by Cat Cahill
“I suppose, if I don’t care to catch the eye of any fine gentlemen who happen to be at services, too.”
“And a lace-edged handkerchief will do just that?” Edie could hardly imagine any man even taking notice of a lady’s handkerchief, much less whether or not the thing had lace. Her brothers were lucky enough to even remember to carry them.
“Of course! If you hold it just so, as if you have a cough, it will frame your eyes very nicely.” Adelaide pretended to hold a handkerchief to her face.
Edie bit her lip. That was the most preposterous thing she’d ever heard, and she was about to tell Adelaide exactly that and remind her that as a Gilbert Girl she was forbidden from being courted anyway, but the girl had already pushed open the door and was halfway inside before Edie could speak.
Caroline Drexel, a former Gilbert Girl who ran the store with her husband, greeted them from behind the counter. While Adelaide nattered on about lace handkerchiefs, Edie perused the store’s shelves. The Drexels kept many items in stock for the hotel employees and train passengers. Edie could only imagine how their business would grow as the town did.
She paused by a shelf holding an array of bottles, both small and large. The bottles were a rainbow of colors, and all bore labels proclaiming such things as Ivers Cure-All—For Lungs, Throat, and Stomach and Dr. Smith’s Tincture for General Health and Well-Being. Edie thought back over the herbs and plants she’d grown at home and the new ones she’d read about in Mrs. McFarland’s book. She tried to imagine herself brewing up some medicinal concoction so incredible, people would demand it be bottled and sold in stores such as this. Miss Dutton’s Elixir of Life. The name brought a smile to Edie’s face—until she realized one tiny detail was incorrect.
Dutton was not her surname.
Chapter Three
James shaded his eyes from the sunlight as he took in the buildings under construction. There were four—no, five—in various stages right now, with the foundations of two more looking as if they’d begin to take shape over the next week. He hadn’t had the opportunity to visit Crest Stone before. Ben had spent a lot of time down here, particularly last fall when Royal Hagan’s gang had taken his sister, but James had remained in Cañon City to keep the peace there while Harry and Eli had accompanied Ben.
It was a pleasant enough spot, this burgeoning little town in the valley. Nestled near the foot of the Sangre de Cristos to the west with the smaller Wet Mountains several miles to the east, it was picturesque. Or at least, it would be, once the construction was completed. Right now, it was a muddy mess.
James had stopped at the hotel first to introduce himself to the proprietor. The man, one McFarland, had treated him to lunch, for which James was grateful, and had offered him a small room on the second floor of the hotel. After settling into his room, James decided to meet as many of the folks working on the new buildings as possible. He’d met Mr. Thomason, the depot clerk, who he learned also served as the postmaster and the telegraph operator. And now he’d come to the first building under construction, a small place next to an existing blacksmith’s shop.
Clanging sounded from the smithy’s, and James paused, pressing his eyes shut. The familiar ache pressed against his forehead as if it were fighting to find a way out. It had been threatening ever since he’d left the hotel, but he’d ignored it. He didn’t know how long it would be before it would render him utterly useless—it varied every time. He gritted his teeth, and for probably the millionth time in his life, wished for any other burden to bear than these headaches. The pain subsided to a dull reminder. The respite would be brief, he knew that, but he’d take advantage of the time he had before he’d need to pull the curtains in his hotel room and lie in bed.
“Afternoon,” a voice said.
James’s eyes flew open. The last thing he needed here was to look weak. He pasted a smile on his face, held out a hand, and introduced himself. “Afternoon. James Wright. Fremont County sheriff’s deputy.”
The man narrowed his eyes for a half-moment before smiling in return, removing his work glove, and shaking James’s hand. The look didn’t bother James. He’d seen it time and again. It was most folks’ natural reaction to learning his occupation as they immediately wondered what he wanted with them.
“Stephen Bauer. Good to meet you. Is there trouble?”
