by Lisa Plumley
This was quite a welcome! The lady nearest Daisy, she noticed, waved a book in the air. So did the lady beside her. That book was…the New Book of Cookery and General Home Keeping: with Recipes and Formulas for All Occasions, Both Informal and Grand? But that was certainly strange. Why would someone bring her cookery book to greet a famous person?
Before Daisy could quite make sense of it, Thomas popped up from between two of those book-toting ladies. He came forward. At once, his beloved face seemed both as familiar as Daisy had remembered and as subtly altered as she’d anticipated. He looked a bit older than she remembered, of course. And also, to her gratification, much, much happier. Evidently, living in the Wild West agreed with him. So did abandoning his razor.
“Thomas! You have such big whiskers!” Daisy blurted.
“Yes. They’re all the rage here.” Abashedly, her brother rubbed his sideburns. “And you—Let me look at you!” Grinning from ear to ear, Thomas took her hands in his. He stepped back a pace, examining Daisy as she stood on the train car’s steps. He sighed, shaking his head. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Daisy.”
“No, you are.” Suddenly feeling quite overcome, Daisy hugged him to her. Tears pricked her eyes as she felt her brother’s lean, familiar frame in her arms again—as she felt his fine wavy hair against her cheek. In that moment, her journey to reach him felt very long, indeed. “I’ve missed you so much.”
She’d been too long without her family, Daisy realized. Too long without the kind of simple joyfulness that being with Thomas brought her. “But what is all this fuss about?” Speaking in a fascinated undertone, Daisy released him. She allowed Thomas to escort her down the train car’s steps to the platform. The people nearby moved back to give them room. “I imagine there was someone famous on the train? There must have been, given all this!”
She gestured at the signs, the banners, the band.
“Yes! Isn’t it wonderful?” her brother exclaimed. “You’re right, too—there was someone famous on the train.”
Thomas gave an impish smile, his face creased in that very particular way she remembered, the way that foretold mischief of some kind. Her brother had a long history of getting in over his head with some project or other. Daisy couldn’t imagine what sort of project he might have embarked upon here in the Arizona Territory. Nonetheless, she felt her stomach somersault in anticipation of whatever her brother would reveal next.
“I guessed as much,” she confided. “It must be someone very well-known, too.” She wondered why they weren’t yet walking across the platform, headed for Thomas’s boardinghouse room or maybe a nearby restaurant or hotel. Then she realized that her brother undoubtedly wanted to glimpse Morrow Creek’s famous visitor, too. “It’s funny that we’ve arrived on the same train, isn’t it?” she asked him. “Do you know who it is?”
“You truly can’t guess?” Thomas asked, full of devilry.
“I honestly can’t.” Inquisitively, Daisy looked around. “Don’t keep me in suspense, though! I’m as interested in famous figures as the next person. By the time you quit this guessing game, she might already have left the train depot.”
She craned her neck, searching more diligently.
“I assure you, she will not have left the train depot.”
“How do you know that? Honestly, Thomas, you’re being so mysterious all of a sudden. If you don’t want to tell me—”
Her brother chuckled. “It’s you, of course! You, Daisy!”
“Me?” Baffled, Daisy looked around again. At once, those welcome banners seemed slightly surreal. They did, upon closer inspection, bear her name, she realized dazedly. So did the painted signs hung on the bunting-decorated depot building. That implausible sight, combined as it was with the presence of the nearby women who toted copies of her cookery book… Well, the situation seemed plain all of a sudden, if a bit ridiculous.
Stupefied, she said, “But I’m not famous, Thomas.”
“Of course you are! You’re a published author, aren’t you?”
Only by the grace of Barker & Bowles…and their representative, Conrad Parish, Daisy knew. “Yes,” she agreed.
“And you’re a popular, respected home-keeping expert who’s spent nearly the past year on a sold-out, cross-country speaking-engagements tour, aren’t you?”
A tour that’s suddenly come to an unexpected and abrupt stop, Daisy recalled guiltily. “That’s true,” she agreed. “But—”
“But nothing. I won’t hear any more disagreement.” Proudly, Thomas puffed out his chest. He hooked his thumbs in his suit vest. “There’s no denying that your public is interested in meeting you, especially here in Morrow Creek. See?”
