Make-believe betrothal

Rock-solid and reliable, confirmed bachelor Caleb McCoy thought nothing could rattle him—until he discovers he needs to pose as Anna Bishop’s intended groom. After saving her life, his honorable code bid Caleb watch over the innocent beauty. And a pretend engagement is the only way to protect her from further harm.

Raised by a single mother and suffragist, Anna doesn’t think much of marriage—and she certainly doesn’t plan to try it herself. But playing Caleb’s blushing bride-to-be makes her rethink her independent ways, because their make-believe romance is becoming far too real…

Prairie Courtships: Romance on the range

“The thought of people believing we are engaged is actually quite amusing.”

“Yes,” Caleb replied, his voice gruff, though his expression remained hidden from her.

“There’ll be no need for me to burden your sister with a houseguest.”

“Likely not.”

This conversation was embarrassing enough without looking him in the face. He’d echoed her sentiments. Which was perfect. Excellent. Although none of her resolute thinking explained why she became instantly tongue-tied the instant he entered a room.

“Thank you, Mr. McCoy, for everything. Truly. I hope I haven’t seemed ungrateful.”

It’s just that you tie me in knots, and I’ve never been the tied-in-knots-over-a-man sort of person.

He stuck his hands into his pockets and avoided looking directly at her. “Caleb.” He cleared his throat. “I saved your life. I think that puts us on a first-name basis.”

“I amend my apology. Thank you, Caleb. And you must call me Anna.”

She tripped a bit over the last syllable.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Anna.”

Her stomach fluttered. The use of her name lent an air of intimacy to the exchange. She’d never been particularly fond of her name. She liked hearing Caleb say it. She liked hearing him say her name very much.

SHERRI SHACKELFORD is an award-winning author of inspirational books featuring ordinary people discovering extraordinary love. A reformed pessimist, Sherri has a passion for storytelling. Her books are fast-paced and heartfelt with a generous dose of humor. She loves to hear from readers at sherri@sherrishackelford.com. Visit her website at sherrishackelford.com.

The Engagement Bargain

Sherri Shackelford

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Therefore if any man be in Christ

he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.

—2 Corinthians 5:17

This book is dedicated to Shelley Miller-McCoy and Renee Franklin, because some women will always be ahead of their time.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Outside the Savoy Hotel, Kansas City, Kansas 1884

“Remind me again why we’re here.” Caleb McCoy glared at the growing mass of people jostling into his space.

He didn’t like Kansas City. There were too many people in too little area. A man could hardly breathe. He’d much rather be home. Working. The sooner they were on their way home to Cimarron Springs, the better.

His sister, JoBeth, flashed a wry grin. “You’re here because my husband obviously forced you.”

JoBeth’s husband, Garrett, had been unable to accompany his wife to the suffragist rally in support of a sixteenth amendment to the constitution, an amendment for the women’s vote.

Jo had been adamant on attending.

Fearing for her safety, Garrett had strong-armed Caleb instead. The opposition to the women’s movement had been disruptive on more than one occasion.

The buildings surrounding the tiny grassy square loomed over Caleb like brick-and-mortar sentinels. As the time for the suffragist speech neared, the mood of the crowd had shifted from lazy joviality into restless impatience.

His sister adjusted the gray knit shawl draped around her shoulders against the brittle fall breeze. “As you’re quite well aware, I’m here for Anna Bishop’s speech. This is the closest she’s come in the year since we’ve been corresponding, and the best chance I have to see her in person again. If you’d met her when she traveled through Cimarron Springs last fall, you wouldn’t be so surly.”

“And yet she never replied to your telegram.”

Jo pursed her lips. “It’s possible she never received my message. She travels quite a bit.”

Caleb mumbled a noncommittal response. Having been raised with five younger brothers, Jo was tougher than tanned leather. She was smart and independent, but vulnerable in the relationships in her life. Fiercely loyal, she naturally expected the same in her friends.

A good head taller than most of the women in the crowd, and several inches above the men, Caleb searched for any sign of dissention. “There’s no trouble yet. That’s a relief, at least. The sooner this speech is underway, the sooner it’s over.”

A faint, disgruntled snort sounded beside him.

While his sister had maintained an active correspondence with the prominent suffragist, the fact that Miss Bishop hadn’t responded to Jo’s most recent telegram had left him uneasy. “What do we know about Miss Bishop, anyway?”

“Well, she’s the current darling of the suffragist movement, a sought-after speaker for the cause and an outspoken advocate for women’s rights. You can’t possibly find fault in any of that.”

“An absolute paragon.”

“She must be. You wouldn’t believe the names people call her or the threats she receives. It’s positively nauseating.”

A grudging admiration for the suffragist’s conviction filtered through his annoyance. His work as a veterinarian introduced him into people’s lives during unguarded moments, and he wasn’t naive to the injustices women faced. Men who were cruel to animals were just as apt to be violent toward the women and children in their lives. And yet a man who beat his horse was more likely to be censured or fined than a man who abused his wife.

Jo chucked him on the shoulder. “Even if Garrett forced you to accompany me, it’s good for you to get out once in a while. You talk to animals more than people.”

“That’s my job,” he grumbled. “Animals don’t expect small talk.”

Undaunted by his annoyance, she slipped her arm through the crook of his elbow. “I’ve been saddled with a male escort to an event celebrating the independence of women. You’re lucky I’m not insulted.”

“Then you should have mentioned that to your overprotective husband.”

Jo sighed, her expression rueful. “And let you spend the day alone? Again? You’re becoming too set in your ways. You’re turning into a hermit. Everyone thinks you’re still sweet on Mary Louise.”

“I’m not—”

“Shush. Anna is about to speak.”

Caleb lifted his eyes heavenward. He wasn’t a man who sought attention. He wasn’t a man who liked crowds. That didn’t make him a recluse. He lived a good life. He had a thriving practice and he enjoyed his work. He’d tried his hand at romance once already. He’d been sweet on Mary Louise, but she’d chosen his younger brother instead. Since then he’d never had the desire to court anyone else.

With four brothers altogether, a confirmed bachelor in the family was hardly a great tragedy.

A smattering of applause drew his attention toward the podium. A nondescript woman in a gray dress took the stage and spoke a few words in a voice that barely carried beyond the first few rows of standing people.

Jo tugged her arm free. “I can’t hear a thing. I’m moving closer.”

She forged a path through the crowd, and he reluctantly followed. The scores of people pressing nearer had exhausted the oxygen from the space. Yanking on his collar, he sucked in a breath of heavy air. Bodies brushed against him, and sweat dampened the inside band of his hat. As the square had grown congested with late arrivals, the audience had abandoned their picnics and stood. He picked his way over the baskets and blankets littering the ground.

His heel landed in something squishy. Glancing down, he caught sight of the cherry pie he’d just decimated. No one cast an accusing glare in his direction, not that Jo paused long enough for him to apologize. He limped along behind her, dragging his heel through the flattened grass in a futile attempt to clean the sticky filling from his boot.

