by Cat Cahill
“Drexel,” he supplied. “Thomas Drexel.”
She nodded. Politeness dictated she give him her name in response, but again, politeness hardly covered situations in which one found oneself inappropriately ensconced in a room with a man who was an accused murderer. “Mr. Drexel. I believe the best course of action now is to find Mr. McFarland and let him know your . . . story.”
The light went out of his eyes, rendering them a sad, lonely gray. It reminded her of the bay back home in March. “You don’t believe me,” he said. “I should’ve known.”
Chapter Seven
“What do you mean?” she asked.
He gestured at her, as if it were written across her clothing. “You’re so . . . proper. I know how women like you are—convinced the world should revolve around you. Fussy to the point of—” He clamped his mouth shut, forcing the desperation down somewhere deep inside. This woman held his life in her hands. Insulting her wasn’t exactly helping his cause, even though he could recount the litany his father told of his mother and it would fit this woman perfectly.
She drew herself up taller, which, to his amusement, was still nearly a foot shorter than he was. “I beg your pardon?”
He berated himself silently. “I apologize. I meant only that you seem the sort to do the right thing.”
Her pretty blue eyes narrowed, and she crossed her arms. He supposed she thought it made her look determined, but in truth, she looked like an angry porcelain doll. Her features were so finely drawn, it was impossible for her to appear harsh. She was beautiful, simply put. Beautiful and judgmental. Likely as selfish as every other woman with money. He’d do well to remember that.
Although . . . if she had money, what in the name of all that was good was she doing here, working as a waitress at the ends of civilization? His mother had never lifted a finger in her life, preferring instead to wait for funds to arrive from her family back East when his father failed to earn enough to purchase whatever frivolous items she wanted.
“Of course I’ll do the right thing,” she said. “I was raised properly. Unlike yourself, it seems.”
Thomas bit back a smart reply. She had no idea how he was raised, and she could shove her preconceptions right back down where she’d found them. Your life is in her hands, he reminded himself. And so he remained silent.
“Right.” She nodded, almost as if talking to herself. “I’ll go get Mr. McFarland. Will you be here, or should I presume you’ll run again?”
He hesitated. What he wanted to do was grab hold of her and talk the truth into her until she believed him wholeheartedly. But how would he do that? Force her to stay in this room against her will?
Perhaps his time here was up. He’d been here nigh on five months, longer than he’d ever thought he could get away with when he arrived. Maybe he should cut his losses now and leave. He could take his chances in California, or ride for Mexico. That’s what he should’ve done months ago, anyhow. No one would find him in Mexico.
To be honest though, he hated to leave this place. Mr. McFarland was right. These mountains, this valley, the work—it had worked its way into his bones. Leaving would be like ripping out a rib.
Lose a rib or lose his life. The choice was clear, as much as he hated it.
“Do what you need to. I’ll be here,” he finally said.
The woman lifted her eyebrows, almost as if this was not what she’d expected him to say. One hand brushed wisps of hair that fell about her face, and a slight flush of pink crept up into her cheeks. For someone holding his life in her hands, she looked quite vulnerable.
He pressed his lips together and took a step back, as if that would make her somehow less becoming.
“I’ll return in a moment,” she said as she made her way to the door.
It closed behind her, and Thomas made himself wait a full minute before launching himself toward the door. He had taken one step when it opened again. He jerked to a halt. Had she found McFarland that quickly? He’d have to think of a new plan, and fast.
But when the woman slipped inside, no one else followed her.
He took another step forward, eyes searching her face as she gathered her hands in front of her. Her fingers twisted together, almost as if she was nervous about what she would say. He paused and waited for her to speak.
She closed her eyes for a couple of seconds as a slight shiver made her body shake. Thomas clenched his hands into fists to fight the strange desire to reach out and take her into his arms. Finally, her eyes landed on his face.
“I believe you,” she said, her voice so quiet he had to lean forward to hear it.
He blinked at her. This made no sense. “What’s your game?”
“My what?”
“Why did you leave to find McFarland just now, and then turn around and tell me something completely different?” The blood rose into his face as he spoke. Was she baiting him? But how? And why?
She lifted her chin and pushed her shoulders back. “Mr. Drexel, I assure you I have no such ‘game.’ I simply changed my mind when I realized you weren’t stopping me from going to Mr. McFarland. No guilty man would have let me leave. Therefore, you must be innocent of the accusations on that poster.”
Her words were like a slap in the face. She watched him earnestly, honesty pouring out of her. This woman was no snake-in-the-grass saloon girl. She might be full of herself and believe she reigned superior over him and anyone else who came from a background that wasn’t moneyed, but she appeared as if she truly believed she was doing the right thing. Meaning . . . she believed him. The guilt that sat in the back of his mind reminded him that didn’t make him any less a murderer, no matter his intentions. He’d taken a life, and he’d live with that knowledge for the rest of his own.
But this woman at least believed he’d had no choice.
Just as quickly as he’d become angered, Thomas settled. His hands softened and he relaxed. “Thank you, Miss . . .?”
She hesitated, her eyes roaming his face.
