Watching him, Katlyn’s heart beat faster and harder
She didn’t know whether it was from nerves or from a growing sense of annoyance with the arrogance radiating from the man.
He made his way to her in a few long-legged strides, offering her a curt nod of his head and a cool handshake in welcome. “I’m Case Durham. I own the St. Martin. We’ve corresponded several times.”
Katlyn nodded in reply. This close to him, she could see he wasn’t as dark as the shadows had painted him, with the exception of his expression. His hair was more the color of polished oak, his eyes a deep, mesmerizing green, sharp and hard as gemstones.
As hard as Case Durham seemed to be.
Praise for author Nicole Foster’s first book JAKE’S ANGEL
“An endearing tale…the characters shine.”
—Rendezvous
“…a classic romance…any reader devoted to this genre will love this book.”
—Romance Communications
“Jake’s Angel will charm you from the first page and hold you until the last…you won’t be able to put it down.”
—The Road to Romance
CIMARRON ROSE
Harlequin Historical #560
#559 THE OVERLORD’S BRIDE
Margaret Moore
#561 THE NANNY
Judith Stacy
#562 TAMING THE DUKE
Jackie Manning
CIMARRON ROSE
NICOLE FOSTER
Available from Harlequin Historicals and NICOLE FOSTER
Jake’s Angel #522
Cimarron Rose #560
To Nicole and Foster, kindred spirits like their mothers.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Chapter One
Cimarron, New Mexico territory, 1875
A gust of wind rattled the window of the small room, its cool draft sliding inside to brush against Katlyn McLain’s neck. She shivered, drawing her thin woolen shawl a little more tightly around her as she bent over the bed to look again at the woman lying there.
In the wavering lamplight, stripped of her glitter and paint, Penelope Rose seemed small and faded. Katlyn touched her mother’s face, then tucked the blanket more snugly around her. Even without the doctor’s grim news, she had known her mother was ill. Her pale thinness, the dullness of her penny-bright hair, the droop of her shoulders all betrayed Penelope’s sparkling facade.
Katlyn dropped back down onto the wooden chair she’d pulled close to the bed, feeling a little pale herself.
She hadn’t slept since she’d arrived hours ago in Cimarron, cold, wet, aching, and half carrying Penelope, with nothing between them but the clothes on their backs.
A tap at the door brought Katlyn to her feet again. Before she could move to answer it, the owner of the boardinghouse, Mrs. Donaldson, pushed open the door and came inside. She put the tray she carried on the dresser top and then looked sternly at Katlyn.
That expression made Katlyn want to laugh. A thin little sparrow of a woman, Elspeth Donaldson appeared meek—until she spoke and a rich Scottish burr rolled out. “Now, lass, I’ve brought you some tea, and a wee bit of that stew I had left from supper. You won’t be doin’ your ma any good by starvin’ yourself.”
“Thank you,” Katlyn said, smiling a little at Mrs. Donaldson’s fussing. “I am hungry. But I—”
“I won’t be hearin’ any more about you payin’ me,” Mrs. Donaldson said, giving Katlyn one of her daunting stares. “You just eat that. I know you’re hungry, walkin’ all that way after such a terrible experience. You’re a brave lass, and there’s no one can say different.”
Katlyn wanted to say she felt anything but brave. But she only smiled her thanks and went to pick up the steaming cup of tea.
“A nice sleep will do your ma good, you’ll see,” Mrs. Donaldson added, eyeing Penelope with a shrewdness that made Katlyn feel the other woman knew everything about her mother. “She might feel differently about stayin’ though. I don’t suppose she thought it would be like this.”
No, of course she didn’t, Katlyn silently agreed as she shut the door behind Mrs. Donaldson.
Her mother should never have come here. Penelope belonged back on the Mississippi riverboats, where she was flattered and pampered, not in the New Mexico high country.
But Penelope had insisted on coming to Cimarron to sing at the St. Martin Hotel. And when her mother made up her mind, no one could convince her otherwise.
Katlyn hadn’t believed her when Penelope said she needed a rest, a change of scenery to revive herself. Then, when she’d added that it would be lovely, being so near her only daughter, Katlyn knew something was very wrong.
Nothing would have caused her mother to leave St. Louis except failure.
Now Katlyn worried she would also fail. Fail her mother when she most needed her.
The doctor made it clear Penelope couldn’t be moved, perhaps for several weeks, and then only to a hospital that offered a special treatment for her condition. Expensive treatment Katlyn had no idea how she would afford.
The trip here had been cursed from the start. First, by storms. The stage sat mired in mud after the sheeting rains, vulnerable to the three outlaws who had robbed the passengers, leaving them stranded miles from Cimarron. The long walk into town across the rugged terrain had caused Penelope’s collapse. Katlyn felt lucky they had at least been able to find shelter at one of the town’s two boardinghouses, knowing her mother would rather have died than have been carried into the St. Martin, sick and bedraggled.
“Honey, you look fierce enough to scare away a ghost.” Penelope smiled when Katlyn, startled out of her dark thoughts, jumped out of her chair to her mother’s side.
“How are you feeling? Is there something I can get you?”