Near as he could tell, the gathering was an unequal mix of women to men. Judging from the expressions on their faces, the spectators were split between supporters and curiosity seekers. Jo charged ahead and found a spot near the barricades separating the makeshift stage from the audience. A young girl, no more than eight or nine years old in a bright yellow dress and white pinafore, scooted in beside Caleb. She rested her chin on the barricade and stared at the podium.

Caleb frowned.

While the onlookers currently appeared harmless, this wasn’t the place for an unattended child. “Shouldn’t you be at home? Or in school or something?”

Two dark blond braids rested on the girl’s shoulders, and she blinked her solemn gray eyes. “She’s the prettiest lady I ever saw.” The girl’s voice quivered with admiration.

“The prettiest lady I’ve ever seen.”

“You like her, too?”

“No, that is....”

The woman on the stage announced Anna Bishop, and the girl’s face lit up.

Caleb held his explanation. He’d been correcting his younger brothers’ speech for years, and the habit was ingrained.

The girl in the yellow dress rose onto the balls of her feet and stared. Caleb followed her gaze and froze. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and looked again. Anna Bishop couldn’t have been much older than her midtwenties or thereabouts. Her dark hair was smoothed away from her face and capped with a pert velvet hat decorated with an enormous teal plumed feather. Her skin was radiant, clear and pale, her cheeks blushed with excitement.

The cartoons he’d seen in the newspapers had depicted Miss Bishop as a dreary spinster with a pointed jaw and beady eyes. Having expected a much less flamboyant person, he fixated on the vibrant details. Her satin dress matched her feathered hat in the same deep, rich shade of turquoise. Rows of brilliant brass buttons created a chevron pattern mimicking a military style. The material at her waist was draped and pulled back into a modest bustle, the flounces lined with rope fringe.

She glanced his way, and he caught a glimpse of her eyes. Blue. Clear, brilliant blue.

His heartbeat skittered before resuming its normal rhythm. Miss Bishop marched up the stairs and exchanged a few words with the woman who’d made the introduction, then faced her audience.

“I am here as a person whose opinions, according to the laws of this nation, are of no merit to my community. I am here as a soldier in a great Civil War to amend this gross injustice,” she declared, her lyrical voice pulsating with each word.

As she detailed the importance of the amendment, her eyes flashed, and the passion in her voice swelled. “We live in a country founded on the right of revolution and rebellion on the part of those suffering from intolerable injustice. We cannot fail to recognize the injustices heaped on one half of the population simply because that half is female. The Fifteenth Amendment was progress, but there is more to be done. If the question of race has been removed as a restriction, must the question of gender stand between us and the vote?”

Caleb forgot the crowds, he forgot the little girl standing beside him. He forgot everything but the woman on the stage. She was captivating. Her passion infectious, her furor beguiling.

He leaned forward, his grip on the barricade painful. Loosening his hold, he studied the rapt audience. He wasn’t the only person riveted. Jo appeared equally enthralled by the charismatic speaker, as did most of the folks standing near the front. With each subsequent declaration, Miss Bishop’s enthusiasm held the audience in captivated silence.

Caleb exhaled a heavy breath and shook his head.

Just his luck. The one woman who’d caught his attention in the time since his childish infatuation with Mary Louise was a suffragist. A woman who, according to the newspaper clippings Jo collected, considered men an unnecessary nuisance and marriage a legalized form of bondage. If Jo hadn’t been standing beside him, he’d have hightailed it out of there. The last time he’d noticed a girl, he’d wound up with his heart broken and a whole passel of trouble besides.

“Go home to your mother,” a hoarse voice near his left shouted, jarring Caleb from his glum ponderings.

“I think her mother is here!” Another jeered.

“Yeah,” a third man bellowed. “How about you do something useful? Find yourself a husband.”

A chorus of titters followed.

Caleb yanked upright, blinking as though he’d been awakened from a dream. The growing hostility in the crowd sent a slither of apprehension up spine.

The dissenters remained buried in the confusion of people. Anonymous in their enmity. Cowards.

He glanced at the little girl in the yellow dress, then leaned down. “Where are your parents?”

She pointed at the Savoy Hotel across the crowded square.

Caleb tugged on Jo’s sleeves and nodded toward the girl. “She shouldn’t be here.”

Jo’s eyes widened, clearly noticing Miss Bishop’s young admirer for the first time. “Is she all alone?”

“Near as I can tell.”

His sister tightened her bonnet over her dark hair, tossed a wistful glance at the podium, then sighed. “The atmosphere here is growing hostile. We should take her home.”

He stepped back and let Jo pass before him.

A gunshot sounded.

Someone screamed.

Miss Bishop’s brilliant turquoise skirts disappeared behind the podium. In an instant the scene descended into chaos. A man tripped and slammed into his back, shoving Caleb forward, and he careened into Jo. They crashed over the barrier. He angled his body and took the brunt of her weight, knocking the wind from his lungs. His ears rang, and he shielded Jo with his arm, searching for the girl in yellow.

She stood in the midst of the stampede, her eyes wide, her hands covering her face. The crowd parted around her like water skirting a boulder.

Caleb pushed off and forced his way through the fleeing mob. A sharp heel dug into his foot. A shoulder knocked him off balance. With a burst of strength, he lifted the girl into his arms, turned and leaped back over the toppled barricade.

The mob pushed and shoved, scattering like buckshot away from the podium. A cacophony of deafening voices shouted as people were separated in the confusion. While disorder ruled, Caleb crouched behind the limited protection of the barricade with his sister and the girl, shielding them as best he could with his outstretched arms. He’d rather take his chances with a stray bullet than risk getting trampled beneath the fleeing spectators.

After several tense minutes that seemed to last an eternity, the ground ceased vibrating. The noise lessened. A gentle breeze stirred the hair at the nape of his neck.

He chanced lifting his head, astonished by the sudden silence. In an instant the square had cleared. Only a few people remained, looking dazed but uninjured.

Jo shoved her bonnet from her face. “Is everyone all right?”

The little girl nodded. She straightened and brushed at her yellow skirts, appearing no worse for wear.

A panicked voice shouted behind him. “We need a doctor!”

Caleb searched for the source of the frantic call. The dispersing crowd had all but emptied the grassy square, taking cover in the nearby hotels and businesses, leaving a mess of blankets and overturned baskets in their wake. Caleb pushed himself upright and reached for Jo.

She yanked her hand from his protective grasp. “Find out who needs a doctor, and I’ll take care of this little sprite.”

“I’m a veterinarian.”

“You’re better than nothing,” Jo declared with her usual blunt edge. “Can you see Anna? Is she all right?”

“She took cover as soon as the pandemonium started. I’m sure she’s fine.”

His answer was mostly truthful. While his attention had been focused on Jo and the young girl, he’d caught a glimpse of Anna’s turquoise blue dress near the podium.

“Help,” the frenzied voice called. “We need help.”

Though reluctant to lose sight of his sister, Caleb knew Jo better than most anyone. She wouldn’t put herself in unnecessary danger. She was smart and resourceful. They had to separate.

