“I need work,” Lavinia begged. “I can wash or clean or—”
Cora’s eyes softened a bit. “I can’t afford an employee.”
“I have a little money,” she offered. “Could I spend one night here?”
“I’ve got no place for you to sleep, but there’s a hotel in town.” Cora pointed back toward the Hotel Jerome.
Lavinia began to back down the steps. She didn’t want to tell the woman she couldn’t afford the hotel.
Cora eyed the ornate gold-and-pearl button on Lavinia’s mantle. “Where’d you say you came from?”
Lavinia turned away. Gossip, she imagined, would balloon quickly in this town. She’d hoped she could enter quietly and stay for a few days until she was able to contact her father’s solicitor. She couldn’t afford to make a spectacle. People would start to ask questions—
“Wait a moment,” Cora called to her. “I have something for you.”
Lavinia contemplated hurrying away, but she was curious as to what Cora might have. The woman returned minutes later with a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. “It’s a little food … just in case.”
Lavinia stared at the parcel for a moment. When she was young, she and her mother had taken food to people in need, but she never imagined that she would be the recipient of anyone’s charity. Still, with the exception of the potato soup and bread she’d had on the train, she hadn’t eaten anything of substance in the past two days. And she needed to reserve her last remaining coins for a telegram.
“Thank you,” she whispered, tucking the package quickly in her satchel.
Cora pointed to their left. “At the edge of town is a fancy green house,” she said. “Dr. Kemper and his wife might let you stay the night.”
Lavinia nodded.
“And down at the courthouse there’s a man—” Cora hesitated as if she didn’t want to insult the woman before her. “He can give you a free train ticket back to wherever it is you’ve come from.”
Lavinia hurried away, stopping only to eye the painted porch on the doctor’s house and the fire blazing inside the bay window. Then she kept walking.
She didn’t stop again until she was a good half mile outside of town.
Smoke snaked up through the moonlight hovering over the trees on Isaac’s property. With his lantern swinging at his side, he hurried down the side of the mountain from the Coronado Mine and rushed past his house. The smoke was coming from the abandoned barn, about a quarter mile away from his house. There was no time to gather men from town, but if the fire was still small, he might be able to stamp it out on his own.
As he drew closer to the trees, he realized the barn wasn’t on fire. The smoke was rising from the iron chimney in the center of the roof—a chimney that hadn’t been used, to his knowledge, for at least five years. An old miner, he’d been told, put in a woodstove while he squatted on the land.
Isaac slowed his pace, his lungs stinging from the frigid air, his pants caked with snow. He’d only been gone a week, but it was long enough for a drifter to claim this place for a temporary home. If only he’d stopped to retrieve his rifle at the house—
He had no intention of shooting a trespasser, but in his years in Colorado, he’d learned much about the desperation of man and a desperate man might kill another, especially on a cold winter night like this. As long as the man inside wasn’t a threat, he could stay until the morning, and then Isaac would direct him to the courthouse in Aspen for help.
He pushed back the barn door, and his lantern light flooded the room. Quickly he scanned the room, searching for the man who was trespassing on his property, but instead of a man, he saw a woman. Asleep on the hay.
He held up his lantern and crept closer to the hay. Was it possible?
As he stood over the woman, he recognized her honey-brown hair and the fancy winter coat, partially covered by a yellow afghan draped over her. It was the woman he’d seen at the train station. The woman who was supposed to be spending the night in Aspen, at the hotel.
He lowered the lantern to his side. Even with his light and the night air pouring in through the door, she didn’t wake.
What was he supposed to do now?
Chapter 4
As morning light seeped into the room, Lavinia turned away from it and yanked her blankets up to her neck. Why was her room so cold? Her bed so … prickly? She bolted up.
There was no lace canopy above her, no mound of goose-down pillows under her head. No servant tending to her fire or pouring water into her basin. Last night she’d found a path outside the town, under a long strip of mines, and she’d rushed through the valley until she’d found an abandoned barn to shelter in for the night—at least she hoped no one was using this old place as their home.
She rubbed her arms as she surveyed her surroundings. The roof sagged over her head and daylight slipped through the cracks in the walls. Even with her wool coat over her gown, she was cold. All she’d had for the fire last night were three logs she’d found by the stove, but at least she had shelter. Cora had said she could obtain a free ticket back home, but she’d much rather wake up in a cold barn in Colorado than her warm bedroom in Omaha.
Near the door were two blankets sitting on a mound of hay. Funny, she hadn’t seen the blankets last night. The light had almost faded when she found the barn, but still she should have seen the blankets—and the tiny pile of wood beside it. She was certain only two pieces of wood had been beside the stove last night, and she had used both of those to make her fire.
Her exhaustion must have blinded her more than she’d realized.
She brushed the hay off her skirt and carefully folded the small yellow quilt her mother made for her in the weeks after she was born, grateful that she’d stashed this treasure in her satchel. It was one of the few gifts that remained from her mother.
What would Mother think of her, running away from home like this? Her heart would probably break at the cruelty of Patrick and his mother, at the way they scorned and ridiculed her even before her father died.
