Before he could finish, Esmerelda had bounded out of the bed and began to paw through her trunk for a clean basque, skirt, and a set of fresh undergarments.

“If I hit the trail now,” Billy continued, “I might just be able to catch up with him.” The hardwood floor creaked beneath his boots as he started for the door.

Esmerelda spun around, hugging a pair of ruffled drawers to her breast. “Oh, no, you don’t! You’re not going anywhere without me. I learned my lesson from Mr. Flavil Snorton.”

“I’m not Flavil Snorton, ma’am. I’ll see to it that you get every penny of your money’s worth.”

He replaced his hat, tilting it low over his eyes, but Esmerelda could still feel the heat of his gaze branding her tingling skin through the worn muslin of her nightgown. He seemed to be taking a perverse delight in reminding her of their unholy alliance.

“And I’ll see to it that you get every penny of your money,” she forced herself to say crisply. “As soon as my beloved grandpapa arrives from England. But only if you agree to let me accompany you to this Eulalie to look for Bartholomew.” She fought the temptation to plead, sensing somehow that this man would not be swayed by whining or cajoling.

His eyes narrowed as he looked her up and down, taking her measure. Esmerelda held herself straight and tall, refusing to betray how fearful she was that he would somehow find her wanting. Just as her grandfather always had.

He finally swept off his hat and made a mocking bow. “You’re the boss, Duchess.”

“I am not a duchess,” she said stiffly. “I’m the granddaughter of a duke.” She probably looked less like nobility than some wanton peasant with her hair unplaited and her naked toes peeping out from beneath the hem of her nightgown. “I need to dress and pack my belongings. If you’ll excuse me…?” Clutching her drawers even tighter, she nodded toward the door.

“Be my guest,” he replied, nodding toward the dressing screen that partitioned off one corner of the room.

Refusing to be baited into further argument, Esmerelda took her armful of clothing and ducked behind the screen, glaring at him all the while. She quickly shed her nightgown, draping it over the screen so she could scramble into her drawers and chemise. She scowled down at the remaining undergarments, realizing for the first time how impractical the confines of corset and camisole, petticoat and bustle, would be in the blazing New Mexico heat. After a moment of contemplation, she discarded everything but the petticoat. Leaving off the bustle would make her skirt hang long, but she’d rather trip than swelter.

As she wrestled with the hooks of her basque, praying the thick merino would hide the absence of a corset, her nightgown began a sensual slither over the top of the screen. She was too mesmerized by its unexpected flight to reach for it until it was too late. She held her breath, oddly discomfited by a vision of Mr. Darling’s calloused hands fondling the soft, skin-warmed muslin.

His voice, husky and far too near for comfort, further shattered her illusion of privacy. “So are you and this brother of yours very close?”

“Oh, very,” Esmerelda replied, relieved that he’d chosen such an innocuous topic of conversation. “You’d have to travel long and far to find two people so passionately devoted to each other.”

“How touching. I always did have a powerful hankering for a sister.”

Esmerelda froze in the act of fastening the pearl buttons at her cuffs. Mr. Darling’s sigh had been heartfelt, but she would have almost sworn she detected a lascivious note in his voice. She popped her head up over the top of the dressing screen to give him a suspicious look. He blinked at her, his long-lashed eyes as innocent as a lamb’s. Her overwrought nerves must surely be affecting her imagination, she decided.

Shaking her head, she plopped down on the low-slung dressing stool to draw on her striped stockings and kid boots. The ominous sound of paper rustling sent her bolting out from behind the screen, one boot still half-unlaced. She just barely managed to hobble over to the desk and snatch the sheet of crumpled stationery from Billy’s hand before he could read her unflattering description of him.

“I was writing Grandpapa,” she said, tucking the incriminating note behind her back, “apprising him of the current situation.”

Billy nodded. “That’s very thoughtful of you. We wouldn’t want to worry the old man, would we? Why don’t you leave it at the hotel desk in case he arrives while we’re gone.”

Esmerelda hesitated, wondering if she was only imagining the sparkle of challenge in his eyes. Her own hastily scribbled words haunted her. I have been forced to barter my virtue to a ruthless desperado. Prodded by his expectant scrutiny, she retrieved an envelope from the desk, folded the note into a neat square, and tucked it inside. After all, it wasn’t as if the spiteful old man would ever actually read it.

“I’ll take it down for you,” Billy offered, extending his hand.

