“Don’t get too smug, Mrs. Dancy. Our bargain still stands.”

“I know.” Determinedly, Rosamond lifted her chin. “I fully intend to hold up my end of our deal, too.” She swallowed hard, then gave him a deliberately steely look. “I can’t wait to leave here and help you kit out your new lodgings at the stable!”

For a long moment Miles could only gaze at her with admiration. “I’m impressed. That almost sounded convincing.”

“So did your dedication to fixing that window,” Rosamond pointed out. “Yet here we are, chatting away instead.”

Miles laughed, knowing he should skedaddle inside but wanting this easy closeness to last between them … the way it once had every day. “You’re a hard taskmaster.”

“I like to get things done, that’s all. Now that I’ve decided what to do, there’s no benefit to wasting time.”

Miles disagreed. He crossed his arms, still studying her. “I think you’ll find that some things are best done slowly.”

Her brow arched. “Like window-fixing?”

“Like kissing.”

AUTHOR NOTE

Thank you for reading Morrow Creek Runaway! I’m happy to share Rosamond and Miles’s story with you, and I’m delighted to introduce you to the Morrow Creek Mutual Society, too. I hope you enjoy reading about all the intrigues and escapades going on there. If you do, please tell your friends!

Please join me for the other books in my Morrow Creek mini-series, too—it includes The Honour-Bound Gambler, The Bride Raffle, Mail-Order Groom and several others—including some short stories and an e-Book exclusive—all set in and around my favourite corner of the Old West.

If you’d like to try a sample you can find complete first chapters from all my bestselling books on my website, www.lisaplumley.com While you’re there you can also sign up for personal new book alerts, download an up-to-date book list, get the scoop on upcoming books, request reader freebies and more. I hope you’ll stop by today!

As always, I’d love to hear from you! You can follow me on Twitter @LisaPlumley, ‘friend’ me on Facebook at www.facebook.com/lisaplumleybooks, send e-mail to lisa@lisaplumley.com, or visit me online at www.community.harlequin.com

Morrow Creek Runaway

Lisa Plumley

www.millsandboon.co.uk

USA TODAY bestselling author LISA PLUMLEY has delighted readers worldwide with more than three dozen popular novels. Her work has been translated into multiple languages and editions, and includes Western historical romances, contemporary romances, paranormal romances, and a variety of stories in romance anthologies. She loves to hear from readers! Visit Lisa on the web, ‘friend’ her on Facebook, or follow her on Twitter @LisaPlumley.

To John, with all my love.

Happy 25th anniversary!

Contents

Cover

Excerpt

AUTHOR NOTE

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

March 1885, Morrow Creek, northern Arizona Territory

Miles Callaway was a man who didn’t believe in second chances. He’d never needed to before. But on the day he arrived in the tiny territorial town of Morrow Creek, perched at the edge of a pine-dotted mountainside and bordered by its namesake sparkling creek, he decided to try for a second chance anyway.

After all, he’d traveled two thousand miles to find this one—to find the woman who’d slipped away from him back in Boston. Any woman who could inspire that kind of devotion was special.

On the other hand, so were the five hundred dollars he’d accepted for finding her.

That was more money than Miles had ever seen in one place in his whole lifetime. Even now, with most of those greenbacks stashed safely away in his battered valise, he felt conspicuous—like a miner who’d just pickaxed himself a gold nugget or twelve and was carrying around all that plunder stuffed in his britches pockets.

Around him on the town’s main street, horse traffic kicked up dust. Passersby lingered on the raised-plank boardwalk to talk. Several calico-clad women meandered in and out of the businesses surrounding him, carrying parcels of goods. Miles spied a mercantile and a millinery as he walked past—also, a newspaper office, a book depot and a telegraph station. Like most other small towns he’d passed through while headed west, Morrow Creek seemed both bustling and peaceable. Its church was as prominent as its saloon. Both appeared equally revered.

Stiff and vaguely achy from his long train journey, Miles shouldered his valise and then stretched his legs with brisker walking. Moving felt good. So did the cool springtime air on his face. Inhaling a lungful, he almost grinned. In Boston, the air felt as thick as scorched pea soup. It looked black with soot, and it burned all the way going down. Compared with that, the territorial air he drew in felt like a kiss from Mother Nature herself.

He could learn to like it here.

Especially if he found Rosamond McGrath.

Squinting ahead, Miles focused his attention on Jack Murphy’s saloon. Even though it was scarcely past noontime, the place looked busy. That suited Miles just fine. He was secure in the information that had brought him to Morrow Creek, but some of the facts he’d garnered were months old now.

Before making his move, he needed to know more.

There was no better place for a man to get his bearings than the local saloon. He could clear away the railway dust with a pint of Levin’s ale, swap yarns with the locals and wrangle the remaining details he needed. If he followed that with trips to the telegraph and post offices, passed by the jailhouse and made sure he tamped down his impatience long enough to approach Rosamond McGrath in a sensible fashion, Miles knew he could prevail.

He had to prevail. He’d already spent a year trying.

He’d sacrificed his job and his principles for this search. Because of it, Miles was a different man from the jovial stableman who’d left Arvid and Genevieve Bouchard’s employ and journeyed westward from Beacon Hill, determined to find a woman who sometimes felt more like a ghost than the flesh-and-blood runaway housemaid she was.

Not that that description adequately described Rosamond McGrath. Or Miles’s feelings for her. But for now, those feelings of his were beside the point. What mattered now was making a smart approach. He didn’t want to spook Rose. He didn’t want to send her scurrying away again, the way she’d done so mysteriously before. Miles was a man who persevered, no matter what. But that didn’t mean he had to struggle uphill both ways.

He could make damn sure, this time, that he played his hand shrewdly. So, with his gaze fixed and his mind clear, Miles sent his boots clomping across the boardwalk and up into the lively two-story saloon, where piano music played and men like him congregated...and sometimes shared more than they should.

Thank Providence for whiskey, Miles told himself as he shouldered his way inside the dim saloon, inhaling the earthy scents of spilled liquor and stale tobacco as he went. Thank heaven for all its useful, tongue-loosening qualities, too.

Setting his valise safely at his feet, Miles tugged his flat-brimmed hat over his face. He gave his bearded jawline a rueful rub. If he wanted to appear presentable, he needed to shave. But as it was, his dark facial hair and overgrown shoulder-length locks made him look less like a respectable, citified carriage driver and more like...well, more like a man who didn’t intend to take no for an answer on the questions he had.

So, bearded and determined and equipped with more money than any man ought to wisely bring into a place where drinking and gambling held the upper hand, Miles ordered an ale from the barman and got down to the business of locating Rose McGrath.

* * *

Rosamond McGrath Dancy was in the small fenced yard behind her house, playing with the children in her care, trying for the umpteenth time to learn the rules of baseball, when a surprising summons came from Bonita Yates, her friend and assistant.

“I’m sorry to interrupt all the frivolity, Mrs. Dancy.” Bonita stood in the meager shade of a scrub-oak tree, speaking loudly to be heard over the boisterous children shouting their advice to Rosamond. “But you have a gentleman caller.”

A gentleman caller. Those unexpected words made Rosamond’s grip on her baseball bat go slack. At home plate, she missed the next pitch, thrown by little Seamus O’Malley, Maureen’s son.

Rosamond frowned. “You know I don’t see gentleman callers. Fetch Seth. He’ll know what to do to get rid of him.”

At her mention of one of the two burly “protectors” Rosamond employed, Bonita shook her head. “Seth let him in.”

“He did?” Rosamond darted a glance to the second of her protectors, Judah Foster, who’d been stationed here in the yard. His quizzical shrug only increased her sense of unease.

Everyone in her household knew better than to allow strangers inside the house. Especially if those strangers were men. Especially if those men wanted to see her. Most of her rules were designed to avoid exactly this situation.

Entirely alarmed now, Rosamond lowered the tip of her bat to the ground, her baseball lessons all but forgotten.

The children cried out in exasperated impatience.

“Don’t quit, Mrs. Dancy!” yelled wiry, bespectacled, blonde Agatha Jorgensen. “You almost hit the ball that time!”

Nearby, Grace Murphy nodded. “Agatha is correct, Rosamond. You have your batting stance mastered. Now all you need to do is work on your timing.” As a notorious suffragette and advocate of equality, Grace had been the first to suggest entertaining the children—girls and boys alike—with athletics. She’d also spent quite a while tutoring Rosamond in the finer points of the sport she so enjoyed herself. “If you keep practicing, you’ll be joining my Morrow Creek ladies’ baseball league in no time.”

“I’d like that, Grace.” Rosamond tossed her friend a shaky smile, grateful—not for the first time—for her encouragement. It was partly due to Grace’s determined intervention that Rosamond’s unconventional household had been allowed into Morrow Creek in the first place. Reminded of that unconventionality—and all the misunderstandings it sometimes engendered—Rosamond swerved her attention back to Bonita. “Why did Seth let him in? He knows better than that.” Both of her security employees did. “I’ll have a talk with Seth. After he sends away whoever—”

“It’s Gus Winston.” Seth Durant strode in through the side yard, temporarily abandoning his post at her household’s front door. With his broad shoulders, gunslinger’s attitude and fierce demeanor, the elder of her two protectors was the approximate size of her front door—and usually barred intrusions just as capably. Until today. “I knew you’d want to see him before he heads off to San Francisco with Miss Abigail.”

“Oh. Well, of course I want to see him!” All smiles now, Rosamond handed her bat to Tommy Scott, who was awaiting his turn. “Here, Tommy. You try batting next. The rest of you...make lots of scores!”

“They’re called runs, Mrs. Dancy!” shouted little Tobe Larkin, full of sass and exaggerated forbearance. He’d recently come to the territory from California with his widowed mother, Lucinda. Both were temporarily taking refuge with Rosamond. “When you’re playing baseball, scores are called runs.”

“Yes. Thank you, Tobe.” Growing up in faraway Boston, Rosamond had never spent much time with other children. She’d worked in a factory, like her parents, until she’d been orphaned. After that, she’d been apprenticed as a housemaid in a fine Beacon Hill household. Her days had not been filled with games and childish pastimes. “I’ll master this eventually.”

“We know,” the children chimed in cheerfully, having heard the same axiom from Rosamond endless times already. I’ll master this eventually was something of a catchphrase for Rosamond. She hadn’t realized she used it as often as she did until her friend Libby Jorgensen pointed it out to her with surprising admiration.

“You’re so determined, Rosamond,” Libby had told her that day, shortly after they’d moved into the house. “That’s what makes you different from the rest of us. That’s what made you able to get us here, all the way across the country, after Mr. Dancy—”

Rosamond had cut off her friend curtly, unwilling to hear any more about the man she’d briefly and disastrously been wed to. Elijah Dancy might have unwittingly enabled Rosamond’s new life by obligingly getting shot at a gambling table, but that didn’t mean Rosamond felt a speck of gratitude for the man.

In fact, she had yet to meet the man she felt grateful for. No one who truly knew her would have blamed her for that fact.

But if any man were to come close, it would have been Gus Winston. The lanky, bandanna-wearing stableman had approached Rosamond’s household with an open mind and endearing enthusiasm.

You have a gentleman caller, she remembered Bonita saying. She had to get busy. She couldn’t keep Gus waiting all day.

