by Rachel Bird
“I’ll be good, I promise.” Red John frowned at the front window. “What the…?” His eyes went wide and he bolted backward and stumbled into the fabric display. Flailing, he grabbed a length of cotton chintz and pulled it across his face.
“What are you doing?” Charity laughed. “You look like you belong in a Turkish harem.”
The bells jingled with the door opening. Red John peeked around the display and through the chintz. “Darn!” He spat out, ducking further back behind the fabrics.
“Who are you afraid of?” The sun was bright outside, and all Charity could make out at the door was the dark silhouette of a tall man with broad shoulders wearing a Stetson, the glow of the afternoon sun all around.
Red John hissed, “That’s Mr. Morgan from Morning Star Ranch.”
“No.” Great thunder on the mountain! “Are you sure?”
“Don’t look! Sure I’m sure. I talked to him in Rosamund when he wouldn’t sell me his horses, didn’t I? I have to git! He can’t see me here.”
“Don’t be silly—”
“Please, Charity!” His eyes were big and pleading, surrounded by his makeshift veil. She had to pity him. She didn’t want to talk to the fellow either—if indeed that was Mr. Morgan coming into the store. “Let me vamoose out the back.”
If it would get Red John on his way, then so be it.
“Excuse me, sir!” she called out over her shoulder. “I’ll be with you shortly.”
She let Red John out through the storeroom door, locked it, then rushed back to the front. The new customer was at the counter now, out of the glare.
But Red John must have been mistaken. She’d expected someone older. Thirty-five wasn’t that far from Teddy Gensch’s age. This man was too vital, too young-looking. He was no Mr. Gensch.
“Afternoon, ma’am.” He smiled and removed his hat. Red hair too!
But it was the bemused curiosity in his eyes, more blue than green, that grabbed her and reeled her in.
“Was that Mr. John Deckom I just saw?”
“It was.” Like falling, that’s what this was. Charity put her hands on the counter, needing an anchor. “But don’t mind him. He’s harmless.”
Falling… Who was this marvelous, handsome specimen? This must be what Belle had meant—What can I say? I fell in love. Did she say that about Brady or Mr. LeClair?
“Miss?”
“Oh. Yes?”
“I’m hoping you can tell me where I might find a Mrs. Abigail Vanderhouten.”
Was he pulling her leg?
“Well, now. I can’t be absolutely positive, but you might try next door. The place where the sign says Abigail Vanderhouten, Modiste.”
He blushed to match his hair. He was adorable. But if he wanted Mrs. V…
“Are you Mr. Morgan then?”
To be sure, he was older than Charity was by several years. His skin was roughened from time in the sun, and there were the faint lines around his eyes and mouth earned by working long hours out of doors. But his energy felt so youthful, and he was fit. Lean but strong. And there was just some something about him that appealed in a wordless, physical way, undefined by history or society.
He blinked. “I am.”
Against her will, a smile took possession of her lips. If she had to marry this vital man, she would find some way to bear it.
The bells at the front chimed again.
“My name is Charity—”
“Charity…”
He glanced from her eyes to her hair. A look like disappointment flitted over him. How dare he! What call did he have objecting to her locks when his were just as red? Well, almost.
She squared her shoulders and pulled herself out of whatever thrall of bewitchment had nearly got hold of her. “Charity Steele.”
“Steele.” His expression went from disappointed to disturbed. Or worse, alarmed. “Then you must know Naomi Steele.”
Of course. He must have bypassed writing again and instead had ridden to Break Heart directly. He was here for Naomi. For Naomi, not Charity. A sudden emptiness opened up inside, and she knew with all her heart that particular space would never be full again.
But that was stupid. “She’s my—”
“I’m Naomi Steele.”
Charity peered around Mr. Morgan at the customer who’d just entered the store. It was her sister, and she was wearing the shawl. And no bonnet. Her hair was done up less severely than usual, an enticing dark soufflé. When had Naomi turned beautiful?
“Miss Steele.” Mr. Morgan turned away from Charity, obviously delighted to meet his bride-to-be. The emptiness inside her deepened.