He touched her sleeve. “Whatever happens, meet me in the lobby of the Savoy at noon. That’s twenty minutes.”

At his easy capitulation, Jo’s expression lost its stubborn set. “Noon.” She reached for the girl’s hand. “We’re going to find your parents. What’s your name?”

The girl pressed her lips together, as though holding back her answer.

She shook her head, and her two long braids whipped around her neck. “I’m not s’posed to tell strangers.”

Jo shrugged. “That’s all right. You don’t have to tell me. My name is Jo. Can I least walk you back to the hotel?”

The girl screwed up her face in concentration. “To mama?”

“Yes, to your mother.”

The girl nodded.

Satisfied Jo had control of the situation, Caleb spun around and pushed his way through the knot of people toward the frantic voice. He broke through to the center, and his stomach dropped.

Anna Bishop lay sprawled on her back, a growing pool of blood seeping from beneath her body. Though ashen, she blinked and took a shuddering breath. The white banner across her chest was stained crimson near the point where the chevron ends met at her hip. The gray-haired woman kneeling beside her clutched Anna’s limp hand in both of hers.

Caleb swallowed around the lump in his throat. “She needs a surgeon.”

The woman’s eyes filled with tears. “The streets are clogged with carriages. The hotel is closer. She’s losing so much blood. I’m not strong enough to carry her.” Her voice caught. “Help us, please.”

“I’ll do whatever I can.”

He knelt beside Miss Bishop and took her limp wrist in his hand, relieved by the strong pulse thumping beneath his fingers.

Anna’s stunned blue eyes stood out starkly against her pale, almost translucent skin, providing the only color in her pallid face. Even her lips were white with shock. At the sight of such a bold woman struck down in such a cowardly fashion, raw emotion knifed through him.

Who had such fear in their heart that they’d fight words with bullets?

A fierce protectiveness welled in his chest. Whoever had done this might still be near.

“Miss Bishop,” Caleb spoke quietly. “I’m going to take you back to the hotel. I’m going to help you.”

For a dazzling moment she’d appeared invincible. The truth sent his stomach churning. She was just as fragile, just as vulnerable as any other mortal being.

She offered him the barest hint of a nod before her eyelids fluttered closed, blotting out the luminous blue color.

“Don’t give up,” Caleb ordered.

Seeing her on that stage, he’d recognized a woman who didn’t shrink from a fight. If she needed a challenge, he’d give her one.

“Don’t you dare let them win.”

* * *

The words drifted over Anna. She’d already lost. She was going to die for the cause.

At least her death would not be ordinary.

Clenching her jaw, Anna fought toward the surface of her consciousness.

Don’t you dare let them win.

The opposition would not have the satisfaction of her death. She’d traveled to Kansas City alone, an unusual occurrence. The speech had started well. There’d been hecklers. There were always hecklers. Anna had learned to ignore them.

Then she’d heard the shot.

The truth hadn’t registered until searing pain had lanced through her side.

For a moment after the disruption, the world had gone silent. Disbelief had held her immobile. She’d looked in horror as a dark, growing stain had marred her turquoise day dress. The ground tilted. She’d staggered and her knees buckled.

Her mother had advised her against speaking in such a small venue. Reaching a few hundred people wasn’t worth the effort when crowds of thousands awaited them back East. Grand gestures were needed for a grand cause.

Two ladies from the Kansas chapter of the movement hovered over her, shouting for help. She’d met them this morning—Miss Margaret and the widow, Mrs. Franklin.

A dark-haired man knelt at her side and pressed his palm against the wound, stemming the flow of blood. Anna winced. The stranger briefly released the pressure, and she glanced down, catching sight of a jagged hole marring the satin fabric of her favorite teal blue dress. She always wore blue when she needed extra courage.

The man gently raised her hip to peer beneath her, and she sucked in a breath.

“It’s not bad.” The man’s forest-green eyes sparked with sympathy. “The bullet has gone through your side. Doesn’t look like it struck anything vital.”

Her throat worked. “Are you a doctor?”

“A veterinarian.”

Perhaps her death would not be quite so ordinary after all.

The absurdity of the situation lent Anna an unexpected burst of energy. “Will you be checking me for hoof rot?”

“I’ll do whatever is necessary.” The man glanced at the two women hovering over them. “If the hotel is our only option, we must leave. At once. You keep fighting, Miss Bishop.”

She was weary of fighting. Each day brought a new battle, a new skirmish in the war for women’s rights. Each day the parlor of her mother’s house in St. Louis filled with women begging her for help. Though each problem was only a single drop in the oceans of people swirling around the world, she felt as though she was drowning. She’d given all her fight to the cause, to the casualties subjugated by an unfair and biased system. She didn’t have any fight left for herself.

Mrs. Franklin lifted her gaze to the nearby buildings, then jerked her head in a curt nod. “It isn’t safe for her here. I’ve sent two others to fetch a surgeon and notify the police. Someone else may be hurt.”

“I’ll see to Miss Bishop,” the man said, “if you want to check for additional injuries.”

“Maggie will stay here and coordinate with the authorities,” she said, her expression stalwart. “I’ll remain with Miss Bishop.”

Anna nearly wept with gratitude. Despite his reassuring words, the man kneeling at her side was a stranger, and she’d never been comfortable around men. Her encounters were rare, often tied with opposition to the cause, and those men mostly looked at her with thinly veiled contempt. Or, worse yet, speculation. As though her call for independence invited liberties they would never dream of taking with a “proper” woman.

The man ripped Anna’s sash and tied it around her waist as a makeshift bandage. All thoughts of men and their rude propositions and knowing leers fled. The pain in her side was like a fire spreading through her body. It consumed her thoughts and kept her attention focused on the source of her agony.

The stranger easily lifted her into his arms, and her head spun. Her eyelids fluttered, and he tucked her more tightly against his chest.

A wave of nausea rose in the back of her throat, and her head lolled against his shoulder. What reason did she have for trusting this man? Someone wanted her dead. For all she knew, he’d fired the shot. With only the elderly Mrs. Franklin as her sentry, there was little either of them could do if his intentions were illicit. Yet she was too weak to refuse. Too weak to fight.

“Who are you?” she asked.

He picked his way over the debris left by the fleeing crowd. “I’m Caleb McCoy. I’m JoBeth Cain’s brother.”

Her eyes widened. “Is Jo here?”

He nodded. “We’re staying at the Savoy Hotel, same as you. Jo was hoping to see you.”

Over the past year, Jo’s letters had been a lifeline for Anna. Her glimpse into Jo’s world had been strange and fascinating. Anna had been raised with an entirely different set of values. Husbands were for women who lived a mediocre existence. As her mother so often reminded her, Anna had been groomed for the extraordinary.

The cause was her purpose for existing.

Her mother had been fighting for women’s rights since before Anna was born. There were moments when Anna wondered if her birth had been just another chance for her mother to draw attention to the suffragist movement. Women didn’t need men to raise children. They didn’t need men to earn money. They didn’t need men for much of anything, other than to prove their point. Her mother certainly hadn’t been forthcoming about the details of Anna’s father.