As proof, he gestured at the crowd. At the painted signs. At the band. As though interpreting his movement as a request, the players launched into an even more rollicking tune. All of them watched Daisy while the band played, eyes sparkling. Even the brass-instrument players, with their cheeks puffed full of air, seemed downright overjoyed to be playing in Daisy’s honor.
“If this isn’t a welcome fit for a famous person,” her brother said, beaming, “then I certainly don’t know what is!”
“But…” Daisy swallowed past a new lump in her throat. She clutched Conrad’s stolen overcoat, feeling like a veritable hoaxer. “But I don’t deserve all this, Thomas. Truly, I don’t.”
“You’re the famous Daisy Walsh! You do deserve it!”
Even as Daisy tried to come to terms with that notion, an unfamiliar woman pushed her way through the assemblage. Dark-haired and vivacious, she took her place quite confidently next to Thomas. Gently, she took his arm, then smiled at Daisy.
“Thomas simply wants everyone to know how proud of you he is,” the woman said. “He’s been writing about you for weeks in the Pioneer Press, you know. We’re all quite familiar with you.”
“I feel as if I know you!” another woman put in. “Al ready!”
“Me too!” a third woman agreed, waving her book. “Mr. Walsh printed several of your recipes in the newspaper, and I’ve made every last one! Those dishes were absolutely delicious!”
Overwhelmed, Daisy smiled at them. But her knees felt shaky, and that old enemy, queasiness, threatened her, too.
More people pressed in, all of them eager to meet her.
Standing by, almost buffeted by the crowd, Thomas gazed at Daisy kindly. Then he seemed to remember the woman at his arm. Hurriedly but generously, he made the necessary introductions.
“Daisy, I’d like you to meet Miss Mellie Reardon.” He indicated the dark-haired woman. “And her friend, Miss O’Neill.”
Miss O’Neill was the second woman who’d spoken up. Holding fast to her cookery book, she gushed, “We can’t wait for the raffle drawing! It’s going to be the event of the year!”
“Raffle drawing?” Daisy asked, increasingly mystified.
“Yes. The welcome party isn’t the only surprise I’ve arranged for you!” For the first time, Thomas appeared slightly unsure of himself. He shifted in place. “You see, thanks to all my high praise of you and your book in my newspaper, you have quite an avid following here in Morrow Creek.”
Uncertainly, Daisy bit her lip. Conrad’s earlier warning echoed in her ears: 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.
“And, well, one thing led quite naturally to another! So when you decided to come to Morrow Creek for a visit with me—” Thomas seized her hands again. His gaze pleaded with her to understand. In a rush, he said, “I sort of, very accidentally, arranged to raffle off a series of lessons with you, with the prize to go to one lucky winner in town.”
“Lessons?” Daisy asked. “With me?”
“Lessons. With you.” In an adorably abashed fashion, her brother ended his hasty speech. Still clutching her hands, he peered into Daisy’s face as though gauging her reaction.
Unfortunately, Daisy felt too dumbstruck to speak.
“Do you mind?” Thoma
s said. “I’m so sorry, Daisy, if this is too much to ask of you. After all, you are here for a family visit. So if you’d rather not do this at all, I understand.”
Indecisively, Daisy gazed at her brother. He seemed so hopeful, caught on such tenterhooks, that she couldn’t bear to refuse him. Especially not in front of all his friends and neighbors. Especially not in front of Miss Reardon!
If Daisy didn’t miss her guess, that lively brunette was enamored of Thomas. But her brother appeared utterly oblivious to Miss Reardon’s tender feelings for him.
Perhaps Daisy could remedy that while she was here.
“Of course I’ll do it!” she announced. As ever, her most natural reaction was to acquiesce. “How could I say no to you?” She hugged Thomas again, dearly hoping she’d be able to succeed at this tutoring commitment. “Where do I begin?”
“At the raffle box! It’s just this way.”
Her brother led everyone to a homemade raised dais at the edge of the depot platform. He tipped his hat to Daniel McCabe, the muscular-looking handyman who’d apparently helped erect that dais, then proceeded to take his place beside the raffle box. Gaily embellished with bunting and bright paint, possessed of a single ballot box–like opening in its upper quadrant, it stood locked and ready. Giving Daisy a grin, Thomas brandished a key.
