by Lisa Plumley
Then, quickly bored with ordinary propriety, she walked like a very fancy lady, with her nose in the air. Élodie held up her arm, the better to wield her imaginary fringed parasol. Then, bored with that too, she tried walking like a saloon girl.
Fancifully, she pushed her skirts to and fro. She batted her eyelashes, giving the passersby wide, winsome smiles.
“Élodie,” Papa asked, “are you feeling all right?”
“I’m fine, Papa! Just fine,” she assured him.
“Good. I thought maybe you had a pebble in your shoe.”
He meant because of her sashaying, side-to-side walk, Élodie reckoned. “Nope! I’m just excited to get to Mrs. Archer’s place. We’re planning a surprise today, at Mr. Walsh’s raffle!”
Breathlessly, she peeked at him, wondering if he’d catch her hint. But her father only took her hand, then kept walking.
Élodie didn’t mind. Soon enough, Papa would realize the truth—that she and Mrs. Archer had devised a clever plan to assure her papa’s happy future. Today was the day that future was set to start happening, and Élodie could hardly wait.
Her papa’s part-time housekeeper, Mrs. Sunley, had helped her and Mrs. Archer conceive of their clever plan. So had his laundress, Miss O’Neill, and his other neighbor, Miss Reardon.
All four women were very interested in making sure Papa was happy. Élodie thought that was mighty generous of them. Caring, too. But then, her papa was the best man in all the territory. Of course his friends and neighbors wanted him to be happy!
Although Élodie hadn’t admitted as much to her papa, the plan was the main reason she’d requested her special pigtails today. Even though her braids had turned out a bit lopsided, with pieces of hair sticking out in a few places, she’d been well pleased with them. It was important to Élodie that she look her very best for this momentous occasion—for the event that would ensure her papa’s future happiness. By the time she saw Papa at the end of today, he would be well on his way to his new contented life. Even if he didn’t know it yet.
In response to Papa’s knock, Mrs. Archer opened her front door and greeted Élodie’s papa with a smile, then gave Élodie a wink.
“Are you ready for an exciting day, Élodie?” she asked.
“Oh, yes! I am!” Élodie vowed, nearly dancing in place.
Her papa entered the house. He had to angle his shoulders sideways to fit comfortably through the narrow doorway, with Élodie and Mrs. Archer trailing in his wake. As was his custom, Papa set Élodie’s satchel on Mrs. Archer’s front-room table.
“You have an exciting day in mind?” he asked politely.
Mrs. Archer waved. “Oh, you know… Just that Pioneer Press shindig down at the train depot. That’s all. Right, Élodie?”
Eagerly, Élodie agreed. Her papa didn’t seem to appreciate the significance of Mrs. Archer’s comment. He only nodded, already seeming absorbed in whatever tasks he had to tend to.
“You have a nice time then,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”
“At the train depot?” Mrs. Archer prompted, brows lifted.
But Papa only shrugged, still appearing preoccupied. He had big responsibilities, Élodie knew. He was never much for sociable small talk, in any case. Mrs. Sunley was of the opinion that Papa had been too long without the “civilizing effects” of “a good woman” and had forgotten how to engage in polite conversation.
Élodie had disagreed, on account that she was “a good woman”—at least in miniature—and Papa did talk with her. But all four of the older ladies had demurred. To a woman, they all believed Papa needed a wife. Sooner rather than later.
“I do hope you’ll be there, Mr. Cooper. At the train depot, I mean,” Mrs. Archer hinted further. “It could be quite a scintillating event! Aren’t you even the least bit curious to find out who’s going to win the raffle drawing?”
Papa didn’t even ask which raffle drawing.
“Nope. Not the least bit curious.” In his usual somber but kindhearted way, he nodded at Élodie. “Behave yourself now.”
“I will! Bye, Papa! I hope you’ll come to the depot.”
Élodie raised herself on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. Just as he always did, Papa immediately touched his clean-shaven jaw, as though trying to hold on to her kiss before it vanished. Élodie doubted Papa knew he did that. She’d mentioned it to him once, only to be greeted by a blank stare and a gruff fatherly denial.
