Morrow Creek Runaway

by Lisa Plumley

  Oh, dear. If Rosamond didn’t do something, they’d come to blows. More than once, she’d seen Seth or Judah dispatch an unwanted or rowdy male visitor to her Morrow Creek Mutual Society. Typically, those men worked with their fists. She didn’t want to see Gus mixed up in a melee. For whatever reason, she didn’t want this stranger to be on the receiving end of one of Seth’s mighty sockdolagers, either. As a onetime railway worker, Seth was as strong as an ox and twice as ornery.

  Gus shifted a sideways glance toward Seth. The two of them appeared to be formulating a plan, but they were about as covert as a pair of cantankerous mules resisting being saddled. “Who kicked up his heels an’ made you boss, anyhow?” Gus goaded.

  The stranger didn’t budge. “When I see a woman in need, I step in. Any decent man would do the same.”

  Again, his voice sounded so familiar. Raspy, faintly accented with a secondhand brogue, roughened by the coarse environments of tenements and stables. He sounded just like Miles. Or maybe Rosamond only wanted him to sound like Miles…

  “It’s my job to step in.” Seth took a swing. He missed.

  How had he missed? He was always so effective. So tough.

  Seth looked shaken by his failure to topple the stranger. So did Gus, whose eyes widened—then narrowed again in renewed readiness. All three men froze in wary postures, leaving the air fairly vibrating with tension and combativeness.

  Seth had missed. He’d failed to protect her.

  Rosamond quailed, distracted from her musings about Miles. For the first time, the fortress she’d fashioned for herself here in the Arizona Territory felt in real danger of crumbling. Maybe Seth and Judah weren’t so very tough, after all. Maybe if genuine danger came calling, Rosamond would find herself all on her own. Just the way she’d always been.

  The notion terrified her. If her own house wasn’t secure…

  Well. She’d just have to make it secure.

  “All of you, stop this at once!” Rosamond stepped from behind the shielding arms of the stranger to sweep a chastising glance at them all. “Gus, please give my best wishes to Abigail. Seth, please return to your post, lest some other miscreant try to invade this house today. And you, sir—” she swallowed hard, hoping to dredge up a bonus quantity of courage “—should leave immediately, before I take it into my mind to stomp your foot, wring your ear and drag you out of this house myself.”

  A heavy silence descended. More than likely, all the other ordinary sounds were drowned out by the furor of Rosamond’s heartbeat pounding in her ears. Then, gradually, the laughter of the children playing outside returned. It was followed by the steady ticking of the grandfather clock to Rosamond’s left.

  She drew in another fortifying breath, not quite daring to look the stranger in the face. She both did and did not want to confirm that he wasn’t the stableman she remembered, wasn’t the man she’d thought of so often since leaving Boston, could not be Miles Callaway, come thousands of miles to arrive at her door.

  “Please don’t make me repeat myself,” she warned.

  Gus tipped his hat. “Thanks kindly, Mrs. Dancy.” He had the audacity to wink. “You sure know how to throw a lively bit o’ entertainment here at the marriage bureau, that’s for sure.”

  Gus saluted, then left with a grin. Seth, for his part, retreated the merest quantity of steps, then mulishly stopped.

  “Since when have I not meant what I said?” Rosamond asked.

  Improbably, the stranger laughed at that remark.

  Seth, looking more embarrassed than she wanted, stomped all the way back to his usual post in the entryway. From there, he surveyed their latest visitor through distrustful eyes.

  So did Rosamond, albeit from beside him. Clearly, in the end, shielding her household of women and children was up to her. Her protectors, Seth and Judah, could only do so much—especially if she were the one causing all the trouble.

  Reminded of her earlier overreaction to Gus’s bear hug, Rosamond winced. The poor man hadn’t deserved that. She’d physically retaliated against him! She’d berated him. She was so sorry for that. It wasn’t at all normal to dislike being hugged.

  It also wasn’t normal for anyone to get the better of Seth. Yet her latest visitor had easily gotten past Seth and avoided his blow, too. Who in the world was he? And why was he there?

  Miles Callaway, she remembered the stranger saying. All I want to know is if Miles Callaway has been here to see Mrs. Dancy.

