Praise for Cheryl St John

THE LAWMAN’S BRIDE

‘As always, St John portrays the West realistically and romantically.’

—RT Book Reviews

HIS SECONDHAND WIFE

‘A beautifully crafted and involving story about the transforming power of love.’

—RT Book Reviews

PRAIRIE WIFE

‘This is a very special book, courageously executed by the author and her publisher.

St John explores the catastrophic loss of a toddler in intimate, painfully beautiful detail. Her considerable skill brings the common theme of the romance novel—love conquers all—to the level of genuine catharsis.’

—RT Book Reviews

SWEET ANNIE

‘A tale brimming with love…Ms St John delivers another wonderful Western historical romance…’

—Romance Reviews Today

THE DOCTOR’S WIFE

‘Cheryl St John gives testimony to the blessings of family and to the healing powers of love.’

—RT Book Reviews

Sophie wanted to change.

But how could she change now? How could she tell him the truth regarding anything without condemning herself to prison? She couldn’t. Not yet.

An uncharacteristic sense of hopelessness swept over her. She blinked back the sting of tears.

But he’d seen. “Sophie? What is it? What makes you so sad?”

She shook her head.

Clay remained seated, but took her hand and raised it to his lips. His warm breath and a soft kiss sent a tingle up her arm, and her breasts tightened unexpectedly.

A good man. An honest, straightforward man. He was as different from her as the moon was from the sun. And thinking of the two of them together was hopeless.

But she was weaker than she’d ever imagined.

Kiss me, she cried silently. Kiss me and let me feel the beauty just for this one night.

The Lawman’s Bride
Cheryl St John

www.millsandboon.co.uk

A peacemaker, a romantic, an idealist and a discouraged perfectionist are the words that CHERYL ST JOHN uses to describe herself. The award-winning author of both historical and contemporary novels says she’s been told that she is painfully honest.

Cheryl admits to being an avid collector, displaying everything from dolls to Depression glass, as well as white ironstone, teapots, cups and saucers, old photographs and—most especially—books. When not doing a home improvement project, she and her husband love to browse antiques shops. In her spare time she’s an amateur photographer and a pretty good baker.

She says that knowing her stories bring hope and pleasure to readers is one of the best parts of being a writer. The other wonderful part is being able to set her own schedule and have time to work around her growing family.

Cheryl loves to hear from readers! E-mail her at: SaintJohn@aol.com

Recent novels by the same author:

SWEET ANNIE

JOE’S WIFE

THE DOCTOR’S WIFE

SAINT OR SINNER

THE MISTAKEN WIDOW

THE TENDERFOOT BRIDE

ALMOST A BRIDE (in Wed Under Western Skies)

PRAIRIE WIFE

CHRISTMAS DAY FAMILY (in A Western Winter Wonderland)

HIS SECONDHAND WIFE

A BABY BLUE CHRISTMAS (in The Magic of Christmas)

This book is dedicated to my readers.

Your letters and emails brighten my days and encourage me. Your pictures are posted around my workspace to remind me why I do what I do. When you tell me you’ve read every one of my books, I’m honoured. When you say they’re on your keeper shelves, I’m delighted. When you share how a story touched you or helped you heal, I’m humbled. Whether we’ve met in person, blogged together, or live on different continents and will never exchange a word, consider yourself deeply appreciated.

You are special to me.

Prologue

Morgantown, West Virginia, 1878

Dense clouds parted to reveal a slice of silver moon in the narrow gap of sky above the dark alley where the fourteen-year-old girl crouched beside a stack of crates. She wasn’t afraid. No, there were plenty of things more terrifying than night. Darkness was a friend tonight, cloaking her in its haven of invisibility.

Adjusting her grip on the handle of her traveling bag, she glanced around and listened intently, making certain no one followed.

In the distance a train whistle blew, and her heart swelled at the promising sound. If she could make it to the station, she’d buy a ticket and be gone. It didn’t matter where the train was heading. Freedom was an elusive place she could only imagine.

A pattering erupted as fat drops of rain struck the rooftops of the buildings on either side of the alley, pinging against every piece of metal and wood. Enough sound to muffle her steps, she thought with a surge of hope.

She straightened and took a step. A yelp startled her and she brought her free hand to her mouth to stifle a cry. The dog she’d surprised sniffed her feet then moved on. She took a deep breath, relaxed her muscles, and her racing heart calmed.

Determined, she grasped her bag and strode to the front corner of the building. Across the street in the yellow circle from a street lamp, she made out the word LUNCHEON painted in gold letters on an expanse of window glass and knew exactly how many buildings she needed to pass to move into the opposite alley. From there she could make her way to the edge of town. She stepped forward.

“Awfully late for a stroll, isn’t it?”

Her heart dropped to her toes at the familiar voice. The black-shadowed figure of a man loomed out of the darkness. He moved in close, blocking her view of the street, thwarting her escape.

“Not the fairest of weather, either.”

Around them stinging raindrops drummed on cans and crates. The pervading smell of dampened earth was strong. She couldn’t breathe. Captivity did that to a person. Stole their ability to fill their lungs.

“You don’t know what kind of trouble awaits you on the streets at night, Ogaleesha. There are far worse fates than your easy life.”

Using the name given by her Sioux captors, Tek Garrett cunningly reminded her where she’d come from. She felt the hope that had buoyed her moments ago sink like a stone to the bottom of a river.

“I’ve ordered tea brought to my room. Doesn’t that sound good? You’ll be dry and warm in no time.”

Her hand ached from gripping the handle of her bag with such intensity. What if she ran back the way she’d come? He would catch her and her situation would only worsen.

Garrett reached to take the bag from her, his fingers touching hers in an unspoken command until she gave up and relinquished her hold.

“Come, Gabriella. Let’s get you inside before you catch a chill.”

Thoughtful words. Caring, almost. She recognized the subtle threat all the same. The annoyance emanating from his lean body screamed a warning. The way he turned and gestured for her to move along the boardwalk ahead of him left no room for choice.

Her legs felt wooden as she forced her feet to place one step in front of another and set a determined course for the hotel.

“Few young women enjoy privileges equal to yours,” Garrett told her as they reached the building. He opened the door for her to walk into the foyer ahead of him. “You’ve had excellent tutors,” he continued, nodding at the counter attendant they passed on their way to the stairs. “You’ll be one of the most highly educated young women in the country. You own fashionable clothing and lovely slippers. I dare say you have hair ribbons and jewelry to match every ensemble. Wouldn’t you agree?”

They reached the second-floor landing, and she dared a look at the lobby below, saying a silent goodbye to her last hope of freedom.

“Your speech is cultured and flawless. Quite different from when you first came to me.”

She hadn’t come to him. He’d bought her from a band of Sioux.

“You barely spoke English, as I recall.”

During six years as a captive, she’d had little opportunity to speak her own language.

“I confess I’m hurt,” he said, pausing in the hall outside their adjoining rooms. Moisture glistened on the shoulders of his fine black coat. “All I’ve done for you, and this is how you repay me?”

She studied a smear on the wallpaper to avoid meeting the chastisement in his eyes.

“I’ve been so patient.” Those words came out as a thoughtful sigh. “Quite considerate really.”

Turning, he fitted a brass key into the lock and guided her into his room. For the past two years they had traveled as father and daughter. He claimed the ruse was so that no questions would arise, but his true strategy was to keep her under his careful watch. Her door to the hall was always kept locked, and he held the only key.

“Perhaps you need more attention. A bit more of an investment in our arrangement.”

Garrett set down her bag and shed his coat to reveal the same vest and pressed white shirt he’d been wearing earlier in the evening. He was twice her age but fit and dapper with razor-sharp cheekbones and an elegant square forehead. His hair couldn’t be called fair or blond because of its dark undertones.

Reluctantly, she removed her damp shawl and hung it on the hook on the back of the door.

He bent to open her carpetbag and dumped its contents on the floral carpet. Two of her simplest dresses spilled out, followed by a book, a length of beads and a strand of pearls.

Holding the pearls in his palm, he straightened, studied them for a moment, finally closing his long fingers over the necklace.

“You wouldn’t have gotten far with such a meager stash,” he told her. “Not a wise decision.” He leaned toward her to clasp the pearls around her neck, speaking against her ear as he did so. “Not wise at all. I haven’t taught you everything yet. There is more…much, much more.”

Another stone joined the first in that riverbed of hopelessness. He reached to her throat to unbutton her collar, then unfastened the row of buttons until he reached the waistband of her skirt.

Her heart thumped in her chest, but she held her anxiety in check, her expression revealing nothing of what she felt. Show people what they want to see. He’d taught her well. She conveyed regret and submission with her downturned eyes.

Garrett slid the shirtwaist down her arms, skimming his fingertips against her bare skin. “If not for me, you would be some man’s squaw,” he told her. “You would be cooking scrawny rabbits over a fire and suckling a squalling brat. If I hadn’t fostered you, you’d be living with a mangy trapper who beat you over every small offense.”

Garrett turned her around and unfastened her skirt, pushing the fabric to the ground in a silken swish of petticoats. “You should be grateful you’ve been spared all that. Grateful you’re not down on Tucker Street, selling yourself to every drunk who comes through the doors with two bits.”

She closed her eyes, fearing what he said was true. Anything was better than the things he described. She owed him for sparing her that kind of life. He’d always provided well and he was polite. He’d taught her the craft he considered an art, rewarding her when she learned and excelled.

“Plenty of other young women would be delighted to exchange places with you this very minute, Gabriella.”

Even though she was a mere possession, Garrett was clever and handsome, well-mannered and clean. She could be a lot worse off.

Her life had been spared long ago, but spared for what? She’d gone from being a child to being a possession. The lessons she’d learned at the hands of the Sioux were as much a part of her as her dark hair and white skin, most importantly: show no fear.

