“You’re right not to trust me.”

He paused, as if some terrible struggle were going on in his mind.

She was aware of her beating heart, of the room growing warmer. He grazed her palm with his thumb, tenderly, with affection, and the sensation of it sent a shiver clear up her spine.

Then without warning, as if he’d been dreaming and had all of a sudden come awake, he laughed. His face lit up, his eyes flashed mischief. She tried to draw her hand away as the man withdrew and the rogue appeared.

His fingers tightened over hers. “I’ve been known to lead women astray.” To punctuate the point, he arched one dark brow in a scandalously suggestive manner.

Dora pulled herself together. “Yes, well…” She yanked, and her hand was freed. She shook it to revive her circulation. “This woman is miraculously unaffected!”

Praise for Debra Lee Brown’s previous titles

Gold Rush Bride

“Debra Lee Brown’s traditional romance captures the era’s excitement and excess in lively characters meant for each other.”

—Romantic Times

Ice Maiden

“Ice Maiden is an enticing tale that will warm your heart.”

—Romantic Times

“This Viking tale of high adventure gallops through time and into the hearts of the reader.”

—Rendezvous

The Virgin Spring

“Debra Lee Brown makes her mark with The Virgin Spring, which should be read by all lovers of Scottish romances.”

—Affaire de Coeur

“A remarkable story. The fast pace, filled with treachery, mystery, and passion, left me breathless.”

—Rendezvous

Rocky Mountain Marriage
Debra Lee Brown

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Dad, Dorothy and Uncle Dickie

Contents

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

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Chapter One

Colorado, 1884

“I t’s a saloon?”

“Yes, ma’am. The pride of Last Call. Draws customers from Fairplay to Garo.” The driver hefted her trunk from the buckboard and set it on the ground under a young oak, in front of the steps leading up to the entrance.

There had to be some mistake. Her father had owned a cattle ranch, not a…a… Dora couldn’t breathe. She gawked at the gold-leaf-lettered sign above the swinging doors. The Royal Flush. Established 1876. William Fitzpatrick, proprietor.

“The best damned gambling house in the state, if you ask me.” The driver tipped his hat to her, then climbed atop the buckboard to depart.

“W-wait. Please.” She plucked her father’s letter from the small, leather-bound diary she always carried with her, and read the first shakily written paragraph again.

If you’re reading this, Dora, I’m dead. Seeing as you’re my only living kin, I’m leaving you the place. Lock, stock and barrel, it’s all yours.

She gazed out across the high-country pasture surrounding the opulent two-story ranch-house-turned-saloon. A few stray cattle grazed in the meadow below the original homestead. Nowhere were the herds she’d expected, or any evidence that her father had made his fortune in cattle.

Several outbuildings were visible behind the house: a barn, what looked like a bunkhouse, and a few small cabins nestled between naked stands of aspen and oak. It had been a ranch once, by the look of things.

“I guess you’ll be running the place now. Good luck to you, ma’am.” The driver snapped the reins and the horses sprang to life.

Running the place?

“Wait a moment. Please!” Dora ran after the buckboard. “You’re not just going to leave me here?”

“You want to go back to town?” The driver pulled the horses up short. “Before you even get a peek at the place?”

The sun had already dipped well below the snow-capped peaks in the distance. Spring columbine checkered the rolling grassland as far as the eye could see, but winter’s chill still frosted the air. Dora pulled her cloak tightly about her as she glanced back at the bustling business her father had never once mentioned in his letters to her.

Horses stood in a line, tied up at the long rail outside the saloon. Buggies and buckboards and other conveyances were parked along the side. A corral flanked the building, where other horses were feeding. Presumably they belonged to customers, regulars she believed the term was.

Soft light spilled from the entrance of the saloon and from windows draped in red velvet. Tinny piano music, men’s voices and coquettish laughter drifted out to meet her. Fascinated, Dora took a step toward the entrance, then paused to consider her predicament.

“Ma’am?” The driver fished a pocket watch out of his vest. “Got to get these horses back to town. Are you coming or staying?”

Not once in her twenty-five years had she ever been inside a saloon. God would strike her dead, her mother had been fond of saying when she was alive, if Dora so much as set foot in one.

“Last chance, ma’am.”

Last chance.

She heard the driver’s words, the snap of the reins, and the buckboard rattling back down the two-mile stretch of road to the mining town of Last Call, where her only hope of securing proper accommodations for the night was to be found.

But Dora was already on the steps, her gaze pinned to the swinging doors, her eyes wide with excitement, her stomach fluttering. Lock, stock and barrel, she thought as she tucked her father’s letter carefully away between the pages of her diary.

She placed a gloved hand on one of the swinging doors and pushed. A heartbeat later she stepped from her comfortable and orderly existence into a new world. By some miracle, God did not strike her dead after all.

The air was thick with cigar smoke and the foreign aromas of liquor and cheap perfume. Instinct compelled her to cover her mouth. The first thing she laid eyes on was a painting of a woman, a redhead without a stitch on, in a gilded frame above the bar.

“Oh, my.”

A stage draped in crimson velvet was positioned at the far end of the room. Mercifully, no one besides the piano player was performing. Men stood drinking, crowded together at the bar and huddled over card tables packed into what was once the parlor of the stately house. Brass spittoons were everywhere, though it was apparent no one paid them any mind.

“Disgusting.”

She felt warm all of a sudden—too warm—and realized men had stopped their drinking and gaming to look at her. In an attempt to avoid their stares, her gaze followed a spiral staircase leading upward from the end of the bar to the second floor.

A long balcony of dark pine showcased walls lined in flocked red paper against which lounged scantily clad women and overeager men. The house’s original bedrooms were on this floor. Dora didn’t want to think about what was going on inside those rooms.

The noise, the smells, the bright colors—all of it taken together was overwhelming. She felt light-headed, not herself at all. The last thing she saw before she fainted was a man. His whiskey-brown eyes drank her in as he flashed her the wickedest smile in three states.

“Ma’am? You all right?”

Someone was patting her hand. She felt a cool compress on her forehead, then flinched at the whiff of smelling salts. Her eyes flew open.

She tried to sit up, but firm hands pushed her back down again. She was lying on the… “Good Lord!” She was lying on the bar, stretched out like a corpse.

People crowded around her, offering assistance. She recognized the bartender by the linen towel wrapped, apron style, about his waist. He was a wiry, balding man with a thick black moustache and a face that was all concern.

“You fainted dead away when you saw it.”

“S-saw what?” Her head was still spinning. She thought he was talking about the man, the devilish-looking one with the smile.

“Wild Bill’s favorite whore.” The bartender glanced up at the painting, now directly above her on the wall. Dora didn’t need a second look. “No one’s ever had quite that reaction to her.”

“Oh, Jim, stop it! Can’t you see the poor thing’s confused? Must have taken the wrong road out of town, wandered in here by mistake.”

Dora turned to the woman who was patting her hand. She was about Dora’s mother’s age when she’d died, Dora guessed, but that was where the resemblance ended. Her mother had always dressed plainly, in dark colors, as did Dora, and wore no ornamentation of any kind.

In comparison, this woman looked like a peacock. She had brassy red hair and painted lips to match, and a dress of bright blue silk cut so low Dora thought the woman would pour right out of it each time she leaned over to smooth the compress on Dora’s head.

“I’m…sorry.” Again she tried to sit up. This time they helped her.

“Oh, don’t be sorry, honey,” the woman said. “It’s easy to lose your way if you’re not from around here. You a preacher’s wife?”

“A schoolteacher.”

“Told you,” the bartender said. “Pay up, ’Lila.”

To Dora’s shock, the woman pulled a bank note out of her cleavage and slapped it down on the bar. The bartender pocketed it, grinning.

She blinked her eyes, which were tearing from the cigar smoke. The music had stopped, and she realized everyone in the saloon was staring at her. Well, why wouldn’t they be? She must look a fright. Her hair had come loose and fell in mousy hanks around her face. She realized with a shock that her skirts were rucked up to her knees, revealing her bloomers. She quickly smoothed them down again.

“Here,” the bartender said, and handed her a full shot glass. “Drink this. It’ll clear your head.”

She accepted it without thinking.

“Go on, honey,” the woman said. “It’ll make you feel better.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly.” Fainting dead away in a saloon was one thing. Drinking whiskey in a saloon was quite another.

The crowd parted, and she found herself eye-to-eye with the devil incarnate, the man whose heated gaze and sinful smile were burned permanently into her memory. Growing up she’d heard plenty about men who frequented saloons. Never trust one, her mother had warned her, especially a gambler.

The man standing in front of her had been sitting when she’d first seen him, a perfect fan of cards in one hand, a glass of beer in the other, his feet propped up on a gaming table. Hell would freeze before she’d be taken in by such a character. He was different from the others, and that’s what worried her.

His three-piece suit looked as if it had been tailored back East. His hair, a rich brown that matched his eyes, fell nearly to his shoulders. That wasn’t uncommon for mountain men, but it was for city dwellers, and he was clean-shaven, which was unusual for both.

“Delilah’s right.” His voice was soothing, and put her instantly on her guard. “It’ll do you good. Drink it.”

“I’ll do no such thing.” She handed the whiskey back to the bartender, who shrugged, then drank it down himself.

The piano player started up again, and the saloon’s customers went back to their drinking and card-playing and… She flashed a glance at the barely dressed women leaning from the balcony. One of them waved to her. Dora shuddered.

The man who was decidedly too handsome for his own good smiled again, but this time she didn’t let it affect her. “Let’s get you back on your feet, Mrs….”

“Miss,” she said curtly. Carefully, she swiveled her legs around so they dangled off the bar. “And you are?”

“Charles Wellesley.” He offered her his hand. “But most people call me Chance.”

“That’s quite fitting.” She ignored his proffered hand and readied herself to jump down.

“Is it? How so?”

She arched a brow at him. “You are a gambler, aren’t you?”

A few of the onlookers laughed, but he didn’t.

“Can’t always judge a book by its cover, Miss…”

She scooted to the side, avoiding him altogether, then slid off the bar to her feet. Taking a moment to gather her thoughts, she risked another look at the base establishment her father had bequeathed her.

