A Stolen Heart

by Amanda Cabot

  Though Warner sounded serious, he waggled his eyebrows and pretended to twirl the ends of a nonexistent moustache. Travis began to laugh. “Thanks, cousin. I needed a good laugh.”

  Travis was still chuckling at Warner’s parody of a melodrama villain while he waited for the stagecoach. The arrival of a single woman, much less a beautiful one, was as unlikely as Pa suddenly regrowing the leg he had lost at Gettysburg, and Warner knew it. Still, his cousin had joked instead of ranting about his father’s demands.

  Perhaps that was something Travis ought to do. The problem was, joking didn’t come easily to him. Even before he’d assumed the sheriff’s badge, Aunt Bertha had told him he took life too seriously. He couldn’t argue with that. Life was serious, and it had become more so after his mother’s death five years earlier. Since then, Aunt Bertha had done her best to cheer him. Lately, though, she’d been so caught up in whatever was troubling her that she hadn’t chided Travis, and he found he missed the gentle yet firm advice she used to dole out.

  Travis’s smile faded. His aunt had supported him when he’d needed her, and how had he repaid her? He’d left her alone, even though he’d known she must be lonely after Uncle Jonas’s death. That would end. While being Cimarron Creek’s sheriff was important, Travis was also Bertha Henderson’s great-nephew. That was important too. It might only be for a few minutes, but he resolved to visit her every day. Tonight he would . . .

  Before Travis could finish his thought, he heard the distinctive rumbling of the coach and saw the cloud of dust that accompanied it during most of the summer. Girding himself for the coming encounter with his father, he waited until the coach stopped, then fixed a smile on his face as the driver climbed down from his perch and opened the door.

  Travis had expected a one-legged man with a scowl on his face. He did not expect the first passenger to disembark to be a beautiful young woman. Golden-haired and dressed in a more formal style than any of Cimarron Creek’s ladies, she was a vision of loveliness. Travis stared, trying not to let his jaw drop open in shock. Had God answered Warner’s prayer? It hadn’t been an official prayer, but his cousin had definitely expressed a need for a beautiful young woman, and here she was. Travis hadn’t seen a woman this beautiful in . . . The simple truth was, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen anyone who came close to her. Catherine was easy on the eyes, but she was his cousin. This woman was not.

  The woman looked around, clearly assessing the town while the driver unloaded her baggage. Did she find Main Street as pleasing as Travis did with its well-kept stores and the tree-branch canopy, or was she expecting something grander? Though she’d said not a word, her clothing and hairstyle made Travis believe she’d come from a large city, probably one in the East. Which raised the question of why was she here. It didn’t appear that she was expecting to be met, which made the woman’s arrival distinctly odd. Unaccompanied, unexpected women simply did not come to Cimarron Creek.

  Who was this woman? Just as importantly, where was Pa? Pa moved slowly, and of course he would have let the lady leave the coach first, but he should have disembarked by now.

  Travis took another step toward the stagecoach, only to see the driver close the door, then drag the two trunks onto the boardwalk.

  “No more passengers for Cimarron Creek?” Travis asked. Though he recognized most of the drivers on the line, he’d never seen this man before.

  The driver shook his head. “No, sir. That’s all.” He tipped his head toward the beautiful woman standing in front of the mercantile. “I reckon the other passengers will be glad to see the last of her. Purty near every time we stopped, I got an earful about her.”

  Unwilling to engage in gossip, Travis refused to ask the driver why the others had objected to the lovely lady, but the driver took his silence as license to continue. “She’s a Yankee, you know,” the man said as he climbed onto his perch. “Like those confounded carpetbaggers.”

  Just what Cimarron Creek didn’t need. Edgar Ellis’s arrival had caused enough of a stir, and though he’d gradually gained acceptance, Travis suspected the only person who truly regretted his disappearance was his wife.

  When the stagecoach pulled away, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake, Travis saw that the woman hadn’t moved. Perhaps she was waiting for someone after all. He wouldn’t count on that.

  “How can I help you, ma’am?”