“I could call you Miss Fuss, but I imagine you’d prefer me to use your given name.” The second the words were out of his mouth, he wished he could take them back. Although the way she bristled again, all indignant and full of fire, was enough to make him glad he’d teased her.
Provided she didn’t change her mind again.
Her jaw set, as if she was holding back every word she truly wanted to say to him. He wished she would speak her mind, but she was too well-bred for that sort of thing.
“You may call me Miss Beauchamp.” She nearly ground the words out through her teeth, then must have realized how she sounded as she forcibly relaxed her face. “My decision comes with one condition, though.”
He cocked his eyebrows. “Pray tell, what is your requirement, Miss Beauchamp?” He sounded overly polite, which made her narrow her eyes at him again. He choked back a laugh. It was easy to ruffle this woman’s feathers, and he was getting far too much enjoyment out of doing so.
“I want you to confess your situation to Mr. McFarland yourself.”
Thomas kept his face immobile as he let her words sink in. There was no way he could tell McFarland he was on the run, not if he wanted to keep his position here, and especially not if he wanted to keep out of the hangman’s noose.
Chapter Eight
Mr. Drexel studied her for a moment, almost as if he was weighing her request. Caroline held her breath, praying he’d agree. He had no choice, really, but she hoped he was the sort of man who’d prefer to set things right on his own terms.
Finally, after what seemed like an hour, he nodded. “I’ll do as you request.”
Her heart soared. “I’m so happy you agree.”
“You didn’t give me much say in the matter,” he said with a half smile. “I don’t know how he’ll take it. I may be out of work and in a jail cell by tomorrow evening. I don’t suppose you’ll visit me?”
Caroline’s face went warm as an iron. He was awfully forward, particularly for a man in his
position. Yet somehow, images of her bringing him packed lunches while he was behind bars flitted through her mind. What was wrong with her? Her face grew even hotter, and she ducked her head as he chuckled.
He was utterly maddening. She forced herself to look up at him, ignoring the state of her flushed face. “That would be most inappropriate, sir. And I doubt Mr. McFarland will call for your arrest. I imagine he’ll want to help you after he hears your tale.”
“I don’t know about that, but how about you send up a prayer for me?”
Caroline smiled tentatively. She hadn’t pegged him as a religious sort of man. “Yes, of course.”
“Thank you.” He held her gaze a moment too long, and she found herself glued in place, a million thoughts flooding her head. What if she were free to be courted? What if she didn’t have a family she was certain was actively looking for her? What if she didn’t need this job to survive?
No, even if she weren’t burdened with her past, she wanted to be a Gilbert Girl. She’d worked so hard to get to where she was, and now she might have the opportunity to become head waitress. That meant more pay, more responsibilities, more of a name for herself within the company. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—risk it all on a rough-edged man wanted for murder. The very thought was ridiculous.
“Let me see if anyone might be in the lobby before we leave.” Mr. Drexel was still looking at her, and, she suspected, was trying to figure out what was bothering her so. Let him think it might be her reputation. After all, it certainly should be.
She nodded, and he went to the door, cracking it just wide enough to stick his head out, and then opening it farther. “Even the desk clerk has gone for supper,” he said, sweeping his hand in front of him to usher her out the door.
Caroline complied after checking her hat and brushing her hands down her skirt. She stopped just outside the door, in front of the wanted posters. Mr. Drexel’s penciled face stared back at her with different eyes and a wider hat. She reached out for it, then stopped. “Why don’t you remove it?” she asked him. “After all, if you’re confiding in Mr. McFarland tomorrow, it’s no use having someone recognize your face before you have to chance to talk to him.”
He looked at her as if he wasn’t sure he heard her correctly. Then he gave her a wide smile and yanked the page from where it lay pinned to the wall. He crumpled it up and shoved it into a pocket.
Caroline returned his smile. “Things will work out well for you, I just know it.”
“I hope you’re right,” he replied.
She glanced over her shoulder toward the stairs that led to the upper floor. “I bid you good evening, Mr. Drexel.”
He bowed his head just slightly, and even as she wondered at this unexpected courtesy, he said, “Would you like me to escort you upstairs?”
The smile dropped from her face as she took a step backward. How dare he? “Absolutely not.”
His laugh followed her all the way up the stairs as her face burned. At least no one was in the lobby to have heard what he said. The man was completely hopeless.
As she made her way down the long hallway that led to the girls’ dormitories, a tiny sliver of doubt worked its way into her hope. Had she done the right thing? He was wanted for murder, of all things. It wasn’t as if he’d stolen something—he’d killed a man. Back in Boston, there would’ve been no question about what she would have done. She’d have immediately fetched her father or her older brother, and they’d have contacted the authorities. And she never would have seen the ruffian again.
Although, she had to admit to herself as she reached the door to the room she shared with Penny, she never would have met such a man in Boston to begin with. Her social circle had been tightly kept there. That was part of what drew her to this wild place. It had taken some time to get used to, but now she loved that everyone she met wasn’t automatically wealthy and concerned with appearances or business deals or family names.