“Yes, Katie, my dear, you can stop looking at me as if the undertaker is waiting outside the door.”
Katlyn breathed deep. “Mama…”
“Oh, please—” Penelope waved a limp, shaky hand at her daughter. “Don’t go repeating all those dreadful things that doctor tried to tell me. I’ve told you, I just need a little rest. A few weeks and I’ll be ready to sing again.”
“You’re going to be in bed a few weeks, at least. And then…then we’re going to Las Vegas. It’s west of here, in the territory. There’s a hospital there and—”
“And I will not go anywhere! I can’t lose this job, Katie. I can’t.” Penelope’s voice dropped, and she looked away from Katlyn.
But not in time for Katlyn to miss the sheen of tears in her mother’s lovely eyes. “I’m sorry, Mama,” she said softly, taking Penelope’s hand. “I know how much you wanted this job. But the doctor says you need to be at that hospital.”
Katlyn struggled to sound confident, optimistic, to say something to assure her mother she would be taken care of, even though Katlyn had no idea how she would do that. Robbed by the outlaws of the money they’d carried with them, alone in Cimarron, without even the promise now of work—Katlyn forced away the worries threatening to overwhelm her.
“I’ll find work here, until the doctor says you can travel. Then I’ll find something in Las Vegas. I’ll take care of you, I promise.”
“I do believe that’
s supposed to be my promise, honey. And I’ve done it, haven’t I? All those years, by myself, after your daddy decided to leave me with nothing but a kiss and a baby. I had my singing and that was all I needed to keep us, and keep us well. You aren’t going to be able to do the same washing dishes or teaching school.”
“Maybe Isabel could help,” Katlyn said doubtfully. She’d stayed with her half sister for a little more than a year, elated to find her after growing up apart. But Isabel was now recently married, with two boys, a baby on the way, and her ailing grandmother living with them. Every cent and every inch of space in the household were spoken for, and then some. Katlyn knew even as she said the words that apart from offering a sympathetic ear and a recipe for a soothing balm, there was nothing Isabel could do.
“I’m sure your sister is a fine woman, but she’s not my daughter.” Penelope echoed her thoughts. “No, Katie, I’m not the kind to take charity. You ought to know that about me by now. And we don’t need to. Why, it’ll be so simple.”
“Simple?” Rain slashed the window, the rhythm of it pounding in Katlyn’s head. She was tired, worried, afraid if she dared to admit it. What could her mother be thinking?
“Of course. I already have a job here.”
“Mama, you can’t—”
“No, darling, but you can.”
Katlyn stared. Triumph had put a delicate flush into Penelope’s pale cheeks. Katlyn wondered if fever had made her mother delirious.
“That’s ridiculous,” she said, her spirit reviving at the mere idea of taking her mother’s place. “I’m not a singer. All I’ve ever done besides follow you is a little teaching. No one would ever believe I was you, even if I was crazy enough to agree to do it. Tomorrow, I’ll go to the hotel and tell them the truth. Then they can look for someone else to—”
Katlyn suddenly stopped, appalled as the tears started spilling down her mother’s ashen face. Her mother, who always laughed her way through hardship and pain.
“Katie, please. You can’t tell them I’m—like this. If anyone knew, if anyone would see me now…Katie, I would rather die.”
Penelope grabbed at her hand when Katlyn opened her mouth to try to comfort her. “Don’t say no. I’ll be well again soon and then it won’t matter. Just don’t let them know. Please, do this for me. Promise me you will. And think of the money. It’s more than you could ever make in some little teaching job or worse, cleaning or cooking. Why, what do you know about that, anyway? We need the money, and you can get it for us. I know you can sing and that’s all that matters. I’ll teach you anything else you need to learn.”
Katlyn sat back down and tried to think of an argument that would persuade her mother of the impossibility of what she was asking. Katlyn McLain, become the St. Louis Songbird? She nearly laughed out loud.
And yet…She thought of the money she could make to help her mother. Penelope was right—the salary the owner of the St. Martin had promised was far more than any money she could make at a menial job even if she worked day and night.
And, though it chafed to admit it, Penelope was also right about her skills. What work could she do? She had grown up on riverboats and in hotels, watching her beautiful mother charm with her golden voice. Penelope had never taught her anything about cooking or sewing or keeping a house. Knowing how to dress for a performance, paint her face and arrange her hair, Katlyn was sure, were skills not in great demand in Cimarron.
But far more compelling was the fact that her mother needed her—desperately. No one had ever actually needed Katlyn McLain before. All her life, until this very moment, Katlyn had felt that fate had misplaced her. Growing up she was a burden of responsibility to her mother. And when she’d gone to live with her sister, she was an extra mouth to feed.
If by some miracle she succeeded as a singer, she could take care of Penelope without having to depend on charity from anyone. She could finally be of some true value to someone she loved and cared for. And she could carry on her mother’s tradition of independence with pride.
“You have my hair, that won’t be a problem,” Penelope was saying, her voice trembling. “Those blue eyes are your daddy’s but no one will take notice of that. If you use a little paint they’ll believe you’re older. I’ll dress you, tell you how it should be done. Thank goodness you’ve inherited my curves! You’ll do fine, Katie, I just know it.”
