The Secret Admirer Romance Collection

by Barratt, Amanda; Beatty, Lorraine; Bull, Molly Noble

  The driver reined the horses to a stop halfway down the street, in front of a filthy, dust-covered building. She was about to ask where the store was situated, when to her sheer horror she looked up and saw the word MERCANTILE on the wind-blasted sign over the porch roof. There were signs of a nice coat of white paint under a layer of dirt, and the structure was sound—at least the walls stood confidently upright. It wasn’t a full two-story, but the vaulted roof appeared to hold the promised upstairs apartment.

  Her trunk and bag were tossed onto the ground beside her, and the wagon pulled away. Wait, she wanted to call after it, terrified at being left in this dismal place, but where else was there to go?

  When she went to unlock the door, the door swung open at touch. “Hello?” she called, but only the echo of a barren room answered. Emilia was not given to female hysterics as so many of her sex were wont to display. But when she looked inside the store, she could have miraculously fainted and screamed at the same time. Every shelf, hook, and counter was barren—the store had been robbed! But it was far from empty: a windstorm had deposited half of the state of Kansas inside. Dirt was piled up against the walls and counter as deep as a New York snowbank. But instead of white water crystals, her store had been socked in with dry brown filth.

  Josiah ran up and down the mounds—this was a haven for a boy. But for Emilia, a young woman of refinement, it was the exact opposite. Oh, the regret, the humiliation! This was no promised land; it was desolation. She was ruined before she began. Exhausted beyond reasonable limits, weary from the hot train ride, and sunbaked and bruised from the wagon, she collapsed against the doorway and sobbed out loud.

  “The cottonwood seeds are about to fly,” she grieved, “and Papa and I would have danced in them like snow at Christmastime.” Clinging to the doorjamb like a sailor in a storm, she shut her eyes against the stinging regret. “The plum tree flowers are turning into fruit, and Opal and I would have made jelly, with extra sugar because they’re always tart.” Pressed against the side of the doorway, the hoop skirt bowed up against the other side, a lopsided bell, the base of the whalebone frame cracking. “Johnny and I would have run down the bank in the heat of the sun and splashed water until one of us fell into the lake.”

  How could she have willfully left Canandaigua for this inhospitable wilderness? Was this how Jeremiah felt in the bottom of the pit? How dare she compare herself to suffering prophets, but even Paul’s prison was a clean house. “I could be sitting in the parlor under the orange tree right now. What have I done?”

  Just then she looked down and would have sworn Life itself was laughing, for she spied one item the thieves had left behind: a shovel!

  Chapter 7

  Night was falling when Emilia forced herself to take the first step into her ruination. Beleaguered, she dragged the boy up the stairs in the hope of finding a clean spot to eat the last of the crackers and cheese she had purchased at the fort.

  Only days ago she had stood inside Preston Langley’s posh bank and signed where he pointed. The one document she had read was the inventory sheet. On the list were stores of canned food, which Emilia had counted on to sustain them until a personal order was placed. Now what would they eat for the next two weeks? Or would a shipment take even longer? Where was she to buy food in the meantime? The only store in Manhattan was this mercantile.

  The one reprieve in all the mess was that the small apartment over the store had been safeguarded from the storm by a secure door. Unlocking it, Emilia found a tidy room. Nerves eased as she scoped out quaint living quarters. It held a side table with a washbowl and pitcher, and a decent bed with a cheery quilt. A braided run on the floor, and a kerosene lamp mounted to the wall, finished off a plain yet tasteful room.

  The boy refused the bed, hiding under it instead. “Josiah?” she said to herself. “Darling, what kind of a life did you have on those streets?” Terrified of the dark, he refused to come out. Emilia scooted the rug under the mattress so at least he would be up off the cold floor, and he appeared thrilled, rolling himself inside it.

  Laying down on the bed, she prayed but one thing in the aching darkness, “Forgive me for not putting him on that train.”