  This man was looking for Miles. He’d unwittingly roused Rosamond’s bottled-up memories at the same time, but that wasn’t his fault. If Miles was in any trouble, Rosamond wanted to know.

  She’d liked Miles. She’d more than liked Miles.

  He’d been her staunchest ally in the Bouchard household. He’d been a friend, and, yes, the subject of her girlish daydreams about love and romance, too. She hadn’t ever admitted as much to him. In fact, she hadn’t ever done anything much more audacious than smile at Miles. But Rosamond had entertained youthful fantasies about holding his hand, about dancing with him, about learning why he seemed so strong and yet so trapped in Boston, why he seemed so charming and yet often so alone.

  Those girlhood fantasies felt very far away to her now. They were part of another life—a life when she hadn’t had a hole in her heart and a soul-deep need to bar the door at all times.

  “Sorry to bother you, ma’am.” With the scarcest turn to acknowledge her, the stranger tipped his hat. “I’ll be going.”

  He took several strides toward the door.

  In a moment, he’d be gone. Just the way she’d demanded.

  But his voice still rang in the air, so reminiscent of…

  Well, so reminiscent of the one man Rosamond had never been able to forget. The one man she’d never truly wanted to forget.

  “Wait! Please.” In a trice, she’d caught up to him. She touched his sleeve, caught his questioning glance at her overly intrusive gloved hand, then regrouped. Hastily, Rosamond took away her hand—but not before she felt…something…pass between them. “I heard you talking earlier. I’d like to know everything you know about this…Mr. Callaway, was it?”

  He hesitated, his bearded face mostly cast in shadow by his hat and his collar-length hair. Then he unwisely accepted her sham uncertainty at face value, just as Rosamond had intended.

  This…Mr. Callaway, was it?

  As if she hadn’t dreamed of him.

  “Are you asking me to stay?” he asked. “All I wanted was to question your hired man. I heard you never entertain visitors.”

  “Today, for you, I’ll make an exception. Please.” Valiantly, Rosamond cast about for a proper inducement. Now that she almost had this man right where she wanted him—in a position to reveal whatever he knew about Miles—she didn’t intend to quit. “I have tea! You must be thirsty after your travels.”

  His posture sharpened. “My travels?”

  His wariness confounded her. “You’re carrying a valise.”

  “Ah. Yes, I am.” He lifted it in a rueful gesture, his tense shoulders easing with the motion. “It holds everything I own, some of what I’ve borrowed and none of what I need.” His gaze shifted to her household, then arrowed in on her parlor doorway with no effort at all. “Right now, I need tea.”

  That meant she’d won, Rosamond knew, and felt curiously buoyant. If she could not see Miles Callaway again, at least she could find out what had become of him. After all, she would likely not be the only one who’d left the Bouchards’ employ.

  Miles, as she remembered him, had loved an adventure. He’d also possessed a lightheartedness she’d envied on occasion.

  This man did not seem quite so sanguine.

  But then, he wasn’t her Miles, was he? He couldn’t be. She and Miles were thousands of miles apart. Neither of them had the means to cross that distance. Rosamond herself had only done it through extraordinary and trying circumstances. It was preposterous to think that an ordinary stableman could have followed her this far�
��or that he would have wanted to.

  All the same, he very much seemed to be Miles! Rosamond needed a closer and clearer look at him to know for sure. She intended to get herself that closer, clearer look at him, too.

  Just to be on the safe side. Just to indulge her silly, woebegone sentimentality at this mysterious stranger’s expense.

  “Excellent. Right this way.” Rosamond indicated the way forward, watching alertly as he preceded her.

  She had not come this far by trusting lightly, though. Nor by skipping any of the necessary precautions. So she signaled for Seth to fetch Bonita, added an extra bit of cautionary instruction to her request for tea service and then joined her new guest in the parlor.

  Chapter Three

  Miles had never felt more jubilant in his life.

  He’d found Rosamond. He’d found her. At long last, his Rose was seated directly across from him on her fancy upholstered armchair in her fancy Morrow Creek parlor, looking beautiful and pert and just a little bit thinner than he remembered her.