“It would be a lie,” Katlyn said more to herself than to her mother.
“We’re not hurting anyone.”
“Aren’t we? They’re expecting the St. Louis Songbird.”
“Well, I’m giving you my name. That’s what they’re paying for. They’ll have their singer and I’ll have my reputation. We’re not cheating anyone of anything. They need me and I need you. It’s that simple.”
Katlyn couldn’t help but laugh. “It won’t be simple at all. I’m not you, Mama. I’m just plain Katlyn.”
“Not anymore,” her mother said firmly. “Now you’re the St. Louis Songbird.”
Case Durham paced the wide length of the St. Martin’s lobby, looking over the four people who made up most of his modest staff at the hotel. Stern appraisal marked his sharp emerald gaze. He lifted one dark brow and looked down his nose at his employees. “I trust everything is in order for her arrival?”
“Oh, yessir, Mr. Durham, sir,” the young girl he’d paused in front of blurted out nervously. “Spit and polished everything top to bottom.” The girl motioned to the left of the lobby. “And our town’s band—what there is of it—they’re all tuned up and ready to play.”
Case took in the ragtag-looking group of makeshift musicians greeting him with jagged toothy grins and what looked like from the faded wear and ill-fit of them, second-or third-hand uniforms.
What they lacked in skill, at least they might make up for in enthusiasm, he told himself.
A gangly boy, with a stray piece of straw lodged in his mussed hair, anxiously twisted a worn cap in his hands as he nodded toward the balcony. “And I painted the banner up there on the railing, just so she knows fer sure she’s welcome here.”
Case turned toward the bright red letters splashed across a huge white banner that read Welcome To The St. Martin Hotel St. Louis Songbyrd.
Suppressing a smile at the misspelling, Case turned back to the young man. “Bucky, I’m sure she’ll appreciate that very much. I didn’t know you could read and write. Who taught you?”
Bucky stopped twisting the cap in his hands and straightened. “My ma did, ’fore she passed on.”
“Well, I’m glad to know that. In time, there may be a place for you under this roof.” Case flicked the straw out of the lad’s hair. “Unless you’re particularly partial to sleeping in straw, that is.”
Bucky seemed to search Case’s unsmiling face, then returned his employer’s serious look. “Thank you, sir. I’d be honored to sleep in a real bed here in the hotel.”
Again, it was all Case could do to hold back a grin, but better he intimidate them a little. Employees were more productive if they harbored a little uncertainty as to their boss’s satisfaction with them. Hard work and respect went hand in hand when it came to making a venture successful.
And, damned if he wasn’t going to see this disaster through until it was precisely that.
He’d sunk his last dime into this gamble. Taking a calculated risk, Case relied on his keen business sense, which told him that the gamble would eventually pay off in spades. But this place was fast impressing upon him that he would finally be forced to learn what had always gone against his grain: the fine art of patience.
And right now, the key to that success was giving him his first lesson. For the dozenth time, he flicked open the silver pocket watch in his palm. She was over an hour late. And nothing irked him like tardiness. Especially when he thought of the salary he’d had to promise the famed St. Louis Songbird to lure her out West to his godforsaken hotel. She was probably some pampered prima donna, used to making her hosts wait just so she could make a
n entrance. He’d have to bite his tongue, he was sure, and he would, as long as she pulled in the customers the way everyone swore she would.
He’d never tell her as much, but the truth was the renowned singer was his last hope in saving his hotel. Unlike his other ventures, nothing had seemed to work when it came to trying to clean up this place and draw decent folks in.
It had seemed a reasonable gamble at the time he’d chosen to buy the hotel, but of late he’d begun to question whether his instincts for investing had abandoned him. Cimarron, positioned advantageously on the Santa Fe Trail, had begun to thrive with the profits of ranching, mining and trading. There was plenty of money being made to be spent, and few places to spend it.
But after six months in business, Case saw that his best customers were still renegades, gamblers and assorted desperados on the run from the law. Not only did that kind scare other customers away, but more importantly, they made the hotel unsafe for his six-year-old daughter Emily.
After all it had cost him to clear the debts Emily’s mother had left him to face, if this hotel failed, he’d lose everything. Everything but what mattered most, that was. He would not risk losing his little girl. Not after the fight it had taken to keep her with him.
He kept telling himself leaving Emily in Colorado would have been far worse for her. But in truth, he had to accept the fact that he couldn’t keep her here with him safely much longer if the St. Martin continued to draw trouble like flies to honey. He guarded Emily with his life, but this was no way for a child to live.
If the St. Louis Songbird didn’t turn his luck and do it quickly, he’d have to swallow his pride and his pocketbook and give the whole thing up.
Case clicked his silver watch open and closed, his polished boots slapping hard and fast across the glistening pine floors. His small staff waited in a line, barely daring to breathe as he strode past.
“She’d better be worth the wait,” he muttered to no one in particular.
“Oh, Mr. Durham, she’s supposed to be the best! Just the best!” the girl declared. “I ain’t never heard her sing, mind you, but some of the folks who come through here from out East say her voice puts a hold on you like a magic spell.”
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