Home for Christmas (13 page)

Her grand adventure had truly begun.

As other passengers rose and gathered their belongings, Julia’s attention flitted from one man waiting outside, to another. She bypassed men with families, skipped over a fellow kissing his girl in greeting--kissing! In public! What a glorious, welcome difference from staid Baltimore society--and searched for
her cowboy.

She’d painted glorious mental images of a man clad in denim, chaps, and chambray. A man who lived the intriguing western lifestyle she’d glimpsed in photographs. After hours studying the art gallery, she’d known she had to experience the Wild West for herself.

She grinned widely.

Today, she’d meet her own honest-to-goodness cowboy.

One with work-roughened hands. And a broad, firm body, muscled from a lifetime of labor. His face would be sun-browned and callouses would roughen his never-been-manicured hands.

She needed him a little worse for wear.

Given the life he lived, the inevitable injuries cowboys and ranchers experienced, he might be able to look past her physical imperfections hidden so well by proper clothing.

She’d banked everything on it.

Everything.

And traded in Gregory--the narrow-shouldered, soft-handed, pale-faced man her father had hand-picked for a son-in-law--for a chance at happiness with Holmes Macquarie.

Gregory had high political aspirations and even higher expectations of Julia, even though she came with the right family name. Perfection wasn’t ever good enough for him.

It had taken her awhile, but Julia had realized Gregory wouldn’t ever be good enough for her.

Holmes Macquarie, in comparison, would be an ideal match.

Aunt Portia stood in the aisle and pinned her hat into place. “Do you see your Mr. Macquarie?”

“Not yet.” But he was out there. She could feel it.

Portia snapped her hatbox shut. “No time like the present. I’m desperate for a lemonade and an introduction to your groom, not necessarily in that order.”

Hastily, Julia took one more look at the sepia-toned image of Holmes Macquarie. She’d memorized every detail of the bust portraiture. The handsome profile accentuated the strong jaw, the masculine form of every feature.

Her heart beat rapidly, making her all the more nervous to finally meet him. She folded Holmes’s letter together with the portrait and tucked them inside her handbag.

Portia gathered her belongings. “Starch and steel,” she reminded Julia. “Up, up. Let’s get the meeting over with.” The tiny woman headed for the exit.

Julia turned her attention back to the platform. She knew she’d recognize Holmes on sight. From his letter, she knew he was a perfect blend of city and country, east and west. A Harvard lawyer, true, but one who had grown up on a dairy ranch. He loved his childhood home and wanted her to love it, too.

There wasn’t a single thing about Holmes Macquarie that didn’t appeal to Julia. She had complete faith that things would work out splendidly between them.

Granted, she was half in love with him already. How could that be avoided? He embodied everything she’d ever wanted. A rancher. A scholar who understood both East and West. A flesh-and-blood man whose letters had touched her heart and given her a fresh chance for marriage and family, with a man of her own choosing.

The platform had cleared somewhat, leaving a handful of scattered people milling about.

Through the grimy train windows, Julia caught a glimpse of a cowboy, standing with his feet braced an impressive shoulder-width apart. His well-worn boots were scuffed and dirty, his denims faded with much wear, and his dusty chambray shirt stretched over a broad torso that had seen years of honest work.

She’d never seen any male with such remarkable musculature. Her heart thumped into her throat and seemed to hover there.

Work-hardened. Masculine, handsome, and so incredibly real.

Oh, she’d been terribly wise to leave the city behind and head west.

Julia clapped a hand over her gaping mouth, grateful he couldn’t see her through the dirty windows. It seemed so incredibly improper to ogle him.

In Baltimore, she’d been compelled to behave like a lady, avert her gaze, and control her desire to stare. Julia noted her trusted chaperon sipped the foam off a beer as she strolled the length of the platform. How like Portia to fashion her own set of rules.

Portia’s thirst suited Julia fine. Given the lack of supervision, it seemed quite acceptable that Julia soak in every detail.

The cowboy’s wide-brimmed hat cast a shadow over his face, but couldn’t hide the square jaw and intelligent features.

A very familiar face, indeed.

Julia’s heart seized.

Holmes.

Without warning, he swept his hat from his head and wiped a shirt sleeve over his brow. He strode a few paces down the platform, his profile every bit as arresting. Afternoon sunlight illuminated the red in his auburn hair. He’d written of the one detail the sepia-toned portrait hadn’t conveyed; the Macquaries were easily distinguished by their varying shades of red hair.

This splendid specimen was
him.

Absolutely magnificent.

And he wanted to marry
her.

An unsettling sensation quivered in Julia’s middle. She leaned back in the seat, completely unable to rip her gaze from Holmes.

Impatient, he clapped his hat against his thigh. He scanned the train, his jaw set, his gaze lingering on the train windows. Then she noticed a detail his photograph--posed nearly in profile--carefully concealed.

Of course it would. What photographer would intentionally capture so obvious a scar? The reddish line swept from the left corner of his mouth and across his cheek. It wasn’t new. She could tell that much. But it must’ve hurt. Terribly.

And he hadn’t mentioned a single word of it in his letters.

He had to have known she’d see the scar immediately upon arrival. So evidently, he didn’t think it an issue.

Relief, welcome as blossoming flowers in May, swept through her. He was
perfect.

Not only was he a little battle-worn, but he had the confidence of a head of state. A body could tell, simply by watching him for a few seconds, that his injury neither defined nor limited him.

Oh, she liked that.

As she stared, he replaced his hat, walking back along the length of the platform, apparently searching for her. Simply watching the play of muscles beneath his shirt and denims made her jaw hang open.

His portrait hadn’t revealed any of
that.

Oh, yes, she’d definitely made the right choice.