Prairie Romance Collection

by Cathy Marie Hake

  “Sheriff,” he clucked, “you startled me. Need to send a telegram?”

  “Yes, Samuel.” Sheriff Moore nodded at the child relaxed against his shoulder.

  “This is Amanda Greer. She was accidentally left when the westbound went through.”

  “Oh,” said Samuel, alarmed. “I’ll have to get the stationmaster. Oh, he’s not going to like this. Left, you say.” Samuel tutted, starting up from his chair.

  “Wait, Samuel,” ordered Jake. “Before you go get Blake, send off the telegram. We may be able to catch the girl’s sister at Big Springs.”

  Samuel plopped back down on his chair, shaking his head.

  “Oh no, I don’t think so,” he muttered. “No, no, it’s too late.”

  “Too late?” asked Jake. He tried to shift the deadweight in his arms and was rewarded with a delicate snore in his ear. He set the square basket on the wide sill that served as a counter and leaned against the frame with the shoulder that did not hold the sleeping beauty.

  “Samuel, I need to find Miss Amanda’s sister.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” agreed the telegrapher, pushing his glasses back up a fraction of an inch. “But don’t you see that the westbound went through around noon? That was almost four hours ago. The eastbound is due any minute. The westbound passed Big Springs, made Topeka, had a layover, and has left already for San Francisco.”

  “Samuel”—Jake ground out the name— “wire Big Springs and see if a Miss Greer got off the train there and is taking the eastbound back.”

  “Yes, sir.” Samuel turned back to his apparatus.

  Just then the eastbound blew its whistle at the outskirts of town. Sheriff Moore abandoned Samuel and crossed the wooden platform. Maybe the telegram would be unnecessary. He peered anxiously down the tracks. A cloud of smoke puffed over the trees just before the four o’clock rounded the bend. It came huffing and hissing to a stop at the station.

  A conductor jumped down and placed a step beside the metal stairs at the end of a passenger car. Jake held his breath. The conductor doffed his hat and offered a gloved hand to a matron as she negotiated the descent. A sprightly young lady with golden hair caught up under a wide-brimmed hat came next. Jake started forward, but a clean-shaven man hopped off behind her and, with a possessive air, tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, escorting her to claim their luggage.

  Harold Smithridge got off. Jake hadn’t known the banker was out of town. Two young men who Jake assumed were students at the University of Kansas hopped off and strutted toward town. Orville and Margaret Cullen got off, back from visiting their grandchildren. A man with all the earmarks of an elixir peddler got off, carrying a big black case. Jake hoped whatever he was selling wouldn’t make people sick. The peddler was the last passenger off. Jake waited a moment, watching until he was satisfied Amanda Greer’s sister was not on the train.

  Discouraged and still carrying his increasingly heavy burden, Jake returned to Samuel’s window.

  “Oh my, oh my, broken foot,” said Samuel, wagging his head from side to side.

  Jake pinned him with an impatient look and waited for the man to clarify his statement.

  “Miss Greer got off at Big Springs in a panic about her sister and broke her foot. Dear, dear, oh my! Doctor says she can’t travel for a week. A week! Mr. Blake says to put the little girl on the westbound tomorrow, no charge. Can you imagine, no charge from Mr. Blake?”

  “What am I supposed to do with her tonight?” asked Jake, more to himself than to the distraught Samuel.

  “Can’t put her in jail, Sheriff.” The man offered serious advice.

  “I know that,” snapped the sheriff.

  “Better feed her and find some woman to take her in.” Samuel nodded earnestly, and his glasses slipped down on his nose.

  Jake grinned, thinking of the church social and all those eager females.

  “Thanks, Samuel,” he said. “I’ll do that.”

  Chapter 2

  Am I arrested?” Amanda’s indignant question roused Jake from his paperwork. He studied the plump, disheveled figure sitting up on one of the padded cots in the first cell. The bonnet sat crookedly on her head. Maybe he should have taken it off of her when he laid her down.

  “If you were arrested,” Jake told her, “the door would be shut and locked.”

  “I’m hungry,” she complained. She tugged at her bonnet, trying to straighten it.