After he married Eloise, her father spent longer hours at his office, leaving Lavinia to what he deemed the safety of their home. She clung to her belief that he didn’t know what went on during his hours away from home, but whenever she tried to tell him the truth, he’d sided with her stepmother.
But she was free now—from Patrick and his mother, Eloise. From the man Patrick had chosen for her to marry. She may not be as worldly-wise as some, but she knew well that neither man intended to look after her well-being.
Patrick told her that he was the sole benefactor of the Starr family fortune, but if she could locate Mr. Tipton, her father’s solicitor, he would surely tell her the truth about her inheritance. She didn’t particularly care if her stepbrother got some or even most of her father’s money. She just couldn’t allow herself to believe that Father would leave her penniless. In his own way, he had tried to care for her, and the thought that he’d stopped caring …
It was too much to bear.
Using the edge of a blanket, she opened the door to the stove. Embers glowed in their bed, but the fire had faded away in the night. She placed another log inside and then tucked a handful of hay under it before stirring the embers with her breath. In seconds they leapt back into a blaze.
She sat on a barrel, watching the flames flicker inside the stove.
When she was a child, her father used to entertain her with what he called magic. On their back lawn, he would rub a piece of iron against a flint rock until it sparked. Then he would gently blow the sliver of fire onto a tiny bed of dried grass. She’d been so fascinated by his magic that he’d given her a small pouch with her own steel and flint rock when she turned ten.
Tears welled in her eyes at the sweet memory. When she left Omaha, she had taken the quilt to remind her of her mother and the steel and flint to remember her father.
Even now, on the brink of her nineteenth birthday, she still believed in a bit of her father’s magic—a miracle,
really, of the spark between hardened steel and rock, a spark that spread into a lovely, warm fire. She may not know how to obtain food, but at least she had a place to sleep and the ability to make it warm.
“You’ll never make it on your own.”
Patrick’s angry declaration rushed back to her. Words he’d spoken after Eloise’s death when Lavinia had said she wanted to visit her mother’s friend in New York. Patrick planted the doubt in her heart and mind, and it had taken weeks for her to conquer those doubts. But when he and Charles chose a date for the wedding, desperation fueled her to run.
She closed her eyes and leaned back against the wooden planks on the wall.
Today was Thursday—Christmas Eve. She was supposed to marry Charles tonight. What were he and Patrick doing now?
Charles was much too docile to search for her, but Patrick would probably scour the plains of Nebraska today, stopping at every train depot to ask if anyone had seen his lost sister. She could hope he’d give up the search, but she’d learned years ago that Patrick refused to give up until he got his way, and for some reason, he was determined that she marry Charles.
Her stomach rumbled, and she reached for her satchel, but before she retrieved the food Cora had given her, something shuffled outside the door.
At first she thought it was the wind rattling the wood, but the door began to slide open and she jumped to her feet, clutching her fists to her sides. She’d read about wild animals in Colorado—the bears, wolves, cougars, and buffalo—but she thought she would be safe inside.
Winter air poured into the barn, and her heart pounded as she scanned the opening. Then a tall man stepped into her space.
He was dressed in a leather overcoat and his dark brown hair curled under his cap. Stubble peppered his jawline and chin, and his green eyes were clouded with questions. Even though he looked to be only about thirty, he had the aura of a seasoned mountain man.
When he took off his hat, she realized he was the same man who’d offered to help with her luggage at the train station yesterday. The man who’d refused to listen when she’d said she didn’t need assistance.
Had he followed her?
She crossed her arms, her hands still balled into fists. “What do you want?”
“I thought”—he shifted his gloves between his hands—“I saw smoke in the chimney.”
“I was cold.”
“I wouldn’t expect—” His smile was tentative. “Where did you learn to start a fire?”
“My father taught me.”
“You have a wise father.”
She tightened her arms around her chest. “How did you know I was here?”
“I didn’t know. I thought the barn was on fire.” He cocked his head slightly, and she slowly began to release her arms. Perhaps he needed a warm place to stay, too.
“How did you find this place?” he asked.
“I—” She couldn’t tell him that she couldn’t afford to stay at the hotel he’d recommended. “I couldn’t find anywhere to sleep in Aspen, and I thought perhaps I could find someplace right outside town.”
“You could have gotten lost in the dark,” he said, his smile gone. “People freeze to death out here.”
She couldn’t allow herself to consider that possibility. “But I didn’t freeze.”
“You have to be more careful—”
She interrupted him. “Are you hungry?”
He pointed toward the door. “I actually brought—”
She reached for her satchel. “Because I have a little extra food.”
Her offer seemed to set him off guard for a moment, but he reached for an empty barrel to sit beside her. Quickly she unfolded one of the blankets and spread it out on the floor between them. Then she unwrapped Cora’s bounty—two pieces of salt-cured pork, a small mound of dates, a baked roll made of bread crumbs and cheese—and placed the food on the blanket.
Before they ate, the man bowed his head and thanked God for their food, for shelter, and for someone with whom to share a meal. Lavinia bowed her head, but she didn’t close her eyes. Instead, she watched the stranger closely, wondering again why he was here.
