The Secret Admirer Romance Collection

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

“You don’t want me to call you Lucky anymore?”

  He hesitated. “Your pa once wrote that the real Luke Tolliver was buried somewhere inside me, but I’ve had a hard time finding him. Thing is, you always did see past that lost kid, Lucky, and straight to the heart of the man, Luke. Just feels like a fitting change, given we’re starting a new life and all.”

  Maisie grinned. “A fitting change, indeed, Luke Tolliver.”

  Jennifer Uhlarik discovered the western genre as a preteen, when she swiped the only “horse” book she found on her older brother’s bookshelf. A new love was born. Across the next ten years, she devoured Louis L’Amour westerns and fell in love with the genre. In college at the University of Tampa, she began penning her own story of the Old West. Armed with a BA in writing, she has won five writing competitions and was a finalist in two others. In addition to writing, she has held jobs as a private business owner, a schoolteacher, a marketing director, and her favorite—a full-time homemaker. Jennifer is active in American Christian Fiction Writers and is a lifetime member of the Florida Writers Association. She lives near Tampa, Florida, with her husband, teenage son, and four fur children.

  Beside Still Waters

  by Becca Whitham

  Dedication

  For the real Sarah Maffey

  Thanks for letting me use your name and beautiful face for this heroine.

  All other resemblances are coincidental.

  Mostly.

  Acknowledgments

  I generally don’t include acknowledgments in a novella, but this story would not have happened without some very special people. I wrote this story in six days after four months of nonstop deadlines. My creativity was drained. Darcie Gudger helped breathe life into flat characters; Kim Woodhouse “fluffed” my terse prose; and Karen Ball edited out the dry stuff, fixing it by writing many of the best parts. I must also thank my long-suffering husband, Nathan. He cleaned house, went grocery shopping, and made dinner over and over and over again. A few friends came to the rescue with dinners and gifts: notably Michelle Samples, Rachel Harrison, and Julie McCammon, all of them fellow chaplain spouses stationed at Fort Wainwright, Alaska. And I was blessed by countless prayer warriors. I owe them all a huge debt of gratitude. I also want to thank Becky Germany at Barbour Publishing for letting me add a little twist to my secret admirer.

  Prologue

  Boston, Massachusetts

  May 1901

  You’ll be the most beautiful bride Boston has ever seen, Miss Maffey.”

  Sarah twisted to see the back of her wedding dress in the full-length mirror. Although the saleswoman, Mrs. Robertson, was prone to flattery, she wasn’t entirely wrong…about the dress at least. It was a masterful creation of creamy satin, lace applique, and decorative pleating worthy of the exorbitant price tag.

  “Here.” Mrs. Robertson held out a wide-brimmed hat trimmed in matching lace and sporting an enormous tulle rose on the side. “Put this on for the complete picture.”

  Sarah fit the hat over her brown hair, a smile spreading across her face. “It’s quite lovely.”

  “Yes. Such a shame Miss Hensley isn’t here to see it.”

  Sarah frowned. It was rather odd of Trudy to miss the last dress fitting when, as maid of honor, she’d been to all the previous appointments. “I’ll have my driver take me by her house on the way home so I can show her.”

  “So you don’t need any further alterations, miss?” Mrs. Robertson held out a hand and helped Sarah descend from the fitting room dais.

  “No. This is perfect.” Sarah removed the hat and returned it. “Please have everything boxed up and carried out to the car.”

  “I’m so glad you’re satisfied. I’ll send Eliza in to help you remove the dress.”

  Sarah pressed her hands against her waist. “I almost hate to take it off. I feel quite pretty in it.”

  Mrs. Robertson’s kind smile warmed Sarah. “You’re beautiful in it, Miss Maffey, because you’re a beautiful person. I know you don’t want to hear me say it again, but thank you for your kindness to my Jenny. She’s still talking about the delicious lemon tarts you made special for her.”

  Sarah ducked her head, embarrassment heating her cheeks. “It was nothing.”

  The dressmaker placed the hat on a nearby chair then stepped forward to take both of Sarah’s hands. “No, Miss Maffey, it was a gift of your time, talent, and mostly your attention. Not many great ladies bother to notice those less fortunate. My Jenny may never walk, but her spirit soared when you came to visit. My entire family will never forget it.”