Breathless with the aftereffects of her athletic endeavors, Rosamond patted her bedraggled, mostly upswept auburn hair. Vigorously, she brushed off her bodice and her bustled, lace-trimmed skirts. Playing baseball wasn’t strictly among her duties as the lady of the household, but whenever one of the children asked her to join in, Rosamond simply couldn’t resist. She loved hearing their raucous laughter and seeing their little faces smudged with dirt...but wreathed with smiles, all the same.

You have a gentleman caller.

When would those words not stop her heart?

She’d escaped from Boston, Rosamond reminded herself firmly. She had nothing more to fear from the Bouchards or anyone else. She’d made a new life for herself in Morrow Creek.

A life that left her—a supposed lady—hopelessly untidy.

Nonetheless, she faced Grace brightly. “How do I look?”

Her friend assessed her. “You look perfectly invigorated!”

Hmm. That wasn’t terribly helpful. “Bonita?”

“It’s Gus,” her assistant reminded her. “He won’t mind if you’re slightly less stringently ladylike than usual.”

Bonita’s teasing grin reminded Rosamond that to everyone here, she truly was ladylike. Despite the gossip and whispers that had initially greeted the arrival of her Morrow Creek Mutual Society—and the ladies therein—no one in town suspected Rosamond of anything untoward. Her neighbors approved of her.

Almost a year after her ignoble departure from Boston, Rosamond had created the haven she’d always longed for. In the unlikely refuge of Morrow Creek, she was finally secure.

Unless a particular and unwanted “gentleman caller” arrived, that is. If that happened, all her security would be shattered.

Rosamond couldn’t bear to consider it. “I’ll be back for the next round,” she assured everyone. “Good luck!”

“It’s the next inning!” Tobe called. “Inning!”

But Rosamond gaily waved off his assertion and headed for her private parlor, hauling in a deep breath as she went.

If nothing else, she was in charge here. She had friends, security, a family of rescued women and their children, and a useful occupation to occupy her mind. She’d done good work here.

As proof, Rosamond reminded herself, she was about to meet the first and most satisfied client of her mutual society.

The just-married Mr. Gus Winston, waiting in her parlor.

Chapter Two

Within half an hour of his arrival at the saloon, Miles had the dispiriting realization that he’d become an expert at subterfuge. Wholly without meaning to, he’d become a man who knew how to pick a lock, when to trade cash for information and where to find answers that didn’t send him off cockeyed on a wild, time-wasting goose chase. He’d learned how to suss out the truth and how to protect himself. He’d had to. The kind of people he’d dealt with were neither reputable nor trustworthy.

At this point, maybe he wasn’t, either.

But the urgency of his search had demanded more from him. More, maybe, than he’d been willing to give at the outset. But he’d had no choice then. Now that Miles was so close—now that he knew Rosamond McGrath was within reach—he couldn’t quit.

He’d always been able to handle himself, of course, Miles recalled as he studied his ale. He had the usual masculine willingness to fight, if the outcome of that fight mattered. In his time, he’d settled a few disputes with his fists. He had the musculature that came from hoisting horse-and-carriage equipment from dawn to dusk, the wits that came from growing up in the hardscrabble city tenements and a hardheadedness that owed itself, quite naturally, to his Callaway forebearers.

Each of them was as stubborn as a stuck mule and more than eager to boast about it. But they also had the charm of several fallen angels to sweeten their obstinacy. Miles’s own father had possessed unholy amounts of charisma...coupled with an unfortunate unwillingness to quit playing faro until his pockets were empty.

Too bad he could always finagle the faro dealer into letting him play a mite longer on credit, Miles remembered. Without that damnable charm of his, Silas Callaway might have been able to save and move out from the grimy tenements. That certainly would have pleased Miles’s mother. But none of the Callaways had ever really expected to leave the rougher side of Boston—at least not unless it was in service to someone like the Bouchards.

In the end, Miles had been the only one who’d left.

He’d brought some of that infamous family charm with him, though, he reckoned as he signaled the barman for some food. He’d twisted the Callaway charisma into use not for gambling but for a greater cause.

For Rose. For finding her, just as he’d promised, and for—

“You must be Callaway.” A huge, friendly-faced man wearing homespun trousers and a loose buttoned shirt stepped up to the bar beside Miles. He ordered, then nodded at Miles. “The man with all the questions about Mrs. Dancy and her establishment.”

Mrs. Dancy. Miles still couldn’t get used to that.

He knew Rosamond had married. But how? Why?

Had she really, as Genevieve Bouchard had insisted, become smitten with Elijah Dancy and run away with him in the night?

He couldn’t believe the woman he’d known would do that.

Even if she had, she would have written to someone. To him.

Knowing there had to be more to this situation, Miles nodded calmly at his interrogator. “I am. You know Mrs. Dancy?”

Another, more curt nod. “Yep. But I don’t know you.”

With new respect, Miles eyed the man. He had the burly build of a stevedore, the jovial demeanor of a gambler who always won big and the jaded gaze of someone who knew better than to trust an outsider.

“Miles Callaway.” Miles offered his hand to the man. “I’m new in town. I couldn’t help hearing about Mrs. Dancy’s place. I don’t mind saying, it’s got me mighty intrigued.”

The man laughed, then accepted Miles’s handshake. “Daniel McCabe. I wouldn’t get yourself all het up about Mrs. Dancy’s society, if I were you. It sounds scandalous, but it’s not.”

With a genial nod for the barman, McCabe accepted what appeared to be a midday meal of beans, bacon and bread. All around them both, the business of the saloon continued apace, full of low conversations, clinking gambling chips and quickly dealt cards. More whiskey flowed. Clouds of cigarillo smoke drifted toward the ceiling, almost obscuring Jack Murphy’s painted image of a cavorting water nymph behind the bar.

“The Morrow Creek Marriage Bureau?” Miles repeated the name he’d heard used. “Sounds scandalous to me—and to every other man who doesn’t want to get hitched in the next week.”

Another laugh. “Officially, it’s called the Morrow Creek Mutual Society,” McCabe informed him. “But around these parts, we took to calling it the marriage bureau pretty quickly.” He aimed a speculative glance at Miles. “If you don’t want to step into a wedding noose, what’s your interest in Mrs. Dancy?”

“I’m an old friend of hers.”

“You don’t say?” McCabe sized him up. “Such an old friend that you don’t know where she lives or what she’s been up to?”

McCabe’s genially voiced question belied his sharp demeanor. Despite his easy ways, this was no country bumpkin. This was a man who would fiercely protect the people he cared about. Reevaluating his initial opinion of him, Miles regrouped. Usually, folks overlooked whatever logical inconsistencies arose during his questioning of them. Especially when they were knocking back ales. Daniel McCabe was different.

“We didn’t part willingly.” With real mournfulness, Miles stared into his ale. “I aim to make up for that when I see her.”

“Aha. You poor lovelorn fool. You need another drink!”

Generously, McCabe ordered him one. Somehow, Miles had stumbled onto the best tactic for use with the big man—love.

After glimpsing the wedding band on McCabe’s hand, Miles understood where the man’s good-natured resignation toward romance came from. Possibly his guardedness, too.

After all, true love didn’t always run smoothly. Miles knew that for himself. He’d waited too long with Rosamond. Now she—

“We become damn fools when some woman turns our heads, don’t we?” McCabe proposed, offering a toast. “Here’s to you.”

Miles raised his glass, then quaffed. The moment he and Daniel McCabe sealed their newfound camaraderie, other saloon patrons began drifting nearer. If Miles had been fortunate in sniffing out information before, he was doubly lucky now.

Everyone, it seemed, wanted to help McCabe’s buddy.

In very short order, Miles learned where Rosamond Dancy lived—and with whom. He learned what her mutual society did and how popular and sought-after an admission to it was among the local menfolk. He also learned, discouragingly, that gaining a personal interview with Mrs. Dancy was next to impossible.

“She’s practically a ghost,” Hofer, the mercantile owner, confided in a dour tone. “She hardly comes out. Not ever.”

“She just keeps things running, quite efficiently, behind the scenes,” added Thomas Walsh, editor of the Pioneer Press newspaper. “I find her ingenuity very admirable, myself.”

“You ain’t getting no place near her,” opined Mr. Nickerson, who ran the Book Depot and News Emporium. “’Specially as a stranger to town. If Mrs. Dancy doesn’t want to see you, her two bruisers make darn sure you stay away.”

That put Miles on alert. “She has guards?”

“Two of ’em. Seth Durant and Judah Foster. Head-knockers, they are.” The barman, Harry, raised his arms high over his head. “Big as apes, both of ’em, and twice as mean, too.”

That was a complication Miles hadn’t counted on.

“I would advise you to stay away,” old Doc Finney put in, sipping his sarsaparilla. “A woman who is both secretive and uppity is dangerous to a man’s well-being. A man only gets so many heartbeats per ticker, you know. A woman like that’ll use them all up, faster than you can say ‘Bob’s your uncle.’”

The men surrounding him appeared intrigued by that.

“Exactly how,” McCabe wondered with a twinkle in his eye, “would all those heartbeats get used up extra quickly, Doc? Because some of us are hog-tied to uppity women ourselves.” Here, he aimed a meaningful glance at Jack Murphy. “We might need to consider protecting ourselves from overexertion.”

All the saloongoers guffawed at that, but Miles was too busy contemplating Doc Finney’s description of Rose to wonder about the salacious possibilities inherent in his warning.

Most likely, secretive would describe Rosamond these days. So would uppity, if an opinionated old coot like Finney was doing the describing. Back home, Rosamond had certainly known her own mind. Miles had definitely found her this time.

“Just don’t try getting into that society by fibbin’ that you know Mrs. Dancy ‘from back east,’” a lumberman warned him. “I tried that, and her hired men dumped me in a ditch.”

Miles had expected Rosamond to be wary. Given everything he knew about her entanglements with Arvid Bouchard, she had reason to be. Still, he’d been counting on her being eager to see him.

So, if the truth were known, had the Bouchards.

After all, Miles was the stableman who’d helped Rosamond feed apples to the Bouchard household’s horses. He was the stableman who’d carried heavy loads of coal for his favorite housemaid. He was the stableman who’d pined for his Rosamond from afar...and now found his best chance at being near her again thwarted by two hired thugs and a whole town’s worth of gossipy, intrusive menfolk.

Well, Miles hadn’t gotten this far by quitting easily.

He’d traveled for weeks by rail, horseback, ferry and foot to tell Rosamond McGrath his true feelings for her. He now stood less than a mile from Rose—his Rose. He was not a man who would be daunted by a few complications.

“I can get into the marriage bureau.” Miles swallowed the rest of his ale in a single gulp. He eyed the assembled men. “By this time tomorrow, I’ll be Mrs. Dancy’s favorite client.”

Or I’ll die trying, Miles swore to himself.

Not long after that, he said goodbye to his newfound friends. He picked up his flat-brimmed hat, shouldered his valise and set out to make his vow as real as the ill-gotten money that still burned a hole in his bag...and in his heart.

What I won’t do, he promised himself further, is tell Rose where that damn money came from. That would not endear him to her—nor would it encourage her to trust him. To get what he wanted from Rosamond, Miles needed her good regard and her trust alike.

He needed a second chance. He was damn sure about to finagle himself one, no matter what he had to do to secure it.

* * *

Rosamond was saying her farewells to Gus when she first heard the kerfuffle at her front door. She tried to concentrate on what her very first client was telling her about his new bride and their plans, but the sounds of raised voices and scuffling feet stole her attention. What could be happening now?

