“Wonderful. I’ll send over a note and see when she can come in.” Mrs. Deveraux settled her large bulk into her desk chair and picked up her pen. “That reminds me. Did I ever tell you about the time . . .”
Lydia bent her head to her work to hide an even bigger smile. Her employer enjoyed knowing that she had been entertaining, but to think she was being mocked or ridiculed was something else altogether.
Once the hem was finished and the dress was hung neatly in the corner, Mrs. Deveraux handed Lydia an envelope. “Here you are, my dear. A job well done. I’ll see you bright and early, all right?”
“Yes, of course. Thank you, Mrs. Deveraux.”
“You’re very welcome. Have a good evening.”
Lydia glanced at the clock as she left the building—if she hurried, she had time to make it over to the bank before it closed. She pulled her cloak tighter around her as she walked, wishing the breeze would change direction just for a few minutes. It would be a blessed mercy.
When she stepped inside the bank, Mr. Cromwell looked up from his paperwork and smiled. “Hello, Miss Pullman. Quite the weather out there, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. The summer was miserably hot, but today, I’m almost missing it.” She placed her envelope on the counter. “I’d like to make a deposit, and I’d also like to check my balance.”
“Of course. Are you depositing this full amount?” He tapped the envelope with the tip of his pen.
“I’d probably better keep a little bit out.” She removed a dollar, then slid the rest across the counter.
Mr. Cromwell opened his ledger and flipped through it until he found the right page. Then he picked up the envelope and counted the contents. “Let’s see. That will bring your account to the grand total of . . .”
When he read her the amount, her heart nearly jumped into her throat. She had enough. She finally had enough! She could buy her fare to San Francisco, and she’d have money for a hotel for a few nights until she was settled with a job. She didn’t expect that Mr. Freed would still take her, but she imagined that he’d have friends or acquaintances who could point her in the right direction.
“Except . . .” Mr. Cromwell furrowed his brow. “Miss Pullman, where did you get this money?”
“From Mrs. Deveraux. That’s my payment for working in her shop. Is something the matter?”
He picked up one of the bills and held it to the light. “I believe this money is counterfeit.”
“What?” Lydia grasped the edge of the counter. “How is that possible?”
“Someone must have paid Mrs. Deveraux this money, and she in turn passed it to you. Unless you think it’s possible that she’s involved somehow.”
“Oh, no. Absolutely not.” Lydia couldn’t even imagine it. “It must be as you said—someone gave it to her.”
Mr. Cromwell nodded. “I’ll talk to Marshall Murray and let him know. In the meantime, I can’t credit this to your account.”
“Should I just tell Mrs. Deveraux that I need her to pay me again?”
“I wouldn’t. You see, we need to make sure she isn’t involved—if she is, and she catches wind that the marshal is on to her, that might give her the chance to leave town before she can be arrested.”
“Leave town? Arrested?” Lydia closed her eyes. “So, I don’t have access to my paycheck yet?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Pullman, but that’s exactly what it means.”
“I guess you need this back too.” She handed him the dollar she’d set aside.
“Thank you.” He peered at her. “Are you all right, Miss Pullman? May I get you a glass of water?”
She shook her head. “I’m fine. I just had plans for that money, and knowing that it’s not available . . . Well, it just slows things down for me. I can be patient.”
“In the meantime, you still need a dollar.” Mr. Cromwell pulled one out of his drawer. “Here you go. I’ll deduct it from your account—you must have something to live on until this is straightened out. I’ll go see the marshal as soon as I’ve locked my doors, and we’ll get this moving forward, all right?”
“Thank you, Mr. Cromwell. I appreciate it.”
Lydia stepped outside and closed the door behind her, trying not to feel overwhelmed. For two wonderful minutes, she’d believed she could walk right over to the train station and buy her ticket. Of course, she needed to give notice at both jobs first, but knowing that she had the ability to leave made all the difference. Now . . . she sighed. Now she’d have to wait and see. She just prayed that somehow, that money would be made up to her, and soon.