She took a deep breath and forced Mr. Drexel and any doubts from her mind. When she opened the door, three pairs of eyes greeted her. Penny sat, looking into the small glass they kept at their dressing table, repinning her hair, and crowded onto her bed were Dora and Millie, who shared a room at the end of the hallway.
“Where have you been?” Penny asked, her eyes alight.
Caroline bit her lip. Penny would love to hear about Mr. Drexel and his plight. This was the sort of thing she lived for. But the man’s life hung in her hands, and Caroline wasn’t about to betray that trust, particularly when he’d agreed to do the right thing tomorrow. Instead, she leaned over Penny’s shoulder to check her own reflection and said, “Just ensuring our stations are perfect and ready for tomorrow.”
Millie laughed. “I knew you’d go after that head waitress position.”
Caroline smiled at her. It had taken Millie a while to find joy in life again after that horrible Mr. Turner had taken advantage of her affections this past summer. But now Millie seemed to thrive in her work and had become a friend to every girl in the hotel.
“I don’t deny I’m interested. But of course, there’s no telling who Mrs. Ruby will deem worthy,” Caroline said as she shoved thoughts of Mr. Drexel from her mind.
“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” Penny said as she pinned her hat into place. “We’ll make sure she knows you’re the only choice. Won’t we, girls?”
The other two nodded, and a wave of happiness rushed over Caroline. How had she been so lucky as to find such good friends out here? “Thank you so much. It would mean the world to me if I won that title.”
“It’s no bother,” Penny said. She stood. “Now, we have fifteen minutes until supper, and Dora needs to tell us all about that desk clerk who said hello to her earlier.”
Dora’s complexion deepened to a dark red, and Caroline smiled in sympathy. Once Penny got a hold of gossip, she reveled in it. So as much as Caroline wanted to confide in her friends about Mr. Drexel, she knew she couldn’t. At least not until he’d cleared his name.
She sat at the dressing table, letting the girls’ chatter wash over her. Tomorrow, she’d seek out Mr. Drexel again to find out what had come of his meeting with Mr. McFarland. She’d have to be sneaky about it, which she hated. But it was necessary if she wanted to keep her position.
Losing her work here as a Gilbert Girl was not an option.
Chapter Nine
Thomas awoke at dawn, wondering at first why it was so comfortable in his tent. Until he realized he was no longer in the tent. He had taken it down yesterday in preparation for the hotel’s grand opening, and McFarland had assigned him a room on the upper floor in the rear of the hotel where the male employees of the Gilbert Company had dormitories.
He stretched and sighed, enjoying the comfort of the feather mattress and the general lack of chill in the room. He had no roommate, but that likely wouldn’t last long as McFarland still needed to hire a few more people. Or, he thought with a grimace, because he’d no longer be here himself.
His clothing from yesterday was thrown over a chair in the corner. He had one other shirt, which had been laundered the day before yesterday. When he next received his pay—provided he still had a job and wasn’t in jail—he would go to Cañon City and purchase some new clothing. Even if he wasn’t working directly with guests, he decided it would be wise to take more care for his appearance.
There was a small looking glass next to the washbasin. Thomas picked it up and frowned at what looked back at him. He needed a haircut, too. Badly. Once, a long time ago, he’d thought he’d follow his father’s unrealized dreams of opening a store in a town somewhere. He didn’t know what sort of store, nor did he particularly care, but the idea of spending his days talking with the various sorts of people who’d come in appealed to him. As did the thought of being his own boss and running a business as he saw fit. His father had saved for his own store for years, only to pass on before he could fulfill his dream. The money had then gone to pay the undertaker and rent they’d owed the landlo
rd for the last couple of months. Thomas had used the meager remainder to make his way out of Texas, to the promised lands of silver mines in Colorado.
Of course, those promised lands never quite lived up to their reputations. It was far too easy to spend one’s entire earnings on company food and company rent. And as he hated to admit, on the sins such a place offered. After six years of working the mines, Thomas had nothing to show for it except a warrant for his arrest.
He threw water on his face, hoping it would drown all those old memories. He combed back his hair as best he could before putting on the clean shirt and grabbing his hat.
The kitchen was open early, and both men and women filled the long tables at the end of the room, eating a quick breakfast of eggs, bread, and ham.
“Good morning, Drexel.” A hand clapped his shoulder, and he stood from his seat at the end of the table to find McFarland behind him.
“McFarland.” He shook the man’s hand.
“I trust you slept well?”
“I did, thank you. Do you need a seat? I’m just finishing.”
“No, no.” McFarland waved a hand, indicating Thomas should sit back down.
He didn’t, of course. Instead, he stood there while the promise he’d made Miss Beauchamp knocked on the corners of his skull. Now was neither the time nor the place, and besides, he wasn’t entirely certain he wanted to keep the promise to begin with. He grimaced at that thought. Never had he been a man who told falsehoods. Although if he were being honest with himself, his entire existence for the past five months had been a falsehood.
“The missus made certain I ate a hearty breakfast before she’d let me leave our apartment.” McFarland placed a hand over his large stomach and laughed.
“I’m about finished with the pantry shelving,” Thomas said, shoving Miss Beauchamp’s voice and trusting face from his mind. “I only need to hang it.”
