Imitations of a Lady

by Kate Marie Clark

  Claire giggled. “She’s a charming little lady.”

  “Lady?” Jesse asked, lifting a brow. “You sound as if she’ll take to finishing school like Gram’s new companion.”

  Claire flinched. “Is it true what Eric says? It’s been over a week, and I haven’t met Miss Williams. Is she as lovely as Eric says?”

  Jesse swatted his hand in the air and shook his head. “Don’t you mind what Eric says about Miss Williams. Ain’t nobody lovelier than you, Claire.”

  She pressed her lips together. “You don’t have to say that.”

  “It’s the truth, and sooner or later, Jude will realize it.” Jesse placed a hand on her shoulder. “And if he don’t, I’ll have to teach him a thing or two.”

  Claire shirked from his touch. “I better ride out to the new pasture. Daddy said there’re some strays that need finding.”

  “Sure,” Jesse said, dropping his hand. Women were curious creatures indeed. Even Claire seemed a contrary puzzle—one moment pining for Jude, another taking off in a huff in search of cows.

  Chapter 9

  “You don’t stitch worth a penny,” Mrs. Davis said, overlooking Cora’s efforts.

  Cora smiled. Mrs. Davis was right about that. “Ah, but your eyes,” Cora said, tugging on the thread.

  The old woman pursed her lips. “You’re fortunate that’s true.”

  Cora dropped her embroidery in a heap at the end of the table and inhaled. Mrs. Davis was right; her stitch work was a tangled mess, nothing like what Lettie would have produced. Mrs. Davis’s failing sight was the saving grace of the situation.

  “Now, a more important matter,” Mrs. Davis said, smacking her lips together. She stared off into the distance, and the cataracts clouding her light eyes seemed murkier than usual. “Every year, since Horace first suggested it thirty-three years ago, Northwind hosts a country dance in anticipation of the first cattle drive. There are raffles and music, booths and pie, and I even allow the town their pick of the calves at a discounted rate—not including the best cattle. But it’s quite the affair in Overstead. I daresay most the town attends.”

  “How enchanting,” Cora said amidst the dread pooling in her gut. She wasn’t ready to take on the town of Overstead in her performance quite yet. She doubted she’d convinced the whole Davis clan as of yet. “And when does this celebration occur?”

  Mrs. Davis’s upper lip lifted, revealing a half-smile. “Davis Stampede, we call it. I expect the drive’ll be ready within the month, so I’ve set the date for the dance for two weeks from now. I’ll require your services, of course. And Lettie, you must wear your prettiest gown. I want to show you off in style, my dear. As I’m sure you’ve gathered, cowboys outnumber ladies by a catastrophic proportion here in Overstead. You’ll have more than your fair share of dancing. But I warn you; don’t get too comfortable with any of the men. I won’t stand to lose you yet.”

  “Not to worry,” Cora said, standing from the settee. She’d sworn off marriage after working at Milton’s saloon. Too many ill-mannered men with dangerous tempers. “I’ve lasted this long with callers in Virginia. I think I shall withstand every effort to win my favor. I’m not interested in marriage.” She clamped her mouth shut. Lettie wouldn’t have said as much.

  Mrs. Davis’s lips curled. “I see. Then you are like my grandson, Jesse. It seems no lady will do for him. He’s rather snooty.”

  “No—” Cora stood, clasping her hands together. “It’s nothing like that. I’m not like Jesse at all. I don’t suppose all men unworthy, though I won’t argue there are many lowlifes among the sex.” There were plenty of Gary Carpenters that came to mind, and Cora shook her head, searching for the fan at her wrist. “Rather, I’m not inclined to spend my days answering to the likes of a husband. Such a feat seems utterly exhausting.”

  “An anomaly, Miss Williams. I’ve never heard of a young woman not in search of a husband.”

  Cora forced a smile. “I shall spend my days as a companion to you.”

  Mrs. Davis cackled, shaking back and forth. “I see my purpose now. I’ve sent for a lady to bring me culture and keep company, and I see I might do the same for you.”

  Cora turned to the window, where hooves against the drive resounded. She was grateful for the distraction. “Mabel and her husband have come to collect you an hour early for cards,” Cora said when she saw the buggy stop at the front walk.