She opened her eyes and met Garrett’s, watched as he turned back the coverlet on his bed and beckoned her forward.

Yes. Her life could be a lot worse.

Chapter One

Newton, Kansas, 1887

What’s a girl like me doing in a place like this?

She glanced into open doorways as she strolled down the second story hallway of the dormitory housing the young women who worked in Fred Harvey’s elegant Arcade Hotel and restaurant.

Each from good families, the young ladies were of irreproachable character and had provided references and letters of recommendation to acquire their positions in the lavish hotel and esteemed restaurant. The irony of her presence here amused her.

Emma Spearman exited her room, closing the door behind her with a soft click. “Good morning, Sophie. Did you sleep well?”

“Very well, thank you. And you?” she replied.

Emma’s bright smile revealed her pleasure. “I used to sleep in a lumpy bed with two sisters who tossed all night and stole the covers. My three noisy brothers were in a loft overhead. My nights here are heaven, thank you.” She tucked her arm through Sophie’s and said in a conspiratorial tone, “I will never admit this to a one of them, but I do sometimes miss my siblings. I’m taking the train home for a visit the first of next week.”

Sophie smiled. A bed with two sisters and those noisy brothers overhead sounded like heaven to her.

“What about you?” Emma asked. “You haven’t seen your family since you’ve been here, have you?”

So what was Sophie doing working and sleeping among people of good character? Well, she’d lied. Fabricated a background, established her own requirements and met her own standards. People wanted to believe her, so they did. She was attractive, well-educated, dressed smartly and spoke in a cultured manner. Her contrived references had been believable.

She was Sophie Hollis now, daughter of a Pennsylvania farmer, come to Kansas to broaden her perspective and earn money to tuck away.

“I’ll be traveling east very soon,” she thought up on the spot. “My father is remarrying, so I’ll be attending the wedding.”

“How exciting,” Emma said. “A wedding!”

“Who’s getting married?” Sophie’s roommate Amanda Pettyjohn caught up with them, her pretty blond curls bouncing against her neck, her fawn-colored eyes sparkling.

Maybe she shouldn’t have gone that far, Sophie thought belatedly. Mentioning marriage in this place was like dangling a juicy bone above a hungry dog’s head. Everyone knew the young women working here were eager for husbands, but two years of service was required before a Harvey girl could resign her position. Each of them had signed a contract.

“Sophie’s father,” Emma told her.

“You didn’t tell me.” Amanda’s tone revealed injury.

Sophie wasn’t used to transparent displays of emotion. “I only got the telegram last evening. I didn’t say anything, because I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.”

“Well, of course, you didn’t. Your own dear mother could never be replaced.” Amanda patted her arm as they reached the back stairs and started down. “I was devastated when my father remarried. At least you’re grown and don’t have to endure living in the shadow of step-siblings. Has your father known his new fiancée long?”

Sophie was in the process of inventing a reply when she was spared.

“There’s a train within the hour,” the starched and puffed head waitress of the dining room announced from the bottom of the stairs. “It’s going to be a hot day, so you’ll want your heavy chores completed early.” The Harvey House employees called Mrs. Winters the trail boss for good reason.

“Yes, ma’am,” Emma and Amanda chorused.

Mrs. Winters pointed an accusing finger at Sophie. “One more infraction by you, young lady, and you can pack your bags.”

Sophie listened to the continuation of the tirade she’d endured at least once a day for the past month. Her kitchen and dining room skills were improving, for goodness sake. This was her first attempt at domestic chores after all, no matter what her references said.

The woman inspected each of them with a critical eye. “Your morning duties are listed on the blackboard, ladies. Do them promptly. If the heat causes your clothing to become damp, change immediately. We must be prepared in case Mr. Harvey makes one of his sudden unannounced visits.”

She turned and marched away.

Sophie watched her lumber into the dining hall. “Sudden unannounced visit sounds so much better than sneaky inspection.”

“Did she refer to sweat?” Emma asked, mischievously covering her lips as though she’d said a curse word.

“Surely she knows Harvey Girls simply glow,” Amanda added.

“Whatever did you do to make her take such a dislike to you?” Emma asked.

Sophie shrugged.

“Every man who comes in does a double take when he sees Sophie,” Amanda told her. “Maybe the trail boss is jealous.”

The three of them shared a giggle and, joined by coworkers, hurried to their morning tasks.

Clay Connor crossed his ankles and leaned back in his chair, the Newton Kansan and a cup of steaming coffee his only concerns in the world. Or so it should seem to the other occupants of the hotel dining room. On his left, an elderly mother and her son discussed the details of disposing of their husband and father’s clothing and personal items. The son kept bringing the subject around to a land deed.

On his right, three merchants from Florence had several catalogs open and were bemoaning the fact that Montgomery Ward could offer items at a lower price than they could.

Straight ahead at the lunch counter, a slender fellow in a worn serge jacket folded his napkin and prepared to leave without paying for his dinner. The manager had sent for Clay when he’d first seen the man who met the description of someone who’d pulled the same stunt at another Harvey House in Wichita.

Without turning his head, Clay glanced out the window and confirmed that Owen Sanders, one of his deputies, was still out front on the loading platform. With the dining hall and lunch counter filled with Sante Fe passengers eager to return to their train cars and continue their journeys, a low-key arrest was imperative. Even though he didn’t see a gun on the man, Clay wouldn’t take chances with the well-being of innocent bystanders.

The patron under the marshal’s scrutiny had seen the upside of forty. His clothing and shoes were well-cut and of fine material, but on the verge of shabby. With impeccable manners he finished his meal—breaded veal and vegetables, cheesecake and coffee—neatly folded the white linen napkin, and fished in his pocket as though searching for a tip.

The man waited until all the waitresses were occupied and the manager was out of sight before grabbing his hat and heading for the door.

Clay folded his newspaper, then nonchalantly rose to his feet and followed.

The fellow, settling a bowler on his head, was hellbent on making a beeline for the deserted passenger car. As his foot hit the first step, a pair of boots appeared on the metal platform above, and he looked up into the barrel of Deputy Sanders’s Colt. As if to escape, he turned, but came up short against Clay’s .45. Eyes as wide as silver dollars, he raised his lily-white hands above his head.

“What’s your name?” Clay asked.

He didn’t meet Clay’s eyes, but glanced around with a feigned expression of bewilderment. “Er—gentlemen, is there a problem?”

“Problem is you forgot to pay for your meal back there.”

“Oh! Oh, my.” He started to lower one hand.

“Keep ‘em in the air,” Clay demanded.

His hand shot back above his head. “How careless of me. Uh. Let me just run back in and take care of my bill.”

“Too late for that.”

“But—”

“You just forget to pay for your breakfast in Wichita, too?”

“Well, I—I, uh—”

“What’s your name, I asked.”

“Willard. Willard DeWeise.”

“Well, Willard Willard DeWeise, you’ll be gettin’ three squares a day in my jail until you have a hearing. Won’t have to pay for those meals, either.”

“You see, Marshal, I’m a bit down on my luck right now. I kept the tickets and I fully intended to repay the hotel when I could.”

“Oh, you’ll repay them. And you’ll do your time. Never knew a man down on his luck who couldn’t earn a meal along the Santa Fe. Got a bag in there?” Clay jerked his head toward the railroad car.

DeWeise nodded.

“Throw it out here.”

Owen accompanied DeWeise into the car. Seconds later, the two of them descended the metal stairs and DeWeise dropped a scuffed leather satchel on the loading platform. Clay gestured for Owen to open it, and the deputy searched the contents. Shaving gear, a wrinkled but clean shirt, socks, and a packet of letters were its only contents.

Clay ordered DeWeise to place his hands behind his back and clamped handcuffs around his wrists. “Lock ‘im up. I’ll go talk to the manager.”

Owen prodded his prisoner toward Oak Street.

Clay headed into the hotel.

Harrison Webb had followed Clay’s movements and watched the interaction from a front window. Now he gestured for Clay to follow him back to his office.

“He didn’t seem dangerous,” Clay told him. “Small-time thief from the looks of ‘im. He’ll get a hearing, and the Wichita manager will have a chance to say his piece.”

“We have to press charges,” Harrison said.

“Rightly so,” Clay agreed.

“Your coffee’s on the house,” the manager said, extending a hand. “Supper too, if you want to come back later.”

Clay shook his hand. “I’ll do that.”

He exited the man’s office just in time to collide with a young woman on her way through the pantry area.

The stack of plates she’d been carrying slid sideways, and Clay made an ineffective lunge to keep them from falling.

A mountain of white china struck the floor with an ear-splitting clatter, shards flying in every direction.

The lovely dark-haired waitress with whom he’d collided gaped at the pile of debris. “Shit, shit, shit,” she sputtered.

The exclamation from such a sweet-looking young lady was a surprise that made him want to laugh. Instead, he pursed his lips and composed his expression.

Her shocked expression raised and her round dark gaze locked on Clay, then dropped to the silver star pinned to his shirtfront. Her attention slid to the .45 holstered at his hip.

The shrill whistle of the departing train seemed to jolt her into action, and she knelt to pick up pieces of china.

“Careful,” he said, kneeling quickly and covering her hand to stop her. “You’ll cut yourself.”

She stared at his hand on hers, and his gaze followed, seeing his dark-skinned fingers over her smaller pale ones. She drew away as though he’d bitten her.

“This does it, Miss Hollis.” A woman’s harsh voice caught Clay’s attention, and he straightened. The barrel-shaped kitchen manager glared at the young woman at his feet. “You had your last warning. This is the end of the line for you.”

Miss Hollis stood and brushed her hands together, raising her chin and meeting the stern woman’s accusatory glower straight on. For a woman so young and pretty, she sure had grit.

