Beth was thrilled at William’s constancy. He had promised he wouldn’t give up, and he hadn’t. Her heart whispered it was for her, but her better sense tamped down her hopes. Will Darcy was a great man—kind and generous—and she thought he would do the same for anyone. Could he still love her?

Beth now knew she was in love with Will Darcy. She could not pinpoint the time or place when it had happened; the feeling had come to her so gradually. Certainly, by the time she visited Pemberley she was well on her way. Perhaps watching firsthand how well he handled the twin disasters that had befallen Rosings—the lynchings and Lily’s disappearance—had proven to her that Will was not a proud and willful martinet. Rather, he was a quick-thinking and forceful leader, ready to step forward when the time called for action. Perhaps as the last of the numerous misunderstandings of his character fell away, she could do nothing but admire and love him.

Her joy was tempered with anguish. Letters from others extolling his goodness were not enough. Even though she knew he was busy and the times were dangerous, she still longed to see him again—to talk with him again, to dance in his arms again. Why did he not come to visit? Was he embarrassed to associate himself with her family? She was being nonsensical, she knew. Darcy had never been invited to their house in the past. In fact, he had been on Bennet land only once to the best of her knowledge—during the cattle drive in the spring. Why would he ever think he would be welcomed?

But a woman’s heart was never completely rational. Beth desired only two things—Lily returned home and for herself to be in Darcy’s arms—and she was afraid she would see neither ever again.

Summer had finally broken, and the residents enjoyed the moderation of temperatures that passed for fall in Central Texas. On such a bright and sunny day, Charlotte descended from her cart and was in the act of securing the horse when the bells of Santa Maria began to mark the hour. As the twelfth and final peal faded, Charlotte walked not into the mission chapel but the graveyard beyond. There, in the shadows afford by a group of oak trees, stood a tall cowboy wearing a black hat with a silver band.

A moment later, Charlotte was in Fitz’s arms, their lips hungrily searching for the other’s. Arms about Fitz’s neck, Charlotte delighted in the feelings their kisses inflamed in her body and soul. The breath seemed to be squeezed out of her lungs, so tight was her beloved’s embrace. A warm dizziness enveloped her, and she could not support herself on her now trembling legs. Her companion seemed to understand, for they were soon on their knees, and then prone on the soft grass between the headstones, lost in lovemaking.

Fitz’s mouth drew away long enough to gasp, “You’re wearin’ your rose water.” Charlotte smiled widely, her eyes alive with love and passion, lighting up her plain features, before drawing Fitz back for another kiss.

It had begun in late June, soon after Fitzwilliam returned from Kansas. He appeared at the Lucases’ back door one evening while the sheriff was working at the jail. He was dressed in his Sunday best, a small wrapped gift in his hand. Tenderly, Charlotte unwrapped the package to discover a small bottle of perfume. Shyly glancing at the man, she lifted the stopper to the smell of roses.

“They had some o’ that made of gardenias,” Fitz had said, looking at the bottle, “but I was thinkin’ that stuff was too showy for you. Roses seemed a better choice. I hope you like it.”

“I… I love it.” She was confused, yet hopeful.

He finally raised his eyes to hers. “I hope you don’t think I’m too forward.”

She nervously licked her lips. “Not at all.”

“Sorry I came to the back door an’ all—you deserve better than that—but I didn’t want to cause any fuss with your kin.”

“I understand.”

He paused, as if to gather his courage—a strange thing to do, Charlotte thought at the time, as she had nothing but admiration for the ranch foreman.

“You goin’ to the Burroughses’ party?” he asked. Told that she was, he gulped.

“Will you spare a dance for me?”

From that moment, Charlotte knew she had a sweetheart. She agreed to dance with Fitz, thanking him for the gift and the invitation with a light peck on his cheek. The look of wonder on his lined face was priceless. She almost wept with joy. He left a minute later, the slightly goofy expression still there.

Charlotte carefully hid her gift in her room, not wanting to answer uncomfortable questions from her father. She used it only for special occasions, and those times were reserved for Richard Fitzwilliam. She wore it to the dance, delighting the man. She offered no resistance when, late in the afternoon, they were able to steal away from the crowd, finding a quiet, private place to share their first kiss. It was everything Charlotte had dreamed it would be.

Their courtship, however, was not. Sheriff Lucas had questioned his daughter severely upon returning home. He had seen her dance with Fitz, and he made his displeasure plain. So firm was his admonition of her behavior—to him, dancing with Fitz was turning her back on his authority as her father—that Charlotte realized discussion or argument was useless. Nothing she could say would soften her father’s heart. Fitz was unworthy of her, and that was it. She would not be able to meet with Fitzwilliam openly, and as she had no intention of giving him up, they would have to meet secretly.

The solution was easily found. Gaby had expressed a desire to practice music with Charlotte on a weekly basis. Rather than making Miss Lucas go all the way to Pemberley, they would meet at the Catholic mission. Charlotte understood the concern over Whitehead; she had noticed his interest in both the Pemberley and B&R heiresses. The mission was close to town, so Gaby would still be safe on Pemberley land, and the church had a piano. One in the afternoon was the agreed time.

However, when securing her father’s permission for the scheme, Charlotte told one little lie—she said they would meet at noon and have a shared lunch before practice. Sheriff Lucas consented, happy that Miss Darcy was his daughter’s friend. But it wasn’t Gaby who Charlotte arranged to meet at noon, but Fitzwilliam. They would share a basket lunch weekly and have an hour of each other’s company in the shade of the trees near the mission’s cemetery.

Charlotte was certain that Gaby had no idea their musical meetings were a cover for her assignations with Fitzwilliam. She felt a bit guilty over using her friend, but she convinced herself that she had no other choice. As for Father Joseph, if he was aware of the goings-on in his cemetery, he made no comment.

As July stretched into August, the couple spent less time eating and more time enjoying each other’s company in more demonstrative ways. By September, Charlotte was certainly compromised, but not irreversibly so. They had not consummated their love and passion, but each week it grew more difficult to restrain their mutual desire—as it had today.

The troubles in town might have ended the meetings of the Ladies Musical Society, but Charlotte’s weekly visits with Gaby continued. The plain sheriff’s daughter was thought to be immune from whatever was going on. She could travel in town openly and without escort as long as it was during the day. Besides, the queer girl was known to be armed and an excellent shot, as she had proved during rodeos past. So, Charlotte was able to keep her rendezvous with her lover while most women were shut at home.

Whether it was the cool weather, the tension in town, or simply because it had been a week since she had been in Fitz’s arms, Charlotte was more passionate than ever. The air seemed to rush past her ears as she lost herself to her emotions. Fitz’s lips traced a trail down her neck as his hand lightly teased the cloth that covered her breasts. The girl was on fire, a low moan escaping her lips. In the back of her desire-intoxicated mind, she knew if Fitz lowered his hand and raised her skirts, she would willingly part her legs and allow him to take her. Therefore, it took her a moment to realize the cowboy was no longer half-lying on top of her but had instead rolled over onto his side.

“Oh, God, sweetheart, I love you,” he panted.

For an instant, Charlotte was aggrieved and disappointed before her modesty and common sense caught up with her emotions. Once again, Fitz had shown more restraint than she had, and though she flushed with shame at her behavior, her love for and pride in him increased. She tenderly stroked his face.