by Kaki Warner
“Yes, please.” Lottie set a biscuit on the saucer Jane handed her, then settled back in her chair while Jane sat at Briggs’s desk. “Is he usually so exacting?”
“He can be,” Jane admitted. “But today he’s worse than usual. He wants the club to make a good impression in hopes that Congressman Palmer will carry a favorable report back to his colleagues at the capital.”
“He does seem to take his duties seriously.” Lottie admired that, even if she wished he were more amiable. “Have you known him long?”
“A little over three years. He served with my brother in India and Africa, and when Roger was injured, Anson brought him home. It was a difficult time. I don’t know how I would have managed without him.”
Lottie thought it odd that Jane would refer to Briggs by his Christian name. A slip? Or an indication of something more personal? “Is your brother well now?”
A sad look came over the Englishwoman’s pretty face. “He died of his injuries. And after . . . well, things were in a bit of a muddle. But that’s all in the past now.” They spoke for a while longer, then Jane gathered their empty cups and picked up the tray. “I’ve dallied long enough. Cook is almost as big a tyrant as Briggs, and he’s nervous about the menu for the congressman.”
Lottie held open the door for her. “When do you expect Mr. Palmer?” She had heard nothing from Ty, and didn’t know if the ranger would be coming with the congressman, or not. But in case he did, she wanted to be prepared.
“On tomorrow’s train. He has a busy schedule. After meeting with local merchants and pushing for their support for his presidential candidate, he’s to dine with Mr. Griffin to discuss campaign donations then enjoy the gaming rooms for an hour or two before retiring. A few more visits the next morning, then he’s off to the next stop. Now I must run before Briggs tracks me down. I enjoyed our chat. If you’re here tomorrow, perhaps we can visit again. Oh, and by the way, do please sign me up for your investment group. It sounds like a wonderful opportunity.”
It was almost midday before Briggs returned. Lottie had finished the books for the hotel, and was reconciling expenditures for the restaurant when he walked in. After dumping a stack of letters atop his desk, he settled into his chair and began slicing open the envelopes with a long bladed knife, rather than the ornate letter opener one might have expected from such a proper English gentleman.
Lottie waited for him to say something. When it was obvious he wasn’t going to, she cleared her throat and said, “You’re paying too much for beef.”
He looked up in surprise, as if he’d forgotten she was there. “How so?”
“If you bought your meat from local ranchers rather than bringing it in from Kansas City, you’d not only pay a lower price, but you’d gain loyalty, too.”
“We were told Kansas City beef is superior.”
“It is. But that’s because most of it comes from Texas.”
A flicker of a smile crossed his face. “I see.” He continued sifting through the mail, arranging it in neat piles. “Any other ways we can cut costs?”
“Laundry. It’s apparent from your notes that the women you’ve hired can’t keep up with both the laundry and their housekeeping duties.”
“You’re suggesting we fire them? Or hire more?”
Knowing how hard it was to find employment in Greenbroke—especially for older ladies—Lottie shook her head. “Neither. But there are other alternatives.”
He put aside the letters and sat back. “Explain.”
“Confine your current chambermaids to making up the hotel rooms, and hire out the laundry.” Seeing he was about to object, she raised a hand. “I know that would increase the housekeeping budget. But if you had to hire more chambermaids, you would have to pay them the going rate. Laundresses are cheaper—especially if you used the Chinese laundry outside of town.”
He studied her in silence.
“They’re fast and do good work. With an order this size, if you included the restaurant linens along with the hotel bedding, you’d pay less than if you hired more chambermaids.”
“Where is this place?”
“Out Main Street about a mile. Mr. Chang and his wife run it.”
“I’ll look into it.” He went back to sorting through the letters.
She went back to the restaurant ledger.
They worked in silence for a few minutes, then he asked if she had finished with the hotel receipts.
“Yes. Since it’s only been open for a short while, there wasn’t much to do.”
Without looking up, he held out a hand. “The ledger, please.”
Irritated at having her work checked as if she was a child on her first day of school, Lottie walked over and dropped the thick book atop his desk with a satisfying thump.
He didn’t even look up.
Rankled, she returned to her table.
He opened the ledger. A few minutes later, he closed it and sat back again. “How old are you, Miss Weyland?”
She stiffened. Had he found an error? Or was this another instance of a man holding her age and gender against her? “Why do you ask?”
“Curiosity.”
Ire bubbled to the surface. “I’m older than I look.” Then, reminding herself that she needed this job, she softened the snapped words with a weak smile. “Or so people say.”
He continued to look at her.
She had once thought Juno’s molasses-colored eyes lacked warmth. But they were warm and toasty compared to Briggs’s icy stare. Her smile faltered. “Eighteen.”
“I see.” He pushed back his chair and rose. “Carry on, then.”
“Yes, sir.” She almost saluted, but caught herself in time.
He opened the door, then paused and looked back at her. “Thank you for your suggestions. And for your fine work, Miss Weyland.”
Then before she could respond—curtsy, salute, or tell him “you’re welcome”—the door closed softly behind him.