  “We’re going to a church social tonight. There’ll be lots of good food there.”

  “You said you’d get my sister back,” she accused. Her hands left off fidgeting with the crooked bonnet and rested in her lap. She cast him a squinty-eyed glare with her lower lip stuck out to demonstrate her disapproval.

  “She’s waiting for you in Big Springs. You can get on the train tomorrow and join her.”

  “By myself?” she asked, obviously doubting him.

  “The conductor will be sure you get there just fine.”

  She sat for a minute thinking this over. Jake watched her anxiously. He didn’t relish the idea of another bout of tears.

  “All right,” she said and kicked the towel off her legs. An hour and a half earlier, Jake had covered her with the only clean thing he could find. Amanda slid off the cot, gathered her doll and basket, and tapped across the floor in her ankle-high shoes. Maybe he should have taken those things off, too, when he laid her down. They looked mighty hot and uncomfortable.

  The scorching summer afternoon had stilled into an oppressive swelter. Clouds gathered in the west. Rain would be welcome, as long as it came gently, good for the crops, not torrents to tear down the fields.

  Amanda stood looking at him with solemn, dark eyes.

  “I have to go,” she said.

  “It’s out back.”

  She stared at him.

  “I’m not going with you,” he said. “Go out that door.” Jake pointed to the onlydoor in sight. “Go around the building. You can’t miss it.” He looked back at the papers spread out on his desk, avoiding her eyes and hoping she’d go by herself. He heard the distinctive tapping of those awful shoes and breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Well, well,” said Mel Kotchkis as he put down another stack of plates next to his daughter. She worked busily preparing the long table in the fellowship hall for the social. “Seems Sheriff Moore has finally come to a church social with a pretty gal on his arm.”

  Mel bit his mustached lip to keep from laughing as he watched his daughter, Pamela, react to his statement. Her spine stiffened and her hands ceased the rapid arrangement of cutlery on the table. Slowly she reached for the stack of plates and moved them one inch farther from the edge of the table. Her capable long, tapered fingers returned to fussing over the forks, precisely lining them up in a staggered formation.

  Pamela sidled her trim figure down the table, carefully keeping her back to the commotion going on at the front door. Mel put his hand over his quivering lips and stroked his work-worn fingers through his full salt-and-pepper beard.

  “She’s darling,” said Mrs. Sence, her chirping voice carrying across the hall.

  “Look at those precious curls,” said Ruth Bladcomb in a stage whisper to her husband. The older couple stood at the far end of the table, mixing the punch in large glass pitchers. “I declare, did you ever see such fine clothes? She must be from the city. Wherever did Jake Moore come up with a little beauty like that?”

  Pamela Kotchkis skittered back to the corner of the table, rounded it neatly, grabbed the box of knives, and shuffled them out onto the tablecloth. When the first row lay precisely as she wanted them, her blue eyes lifted, obviously drawn to the spectacle at the front door.

  Mel watched his favorite daughter’s stone face soften into a warm smile. That expression, so like his Maddie’s, gladdened his old heart. What was it Maddie used to say when he was rocking one of their young’uns? Something about when a rough-and-tumble man cradled a wee child…it could wrench the tender heart of any woman. The sight of
rugged Jake Moore with the mysterious little girl in his arms had no doubt pierced the armor his headstrong Pamela kept around her heart. Mel sent up a fervent, though silent, Praise the Lord!

  The old farmer watched his daughter lift a hand to the tawny curl dangling at her temple and tuck it back off her face behind her delicate ear. His Maddie had used the same nervous gesture. He loved this daughter and all the sweet recollections she brought to his mind, but it was time for her to make new connections. Pamela was twenty! She couldn’t be Papa’s girl for the rest of her life.

  Maddie would be proud of this last gal. Of course, Mel was properly proud of all five. But the first four had married city men. His baby was the only one left on the farm. All grown up now and ready to find her husband.

  Mel prayed that it would be a man willing to take over after him. His life’s work had established Kotchkis Kansas Corn. Mel was proud of it. He wanted to know his grandchildren would grow up on the piece of land he and Maddie had claimed.

