Lucky Penny

by Catherine Anderson

  “And with you!”

  Brianna stopped short of shaking her head. She mustn’t unwittingly reveal to this intelligent child that the story she’d grown up believing was a pack of lies. “And with me. Of course, with me! I am his wife, after all.”

  “And he loves us both dearly. You’ve been right all along, Mama. He’s just been working so hard to find gold that he hasn’t had time to write letters or come for us!”

  “Yes,” Brianna agreed, without much alternative. She’d tried to make Daphne believe her father was a good person, and it looked as if she’d succeeded. Brianna tucked the certificates back into the envelope. “May I have this for safekeeping?”

  Daphne nodded and then twirled in her patched and faded dress. “Mama, I’ll soon look like the other girls! Maybe Hester and Hope won’t tease me anymore. Maybe they’ll even let me play with them. Do you think so?”

  If Brianna had her way, Daphne’s new clothing would outshine anything her classmates wore. “You’ll look even better than they do, and I’m sure they will let you play!” She slipped the envelope into the pocket of her skirt and guided her daughter through the shop to look at cloth. Daphne was embracing a lovely pink, patterned with delicate roses, when Abigail’s harsh tones interrupted them.

  “What in tarnation is going on out here?” With a scathing glare at Brianna, she fingered an imaginary film of dust on a glass case filled with ribbons and gewgaws. “I pay you a good wage to work, and time wasted will be taken into account when I tally your pay! When you’re not sewing, you should be cleaning.”

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am.” Brianna injected humility into her voice. “Daphne’s papa sent her some money to buy dresses, and we were trying to choose some cloth. Of course I thought of purchasing it here, rather than going elsewhere.”

  Though Daphne had suddenly become a paying customer, Abigail pinched her nostrils in disapproval. At forty-plus, she was a bitter woman, plainer than flat bread, with white-blond hair slicked back into a chignon and a pallid complexion offset only by glittering, raisin-colored eyes. The latter were beady and ever watchful, reminding Brianna of a raptor hunting for a hapless creature to injure with a snap of its beak. In an attempt to brighten her appearance, Abigail wore colorful gowns that accentuated her paleness. When men entered her shop, she fawned over them, hopeful that a masculine eye might wander her way. If the woman had been kinder, Brianna might have given her advice on how to showcase her face, but as it was, she felt no such inclination. The lonely result of Abigail’s harsh nature was no less than she deserved.

  “You’ll work overtime to make up for your idleness.” Abigail added sibilance to the last word. “If you fail to do so, I shan’t forget come Monday when I calculate your wages.”

  Exhaustion threatened to slump Brianna’s shoulders, but she stood erect even though she knew her infraction of five minutes would cost her an hour of toil without pay. “As you wish, of course, but please bear in mind that I only just left my seat.”

  “Poppycock.” Abigail wagged a thin forefinger. “You’ll put nothing over on me, Mrs. Paxton! I know how long you’ve been dillydallying.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Brianna nearly choked on the words. “I only beg you to remember I seldom leave my station, and today the infraction has been five minutes, no more.”

  Regal in posture, Abigail sniffed her disdain, turned, and vanished into her apartment, where she supposedly toiled. Brianna knew better. The walls were thin, and she seldom heard her employer’s machine in use. She didn’t know what the woman did all afternoon and during the night while Brianna stitched gowns that sold for a handsome profit. Maybe, like Brianna, Abigail had a passion for dime novels. God knew she could afford to buy as many as she wished. Brianna’s reading was limited to rare moments when she wasn’t working. A few ladies in town lent her books when they’d finished with them. Raised to appreciate fine literature, Brianna had at first scorned the grand portrayals in dime novels of the Wild West. After a time, however, she’d been starved for fine print and had come to anticipate with great eagerness any work of fiction or nonfiction. Her favorites were the stories featuring Ace Keegan, the infamous gunslinger who’d once killed three men with one bullet.

  “I’m sorry,” Daphne whispered after Abigail’s angry departure. “Now she’ll make you work longer with no money. I know she’s never fair when she tallies your wages.”