  Worriedly, Miles examined her more closely. The experience jarred him. He’d never seen Rosamond in anything but a tidily pressed housemaid’s uniform and her requisite cap. While she’d lent a definite sparkle to those stiff and unbecoming duds, it was still odd to see her wearing a high-necked dress with a tight bodice and a full bustled skirt. Her gingery hair was a little more tumbledown than she probably intended it to be.

  She seemed older. Wiser. Infinitely more cautious.

  Also, she seemed, just then, to be distinctly blurry.

  Confused, Miles blinked. He gestured at his teacup. Sitting on the polished tabletop before him, it was now empty of the sweetened hot liquid Rosamond had so adroitly served him earlier. He’d swilled it all in record time and then polished off a refill, too, unexpectedly dry-mouthed and in need of something to do to settle his big, restless hands.

  “Is there any more tea?” he asked.

  “There is. But I’m not sure you should have more. It seems to be affecting you quite strongly. More strongly than usual.”

  Her words made sense, given how peculiar he felt. It was as if his head were floating a few inches above the rest of him. He hadn’t had enough ale at the saloon to be drunk. What was this?

  The truth was, though, Miles felt too good to care.

  Because he’d found Rosamond. She was all right. She was safe. Everything he’d done till now—everything—had been worth it.

  “Looking at you, I feel like dancing a damn jig,” he told her. All three of her. “You’re well. I’m thankful.”

  Thankful scarcely described the depth of relief he felt. He wanted to bawl at the depth of relief he felt. But a man did not weep. So Miles only uttered another grateful swearword, shaking his head in wonderment as he went on studying Rosamond.

  If only she weren’t pretending not to know him…

  “Hmm. Yes, I am well,” she said. “Given our situation, I’ll forgive you your coarse language just now, too. I can see the jubilation on your face.” She peered wistfully at him. “For a variety of reasons, I believe what you’re saying is true. I believe you are glad about something.”

  Serenely, Rosamond folded her hands atop her skirts. Even while scrutinizing him as if he was her long-lost love, she seemed the very picture of ladylike decorum.

  Miles told her so.

  She smiled. “Thank you. You seem the very picture of someone I once knew. He was a stableman and driver in Boston.”

  There was that disingenuousness in her again. It had begun when Miles had taken off his hat and coat, and hadn’t abated since. He didn’t like it. But two could play that game.

  “Boston? Pfft.” He waved again. “The only good things in Beantown are rivers and bridges and a mother’s love.”

  She seemed to find that amusing. “Then you’ve been there?”

  “I’ve come from there. To find someone.”

  “To find Miles Callaway, you said. The thing is, I am very struck by your resemblance to the Miles Callaway I once knew.”

  Her tense posture suggested she didn’t trust that Miles Callaway. That’s why Miles didn’t own up to being himself straightaway. That and the tales he’d been told of Rosamond having visitors from her past hurled forcibly from her house.

  Launching a scuffle with her security men would not endear him to her. Nor would being made to explain—too soon and in too much detail—exactly how he’d come to be there in Morrow Creek.

  This was not the sort of reunion he’d been hoping for.

  “Mmm. I reckon I have that kind of face.” He had the kind of face, it occurred belatedly to him, that felt weirdly numb. He stroked his bearded jaw, then cast a suspicious glance at his teacup. Rosamond’s tea had tasted strange, but he’d been too polite to say so. On top of his long travels and the ale he’d already consumed at Jack Murphy’s saloon, that tea had not done him any favors. He felt…odd. “So do you. You look a lot like a housemaid I once knew. Her name was Rose. My Rose.”

  Her face swam in his vision, doubling and then coming clear again. Miles shook his head. He frowned at her “assistant,” Miss Yates, who’d helpfully taken his valise from him and was now rummaging through its contents. Vaguely, that struck him as inappropriate. He had the impression someone may have riffled through his pockets, too. That beefy kid, Judah, who’d roughly taken his hat and coat after he’d come in? Had the bastard tossed him?

