by Cat Cahill
Grace gathered her own things and bid Mrs. Hill and Molly good night. Mr. Hill held the door open for her.
Once outside, he asked, “Did anyone come for the shirt?”
Grace shook her head. “What did the sheriff say?”
“Unfortunately, Sheriff Young didn’t seem to know any more than we do. He said he’d question a few men he knew were in town, but with the note appearing to be so worn and crumpled and the fact that someone left it in that shirt, he imagines it was a plan from some time ago that fell through.”
Grace looked up at him. He kept his eyes on the people ahead of them, occasionally glancing to the right, toward the wide dirt road. His dark hair was thick and curled just slightly under his hat, and—as usual—his strong jaw was set as if he had some plan in mind he was determined to execute. A strand of her own hair blew across her face. She pushed it back and had the immediate sense that nothing bad could happen to her when he was nearby. No one could be foolish enough to pick a fight with Mr. Hill.
“Do you agree with him?” she asked.
He glanced down at her, and she thought she felt a bit lightheaded as those brown eyes found hers. “Young is good at his job,” Mr. Hill said. “He’s been county sheriff for years now, and he has the right instincts. If he says he thinks it’s old news, I’m inclined to agree with him.”
Grace nodded, relief flooding through her. How nice it would be to no longer worry about that mysterious message!
“Still,” Mr. Hill continued, “I think we’d be wise to take note of whoever it is that comes for that shirt and alert Sheriff Young as soon as it’s picked up.”
“All right,” Grace said. But here, walking toward the boardinghouse with a man who looked as if he’d knock out anyone with ill intentions just with his stare, and knowing what the sheriff had said, she found it hard to worry any longer.
Mr. Hill came to a sudden stop in front of the imposing Raynolds Bank, whose pink-hued stone Grace had marveled at on her walk to the store that morning. For the third time—not that Grace was counting—he took hold of her arm to stop her too. His face turned from its usual intensity to downright angry.
“What is it?” she asked, trying not to think about how warm and strong his hand was, wrapped about her arm.
“Your former fiancé and his new wife.” The words sounded as if he’d chewed them before delivering them.
Grace followed his gaze, his hand still wrapped about her arm. There, just ahead, stood a barrel of a man with a generous mustache that was a couple shades darker than the blond hair that stuck out from under his hat. His clothing, while perfectly respectable, was ill-fitting, and he tugged on the vest that didn’t seem to want to remain in place. On his arm clung a wisp of a woman—beautiful, tall, and laughing. Grace blinked a couple of times. This was Mr. Burcham? He hadn’t sent a photograph, so she’d needed to rely upon his description of himself and her own imagination. Still, she hadn’t quite pictured the man who was now walking toward her.
It was inevitable she’d run into him at some point, and yet, until today, she’d would have been unable to recognize him if she had.
“Come,” Mr. Hill said, pulling a bit on her arm.
“No, I don’t . . . I’d rather—”
He stopped and turned, closing the distance between them and capturing her gaze with the fire in his eyes. “You have nothing to be ashamed of, Miss Daniels. It’s he who ought to be ashamed. He who should apologize or turn the other way in embarrassment. You hold your head up high.”
Grace swallowed, trying to make sense of his words. She should reply, let him know how much his opinion of her lifted her heart, but she couldn’t find the words. She couldn’t seem to find any words. In fact, all she could make sense of at that moment was the strong set of Mr. Hill’s jaw, the warmth of his hand through the sleeve of her dress, and the way his eyes kept tracing down her face toward her lips.
He said nothing else, and instead let go of her to loosely place her hand on his own arm, as if he were escorting her on an evening walk about town. And then he led her forward.
Chapter Ten
Genuine anger drove Jasper onward, but the light touch of Miss Daniels’s hand resting on his arm cooled the intensity. While he burned to tell Burcham exactly what he thought about his cowardly actions, this was neither the time nor the place.