Sophie stared back at the woman who had it in for her. She held no hard feelings for Mrs. Winters. The woman’s position was at stake, and she’d given Sophie more chances than she should have. In most cases, the first mistake was a Harvey Girl’s last.

The room she shared with Amanda wasn’t the fanciest, but it had been adequate. Not only were three meals a day provided, but they were prepared by a gourmet chef. Looked like she would miss her favorite dessert tonight, that heavenly rich chestnut pudding made with cinnamon and red wine.

She wasn’t afraid, just angry at herself for not being able to carry out her plan. She would have to move on and utilize a back up strategy. Luckless shame. She really liked it here. “I’ll clean this up and then pack my things,” she told Mrs. Winters. “I’ll get a broom.”

“Now wait a minute.” The marshal had a voice pitched so low that a person felt its vibrations through the floorboards.

She and Mrs. Winters gave him their surprised attention.

“This wasn’t the lady’s fault.” He gestured over his shoulder with a thumb. “I barreled out o’ Mr. Webb’s office right into her. She didn’t see me comin’ or have time to move.”

When it looked as though Sophie wouldn’t be sent packing after all, Mrs. Winters’s expression revealed disappointment.

“I’ll pay for the damages,” the marshal went on. “It would be my fault if she was to lose her job because o’ my two left feet.”

Harrison Webb was now standing beside the marshal, staring at the mess on the highly polished wooden floor. “If Marshal Connor says so, it’s a fact,” he told Mrs. Winters. “This man’s the law.”

“Very well,” Mrs. Winters said. “Just clean it up. There is another train arriving shortly.”

“You will not pay for the damages, Marshal,” Mr. Webb declared. “As you said it was an accident.”

Sophie hurried to the back room for a broom, a dustpan, and a paper-lined crate. The sooner she got this mess removed, the sooner the incident would be forgotten. Just her luck for something like this to happen when Mrs. Winters was aching for her to make a mistake. Maybe she would use her three-day pass and travel while the dust settled. She’d already invented the story, she might as well follow through.

The marshal was waiting for her when she returned. She drew up short at the sight of him.

He reached for the dustpan. “You sweep. I’ll dump.”

She didn’t let go. “You don’t have to help.”

“My fault.” He tugged.

She held fast. “Not really. I was in too big of a hurry.”

The man propped a hand on his hip and squinted down at her. “You arguin’ with a lawman?”

His eyes were blue. A blue made softer and brighter by the color of the chambray shirt he wore. That silver star gleamed in a beam of light filtering in from the dining hall.

It was the August heat that stuck the high white collar of her starched black shirt to her neck and sent beads of perspiration trickling down her temple. She wasn’t given to fits of nerves or emotion, but this was definitely more than a glow.

She handed him the dustpan.

Beneath the stiff white apron and black skirt that made up her plain uniform, her damp skin prickled. She was definitely going to have to change before she served customers. She knelt and picked up the largest pieces of china and piled them in the crate.

Marshal Connor hunkered down to gather a share of debris. The bay rum he’d used after shaving that morning was a familiar scent. She’d detected it on several occasions while serving him at the lunch counter. She’d always tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible.

A waitress stepped around them on her way to the dining hall, craning her neck to watch. Sophie gave her a glare, and she hurried on.

The man beside her hadn’t noticed the interaction. Sophie’s sideways glance found a closely shaven dark square jaw, ebony brows and lashes. The hair that fell over his collar was the rich deep color of strong coffee. Perspiration rolled along her spine. Running headlong into the marshal certainly hadn’t fallen into her plans for not attracting attention to herself. He glanced up and caught her perusal.

“Clay Connor,” he said with a nod.

“I know. Sophie Hollis,” she replied.

His blue gaze traveled across her face and hair before he turned back to his task.

They finished cleaning up, and Clay picked up the crate. “Where to?”

She wasn’t about to tell him the waitresses’ most well-kept secret. All accidentally broken china was smuggled from apron pockets to outhouse to keep the damages from being deducted from their paychecks.

“There’s a rubbish bin out back.”

She led him through the sweltering kitchen to the rear door. The dry Kansas wind plastered tendrils of hair to her damp cheek, but the air felt better than the confinement of the building. She pointed out the bin.

A piercing whistle rent the summer day, preceding the arrival of the one-twenty. She glanced at the watch she wore on a chain around her neck. Orders for forty-seven had been wired ahead and she had to be at her station in a clean crisp uniform when they arrived. “I have to go,” she told him.

He dumped the crate and set it on the ground with a nod. “Sorry for the mess.”

She shook her head. She had to say something. “Thank you. For helping me.”

“Least I could do.”

Gathering her hem, she ran for the back entrance, pumped a pitcher of water, and flew up the stairs to her room. After peeling off her damp clothing, she washed with a cool cloth and dusted herself with lilac talcum powder.

She was Sophie Hollis, and no one had reason to think differently. Boldness and confidence were convincing. You are who people want to believe you are.

A disturbing thought nicked her self-assuredness. Before today she’d remained inconspicuous, just one of the girls. Now the city marshal had taken notice of her. Had a good clean look. A good enough look to remember her. Good enough to recognize her face on a wanted poster.

Chapter Two

The marshal returned for supper. He was at one of Emma’s tables, but Sophie spotted him the moment she carried a dinner tray from the kitchen. No worry. She had this role down perfectly. She knew her strengths, and being convincing was one of them.

The plate fiasco had been the highlight of conversation around the dining hall that afternoon. Sophie was weary of the looks and questions. These girls lived for a whiff of excitement, she told herself, refusing to become irritated.

“He’s having the flank steak, sautéed mushrooms and a roasting ear, with cheesecake for dessert,” Emma whispered from behind her as Sophie filled two cups from the gigantic silver coffee urn.

“I didn’t ask,” she whispered back. She hadn’t had her own dinner yet, and she got a little testy when she was hungry.

“He’s partial to that cheesecake,” Olivia Larson said on her way by.

“I don’t care.” She looked over her shoulder to find the two females grinning at each other. “Very well, enjoy yourselves at my expense,” she said lightheartedly.

After placing the filled cups on a tray, she carried them to her customers, two cattle ranchers who’d just had the filet mignon cooked in brandy.

Try as she might, she couldn’t keep her gaze from drifting across the room to the marshal. He sat at a corner table where he could watch both the door to the street and what was happening outside the front windows.

He met her gaze and offered a nod.

Sophie quickly turned back to her table. “Are you gentlemen ready for dessert?” she asked.

“I am a man who appreciates sweets,” the older of the two men replied with a wink.

“I’ll have the applesauce cake,” the other answered.

“And you, sir?” she asked the first gentleman.

“What’s your favorite?” he asked.

“I’m partial to the chestnut pudding.”

“Then that’s what I’ll have,” he decided.

“I’ll be right back.” She carried the tray to the kitchen and asked for their desserts.

When she returned and set plates in front of them, her newfound admirer asked, “Do you like the opera, miss?”

“I do.”

“Will you join me this Saturday evening?”

“I’m afraid I have to work the dinner shift,” she replied easily. “It’s kind of you to ask, however.”

“Perhaps the following week.”

She refilled their coffee cups. Enough girls had been hired after her that she never had to work Saturday evenings unless she volunteered. “I’ll have to see whether or not I’m on the schedule to work next Saturday evening.”

As though encouraged, he smiled and picked up his fork.

She hadn’t meant to encourage him. She wasn’t interested in what he had to offer. All she wanted was to be in control of her own destiny, and being bound to a man wasn’t part of that plan.

She attended to her other patrons and eventually returned to the coffee urns.

“What did he say to you?” Emma whispered.

Sophie glanced at the marshal who was finishing his cheesecake and a cup of coffee. “Who?”

“Charles Barlow. They say he’s the richest rancher between here and Wichita.”

“Oh, him. He invited me to the opera house.”

Emma looked as though she would swoon. “You’re the luckiest woman in all of Kansas.” She fanned herself with the hem of her apron. “He’s taken a shine to you, hasn’t he?”

“He’s a man,” Sophie replied dryly. “Men take a shine to anything in skirts.”

“When are you going to the opera?”

“I said no.”

“What?”

“I told him I had to work.”

Emma touched her fist to her forehead in a frustrated gesture. “Any girl here would give a month’s wages for that invitation. Why didn’t you say yes?”

“Because I don’t want to go with him.”

“Trade me tables.”

“What?”

“Trade me tables. Maybe he’ll ask me.”

“Mrs. Winters would have my hide,” Sophie objected.

“She’s gone for the evening. Come on, why not? Give someone else a chance. I won’t take your tip. Please, Sophie.”

She didn’t share Emma’s passionate need to endear herself to a man, but neither did she have the heart to stand in her way. Sophie waved her off. “Go. They’re ready for coffee refills.”

Emma kept her squeal discreet, composed herself and picked up the pot Sophie had just filled and set it on her tray. With a determined nod, she headed for the table where the cattlemen sat.

Sophie observed as Emma greeted the ranchers. The Barlow man said something to her, and she blushed and giggled.

Shaking her head, Sophie wiped her hands and glanced at the table she’d traded for. Marshal Connor had finished eating and was glancing around for his waitress. Darn it. She gathered herself and approached.

“Would you like more coffee?” she asked him.

He glanced up at her. “No thanks. I’ll be makin’ myself a pot when I get back to the jail. I have work to do tonight.”

“What kind of work keeps you busy in the evening?”

“I make a weekly report to the county court, one to the railroad, as well.” He took coins from inside his leather vest and laid them on the table. “I have a stack of papers this high on my desk that I never seem to get through.” He held his palm a foot above the tabletop.

“I’ll see that Emma gets her tip.” She stacked his plates and set the empty cup on top. She couldn’t help asking, “Get a lot of mail, do you?”

“Telegrams mostly. Why?”

“Well, you said you have so many papers on your desk.”