  Miles was usually much savvier than this. Clearly, seeing Rose again had done him in. Despite her attempts to persuade him otherwise—despite the cat-and-mouse game they’d been playing thus far—he knew she was Rose, too. Rosamond McGrath Dancy. In the flesh. In a pretty pink dress. Her freckles still enchanted him. So did the sound of her voice.

  He felt desperate to touch her, to reassure himself she was real. But after what had happened between her and that knuck Gus Winston earlier, Miles knew better than to touch her. Also, he wasn’t sure he could stand up without toppling over. He might wind up facedown in her high-buttoned shoes.

  Then it hit him. “You drugged me!” he accused.

  Her virtuous demeanor didn’t waver. “I think the stableman I knew was a bit…taller than you, though. Better looking, too.”

  “Better looking? Humph.” He was “better looking.”

  “Yes.” Another assessing, faraway look. “For one thing, my Miles had shorter hair. He was also clean shaven.” She gave a dreamy sigh. “He always wore a clean, pressed uniform, too.”

  She was goading him on purpose. He knew it. But her musings didn’t distract him overmuch. Partly because Miles knew damn well he was tall enough and “better looking” enough to suit any woman—especially one who’d haunted his thoughts for years.

  Why hadn’t he told her before how he felt?

  His beard and hair and clothes could be changed. Not that he truly believed Rosamond pined for braid-trimmed trousers and jackets with epaulets at the shoulders. Arvid Bouchard had dressed his staff in the most ostentatious livery possible.

  He wanted to hear Rosamond call him her Miles again.

  But there was the pressing matter of her recent misconduct to be dealt with first. He could not let that stand as it was.

  Even if that, as much as anything else, assured him he’d located the right woman—the right redheaded runaway housemaid.

  “You drugged me,” he accused again, wishing he could strengthen his charge by standing. His knees felt rubbery and unfit to support him. “You tossed my coat and pockets looking for clues, and now Miss Yates is searching my valise.”

  “Yes. That reminds me—” Rosamond turned her attention to her partner in crime. “What have you found, Miss Yates?”

  “Several train ticket stubs, today’s copy of the Pioneer Press, assorted men’s clothing, a battered old book and far, far too much money for any honorable man to possess in Morrow Creek.” That traitorous woman aimed a sour look at Miles. “Furthermore, he only packed a single pair of underdrawers.”

  They b
oth gave him patently scandalized stares.

  “I’m wearing the other pair,” Miles explained in his own defense, trying to ignore the additionally skeptical—and far more salacious—glance Miss Yates tossed him next. He’d have sworn she was imagining him naked. “I’m not made of money.”

  They stared pointedly at his valise full of banknotes.

  Miles drew himself up with dignity. In his current state, he didn’t know how to further defend himself without mentioning how he’d gotten all that money—and how much it had really cost him. He’d done his utmost not to spend much of it, but he’d had no way to search for Rosamond without it. He’d had to find out why she’d vanished from the Bouchards’ household in the middle of the night without so much as a note. Couldn’t she see that?

  “Plus a wicked-looking knife,” the strongman, Judah, put in from across the room, saving Miles a reply. “Don’t forget that.”

  Stricken, Miles patted his leg. Beneath his trousers, the knife sheaf on his calf felt conspicuously empty. He squinted anew at his drugged teacup, feeling lucky not to be insentient.

  At least he had the wits to recognize he’d been bested.

  Temporarily.

  All the same, the notion made him feel perversely proud of Rose. She’d seen him as a threat. She’d dealt with that threat. Period. She was as capable and strong and spirited as ever. Those were all qualities he’d admired in her…once upon a time.

  “Oh, we won’t forget the knife,” Miss Yates was assuring her hulking compatriot. “Or all that money, either.” Her gaze skittered over Miles’s black-clad form. “In fact, Mrs. Dancy, it might be wise of us to conduct an even more thorough search of his person. I’d be happy to supervise such an effort, if—”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Rosamond’s attention remained implacably fixed on Miles’s face. She’d never even glanced below his neck, as near as he could tell. It was almost as though she didn’t want to consider any of the overtly manly rest of him. But that didn’t make sense. He’d never hurt her. He’d rather die than hurt her. “I think,” she added, “we’re almost done here.”