  The stranger turned, apparently startled by the friendliness of his tone. If the driver’s comments were accurate, she hadn’t been welcomed inside the coach. Travis’s official duties didn’t include welcoming strangers to town, but he was a Whitfield, and Whitfields were expected to maintain Cimarron Creek’s reputation as a friendly place.

  The woman dipped her head slightly and managed a small smile. Travis took a deep breath. Close up, she was even more beautiful than she’d been at a distance. Her features were as perfect as the ones he’d seen in those ladies’ magazines Aunt Bertha favored, her eyes as blue as the summer sky. And when she smiled, well, a man would have to be blind in both eyes not to be dazzled.

  “I’m looking for someone,” she said slowly. “My . . .” Breaking off whatever it was she had planned to say, she shook her head. “I’m looking for Mr. Ellis, Edgar Ellis. Can you tell me where I might find him?”

  Travis felt as if he’d taken a mule kick to the stomach. “I wish I could.” He saw the woman’s confusion. Truth was, he was confused too. When Edgar had arrived in Cimarron Creek, Travis’s impression had been that the man was a loner. He’d never spoken of family or friends, and like many men who’d headed West, he’d chosen not to speak of his past.

  Travis narrowed his eyes, considering the woman who wanted to find Edgar. Though he saw no other resemblance, the stranger had the same coloring as the missing man. Perhaps she was his sister. Travis wouldn’t blurt out his question. That would be rude, and if there was one thing his mother had taught him, it was to be polite to ladies. Even though his position as sheriff occasionally required a firm interrogation, there were other ways to get the information he needed from this woman.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I seem to have forgotten my manners. I’m Travis Whitfield, and I’m the sheriff here. I’ll do whatever I can to help you, Mrs. . . .” He let his voice trail off, encouraging her to volunteer her name.

  “It’s Miss. Miss Lydia Crawford.”

  Not Ellis. That meant, unless they had different fathers, Miss Crawford wasn’t Edgar’s sister. Perhaps she was a cousin. Or perhaps she was no relation at all, but in that case, Travis wondered why she’d come.

  “I would appreciate it if you could direct me to Edgar.” Her voice was clear, each word carefully enunciated. It was a pleasant voice, but it was also a Northern voice that would garner her few friends in Cimarron Creek. The townspeople might not be as outspoken as the other passengers on the stagecoach had been, but they did not welcome Yankees.

  Travis wished it were otherwise. He also wished he did not have to disappoint this woman who looked like she needed a friend, but there was no way around it. He was going to disappoint her. “That’s the problem, Miss Crawford. I can’t direct you to him. Edgar disappeared last week. No one knows where he’s gone.”

  Miss Crawford recoiled as if he’d hit her, and for a moment Travis thought she might crumple onto the boardwalk. “Edgar’s gone?” Her voice was filled with disbelief.

  “That’s right, ma’am. I wish I could help you, but I’ve been unable to find him.” There had to be something he could do for her. Travis thought quickly. “Would you like to talk to his wife?”

  This time there was no doubt about it. Miss Crawford was going to faint. As blood drained from her face, Travis stepped forward and put an arm around her. She looked up, those beautiful blue eyes filled with pain, and the words came out as little more than a croak.

  “His wife?”

  2

  Lydia took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, all in a desperate attempt not to faint. She had never fainted, not e
ven when Hortense, her closest friend at the academy, had laced her corset too tightly. Unfortunately, tight corsets were nothing compared to this.

  Edgar was married!

  She’d survived the long journey; she’d endured the many snubs; she’d even managed to keep her composure when she learned Edgar was gone; but she’d come unraveled when the sheriff had mentioned Edgar’s wife.

  Lydia felt the blood drain from her face, and black spots danced in front of her eyes. It couldn’t be true. The sheriff must be mistaken. But if he wasn’t . . . Lydia’s legs grew weak and her spine threatened to crumble. Stop it! she told herself. You’re not going to faint. But her body refused to obey, and before she knew what was happening, the sheriff had put his arm around her.

  She should object. After all, it wasn’t proper for a strange man to be touching her. Even though she and Edgar had been betrothed, he had never been so bold in public. Lydia opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. She couldn’t object when the sheer strength of the sheriff’s arm was doing more to calm her nerves than her careful breathing.

  Edgar was married!