As they drew closer to the other couple, Mrs. Burcham quieted and whispered something to her husband, likely because Jasper hadn’t taken his eyes from them. Jasper wasn’t well-acquainted with the former Miss Dorothy Calhoun, but Molly knew her well. Whether what Molly had said about the two being pushed to marry to subdue potential gossip was true, Jasper didn’t know. Nor did he particularly care. It wasn’t the woman’s fault her new husband was a scoundrel.
Burcham was the one he wished to have words with.
He ground the fingers of his free hand into a fist, willing himself to keep his mouth shut. Next to him, Grace lifted her chin as her lower lip trembled just slightly. Jasper thought his heart might burst. She hated this, he could tell, but she was taking his words to heart. Every inch of her exuded bravery.
“Good evening.” Burcham touched the tip of his hat and nodded to both Jasper and Miss Daniels.
Miss Daniels clutched Jasper’s arm, her fingers digging deeper into his wool sleeve.
“Good evening, Burcham,” Jasper said through his teeth. “Mrs. Burcham.” His mother’s voice in the back of his head reminded him of his upbringing, and he tipped his hat. Propriety dictated his introduction of Miss Daniels, too, even if these people didn’t deserve to know her. He ground the introduction out through his teeth, placing his other hand atop Miss Daniels’s arm to reassure her.
Burcham’s eyes widened just a bit, the only thing that gave away that he knew exactly who she was. Jasper smirked. It was clear Mrs. Burcham had no idea her husband had previously promised marriage to another woman. That much he could tell from Mrs. Burcham’s genuine smile at Miss Daniels and the way Burcham’s eyes flitted to Jasper’s in a panic.
The man’s discomfort was enough to satisfy Jasper for now. He hoped Miss Daniels had caught it too.
“Perhaps we can have tea one afternoon and get better acquainted,” Mrs. Burcham was saying to Miss Daniels.
Miss Daniels seemed to cling to his arm for dear life as she gave Mrs. Burcham an uncertain, tentative smile. “That would be lovely,” she said quietly. But she didn’t look away and she didn’t duck her head. Pride washed through Jasper. Miss Daniels was no wilting flower.
“Pardon me, but we must be going,” Jasper said before Burcham could speak.
“It was wonderful to meet you. Have a lovely evening,” Mrs. Burcham said with a wave of her hand.
Burcham nodded, but his gaze went directly to where Jasper’s hand still covered Miss Daniels’s. When he lifted his gaze, Jasper made certain to hold it for a moment, letting the man know with his eyes that he knew exactly what Burcham had done and that if he were to trifle with Miss Daniels again, he’d be more than happy to put him back in his place.
The man cleared his throat and took his wife’s arm again before they continued down the plank sidewalk.
Grace sagged against him as she watched them go.
“You were very brave,” he said.
“I don’t know that I was, but thank you.” She straightened and turned to look up at him. “Thank you for being here.”
“I wouldn’t have been anywhere else.” He’d become acutely aware of her hand still resting between his. He expected her to pull it away, but she didn’t. Instead, she kept looking at him with those innocent blue eyes. They were so much like the summer sky, he thought he might take flight in them, like a bird.
A few seconds passed before the guilt began to rise. He was betraying Ada with every moment he allowed this . . . whatever it was . . . to continue. It was one thing to protect the lady’s honor in front of the man who’d placed her into such a precarious position, but something else entirely to cont
inue this farce when it was no longer needed.
He slowly dropped his hands to his sides, taking a step backward as he did. The more he distanced himself from her, the more disgusted he became with his actions. Here he was, angry at Burcham for toying with Miss Daniels’s emotions while intending to marry another, when it appeared he was doing the same himself.
He was a better man than that. Miss Daniels deserved someone who had eyes only for her. And Ada deserved a man who could remain true even when she wasn’t in town. He’d made promises to Ada, and until she released him, he would be faithful to her.
Is Ada remaining true to you? Jasper jerked his gaze forward as they began to walk again. That little voice had been in the back of his head for months, starting out quiet but growing more insistent as the weeks passed without word from her. When his mother had suggested the idea to him, it had grown even louder. He’d stop by the telegraph office on the way home, so he could put the nagging thought to rest.
