The sheriff, of all people. The one man she should have avoided like the veritable plague. After all, if one were to be nitpicky about it, she was, technically, a kidnapper. As that word rumbled through her mind, she fought it down. She’d done nothing wrong, after all. Jenna was her sister. It was Sophie’s duty to look after her. To protect her from harm. And if that harm just happened to be the child’s legal guardian... well, so be it.
Although she didn’t expect this small-town sheriff to see things that way.
Oh, for pity’s sake.
And it didn’t help her temper any to look up into his blue eyes and see the flash of humor sparkling there. Not only had he humiliated her in public, but he’d enjoyed it!
The first day of her brand-new life was not off to a good start.
Best to salvage what she could of her dignity and go about her business. And first things first. What she had to do was find Hattie McCoy, the woman who’d hired Sophie as the new schoolteacher, and then get settled. With that thought firmly in mind, she lifted her chin, ignored the group of men still whispering and laughing over her antics, and faced the sheriff.
“If you’ve quite finished ‘helping’ me, I’ll be going now,” she said and left him standing there while she marched back to Jenna’s side. Shifting her ruined petticoat into her still open bag, she picked up both bags in one hand and, with her free hand, took hold of the little girl.
“So, Mama…” the girl began.
“Not now, Jenna,” she said and walked back down the length of the platform with determined strides. She passed the sheriff and ignored the small knot of men with nothing better to do in the middle of the day than laugh at women they didn’t know. Holding her chin high and keeping a firm grasp of Jenna’s hand, Sophie kept her gaze straight ahead and kept walking until she was clear of the train station and headed down the town’s one and only Main Street.
She wasn’t running away, she reassured herself. She was simply doing what she had to do. Getting started on the life she was going to build for herself and Jenna. Feeling a bit better, Sophie let her gaze slide over the town that would now be home.
A far cry from Albany, she thought with a silent sigh. There were no neat, tree-lined streets crowded with polished carriages and high-stepping horses. Nor any finely dressed women scurrying in and out of welltended shops.
Here, the heart of Tanglewood looked as though it might blow down during a decent-sized windstorm. The buildings had a temporary, ramshackle look to them, though here and there, she spotted a pot of wilted flowers or a hopeful splash of paint. Most of the businesses boasted two-story false fronts in an effort to make the places look bigger and perhaps more prosperous than they were. An illusion which might have worked if their painted signs hadn’t been flaking and peeling in the sun.
She felt a twinge of worry scatter through her. It was all so different, she thought. So wild. So... untamed and uncivilized. Even the sky looked bigger here, she thought with a glance heavenward. Oh, the books she’d read about the West simply hadn’t prepared her for the reality.
Maybe, Sophie thought, she wasn’t up to the challenge. Maybe she’d finally—as her stepfather used to say—bitten off more than she could chew. On the other hand, she told herself, what choice did she really have? She was here now. She would have to make the best of the situation or cry defeat. Slink back to New York like a beaten hound, give in to Charles Vinson, hand over her sister to a man Sophie knew would mistreat her, and spend the rest of her own life wondering what might have happened if she’d had just a bit more courage.
Besides, she thought, choosing to look at the brighter side, in a place as wide open and undefined as this, she could become anyone she chose. Here, she might find the “normalcy” that had always eluded her back in Albany... where everyone knew the Dolans and just how far from normal they really were. A slight smile curved her mouth, despite the lingering hesitancy inside. Tanglewood might actually turn out to be the answer to her prayers.
She glanced at the buildings she passed, trying to look at them with a kinder eye, noting the barber shop, a millinery, the mercantile, a gun shop. Women in bonnets shopped with baskets over their arms and a heavy farm wagon rolled down the middle of the street as if daring anyone to challenge it. An old yellow dog snoozed in the shade of a porch and, somewhere in the distance, a blacksmith’s hammer rang out on an anvil. Two little boys darted past her, their feet kicking up small clouds of dust in the street, and Sophie looked after them with a smile. Some things, after all, remained constant.
