by Cat Cahill
“My father died too. And my mother,” he said, by way of changing the subject away from her embarrassment. “My mother when I was eight, from illness. And my father when I was sixteen.”
Miss Daniels reached out and touched his arm. It was a gesture meant to comfort, but instead the heat of her small hand burned through his shirt sleeve, stirring up the desire for him to take it in his own and pull her close to him. He didn’t dare move.
“I lost my sister too.” He didn’t know what possessed him to say it, but he did. Something about Miss Daniels invited confidence.
Her eyes widened. “What happened?”
He kicked at a stone. He’d never felt so alone as he did when he lost Lizzie, particularly since that was his fault too.
“You don’t have to say if it pains you too much,” Miss Daniels said quietly.
He glanced down at her. Her face was pure empathy. Ever since Colette, he hadn’t spoken of his sister to anyone else. He rubbed at his chin, and he knew Miss Daniels would keep his confidence. And perhaps she wouldn’t blame him for what had happened, even if he knew otherwise. “After my father’s death, I took a job on a ranch outside the city. Elizabeth—I always called her Lizzie—came with me. She was fifteen. The owner of the ranch was kind enough to let us stay in a small cabin on the edge of the property. After a while, she began keeping company with one of the other ranch hands. I wasn’t happy about it—she was awfully young and he wasn’t the marrying sort. She needed a mother, and that wasn’t something I could be for her. I came back to the cabin one evening, and she was gone. She’d left a note that they’d run off to California and would be married.”
Miss Daniels was quiet for a moment. “Surely she’s written to you since then?”
Monroe shook his head. If only she had—at least he’d know she was alive. “I’ve never heard from her. I stayed on that ranch a year longer than we—than I—wished, only in case she sent a letter. But she never did.”
“I’m so sorry.” Miss Daniels squeezed his arm and he placed his free hand over hers. She stilled. “Mr. Hartley?”
“Call me Monroe, please.” The familiarity felt natural as it rolled off his tongue. And out here, on the side of this hill miles from Crest Stone and everything that might keep them apart there, it felt much less dangerous.
She smiled again, and her face tinged pink. It fascinated him. There wasn’t much he had ever said to Colette that made her blush. She was used to the ways of cowboys and ranch hands, having been raised around them. Not for the first time, he wondered if that was why he’d thought she’d survive the life he’d chosen, conveniently ignoring every other aspect of her personality. That gaping loss crept in again, threatening to overtake the happiness he felt at having Miss Daniels’ hand under his own.
“Then you may call me Emma,” she said, softly.
“Emma.” He liked the way her name felt against his lips. “It suits you.”
She ducked her head, and he laughed. “The way you blush at the most innocent things almost makes me want to see what happens when I say something truly scandalous.”
Her face went deep scarlet at that. He wanted to wrap his fingers through hers, more than anything. His fingers twitched on top of her hand at the thought, but he didn’t. He wasn’t courting her—he couldn’t. So instead, he smiled at her and said, “Do you think you can reach the top?”
She glanced up the hill, squared her shoulders, and shot him a fierce look. “I can, and I dare you to keep up with me.” With that, she was off, sprinting up the hill while he stared after her, wondering if he would ever discover how many layers there were to this woman.
Chapter Thirteen
Her lungs squeezed as her heart pounded and her legs burned. But Emma was determined to prove she was no simpering girl from back East. Something about Mr. Hartley—Monroe—made her want him to see her as a woman strong enough to survive out here. He was right behind her, and though she suspected he held back, that didn’t stop her from pushing forward even harder.
She crested the top of the hill, perspiration dotting her forehead and her hat slipping dangerously to the side. Thankfully she’d left her shawl and her gloves on the wagon. But none of her dismay mattered because the view was simply unbelievable.
“You drive a hard race, Miss Emma Daniels.” Monroe rested his hands on his thighs as he leaned over to catch his breath.