“This is Mr. Morgan.” Charity should be happy for the serendipitous arrival and the opportunity to easily introduce the two to each other.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Morgan, though quite a surprise, I must say.” Naomi sounded lovely, gracious, elegant, mature. Everything Charity wasn’t. “I just had a visit from a mutual friend, and I’ve come to thank my sister for this wonderful gift.”
Naomi fingered the shawl and smiled at Charity. Beamed, rather. She reached out across the counter and mouthed the words, I’m sorry. She squeezed Charity’s hand.
That must have been Mae’s errand. To go talk some sense into Naomi.
“It looks beautiful on you.” Charity squeezed back. All was well. All was forgiven. And Naomi was smiling at Mr. Morgan.
Charity should be happy.
“It surely does,” Mr. Morgan said gallantly. “Miss Steele, I’d rather stay and talk with you, but I ought to find Mrs. Vanderhouten and let her know I’m in town.”
Matchmaking is a business, after all, Charity thought. But there was also something fine in his wanting to attend to his obligation to Abigail before obtaining the pleasure of his bride’s company.
“Mrs. V’s premises are next door,” Naomi said. “I’ll take you over and introduce you.”
“I’d be much obliged. Ma’am.” He touched his hat to Charity and followed Naomi.
This was everything Charity had wanted. Everything she’d worked for and worried over. And now that it was here, it was the one thing guaranteed to make her miserable for life. More than any dress, any shawl, any piece of jet jewelry, Charity wanted this.
This other person.
She wanted Mr. Morgan of Morning Star Ranch to fall in love with her, not Naomi. It was a disaster!
The obviously happy couple walked away, up the aisle through Tagget’s, and an evil sprite took hold of Charity’s imagination. For a moment she pictured them walking up the aisle at church after exchanging their vows. Only it wasn’t her sister walking with Mr. Morgan.
Everybody always remarked on how alike she and Naomi were—aside from poor Charity having that unfortunate red hair. They were the same height, same build. From the back, people said, wearing bonnets, you couldn’t tell one from the other.
“They’re in a tizzy getting ready for tomorrow’s Independence Day celebrations,” Naomi said as Mr. Morgan held the door for her. “I do hope you’ll join my family and our picnic.”
That could have been me, thought Charity Steele, resolute spinster.
Chapter 21
Mrs. Vanderhouten’s shop was merely one door down from the general store where Rafe had stopped to ask for directions. A small part of him wondered if fate had led him to the girl at the counter. The larger, reasonable, part put the idea out of his mind.
Charity Steele was the girl Deckom had bragged about. Rafe couldn’t fathom it. The capacity of a clever female to love a scoundrel was a mystery beyond his understanding. Good-hearted women had been known to favor fools before, and they’d do so again long after Rafe’s time in this world had passed.
Naomi Steele appeared thoroughly good-hearted, but she also gave the impression of one who did not suffer fools in any form. Without ado, she led Rafe into the shop.
“Abigail, let me introduce Mr. Morgan of Morning Star Ranch.”
“Mr. Morgan.” The cheerful midd
le-aged woman at the counter came at Rafe in raptures. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”
She shot Naomi a meaningful, pleased look. Rafe felt like a prize bull just after the buyer and seller had agreed on a price. Strangely enough, it wasn’t an altogether terrible experience.
Two more females peeked out from a back room, a fashionable-looking young woman with a measuring tape draped around her neck and a young girl who must be an apprentice.
“I’ll leave you to your business then,” Naomi said to Rafe and the matchmaker. With a quick smile, she wiggled her fingers at the young girl in the back, then retreated to the front door. “I have so much to do to get ready for the picnic, but I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Mr. Morgan.”
And then she was gone, the door closing with a benign tinkling of bells.
“Well now! How handsome you are,” Mrs. Vanderhouten said. “And so much more youthful than I’d imagined.”
Oh, no. Of course. What an idiot he was! They’d all jumped to the conclusion, quite reasonably, that he was Pres.