“If someone’s wanted by the law you say he has a paper out on ‘im.”

“I see. You mean wanted posters.”

He nodded.

“How much do those papers actually look like the criminals? I mean, can you actually recognize an outlaw from one of those drawings?”

“Depends mostly on the artist.” He stood and pushed in his chair. “Pinkertons have the best artists.”

They glanced at each other and she looked away.

“Have a good evening, Marshal.”

He picked up his hat from the seat of a chair and held the brim a moment before settling it on his head with a nod. “Evenin’, Miss Hollis.”

He turned and strode out the door.

For the rest of the dinner shift, Sophie thought of little else than that stack of “papers” on the marshal’s desk. She didn’t even taste her chestnut pudding as she sat in the employees’ dining room after her shift.

It was probable that her likeness was on one or more of those wanted posters. But she’d used so many disguises that even the most talented Pinkerton would have trouble capturing her true image, she assured herself. If there was a drawing, it was most likely a picture of a young woman with fair hair and a beauty spot. Or of a curly-haired redhead wearing wire-rimmed glasses. None of her personas resembled the way she looked and dressed today.

Here, she couldn’t disguise herself beyond her darkened hair. Mrs. Winters did periodic checks of their faces with a damp towel. No hussies allowed in the Harvey House.

Sophie added her dishes to a pile, thanked the kitchen workers and found the lad who carried wood and kept the stoves free of ashes. “Jimmy.”

“Miss Hollis.” He was stacking wood on a canvas sling.

“Did you run my errand for me?”

“Yes’m.” He reached into the bag that hung on his hip.

She placed her hand on his arm to halt him while she took a moment to glance around. “Okay. Where are they?”

“Right here.” He produced three cigars.

Sophie gave him four coins from her tip money and closed her fingers around the cigars with a smile. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, miss.”

She hid her stash in her skirt pocket and made her way up the back stairs to change clothing. She needed to get out and get some fresh air. Speculating was getting her nowhere.

It was unlikely that the marshal would connect any of the faces on those posters to her, but she couldn’t afford to take any chances.

Willard DeWeise snored loudly from his cell at the back of the building. His dinner tray, licked clean, still sat on the corner of Clay’s desk. Clay picked up a rib bone and whistled low.

Sam, his aged hound, made his ambling way to Clay and stuck his nose under his hand. “Here, fella. Can’t ya smell it?”

Clay stuck the bone between Sam’s yellowed teeth and scratched one scarred and floppy brown ear. Sam settled himself at Clay’s feet with a grunt and licked the bone.

“Why don’t you put that damned dog out of its misery?” Hershel Vidlak, the other marshal asked. “Thing cain’t see, cain’t smell, cain’t take a piss lessen you walk him out and hold it for him.”

“Why don’t you shut your yap before I put you out of your misery?” Clay volleyed back with his usual lack of humor. It was dark, but the confined office was still sweltering. If the lawmen were cranky, he couldn’t imagine what the rowdies in the saloons would be like.

He got up and grabbed his hat. “I’m gonna make rounds.”

“I’m leavin’, too,” Hershel told him. “The missus made a strawberry pie this mornin’.”

“See you tomorrow.” Clay walked out behind Hershel and locked the door. They walked along opposite sides of the street, Clay checking the stores he passed.

Discordant music blared from the open doors of the Side-Track Saloon, yellow light spilling across the boardwalk. He pushed open the batwing doors, peanut shells and grit crunching beneath his boots.

“You workin’, Marshal?” Tubs McElroy, the burly gravel-voiced bartender, wiped beer from the polished bar with an already soggy cloth and paused with his beefy hand on a glass mug.

Clay rested his boot on the brass rail and thumbed his hat back on his head. “I’m callin’ it a night. Set one up for me.”

Tubs slanted a mug beneath the barrel spigot and foam ran over his sausagelike fingers onto the floor. He sat the brew on the bar with a whack.

Clay reached into his pocket for a quarter.

“Nope.” Tubs held up a glistening palm. “Mr. Dotson don’t let me take no payment from marshals or deputies. Havin’ a lawman sittin’ in stops a whole lot o’ trouble from ever startin’.”

Clay shrugged and sipped the lukewarm brew. He wasn’t the sociable type. His presence might raise the eyebrows of the regulars, but a stranger to town, like the one he’d come to observe, wouldn’t know this wasn’t his usual routine.

There were many establishments nicer than the Side-Track for killing an evening if one had a mind to, but this was where the fellow registered at the Strong Hotel as Monte Morgan had chosen to spend the last few evenings.

Clay glanced into the grainy mirror behind the bar and observed the other men standing on both sides of him, the haze of blue-gray smoke that hung near the low ceiling a ghostly backdrop behind their heads. He turned enough to speak to the man on his right in a friendly fashion, one elbow on the bar, both eyes casually scouring the crowd.

A few stockmen and herders sat at one of the green felt poker tables, seriously attending to their game. Cowboys, gamblers and soiled doves filled most of the other tables.

“Heard a new family from Vermont bought the Bowman place,” Clay said, just to come up with something to say.

The store owner beside him looked up in surprise. Everyone in Newton knew the marshal wasn’t one for small talk. “Bought himself a whole rig over at the livery, he did,” he replied.

From a platform at the rear of the building, a tall skinny man in faded trousers and a leather vest preached and read passages from his Bible. After several minutes he was replaced by one of the scantily-clad girls, who belted out an off-key rendition of “When The Roll Is Called Up Yonder.”

“The daughter’s easy to look at,” he went on. “One of these cowboys’ll snatch her up fast.”

Clay nodded, feigning interest in the conversation. Monte Morgan sat with a bunch of well-dressed men who were taking turns listening to the singing and preaching while patting the bottoms of the girls who sat on their laps. Morgan was lean, but Clay sensed whipcord muscle beneath the dark suit, silk vest and string tie. The weapon at his hip was an ivory-handled .45, a six-shooter in an embossed holster. Pretty.

Morgan’s confident smile and grandiose mannerisms gave him the larger-than-life quality ladies liked. That was apparent by the fawning and almost laughable way they maneuvered themselves, trying to be the one who got his attention. Maybe he tipped well.

Clay couldn’t put his finger on why the man troubled him. Newton was the home of the Sante Fe roundhouse and hundreds of strangers passed through each week. It was impossible to watch or even check out each one of them. Morgan hadn’t done anything to draw attention, hadn’t so much as tossed a match off the boardwalk. But something about him made Clay wary. Morgan didn’t seem like just another rancher. Clay’s gut instincts had paid off more than once, and he figured he should go through the papers to see if there were clues to this Morgan’s past there.

Sophie strolled along Oak to Broadway where the darkened park beckoned. There were gas lamps along the street, but in the one square block between Broadway and Seventh, only the moon lit the dark brick walkways, hedges and flowers.

The park wasn’t much farther than the boardinghouse from the railroads tracks, but it was a good bit farther from the roundhouse where men worked and switched the tracks all night long. Both of Newton’s public parks were in the First Ward, nestled in housing areas and away from businesses, saloons and billiard halls. It was the closest thing to being out of the city she could find, and she loved the impression of peace and privacy, no matter how false.

Taking a tin of matches from her skirt pocket, she settled on a stone bench still warm from the day’s heat, lit a cigar and blew a smoke ring into the star-filled sky. Hours like these presented more freedom than she’d known in all of her twenty-three years. With liberating calmness, she attempted to clear her thoughts, lying back on the bench to study the night canopy overhead.

She thought of the coming weekend, of three days she could spend any way she chose. She could take a train to Wichita and shop. She could don a disguise and attend the opera right here in Newton. Her lips curled up at the idea. There was something wickedly gratifying about carrying out a pretense such as the last one she imagined. No one would be harmed in the process.

Those thoughts led to others of former guises and the reason she had a need for anonymity. The image of those wanted posters swam against the sky, the stars twinkling like the city marshal’s badge. She’d feel so much better if she knew he wasn’t going to shuffle through a stack of papers and wonder why a drawing of a certain female criminal looked familiar.

She eased the chain from the collar of her shirtwaist and squinted at the face of the dainty watch. Only an hour left until the doors of the dormitory were locked for curfew. Her fingers curled around the sleek leather case in her pocket and her mind raced. She’d secretly let herself back in on more than one occasion. She could do it again.

She hurried to the northwest corner of the park where she stubbed out her cigar and scuffed dirt over it with the toe of her shoe. One more block to the north and a little farther west, and she made out the wooden-framed jail. No light shone from the windows. Confident in her skills and her ability to talk her way out of any situation, she continued on.

After peering through the panes of glass into the darkened interior, it took only seconds to work her magic on the lock. The door swung open, and she closed it behind her quickly, acclimating herself to the dark. Snoring droned from a hallway at the rear of the building.

She drew the shades and lit the lamp on the largest desk, turning the wick down low.

A scratching sound and an oomph made her heart leap, and she whirled, expecting to find someone who’d been waiting in the darkness. She readied herself to run.

A big old dog struggled to its feet from a pallet near the wall, and, with nails scratching the wood floor, padded over to where she stood poised.

Her whole body slumped with relief. She bent and rubbed the animal’s head and soft floppy ears, and it turned its nose into her hand and gave a halfhearted lick.

The stack of wanted posters was in plain sight and nearly as thick as the marshal had described. A brass key ring was being used as a paperweight. She gave the dog one last pat and sat, subconsciously noting the leather seat of the chair had been worn to fit the contours of the man. She set the keys aside. In silence broken only by rustling paper, the hiss of the lamp, and the resonating snore from the depths of the building, she turned pages, scanning drawings and descriptions.

She’d learned that there was more than one marshal in Newton, and several deputies: so, if someone should catch her here, she would say another had let her in to wait.

From somewhere in the back, the prisoner gulped air and mumbled in his sleep, startling her. She paused to listen until the monotonous snore resumed. The dog went back to its pallet and lay down with a grunt.