Isaac felt lousy for eating half of the little food this woman had, but he didn’t want to insult her by refusing her gift or by offering her charity. He ate quickly and thanked her for the breakfast. When he finished, he stood and pointed toward the door. “There’s something I wanted to contribute to our meal.”
She shook her head. “There’s no need.”
In spite of her protest, he stepped outside. He’d been up for hours last night, long past when the clock in the hallway struck the hour of two. A late night wasn’t unusual for him, but usually he lost sleep worrying about the mine. Last night he was worried about this woman instead.
He’d contemplated hiking back to the barn in the middle of the night and waking her up, but he hadn’t wanted to frighten her. Nor did he feel in the least bit comfortable asking a woman he didn’t know to stay in his house. Gideon, his manservant, lived in a room on the first floor, but still this woman’s reputation—and his—would suffer with such an impropriety.
But then again, she didn’t seem to be the least bit concerned with her impropriety or reputation.
Why had she come to Aspen? No one in their right mind came here this time of year without a purpose and a place to stay.
On a log outside the door was a picnic basket filled with biscuits and jam and the bacon Gideon had fried and wrapped for their guest. She may not want his charity, but how could she argue with something hot to drink?
Opening the basket, he dug out the tin kettle he used when he went trekking through the mountains, two enamel cups, and the small burlap bag that contained coffee grounds. Then he filled the kettle with fresh snow before returning to the barn.
He held out the tin pot. “You like coffee?”
Her gaze wavered between irritation and appreciation. “With sugar and cream.”
He wasn’t certain if she was joking or not, but still he laughed. “I’m afraid black will have to do.”
He dumped the grounds into the melting snow and placed the kettle on the stove before he sat beside her again. Her long hair tumbled softly over her shoulders, a few stray pins clinging to the strands. Her skin was unscathed by the sun, but one of her cheeks was streaked with grime. Several pieces of hay hung on her lavender gown and the hem of her dress was caked with dirt. None of it deterred from her beauty though.
He looked back down at his calloused hands. “I suppose we should introduce ourselves.”
“It’s not necessary—”
But it felt necessary to him. “I’m Isaac,” he said, deliberately sidestepping the more proper Mr. Loritz. There was no place for formalities when they were sharing breakfast together in his barn.
When he glanced up, the woman nodded but didn’t volunteer her name.
He didn’t give up. “What should I call you?”
She contemplated his question for a moment before she answered. “Kathryn.”
“Kathryn,” he repeated. “Are you planning to spend another night here?”
Her eyes widened. “Is this your home?”
“No, I—” He owned this barn, but his house had been built three years ago, away from the trees. “I live nearby.”
The kettle began to rumble on the stove, and he hopped up, relieved for the interruption. He lifted the handle with his gloves and set it on the wood floor, waiting for the grounds to settle before he poured it.
She accepted a cup of coffee without complaint, and steam billowed around her face as she sniffed it. Then she took a sip. “Thank you,” she whispered as if unaccustomed to receiving even the smallest of gifts.
They drank their coffee in silence while the wind banged the door against the barn. When she finished, she set her cup on the floor beside his.
“Where is the telegraph office?” she asked.
“Next to the assayer. I can send a telegram for you—” He stopped himself. She m
ight need his help, but clearly she did not want it.
“Or you can send it.” He stood up and pointed toward the door. “I must get up to the Coronado.”
She cocked her head. “What is the Coronado?”
“It’s the silver mine up on the hill, between here and Aspen.”
She scooped up the cups. “Do you work there?”
He nodded.
She offered him the cups, but instead of taking them, he stepped toward the door. “I’ll return for them tonight.”
She didn’t seem at all pleased by the news.
Chapter 5
Five Liberty dimes, six pennies, and one quarter lay forlornly in Lavinia’s beaded coin purse. She spread them out on the dusty barrel and counted them twice as if she could somehow work her father’s magic and make them multiply. But after the purchase of her ticket to Aspen and dinner on the train, this was all that remained to send her telegram to Mr. Tipton.
How much did it cost to wire someone in Arkansas? She’d almost asked Isaac this morning how to send a telegram, but she didn’t want him to know how desperate she was. Or how naive.
She had little experience in conversing with men. She had adored her father, despised her stepbrother and his friends, and loved Mr. Tipton and Eddie, who were both like uncles to her. Most of her schooling had taken place at home under a governess, so except her Sundays in church, she hadn’t been around many boys, and Father had turned away any men who had wanted to court her, saying he wouldn’t even talk about it until she reached the matronly age of twenty-one.
Lavinia carefully returned her change to her purse and secured it back in her satchel.
Even though Isaac’s company unnerved her, his bitter coffee along with Cora’s food had revived her. She dumped out the used grounds from the kettle and melted more snow to wash herself. With the corner of a blanket as her washcloth and the kettle as her basin, she bathed in the warm water and dried herself with the other side of the blanket.
If only she could take a long, hot soak in a real bathtub—
As she hung the blanket back up on a hook, she laughed at herself, standing among the caked dirt and hay in a dreadful state of undress. The orphaned daughter of one of the wealthiest men in Nebraska.
The WESTWARD Christmas BRIDES COLLECTION: 9 Historical Romances Answer the Call of the American West Page 15
