Page 2 of Trail of Sunflowers (Texas Bloom #3)

Chapter One

October 1893

Austin, Texas

“ W hat in God’s name is that stench?” David Corner fluttered an embroidered handkerchief in the vicinity of his face, peering through the darkness around them. “And where, exactly, have you brought us?”

Isadora Williams pointed her gloved finger at a bulky black square in the distance. “That building is a slaughterhouse, and the culprit of the stench is its rendering factory approximately a quarter of a mile behind it. That’s the stockyard.” She pointed again, but David was busily goggling at her.

“I thought,” he said slowly, “you were purchasing a horse?”

“I am.” She studiously ignored the indignant noise that was erupting from him and flicked the buggy reins.

“At a godforsaken slaughterhouse? Have you taken leave of your senses?”

“There is no need to scream, David.”

His voice lowered several decibels. “And enlighten me, please, as to why we are journeying under the cover of night? I assume you need me for more than just a buggy mate or my titillating conversation.”

A grin flashed across Isa’s face in the glow of the buggy’s two lanterns. She led the buggy horse around the immense brick building to the yawning darkness of the stockyards beyond. A southerly wind blew the rendering factory’s evil vapors directly into their nostrils, and David shoved his handkerchief, lovingly initialed by his young wife, hard against his nose. The smell of animal fat seeped into their pores and lingered in their clothes.

Isa’s nose wrinkled.

It smelled precisely how a slaughterhouse and rendering factory should: simmering fat and sinew gone slightly off, singed hair, and the sweet, rancid scent of old blood. The stockyard contained intricate mazes of corrals, stables, and bisecting cattle panels. A semicircular holding pen was visible near the back entrance of the sprawling building, funneling to a gate used to transfer cattle into a chute. Compared to the ranches she’d grown up around, it felt industrial. Cold.

This place was a way station for the “knackered.” Old cattle, sheep, pigs—any four-legged hoofed creature deemed no longer useful for anything other than meat or glue.

“Isa?” David hissed. “Why did you feel the need to travel here at midnight?”

He had never liked being ignored.

A shadow creeping across the yard captured Isa’s attention, and she whispered from the corner of her mouth, “The man I’m purchasing the mare from demanded a nighttime transaction, and I brought you so he wouldn’t get any romantic notions about a woman meeting him alone.”

David snorted into his cotton hanky. “Please. You could cut him down to size in a trice. Did you remember to bring your firearm?”

“Don’t be stupid.” She patted the unyielding lump in the reticule at her hip.

“As I suspected. You need me not at all. The only thing I’ve ever saved you from is boredom.” The words were tinged with bitterness.

“A more horrible way to perish, I cannot imagine. You are a saint.”

David reached to squeeze her knee familiarly, good humor restored. She retaliated by slapping his knuckles soundly with the ribbons of her reins. His laugh was muffled.

City boy , she thought wryly.

Their conversation halted as an obscure figure led an inky-black horse forward. She felt David stiffen beside her. It had been nearly effortless on her part to convince the slaughterhouse manager to sell the Arabian mare for a sack full of twenty-dollar gold pieces instead of leaving it to its fate. Isa suspected if she hadn’t ridden directly there the day before, the man would have taken the horse home for himself. The mare was worth a fortune.

“Mr. Northam, is that you?” Isa knew it was him, but the rounded shoulders relaxed an inch at her crisp tone.

“Who’s that with you, miss?” he asked suspiciously.

“Why, my husband,” Isa lied, sounding taken aback. “You cannot expect me to travel alone at night, good sir.”

He muttered something and brought the mare closer.

Oh, but she was a beauty.

Dim lantern light gleamed off the dramatic arch of the horse’s neck and shimmered against the white blaze on her dished profile.

Perfect .

Even David was speechless beside her, a rare event.

Isa took advantage of his shock, relinquished the reins to him and alighted from the buggy without assistance. She and the man, who was reluctant to vacate the shadows, were eye to eye. Her ability to look a man in the eye from her considerable height could be either a blessing or a curse. Tonight, it was an advantage. She reached into her reticule, fingers brushing the gun, and pulled out a leather sack bulging with gold pieces. The whites of Mr. Northam’s eyes reflected greedily at the jingling sound.