With confident footsteps, her papa headed for the door. He didn’t look back, but Élodie didn’t mind. She knew he would miss her while they were apart. She didn’t need a bunch of hugging and fussing to be reminded of it. That’s what Élodie had told one of her friends from school one time, and she believed it.
Goodbye for now, mon petit chou, she imagined her maman saying to her, had she lived to see Élodie as she was now, growing tall and elegant.
It might have been nice, Élodie thought longingly, to have been fussed over once or twice. Just to experience it, in the same way she experienced mud puddles and rainbows and, every autumn, the first delicious apples of the season. Nothing more.
That wasn’t so much to ask, was it?
The front door shut behind Papa. His footfalls clonked down the steps. The moment the sound dissipated, Mrs. Archer turned to Élodie with her hands pressed together. She gave Élodie a coconspirator’s grin, her eyes dancing with anticipation.
“Well! He doesn’t seem to suspect a thing, does he?” Mrs. Archer’s smile broadened. “Not even after those hints I gave!”
Again, Élodie felt compelled to come to her papa’s defense.
“Well, his mind is usually very full of chores and rules for good behavior.” Both Élodie’s behavior and his own, she suspected. “So I doubt there’s much room for picking up hints. Papa has lots of important business to tend to, you know.”
“Yes. As do we!” With a gentle hand, Mrs. Archer shepherded Élodie to her tidy kitchen, where their fellow schemers—Mrs. Sunley and the Misses O’Neill and Reardon—were already waiting by the stove. “Come along, then! There’s more still to be done!”
Happily, Élodie complied. Grabbing her satchel, she took her place at the table with the other women. She wanted today’s plan to go off without a single hitch. For Papa’s sake.
And—just a smidge—for her own sake, too.
Because if this plan didn’t work, Élodie didn’t know what to try next. She was running out of ideas. Whatever else happened, she did not want to run out of hopefulness too…the way Papa seemed to have done. His happiness relied on this plan.
That meant Élodie had to succeed. No matter what.
At the train depot in Flagstaff, Daisy hurried along the platform, finished with her last obligatory talk. Things had gone well with the members of the ladies’-auxiliary club, but Daisy still felt troubled by the detour she wouldn’t be making to Morrow Creek. She’d promised Thomas she’d arrive today.
“Perhaps I should send my brother a telegram,” she ventured, trotting to keep up with her manager. “Otherwise, he’s bound to wonder what’s happened to me.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much about that.” Conrad offered her a preoccupied smile. He peered at the railway schedule. “For all you know, he’s forgotten about your visit altogether. You’re not the center of the world, you know, Daisy. Here. Hold these.”
He handed her a bundle of items—his overcoat, a pair of leftover cookery books that hadn’t sold at the ladies’ group she’d spoken to, a fancy placard advertising her talk and an easel to place the placard on. Wounded by his suggestion that her brother might have forgotten her, Daisy accepted them all. Perhaps Thomas had forgotten her. He had been curiously evasive in his last letter, Daisy recalled, regarding his specific plans to meet her at the Morrow Creek train depot…
“Ah, yes. There it is!” Spying the correct train, her tour manager guided Daisy across the platform. Although ordinarily Conrad took pains to be gentlemanly, it didn’t seem to occur to him to take back the items he
’d entrusted her with. “Our train to San Diego awaits—and at the end of it, my new assignment!”
Silently, Daisy dogged his footsteps. She didn’t want to lose sight of Conrad. He’d managed all their travel thus far, appropriately shielding her from the logistical and financial details. Women, he’d told her, weren’t rational enough to manage such things for themselves. Barker & Bowles agreed with him. That’s why Conrad made their travel plans and collected all her money himself, taking out his agreed-upon percentage, of course.
“Well?” Conrad prompted in a slightly perturbed tone. “Aren’t you even going to ask me to whom I’ve been as signed?”
Halfheartedly, Daisy obliged.
“It’s Astair Prestell!” Conrad crowed. “The man himself!”
Daisy recognized the name. Astair Prestell packed lecture halls the world over. This was a momentous step up for Conrad.
