Maverick Heart by Joan Johnston Page B

believed his wife might find something for her to wear. They were both unusually tall women. The resemblance ended there. Mrs. Peters was broad-shouldered, small-bosomed, and stout. Perhaps the colonel remembered her as she once had been.
    The older lady pursed her lips. “Perhaps I can take something in. At least the length will be right,” she mused.
    “Sit here,” she ordered Verity, pulling out a chair at a small wooden table in the kitchen. The lever squealed as she primed the pump and filled a bowl with water. She found a clean cloth and some carbolic in a brown bottle and sat down beside Verity.
    “That’s a nasty scratch,” she said as she surveyed the damage to Verity’s cheek.
    “My horse threw me.” Verity inspected her hands. “Thank goodness I was wearing gloves. There isn’t much damage to my hands.” She pulled off the torn gloves, gritting her teeth as the leather rubbed against the bloody scratches on her palms.
    “This might sting a little.” Mrs. Peters daubed the cloth with carbolic and applied it to Verity’s cheek.
    Verity hissed in a breath. The antiseptic acid burned like fire.
    “Sorry, dear. It’s the only thing I know to do.” Mrs. Peters repeated the process with Verity’spalms. “Shouldn’t leave any scars after you heal,” she said. “Lucky for you. Your hands are quite beautiful, and so soft.”
    The contrast was apparent. Mrs. Peters’s hands were rough and reddened from whatever harsh soap she used and callused from hard work. Verity looked at her own hands, soft and smooth except for the new scratches. She had never done any physical labor in her life. The butler, the footman, the cook, the housekeeper, the groom, the gardener, and the maids had done everything, and Leah had kept her company. But the servants were all in England, and Leah had died two years ago from an infection of the lungs.
    Now she had to rely on her own ingenuity and willingness to work. She was willing. She just wasn’t sure how she would ever be able to learn everything there was to know. Verity wondered—not for the first time, and she suspected not for the last—whether she had made a mistake leaving England, whether she would be able to survive in this new land. But she didn’t have much choice. The ranch was the only home she had left.
    Mrs. Peters kept up a steady stream of chatter as she led Verity to her upstairs bedroom and began rummaging through her wardrobe. Verity kept waiting for the questions.
Why are you here? What happened to your own clothes?
But the colonel’s wife managed to keep a dialogue going without once indulging her curiosity.
    “I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing out here,” Verity volunteered. She held herself stillwhile Mrs. Peters measured and pinned the waist of a brown corduroy skirt that was split into two legs to enable her to ride astride.
    Mrs. Peters eyed her keenly. “I figured you’d tell me if you wanted me to know.”
    “I came here with my son and his fiancée—” She was surprised when her throat constricted. She had to swallow to clear a path for speech. “They were captured by Indians,” she said evenly.
    “I’m so sorry. So very, very sorry.”
    Verity took one look at the sympathy on Mrs. Peters’s face, registered the tone of her voice, and realized the woman was offering her consolation on her loss. “They’re not dead,” she said sharply.
    Mrs. Peters didn’t contradict her, but it was plain she didn’t believe her, either.
    Rand couldn’t be dead. She had given up too much for her son, had changed her life forever because of him. Her happiness had revolved around him, and his happiness had always ensured her own. God couldn’t let him die. She would do anything to get Rand back, promise anything. Only, please, God, he couldn’t be dead!
    “Mr. Broderick is going to help me search for my son and his fiancée,” she explained to the older woman.
    “Miles Broderick is a good man. If anyone can find them, he