“I’m not a princess,” she replied, probably sounding very much like a princess to the little boy. “I’m a lady. Lady Amelia Wellesley of Hollings, England.”
“My mama’s a lady,” the boy said, full of skepticism.
Amelia smiled. “In my case, it’s just a silly fancy title. You may call me Miss Amelia if you’d like.”
The boy grinned and Amelia grinned back. He was the only child she’d seen since arriving in Small Fork, and seeing him made her miss her little cousins fiercely. They’d been such a rowdy bunch, and Amelia had to admit she missed the chaos and noise of the four boisterous children who still lived at home.
The boy handed over a penny and Amelia filled a little bag with lemon drops, and stuck a piece of licorice in for good measure. “Thanks, Miss Amelia,” he said, as if she’d handed him a shiny new toy. Perhaps she’d given him too much. She had no idea what a penny’s worth of candy was in the states.
“Mama, she gave me a free piece of licorice,” the boy said. His mother, who was cradling a baby in her arms, smiled shyly at Amelia.
“Hello, I’m Amelia Wellesley.”
“Paula Brentwood. I didn’t really say you were a princess. I said you looked like one.”
“Thank you.” Amelia smiled, but she felt rather self-conscious about her fancy dresses. She’d left behind all her plain day dresses, the ones she wore when she planned to walk to the beach or play with the children outdoors. She’d only brought her finest dresses, thinking she wanted to look beautiful for Carson. It was one more thing to feel humiliated about.
No one had mentioned Carson, or whether or not she was staying. For the most part, they came into the store, made a small purchase, then walked out, saying nothing more than hello. One thing she did notice was that either the men of Small Fork were the ones who did all the shopping, or there was a dearth of women. So far, she’d only met four, including Julia.
“Are you here long?” Paula asked, and it seemed that all the remaining customers stopped what they were doing and leaned her way to hear her answer.
“Perhaps a few weeks,” she said vaguely, for she truly did not know how long it would take her brother to receive the telegram, and then send the money. The telegram might not reach her brother for weeks. “Then I’ll be going home to England.” Having heard that bit of gossip, everyone in the store moved on, leaving the two women alone.
“Oh,” Paula said, sounding disappointed. “I was hoping for another woman around here.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll be going home soon. Though it’s quite lovely here.”
Paula, who wore a rather smart looking shirtwaist and skirt, looked at her as if she were daft. “I’m from Fort Worth,” she said, as if that explained everything. Actually, it did. Fort Worth was a grand metropolis compared to Small Fork. “My husband’s the banker here. And it’s a fine town, really. But…”
“A bit lonely.”
Paula nodded, any shyness long gone. Her son, who had grown bored with the women’s conversation, had wandered off outside to pet Three Legs. “My parents and brothers and sisters are all in Fort Worth. We had electricity, a telephone, central plumbing, and all manner of things I used to take for granted. Why, it’s as if I’ve gone back in time.”
Amelia giggled. “I do feel the same way. I would love a long, hot bath.”
“Oh, yes,” Paula said, closing her eyes as if to picture such luxury. “Jason, that’s my husband, promises we won’t be staying forever. We’ve only been here six months. But what if we do stay forever? There’s no school, and not enough children to start one. And no church!”
“I suppose you’ll make the best of it,” Amelia said doubtfully.
Paula looked as if she was going to say something, but changed her mind. “Well, I’m certain I’ll see you again before you leave. Perhaps you can visit some time. We’re the house next to the bank.”
“That sounds lovely,” Amelia said. No doubt Paula was brimming with curiosity about Carson, but Amelia was not going to enlighten her or anyone else in Small Fork. It was far too humiliating. Let them think what they wanted. In a few weeks she’d be gone and forgotten, a small oddity that made life exciting for a few days.
Amelia knew only one thing: once she got back to England, she was never leaving again. She could close her eyes and picture herself walking along the shore, a brisk wind from the Irish Sea buffeting her face. One day, she’d meet an appropriate man at a ball or dinner, and she’d marry and have lovely English babies with rosy cheeks. She’d look back on her trip to America as an adventure, a slight detour away from what her life should have been.
Thank God, she’d be on her way home soon. It simply could not happen soon enough.
Somewhere in the Atlantic
Maggie Wellesley, the new Countess of Hollings, looked over at her husband and frowned. Poor Edward was putting himself through hell, blaming himself for allowing his little sister to go chasing after that ridiculous Carson Kitteridge.
To be truthful, they had done their best to dissuade Amelia from her attraction to the American cowboy, but their efforts had been fruitless. Amelia had been in love, and nothing short of tying her up would have stopped her from chasing after her beloved. They’d both agreed that the best course of action was to let the infatuation take its natural course. They’d thought that meant Amelia would come to her senses and realize just how foolish it would be to marry a man she hardly knew. And they’d counted on Carson Kitteridge disappearing forever and never sending for Amelia.
On that count, they’d been correct. For Kitteridge, that scoundrel, hadn’t sent for Amelia at all. And the poor girl, completely in the throes of her first love, had fabricated a letter from Carson. It nearly broke Maggie’s heart to think how desperate Amelia must have been to pretend Carson had sent for her. Edward had used a word other than “desperate” to describe his little sister.