Chapter Four
“So, what brings my only son all the way over to see his frail and aging mother?” Mrs. Murdoch studied Bradley over the tops of her spectacles. “Were you missing me horribly?”
“I know—I’ve been neglecting you lately, and I’m sorry, Mother. I’ve been busy with work—we’re working on three new houses right now.”
She shook her head. “My goodness. I remember when we first came here—new houses were a novelty. You lived in the house you were born in, and your children did the same. Now it seems there’s a new house being built every week.”
“Not quite, but it does feel that way sometimes. It’s good for the economy of our town, Mother. We mustn’t begrudge it.”
“I don’t begrudge it, but I do miss the days when I knew all my neighbors’ names and could recite all their children’s birthdays. Now I’m lucky if I can remember the head of household.” She looked at him again. “You haven’t answered my question. I’ve only seen you for Sunday dinner the last two months, but here it is, a Tuesday. What’s the matter?”
“You remember Lydia Pullman?”
“Lydia? Of course I do. Such a nice thing, but not at all inclined to marry you. Didn’t she go to San Francisco or some other place like that?”
“Yes. Or rather, that’s what we all thought.” Bradley told his mother everything that had happened, concluding with, “I’ve had a return telegram this morning. The San Francisco Police have no record of her—she’s not listed as a missing person, and she’s filed no marriage certificate.”
“But she could still be in San Francisco, just not married,” Mrs. Murdoch replied.
“True. I wish there was a way to know. I can hardly send a telegram to every store and business in that whole town. That would cost more than going out there and looking for her myself.”
Mrs. Murdoch raised an eyebrow.
“What? Did I say something?”
“Indeed you did. Why don’t you go look for her yourself?”
Bradley sat up straighter in his chair. “Go look for her? What are you talking about?”
His mother smiled. “It’s too bad you can’t see things from my perspective. When she left, you were heartbroken. I knew how much you cared for her—it was obvious—and when she said goodbye, you tried to be brave, but you didn’t mean it. And I can see that love still written all over your face. I say you go find her, and when you get there, marry her. It’s what you’ve always wanted, and again, it’s obvious. You shouldn’t even be surprised at the suggestion.”
“I suppose it caught me by surprise because it’s so drastic. Traveling halfway across the country to find a girl who might not even want me after all that?”
“Are you telling me you wouldn’t undertake that kind of journey for her?”
Bradley exhaled. “I’d do anything for her.”
“Then this simple journey shouldn’t be too much to ask.”
“And when I find her . . . what if it was all for nothing?”
“Oh, come now, Bradley. Doing something out of love is never for nothing. Every positive action we undertake is rewarded to us somehow, even if it’s not how we originally thought. So, what’s it to be? Are you going to stay here and mope around, or are you going to take action?”
“I think you and Carl have been conspiring against me.”
She smiled. “I think you’ve been blessed to have wise people in yo
ur life. Now, what have you decided?”
“I’ve decided that I’m going to California.” Saying the words was both thrilling and terrifying at the same time, but he knew it was the right thing to do. He couldn’t proclaim to love Lydia and then refuse to do the very thing she might need from him.
“I’m very glad to hear it. Now, pour me a cup of tea, would you? My throat’s as dry as a batwing.”
He picked up the delicate china teapot and poured. She had often tried to teach him the proper way to do this, but she had eventually given up and just accepted what she got.
“What if I find her, and she’s married or settled in some way, and she sends me packing?”
“Then you’ll know, and I think that’s a million times better than not knowing.”
As he settled back with his own cup of tea, Bradley knew she was right. And Carl was right. And there was no sense in debating it any longer. As soon as he had a few things set to rights at the office, he was going to San Francisco.
***
“You certainly did a nice job with that shelf of biographies, Miss Pullman.” Mr. Redfern rocked back on his heels as he inspected her work. “I rather think that you must have worked at a library before.”