Then the glorious aroma of fresh-baked bread snaked along the air and teased her until Sophie’s stomach rumbled noisily. She turned to cast one longing glance at a tiny restaurant with shining window panes.
“I’m hungry, Sophie,” Jenna whined.
“I am too, honey,” she said, giving the restaurant a last, wistful look before smiling at the little girl beside her. “But first we’ll get settled, all right? Then some supper?”
Jenna looked back over her shoulder at the train station. “Can that man have supper with us?”
A quick knot of worry tightened in her stomach. “Which man, honey?”
“That one,” she said. “The man you were playing with.”
Sophie sneaked a look over her shoulder. The sheriff stood in a patch of shade cast by the train depot’s porch roof. But some stray slash of sunlight managed to hit the star on his vest to wink at Sophie as if issuing a silent warning. She swallowed hard and turned her head back to the front. “We weren’t playing,” Sophie corrected her. “And no, he can’t.”
“But Sophie, he—”
“Mama, remember?”
“Mama—”
“Look, honey.” Sophie interrupted the girl before she could get going again. Lifting the carpetbags to wave at a sign she’d just spotted, she said, “There’s the boardinghouse. See now? We’ll find Mrs. McCoy, get settled in our room, and then we’ll have supper, all right?”
“All right,” Jenna muttered and kicked her shoe against a pebble in the dirt. Just a half block farther along, Sophie found their destination.
“McCoy Boardinghouse, Rooms for Rent, Daily or Weekly.” The sign hung crookedly from a post in what she supposed was considered the front yard. Sparse tufts of grass dotted the dirt and a row of neatly aligned rocks bordered a path leading directly to the wide front porch. Sitting on that porch were a few whitewashed chairs and tables and a pot holding what looked to be a struggling rosebush.
But the porch was freshly swept and the windows facing onto the street fairly sparkled in the afternoon sun. And truth to tell, Sophie was suddenly so weary, she wouldn’t have cared if Mrs. McCoy rented rooms in a stable. Weeks of traveling with a child and running from a man determined to find them were taking their toll and all she really wanted now was to lie down and close her eyes.
The minute she walked into the boardinghouse, Sophie wanted to weep in relief. The outside of the place might have needed work, but inside, it was a different story altogether. Every inch of the place spoke of constant attention. Afternoon sunlight poured in through shining windowpanes to dance across the brightly colored rag rugs dotting the gleaming wood floor. White lace curtains, stiff with starch, rattled in the breeze drifting beneath the window sashes.
A long hallway stretched out directly in front of her, probably leading to the kitchen. On her left was a staircase, its steps and banister polished to a high sheen, despite the worn spots made by countless pairs of feet. Not a speck of dust could be found anywhere, Sophie thought, turning her head to take in the small front parlor, noting the overstuffed furniture, the whitewashed walls, and the fire burning in the hearth.
It was a small, cozy haven, she thought, and felt every tense muscle in her body slowly uncoil and relax. Like an outpost of civilization in a raw, windswept world, Hattie McCoy’s boardinghouse welcomed guests with warmth and charm.
Tightening her grip on the handles of her bags, Sophie fought the fatigue beginning to sweep through her. A few more minutes, she told herself, and before she could call out, she heard the sound of quick footsteps tapping against the floor. A small, round woman bustled down the length of the hallway, smoothing a freshly pressed white apron down over her expansive middle. She was several inches shorter than Sophie’s five feet eight, and weighed at least a hundred pounds more. Her face was round and wrinkle-free, her soft blond hair was pulled up into a loose knot on top of her head, and a spray of fine lines fanned out from the corners of her blue eyes. This was a face used to smiling, Sophie thought, and immediately warmed to her.
“Well, my goodness,” the woman said, stepping forward to take Sophie’s bags from her. “You look beat down to the ground, child.” Bending low, she tipped Jenna’s chin up with one meaty forefinger and clucked her tongue. “Poor little mite, you look about done in.”
“You’re nice,” the little girl said.
“Why, thank you,” the woman said, “I think you’re mighty sweet too.”
“Hattie McCoy?” Sophie asked, hoping she was correct.
