by Lisa Plumley
“He meant well. He—he—thought he’d double it. Surprise you for your birthday next month. Afore he left, Joseph told me he had a sure-fire system this time. One that can’t be beat.”
Addie folded her bony arms over her apron front and leaned against the doorjamb. Her expression said she believed everything she’d just said.
But Megan knew better.
“He always has some highfalutin’, can’t-miss gambling technique up his sleeve,” she reminded Addie, hefting her second satchel onto the bed. “And it always works perfectly—right up until the moment he loses it all.”
Addie gave her a sorrowful look. “He loves you, child.”
Megan’s hand fisted on the black cotton stockings she’d been about to stuff into the satchel. An image of her father’s smiling, bewhiskered face rose in her mind’s eye…then dissolved beneath a new vision of a gaming table, a haze of smoke, and papa crying into his Levin’s Park beer because he’d lost every penny of his daughter’s nest egg. It was too real to be ignored.
“Awww, Addie. I love him, too.”
She smoothed out the crumpled stockings and tucked them into the satchel beside her hair ribbons and the derringer she’d received from the station hands for a Christmas gift last year. She looked at the little gun again, thought better of keeping it out of reach, and slipped it into her skirt pocket instead.
“But I can’t let him do this again. It’s taken me two years to replace what he lost last time he found my savings. At this rate, by the time I get my dressmaker’s shop, I’ll be too old to see what I’m stitching.”
She added a bottle of rose water and a wad of lacy handkerchiefs, then closed the satchel. “Besides, the Websters are set to head back east on Saturday’s train. If I haven’t gotten the money to them before then, they’ll sell their mercantile to Mr. Meyer the butcher next door, and my chance will be gone.”
She’d managed to hide the fact of her missing money from Jedediah and his wife, and had somehow convinced them they needed a re-written purchase agreement—due to all the changes—before completing their transaction. With her promise to have a new contract drawn up and delivered to them later in the week, they’d left on the morning express only minutes earlier.
But Megan knew she couldn’t put them off with excuses for long.
“Three days isn’t much time,” Addie said, coming to stand beside the bed. “What if you can’t find your papa by then? You’re hardly familiar with town, and—”
“I can do it.”
She had to do it. She’d dreamed of her dressmaker’s shop for so long now, dreamed of something her very own to feel proud of. Something secure to keep her safe. She couldn’t give up when it was almost within reach.
Addie’s gentle hand touched her shoulder. “Sheer grit might not be enough.”
“I don’t see why not.”
With a sigh, Addie smoothed the brown worsted shoulder seam it had taken Megan a week straight to sew correctly. The shaping technique had been new and difficult to master, but in the end she’d done it.
Determination had worked then. It would work again.
“Maybe you should’ve told Joseph the truth, Megan,” Addie went on. “Told him your plans for your shop. Maybe none of this would’ve happened at all.”
“And maybe it would’ve happened even sooner.” Megan shook her head and picked up her wide-brimmed traveling hat, then carried it to the looking glass. “I’ve got to do this on my own.”
“It ain’t like you’re alone.” In the glass, Addie’s reflection twisted her apron hem. “We all would help ya’ if we could.”
Pausing with her hat on but untied, Megan met Addie’s gaze. Her fingers trembled on the wide grosgrain ribbons in her hands, making them flutter against her dress. “I know you would,” she said quietly. “And I love you for it, Addie.”
She turned, ribbons whirling past her shoulders. “I just plain love you for no reason at all,” she said, catching Addie’s spare, strong shoulders and pulling her close for a hug.
With no mother she could remember well, and a father more often afield than underfoot, she didn’t know what she would’ve done without Addie nearby. Sniffling, Megan kept her forehead buried against Addie’s familiar, crisp apron for a moment longer, then squeezed once more and stepped away.
“But I’m still heading to Tucson to bring papa back—and my nest egg money—and this time I won’t take no for an answer.”