“Congratulations!” Momentarily, Daisy forgot about her own concerns. She gave her tour manager a genuine smile. “That’s certainly more prestigious than escorting a cookery-book author across the country.”
“I’ll say it is!” Eagerly, Conrad eyed the waiting train. “It’s about time, too! I’ve slogged through the worst assignments while waiting for an opportunity like this one.”
While Daisy pondered the potentially insulting implications of that statement, her tour manager boarded the train. Wholly unaffected by her undoubtedly creased brow and morose demeanor, he offered her his hand to help her up. Through force of habit, Daisy took it, still awkwardly holding on to the items in her possession as she ascended into the dimness of the train car.
Once aboard, she immediately felt faintly nauseated. The train wasn’t even in motion yet! Whatever was wrong with her?
It was almost as though her entire being was rebelling at being denied an opportunity to visit her brother. But mutiny was hardly Daisy’s forte. Wasn’t her presence on the San Diego–bound train proof enough of that? If only she had more courage…
“You’ll make sure Barker & Bowles assigns me a new tour escort once we arrive in San Diego, won’t you?” she pressed. “Perhaps my new escort will allow me to double back to Morrow Creek—to allow a short break before my tour resumes.”
“Perhaps.” Irritably, Conrad snatched away her placard, easel and unsold books, leaving her with his overcoat. “Frankly, Daisy, there’s no point hectoring me about it. Once I reach San Diego and meet Mr. Prestell at the Horton House Hotel, you and your cookery book won’t be my problem to deal with anymore.”
Surprised, Daisy gaped at him. She was…a problem?
Grudgingly, Conrad’s expression softened. “I’m sorry. I really should try harder to remember how oversensitive you are.”
Daisy lifted her chin, trying her best to rise above that flaw. Instead, she only demonstrated another one: stubbornness. “I want to go to Morrow Creek, Conrad. I promised I would, and I’m going to.” Clearly, she had to look out for herself from here on. “So if you’ll give me my allotment of today’s speaking fees, please, I’ll just disembark and buy my own ticket.”
Her first attempt at independence didn’t go well.
“Give you your ‘allotment’?” Conrad chuckled. “Impossible.”
“It’s my money, isn’t it?” Daisy crossed her arms. “And I’m capable of buying a train ticket. I’m a grown woman.”
“You’re not acting like one. You’re acting like a petulant child.” Conrad spoke in measured tones, as though rationing out his patience by the dollop. He sighed, shaking his head. “Don’t be daft, Daisy. You won’t last a day without me telling you where to go and what to do. You know that as well as I do.”
“Are you refusing to give me my earnings?”
Conrad’s expression of incredulity was impressive. “Yes. I couldn’t forgive myself if you spent the whole lot on bonnets.”
“Bonnets?” At that, her book-tour manager finally pushed her too far. Squaring her shoulders, Daisy lifted her chin. “I have enough bonnets, Conrad. What I don’t have is freedom—the freedom to keep my word to my brother!”
Fueled by righteous indignation, Daisy headed for the train car’s door. She reached it. Still holding Conrad’s overcoat—and all of the day’s earnings she’d tardily realized were still in its pockets—she yanked open the door.
She might regret this…but she’d regret staying put even more. She knew that now. Thomas was depending on her!
“Goodbye, Conrad,” Daisy said, feeling quite magnificent and brave and giddy as she did so. “And good luck to you!”
She stepped through the opening, onto the platform.
As she landed, unsteadily, she couldn’t imagine what the future might hold. But it had to be better than this—better than broken promises. Better than criticism. Better than lies.
Better, even, than the sight of Conrad’s startled face, gawking fishlike at her through the window. Upon glimpsing his patently surprised expression, Daisy almost laughed.
An instant later, the train left the station.
For the first time ever, she was entirely on her own.
Chapter Four
Standing in the shadowy recesses of his stable, Owen drew in a deep, hay-scented breath. He wiped his brow on his sleeve, then squinted at the busy street that fronted his business.
Outside, horses and wagons shuttled past, kicking up dust and causing a ruckus. Passersby dodged the traffic and went about their dealings, moving in groups of twos or threes. A scraggly-bearded man strode down the street with a clear sense of purpose, holding a half-full bottle of cheap Old Orchard whiskey and a copy of the Pioneer Press.
