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would most likely be drawn to what the other women had to offer.
    To top it all off, he ran sheep. Sheep, for pity’s sake. Daddy would disown her if he were still around. His passion had been horses, but he had run several hundred head of cattle, too. There wasn’t a cattleman in Texas who didn’t get his dander up at the thought of a sheepman running his flock over rangeland that God created for longhorns. It felt as if she were conspiring with the enemy. Yet her cloud was leading her. Was it possible for God to take a wrong turn?
    “There you go, ladies,” Mr. Bevin called out. “Your first glimpse of Westcott Cottage.”
    Adelaide clambered atop one of the trunks, balancing precariously on her knees, in order to see over the heads in front of her. As the wagon crested the hill, the house came into view. Her jaw hung slack. Only an English nobleman would call that mansion a cottage.
    The ivory two-and-a-half-story Queen Anne home sat elegantly atop a rise, a fairy-tale vision contrasting sharply with the rustic Texas landscape. A dreamy sigh escaped her. It was the most romantic house she’d ever seen. It boasted a wraparound porch that encircled the entire lower floor, gabled roofs, large bay windows, and even a turret. All it needed was a handsome prince to fulfill every girlish fantasy she’d ever had.
    The wagon dipped, and Adelaide tumbled off the trunk, banging her elbow against the wooden slats at her side. The throbbing pain in her arm brought with it a dose of reality. She wasn’t a princess in a gilded carriage journeying to find her prince. She was Adelaide Proctor, unemployed teacher, journeying to find a job.
    The harness jangled as Mr. Bevin pulled the wagon to a stop. Instead of waiting for him to come around for her after assisting the other two women, Adelaide climbed over the rail and used the spokes of the wheel like a ladder to take her to the ground.
    “You know, you really should allow the gentleman of the party to help you alight.” The suppressed laughter in Mr. Bevin’s voice drew an answering smile from her.
    “You seemed to have your hands full.” Adelaide brushed off her skirts and bent to untie the lead line that tethered Sheba to the buckboard.
    Placing one hand on the edge of the wagon, Mr. Bevin leaned close to her ear. “Just between you and me,” he murmured, “I don’t think I could last another minute with those two. I have a terrible feeling that Westcott is going to hire you and stick me with the wilting violet and tart persimmon all the way back to Fort Worth.”
    Adelaide giggled. “Shame on you, Mr. Bevin.” Then she rose up on her tiptoes to whisper back to him. “I’ll make you a deal. If I don’t get the position, I’ll spell you by driving the rig half of each day and letting you ride Sheba.”
    He put his hand over his heart and gazed at her with overdone adoration. “You are an angel, Miss Proctor. Truly an angel.” Then his adoration shifted to a look of pure mischief. “You realize, of course, that I now have no motivation to put in a good word for you.”
    She grinned up at him, not afraid of his threat in the slightest.
    “Must you leave us standing out here all day, sir?” Mrs. Carmichael rasped. “Escort us to the house.”
    Mr. Bevin pulled a woebegone expression for Adelaide’s amusement and then set his polite mask back in place. “Coming, ladies.” He offered her his arm, but she shook her head.
    “I’m going to see to Sheba first.”
    “Abandoning me already?” He winked. “The stables are just beyond the house to the west.”
    Adelaide led Sheba in the direction Mr. Bevin had indicated. Once she moved past the house, her surroundings looked much more like a ranch. Several outbuildings stretched across the yard. A bunkhouse, barn, stables, and what looked like smaller storage sheds dotted the area. As she headed for the stables, she noticed several large fenced-off pastures covering the land beyond. A handful of sheep grazed