The bar was crafted of rich, dark pine, had polished brass fittings and was dressed nearly to the ceiling in bottle racks jammed with liquor. A cash register stood in the center below the painting, a few bills poking out from its half-closed drawer. An old mirror flanking the portrait confirmed her appearance.

She looked as if she’d just been scraped up off the floor, which, she reminded herself, she had. Someone—and she could guess who—had unbuttoned her high-necked blouse, revealing her throat. “Of all the—” She quickly buttoned it up again.

“Miss?” Chance Wellesley said again.

“Pay him no mind,” Delilah said, and stepped up to help her fix her hair. “He’s a charmer, that’s what he is.”

He did laugh then, and despite her intention not to look at him again, she did, and was instantly sorry. His gaze swept over her body as if he were appraising a side of beef ready for market. How rude!

“Here’s your bible.” He slid a hand into his coat pocket and produced her red, leather-bound diary. “You dropped it when you fainted.”

“My…bible.” His intellect apparently didn’t match his looks. She made a derisory sound in the back of her throat and snatched it from his hand. Her father’s letter was still tucked carefully away inside it. “Perhaps you’re right, Mr. Wellesley. One can’t always judge a book by its cover.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He looked her up and down again. “Take you, for instance. I’d bet my last double eagle you’re lost.”

“You’d lose that bet, I’m afraid.” She was right. He was a gambler.

“A woman like you, waltzing into a place like this on purpose? Hard to believe.”

“A woman like me? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” She’d had just about enough of him. Back in Colorado Springs where she’d taught school, she knew just how to deal with impudent boys, even overgrown ones.

She looked around for her cloak, but didn’t see it, and her reticule, which had been hooked to the inside. All the money she had in the world, which wasn’t much, was hidden in its lining. To her relief, the bartender produced them both.

“Thank you,” she said, and slipped the braided strap of the reticule over her gloved hand. The bartender helped her into her cloak.

“Chance here took it off you, ma’am, after he picked you up and carried you to the bar.”

Just as she’d suspected. She turned to look at her knight apparent one last time before leaving, and felt her cheeks blaze anew when she met his amused stare. “Well, I’m grateful to you all, I’m sure. But I’ll be going now.”

She’d rather walk the two miles back to Last Call in the dark than stay here another second. Tomorrow she’d see a lawyer in town. Perhaps he could straighten everything out for her, and she’d never have to set foot in this place again.

Chance Wellesley tipped his hat to her. “Have a safe trip to wherever it is you’re going, Miss…? You never did tell me your name.”

This time he looked at her as if she were wearing little more than the redhead in the painting above the bar. Never in her life had she met a man so insufferable.

“Fitzpatrick,” she said, louder than perhaps she should have, but then she was mad. She always did have a temper. One day it would catch up with her, her mother had been fond of saying. “Eudora Elizabeth Fitzpatrick.”

“Well, what do you know?” the bartender said.

She felt Chance Wellesley’s eyes on her as she marched toward the swinging doors, men scattering before her like spooked quail.

“Wild Bill Fitzpatrick has a daughter!”

She had sturdy boots and strong legs. Two miles on a good road under a full moon was next to nothing. Unfortunately, it turned out to be the longest, most unpleasant two miles of Dora’s life.

“Will you please stop following me!”

Chance reined his mount alongside her and picked up the pace to match hers. “I’m not following you, particularly. I’m just heading into town.”

“Why?”

He’d stormed out the door of the Royal Flush after her, and had tried, but failed, to dissuade her from leaving. He’d gone so far as to suggest there’d be no accommodations for her in town. She knew better. Besides, her mind was made up. She refused to spend another second in that saloon.

“No reason. Just exercising old Silas here.”

She glanced at his mount, a tall black-and-white gelding. A paint. As horses went, Silas appeared to be an agreeable animal. Too bad the man riding him was not.

“You left your trunk behind,” Chance said. “Better hope no one steals it.”

“The bartender said he’d put it away for me. Besides, there’s nothing important in it.” Which was a lie. The letters her father had written her over the years, letters her mother had kept from her and that she’d only just discovered after Caroline Fitzpatrick’s funeral, were secreted away in the lining. “Everything I need I have with me.”

Including the small brass key that had been tucked inside the envelope of his last letter to her, the letter informing her of her inheritance. She patted it inside the pocket of her dress as she walked. She had no idea what the key opened. On the stagecoach from Colorado Springs she’d been excited by the mystery. Now she just wanted to get as far away from the Royal Flush as possible.

“You should have said something when you first arrived, about you being Wild Bill’s daughter.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call him that.” Though it did seem fitting. Her childhood had been peppered with stories of her father’s wicked ways. It had been her mother’s way of insuring Dora steered away from men like that. Men like the man riding beside her, who, despite her numerous protests, seemed intent on escorting her back to town.

“Why not? Everyone called him that. Besides, he liked the name.”

“Did he? Well, that doesn’t surprise me.”

“You sound angry.”

“I’m not angry. I’m just…” Confused was what she was, though she’d never in a million years admit it to the likes of Chance Wellesley.

She barely remembered her father. Growing up, all she’d known of him was what her mother had told her, and Caroline Fitzpatrick hadn’t painted a very pretty picture. Dora had believed every word of it—until she’d found the letters.

“Funny he never told me.”

“Told you what?”

“That he had a daughter.”

Dora stopped and looked at him. “Why would he? He left when I was five. I haven’t seen him since.” But he’d seen her.

In his letters, her father had described his visits to Colorado Springs over the years, how he’d watch her from afar on her way to school or leaving church on Sundays. They were full of fatherly observations and practical advice. The last one, the one tucked carefully into her diary and that she’d read over and over on the stagecoach, had said how proud he was the day she’d become a teacher.

“That doesn’t sound like Bill.”

Now, after reading his letters, she didn’t know what to believe. Why hadn’t he made himself known to her? And why had her mother told her he didn’t want her, that he didn’t care? Her mother had obviously lied, but why?

“You talk as if you’d known him well. Did you?”

He sat back in the saddle, toying with what looked like a watch fob that hung from a short chain attached to his belt. “As well as anyone, I guess. I spent a lot of time in that saloon.”

“Yes, you would, wouldn’t you? Given your profession.”

“My profession.” He smiled at her in the moonlight, and for a moment she caught herself thinking how handsome he was. “You say it like it’s a dirty word.”

“Well, you are a gambler, and you do work in a saloon.”

“A saloon you own.”

The reminder shocked her to her senses. She pulled her cloak tightly about her and continued her march toward town. “I plan to sell it, if you must know. That and whatever ranch land goes with it.”

“Good luck. You’ll find out soon there aren’t any buyers.”

“Really? I’m not stupid, Mr. Wellesley, despite what you may think of me on first impression. My father’s business appeared quite robust.”

The rich sound of his laughter in the dark sent a shiver straight through her.

“You have no idea what I think of you, Miss Fitzpatrick, and if you did, I suspect you’d slap me.”

Of all the nerve! Dora quickened her pace.

“And robust it may be, though I’ve never heard a saloon described quite that way before.”

“I’m certain you know what I mean.” The image of a scantily clad employee waiting with a drunken cowboy in the long line outside one of the upstairs bedrooms popped unbidden into her mind.

He laughed. “I know exactly what you mean.”

“Hmph.” She kept walking, curtailing any further conversation with him. Though she didn’t know what to believe anymore—her mother’s warnings or her father’s adulation—one thing was clear to her.

Chance Wellesley was trouble.

He trotted along beside her, whistling bawdy tunes, while at the same time making certain she moved safely off the road when carriages rumbled by. She thought that bit of chivalry amusing, given his character.

Why was he so interested in her? What would provoke a gambler she’d never laid eyes on before tonight to give up an evening of card-playing to see a schoolteacher on her way? She didn’t know and she didn’t care. She just wanted to get away from him.

When at last they reached town, she headed straight down the muddy main street toward Last Call’s only hotel, the one she’d spied that afternoon when she’d first arrived.

“There’s something you ought to know about your, uh, inheritance.” He didn’t say saloon, and for that she was grateful. To think she actually owned the place!

“What’s that?” she said curtly, refusing to look at him again.

“Your father owed a lot of money to a lot of people, some of them not so nice. The Flush is likely mortgaged to the hilt. The ranch land, too.”

“How would you know?”

“Let’s just call it a hunch.”

“I don’t believe in hunches, Mr. Wellesley.” The bank was just ahead, across the street next to a law office. She’d make visits to both establishments first thing tomorrow morning.

“No?”

“No.” She shot him a hard look to make the point, then stopped in front of the hotel, relieved that the Vacancy sign she’d seen earlier that afternoon was still displayed in the window. “Well, here we are.”

Chance dismounted and tied Silas to a hitching post jammed with other horses. Cowboys and miners and men of every description roamed the street. She’d never seen a town so small so busy, and at this time of night.

“You see?” she said, turning toward him. “I was perfectly capable of getting here on my own.”

“Maybe so. But you might be needing a ride back to the, uh, ranch, after all.” He nodded toward the hotel.

She followed his gaze, then gasped, thunderstruck, as a hotel clerk snatched the Vacancy sign from the window.

“Told you they’d be full up. One of the big mines outside Fairplay struck a lode last month. Paid off today. The town’s crawling with miners who’ve got money to burn. Can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She ignored him, marched up the steps to the hotel and threw herself on the mercy of the clerk. He had to find her a room. He just had to! Five minutes of pleading later, she was back on the street, fuming.

Chance leaned casually against the hitching post, his hat pushed back on his head, that irritating grin of his aimed right at her.

“I will not spend the night in that saloon.”

“You sure?”

“And I will not ride double with you on that horse.” It was out of the question. She never intended to be that close to him ever again.

“It’s either that or walk back. Silas doesn’t take to people, especially women. In fact, he’s downright ornery. Likely he’d buck you off if you tried to ride him solo.”

She eyed the horse. “He doesn’t look too terribly ominous. I’m sure I’ll manage.”

“So you will come back to the Flush with me.”

It appeared she had no choice, unless she wanted to sleep in the street. If she had to stay the night in a saloon, at least it would be her saloon and not one of the questionable-looking drinking establishments lining Last Call’s main street.