He was livid. And worried. And guilt-ridden.
When they’d realized what Amelia had done, Edward had immediately sent a telegram to Carson, but they’d never gotten an answer and had no way of knowing whether the telegram had ever reached him. The silence had only fueled Edward’s feeling of utter desperation and helplessness.
“I’m all she has,” he said, staring out to sea. “If something happens to her, it will be my fault. What if Small Fork doesn’t even exist? What if she goes to Texas looking for a fictitious place? Anything could happen to her.”
“She has Anne,” Maggie said, even though at this point the fact that Amelia’s maid was with her brought neither of them much comfort. At the time, it seemed perfectly safe to send off Amelia with her much older personal maid. Anne was in her early thirties, a sensible woman who seemed more like a companion than a maid to Amelia. They never would have allowed her to go if it hadn’t been for Anne’s calming presence.
“If it wasn’t for that, I would go completely mad with worry,” Edward said. “Why won’t the women in my life simply stay at home sewing, or some such thing?”
“Why not simply tie us up and not allow us out at all?”
“Grand idea,” he said, not seeming to detect Maggie’s obvious sarcasm.
“All this worry could be for nothing. What if she finds him? What if he does love her and they are already married?” Maggie placed her hand on his, which clutched the railing in a death grip, no doubt meant to be in lieu of choking Carson Kitteridge.
“Then there is nothing for us to do but wish them well. But do you really think that is what has happened?”
Maggie pressed her lips together. “No. I don’t. I think, if Small Fork does exist and Carson actually lives there, he’s no doubt thinking of ways to send her back home.”
“The hell he will,” Edward said.
“You’re not thinking of forcing him to marry her?”
“He proposed to her. He asked my permission. If he doesn’t, she’ll be completely ruined. Can you imagine what she could face if she returned to England after this? All hope of any kin
d of good marriage is gone.”
“Times have changed,” Maggie said. “This isn’t the 1850s, after all.”
“Rules for the aristocracy have not loosened to the point that a girl can go running after a fiancé in another country and think she can come home to resume her life unscathed. She told everyone she knew what she was doing. Everyone. She must have written a dozen letters before she left, gushing about her new life in Texas and urging everyone to visit her when she was settled. Good God, what a mess.”
Maggie laughed. “For all we know, they could be a happily married couple by now, living in complete bliss. Like us.”
“Yes,” Edward said rather grumpily.
“That wasn’t very convincing.”
His face softened as he turned to look at his new wife. “I’m sorry. My life is bliss. Or would be if not for this mess.” He kissed her softly on her lips. “What would I do without you?”
“You’d be a miserable old wretch,” Maggie said sternly. “There’s no sense worrying about a dozen different scenarios when we don’t know what has happened. We’ll find Amelia. I know we will.”
“I wish I could be as certain as you are.”
“I wish so, too,” Maggie said, smiling up at her handsome husband. The wind had turned his cheeks ruddy, making him look younger than his twenty-seven years. “We’ll be in Texas within three weeks.”
“Three weeks,” Edward said, as if it were a lifetime. “She damn well better be happy, or else Mr. Kitteridge is going to have a lot of explaining to do.”
“She will be,” Maggie said, even though she didn’t believe a word of it. Carson Kitteridge was one of the most charming men she’d ever met. He could make old ladies blush and young women become fools over him. She only wished he could make Amelia happy.
Chapter 6
At the end of the first day working in the store, Amelia was thoroughly exhausted. Her face actually hurt from smiling so much at these strangers who came to gawk at her.
“I’m heading home,” Agatha called, wiping her hands on her apron. “There’s some cold ham and such in the kitchen if you get hungry.” Agatha looked like she was about to say something, but clearly didn’t want to. Amelia was so tired, she was tempted to let the older women go home without another word.
“I know it’s none of my business,” Agatha started.
“I’m certain it is not,” Amelia said, smiling.
“Don’t you sass me,” the older woman said in mock anger. “Just because you’re all fancy doesn’t mean you can’t learn a thing or two from an old lady.”
“You’re hardly old.”
“There you go, sassing me.”
“Please go on,” Amelia said, slightly exasperated.
“I know your heart’s broken, but I also know that someday you’ll realize you’re better off without a man like Carson in your life.”
“I think I already realize it.”
Agatha nodded, as if she’d managed to solve all the world’s problems with a single sentence. “You’re all right, then?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Agatha began to leave, and suddenly Amelia didn’t want to be alone. Dulce had determined that with Boone and Carson both gone, she had no need to be there, which was actually a relief to Amelia. She was unused to such hostility directed at her; it simply was completely foreign to her to have someone so obviously dislike her.
“I do have one question.”
“Oh?”
“It seems so unlikely to me that Carson and Boone are brothers. They seem completely different from one another.”
Agatha chuckled. “About as different as two brothers can be.”
“How is that possible?”
“We weren’t in these parts when they were boys, but I do know they were raised by different folks, at least part of the time. That could explain a lot.”
“You seem doubtful that it does,” Amelia said, slightly amused by the woman’s mysterious tone.