  Mrs. Davis reached for Cora’s hand. “And you will fetch my hat?” she asked.

  Cora pulled the old woman to a stand. “There is one by the front door that will do.”

  “Precisely,” Mrs. Davis said, staggering forward. “Now, don’t you spend another moment assisting me. Mabel and her husband will do fine.”

  Cora held open the door, and Mrs. Davis patted her cheek as she departed. Cora watched on until Mrs. Davis was securely seated in the buggy. The horses broke into a trot, and a cloud of dust trailed the party until Cora could no longer follow their progress.

  Stillness and solitude overcame the house. Free for the first time since arriving in Overstead, the tension in Cora’s neck dissolved.

  If only the noise in her head would also still.

  It’d only been a week since her arrival, and already seeds of guilt had begun to sprout. Mrs. Davis had welcomed Cora into her home without hesitation. She’d enjoyed Cora from the start, that much was clear. She’d put up with Cora’s flawed recitations, poor embroidery, and pretentious conversation. Mrs. Davis had laughed with Cora, advised Cora, and even gone so far as to chastise her. The woman reminded Cora of Maggie, though without the marked tenderness and jovial tendencies of her previous landlady.

  Maggie. Cora took a sharp intake of air. How she missed her confidant, her dearest friend, the woman that had taken Cora in after finding her at the boarding house all alone.

  The piano gleamed from corner of Cora’s eye, and a lone tear rolled down her cheek. The first tear since her mother’s abandonment at age eight had arrived. Cora swatted at the moisture and sat on the piano bench. A house of solitude and privacy and the most exquisite instrument she’d ever lain eyes on—music was just the fix for her heavy heart.

  How she longed for her mother. Cora wanted to curse thinking of it—the way her mother had left her and never returned, the way her mother hadn’t seemed the least mournful at their parting, and, most decidedly, the way Cora still craved her mother’s touch, her mother’s lullabies at night. To long for someone that had caused so much pain—it was outrageous. And utterly pointless.

  Where was Cora’s mother now? At a brothel, no doubt, carrying on as the soiled woman she was. Another tear dripped down Cora’s cheek. Her mother couldn’t have been bothered to care for Cora, no matter Cora’s efforts or heartbreak or tearful pleas. Her mother was despicable.

  Cora pounded her hands against the keys and dropped her head. Anger replaced the pain, and denial dried the tears that dripped. Then, Cora sung a single note, her fingers suddenly traversing the keys with a hunger she’d never known.

  Chapter 10

  Boko had gone and gotten himself stuck in the feed bin again. How that dog managed to get in there in the first place was a mystery! Jesse reached inside to set the dog free and stuck a thick sliver of wood into the palm of his hand.

  He winced in pain. Why’d he removed his gloves? Blood dripped from Jesse’s hand, and he bit back an angry retort. He’d have to get a bandage from the house. The barn was much too dirty to dress such a wound.

  He retreated to the back door of the house and entered through the kitchen. He halted as he reached dining room.

  That music.

  Curiosity got to him, as it always did, and Jesse followed the sound to the parlor, where Miss Williams sat at the piano, accompanying her own singing. Her timbre was rich and confident—nothing like he’d ever heard. When she reached the high notes, her voice navigated the notes like a bird in the trees—effortlessly and otherworldly. There was untamed beauty in the sound, in the way she rocked back
and forth at the bench.

  Jesse drew closer still, captivated and intrigued by the woman before him, and managed to catch a glimpse of her profile. Her eyes were closed, and a small stream of tears dripped down her cheek, but Miss Williams continued belting the chorus of the last verse.

  At last finished, her fingers hovered over the keys.

  Jesse’s jaw dropped. Miss Williams was like the untamed stallion in the corner stall—unfamiliar and wild, and inexplicably beautiful. Jesse’s heart stirred, and he took a step back, recollecting his original task of bandaging his hand.

  Miss Williams’s head jerked to the side at his footfall, meeting Jesse’s mortified gaze. A deep blush spread across her cheeks, and she bounded to her feet. “Mr. Davis.”