Two names and drawings caught her attention and snagged her breath from her chest. Gabriella Dumont and Joseph Richardson the caption read. Garrett had been darkening his mustache the last time she’d seen him. He’d had his head shaved, and the baldness had completely changed his appearance.

She’d have been offended at the drawing of her if she hadn’t been so grateful for the artist’s lack of talent. Plain eyes, plain nose, plain mouth, nondescript hair—the likeness could be any young woman.

But beneath the drawings and descriptions were the words theft and extortion and a specific list of petty crimes. One word in bold type leaped off the page and brought a sick lump to her throat; the allegation she’d most dreaded and feared: murder.

Sophie shuffled through the rest of the papers, found two more depicting her and folded the incriminating evidence into her pocket before straightening the pile and returning its order. She set the key ring exactly as it had been on top.

She extinguished the lamp and raised the dusty shades before stepping out the door. Hopefully anyone returning would think that the last person had forgotten to lock the door. She was halfway to the corner, when an odd whooshing sound stopped her. She spun on her heel.

Flames rose above the jailhouse from the back wall.

Chapter Three

Sophie’s heart stopped, thinking of the prisoner who’d been sleeping in a cell, of the old dog inside. She glanced around, not seeing anyone nearby. Icy dread compressed her chest. Minutes ago she’d been glad the street was deserted; but now she wished for someone to appear so she wouldn’t have to reveal her unexplainable presence there.

She never did anything impulsively, but instinct took over this time. Running back, she threw open the door and nudged the dog who still lay on its bundle of blankets. “Go outside! Get!”

She grabbed the keys. A hallway brought her to a row of cells lit through the barred window by the nearest streetlight on Main. Thick acrid smoke filled the entire rear portion of the building, and flames licked at the outside corner. A man she could barely make out through the haze clung to the bars of the cell where he was trapped. He attempted to shout at her, but only coughed.

Sophie knelt to the cell door and wasted precious seconds wiping tears from her burning eyes. She couldn’t take a breath without her lungs feeling as though they would burst. The waves of heat were terrifying and the acrid smell of burning wood cloying.

“Get me outta here!” the man shouted.

“I’m trying!”

The ring slipped from her fingers and clanged on the floor. “Shit, shit, shit!”

“Lady, ple-e-ase!”

Sophie fumbled for the right key and slid it into the lock, twisting until the tumblers rolled and the door swung open, clanging against the next cell.

The choking prisoner stumbled past her.

“Is there anyone else?” she called after him.

He was gone.

The other doors were slightly ajar, indicating empty cells so she ran toward the front, pausing at a wheezing sound. The dog.

“Where are you, fella?” She stumbled across the room, smoke billowing from the rear now. Her lungs ached and her eyes burned. She couldn’t draw a breath that didn’t taste like ash.

“Anybody in here?” someone called from the open doorway.

“Yes!” She coughed. “I’m looking for the dog!”

“Get outta there, lady!”

Following the wheezing whine, she found the animal cowering under the desk. She had to get down on all fours and use every last ounce of strength to catch its front legs and drag the mutt toward her.

“Lady!”

The dog weighed as much as she did, and she was out of breath, but she tugged with all her might, inching the trembling animal toward safety.

The man met her at the doorway, and helped her lift the dog. Together they stumbled away from the burning jail until she collapsed in the middle of the street with the dog across her lap.

Several men gathered around and stared.

“Did someone go for the fire department?” she asked, her voice a rasp.

“Harry went,” was the reply. One by one they turned to watch the fire.

She coughed until her chest ached. Sophie moved the dog aside and used the hem of her skirt to wipe her running eyes.

When she could squint, she glanced around. The prisoner was nowhere to be seen. Sophie collapsed backward in the dust. Of all the luck.

What seemed like an eternity was only minutes as she waited. Finally the firemen turned out with their horse-drawn wagon holding barrels of water.

Marshal Vidlak and another deputy arrived and helped Sophie out of the street and over to a patch of dry grass. “You’re one o’ them girls from the Arcade, ain’t you?”

Sophie glanced at the man and nodded.

The younger deputy had gone back for the dog and laid him beside where Sophie sat. The poor animal sounded as though it couldn’t catch a breath.

“I’m surprised that damned dog made it out,” the marshal said. “Cain’t walk further’n two feet at a stretch.”

“I pulled him out,” Sophie said.

“The hell you say.”

“Sam!” came a concerned shout.

The dog’s head jerked up.

“Sam!” Unmistakable, that voice.

“Over here, Clay,” Marshal Vidlak returned.

Clay ran toward the gathering and hunkered down on one knee, looking from the dog to the girl with the soot-streaked face.

“Lady here saved your worthless mutt,” Hershel said.

“You saved Sam?” Clay turned his attention to the rescuer. Her midnight-dark hair was loose and falling over one shoulder. Even though the black streaks on her face melded with the darkness, he recognized her. “Miss Hollis?”

She nodded, turned her head aside and coughed so hard, it sounded downright painful.

“You all right?”

“I’m fine,” she replied with a hoarse voice.

Sam’s breathing didn’t sound so good, but he licked Clay’s hand. Clay studied the smoke and ash rising from the nearly destroyed jail where the firemen were directing the water. He couldn’t turn the thought of Willard DeWeise over in his mind without bile rising in his throat. He glanced at Hershel, and the two men shared an uneasy look.

“Hell of a way to die,” Hershel said with a grimace.

Clay’s gut knotted.

“If you’re talking about your prisoner, he got out,” Miss Hollis croaked.

Clay turned and stared down. “He what?”

“He got out,” she repeated.

All three lawmen turned to listen.

“I—I was—” A racking cough halted her explanation. “I was in the park.”

Her voice was so low and raspy, they knelt to hear.

“The park across from the First Ward School?” Clay asked.

She nodded. “From the corner there I saw the flames. I ran this way. As I got closer, I saw the man you arrested from the lunch counter that day running out the door.” She pointed to the south. “He went that way.”

Clay was relieved to hear the man hadn’t turned to a cinder inside the jail, but the question of how he got out of a locked cell was damned puzzling.

“I heard the dog whining, so I just went in and helped him out.”

Clay and Hershel exchanged another baffled look.

“How the Sam Hill did DeWeise get out of that cell?” Hershel asked aloud.

“Someone had to have unlocked it,” Clay surmised. “One of the deputies.”

They turned and looked at the building. If one of the lawmen was still inside there, he was dead now.

“Account for all the men right now,” Clay ordered the young deputy.

“Yessir.” John Doyle shot away from them.

Miss Hollis attempted to get to her feet, and Clay helped her up with one hand under her arm and one around her slim waist. Her hair smelled like smoke. Few people would have risked their life for a dog’s. “Bet you were sorry you risked your neck once you saw the old mutt,” he said.

She glanced up, but when their eyes met, she looked away. “No.”

Another bout of coughing bent her at the waist.

“I’m takin’ her to Doc Chaney’s,” he told Hershel. “You make sure John reports back so we know if anyone’s missin’.”

“No. I’ll be fine,” the young woman protested.

“Don’t be foolish.” He called to one of the bystanders, “That your wagon? Give us a lift over to the doc’s, will ya?”

He assisted her into the back of the wagon, then settled the dog in. Clay jumped up beside them and nodded for the driver to move the horses forward. “Drive past Doc Chaney’s place on Seventh. Most likely he’s at home.”

Most of the fire was out, but smoke poured into the night sky. The entire ride Clay watched it rise. He wouldn’t have a moment’s peace until all his men were accounted for.

Shortly after Clay turned the bell, the young doctor answered the door. “Evening, Marshal.”

“Doc. Have one of the Harvey Girls out front. The jail’s on fire. She pulled my dog out and now she’s coughin’ mostly. That’s my main concern.”

“Anything coming up when she coughs?”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

“Is she burned?”

“Don’t think so.”

Caleb Chaney turned to the woman who walked up behind him. “The marshal says one of the Harvey Girls breathed in smoke, Ellie.”

“Bring her into the kitchen,” she said immediately. “Don’t waste time taking her to the office.”

Clay was grateful Miss Hollis would be taken care of quickly. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Mrs. Chaney accompanied Clay to the wagon and assisted Miss Hollis up the walk and across the porch.

Inside it smelled like apples and cinnamon. He’d been treated a few times at the man’s office—scrapes on a couple occasions and a bullet wound a year or so ago—but Clay had never been in the doctor’s house before. Doctors earned a hell of a lot more than marshals, he surmised, taking note of the furnishings. Then he remembered Doc Chaney came from a well-to-do ranch family.

The doctor’s wife pulled a rocker toward the kitchen table. “Sit here,” she offered.

Sophie took a seat and the woman lit several oil lamps.

“Can I do anything else, Caleb?” she asked.

“I’m guessing these two could use some water,” he suggested.

“I’m fine, ma’am,” Clay told her. “It’s Miss Hollis needs attention.”

Sophie coughed.

Doc asked her to lean forward. “I’m gonna thump you on the back and see if there’s anything that needs to come up,” he told her.

Sophie nodded.

He used his flattened palm to hit her good and hard a couple of times. The awful sound and the resulting expelled breath gave Clay a lump in his chest. He understood the treatment was for her own good, but he sure didn’t cotton to watching.

Ellie Chaney met his eyes with sympathetic understanding. He looked away and rubbed a hand down his face. He’d feel the same about anyone.

“See if you can drink now,” the doctor told Sophie.

She drank a whole glass of water and wiped her chin with the back of her hand.

Mrs. Chaney soaked a cloth and wrung it out. “Let me wash her up a bit now.”

The young doc backed away, giving his wife room to reach Sophie.

“I think she’s fine,” Caleb told Clay. “Doesn’t seem as though her lungs were affected.”