  Brianna bent to hug her daughter. “No, she’s never fair, so we may as well enjoy the infraction! You have some yardage to select, young lady.”

  Daphne grinned, displaying the gap where she’d lost two front teeth. “I like this one!” she cried, returning to the pink floral print.

  “It is a particularly fine choice.” Brianna turned the child’s attention to a polka dot pattern, white on dark blue. It would make up nicely with appropriate trim, piping possibly, with a bit of lace. “And we mustn’t forget that you’re in desperate need of a winter cloak and muff!”

  Daphne beamed with delight. “I need to write Papa a thank-you note!”

  “You do, indeed. Run over to the boardinghouse to fetch my writing materials.”

  After the child raced from the shop, Brianna briefly considered returning the cash to the sender, but envisioning the resultant look of disappointment on Daphne’s face, she quickly banished the thought. The money was a godsend, and the child now had her heart set on new dresses her mother couldn’t afford. That man never would have parted with such a large sum if he were in dire straits. So in a separate note, written secretly, Brianna would thank Mr. Paxton for the kindness and apologize for the mistake. She would explain that Daphne’s father was a gold miner in Denver, not a town marshal. Then she’d add that no further gifts of money would be accepted and express her intent to keep Mr. Paxton’s address and pay him back with interest when her finances improved. Surely that would be enough to clarify the situation in his mind.

  * * *

  Hours later, Brianna was still hunched over the Singer sewing machine, its shiny black surface, trimmed in gold, a blur as she focused burning eyes on a blue silk creation. The light cast by the hissing lantern was not the best to see by, and her temples throbbed. Tomorrow afternoon and evening, she would spend hours doing handwork on both the rose and blue gowns, and by night’s end, when she scurried to the restaurant to do the cleanup, her fingertips would burn from pushing on the blunt head of a needle because Abigail was so miserly with her thimbles.

  Oh, precious Lord, the restaurant cleanup. Brianna nearly groaned, for she had that yet to do before she could drop like a rock onto the narrow cot in the boardinghouse attic room that she and Daphne called home. For now, the little girl slept on a pallet near Brianna’s chair, and there she would stay while Brianna tidied the kitchen of Glory Ridge’s only restaurant. When that task was completed, Brianna would return to collect her child and then stumble under her inert weight as she carried her to their humble abode, which was barely large enough to accommodate the narrow bed and washstand.

  If only she truly did have a husband, Brianna thought hazily. Perhaps then she could see an end to this life of toil. Unfortunately, even if Brianna conveniently killed off her fictitious spouse, there seemed little demand in Glory Ridge for a widow with a child. Besides, Brianna had gotten her fill of men, not only in Boston when she’d struggled to support an infant daughter, but also here in Glory Ridge. Charles Ricker had tried to force himself on her more than once, and now she was bedeviled nearly every weeknight by the aging owner of the restaurant, who was supposedly happily married but had a hankering for something new.

  She was better off single even if her grand dreams of opening her own dress shop never came to fruition, which was a distinct possibility. Since leaving Ricker’s household, she had been able to save nothing for that ambitious endeavor. Like syrup simmered overlong, life had boiled down to a thick, sticky substance that clung to her weary feet. She saw no way out. No matter how hard she worked, she never made enough money to set a penny aside.
And as Daphne grew older and her needs increased, it would get worse. She couldn’t expect envelopes full of cash to arrive on a regular basis, after all.

  Maybe this is all there is. You might spend the rest of your life working for Abigail, lining her purse instead of your own. Everything within Brianna rebelled, but her practical nature made it impossible to keep her head in the clouds. If only she could afford a subscription to a large city newspaper, she might be able to acquire another live-in position. Unfortunately, even though she could now spare a few coins for a single issue, there were none available in Glory Ridge. And the local paper, a weekly edition, had no section set aside for paid advertisements.

  Daphne moaned and stirred in her sleep, whispering, “Papa.” The word electrified Brianna’s nerves. She still shivered when she recalled that envelope filled with money. After so many years of writing letters and receiving no responses, she could scarcely believe that a David Paxton actually existed. The very thought made panic nip at her spine. She couldn’t allow herself to fly into a flutter and pace the floor. In her mind, she heard Sister Theresa’s gentle intonations from her childhood, always the voice of reason. All will be well. Pray about it, have faith, and all will be well.