“No, not at all. I’m down here to keep that from happening. I just got into town and thought I’d meet folks.” He took in the wooden frame behind Bauer. “Will this be your establishment?”
The man laughed. “Wish it were. This’ll be the land office for the Colorado & New Mexico. They bought up all this land when they laid the tracks, and now I suppose they’ll make money off selling it to people.”
James resisted pressing his fingers to his forehead as the pain pinged against his skull. Instead, he grabbed hold of the nearest post and ground his nails into it. “You work for the railroad?”
Bauer nodded. “Not directly, though. You want Monroe Hartley. The railroad hired him to oversee construction of this place. Same as some other interests in town. I think he’s down that way.” Bauer pointed south along the tracks, toward more new construction.
“Good to meet you,” James said. If he weren’t pressed for time with this ridiculous infirmity, he’d have taken a few minutes to meet the other men working on the land office. But for now, he needed to move on and find this Hartley, and perhaps meet the proprietor of the general store and mercantile. The others would have to wait until tomorrow.
He pressed on through the gritty mud that had formed between the buildings and the railroad tracks. The mercantile door opened as he walked around a particularly wide puddle, and out stepped a figure in a simple calico dress. An unbuttoned coat covered her shoulders, and a plain yellow hat adorned her head. She made a cheerful impression among the men and mud and wooden frames, so much so that he smiled in spite of the pain that had triggered again inside his skull.
The woman had only just stepped away from the mercantile when James knew she was in trouble.
“Miss, wait!” he shouted, but it was too late.
One misplaced foot slid away from her, and before James could act, she’d landed on her hands and knees in the mud.
He arrived at her side a split second after she fell and offered her a hand. “Are you all right?”
“I . . .” Her voice trailed off as she lifted a mud-covered, gloved hand, and stared at it for a moment. Instead of taking his hand with her own, she offered him an elbow.
James took her elbow and—awkwardly—helped her rise from the mud. Upon standing, she looked down at herself and winced. “Thank you,” she said so quietly he almost didn’t hear her.
“You’re welcome,” he replied. He wished he had something to offer her. A towel perhaps, or . . . “I’ll run into the mercantile and see if they don’t have something you can use to clean off your dress.”
“No, please, don’t.” She looked at him now, her face tinged pink beneath the brim of her yellow bonnet and a pair of thin, silver-framed spectacles. She was only a few years younger than James himself, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, and so slight it seemed she might blow away in the breeze if the mud weren’t heavy enough to hold her down. He felt like a giant next to her.
He paused, caught halfway between taking a step toward the mercantile and staring at the endearing blush on her cheeks. “Might I at least offer to—”
“Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no, no, no.” The girl leaned over and extracted something from the mud.
James tilted his head as she shook some of the mess off a book. It appeared to be a slim, leather-bound volume, and he couldn’t imagine why she’d be carrying such a thing about town.
“It must’ve fallen from my pocket,” she murmured as she tried to wipe off the remaining mud. It did no good at all, considering her gloves were both muddy. Her movements grew more frantic. She was certainly more concerned with the state of the book than the state of her clothing, as most women would be.
/> Extracting a handkerchief from his pocket, James reached for the book. She held on to it for a moment, as if she didn’t trust him with it, and then relinquished it when he held up the handkerchief. “Follow me.”
She trailed behind him as he made his way to the rear of the mercantile where a small yard opened to a barn. James squatted down among the sagebrush and the remaining brown winter grasses mixed with the bright green of the new spring shoots. He found a particularly dense piece of sage and ran the covers and spine of the book against it to remove the excess mud before taking the handkerchief to it.
The woman peeled off her muddy gloves and watched quietly, until he handed the book back. It wasn’t perfectly clean, but as good as he could get it. “If you run a damp cloth over it when you return, that should take care of what remains.”
She pressed the book to her chest. “Thank you. You didn’t have to ruin your handkerchief for me.”
