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appointed, too. Perhaps Texas didn’t entirely lack civilized touches. The mixture of refinement and commonplace struck her as oddly charming. Sorting out when to apply rules and when to cast them aside would be a delightful challenge.
    But that challenge could wait. She dropped down onto the edge of the bed. Her feet ached every bit as much as they did after a long evening of dancing with several suitors. Heel, toe, sole, and instep all burned and ached. Struggling out of the boots, she rubbed her toes and decided to fetch a pitcher of water so she could wash up and soak her feet. After that, she’d unpack and find her most unprepossessing shirt.
    As she reviewed Velma’s words and considered all of the men she’d seen, Sydney had an alarming thought. Big Tim would mow her over? Big Tim, as in Tim Creighton? That couldn’t possibly be the rude giant whom she’d seen already. Shaking her head to dislodge the troublesome thought, Sydney convinced herself the man outside was too . . . something to be the second-in-command. Terse and rough-edged and gruff and, well, dirty . Those very attributes convinced her whoever it was couldn’t possibly be in a position of authority. Cheered by that thought, she went in search of water.
    Under an hour later, the clock downstairs struck. Sydney heard Velma’s call for supper and hastily smoothed her hair as she glanced in the mirror over the chest of drawers to ascertain if she’d done a sufficient job of binding herself. Twisting sideways, she craned her neck and examined the effect. A small smile tilted her lips as she gleefully judged, “Perfect!”
    She left her room and started down the stairs. Halfway down, she practically got run over by an express train of a man who gallumped down the very same flight. His boots made a muffled thunder that carried an oddly rhythmic quality, and his large body didn’t seem to move at all from the hips up as those log-thick legs churned with surprising agility and grace. Once he hit the foot of the stairs, the stranger stopped and gave her a cool, assessing look. Without a word, he wheeled to the right and strode off.
    She remained rooted to the stairs.
    He can’t be Uncle Fuller’s partner. He can’t—even if he did clean up into a respectable-looking man . Truth be told, he cut a fine figure. For all of the refined gentlemen she’d seen in high society, none had ever looked half as imposing or innately capable of facing anything life might bring.
    Following the scent of food, Sydney went in the same direction he had. With every step she promised herself Uncle Fuller’s partner probably invited the rude giant to be a dinner guest. Yes, of course. That was it. Heartened by that realization, Sydney continued on.
    She stopped cold in the doorway. That man sat at the huge trestle table. Alone. He’d already started serving himself. He’d spruced up on the outside, but that was it. The man still failed to exhibit even a hint of manners.
    Velma thumped a bowl of mashed potatoes onto the table. “Sydney Hathwell, have you met Tim Creighton yet?”
    “Mr. Creighton?” Her voice cracked like an adolescent’s.
    Grabbing for his coffee, Creighton nodded. “Hathwell.”
    Velma shooed her toward the table with a few brisk sweeps of her hands. “Don’t just stand there. Your food’s getting cold.”
    Sydney pulled out the chair and sat down. Unaccustomed to seating herself, she took several minuscule scoots to draw close enough to the table.
    “We say grace at meals here.” Creighton didn’t pause for a response. He bowed his head. “Almighty Lord, we praise and thank you for this bounty. Bless Fuller and grant him your healing touch. In all things, let us be your servants. Amen.”
    Though they usually didn’t pray at home unless company joined them, Sydney considered Creighton’s prayer lacking. She added a few extra lines of thanks for her safe arrival and begged the Creator for guidance and help. It looked as if she was going to