She tied her hat ribbons beneath her chin and scrutinized the effect in the mirror, comparing it with the illustration she’d seen in the latest Godey’s from Fort Lowell. For an ordinary straw bonnet, it looked right fine with the embellishments she’d added. The thought that she looked nice gave her the extra courage she needed to face the highbrow ladies in town—and their wagging gossips’ tongues.
She pulled on her mother’s old linen gloves—the only pair she’d ever owned—and turned to face Addie. “Well? How do I look?”
“Like you outta take Mose along with you for protection,” Addie answered sourly, crossing her arms again. “Them ruffians in town will take one look at you and toss you over their shoulders for Maiden Lane.”
What a thrilling notion! “Do you really think so?” Megan asked, pirouetting in front of the looking glass. Her bustle swayed behind her with just the right amount of swoosh to be stylish, but….
“Megan! Ravishment is nothing to look forward to!”
She examined the embroidery at the wrists of her gloves and tried to look contrite. “Only if it’s not done properly,” she couldn’t resist saying. “Why, in the French novel I read last week—”
“That’s it.” Addie picked up both satchels from the floor. “You’re not venturing an inch from this station with notions like that in your head.”
“Yes, I am.” Megan grabbed a satchel and tugged. It didn’t budge.
“No, ma’am.” Addie tugged back. “And no more French novels, neither.”
She tried a smile. “If you let me go, I’ll bring you back some of those fine Mexican vanilla beans from the marketplace.”
Addie’s grasp loosened.
“You haven’t had any of those since that last drummer came through, remember?”
Addie’s gaze softened. “The one with that fine tinware,” she murmured, clearly remembering. Nothing was dearer to Addie’s heart than her cooking and baking.
“And a fresh cone of sugar,” Megan said to sweeten the deal.
“Cinnamon?”
“Yes, that too.” With a friendly pat, she slipped the satchel handle from Addie’s left hand, then her right. Helpfully, she steered her toward the door. “Vanilla, sugar, and cinnamon. Just think of all you could make with that.”
Halfway into the short hall leading to the stage station office, Addie’s vision cleared. She gave Megan a sharp look, but her accompanying smile was kind. “You’re a wily one,” she said, shaking her finger. “You’d better take care, though. That fancy talk won’t always work on folks.”
“Of course not,” Megan replied with a demure shrug of her shoulders. “Some people just can’t be persuaded.”
But about ninety-nine percent of them could, she figured—and those odds were favorable enough to suit her fine.
“If Joseph Kearney isn’t here,” Gabriel said tightly, “then someone else must be—someone who knows where he’s gone.”
Gripping his horse’s reins in his fist, he scrutinized the yard of Kearney Station again before returning his gaze to the station hand who’d greeted him.
If a grunt could be called a greeting.
“‘Spect so,” the man said.
Tall, blond, and well-muscled as the dappled gray chomping at the bit beside him, the man put Gabriel in mind of a Swedish boxer he’d once seen in the ring in Chicago. If his taciturn responses were anything to go by, he, too, had been bashed in the head one too many times.
“When’s Mr. Kearney expected back?”
The station hand muttered something unintel
ligible.
“Has he been gone long?”
“Can’t rightly say.”
Clearly, he was going to be here for a while. Swearing beneath his breath, Gabriel tried to force some patience into his voice. “Who can say?”
The man’s eyebrows pulled together like caterpillars sneaking over the same Palo Verde branch. “What’d you say yer name was?”
“I didn’t.”
Gabriel led his horse to the hitching post and got the mare settled in for a long haul. When he finished, the big Swede was still standing where he’d left him.
Maybe he hadn’t noticed things had changed yet.
“I need to see the man in charge,” Gabriel told him. He inclined his head toward the rough adobe station building, trying not to smile anew at the pink blossoms painted over the doorway. “He in there?”
“No.”
He tipped his chin toward the stables. “In there?”
“No.”
He gazed over the horizon, past acres of rocky soil, creosote bushes, and prickly pear. “Out there?”
“No.”