He doesn’t matter to me, why should he matter to you?

Why, indeed.

The pain wasn’t quite so bad anymore, and Anna felt as though she was separating from her body, floating away and looking at herself from a great distance.

Mr. McCoy adjusted his hold, and her side burned.

She must have made a noise because he glanced down, his gaze anguished. “Not much farther, Miss Bishop.”

An appropriate response eluded her. She should have answered Jo’s telegram. When Jo had discovered Anna was speaking in Kansas, she’d requested they meet. Anna had never replied. She couldn’t afford to be distracted, and Jo’s world held an undeniable fascination.

Pain slashed through her side. “Will you tell Jo that I’m sorry for not answering sooner?”

“You can tell her yourself.”

Jo was intelligent and independent, and absolutely adored her husband. She had children, yet still worked several hours a week as a telegraph operator.

Anna had never considered the possibility of such a life because she’d never seen such a remarkable example. Marriages of equality were extremely rare, and if Anna let her attention stray toward such an elusive goal, she lost sight of her true purpose. Besides, for every one example of a decent husband, her mother would reply with a hundred instances of drunkenness, infidelities and cruelty. Unless women obtained a modicum of power over their own fates, they’d forever be at the mercy of their husbands.

Mr. McCoy kicked aside a crushed picnic basket, and Anna’s stomach plummeted. Discarded blankets and the remnants of fried chicken and an apple pie had been crushed underfoot. “Was anyone else hurt?”

“Not that I know of.”

Disjointed thoughts bobbed through her head. This was the first time her mother had trusted her with a speech alone. Always before, Victoria Bishop had picked and pecked over every last word. This was the first time Anna had been trusted on her own.

The concession was more from necessity than conviction in Anna’s abilities. Her mother had been urgently needed in Boston for a critical task. The Massachusetts chapter had grossly underestimated the opposition to their most current state amendment vote, and the campaign required immediate reinforcement. More than ever, Anna must prove her usefulness.

Maybe then she’d feel worthy of her role as the daughter of the Great Victoria Bishop. The St. Louis chapter was meeting on Friday. Anna had to represent her mother. She’d arranged to leave for St. Louis tomorrow.

She’d never make the depot at this rate. “I have to change my train ticket.”

Mr. McCoy frowned. “It’ll wait.”

“You don’t waste words, do you, Mr. McCoy?”

A half grin lifted the corner of his mouth. “Nope.”

The sheer helplessness of the situation threatened to overwhelm her. She wasn’t used to being dependent on another person. She’d certainly never been carried by anyone in the whole of her adult life. She felt the warmth of his chest against her cheek, the strength of his arms beneath her bent knees. She was vulnerable and helpless, the sensations humbling.

Upon their arrival in the hotel lobby, Jo rushed toward them. “Oh, dear. What can I do?”

Though they’d only met in person the one time, the sight of Jo filled Anna with relief. Jo’s letters were lively and personal, and she was the closest person Anna had to a friend in Kansas City.

“She’s been shot.” Caleb stated the obvious, keeping his voice low.

Only a few gazes flicked in their direction. The people jamming the lobby were too busy, either frantically reuniting with their missing loved ones or nursing their own bumps and bruises, to pay the three of them much notice.

Mr. McCoy brushed past his sister and crossed to the stairs. “They’ve sent for a surgeon, but we’re running out of time. Fetch my bag and meet me in your room.”

“Why not mine?” Anna replied anxiously. Moving to another room was another change, another slip away from the familiar.

“Because we still don’t know who shot you,” Mr. McCoy said. “Or if they’ll try to finish what they started.”

Jo gave her hand a quick squeeze. “Caleb will take care of you. My room isn’t locked. I’ll let them know where to send the doctor, and I’ll be there in a tick.”

Panic welled in the back of Anna’s throat. All of the choices were being ripped away from her. She’d always been independent. As a child, her mother had insisted Anna take charge of her own decisions. The idea of putting her life in the hands of this stranger terrified her.

Caleb took the stairs two at a time. Though she sensed his care in ensuring she wasn’t jostled, each tiny movement sent waves of agony coursing through her, silencing any protests or avowals of independence she might have made. Upon reaching Jo’s room, he pushed open the door and rested her on the quilted blanket covering the bed.

The afternoon sun filtered through the windows, showcasing a cloudless sky. The sight blurred around the edges as her vision tunneled. Her breath strangled in her throat. Her heartbeat slowed and grew sluggish.

Mr. McCoy studied her wound, keeping his expression carefully blank. A shiver wracked her body. His rigidly guarded reactions frightened her more than the dark blood staining his clothing.

“Am I going to die?” Anna asked.

And how would God react to her presence? She’d had Corinthians quoted to her enough over her lifetime that the words were an anathema.

Let your women keep silent in the churches: for it is not permitted unto them to speak.

And since women were not allowed to speak in church, they should not be allowed to speak on civic matters. Were they permitted to speak in heaven?

Mr. McCoy’s lips tightened. “You’re not going to die. But I have to stitch you up. We have to stop the bleeding, and I can’t wait for the surgeon. It won’t be easy for you.”

She adjusted her position and winced. “I appreciate your candor.”

He must have mistaken her words as a censure because he sighed and knelt beside the bed, then gently removed her crushed velvet hat and smoothed her damp hair from her forehead. His vivid green eyes were filled with sympathy.

A suffragist shouldn’t notice such things, and this certainly wasn’t the time or place for frivolous observations, but he really was quite handsome with his dark hair and warm, green eyes. Handsome in a swarthy kind of way. Anna exhaled a ragged breath. Her situation was obviously dire if that was the drift of her thoughts.

“Miss Bishop,” he said. “Anna. It’s your choice. I’m not a surgeon. We can wait. But it’s my educated opinion that we need to stop the bleeding.”

Every living thing died eventually—every blade of prairie grass, every mosquito, every redwood tree. She’d been wrong before—death, no matter how extraordinary a life one lived on earth, was the most ordinary thing in the world.

Feeling as though she’d regained a measure of control, Anna met his steady gaze. “Are you a very good veterinarian?”

“The best.”

He exuded an air of confidence that put her at ease. “Then, do what needs to be done.”

She barely managed to whisper the words before blackness swirled around her. She hoped he had enough fight left for both of them.

Chapter Two

She’d trusted him. She’d trusted Caleb with her life. He prayed her trust wasn’t misplaced because the coming task filled him with dread.

After tightening the bandage on Anna’s wound, Caleb shrugged out of his coat and rolled up his sleeves. The door swung open, revealing Jo who clutched his bag to her chest. The suffragist from the rally appeared behind his sister. He’d lost sight of her earlier; his attention had been focused elsewhere, but she’d obviously been nearby.

The older woman glanced at the bed. “Where is the surgeon? Hasn’t he arrived yet?”

“I’m afraid not.” Caleb lifted a corner of the blood-soaked bandage and checked the wound before motioning for his sister. “Keep pressure on this.” He searched through his bag and began arranging his equipment on the clean towel draped over the side table. “Unless the doctor arrives in the next few minutes, I’m stitching her up myself.”