“She can go home then?”

“Isn’t the dormitory locked by this hour?” Mrs. Chaney asked.

Sophie nodded. The whites of her eyes were reddened. “Past curfew.”

“She can stay here,” the woman suggested. “I’ll take the baby into our room and Miss Hollis can sleep on the cot in the nursery.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Sophie protested.

“What else would you be doing?” the woman asked. “You’re locked out of the dormitory, so you’ll stay here. Caleb and the marshal will explain to Mr. Webb in the morning. I’ll find something for you to wear.”

After a moment, Sophie said, “That’s very kind of you.”

“What do I owe you for your time, Doc?” Clay asked.

“I will pay my own bill.” Sophie’s emphatic objection started another bout of coughing.

“You wouldn’t have had need of the doc if you hadn’t gone into the jail for my dog, Sophie.”

“I made the choice. I’ll pay my own bill.”

He studied the fractious woman, stubborn and proud as all get-out. Even with remaining black smudges on her chin and forehead and her dark hair a disarray of tangles, she was something to look at.

“Let’s not worry about that tonight,” Dr. Chaney interrupted. “Everyone needs some rest.”

“Make yourselves useful and heat some water,” Ellie directed the men. “Sophie needs a bath before I take her upstairs and get her settled.”

Clay helped pump water and heat it on the stove, then he and the doctor walked out to the front porch.

Caleb raised his face to the sky. “There’s still smoke in the air.”

“Better go see what’s left of the jail. Got some figurin’ out to do, I reckon.”

“Don’t worry about Miss Hollis,” Caleb told him. “She’s going to be just fine.”

Clay took a coin from his pocket. “Will a dollar cover it?”

Dr. Chaney closed his fingers around the coin with a grin. “I have a feeling she’s going to be madder’n a hornet when she finds out you paid.”

“She’ll just have to get her mind right about that,” Clay replied. He glanced out at the wagon still on the street. “Know anything about animals?”

“Know a little about horses.”

“Dogs?”

“Your dog out there?”

Clay nodded.

Caleb followed him down the walkway and through the arbor trellis laden with fragrant roses to the wagon bed.

Sam raised his head with a soft whine.

Caleb petted the animal, then turned him over and put an ear to his chest. “He was probably low enough to escape most of the smoke, unless he was directly in the fire.”

Clay shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“He’s getting up there in years, isn’t he?”

Clay nodded. “Can’t see or hear much anymore. Doesn’t move farther than a few feet on his own.”

Caleb scratched behind the dog’s ear. “His old bones probably hurt something fierce.”

“I know there isn’t a miracle for the old boy.” Clay leaned a hip against the tail gate. “Just don’t have the heart to put ‘im down.”

“An injection would do it. It wouldn’t hurt him.”

Clay absorbed the words. “You could do it?”

The doctor nodded.

“I’ll be thinkin’ on it, Doc. Thanks.”

The driver was still waiting on the seat. “She gonna be okay?”

“She’ll be fine,” Clay called and offered the doc his hand. “Thanks again.” He climbed onto the wagon seat. As the driver pulled forward, Clay glanced back at the big white two-story house.

It was tough to imagine someone running into the burning jail for the sake of a dog. The impression he had of Sophie was one of a capable women. A woman sure of herself.

She claimed she’d seen the fire from the park and come to have a look. Alone in the park, an unprotected young woman on the streets of Newton at night—she was either fearless or foolish. It was his job to care which.

Ellie Chaney picked up a sleeping infant from the crib. “I’ll be right back as soon as I lie him down in my room.”

Sophie nodded. All she wanted was to sleep and with any luck escape the burning pain in her chest and throat. This kind stranger had helped her bathe and wash her hair, but the stench of smoke remained.

Ellie returned a few minutes later with a cotton night rail. “In the morning I’ll find something for you to wear home.”

“How did you know Mr. Webb’s name?”

“I used to work at the Arcade,” she replied. “Until I broke my arm. Caleb hired me to take care of his son, Nate, until I was better, and one thing led to another. Now here I am, crazy in love and married to him.”

“How old is your baby?”

She turned back the covers on the narrow bed with a smile. “Seven months. His name is David.” She paused a moment, then fluffed up a pillow. “I wasn’t sure I wanted a baby. Caleb had his own child when I married him, and we’re raising my two younger brothers. I had kind of a history, you could say.”

“I understand history.” Sophie had never said anything quite as revealing to anyone, and surprised herself by doing so. It must be because she was so tired and her chest burned so badly. She couldn’t resist asking, “What made you change your mind?”

She’d never believed she would make a good mother, so it was better that she spare a child the suffering.

“Caleb changed my mind. I didn’t know any good men before I met him. It took a while but I learned to trust him. And I learned to trust myself. Our life was good. Our marriage would have been fine just the way it was. But choosing to have a child together formed a deeper trust.”

Sophie studied the other woman, wondering what kind of history she spoke of, wondering if Ellie Chaney had a past that could even compare to Sophie’s. If she knew the people Sophie had known, she would have thought twice about bringing another child into the world. “Well, you seem very happy.”

“We are. Caleb is the kindest, most gentle man I’ve ever known.”

“You’re very fortunate.”

Ellie turned the wick on the lamp low. “I would never ask questions,” she told Sophie. “I know there are some things that can’t be shared. But if you ever need a friend or someone to talk to, I want you to remember I’m here.”

Had Ellie somehow seen right through her? Sophie’s throat tightened, adding to her discomfort. Her eyes had done nothing but burn and streak tears since she’d escaped that jailhouse. The high level of tension from the evening had obviously weakened her defenses. She wasn’t an emotional person. She was stronger than this. “Thank you.”

The woman wished her a good night and closed the door on her way out. Silence wrapped around Sophie. She imagined the handsome doctor and his pretty wife in their bedroom with their baby lying between them. They were kind and compassionate, unfamiliar qualities where she’d come from. Their generosity unsettled her thinking, shook her world. Were they normal? Was this what other people were like? She compared them to Amanda and Emma and the families they’d spoken of.

How many good people like these had been victims of Sophie’s deceit in the past? She couldn’t bear to think of it.

She glanced at the window, where the parted curtain revealed a slim portion of night sky. Newton was filled with dozens of neighborhoods and rows of houses just like this one—well, not all quite as nice, but similar homes where families dwelled.

Sophie squeezed her eyes shut and remembered a time many years ago, a time before her father had sold their home and bought a covered wagon, a time when she’d had older brothers—when her mother had tucked her in at night. The long forgotten memory of a rose-papered room and a small simple bed wavered at the edge of her mind. With that memory drifted the scent of lilacs on a summer night. Her mother’s perfume or fragrant bushes outside the window? She struggled to make the elusive memory clear, but it wavered and vanished.

All that was good and safe had changed along the westward trail when a Sioux war party had attacked their wagon train, and killed her father and her brothers. She and her mother had been taken captive. The chief had taken Sophie, adopted her and treated her well. Her mother had been given to a brave and had conformed to her life as a captive. She had advised Sophie to do the same. “You’re a brave girl, Sophie,” her mother had whispered. “Do whatever you must to stay alive.” Sophie had been following that advice all the years since.

They’d been in the Sioux camp five winters when her mother caught the typhus and died. In mourning her mother’s death, pain over the loss of her father and brothers surfaced, pain she’d avoided facing before. Acute loneliness had become her constant companion. To comfort her, the old chief had given Sophie her mother’s possessions, among them her mother’s gold wedding ring. Tek Garrett had taken the ring for safekeeping, that loss becoming the one regret she had in running away from him. She hadn’t dared tried to find it and suspected he kept it on him.

Sophie barely remembered family, scarcely remembered feeling loved. Her memories were distorted by time and anger. Getting up, she padded to the open window, drew aside the gingham curtain and peered into the night. The doctor’s house was one of the tallest in the neighborhood and afforded an expansive view of the neighboring rooftops.

The sky to the north was still hazy with smoke. Had the marshal bought her story? How crazy would it make him, wondering how that prisoner had been freed? The keys still hung in the lock, and the iron doors would be standing there when the marshals looked the place over tomorrow.

Damned sloppy job of making herself invisible.

Chapter Four

The next morning Ellie brought Sophie a pitcher of water and clothing. “You’re taller than I am, so I looked for the longest skirt I could find. Fortunately you’ll only be wearing it until you get to your dormitory.”

“It’s fine, thank you. Can I help you with anything this morning?”

“Just come down to breakfast. Everything will be ready in a few minutes.”

A short time later, dressed in Ellie’s fresh-smelling clothing and with her hair braided over one shoulder, Sophie found her way to the kitchen by listening to the chatter and following her nose.

The chairs around the table were nearly filled, and Ellie was carrying full plates from the stove. The enticing smells of sausage and coffee made her stomach rumble.

Ellie greeted her with a wide smile. “There you are.”

“Good morning, Miss Hollis,” the doctor said, standing.

The young men followed his lead and stood until she was seated.

Ellie rested her hand on a tall slender young man’s shoulder. “Sophie, this is my brother Benjamin.”

“How do, miss.” He was probably about seventeen, tall with bright blue eyes and fair hair.

“Benjamin.”

“And my youngest brother, Flynn,” Ellie added.

Flynn was dark complected, with brown eyes and a bashful, dimpled smile. “I’m having a birthday soon. I’m gonna be eleven!”

“Well, happy birthday,” Sophie told him.

“This little man is Nate.” The toddler hid a bashful smile in Ellie’s white apron. “And that’s David.”

The baby Ellie had carried from the room the night before was awake and sitting in a wooden high chair. He paused in drawing one stubby finger through a puddle of oatmeal on the scarred tray to give her a toothless smile.

“You have a lovely family.”

The doctor and his wife shared a smile.

