The Promise Bride

by Gina Welborn

  “You mean Joseph Hendry?” Mac put emphasis on the last name.

  “That’s the one.” Her tone was light, friendly, even disinterested—which meant she was paying close attention indeed. “He’s making some strong enemies with this campaign of his to shut down the red-light district.”

  Mac hoped it worked. About time the rest of the legal system started enforcing the territorial laws against prostitution.

  She stood. “If I hear anything else, I’ll be sure to share.”

  So much for having lots of time—not that he wanted to stay a minute longer than necessary. He retrieved his hat from beside the roses. “Thank you.”

  He crossed to the door, pausing before touching the handle when she called, “I’ve heard you’ve become quite the champion to Mr. Collins’s widow.”

  Champion? Spending a morning helping Mrs. Collins file a proxy and ensuring the creditors cooperated with her repayment plan didn’t make him her champion.

  Mac swallowed and turned around. “Finn was my friend. I made a promise to look out for his family, as he did for mine.”

  Cynical laughter greeted the pronouncement. “So . . . let me get this straight. If something happened to you, Finn Collins was supposed to woo me out of my life of sin?”

  “Something like that.”

  Her practiced smile revealed lines around her mouth and beside her eyes. Didn’t used to. She used to look younger than her years; now all forty-two were etched in her face. “Be that as it may, the best thing you can do for your friend’s widow is to let her fail.”

  Four days ago he would’ve agreed. Once the proxy was filed, however, the best way to fulfill his promise to Finn was to help her succeed. “That’s up to Mrs. Collins, not me.”

  “Mrs. Collins, is it? Interesting.” Madame Lestraude’s voice, at least, had recovered its brashness.

  What else was he supposed to call her? Collins was her name now. He was going to regret this, but—“What do you mean?”

  “I find your labels interesting, that’s all.” She shrugged, a secret smile tugging at her lips. “For instance, I’m Madame Lestraude whenever we discuss business or you’re upset with me. I’m your mother when you want me to give all this up”—she waved a hand to indicate her business—“so we can start somewhere fresh. So I must wonder why your best friend’s widow is Mrs. Collins to you and not Emilia. Such a pretty name, Emilia. Just rolls off the tongue.”

  “I don’t have time for this.” Mac shoved on his hat and headed out the door.

  Her voice followed him into the hallway. “Is she Mrs. Collins to keep her distant or to keep her close?”

  * * *

  Instead of going back to his office, Mac headed straight to Hale’s to see if any new creditors had staked a claim against Finn’s estate—particularly ones who would explain away the troubling purchases.

  Judge Forsythe was coming out of the door. “Here to see my nephew?”

  “Yes, sir.” Which was pretty obvious, but Mac refrained from saying so. “You still trying to get Hale to come back to work for you?”

  The judge waved a dismissive hand. “Not this visit. I want him to run for mayor so, when the time comes, he’ll be ready to run for judge.”

  Mac raised his brows in surprise. Territory judges didn’t run for office; they were appointed by the President of the United States. Only full-fledged states held elections for judges.

  “I realize Montana hasn’t achieved statehood yet, but it takes him”—the judge tipped his head toward Hale’s window—“time to change streams. The folks I’m talking to think we’re a year or two away from becoming a state. If he’s elected mayor of what’s sure to be the capital city of Montana, he’ll be ready to run for judge the moment statehood happens.”

  “Hale will make the right decision.” Mac started to move past, but Judge Forsythe kept talking.

  “I lack your confidence.” He tapped his gold-handled cane against the wooden sidewalk. “You and I both know there are men who can be bought for the right price.”

  True enough. The current mayor of Helena being a prime example.

  “My nephew—though I disagree with some of the choices he’s made—is not for sale. Montana needs that kind of integrity in our courts.” The glint in the judge’s eyes dared Mac to disagree with him.

  He didn’t. Even though Mac’s jurisdiction kept him out of Mayor Kendrick’s sphere of influence, Helena deserved better. Hale would never run, though. Even if he probably should.

  “Then add your voice to mine.” The judge’s tone was one he used when passing sentence, one that brooked no argument. “You are planning to run for sheriff next year, correct?”

