Gunsmoke and Gingham
5 Book Collection
Kirsten Osbourne
Amelia C. Adams
Peggy L. Henderson
Kirstin Holt
Margery Scott
Contents
The Echo of Music
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Amelia C. Adams
Teton Season of Promise
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
About the Author
Also by Peggy L. Henderson
The Gunsmith’s Bride
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Kristin Holt
Hannah’s Hero
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Margery Scott
Mail Order Memories
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Kirsten Osbourne
Copyright © 2017 by Amelia C. Adams
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The Echo of Music
A Kansas Crossroads Novella
Amelia C. Adams
Thanks to my beta readers—Amy L., Amy P., Caryn, Erin, Jen, Mary, and Meisje. And to Linda H. for telling me that in Kansas, fireflies are called lightning bugs.
Chapter 1
Topeka, Kansas 1876
Nathan Perry stared out the window of the train as it pulled up to a stop at the station in Topeka, Kansas. It had been a year since he’d come this way, a year he’d just as soon forget and would do everything he could to hide. He wasn’t at all sure what his customers, and particularly Miss Orinda Lou Britt, would think if word got out that he’d just been released from jail.
Orinda Lou. He shook his head. How could he face her? He’d rehearsed a story all the way from Kansas City—he’d been ill. He’d been helping his elderly parents. He’d broken his hand. They all sounded like lies because that’s what they were, but the truth . . . The truth wasn’t something he felt he could share.
He stepped off the train and waited on the platform until the porter hefted his bag off the luggage car. “Here you go, sir.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry it’s so heavy.”
“No problem, sir. Now, the day the new schoolteacher arrived with trunks and trunks of books? That was a problem, sir.”
Nathan chuckled, gave the young man a coin, and picked up his bag. He was used to the weight—as a traveling piano tuner, he carried all his tools with him, and nothing about his profession was light.
He paused on the edge of the platform before stepping down onto the road. Miss Britt would be waiting for him, but he was also hungry—and he wouldn’t mind a chance to wash his face and shake off some travel dust. His mind made up, he strode over to the Brody Hotel, where he’d find a hot meal and some solace for his stirred-up emotions.
Orinda Lou Britt stood on her front porch, scanning the horizon for the tell-tale plume of smoke that would tell her the train was coming. She felt quite ridiculous at being so excited, but she couldn’t help it. It had been a year since her piano had been tuned, and she was desperate to have it done. And the fact that it was Nathan Perry who would be tuning it had nothing to do with that excitement whatsoever. She’d missed him. Or rather, her piano missed him. Because pianos have thoughts and feelings, of course . . .
“Ori, the train will come when the train will come.” Kristin, her new next-door neighbor who had popped over for a visit, shook her head. “Come back inside and finish your tea.”
“I will in a minute. The fresh air is doing me good,” Orinda Lou said in her soft voice. Of course, the fresh air had absolutely nothing to do with it. She knew that, and she knew that Kristin knew that, but she could pretend. It flattered her dignity.
At last she saw the smoke, and a moment later, the whistle sounded. She imagined it would take Nathan about fifteen minutes to disembark, grab his bag, and walk the few blocks to her house, so she went back inside, smoothed her hair, and made sure the tea kettle was hot. Then she sat on the edge of the sofa in her parlor and waited.
Kristin sipped at her tea and studied her friend. “Your piano is lovely. An antique?”
“Just about. It belonged to my grandmother, then my mother. It’s really the only heirloom in my family, and my sister is still angry that it came to me and not to her. She ended up with the sterling silver, which she detests polishing.”
Kristin chuckled. “Oh, I understand how that goes all too well. My brothers fought like wild dogs over my father’s pocket watch, and it didn’t even run anymore. It’s the memory of the thing just as much as it is the thing itself.”
“Exactly.” Orinda Lou remembered sitting under the piano while her mother played. It was those early influences that guided her to study music and become an opera singer. Not that she could sing much anymore—years of vocal strain had taken their toll, and now she had to speak in an almost whisper just to keep from losing her voice entirely. She managed to sing about once a year for a Christmas charity event or some other such thing, but that was the extent of it.
She masked a sigh. She missed her old life quite a bit.
Kristin finished her tea and stood up. “I’ll be going now—you won’t want me underfoot when your piano tuner gets here.”
Orinda Lou smiled. “Thank you for the visit. It’s always lovely to see you.”