“The other half, as agreed,” she said lightly, holding the heavy bag out. “And I truly appreciate your discretion.”

Glancing from her eyes to her proffered hand, he accepted the money and replaced it with the lead rope.

Smile tightening, Isa reminded him, “And the title?”

He hesitated. “It’s to the slaughterhouse, miss. If I sign it, it’s my job.”

“I understand,” she said, reaching into her reticule again. His eyes followed, his bearing taut. She presented a fountain pen. “But where I’m going, no one will even know your name.”

Mr. Northam accepted the pen as though it were a snake. Reluctantly, he dug in one pocket, then the other, and retrieved a folded paper. He unfolded it, awkwardly signed it on his knee with a surprisingly flourishing script, and transferred the title to her waiting palm. She tilted it to the lantern light, read it, then folded and stowed it in her reticule with an air of satisfaction.

“Good doin’ business with ya.” Mr. Northam tipped his hat, pocketed his money with a wary glance at David, and backed into the shadows. Moments later, they heard hoofbeats pounding in the opposite direction.

“You’d think we came here to rob him,” David mused from his perch. The white square of cloth had wrinkled in his clenched hand.

“Some likely would have,” Isa pointed out, running her fingertips along the bony line of the mare’s blaze. Its equine eyes were liquid black moons. Sable ears flicked forward and backward skittishly, and delicate nostrils flared.

“If you’re quite finished gloating over your prize, may we depart from this level of hell you’ve dragged us to?”

Grinning at her unbelievable fortune, Isa pulled the mare’s lead rope and giddily led her toward the rear of the buggy. On passing the brown buggy horse, the ebony mare pinned her ears. She squealed, high and sharp, kicking out with her front hoof, nearly making contact with the brown gelding’s leg. In response, he lurched away, jostling the buggy despite its set brake. David cursed, straining against the reins to keep the horse and carriage immobile.

“What the devil was that?” David’s shout echoed in the empty yard.

“ That is the reason she’s at the slaughterhouse in the first place,” Isa said matter-of-factly. She pulled the mare behind her, circling wide around the other horse. “She has appalling manners for a circus horse.”

“A what?”

“Didn’t I tell you?”

“I loathe these games. Every time you shock me, you turn as smug as my father when he liquidates another business.”

“Don’t be dramatic. Mirage is a circus horse that was sold to my friend’s father. Jacquelin’s father has a notoriously foul temper and more money than sense. Apparently, he was riding Mirage through the street and lost control of her. He fell off and broke his leg. Jacquelin said he was so embarrassed and enraged that he sent the horse straight to the slaughterhouse to be turned to glue. Can you imagine?” She smiled broadly up at the mare. “His trash, my treasure.”

Isa securely fastened the lead rope behind the buggy.

Through the carriage’s leather back cover, David’s voice was faint. “Can’t be much of a show horse if she tries to kill all the other horses.”

Isa didn’t want to think of that, so she rounded the carriage wheel and said optimistically, “At least she’s friendly with people.”

“Much good that will be riding her in a street full of horses .” David clambered down to her.

Ignoring his hand, she pulled herself up and sat on the bench, straightening her gloves. “She just needs a bit of training.”

“Spare me,” he sighed, then gagged at the lungful of polluted air he’d inhaled. In an exhibition of athleticism, David hopped back into the buggy on Isa’s side, shaking it and causing unnecessary commotion. “I can scarcely believe you’re leaving.”

Isa held onto her hat, glaring. “Believe it. I’m leaving this week.”

“You don’t have to sound so damned pleased with yourself. My guts are torn out, and you laugh all la-di-da.” He snapped the reins with needless force, and Isa had to grab hold of her hat again when they turned sharply around.

Isa stifled the urge to laugh. “Your guts are perfectly well. You’re a physician; you would know.”