“That’s right,” the woman said and straightened up to meet her gaze.
“I’m Sophie Ryan,” she said, the false name falling neatly off her tongue. Should she be worried that lying was becoming easier? No. Later, she thought. She’d worry about that later. “I’m the new schoolteacher.”
Surprise flashed across the woman’s features briefly then gave way to an expression of concern. She reached out, took Sophie’s hand in hers, and gave it a hearty shake. “Well, isn’t this a pleasure? I’ve got your room all ready for you,” she continued, then paused and gave Jenna a quick smile. “But you didn’t tell me you had a child.”
Jenna leaned into Sophie’s leg and she dropped a reassuring hand onto the girl’s shoulder. “Is it a problem?” she whispered, hoping it wouldn’t be. She hadn’t mentioned Jenna in the telegram she’d sent accepting this job for fear the town of Tanglewood would change its mind about hiring her. Now, though, that seemed a foolish decision. What if she’d traveled all the way here only to be told no? What would she do then? Where would she go?
Speaking quickly now, despite the fog of weariness beginning to blur her vision, she said, “I assure you, Jenna’s no trouble at all. She can stay in my room and of course I’ll pay extra for her meals and—”
“Here now.” Hattie interrupted the flow of words with a shake of her head and sent another smile at the girl. “No need to get into a stew about this. Don’t you worry about a thing, honey. Why, I’ve never known any child to be any real trouble. Spunky is all and I purely love spunky in a child.”
Relief swept through her and Sophie’s knees trembled with the force of it.
Hattie must have noticed because she stepped alongside her, dropped one meaty arm over her shoulder, and guided her to the staircase. “You come along with Hattie, honey. We’ll get you all settled in and you can have a nice lie-down before supper, how’s that sound?”
“Wonderful,” Sophie admitted, giving in to the glorious feeling of being taken care of. For too long now, she’d had to be the strong one. It was nice to take a mental step back, however briefly, and let someone else do the worrying.
“And I don’t want to hear another word about paying extra for that sweet-faced child.” Hattie looked over her shoulder at Jenna and said, “You come along now, sweetie, so your mama and you can have a nap.” Then to Sophie, she added, “Why, that little thing couldn’t eat enough to fill a teacup.”
The flow of conversation washed over her and through her and Sophie moved like a sleepwalker. She hardly noticed the upstairs climb or the long hallway running the length of the second floor. Absently, she noted the doors she passed but paid little attention until Hattie stopped, opened one, and ushered her into a lovely room.
Sunshine rippled through the windows that overlooked the street. Yellow and white gingham curtains rippled in the breeze, casting dancing shadows across the writing table, chest of drawers, and the two chairs drawn up in front of a potbellied stove. A round mirror hung above a mahogany washbasin, reflecting the bed against the opposite wall. The wrought-iron bedstead held a thick, comfortable-looking mattress covered by a gaily patterned quilt and a mound of pillows. Here, too, bright rag rugs on the shining wood floor provided splashes of color.
Later, she would appreciate the warmth and beauty of the room. At the moment, it was all she could do to tear her gaze away from that bed to thank her hostess.
“It’s very nice, Mrs. McCoy, thank you.”
“Piffle,” the woman said with a wave of her hand, even as she moved to wipe a nonexistent spot of dust from the bedside table with the corner of her apron. “Nothin’ to thank me for, hon. And as to the other, you just call me Hattie. Everybody does.”
“Hattie,” she repeated with a nod. Odd, she couldn’t imagine anyone in Albany being so familiar with a complete stranger. Back home, she knew married couples who still addressed each other as Mr. and Mrs. even after years of marriage. But she supposed that here, in the rough-and-tumble West, society’s mores seemed foolish at best and a waste of precious time. Besides, she thought with an inward smile, she rather liked the informality.
“Why, you poor thing, you’re asleep on your feet.” Hattie clucked her tongue again, drew Sophie to the bed and practically pushed her down onto it.