Kristin scoffed. “You’ll get tired of me soon enough. In the three weeks I’ve been here, you’re the only person I’ve really met—I’m sure I’ll make a nuisance of myself before too much longer.” She took a step, then paused. “I’ve heard there’s to be a dance at the Brody Hotel on Friday night. Are you going?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Social gatherings always made her feel awkward, and she’d just as soon not put herself through it.
>
“Charles has promised to take me. Please come too,” Kristin begged.
“I’ll think about it, but I’m not promising anything,” Orinda Lou said.
Kristin left through the side door, pulling it closed firmly behind her. It did have a tendency to stick.
Orinda Lou glanced at the clock. Mr. Perry really should have arrived by now. No matter—she would open her latest novel and read while she waited.
For thirty minutes.
Had he missed the train? Had she read the telegram wrong? She pulled it out and checked, but no—he gave the date and the time. She shook her head. What could be keeping him?
She tucked the telegram inside her novel and set it aside. Some cookies to go with the tea would be nice, and it would give her something else to think about. Besides, her kitchen window gave her a nice view of the street, and if someone were to happen to come strolling along, she’d know it right away.
She pulled out the sugar and flour, then reached for her largest mixing bowl. The flour went up in a cloud when she measured it, but she did manage to get what she needed just as she heard his boots crunching up her lane. Her heart gave a mighty leap. She’d almost given in to the belief that he’d been attacked by robbers or something. That was probably what she deserved for reading an exciting novel while she waited, but she’d always had an active imagination. She felt sorry for anyone who didn’t—their lives must be so dull.
“Miss Britt, forgive me,” Mr. Perry said when she opened the door. “I stopped at the Brody for something to eat.”
“Of course,” she replied softly, holding the door open wider so he could enter. That was a relief—his delay was perfectly natural, and not brought about by bandits and evildoers with mustaches and wearing black capes. “I’m sure you were quite hungry. Would you like some tea as well?”
“Maybe in a little while.” He paused in the hall and looked at her. “You . . . um . . .”
“Yes, Mr. Perry?” She was suddenly a little nervous. His eyes, always so warm, seemed a little sharp.
“You have . . . um . . .” He made a brushing motion on the front of his shirt.
“What?” She glanced down to see a light dusting of flour all down the front of her blouse. “Oh, gracious. I look like a walking flour sack. Would you excuse me for a minute? You remember where the piano is, of course?”
“Of course,” he said, looking amused.
“All right. You just do . . . whatever it is you want to do . . . and I’ll be right back.”
Her cheeks as hot as though she had a fever, she turned and all but ran into her bedroom. What must he be thinking? A glance in the looking glass made it even worse—she had flour on her nose, too. And just a little in her hair. As if she didn’t already have some silver threads.
She took a deep breath, wiped off her nose, and changed her blouse. Then she took out her hairpins, brushed out all the flour, and braided it back into the coronet she typically wore. Now it was time to face Mr. Perry, and to try not to melt into the rug from sheer embarrassment.
“I’ve heard it said that flour is the new face powder,” she said as she entered the parlor. “In fact, all the finest ladies in Europe will use nothing else.”
Mr. Perry looked up from his deep inspection of the innards of the piano. “I’ve heard that as well, but I thought it was cornstarch.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Perry. Flour. The general store’s finest.” She crossed the floor and sat on the edge of her sofa. “I apologize that you caught me right in the middle of my daily beauty routine.”
“Whatever it is that you’re doing, I have to say, it’s working. You look wonderful, Miss Britt. Hardly changed at all since the last time I saw you.”
“I give all credit to the flour.” Her heart started pounding at his words. Could he possibly understand the effect he had on her? She doubted it—she hardly understood it herself.
He turned and placed one of his tools on her end table, well accustomed to where things were in her parlor—after all, he’d been here regularly since she herself arrived in Topeka eight years ago. She often wished he lived here, but a piano tuner could never support himself in a small place like this, and he had to travel from town to town for his income. He did it for the love of it, not because it made him wealthy—far from it, she was sure.
He ran his hand along the front of the piano. “I’ve missed her. It’s good to be back.”
“You stayed away by your own choice,” Orinda Lou reminded him. She kept her voice soft, as she always did, but it was difficult not to snap at him. He had sent three letters over the last year expressing his regret that he wouldn’t be coming out her way—she certainly hadn’t told him not to come.
Mr. Perry paused, his hand coming to a stop on the lid. “I apologize for that, Miss Britt. I wasn’t completely honest with you—I was quite ill for several months and wasn’t traveling at all.”