“Maybe if I toted guns and roped cattle like your childhood sweetheart, you’d stay.” David’s mutter was low and dark, raising Isa’s hackles.

Slanting a look at him, she snatched the reins from his hands and steered the carriage horse around the slaughterhouse toward the long, narrow drive.

David ignored the warning signs. “What was his name? Something ridiculous, not even a real name. A suffix . Senior?”

“Junior.” Isa pretended the name didn’t send sparks of animosity through her. “As you well know. And he is not my childhood sweetheart. He’s a family friend.”

“Junior,” David scoffed. Arms crossed, he pouted at the swinging lantern. “That’s a child’s name.”

“I’d love to see the day you tell a Texas Ranger he has a child’s name.” She’d had the same unkind thought countless times over the years, usually amidst imaginary debates where she argued with that self-same man. Naturally, she won every argument. And yet, hearing the callous opinion from another person’s lips compelled in her an age-old response to defend. No matter how much Junior had neglected her in recent years, her loyalty persisted.

Grumbling, David asked, “Who says I’ll be around to tell it to him face-to-face? I’ll insult the fellow in the comfort of others’ company like a gentleman.”

“He doesn’t like his first name.”

“Is it odd, like yours?”

“‘Isadora’ is not odd, you dolt.” When her insult made him grin, she elbowed him in the ribs. “His first name is John.”

David affected a shudder. “Ghastly common name.”

“Nearly as common as David.”

“Touché.”

Isa dug into her reticule and pulled out a package wrapped in crinkly brown paper. One-handed, she opened the paper and extracted a thin sliver of beef jerky. When she offered a piece to David, he declined. While she tore a strip off and chewed, Isa thought of her brother’s best friend.

The truth was, Junior was a bit of a sore spot. Nearly seven years her senior, John “Junior” Stone was one of her brother Sol’s best friends. Growing up, Junior had been a constant presence who tweaked her braids, teased her, and pranked her until she flew into a tantrum. He was the one who’d taught her how to spit, race horses, and throw a punch. More handsome than Adonis and as charming as Byron, Junior had broken more hearts than stars in the sky.

Such a number was empirically impossible, but it was appropriate in theory.

Isa chewed furiously on the desiccated beef. She wanted to pretend that Junior had been a childhood friend to her and nothing more. But a friend wouldn’t write to her every month for three years and then suddenly stop. A friend wouldn’t avoid her when she happened to be visiting home at the same time as him. A friend wouldn’t be the only person who could make her laugh until she cried and then, one day, take it all away. An old frustration buried like a mussel in sand began to emerge.

As though disdaining the telling silence from his buggy partner, David was far from finished with the subject of Junior. “This fellow is supposed to ride the train with you to your parents’ house?”

“Yes.”

“That means he’s in Austin now?”

Silence.

“Has he”—David cleared his throat—“come to visit you? Have you seen him?”

“No.” Said through gritted teeth.

“Why hasn’t he come to pay a call on you? If he’s such a close family friend, it’s a little odd to meet you at the train station with not a word before then, isn’t it?”

“David?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

He mimed affront, buttoned his lips, and crossed his legs and arms.

Amused despite herself, Isa said, “You should have been a famous actor in a play, not a physician.” She pulled the buggy to the left fork, listening intently to ensure her new purchase trotted along behind.

“Bodies are much more fascinating than a script.”

That’s how Isa felt about numbers. She didn’t say that aloud; David would gag. He was famously bad at mathematics and said formulae looked like scribbles on the page, but he could look at an uncaptioned diagram of an autopsied cadaver and name every bone, every organ. Latin words on labeled diagrams fascinated Isa, if not the bodies themselves. David had even taught her a few choice Latin words for body parts in the two years she’d known him, which she’d stowed away for a later date.

Pressing matters shifted her thoughts. She needed a favor from David.

“I’m going on Tuesday’s train, not Thursday’s,” she blurted, her fists tight around the reins.

“Tuesday’s—” David began, but she cut him off.