  She took another breath, exhaling slowly as she tried to make sense of a world that had suddenly gone topsy-turvy. Though the sheriff’s words had lodged inside her, Lydia refused to believe them. Edgar couldn’t be married. He simply could not. She hadn’t given up her comfortable life and traveled all this way to meet a man who’d found himself another wife.

  “Do you want to talk to Mrs. Ellis?” The sheriff’s voice was low and somehow reassuring, as if he were trying to keep a frightened animal from bolting. Lydia wouldn’t bolt—there was no place to go—but she needed to regain her composure before she met Edgar’s bride.

  Grateful for the comfort the sheriff was providing, she restrained herself from shrieking that she was the one who was supposed to be Mrs. Ellis. That was why she’d come here, to marry the man she loved, the man who’d claimed to love her. But he hadn’t. That much was clear. If the marriage was real—and Lydia had no reason to believe it was not—there was nothing she could do to change it. What she could do, what she had to do, was learn why Edgar had broken his promises.

  “Yes, I would like to speak with her,” Lydia said as firmly as she could when her limbs were trembling, “but I think I’d better sit down for a moment.” Despite the sheriff’s firm grip, her legs still felt on the verge of collapse.

  “Of course. I should have thought of that.” Keeping his arm around her waist, he led her to a bench in front of the mercantile. Though she’d thought he would step away once she was seated, the sheriff remained close enough to catch her if she fainted and tumbled forward.

  “Would you like a glass of water, maybe a cup of tea?”

  Lydia looked up at the man who was trying to comfort her. If she’d been asked to picture a man as different from Edgar as possible, it would be Cimarron Creek’s sheriff. Travis Whitfield was several inches taller than Edgar and more powerfully built. Though his clothing was ordinary, he wore it with more self-confidence than any man she’d met. His features were more sharply defined than Edgar’s, his chin square, his nose finely chiseled. But the biggest difference was in the two men’s coloring. Unlike Edgar with his blue-eyed blond good looks, Travis Whitfield sported hair so dark it was almost black and gray eyes that shone with intelligence and, at this particular moment, concern.

  “My aunt claims a cup of tea makes everything better.”

  “I have a friend who said the same thing.” Lydia nodded slowly. Hortense believed tea to be a panacea, but all the tea in China wouldn’t change the fact that Edgar had married someone else. Lydia’s heart recoiled at the thought that he might have given his wife the filigreed gold band he’d bought for her. Had he also told his new wife she was the only woman in the world for him?

  “Cream and sugar?”

  Lydia blinked as she looked up at the man who’d rescued her. What was he talking about?

  “In your tea,” he said, his voice once again low and somehow intimate, as soothing as the breeze that was a welcome relief after the stifling heat of the stagecoach.

  “Oh.” She’d let thoughts of Edgar distract her. When she’d nodded, Sheriff Whitfield must have thought she was asking for a cup of tea. “Thank you, but I don’t need tea. I feel better now.” Rising from the bench on legs that were once again steady, she fixed her gaze on the sheriff. “Where might I find Mrs. Ellis?” Though it hurt to pronounce that name and know it belonged to another woman, Lydia forced the words out.

  The sheriff gestured to the north, his eyes darkening from silver to the shade of a thunderstorm. “I hope you don’t mind my saying it, Miss Crawford, but right now you look like a good wind could blow you over.”

  He bent his arm and waited for Lydia to put her hand on it. “I’ll take you to the saloon. It’s only a block away.”

  “The saloon?” Lydia hadn’t thought he could shock her again, but he had.

  The sheriff nodded. “That’s where they’ve both been working. Faith hired Edgar the day he arrived. Said she’s never seen a man so good at keeping the peace.” For the first time since she’d met him, the sheriff’s lips curved into a smile. “Maybe Edgar should have been sheriff.”

  Lydia wasn’t smiling. Today, the day she’d thought her dreams would come true, had turned into a day of shocks. Not only was Edgar gone but he seemed to have changed. Nothing Lydia had heard sounded like the Edgar she’d known. That Edgar had sworn he would never set foot inside a tavern, but now he was working in one. That Edgar had claimed he loved Lydia and that she was the wife he wanted, but he’d married someone else. Promises, promises. He’d broken them all, just the way Papa had.