That deflated her anger quite a bit. It was hard to stay mad at someone when they’ve been sick. “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. How are you feeling now?”
“A lot better, thank you. It’s good to be doing what I love again.” He sat and played a few notes, then launched into a sonata.
As he played, she studied him. She could see new lines around his eyes, and the gray strands in his medium blond hair had increased. He seemed tired, but he had just gotten off a train. How much of all this was the result of his illness, and how much was just the natural effects of time and travel fatigue?
His fingers stilled as he reached the end of the song, and she clapped. “You do have a marvelous touch.”
“It’s helpful in my line of work.”
“I’ve often wondered why you never played for a symphony or some such thing. You’re clearly talented enough.”
He looked down at the keys, seemingly embarrassed. “It was never in the cards for me, and too many years have gone by to change it.” He stood and raised the lid, holding it up with the prop. “My neglect has cost your beautiful instrument some of her tonal quality.”
She stood as well and walked over to the keys, reaching out to run her fingers along them. “I did notice that, but truth be told, it hasn’t been the same for some time. It’s getting older.” Just as they all were. It seemed that the day would be full of reminders of that fact.
“All the more reason for regular tuning, and again, I apologize.”
She put one hand on her hip and studied him. “Mr. Perry, have the adventures of the last year driven out your sense of humor entirely? That’s one thing I’ve always enjoyed about your visits—you can always make me laugh. Now you’re so solemn, you’re an entirely different person altogether.”
He smiled. “I’m sorry, Miss Britt. I’m not very much fun today, am I?” He looked down at the rug and then back up. “If that offer of tea still stands, I’d love a cup.”
“I think we can manage that. And as luck would have it, I’ve started some dough for cookies, too.”
A few minutes later, they were both seated at the kitchen table, a pot of tea in front of them, and a tray of cookies in the oven. Mr. Perry gestured at the flour canister on the counter. “I’m guessing that’s the guilty party—er, the famed beauty treatment right there?”
“It is indeed. And you’d best keep my secret or women will be coming from miles around to borrow a cup, and then where will I be?”
He smiled. “That would be a tragedy, I’m sure.”
“Of course! Now, tell me. What’s the diagnosis for my poor piano?”
Mr. Perry put his teaspoon on his saucer and leaned back. “I’m afraid I have some bad news, Miss Britt. Your piano will need to be restrung. She’s a beautiful girl and has given many years of pleasure to your family, but if she’s going to keep going, she needs an overhaul.”
Orinda Lou nodded. “That doesn’t surprise me. After all, my father brought that piano halfway across the country in the back of a wagon, and I brought it the rest of the way when I came here. You simply can’t put an instrument th
rough that kind of torture and expect it to be all right for years afterward. I’m just glad we were able to put it off as long as we did.”
“Thank you for being so understanding. It’s somewhat expensive, and many of my clients would balk at the cost.”
“I’m sure you understand that my piano is an investment to me. I tuck away a little money every month for its upkeep.” Orinda Lou stood and picked up her dishes. “Would you like any more tea?”
“No, thank you, although I will take a cookie when they’re done.” He handed over his cup and saucer, then stood as well. “I’d best get to work. Thankfully, I brought everything I’d need with me, so I can get started. It won’t be a quick job, but I did arrange for a room at the Brody, so everything’s well in hand.”
“Good.” She set the dishes in the basin, then rested her hands on the edge as he walked back into the parlor.
She had known when she took to the stage that marriage and family would be surrendered to her career, and she was comfortable with that sacrifice because music filled her soul so completely. But now that she was no longer able to sing, she wouldn’t mind having a friend, a companion, and once in a while, she imagined what it would be like to have a husband. And yes, once in a while, she imagined Mr. Perry in that role. That’s what reading novels would do to one’s brain—fill them up with silly daydreams and impossible fantasies.
But something had changed, something deep within him. It seemed he wasn’t the dashing hero she’d always longed for after all. He was now a stranger, nothing more than the man who was going to restring her piano. And it was a loss she felt keenly.
Chapter 2
Kristin was outside hanging wash on the line when Orinda Lou stepped onto her side porch. She put the tablecloth she was holding back into her laundry basket and crossed the lawn to lean on the fence.
“I saw a man on your porch a little while ago,” she said, glancing around as though afraid she might be overheard. “Was that your Mr. Perry?”
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