by Carla Kelly
Erik grabbed both of her arms and moved them to her side. “You know I’m a churchgoing man.”
Beverly threw back her head and laughed in a throaty voice. “I’ve heard that one before, sugar.”
“Bev, who’s there?” Margaret’s voice came from the corridor leading off the parlor. She shuffled into the room, her green eyes wide. Margaret had once been a beautiful woman, but her cheeks were sunken, and her arms were frail. Her dark-brown hair had started to gray and thin. She wore it braided over one shoulder.
“Erik,” she breathed, and her body seemed to sag.
He hurried to her and grasped her arm. He hadn’t seen her walking for days. Hope surged through him— she must be getting better. “You’re walking. How are you feeling?”
“Better than usual.” She blinked up at him. “Why are you here so early? Come to try to cart me off again?” She had a small smile on her face, but her eyes were steely.
Erik couldn’t stop staring at her. “No, I— I can’t believe you’re up.”
Margaret pulled her shawl tightly over her shoulders. She was dressed more modestly than usual, probably due to the fact that her illness made her cold all of the time. She’d grown extremely thin over the past few months, and her beauty had faded to the merest wisp of its former glory.
“The doctor man is coming. I thought I’d show him what’s what,” Margaret said, walking to one of the parlor chairs. She sat on the plush fabric. “Bev, will you get us some tea?”
“I’d love to.” Beverly smiled and sashayed past Erik, brushing her hand along his arm as she moved by.
Erik ignored the gesture and sat on the small sofa opposite his sister. He couldn’t stop staring at her. Was she really getting better? She brought a handkerchief to her mouth and quietly coughed. Even that didn’t sound so deep as it had.
“Now that I’m feeling better, Erik, I want to tell you something,” Margaret said.
Erik knew better than to think she was about to thank him for being a caring brother. He glanced away, his gaze landing on a nearby table filled with silver and crystal trinkets— likely gifts from clients. His sister prided herself in entertaining only gentlemen— if such a feat could be respected above servicing anyone who knocked on one’s door.
“I don’t appreciate your trying to get me to see some preacher,” she continued, her voice soft but firm. “You know I won’t step foot in any church. Why do you bother?”
Erik rubbed the back of his neck and met his sister’s gaze. The fire in Margaret’s eyes told him to proceed with caution. “It’s not about going to church. It’s about—”
“Would you like some sugar?” Beverly’s voice cut in. She entered the room, carrying a silver tray with three china cups of steaming tea. “Margaret likes it sweet— three scoops.” She fluttered her eyelashes at Erik; none of the insinuation was lost on him.
“No sugar, thanks.” He took the offered tea cup and sipped the hot liquid.
“What did I miss?” Beverly asked, looking between brother and sister as she lit a couple of lamps.
Sometimes Erik couldn’t believe that his sister put up with Beverly, but he supposed Margaret couldn’t be all that picky in her employees.
“My brother was just trying to tell me how to save my soul.”
Beverly barked a laugh and settled her hands on her curvy hips. “That’s what I like about him. You don’t find many dreamers nowadays.” She reached for his tea cup and placed it back on the tray.
Erik opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, Beverly sat on his lap, curling her arms around his neck. “You know, sugar, I’d become an honest woman if you’d have me.”
Margaret chuckled. “Don’t let her fool you, Erik. She says that a dozen times a day.”
Beverly pulled away, much to his relief. “I do not!” she shot at Margaret. Then her pleading eyes were back on Erik. “What do you think, sugar?”
“I think I’d better go to work,” Erik said, setting Beverly aside so he could stand. “Thanks for the tea, Margaret. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
Despite Beverly’s advances, his heart felt lighter. If his sister recovered, he would find a way to convince her to leave her ladies and settle into a respectable life, even if it meant selling his mine shares and going to a place where they could both make a fresh start.
But as he left the brothel and walked along Main Street, the doubts came back. Any new place in the west would also have saloons, brothels, and harsh frontier living.
