When Hearts Fly

by Tanya Hanson

  Clancy. She clenched her fists. A trudge to the cemetery would be muddy, but the urge to kick his headstone wouldn’t be stifled. Finally, anger outranked grief, relief, and guilt. On her way to the tiny vestibule where she kept her rubber boots, the little counter bell clanged. But she didn’t hurry. With her present luck, it would be Sheriff Pelton arresting her on behalf of her felonious brother, and she couldn’t afford bail. Finally she called out on the fourth ring.

  “I’ll be right with you.” Then she tripped on a boot, stumbled, flailed.

  And landed in the arms of a man just in time to break her fall. His warmth scented from the outdoors snuggled around her. Cordy managed to toss her arms around his neck. He held her panting form against his mighty chest.

  Then her breath stopped. The sight of him heated her blood. Here he was, as if stepping out from a dream. Her Wild West cowboy, with his Stetson and scruffy cheeks and lake-blue eyes she wanted to drown in.

  “Are you all right?” His voice rumbled from his chest to her ear. A drawl mixed with someplace else.

  “Yes.” She saddened when he broke contact and set her down. He kept hold of her hand, and she practically fell in love on the spot. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  “I am Keaton Shockley.” He touched his brim and removed his Stetson. Weather and leather ruffled his rugged coffee-brown hair. “And I’d like to let a room. I must find C. Meeker, proprietor.”

  Her heart flipped inside of itself. Not only a paying customer, but also a handsome one. Oh, and how magnificently that duster tightened around his shoulder muscles when he moved.

  “You have found her. I’m Miss Cordelia Meeker. Welcome to my inn.” She held out her hand. Adding the Miss risked her appearing a stuffy spinster, but it was a surefire way to inform him she was unmarried. “But do call me Cordy.” There.

  “Do call me Hawk.”

  “Hawk?” Oh, so…cowboy!

  She sparked to her toes when they touched. He raised the hand he held, slowly, and then placed it against his warm lips. “Keaton supposedly means where hawks fly.”

  Chapter Two

  Despite the hardships of the last half hour, Hawk’s heart thundered upon his mouth meeting the innkeeper’s soft flesh.

  A whiff of lavender tickled his nose. Oh, Cordelia Meeker was so lovely he hated setting her to rights and moving away from her, but women only complicated things. Davina…

  And he had quite the muddle. How had he been such a blooming barmpot as to let his pocket get picked at the train station?

  Which meant in American, he was too dumb to teach a hen to cluck.

  Ever a gentleman, he took her arm. With purpose, she led him to her registration counter. From the window, a ray of sudden sun flashed silver in eyes the color of rain, and his senses reeled again.

  “Welcome, uh, Hawk. How long will you be staying?”

  “A few days,” he said although he truly had no idea how much time he’d need to retrench. In his saddlebags, he had clothing for perhaps a week. “But you’re on your way out. I can register later.”

  “Certainly not. I can visit my brother’s grave any time.” Her lips tightened as if she hadn’t meant to say it.

  His heart moved with compassion. “My condolences, Miss Meeker.” Hawk had leaned against a pale green patterned wall but straightened with proper respect against such a death. Losing Burton would ache him all over.

  “I’m Cordy. Truly.” Her smile lit up the dim little foyer. “And I’m fine, really. So what brings you to Paradise?” She moved behind the counter and brought up a large red leather ledger.

  “I am passing through on my way to Colorado.”

  Her face brightened. “Colorado?”

  “Yes. My father has business interests in a cattle company.” Hawk came to stand in front of her, his nerves fluttering at her nearness and appealing scent.

  “Oh? Well, Paradise is quite off the path that will get you to there. I’ve looked on a map.” Her eyes lost a smidge of luster.

  Hawk reached for the quill and decided to reveal. “Actually, we had dreadful losses a year ago. I hope to make sense of things.” Something about her welcoming, understanding gaze invited confidence. And her sudden smile was without doubt the loveliest he’d seen. His heart plucked a new string.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  He cleared his breath and hoped to find words. “I arrived in Columbus by train this morning. The stage to Paradise is not scheduled ’til Saturday, so I hired a horse to get me here.” A bit of embarrassment flooded him, and he busied himself with his signature.

  “But why Paradise?” Her angelic voice landed on the air like a feather.