  Brianna paused in her sewing to take a deep, fortifying breath. As calm settled over her, she was able to think more clearly. Yes, David Paxton had sent a great deal of money, but he’d included no note. He had most likely been given the letters by mistake and, after reading Daphne’s letters, had felt sorry for the child, thus the generous gift. That did not mean the man believed Daphne was his daughter and might journey to Glory Ridge. Brianna had never stepped foot in Denver, had never even visited a town in that vicinity, and had never clapped eyes on a flesh-and-blood man named David Paxton. It followed that this gentleman knew he was not Daphne’s sire.

  Leaving her chair for a brief stretch of her spine, Brianna circled the shadowy shop. She paused over the three bolts of cloth that the child had chosen for her new dresses. Fingering the material, Brianna smiled softly and ordered herself to stop fretting over possibilities that would never happen. Unless David Paxton was daft, he’d never in a million years take it upon himself to visit Glory Ridge. For what reason? To lay claim to someone else’s wife and child? No man in his right mind would ever do that.

  Chapter Two

  May 1, 1891

  A

  n icy prairie wind, as sharp as a frozen straight razor, sliced across David’s jaw, diminished only slightly by several days’ growth of whiskers. Shifting in the saddle, he ran a hand along Blue’s neck and gave the gelding a pat. Not for the first time, he was grateful for the blue roan’s unflagging energy and smooth gait. Poor old Lucy, long ears flopping as she trailed behind them, got no stroking, but he’d make up for it when they reached Glory Ridge that evening. The gray pack mule had the toughest job, eating Blue’s dust and lugging their gear.

  It had been a tiring journey. David had traveled by train as far as he could, making Blue and the nervous Lucy as comfortable as possible in a stock car. Unfortunately, here in the far eastern reaches of Colorado’s high plains, railway service was sparse. At the last stop, he’d been told there was a train that went toward Glory Ridge, but it wouldn’t show up for days, and the tracks would end sixty miles short of that destination. David couldn’t wait around; he had marshaling duties in No Name, and he’d already been absent longer than he liked. He could either hit the trail or take a stage. It wasn’t a difficult choice. Rattling across country in a crowded coach was his idea of purgatory, and tethering Blue and Lucy to the rear of a carriage would be cruel. The teams of horses that pulled the coaches were swapped out at nearly every station, but a domestic equine or mule traveling behind could rest only during the stops. Otherwise they had to run all day and sometimes well into the night. David refused to put Blue or Lucy through that. He preferred traveling alone, keeping a slow pace for the sake of his animals.

  “We should get there in a few hours,” David informed the roan, whose ears flicked in response. “At the livery stable, you can have all the hay and oats you can eat. You, too, Lucy,” he tossed over his shoulder.

  Lucy emitted a noise peculiar only to her, a cross between a bray and a whicker that always made David smile. He’d left Sam at his ranch to spare him getting foot worn, but now he wished he’d brought the silly mutt along. He missed the shepherd, especially at night by the fire. Sam sang along when David played his fiddle, barking, howling, and growling, and when David shook out his bedroll, the canine snuggled close, helping him stay warm.

  David hunched his shoulders against the chill, grateful for the protection of his leather duster and the applications of grease that had rendered it windproof. Sadly, it reached only to his knees when he was standing and fell open astride a horse to leave his legs exposed. He could stop to don his chaps, but it was too much bother. Better to keep moving and put this trip behind him. With any luck, his stay in Glory Ridge would be short. He’d meet this Brianna Paxton, she would explain everything to his satisfaction, and he’d head home tomorrow.

  If it didn’t play out that way—well, David’s imagination had been working overtime. He just wanted to get this whole mess settled and put it behind him. How could he have fathered a child with a woman he couldn’t remember? It seemed impossible, yet he couldn’t escape the fact that it might have happened. Thinking about it gave him a sour stomach. His thoughts alternately stampeded like maddened cattle or swirled in his head like dust devils, tangling his emotions like a popcorn garland after a year in storage. What if Daphne was his little girl? If so, was he obligated to make an honest woman of the mother? Where did that put his future with Hazel Wright? If he knew Hazel, she wouldn’t take kindly to the news that he’d fathered a child with another woman.

