by Cahill, Cat
“Thank you.” Monroe adjusted his hat and the hotel, grand and soaring at the top of the hill, looked down on him.
If only he could’ve seen it through.
IT WAS NEARING MIDNIGHT when Monroe latched his one remaining saddlebag onto Pender as the horse nudged his arm. He hadn’t brought much with him to start—some clothes, a blanket, a few mementos. All of it fit neatly into the saddlebag. He’d never purchased a new one after using his to fix Emma’s trunk. He’d hesitated a moment with one last item—the creased page from Emma’s poetry book. The one she’d given him a few weeks ago, on top of the hill north of Crest Stone. One perfect moment.
He clutched the fragile page in his palm, the lemon scent of her flooding his mind. Her shy smile when he complimented her, the blush she’d had when her trunk fell open the day they first met, the feel of her soft skin beneath his hands. He wished now that he’d kissed her. He’d held back, not wanting to scare her, and now . . . they would never see each other again. She hated him, he was certain. It was all his doing, but it was necessary. He only wished he could have done it in a way that didn’t hurt her so much.
He placed the page into the bag and latched it closed.
There was one thing left to do before he caught a few hours’ sleep and left at first light.
He grabbed a lamp and the small bottle of whiskey Big Jim had given him a while back and made his way across the camp toward the hotel. It was still now, all the men having turned in an hour or more ago. The house below was dark. It was only him and the hotel.
Monroe grasped the doorknob on one of the imposing front doors and pushed it open. The door swung in with barely a creak, and he smiled. He’d done good work.
He ran his fingers over the chair rail that lined the entire large lobby. The wood was smooth and polished to a sheen, he knew without even seeing it. Excellent craftsmanship. All done under his watchful eye.
It physically hurt him to leave this project undone. How he’d dreamed of the day when the first guests would arrive. He’d imagined them stepping down from the train, mouths agape and eyes wide to take in the magnificence of this structure—his hotel. They’d move through the building in awe, appreciating the fine work of everything from the doorframes to the floor to the placement of the lighting.
And he’d stand by proudly, ready to take on his next assignment with Emma by his side.
Monroe stopped and knocked his forehead against the wall.
Emma.
He hit the wall with his fist. He hadn’t intended to think of her here. He’d wanted only to focus on this incredible place he’d created. But there she was, at every step.
Her small hand grasping the hole where the doorknob should have been in the powder room. Her eyes roving the delicate work of the doorframe. Her mind picturing a settee here and a lamp there.
Monroe sank to the floor against the long lobby desk. He’d overseen its creation from start to finish. He pulled the cork from the bottle and held the amber liquid at eye level. Then he sighed and recorked it. He didn’t even deserve to drink. The only thing he deserved was to sit here and remember what he’d done.
He was too cowardly to even look at her when he’d refused to ask for her. He didn’t want to see the disappointment in her eyes. All the hope that he’d placed there and then wiped away in the course of seconds.
But he couldn’t have proposed to her without explaining what that meant, without telling her exactly what had happened to Colette and how she would’ve faced the same fate. If she’d said yes, picturing a home somewhere for the two of them, and then the reality was moving from place to place, how would that have been fair to her? It was better this way. She’d be alive, even if she did hate him.
He’d be on his way at first light. She would forget about him in time.
He only hoped he would never forget about her.
Chapter Twenty-seven
A few lamps still flickered in the midnight black of Cañon City. Emma stood at the curtain of the window overlooking the street. This hotel room wasn’t much, but it would suffice for one short night. The plan had been for Mr. McFarland to take her to Cañon City in the morning, but after packing her things and drying her eyes, Emma wanted to put it all behind her as soon as possible.
Caroline asked her to stay the night, with Penny and Dora and even the new girls chiming in. They’d miss her, they said, and they wanted to keep her company. Besides, she shouldn’t be alone tonight, not after everything that had happened. But Emma was determined. The sooner she could leave, the sooner she’d be able to put all the memories in the past where they belonged. She was going home, and it was time she faced that fact.
Despite the late hour, people were still awake on the street below. Light and music poured from a saloon down the road, and here and there, a man who’d imbibed a bit too much lurched from its door and wound his way down the street.
Sighing, Emma pushed away from the window and crossed the room to the wardrobe where she’d hung her travel dress. She made another effort at brushing the dust off, but it was useless. She closed the door and gathered her long nightgown in her hand. Her braid swayed at her back as she recrossed the room to douse the lamp. It was too quiet when she got into bed, even with the music outside. An ache tore at her insides.
It wasn’t just Monroe she missed—at least the Monroe she’d thought she’d known—but her friends too. Caroline’s whispered prayers, Penny’s light snores, and Dora’s quiet mutterings in her sleep. She’d grown as used to them as she had to her sisters. She wondered what would become of them. Would Caroline retreat back into herself? She hoped that Penny would continue to draw her out, so long as she could stay out of trouble herself. And Dora . . . Emma had befriended her, and the girl was nice enough, but still withdrawn, almost as if some great sadness hung over her life. Emma regretted not getting to know her better.