  Hopefully he wasn’t blushing like a fool. “Childish, perhaps, but I got wind that the outlaw Ahab Perkins’ gang terrorized Paradise in the past. I itched to see where the excitement happened.” Stupid boy. Now he was stuck here. Although the dread eased somewhat as he raised his face to gaze at her. “It is lovely prairie and farmland, and the nearby river is rushing with the promise of springtime.”

  “The Loup River, yes. I’ve not heard of any outlaws, but overall, Paradise is a very nice place.” Her pretty pink nails rustled against the pages of her ledger. Her voice was businesslike now, but she likely had no idea of the turmoil her shining hair and bright lips were causing. “My inn is very safe. Room and board is…four dollars a week. Laundry is extra. Fifty cents. And I keep a moral house.” A blush brightened her rainwater eyes.

  Of course. No women in his room. And the way her eyes glinted upon her pricing let him think she’d suddenly raised the rates. Unfortunately.

  “I’m grateful for a long-term guest. I confess it’s been a long, cruel winter.” Her lashes lowered like butterfly wings.

  Ah. The scrawny, bespectacled man Hawk had noticed slinking out of the boardinghouse on his way to the livery. Had the barmpot connived to get her money? Or worse, broken her heart? Hawk ached to reach for her, but her bloody shawl tied her tight.

  Perhaps Cordy read his mind. “The representative of Farmland Bank has just informed me he’s foreclosing on my inn.” She huffed through her pretty nose. “No reason not to tell you. It’ll be all over town tomorrow. His mother is a hen who never stops clucking.”

  “The cad!” Hawk’s hands, resting on the counter, itched to hold hers.

  She shrugged her warmth away. “I’ll sort it out. I’m just a little unsettled right now. I can hold off the bank if I earn at least dollar a day for the next three weeks. That’s why I’m grateful to you. Bad weather. I haven’t had but a handful of paying guests since Christmas. And my permanent lodger Widow Hinrichs went to visit kin in Omaha for New Years and decided to stay.”

  Hawk laid a thumbnail against his teeth. Hmmmmm. The clipped syllables in her voice reminded him of the female part of elite Bronckdon College, where Father had sent him to learn American ways. St. Agnes, the up-market sister school for fine New England young ladies.

  Father! He shivered, and her beauty blurred. An earl’s second son, Hawk the Spare had never quite lived up to his elder brother The Heir, and now, bankrupt. Was he ever doomed for misfortune? Panic boiled through his veins, but he was quick on his feet.

  “It appears, then, that we require a scheme to make money quickly, Cordy.” His pulse heated when he took her hand. “Let us talk.”

  “A scheme?” She bit her luscious bottom lip, and for a flash, her fingers tangled with his. “This is not your problem.”

  “Of course it is.” He guided her underneath an archway toward the dining room chairs. “We both need a place to stay. But besides that…” They sat down. Her gaze tied with his, and he took a deep, brave breath over the hammering of his heart. She was too lovely for words. “Cordy, what I mean is, my pocket must have been picked at the train station. My billfold. All my money, my documents. My train tickets to Glenwood Springs. Gone.”

  “Oh, dear goodness.” Her eyes lit with horror. “Hawk, you need the sheriff!”

  His throat tightened with
an impossible swallow. “I doubt the crime is in his jurisdiction. Since I had enough loose change to hire my horse, I didn’t realize the thievery until I got here. All I have left is a secret five-dollar gold piece in my boot for your rent. My horse has gone lame. There’ll be a horse doctor to pay. And wiring The Heir, in England, will cost me hefty.” The moniker slipped out, and he rolled his eyes.

  “The heir?”

  “My brother, the firstborn.” No way around it. So much for appearing a regular workaday wrangler.

  “Of course! I thought I recognized some British cadence in your speech.” She brushed a loose lock of hair from her cheek. “So your father is a cattle baron! I believe birth order is important among the nobility.” Her lovely brow furrowed with question.

  He took great interest in a callus on the finger gripping the table edge. “Yes, my father’s an earl.”

  Cordy nodded. Her long, sun bright hair rippled across her shoulders, and his fingers itched to tangle within it. “Then borrow from the bank. I’m sure the earl is good for the pay off.”