James grinned. “You looked as if you were about to lose your dearest friend. Herbs and Plants of the Colorado Territory, if I remember correctly.” He didn’t add that the title had taken him by surprise. It seemed a weighty subject for a girl so slight.
“It’s borrowed. I’d hate to return it in such a state.” Her voice was soft, and something about it conjured images of an inviting hearth and a plate full of delicious food.
James shook the bizarre thoughts from his head. “I’m happy to escort you home,” he said in his most professional voice.
Her cheeks went pink again, and all he could think about was how she still seemed a ray of sunshine in that yellow hat, even though she was now half-covered in brown, sandy mud.
“Thank you, but that isn’t necessary. I must wait for my friend, and besides, as you can see, this town is very small.”
He laughed, and she gave him a tentative smile. “Are you employed at the hotel, Miss . . .?”
“Dutton,” she supplied. “And yes. I’m with the Gilbert Company.”
“I’m James Wright. I had a mighty good dinner there earlier. It’s a fine establishment.”
She lifted her chin, and it was easy to see the pride that flickered across her face. “I’m happy you enjoyed it.” She paused a moment, and then after seemingly deliberating asked, “Did you only just arrive in town?”
Something about her curiosity—concerning him—made him go warm inside. “I did. I’m a deputy to the county sheriff. With all the new people coming in and out of Crest Stone, I’m here to ensure it all goes without trouble.”
Miss Dutton’s eyes widened, and James felt pleased with himself. He’d impressed her. Perhaps she’d like to hear of one of his adventures, but before he could settle on one story, the headache pressed ferociously against his eyes, so hard his stomach rolled. He turned away for a moment, trying to get hold of himself and willing the pain to dissipate for just a little longer. He’d offer to walk both her and her friend back to the hotel. It was self-serving—not only would he get to spend a bit longer with her, but he’d also be that much closer to collapsing into his dark room for a few hours.
“Miss Dutton . . .” he began as he turned back toward her.
But she wasn’t there.
He strode to the front of the mercantile and searched left and right until he finally spotted her, the hem of her coat covered with mud, coppery brown hair glinting in the sun, and book clutched in her hand. She fairly ran across the tracks a little ways down, making her way toward the hotel.
James blinked after her. Had he done something? Perhaps she’d thought it rude when he turned away. These blasted headaches. He clenched his hands as the pain made itself known again. What he wouldn’t give to rid himself of them entirely.
But it was for the best. He had no time for such distractions. And now, if he wanted to salvage any part of the rest of this day, he needed to lie down. Some lawman he was, requiring a nap in a dark room in the middle of the afternoon.
And so he put one foot in front of the other, willing the ache to fade just long enough to get back to his room, and watching a fascinating, muddy figure move quickly up the hill to the hotel.
If she wasn’t within sight, he’d have wondered if he’d met a ghost.
Chapter Four
Edie slumped against her shut door, trying to catch her breath. It wasn’t the first time in her life that she’d found herself running, but certainly the first time while wearing a dress weighed down with drying mud. She’d come in the back door near the laundry room and hotel offices, and had been lucky to only pass a bellboy and another Gilbert Girl—who’d offered to help her with her dress. Edie had politely declined. She wanted to be alone for a while to ponder what had just happened.
She crept gingerly across the floor to set the book on the vanity table she shared with her roommate Beatrice, hoping not to make such a mess she’d need to scrub the floor later. Then she set about removing her soiled coat, gloves, dress, and shoes. She wasn’t certain if any of it was salvageable, but she’d give it her best try.
Luckily, Beatrice had forgotten—again—to empty the pitcher and bowl from that morning. As Edie scrubbed splattered mud from her face and wrists, she realized she’d left Adelaide alone at the mercantile. She’d need to ensure Adelaide had returned safely—and hadn’t wandered off to enjoy conversation with whomever caught her eye—after she cleaned herself up and changed into fresh clothing.
Edie tried to keep her mind on Adelaide and not think of the man she’d just met, but it was impossible. He must think her half-witted with the way she’d run off without a word. Although he probably already did before that, considering she could barely string together two words without blushing. Just remembering the way she acted sent the warmth flaming up into her cheeks again.
