by Beth Ciotta
“Those Garrett boys prefer pretty, sensual women,” the judgmental vixen said. “Women who know how to please a man.”
You should know, Emily wanted to say, but didn’t. Ten years ago she and Paris had caught Rome and Mary Lee canoodling by the creek. Rumor had it she’d dallied with London, the eldest of the four Garrett brothers, as well. If Athens hadn’t intervened, Mr. Bernbaum would’ve instigated a shotgun wedding. No doubt Mary Lee’s fondest wish. Now the woman was a bitter hussy, married off by her pa to a man twenty years her senior. A hussy in search of a new lover. No one talked about Mary Lee’s secret rendezvous, but a few suspected. Emily knew. She brushed past the woman, without making eye contact. “Excuse me, please. It’s storytelling time.”
Mary Lee snorted. “I can’t wait to hear your delivery of page three.”
She kept walking, knowing in her queasy stomach it must have been Mary Lee who swayed the committee to choose Showdown in Sintown over a more literary work. She didn’t need to peek at page three to know what it said. She’d read the story so many times she had it memorized. Page three offered the scene where Rome saved a west coast socialite, a victim of the stagecoach robbery, a woman with more backbone than sense, with the kiss of life. Upon revival, the damsel thanked Rome with another kind of kiss altogether.
When embarrassed, Emily babbled. Mary Lee knew full well when it came to reading this scene aloud in front of faithful churchgoers, she’d become flustered.
The shrew.
Chin held high, she walked past the reference shelves, two reading tables, and the upholstered wing chair donated by Doctor Kellogg. So what if she rambled? So what if people found humor in her discomfort? She’d lived through like situations many a time before. “I can do this,” she vowed to the scuffed toes of her leather boots.
She reached the meeting area just as Ezekiel Thompson, proprietor of the general store and this year’s elected club president, called the late afternoon social to order. Members quieted and jockeyed for seats. Emily stood by, pulse racing. She caught Cole Sawyer staring at her and frowned. He’d been annoyingly attentive since her father’s passing. Annoying, because she had no romantic interest in the man. She thought she’d made that clear, so last week’s marriage proposal had been a shock. When she recovered her wits, she’d declined.
Unlike Mr. Bellamont, who’d proposed several weeks before, Cole was disinclined to take “no” for an answer. He’d promised to win her heart. But that was impossible since her heart wasn’t up for grabs. Besides, whereas Mr. Bellamont had been motivated by good intentions, she suspected Cole wasn’t so much interested in her welfare as her womb. The eldest of three, his pa was bent on him marrying and producing a grandson. Unhinged by his blatant attention, she focused on the committee table.
Mary Lee mouthed, “Page three,” and smiled.
The shrew.
“Welcome, ladies and gents, to our bi-monthly meeting of the Lemonade and Storytelling Social Club.” Mr. Thompson patted his potbelly, stifled a burp then gestured to his left. “Special thanks to Miss Frisbie for providing the baked goods and to Mrs. Dobbs for her delicious lemonade.”
The membership applauded in appreciation.
Emily’s pulse thrummed with dread. Don’t think about page three. Don’t think, just read. “I can do this.”
Bam!
All creation started and turned at the sound of the front door slamming open.
A strong breeze fluttered the pages of the periodicals as a square-shouldered individual crossed the threshold. “Beg your pardon,” he said, his soft voice laced with a Texan drawl. He scanned the audience, noted the committee, and their president who stood with arms akimbo, pointy-toed boot tapping in irritation as he closed the door. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Yes, sir, you are, sir,” said Mr. Thompson. “The bi-monthly meeting of the Lemonade and Storytelling Social Club.”
The membership muttered as they shifted in their seats for a better view of the intruder.
Emily felt obliged to intercede, seeing as she was the assistant librarian and closer to the door than her boss, the incomparable Fannie Frisbie. Maybe he’d come to borrow a book. She pushed away from the wall and was afforded a better view of the stranger.
The wide brim of his Stetson shadowed his face, masking his expression and age, but his posture and clothing declared him a man of confidence and good taste. Brown frock coat, matching vest, a crisp white shirt, dark trousers--store bought and tailored. He held a folded newspaper in one hand, a leather traveling bag in the other. His gold-wired spectacles, much like her own, gave him a scholarly air. Maybe he was a professor or an encyclopedia salesman or . . . Oh, no. Could it be? “May I help you?”