  Just Pamela remained. Pamela, the last of Maddie’s brood, Mel’s last chance to bring a young man into the harness of a mighty fine farm. Pamela, stubborn and beautiful, prideful and charming, deeply fascinated by the handsome sheriff, and rigidly determined not to give in to her attraction.

  Well, Lord, said Mel in a comfortable silent conversation with his God and Savior, I’ve been praying for ten years. I watched each of our girls grow, fall like so many silly geese in love, and leave. Now I’m satisfied with what You’ve done. You lead them well. I thank You. But here’s Pamela, denying she longs to take that young man’s interest. To my way of thinking, Jake Moore is just the right suitor for our gal. He’s a strong man, got a good handle on You being the God of the universe and all, understands Your Gospel, and is living under Your authority. I’d be mighty grateful if You’d give these young folks a nudge. In Your time, of course. But I reckon You know I’m getting a tad impatient. Amen.

  With a concerted effort, Mel Kotchkis managed to snag the sheriff and get him and his pretty little charge seated at a table with himself and Pamela. It had been no easy task with those nosy, matchmaking women intent on cornering the poor bachelor. Sheriff Moore’s face had flashed desperation as he’d been surrounded, and Mel thought of himself as the man’s rescuer. Mel wished Maddie were still with him to enjoy life’s little comedies. She’d been a woman who could laugh.

  “Would you like butter on your roll?” Mel asked Jake’s small companion.

  “Yes, Mr. Kottis.” Amanda nodded. “Thank you.”

  Mel grinned at her prim and proper mispronunciation of his name, took up her roll, split it, and spread the butter, replacing it on her plate.

  Pamela turned to Sheriff Moore, her curiosity getting the better of her. She’d heard bits and pieces of the story from the other ladies as they worked together.

  “How old is she?” she asked.

  “Hmm?” Jake chewed on the large helping of beans he had just spooned into his mouth.

  “Amanda,” clarified Miss Kotchkis, “how old is she?”

  Jake swallowed. “I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t ask her?”

  “No.” “Oh.”

  Pamela pushed the peas around on her plate. She ate a couple of bites of the potato salad. Mrs. Sence had made it. She must get the recipe from Mrs. Sence.

  “Why did she get off the train?” she asked.

  Jake chewed and cast an anxious look at Kotchkis’s daughter.

  He swallowed, reached for his punch, and took a swig.

  “She didn’t say,” he finally answered.

  “You didn’t ask?” A merry chortle escaped with her question.

  Jake grinned. The deep dimples on each side of his mouth danced in his cheeks. “Guess I’m not much good at interrogating the young and innocent. Now if she’d been a mean hombre with a marked resemblance to one of the posters on my wall, I might have gotten more information out of her.”

  Their eyes caught, sharing the good humor of their conversation. Pamela watched the twinkle in his hazel eyes change subtly to a gleam of admiration. She noticed how the green irises held flecks of brown and a dark rim clarified the odd color. They were fine eyes, eyes she would enjoy looking into over the dinner table in the bright kitchen at home….

  Suddenly Pamela felt uncomfortable and pulled her attention away. She turned quickly and interrupted the conversation between her father and Amanda.

  “Amanda,” she said rather breathlessly, “Sheriff Moore doesn’t know how old you are.”

  “I’m four, Miss Kottis.” Amanda’s cultured tones sounded so out of place coming from her round and adorable baby face that Pamela smiled.

  “Does your mommy call you Mandy?” asked Pamela.

  “No, that’s not my proper name. Mother calls me by my proper name.”

  “Oh,” said Pamela.

  “What is your proper name, Miss Kottis?” Amanda asked earnestly.

  “Pamela.”

  “That’s very pretty.”

  “Thank you,” said Pamela. Amanda Greer sounded like one of the old ladies around the quilting frame. This pert little girl had the same intonations of a dowager who had come into town visiting a relative. Pamela could just picture the little girl sitting with the matrons, replying to their inquiries with only the politest and tritest information.

  “Is Pamela a family name?” asked Amanda.