  Mac nodded. As undersheriff, he’d been appointed to the position of sheriff after Simpson’s death. Staying in the position would require being elected, which—even as the son of Madame Lestraude—was pretty much a sure thing.

  “It’s in your best interests to convince Hale to run, too.” Forsythe pointed a finger at Mac’s chest. “An honest sheriff and an honest judge will make quite a team for the state of Montana.”

  In a few years. “Yes, sir.”

  A sheepish grin relieved the stark lines around Judge Forsythe’s mouth, taking years off his face. “I’m up on my high horse again, aren’t I?”

  “It doesn’t make you wrong.”

  Judge Forsythe nodded. “Then convince Hale.” He looked at a spot over Mac’s shoulder and waved at someone. “I’m off. Lots of people to see before I head out next week.” He turned on his heel, tapping his cane in a steady rhythm as he retreated. As a territory judge, he spent more time outside of Helena than he did in it. Mac’s responsibilities only took him around the county. What did Mrs. Forsythe think of her husband’s constant travel?

  Mac reined in that line of thought. It might lead him back to his mother’s comment about a certain woman who would remain nameless—although a picture of her piquant face and light brown eyes jumped into his mind readily enough.

  He found Hale sifting through the books, folders, and loose papers piled on the second chair. “Met your uncle outside.”

  “I saw through the window.” Hale looked over his wire-rimmed glasses. “I presume he filled you in on this nonsense about me running for mayor so I can be a judge someday.”

  “Not the worst idea I’ve ever heard.” Mac leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Did he tell you that he also advises me to get a wife?”

  So that accounted for the red face. “Yancey Palmer would oblige.”

  “Not funny, Mac.”

  Debatable.

  Hale dug through the catastrophe of files and books strewn across the entire surface of his desk. “If you’re here to see if any more creditors have shown up, they haven’t. At least not ones to account for the rash of purchases we both find so perplexing. But your upcoming trip reminded me to check at City Hall to see if Finn paid his property taxes. As you can imagine, they’ve been overwhelmed this year and said I’d need to wait for the delinquent list to be posted.” He plucked a piece of paper from one of the files and held it out. “This bill, however, did show up.”

  Mac took the paper, his brain latching onto Hale’s meaning at the letterhead. “Red Star Saloon?”

  “Precisely.”

  Finn had sworn off drinking when he gave up thieving. At least that was the story he’d told. Had he lied about that, too?

  “Twenty-five cents is an odd amount.” Hale voiced Mac’s thought. “My questions are: first, why would Vincent Humphries create a tab for a man without two bits; second, what was Finn drinking; and third, why was he there in the first place?”

  Mac checked the date on the bill. Three weeks ago. Odd. And why the Red Star Saloon? Like his mother’s hotel, the saloon was a front for prostitution, except it catered to a lower-class clientele. The serving girls cost little more than the drinks. Mac folded the paper and tucked it into the pocket of his waistcoat. He’d check at the saloon for more i
nformation as soon as he finished here. He retrieved some loose change. No way he was bothering Emilia Collins with this debt.

  Emilia.

  Hmm.

  Hale waved off the coins. “I already paid it, but . . .”

  It wasn’t like him to leave a sentence unfinished. “Whatever it is you don’t want to say, I’ve probably already thought it.”

  “Mrs. Collins may still need your protection, whether she wants it or not.” Hale pushed his wire-rimmed glasses into place with a finger. “Only you’d have to do it without getting her hackles up.”

  “I’m open to suggestions.”

  Hale grinned. “As it happens, I’ve been feeding a stray dog.”

  Chapter Ten

  Later that day

  “Uh, Emme, what’s that on the porch?”

  Luci’s panicked question drew Emilia’s gaze away from the new barbed wire fencing lining the dirt road. She looked to the cabin in the distance. “What are you talking about? I don’t see any—oh.” Unless her eyes were deceiving her, something white and furry sat in the rocking chair. Certainly not something human. It stood, circled, and then sat again.