He’d brought along his case because that’s the way he always packed. When his services were needed on an extended call, he threw a change of clothing over his instruments so he wasn’t hampered by an extra bag. He’d packed for this trip the same way by rote.

Swiping the back of his hand across the perspiration beading on his forehead, he sighed. Perhaps Jo was partially right, perhaps he was growing too set in his ways.

The suffragist clenched and unclenched her hands. “You’re the veterinarian, aren’t you?”

Caleb straightened his instruments and set his jaw. Anna didn’t have time for debate. “It appears I’m the best choice you’ve got right now.”

“I’m Mrs. Franklin.” The suffragist stuck out her hand and gave his a fierce shake. “I briefly served as a nurse in the war. I can assist you.”

“Excellent.” A wave of relief flooded through him. “I’ve got alcohol, bandages and tools in my bag. There’s no ether, but I have a dose of laudanum.” He met the woman’s steady gaze. “I’m Caleb McCoy. This is my sister, JoBeth Cain.”

Mrs. Franklin tilted her head. “I thought you must be related. Those green eyes and that dark hair are quite striking.” The woman’s eyes filled with tears. “Anna is tough. She’ll do well.” She pressed both hands against her papery cheeks. “I requested her appearance. I had no idea something like this would happen.”

Jo snorted. “Of course you didn’t. Assigning blame isn’t going to stop a bullet. Caleb, tell us what to do.” She lifted a pale green corked bottle from his bag. “And why do you have laudanum, anyway?”

“Got it from the doc when John’s prize stallion kicked me last spring.” Caleb rolled his shoulder, recalling the incident with a wince. John Elder raised horses for the cavalry, and his livelihood depended upon his horses’ continued good health. Caleb’s dedication had left him with a dislocated shoulder and a nasty scar on his thigh from the horse’s sharp teeth. “I figured the laudanum might come in handy one day. I’ll need the chair. You’ll have to sit on the opposite side of the bed.”

He uncorked the still-full bottle and measured a dose into the crystal glass he’d discovered on the nightstand. Jo rested her hip on the bed and raised Miss Bishop’s shoulders. Anna moaned and pulled away.

Caleb held the glass to her lips. “This tastes foul, but you’ll appreciate the benefits.”

A fine sheen of sweat coated Miss Bishop’s forehead. Her brilliant blue eyes had glazed over, yet he caught a hint of understanding in her disoriented expression. He tipped the glass, and she took a drink, then coughed and sputtered.

“Easy there,” Caleb soothed. “Just a little more.”

Jo quirked one dark eyebrow. “For a minute there, I thought you were going to say, easy there old girl.”

Miss Bishop pushed away the glass. “This old girl has had enough.”

“Don’t go slandering my patients,” Caleb offered with a half grin. “I’ve never gotten a complaint yet.”

She flashed him a withering glance that let him know exactly what she thought of his assurances. “The next time you have a speaking patient, we’ll compare notes.”

He was heartened Miss Bishop had retained her gumption. She was going to need it.

After ensuring she’d taken the full dose, he rested the glass on the table and adjusted the pillow more comfortably behind Miss Bishop’s head. “You’ll be sound asleep in a minute. This will all be over soon.”

“I have an uneasy feeling this is only the beginning, Mr. McCoy.” She spoke hoarsely, her eyes already dulled by the laudanum.

“You’ll live to fight another day, Miss Bishop. I promise you that.”

Her head lolled to one side, and she reached for Jo. “Please, let my mother know I’m fine. I don’t want her to worry.”

While Jo offered reassurances, Caleb checked the wound once more and discovered the bleeding had slowed, granting him a much-needed reprieve. He desperately wanted to wait until the laudanum took effect before stitching her up. This situation was uncharted territory. He understood an animal’s reaction to pain. He knew how to soothe them, and he took confidence in his skills, knowing his treatments were for the ultimate benefit.

People were altogether different. He wasn’t good with people in the best of situations, let alone people he didn’t know well. He never missed the opportunity to remain silent in a group, letting others carry the conversation.

Miss Bishop fumbled for his hand and squeezed his fingers, sending his heartbeat into double time. He wasn’t certain if her touch signified fear or gratitude. Aware of the curious perusal of the other two women, Caleb kept the comforting pressure on her delicate hand and waited until he felt the tension drain from Miss Bishop’s body. Once her breathing turned shallow and even, he gently extracted his fingers from her limp hold.

Satisfied the laudanum had taken effect, he doused his hands with alcohol over a porcelain bowl, then motioned for Mrs. Franklin to do the same. Without being asked, the suffragist cleaned his tools in the same solution, her movements efficient and sure.

Caleb breathed a sigh of relief. Mrs. Franklin knew her way around medical instruments. He put her age at midsixties, though he was no expert on such matters. Her hair was the same stern gray as her eyes and her austere dress, the skin around her cheeks frail. She was tall for a woman, and wiry thin. Her fingers were swollen at the knuckles, yet her hands were steady.

Jo cleared her throat. “Caleb, I never thanked you for coming with me today. I’m thinking this is a good time to remedy that.”

They exchanged a look, and his throat tightened. A silent communication passed between them, a wealth of understanding born of a shared childhood that didn’t need words.

A sudden thought jolted him. “Did you find the little girl’s parents? Was anyone else injured?”

“One question at a time.” Jo admonished. “Anna’s youngest follower discovered her mother in the lobby, frantic with worry. As you’d expect, there was much scolding and a few tears of relief. I asked around, and, as far as anyone can tell, Anna was the only person hurt.”

Relieved to set one worry aside, Caleb focused on his patient. “Most likely we’d know by now if someone else was injured.”

Or shot.

The enormity of Miss Bishop’s condition weighed on him. She’d placed her trust in him, and he wouldn’t fail her. “If Anna comes around, you’ll need to keep her calm. I’ve enough laudanum for another dose, but it’s potent, and I’d like to finish before the first measure wears off.”

He’d never been a great admirer of the concoction, and the less she ingested, the better.

Jo pressed the back of her hand against Miss Bishop’s forehead. “Don’t forget, I helped Ma for years with her midwife duties. I know what to do.”

The irony hadn’t escaped him. Of the three of them, Caleb was the least experienced with human patients, yet he had the most experience with stitching up wounds. After modestly draping Miss Bishop’s upper body, he slid his scissors between the turquoise fabric and her skin and easily sliced the soaked material away from her wound.

He held out the scissors, and they were instantly replaced with a cloth.

His admiration for the suffragist grew. “How long did you serve in the war, Mrs. Franklin?”

“It was only a few months in ’65. I’d lost both of my sons and my husband by then. Our farm was burned. There really wasn’t anything left for me to do. Nothing to do but help others.”

Caleb briefly closed his eyes before carefully tucking the draping around the bullet wound. “I’m sorry for your losses.”