Sensing the same disturbance, Gus broke off. He cast a worried glance down the hallway, beyond the parlor’s entryway where they both stood. “Sounds like trouble. You want me to go an’ help your bruiser put down all the hubbub?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Winston. That won’t be necessary.” Thinking of scrappy Gus Winston getting into a scuffle, Rosamond hid a smile. “I’m sure Mr. Durant has matters well in hand.”

A firm, raised male voice contradicted her statement.

A familiar firm, raised male voice. It couldn’t be.

But if it was...

Wholly unexpectedly, a host of memories flooded Rosamond. She could smell hay and horses and fresh green apples. She could feel the heavy burden of the coal bin being chivalrously removed from her grasp. She could reexperience the heart-pounding excitement and surge of pure joy that had come every day from venturing to those Beacon Hill stables and seeing—

“Don’t sound too much like he’s got things in hand,” Gus observed dourly. He turned toward the hallway, ready to help deal with the disturbance. “I should be goin’ anyhow. Abigail—I mean, the new Mrs. Winston—will be waitin’ on me.”

Gus’s reddened cheeks and shy smile at his mention of his new bride reminded Rosamond of all the positive effects she was having here in Morrow Creek—and pulled her sensibly away from the fanciful memories that had swamped her, too. There was no reason at all, she chided herself, to be thinking fondly of—

“Miles Callaway!” The stranger’s words carried easily from her house’s guarded doorway to the parlor. “All I want to know is if Miles Callaway has been here to see Mrs. Dancy.”

Rosamond swayed. She felt her insides somersault.

It couldn’t be him. It simply couldn’t be. Not here.

But it definitely sounded like him.

For a heartbeat too long, Rosamond wanted it to be him. She wanted it to be Miles, her Miles, come to her door in Morrow Creek—no matter how unlikely that would be. Even if it was Miles, she assured herself dizzily, that didn’t mean she could trust him. It didn’t mean—

“Mrs. Dancy?” Gus’s worried tone cut through her haze of disbelief. “Are you all right? You look about to tumble over. You’ve plumb gone white as a sheet, too.” Protectively, Gus shooed her toward the upholstered settee. “Go on. You better have yourself a little sit-down. You want me to get Bonita?”

“I— No.” In midretreat toward her settee, Rosamond stopped. She squared her shoulders. “I’m fine, Mr. Winston. Truly, I am.”

Gus peered disbelievingly at her. “I ain’t swallowin’ it. It ain’t like you to fib, anyhow. I know that for certain.”

Rosamond almost laughed. Gus had no idea.

“Let’s just get you off on your wedding trip with Mrs. Winston.” Deliberately, Rosamond steered herself and Gus back to the parlor doorway. Her heart threatened to burst through the bodice of her practical, ladylike dress. Her hands trembled. But that didn’t mean she intended to dither uselessly in her parlor. “In the meantime, I’ll sort out the trouble with Mr. Durant.”

“You? Pshaw.” Gus waved. “That there’s men’s work.”

“Being a good husband is a man’s work,” Rosamond demurred. “And that is your job now, so don’t delay!”

“Well, if you’re sure you don’t need my help...”

“I am. Positively.” Another rumble of voices came from the entryway. Rosamond was dying to know how there could be another man on earth who sounded so like Miles. Her Miles. “Bon voyage!”

Almost ushered out, Gus stopped. “Huh?”

“Have a nice trip with Mrs. Winston,” Rosamond amended.

“Oh. I will.” Another blush. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

Because I’m conspicuously trying not to sound like a runaway housemaid. She’d once heard Mrs. Bouchard say bon voyage to an acquaintance. It had struck Rosamond as sophisticated.

“Because here at the Morrow Creek Mutual Society, we like to create a sense of occasion for our clients.” Deftly, Rosamond maneuvered them both a few more feet down the hall. Now she could almost glimpse the man who stood facing down Seth. Given her protector’s size, that was saying something. Any man who wasn’t immediately dwarfed by Seth had to be considerably sized himself. Six feet at least, and very strongly built.

Just like Miles. His considerate ways had seemed twice as incongruous when paired with his massive size and his rough-and-tumble job as head stableman and driver. His smiles had seemed twice as rare, too, coming from a man who’d been reputed to enjoy a brawl or two.

“There. Well, thank you for becoming one of our clients.” Formally, Rosamond nodded at Gus. “I wish you all the best.”

He eyed her prim stance, then lifted his gaze to her face. “Aw, shucks, Mrs. Dancy. Ain’t no call for formality ʼtween us!”

Gus lurched forward, then startled her with a tremendous hug. He wasn’t a large man, but he had the wiry strength of a man who worked hard for a living. Besides, even the smallest man was stronger than a woman—a woman who didn’t want him to touch her, didn’t want him to envelop her, didn’t want him to take—

Feeling smothered in panic, Rosamond shoved Gus. Hard. He stumbled backward, momentarily looking like another man—a man who’d laughed at Rosamond’s paltry efforts to protect herself.

Arvid Bouchard had viewed his former housemaid’s resistance to his unwanted advances as proof of her Irish-born, redheaded, working-class “liveliness,” not her wish to escape him. He’d pursued her relentlessly. Eventually, stuck with no place to go and no one to turn to, Rosamond had simply gone numb to what was happening with her employer. She’d seen no other choice.

She’d paid dearly for her inaction, too.

“Don’t touch me.” Rosamond raised her head, her gloved hands balled into fists. “Don’t ever touch me! Even my friends and the children here don’t—” She broke off, realizing too late how inappropriate this was. How shocked Gus looked. It was true that Rosamond could not bear to be touched. But Gus’s gesture had been an openhearted farewell, not an attempt to hurt her. He was still gawking at her, in fact, still trying to figure out what had caused her outburst. Rosamond couldn’t explain. “Oh! I’m so sorry, Gus. Please forgive me. I didn’t mean it.”

“I reckon ye did.” His knowing tone didn’t blame her for it. He gave her a measuring look. “I’m sorry for it, too. Most folks won’t mean you no harm, but sometimes—well, you only have to ask Mrs. Cooper about that one. Sometimes folks do want to hurt a woman. Daisy had herself an awful time with—”

Rosamond was confused by Gus’s mention of the livery stable owner’s new wife, a renowned cookery book author and now stepmother to little Élodie Cooper, but she didn’t have time to ponder the matter further. Because just as Gus was winding up his commiserating speech, the duo at her doorway parted.

“She said not to touch her,” the stranger growled.

Rosamond had a brief impression of dark clothes, fast movements and pure masculine authority before all tarnation broke loose. The stranger stepped protectively between her and Gus, his arms outstretched to shield her. Seth shouted and pursued him, having evidently been given the slip at the door. Gus straightened like a cornered rooster, not giving a single inch.

Astonished, Rosamond stared at the back of the stranger’s head, at his brown hair falling in collar-length waves beneath his hat and at his broad shoulders stretching the black fabric of his coat, and wondered why a bearded outsider who smelled like whiskey and cigar smoke had decided to come to her rescue.

She couldn’t shake the impression that this man could have dodged her protector at any time. He simply hadn’t had sufficient motivation to do so—until Gus had touched her.

“Nobody asked you to git in on this.” Gus’s eyes narrowed. His weathered hands curled into fists. “This here’s a lady’s house. You ought to learn to mind your manners.”

“So should you. Start by saying goodbye.”

“Why should I?” Gus demanded. “You gonna make me?”

Oh, dear. If Rosamond didn’t do something, they’d come to blows. More than once, she’d seen Seth or Judah dispatch an unwanted or rowdy male visitor to her Morrow Creek Mutual Society. Typically, those men worked with their fists. She didn’t want to see Gus mixed up in a melee. For whatever reason, she didn’t want this stranger to be on the receiving end of one of Seth’s mighty sockdolagers, either. As a onetime railway worker, Seth was as strong as an ox and twice as ornery.

Gus shifted a sideways glance toward Seth. The two of them appeared to be formulating a plan, but they were about as covert as a pair of cantankerous mules resisting being saddled. “Who kicked up his heels an’ made you boss, anyhow?” Gus goaded.

The stranger didn’t budge. “When I see a woman in need, I step in. Any decent man would do the same.”

Again, his voice sounded so familiar. Raspy, faintly accented with a secondhand brogue, roughened by the coarse environments of tenements and stables. He sounded just like Miles. Or maybe Rosamond only wanted him to sound like Miles...

“It’s my job to step in.” Seth took a swing. He missed.

How had he missed? He was always so effective. So tough.

Seth looked shaken by his failure to topple the stranger. So did Gus, whose eyes widened—then narrowed again in renewed readiness. All three men froze in wary postures, leaving the air fairly vibrating with tension and combativeness.

Seth had missed. He’d failed to protect her.

Rosamond quailed, distracted from her musings about Miles. For the first time, the fortress she’d fashioned for herself here in the Arizona Territory felt in real danger of crumbling. Maybe Seth and Judah weren’t so very tough, after all. Maybe if genuine danger came calling, Rosamond would find herself all on her own. Just the way she’d always been.

The notion terrified her. If her own house wasn’t secure...

Well. She’d just have to make it secure.

“All of you, stop this at once!” Rosamond stepped from behind the shielding arms of the stranger to sweep a chastising glance at them all. “Gus, please give my best wishes to Abigail. Seth, please return to your post, lest some other miscreant try to invade this house today. And you, sir—” she swallowed hard, hoping to dredge up a bonus quantity of courage “—should leave immediately, before I take it into my mind to stomp your foot, wring your ear and drag you out of this house myself.”

A heavy silence descended. More than likely, all the other ordinary sounds were drowned out by the furor of Rosamond’s heartbeat pounding in her ears. Then, gradually, the laughter of the children playing outside returned. It was followed by the steady ticking of the grandfather clock to Rosamond’s left.

She drew in another fortifying breath, not quite daring to look the stranger in the face. She both did and did not want to confirm that he wasn’t the stableman she remembered, wasn’t the man she’d thought of so often since leaving Boston, could not be Miles Callaway, come thousands of miles to arrive at her door.

“Please don’t make me repeat myself,” she warned.

Gus tipped his hat. “Thanks kindly, Mrs. Dancy.” He had the audacity to wink. “You sure know how to throw a lively bit o’ entertainment here at the marriage bureau, that’s for sure.”

Gus saluted, then left with a grin. Seth, for his part, retreated the merest quantity of steps, then mulishly stopped.

“Since when have I not meant what I said?” Rosamond asked.

Improbably, the stranger laughed at that remark.

Seth, looking more embarrassed than she wanted, stomped all the way back to his usual post in the entryway. From there, he surveyed their latest visitor through distrustful eyes.

So did Rosamond, albeit from beside him. Clearly, in the end, shielding her household of women and children was up to her. Her protectors, Seth and Judah, could only do so much—especially if she were the one causing all the trouble.

Reminded of her earlier overreaction to Gus’s bear hug, Rosamond winced. The poor man hadn’t deserved that. She’d physically retaliated against him! She’d berated him. She was so sorry for that. It wasn’t at all normal to dislike being hugged.

It also wasn’t normal for anyone to get the better of Seth. Yet her latest visitor had easily gotten past Seth and avoided his blow, too. Who in the world was he? And why was he there?

Miles Callaway, she remembered the stranger saying. All I want to know is if Miles Callaway has been here to see Mrs. Dancy.