  Emilia spent the bulk of the morning shoveling dirt until her arms gave out. “I swear, half the street is inside my store!” she exclaimed. “Perhaps I should sell the dirt back to the town,” she joked, knowing Josiah couldn’t hear but treating him like a hearing child nonetheless.

  Bless the boy’s heart, he was as helpful as he was energetic, and he rallied to Emilia’s side as soon as he saw the shovel drop. It appeared he thought himself quite a man the way he attacked the dirt with the blade.

  The blacksmith saw their plight and came with his beefy arms to help. He informed her that the townsfolk were having a day of respect as the body of the fallen president was being conveyed on a train to its final resting place in Springfield, Illinois. “I only came to the forge today to fetch a tool. I can take over here, ma’am. You and the boy head on down to the river to cool off.”

  Emilia was more than obliged to do so. At the riverbank, like an answer to prayer, she was greeted by cottonwood trees! Their seeds were swollen with tuft, like pillows about to burst at the seams. Soon they would fall like a summer snow shower, and when they did, she promised herself she would dance in it with Josiah.

  The water was clear and cold, soothing sore muscles as she bathed her arms and face. Josiah, on the other hand, stomped through the water, as if a river was the greatest invention he had ever seen. As he did, he caught sight of someone upriver and waved. Emilia leaned over the bank to get a glimpse, saw a man about her age, his face shaded by a hat. His stance and build looked familiar, but before she could get a good look, he disappeared into the trees.

  Back at the mercantile, she found that the blacksmith had removed all of the dirt and swept the floor clean. Well, at least now it no longer looked like a dump heap—just an empty store. On the counter she found a cloth napkin cradling fresh jerky and three carrots. Next to it was a note written with blunt strokes:

  Well tell women to come tamarow to hep you clean. They well be rit happy ta met you.

  Exhaustion would have been a kinder state than the one that claimed Emilia. After eating their meager but delicious dinner, she dropped into a deep stupor on the stair-case that led up to the apartment. When she woke, it was dark—and the boy was gone! Frantic, she searched the town and the river, to no avail.

  Had he run off? But then she remembered the prominent hill that stood a few hundred paces behind the store. Josiah had been eyeing it throughout the day. Frantically, she ran toward it, her skirt flapping around her heels. Panting, she charged up the hill. Once at the top, she spotted the boy’s small dark form as he sat staring up in wonder at a sky bursting with stars.

  Her first impulse was to scold him for running off. But the sight of the adorable boy brought a wave of relief, and his wonderment was contagious. She found herself gazing up at the great expanse. Out in the raw and wild and open air, standing above the dark and endless prairie below, it was as if she stood halfway between heaven and earth. Never before had she seen so many stars. Mr. Goodnow was right: they did shine out in golden splendor! The Milky Way was more vibrant, more brilliant, more resplendent than anything she had ever witnessed in her life. Here, the seeds of eternity floated in this immensity. She gasped then laughed when stars began to fly around them as a meteor shower streaked through the glittering heavens. The sight brought her down to her knees behind Josiah, and she wrapped her arms around his small shoulders. He wasn’t surprised; he must have sensed her presence. She laid her cheek on his hair and whispered, “Wish, Josiah, make a wish!”

  Suddenly, a shadow moved in the nearby brush and then stood up to the full height of a man! Emilia seized the boy and bolted upright to flee.

  “It’s only me,” the dark form exclaimed, “Cyrus Holden!”

  Instinct drove her to the bottom of the mound before the words sank in. W
hirling around, she looked back up the hill and saw his black silhouette standing against the glittering Milky Way. It would have been a marvelous sight to see any human form set off by such a backdrop, even his, but that stance…that form…it was the same as the man she had seen at the river that afternoon. This Cyrus Holden had followed her all the way to Kansas, and was spying on her! What kind of man—with what intentions—would do such a thing?

  She fled into the darkness in the direction she hoped was the mercantile, pulling little Josiah along so fast his feet hardly touched the ground. Not until she got to the store and locked the back door behind them did she pause to breathe. Chest heaving, she slid down the door into a heap on the floor, Josiah locked protectively in her arms. Stiff Emilia, the walking mannequin, began to shake.

