Jodi Thomas - Rustler's Moon

Above the photograph someone had written Stanley House. Angela began to put facts together like puzzle pieces in her mind. A family named Stanley was listed among the first settlement in the area. They worked as blacksmiths and farriers on the Kirkland spread. She couldn’t remember seeing any Stanleys on the current membership list, so they must have died out or moved away.

She left the room quietly and ran to the wagon exhibit she’d just shown on the high school tour. There, at the back, was an old, faded vardo wagon that looked like a tiny house on wheels. A Gypsy wagon made of wood. The name on the plaque read “Stanley Wagon. One of two traveling with James Kirkland in 1872.”

She smiled and headed back to tell Wilkes that she’d found something that might help, but a dozen people suddenly filled the foyer. They seemed to be having a small reunion and asked Angela to see their great-aunt’s collection of quilts that had been donated to the museum forty years ago. It took Angela and both volunteers, Miss Bees and Miss Abernathy, to find them in the archives. By the time the quilts were carefully folded and put away, it was long past closing time.

As she said goodbye to the older ladies and locked up, she remembered the sleeping cowboy in the library. Maybe she could simply let him sleep the night. No, that wouldn’t work. The last thing she wanted was Wilkes Wagner wandering around here after dark.

He’d already spent far too much time wandering around in her dreams.

When she found Wilkes still sound asleep, her next problem was how to wake him. If she frightened him awake, he might jump or attack. Miss Bees told her Wilkes had served three years in the army after college.

Angela had heard of soldiers fighting if surprised.

Maybe if she just tapped him on the shoulder and jumped out of range. With her arm outstretched, she moved slowly toward him, but when she could have touched his shoulder, she corrected slightly and brushed his light brown hair with the tips of her fingers.

It was far softer than she would have thought. Thick, with just a bit of curl circling over her fingers. She could never remember wanting to touch any man’s hair before. Most of her encounters with the opposite sex were awkward and none she ever wanted to repeat. But almost of its own will, her hand brushed lightly over his hair once more.

When she finally looked down to his face, his blue eyes were staring up at her, waiting to see what she’d do next.

“Oh! I’m sorry.” She leaped back. “I wasn’t sure how to wake you.”

“Saying wake up would have worked,” he said, unfolding from the chair. “But I didn’t mind you brushing my hair back. My mother used to wake me like that when I was a kid.”

“I, um, just needed to let you know that it’s long past closing time.” She picked up a few of the books, trying not to look at him, then remembered the wagon. “Oh, wait, I wanted to show you something.”

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