The band played a rousing fanfare. The crowd applauded.
Daisy fought back a surge of butterflies. She hoped the possessor of the winning raffle ticket was hopeless in the kitchen. She hoped the winner was inexperienced and kind, the better to disguise whatever shortcomings she herself might reveal.
If Conrad had been there, he would doubtless have enumerated them. As it was, Daisy felt all too aware of them already. Apprehensively, she glanced at the gathering crowd. It was composed not only of women, she noticed abruptly, but also of men—men who watched the raffle drawing with every bit as much interest as the book-wielding ladies did. Perplexed by that fact, Daisy scrutinized the crowd more closely. A surprisingly large number of Morrow Creek residents appeared to be scruffy, surly, largely unkempt males of all sizes and ages and degrees of cleanliness. They hardly appeared capable of holding a cookery book without smudging the pages, much less reading it. Could they truly have entered the raffle drawing too?
Newly ill at ease, Daisy smiled at the nearest of those men. He grinned back at her, revealing a mouthful of gaps where his teeth ought to have been. But poor dental hygiene was not a character flaw, she reminded herself. He was probably a fine man. A man who was…currently making a rude gesture at her?
Shocked, Daisy averted her gaze. But now that she’d noticed that objectionable gesticulation, and the man making it, she couldn’t help observing other things about the raffle entrants…such as their overall air of familiarity with her.
Even as she watched Thomas unlock the raffle box, Daisy sensed several lecherous gazes following her every move. It seemed that Morrow Creek, which had appeared such a lovely little town at first glance, was chockablock with indecent men!
If one of them won the raffle drawing, she didn’t know how she would manage. Couldn’t Thomas see the problems inherent in his plan? Or was he, as a good and gentle man himself, simply blind to the impropriety that nearly froze Daisy in place on the dais?
Please draw a woman’s name, Daisy prayed as her brother reached into the raffle box. Please draw a woman’s name.
With a flourish, Thomas withdrew a ticket. The band members beat an anticipatory tattoo on their drums. The crowd hushed.
“And the winner,” Thomas proclaimed, “is…”
Smiling, he glanced at the ticket. Then he scowled.
Daisy’s heart plummeted to her knees.
“Is,” her brother gamely went on, “Owen Cooper!”
An excited murmur whooshed through the crowd. “Fortunate bastard,” someone grumbled nearby. “Of all the lucky sons of—”
But Daisy didn’t hear any more. Aware only that her home-keeping expertise had been raffled to one of those vulgar men for goodness only knew what purpose, she turned to her brother for support and guidance. Before she could get either, she handily fainted dead away on the spot.
Chapter Seven
Impatiently, Élodie pushed her way through the crowd at the train depot. While Mrs. Archer had been perfectly content to remain at the rear of the platform whispering something about remaining “inconspicuous” for a while, Élodie couldn’t wait to catch a glimpse of the woman of the hour: Miss Daisy Walsh.
Like Misses Reardon and O’Neill, Élodie had followed the coverage of Miss Walsh’s work in the Pioneer Press. So had Mrs. Archer and Mrs. Sunley. To a woman, they’d all agreed that her arrival in Morrow Creek presented a perfect opportunity to change things for the better for Papa and Élodie.
Eager to seize that opportunity, Élodie jumped up on her tiptoes to see what was happening. Ahead at the dais, the newspaper editor waved a raffle ticket. He spoke loudly and proudly. “And the winner is…” A pause. “…Owen Cooper!”
Excellent. Everything was proceeding according to plan. Élodie smiled, then glanced over her shoulder. As she’d expected, Mrs. Archer had followed in her wake. The two of them maneuvered through the crowd. Élodie had a slightly easier time of it, though, since she was smaller and sprightlier.
That’s why she was first on the scene—first to see Daisy Walsh, standing in a green plaid dress. Élodie couldn’t glimpse her face, but she could see that Miss Walsh’s hair was blond. It was arranged at the back of her head, twisted and pinned in a simple style. She had a curled forehead fringe, Élodie noticed.
She came closer, then ducked between two women…just in time to see Miss Walsh go down!