Ellie handed her husband a plate of eggs; he helped himself to a couple and passed it. “After school Benjamin works with my husband. He’s going to go to medical school.”

“That’s an admirable goal,” Sophie told him.

“I been thinkin’, Ellie,” Benjamin said.

“What about?” She set a stack of pancakes on the table and Flynn immediately stabbed two.

“Guests first, little brother,” she scolded him.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“I been thinkin’ about studying to be a veterinarian,” Benjamin went on. “Instead of medical school.”

His sister paused with a tray of sausage.

“It’s an animal doctor.”

Ellie smiled and handed him the tray. “I know what a veterinarian is, Ben. I think you’ll be good at whatever you set your mind to.” She touched his hair in a loving gesture, and his lean cheeks tinged pink.

He leaned away. “C’mon, Ellie.”

“I’m sure Miss Hollis isn’t shocked. She probably has brothers and sisters of her own. Don’t you, Miss Hollis?”

Sophie set down the fork she’d picked up, keeping her expression placid. “Of course I do. I have a whole family back in Pennsylvania.”

“What’s in Pennsylvania?” Flynn asked.

“Boys a lot like you,” she replied with a practiced smile.

The rasp of a cranked doorbell sounded.

“I’ll get it!” Flynn shouted and jumped up to run for the front hall.

He returned moments later with Marshal Connor.

Clay toyed with the brim of the hat he held. “Mornin’.”

“Good morning, Marshal.” Ellie rose to grab a cup. “Join us for breakfast.”

“Oh, no thank you, ma’am. Just came for Miss Hollis.”

The impact of those particular words zigzagged an alarm inside Sophie’s skull. He’d come for her? Had he learned something? Sophie studied the lawman standing in the Chaneys’ kitchen. One moment she’d been swept into the family atmosphere and the next, familiar tension crept into her muscles.

“She’s having her breakfast,” Ellie said easily. “Have you already eaten?”

He glanced at the table, his attention clearly on the food now. Sophie relaxed a degree. He’d come to escort her to the Arcade, not to jail.

The doctor got up and scooted Flynn’s chair and the baby to make more room, then reached for Clay’s hat. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“Looks good,” he agreed and took a seat.

Ellie fried a few more eggs and poured him coffee.

“All the men are accounted for,” he told them.

“That’s good news,” Caleb said.

“That it is.” The marshal took a sip of his coffee. “But it sure leaves me wonderin’ how that prisoner got away. Keys were left in the cell door.”

“Do you have any idea how the fire started?” Ellie asked.

“No, ma’am. If the man had an accomplice, it would make sense that someone broke in and let him out. Someone might’ve started a fire thinkin’ there was a marshal inside and that the fire would distract him. But anyone halfway smart would’ve watched the jail and known where all my men were. Still, can’t quite picture DeWeise with a partner though. He didn’t seem the type. Just a freeloader, travelin’ from one place to the next.”

Sophie had never heard him string so many words together all at once. “Is it common practice to leave the jail unattended when there’s a prisoner locked inside?” she asked.

Marshal Connor appeared uncomfortable at her question. He used his napkin. “No, miss. That’s a mistake I take the blame for.”

“You had no way of knowing what would happen,” Ellie assured him.

“Makes no difference,” he replied. “A lawman has to be prepared.”

Ellie changed the subject by asking Sophie if she knew Goldie Krenshaw.

“Yes, of course. Her room is down the hall from mine.”

“I used to be her roommate,” Ellie said. “We’re still good friends.”

Once they’d finished breakfast, Clay picked up his hat. “Thank you kindly for everything, Mizz Chaney. Doc.”

Sophie stood and picked up her plate.

Ellie stopped her. “You run along now.”

“Thank you for your generosity. It was a pleasure meeting you and your family.”

Ellie touched her arm. “I’m sorry about the circumstances, but I’m glad we met.”

“Be waitin’ out front,” the marshal said.

Sophie glanced at his broad back in the leather vest and followed slowly. Her skirt was an inch or so too short, revealing her boot tops and stockings, and she felt awkward.

“Your clothing is in here.” Ellie handed her a bundle. “I’m afraid it smells like smoke.”

“Not a worry,” Sophie assured her. “Our laundry is done for us, as you know. I’ll instruct them to throw it away if it smells too bad.”

Dr. Chaney was standing near the front door when they reached it.

She thanked him again. “I’ll bring your payment around tomorrow.”

“No need. The marshal paid.”

She raised her gaze to his.

He shrugged. “Told him you wouldn’t be happy.”

He opened the door and she preceded him out to where the marshal waited.

Sophie glanced from the horse and buggy to the stone-faced man. “I could have walked.”

“I’m sure you could’ve, but I brought a rig so you wouldn’t have to.”

Secretly glad she wouldn’t have to parade down the busy streets of Newton with her boot tops and stockings on display, she let him assist her to the springed seat.

The Chaneys waved from the porch of their home as the buggy drew away.

“Nice folks,” the marshal said.

He had told her he would make things right with Mrs. Winters and the manager, so Sophie was going to have to let him do that.

“Breathin’ easier today?”

She nodded.

Horses and vehicles lined the street they turned onto. The wood platforms and bricked area in front of the Arcade were crowded with passengers waiting to get back onto the two trains that stood on the tracks, smoke bellowing from the stacks on the black steam engines.

“Looks like we’ll have to leave the buggy here and walk,” Clay said. He stopped and helped her down.

The train crews had eaten and were the first allowed back into the cars. Passengers crowded in close behind them.

Clay took Sophie’s hand and blazed a path through the tight gathering. “Looks like you just missed a big rush.”

“Undoubtedly there’s plenty of cleanup before the next arrival,” she replied.

He said something else, but loud voices distracted her. In a language Sophie understood perfectly, two braves were arguing with a man in a black jacket and a bowler. She identified the man right off as a fakir, a man who picked pockets and sold worthless tickets and land deeds to unsuspecting travelers.

The plains Indians were drawing attention from the crowd.

“That man…the one there.” She pointed him out to Clay. “He doesn’t look like a passenger, does he?”

“Which one?”

“The one with the hat who’s arguing with those Sioux.”

Clay maneuvered them closer. The Indians were talking among themselves now. Clay shrugged. “There does seem to be an argument.”

Shit, shit, shit, Sophie thought. Why wasn’t he picking up on what was going on? Convinced he’d catch on in a minute, she bit her tongue. The Indians were digging into their pouches now, and Sophie couldn’t waste another minute. “He’s one of those men who sell fake vouchers to the passengers.”

Clay shouldered his way through the crowd to confront the man she spoke of. He spotted Clay, slapped his hand on his bowler, and turned to flee. Clay waded through the crowd, but the man had disappeared, impossible to find.

Before he returned Sophie quickly explained to the dark-skinned brave who wore a flannel shirt with fringed deerskin pants that they shouldn’t trade their money for papers. There wasn’t a word in their language for lie. “No food vouchers. You buy food with your coins.”

“Did you give him any money?” Clay asked, coming up to them.

The man replied, but Clay only frowned. Another Indian beside him added something as well.

“No money was exchanged,” Sophie told Clay. “You chased him off before he got their money.” She pointed to the pieces of paper in their hands. “No good,” she said with a hand gesture and took the papers. “The marshal will take these.”

The Indians spoke among themselves and Sophie drew Clay away.

“How did you know what was going on?” he asked.

“I’ve seen that man out here before.” She hadn’t of course, but she knew his kind.

A woman placed her hand on Sophie’s arm. “Kathryn? Kathryn Fuller?”

Sophie recognized her immediately as someone with whom she’d had dealings in another city. Shit, shit, shit! Her pulse increased at the surprise, even as she shrugged off the woman’s touch. “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

“But I was certain. You look just like the woman. Your hair is different…and your eyes now that I look more closely. Look, Robert, isn’t she the spitting image of Mrs. Fuller?”

The tall thin man at her side peered at Sophie through gold-rimmed spectacles. Sophie heart hammered. Would he recognize her, whip a poster from his pocket, scream “aha!” and ruin her new life? She concentrated on appearing bored and inconvenienced.

“There is perhaps a vague similarity.”

Relief flooded over Sophie. Perspiration had formed under her clothing.

“Come dear, our train will be leaving shortly.”

“Excuse us now.” Clay took Sophie’s arm and led her away.

That had been another close call. Sophie was like a cat with nine lives, but the stress was wearing and those lives were quickly getting used up. When she showed up in the busy dining hall with the marshal, all attention diverted to them. Mrs. Winters quickly whisked them away from the prying eyes of customers and employees. Minutes later they stood in Harrison Webb’s office, the small wood-paneled room smelling of lemon wax.

“A night away without a pass is cause for immediate suspension, Miss Hollis.” Mrs. Winters wore her haughtiest look. “It’s inappropriate behavior for one of Mr. Harvey’s employees. Especially if you are in some sort of trouble with the law.”

“Hold your horses.” Clay stopped her cold, then turned to Harrison. “How’re you doing?”

“Not complaining,” the man replied with a nod.

“Excuse me?” Mrs. Winters stiffened. “We have an errant girl here.”

“You heard tell of the fire at the jail last night?” Clay went on.

“I did,” Harrison replied.

“What does that have to do with my employee?” Mrs. Winters asked.

Clay gave them an explanation of the previous night’s events. “Miss Hollis ran into the burnin’ building in search of lives.” His deep voice and solemn inflections made the story even more dramatic. He told of Sophie’s role in saving old Sam’s life and her consequent night at the doctor’s home.

“Thank you for looking after Miss Hollis,” Mr. Webb said. “And for coming in like this to explain.”

“Miss Hollis risked her neck. There could’ve been an injured deputy in there for all she knew. Or prisoners.”

“Er. Wasn’t there a prisoner?” the hotel manager asked. He knew all about DeWeise.

“Got away during the excitement,” Clay answered.