  Jesse shook his head, backing out of the room. “Pardon me. I heard singing and couldn’t help but listen in.”

  Her jaw set, and she turned from him.

  “Miss Williams, are you alright?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “I heard you tell Grams you’d lost your touch with the music,” Jesse stammered.

  “Please say nothing,” Miss Williams said, rising to meet him. “I only thought to play because it has been so long since I attempted to. I fear performing for others.”

  A voice like that and she was stage-shy? Jesse furrowed his brows. It made no sense.

  “Besides, I’m sure you’ve heard plenty of ladies singing in similar fashion.” Miss Williams tucked the bench beneath the piano and plastered a practiced smile upon her full lips. There it was again—that mask.

  He longed to see her smile in earnest. What would it take to bring such a smile, or even a laugh? Jesse took in a slow breath, surveying her. She wasn’t like any he’d met. “Not hardly.”

  She cleared her throat, and her eyes widened. “What has happened to your hand?”

  Jesse looked down to see a string of blood trailing his footsteps and pooling in his palm. “Oh, that,” he said, feeling a blush of his own. He’d forgotten about his hand—everything in fact—when he’d heard her sing. “Nothing but a sliver, certainly not a sight for a lady. Grams can’t stand the sight of blood—makes her light headed.”

  “Sit,” Miss Williams commanded, pointing to the bench near the front entry. “Where does Miss Luellan keep the bandages?”

  Jesse sat, confused. “In the kitchen, why?”

  She was gone in a flash and returned with a tin of medical supplies. She knelt before him and placed a cloth to soak the blood at his palm. “Now,” she said, rummaging around the tin until she found a pair of metal forceps. “Tell me, how did you manage it?”

  “Just a slip of the—” Jesse hollered in pain.

  Miss Williams dug the metal claspers into the meat of his hand and yanked. “There,” she said, wiping her hands on a cloth. “Can you manage the bandage on your own?”

  He winced, cradling his injured hand.

  “Don’t be a baby,” Miss Williams said. She handed him a bandage and stood.

  Jesse took the strip of fabric, keeping his hand an arm’s length from her jarring touch. He could have done with a lady’s touch at that moment, instead of the touch of this wild woman.

  Miss Williams seemed unfazed by his pain and the blood covering her finger tips. “Right then,” she said, laughing. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

  She had laughed. Jesse’s heart clamored against his chest. The sound was almost as beautiful as her singing—rich yet feminine, melodious yet broken.

  “Thank you,” he muttered, though he hardly felt gratitude from her pain-inducing medical act. It was her smile he was truly grateful for.

  “My pleasure,” she said before ascending the staircase. She called down to him once more before leaving to her room. “And remember, please do not say a word to your grandmother about the music.”

  Jesse’s shoulders caved, and his brows knit together. This woman was anything but the lady Grams thought her to be, and Jesse aimed to find out just who—and what—Miss Williams truly was.

  The corner of his lips tugged. The task was a challenge he’d gladly accept.

  Chapter 11

  Mrs. Davis retired to her room early Sunday evening, leaving Cora time to practice her Shakespeare. But instead, Cora found herself spreading a map across the library table, tracing the train routes and considering her future after Overstead. Four months would come and go as it always did, and the true Lettie would have her baby. The real Miss Williams would return to Virginia, and Cora would be free to chase her future.

  San Francisco—the center of the entertainment out West. She tapped her finger over the words. The City of Gold. There, Cora could push the guilt of fooling the Davis family behind her. And there, Cora could push her past behind her—Milton, her mother, all of it.

  Five hundred dollars was more than enough to start a new life. Charlotte Albany’s gift remained securely tucked away in a stocking at the bottom of a trunk. Cora hadn’t the nerve to take it out or count it. The money might slip through her fingers as everything else in life seemed to.

  She needed to respond to the letter in her skirt pocket. It’d been two weeks, and Cora hadn’t had the courage to respond to Maggie’s letter at her arrival. What would she say—she’d successfully fooled the Davis clan? The words sounded so very…

  Wicked.