This man was looking for Miles. He’d unwittingly roused Rosamond’s bottled-up memories at the same time, but that wasn’t his fault. If Miles was in any trouble, Rosamond wanted to know.

She’d liked Miles. She’d more than liked Miles.

He’d been her staunchest ally in the Bouchard household. He’d been a friend, and, yes, the subject of her girlish daydreams about love and romance, too. She hadn’t ever admitted as much to him. In fact, she hadn’t ever done anything much more audacious than smile at Miles. But Rosamond had entertained youthful fantasies about holding his hand, about dancing with him, about learning why he seemed so strong and yet so trapped in Boston, why he seemed so charming and yet often so alone.

Those girlhood fantasies felt very far away to her now. They were part of another life—a life when she hadn’t had a hole in her heart and a soul-deep need to bar the door at all times.

“Sorry to bother you, ma’am.” With the scarcest turn to acknowledge her, the stranger tipped his hat. “I’ll be going.”

He took several strides toward the door.

In a moment, he’d be gone. Just the way she’d demanded.

But his voice still rang in the air, so reminiscent of...

Well, so reminiscent of the one man Rosamond had never been able to forget. The one man she’d never truly wanted to forget.

“Wait! Please.” In a trice, she’d caught up to him. She touched his sleeve, caught his questioning glance at her overly intrusive gloved hand, then regrouped. Hastily, Rosamond took away her hand—but not before she felt...something...pass between them. “I heard you talking earlier. I’d like to know everything you know about this...Mr. Callaway, was it?”

He hesitated, his bearded face mostly cast in shadow by his hat and his collar-length hair. Then he unwisely accepted her sham uncertainty at face value, just as Rosamond had intended.

This...Mr. Callaway, was it?

As if she hadn’t dreamed of him.

“Are you asking me to stay?” he asked. “All I wanted was to question your hired man. I heard you never entertain visitors.”

“Today, for you, I’ll make an exception. Please.” Valiantly, Rosamond cast about for a proper inducement. Now that she almost had this man right where she wanted him—in a position to reveal whatever he knew about Miles—she didn’t intend to quit. “I have tea! You must be thirsty after your travels.”

His posture sharpened. “My travels?”

His wariness confounded her. “You’re carrying a valise.”

“Ah. Yes, I am.” He lifted it in a rueful gesture, his tense shoulders easing with the motion. “It holds everything I own, some of what I’ve borrowed and none of what I need.” His gaze shifted to her household, then arrowed in on her parlor doorway with no effort at all. “Right now, I need tea.”

That meant she’d won, Rosamond knew, and felt curiously buoyant. If she could not see Miles Callaway again, at least she could find out what had become of him. After all, she would likely not be the only one who’d left the Bouchards’ employ.

Miles, as she remembered him, had loved an adventure. He’d also possessed a lightheartedness she’d envied on occasion.

This man did not seem quite so sanguine.

But then, he wasn’t her Miles, was he? He couldn’t be. She and Miles were thousands of miles apart. Neither of them had the means to cross that distance. Rosamond herself had only done it through extraordinary and trying circumstances. It was preposterous to think that an ordinary stableman could have followed her this far—or that he would have wanted to.

All the same, he very much seemed to be Miles! Rosamond needed a closer and clearer look at him to know for sure. She intended to get herself that closer, clearer look at him, too.

Just to be on the safe side. Just to indulge her silly, woebegone sentimentality at this mysterious stranger’s expense.

“Excellent. Right this way.” Rosamond indicated the way forward, watching alertly as he preceded her.

She had not come this far by trusting lightly, though. Nor by skipping any of the necessary precautions. So she signaled for Seth to fetch Bonita, added an extra bit of cautionary instruction to her request for tea service and then joined her new guest in the parlor.

Chapter Three

Miles had never felt more jubilant in his life.

He’d found Rosamond. He’d found her. At long last, his Rose was seated directly across from him on her fancy upholstered armchair in her fancy Morrow Creek parlor, looking beautiful and pert and just a little bit thinner than he remembered her.

Worriedly, Miles examined her more closely. The experience jarred him. He’d never seen Rosamond in anything but a tidily pressed housemaid’s uniform and her requisite cap. While she’d lent a definite sparkle to those stiff and unbecoming duds, it was still odd to see her wearing a high-necked dress with a tight bodice and a full bustled skirt. Her gingery hair was a little more tumbledown than she probably intended it to be.

She seemed older. Wiser. Infinitely more cautious.

Also, she seemed, just then, to be distinctly blurry.

Confused, Miles blinked. He gestured at his teacup. Sitting on the polished tabletop before him, it was now empty of the sweetened hot liquid Rosamond had so adroitly served him earlier. He’d swilled it all in record time and then polished off a refill, too, unexpectedly dry-mouthed and in need of something to do to settle his big, restless hands.

“Is there any more tea?” he asked.

“There is. But I’m not sure you should have more. It seems to be affecting you quite strongly. More strongly than usual.”

Her words made sense, given how peculiar he felt. It was as if his head were floating a few inches above the rest of him. He hadn’t had enough ale at the saloon to be drunk. What was this?

The truth was, though, Miles felt too good to care.

Because he’d found Rosamond. She was all right. She was safe. Everything he’d done till now—everything—had been worth it.

“Looking at you, I feel like dancing a damn jig,” he told her. All three of her. “You’re well. I’m thankful.”

Thankful scarcely described the depth of relief he felt. He wanted to bawl at the depth of relief he felt. But a man did not weep. So Miles only uttered another grateful swearword, shaking his head in wonderment as he went on studying Rosamond.

If only she weren’t pretending not to know him...

“Hmm. Yes, I am well,” she said. “Given our situation, I’ll forgive you your coarse language just now, too. I can see the jubilation on your face.” She peered wistfully at him. “For a variety of reasons, I believe what you’re saying is true. I believe you are glad about something.”

Serenely, Rosamond folded her hands atop her skirts. Even while scrutinizing him as if he was her long-lost love, she seemed the very picture of ladylike decorum.

Miles told her so.

She smiled. “Thank you. You seem the very picture of someone I once knew. He was a stableman and driver in Boston.”

There was that disingenuousness in her again. It had begun when Miles had taken off his hat and coat, and hadn’t abated since. He didn’t like it. But two could play that game.

“Boston? Pfft.” He waved again. “The only good things in Beantown are rivers and bridges and a mother’s love.”

She seemed to find that amusing. “Then you’ve been there?”

“I’ve come from there. To find someone.”

“To find Miles Callaway, you said. The thing is, I am very struck by your resemblance to the Miles Callaway I once knew.”

Her tense posture suggested she didn’t trust that Miles Callaway. That’s why Miles didn’t own up to being himself straightaway. That and the tales he’d been told of Rosamond having visitors from her past hurled forcibly from her house.

Launching a scuffle with her security men would not endear him to her. Nor would being made to explain—too soon and in too much detail—exactly how he’d come to be there in Morrow Creek.

This was not the sort of reunion he’d been hoping for.

“Mmm. I reckon I have that kind of face.” He had the kind of face, it occurred belatedly to him, that felt weirdly numb. He stroked his bearded jaw, then cast a suspicious glance at his teacup. Rosamond’s tea had tasted strange, but he’d been too polite to say so. On top of his long travels and the ale he’d already consumed at Jack Murphy’s saloon, that tea had not done him any favors. He felt...odd. “So do you. You look a lot like a housemaid I once knew. Her name was Rose. My Rose.”

Her face swam in his vision, doubling and then coming clear again. Miles shook his head. He frowned at her “assistant,” Miss Yates, who’d helpfully taken his valise from him and was now rummaging through its contents. Vaguely, that struck him as inappropriate. He had the impression someone may have riffled through his pockets, too. That beefy kid, Judah, who’d roughly taken his hat and coat after he’d come in? Had the bastard tossed him?

Miles was usually much savvier than this. Clearly, seeing Rose again had done him in. Despite her attempts to persuade him otherwise—despite the cat-and-mouse game they’d been playing thus far—he knew she was Rose, too. Rosamond McGrath Dancy. In the flesh. In a pretty pink dress. Her freckles still enchanted him. So did the sound of her voice.

He felt desperate to touch her, to reassure himself she was real. But after what had happened between her and that knuck Gus Winston earlier, Miles knew better than to touch her. Also, he wasn’t sure he could stand up without toppling over. He might wind up facedown in her high-buttoned shoes.

Then it hit him. “You drugged me!” he accused.

Her virtuous demeanor didn’t waver. “I think the stableman I knew was a bit...taller than you, though. Better looking, too.”

“Better looking? Humph.” He was “better looking.”

“Yes.” Another assessing, faraway look. “For one thing, my Miles had shorter hair. He was also clean shaven.” She gave a dreamy sigh. “He always wore a clean, pressed uniform, too.”

She was goading him on purpose. He knew it. But her musings didn’t distract him overmuch. Partly because Miles knew damn well he was tall enough and “better looking” enough to suit any woman—especially one who’d haunted his thoughts for years.

Why hadn’t he told her before how he felt?

His beard and hair and clothes could be changed. Not that he truly believed Rosamond pined for braid-trimmed trousers and jackets with epaulets at the shoulders. Arvid Bouchard had dressed his staff in the most ostentatious livery possible.

He wanted to hear Rosamond call him her Miles again.

But there was the pressing matter of her recent misconduct to be dealt with first. He could not let that stand as it was.

Even if that, as much as anything else, assured him he’d located the right woman—the right redheaded runaway housemaid.

“You drugged me,” he accused again, wishing he could strengthen his charge by standing. His knees felt rubbery and unfit to support him. “You tossed my coat and pockets looking for clues, and now Miss Yates is searching my valise.”

“Yes. That reminds me—” Rosamond turned her attention to her partner in crime. “What have you found, Miss Yates?”

“Several train ticket stubs, today’s copy of the Pioneer Press, assorted men’s clothing, a battered old book and far, far too much money for any honorable man to possess in Morrow Creek.” That traitorous woman aimed a sour look at Miles. “Furthermore, he only packed a single pair of underdrawers.”

They both gave him patently scandalized stares.

“I’m wearing the other pair,” Miles explained in his own defense, trying to ignore the additionally skeptical—and far more salacious—glance Miss Yates tossed him next. He’d have sworn she was imagining him naked. “I’m not made of money.”

They stared pointedly at his valise full of banknotes.

Miles drew himself up with dignity. In his current state, he didn’t know how to further defend himself without mentioning how he’d gotten all that money—and how much it had really cost him. He’d done his utmost not to spend much of it, but he’d had no way to search for Rosamond without it. He’d had to find out why she’d vanished from the Bouchards’ household in the middle of the night without so much as a note. Couldn’t she see that?

“Plus a wicked-looking knife,” the strongman, Judah, put in from across the room, saving Miles a reply. “Don’t forget that.”

Stricken, Miles patted his leg. Beneath his trousers, the knife sheaf on his calf felt conspicuously empty. He squinted anew at his drugged teacup, feeling lucky not to be insentient.

At least he had the wits to recognize he’d been bested.

Temporarily.

All the same, the notion made him feel perversely proud of Rose. She’d seen him as a threat. She’d dealt with that threat. Period. She was as capable and strong and spirited as ever. Those were all qualities he’d admired in her...once upon a time.