Chapter Seven
Lydia stepped onto the boardwalk the next morning, looking first right, then left. Main Street was just coming to life, and there was no sign of Mr. Dawson.
Of course he wouldn’t be here to meet me. She had no reason to expect him to walk her to the office, but she felt disappointed all the same.
Her heart needed a stern talking to. The man had been off her list now for two days, and come Sunday, she’d need to be more proactive in getting to know the other men still on it.
She passed the town doctor, Mr. Andrus. He was a tall, sturdy man, said to be recently widowed. When he tipped his hat and nodded, she wondered exactly how old he was. Possibly in his early 50s.
Stop, she commanded herself. You can’t be so desperate as to want to marry a widowed doctor. He’s old enough to be your father. Besides, he’s never been to church. She continued to argue with herself, debating how often any doctor could attend church. He was always on notice, night and day.
She patted her bodice where she kept her list— she would not be adding a non-churchgoing man’s name. She didn’t feel the paper, so she touched her bodice again. She must have left the list in her room. Since she was more than halfway to the office, she’d have to be parted from it for the day. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know it by heart.
By the time she reached the office, her head hurt. She needed a break from thinking about men. It was good that she’d left the list at home; she wouldn’t be able to take peeks at it several times today. Maybe she should take up crocheting again. She hadn’t touched her hooks since arriving in Leadville. Before going home tonight, she’d stop at the general store for yarn.
Her mind made up, she stepped into the office. Mr. Dawson looked up from his desk and smiled.
Right then and there, Lydia knew it would take more than crocheting to get him out of her thoughts. “Good morning,” she said and was surprised when Mr. Dawson stood and walked over. She took off her shawl and hat, hanging them near the door.
“Did you make that shawl?” he asked, stopping a couple of feet away, his gaze on the shawl.
“I did.” From this distance, she could smell his clean scent, something that she realized she’d become familiar with.
He reached out and inspected the shawl. “If I paid you for the material and your time, would you make one for my sister?”
Mr. Dawson had a sister? “I suppose I could.” She was planning on picking up crocheting again anyway. It wouldn’t hurt to do it for hire.
“How long would it take?” He was still standing quite close to her, and she found herself gazing into his green eyes a bit too long.
She looked away and gave a little shrug. “Maybe a week, if I work on it every night.”
“You don’t have any pressing engagements?”
Lydia felt a bit embarrassed to admit that no, she hadn’t any commitments or social life beyond her job. “Not in the near future. Not after Mr. Janson and Mr. Parker’s antics.”
Now why had she gone and told him that?
Another smile touched his face, and Lydia had to admit it almost made her want to put him back on her list. Almost.
“You know, not all of the men in town are horrible.” His eyes filled with amusement. “Perhaps I made it sound that way when I offered to walk you home each night.”
Lydia couldn’t help but smile back. “Oh? And who are the men who aren’t quite horrible?”
Mr. Dawson leaned against her desk so he wasn’t as close to he
r, but his pose made their proximity seem more intimate. “Are you interested in knowing, then?”
Her face grew warm. “I suppose I am.”
He folded his arms, and Lydia tried not to notice how solid and sturdy, and, well, strong they looked. “And you are willing to accept my help?” he asked.
She stared at him. How could he be so brazen? “Mr. Dawson,” she said. “I can manage my own affairs.”
But he wasn’t looking at her anymore. He’d pulled out a folded piece of paper from his pocket, and it took only seconds for the horror of understanding to dawn on her.
“You must have dropped this before we left last night. I wouldn’t have opened it if I’d realized what it was.” He handed over her list. The one with ten names, three crossed off— one being Mr. Dawson himself.
She took the paper, mortified. Had he read it? Of course he had. “I… I don’t know what to say.” She couldn’t even look at him.
“Miss Stone,” he said in a quiet voice. “I couldn’t help but read it after seeing my name at the bottom. If I understand correctly, you’ve made a list of men you’re interested in getting better acquainted with?”
“It’s a list of eligible men who go to church,” she whispered.