  Hawk couldn’t quite tell her all yet. “I’m not quite in my father’s favor. It would do me no good to confess my failure.”

  “Failure? You were robbed. Oh, I understand.” She chewed a thumbnail now. “You’re the younger. Often in a muddle. With an elder sibling who always seems to do better than you.”

  “Yes.” Hawk nodded, crushed she’d read him so completely. His feet tapped restlessly against the braided rug beneath them. Father’s Cornish mines had been Hawk’s first misadventure. But none of it had truly been his fault. No one set a calf before a matador. “Yes. Father claims Button can do no wrong. But Button and I get on fine, the two of us.”

  “Button?”

  Hawk frowned. “Why yes. Button.” He repeated his brother’s Christened name a few more times, a toe tap for each effort, and she squinted for a while before a nod.

  “Oh. Burton. Well, it’s against my policy, but I can hold off my rent. Use my rate to wire Burton. I’ll make tea in the meantime.” She started to rise.

  “No, no. Stay, please.” Her generosity touched Hawk as much as her beauty, but hopelessness surged. “I visited the telegraph office after stabling my horse. Therein is my conundrum. A telegram to London will cost more than forty dollars.”

  “Oh, merciful goodness! Forty dollars?” Her eyes widened, and she sank back down into the old oaken chair.

  “Forty-six dollars, actually. And eighty cents. For ten words.” He could barely parse the horrible syllables.

  Her lovely lips parted in shock. He ached to kiss them closed, but she started forming conversation. “Well, other than the reverend’s poor box, I have no more suggestions.”

  Her gentle shrug revived him. He stretched out his legs to loosen nervous sinews. Lightning struck his brain. “My boots! That’s it! They are handmade specific to my feet. Lucchese. Quite an investment. I passed by Graybill’s Cobbler Shop on the way to the livery. I can sell them. They ought to fetch a fine price.”

  As he stood, she grabbed him back. He tingled. “Hawk, whose feet would they fit if not yours? Men here wear practical boots that last for years. And as such, your footgear is worthless as bank collateral. Besides, you need them for your own feet.”

  His mind roiled. However could he acquire funds, quick? He had nothing else to sell. Perhaps some kind of competition requiring an entry fee.

  “I’ve got it!” This time, the idea burst in his brain like flames. Real. Hot. Not distant and fleeting. Father had held a charity event for the local orphanage as long as Hawk could recall. “I shall hold a horse race! And the event will gather crowds who will need lodging and food here at your inn.”

  Gold curls bobbed when she shook her head. “No. Paradise holds a rather famous Bonnet Race every summer. It’s the highlight of the county fair. We can’t intrude on that tradition. Besides, your own horse is lame. And mine’s…not really mine.” Her voice crackled.

  No race? No boots? On top of it, he wasn’t a gambling man. But he couldn’t be out of ideas. Not after his training at the erudite Bronckton College. Then an odd peace settled. An idea gurgled to life as he recalled his conversation at the livery.

  “Cordy, I do have an idea.” Excitement burbled through Hawk’s veins. “At the livery, I wondered what might have so suddenly lamed my horse. I told the wrangler—”

  “Wrangler? I’m impressed.” Cordy interrupted with glorious, twinkling eyes. “I’d expect you to say ostler. Since you already use words like ‘shall’ and ‘conundrum’ that you won’t hear around here. Anyway, his name is Charlie Tuttle.”

  Hawk burst out in laughter. “I told Wrangler Chullie the horse and I had flown all the way from Columbus. And he laughed at me because horses don’t have wings.”

  “Well, he’s right. Horses don’t have wings. And you do need to work on your R’s.” Cordy’s lovely mouth creased in a musical laughter all her own.

  “My awes?”

  “Yes.” She chuckled a little longer, thumbnail back at her tongue. And seeing that little pink tip had Hawk’s heart flipping and his body clenching in a delightful place. “The alphabet R. You know. CHARlie. Yours come out Chullie. Like your Burton comes out like the button on a coat.”

  “Oh, I do see.” He forced away unruly thoughts and practiced a while with both names until she nodded.

  “You’ve got it. Now what’s this about flying horses?” She seemed to relax against the hard chair. He shifted a little, too, all things considered.