And Monroe. Always Monroe. Emma turned to her side, bunched up the feather pillow beneath her head, and squeezed her eyes shut. It was no use. His name clawed at her heart and shredded her soul. She’d been so certain that he was picturing a future for them, together. But when the time came for him to declare himself, he didn’t. She was too empty—too drained—to even try to put her feelings into poetry.
It had been a mistake, giving him any of her attention. She should have pushed him away that very first day when she’d arrived. Instead, she’d fallen for him, completely taken by his wit and the way his eyes lit up when he looked at her. His smile had been her undoing. If not for that, she’d still have her position and her friends.
Now she had nothing but memories.
It’s for the best, she told herself again. Even if she wasn’t a Gilbert Girl, she still had to earn money to support her family. Marrying Monroe wouldn’t have changed that fact. In fact, it would’ve made it harder. She’d had her big adventure out West, enjoyed her independence, breathed in the air from under an untouched sky, and lost her heart.
Her heart would heal with time, that she knew from losing Papa. The dull ache might always be there, but the gash that left her in ruins now would grow smaller each day.
She’d go back home and do her duty.
But one thing she knew for certain—as whole as her heart might one day become, she’d never love anyone the way she’d loved Monroe.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Emma ran toward him in a dress as blue as the Colorado sky. Her hair had come loose from its binding, and tendrils flew in the wind as she moved closer. Her laugh flooded all of his senses, warming him up and making everything around them sharper than it should be. He caught her flush against his chest and wrapped his arms around her delicate frame. Breathing in the lemon scent of her hair, he knew nothing would ever be better than this. No building would ever be as magnificent, no commendations would ever make him so proud, nothing could be greater than Emma in his arms. His forever.
As he looked down at her sweet face, her laugh disappeared. She frowned at him, and some aching need sur
ged through his body—lonely, bereft, it gutted his heart.
“Why did you leave me?” she asked.
“Leave? I’m right here.” He reached for a piece of her hair to push it behind her ear, but his hand sailed right through her.
“I miss you,” the ghost Emma said. “I love you, still.”
He tried to grab on to her waist, but it was no longer solid under his hand. She shimmered, a mirage misplaced here in the mountains.
Then she was gone.
Monroe jerked awake, gasping for air. The full whiskey bottle clattered to the wooden floor where he lay sprawled. He rubbed at his face. It was still dark outside through the windows flanking the front doors, and the lamp sputtered dimly at his side.
His heart finally slowed, and it was a relief until he realized the dream was true.
Monroe groaned and bumped the back of his head against the fine dark woodwork of the lobby desk. Across from him, the delicate floral wallpaper spoke of happy times to come in this hotel he’d built. But it was all meaningless without the one thing that mattered to him most. And that thing wasn’t a hotel or anything else he could create with his mind and his hands. It was Emma.
And he’d let her go.
Even worse, he’d let her believe he’d never loved her. He’d been a fool. A complete fool. McFarland had tried to tell him, but he’d been too dense to understand. A hotel would never make him feel like the man he’d been before Colette died. But Emma would. She already had.
He had to get her back. Even if it meant giving up his dream of building. He’d do anything for her.
He’d had it all backwards before. The decision wasn’t his. It was hers. How they chose to live their lives, whether it was following his dream or putting down roots in one place, wasn’t his choice to make. All he had to do was ask her, and then let her decide.
And he’d need to gather the courage to tell her about Colette.
Monroe grabbed the lamp and bottle before standing. Emma wasn’t leaving until morning. He’d wait out front of the house for her. Provided he could convince McFarland that now he planned to do the right thing, he’d be able to talk to her. First, he’d apologize for being so cruel. Then he’d ask her to marry him. After she said yes—how he prayed she’d say yes, although he’d deserve it if she turned him down—only then would they discuss how to live their lives. Whatever she wanted, he wanted too.
With renewed determination, he strode out of the hotel and back toward his tent. He’d grab a few hours of sleep and then see Emma.
He’d never felt so sure of anything.
Chapter Twenty-nine
“Now that we’re alone, will you tell us the truth about why you left?” Lily sat on the bed next to Emma.
Emma paused in relatching the trunk. She should’ve known she couldn’t hide anything from Lily. This was the sister who could tell she’d fibbed to Mama about getting into trouble at school when she was ten. If Lily could see that, then it would’ve been impossible for her to miss the greatest sorrow Emma had borne since their father’s death.
“What do you mean?” Grace asked as she took the trunk from Emma and stowed it at the foot of the bed.
Lily said nothing. She simply looked at Emma, her big green eyes waiting for an explanation. Grace sat on the bed opposite, the one she shared with Mama. This new apartment was so small that the four of them had to sleep in one room, with barely space between the two beds, while Joseph slept in the kitchen. It reminded Emma of sharing a room with her friends in Crest Stone.
Emma sighed, her eyes on the trunk. Monroe had fixed it, that very first night, after laying eyes on almost everything she owned. She hadn’t seen him that night when he brought her trunk back, but she’d spent far too long running her fingers over the fine leatherwork and imagining him piecing it all together. Imagining the way his dark hair fell into his face, the way he’d run his hand over his chin as he thought hard about something. That cavern inside her opened anew and unshed tears stung her eyes. She should’ve known she couldn’t have kept any of this a secret from her sisters.