  Such a small thing to engender so much gratitude…and vexation. Eugene had lectured her for five minutes about coddling the lower class, while Trudy—where was she?—stood beside him, nodding her approval. They grumbled like Sarah had served hundred-dollar bills instead of pastries.

  She shook off the memory. “It was my pleasure. I love lemon tarts myself, so it was a joy to make them and share with friends.”

  Mrs. Robertson squeezed Sarah’s hands then whirled around and grabbed the bridal hat on her way out of the fitting room. “Eliza, come help Miss Maffey, please.”

  Thirty minutes later, dress box tucked under her arm, Sarah knocked on the door of the Hensleys’ red-bricked brownstone. No one answered, but she heard voices overhead and leaned back enough to see that Trudy’s bedroom window was open. Was the slugabed just now waking up? It was eleven o’clock in the morning. Sarah opened the door, sneaking in like she’d done a hundred times before, to creep up the stairs and surprise her friend.

  She was about to turn the doorknob when she heard a man’s voice inside Trudy’s room. A voice that sounded like—could it be?—Eugene! Sarah snatched her hand off the brass knob, her breathing shallow and rapid. Her fiancé and best friend alone together…in a bedroom!

  A shudder rippled down her spine. Her lungs filled with shock, leaving too little room for air. Images of them laughing, standing side by side, and sharing whispers filled her mind. She’d thought it wonderful that the two people she loved most got along so well. Had she been a fool? Had they been lovers all along?

  Sarah pressed a fist against her lips to keep from crying out and leaned closer to the door, inexorably drawn to discover the worst.

  Eugene’s voice came through the wood, muffled but distinguishable. “…got it in her head to move from Boston. Some nonsense about fresh air.”

  Nonsense? Was he talking about her idea to put their names into the Oklahoma Land Lottery? He’d called it a brilliant idea. Agreed it would be good for them to make their own way instead of relying so heavily on their parents. Said he couldn’t wait to build their little castle on the plains.

  Why would he lie to her?

  “What did you say?” Sarah pictured her best friend—her former best friend—with both hands pressed against her ample chest, blue eyes wide. Was Trudy’s blond hair pinned up…or falling about her shoulders?

  “Exactly what you said I should—whatever it took to keep her happy.”

  “That’s good, Gene. Flattery is your best friend right now.”

  Sarah’s stomach hardened beneath her corset. Trudy wasn’t some innocent taken in by a handsome face. She was orchestrating this betrayal.

  “Where does Sarah want you to go?” Even through the wood, the calculating tone in Trudy’s voice was clear.

  “Does it matter?” Eugene sounded more like a nine-year-old brat than a twenty-five-year-old banker. “My tailor is here. My club is here. You are here.”

  Tailor first, club second, then his—what?—mistress? If Sarah wasn’t so heartbroken, she’d find his priority order comical.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Sarah bent nearer, her ear touching the white-painted wood.

  “Same thing I’ve been doing these past six months. I’ll pander to her vanity until we’re officially married and her inheritance is under my control. Then you and I can finally be free of her.”

  Everything inside Sarah stopped—h
er heart, her lungs, the blood pumping in her veins—then roared back to life, pulsing pain and outrage through her body.

  “Oh, Gene. You’re so smart.” There was a rustling that, in Sarah’s imagination, sounded like bedcovers, but could be stiff petticoats under a skirt. “I’m so lucky to be your mistress.”

  The scandalous confirmation snapped the dreadful curiosity rooting Sarah’s feet to the floor. She reeled around to flee, not caring that the dress box under her arm smacked against the wall, alerting the traitors to her presence.

  A moment later, Trudy’s bedroom door slammed open.

  Proof was worse than imagination. Eugene was shirtless, his dark chest hairs tangled across his pasty skin like the underside of a beginner’s embroidery project. Trudy, her hair mussed, clutched a bedsheet beneath bare shoulders.

  In a haze of bitterness and grief, Sarah ran down the steps and out the door, ignoring calls for her to stop, be reasonable, and not make a fuss.