She approached the gelding and matter-of-factly untied him from the post. Silas looked at her, seemingly unconcerned. “I’m not with you, Mr. Wellesley. I’m simply borrowing your horse.”

“Whoa, wait a minute. I meant what I said about him not liking women. It’s too dangerous for you to—”

She ignored him and mounted without incident, then arranged her skirts as modestly as possible under the circumstances. Silas glanced back at her, waiting.

“Well I’ll be a—” He gawked, first at the horse, then at her.

“A what?” she said, casting him a smug expression. A number of nouns, all of them improper, came to mind.

He smiled suddenly, his gaze heating with the same underlying carnality he’d exhibited in the saloon. She swayed a bit on the horse.

“Come on,” he said, and took Silas’s reins from her hand. “I’ll lead.”

Chapter Two

C hance Wellesley knew a sure bet when he saw one.

He sat in the window seat of the upstairs room he rented at the Royal Flush and, through a pair of opera glasses he’d won off a Denver politician in a poker game, watched Miss Eudora Elizabeth Fitzpatrick scribbling madly into what he’d thought last night was a bible.

“Well I’ll be damned. It’s a diary!”

He would have given his last plug nickel to know what she was writing in it.

She’d made quite the commotion when they’d returned to the saloon last night. Delilah had tried to set her up in her father’s old room, but the intractable Miss Fitzpatrick would have none of it. He laughed, recalling the look of horror on her face when Delilah had suggested it.

In the end, a few of the girls fixed up one of the cabins out back for her, and there she’d passed the night. He’d been up since dawn, waiting to see what she’d do next. Everybody knew schoolteachers rose early, and Wild Bill’s daughter proved to be no exception.

She sat at the desk under the cabin’s single window, her back straight as a washboard, her lips pressed into a tight line, penning God knows what into that little red book of hers. In the morning light she looked different than she had last night. Younger, softer, almost pretty.

He ran a hand over his beard stubble, then took a swig of hot coffee to clear his head. “You’re seeing things, Wellesley.”

After wiping the lenses of the opera glasses with his handkerchief, he looked at her again. Nope. Nothing different, after all. Just a trick of the morning light. She had the same dishwater-blond hair, pale skin and wore the ugliest gray dress he’d ever seen.

Not that it mattered. She was a woman, and women generally liked him. He didn’t have to like her. He’d made a bad start of things last night. Today he’d do better. By sundown she’d be mooning over him, and he’d know everything he needed to know about what her father might have told her before he died.

He’d spent six long months at the Royal Flush, watching and waiting for Wild Bill to make a slip. He’d come too far to quit now. Maybe his daughter knew something the rest of the folks around here didn’t.

Maybe she knew where the money was.

Dora capped her fountain pen and sighed. She’d spent a sleepless night on a lumpy mattress huddled under a pile of musty blankets. The potbelly stove had gone out in the middle of the night, and when she’d gotten up to relight it she realized she had no matchsticks. This morning she’d found an old flint on the floor near the coal bin and in no time was toasty warm again.

“Now, one last thing…” She slid her father’s final letter to her out of her diary and carefully reread every word.

The small brass key that had accompanied it was still tucked safely away in her pocket. She fished it out and held it up to the sunlight streaming through the window. It had an odd marking on it, one she couldn’t decipher. She was certain the key fit something, but what? Nowhere in the letter had her father mentioned it. Why would he send her a key and not tell her what it opened?

She had to admit, the enigma sparked her curiosity and appealed to her intellect. In secret, the past few months she’d been reading mystery novels in her room at night. Her mother, God rest her soul, would have been shocked had she known.

Dora had begun her diary shortly after discovering her father’s letters to her. In it she wrote her most private feelings and thoughts, in addition to faithfully recording her observations regarding any unusual events. She’d learned something from those mystery novels, after all.

Her journey to Last Call and the Royal Flush counted as perhaps the most unusual event of her life, and so she’d decided to record everything, including descriptions of the people she met. She’d wasted half a dozen pages this morning on Chance Wellesley alone. Perhaps now she could banish him from her mind.

She returned her thoughts to the letter and read the most cryptic paragraph again.

I know I haven’t been much of a father to you, Dora, but rest assured, your financial future is secure. I’ve left you something at the ranch. Something only you, seeing as how smart you are, will recognize. It’s the Chance of a lifetime, Dora. Take it.

She held the key up to the sunlight and studied it closely. “The chance of a lifetime.” Whatever did he mean? As she pondered her father’s parting words, her eyes refocused on an upstairs window of the house.

She gasped and dropped the key.

Chance Wellesley dropped his opera glasses. The insufferable man was spying on her!

He made it to the bottom of the spiral staircase a second before she burst through the kitchen into the saloon.

“How dare you!”

“Coffee?” he said, motioning toward the bar, where the bartender was pouring himself a cup. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you look like you could use it.”

“You were watching me from that window.”

There it was again, that trick of the light. She was pretty when she was mad, despite the ugly dress. Her eyes were gunmetal gray, he noticed for the first time, and flashed him a murderous look in response to his smile.

“Explain yourself.”

He shrugged. “I can’t. Guilty as charged.”

“So you admit you were watching me?”

“I do. Now, how about that coffee? I know I could use another cup.”

She took stock of her surroundings, as if she’d just now realized she was standing in the saloon. It wasn’t much to see this time of the morning. Delilah and the girls were still asleep, and the bar didn’t usually open until ten, not until two on Sundays. Wild Bill had had standards, after all. For regulars like himself it was different, of course.

“Miss Fitzpatrick?” The bartender held out a cup to her. “Could rustle you up some breakfast if you like.”

“No, I, um…” She calmed herself down—for the bartender’s benefit, not his, he presumed. “Yes, a cup of coffee would be wonderful.” She walked up to the bar and he set the cup down in front of her. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. Cream?”

“Yes, please. And sugar, if you have it.”

“Comin’ right up.”

Chance watched her as she fixed her coffee, doing the best she could to ignore him.

“I don’t think we were properly introduced last night. You are…?”

“James Parker, ma’am. But you can just call me Jim. We’re pretty informal around here.”

“Jim, then.” She nodded, looking past him along the bar, which hadn’t been wiped down from last night, to the pile of dirty glasses in the sink. The floor was littered with cigar butts and sticky with spilled beer.

“Oh, I, uh…” Jim cast her a sheepish look. “I meant to get this mess cleared up last night, but you know how it is.”

She wasn’t listening to him. Chance followed her gaze to the portrait above the bar. Her pale cheeks flushed the most disarming shade of scarlet he’d ever seen.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

She instantly averted her eyes. “Yes. No. I’m perfectly fine.”

He hadn’t been up long, and while he was wearing trousers and boots, his shirt was only half buttoned. Her gaze drifted to the opening, lingering on his chest hair. He knew she’d come around. They always did.

Their eyes met, and true to form she blushed hotter and turned her attention back to her coffee. He was beginning to enjoy this.

“Don’t like that painting much, do you?”

“No. No, I don’t.”

“Well, it’s your place now. You could always take it down.”

“Take it down?” Jim, who was hastily wiping the bar down, froze in midstroke.

“That won’t be necessary. I told you. I’m selling the place as soon as possible.”

“Selling it?” Jim had worked at the Flush since Wild Bill opened the place. He didn’t look happy about the prospect of losing his job.

“Yes. In fact, I’m going into town this morning to see a lawyer.”

“But, uh, Miss Fitzpatrick…” Jim ran a hand over his balding head, then toyed nervously with the ends of his moustache. “Your pa wouldn’t have wanted you to sell the place. Not right away, at least.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask someone.” She drew herself up in what Chance was beginning to think of as her schoolteacher pose, and said, “How did my father die?”

“You mean you don’t know?” Jim tossed him one of those you-tell-her looks.

“He was shot,” Chance said. “Right here in this very room.”

She sucked in a breath, and from the stunned look in her eyes he knew her surprise was real and not fabricated.

“W-who did it?”

“Nobody knows.” But he was going to find out, if it was the last thing he did. “It was a Saturday night. The saloon was packed. We heard the shot, and he just went down.”

“Right here,” Jim said, nodding at the floor behind the bar.

“You were here? Both of you?”

“Sitting right over there, playing cards.” He cocked his head toward one of the tables.

“I dropped a tray of beer mugs in the doorway there.” Jim nodded toward the kitchen. “Glass everywhere.” He shook his head. “Damned shame.”

“Excuse me?”

“About your pa, I mean, not the glass.”

“Oh, of course.” She stared past Jim at the dark stain on the well-worn pine flooring behind him, where William Fitzpatrick’s blood had soaked the unvarnished wood.

Chance caught himself feeling sorry for her. He downed the rest of his coffee and adjusted his attitude. He had a job to do, and it was time to get some answers. “Your father, uh, write you any letters before he died?”

She snapped to attention, her spine straightening, and cast him a suspicious look. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” He shrugged convincingly.

Not ten minutes ago he’d watched her read a two-page letter he’d mistaken last night for prayer sheets. His first erroneous impression of her and that red leather-bound book had cost him time. No matter, he thought as he noticed the diary and the letter sandwiched inside it poking out from the pocket of her dress. He’d get his hands on it soon enough.

Jim leaned toward her in his bartender-like “you can trust me” slouch, which Chance had seen him use with great success in wheedling information out of the most secretive of customers. “Your pa didn’t, uh, mention that he’d left you anything special here, did he?”

Chance went statue-still.

“What do you mean? Left me what?”

Jim looked at him, but Chance didn’t come to his rescue this time. He was busy viewing Jim Parker with new eyes.

“Well, uh, anything. Important papers, family keepsakes…” Jim ran a sweaty palm over his balding pate. “…valuables, maybe?”

“Valuables? You mean like jewelry or money?” Her frown deepened. She looked around the room again, this time with renewed interest.

“Oh, uh…” Jim looked away. He grabbed a wet towel and began wiping down the bar. Chance had never seen him so agitated. “Was just a rumor I heard, is all.”

Chance watched her closely to see if her gaze lingered too long on any one area of the saloon. It didn’t. “I suspect Miss Fitzpatrick doesn’t much believe in rumors.”