“It was not as I told you.” She picked up the lace coverlet that had been on her bed for as long as she could remember. The delicate cloth sat between her fingers as it always did, and something about that familiarity made it easier for her to breathe. That was possibly the most jarring aspect of her return home—how choked the humid summer air was here with smoke and horse manure and unwashed people. She had never noticed it until she left, and now it was hard to breathe it in and not remember the fresh, cool breeze of Colorado—air that held the promise of everything in its whisper.
“Was it horrid?” Grace asked timidly. “You said it didn’t suit you. Was it worse than you let on? Were they cruel to you?”
“Oh no, it wasn’t anything of the sort. I worked hard, as did the other girls, but it was good, fair work. We enjoyed our Sundays off, and we had time to converse and relax. The girls were wonderful, and Mrs. Ruby was kind.” Emma pushed the cloth between her fingers, letting the knots of it dig into her skin as the emotion threatened to choke her again. “It was . . . Oh, I don’t know how to tell you.”
Lily laid a hand on her arm. “I told you all about how mad I was over Mr. Carrothers. Surely you can tell us of your great romantic adventure out West.”
Emma felt her cheeks grow hot. Lily saw far more than she’d let on at first. “How did you know?”
Lily laughed. “Please, Em. I’ve never seen anyone so sad and yet so caught up in her own daydreams. Save for myself when Mr. Carrothers mentioned to Mama that I had hair prettier than silk and then became a priest instead of courting me.”
Emma smiled, though it almost pained her to do so. Lily’s infatuation with their neighbor last year had been quite the entertainment for Emma and Grace.
And so, she told them about Monroe. About how full of life he was, how witty and charming, how handsome and hard-working, how dedicated he was in his dream of becoming the great American builder. And then how much he had captivated her. How sure she was that he felt the same . . . until it became evident he didn’t.
When she finished, Grace held one of her hands while Lily had wrapped an arm around her. She leaned into them the same way she had with Penny and Caroline right before she’d left.
“He is a beast,” Grace said, with all the surety of her fifteen years. “He was never worthy of you. And if I ever see him, I’ll tell him so.”
Lily said nothing. It took Emma a few more moments to fully compose herself, but when she did, she turned just slightly so she could see Lily’s face. Her sister was deep in thought. Emma gave her another moment and then finally could stand it no longer.
“What are you thinking so hard about?”
Lily looked up at her. “Something doesn’t fit together.”
“How so?” Emma asked as she and Grace both stared at their sister. “It felt clear to me.”
“From what you’ve told us, he seemed quite taken with you.”
Emma nodded. She’d believed it—to her detriment.
“What did he say when you met him that morning by the creek?” Lily asked.
Emma pulled away from her sister’s embrace in order to see her better. “He told me that he might have an offer from Mr. Gilbert to build another hotel. He seemed to hesitate, though. As if something was on his mind, but that’s when we were interrupted. At first, I thought he was going to confess his true feelings, but then . . . ” She couldn’t bring herself to speak about how he’d rejected her in front of everyone.
“I wonder what he wanted to say . . .” Lily said this more to herself than to Emma.
“Maybe he was going to ask you to marry him.” Grace’s voice was breathy and high.
Emma shook her head. The thought had crossed her mind too, but now it made no sense. If he’d planned to ask for her then, why not later?
“No,” Lily agreed. “But perhaps there was something else. Something that was making him hesitate before asking for your hand.”
>
Could that be why he’d rebuffed her completely when he had the opportunity to ask for her? Emma’s mind raced through the possibilities. “I can’t think of anything.”
“That must be it, though,” Lily said.
It made perfect sense. “It would have to be something he was not comfortable asking me in front of everyone else. But if that was true, why didn’t he come find me that evening?”
Lily reached for her hand. “I don’t know. Maybe he felt as if he had already messed everything up too badly?”
Emma pressed her lips together. It was possible. But what was impossible was everything somehow righting itself now. It was too late. She’d already left, and he’d never come to find her. She drew a ragged breath. It was time she took the first step forward and put the past behind her. “Shall we go look for work tomorrow?”
Lily looked at her with such sadness in her eyes that Emma couldn’t keep the tears from her own eyes. “I suppose.”
“I’m so sorry,” Emma whispered. “I wanted so badly to be a Gilbert Girl, to keep you both from having to work. And now I’ve made a mess of it all.” Tears streaked down her cheeks. Her sweet younger sisters, full of sunshine and health. What would they become once they were closed into a factory from early morning until night?
Grace set her jaw. “We don’t fault you. Not one little bit.”
“You made such a sacrifice for us,” Lily added. “Don’t feel badly that it didn’t work out.” She reached up and wiped the tears from Emma’s face.
“We’re sisters,” Grace said. “We’ll pull our family through this together.”
Emma swallowed hard and smiled at them.
“And who knows,” Lily said. “Mr. Carrothers may renounce the priesthood any day now and come ask for me. We’ll be gloriously rich.” She patted her hair and stuck her nose in the air.