Mr. Webb grimaced. “Mr. Harvey won’t be happy about that.”

Clay turned his hat by the brim as he spoke. “None of us are real happy about that.”

“Heard the jailhouse is burned clear to the ground.”

“We’re settin’ up temporary quarters in a building across the street from where we were. Liveryman used the old bars to put together a couple o’ cages. They’ll do for cells while a new building is built.”

With a nod, the marshal excused himself and Mrs. Winters marched away, clearly displeased.

Sophie was left facing the manager. “I don’t know whether what you did was brave or foolish, Sophie,” he said.

“I couldn’t not do it.”

He nodded, his face a study of concern. “I must insist you keep a far less public profile from now on. None of us can afford for you to bring this much negative attention to yourself. Harvey Girls have a strict standard to uphold. Your record must be impeccable.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Are you up to performing your duties today?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well.” He gave her a stern look. “See that you stay in Mrs. Winters’s good graces.”

That had always been her intent, she thought, leaving his office.

The bundle Ellie had sent was still in the hallway where Sophie had left it. She carried it up the back stairs and emptied the pockets of her smelly skirt. Adding her clothing to the nearest laundry bag in the hall, she took time to include a note.

Back in her room, she dressed in a clean pressed uniform, dabbed lilac water on her wrists and throat and arranged her hair. She paused with the folded papers in her palm. She needed to destroy these posters. Hiding them wasn’t good enough.

It was easy to slip down to the overheated bustling kitchen, slide aside a stove lid, and drop the papers into the fire. Pleased with herself, she stepped back. The whole task had taken a turn down a dirt road last night, but she’d accomplished what she’d set out to do. Now no one was going to run across those drawings and connect her to her past.

She could truly breathe easy again.

After a long blistering meeting with the city and county officers and an exchange of telegrams with the county seat, Clay met with George Lent, a mason, and a carpenter named Frank Prouty to create a list of supplies. He then sent a wire to Topeka ordering brick.

Al Greene pushed a stack of telegrams across the counter toward him. “All these came this afternoon. I knew you’d be back so I didn’t send a runner.”

Clay thanked him and took the messages.

Standing in the shade of the roof over the boardwalk, he thumbed though the papers. He read a couple of follow-up notes regarding the construction of the new jailhouse followed by replies to his queries to neighboring counties and states.

None of the lawmen had information about anyone meeting Morgan’s description. So far the news didn’t flesh out his instincts. He stuffed the messages into his pocket and reached to unloop his horse’s reins from the hitching rail. He still had a full day of getting a temporary office put together ahead, and he had yet to visit the gunsmith and the hardware store.

Mounting, he headed toward north Main. The same group of plains Indians he’d seen earlier were loading supplies into the back of a wagon with the help of one of the mercantile owner’s hired men.

Clay nodded to the men and tipped his hat to the women. The females greeted him with smiles. “No paper,” one of the women said to him.

“No paper,” he agreed, with a grin.

Odd how Sophie had spotted that con going on right there on the platform with so many people crowded together. But then Newton was the place for it, the railroad hub, and everyone who came through by rail passed that station. The people who worked at the Arcade probably saw more than anyone else.

He found himself wondering if he’d have a chance to visit the dining hall with all he had going on. Eating there had become much more appealing of late.

Chapter Five

That night in their room, Amanda had a hundred questions.

“I just did it,” Sophie replied for the third time. “I didn’t think about it.”

“What were you doing in the park so late?”

Sophie wished she was there right now, lying on a warm stone bench, peering into the limitless heavens. “I go there to think sometimes.”

“You’re so brave. I’d be too afraid to be out alone at night.”

“And you’d be smart to be afraid,” she assured her quickly. “There are dangers out there that you’re unprepared for.”

“What about you? Are you prepared for them? Could you protect yourself?”

Sophie glanced at the girl sitting on the other bed. “I know how to take care of myself, Amanda. Have you heard from your father?”

“Not directly. I had a letter from my mother’s sister though—my aunt June. She said father’s doing well. My cousin Winnie is going to have her baby any day. I wish I could be there when he’s born.”

“You can go visit as soon as you hear.”

“Winnie is so fortunate to have found a wonderful man to love her. She’s so happy. I want someone to love me like that.”

Sophie turned back her covers and lowered the wick on the lamp. “I know, but just think about how good you have it here and be patient.”

“I’ve been patient. I thought coming here would open up new opportunities, but so far the only young men who’ve invited me out have asked half the other girls as well. It’s as humiliating as being back at home.”

“What do you mean?”

“My stepmother always treated me like I wasn’t as good as her children.”

Sophie understood wanting to be accepted. She’d been resented by the Sioux children because she was white and the chief had treated her as their equal. “She was probably jealous because your father loved your mother.”

“Probably. But here I am with competition again.”

“There is quite a buffet of young ladies at the Arcade,” Sophie mused aloud. “I suppose it’s difficult for the gentlemen to have so many choices. Rather like a boy with a penny standing before the candy counter at the mercantile.”

Amanda laughed, but then her expression dimmed. “Suppose I’m not the most appealing gumdrop in the jar?”

Sophie heard the wistfulness in her voice and ached for that naiveté she’d never known. She climbed into bed. “I rather think you’re a delectable twist of licorice. Not everyone likes licorice, but those who do find its appeal irresistible.”

“Do you really think so, Sophie?”

“I do.”

“I’m a licorice whip.” Amanda grinned and appeared to think a moment. “What are you?”

Sophie snuggled into her covers and closed her eyes. “I am a lemon drop.”

The following day Sophie watched for the marshal to arrive for lunch. By one-thirty, he hadn’t come, so she took her meal break and walked the sun-baked streets of Newton to Eighth Street. The blackened shell of the old jail sat alone on the south side of the street. The smell of smoke still hung in the humid summer air.

Two men were moving what looked like a large cabinet of some sort into a building across the street. When she recognized one of them as the marshal, she walked closer and watched as they maneuvered the wooden piece through the doorway. After much grunting and a couple of curses, they disappeared inside the building.

“Marshal Connor,” she called from the open doorway.

His shirt was damp, and a trickle of perspiration meandered down his cheek. He took a kerchief from his pocket and mopped his face and neck. “Miss Hollis. Come on in.”

Inside was as hot as the outside. The musty smell was stifling. There was a desk hobbled together out of an old door and a couple of chairs that had seen better days. A paint-chipped table held odds and ends of dented cups and a few supply tins.

“If that’s it, I’ll be headin’ out,” the other man said. He tipped his hat and left the building.

The old dog lay on a blanket, but raised its head to sniff the air. It didn’t look toward Sophie.

“How is he?” she asked.

“Seems fine. How are you?”

“What is that?” she asked, nodding toward the big cupboard against the interior wall.

“New gun cabinet,” he answered. “This is our temporary jail.”

She noted the freestanding cages that had been rigged together. There wasn’t a piece of paper in sight. It had struck her round about dawn that her escapade had been for naught since everything in the jail had been burned up without any help from her. Wasn’t that just her luck?

“I brought you this.” Reaching into her pocket, she produced a coin and held it out.

Clay saw the dollar, and knew she meant for him to have it. His first instinct was to refuse to accept it, but something in her expression warned him to reach for it.

She dropped the coin into his palm. “We’re straight now.”

“Hardly.”

“What do you mean?”

“You saved Sam from burning to death.”

“Yes, well you stood up for me that day. Over the broken plates I mean. You saved my job.”

“That was my fault anyway, so it’s not the same.”

“Just say we’re even.”

Beneath the brim of her beribboned straw hat her eyes were dark and deep, filled with feminine mysteries. Her delicate beauty belied the strength she exhibited and the wide stubborn streak he’d had cause to come up against. For some reason it was important to her that she not be beholden to him. Right then he understood and respected her even more. “We’re even.”

She glanced around the nearly empty room. “All right then.”

He didn’t want her to go. “Let me know if I can do anything for you.”

“I don’t need anything.”

“I’m sure you don’t.”

She turned on her heel and headed back into the bright sunlight. Once again Clay felt the heat. Eventually the subtle scent of lilacs dissipated and all that remained was the austere room, and the disturbing memory of Sophie.

The rest of the week passed uneventfully. Glad for that, Sophie took her three-day leave as planned. Bag packed, she showed her pass to the ticket agent and boarded a train headed for Wichita, though everyone believed she was going to meet an aunt in Kansas City. She’d heard recommendations for a moderately priced, clean and safe hotel, so she checked in and spent two days shopping and two evenings at the theater.

On her last night in a hotel room similar to the many others she’d lived in over the years, she sat near the window watching the street below and relishing her freedom by puffing on a two-dollar cigar.

Her reflection in the pane of glass showed an attractive young woman, a woman who received attention and invitations from men. She considered Amanda, a lovely girl with honey-colored hair and a bright smile, a wholesome and attractive young lady, and wondered how it could be that no one had taken a fancy to her yet. Was she too eager? Too available or unassertive? Perhaps when Sophie returned she might mention the appeal of mystery. Amanda deserved the husband and family she desired. It wouldn’t be long. Soon she would be married and have moved on to a new life.

An image of the Chaneys’ kitchen in Newton wavered in Sophie’s thoughts, and she remembered the family seated around that table. The vast differences in her life from everyone else’s struck her anew. The fact that she never returned interest in men set her apart from other women. What about five years from now, should her luck hold that long and her identity remain a secret? Ten years. Where did she see herself?

But she wasn’t looking for the same things, she assured herself. She had a different plan. She was setting aside money to start her own business. But somehow she needed to speed up the process.

Eventually no one would tell her what she could do or what she could wear or how to act. She would be…The reflection in the glass revealed smoke curling around her head into the room behind her. The empty room.

Was this how she intended to live her life from now on? Independent, but unattached? Free, but…

Dare she recognize the thought?

Lonely.

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