“Oh, we won’t forget the knife,” Miss Yates was assuring her hulking compatriot. “Or all that money, either.” Her gaze skittered over Miles’s black-clad form. “In fact, Mrs. Dancy, it might be wise of us to conduct an even more thorough search of his person. I’d be happy to supervise such an effort, if—”

“That won’t be necessary.” Rosamond’s attention remained implacably fixed on Miles’s face. She’d never even glanced below his neck, as near as he could tell. It was almost as though she didn’t want to consider any of the overtly manly rest of him. But that didn’t make sense. He’d never hurt her. He’d rather die than hurt her. “I think,” she added, “we’re almost done here.”

“My Rose was never this devious,” Miles complained.

“Your Rose is gone. And she isn’t ever going back.”

“Going back? Then you know that she left?”

At his question, Rosamond looked stricken. Because she’d been pretending not to know him. Because she’d been pretending—with admirable dexterity—not to know that she’d left Boston, left him...left everything in her old life behind.

Well, he was pretending, too. Pretending he had all the time in the world to sort things out. Pretending he had...anything to give her besides a charming tale and a pair of strong arms.

Near as he could tell, Rosamond wanted nothing from him—or from any man. Even if she was, as he’d learned, a widow now.

Determinedly, Miles leaned nearer to her. “You should know that I don’t want Rose to go back.” He had to communicate as much to Rosamond. It felt urgent. But the tea and the ale and whatever they’d dosed him with made it hard to say so. “I haven’t come here to bring her back. Only to—” See her. Proclaim my feelings for her. Save her, if necessary. “—see her.”

Hellfire. He still couldn’t tell her. Not even drugged.

But there’d be time for sweet words and proper reunions later. All Miles needed now was to make Rosamond trust him. That was first. Later on, everything else would naturally follow.

“Well, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me—Mrs. Dancy.” She kept her hands folded in her lap, but her cheeks had turned a shade pinker. Her feelings were softening toward him already. Miles could tell. All the signs were there. “I’m sorry I can’t help you find your friend, the housemaid you mentioned, but—”

“She was more than a friend. More than a housemaid, too.”

“In any case, it was Miles Callaway you were looking for, wasn’t it?” Placidly, Rosamond sipped from her own teacup, her gaze bright and intelligent over its rim. “How do you know him?”

“We worked together.” He should not embroider this fabricated story. But what choice did he have? Miles was certain “Mrs. Dancy” was his Rosamond, no matter how unlikely it was. No matter how sophisticated and jaded she appeared. No matter how much she tacitly denied it. But he didn’t want to spook her. That’s why he’d pretended to be “looking for Miles Callaway” in the first place. He’d counted on Rosamond’s interest in her former friend—and her intrinsic contrariness—to gain admission into her household. It had worked, too. She’d invited him inside, just the way he’d wanted. “Callaway left the Bouchards’ household several months ago. He’s been traveling ever since.”

“Traveling? But he can’t afford to—” Her eyes narrowed. “Traveling to what purpose?”

“He’s been searching for someone.”

Her gaze grew even more cynical. “For this ‘Rose’ person?”

A nod. “At times, he felt sure he’d found her.”

A wobble of her teacup was the only sign he’d affected her. She set down her cup, then airily regarded her tidy parlor. “I suppose people in Boston were wondering where she’d gone?”

“Callaway wondered.” Miles recalled the morning he’d learned she’d left. The confusion he’d felt then—the sheer disbelief and regret—still gnawed at him, all these months later. He and Rosamond had unfinished business between them. “He couldn’t understand why she’d leave without saying goodbye.”

“I’m sure she had her reasons.”

“I’d like to know what they were.”

A heartbeat passed. “I’m sure you would. So would Mr. Callaway and a few...other people, I’d imagine.”

She was testing him. She didn’t trust him yet. She was wise not to. Unwillingly, Miles recalled Arvid Bouchard’s intense interest in “that housemaid’s whereabouts.” It was only because of something that Genevieve Bouchard had let slip during a carriage ride that either of them had had the slightest lead on tracking Rosamond. Equally unwillingly, Miles recalled that he was supposed to report his findings to Arvid. He was supposed to tell his former employer the moment he located Rosamond.

Miles didn’t intend to do that. He never had.

He intended to find Rosamond, ensure she was safe, and then pay back every dime it had taken to find his friend...his Rose.

“If he were here now, I’d tell Mr. Callaway to forget about this housemaid,” she said. “I doubt she’s worth the trouble.”

“She’s worth everything. Everything to me.”

“To you?” She gave him a contemplative, dubious look. “Without even knowing where she’s been or what she’s done?”

“None of that matters.”

“It might.” Her gaze turned pensive. “If you knew.”

“It wouldn’t,” Miles swore, “as long as she’s safe.”

“Well, ‘safe’ is a relative term, isn’t it? Coming from you, the man who dodged my guard, it’s especially ironic.”

“You don’t need guards. Not against me.”

“Humph.” Her other protector, Judah, gave a disgruntled sound. With crossed arms, he regarded Miles. “That’s what all the low-down bastards say,” he blurted, “right before they—”

“Language, please, Judah.”

“—cheat you and leave you busted,” Judah went on doggedly. “I should know. My brother is a cardsharp, meanest in the territory. Leastwise, Cade was a cardsharp, up until he got married to a prissy preacher’s daughter. She’s nice, but—”

“This really isn’t the time, Mr. Foster,” Miss Yates interrupted. She turned her attention to Rosamond. “Shall I bring in more tea, Mrs. Dancy?” She inclined her head toward Miles. “I may have underestimated his impressive size and strength. It appears the earlier dose is wearing off quickly.”

“Yes.” Miles brightened. “Come to think of it, I do feel more like myself.” With vigor, he stretched. His big-booted feet came all the way beneath Rosamond’s dainty table and out the other side. “I feel like a new man, ready to take on anything.”

“What are your plans for the future, Mr...?” Rosamond broke off, wearing another wily look. “Oh, I’m sorry. It seems that in all my haste to learn about the intriguing Mr. Callaway, I neglected to ask you your name. I do apologize.”

Her confident tone almost made Miles doubt himself. Was this his Rosamond McGrath? Or was this her more cultured double, living in a faraway town the likes of which Rosamond McGrath would not have had the resources or the know-how to reach?

He believed it was Rosamond. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have persisted. But he dearly wished he knew why she was still pretending not to know him. The warier she was, the warier he felt he had to be. “I plan to stay in Morrow Creek.”

Her pleasant expression didn’t waver. “For how long?”

“For however long it takes.”

Rosamond blinked. “I see. And your name...?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Yes. He felt markedly better. “Unless that’s a requirement for admission into your marriage bureau?”

She frowned, clearly taken aback by his mention of it. “It’s called the Morrow Creek Mutual Society. As far as admission goes, I should warn you, it’s extremely rigorous.”

“If it will help me woo the woman of my dreams, you can call it anything you want.” Miles rose. He took his black coat from the coatrack, put it on, then grabbed his hat. “I’ve learned all I need to for now. I’ll be back later to apply.”

Rosamond seemed perturbed. “You might as well not bother. After all, you’re off to a very poor start. You’ve already appeared here intoxicated, discussing your underdrawers! That’s not behavior that’s indicative of my approved members.”

He couldn’t help grinning. He turned to confront Miss Yates. “Miss Yates, do you agree with that assessment?”

That saucy woman whipped her abstracted gaze from the vicinity of his trousers. Caught, she grumpily shoved his open valise at him. Clothing and train tickets bulged from it.

“I agree that you’re suspiciously eager to find a wife,” Miss Yates told him. “You don’t look like the marrying kind.”

“I didn’t feel like the marrying kind until I got here.” Until I found Rose. He offered them both a raise of his eyebrow. “I guess I should thank the little something ‘extra’ in that tea you dosed me with. It’s made me into a whole new man.”

Rosamond’s concerned gaze shifted to Miss Yates. Aha. Then her assistant was the one who knew how to drug a man and search his belongings, all while keeping him curiously complacent.

He’d already suspected what kind of women Rosamond had found herself keeping company with, given the line of business he’d learned Elijah Dancy had been in. Miss Yates’s next words confirmed it. Because only a soiled dove would have known...

“A little laudanum never hurt a man,” she grumbled in her own justification. Accusingly, she pointed at Miles. “I mean, yes, it can render a fella mostly harmless in a hurry. But it sure never made any man I used it on want to start proposing!”

“All right. That’s enough, Miss Yates.” Rosamond smiled at her assistant. Unrepentantly, she regarded Miles. “If you’d like to report our misdeeds, Sheriff Caffey’s jailhouse is right down the street. I think you’ll find yourself an ally in suspecting us of some rather serious wrongdoing in this household.”

Holding his hat, unwilling to leave but knowing he had to, Miles angled his head. “Does that include the children?”

Rosamond lost a fraction of her self-assurance. Clearly, she’d believed he hadn’t noticed the children who’d been playing in the house’s yard. He’d heard them when he observed the place.

Arvid Bouchard would have been very interested in the children—in the possibility of Rosamond having had a child.

Miles was curious about that possibility, too. But not for Bouchard’s sake. For his own sake. For his own future. For hers.

Just like Rosamond, Miles had left their former employer behind. All that bound them now was the sum of money Miles owed.

“It sounds as though they range in age. How old are they?”

“That, sir, is none of your business. I think it’s time you left us.” Briskly, Rosamond stood. “The door is this way.”

Her manner was brusque as she passed him. Her rosy perfume haunted him, though. Again, he felt desperate to touch her.

In the past, he’d touched her, Miles remembered. Casually and only infrequently, but he’d touched her. She’d touched him. Their hands had brushed while exchanging apples for the horses or trading the burden of the coal bin. Once, memorably, Rosamond had brushed a hayseed from his cheek. When she’d done that, Miles had felt something. Something good. He believed Rosamond had, too. That was part of what had driven him here.

Two thousand miles was a long way to go not to touch a woman.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he told her.

“You haven’t upset me.” The new color in her cheeks told him otherwise. So did the firm line of her mouth. “I’m fine.”

“In that case, you won’t mind my calling again tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“To collect all the details of admission to your society.”

“You were serious?”

“About this?” Miles gazed directly at her, putting every ounce of longing he felt into his voice. “I’ve never been more determined to accomplish anything in all my life.”

Their gazes met. For a moment, she seemed as affected by their unacknowledged reunion as he was. She seemed to remember their shared conversations, their shared laughter, their past and their friendship and all the rest. Then, “I think you’ll find this is a more daunting task than you’ve counted on.”

“I live for daunting tasks. And for conquering them.”

“You sound entirely too confident.”

“You must have forgotten exactly how intent a man can be when he’s fixed on getting something he wants.”

“No. I haven’t forgotten that.” Crisply, Rosamond nodded at him. She stepped resolutely away. “Judah will see you out.”

As her guard approached, Miles felt bereft.

“And tomorrow?” he persisted.

“You won’t be back tomorrow.” Rosamond didn’t so much as turn to face him again. Instead, she busied herself collecting the teapot and saucers on a tray. “You’ll decide this is all too much trouble, and you won’t come back. Most people cannot be relied upon, but their base selfishness can be. I know that much for sure.”

“Then you don’t know me.”

At that, Rosamond did scrutinize him. Briefly. “Maybe I don’t. Now that you’re here...maybe I don’t know anyone as well as I thought I did.” She appeared on the verge of elaborating, then did not. Instead, she said, “Good luck to you.”

“Good luck to us both.”

A faint smile. “Now I know you won’t be back.”