  “Well,” said Pamela, “my parents wanted to name a son after my father. His name is Mel. My mother had all girls, and I was the last, so they named me Pamela because Mel is in the middle of it.”

  Amanda nodded politely. “My name is a family name. I have an older sister named Amelia and an Aunt Amelia. My oldest sister is Althea and my mother’s name is Althea. My other sister is Augusta, which isn’t a family name, but she was supposed to be born in August, and my father thought it fitting. Augusta came on the last day of July. Father said he wouldn’t give in to her willfulness and named her Augusta anyway.”

  Pamela heard a snort that sounded suspiciously like a laugh cut short. It came from the sheriff, proving he had eavesdropped on their conversation. She chose to ignore him.

  “And do you have an Aunt Amanda?” asked Pamela.

  Amanda nodded. “Deceased,” she explained.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  Amanda nodded again and turned her attention back to the chicken on her plate.

  “Remind me,” said Jake in a low voice, “to bring you to the jail next time I’ve got an outlaw. You’ve pretty much got her family history.”

  “Hush,” scolded Pamela and turned back to find Amanda scowling at her. The wrinkled brow and puckered lips looked adorable. Pamela fought the urge to scoop her up and give her a big hug to drive away that crosspatch glower.

  Pamela carefully took a bite of peas instead. After a moment, Amanda politely asked for another helping of potato salad.

  “This is quite good,” she said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had potatoes fixed in this manner.”

  Pamela again felt as if a little old lady occupied the seat next to her instead of a four-year-old—as if a very short adult dominated that pudgy body. Pamela wanted to talk to the child.

  “I grew up with four sisters,” said Pamela. “It’s fun to have a house full of girls to play with.” Pamela gave Amanda a friendly smile, hoping the little girl would abandon her grown-up demeanor and chatter away like her nieces or the little girls she taught in Sunday school.

  Amanda frowned again, thinking.

  “My sisters do not play. They aren’t girls,” she explained after a moment of consideration. “They are grown-up women.”

  “Oh,” said Pamela.

  “I am a twilight child,” Amanda explained further and picked up the basket of rolls beside her plate. She took one and offered the basket to Pamela. Pamela took it in a daze and offered it to Jake Moore. Their eyes met again, and this time the look they shared held no humor. Pamela’s eyes shone with sorrow as she imagined a little girl�
��s life in a house full of adults who did not play.

  After the meal, the men moved back the tables and rearranged the chairs so everyone could enjoy the music for the evening. The ladies made short work of the cleaning up. Mel Kotchkis and Pamela sat in the seats to the side where they usually sat on social evenings like this. Several of the women Jake had ignored earlier noticed that Sheriff Moore and his little girl visitor had decided to sit with them.

  “Who is going to take care of her tonight?” asked Pamela, referring to Amanda.

  “I think I’ll take her back to Maggie’s with me,” answered Jake. “Maggie will puther up.” He’d changed his mind once he’d arrived and seen how the women carried on and fussed over the child. Amanda was much too sensitive a girl for such silliness. He would just keep her himself.

  “I heard Mrs. Jones offer to take her,” observed Pamela.

  “Her kids are too rowdy. They’d scare Miss Amanda.”

  “And Mrs. Whitcomb?” said Pamela.

  “Same thing,” answered the sheriff without batting an eye.

  “Surely Mrs. Dobson and Mrs. Roper wouldn’t scare her. The sisters are gentle and genteel.”

  “Too old,” said Jake. “Old?”

  “What if something should happen? They’re too old to take care of an emergency.”

  Pamela nodded her head at the sheriff, but one little dimple peeked out at the corner of her mouth. Jake watched that dimple quiver in and out of existence like a twinkling star—for some reason the sight of it reassured him. Pamela Kotchkis was a sensible woman, and she understood a child’s needs.

  She might laugh at him for being possessive with the little mite, but she understood. It didn’t seem right to foist Amanda onto another family when she’d already been through so much today. Miss Amanda trusted him. He’d take care of her until tomorrow and put her on the train himself. Jake smiled back at Pamela Kotchkis, enjoying the laughter in her eyes and the gentle glow of happiness about her.