“Mornin,” Cookie said, drawing her away from her thoughts. He looked her up and down. “Don’t you look dashin’? All that Boston stuff cleaned off real nice, now didn’t it?”

Feeling self-conscious but encouraged by his approval, Emily smiled shyly and turned a full circle. “Are…are you sure I look okay?”

The divided skirt with its emancipated waist and lack of a cumbersome bustle couldn’t have fit better had it been made special for her. But no matter what feminine name was used to describe it, the skirt still had the look and feel of men’s trousers.

“You look like a proper rancher’s wife. Or will when you put this on.” He reached for a wide-brimmed hat on a wooden peg and handed it to her.

Fingering the felt hat, Emily raised her eyebrows. A proper rancher’s wife? Who would have thought such a thing possible? None of her old friends in Boston would believe it.

She carefully arranged the hat on her head, and Cookie nodded.

“There you go,” he said. He turned to the stove and scooped a toasted, round flapjack onto a plate. “When those cattle see you coming, they’ll take notice. Mark my words.”

Emily smiled, though it wasn’t the cattle she’d hoped to impress. She hoped to show her arrogant husband that she wasn’t just some Easterner he could boss around or rule with a generous allowance.

She did a quick check of the baseboards and, seeing no furry animals, asked, “Do you like living here? On the ranch?”

Cookie shrugged. “I’m just as happy where I am as where I’m not,” he said. She was still puzzling over his answer when he handed her a plate. “Wait till you taste my son-of-a-gun flapjacks.”

“Son of a gun, eh?” she said and laughed.

Emily wasn’t a big breakfast eater, but then she’d never tasted flapjacks as light and airy as Cookie’s. Surprisingly, she cleaned her plate.

Declining his offer of a second helping, she thanked him, carried her empty plate to the sink, and left.

She was about to leave the house when she noticed the housekeeper’s daughter sitting on the parlor floor surrounded by wooden building blocks.

“And who do we have here?” Emily had caught several glimpses of the child the day before but had yet to be introduced.

“This is Ginny.” Peggy Sue swiped a picture frame on the piano with her feather duster. “Say hello to Mrs. McKnight.”

Emily smiled at the child, but all she got in return was a wary glance. Up close, Emily could see a family resemblance. Ginny’s long, brown hair was tied with a blue ribbon and cascaded down her back in an abundance of curls. She was a pretty child, but there was something odd in the way she held her head, as if trying to pull something out of the air.

“Oh, please. Call me Emily. Mrs. McKnight is a mouthful,” she said, thinking the child was shy or embarrassed as she failed to look her in the eye.