“This is my assistant, Miss Jane Stedman, and Hannah, Jane’s apprentice.”
“Pleased to meet you, ladies.”
“Hannah is Naomi’s sister.”
What a pickle! And now Naomi was gone. He couldn’t very well set the others straight without telling her first. That would be rotten.
Mrs. Vanderhouten took him to her private office to discuss fees, and he immediately agreed to her number and accepted the bill.
“I’ll write to my banker in Greeley and have him send you a draft.” No matter what happened with Naomi, Rafe would pay. This horrible mix-up wasn’t Mrs. Vanderhouten’s fault.
The matchmaker walked with him back to the Lilac Hotel, listing Miss Steele’s virtues along the way. She wasted no time informing the hotel owners that he was her very good client, Mr. Morgan of Morning Star Ranch, who was to marry Miss Naomi Steele.
The next morning Mrs. Gensch spotted him at breakfast in the café and regaled him with her own stories of Naomi’s goodness. Even if he hadn’t met Miss Steele himself, the two ladies’ testimony made convincing evidence she’d be a wonderful wife. In person, she was as pleasant as a man could hope—and much prettier. Truth be told, she was a little too beautiful, if that was possible.
The married state sounded more appealing the more Rafe considered it. After his talk with Pres, instead of telling himself why he couldn’t get married, he’d found himself considering how he might. In his head, he was already comparing different parcels of land in and around Rosamund’s town limits that would be suitable sites for a house.
In their brief encounter, Naomi had seemed to like him well enough, and she’d given every indication she was ready and willing for the marriage to go through. But would he lose her good opinion once she found out he wasn’t the Mr. Morgan she’d been expecting? He was surprised how much the thought filled him with wistful regret.
He got directions to her house from Mrs. Gensch. First thing this morning, he had to clear this mess up and suggest he and Naomi spend Independence Day together. Knowing the truth, she could agree or send him packing. After that, if she was still of a mind to get hitched, she could set the date.
He stopped at Break Heart’s livery to check on Hecate, and after asking the stablemaster’s son to see that she had an apple later, he started down Main Street by shank’s mare. The town bustled with people coming in for the day’s festivities. It felt like it was going to be a good day.
“Hey, you there.”
So much for his cheerful mood.
“I don’t recollect seeing you in Break Heart before.”
Rafe recognized the voice of a tyrant. He’d grown up hearing that sound. Fearing it. And finally despising it. The child inside urged him to walk on past the building on his right and ignore the bully sitting on a bench, his feet propped up on the porch rail. Rafe the boy would have tried to dash out of range. Rafe the man had learned this was impossible.
“And you are?” It was worse than he thought. This was the sheriff’s office, and the man on the porch wore a badge.
“Sheriff Harman Polk.”
Rafe pointedly looked at the badge, which said Deputy. “Last I knew, Brady Fontana was sheriff in Break Heart.”
“I’m acting sheriff.” The man swung his feet down and stood. He puffed out his chest and grinned. “Fontana’s out of town, gone on his honeymoon. Caught the real looker in that group of calicos washed up on the riverbank last month.” He uttered a low, disrespectful laugh. “If you’re here after a bride, son, you better move fast.”
“Why is that?”
“I hear the big bug from Morning Star Ranch is in town, come to lasso the oldest Steele filly before she gets away. After that, all that’s left is a lady deputy devoid of femininity and a child. You ask me, those Steele women are more trouble’n they’re worth.”
“Huh.” For the man who pays attention, most women are worth far more than any trouble they take, Pres had once said. Rafe would have repeated it to a better man.
Like most bullies, Polk had an icing of stupid on his cake of mean. He was the first indication Break Heart wasn’t the perfect place Rafe had begun to imagine. Why would a town like this give power to a man like that?
“Was there a reason you stopped me… Sheriff?”
“Just being friendly.” Polk’s malevolent grin broadened. Of course there was a reason. To make Rafe notice him. See that he was important. Someone to be wary of and even fear. “Welcome a stranger to town and all.”
There was no welcome in that voice.