  Hawk ran his fingers across the tabletop. “I told Charlie my horse galloped so fast all four feet left the ground. Charlie countered that horses keep their feet on the ground or else they would fly. But we, you and I, could prove they fly. And I’m certain the townsfolk would pay to watch. We’ll have prizes of some sort.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Cordy moved from him rather quickly as if he’d gone mad, and she’d gone nervous because of it.

  Hawk’s excitement sparked in the air and rippled across his skin. “Horses do fly, Cordy. Theoretically. There is a moment at gallop when all four of a horse’s feet leave the ground. Eadweard Muybridge has proven it.”

  At the name, though, Hawk’s flesh rustled. Davina. But he was desperate. And with Cordelia needing at least a dollar a day for the next three weeks, he’d likely convince her to be a partner in whatever scheme he devised.

  “Why, of course! The famous photographer,” she crowed, eyes aglow. Until they darkened with doubt. “But if Mr. Muybridge has proved it, why would you need to?”

  Why would he indeed? Hmm. Hawk’s mind raced. “Well, because many folks disbelieve his findings. He took photographs—they were widely circulated in Scientific American, but the negatives are lost. We could hold our own contest to prove all over again that horses can fly.”

  She rolled her eyes, but her smile relieved the insult. “Mr. Muybridge is a professional. With topnotch equipment. How could you prove it?”

  Hawk figured he’d studied the magazine photographs of the galloping horse enough to improvise. “Muybridge set twelve cameras in a row. The shutter of each camera was triggered by a thread when the horse ran by. The horse’s pathway was lined with cloth sheets to reflect light.”

  Unsmiling, Cordy scoffed. On the tabletop, she played a silent piano tune. “We have one photographer in town. Mr. Firnhaber uses one camera. He shoots mostly weddings and funerals.” The last word trembled. Ah. Her brother. Hawk longed to touch her pretty hand. “Hackett’s Mercantile likely has cloth, and thread. But where do you hang it? And is it lamplight or daylight? Although I confess I’d want to see it myself to believe it.”

  Her warm smile reassured him. “Yes! And so would everyone else.” Hawk wrapped his hands together. “For a small admission fee. I’m certain I can replicate the experiment.” Enough on Muybridge anyway. He was in Pennsylvania, dedicated to photographing animals and humans in motion. Naked humans.

  At least Hawk prayed for such whereabouts. Cordy
touched her cheek and knocked Davina from his head. Oh, he longed to touch that cheek.

  “I suppose folks would pay to watch such a stunt.” Her chin rested on her palm. “It’s been a hard winter with horses snowbound, too.” She grinned suddenly. “We’re finally thawing. Your timing is right. In fact, spring planting is soon to start. You might earn money as a farmhand. Or…” Her pert nose crinkled. “Is that not a task an earl can do?”

  He flushed back. “I’m not an earl, will never be an earl, and I’m not opposed to hard work. But I’ve no horse to get me anywhere. And you need money, too.” Hawk tapped his lips with a thoughtful finger. “As you say yourself, the timing is perfect. Men will be eager to stretch their horses’ legs before they start work again. Others will be eager to observe the experiments. We’ll charge both an entry fee and spectator admission. Riders and spectators alike will swarm to town and need a place to stay!”

  Thrilled, Hawk waved his hand around the rather charming dining room. Nothing fancy, but homespun and comfortable. “Meals to eat, garments to be laundered.” He moved closer to her. “Why, Cordy, this is an answer to every prayer. We’ll make money to set your inn to rights, settle my debts, and fund my travels to Colorado!” And Father and Burton need never know.

  His fingers landed on hers, and she let them remain. “Hawk, I guess this might work. Even though I’d have considered it a farce a half hour ago. But how do we start?”

  Confidence hurtled through his blood. “I’ll introduce myself to the sheriff and promise adherence to all safety precautions.” Hawk’s own enthusiasm bristled on the air like electricity, and her teeth gleamed in return. “The photographer can contact his colleagues in other towns. We’ll pay their salaries upon receipt of the entry fees. We’ll dash to spread the word to any and all horsemen around.”

  “Start spreading at Skinny Hank’s.” Cordy pursed her lips and wriggled from his hand. Her cheeks blushed the pale pink of her flowered dress.

  “Skinny Hank’s?”

  “The local rum hole.” Her eyes rolled. “Many braggadocios imbibe at his saloon on a regular basis.”