“I like a challenge.” She gestured around at the view. “I’ve never seen anything like this.” The entire valley sprawled out below her. At the very edge of the horizon toward the southwest, she spotted smoke. “Is that the hotel?”
Monroe squinted into the distance and nodded. “It is.” He pointed to the snowcapped mountains on their right. “Those mountains there—the Sangre de Cristos—go all the way to New Mexico. And beyond those—the Wet Mountains”—he pointed in the opposite direction, toward the smaller mountains—“are plains that stretch on and on to the east.”
Emma sucked in her breath at the sheer majesty of each range of mountains—one tall and proud, and the other smooth and worn. They reminded her of a young girl showing off a new dress, and an older woman content in something plain but comfortable. How did it come to be that she found herself in such a beautiful place? God must have truly been looking out for her when she decided to brave the threat of rain for an interview over the flower shop. She turned all the way around, trying to see as much as she could. Down below, cottonwoods, willows, and aspen were thick enough to cover the creek. She couldn’t even see the water, much less her friends.
“I wish we could remain here all day.” When she looked at Monroe, he was already watching her, that intense warm look back in his eyes, the one that made her fingers tingle and her legs so shaky she wasn’t certain she could hold herself up.
“As do I.” He held her gaze as he spoke.
She swallowed, uncertain what to say next. She’d had little experience in the art of gaining and holding a man’s attention. Other girls had always been so much more adept at it that Emma had usually shied into the background at home. The only one who had really paid her much attention was old Mr. Eddins, and she attempted to make any time she’d spent with him as short as possible. Perhaps she should have paid more attention to Lily. Her younger sister had always been the star of every party, before their financial situation had caused the invitations to disappear.
Not that she should be trying to gain Monroe’s affections at all. But all the rules seemed so far away right now, and he was so close. The idea made her feel almost lightheaded, just as she needed to keep her head about her.
She looked away from him and forced herself to breathe normally. The mountains on either side of them remained steady, anchored to the earth. The ground of the hill underneath her held its place. She imagined herself a part of all of it, rooted to the earth, and the blood pumping through her veins slowed to almost normal. Only then did she trust herself to glance back at Monroe.
He was watching her still, which instead of making her go warm all over in embarrassment, was almost comforting. She gave him a warm smile, and his face lit up as if she’d offered him the entire valley below them. The quiet, the scenery, the presence of the man next to her . . . Now that she could breathe, Emma had never felt more at peace than she did right here on this hill with Monroe. Neither of them spoke, but it didn’t matter.
A poem began to form in her head. She worked around the words, letting them settle where they best seemed to fit. And then she sat, pulling her book and a worn bit of pencil from the small bag that hung from her dress.
“Emma?” Monroe sounded puzzled, but Emma didn’t have a moment to look up, not if she wanted to get these words down before they disappeared from her head altogether. Words were like fog on a damp morning—all-encompassing but destined to slip away.
She wasn’t certain how long she sat among the stones and dirt and bushy piles of sage, scratching out the lines. But finally, she finished. Smiling at her work, she stood slowly and let t
he world come back to her.
“I confess, I’m curious about what you wrote. I’m beginning to believe it’s a poem about a dashing young man standing among the peaks and valley.” Monroe gave her a grin that made her laugh from the very core of herself.
“I hate to disappoint you. But the mountains do play a role.” She rolled the pencil between her fingers. She’d never shared her poetry with anyone except Lily, but some strange force made her tear the page from her book and hand it to Monroe.
He blinked at her a moment, as if he disbelieved she’d chosen him, but she nodded, and his eyes went to the page in his hand. Emma waited, turning her book over and over in her hands, fearing with each second that he’d find her a fraud, a silly girl with a head full of clouds who masqueraded as some serious poet to while away the time.
Finally, he looked up at her. Then back at the page. “This bit here, about loneliness and longing for the way the peaks touch the sky—”
She cringed a little, hearing him echo her sentiments. “They’re yours. The words.”