“You’re right,” she said curtly, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t. I base all my decisions on facts.”

She tried to mask her natural reaction to the painting over the bar when her gaze darted past it, but couldn’t. He smiled inwardly. Her prudish sensibilities were predictable, and that would make his job all the easier.

Eventually she dropped her gaze to the letter sticking out of her diary. He could tell by the twitch of her hand against her pocket that she fought the urge to take it out and read it again in front of them.

He had to know what was in that letter.

She caught him staring at it, and abruptly turned away.

“Well,” she said to Jim. “I’ll be going into town now, Mr. Parker. Is there a buggy or some other kind of conveyance I might borrow?”

“The place is yours, Miss Fitzpatrick. Take whatever, uh…conveyance you like.” He nodded in the direction of the kitchen door. “One of the boys out back will set you up.”

“I could take you in,” Chance said and risked a smile.

She arched a disapproving brow at him as if he’d suggested they run buck-naked together down to the creek and jump in. Hmm. He gave her dowdily clothed figure another once-over and thought the notion wasn’t a half bad idea.

Her nostrils flared. “That won’t be necessary.” She turned away. “Thank you again, Mr.—”

“Jim,” the bartender said.

“Jim, then.” She dropped a smile on him, and after a cautionary glance in Chance’s direction, she turned on her heel and marched out the way she’d come in.

Chance set his empty cup down on the bar and figured he had just enough time to finish dressing, grab his hat and saddle up Silas before she was gone.

“You’re not really thinking of selling the place, are you?” Jim called after her.

Wild Bill’s daughter didn’t answer.

For the second time in as many days Chance Wellesley followed her to town. Dora didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking back at him. Not once. Well, maybe once, but that had been a mistake. Her hat had flown off in a gust of wind, and she’d stopped to retrieve it a second before he caught up with her. He’d tipped his hat to her and smiled. She’d promptly ignored him.

As it turned out, her father had owned a number of good horses, a sound buckboard, a surrey and two wagons used for hauling loads of supplies from town. Rowdy, one of two ranch hands whom he’d continued to employ long after he’d quit the cattle business, had, true to the bartender’s word, set her up. She’d opted for the buckboard.

Guiding a pair of dappled mares, she pulled off the deeply rutted trail leading from the Royal Flush onto Last Call’s main street. It was a fine spring day, and the town looked far more welcoming in the sunshine than it had last night.

Out of the corner of her eye she spied Chance making the turn into town behind her, Silas dutifully trotting along in her wake. Why wouldn’t the man leave her alone? She was determined not to encourage him. She’d seen the way he’d looked at her in the saloon, and the suspicious way he’d eyed her diary. She’d simply have to ignore him.

Last Call was a fair size for a mining town. In addition to the establishments she’d already seen, the long boardwalk-lined main street boasted a mercantile, telegraph office, the livery where yesterday afternoon she’d hired transportation out to the ranch, a cattle exchange, grange building and a small, whitewashed church.

No school, at least not here in the center of town. Perhaps it was tucked away on one of the side streets among the residential buildings and boardinghouses. Boardinghouses that were full up, she remembered with irritation. Then again, perhaps Last Call had no school. She noticed a number of children playing in the street, children who should be in school on a Friday morning.

“The sign says Harrington, but his name’s Grimmer.”

“Excuse me?” She hadn’t noticed that Chance had spurred Silas up alongside her.

“Your father’s lawyer.” He flashed his eyes at the sign as she pulled the buckboard up in front of the law office she’d seen last night.

“How would you know my father’s lawyer?” He seemed determined to insinuate himself into her business. The question in her mind was why?

Had her father left her something more than the saloon and ranch, as both his letter and Jim the bartender had implied? He very well might have, and if Chance Wellesley knew about it, he was exactly the kind of unscrupulous character who would attempt to swindle her out of whatever it was. Perhaps it was money. Hmm…

He dismounted and was at her side a moment later, his hand extended to help her down from the buckboard. He flashed her that trademark smile, and it dawned on her that he meant to seduce her out of it, if money was indeed his motive in dogging her every step.

“Oh, Chance! Yoo-hoo,” a coquettish voice sounded from behind her.

She turned to look at the passerby, a surprisingly well-dressed woman, and Chance used her momentary lapse in attention—and judgment—to grasp her around the waist. “Oh!”

“Just helping you down, Miss Eudora.”

“It’s Dora. I mean—” The man completely discombobulated her! “Take your hands off me! I’m perfectly capable of—”

He ignored her protest and lifted her from the conveyance, setting her, light as you please, on the ground. “You’ve overstepped your bounds, Mr. Wellesley.”

The well-dressed woman winked at her as she passed them. “He’s been known to do that a time or two, haven’t you, Chance?”

He shrugged boyishly, angering her even more.

Dora stormed past them both, climbed the two steps up to the boardwalk, and a few seconds later opened the door to the law office of H. J. Harrington, Esquire.

“Mortimer Grimmer,” the friendly-looking man said to her, extending his hand. “How may I be of help?”

“Told you his name was Grimmer.” To her annoyance, Chance had followed her into the office.

“Wellesley! What brings you to town?”

Chance grinned. “I’m here to collect the rest of my winnings from Saturday night’s game.”

Dora was appalled. Not only did he know her father’s lawyer, it appeared they played cards together.

“Oh, and I’d like you to meet someone. Miss Eudora Elizabeth Fitzpatrick.” She was surprised he remembered her middle name.

“You’re Bill’s girl?” Mr. Grimmer grabbed her hand and shook it enthusiastically. “Well, I’ll be. You don’t much look like him.”

She barely remembered what her father had looked like, so she didn’t know whether he was complimenting her or not. She knew she wasn’t much to look at, but the good-natured lawyer was smiling, so she suspected it was a compliment.

“I take after my mother’s side.”

“Well, well. Please, have a seat.” He gestured to a visitor’s chair in front of his very tidy desk. Business didn’t appear to be too brisk. “You, too, Chance.”

“Oh, but…” She wasn’t about to talk about her father’s affairs with him in the room.

Grimmer read her reaction. “Oh, I apologize. I thought you two were together.”

“We are,” Chance said.

“We most certainly are not.” She refused to sit down until he left Mr. Grimmer’s office. Once that was made clear, and after he had, she got down to business.

“Now, about your father’s will…” Grimmer produced the will, and together they reviewed it. It confirmed what he’d written in his telegram to her last month, that out of her father’s original thirty thousand acres, only six thousand remained. He’d sold the rest to finance the construction of the house and set himself up in business.

During their conversation she was aware of Chance standing outside on the boardwalk, leaning up against the side of the building, pretending not to watch them. She knew better. The nerve of the man!

“Well, that’s that, then.” Grimmer handed her his bill. It was sizable. He appeared to be waiting for her to pay him. She suspected he needed the cash to pay off the gambling debt he owed Chance Wellesley.

“There was nothing in particular described in my father’s will besides the property?”

“That’s right,” Grimmer said. “And all the contents, of course, the livestock, the horses, et cetera. The transfer papers are all complete.” He produced them, and after reviewing them she signed them.

“Yes, but I had thought he might have left me something more. Something…”

The lawyer clasped his hands together on top of his desk and leaned forward in anticipation. His paternal smile faded. For a moment he reminded her chillingly of the greedy mole in a popular children’s book she read to her younger students.

“Never mind,” she said, and shook off the odd feeling.

His smile returned.

She took a moment to collect her thoughts, then rose. “Thank you, Mr. Grimmer. You’ve been most helpful.” They shook hands, and when it became apparent to him that she wasn’t going to pay him his fee, she said, “As soon as I’m done at the bank, I’ll see to it you get your payment.”

His smile broadened. “Have a fine day, Miss Fitzpatrick.”

“Goodbye.”

Chance was waiting for her outside, casually twirling the watch fob hanging from his belt, trying to appear indifferent. He didn’t fool her for a second.

“You’re still here,” she said as she breezed past him, continuing down the boardwalk toward the bank. She paused to read a handbill warning the public about a rash of counterfeit currency in circulation right here in Park County.

Chance beat her to the door of the bank and held it open for her as she entered. There were several customers in line waiting to speak with a clerk who was carefully inspecting each bill of a customer’s cash deposit.

A tall, impeccably dressed gentleman who was likely the bank’s manager appeared from an office in the back to offer help. He was fair-haired and clean-shaven, rather dashing, Dora thought.

“I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you.” Chance removed his hat and stepped into line behind her.

She promptly turned her back on him. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Wellesley.”

The portly woman in front of her reeked of lavender water and struggled to keep her noisy little dog under control. Any moment Dora was going to sneeze. She opened her reticule and fished around for her handkerchief, retrieving it just in time.

“What I mean, Miss Fitzpatrick—”

The banker looked up at the mention of her name. He had the most captivating blue eyes.

“—is that Wild Bill didn’t think much of banks. So if you’re expecting to find—”

She sneezed so violently she dropped her open reticule. Its contents spilled out across the floor.

The banker rushed out from behind the counter, scooted the woman and her dog aside, then knelt to collect her things. Chance had the same idea at the same moment. The two men butted heads in their frenzy.

“Oh, my key!” The small brass key that had accompanied her father’s letter lay at her feet.

“Allow me.” The banker snatched it up a split second before Chance could get his hands on it. He secured everything else inside her reticule, then stood. It was clear from the first that Chance Wellesley didn’t like him, which was reason enough to commend him to her.

“Your things, Miss Fitzpatrick.” He offered her the reticule and smiled. His expression darkened as he nodded at Chance. “Hello, Wellesley. Here for another loan?”

Chance glared at him, then turned his attention to the key, which the banker had not yet returned to her.

“John Gardner, at your service, miss.” He gave her a little bow, which she thought charming.

Chance muttered something rude under his breath.

Dora ignored him. “I’m glad to know you, Mr. Gardner.”

“You’re William Fitzpatrick’s daughter?”

“That’s correct.” It was so nice to hear her father called something other than Wild Bill.

“Although the bank does hold the mortgage on his property—your property now, as I understand from Mr. Grimmer—I’m very sorry to tell you that your father didn’t keep an account here.”