“No, never. But I have spent lots of time in a library or a bookstore, so I’m very familiar with how it all should be. Mr. Dewey was very clever with his decimal system, don’t you think?”
“Yes, he was. I just have a difficult time keeping it all straight in my head. You, on the other hand, seem to have it memorized. It’s so admirable.”
Gracious.
She’d begun to suspect that he was interested in her the first time he asked for help in the store, and his compliments just made her all the more convinced. Now he was praising her understanding of the Dewey Decimal System? That was a bit . . . Well, it was concerning. She knew he didn’t understand much when it came to courting and wooing and . . . well, even carrying on a normal conversation, but if he was so enamored that even the way she arranged a shelf was going to make him go all doe-eyed, she’d better figure out a way to break this off, whatever it was, before he became even more invested.
That was going to be a hard conversation, though. She could see it now. “Excuse me, Mr. Redfern. I know I’m beautiful and dazzling, and you admire me and my wit and my shelf-arranging capabilities, but I must turn you down even though you haven’t said anything as of yet.” No, that wouldn’t do.
She supposed she’d have to wait until he actually did say something. Otherwise, she’d be presuming something that might not be true . . . except that it was true. It was evident every time he spoke to her—the way he’d clear his throat and stammer was quite a tell-tale sign. He didn’t do that with the customers she’d seen come into the shop. It was special, just for her.
And she didn’t want it, and she felt terrible that his feelings would be hurt.
If she were staying in Creede, if this was the life she wanted for herself, maybe . . . but no. He wasn’t the man for her. He would take care of her and adore her, but she would never be able to return his feelings. He deserved someone who cared for him as much as he cared for her, and that’s not something Lydia could offer. To anyone.
“Miss Pullman?”
She realized she’d been ignoring him. Sadly, that was all too easy to do. “Yes?”
“I wonder if I might take you to dinner tonight.”
Oh, this wasn’t good.
But maybe it was good.
It would be good if it meant that he was about to express his feelings because then she could put a stop to it. It would be better to do that sooner or later. But if he only meant this to be a date, and he didn’t share his feelings, she might be giving him the wrong sort of idea if she went without telling him how she felt. But if she told him how she felt right now, before he’d said anything . . . Oh, bother. Why was being polite so infernally complicated?”
“Yes, Mr. Redfern. I’d enjoy that.”
His ears pinked up a little bit. “Thank you. Shall we go now, since it’s closing time?”
“All right.” No sense in putting off what was sure to be a disaster no matter how it played out.
They walked through the gray evening light to a new restaurant that had just opened the previous week, the Iron Skillet. When they walked in, Lydia immediately picked up on the smell of steak. It had been a long time since she’d had steak, and she wondered if Mr. Redfern could afford it. His shop was so modest, and he wasn’t a very fancy dresser—he gave the impression of a man on a budget.
“Hello. Welcome to the Iron Skillet.” A young woman of medium height bustled up to them, her apron already showing signs of many dinners served. “My name is Ivy. May I show you to your table?”
She led them to a spot in the center of the room . . . a spot where everyone who came in would see them sitting together. Oh, dear. Lydia was tempted to ask for a more secluded table, but that might make Mr. Redfern think she felt more for him than she did, which was the very thing she’d been trying to avoid.
If Mr. Redfern was concerned about the cost of dinner, he didn’t show it as he studied the menu. She chose something that seemed moderately priced, and he beamed at her across the table. Oh, no. Not beaming. Beaming made everything even harder.
“Miss Pullman, I can’t tell you what a delight it is to eat dinner with you. I’ve eaten alone for so long that having company is more of a treat than the meal itself.”
That was a very nice thing to say, and if she was any other girl, she’d likely be blushing. Instead, she just felt terrible. She was eating steak under false pretenses. Sharing a meal of any kind put her in an awkward position, but sharing steak . . . She wondered if she’d be able to eat at all. This needed to come to an end, even if it was poor manners for her to bring it up first. She’d rather be improper than continue this.