Mrs. Franklin lifted her chin. “It was a long time ago. I’ve been a widow longer than I was ever married. Would you like the instruments handed to you from the right or the left?”

“The right.”

Her brisk efficiency brought them all on task. Caleb exchanged another quick look with his sister, and she flashed a smile of encouragement. Caleb offered a brief prayer for guidance and set about his work.

From that moment forward, he focused his attention on the process, certain the surgeon’s arrival was imminent. While Caleb might be the best option at the moment, he was perfectly willing to cede the process to a better option. He wasn’t a man to let false pride cloud his judgment.

Taking a deep breath, he studied the rift marring the right side of Miss Bishop’s body. He’d seen his fair share of gunshot wounds over the years. It wasn’t unheard of for careless hunters or drunken ranchers to miss their mark and strike livestock. Often the animal was put down, but depending on the location of the wound, he’d been able to save a few. His stomach clenched. Had the bullet gone a few inches to the left...

He set his jaw and accepted the needle and thread, his hands rock steady. While he worked, his pocket watch ticked the minutes away, resounding in the heavy silence. Though Miss Bishop wasn’t anything like his normal patients, the concept remained the same. He watched for signs of shock, stemmed the bleeding, cleaned the area to inhibit infection, and ensured Jo kept his patient calm.

Once he was satisfied with his stitches on the entrance wound, he swiped at his forehead with the back of his hand. “We’ll need to turn her to the side.”

Jo grasped Miss Bishop’s shoulder, and Caleb carefully tilted her onto her hip. Anna groaned, and her arm flipped onto the bed, her hand palm up, her fingers curled, the sight unbearably vulnerable.

Not even an hour earlier she’d held an entire audience enthralled with her bounding energy, and now her life’s blood drained from her body, vibrant against the cheerful tulip pattern sewn into the quilted coverlet. Impotent rage at whoever had caused this destruction flared in his chest.

He shook off the distraction with a force of will and resumed his stitching. With any luck they’d already apprehended the shooter.

Miss Bishop drifted in and out of consciousness during the procedure, but remained mostly numbed throughout his ministrations. For that he was unaccountably grateful.

Jo dabbed at Anna’s brow and murmured calming words when she grew agitated, keeping her still while Caleb worked. Mrs. Franklin maintained charge of the instruments with practiced efficiency. Despite having only met the widow moments before, their impromptu team worked well together.

Caleb tied off the last stitch and clipped the thread, then touched the pulse at Miss Bishop’s wrist, buoyed by the strong, steady heartbeat beneath his fingertips. He collapsed back in his chair and surveyed his work.

He’d kept his stitches precise and small. While he couldn’t order his usual patients to remain in bed after an injury, he’d ensure Miss Bishop rested until she healed.

With the worst of the crises behind him, the muscles along his shoulders grew taut. Mrs. Franklin sneaked a surreptitious glance at the door.

When she caught his interest, a bloom of color appeared on her cheeks. “You’ve done a fine job. But I thought... I assumed...”

“You assumed the surgeon would be here by now.” Caleb pushed forward in his chair and reached for the final bandage. “As did I.”

He’d made his choice. Instead of walking away, he’d stayed. That choice had unwittingly linked him to Miss Bishop, and he’d sever that tie as soon as the surgeon arrived. The two of them were worlds apart, and the sooner they each returned home, the better.

He sponged away the last of the blood and sanitized the wound. The instant the alcohol touched her skin, Miss Bishop groaned and arched her back.

Caleb held a restraining hand against her shoulder. “Don’t undo all of my careful work.”

She murmured something unintelligible and reached for him again. Painfully aware of his sister’s curious stare, he cradled Miss Bishop’s hand and rubbed her palm with the pad of his thumb. His touch seemed to soothe her, and he kept up the gentle movement until she calmed. The differences between them were striking. His hands were work-roughened and weather-darkened, Anna’s were pale and frighteningly delicate. A callous on the middle finger of her right hand, along with the faded ink stains where she rested her hand against the paper, indicated she wrote often.

The ease with which she trusted him tightened something in his chest. He never doubted his ability with animals. For as long as he could remember, he’d had an affinity with most anything that walked on all fours...or slithered, for that matter. Yet that skill had never translated with people. An affliction that wasn’t visited on anyone else in his family. The McCoys were a boisterous lot, gregarious and friendly. Caleb was the odd man in the bunch.

Once her chest rose and fell with even breaths, he reluctantly released his hold and sat back in his chair, then rubbed his damp fingers against his pant legs.

Her instinctive need for human touch reminded him of the thread that held them all together. All of God’s creatures sought comfort when suffering.

Voices sounded from the corridor, and Jo stood. “If that’s the surgeon, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.”

Mrs. Franklin tucked the blankets around Miss Bishop’s shoulders. “We should tidy the room and change the bedding. Perhaps Mr. McCoy should deal with any visitors we have.”

Caleb took the hint. “If I’m unable to locate the surgeon, I’ll check on Miss Bishop in half an hour.”

He snatched his coat and stepped into the corridor, then glanced around the now-empty space. He caught sight of the blood staining his vest and shirt and blew out a breath. The voices they’d heard had not been the surgeon’s, and he couldn’t visit the lobby with such a grisly appearance. The telling evidence discoloring his shirt also placed him at the rally, and he wasn’t ready to answer questions.

Or make himself a target.

He crossed to his room and quickly changed. Now that the immediacy of the situation had passed, exhaustion overtook him, and he collapsed onto the bed, clutching his head.

Of all the things that he’d dreaded when Jo had invited him to accompany her to Kansas City, he hadn’t anticipated this dramatic turn of events.

He took a few deep breaths and raked his hands through his hair, letting the emotion flow out of him. This happened sometimes. Once the emergency had been dealt with, he often experienced a wave of overwhelming exhaustion. The greater the emergency, the greater his fatigue. He scrubbed his hands down his face and stood, then stepped into the corridor and made his way to the lobby. There’d be time for resting later.

A man in a loose-fitting overcoat brushed past him on the staircase.

“Say, fellow,” the man said. “Were you at the rally this afternoon?”

“Yes. And you?”

Perhaps this gentleman knew if there had been any further injuries as a result of the shooting.

“Nope. I was supposed to be covering Miss Bishop’s speech for The Star paper. Figured I’d slip in for the last few minutes. Who wants to listen to them ladies whine? Now I gotta figure out what happened or the boss will have my hide. There was some kind of commotion, right?”

Caleb measured his words carefully. “There was a disturbance. The crowd scattered.”

“What kind of disturbance?”

Great. Now he’d gone and cornered himself into telling the whole of it. “A gunshot.”

The man’s eyes widened, and he gleefully rubbed his hands together, then splayed them. “I can see the headline now, Shot Fired Across the Bow of Suffragist Battle.”

The man’s elation turned Caleb’s stomach. Brushing past the reporter before he said anything more revealing, Caleb loped down the stairs and paused on the balcony overlooking the lobby. A discordance of noise hit him like a wall.

Having survived the encounter at the rally, scores of people from the audience had obviously congregated at the hotel to share their dramatic stories. Voices were raised in excitement, and more than one gentleman clutched a strong drink.