“Thank you for walking with me,” Miss Daniels said, seemingly out of nowhere.
Jasper blinked, yanking his thoughts back to the present. They’d reached Mrs. Geary’s boardinghouse. “You’re quite welcome,” he said stiffly. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
And with that, he turned on his heel, leaving her at the door.
As he walked away, he could feel those beautiful eyes on his back. And he hoped he hadn’t already let his actions go too far. Both for her and for himself.
Chapter Eleven
Hill’s General Store was its usual amount of busy the next morning, and Grace pitched in to help serve customers since Molly and Mr. Hill could hardly keep up. Even Mrs. Hill helped cut fabric at the counter and took shopping lists from customers.
When the crowds diminished, Grace finally took a moment to rest in the mending corner while Mrs. Hill helped Molly in the storeroom. Mr. Hill stood at the counter, the account book open before him, his pencil scratching out numbers and tally marks. He frowned at the ledger with the same intensity he applied to everything in his life—or so Grace imagined.
The thought immediately brought to mind the previous evening, when she thought he might slay Mr. Burcham with only his stare. He’d been quite gallant, although she told herself he’d have done that for any woman in distress. But then there was the way he’d tucked her arm over his, and, as if that weren’t enough, covered her hand with his own. It felt so close. As if he wanted her to feel . . . wanted.
She squeezed her eyes shut as heat flooded her face. She’d relived the moment over and over again in her mind, and yet she still couldn’t come to a conclusion about why he’d acted that way. He was in love with Miss Boone, and despite his family’s opinions, was making plans to marry her. Surely he meant nothing by his actions, except to show Mr. Burcham that Grace was indeed a woman worth having. He’d left so abruptly when they arrived at Mrs. Geary’s, after all.
She opened her eyes again, only to have them go immediately to him. His head was bowed over the book while he tapped the counter with his fingers. She needed to stop thinking of him as anything but her employer. She’d never wish any other woman to go through what she’d experienced with Mr. Burcham. If she were to cause that sort of pain to Mr. Hill’s intended, she’d never forgive herself.
Grace drew in a deep breath and reached for the basket of finished items that sat between her chair and Mrs. Hill’s. There were two pairs of trousers, a vest, and a coat on top. Mrs. Hill must’ve found a free moment this morning and come back to their corner. Grace lifted those items out, searching for the chambray shirt—the one in which she’d found the mysterious note. One by one, she emptied the basket of shirts, trousers, and other pieces . . . but the shirt wasn’t there.
Her heart ticked faster as she replaced the clothing, piece by piece, to be certain she hadn’t missed it.
She hadn’t.
Standing, Grace took in the entire corner of the store. She searched under the chairs, beneath the sewing baskets, and even along the shelves that sat behind them.
The shirt was gone.
“Mr. Hill,” she said, trying and failing to keep the wobble from her voice.
He looked up immediately, dropping the pencil onto the ledger. “What is it?”
There were no customers in the store at that moment, thankfully, because Grace wasn’t certain she could have kept this information to herself much longer. “The shirt is missing.”
Mr. Hill asked her question after question, and then searched for the item himself. But it was no use—the shirt was nowhere to be found.
“It was here early this morning. He must have slipped in and taken it while we were otherwise occupied.” Grace twisted her hands together and worried them against her skirts.
“It’s the only explanation,” Mr. Hill said, hands on his hips. “I’ll ensure Ma didn’t hand it to anyone, but I never saw her over here once we got busy.”
Grace wracked her memories to recall anyone near the mending corner, but couldn’t think of anyone. “We’ll never know who it was.”
“I doubt it’s anything to worry about. If it was as old as we think it is, he’ll never even notice it’s missing.” Jasper retrieved his coat from a peg that hung just inside the back room and emerged again, shrugging it onto his shoulders. “Still, I’ll inform Sheriff Young. I need to make a stop by the telegraph office anyhow.”
