and Emory before he offered an apologetic shrug.
Dougal worked on the family ranch—as long as he got the job done, his hours were up to him. Trace, on the other hand, had a nine-to-five job so he couldn’t just roll in to work whenever he wanted. Meaning he’d be staying here, alone, with Emory. He waved his friend off, then stood, awkwardly as seconds turned into minutes. Emory stood still as a statue, hugging herself, with her pale blue eyes glued on the door Skylar and Buzz had taken the dog through. “Want to sit?” he asked, indicating the chairs along the wall.
She sat, tucking her hands under her thighs.
He sat beside her, took off his cowboy hat and spun it slowly in his hands. He normally preferred silence but this was different. This silence was loaded with tension—so much so, he could feel a trickle of sweat slide down his back. He rubbed his palms on his thighs and wracked his brain for something appropriate to say. “I’m Dougal. Dougal McCarrick.”
She barely glanced his way. “Emory. Swanson.” She stared down at the floor.
He’d thought the dog had been shaking but maybe it had been Emory the whole time. She perched on the edge of the seat, her entire body shuddering.
“You okay?” he asked, knowing it was a stupid thing to ask. Clearly, she wasn’t okay. But he didn’t know how to make small talk, and this seemed like the sort of a thing a person would ask—under the circumstances.
She nodded, then shook her head. “I’m trying to be.”
The wobble in her voice had him sitting forward. He lifted up his hand, hesitating. It went against his nature to invade the personal space of a stranger. Normally, it took him quite a bit of time to feel comfortable enough to engage in any sort of physical exchange. But Emory was on the verge of tears, he could tell. And, distant or not, his heart wasn’t made of stone.
“Hey, now,” he murmured, giving her back a pat. “Buzz is one hell of a veterinarian.” He kept on patting her. “I know he will do everything he can for that little dog.” He gave her another awkward pat before resting his hand on her shoulder.
She sniffed, turning big, tear-filled eyes his way. “He will? Good,” she whispered. “That’s good to know.”
All he could do was nod. The hurt in her eyes slammed into him. Raw and too much... Too big. Her gaze was haunted—clouded with the sort of torment he’d rather shy away from. There was no way this little dog was the sole reason for Emory’s bone-deep grief, but that didn’t stop him from hoping like hell that Buzz could save the little dog. Not just for the dog, but for Emory. Something told him she was close to breaking in a way there was no recovering from. Maybe that’s why some new instinct took over and he slipped his arm around her shoulders. And when she turned into him, buried her face against his chest and proceeded to soak his shirt with her tears, he pulled her closer. Awkward or not, he’d give her whatever comfort he could while they waited for word on the little dog’s fate.