A soft smile lit up his face. “I can’t believe you used them. I was teasing you about that.”
“They worked. And they’re quite lovely, I think.”
He glanced down again. “The entire poem is lovely. May I keep it?”
She nodded even as her face went warm at the thought of him rereading her words later, when he was alone.
The light had shifted a bit to the west, lengthening the shadows. Despite never wanting to leave this spot, she knew they needed to return down the other side, or she’d risk one of the girls coming to search for her.
Almost as if reading her mind, Monroe leaned forward and picked up the basket. “I don’t wish to leave, but your friends will begin to worry.”
She nodded and followed him across the top of the hill, toward the west side where it would meet the creek below. Watching his back, she promised herself she would remember everything about this afternoon for the rest of her life—the way the breeze lifted the tendrils of hair that framed her face, the song of the birds in the trees below, the still and cloudless sky, the never-changing mountains protecting both sides of their valley, how safe her hand felt under his, the way he looked at her as if she were everything he’d ever wanted in the world. Emma wished she could frame the moment like a photograph and hold it close to her heart. If only it could be like this forever, but she knew that would never be.
Halfway down the hill, one bird called louder than the rest. Emma turned to Monroe, puzzled. Until it called again.
“Penny!” Emma stopped short.
“She must’ve grown impatient,” Monroe said.
Thoughts raced through her head. If Penny saw them . . . She’d likely be delighted, but Penny loved to talk. Emma wasn’t certain how good she’d be at keeping secrets.
Monroe reached up and grazed his fingers across Emma’s jaw. For the briefest moment, all thoughts of Penny and losing her position at the hotel flew from Emma’s mind. All that existed was her and Monroe and the feel of his hand against her face. Out of some instinct she never knew existed, she leaned into his touch. He smiled at her, then dropped his hand and held out the basket.
Emma swayed a little without the strength of his calloused touch against her face. She took the basket, and it felt as if she were falling back to Earth without even a net to catch her.
“I’ll see you soon?”
The way he phrased it like a question was more than enough to melt her like a bit of chocolate in the sun. She nodded, ignoring all the better judgment she’d ever had. “Thank you for today.”
His smile lit up his entire face. He tipped his hat at her, then he was gone, around toward the south side of the hill.
“Emma! Are you up there?”
Emma glanced behind her one last time. Monroe was gone. She turned and took a few steps down the hill before she answered Penny. “Coming!”
“Oh, thank goodness.” Penny appeared just past a large pine tree. She stopped and grabbed on to the trunk. “I believe this sort of exertion might do me in.” She looked Emma up and down. “Whatever possessed you to go up this hill?”
“The view,” Emma said easily. It was the truth, just without the part about the handsome man who had convinced her the view was worthwhile.
Penny reached for the basket and peeked inside. “I was certain you’d run off and had our entire meal by yourself.” When she looked up again, her green eyes sparkled, and Emma couldn’t help but laugh.
“You are truly the least trusting person I’ve ever met,” Emma teased.
“Not at all! Just hungry.” Penny looped her arm through Emma’s, and they started their way down the hill again. “Dora was afraid you’d been hurt, and Caroline thought an Indian warrior had come and swept you off your feet. For such a demure girl, she has quite the imagination. I’m surprised I didn’t think of that one first.”
Penny talked about how they had already put their feet in the creek and nearly froze, then about Mrs. McFarland’s stories of being courted by Mr. McFarland in the moving railroad town that had come before them in Crest Stone, and about anything else that crossed her mind as they moved down the hill and then along the creek. Emma nodded here and there, but mostly she was grateful not to have to contribute to the conversation.
Monroe occupied her mind, and she wasn’t certain if she could ever get him out.