Grace nodded. She felt she should say something else, but instead, the moment between them grew and expanded, until speaking up about anything at all felt awkward.
Jasper went back for his hat, stopped into the storeroom to ask Mrs. Hill about the shirt, and then left with barely a nod at Grace.
She went to the door, watching through the glass as he walked away, feeling as if she’d lost something she couldn’t quite name.
Two ladies appeared at the door and Grace stepped back to allow them to enter. Molly emerged from the storeroom with her mother, and Grace returned to the mending corner with Mrs. Hill, trying not to dwell on the empty feeling nestled somewhere just below her heart.
Mrs. Hill handed her a vest with a torn seam and began to talk about Molly’s idea to stock various beauty treatments. Grace nodded politely, but her mind wandered. First to Mr. Hill and the distance that seemed to yawn between them since yesterday evening, then to the missing shirt and the note, and finally to how much more . . . settled . . . she felt after meeting Mr. Burcham and his wife yesterday.
Perhaps she would write to her sister. Mr. Hill was right. She had nothing to feel badly about. Mr. Burcham was the one who should be ashamed of his actions. And she missed Lily. It would be nice to see her again.
Grace spent the afternoon companionably sewing with Mrs. Hill, meeting new customers as they came into the store, and watching Molly deftly handle each person’s demands and needs. Her mind wandered to Miss Lovelorn’s advice again despite her decision not to think so much about marriage, but not a single man who entered the store drew her attention. None of them seemed as handsome or as driven as Mr. Hill. The thought saddened her until she reminded herself she was acting foolishly. Mr. Hill was her employer, and that was all. And so she threw herself into lighthearted conversation with Mrs. Hill. Before she knew it, it was time for the store to close.
Mr. Hill hadn’t yet returned.
She bade goodnight to Molly and Mrs. Hill after declining Molly’s offer to walk with her, and then stepped outside. The shadows stretched long and thin across the road and onto the sidewalk as the sun lowered itself to the west, above the three-story state penitentiary. The imposing stone building kept watch at the very end of Main Street, only a few blocks away. Along with her stories of escaped prisoners, Mrs. Hill had mentioned that a few women were housed there in addition to the men. Grace couldn’t imagine any woman living in such a frightening place. She turned away from it to head east toward Mrs. Geary’s and took a deep breath.
Cañon City was so different from home. There were no fancy carriages, the hills that rose around the town w
ere more brown than green, and no gray factory smoke clogged the air. A slight breeze blew, and Grace decided she felt like a new person.
She moved slowly, savoring the evening and looking into the windows of the various shops and offices as she passed. She was admiring a pretty straw bonnet with cascades of blue ribbon when she noticed the man.
He leaned against the wooden post holding up the roof of an attorney’s office and chewed something slowly as he watched her. He might not have caught her eye except for his nose, which had the appearance of being broken so many times it barely resembled a nose any longer. Grace’s heart beat faster, and she looked away. Something about him made her want to run. When she began to move again, she glanced back.
There he was, just behind her, though he looked away the moment he spotted her eyes on him. Grace tucked her reticule securely under her arm. It was silly feeling nervous. He most likely just happened to be walking in the same direction and happened to find her pretty. She moved down the stairs at a cross street and picked her way across the mud to climb the steps back up to the sidewalk.
The man was still there, still watching her as he walked.
Grace’s limbs tingled and she felt as if she’d swallowed her watercolors. Making a quick decision, she stepped immediately off the wooden walkway and directly into the road. Lifting her skirts, she stepped around the mess until she reached the other side. Chancing a glance across from where she’d come, she spotted him.
He was halfway across the road.
He was following her. She stepped quickly, trying to put distance between them. She ought not to go to the boardinghouse, because then he’d know where she was staying. But where else could she go? She didn’t know where the sheriff’s office was. She could return to the store, but by the time she arrived, it was likely to be locked up with Molly and Mrs. Hill long gone. She could step into one of the restaurants or other establishments that were open. But what if he waited for her outside? Besides, it would grow dark, and then what would she do?