“Oh.” She knew her disappointment showed.

“Told you so,” Chance said.

She and Mr. Gardner moved closer, effectively shutting him out of their conversation.

“I didn’t know there was a mortgage. Is it sizable?”

“I’m afraid it is.”

Her hopes sunk.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your father had a number of creditors, and was behind on his interest payments to the bank when he died.”

“I see.” He’d mentioned none of this in his letters to her. Perhaps her mother had been right about his character after all.

“However, this is the key to his safety deposit box.” He dropped the small brass key into her gloved hand.

A safety deposit box! Of course! That explained the strange marking on the key. Each bank had a unique identifier.

“Perhaps what’s inside will solve all your problems.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Chance looked over her shoulder at the key. He was so close, she felt his warm breath on her neck and detected the faint scent of his shaving soap. It was sandalwood and rather pleasant, unlike the man himself.

“I suppose you’d like to open it right away.”

“Yes, I would,” she said, turning her attention back to the matter at hand. “I’d also like to discuss the sale of my father’s property, if you have the time.”

“I’ll make the time.” He dismissed Chance with a glower. “I’ll deal with you later, Wellesley.”

Chance ignored him and followed them into the office in the back.

She whirled on him. “What is it now?” Her irritation was not lost on Mr. Gardner.

“Would you like me to intervene?”

“No. Thank you. I can handle Mr. Wellesley myself.” She marched back out to the front.

Chance sauntered out behind her. “I like the sound of that, Dora.”

“Of what?” She didn’t bother reminding him that she hadn’t given him permission to call her by her Christian name, and a nickname at that.

“Of you handling me yourself.” He grinned.

“Mr. Wellesley!”

“I wish you’d call me Chance.”

She’d rather burn in hell. “I have only one thing to say to you.”

He hitched his hip against the hand-carved walnut partition separating the bank’s customer area from the back offices and waited for her to continue.

“If you think you’re going to get your hands on my father’s money, you’re wrong.”

“What money?” He arched a brow at her, as if a point had just been scored in his favor.

In the morning light she could see the fine worry lines around his eyes and forehead, and a depth to his eyes she hadn’t noticed before. The impression contradicted the roguish demeanor he seemed determined to exhibit to perfection.

She gathered her wits, ignoring the stunned expressions and hushed whispers of the bank’s customers and said, “None of your business.”

“Fair enough.”

His acquiescence stunned her. “Fine.” Before he could say anything else to annoy her, she brushed past him and returned to the banker’s office.

“Everything all right, Miss Fitzpatrick?” It was plain he’d overheard their conversation.

“Just fine.”

“If you don’t mind my giving advice… Chance Wellesley is a gambler and a notorious ladies’ man to boot. You might want to think twice about being seen with him.”

“Yes, well, I appreciate your advice, Mr. Gardner.” It seemed strange to her that the banker would warn her against him in one breath, then turn around and loan him money in the next. “I’d like to see my father’s safety deposit box now, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all.” He came around his desk, retrieved a key from his watch pocket that was secured to a heavy chain, then opened a door behind which was a set of stairs. “The vault is in the basement. After you.”

The vault room was well-secured and brightly lit. She was momentarily startled by the two armed guards seated in the foyer, late-model rifles resting in their laps. The banker nodded at them, and they disappeared up the stairs.

She approached the wall of safety deposit boxes with her key.

“It’s this one, I believe.” Mr. Gardner pulled a long metal strongbox from one of the numbered cubbyholes set into the wall and placed it on a nearby table. “Allow me.” He held out his hand for the key, his gaze fixed on hers. His blue eyes sparkled in the lamp light.

She considered that John Gardner had an honest face and a smile every bit as unassuming as Chance Wellesley’s was wicked. He was her father’s banker and she wanted to trust him, but if she’d learned anything from reading all those mystery novels, it was to never trust anyone where large sums of money were concerned.

She hesitated, staring at his manicured hand, then said, “I think I’d like to open it alone, if you don’t mind.”

He was speechless for a moment, then recovered himself. “Of course. How stupid of me. Please…” He pulled out the single chair for her to sit. She made herself comfortable. “I’ll be right upstairs if you need me.”

“Thank you.”

She waited until she heard him top the flight of stairs and the sound of his footfalls in the room above her. It was cool in the vault room, but she was perspiring.

Debts, a mortgage and a six-thousand-acre ranch that no one wanted to buy.

She slid off her gloves and realized her hands were shaking. When she’d received her father’s letter and had made the decision to relocate to Last Call, she’d liquidated her life’s savings, which hadn’t amounted to much, and had given notice at the one-room school in Colorado Springs where she’d taught for the past seven years. A new schoolteacher had already been hired. She couldn’t go back. There was nothing to go back to.

Dora drew a breath and opened the box. What she saw inside confused her.

The box was carefully lined in newsprint and contained only two items: a tortoiseshell comb that looked oddly familiar to her and a tintype portrait she instantly recognized as her father.

There was no money.

Chapter Three

“I’ m sorry to inform you all that the Royal Flush is closed.” Dora stood in the middle of the stage at the far end of the saloon and gazed out at a sea of faces, all turned in her direction. Apparently her years of oration in the classroom transferred quite effectively to other, less scholarly settings.

The employees looked at her in confusion. The customers, on the other hand, appeared delighted and immediately rearranged their chairs to face her. With a shock she realized they mistook her announcement for the opening of a performance. After all, it was Friday evening, it was a saloon, and she was standing on the stage.

She tried a different approach. “May I have your attention, please?”

A man at the bar whistled. The customers laughed.

She ignored them and continued. “My name is Eudora Fitzpatrick. I’m William Fitz— I mean, Wild Bill’s, um, daughter.”

The crowd cheered. More men whistled, and some even raised their glasses to her. Tom, the piano player, whom she’d asked to stop playing a few moments ago, started up again. Delilah whispered something into the bartender’s ear, then rushed to gather up her girls.

Chance Wellesley reluctantly let one of them slide off his lap. She felt a brief moment of victory when he put down his hand of cards. He was the only customer, however, who did. The rest of them returned to their gaming.

“The saloon is closed!” Though she shouted, her voice failed to carry over the music and the chatter, which had returned to its customary, earsplitting volume.

Delilah shrugged at her, then shooed the girls back to work. Jim lined up a half-dozen shot glasses along the bar, then winked at her as he filled them in one easy motion. She noticed he didn’t spill a drop. Rowdy, whom she’d asked to stand by the front entrance and lock the outer doors once all the customers had gone, looked to her for direction.

What was she going to do if the employees refused to stop working and the customers refused to stop gambling, drinking and engaging in the unmentionable goings-on upstairs?

After the shock of discovering her father’s safety deposit box contained no cash and nothing of any value, except for the tintype that for sentimental reasons was valuable to her, Dora had spent an hour conversing with John Gardner. He’d confirmed Chance Wellesley’s proclamation.

Her father had died owing substantial sums of money to nearly every business in Last Call, in addition to being three months behind on his interest payment to the bank. Foreclosure was imminent. John Gardner was accountable to his investors, and while he’d kindly offered to review and possibly renegotiate the loan, it would do no good as she had no way of paying it. The only solution was to sell off the property, which Mr. Gardner had advised, as soon as a buyer could be located. He’d generously offered to ask around for her.

“What’s this all about?” The voice came from behind her. It was one she recognized—and loathed.

She turned just as Chance parted the red velvet curtains draping the stage, grabbed her arm and pulled her into the darkness.

“Let me go!” How did he get back there without her seeing him? Not a moment ago he’d been sitting with his boots propped up on a card table, flirting with Delilah’s girls.

“I will when you start talking sense.” He maneuvered her toward the back of the stage, where she was relieved to see an open door leading to the softly lit hallway running the length of the first floor.

A minute later she was seated at the table in the kitchen, and he was making them a pot of strong coffee, rattling around the cupboards as if he owned the place and not her.

“What’s all this nonsense about closing the place? You didn’t say anything about that this afternoon.”

Her afternoon had been spent avoiding his questions. He’d been waiting for her outside the bank when she’d finally emerged. She’d wrapped the tintype and the tortoiseshell comb carefully in the newsprint that had lined her father’s safety deposit box and had stuffed the package into her reticule. The obvious bulge had captured Chance’s attention.

“It was Gardner’s idea, wasn’t it?”

“To close the saloon? It most certainly was not.”

She didn’t like lying, but she refused to be cowed by a gambler. Her affairs were not his concern. John had, in fact, suggested closing the Royal Flush. Dora had agreed on principle. He’d also offered to assist her in inventorying and selling off anything that might be of value, using the profits to keep the interest payments up on the mortgage until the property sold.

“If you must know,” she said, committed to her falsehood, “John advises keeping the saloon open until the ranch sells.”

“So it’s John, now.”

An odd feeling fluttered inside her. The stab of jealousy that flashed in his eyes lasted only for a heartbeat.

“It’s my own idea to close the saloon. I’ve told you.”

“Close it?” Delilah burst into the kitchen, her flounces and feather boas following in her wake like a whole other wardrobe.

Jim the bartender and Tom the piano player were right behind her. They all jammed into the kitchen. A few of Delilah’s girls poked their heads into the doorway.

“That’s what I thought I heard out there,” Jim said, “but I couldn’t rightly believe my ears.”

“Believe them,” she said, and stood.

Chance offered her a cup of coffee, but she ignored it. Delilah took it and slugged it down.

“The ranch is for sale. In the meantime, I’m closing the saloon, selling off the garish furnishings and artwork, especially that indecent painting above the bar, and reopening the house as an establishment I know something about.”

“And that would be…?” Chance eyed her.

“A school.”

Delilah’s mouth dropped open. Jim’s eyes bugged. The piano player gawked at her, and the girls crowded into the doorway all started talking at once. Chance merely snorted as if she’d lost her mind.

“There isn’t a school in Last Call.” She’d confirmed that fact with John Gardner. “I plan to open one. Here.”

She intended to approach the town council the first thing Monday morning to see about funding. Children were playing in the streets, for pity’s sake. They ought to be in school.