Chapter Fourteen
Monroe yawned and rubbed at his freshly-shaved chin. He stood next to the tracks in his only suit and boots that had been shined within an inch of their lives, when all he really wanted was a long night’s rest in his tent. The past week had been grueling. Earlier in the week, another train had arrived from Cañon City, not carrying passengers yet as there was still no terminus in Santa Fe, but instead, a load of cut lumber, factory-made nails, shingles, powder for making plaster, and any number of construction supplies, all of which his crew had been running short on. With the delivery was a message from Mr. Gilbert—he was coming with company investors in one week’s time to see the progress on the hotel.
Since then, Monroe and his crew had worked nearly nonstop, from before sunrise to after sunset. He was pleased with the progress they’d made, and he only hoped the company would agree. The place actually looked like it might be a habitable building in a month’s time. It had floors, a roof, and almost every room had been walled in. They had nearly decimated the shipment that had been sent a week ago. As he stood near the tracks with Turner and Big Jim, he prayed the train that pulled up now carried wood, nails, more doors, and glass for windows.
Just as the train squealed to a stop in front of him, Monroe caught a glimpse of a blue and violet dress on the other side of the tracks. His breath caught in his throat and he coughed. Big Jim slapped him on the back. He hadn’t seen Emma from more than a distance since their excursion up the hill, five miles north of here, a week and a half ago. She was the last thing he thought of every night and first thing he pictured each morning, though. With a start, he realized that while he still dreamed of Colette here and there, that aching loneliness hadn’t reared its ugly head since that Sunday he’d found McFarland’s wagon. Was that Emma’s doing?
“You’re grinning like a fool,” Big Jim muttered as the engine let out a puff of steam.
Monroe tried to wipe it from his face as he realized Turner was watching him too. He needed to focus. His business was on the line here. If Mr. Gilbert and the investors were pleased, not only would he be able to stay on to finish his work and earn the promised bonus, they’d give him an excellent reference. Perhaps Gilbert might even ask him to build another hotel.
The door to the first car opened, and when the steam cleared, Monroe spotted several men and one woman now standing beside the tracks. Big Jim wished him luck before returning to check on the crew. Monroe moved forward, Turner on his heels, to greet them.
“Ah! Here is our intrepid builder, Mr. Monroe Hartley.” Gilbert went around the circle and made introductions.
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As Monroe shook hands with each investor, he spotted another several cars behind the first. He turned to Gilbert, ready to ask if they might be filled with supplies, when Gilbert did the answering for him.
“Everything you need for a couple more weeks, I dare hope!” He clapped Monroe on the back.
Turner cleared his throat. Monroe gave him a pointed look before introducing his foreman to Gilbert and the investors. Turner shook their hands, and Monroe had to admire how professional the man was, despite his impatience.
“I think you’ll be pleased with what we’ve done.” Turner gestured at the hotel. “I told Hartley we ought to be onto the interior woodwork by now, so I hope you’ll forgive us for being behind.”
His words nearly knocked Monroe upside the head. That was beyond an eagerness to learn. What would possess him to say something like that? Here they were, with the structure of an entire hotel nearly completed in the span of six weeks, and Turner seemed to be trying to make them look as if they were behind schedule—when in truth, they were ahead. For the life of him, Monroe couldn’t figure out why. Did the man not want his portion of the bonus?
Gilbert furrowed his brows before letting his usual businessman’s confidence reclaim his face. “Still, what Hartley and the men have achieved so far is nothing short of miraculous.”
Turner opened his mouth to speak again, but this time Monroe beat him to it. “Mr. Turner needs to get back to the men. After all, we must ensure this hotel is completed on time.” Before the foreman could protest, Monroe caught his eye and said, “Thank you for taking this time away from your work. We all know how lost the crew is without you. I appreciate you keeping them in line.” They’d need to have a conversation later. Monroe couldn’t let those remarks go unchecked.
Turner pressed his lips together. Then he nodded at Gilbert and the others and headed up the hill toward the hotel.
After a bit more small talk, Gilbert asked, “Shall we tour what you’ve completed so far?”