  Just when she thought she had gathered her wits, there came a knock at the door. Emilia pressed her back against the wood, as if her petite frame could stop an intruder.

  “Miss Davis? It’s Cyrus Holden, from the church meeting in New York,” he said through the door, followed by another knock. Should she yell back, threaten him? Or remain silent and hoped he left? “I’m sorry I frightened you. Please accept my apology.”

  “I have a gun!” she shouted back through the door. Her blasted temper! But the words had already shot out of her mouth. “Did you hear me? I have a gun—and—I can use it! I will shoot you through the door if you don’t go away!”

  There was a pause before he replied, “Well, yes, you could shoot the door, but the bullet would fail to pass through the wood with sufficient velocity to stop an intruder. Such an action could be a waste of your bullet. And if you did manage to shoot me, it would be a greater waste, as I am the one person sworn to protect you.”

  Now fear took a deep curtsy to temper as she jumped to her feet and yelled, “I don’t know why you’re here, why you’re following me, Mr. Holden, but rest assured I will file a complaint against you with the peace officer of this town!” There was a pause as she rocked nervously on her heels, wondering if there even was a sheriff in this want-to-be town.

  “I would be happy to oblige you,” he answered. “I can take your complaint now, or you can come to the telegraph office in the morning where I’ve set up my desk.”

  Joints stiffened with the realization, and she stood frozen to the spot with the word what stuck on her lips. “What”—it finally shot out—“what are you talking about?”

  “Ma’am,” and by the soft hum of his voice she could tell he was leaning against the door. Oh, if only Papa hadn’t taken his revolver with him! If only she could test his little bullet-piercing-wood theory! “Mr. Goodnow hired me to be the peace officer of Manhattan.”

  Half words and chopped syllables stumbled over her tongue, and it was just as well they didn’t find a voice as they would have been unintelligible. She fell back on the only word her brain could form tonight: “What?”

  “Miss Davis, I am the peace officer. I’m sorry I frightened you. I came to tell you that it was only me on the hill.”

  “So who’s going to keep me safe from you?” she yelled back. “And what kind of peace officer has a jail in a telegraph office? What kind of a simpleton do you think I am?”

  “Ma’am, I don’t think there is anything simple about you.”

  “Well, I’m not a fool. A peace officer in a telegraph office? What would you do with your criminals? Wire their mothers to come spank them?”

  There was another pause, and she was sure he was smirking. “Uh, no, ma’am. I intend to keep the peace, not criminals. This isn’t Carson City.”

  “Well, I don’t believe you, Mr. Holden. I demand you tell me why you are following me.”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you, Miss Davis. I only meant to allay your fears. I’ll leave now. I expect I’ll see you in the morning for that complaint against me.”

  He was laughing at her! When she heard him walk away, she threw open the door. It was difficult to be enraged when he turned back, his body relaxed, a sheepish expression on his face. “I demand you answer me. Why are you following me?” In that moment she realized she had just thrown open the door to her would-be stalker. Yet irrational pride kept her from slamming it on him.

  “Begging your pardon, ma’am,” he said with that tight-lipped smile. Fear would have reasserted itself as he towered a head above her, but when he took off his hat, it signaled a gentleman in her presence. That was, until he said, “But one could say that it was you who followed me to the church meeting. I had arrived there first, after all.” How dare he? And then he dared even more. “I met Mr. Goodnow before the war, and the plans were in motion for me to come settle that very claim whereon you just trespassed. Could it not be concluded that you are following me?”

  With that she did slam the door on him.

  “Good night, Miss Davis,” he said through the door. She was sure he was tipping his hat as he said it. “If you need anything, I’ll be just down the street…with a real gun.”

  After locking the door, Emilia held the key in a trembling fist—trembling not from fear.

  Chapter 8

  A peace offering from the peace officer,” Mr. Holden said as he stood at the front door to the mercantile, presenting a tin plate of freshly cooked eggs, a loaf of bread, and two apples. Emilia was speechless.