“Thank you, Mr. Redfern. I must say, it’s not every boss who would take his employee out for dinner.” Maybe she could soften things by pretending she didn’t understand what was going on. “Or I should say, helper. I know I’m not an employee, and I’m quite busy with work as it is.”
His smile faltered, but only a little. “I owe you my thanks, and sometimes that takes the form of dinner.”
There. She had successfully delivered one message—that she didn’t consider this a romantic evening. Maybe that would be enough to discourage him without needing to cause embarrassment. She’d keep her fingers crossed for that, but somehow, she doubted it would be that easy.
Ivy returned a moment later. “Have you decided what you’d like?” She jotted down their orders, promised to be back soon, and headed for the kitchen.
“I haven’t seen her around town before,” Lydia commented. “Do you know her?”
Mr. Redfern shook his head. “It’s difficult to keep track of all the new people moving in, and being here rather recently myself, I’m not sure who’s new and who’s old.” He laughed at his own joke, and Lydia smiled. “I’ve heard, though, that her father owns the place, and that her older brother is the chef. There doesn’t seem to be a mother with them.”
“I hope they’re successful here. I do like the look of the place very much.”
“Yes, they did a nice job of setting it up.”
They both looked around awkwardly as if creating some sort of expert opinion of the walls and curtains of the restaurant before turning back to each other.
“I imagine you’ll have the shop entirely put together in another day or two,” Lydia said. “That will be nice.”
“Yes, it will be. I look forward to getting those crates out of the way—I trip on them nearly every time I cross the floor.”
They both chuckled, then fell silent again.
It was agony. Sheer agony.
At last, Ivy brought the food, and that gave Lydia something else to concentrate on. The food was quite good, but the conversation . . . Surely she could do better if she tried. “Tell me, Mr. Redfern. What do you most enjoy reading?”
“Oh, just about anything, really. I’ve tried some of the books you recommended, and I must say, I’m rather enjoying that insight into your preferences. You show quite a broad range of interests . . .”
He went on for another thirty seconds or so while she chewed and swallowed. Why wasn’t this working? Why couldn’t she find a way to dissuade him that wouldn’t embarrass him? If she really was as clever as he seemed to think she was, this wouldn’t be so hard to figure out.
When they finished with their meal, he walked her outside, and she turned to him with a bright smile. “Thank you so much, Mr. Redfern. That was a wonderful meal. I’m sorry to leave so suddenly, but the lady I board with will be expecting me home, and I help her around the house a bit in the evenings.”
He nodded. “You’re welcome, and thank you for coming with me. Would you like an escort home?”
“There’s enough light to see by, but thank you.” She smiled again, as warmly as she could, then walked away, wanting to kick herself. Why couldn’t she just like him? That would solve so many problems. If she liked him, she wouldn’t have to save money for a train ticket. She wouldn’t have to figure out ways to let him down gently. She wouldn’t have to feel bad every time he extolled her virtues. But pretending to like him would be the worst thing of all, and she couldn’t do it genuinely. No matter how much she tried, no matter how often she listed his good qualities, she simply could not love him, and that was that.
Chapter Five
It would be foolish to start out on this sort of adventure without more information, so the first thing the next morning, Bradley headed down to the train station to talk to Mr. Abernathy, the stationmaster.
“Miss Lydia, you say?” The man was a little hard of hearing. “Why, of course I remember Miss Lydia! She always had a kind word for me when we happened upon each other. But she’s gone now—she left more’n a year ago.”
“Yes, that’s right. I wondered if you could tell me about her ticket.”
“That’s right—she bought a ticket. Can’t very well go riding the train without one.” Mr. Abernathy chuckled, then coughed. Bradley winced—he hoped it wasn’t serious. Or catching.
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