“Sometimes people just come out bad.”
Amelia stiffened. “Carson is hardly bad.”
“Now, how’d you know I was talking about Carson?” she asked, cackling theatrically like an old witch. “Oh, goodness.” She apparently found herself quite amusing. “Boone’s just dependable and Carson, he’s his daddy’s boy through and through.”
“What was their father like?”
“He could surely put on the charm, but he was a mean drunk. Meanest I’ve ever seen. Mean to everyone but Carson.”
“Boone?”
“Like I said, Boone didn’t live with his father. I don’t know the particulars of it, but there’s surely a reason for that.”
Amelia bade her good night, and found herself quite alone in the store. It was closing time, so she lowered the shade and locked the door, looking about the store to make certain everything was where it ought to be. Boone was more nervous about leaving the store than leaving any possible patients. In the days she’d been in Small Fork, the only patient he’d had was Julia. It seemed strange that a town without a telegraph office or electricity would have a doctor.
She went about straightening shelves, as she had noticed that Boone liked things just so. She smiled, remembering him going around the store, moving items a tiny bit so that they were perfectly aligned. When she came to the small vase that Julia had touched, she impulsively picked it up and wrapped it in some cheesecloth. Then she took a bit of ribbon and tied it, creating a pretty little package.
All women should have pretty things, she decided.
The outside looked like a shack, a squat little building in the middle of a field. It could have been an overlarge animal pen, but it was Julia Benson’s home.
The twenty-six-year-old woman had not lived there with her husband, the man who’d shot her in the face, then made her try to cook his supper until she collapsed in a bloody heap on the floor. Afterward, he’d gone to the saloon, covered in her blood, startling even the hardened men who sat there night after night drinking their cheap whiskey.
“Ain’t my blood, you goddamn idiots. It’s Julia’s. She had an accident with my shotgun.” Then he’d laughed. Carson Kitteridge hadn’t been too drunk that night to realize the implications of what he’d said. Julia was hurt, pretty Julia Shaddock, that quiet little thing who used to share her sugar cookies with him when they were both just kids. He hadn’t thought about her in a long while, but he knew who she was married to, and sometimes felt a twinge of sadness that she should be tied to such a terrible man. He wondered how someone so sweet and pretty could have ended up with a man so hard and cruel.
And so Carson had staggered out of the bar and gotten Boone, the one man he knew who could help Julia and protect her from a man like Sam Benson.
After Dr. Kitteridge saved her life, she moved in to her little shack and created her own world of magic and beauty. No one bothered her, except the occasional boys who threw rocks at her house. They were too afraid to get close, and so never did any real damage.
Sometimes she wished Boone Kitteridge hadn’t saved her, hadn’t been able to stop the blood that seeped from her skull, had let her fade away and die. More than sometimes. But he had, and she lived and lived.
It had been three years since Sam had shot her. She was still married to him, and knew that someday he’d come back and finish her off. She hated him. She’d always hated him. But her daddy had caught him in her bed, even though she hadn’t invited him there, and she had to get married. No one believed her when she’d said Sam had been trying to force himself on her. They believed him. And no one believed she hadn’t deserved what she got. Not even her mama. She hated her, too. She hated everyone except Boone and Carson Kitteridge.
And that day, she added Lady Amelia to her short list of people she didn’t hate.
Amelia stared at Julia’s home, uncertain whether she should announce her presence before knocking. From what Boone had told her about the woman, she knew Julia was a rather private person, almost a recluse. Suddenly, she was uncertain
whether she should have come at all.
It was such a squat little structure, completely uninviting. And it looked as though a strong wind would blow it over, making it tumble like the strange bushes that sometimes rolled through town. Agatha had called them tumbleweeds, a name, Amelia thought, that was perfectly appropriate.
She needn’t have worried about knocking, for the door opened long before she reached the house.
“Lady Amelia. Is something wrong?” Julia was in the shadows of her house and not yet visible, but for one pale hand braced against the door.
“No. I’ve come for a visit if that’s all right. I’ve a present for you.” Silence. “I’d like to give it to you, if you don’t mind.”
“You can leave it outside the door.”
Amelia nearly did just that. But she’d always been a bit stubborn about such things, and instead said, “I could hardly allow you to be so rude. So if you don’t mind—” And she walked toward the door with determination. Julia let out a sound, and backed away. But she’d left the door open.
Amelia braced herself for what she was certain would be a poor little place, but as soon as her eyes adjusted, her mouth opened in awe and she stared about in complete wonder. The room sparkled, rays of light bursting from tiny crystals that seemed to hang in the air like magic. Brightly colored feathers, pretty rocks, and even tiny bits of bleached bone covered nearly every surface of the home.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed. “Simply exquisite.” She quickly realized that the “crystals” were really nothing more than bits of broken glass suspended by delicate threads from a beamed ceiling. Still, the effect was stunning and whimsical.
“It’s pretty this time of day. And in the firelight,” Julia said, coming toward her as she finished tying a scarf around her face.
“I’m afraid my gift will seem rather dull now,” Amelia said, laughing and handing the woman the vase.
Jane Goodger Page 8