It was such an odd reaction. She’d spent her life around her brothers and various other men who’d worked with her family. It wasn’t as if she was uncomfortable around men. In fact, the easiest part of her work at the hotel was making conversation with the frequent solo male guests in the dining room. She spoke to them like she’d spoken to her brothers, and they always seemed at ease around her. She was quite adept at shutting down any flirting that had come her way, and never feared the rougher-looking cowboys or railroadmen, the way some of the other, more sheltered girls did.
So what was it about this Mr. Wright? Or was it Deputy Wright? She didn’t even know the correct way to address the man, never mind why her ability to think seemingly disappeared around him. It reminded her of when she was about fifteen, and her brother Ty’s friend had come to stay with them for several weeks. He was maybe nineteen, with an easy smile and hair that was as black as a raven’s feathers. Every time he caught her eye, Edie felt as if she’d forgotten how to breathe, much less make words. And so she’d avoided him completely, feigning illness to skip supper and keeping to parts of the house where he wasn’t.
She paused, the ivory cloth against her cheek, and stared at the whitewashed wall as the realization dawned upon her. Deputy Wright might not have raven-black locks, but his dark blond hair curled over his collar in a way that made him seem too busy to bother with cutting it, and while his smile didn’t seem as easy as that other young man’s, it was true and intriguing. Not to mention his green eyes, the hard line of his jaw, and the confident way in which he carried himself . . .
Edie dropped the washcloth into the basin. She found him handsome, and that was why she’d stumbled over her words. It wasn’t why she’d run—that had more to do with his line of work—but it was certainly why she hadn’t enjoyed his company with more grace.
Her mind went immediately to the possibility of seeing him again. It was more than likely, considering he had to be staying at this hotel. She could avoid him, the way she had with Ty’s friend, but . . . She gripped the edge of the basin as she realized she didn’t want to. She wanted to see him again. Wanted to try to speak as she normally did. Wanted to take note of his reaction to seeing her again.
But even as the thoughts cascaded through her mind,
Edie knew better. It was a dangerous sort of thinking. She couldn’t feel that way about any man, particularly one in his line of work. When she left Kansas, she concluded she’d never be married. And while sometimes that knowledge gave her a twinge of sadness, for the most part she was fine with it. After all, she was good at being alone. She enjoyed being a Gilbert Girl, and so long as she had a garden to tend as the weather warmed and books to read and company in the other girls, she could be happy.
Not to mention there was always the possibility that someone might find her again. The idea of another Mr. Adkins arriving made her stomach tie itself into knots so tight no sailor could ever undo them. And with the town growing as fast as it was, that likelihood grew stronger each day. There wasn’t much she could do, other than keep to her false last name and be very aware of all who arrived. Ever since the incident with Mr. Adkins, she’d paid close attention to the guests’ conversations she overheard in the dining room and lobby, the girls’ gossip in the employees’ parlor, and the goings-on among all the hotel staff in the kitchen. And when she ventured down to the tracks where the building was happening, she kept her eyes open for any familiar faces. Mr. Adkins’s arrival had happened entirely by chance—he hadn’t known she was here until after he accepted the position as one of the hotel’s stable hands—but who was to say something similar wouldn’t happen again?
And worse, what if Mr. Adkins had told others she was here? He’d been sent to the territorial prison in Cañon City, while she was still here, free as a butterfly in a field of flowers. The only reason he hadn’t spread her secret immediately after his arrest was that she’d told him at their last meeting that she’d already written her father about him.
It kept Edie up some nights. If Mr. Adkins ever suspected she’d told him a fib—and that her father wasn’t even aware she was in the Colorado Territory, much less that she’d been at the mercy of Mr. Adkins’s threats—there would be nothing to stop him from telling anyone he happened to pen a letter to from within the prison walls about her whereabouts.