“Pride dictates that I not wait for Junior. I can travel to Dogwood without him.” Oh, to be a fly on the depot wall when he discovered she had already departed earlier in the week. “Will you accompany me to see us off?”

“Well, of course—”

She reached over and patted his leg. “Thank you, David. I knew I could depend upon you.”

His thigh tensed beneath her gloved hand, and he was effectively silenced.

TUESDAY’S TRAIN CAME and went, and Isa was still stuck cooling her heels in Austin. Her devil-horse had made certain of that.

At Mirage's first sight of the train, her head had wrenched up; nostrils flared, ears perked, and neck sharply arced. When the whites of the circus horse’s eyes had shown and her feet had danced, Isa had braced herself against the lead rope, and David had rushed to her aid and grabbed the halter.

“Easy,” Isa had murmured. “Easy.”

It hadn’t made a bit of difference. As soon as the train had appeared amidst the yard of green and red box cars, whistling and billowing streams of gray and white smoke, the Arabian had attempted to bolt. It had taken both Isa and David to stop her from charging through the depot. Porters had rushed to help and shoved a hood on the mare, escalating Mirage’s panic. In the end, itchy with sweat, Isa had been forced to exit the depot with her tail tucked between her legs. Her useless animal and a shaken David had followed behind to the ticket booth where she’d been able to wheedle a refund from the depot clerk.

It was presently the blush of dawn on Thursday morning, and Isa was trying not to panic.

Much to Miss Pickney’s consternation, David had arrived when it was still dark. He sat on an uncomfortable, straight-backed walnut armchair in the parlor with a decorative pillow embroidered with a Bible quote in his lap, watching with some interest while Isa laid out all her supplies on the coffee table.

“My father wants you to come by his office to pick up last month’s wages,” he said, absently fondling the stiff corner of the pillow with his thumb. “I believe he was hoping to say goodbye.”

“If I have time,” Isa said distractedly, moving back and forth between the saddlebags on the tasseled mustard couch and the table cluttered with travel gear. She wanted to be miles away from Austin before Junior discovered she’d never intended on boarding that train with him to Dogwood.

As if reading her mind, David asked, “When is your…‘family friend’ expecting you at the depot?”

“The train leaves at four. He probably won’t get suspicious until a half hour before then.” She tucked a trailing, honey-blonde lock behind her ear, thinking. “If I tell Miss Pickney I’m leaving early to say my goodbyes to your father at the bank, she’ll be far less suspicious.”

“Glad to be of service.” David didn’t sound glad at all; he positively moped. It grated on her nerves. “You don’t think he will be angry that you’ve deceived him?”

“I don’t give a fig how Junior feels. He would have called upon me and come here to collect me if he cared. Even Miss Pickney says so.” Isa rifled through each item in her leather saddlebags. “Slicker, knife, currycomb, matches, picket pen, soap , mustn’t forget soap…”

Junior not only avoided her when she visited Dogwood, but to add offense, he had written to Sol that he could accompany Isa to Dogwood as he was already in Austin. When her brother had written to her of these plans, it had flummoxed her. Why hadn’t Junior just told her in person? He was in Austin; why not pay a call and plan it out together? They had been friends once. To be in town and to not see her…The two of them on a train together to Dogwood would be their first opportunity for conversation in years, and Junior hadn't had the gumption to tell her himself; Sol had needed to write it in a letter.

She preferred being angry to being hurt; Isa had crumpled Sol’s missive fiercely in her fist and begun to plot.

“He killed for you, didn’t he?” David asked conversationally. “ Mr. Suffix. That night, you spoke at length about him.”

Isa closed her eyes for several seconds to gather whatever scraps of patience remained.

“That night” was the night David had proposed, the one she dearly wished he had a duller memory of. She was beginning to think that he hadn’t been quite as drunk as she had been, and her mouth flattened. After an evening of rabble-rousing at a gaming hall some months before, their eyeballs had been floating in beer (the second-foulest beverage she’d had the misfortune of imbibing). The man’s shirtwaist she'd been wearing had been stained, reeking of beer. That night had begun with a flurry of cards, spirits, and an armload of banknotes. Later, she and David had gone back to his bachelor’s apartment to divvy it up, and she’d drunkenly ripped the bowler hat from her head, let down her dirty-blonde hair, untucked her shirt, and unbound her breasts. Having thought of David as a brother, she’d paid no mind to his gaping mouth and sat on the floor with their loot, drawing it closer to her spread legs which were encased in men’s trousers.