“You can’t close the Flush, Miss Eudora.” The piano player looked as if he were going to cry. “You just can’t.”

“Why not?”

They all looked at each other. She had the oddest feeling they were keeping something from her, something important. Her father’s words echoed in her mind.

Rest assured, your financial future is secure. I’ve left you something at the ranch.

When she’d first read her father’s last letter to her, she’d been stunned by the prospect of an inheritance, but that wasn’t the reason she’d come to Last Call. Besides, the empty safety deposit box had cured her of any wishful thinking. What her father had left her with was not a fortune but a financial nightmare.

“I’m closing the saloon, and that’s that.”

“Tonight?” Jim exchanged glances with Delilah.

“Why not tonight?”

“It’s Friday, that’s why.” Chance arched a brow at her, and she was struck, not for the first time, by how handsome he was.

She pushed the unbidden thought from her mind and said, “What’s so special about Friday?”

The girls giggled. Delilah gave them a hard look and they instantly quieted.

“It’s the biggest take of the week,” Chance said. “Except for Saturday. At the bar in drinks and tips, at the tables in winnings, of which the house gets a five percent cut, and uh…well, you know.” He jerked his head toward the doorway, where Delilah’s girls continued to gawk at her.

Dora frowned, not understanding him.

“He means upstairs, honey,” Delilah whispered.

“Oh!” Her cheeks blazed, and it wasn’t because the kitchen was overwarm, even with half the employees of the Royal Flush crowded into it.

“The house gets a twenty-percent cut of that business. It’s a damned good share.” Chance didn’t blink as he watched her.

“And, uh, you’re the house, Miss Dora.” Jim grinned ear to ear, as if she should be overjoyed by the notion of making a profit from the scandalous enterprise.

“I see.” Dora was mortified. At the same time she was intrigued. “And, um, just how much would the house make on an average Friday night?”

“Enough to pay the mercantile in town what Wild Bill’s owed ’em for the past month,” Jim said.

Delilah nodded her agreement.

“That much?” John Gardner had taken it upon himself to prepare a listing of her father’s outstanding debts for her. The mercantile bill was sizable.

Looking at their faces and listening to the boisterous crowd out front—a crowd that in one night promised to spend enough money at the Royal Flush to settle a debt for which she was now accountable—it was clear to her that nothing would be accomplished tonight. So, against her better judgment, she relied on intuition and gave in. For now.

“Very well,” she said in her most teacherlike voice. “The Royal Flush will remain open—for tonight. And, um, perhaps tomorrow night as well.” If Saturday was, indeed, the most profitable evening of the week, only a fool would close the saloon before then. She had bills to pay, and she was simply being practical.

Delilah and Jim breathed audible sighs of relief. The girls squealed as Tom drummed his fingers on the door frame in a mock concerto.

“Good decision,” Chance said. He drained his coffee cup and set it in the sink. “Bill would have been pleased.”

“Yes, well…” Somehow that thought wasn’t comforting. Furthermore, she was sick and tired of Chance Wellesley’s meddling, and was determined to nip it in the bud. “I do have one question for you all before I retire.”

They looked at her, all ears.

“Mr. Wellesley was not in my father’s employ, was he?”

“No, ma’am,” Jim said. “Chance don’t work for nobody except himself.”

Chance frowned at her, but she continued, undaunted. “Then why does he claim to know so much about the operation of this saloon?”

Delilah and Jim exchanged another look. The girls giggled, and Delilah hushed them. “Me and Jim keep the place running,” she said. “Have done even when your pa was alive. But Chance, here…well, he entertains folks, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, he’s entertaining, all right.”

Chance shot her a slow smile that threatened to melt the skin right off her if she let it. She didn’t.

“He brings in a lot of business,” Jim chimed in. “High rollers from all over. The Flush wouldn’t be the Flush without Chance.”

No, she thought, as she studied him. It wouldn’t.

He stared back, and for the barest moment dispensed with that boyish affectation he seemed to cultivate like a weed. In a moment of clarity, she realized with shock it was cultivated. But why?

Where had Chance Wellesley come from? No one seemed to know. And why had he made himself a permanent fixture at her father’s saloon for the past six months? She’d learned that fact from Tom not an hour ago. What was his stake in her affairs—she was certain he had one—and why had he, just now, looked away as if he were hiding something, something he desperately wanted kept secret?

Dora blew out a breath.

Sometimes, late at night, when she read the mystery novels she was so fond of, she’d imagine herself as the protagonist, an amateur sleuth. Right now a bit of sleuthing seemed in order, with Chance Wellesley as the subject of her investigation.

“It’s late,” she said, and moved to the back door.

Chance beat her to it and held it open. “Sweet dreams.” The boyish charm was back.

A blast of night air and her own determination sobered her. She ignored him and turned to the small crowd of anxious faces that, she realized, were her employees now. “I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

“G’night, Miss Dora,” they said in unison.

“Good night.”

It was a good night. A wagon load of miners with money to burn showed up at the Flush round about midnight. A dozen easy hands of poker later, Chance had cleaned them out. He went to bed smiling and a hundred dollars richer, but for the second night in a row couldn’t sleep.

Every few minutes he caught himself peeking out the lace-draped windows of his room to the cabin out back where Dora sat at the desk, late into the night, scribbling away in her diary. Once she glanced up at his room, but it was dark, and he took care, this time around, to stand in the shadows.

What had she found in that safety deposit box? He had to know. Whatever it was, she’d taken it with her. Tomorrow he planned to search her cabin. The fact that Bill even had a safety deposit box stunned him. He hadn’t expected it, and he was a man who didn’t like surprises.

She had mettle, he’d give her that. Standing on that stage tonight took guts, though her speech hadn’t accomplished what she’d intended. The other thing that struck him was that she was practical, Bill’s daughter through and through. She’d shelved those prissy sensibilities, at least for the time being, and had let the Flush ride.

“A school,” he said to himself in the dark. The woman couldn’t be serious.

When he finally did sleep, he had the dream. It was worse this time. He woke up in a cold sweat, the bed sheets twisted around his legs. He was close, so close he could feel it. The money was here. He was here. It was one of them, he was sure of it. Tom? Jim? Rowdy or old Gus? Hell, it could even be Grimmer or Gardner. For all he knew it could be Dora Fitzpatrick herself.

Wild Bill had had a partner—a silent partner who’d known about the money. That’s why he was killed. Chance was going to find out who it was if it was the last thing he did.

It very well might be.

Dora Fitzpatrick was not going to close the saloon. He’d make damn sure of it, no matter what he had to do.

“You want me to do what?” Chance blinked the sleep from his eyes, sat up in bed and pulled the sheet up over his bare torso. Dawn’s light streamed through the lace-curtained windows. He’d forgotten to draw the shades.

Dora stood outside the cracked door of his room, key in hand, her eyes averted. “I’d like you to pack your things.” She shot him a quick glance, her gray eyes widening at his state of undress. “I knocked, but you didn’t answer.” She started to close the door.

He threw off the covers and leaped from the bed. He caught the edge of the door before it closed. “Uh, hang on a second. What’s this about?”

She braced herself, her posture straightening, her chin tipped high, her hand white-knuckled on the doorknob. Their gazes locked through the two inches of open door. She was perfectly aware that he was bare-assed, but refused to let it show in her expression.

Her nostrils flared as she drew a breath, her cheeks blazed scarlet against her will. He’d be damned if she was pretty. She wasn’t, at least not in the way he was used to women being. All the same, there was something powerfully attractive about her that he couldn’t put his finger on. Maybe it was that stubborn will of hers.

“Tonight you may stay in one of the unoccupied rooms across the hall. On the opposite side of the house.” She didn’t blink, not an eyelash. Dora Fitzpatrick had grit.

He pulled on the door, widening the gap another inch. She held fast to the knob, fighting him. “I like this room. Why would I move?”

She tipped her chin higher, her gray eyes steel. “Because I’m telling you to.”

She knew he’d been watching her last night. She knew and yet she hadn’t drawn the curtains over the window. And that made all the difference.

He smiled, aware that their interaction was arousing. At least to him it was. “You are the proprietor, Miss Dora. So I guess I’d best move.”

“Besides,” she said, less sure of herself now. She looked away. Down the hall he heard Delilah and a few of the girls whispering. “Tomorrow’s Sunday, and I’m closing the place for good. You’ll have to be on your way.”

“Now wait a second!” He jerked the door wide.

She jumped, her hand flying off the knob as if it were cattle-brand hot. Her gaze washed over his body as he stepped, naked, into the hall.

“Mr. Wellesley!” She spun on her heel and fled toward the spiral staircase.

Delilah let out a laugh. The girls giggled. They were all in their dressing gowns and up too damned early for their own good.

“Oh, Chaaance,” one of them, Lily, called from down the hall. She waved, and the girls continued to giggle. Delilah shooed them back as Dora hurried past.

He watched, grinning, as she half stumbled down the staircase into the saloon. Ten minutes later he was dressed and chasing after her.

“You’re not serious about this school idea?”

She stood in the center of the saloon, hands on hips, surveying the place with narrowed eyes and a frown. Her brows pinched together as she turned a slow circle. At first he thought she was ignoring him. She wasn’t, he realized. She was thinking.

“As serious as a boll weevil in a cotton field.” She jotted a few lines into her red leather-bound diary, then strode to the far end of the room.

Chance followed. “What do you know about cotton fields?”

She lifted the lid of Tom’s antique piano and peeked inside. “Nothing,” she said, distracted. “But I know a lot about running a school. Hmm…” She plucked a few of the piano wires, closed the lid, then inspected the adjacent stage. “This will do nicely.”

“Do for what?”

She turned to him and, for the first time since the incident upstairs, looked him squarely in the eyes. “For the children’s performances, of course.”

“You mean you teach music?” He hadn’t pegged her for a music teacher.

“I teach everything.” She cast him a dismissive look, then walked back to the center of the room. “Reading, composition, mathematics, science, drama and music. Oh, and Latin.”

“Latin?” The instant he caught up with her she was off again. He dogged her steps. “Who besides scholars and bookworms speak Latin.”

“Read, not speak. Those urchins I saw playing in the street yesterday could benefit nicely from it, I think.”