  David looked across the landscape. Folks who hadn’t been here thought the plains were flat, with little of interest to see. They were dead wrong. The high prairie undulated with swells and dips that could have concealed a drove of bison just over the next rise if there’d been any large herds left. Nowadays the buffalo grass grew tall and mostly unmolested by the huge mammals from which it had gotten its name, forming a thick moving carpet of wind-driven green that struck a stunning contrast to the broad expanses of blue sky. Off to his right and sheltered by a stone outcropping, his mother’s favorite little meadow anemones made a splash of bright color. Near them, beardtongue made a splendiferous showing. On a sandy hill ahead of him, two male prairie chickens were strutting, dancing, flapping their rust-colored wings, and filling the bulbous orange sacs on each side of their necks to make a booming sound that could travel for miles. It was late for mating season, but the cocks had apparently misplaced their calendars. Not that David blamed them. Being limited to romancing the ladies for only a short while each spring would drive any male to drag it out as long as possible.

  Nope. The prairie wasn’t boring to him. And his ma, an amateur botanist, shared his interest; weather allowing, she loved to take her daily constitutional on the grasslands around Ace’s ranch.

  Blue whickered, and Lucy emitted a soft sound, distracting David from his musings. Narrowing his eyes, he searched the horizon. Buildings. He hadn’t expected to reach Glory Ridge until evening, but there it was. He would be facing Brianna Paxton soon.

  The thought made his stomach twist. Her thank-you note had been polite. She was grateful, but she would accept no more financial gifts, and she would someday pay him back, with interest. She’d also made it clear that Daphne wasn’t his child. All very fine, David thought, but then why had Daphne herself referred to him as her father?

  David didn’t expect his first meeting with Brianna to go well. For reasons unspecified, she’d done a turnaround, pleading with him for years to come fetch her, and now, suddenly, hell-bent on keeping him away. Maybe she’d met some fellow and didn’t want David to interfere with her plans to marry. Or perhaps he was just the wrong David Paxton. He hoped it was the latter, but he wouldn’t sleep well until h
e knew for certain. The men in his family didn’t sire children and then shirk responsibility, damn it.

  Well, the grim possibilities would have to wait. He wasn’t going to meet with Brianna when he looked like a drover hitting town after a cattle drive. He had a powerful craving for a glass of ale to wash down the trail dust, followed by a bath, a fresh change of clothes, and a shave before he enjoyed a sit-down meal. Most towns had a restaurant of some sort. Meatloaf sounded really good, a juicy steak even better. And, boy howdy, he wouldn’t curl his lip at hot biscuits and sausage gravy, either.

  Keeping his gaze fixed on the clutch of buildings ahead, David felt his heart sink as he drew closer. Why in Sam Hill was a place like this named Glory Ridge? There was no ridge in sight, and there was nothing glorious about it. As he rode in at the west side, he decided the community could serve as a model for the term one-horse town. He could have chucked a stone the full length of the main street. At the opposite end, the sagging roofs of a community church and tiny schoolhouse bore testimony that the ranching profits in these parts were meager. The short expanses of boardwalks and shop awnings were in no better repair. Clumps of bastard toadflax had sprouted up to line the walkways with spots of brightness, and field bindweed, sporting delicate pink flowers, formed knotted mats in between. The whole town looked shabby. David couldn’t help but draw comparisons to No Name, which was at least kept tidy and in good repair, with a layer of fresh paint slapped on all the buildings every summer.

  The hotel looked none too inviting. The letter E was missing from the sign that hung at an angle out front, and the windows looked too grimy to admit much light. David sighed. The beds probably weren’t much better. He hated lumpy mattresses. He could only hope that the sheets and linens were clean. Time to worry about that later, though. Clucking his tongue to Blue, he guided the gelding toward the livery, a dilapidated structure with weathered plank siding and a battered billboard above the stable doors that hung catawampus and flapped in the breeze.