  “Shame should not be shared,” Mama had always insisted, and so Lydia wouldn’t tell the sheriff about Edgar’s false promises, but the way he was looking at her made it clear she had to say something.

  “I can’t picture Edgar with a star on his chest.” Fear of men in uniform had driven him from New York.

  Sheriff Whitfield shrugged. “Some folks couldn’t picture me with one, either, but here I am—the one and only lawman in town. When I pinned on the star, I made a promise to keep everyone in town safe. I’m doing my best, even though I don’t always succeed.”

  Lydia wondered whether he was referring to the mystery of Edgar’s disappearance but wouldn’t ask. After he’d assured her that her trunks would be safe in front of the mercantile, they’d been walking as they talked, going diagonally across what the sheriff had identified as Main and Pecan Streets. While Main was, as its name implied, the primary avenue in town, Pecan separated the mercantile and other high-class shops from the livery and saloon. Though both of those establishments were well maintained, Lydia knew enough about small towns to realize that neither was considered as respectable as the dress shop and drugstore she’d spotted in the same block as the mercantile.

  As the stagecoach had lumbered into town, Lydia had stared out the window, eager to see her new home. Edgar had chosen well. The various houses and businesses on Main Street were attractive, and the presence of mature trees made Cimarron Creek an appealing town. Even the Silver Spur, as she learned the saloon was named, appeared to be a cut above the saloons Edgar had described.

  Constructed of what Lydia assumed was native stone, it boasted an attractive sign over the traditional swinging half doors. Were it not for the door and the windows, it could have been almost any business, but the windows were darker than normal. Perhaps they were designed to keep the sun from baking the interior, but she thought it more likely they were meant to protect the identity of the saloon’s patrons.

  “Ready?”

  Though Lydia doubted she would ever be ready to enter a saloon, when she nodded, the sheriff pushed the door open to allow her to precede him. It took a few seconds for her eyes to grow accustomed to the dark interior, but she soon discovered there were only three men seated at the polished wood bar and two others at one of the small tables. As she had expected from
the well-tended exterior, the inside of the saloon held well-made furniture and was surprisingly clean. Lydia had envisioned sawdust on the floor along with scarred tables and broken chairs.

  Though she said nothing, a woman stood behind the bar, her light blue eyes regarding Lydia with open curiosity. Dressed in what Mama would have called flamboyant clothing, the woman had auburn hair that could only have come from a bottle, but the silver wings at her temples were probably natural.

  “Afternoon, Faith,” the sheriff said as he and Lydia approached the bar. “I’d like you to meet Miss Lydia Crawford. She came all the way from . . .” He let his words trail off, obviously expecting Lydia to complete the sentence. It appeared that open-ended phrases were Sheriff Whitfield’s preferred method of interrogation. She almost smiled, remembering how she’d tried that technique with her pupils. It hadn’t been particularly successful.

  Seeing no reason not to answer, Lydia looked at the sheriff as she said, “Syracuse.”

  His reaction was unexpected. While he made no comment, Lydia knew she wasn’t mistaken in the confusion that had momentarily clouded his eyes. “Syracuse,” Travis Whitfield said firmly. “She’s come from Syracuse, New York, to see Edgar.” There was a second’s pause, as if he were waiting for the woman behind the bar to respond. When she said nothing, he continued. “I explained what happened, but I was hoping Opal might be able to tell her something more.”

  The sheriff turned slightly so that he was once again facing Lydia. As if suddenly recalling his manners, he began the introductions. “Miss Crawford, this is Faith Kohler, the owner of the friendliest saloon this side of the Rio Grande.”

  When the woman’s face flushed at the compliment, Lydia tried to smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Kohler.” That was an exaggeration. Nothing that had happened since Lydia had stepped into the stagecoach had been a pleasure.

  “Just Faith,” the saloon’s owner said, “and the pleasure is all mine. Any friend of Edgar’s is welcome here.” Her eyes narrowed as she studied Lydia for a second or two before saying, “I’d like to help you, but like the sheriff said, I’m not the one you want to see.” She turned toward the door that led to the back of the saloon. “Opal! Come up front.”