Caleb sucked in a breath and made his way across the room. He couldn’t have designed a better nightmare for himself. Twice in one day, he’d been forced into a crush of people.

Upon reaching the concierge desk, he waved over the gentleman in the bottle-green uniform he’d seen his sister approach earlier. “Did the surgeon arrive?”

The man lifted his hands. “Not that I know of. It’s been like this since the rally. It’s all we can do to keep the crowd contained in the lobby.” The concierge glanced left and right and ducked his head. “I caught a reporter upstairs, and there are several policemen waiting to speak with Miss Bishop. I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”

Caleb rubbed his forehead. “That would be best.”

The man cleared his throat. “I also took the liberty of removing Miss Bishop’s name from the guest register.” The man cleared his throat again. “I have your party listed in the register book as yourself, your sister and your fiancée.”

Caleb’s head shot up. “Say again?”

“I have a large staff. I can handpick the workers on the fourth floor. I cannot guarantee the characters of all my employees.”

“But fiancée?”

The man lifted his hands as though in surrender. “The title seemed the least likely one for Miss Bishop to take. Since she’s a, you know, she’s a...”

“She’s a suffragist. It’s not a profanity.”

“My apologies, sir. I can change the register.”

Caleb pictured Anna, her turquoise dress ruined, her bold speech silenced. Why would anyone want to live in the public eye? And yet he couldn’t deny her obvious appeal, the way her vivacious speech had captivated the crowd. He couldn’t imagine a better figurehead for the cause.

“No, you’ve done well,” Caleb said. “Keeping her identity hidden is best.”

As he surveyed the scene, voices ebbed and flowed around him. All of these people had come to hear her speak. He fisted his hands. Not all of them. For all he knew, the man who’d pulled the trigger was here. Waiting. Watching.

Caleb searched the faces of the spectators milling around the lobby. There was no way of knowing, no way of telling who held violence in their heart.

He raked his hands through his hair. Until they discovered the shooter, the less said, the better. What did it matter how Anna was registered? No one would know but the hotel staff.

After a few more words with the concierge about the new room arrangement, he returned upstairs and met Jo as she exited Miss Bishop’s room.

Caleb checked the corridor, ensuring the space was empty of curiosity seekers before pulling Jo aside. “It’s not safe for Miss Bishop. She needs a guard at her door. I’ve arranged for another room for you. Simply switching with Miss Bishop is out of the question. There are reporters and policemen. Not to mention whoever fired the shot is still out there.”

His sister propped her hands on her hips. “She should come home with us.”

Caleb had briefly thought the same thing, and had come up with a thousand reasons why the plan was not sound. “This isn’t our concern. Surely she has family, friends.”

A sweetheart, perhaps. The thought brought him up short. He shook his head. Nothing in the papers had ever indicated that Miss Bishop was linked with a gentleman—and that would certainly be newsworthy.

“I’ve corresponded with her for months. She doesn’t have anyone close. Her mother lives in St. Louis, but she’s in Boston for an extended stay. Besides, it’s too far for Anna to travel in her condition.”

Caleb sensed a losing battle ahead of him. This was the Jo he knew and admired. Given a problem, she immediately grasped for a solution and charged ahead.

He held out his arms in supplication and assumed his most placating tone. “Slow down. We don’t have any influence here.”

Jo slapped his hands away. “I’m not one of your animals. Stop speaking to me as though I’m a goat. Anna is my friend. She’ll need a place to rest, a quiet place to recuperate. People who care for her.”

“Jo, listen to me, even if you invited her back to Cimarron Springs, do you really think she’d accept your offer? She’s not a country girl. She’d be bored in an instant.” He indicated the elaborate appointed hallway with its hand-knotted rug and brass fixtures. “This is her world.”

Though he knew the idea was ludicrous, he couldn’t shake an impending sense of despair. He didn’t want their paths to cross any more than necessary. Anna Bishop was beautiful and witty and captivating. In the brief time he’d seen her on that stage, he’d known she was different from anyone else he’d ever met. He was drawn to her, and those feelings were disastrous.

He was a veterinarian from a small town who loathed big cities. She was a nationally renowned speaker with a following. She had a calling. There was clearly no room in her life for someone like him. He’d grown emotional over someone who hadn’t returned his affection once before. Only a fool made the same mistake twice.

His sister approached him and crowded into his space until they stood toe to toe. “She needs us.”

“Why us?” Caleb stood his ground. “Why does she need us?”

Jo glared. “Until they discover who tried to kill her, Anna is going to need a place to hide. And you’re good at hiding, aren’t you?”

With that, she pivoted on her heel and stomped down the corridor.

His burst of fury quickly died, replaced by a bone-deep weariness. He wasn’t hiding, he was simply a loner who should have stayed in Cimarron Springs where he belonged. And yet if he’d stayed at home, what would have happened to Anna? Who would have cared for her?

The answer troubled him more than he would have cared to admit. Which was why he needed as much space between them as possible, as soon as possible. Becoming embroiled in Anna’s life was out of the question.

Chapter Three

A week following the shooting, Anna staggered from bed and took a few lurching steps, determined to reestablish her independence. Winded, she collapsed onto a chair before the window. She’d considered dressing, but even the simple task of standing had become a tiring battle in her weakened condition.

From this moment on she was taking charge of her life. No more depending on others, no more sleeping the days and nights away. Except her body had refused the call to action.

The bandage wrapped around her side restricted her movements, and the slightest agitation sent a shock of pain through her side. Near tears, she rested her forehead against the chilled windowpane.

A soft knock sounded at the door. She smoothed the front of her dressing gown and tucked a lock of hair behind one ear, relieved they’d had her trunk delivered to the room when she and Jo had switched.

“It’s Mrs. Franklin,” a voice called.

Anna sat up as straight as her wound allowed. “Please, come in.”

As the door swung open, she recalled her embroidery and quickly shoved the evidence beneath her pillow. For reasons she couldn’t explain, she kept the feminine hobby to herself.

The older woman took one look at Anna and tsked. “Why didn’t you call for me? I would have helped.”

The past week was a blur of disjointed memories. Between sleeping and waking, she recalled the visits from other suffragists. The room had erupted with flowers like a meadow after a spring rain. They crowded every available surface, perfuming the air.

“I managed well enough,” Anna said. “I didn’t want to inconvenience you.”

“It’s no trouble.” Mrs. Franklin’s gray eyes clouded over. “It’s the least I can do.”

As she crossed before her, Anna caught her hand. “This wasn’t your fault.”

“You can’t blame me for feeling guilty.” The older woman paused. “Will you at least let me help you dress this morning?”

“That would be lovely. I’m tired of lazing around in my nightclothes.”

While Anna was eager to press her independence, she sensed the other woman’s need to be useful, and remained docile beneath her ministrations. The widow was the opposite of everything Anna had been taught to hold dear. Mrs. Franklin seemed to revel in her role as protector and nurturer—character traits her mother abhorred. Victoria Bishop took great pains to surround herself with the like-minded. No action was ever taken without a purpose. Independence was prized in the Bishop household. Tutors and nannies who had coddled Anna as a child were quickly corrected or dismissed.