  Somehow, Cora had fooled herself into believing the scheme was harmless, justified and noble even. She was protecting Lettie… But guilt and doubt had already begun to tug at her heart at the most inconvenient times. A kind word from Mrs. Davis, the care from Miss Luellan, or the respect of the Davis men. Their treatment of Cora was too much, more than she deserved.

  And Jesse Davis was close to discovering Cora was an imposter. He’d seen her miles from the house and watched her pull out his sliver, not to mention heard her sing.

  She almost smiled thinking of him. He’d acted like a little boy when she’d removed the sliver, cradling his hand as if it were about to fall off. If Cora hadn’t been so set on acting her part as Miss Williams, she’d have teased him, made him laugh at his behavior.

  He did have a lovely smile.

  “Miss—”

  Cora whipped around, blocking the map behind her, to see a young woman about her age with blonde hair and dark eyes. She was uncommonly beautiful, though she was dressed like a man—complete with leather chaps and a vest.

  “Pardon me,” the girl said, falling back a step. She surveyed Cora. “I reckon I should introduce myself. Claire Rogers.” She held her hand to Cora.

  “Miss Lettie Williams,” Cora said, shaking her hand. A lie. Again.

  “I know.”

  Cora chewed the inside of her cheek. “I haven’t had the pleasure of hearing of you.”

  Claire’s fidgeted with the ends of her hair. “I suppose not. Mrs. Davis thinks of me as one of the men. My father, Slim—you may’ve heard of him—is the Davis family’s top hired hand.”

  “Oh yes, Slim Rogers,” Cora said, feigning recollection. A second lie to this new stranger. “I’ve heard wonderful things. A pleasure to meet you, Miss Rogers.”

  “Just Claire,” the girl said, peeking behind Cora at the map.

  Cora moved. “I thought a geography lesson for Mrs. Davis would be a great diversion. I am afraid my recitations are beginning to bore her. I was just researching San Francisco—The City of Gold. By now, the boom has settled, and the city has become a hub for the arts—music, singing, acting, entertainment of all kinds. A fascinating place, I am sure.”

  Claire smiled. “I apologize for interrupting your studies, Miss Williams. As I said, I was looking for Mrs. Davis.”

  “Gone to bed,” Cora said, flicking her head toward the doorway. At least that was true.

  Claire dipped her chin and inhaled. “I best be on my way then. Goodnight, Miss Williams.”

  As soon as the girl was gone, Cora rolled the map and replaced it in its casing. She’d been too careless. Cora was fortunate it was only Miss Rogers that had
found her and not Mrs. Davis, or worse—Jesse Davis. She’d a feeling he would have sniffed out her design to flee to San Francisco with a single glance.

  Chapter 12

  Boko circled Jesse’s horse, barking insistently.

  “Another stray?” Jesse asked, patting Ginger’s side. “Ain’t like that one by the creek you lead me to last time, is it? I could do without another run in with Miss Williams.”

  Since her singing and nursing skills, he’d thought of little else than that mysterious woman. There was more to her than she led on. He’d caught glimpses, and already his heart was slipping into her fingers, and that—that was more frightening that anything Jesse Davis had ever encountered.

  The dog took off in response, leading Jesse past the creek and to a tree where a cow’s head was wedged in a split-trunk.

  Jesse dismounted his horse and patted Boko. “Good dog.”

  The animal wasn’t a calf or heifer, but a mama cow. Mama cows were kept near the barn for calving. How had this one escaped? Her belly was rounder than most and her eyes tired. Jesse petted her on the forehead. “We’ll see you safe.”

  He lifted her head to set it loose but startled. She was the sick first-calf heifer from the coral. He looped a rope around the cow’s neck and moved to mount his horse so he could lead the cow back to the coral.

  The cow mooed and lay on the grassy ground.

  Jesse tugged tighter on the rope. “Come on. You can have your baby at the barn.”

  Still the cow refused to move, and Jesse hopped from his horse to prod the animal forward. Water trailed from the cow’s hind end.

  “I s’pose you’d rather deliver here,” he said, shaking his head. How long had her water been broken?

  Jesse tied the end of his rope to the tree and crouched at the back of the animal in anticipation of the birth. Two hooves poked out the opening. He reached for them but quickly realized it was the hind legs. The animal was breech.