“The devil couldn’t keep me away.” Miles aimed a sidelong glance at Miss Yates. “Nor could any of his minions.”

That cheeky woman actually giggled. Despite everything, Miles began to believe he could succeed here, with Rosamond, in her new life.

“We are finished,” Rosamond said firmly. “Please leave.”

Then again, Miles concluded...immediate success might prove to be elusive.

* * *

The door had scarcely closed behind her visitor before Rosamond raced to the window to watch him leave. Bonita was only steps behind her, both of them battling to move the curtains.

As one, they watched him study the small Morrow Creek street upon which her house stood. Then he shouldered his untidy valise and moved confidently in a singular direction.

“He’s headed for Miss Adelaide’s boardinghouse,” Bonita announced, her breath all but fogging the window glass. “That’s odd. With all those greenbacks in his bag, he can afford to stay at the Lorndorff Hotel for a month, at least.”

The stableman Rosamond remembered had not had that kind of money. “Yes, he did have an unusual amount of cash, didn’t he?”

“‘Unusual’? He had a king’s ransom in that bag!” Bonita shook her head. “And that knife he carried, too. Hidden in a holster? That man is up to no good, whatever his name is.”

“I know what his name is.” But I don’t know why he wouldn’t admit it to me. Distractedly, Rosamond watched him stride away, his footsteps sure and his shoulders strong. He moved exactly the way she remembered. Drat it all, he even smelled the way she remembered, with traces of leather and soap clinging to his skin. “I knew it from the moment he took off his hat.”

His long hair and dark beard had stymied her at first. So had the sheer undeniable unlikeliness of them meeting again this way. But once he’d looked squarely at her...

Well, once Miles had done that, she’d known it was him. It had been all she could do not to give herself over right then.

“You did? Then why pretend you didn’t?” Bonita protested, sounding exasperated with her. “If you knew you knew him, why did you ask me to dose him?”

I needed to protect myself. “I needed to know more,” Rosamond hedged. The truth was, the warier Miles had seemed, the warier she’d felt she needed to be. It wasn’t like him to be so evasive. So mysterious. Their mutual caginess had created its own unfortunate momentum. “Starting with why he’s here—”

Bonita interrupted with a snort. “It sure as shootin’ isn’t to get himself married!”

“—and ending with where he got all that money. And why.”

Rosamond had her suspicions, but she couldn’t be sure. For her own sake—for the sake of the women and children depending on her—she’d needed to question him. She hated that she had cause to doubt Miles—to doubt anyone, in fact. She only hoped she wasn’t overestimating her own intuition in this instance.

If Miles Callaway moved on after today, then she’d know he could have been trusted. She’d know he hadn’t come in search of her at Arvid’s or Genevieve Bouchard’s behest. She’d know he’d only come to satisfy his own curiosity about a runaway housemaid, and, having done that, had moved on to more adventures.

But if Miles Callaway did come back to her mutual society tomorrow, if he did continue pursuing her...

Well, that was another situation entirely.

If Miles came back, it wouldn’t be because he wanted her or a wife of his own. Despite his claims to the contrary, Rosamond knew that could not be the case. The man she remembered had been an inveterate bachelor. And while she was a good person, she was not the innocent girl she’d once been. Once Miles realized that, he’d be finished with her. Worse, he’d be appalled at her.

He would see the gaping hole left in her.

He would pity her.

Rosamond didn’t think she could bear that. She couldn’t bear knowing that, in Miles’s eyes, she would no longer be the lively and openhearted girl he remembered. She’d never be that girl again. If Miles knew that, too, it would be doubly real.

On the other hand, before today, she wouldn’t have believed she could bear being in the same room with Miles Callaway and not acknowledging how good it felt to see his smile, to hear his voice, to experience the warmth of his protective nature, one last time. She’d succeeded in that already. So who knew exactly how deep her personal resilience really ran, after all.

Grit and determination had brought her to Morrow Creek. Those same qualities could bring her toe-to-toe with Miles. They could help her win—help her protect herself from...everything.

“He’s very handsome,” Bonita mused. “Very handsome.”

Rosamond agreed. Silently. Her mind was still awhirl with all the potential implications of Miles’s sudden appearance in Morrow Creek. She couldn’t afford to go all swoony over his deep blue eyes, his Adonis-like dark curly hair and his sculpted features. Those transient qualities didn’t matter anyway.

“Very charming, too,” her assistant added leadingly. “Do you know, when the laudanum first hit him, he stared at you for a solid minute with a spoony, love-struck grin on his face? It was as if he’d waited years to see you, when clearly—”

“It’s only been a little more than a single year.” Forcefully, Rosamond dragged herself from her remembrance of Miles’s euphoric expression. “And he was drugged, remember?”

“Drugged in a way that would remove all barriers to the truth,” Bonita argued. Then her mouth dropped open. “A little more than a—then you do know him? Really? From Boston?”

“Home of rivers, bridges and a mother’s love.”

“I thought you only wanted to know about Miles Callaway.”

“He is Miles Callaway.”

“But you said— He said—” Bonita frowned. “I’m confused.”

“So am I. But one way or the other, I won’t be for long.”

“Then you’re ‘his Rose’? The runaway housemaid?” Bonita sounded baffled—and a little bit hurt, as well. “But you’ve never told me any of that. I thought we were friends.”

“We are friends.” Tearing herself away from the parlor window—from fruitlessly wishing Miles Callaway had ambled back into her life with a smile and a laugh and wholesome intentions to help her shoulder her burdens once more—Rosamond sighed. “But there are things no one needs to know about me. Sometimes, I wish I could forget them myself.”

Sympathetically, Bonita came nearer. Wisely, she stopped short of actually consoling Rosamond with a hug.

“Maybe it’s best if he doesn’t come back.”

Rosamond gave a wistful smile. “I feel positive it is.”

I only wish I could stop wanting him to come back anyway.

At least if Miles did return, she’d be ready.

Today, she’d been too taken aback by Miles’s unexpected arrival to react properly—to consider all the potential ramifications and inconveniences of pretending not to be the Rosamond McGrath Miles clearly believed she was.

She’d never been a skilled liar. Probably, she still wasn’t. Especially to someone who’d once known her well.

For a long time, her friend only regarded her. Then, “I guess you must be right.” With forced jollity, Bonita added, “Anyway, you and I—we’ve got each other, don’t we? In the end, that’s all we need. Nothing ever needs to change. Not if we don’t want it to. We’ve made things safe and secure and good.”

“Mmm. We’ve certainly tried.”

Absently, Rosamond smiled at her friend, hoping to reassure Bonita. But on the inside, she couldn’t help wondering...if Arvid Bouchard found her because of Miles Callaway’s visit, would she have anything at all left, for her or Bonita or anyone else?

Her so-called security had been tested and found wanting today. Her haven was no refuge at all. Not when someone like Miles could smash her security to smithereens with scarcely any effort at all. All this time, she’d been fooling herself, Rosamond knew now. She wasn’t safe. Maybe she never would be.

But maybe she could start strengthening her defenses straightaway, she decided as she collected her tea set. That’s exactly what she intended to do. Maybe she hadn’t done it yet, but Rosamond knew she could find some security eventually.

After all, that was all she’d ever wanted.

That and a certain burly, blue-eyed stableman to call her own, of course. It was only too bad she could never claim him...

Chapter Four

The following morning, after a fitful night spent haunted by memories of Miles Callaway—memories that had been hideously interspersed with confusing recollections of Arvid Bouchard in her nightmares—Rosamond made several decisions.

The first was that she would conduct herself intelligently from here on out. The second was that she would protect the people in her household. The third was that she would stay put. No one else was chasing her from her home. Not again. Not ever.

To that end, there could be no more swooning over Miles’s broad shoulders or raspy brogue, Rosamond chastised herself. There could be no more forgetting her own mission in favor of studying Miles’s chiseled cheekbones and assertive nose. There could be no more wishing that she could be different—could be as carefree as she’d been before Arvid Bouchard and his odious demands on her. No matter what it took, Rosamond swore, she would remain calm. Composed. In charge and in control.

There was safety in control. She needed that dearly.

To that end, Rosamond smiled up at her newest potential employee, a man named Dylan Coyle who’d come recommended to her.

“Two years at the lumber mill, you say?” She craned her neck way up to examine his expression for truthfulness and integrity. “Before that, a year with the Pinkertons?” His nod assured her that her information was correct. Nonetheless, Rosamond pushed harder. “What made you leave the agency’s employ?”

“I didn’t like the way they ran things.”

“The way they ran things?”

“With guns. They used guns.” Coyle’s steely gaze locked with hers. “I reckon if a man can’t disable a criminal with his own two hands, he doesn’t deserve to be called a man, does he?”

His hard demeanor both alarmed and reassured her. “I see.”

“Yep. Most folks do, when it comes to me.”

Rather than hurry onward, Rosamond deliberately allowed a long silence to fall between them. When faced with a silence, most people rushed to fill it. All she had to do was wait.

Eventually, Coyle rewarded her patience. The scarcest smile quirked his lips. “Also, about that same time, I met a lady.”

“Hmm.” Pretending not to have seen that telling smile, Rosamond looked down at her clasped hands. She didn’t want to embarrass the man. As a private person herself, she respected others’ privacy, too. It was only right. “Then you’re married?”

“No, ma’am. I’m not married.”

“But you just said—” Rosamond broke off, belatedly catching the hint of heartache in his voice. “Never mind. I have a job, and you have the ability to do that job. Marcus Copeland has vouched for you, and so has Cade Foster. With varied references like those—from a reputable lumber mill owner and a former cardsharp—I’d say you must be an interesting man, Mr. Coyle.”

He gave her a direct look. “With an observation like that in your pocket, you must be a sharp-eyed woman, Mrs. Dancy.”

“Please call me Rosamond. I insist.” She didn’t want to talk about her deep-seated need to be watchful. If he was going to risk his own well-being in her service, he deserved to be on a first-name basis with her. “All my men call me Rosamond.”

“All my friends call me Dylan.”

“Then we’re settled.” Rosamond stood. She felt better already, even before placing Dylan at his post. “Seth and Judah will brief you on your duties. I’m pleased to welcome you.”

Undoubtedly catching her signal that their interview had concluded, Dylan stood, as well. His gaze swerved to her hand.

He plainly expected to find it outstretched for a welcoming handshake. Resolutely, Rosamond kept her position steady.

Dylan’s brown furrowed. His astute gaze lifted.

“I guess a woman who hires three bodyguards has her reasons.” He plucked his hat from the coatrack, then gave her a genial nod. “Thanks for the work, ma’am. You won’t regret it.”

“I trust you’ll make sure I don’t.” Drawing in a breath, Rosamond smiled at him. “I’ll show you where to find Judah.”

She led the way, purposely taking the more impersonal long way around to avoid the house’s living quarters. They passed through the front door, across the side yard, toward the gate.

In her house’s small backyard, several of the children were already at play. Hearing the boys’ chuckles and the girls’ giggles made Rosamond feel more at peace immediately.

She may have given up on having a family of her own, but that didn’t mean she didn’t adore being with “her” temporary children. Along with her friendly “girls” and her own security, they were all she had. She needed to protect and cherish them.

At her side, Dylan went rigid. “Who’s that?” He pointed. “You said there were only two men in this household. We passed Seth at the door and I see Judah right there, so who is—”

In the center of the crowd of children, a tall man rose from his formerly crouched position. He held something in his arms, but Rosamond couldn’t tell what it was. She was too distracted by the realization that not only had Miles Callaway slipped past Seth again—and apparently bewitched Judah, too—but he’d also made a mockery of her Morrow Creek household haven.