He was standing next to her now. “What makes them eligible for consideration?”
She couldn’t speak, shouldn’t speak.
“I can help you with your list if you’d like,” he said, and she felt his warm breath on her cheek as he leaned over to look at it in her hand. He was so close. “I think you did right by crossing my name off, along with Mr. Janson’s and Mr. Parker’s.”
“It’s not what you think.”
He chuckled. “I’m not offended. In fact, I think I can help you narrow it down further.”
Lydia’s eyes started to blur as she stared at the list. Mr. Dawson wasn’t offended that she’d crossed his name off? That was a relief. Or maybe not. She pushed the thought away. But he could be a valuable resource to her, seeing as he knew all of the men.
“All right,” she breathed, suddenly feeling exhausted. “Tell me about them.”
I said I wasn’t offended, but I am damn curious. Erik would have been lying to himself if he didn’t admit that he was pleased that he’d been on the list. Granted, at number ten, but maybe there wasn’t a specific order.
He was glad that she was willing to at least talk to him about it, so he didn’t have to pry to learn of her requirements.
She sat on her chair while he leaned against the desk. He pointed to Mr. Brown’s name. “You’ll have a brood of redheaded children with him.” He smiled when Lydia laughed.
“I know. Don’t think I haven’t thought about that,” she said, blinking her gray eyes up at him. “Although, I don’t have anything against red hair.”
“His hair is very red, though.”
She gave another laugh. “Very.”
With some effort, he pulled his eyes away from her and looked at the list again. “Ah. Mr. Roberts. A fairly decent fellow. Last year, he was engaged to a girl who died.”
“Sad,” Miss Stone murmured. “What happened?”
“Stagecoach accident,” Erik said. “But he’s a hard worker, and he sings.”
She nodded. “My father sang— I think he knew every hymn.”
That was about as much information as she’d ever volunteered, and it intrigued him. “Do you sing as well?”
Miss Stone fell silent for a moment. “Not anymore.”
He sensed her reluctance, so he turned back to the list. “Now, you may want to reconsider having Mr. Bartholomew on your list. He’s not known for staying sober for long. I’ve kept him on because he’s done better lately, but old habits die hard.”
She leaned her cheek on one propped-up hand. “Is there anyone on this list you can wholeheartedly endorse?”
So she wanted to cut to the chase, did she?
“Definitely cross off Mr. Amos. He enjoys the gambling tables, and I’ve caught him in a lie more than once. You wouldn’t do well with Mr. Richards, either. He’s not the marrying kind.”
Miss Stone gave him a sharp look. “Since you’ve already crossed my name off, I’d have to say it’s a tie between Mr. Christensen and Mr. Kirkpatrick. Both are hard workers and seem to keep their noses clean.”
Mr. Christensen was a burly man who had a loud laugh. Mr. Kirkpatrick wore spectacles and was as thin as a spring branch. Nothing was inherently wrong with either man that Erik could think of.
She seemed to consider for a moment. She’d said nothing about his comment of her crossing off his name, which was just as well. He had to put Margaret first, before anything or anyone else.
Picking up a pencil, Miss Stone put a star by each of their names. Erik’s heart fell a notch.
“I could introduce you at the Saturday social,” he offered.
She looked at him, her eyes filled with gratitude. “Would you?”
There was only one thing to do: say yes.
Chapter Eight
Once a month, the congregation held a social on a Saturday night. According to Mrs. Smith, who worked the bakery below Lydia’s room, everyone brought a dish to share.
“There you are.” Mrs. Smith’s energetic voice rang from the bottom of the stairs as Lydia descended. Mrs. Smith was a widow who rented out her two spare rooms, one to Miss Delany— a school teacher— and the other to Lydia. “I’ve got rolls for you to take to the social. I’d go myself, but my ankles are swollen today.”
Lydia tried not to smile at the comment. Mrs. Smith complained about her ankles every Saturday, effectively allowing her to stay home from church on Sundays. The first time it happened, Lydia had suggested they take the bakery cart to church, but Mrs. Smith seemed appalled at the idea.