He secured the newspaper beneath his arm and removed his hat. Shaggy, blond hair framed a breath-taking face. She’d never seen an honest to gosh angel, but she imagined a warrior of God would look much like this. Powerfully beautiful. Stylish and scholarly with a hint of arrogance. Mercy, he was an enigmatic presence. He raised a tawny brow. “Miss Emily
McBride?”
She nodded, dumbstruck. Paris must have provided Mr. Pinkerton with a description of her. That made sense, of course. But she hadn’t expected the poet so soon. She certainly hadn’t expected to make his acquaintance in front of a portion of Heaven’s most judgmental folk.
He flashed a dimpled smile. “I’m--”
“A friend of the family. I know.” Startled out of her appraisal, she addressed the social club, “Excuse us, please,” then rushed forward and shooed the man back outside. Since he was moving too slow, she nabbed his jacket sleeve and hurried him across the library’s front lawn. “Please forgive my rudeness,” she said when they reached the shade of a tree, “but you caught me at the worst of times.”
He planted his expensive boots in the plush grass, angled his head. “Paris did notify you that I was coming?”
“Yes, although she didn’t say when, not that it matters.” She twisted the dime novel in her hands, glanced at the tree, her boots, the library. As if reading Showdown in Sintown wasn’t bad enough, now she had to deal with an unwanted visitor. “Have you seen her recently? How is she? She sounds healthy and happy in her letters.”
“I saw Paris a couple of weeks ago. She’s fit as a fiddle, happy with her domestic situation, but miserable regarding you, Miss McBride.”
“Yes, well, I’m sorry for that. I shouldn’t have burdened her with my problems. I very much wish she would not have burdened you.”
“No burden.”
“Kind of you to say, but be that as it may, I cannot . . . that is, I’m sorry but . . .” Just say it. “I’m afraid your trip was in vain, sir.”
“Have your troubles disappeared?”
She bit her bottom lip. “I’m not sure.”
“Then my trip wasn’t in vain.”
“Forgive my bluntness, but I don’t want your help.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want to handle this on my own.”
“Why?”
His persistence, though amiable, irritated her. She thought about Calamity Jane and straightened her spine. “Because I’m an independent woman. Because everyone, including my best friend, thinks I need a keeper. I may not have the best judgment in the world, but the last thing I need is someone deciding what’s best for me. I’ve had enough of that for three lifetimes, thank you very much!”
“No need to yell, Miss McBride.”
“I’m not yelling!” Then she realized she was and blushed. The trials of the last year had whittled away at her polite sensibilities. “Damnation,” she blurted and began to pace. “I’m not angry with you. I’m perturbed at life.”
Just as Paris had written, Phineas Pinkerton was kind and patient. She’d unleashed her frustration and he’d taken it in stride. Embarrassed by her outburst, she took a calming breath and restated her view. “I know you’re an expert on criminal matters, but I’d prefer to solve my own problems. Now, please excuse me. I
must get back inside. They’re expecting me to . . .” She faltered. “You’re staring, sir.”
“I am.” He angled his head, a quizzical expression on his Gabriel-esque face. “You’re not what I expected.”
Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment then anger. “Sorry to disappoint,” she said, not sorry at all. She was weary of trying to live up to other people’s expectations.
“On the contrary, Miss McBride. I’m intrigued.”
Her cheeks burned hotter. Was he commenting on her unladylike attire? Her abrasive behavior? Instead of asking for clarification, she pointed. “The Moonstruck Hotel sits at the north end of town. You can catch a train back to San Francisco tomorrow. Good day, sir, and safe travels.” There. That sounded assertive. Didn’t it?
Nerves jangling, she took her leave, congratulating herself on handling at least one of the day’s calamities with grace and success.
One crisis at a time.
CHAPTER 4
Emily’s victory was short lived. She thought she’d left Mr. Pinkerton in the dust. He merely lagged behind. He caught up to her on the threshold and gently grasped her elbow. “Miss McBride.”
Stomach fluttering, she turned to face him. She indicated the gawking audience with the tilt of her head. “Yes?”
He gestured toward the door. “Can we go someplace quiet, sit and talk?”