  A fuss!

  They wanted to downgrade this…this treachery to a fuss?

  Sarah thrust the wedding dress box into Jenson’s hands and picked up her skirts to scramble into the Stanley Steamer. “Take me home. Hurry!”

  “Yes, miss.” He handed her back the box then climbed into the seat beside her. He reached below his seat to press gauges and levers, bringing the steam engine to life, and pulled into traffic.

  Sarah clutched the box against her chest like a shield, tears streaming down her cheeks. Humiliation squeezed her heart with merciless fingers. She choked on the sobs juddering inside her chest.

  Trudy and Eugene. For as long as she lived, Sarah would picture them deshabillé. A bitter laugh ripped open her tight throat. Mother once said five years of French lessons would come in handy someday. Yes, quite handy…to refer to something base and vile and crushing.

  Sarah swiped at the tears heating her cheeks, transferring the evidence of her misery to her butter-colored kid gloves. Wet splotches stained the pink satin bow tied around her dress box. She ducked her chin, reviling herself for displaying her mortification the entire six blocks between the Hensleys’ brownstone in Louisburg Square and the Maffey mansion on Cambridge Street.

  The moment Jenson stopped next to the sandstone portico and set the brake, Sarah jumped from the automobile and rushed inside. She threw the box on the parquet floor in her haste to find her father.

  “Daddy? Where are you?” She ran toward his study.

  “I’m in here, princess.”

  The endearment threatened to break her tenuous hold on the tears.

  The mahogany doors to his study were wide open. As she rounded into the tobacco-scented room, she saw her father set the phone handset into its cradle. She tripped on the edge of the Persian rug, catching herself by bracing both hands against his massive desk. “Who—who was that?”

  Daddy smoothed his salt-and-pepper goatee. “Eugene.”

  She wouldn’t cry. Not again. Not at the mere mention of the reprobate’s name. “What did he want?”

  “To warn me that you might be a tad upset when you got home. It appears he spoke truth.” The clipped diction expressed his displeasure. His blue eyes scanned her from head to waist, indicating it was with her.

  She latched on to what Eugene had said. “A tad upset? I find my fiancé half-naked in my best friend’s bedroom, and he thinks I’ll only be a tad upset?”

  “Be reasonable, Sarah.”

  Her knees buckled and she grabbed onto the desk again before she fell down. “What are you saying? That it’s reasonable for the man I’m about to marry to be unfaithful?”

  Daddy huffed. “When did you become so dramatic? Of course it was wrong for Eugene to choose your friend as his paramour and not to exercise discretion, but honestly, princess. A man needs an outlet.”

  The room rippled. She couldn’t breathe. If she didn’t sit, she’d fall down. She waved a hand behind her back until she felt an armrest and sank into the leather chair. “He…she…they’re after my inheritance.”

  Daddy rested his interlocked hands on the desktop. “You’re Sarah Maffey. Every man in Boston is after your inheritance.”

  Rage swirled in her chest. At Eugene and Trudy. At her father. At every man in Boston. “Then I’ll move to Oklahoma.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  His huff drove the knife further into her chest. Why wasn’t he exasperated with Eugene? Why her? She was his daughter!

  Her spine stiffened. “I’m not being ridiculous. I’ve been researching all about homesteading.” In preparation for moving there with Eugene, but that hardly mattered now. “Did you know there’s a company in New York that will sell you a house as a kit? Everything is pre-cut. All you have to do is assemble it.”

  “And then what will you do? Entertain Indians and soldiers?” His mockery fueled her anger and resolve. “If you decide not to marry Eugene—although I don’t see that you’ll do better—I will support you. But I’ll never release your inheritance if you run off half-demented to Oklahoma.”

  Weightlessness took over every limb—as though she had landed so hard, she’d bounced and now hung suspended in midair. Over the haze of hurt. Above the confusion. “I have the ten thousand dollars Mother left me. I’m sure that would go a long way in Oklahoma. There’s to be a land lottery in August. If I win, I can claim a full forty acres. If I don’t win, I’m sure someone will be willing to sell me their plot. I hear that’s quite a common practice.”