Chance shook his head. “You’re not like any schoolteacher I ever met.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

He laughed. Not at what she said but the way she said it, as if she knew she was different and damned proud of it. “You’re set on closing the place, then?”

“You don’t think I’d continue to operate a saloon?” She scribbled more notes into the diary, then scowled at the card tables in front of the bar. “We’ll need desks. Perhaps these can be modified.”

“Why not? A woman like you’d do a damned fine job of it.”

She turned on him, one blond brow lifted in astonishment. “You’re not serious?”

“As a boll weevil in a—”

“Honestly, Mr. Wellesley.” She capped her fountain pen and snapped the diary shut. They disappeared into the deep pocket of her dress.

He reminded himself he wanted a look at that diary, but he’d have to wait until she was asleep. She carried it with her every waking moment.

She did an about-face, snaked between the card tables toward the stage, and hurried through the doorway into the hall. Bill had turned one of the two first-floor bedrooms into his study. She paused at the door, looking in, then continued down the long corridor toward the kitchen.

Chance knew he was in trouble. He had to convince her to keep the Flush open, to keep everybody working and the customers pouring in. If he didn’t, the past six months would have been for nothing. Six months of keeping his eyes and ears open and his mouth shut, biding his time, waiting for Bill’s partner to surface.

“I know why you’re closing it,” he called after her. “And it’s not because you’re a schoolmarm shocked at the idea of owning a saloon.”

“Schoolteacher,” she corrected. She grabbed her cloak off a peg by the back door and readied herself to go outside.

He held the door for her, then followed her down the back steps. “A woman like you wouldn’t be bothered by what people would think.”

“A woman like me.” She kept walking, past the row of cabins and the bunkhouse, toward the barns and corral.

Rowdy and Gus, busy with morning chores, tipped their hats to her as she marched by.

“A woman who’s smart, who knows her own mind.” He caught up with her and took her arm. She immediately pulled it away. “I like smart women.”

“How fascinating.”

He was losing her. He had to think of something, and fast. She skirted a pile of horse dung, rounded the corral and stopped at the edge of the meadow filling a long valley choked with spring wildflowers as far as the eye could see.

She shaded her eyes from the early morning sun and looked out at the smattering of cattle, what remained of Wild Bill’s herd.

“You’re afraid,” he said on impulse.

“What?” She turned to look at him.

“You heard me. You’re afraid.”

“Of what?” Her spine stiffened.

“Of everything.” He nodded toward the house. “The saloon, the customers, Delilah and the girls. Jim, Tom, the hired hands—” He glanced back at Rowdy and Gus who’d stopped their work and were watching. “And me.”

“I most certainly am not!”

“The ranch, too. It’s still a ranch, you know. A hundred head or so. Angus beef. Damned fine stock.”

Her cheeks blazed, not with embarrassment this time, but anger. It bothered him that after only two days he knew her well enough to know the difference. The breeze caught a tendril of her hair, freed it from the tight little bun at the back of her head, and whipped it across her face.

“John, er, Mr. Gardner told me the stock were worthless.” She looked out across the valley at the cattle as an excuse to stop looking at him.

“Gardner’s an idiot. This was a profitable cattle ranch once. I can tell. With a couple thousand head and the right help, a man could really make something of himself here.” Without thinking, he crouched and plucked a handful of grass from the muddy ground, sifting it between his fingers as he gazed off into the distance. “Good water and sweet grass. It’s a choice piece of land, Dora. Believe me, I’d know.”

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. He bit off a silent curse and abruptly stood, tossing the last few blades aside.

“Would you?” Dora looked him up and down. “And what exactly would a man like you know about land and cattle ranching?”

He froze, his gaze locked on hers. He’d gotten carried away, and the slip would cost him. Dora Fitzpatrick was no simpleton.

“Just what is your history, Mr. Wellesley? No one seems to know.”

Which was exactly how he wanted it.

“Mr. Wellesley?” She looked at him strangely. Her gray eyes had gone soft, all tenderness and concern. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had looked at him like that.

“I, uh…”

“Were you a rancher before you went into…um, gambling?”

He looked out over the rolling green pastures flecked with spring columbine and purple sage, and thought for a fleeting moment about the man he’d once been. Dora watched him closely, and he had the uncomfortable feeling she saw right through him.

“No,” she said crisply, though the canny look in her eyes contradicted her verdict. “I didn’t think so.”

He forced a smile and slipped easily into the pretense that had become as comfortable as a pair of old boots. She was not going to turn this around on him. He circled back to his original statement. “Trust me, you’re afraid.”

She looked at him, and for a heartbeat he saw in her eyes that he was right. An uncomfortable feeling gripped him. He sucked in a breath, sharp with the scents of cattle and sage and the barest hint of lilac. He hadn’t noticed before today that she wore perfume.

“You don’t know me,” she said.

“No, I don’t.” He thought about the life he’d had, rich and full of promise, before the unthinkable had happened eighteen months ago. What would he have thought of Dora Fitzpatrick then? “I don’t,” he said, “but I’d like to.”

Chapter Four

“I want that painting removed by the time I return from church.”

“Whatever you say, Miss Dora.” Jim continued sweeping the broken glass, cigar butts and other evidence of the saloon’s profitable Saturday-night business into a tidy pile near the swinging double doors.

Dora gazed at her reflection in the mirror above the bar and adjusted her hat. “I mean it, Jim. And I’d like you to lock the doors after I leave. The saloon is closed. No one’s to be admitted.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I know you think I’m being unreasonable. But I’m certain Tom and Delilah, and the…um, girls, can find decent jobs elsewhere.” She meant to retain Gus and Rowdy to take care of the place, and to help her with the conversion of the saloon into a school—if she could afford it. She wasn’t certain, yet, that she could.

Jim hadn’t lied. Last night’s take, together with Friday’s, had been enough to pay the weekly salaries of the staff, in addition to one of the outstanding bills from a local merchant. She’d have to make arrangements to pay the rest of her father’s debts over time.

Surely the town council would see things her way. Last Call was in desperate need of a school, and one less saloon could hardly matter. She was certain John Gardner would help her convince them, and Sunday services at the Methodist church in town was the perfect place to begin her campaign.

“Are you ready?” Chance stood silhouetted in the entrance, morning sun at his back, casually twirling his watch fob.

“Perhaps I should have asked you to lock the doors sooner,” she said to Jim.

The bartender shot him a grin.

“I’ve got the buckboard right out front.”

Surely he didn’t think she was going to church with him? Did gamblers even go to church? She didn’t think so.

Snatching her reticule off the bar, she walked toward him. “You’re supposed to be leaving today.” As an afterthought she checked her pocket to make certain her diary along with her father’s letter were tucked safely inside.

“Not before church. Wouldn’t be proper, now would it?”

She disregarded his open appraisal of her attire as she approached, then ducked neatly under his arm and out the door. She was seated on the buckboard, reins in hand, before he realized her intent.

“Whoa!” he called as she snapped the reins.

She didn’t stop, but she did look back at him. He was quite the gentleman in his Sunday best. If she didn’t know better, she’d peg him for a prominent businessman or cattle baron. He wore a three-piece suit she hadn’t seen before, his ever-present gun belt and a hat. She noticed his leather boots were polished to a high sheen.

She also noticed that Silas was standing by, saddled and ready, munching new grass alongside the hitching post. She frowned, first at the horse, then at Chance. He smiled at her in return, much like the cat who ate the canary.

What’s he up to now? Whatever it was, she wasn’t going to wait around to find out. It was already half past eight, and services began promptly at nine according to Jim. She urged the horses faster, and the buckboard rumbled down the road toward town.

A quarter mile into the trip, the ranch house just out of sight, Dora jerked the reins as the left rear axle of the conveyance hit the ground with a thud. “Good Lord!” The buckboard had lost a wheel.

A moment later the horses reared.

Chance appeared out of nowhere on Silas, ready to offer assistance. He sprang from the paint gelding and quieted the spooked team. Silas shot her a bored look as Chance offered her his hand. “Let me help you down.” She was just about to take it, when he said, “Looks like you’ll have to let me escort you to church after all. We can ride double on Silas.”

Truth dawned as she met his gaze.

“I don’t think so.” Avoiding his proffered hand, she hopped to the ground and inspected both the axle and the wheel. She’d learned a thing or two about investigation from her mystery novels, and put her powers of observation to work.

As she’d suspected, neither the axle nor the wheel had given way from any natural cause. The axle pin holding the wheel in place had simply been removed. Removed by Chance Wellesley.

“You did this deliberately.”

He cast her a look of pure innocence. “You don’t think I’d intentionally try to make you late for church, do you?”

Oh, he was good, all right. Any troupe of players would be pleased to have him as their comic lead.

“I do.” She kept her anger in check. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. “I am clueless, however, as to your motive.”

He unhitched the horses from the buckboard, pointed them toward home, and gave them each a wallop while letting out a “Yee-ha!” that would rival any cowpuncher’s. The horses took off. “They know their way back. Rowdy’ll come looking for the buckboard once he sees them.”

The man had no scruples. She was just about to dismiss him with a pithy insult and make her way into Last Call on foot, when her father’s surrey rumbled into sight on its way to town. Aboard were Delilah and her six protégées, as she liked to call them.

“It’s a long walk,” Chance said. “And that church service starts on time. Ride with me, Dora.”

She shot him a deadly look. Turning on her heel, she set off at a brisk march.

Delilah cackled behind her, and the girls dissolved into giggles as their surrey rumbled on, catching her up. Chance called after her. It should have given her great pleasure to ignore him, only she couldn’t forget their conversation yesterday morning.

It was as if he were an entirely different person when they’d stood together looking out across the wide valley at what remained of her father’s cattle. He’d spoken passionately about ranching, the land, what a man could make of himself if he so chose. The way he’d looked when he’d said it, the longing in his eyes was what she remembered most.

“Honey, it’s nearly nine.”

Dora was jarred from her thoughts as Delilah pulled the conveyance to a halt just ahead of her.

“Hop up here next to me, and we’ll get you to church, pronto.” She shooed one of the girls to the back, and patted the seat next to her.