“For Pete’s sake, Emily,” Mr. Thompson said, “we’re completely off schedule now.”
“I’ve got fifteen minutes ‘fore I have to git back to the store,” Frank Biggins griped. Then again Mr. Biggins was always whining about something or another.
Emily could feel a dozen pair of eyes boring into her back. She could hear wheels turning--speculation, gossip. Even more, she was acutely aware of Mr. Pinkerton’s touch. Although he held her elbow lightly, casually, her entire being tingled. She stood wide-eyed, momentarily crippled by confusion. The situation worsened.
Suddenly Cole was standing next to her and glaring hard at the stylish stranger. “I’d appreciate it if you’d unhand my intended, mister.”
Instead of releasing her, Mr. Pinkerton held firm. Part of her wanted to shake him off. Part welcomed the support. She was shaken by Cole’s outrageous claim. She wasn’t his, or anyone else’s, intended.
The poet looked from Cole to Emily. “I’m confused.”
“That makes two of us.” If she flushed any hotter she’d set her clothes aflame. “I’m sorry, Cole,” she whispered with all of the dignity she could muster, “but as I told you before, my heart belongs to someone else.”
“Rome is a wanderer and a rake. He doesn’t deserve you,” Cole said. “He doesn’t even know you’re alive.”
She knew that. But now so did Mr. Pinkerton and those sitting within earshot. Surely, Cole hadn’t meant to be cruel, but his words had cut all the same. Her stomach pitched. Could a person expire from embarrassment?
Mr. Pinkerton subtly tugged her closer to him, farther from Cole. “This hardly seems the time or place to discuss Miss McBride’s romantic preferences.”
Cole jerked a thumb at the poet, his attention on Emily. “Who is this man?”
She sighed. “Phineas Pinkerton.”
The poet furrowed his brow and rubbed the back of his neck. “For the love of--”
“Thirteen minutes and counting,” Mr. Biggins hollered.
“Leave ‘em be,” Mary Lee called. “This is better than I. M. Wilde.”
“Are you ailing, Mr. Pinkerton?” Emily asked, eager now to escape the social club. “Maybe I should walk you over to Doc’s.”
“Maybe he should git goin’ on his own,” Cole said, balling his hands at his sides.
Mr. Thompson pounded his gavel against the table. “Take a seat, Mr. Sawyer.”
“Yes, please be seated, Cole,” Emily pleaded then regarded the gentle poet with dismay. The rowdy son of a local rancher, Cole was known for settling arguments with his fists. “I’ll just walk Mr. Pinkerton over to--”
Mr. Thompson pounded his gavel in protest. “Emily McBride, you are the featured reader. You can’t leave!”
“You can’t traipse off with a strange man,” Cole said. “You may have no regard for your reputation, but I sure as hell do.”
“I’ll thank you to watch your language, Cole Sawyer,” Miss Frisbie called.
He mumbled an apology, but his gaze--riveted on the poet--sparked white-hot fury.
Thanks to Cole, Emily was as uncomfortable as a camel in the Klondike. She had to nip this nonsense in the bud once and for all. Although she couldn’t meet the rancher’s eyes, at least her voice didn’t crack. “Your concern is appreciated, Cole, but unnecessary.” There. That sounded firm. Didn’t it?
“I beg to differ. As I’ve said before, Emily, I only want what’s best for you. As your husband, I could make your troubles disappear.”
She thought about her Savior and shivered. Still . . . “I have a lot of living to do, Cole. The last thing I want or need is a husband.”
Mr. Pinkerton mumbled something under his breath.
Cole narrowed his eyes. “You’re the daughter of a preacher. I’m thinkin’ you don’t know diddly about real life. Otherwise, you wouldn’t allow this stranger to lay hands on you.”
It was then that she sensed a change in Mr. Pinkerton. A softening of sorts in his expression, his posture. “I assure you, I represent no threat to Miss McBride’s reputation.” He smiled, released her, and addressed the membership. “Pardon the interruption.” He gestured to the wing chair. “I don’t need a physician, but I would like to sit a spell.”
“It’s a public facility,” Mary Lee piped in, no doubt intrigued by a new man in town. “We can hardly turn him away.”