A lady nearby cried out. Everyone surged forward. Élodie couldn’t see a thing. Alarmed, she dropped to her knees, then crawled the remaining few feet, heedless of any potential damage to her skirts. Her knees bumped along the platform. She squeezed between a pair of onlookers, then scrambled to her feet.
Mr. Walsh, the newspaper editor, had caught his sister as she fell, Élodie saw. He cradled her in his arms even now, looking concerned. For her part, Miss Walsh only sagged against him in a clearly insensible state. Her limbs were unmoving. Her face, framed by her fetching forehead fringe, looked pale.
Ghostly pale. Élodie stopped short, startled at the sight.
For a moment, an awful thought occurred to her. Was Miss Walsh dead? Had being raffled off to Papa actually killed her?
Perhaps being with Papa was deadly to a lady, Élodie reasoned fearfully. After all, her own maman had not survived being with Papa. Élodie should never have agreed to this plan!
“Make way, everyone.” With authority, Mrs. Archer arrived. She traded knowing glances with Miss Reardon, Miss O’Neill and Mrs. Sunley, then dropped to a crouch beside the newspaper editor and his sister. Mrs. Archer’s gaze passed over Miss Walsh. Whatever her impression of the cookery-book author, she kept it to herself. “Well done, Mr. Walsh! You’ve behaved quite heroically on your sister’s behalf.” She nodded to the bystanders. “Everyone else, please give us some air.”
Obediently, their friends and neighbors shuffled backward.
Impressed, Élodie nodded. A tiny bit of hopefulness bloomed inside her, wrought by Mrs. Archer’s usual competence. She would make certain that being with Papa wasn’t fatal. Élodie knew it.
“Miss Walsh?” Mrs. Archer inquired gently. She gestured for Mrs. Sunley to fan the woman. “Miss Walsh, can you hear me?”
Miss Walsh’s eyelashes fluttered. She gave no other sign that she heard Mrs. Archer. Frowning, Mr. Walsh gave his sister a gentle shake. If he’d hoped to revive her, it did not work.
A man nearby chuckled. “Looks like Cooper won himself a dud!” he joked. Liquor fumes pervaded his breath. “He won’t be getting no useful wifely duties from a woman like that one.”
“Be quiet, fool!” Miss O’Neill snapped. But as she crouched beside Mrs. Archer—and also fanned Miss Walsh with a folded copy of the
Pioneer Press—her expression turned grave. “He’s right, Matilda. We may have made a mistake,” she confided to Mrs. Archer. “Look how delicate she is! Only a few minutes here in town, and already she’s plumb keeled over! She’ll never do.”
Miss O’Neill let loose a dissatisfied tsk-tsk. Élodie glimpsed Miss Reardon, standing at the ready, wringing her hands as though unsure what to do. For once, she was not making cow eyes at Mr. Walsh. Élodie didn’t know how the newspaper editor couldn’t see that Miss Reardon was sweet on him. Everyone else knew it. It seemed likely to Élodie that getting silly for a man while his sister was conked out on a train-depot platform was an endeavor doomed to failure. Perhaps Miss Reardon had finally come to the same sensible realization.
“No. She’ll have to do.” Mrs. Sunley delivered her doubtful friend a quelling glance. “She might be puny and weak, but we knew we were getting a bookish easterner, didn’t we? That was all part of the plan.”
Puny? Weak? That was uncalled for! Unexpectedly, Élodie felt quite protective of Miss Walsh. After all, she’d fainted. She could hardly defend herself. Belligerently, Élodie stepped forward. “I think she looks nice! And pretty! Not weak at all!”
At Élodie’s outburst all four of her women friends looked at her. They sighed. Then they dropped their pointed gazes to the fallen, insensible Miss Walsh. Puny, those gazes said. Weak.
“She’ll do,” Miss Reardon said. “If she were any better, we’d run the risk of this situation becoming…permanent.”
They all frowned, displeased by that idea. Their plan, Élodie knew, was for Miss Walsh and her homemaking expertise to reawaken Papa’s appreciation for womenfolk…and to remind him how nice it might be to have a lady in his life full-time.
Once he remembered all he’d been missing, Papa would quite logically turn his sights to one of the marriageable ladies in Morrow Creek, Mrs. Archer had explained to Élodie. He would settle down with one of them—after Miss Walsh conveniently left town, of course—and Élodie would have a mother again.