Hmm. That was, it occurred to Owen, the umpteenth copy of the newspaper he’d glimpsed today. That was peculiar. Because while Adam Crabtree’s broadsheet was popular, it wasn’t typically read by wild-eyed loners just in from the surrounding mountains. Owen had glimpsed at least a dozen such men—miners and trappers and vagabonds—in the few hours since noon.
All of them had been carrying copies of the Pioneer Press.
Curious about that anomaly, Owen gave the horse he’d been grooming a few reassuring words, then a pat on the withers. The beast shifted, then nuzzled him with its big old head. The gesture caught Owen off guard. It almost made him smile.
Then a pair of customers rode into the stable, looking for boarding for their horses, and Owen forgot all about that foolish notion, lickety-split. Owen didn’t need smiling. He needed money to ensure Élodie’s future. Money to make certain she’d never rely on a wastrel like him. Money to protect her.
Money to be there if Owen couldn’t be…the way Renée couldn’t be. He couldn’t risk Élodie’s future for anything.
The only way to get that money was to work hard for it. Fortunately, today had brought an unusually large number of people to his stable—people like the two men waiting for him.
Briefly, Owen considered wondering about the uptick in his stable business, then dismissed the idea. Things generally picked up in summertime. That wasn’t uncommon. When the weather was agreeable, people liked to get out. They liked to travel and visit the neighboring towns, where they required boarding for their horses during their overnight stays.
Even Mrs. Archer, he recalled, had a trip coming up soon. She’d be leaving Morrow Creek to visit her sister in Avalanche, she’d warned him, and wouldn’t be able to watch Élodie. He’d have to make other arrangements for the duration of her absence.
Too late, it occurred to Owen that he hadn’t made such arrangements yet. Damnation. He’d grown accustomed to relying on Mrs. Archer for Élodie’s care. But surely another of the women in town would look after his daughter for him. It was rare, indeed, that any of the local ladies refused Owen a favor.
One of the men tipped his hat. “Afternoon. You Cooper?”
“I am.” Owen nodded. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ll need a night’s boarding.” The man dismounted, then withdrew something from his saddlebags—a much-read copy of the Pioneer P
ress newspaper. An impressive firearm swung from the holster on his hip. “Maybe more, if I win the raffle.” He winked. “With my luck, I’m bound to win it.”
“The hell you are!” The man’s companion—sporting a pair of shooters himself, along with a sheathed knife—waved his own creased and folded copy of the Pioneer Press. “I aim to win me that bride for a week! I plan to work her but good.”
His friend gave a ribald chuckle. “That’s my idea—to put my bride straight to ‘work.’ But I reckon she’ll like it.”
At a loss to figure out what they were talking about and not liking their bawdy tone, Owen frowned. “Mind if I see that broadsheet of yours?” He held out his hand. “I haven’t been following the raffle, but you’ve made me plumb curious.”
“Not at all, Cooper. You aiming to enter the drawing?”
Making a noncommittal sound, Owen took the newspaper. Whatever was going on in town today, it had to be described in the paper. If Owen didn’t miss his guess, it had to be Thomas Walsh’s doing, too.
When that scholarly easterner had assumed editorship of the Pioneer Press, he’d instituted some pretty outlandish changes. He’d launched some crazy promotions and contests, too. But none of those schemes had been as nonsensical—and as potentially harmful—as the “raffle drawing” Owen read about next.
He handed back the man’s newspaper. “Thanks for the loan of your broadsheet. My helper will take care of your horses.”
With a shout, Owen summoned Gus. His stableman came at a run. Gus ably assessed the situation, then promised to take charge of the horses and ensure they were stabled properly.
“Much obliged, Gus.” Owen grabbed his hat from its hook. He stuck it on his head, then nodded a goodbye to his latest customers. “Gentlemen—” On the verge of saying more, Owen stopped. Good luck would have been polite and expected, but he couldn’t muster up the sentiment. Not given what he now knew about the raffle drawing—and these men’s intentions toward its “prize.” Instead, Owen settled on, “May the best man win.”