“Briggs gives me the jitters,” Becky said later that afternoon when Lottie crossed paths with her outside the apothecary shop. “When I went to hire on at the club, I had to talk to him, and I didn’t like the way he looked at me. Man’s got eyes as hard as flint. Just as well they didn’t need dealers. Nathaniel doesn’t want me working there, anyway.”
“Briggs was rude?” Lottie looked at Becky in surprise as she fell into step beside her. Although he could be curt and dismissive, Briggs had been nothing but gentlemanly around her.
“No, but he’s so big and mean-faced. And those eyes give me chills.”
“He was a soldier. He seems to approach everything like a military campaign. Lady Jane called him a ‘proper tyrant.’” Which he was, of course. Lottie glanced at the parcel in Becky’s hand. “What’d you get from the chemist? Not something to bring the baby early, I hope.” She said it in a joking tone, but there was real worry behind the question.
“Hair grower.”
Lottie had to laugh. Becky had enough hair to fill a mattress. “Where are you planning to grow it? I doubt there’s any more room on your head.”
“It’s for Nathaniel. He thinks his hair’s falling out.”
“Probably singed from all that fire and brimstone he preaches.”
Becky gave her a look.
Lottie grinned innocently back.
They walked on toward the market, nodding to folks they knew and studying displays in storefront windows. It was a warm day for January, and shoppers were out and about, running late errands before the stores closed.
“Bea Davenport thinks there may be something between the two of them,” Becky said, gracing the old checker players outside the Western Union with a smile that made their day.
“Between Briggs and Lady Jane?” Lottie had seen no indication of that.
“Says he watches her like a fox scouting a hen house.
”
“He is rather protective.” Lottie thought of what Jane had told her about Briggs bringing her brother home to die. That could create a strong bond. “Maybe he’s a family friend trying to look out for her.”
“And travel all the way from England to do it?” Becky snorted. “Men don’t usually put themselves out that much for a woman. As they say, ‘in the dark we’re all pretty much the same.’”
An awful thought. Admittedly, Lottie had little experience with men, but she hoped they were more constant than that.
“Did you see Nathaniel hanging around the club while you were there?” Becky asked.
“No. But I was in Briggs’s office most of the time.” She looked over at Becky, worried that her friend might be about to lose both the baby and Nathaniel. “Things still cool between the two of you?”
Becky shrugged and kicked a clod of dirt off the boardwalk. “He says he still wants to marry me, but I—”
“Marry you!” Lottie grabbed Becky’s arm and jerked her to a stop. “You never told me he asked you to marry him!”
Another shrug. “He never actually asked. He just assumes I will. Like, ‘When we marry, you can lead a women’s group at the revival meetings,’ or ‘It’ll be a big help having a pretty wife to bring in more men,’ or ‘As an evangelist’s wife, you’ll need new clothes.’ Talk like that.”
“What’s wrong with your clothes?”
“He says bright colors give the wrong impression.”
Lottie thought that was ridiculous. She also wondered if Becky noticed that Nathaniel was more concerned about what he wanted, rather than what he could offer his bride.
As they passed Fashions by Fanny, Lottie slowed to study the dresses in the window. Nothing new since she’d walked by earlier. Not that she could afford another new dress, but it never hurt to look.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Becky said. “Sally’s staying until after the baby’s born. Doc said it would be too dangerous to travel this late.”
“That’s good news.”
“She’s still talking about taking it to San Francisco. And now, Nathaniel’s looking to move on, too. He keeps pressing me for an answer whether I’ll go with him or not. Maybe I should. With Sally taking the baby, I should probably just marry the reverend and get one of my own.” She didn’t sound particularly enthusiastic about the idea.
“Do you want to marry him?”
“Maybe. I’m just not sure I want to be a traveling preacher’s wife—moving around all the time, having to be nice to wild-eyed Holy Rollers I don’t know, never settling down in one place and making a real home. Bad as the farm could be sometimes, at least I always knew where I belonged.” She gave a crooked smile. “I guess I’m not very pious.”
“Pious is overrated,” Lottie said, thinking of Grandpa. They had reached the market and she knew the Bracketts would be expecting her to help uncrate today’s shipments after she did the day’s tally, but she didn’t want to leave Becky when she was feeling so low. “Does Juno know you might marry Nathaniel?”
“He’s probably guessed, seeing the way Nathaniel hangs around when I’m working at the saloon. I know he doesn’t want me to leave. Says I’m the best dealer he’s ever had.”
Lottie doubted that was the only reason Juno didn’t want her to leave. But what more could she do? She had planted the idea in Becky’s head that Juno had feelings for her, but so far, nothing had changed. Either Becky discounted the notion, or didn’t care enough about Juno to pursue it.
“Well, I better go. Juno gets cranky when I’m late.”
As she watched Becky walk away, a feeling of panic gripped Lottie. She didn’t want Becky to marry Nathaniel. She didn’t want her only friend to move on and leave her behind. It might be selfish, but she needed Becky in her life.
She would just have to convince Juno that he needed Becky, too.
When Lottie walked into the store, Mr. B. held up a thick white envelope. “This came for you today. And no, it didn’t come from Austin.”