As Lydia reached the bottom of the stairs, she accepted the sack of rolls from Mrs. Smith. “Thank you so much.” Included in her rent was two meals a day. The morning meal was usually nothing more than tea and a day-old cross bun, and the evening meal consisted of either a stew or casserole with Mrs. Smith’s specialty— giant rolls— of which Lydia now had a full sack.
Mrs. Smith beamed, displaying a pair of dimples on her rosy cheeks. Whether she was baking or not, she always had a flushed look about her. “Miss Delany is not feeling well this evening,” Mrs. Smith added. “I’m afraid you’re on your own.”
“That’s all right. Mr. Dawson has agreed to escort me.”
The woman’s eyes darkened, and Lydia regretted mentioning it.
“He may be your employer, but I wouldn’t advise spending any time outside of the office with him. Even if he does go to church.”
Lydia knew and understood Mrs. Smith’s warning— she’d given it to herself. Why did it bother her so much to have Mrs. Smith criticizing Erik Dawson? “He’s been nothing but a gentleman toward me. Besides, he offered to introduce me around.”
Mrs. Smith gave a nod, but her mouth was pinched.
Lydia walked to the front windows of the bakery and waited for Mr. Dawson. He couldn’t come soon enough. She didn’t want to engage in further conversation with Mrs. Smith.
He showed up moments later, on time, and Lydia pushed through the door, intent on meeting him outside. Her step faltered over the stoop, and Mr. Dawson caught her elbow.
“Thank you,” she said, feeling out of breath for no particular reason.
He smiled. “You look beautiful.”
It was the first compliment Lydia could remember him giving her. She gripped the sack with both hands, wishing she could fight off her rising blush. She might have said thank you again, but she wasn’t sure.
A wagon hitched to a couple of horses rattled past, and Mr. Dawson stepped onto the boardwalk.
“Didn’t you bring a dish to share?” she said, trying to start some sort of conversation.
He chuckled. “I’m not much of a cook, Miss Stone. And I think the miners have had enough of scrambled eggs and gruel that they don’t need to try mine.” He was looking at
her with a smile. “Did you bake something for the potluck?”
“Not quite,” Lydia said. “Mrs. Smith gave me a couple dozen of her famous rolls.”
Mr. Dawson stopped and faced her. “We should go back and eat them ourselves. I’m sure nothing else will compare.” He raised an eyebrow, his green eyes intent on hers.
“Do as you will, Mr. Dawson. But I’ll be taking these to the social— with or without you.”
He nodded, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Very well, I’ll accompany you there, if only to get my fair share. But I should carry that sack to keep it out of harm’s way.”
Lydia laughed and handed it over. They continued walking and chatting about trivial things. It was refreshing, actually, but it also worried Lydia a bit. She found herself enjoying her employer’s company more and more. By the time they arrived at the church, the sun had set and twilight had descended. A couple of tables sat outside with lanterns on them. A man was tuning his fiddle, and another had a ukulele.
“Music? That will be nice,” Lydia said, slowing to take in the scene. About twenty men and women were in attendance, as well as a few children.
“Do you like to dance?” Mr. Dawson said.
Lydia hadn’t danced since the night of her engagement to Roger. By the next morning, she’d realized she’d made a mistake and called it off before anyone other than her mother knew about it.
Mr. Dawson was watching her with curiosity, and she realized she hadn’t answered the question. “I don’t mind dancing.” The truth was, her heart fluttered at the thought of it, because she imagined what it might be like to feel Mr. Dawson’s arms about her.
“I’ll just set this on the table, and then we can start your introductions,” he said.
As Mr. Dawson walked to one of the tables loaded with dishes of all sorts of food, she scanned the gathering. More people were arriving— some of whom she didn’t remember seeing at church. Reverend Stanley was in a jovial conversation with a young woman. The music struck up, and a few couples began dancing. Lydia couldn’t help but look again at Mr. Dawson, who happened to be walking right toward her, after dropping off the rolls.
