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Authors: Colleen L. Reece
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scattered to the floor. Sarah hastily gathered them up and shoved them into her reticule.
Sarah’s precarious tightrope walk between appearing submissive and secretly plotting her escape ended long before she felt ready to steal away.
Her plans shattered one morning when Gus shuffled into the kitchen. His wide grin and triumphant expression set Sarah’s nerves jangling. Tice was right behind Gus, wearing a look of satisfaction that chilled Sarah to the marrow.
“By tomorrow night you won’t be doin’ this, missy,” Gus announced with a smirk. “Tice here says he’s waited long enough and done enough courting. You’ll be married tomorrow afternoon. Right, Tice?”
“Yes.” Twin devils danced in the gambler’s wicked black eyes. “I’ve been pining away for you long enough, Sarah.”
She dropped a frying pan. It splashed soapy water on her apron and the floor, giving her time to hold her tongue instead of screaming and rushing out the open door. She started cleaning up the mess, desperately searching for words. Psalm 50:15 came to sustain her, as other familiar verses had done in the past few
weeks: “Call upon me in the day of trouble: I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me.”
“Tomorrow? I hardly think that is possible,” she began.
“It’s your own fault,” Gus growled. “Tice says you won’t even let him kiss you until you’re married.”
It took every ounce of self-control to keep from shuddering. Kiss Tice Edwards? She’d sooner kiss a copperhead!
The two men took her silence for consent and strode out, slapping each other on the back and jesting in a crude way.
But Sarah bit her lip until it bled. Ready or not, she must slip away that night.
Chapter 9
F rom the time he was old enough to straddle a pony, Matthew Sterling’s favorite season on the Diamond S had always been spring. For a short time a green carpet covered the brown and barren hills. The mud and rain took a break. New calves and foals and baby chicks appeared almost overnight. How Matt loved to see the colts and fillies kick up their heels in the pasture then flee to their mamas when startled.
Spring also had sounds of its own: the peeping of baby chicks, music to a child’s ears. The clang of the triangle outside the cookshack and the stentorian command “Come and git it before I throw it out” that roused grumbling hands from their beds earlier than they had grown accustomed to rise during the slower winter months.
Whenever young Matt could escape his parents’watchful eyes, he delighted in sneaking out in his nightshirt to eat breakfast with the cowboys. He later laughed at the childhood glee he had felt at outwitting his parents. He hadn’t found out until he was ten years old that he hadn’t put anything over on them. William and Rebecca Sterling had recognized their son’s need for independence even at that early age. Besides, no harm would come to Matt in either the cookshack or the bunkhouse. The hands adored the plucky little boy who manfully tried to ride everything that moved, including uncooperative cows, squealing pigs, and even a turkey whose tail came off in Matt’s futile grab to keep from sliding off. If a laughing, hip-slapping cowboy hadn’t rescued the youngster, Matt would have been in danger of being seriously pecked by the irate, partially denuded fowl. With Matt’s penchant for mischief, it wasn’t the last time a ranch hand came to his rescue.
The Sterlings’ carefree life ended with the death of Matt’s mother when he was only fifteen. Yet God had not forgotten the family, which had grown to include Robert and Dolores. In the midst of their sorrow, God sent Solita, whose name meant
little sun
. The round-faced Mexican housekeeper and cook more than lived up to her name. She not only brought sunlight back into the grieving family’s dark world, but she also became a substitute mother. She spoiled the children rotten, especially “Matelito.” But when Matt took his
Sarah’s precarious tightrope walk between appearing submissive and secretly plotting her escape ended long before she felt ready to steal away.
Her plans shattered one morning when Gus shuffled into the kitchen. His wide grin and triumphant expression set Sarah’s nerves jangling. Tice was right behind Gus, wearing a look of satisfaction that chilled Sarah to the marrow.
“By tomorrow night you won’t be doin’ this, missy,” Gus announced with a smirk. “Tice here says he’s waited long enough and done enough courting. You’ll be married tomorrow afternoon. Right, Tice?”
“Yes.” Twin devils danced in the gambler’s wicked black eyes. “I’ve been pining away for you long enough, Sarah.”
She dropped a frying pan. It splashed soapy water on her apron and the floor, giving her time to hold her tongue instead of screaming and rushing out the open door. She started cleaning up the mess, desperately searching for words. Psalm 50:15 came to sustain her, as other familiar verses had done in the past few
weeks: “Call upon me in the day of trouble: I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me.”
“Tomorrow? I hardly think that is possible,” she began.
“It’s your own fault,” Gus growled. “Tice says you won’t even let him kiss you until you’re married.”
It took every ounce of self-control to keep from shuddering. Kiss Tice Edwards? She’d sooner kiss a copperhead!
The two men took her silence for consent and strode out, slapping each other on the back and jesting in a crude way.
But Sarah bit her lip until it bled. Ready or not, she must slip away that night.
Chapter 9
F rom the time he was old enough to straddle a pony, Matthew Sterling’s favorite season on the Diamond S had always been spring. For a short time a green carpet covered the brown and barren hills. The mud and rain took a break. New calves and foals and baby chicks appeared almost overnight. How Matt loved to see the colts and fillies kick up their heels in the pasture then flee to their mamas when startled.
Spring also had sounds of its own: the peeping of baby chicks, music to a child’s ears. The clang of the triangle outside the cookshack and the stentorian command “Come and git it before I throw it out” that roused grumbling hands from their beds earlier than they had grown accustomed to rise during the slower winter months.
Whenever young Matt could escape his parents’watchful eyes, he delighted in sneaking out in his nightshirt to eat breakfast with the cowboys. He later laughed at the childhood glee he had felt at outwitting his parents. He hadn’t found out until he was ten years old that he hadn’t put anything over on them. William and Rebecca Sterling had recognized their son’s need for independence even at that early age. Besides, no harm would come to Matt in either the cookshack or the bunkhouse. The hands adored the plucky little boy who manfully tried to ride everything that moved, including uncooperative cows, squealing pigs, and even a turkey whose tail came off in Matt’s futile grab to keep from sliding off. If a laughing, hip-slapping cowboy hadn’t rescued the youngster, Matt would have been in danger of being seriously pecked by the irate, partially denuded fowl. With Matt’s penchant for mischief, it wasn’t the last time a ranch hand came to his rescue.
The Sterlings’ carefree life ended with the death of Matt’s mother when he was only fifteen. Yet God had not forgotten the family, which had grown to include Robert and Dolores. In the midst of their sorrow, God sent Solita, whose name meant
little sun
. The round-faced Mexican housekeeper and cook more than lived up to her name. She not only brought sunlight back into the grieving family’s dark world, but she also became a substitute mother. She spoiled the children rotten, especially “Matelito.” But when Matt took his
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