life.
“Oh, I like this one. It’s perfect for me!”
“Perhaps, but it’s not very feminine, is it?” Maggie chuckled. “My oldest, John, slept here. I never could get that boy to keep his room straight when he was young.”
“Is that a writing desk?” Emily pointed to a rolltop desk.
“Yes.” Maggie stepped inside the room and ran her fingers along the curved top. “It belonged to my father. It was left to me after he passed. Truly one of my most cherished possessions.”
“Your papa died too?” Kate looked at her, wide-eyed.
“He did, honey.” Maggie’s eyes misted over. “Not a day goes by that I don’t think of him. Sometimes I imagine he’s up in heaven sitting at a desk just like this one, writing me a letter. Oh, he was a wonder with words. Maybe I can show you some of his poetry.”
“That would be lovely,” Anne said, nodding.
“Could I—I mean, would it be all right if I used this desk?” Emily asked. She squared her shoulders. “I’m a writer too.”
“You are?” Maggie looked pleased at this news.
“Yes, and I’m writing the most thrilling book about a Texas cowboy.”
“Don’t get her started on that, Mama.” Jake’s voice sounded from outside the door. “She’ll fill your head with tales of card cheats and Indian attacks.”
Maggie chuckled. “I do love a child with an imagination. Jake was always the same way as a youngster.”
“I’m not a child.”
Emily’s expression tightened, and Anne sighed. How would she ever turn this sister of hers into a young lady? It would take a miracle.
Maggie patted Emily on the shoulder. “No, you’re not a child, are you? A big grown-up girl you are, one who deserves a rolltop desk for her writing. Yes, I do believe this was all meant to be. This will be your room for the next several nights, Emily, though it’s not very girlish, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. Who needs girlie stuff?” Emily lunged onto the bed then turned and faced a large painting on the far wall of the room. She rose and walked toward it, her mouth agape.
“What is it, Emily?” Anne asked.
“A sign! First the writing desk, and now the painting of a cowboy.”
“Ah, I see.” Anne stared at the painting, marveling at the colors of the sunset and the detail in the cowboy’s weathered face.
Maggie took a few steps toward them and ran her finger along the edge of the frame. “Jakey was only sixteen when he painted this picture of his father. Isn’t it something else?”
“Mama, it’s not right to brag.” Jake stepped into the room, holding Emily’s bag.
“How can I help but brag?” Maggie asked. “When your child is talented, you have no choice but to recognize it.”
“I’m not sure ‘talented’ is the right word.” He placed Emily’s bag on the end of the bed. “It’s just a hobby.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it.” Anne couldn’t take her eyes off it, in fact. She turned to Jake. “You’re an artist?”
He shrugged. “It’s not a very good likeness, to be honest.”
“It’s exquisite.” Emily ran her finger over the painting. “And I’m sure it will provide the perfect inspiration for my story.” She gave him a coy smile. “Among other things.”
Why, you little flirt! Anne took hold of Emily’s upper arm and gave it a little pinch.
“Ouch!” Emily turned to glare at her. “What was that for?”
“You know.” Anne gave her a warning look.
“Now, where shall we put the little miss, here?” Maggie knelt down and brushed Kate’s hair behind her ears.
“I want to stay with Emily.” Kate’s lip began to quiver. “P–please?”
“Of course, honey.”
Jake brought Kate’s bag to the room as well and then mumbled something about having to get cleaned up for supper.
Not that Anne had had time to think about it—or him. Maggie led the way to the kitchen, still talking nonstop. “I do hope you’re hungry. I’m making enough food to feed half the folks in the Pan-handle.
“Oh, I like this one. It’s perfect for me!”
“Perhaps, but it’s not very feminine, is it?” Maggie chuckled. “My oldest, John, slept here. I never could get that boy to keep his room straight when he was young.”
“Is that a writing desk?” Emily pointed to a rolltop desk.
“Yes.” Maggie stepped inside the room and ran her fingers along the curved top. “It belonged to my father. It was left to me after he passed. Truly one of my most cherished possessions.”
“Your papa died too?” Kate looked at her, wide-eyed.
“He did, honey.” Maggie’s eyes misted over. “Not a day goes by that I don’t think of him. Sometimes I imagine he’s up in heaven sitting at a desk just like this one, writing me a letter. Oh, he was a wonder with words. Maybe I can show you some of his poetry.”
“That would be lovely,” Anne said, nodding.
“Could I—I mean, would it be all right if I used this desk?” Emily asked. She squared her shoulders. “I’m a writer too.”
“You are?” Maggie looked pleased at this news.
“Yes, and I’m writing the most thrilling book about a Texas cowboy.”
“Don’t get her started on that, Mama.” Jake’s voice sounded from outside the door. “She’ll fill your head with tales of card cheats and Indian attacks.”
Maggie chuckled. “I do love a child with an imagination. Jake was always the same way as a youngster.”
“I’m not a child.”
Emily’s expression tightened, and Anne sighed. How would she ever turn this sister of hers into a young lady? It would take a miracle.
Maggie patted Emily on the shoulder. “No, you’re not a child, are you? A big grown-up girl you are, one who deserves a rolltop desk for her writing. Yes, I do believe this was all meant to be. This will be your room for the next several nights, Emily, though it’s not very girlish, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. Who needs girlie stuff?” Emily lunged onto the bed then turned and faced a large painting on the far wall of the room. She rose and walked toward it, her mouth agape.
“What is it, Emily?” Anne asked.
“A sign! First the writing desk, and now the painting of a cowboy.”
“Ah, I see.” Anne stared at the painting, marveling at the colors of the sunset and the detail in the cowboy’s weathered face.
Maggie took a few steps toward them and ran her finger along the edge of the frame. “Jakey was only sixteen when he painted this picture of his father. Isn’t it something else?”
“Mama, it’s not right to brag.” Jake stepped into the room, holding Emily’s bag.
“How can I help but brag?” Maggie asked. “When your child is talented, you have no choice but to recognize it.”
“I’m not sure ‘talented’ is the right word.” He placed Emily’s bag on the end of the bed. “It’s just a hobby.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it.” Anne couldn’t take her eyes off it, in fact. She turned to Jake. “You’re an artist?”
He shrugged. “It’s not a very good likeness, to be honest.”
“It’s exquisite.” Emily ran her finger over the painting. “And I’m sure it will provide the perfect inspiration for my story.” She gave him a coy smile. “Among other things.”
Why, you little flirt! Anne took hold of Emily’s upper arm and gave it a little pinch.
“Ouch!” Emily turned to glare at her. “What was that for?”
“You know.” Anne gave her a warning look.
“Now, where shall we put the little miss, here?” Maggie knelt down and brushed Kate’s hair behind her ears.
“I want to stay with Emily.” Kate’s lip began to quiver. “P–please?”
“Of course, honey.”
Jake brought Kate’s bag to the room as well and then mumbled something about having to get cleaned up for supper.
Not that Anne had had time to think about it—or him. Maggie led the way to the kitchen, still talking nonstop. “I do hope you’re hungry. I’m making enough food to feed half the folks in the Pan-handle.
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