Page 1 of Wrangling Her Heart
Chapter One
November 1873
Somewhere in Lincoln County, Nebraska
Matilda Youngerman shifted uncomfortably in her seat and tried to ignore her brother George as he leaned his head out the window of the coach. With nothing around for miles on the open prairie, she didn’t know who or what he was looking for. She clenched her jaw as she followed her brother’s erratic movements.
He kept glancing over his shoulder, then back out the window, apprehension clear in the tense set of his shoulders and darting eyes. His low mutterings about someone following them reached her ears. She rolled her eyes, her annoyance with him rising. He had been saying the same thing since they left Texas.
She glanced at the woman sitting across from them in the dimly lit coach. The woman wore a plain black dress with a threadbare hem and a worn, but kind expression that didn’t quite reach her dark eyes. Tillie forced a small grin and looked away. The woman’s smile made Tillie apprehensive. The woman hadn’t done or said anything. There was just something Tillie couldn’t put her finger on.
Groaning to herself, she shook her red curls and nudged George with her elbow. His lunacy was rubbing off on her. Trying to ignore the woman, Tillie placed a hand on her belly, wondering why George didn’t get them anything to eat when they disembarked the train in Grand Platte. Her brother was tight and wouldn’t spend on necessities: food, clothing,rent. He insisted they share a cold sandwich on the train, balking at the prices for refreshments at the few stops from Texas to Nebraska.
Honestly, it surprised Tillie he even paid for train tickets for them to travel north, but George was in a hurry to get out of town. The train was a luxury that Tillie was grateful for. The thought of walking all that distance as part of a cattle train held no appeal—especially with all those cowboys. Tillie gave a shudder.
As Papa would say, “Why borrow trouble?”But Papa wasn’t here, was he?she thought. As she rubbed her tired and red eyes, the memories came flooding back. Papa dying, the foreclosure notice nailed to the door, the auction of their belongings, and finally the fire in the backyard where everything that was left, including Papa’s favorite armchair, went up in flames. She had nothing left, and it was George’s fault.
If he hadn’t spent Papa’s savings, Papa wouldn’t have gone into debt trying to cover George’s schemes. If Papa hadn’t died, they could have kept ahead of the payments.
If. If. If.She repeated the words in time with the horse’shooves hitting the ground.
It was after the auction when George blurted out the words, “We need to find Sawyer.”
Tillie hadn’t seen Sawyer in ages, but she could still remember her brother as being kind and compassionate. All the traits George was missing. Unfortunately, she didn’t know where to even start searching for Sawyer. The last they had heard, he was foreman on a ranch somewhere on the western side of the state.
George started traveling from town to town, dragging Tillie with him as he looked for Sawyer. Sometimes they would stay in a town for a few weeks and then George would insist that they leave. Tillie preferred it when they didn’t have to leave in the middle of the night.
“George, close that shade. It is letting the cold air in.” She glanced at the woman once more, who had shifted her attention to the loose thread on her sleeve cuff. Tillie watched as the woman’s dirty fingers delicately traced the fibers.
The leather curtain snapped as George released it, bouncing off the side of the coach with a dull thwap. The worn material moved in a slow, lazy motion before settling against the windowpane. He cleared his throat and leaned back in the worn seat, which groaned in protest under the weight of the passengers.
The stagecoach rattled and swayed as it lumbered along the dusty trail. With each rock or rut the wheels met, the curtain would lift slightly, carrying dust into the small compartment, along with a burst of icy air, before connecting again with the window’s edge.
Thwap.
Thwap.
Thwap, thwap, thwap.
Cold air stung Tillie’s cheeks and her fingers went numb from gripping the stiff seats as the bumpy ride jostled her around. She tried to hold on, but with a final lurch, she lost her balance and tumbled into the seat across from her. Instinctively, she grabbed onto the arm of the woman sitting there. Startled and embarrassed, she quickly apologized before pushing herself back to her seat and glaring at George, annoyed that he had put them in this predicament. She should be at home in her comfortable bed. Not bouncing along to Heaven-knows-where with her reckless brother.
George met Tillie’s accusing gaze with a defiant stare of his own, his eyes ablaze with a wild determination that unsettled her. “I’m telling you, Till, someone’s been tailing us since we left Denver. I’ve seen the same people following our trail for days now,” he insisted, his voice low but urgent.
Tillie’s patience wore thin as her frustration simmered beneath the surface. Clutching her worn shawl tightly around her shoulders, she mustered her resolve and shot back, “Nobody is following us. We were on a train all the way to whatever the last town was. Don’t you think that if they were following us, they would have joined us on the ride to… where is this stage going?”
George ignored her and lifted the curtain again, peeking out the window. She let out a long, shaky breath, and a loose strand of hair floated upwards before falling back into place against her cheek.
“Flat River.”
Tillie’s gaze shot up to the woman across from her. “Excuse me?”
“The stage is going to Flat River. After that, it travels north toLancaster.”
“You mean Lincoln,” George murmured.
“That’s right. They changed its name to Lincoln. It’s been a while since I’ve been this way.”
“Are you from this area Mrs.…?” Tillie asked.