  The more she thought about it, the better she liked the idea. Forty acres without a single Boston man in sight? Perfect!

  Her breathing settled into an even rhythm. “I’m not a complete stranger to homesteading.” Mother’s parents had claimed land in Montana Territory, striking gold and turning into millionaires almost overnight. They’d returned to Boston for Grandfather’s health, but Grandmother still told stories of their homesteading days. “Three months is plenty of time for Grandmother Novak to teach me how to stake a claim.”

  “A little money and a smidgeon of research are poor substitutes for common sense.” Father reached his hand across his desk. “Stop bluffing, princess. A woman alone would never succeed at homesteading.”

  Ignoring his proffered hand, Sarah rose from the chair and willed her legs to hold. Was she bluffing? No…no, she wasn’t. She would do it!

  “We’ll see about that.”

  Chapter 1

  Fort Sill, Oklahoma

  Land Lottery Claim Office

  August 2, 1901

  John Tyler studied the map hanging on the canvas wall of the land claim tent. Good acreage near East Cache Creek was still available since most of the land lottery winners had chosen lots in what would be the new city of Lawton, Oklahoma. Two more numbers before his.

  Water was the key, both for his own needs and the needs of those downstream. He’d suffered enough abuse at the hands of his upstream neighbors in Texas, and he was never going to let it happen again. Not to him, and not to anyone else if he could prevent it.

  “Twenty-four!”

  John turned away from the map. An older man in faded overalls limped toward the land agent’s table, his hand clenched around rolled paper. Greedy eyes followed him. The tent was full of every class and color of men and a smattering of women. How many of them were ticket holders, and how many were hoping to steal their way into a claim? Although every lottery ticket listed the name, age, and occupation of its owner, most folks—like the limping man—held their ticket and birth certificate or proof of citizenship together. Stealing both was as easy as stealing one.

  John’s ticket was inside the toe of his right sock, and his birth certificate was folded inside the left one. They’d stink, but they were safe.

  He rested his right hand on the Colt .45 strapped to his hip. In his days as a Texas Ranger, he’d seen avarice maim and kill far more than he cared to count. Anyone who wanted to steal a lottery ticket would have to go through him first.

  “C’mon, darlin’. I’d mak
e ya a good husband.”

  “Don’t listen to him. I’m the man you want. See here? Muscles.”

  John diverted his attention. A whole passel of men—one of them flexing a stringy bicep—surrounded an enormous hat decorated with all kinds of frilly nonsense. Presumably there was a woman under it, but why would anyone wear her Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes inside a tent filled with grimy, sweating bodies on a day hot enough to fry chicken?

  “Get away from me,” the feminine voice squeaked.

  After checking to see that Twenty-four was safely seated at the land agent’s table, John edged closer to the pack of jackals surrounding the woman.

  “Don’t be huffy, lady. I just wants to take good care of you.” The man was sixty if he was a day.

  “You don’t know how to take care of nothin’.” The skinny guy who’d been flexing his bicep rolled down his red shirtsleeve and leaned nearer the hat. “I know how to make a woman purr with—”

  “Hey!” John grabbed the guy’s skeletal arm before he could spout whatever foul thing he’d been about to say. “That’s enough out of you.”

  “Git your hand offa me!” The skinny man jerked free, hitting a man behind him in the chin. That man stumbled back, knocking another string bean of a man sideways.

  Oops.

  Fists and swearing cut through the air, rippling outward in circles of mayhem. John elbowed his way toward the hat while keeping one hand on his Colt.

  “Let me go, you cretin!” Hat Woman screeched. “No! That’s mine! Give it back!”

  Pushing through the last bodies between him and the hat, John grabbed hold of a loutish forty-something man who was fighting off delicate hands trying to pry his pudgy fingers off a lottery ticket.

  “I said, give it back!”

  A flying fist knocked the hat sideways.

  Dark hair, blue eyes, pretty features. The woman was in her early twenties at the most. John took in her features while wrestling with the varmint who’d stolen her ticket. The ham-fisted man fell, taking John and Hat Woman with him. Odd that a man was stealing a woman’s ticket, but perhaps he had a wife or daughter nearby to pass off as the ticket holder.