Disappointed, Lottie took the envelope and saw by the return address that the letter had come from San Angela. The law offices of Ridley Sims, to be exact.
A quiver of alarm shot through her. San Angela was the nearest town to the home she’d left behind. Why would a lawyer from there be writing to her? And why three years after she’d left?
Her mind raced, trying to make sense of it. She vaguely remembered her grandfather talking to an old man named Sims or Simmons or something like that on the few occasions they’d attended church in San Angela. Was he this lawyer? Before he died, Grandpa had spread word around town that he and his granddaughter were moving. He didn’t say where or when. It was all part of his plan to protect her after he died.
But if everybody in San Angela thought she and Grandpa had moved to some unnamed place, how had Sims tracked her to Greenbroke? And why would he write to her instead of Grandpa? Surely he didn’t know Grandpa was dead.
Unless someone had found his bones in the shed.
Oh God.
Her chest felt caught in a vise. She could hardly draw in air and her heart pumped so hard it made her dizzy.
She should have changed her last name. She’d thought shortening it to Lottie would be enough, since few people in San Angela knew her last name was Weyland and not Lofton like Grandpa’s. And she should have waited to make sure the storm didn’t put out the fire before it destroyed everything. But the horror of what she’d done had sent her fleeing in terror.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Mr. B. asked.
“What? Oh. Sure.” With trembling hands, Lottie tore open the envelope and scanned the contents. Words jumbled in her mind. She had to read everything twice before she could make sense of it.
“You in trouble?” Mr. B. asked, watching her from behind the counter. “You’ve sure gone pale.”
“No, I . . .” Lottie shook her head. Struggled to keep the terror from her voice. “Someone wants to buy my family’s property in Concho Valley.”
“That sounds like good news. Why the long face?”
“I’m just surprised, is all. It’s pretty poor land.” A tangle of emotions coiled in her chest. Fear of being caught. Fury that all she had done to put the ranch and those horrible memories behind her might amount to nothing. Shame that she had been too frightened to bury her grandfather like she should have.
“Maybe it’s got oil under it.” Mr. B. gave her a wink.
Lottie forced a smile. “Maybe.” But she didn’t care if it had a vein of pure gold two feet below the surface. She wanted nothing more to do with that place.
“Best close shop,” Mr. B. said, crossing to the front door. “Mrs. Brackett has her quilting ladies due.”
After emptying the fancy brass cash register that was Mrs. B.’s pride and joy, Lottie carried the receipts and the lawyer’s letter back to her office to start on the day’s tally. But it was a long time before that feeling of dread eased and she was able to concentrate.
She hardly slept that night and awoke with a feeling of being smothered. Not surprising since it felt like her worries were closing in on her: Becky maybe leaving, a lawyer from home tracking her down, Ty coming and what that might mean. A week ago she’d felt like she had the world by the tail, but this morning everything was crashing down around her.
By the time she was dressed, she’d calmed down enough to face the day. She wrote to Mr. Sims that she had no interest in selling the home place. After dropping the letter in the mail slot at the Western Union office, she returned to the store and worked a couple of hours tending chores. Then, needing something to focus on rather than her own troubles, she picked up the whiskey box and headed to the Spotted Dog to gather the latest receipts. She found Juno in his office, feet propped on his desk, reading the latest week-old newspaper.
She dropped the whiskey box on the floor, plop
ped into the chair in front of his desk, and said, “The reverend wants Becky to marry him.”
He continued to read, his face hidden behind the paper. “Half the men in town want her to marry them.”
“But this time it might actually happen.”
He lowered the paper. “What makes you say that?”
“He’s fixing to move on to richer pastures and wants her to go with him.”
The crease between his dark brows deepened into a scowl. “She wouldn’t do that, would she?”
“She might. She hasn’t decided yet.”
“Hell.”
“You could stop her.”
He looked at her.
She raised her brows.
“You’re loco.” He picked up the paper again.
“Why not? I know you care about her.”
He continued to hide behind the paper.
Lottie refrained from snatching it out of his hands. She glowered at him, arms crossed, trying to come up with a way to convince him. Then her gaze fell on the framed tintype on the bookshelf. An awful thought arose. “You’re already married, aren’t you? That’s why you won’t make your move. Lord’s sake, Juno—”
He slapped the paper onto the desk. “What are you talking about?”
“Them!” She pointed at the portrait of the woman and child. “You got a family hidden away somewhere, Juno? Is that why you won’t act on your feelings for Becky?”
“No!” He jerked forward, his eyes fierce, his jaw so tight she could see a muscle jumping in his cheek. They glared at each other for a moment, then the fight seemed to drain out of him. Slumping back in the chair, he rubbed a hand over his face. “No,” he repeated in a weary voice. “I don’t have a family. Not anymore.”
Lottie regretted ever opening her mouth. “Juno, I’m so sor—”
“Don’t!” With a vicious slash of his hand, he cut her off. “Don’t speak of them.” For a moment, he looked around like a man seeking escape, then his eyes swung back to hers. The desolation in them was terrible to see.