“Oh, no,” she said, clutching the envelope to her breast with even more desperation than she had clutched her drawers. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll just drop it off at the desk as we go.”

He slowly withdrew his hand and nodded. “You do that, Miss Fine. You just do that.”

A prickle of apprehension skated down her spine. Despite his lazy grin, Esmerelda couldn’t quite shake the odd sensation that Mr. Darling didn’t trust her any more than she trusted him.

“This horse seems rather tall. Do you have anything just a tiny bit shorter?”

As Esmerelda turned away from the stall, rejecting its velvety-eyed occupant just as she’d rejected the occupants of all the other stalls lining the north wall of the livery stable, Billy blew out a snort of exasperation that would have put his mare to shame. Although it was only late summer, at this rate they wouldn’t reach Eulalie until Christmas. Of next year.

Esmerelda meandered over to the opposite wall, her hands clasped behind her as if she were reviewing a line of shaggy troops.

The stable’s owner trotted at her heels, dabbing sweat from his brow with a dingy red bandanna. The shrill pitch of his voice revealed his growing desperation. “But, miss, you said the last horse was too short. And the one before that too broad. And the one before that too brown.”

She peered into the next stall, making a nervous little hop backward when the piebald gelding within nickered a welcome. “He’s a bit strident, don’t you think? Do you have anything quieter? More mannerly?”

The stable owner’s bottom lip began to quiver as if he was on the verge of bursting into tears. Taking pity on the fellow, Billy stepped forward. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Miss Fine, but none of Mr. Ezell’s horses were privileged enough to attend finishing school. Why don’t you just take a look-see at this docile fellow over here?”

He caught her elbow in a less-than-docile grip and dragged her to the next stall. The aged gray within lowered his head and gave them a sleepy look. If he were any more docile, he’d be dead. But this time Billy was standing near enough to feel Esmerelda’s quiver of alarm.

“Miss Fine?” he murmured into her ear.

“Mm?”

“Have you ever ridden a horse before?”

She drew in a shaky breath. “I sat on a pony once at the county fair.”

“Was the pony moving?”

She shot him a sheepish glance. “Only after I fell off.”

“That’s what I thought.” He steered her toward the stable door. “Why don’t you step outside while I choose your mount? I’m considered an excellent judge of horseflesh.”

She cast him a skeptical glance. He gave her an encouraging wink before pushing her out of the stable and gently closing the door in her face.

“Excellent judge of horseflesh, my… my… jackass,” Esmerelda muttered beneath her breath, eyeing the long-eared monster plodding in front of her with undisguised loathing.

She gave the reins a tentative flick. The hateful creature swiveled around to bare its long, yellow teeth at her and honked out a deafening bray. The basset hound perched on the bench of the wagon next to her threw back its head, jowls jiggling, and added a woeful howl to the chorus.

Esmerelda stuck her tongue out at the mule, only to end up biting it hard enough to draw blood when the rickety buckboard jolted through yet another rut. Her trunk and violin case were taking an awful beating in the bed of the wagon. If her bottom hadn’t gone numb hours ago, she’d probably be howling in pain herself. She’d spent most of the morning silently bemoaning the absence of her bustle.

She shot the portly hound a menacing glance and hissed, “If you don’t hush, I’ll sit on you.”

The dog subsided, giving her a doleful look that made her feel like the most heartless of bullies.

Her discomfort wouldn’t have been so galling if Mr. Darling hadn’t spent the entire journey loping ahead of the wagon on his chestnut mare as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He rode with remarkable skill, his long-limbed grace serving him as well in the saddle as it did in a gun-fight. Esmerelda gritted her teeth when a cheerful whistle accompanied by the jingling music of his spurs drifted back to her sunburned ears.

Her misshapen bonnet was proving to be a poor protection against the desert sun. The waves of shimmering heat had driven her to roll up the heavy sleeves of her basque. Her gloves shielded her hands, but she could almost hear the freckles popping out on her forearms. She sighed. There wouldn’t be enough buttermilk in all of New England to fade them now.

She shaded her eyes against the sun, hoping for a glimpse of civilization, but saw nothing but more of the same—sweeping plains of grama and buffalo grass peppered with sparse patches of mesquite beneath a blazing swath of sky. As alien as the landscape was to her eyes, she had to admit it possessed a wild and stark beauty nearly as compelling as it was disturbing.