This was why she’d needed to hire additional security.

Miles had returned already, bearing...something.

“He’s the thorn in my side,” Rosamond finished for Dylan, briskly unlatching the gate. She couldn’t look away from Miles...couldn’t stop herself from wishing he hadn’t come back. Because his coming back today meant that he couldn’t be trusted. It meant that he wanted something from her—and it probably wasn’t an introduction to a suitable candidate for a wife.

That was what most men in Morrow Creek wanted from her. They’d learned, quickly, not to hope for anything more.

“Do you want me to deal with him?” Dylan kept his voice low, for her ears only. “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t ask first, except—”

“Except Mrs. Dancy looks dumbstruck, as if she’s found her long-lost love?” Miles strode toward them both with masculine bonhomie, obviously having overheard them. He didn’t appear the least bit threatened by Dylan Coyle. Behind him, the children moaned in exaggerated disappointment at Miles’s leave-taking. They tagged along in his wake like the devoted admirers they’d become. “Yes,” Miles finished. “I’ve noticed that look, too.”

His gaze met hers, then held. In it, Rosamond glimpsed all the caring, all the remembrance, all the teasing she’d missed.

Intentionally, she looked away. She knew she was guilty.

She didn’t want him to know that. Because, more than likely, she did look at Miles as if he were her long-lost love. Rosamond heartily wished he had been hers once...or was hers now.

Her Miles. He was here like the answer to all her most heartfelt prayers...and she couldn’t trust him one whit.

“Maybe you’ve had too much ‘tea’ this morning, and that explains that addlepated look of yours?” Miles guessed, his eyes sparkling at her with all the boyish audacity she remembered. “I understand your Miss Yates makes a mean brew.”

Unwaveringly, Rosamond straightened. “If I look—” love-struck “—funny, it’s only because I don’t approve of trespassing. I usually don’t entertain visitors at this hour of the morning.”

Pointedly, Miles looked at Dylan. Her visitor.

“Except if they’re employees,” Rosamond amended.

How did Miles set her akilter so easily? Drat him!

“I see. Well, it turns out that we both had the same idea today.” Miles easily sized up Dylan. He nodded at him in instant affability, then switched his attention back to Rosamond. “You wanted more security, so you hired another ‘protector.’”

Rosamond didn’t like that Miles had guessed her motives so easily. She didn’t want him to know that his presence had shaken her hard-won security so thoroughly. “How do you know Mr. Coyle isn’t a proud member of the Morrow Creek Mutual Society?”

“I doubt the members of your society have arms like tree trunks, belligerent attitudes and a complete disinterest in the alluring way your bustle sways when you walk. Coyle does.”

Rosamond felt her mouth drop open. She didn’t know whether to be impressed by Miles’s accurate assessment of her newest security man or appalled that she cared that Miles apparently did have an interest in what went on with her bustled backside. Otherwise, he couldn’t have made that observation, could he?

Before she could collect herself, Miles went on.

“I wanted you to have more security myself, after I saw how feeble yours was yesterday,” he was saying, “so I went with the most reliable and fearsome protector I could get for you.”

Triumphantly, Miles lifted the thing in his arms.

It wriggled. Then it gave a tiny yip. A puppy.

The children went wild. “We want to play with it again!” Agatha cried out. “Please let us play with it again!”

“Can we name it?” Tommy pleaded. “I have a good name!”

“In a minute, you can play with it again,” Miles assured them all, his voice a rumble of promise and possibility. “And no, Tommy, you can’t. I’m afraid Mrs. Dancy has naming rights on this little rascal.”

Rosamond stared. “You brought me a puppy?”

Miles blinked. “Oh. Is that what this is? I wasn’t sure.”

At his mischievous tone, the children guffawed. Tobe Larkin elbowed Miles in the ribs. They were obviously chums now.

“Aw, come on, Callaway. You knew what it was!” he said.

The bunch of them stared hopefully at Rosamond, awaiting her response. She swallowed hard, wholly unable to muster one.

This was a serious aberration from her typical morning.

If she turned away a puppy, the children would be crestfallen. Miles Callaway was devious, indeed. The only thing more irresistible than one of his smiles was this maneuver.

“She’s not an Irish setter, like you’ve always wanted,” Miles explained into the gap that fell, his voice as intimate as any long-lost friend’s, “but the man I got her from last night promised me she’d be a good guard dog once she grew a little.”

That didn’t help. “An Irish setter? I’ve always wanted—”

An Irish setter. Rosamond broke off, her dreamy, innocent past colliding with her practical, safeguarded present. At one time, she’d thought her future would turn out so differently from this. She’d thought she could be safe and happy.

She’d also thought Miles hadn’t paid much attention to the daydreams she’d shared with him. Evidently, he’d remembered.

She cleared her throat. “I do not need a puppy.”

Miles appeared undaunted. “Everyone needs a puppy.”

Having come closer now, Dylan agreed. He petted the creature’s muzzle with his big, former-Pinkerton-man’s hand. “She’s a beauty, all right. Just look at those paws! Once she grows up, she’s going to be a sizable dog.” Dylan laughed as the critter nuzzled his palm. “Maybe not too fearsome, though.”

“If I wanted a guard dog,” Rosamond went on tightly, hoping to regain control of this situation, “which I don’t, wouldn’t I want a male dog? Male dogs are stronger. More aggressive.”

“The right female can be just as ferocious,” Miles argued.

Rosamond scoffed. “Until a bigger, meaner dog comes along.”

“When it does, that’s when we’ll see how scrappy she is.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Dubiously, Rosamond watched the puppy as it wriggled in Miles’s arms. Its tiny tongue lolled. Its small feet scrabbled for purchase against Miles’s muscular, coat-covered forearm. The puppy yawned, then flopped onto its belly, gazing up at Miles through shiny brown eyes. It was so helpless, so adorable...so trusting. “I don’t think she stands a chance.”

“She stands every chance in the world,” Miles disagreed. “I’m betting on the underdog. All she needs is time and a little help. All those bigger, meaner dogs will be no match for her.”

His meaning-laden tone referred to far more than the puppy and her care. Evidently, now Miles wanted her to believe he was there to help her. The irony of that was too much for Rosamond.

Before she could offer a rebuttal, Agatha piped up.

“He’s right! She just needs you to take care of her!” The girl eagerly pointed at the puppy. Impatiently, she pushed up her wire spectacles. “Just like you take care of all of us.”

Expectantly, they all regarded her, children and men alike. Even Judah had wandered over, arms crossed, to look at the puppy. He grinned, then scratched beneath its fuzzy chin. It was ludicrous to see such an intimidating man brought to his knees by a puppy. After all, it wasn’t even an Irish setter puppy.

“I don’t know how to take care of a puppy,” Rosamond protested, feeling backed into a corner. Judging by Miles’s still-sparkling eyes, he’d known this would happen. “I don’t.”

“You’ll master it eventually,” Tommy chimed. “You will!”

It was her catchphrase: I’ll master this eventually.

Just like that, Rosamond’s fate was sealed.

How could she go against her own oft-repeated motto? The children were counting on her. She had to set a good example.

She straightened. “Fine. The puppy’s name will be Riley.”

Tobe made a face. “That’s a terrible name!”

“No, it’s not.” Miles shook his head, his attention shifting from the puppy. “It means courageous. Valiant warrior.”

Uncomfortably, Rosamond looked away. She’d forgotten that Miles was every bit as Irish as she was. He knew the same folktales and Gaelic wisdom that she did. He’d grown up with them.

“I like the sound of it, that’s all,” she told him.

He didn’t believe an inch of it. “Yes. And I’m here because I like the fragrance of honeysuckle on fence posts.”

Miles’s wry tone almost made her accept that. She’d missed this. She’d missed sharing jokes with him...smiling with him.

She gestured at those aforementioned flowered vines on her fence. “You’ll have to thank Mrs. Jorgensen, Agatha’s mother, then. She’s the one with the green thumb in the household.”

“Mama will love meeting you!” Agatha chimed. “She’s always sayin’ she’s got a soft spot for handsome fellas, and you’re—”

“He’s sadly not staying for long,” Rosamond interrupted. She gave Miles a straightforward look. “Please follow me.”

“Anywhere. Anytime.”

“To my parlor. Right now.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Obligingly, Miles crouched again. He deftly transferred the puppy to Agatha’s waiting arms. Then, while all the children gathered around to take turns petting the tiny tuckered-out critter, he straightened again. “I’m all yours.”

If only. Rosamond nodded. “Right this way.”

Compliantly, Miles headed for the gate she indicated.

Alertly, Dylan stepped up. “I’ll come with you.”

“There’s no need for that, Dylan. You stay here. Judah will fill you in on the way things run around here.”

“The way things run isn’t the same since he showed up,” her other protector pointed out, jutting his chin at Miles.

“Yes, well...I’m about to take care of that,” Rosamond told him crisply. Then she gathered her skirts and went to do precisely that—to take care of Miles Callaway and rid herself of him and all the dangers he presented, once and for all.

* * *

When Rosamond finally swept into her parlor, following in Miles’s wake, and ushered him toward the settee, Miles knew he was in for trouble. All he needed was one look at her lively, determined face to know that Rosamond was in fighting spirits.

He needed a counterattack. Something more effective than a cuddly puppy. With unswerving deliberation, Miles found one.

“I have a confession to make.” Still standing with his hat in his hands, he looked up. “I am Miles Callaway.”

Rosamond’s self-assured expression flickered. Only for a moment, but it did. The same as it had outside with Riley.

He’d known she’d love that puppy. He’d also known she believed he’d forgotten all the girlish dreams and hopes for the future she’d confided in him. But Miles hadn’t forgotten a thing. Not when it came to Rosamond. His memories of her had driven him here. They’d kept him going on trains and on foot.

“I know that probably doesn’t mean a thing to you,” he went on, more disingenuously this time, “since you say you aren’t the Rose he knew, and you didn’t know him—I mean, me—yourself. But I heard how hard it was to get in to see you, so—”

“So you thought you’d lie to me?”

“No. I never lied to you.” Miles thumbed his hat brim, buying thinking time. “Maybe some of what I said was misleading, and for that, I apologize. But this was important to me—”

“Infiltrating my household was ‘important’? Sidestepping my guards and stealing the loyalty of my children was ‘important’?”

“Interesting that you’d say they’re your children.”

Was, Miles wondered, one of them really her child?

It could have happened. Arvid Bouchard believed it had.

For the first time, Rosamond appeared flustered. She flashed Miles an impatient look, then paced across the parlor’s wide pine floorboards. “They’re as much mine as any I would ever have. I love them just the same. And it’s none of your business, besides. My household is my own, to run as I see fit.”

“Of course. You’ve done an admirable job of it, too.”

She stopped, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached for the armchair’s support. She seemed...moved. “Yes. I have!”

Miles grinned. The sprightly housemaid he knew would have sounded exactly that proud of herself for her accomplishments.

“Most people don’t say so, though,” Rosamond went on. “In fact, you’re the only one who has. No one here knows exactly where I started, how far I’ve come—” Her gaze met his, full of tremulous pride, then whisked away as she took up pacing again. Deliberately, she changed the subject. “If you’re Miles Callaway, why didn’t you say so yesterday?”