  The cart hit a hole in the road and bumped. Emilia glanced over her shoulder to check the wooden crate. None of the vegetable seedlings from Mrs. Hollenbeck had spilled over. With a sigh of relief, she adjusted her grip on the reins as best she could despite how much larger Finn’s leather gloves were than her hands. Based on the size of the animal compared to the rocking chair, it had to be—

  “It’s a cat,” she said in her most hopeful voice.

  Luci didn’t respond.

  Emilia turned her head enough to study her sister, whose gaze had narrowed on the porch. Cats were tolerable, in Luci’s estimation, because they minded their own business until a human lured them with a Here, kitty, kitty. Three words Luci had never uttered—nor likely would ever utter. The best way to avoid interaction with a cat was to ignore it. As Luci had done today after school with Mr. Pawlikowski’s well-fed feline.

  “It looks friendly,” Emilia suggested, craning her neck for a better view. “Mr. Pawlikowski’s cat is friendly and gentle, and if you would just pet—”

  “That thing on our porch is not a cat,” Luci ground out.

  “It’s certainly not a mountain lion, if you’re thinking that.”

  Her worried gaze flicked on Emilia before returning to study the porch again. “I wasn’t, but now I am. Please don’t lie to me to make me feel better. From this distance, it’s impossible to tell if it’s friendly. Are, um, baby mountain lions white?”

  “I don’t know.” Emilia shielded the left side of her face to block the late afternoon sun. The nearer they came to the cabin, the more she knew their porch guest wasn’t feline. “You’re right, it’s not a cat. The tail looks too short. It’s a baby goat. See how the hair is sticking up? Someone must have brought it,” she said and sighed in annoyance.

  Another gift of sympathy. Another person to thank. Her financial journal already had a page filled with the names of people who’d visited the ranch and expressed their heartfelt sympathies over Finn’s passing. The cards wouldn’t have to be responded to, but the gifts?

  Emilia, proper etiquette dictates that when someone gives us a gift, we must give something back in return.

  Her mother had drilled that into her up until the day she died, likely in case anyone brought condolence food to her funeral. How was Emilia to give in return when she had barely four dollars to her name? The only solution was to find an additional means of employment for when she wasn’t bartering labor. But what? She couldn’t carry a tune or play a musical instrument or even dance. Her cooking skills were marginal. Other than housekeeping, she had no other serviceable skills. Not to mention she had no more days to work with Saturday spent tending to the ranch and Sunday being the Sabbath after all.

  She clicked her tongue, then flicked the reins to spur the horse into a trot. No sense in delaying the inevitable. They might as well see if there was any other unexpected gift, besides the goat, to add to their weekend bounty.

  Dried fruit. Fresh fruit. Four Mason jars of bread-and-butter pickles. A potted orchid. Two books of poetry. Dozens of cards in condolence. Thanks to Judge and Mrs. Forsythe’s generosity, an entire leg of lamb! That would last them a good week. All were lovely gifts, but to barter any of them to any of Finn’s creditors would be bad form. The food they’d eat. The seedlings from Mrs. Hollenbeck they’d plant. The orchid she’d have to figure out how to tend. The books of poetry could be read . . . if she found time. Luci may like them.

  The goat, however, was another matter.

  Of course, it could be part of another marriage proposal.

  Emilia cringed as images from her first day at work came to the forefront of her mind. What kind of man proposes to a woman right after he introduces himself? Worse, what kind of man proposes after three men before him proposed and received a resounding no? For all that she’d sold today at The Resale Co., a fair portion had to be purchases made in hopes of impressing her. Then again, maybe Montana miners liked china tea sets, Jane Austen novels, and white-painted terrariums.

  Please, Lord, anything but another proposal.

  If it was a welcome-to-Helena gift . . .

  “It had better be male,” she muttered.

  “Why?”

  “We can breed him with our two—”

  The goat jumped out of the rocker and onto the porch, barking rapidly. With every yip, its whole body bounced. Luci screamed and scrambled onto the back of the cart’s wooden seat, almost knocking Emilia off the bench.

  Her knees pressed against Emilia as she held tight. “Go back to Helena. Go! Go now!”