“Fine, fine,” Mr. Thompson said, glancing at his pocket watch. “Hurry on in then, Mr. Pinkerton. This meeting’s running late. Cole, dad blame it, plant your keester.”
The denim-clad rancher worked his jaw then graced Emily with a tight smile before retreating. “Looking forward to your reading, Emily. Knock ‘em dead.”
She’d prefer to knock some sense into him, specifically, as well as Mr. Pinkerton who seemed oblivious to danger. Instead, she waited until her unwanted suitor was halfway to his seat then turned on the good-natured, sweet-smelling poet. “You don’t want to get mixed up in this. It’s . . . tawdry.”
He raised one brow, smile steady, gaze tender. Kind and trustworthy, Paris had written.
She didn’t care. She wouldn’t risk it. After the reading, she’d pull him aside and convince him to go away. Just like Cole, the man was annoyingly persistent. “Just don’t say anything about my . . . troubles.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He acknowledged her with a nod then strode toward the wing chair.
Goodness. He even walked pretty--confident, controlled. She’d trade her treasured edition of Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans to be that comfortable in her skin.
“Now then,” Mr. Thompson said. “This afternoon we are setting aside our more literary pursuits to partake in a reading of I. M. Wilde.”
Mumble. Murmur.
Emily pinched the bridge of her nose.
Mr. Thompson tapped his gavel. “Now, now, we all read the dime novels and penny dreadfuls. Ain’t nothing wrong with sensationalized adventure. I know for certain we all read stories featuring the exciting tales of our homegrown heroes, Rome and Boston Garrett. Past year or so, most of them stories have been written by I. M. Wilde.”
Grumble. Whisper.
At this point, Showdown in Sintown weighed mightily in Emily’s heart and hands. Soon as she started reading, folks would get hot under the collar as this was a hot topic. She had the sweaty palms to prove it. She glanced at Mr. Pinkerton who sat rigid in the chair, his hat resting on his knees. He looked intrigued and annoyed at the same time. She wondered if he considered dime novels an inferior genre. Her temper flared at the notion. She’d never had patience for literary snobs.
Mr. Thompson paced in front of the commi
ttee table, his pudgy hands clasped behind his back. “Now I’m sure most of you read that little item in the Napa County Reporter regarding Mr. Wilde’s next publication. Apparently, it’s a full-fledged novel. A historical novel with unsavory content.”
Frank Biggins pumped his fist in the air. “You mean s-e-x. Just say it, Ezekiel. We’re all adults. Sinful, that’s what it is. I’m voting to ban it from this town.”
“Firstly, you didn’t say the ‘S’ word, you spelled it out, Frank.” This from Miss Frisbie, the head librarian and an energized ball of sunshine even at fifty-one. “Secondly, how can you vote to ban a novel you’ve yet to read? Not that I believe in banning books, period. And lastly,” she said, jabbing a finger at him, “if I recall, the article touted Mr. Wilde’s novel as a historical romance.”
“Historical romance with erotic elements,” said Mr. Biggins.
“Exotic elements,” Miss Frisbie countered. “I’m almost certain it said, exotic, not erotic.” “Same difference.”
She rolled her river-blue eyes at the silver-haired cobbler. “That’s why you’re single, Frank. No woman wants to hitch herself to a man who doesn’t know the difference between exotic and erotic.”
The library exploded into a cacophony of rude noises.
Again, Emily pinched her nose and stole a glance at the poet, whose brows were raised in amusement . . . or shock. She couldn’t get a bead on this man.
Again, Mr. Thompson pounded his gavel.
Honest to gosh, Emily wanted to rip it from his hands. Between the gavel pounding, the poet’s presence, Cole’s unwanted attention, and Mary Lee’s snooty looks, she had a considerable headache.
“Let’s get on with this, shall we?” said Mr. Thompson.
Yes, let’s, thought Emily. She hurried forward, whipped open the dime novel with a determined nod, and read. She did fine, real fine. Then she reached page three.
“Dread snaked down Rome’s spine,” she read aloud, “as he bent over Miss Sarah Smith. His gut clenched at the sight of her swollen, discolored temple. What kind of a man buffaloed a woman? A coldhearted pissant, that’s what. She’d refused to hand over her reticule when threatened at gunpoint. That called for admiration, not a damned clubbing.”