“Oh, no, I—” She almost said couldn’t, but stopped herself. She didn’t want to appear rude. Her mother would roll in her grave if she knew Dora had even entertained the idea of riding into town with a woman like Delilah.

“Oh, come on. Sure you can. We won’t bite.” She patted the seat again. A couple of the girls encouraged her.

The notion was appealing on one level. She didn’t want to be late for services. If she was going to woo the townsfolk to her cause, she had to do everything right. That included being timely and courteous. Besides, John Gardner had said he’d wait for her in the vestibule. She owed it to the banker to be on time.

On the other hand, arriving early aboard a surrey with a bevy of soiled doves would not advance her cause. Nor would it recommend her to the townspeople as a suitable role model to teach their children. On the contrary.

“Thank you, Mrs….” What was the woman’s surname? She never did find out.

“It’s Delilah, honey. Nobody except lawyers and bill collectors call me anything else. Come on, now. Time’s wasting.”

Chance trotted up on Silas. The mere sight of him, and the unpleasant thought of him following her the rest of the way into town, was enough to sway her decision. Dora climbed up onto the surrey, and Delilah snapped the reins.

They were late for the service anyway, and in the end Dora was relieved. Delilah had refused to drop her off before they reached the church, so she could walk the last few blocks on her own, without the company of seven prostitutes and the gambler who rode behind them.

Mercifully, John Gardner was already in his seat when Dora entered the church. She joined him. Chance, Delilah and the girls sat in back. It astonished her that no one seemed to pay them any mind. They appeared to be as welcome as the rest of the congregation. In fact, following the service, the preacher walked right up to Chance and shook his hand. She wondered if he, like Mr. Grimmer, was another of Chance’s victims at the card table.

“I’d be happy to escort you home,” John said to her on the front steps of the church after the service.

Moments ago he’d introduced her to a half-dozen businessmen, some of them members of the town council. Before she could tell them of her plan to turn the Royal Flush into a school, they’d gushed on about how wonderful it was that she’d taken over her father’s business, and oh, what a fine business it was, drawing all kinds of people to Last Call, and wasn’t that good for the town’s economy.

“She has a ride,” Chance said, appearing at her side.

“With you?” John’s face was stone.

“No, with us!” Delilah waved her over. She and the girls were already seated in the surrey.

“You came with them?”

“Oh, no, I…” How was she to explain? “I mean yes, I did, but not by design.” What on earth would he think of her? It was bad enough that she owned the Royal Flush and was living there. There were still no vacancies in town.

“Her buckboard threw a wheel,” Chance said. “Let’s go, Miss Fitzpatrick.” He took her arm and pulled her down the steps.

“Wait a minute!”

She didn’t even get to wish John Gardner a proper goodbye. A few minutes earlier, before he’d introduced her around, the banker had asked her if she’d join him for luncheon in town on Wednesday. He’d said he wanted to speak with her about her father’s mortgage. She’d hadn’t had the opportunity to reply.

John was a nice man and wildly attractive. She was surprised he wasn’t already married. She was doubly surprised he showed an interest in her, an interest that seemed to go beyond a discussion of her father’s affairs, if she was reading his eyes and his mannerisms correctly.

“Wednesday, then,” she called out to him on impulse.

“I’ll pick you up. Noon all right?” His smile was like sunshine.

“Perfect.”

Chance looked positively irritated as he helped her onto the surrey. Delilah drove them out of sight before she had an opportunity to wave goodbye to John.

“I’d watch him, if I were you,” Delilah said, as she guided the surrey onto the bumpy road leading out to the ranch.

“Mr. Wellesley?” she said, glancing back at Chance, who followed them on Silas.

“Him, too. But I meant the other one. That banker.”

“Why do you say that? Mr. Gardner seems like a perfectly amiable gentleman.”

Delilah arched a brow at her. “He may be, on first blush and all, but there’s somethin’ about the man I never liked. Can’t exactly put my finger on what it is, but I’d be careful if I was you.”

It was clear that, despite what the other townspeople thought of Delilah and her girls, John Gardner did not approve of them. That, in and of itself, might be the sole motive behind Delilah’s dislike of the man. Dora brushed it off.

“You’d best listen to her,” one of the girls whispered in her ear.

Dora slid around on her seat. “Daisy, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And I’m Iris,” the girl sitting next to her said. “And this here’s Lily—” she nodded at the girl to her left, then pointed to the back “—and Columbine and Rose.” The two girls waved to her from the back seat.

“You’re all named after flowers. What an odd coincidence.”

They laughed, all except Lily, who was the most striking. Dora guessed her to be about her own age, twenty-five or so. A tumble of dark hair framed her delicate features and set off sharp green eyes that watched Dora like a hawk.

“No coincidence,” Delilah said. “I rename each of my girls when they first come to work for me. It’s better that way. Gives ’em a fresh start.”

Fresh start was not exactly the term Dora would have used to describe a woman’s entrance into employment at the Royal Flush. All the same, she didn’t wish to appear rude, nor did she wish to probe.

“Lily makes all the gentlemen call her by her proper name,” Iris said.

Delilah rolled her eyes.

“Which is?” Dora looked to Lily herself to answer.

“Mary Lou Sugrah,” Iris blurted.

Lily shot her a look. “Miss Sugrah to you.”

The girls dissolved into giggles.

Dora twisted around farther in her seat and smiled at the last girl, jammed into the back seat beside Rose and Columbine. She looked younger than the others, and had big doe eyes that lent her a fragile, almost childlike quality. “And what’s your name?”

The girl smiled back. “I’m Susan, ma’am. Pleased to meet you.”

“Susan? That’s not a flower name.”

Delilah snorted, and the rest of them, all except Lily, laughed.

Rose was the first to recover. “Miss Delilah named her Lazy Susan, seeing as how she’s so slow and all.”

“Slow?” Dora frowned. “At what?”

They burst into another round of laughter. Delilah tried to hush them, but eventually gave up.

Susan leaned forward so Dora could hear her. “I can only manage two or three customers a night. The other girls can double that. Why, Lily here can sometimes triple it, can’t you, Lily?”

Dora’s face grew hot.

“My record’s fourteen, but that was in the winter. The nights are longer.” Lily tipped her nose in the air and looked out across the range toward the snow-capped peaks, making it clear she was bored with the conversation.

“Oh,” Dora said, trying to hide her shock. “I…uh, see.”

“You girls hush now!” Delilah said. “Don’t be bothering Miss Dora with your stories.”

Dora turned back in her seat, grateful for the older woman’s intervention.

“Don’t pay ’em no mind. They’re ninnies, most of ’em. Wouldn’t know how to get by in this world if it weren’t for me and your pa taking ’em in.”

Dora considered their predicament now that the Royal Flush was closed. “Surely they can get work elsewhere. There are two other saloons right here in town.”

“Don’t you worry about it. They’ll find a place. Won’t be as nice as the Flush, and they won’t be treated half as good as me and your pa treated ’em. Like daughters, is what Bill used to say.”

“Did he?” The thought of it made her feel funny inside.

“Oh, not like you, of course. Bill was wild about you. Talked about you all the time.”

“He did?”

“Oh, sure. He’d sneak off to the Springs just to get a look at you.”

“He told you that?”

“Didn’t have to. He was a fine man, your pa.” Delilah abruptly lowered her gaze, then roused the horses to pick up the pace.

Dora studied her profile as she drove the surrey toward home. Under all that face paint she was a handsome woman, and had likely been beautiful when she was young. Something about her seemed strangely familiar, yet Dora was certain she’d never seen Delilah before arriving at the Royal Flush.

“Those men that Mr. Gardner introduced me to at church…”

“Hmm?”

“They made it seem as if the whole town depends on the business my father’s saloon brings to Last Call.”

Delilah nodded. “It does. Boardinghouses, the hotel, the mercantile and livery, the laundry, the barber shop, the stage… Heck, even the other two saloons fare better because of us. Last Call’s nothing without the Flush. It was nothing before your pa arrived, and it’ll be nothing again.”

“You really think so?”

“I know so, honey. I was here before your pa quit ranching. Last Call was barely a stage stop and a few shacks.”

“Hmm.” All the same, the town would still need a school, although most of the children lived on outlying ranches. She’d confirmed that fact at church today. “Where will you go now?”

Delilah sighed. “Don’t know, exactly. But it’s time for me to move on, what with…” She paused and sucked a breath. “With the Flush closing and all.”

Dora had the oddest feeling Delilah had meant to say something else, but had stopped herself.

She thought about John Gardner’s advice to her that first day, to close the saloon until a suitable buyer could be found. Would the bank not go under, as well, if the Royal Flush closed its doors and the town’s trade dried up?

She’d hate to be responsible for an economic disaster, but she simply had no choice. She couldn’t be the proprietress of a drinking establishment and gambling house. It simply wasn’t proper. Besides, she had her heart set on opening a school. Now she wondered how she might fund it, if the town’s enterprises dwindled. Schools were often run on taxes. If Last Call had no thriving businesses, there would be no taxes.

“What am I going to do?” she said to herself.

Delilah tossed her a sober look. “You’re your pa’s girl, I can see that right off. You’ll do what’s right. That’s what he always did.”

“You thought a lot of him, didn’t you?”

She didn’t answer, and Dora took that as a yes.

Glancing back at Chance, she wondered, not for the first time, what he was hiding—or hiding from. If she closed the saloon now, she’d never find out. She’d also never get to know the woman whom she’d come to believe had known her father better than anyone else.

You’re your pa’s girl.

Was she?

That afternoon, while the staff was assembled in the dining room sharing their last Sunday dinner together, and while Chance Wellesley was across the hall packing his bag, Dora stood in front of the walnut bureau in her father’s bedroom and, for the first time since she’d arrived at the ranch, went through his personal belongings.

She realized she knew little about him except what she’d gleaned from his letters and what other people had told her. Opinions as to what kind of a man he was diverged wildly.

Her mother had called him reckless, a dreamer, a poor husband and an unsuitable father who’d abandoned them in favor of a carefree life. But that’s not the impression she’d gotten from speaking with the people she’d met here, or from reading his recently discovered letters to her.

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