  “This was wholly unnecessary,” Emilia exclaimed, more irritably dismayed than pleasantly surprised, for now she would have to be polite to him.

  “I was too forceful last night, Miss Davis,” he said as he handed her the offering. “I’ve spent the past two years giving orders to men, not conversing with ladies. I was a brute and wish to apologize and explain. I was originally stationed here at Fort Riley. When the war broke out, my troop was sent to Virginia.”

  “Virginia?” Emilia whispered, the name heavy on her lips.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “My fiancé fought there. His name was Asa Wilson. He fell at the battle of Cold Harbor.”

  Cyrus Holden’s throat constricted. He turned his hat in his hands as if trying to keep his balance. “We lost over six thousand there.” He as quickly redirected. “As I said last night, I had staked out a claim here before my reassignment, in the hope I would return.”

  That gave Emilia pause, realizing what he meant. He continued, his head slightly bowed as if he struggled, in vain, to not tower over her. His speech was low and careful, reflecting an apologetic tone. “When we first met in Canandaigua I had already been relieved of duty. I was required to report back here at Fort Riley and was mustered out yesterday. I wasn’t following you, Miss Davis, but I can see how it might have appeared that way.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve let my losses get the better of me,” she said. “I apologize for my untoward behavior. Thank you for the food.” How thankful she assumed he didn’t know, for this would be the only meal for the day.

  “I am deeply sorry for your losses,” he said. “As for your store, I hope you will feel comfortable filing a report of the robbery, giving me a list of what was stolen.”

  The town had come to life today, apparently the “day of respect” for President Lincoln over, and wagons, men, dogs, a runaway cow, and a pig had occupied the street this morning. Now she saw a gaggle of women heading toward the mercantile.

  “Uh, yes,” Emilia said, stunned by the sight of the entourage. “I have a copy of my inventory.” After setting the plate of food down in front of the boy, who charged at the eggs with the speed of a hawk, she retrieved the inventory sheet and handed it to him.

  “I’ll make a copy,” he said. “Could you come sign the complaint in an hour?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Emilia responded just as the older woman leading the brigade marched up onto the porch, holding an ear trumpet. It was made from an animal horn with an ivory earpiece at the point. The other women were holding buckets, mops, and rags. Mr. Holden nodded to them and departed.

  “The sewing circle meets today at the church,” the older woman announced. “But
we’ve canceled it as we’ve been informed of your arrival and demise. I’m Mrs. Vandemark.” She spoke loudly, her tongue and lips hitting every consonant with precision. She carried herself as if she were the town matriarch and made the introduction for the seven other ladies.

  The women were efficient if they were nothing else, and they had mopped and scrubbed and washed down the store, including the porch and exterior walls, before noon. As the service project came to a close, Emilia took off her work gloves and said with a flourish, “When my first shipment arrives, I will make a cake to celebrate our new life here in Manhattan, and you are all invited to join us!” But as she looked out over the gathered churchwomen, their expressions fell—none more so than Mrs. Vandemark’s.

  “Ladies,” Mrs. Vandemark announced, “we are finished here.” With that, she turned and marched out of the store. The rest of the women offered their good-byes, but their countenances were altered, and they quickly retreated to the church.

  “My,” Emilia commented to Josiah, “but they close up shop quickly, don’t they?” So what if the townswomen were a little backward in their manners? She had friends! Scooping up the boy, she whirled him in a circle on the now gleaming wooden floor.

  Chapter 9

  Had she, or Manhattan, been altered? An hour later, as Emilia walked hand in hand with the boy to the telegraph office, this place seemed to have transformed from a dingy backwater settlement to a lovely little town. The stained-glass church windows glowed in jewel tones, the open shops and offices seemed to smile, and the cheerful songs of unfamiliar birds sang out from the rooftops.

  At the telegraph office, she found a wiry little man in a printer’s apron sitting behind a desk, the telegraph machine on a table behind him. Mr. Holden was in the back of the office, seated at a battered little desk beside a cot and a wood-burning stove. When he saw her, his face brightened. He returned the inventory sheet and had her sign the complaint, written in ink.