  Emilia drew the cart to a halt in front of the cabin. “Calm down.”

  “I can’t!”

  She loosened Luci’s grip around her neck, yet her sister’s hands continued to tremble, her dark eyes wide with alarm. “It’s just a dog, Luce. Look, he’s not much bigger than our hens.”

  “I don’t care,” Luci roared. “Take me to Sheriff McCall. Now!”

  “Why?”

  “He promised he will always keep us safe.” She growled. “Just go. Please.”

  Emilia clenched her jaw. A promise like that—one that couldn’t be kept no matter how well intentioned—meant nothing. They didn’t need the sheriff to protect them.

  “Listen, we don’t even know if Sheriff McCall is back in town,” she said to help Luci be reasonable. “Jakob and Roch will be back soon. We can sit here and wait, all right?” She waited for Luci to settle back down on the bench. “See, you’ll be fine. The dog can’t reach you up here.”

  Her ashen face regained a bit of color. “I suppose that’s true.” Her petrified gaze shifted to the dog. “Why won’t it stop?”

  Emilia looked at the dog barking and bouncing on the porch, its snowy white hair sticking out like needles. Why did it stay on the porch instead of charging at them? Customers used to walk through Spiegel with leashed dogs. Not once had there been a dog attack or a dog run loose. Each dog had known what its owner expected. Good behavior.

  No . . . trained behavior.

  A thought sparking, she removed Finn’s gloves, then tossed them onto the floorboard. She slid off the cart before Luci could stop her.

  “Emme, don’t! Da said not to go near strays.”

  She ignored her sister, pointed at the dog, and commanded, “Sit.”

  It did.

  Tongue hanging out, it gasped for breath.

  Emilia looked over her shoulder. “Did you see that? It must belong to someone.”

  Luci shifted on the bench, not looking scared so much as nervous. Or maybe puzzled, like Emilia was, as to why a house pet was this far from town.

  “Then how did it get out here?” she asked.

  Emilia shrugged. “The Gunderson ranch is our closest neighbor.” She glanced around. The railroad ran along the southern boundary of Finn’s land. “Maybe its owners live closer to the
mountains. It couldn’t have traveled far. It doesn’t look starved.” She looked back at the dog, sitting and breathing heavily. What a feisty little breed! Furry and bouncy and impressively obedient. A little cute even.

  “Don’t,” Luci warned.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t go near it. Put your hand down.”

  Emilia looked at her right palm, turned up as Da had taught them all to do before approaching a dog. Without giving it another thought, she started toward the porch. “Hey there,” she said softly. The dog’s tail wagged. She sat on the porch step, and the dog licked her upturned palm. “Where did you come from?” she murmured. Glancing around, she could see no card or letter. Something could have been left inside the house.

  Emilia stood and untied her bonnet strings. She headed to the door, the dog following. Once inside the cabin, she hung her hat on a wall peg, then looked around for any correspondence. Nothing. Everything was in the same spot as it had been in when she and Luci had left for Helena that morning.

  She looked down at the dog, sitting next to her, its fur touching her gray skirt. The thing was too friendly to be a stray. It was used to human interaction. “I don’t think you’re part of a marriage proposal,” she said, watching it watch her. “You’re someone’s pet, aren’t you?”

  Its tail wagged.

  “I’m taking that as affirmation.”

  It looked to the opened door, its ears twisted, then took off running, barking as frantically as it had earlier. Emilia hurried after it. She stepped out onto the porch to see Jakob and Roch riding down the lane, dust clouds behind them. Jakob waved. She waved back. They drew up next to the cart with Luci perched on the bench seat.

  “Shh. Sit,” she commanded.

  Again the dog obeyed.

  She scooped the dog into her arms, tucking it under her left arm. Definitely a little bigger than a chicken. Heavier, too.

  Jakob and Roch walked their horses to the porch.

  “Where did you find that?” Roch asked, eyeing the dog warily.

  “He was here on the porch when we arrived.” She looked to Jakob. “Who does it belong to? For all the noise it makes, it’s pretty tame.”