“Hmmm.” Gabriel passed his hand over his face, wishing he could scrub away the weariness that had trailed him since crossing the Territory line. “Thanks for your help.”
He turned and headed for the stage station office. Before he could take four steps, the hand lumbered into his path. The movement was a veritable flash of speed for an ox of a man like that.
And because of it, Gabriel knew he’d guessed correctly.
Joseph Kearney might be away from the station—or he might just want folks to think he was—but something important was in that office. Gabriel meant to find out what it was.
“Folks ain’t allowed in there,” the hand said.
Tipping back his hat brim, Gabriel took a leisurely look at the man. “Is that right?”
“Yeah.”
“Why’s that?”
He appeared to think on it. He got all the way to befuddled before scratching his head and giving up. “They just ain’t.”
Gabriel pulled back his coat, exposing the badge pinned to his vest. “Pinkerton men are.”
Behind the man, Gabriel saw someone open the stage station door. A female-shaped figure stepped into the doorway, holding up one delicate, gloved hand to tip her hat brim toward the harsh sunlight. And all at once, Gabriel understood who the big man had been trying to protect.
“Get better excuses,” he advised the station hand. “Or get out of the way.”
Then he stepped forward to meet the woman who was about to provide his first case-solving clues.
No sooner had Megan’s vision adjusted to the glare of the September sunlight than a stranger stepped from Mose’s shadow and came toward her.
A drummer, she thought instantly, assessing his expensive navy suit, flashy vest, four-in-hand necktie, and shirt through expert eyes. He looked like a fashion picture in Godey’s, and she expected he talked like a book, too.
Something in common, some traitorous part of her whispered.
She banished the thought instantly as he left Mose behind and approached the station office. She hadn’t time for girlish notions of flirting with a passing peddler—however handsomely turned out he might happen to be.
He stepped closer, extending his hand in greeting. He was big, nearly as big as Mose, and good-looking, too. Beneath his hat brim, his dark-shadowed face was lit with the white slash of his smile. With it, he looked every inch the sharper, a man who could likely sell steaks to a rancher, and charge him for the butchering, besides.
But despite the apparent friendliness of that smile, Megan felt a sudden urge to run. To grab the horse from Mose’s hands and ride until the sunset swallowed her up.
Surely such a notion was unfounded. And the last thing she’d ever be called was a coward. Rather than run, she dug her toes into the chilly packed station yard dirt and stood her ground. With luck, she’d appear more composed than she felt.
He drew closer, hand still outstretched, speaking words of greeting. They flew straight past her head, chased by the lyrical huskiness of his voice. The unusual sound of it turned his words to honey, better savored than fully considered.
Lulled by the sound, she automatically slipped her hand into his to accept his handshake. The feel of his strong, warm fingers closing over hers sent unexpected shivers coursing through her and, as instantly, she regretted not running while she still had the chance.
“You must be Miss Kearney.” He widened that remarkable smile. “I’m here to see your father, but I’d rather do business with a pretty woman any day.”
Her shivery feelings vanished. No, he didn’t talk like a book, Megan amended. He talked like a flannel-mouthed Irishman out to sell her the land beneath her feet and the sky that arched over it. Only a fool would buy into the same worthless deal twice.
She’d never considered herself a fool.
“You’ll find those kind of businesswomen in town,” she said coolly, withdrawing her hand from his. “It’s only a few hours’ ride.” Nodding helpfully toward Tucson, she added, “Out here, a man could get strung up for making such a suggestion to a lady.”
“My apologies,” the stranger said, touching a finger to his flat-brimmed hat. “I meant no offense.”
“None taken.”
Most men couldn’t help the way they were anyway, she figured. Near as she could tell, the majority of males walked around with blinders on, thinking of nothing beyond the next drink, the next card game, the next gunfight…or the next woman to be taken advantage of.
If she could help it, that woman would never be her.