She frowned at the memories. Had she spoken of Junior that night? Isa recollected dividing the money, David joking about playing doctor, and later, the physical exploration that had been fun on her end and a bit more serious on his.

“I don’t recall speaking of him.”

“I do.” David’s voice lowered unhappily, and he glanced at the open parlor door for Miss Pickney. “You called him beautiful. I also know he killed a man for you.”

Another memory materialized. An old one.

One.

Two.

Three.

Shoving the cold bite of metal away, ducking, just avoiding her head getting blown off. Junior’s bullet meeting its mark. Junior killing in defense of her and the awful, sobering feelings later. Her puppy love converting from liquid to solid; some element forever changed in its chemical components that therefore could never be un changed.

Loving Junior, a normal—albeit beautiful—cowboy from the smallest corner of the world, was like discovering the formula that made sense of the universe.

Wonderful. Awesome.

Wholly unsettling.

But Isa had been sixteen. Six years had passed since then. A degree in mathematics, five years in a new city, and a small fortune from gambling with impunity, disguised as a man, drove a wedge between past and present. Isa could no longer relate to that part of herself. She hadn’t just turned a new leaf; she was a new species of plant entirely. Her dreams had changed. No longer did she envisage yellow hair and deep-blue eyes. She imagined new places, new people, wonderful new worlds nothing like the sharecropper farm and impecunious folk who had raised her.

“You don’t have to talk about him,” David said softly.

Reverie broken, Isa saluted him. “My thanks.”

David threw the pillow aside and said mercurially, “Perhaps I’ll just come with you.”

Snorting through her nose, Isa shoved cartridges into the gun belt she’d hidden in her bags. “And what would your wife think of that?”

“That doesn’t matter a whit.” His hand sliced through the air.

“It should. If I were your wife, I’d snatch you bald.”

“Jealous, are you?” He sounded delighted at the prospect.

She shot him a nasty look over her shoulder, and he laughed so hard his feet left the floor. Smoothing her features, she said coolly, “If you’re quite finished distracting me.”

He buttoned his lips, and she returned to her meticulous packing. Suddenly, his voice was at her shoulder. “Dora. I am going to miss you.”

From the mawkish intensity behind his words, she could tell he wasn’t referencing her trip to Dogwood. Isa closed her eyes briefly, then turned and accepted the embrace from the closest friend she’d made since relocating to Austin. “I’ll miss you as well. You must visit me in Dogwood before I leave.”

“When will that be?”

“Just after the new year.”

“So soon?” His sigh was deep and warm on her neck, and his arms tightened around her when she made to slither away. “I could accompany you.”

Face set, Isa peeled his arms from around her and gave him a very stern look from beneath her brows. “You’ll do no such thing.”

“Traveling abroad alone isn’t safe.”

She pecked his smooth cheek, effectively erasing the mulish line from his normally smirking mouth. “I can take care of myself.” And she looked forward to it. She couldn’t wait to ride through the verdant hills of Italy, see the Colosseum in Rome, Notre Dame, the Louvre, and every place Robert Tomes so richly discussed in the Harper’s New Monthly Magazine . Her family wouldn’t be happy about it, but that was why she’d keep it to herself. The last time she’d mentioned traveling alone was to Sol, who had then insisted on sending Junior to chaperone her.

As if I need a chaperone.

“But what about me? Who will take care of me?”

She laughed. “Your wife, of course.”

He was unamused. “Not that tired argument. All I’m saying—egad, is that him?”

The alarm in David’s tone caused Isa's head to swivel to track his stare out the parlor window.

Striding up the stoop on long, muscular legs…was Junior.