Polk stood and leaned against the post at the top of the steps. Bullies always tested people, looking for easy victims. Setting a fellow creature on edge gave them a perverse kind of pleasure. “Now why don’t you just tell me your name and your business in Break Heart, friend?”
“Morgan.” Rafe touched his brim. “And I already caught the filly.”
Strictly speaking, it was the truth—and it was gratifying to watch the bully transform into a bootlicker.
“Mr. Morgan.” Polk’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know. Er, you enjoy your day, sir. I hear there’s going to be ice cream.”
After that, it was a pleasant walk, the church bell tower poking up through treetops at the far end of town serving as Rafe’s beacon. The saloon was open, but most shops had signs in the windows:
Closed for Independence Day
He couldn’t help but compare the town to Rosamund. No wonder Break Heart had been favored for the railroad stop. It was much further along in development and had a greater variety of going concerns.
Besides the hotel, sheriff’s office, and saloon, there was a newspaper with a Western Union telegraph service, the dressmaker and general store, and a furniture store. Mrs. Gensch had told him that a new lumbermill was nearly constructed on the river half a mile south of town, and the infirmary off Main Street was run by a proper physician with advanced medical degrees.
She’d warned Rafe, Don’t fret if Doc Declan barks at you. He’s an odd duck, but he’s a wonderful doctor. Fair enough. It only made him more curious to meet the fellow. Better a barking sawbones than none at all.
And look here—a shoemaker. He might just stop in at the shop to order a new pair of boots while he was in town. Save a trip to Greeley.
Maybe it was only the holiday’s influence, but it felt like he was breathing in the town’s more enduring excitement. A kind of forward thinking. Optimism, that was it. Break Heart was in no danger of being a boom-and-bust town. The roots people put down here had taken hold, adding strength to strength.
He understood why Naomi liked it here, why she and her sisters had decided to stay after their parents died.
Mrs. Gensch’s directions were easy to follow: find the church, then take the lane across the way to the only house there. The front door was open, and a handcart at the bottom of the stairs held a jug and a blanket. Charity emerged from inside, carrying a huge basket. He bounded
up the steps and met her halfway.
“Let me take that.” The aroma of something delicious hit him. He paid attention to that rather than the tingling in his hands when they brushed against hers. “Is that fried chicken I smell?”
“Naomi made it,” she said. “We didn’t think we’d see you until later, at the parade.”
He placed the basket in the handcart. “Is Naomi inside?”
“She’s gone to Nighthawk.”
Rafe’s ignorance must have shown on his face.
“Sheriff Fontana’s spread outside town. He’s our brother-in-law now.”
“Oh, right. Of course.”
“While Belle and Brady are away, Belle left her carriage here for Naomi to use,” Charity said. “But since Naomi won’t be walking six miles twice a day anymore, she doesn’t need the rig, so she drove it over to Nighthawk this morning. She’ll ride back to town for the parade with Mrs. Tweed. That’s Nighthawk’s housekeeper.”
According to Polk, Fontana had married the real looker. Belle Fontana must be beautiful indeed if she was prettier than the three Steele sisters he’d met so far.
One of Charity’s red curls slipped loose from its pins and tickled her cheek.
Oh no.
Rafe didn’t want these feelings. He’d resolved not to feel them. But there it was again, that sense of joy dancing in his belly.
Yesterday, his first thought on seeing her was that he’d come upon a chestnut Madonna. A sunbeam from a high window had set her hair aglow, like an amber halo. Someone at the back of the store had her attention, and Rafe had felt an irrational twinge of jealousy until, from her expression, he thought it must be a puppy caught up in the display of linens and calicos.
She’d looked up at him without really seeing him. The sun was in her eyes. She wasn’t serenely beautiful, as he’d anticipated. Rather, she was cute as a bug—which, frankly, had made him smile and wish even more she’d quit paying attention to the dog and come talk to him.
But the puppy had turned out to be a man. A man Rafe recognized. Sore disappointment had flooded through him as he made the connection between the redhaired cutie and the scalawag who slipped away like a coward through the back of the store.