He lowered his hand to the gun belt strapped beneath his fancy coat. Thoughtfully, the stranger tipped up his head and took in the station office behind her, the hands working in the yard, and her new dress with equal parts interest and appraisal, like her father did when sizing up potential gaming opponents. Then, with a rapt expression, he reached past her shoulder and smoothed his fingers over the pink roses she’d painted along the doorframe.
“These are beautiful.” He stroked them once more, as if savoring the feel of them beneath his hand. His gaze, startlingly blue in a rather rawboned face, shifted to her. “Are you the artist?”
No one had ever admired her flowers. Mostly, folks thought painting them was a waste of time. But this man obviously did not agree. On the contrary, he stroked the painted flowers as though they were nigh irresistible—and stood so near that the warmth of his forearm teased her jaw, even through his fine wool suit.
Megan found herself inhaling the scents of tangy crushed creosote blossoms, leather, and rich tobacco that clung to his clothes…and telling herself that surely the breathlessness she felt owed more to her too-tight stays than any stranger’s compliments.
Until she realized his expression remained intent on hers, waiting for her reply. Then there was no denying her reaction was because of him. To her knowledge, the corset had yet to be designed that could make her heart pound and her stomach lurch with excitement.
“Yes, I am. How did you—”
Mose’s approach cut off the rest of her words. He shoved his huge body between her and the stranger, fixing him with a poisonous look. “I’m powerful sorry, Miss Megan, but this here man’s a—”
“—about to leave, I’d say.” Shaking her head in amazement, Megan looked from Mose to the stranger. Good heavens! He’d changed tactics so smoothly she hadn’t even realized it. He’d recognized the error of his careless compliment, and tried another approach immediately.
Aside from herself, she’d never met anyone who’d have tried such a thing.
Whoever he was, she’d clearly underestimated him.
She looked up at him. “I’m sorry, but you can’t see my father today. He’s been called away from the station, and won’t be returning for some time. But I’ll tell him you called, mister…”
“Winter,” he supplied. “Gabriel Winter.”
His voice held an intriguing lil
t, like a sun-warmed version of the Irish sisters’ speech at San Agustín church in town. Spoken by him, his name sounded like poetry.
And she sounded like an addle-headed idiot, Megan told herself sternly. Thank heaven she hadn’t uttered such a thing aloud.
“As I said, I’ll tell him you were here.” Gathering her full brown skirts in both hands, Megan stepped toward the station yard to have a horse saddled and brought round for her. The sooner she went after her father, the better.
“Good day, Mr. Winter,” she called as she walked away. “You’re welcome to some refreshments in our station kitchen before you leave. Mose will take you there, if you’d like.”
“If I’d like?”
“Yes.”
She turned toward him again, raising her skirt slightly higher to keep her hem out of the mud and muck littering the yard. Gabriel Winter’s gaze shot to her ankles, then lingered. She felt his attention on her just as surely as if he’d reached out his hand and caressed her skin the same way he’d stroked her painted roses.
And knew she shouldn’t have liked the sensation.
Much less felt thrilled to the bottoms of her sensible brogan shoes.
“Or,” she added archly, assessing his broad-shoulders and fit physique just as boldly, “if you prefer, you could just take your leave right now. You seem fairly well-fed to me.”
Either that, or most of his apparent muscle was padding tailored into his suit. As a seamstress, she’d practiced such techniques herself. Mollified by the thought of his horsehair-pillowed shoulders, Megan shut her mouth and put on her most no-nonsense expression, then shifted her attention to his face.
He was grinning. At her.
The rascal.
Her actions and words had been meant to dismiss him. Instead, he only arched his brow and asked, “Leave?”
“Yes.” Was he simple-minded? “Naturally, since my father wasn’t expecting you today, you can hardly think to—”
“He expected me.”
Something in the way he said it made her pause. “Oh?” she asked, casually as she could.
“Yes.”
It couldn’t be true. She’d have known if her father was expecting a visitor, since she conducted much of the station business herself. Still, she’d underestimated Gabriel Winter once already. She didn’t intend to commit the same mistake twice.