A soft sigh escaped her as her body seemed to melt into the bed’s downy comfort. “You too, little miss,” Hattie told Jenna and helped the girl up onto the high bed. Then without another word, she picked up the extra folded quilt at the foot of the mattress, snapped it open and let it fall gently down atop them. “Both of you get some sleep now, y’hear? I’ll come wake you in plenty of time for supper.”
Then she slipped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
Sophie curled onto her side and drew Jenna in close. The little girl snuggled against her, sighed heavily, and was asleep within minutes. Sophie, though, lay awake a bit longer, watching the curtains dip and sway to the dance of the wind and listening to the sounds of her new home drifting through the window.
Safe, she thought, as her eyes slid closed, they were safe. For now.
CHAPTER Three
Ridge smiled to himself and closed the door on Tall’s grumbling. Every night, without fail, his deputy muttered darkly about the danger of going without food. Ridge supposed a man Tall’s size must get hungrier than most, but waiting an hour or so until Ridge finished his supper hadn’t killed him yet.
It was the same story every night.
Routine, he thought. He’d slipped into a routine that was comfortable even as it chafed at him. Frowning, he reached up, rubbed one hand across the back of his neck and told himself it was pointless to struggle against the very thing he’d spent the last three years building.
Ridge glanced into the last splash of color trailing behind the dying sun, crossed the boardwalk and paused at the edge. Bracing one shoulder against the porch post, he shoved his hands into his pockets and let his gaze drift across the familiar scene.
Kerosene lamps flickered gently behind curtained windows. Doors were closed against the coming night and the scents of wood smoke and suppers cooking swirled on the slight breeze dusting across the desert. Farther down the street, the saloon was just kicking up its heels. The first stars were already winking into life in a purple sky, and somewhere in the distance a lone coyote howled.
The sound rippled through him and brought an eerie sense of recognition to the wild streak that still lay buried deep within him. Shifting his gaze to the darkening desert, he briefly imagined jumping onto his horse and riding off into the night. Losing himself in the wild country and traveling the lost paths that wound up into the mountains. A part of him hungered for it, the solitude, the quiet.
A child cried, a door slam
med, and Ridge shook off his thoughts. He pushed away from the post and started down the boardwalk toward Hattie’s. The old days were long gone, he told himself, and remembering them didn’t do a damn bit of good.
“Evenin’, Sheriff,” Ike Swanson called as he stepped out of his barbershop and closed up for the night. “Off to supper, are you?”
“About that time,” Ridge said with a nod and kept walking, unwilling to be drawn into one of Ike’s notoriously long stories. Things’d be bad enough once he hit Hattie’s place. Not for the first time, he realized he should have moved out of that boardinghouse years ago. But again, it had become comfortable, and living in someone else’s house made this time in Tanglewood less permanent somehow.
He turned into the rock-lined walkway and took the front steps in two long strides. Yanking off his hat, he opened the door and stepped inside. He hung his hat on the same peg he used every night and walked down the hall, following the sound of voices.
The dining room pulsed with activity. Kerosene wall lamps threw softly shifting shadows over the faces of the people gathered at the well-set table.
The Reverend Elias Kendrick had gray tufts of hair sprouting out from the sides of his mostly bald head, and blue eyes that sometimes saw too much. A kind man, he’d given up fire-and-brimstone preaching when he was old enough to learn the road to hell was never clearly marked and that the Lord was more interested in saving sinners than praising saints.
The whiskey drummer, Henry Tuttle, just passing through town on his sales route, was a talkative little man with quick dark eyes and a sly smile.
Hester Appleby, a seamstress, was as jumpy as a rabbit. Her pale gray eyes, magnified behind a pair of thick spectacles, darted around the room as if she were constantly looking for a place to hide.
But Ridge wasn’t paying much attention to the regulars. Instead, his gaze shifted to the redhead from the train station. He shouldn’t have been surprised to see her; after all, Tanglewood wasn’t big enough to boast a hotel, and the only other rooms to let were above the saloon. Still he’d spent the last couple of hours forgetting about those green eyes of hers and wasn’t entirely sure he was ready to look into them again.
Just West of Heaven Page 3