He’d already explained the difficulty in getting an appointment with her. Now, Miles added, “I can only blame the discombobulating effects of whatever you dosed me with.”

“Hmm.” Undeterred by his teasing, Rosamond surveyed him. She was indomitable, he’d give her that. “If you’re that susceptible to intoxicants, I hope you’ll stay away from the high-stakes faro games in town. You won’t stand a chance against the cardsharps who arrive for the occasional tournaments we host here. Even Jack Murphy’s saloon is full of men who’d as likely pick your pocket as share an ale with you.”

“Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.”

As though evaluating that claim, Rosamond moved her attention southward. Her gaze encompassed his chest and his arms...and the region where another man would have worn a gun belt, too. The innocent housemaid he’d known would not have done that. Miles couldn’t help wondering if she approved of what she glimpsed. Her friend, Miss Yates, certainly had. But before he could discern the same of Rosamond, she turned hastily away.

“You look it. Hale and hearty and strong. Probably this ‘Rose’ of yours would be glad to see you looking so well.”

He hoped she was. He hoped she dreamed of him, the same way he dreamed of her. Last night had been...fitful, to say the least.

“Maybe. I’ve decided to give up on looking for her.”

Rosamond wheeled to face him, her brows arched. “Really?”

Miles shrugged. “Sometimes folks don’t want to be found.”

A nod. “Sometimes they shouldn’t be found.”

“Sometimes a man’s got to know when he’s licked.”

Another nod. She lifted her face to his. “That’s true.”

Had her chin just wobbled? Were those tears in her eyes?

Miles couldn’t hesitate to wonder why his supposed abandonment of his search was affecting Rosamond so strongly. He pushed onward, knowing that he had to brazen out this encounter if he was to have any hope of succeeding. “That’s why I came here today,” he said. “To say goodbye.”

Her mouth dropped open. Her brows knit. “Goodbye?”

“Yes. The puppy—Riley—was a goodbye gift.”

“Oh.”

“I didn’t want to leave you unprotected in my absence.”

“Of course.”

“Also, you seemed as though you could use some uncomplicated affection in your life.”

That revived her. “You don’t know anything about me.”

He remembered everything they’d shared and knew she was lying. “I think we both know that’s not true.”

Their gazes met. Rosamond broke that contact first. In the game of cat and mouse they were playing, she wanted to win.

“You’re suggesting something that’s preposterous. You don’t know the woman I am. It’s better for you if you never do.” Rosamond squared her shoulders, then inhaled. “I asked you here to my parlor to tell you, privately, that you have to leave.”

Her confident tone would have fooled another man.

Miles was different. He took a step closer. “Go ahead, then.” He gestured with his hat. “Tell me I have to leave.”

Rosamond wavered. He’d known she would. “I—”

“Tell me you want me gone, and I’ll leave forever.”

That appeared to stymie her. “If you’re leaving anyway, why did you bother to tell me the truth about who you are?”

Because I wanted you to trust me. But Miles couldn’t say that, so instead he shrugged. “I had to tell you. Just to see what you’d do. It’s a bad habit of mine, being curious.” For so long, he’d been curious about her. “I reckoned that any woman who’s contrary enough to refuse a puppy would have an interesting reaction to a revelation like my name.”

“I see. And have I satisfied your expectations?”

Not in the least. He still wanted to see her smile again, to hear her laugh, to know that she wanted him there simply because she wanted him, not because he’d maneuvered her into doing it. But since beggars couldn’t be choosers...

“Partly. My expectations are partly satisfied,” Miles conceded. “I guess we’ll never know what could have been.”

She was audacious enough to agree. “I guess we won’t.”

Against all reason, he admired Rosamond for her spirit. It turned out that she possessed even more resilience than anyone had credited her with. Given the conditions they’d put up with at the Bouchard household, that was saying a great deal.

“Take care, Mrs. Dancy.” He put on his hat, then headed for the door. “I’m sorry I can’t stay. I would have liked to have joined your society—to have courted one very special woman.”

He meant her, of course. Rosamond divined as much and appeared flummoxed by it. Typically, she recovered quickly.

“If you mean me, I’m not a part of my mutual society,” she informed him, turning toward the mantel. “I don’t participate. And you’re in no position to evaluate such a thing anyway.”

“Too late. I believe I just did.”

“And I’ll be the one to say when you should leave.”

He laughed. “Now, that’s where you’re wrong. I’m no woman’s patsy, Mrs. Dancy. Not even yours.”

She frowned. “I wish you’d quit calling me that.”

“Mrs. Dancy? It’s your name.” Now.

“I thought you wanted to apply for membership in my mutual society.” She gave him a clear-sighted look. “You said so.”

“At this point, I might need convincing.”

“No one needs convincing to join my mutual society.”

He waited, clearly indicating otherwise.

He won. Rosamond rushed in to fill the space between them.

“It’s a very reputable organization, where like-minded men and women can meet and converse under sociable circumstances. We engage in poetry readings, nonwagering card games, and dances and fetes of all kinds. All the members are properly vetted, ultimately by me, but also by my staff. My members possess good characters and fine hearts. They’re capable of providing a reasonable living and a secure home for each other.”

“Do the men in Morrow Creek know your ‘girls’ are former prostitutes?” Miles inquired. “Because it would be only fair.”

Rosamond seemed surprised he’d guessed the truth. But only for an instant. “My friends’ pasts are their own concerns,” she told him, rallying to their defense without hesitation. “As far as anyone needs to know, they are upstanding women.”

“Some with fatherless children to raise. Is that a bonus for your members? I’d imagine some might not see it that way.”

Her eyes flashed at him. “There are many fatherless children in the West. I was a fatherless child after my parents’ passing. If you are concerned about being saddled with an urchin that’s not your own, then you should definitely not—”

“You’ve misunderstood me,” he broke in, delivering her an assessing look. When had his Rosamond become so cynical? “I like children. I think you saw that yourself this morning.”

In fact, he’d loved those little rapscallions. Being around them had reminded Miles of being in his own rollicking household in the tenements, with his beleaguered but loving mother trying to hang laundry, cook corned beef and change the diapers of his younger siblings all in quick succession. Mary Callaway had managed admirably.

At times, Miles had helped her care for the littler children. In a busy household with a strong woman at its head, everyone pulled their weight. Even his rascally father had done his share of bathing and storytelling and spoon-feeding porridge.

Unexpectedly, Rosamond gave a heartfelt smile. “Yes, they did seem to love you out there in the yard, didn’t they?”

Her smile almost undid all of Miles’s good intentions. Almost. He needed to be smart. He needed to be tough. He needed to be resolute. But when faced with Rosamond’s sunny smile...

All he wanted to do was be beside her. Forever.

Nevertheless... “But you can count me out, all the same, Mrs. Dancy. I’ve decided that people who hesitate over caring for puppies cannot be trusted. So I’m rejecting your society.”

She gawked at him, obviously at a loss for words.

“Perhaps we’ll see each other in town someday,” Miles went on with a tip of his hat. “Goodbye, Mrs. Dancy. And good luck.”

Then, with a few thuds of his boot heels, he left the woman of his dreams behind—and, in the process, took the biggest gamble of his life so far.

Chapter Five

Rosamond was just finishing her third cup of strong coffee when Judah Foster strode into her breakfast room with his hat in his hands. Surprised by his swift arrival—since she’d only just sent him on his latest errand twenty minutes earlier—Rosamond clattered her coffee cup into its saucer.

“That was fast,” she said. “Did you run all the way?”

She glanced past her security man with an instant smile on her face, half expecting to find Miles Callaway standing there, all tall and handsome and confounding. She’d sent Judah to fetch him—or, failing that, to deliver a note to him—but it wasn’t beyond reason that Miles might impulsively decide to come for breakfast instead of simply answering her summons later.

After all, Miles had done several unexpected things so far, Rosamond mused—including arriving at her doorstep in the first place. His pretending not to be Miles Callaway—not to know her—had roused her suspicions. But when he’d told her his name two days ago, his unexpected truthfulness had gone a long way toward disarming her defenses.

So had his telling her he was giving up on his search for “his Rose.” It was significant that she’d nearly burst into tears upon hearing the news, Rosamond knew. She’d realized then that she didn’t want to lose Miles so soon after seeing him again.

She wanted to trust him. She couldn’t possibly trust him.

But if Miles wasn’t in town at Arvid Bouchard’s behest...

Well, if he wasn’t, that changed things completely.

Rosamond so wanted to be herself with Miles—to be with Miles. It had been one thing to remain aloof when they’d both been pretending not to know one another. It had been another after he’d come clean.

If Miles was going to be honest...maybe so could she.

First, she needed to see him again. That was proving to be more difficult than she’d planned. But Rosamond was nothing if not confident in her capacity for rising above difficulties.

Almost from the moment Arvid Bouchard had cast his first lecherous glance her way, that was all she’d been doing.

“I’ve never known you to move so fast, Judah,” she joked, spying no tall, dark-haired, bearded subject of her dreams in the doorway but holding out hope for a miracle nonetheless. She returned her gaze to the young man in her employ. “When your brother, Cade, recommended you for this job, he should have mentioned you could put a jackrabbit’s pace to the test. He seemed to believe that your previous leg injury would hinder you, but that’s clearly not the case, is it?”

Her lighthearted tone didn’t budge the frown from her security man’s face. Instead, Judah studied his hat brim.

It became clear that Miles was not waiting in the wings.

“I couldn’t find Callaway,” Judah confessed. “He wasn’t at the boardinghouse. Miss Adelaide said he left all his kit in his room last night and didn’t come back.”

Hmm. It was unlikely Miles would have left behind all the cash that Bonita had found in his bag. Also, Rosamond couldn’t help feeling it was unlikely Miles would have left her. Not after they’d just found one another. Not after all this time.

No matter that Rosamond had done exactly the same thing to him. She’d abandoned Miles back in Boston, too distraught to consider the consequences.

All she’d wanted was to find safety somewhere. Endangering Miles and his reputation hadn’t factored in. That’s what would have happened if she’d turned to him for help. She would have destroyed Miles’s future as well as her own.

“You should have waited,” she told Judah. “It’s scarcely past dawn. He might have simply gone for a walk, that’s all.”

“A man who stays out all night isn’t generally in a hurry to get back home again.” Judah twisted his hat brim, sounding discontented. “A man who stays out all night isn’t generally too fond of fresh air, either. I bet he’s pulled foot.”

“You think Mr. Callaway has left town?” Rosamond dismissed the notion instantly. Maybe because she didn’t want it to be true. “No, he can’t be gone already. He just got here.”

“Maybe he knew he couldn’t get what he came for.”

“Which was...?”

“Well, not to put too fine a point on it...” Judah scowled at her wainscoting, obviously not wanting to say. “You.”

“Pshaw. He wouldn’t even join my mutual society.” That still irked her. No man had yet refused a direct invitation.

“He wouldn’t? He turned down your marriage bureau?” Judah gawked at her, then smacked his hat-holding hand upside his head. “There goes five dollars I’d rather have kept to myself.”

“Five dollars?”

“Seth told me Callaway turned down a membership to your marriage bureau. I bet him five dollars he was dead wrong.”

Rosamond felt touched by Judah’s faith in her and her society’s supposed irresistibility. Also, troubled by Seth’s apparent eavesdropping. She’d have to look into that. In the meantime... “Yes. Mr. Callaway did express a...reluctance to apply.”

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