You are not here to care for the child, Anna recalled her mother’s oft-repeated order, you are to teach the child how to care for herself.

After Anna donned her simplest outfit, a white cotton shirtwaist and brown plaid skirt, Mrs. Franklin spent several minutes fussing with her hair.

The older woman stood back and surveyed her work. “I’m no lady’s maid, but you’re presentable.”

Having done her own hair for many years, the sensation was odd. Being pampered and cared for was not nearly as repellent as it should have been. In fact, Anna quite liked the relaxing sensation. Unbidden, her mother’s fierce countenance popped into her head. Victoria Bishop had not raised her only daughter to be spoiled.

Anna took the brush from Mrs. Franklin and ran the bristles away from her temple, smoothing the wave created by her impossible curls. “It’s lovely, really. I don’t usually wear it this way.”

The widow had pinned her loose hair in a cascade atop her head. When Anna perched her hat over the arrangements, the curls framed her face. The effect softened her countenance and made her look younger, more approachable.

Mrs. Franklin tugged one of the ringlets free and let it fall against Anna’s cheek. “Oh, yes, I quite like that. You have lovely hair, my dear. If I’d had that hair back in ’45, oh the trouble I could have caused.”

Judging from the twinkle in Mrs. Franklin’s eye, Anna guessed she’d broken more than one heart. “I have a feeling you caused plenty of trouble, no matter your hair.”

“True, my dear. Quite true,” the widow answered with unabashed pride.

Anna couldn’t help but laugh with Mrs. Franklin’s reflection in the mirror. When she turned away, Anna’s smile faded.

Why was accepting assistance such a shameful weakness? If the situations were reversed, if Mrs. Franklin had needed help, Anna would have happily aided her. And yet each time she relinquished even the tiniest bit of her independence, she heard her mother’s stern disapproval. Why was the desire to look attractive such an appalling offense?

If a woman’s sole purpose in life was to attract a mate, then nature would not have given us the superior brain.

Anna patted her hair and recalled her manners. “Thank you, Mrs. Franklin, for your assistance. You’ve been absolutely indispensable. I don’t know what I would have done without you this week.”

“You must call me Izetta.”

Mrs. Franklin—Izetta—straightened the horsehair brush on the dressing table. “There’s a gentleman here to see you, if you’re up for it.”

“Mr. McCoy?” Anna’s heartbeat tripped. “He’s here?”

“No. A detective. A Pinkerton detective at that. Can you imagine?”

“Well, of course Mr. McCoy will have gone.” Anna held out her hands and studied her blunt fingernails. She mustn’t let her emotions turn at the mere thought of him. “I was only hoping for the chance to thank him properly.”

“Oh, no, Mr. McCoy hasn’t gone. He and his sister have been keeping the vultures at bay.” Mrs. Franklin folded Anna’s discarded nightgown and laid it on her trunk. “It’s been a circus, let me tell you. I don’t know what we would have done without those two.”

Anna’s memories of the past week were hazy at best. The police had questioned her briefly, but she had nothing to offer. She hadn’t seen anything, and despite the ubiquitous protestors from the opposition, she’d never been threatened with bodily harm. Or shot at, for that matter. The police had pressed her for information until Mr. McCoy had ordered them away, but not before demanding they leave a guard at her door.

Mr. McCoy’s soothing voice had been the one constant in a sea of confusion. She’d caught Jo teasing him, ribbing him for treating them all as though they were his four-legged patients, and yet she’d found the deep timbre of his reassuring voice a lifeline in the darkness. She’d been injured and out of sorts, that was all. Surely this curious fascination with the man would fade soon enough. Her fellow suffragists would not approve.

Love will ruin a woman faster than rain will ruin a parade.

Mrs. Franklin paused with her hand on the doorknob. “We kept your room number secret until that reporter grew weary of trying. After you speak with the detective, you’ll have to make some decisions.”

The door swung open, and Anna’s breath caught in her throat. “Mr. McCoy! I was expecting the Pinkerton detective.”

She desperately hoped he attributed the breathless quality of her voice to her recent injury. And surprise. Yes, she was simply surprised.

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “That’d be him.”

Her eyes widened. If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought the other man was derelict. The detective appeared to be in his late forties with a curiously rounded middle and stick limbs. As though all of his weight had congregated in his belly, starving the fat from his arms and legs. He wore an ill-fitting coat in a nondescript shade of brown which matched the shock of disordered, thinning hair covering his head.

Anna swept her arm in an arc. “I’m afraid I don’t have enough seats for all of you. I wasn’t expecting company.”

Mr. McCoy propped his shoulder against the door frame. “I’ll stand.”

How did he manage to pack such a wealth of meaning into so few words?

The detective huffed.

Annoyance radiated from Mr. McCoy’s stiff demeanor. There was obviously no love lost between the two men.

The detective straddled a chair and rested his arms on the back. “The name is Reinhart. I’m here on another case.”

A sharp ache throbbed in her temple, and Anna pressed two fingers against the pain. “I don’t follow.”

“When I’m working on a case, I pay attention to things. To everything. You never know what you might hear.”

“I see,” Anna replied vaguely, though she didn’t see at all.

Reinhart shrugged. “Anyway, I’m from St. Louis. Moved to this office last May.”

Caleb pushed off from the wall. “Just get to the point. Tell her what you told me this morning.”

The detective rubbed the salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin. “I’ve been doing some digging and I’ve heard a few things. Mind you, if you want to find the shooter, that’s a separate job. Like I said this morning, that’ll cost you extra.”

Mr. McCoy cleared his throat.

The man glared over his shoulder, his movements twitchy and nervous as a rat. “Anyway, I’ve been doing some digging, and I ain’t found nothing.”

Oddly deflated by his vague speech, Anna tilted her head. “That’s what you came here to tell me?”

“Don’t you get it? No one has claimed responsibility. No one seen nothing. Nothing.”

“I still don’t follow.”

“This is personal. Someone with a grudge against women voting wants his voice heard. He wants attention. Someone with a personal vendetta is going underground. He doesn’t want to get caught. Leastways not until the job is done right.”

While the man’s clothing and grooming might lead one to believe he was not educated, his speech let slip his intellect. Clearly playing the bumbling fool suited his work.

He glanced meaningfully at her side and Anna pressed her hand against the bandages beneath her clothing.

She sat up and winced. “Someone wants me dead. Just me?”

“That’s the way I see it.”

Blood roared in her ears. Somehow she’d pictured the act as random. A lone, crazed shooter with a grudge against women who was bent on causing an uproar. Someone determined to halt the rally.

In the back of her mind, she’d even wondered if the whole thing had been an accident. Years ago, their neighbor in St. Louis had inadvertently discharged a firearm while attempting to clean the weapon. He’d shattered the parlor window and taken a chunk out of the porch railing.

This was no accident.

This was more focused. This was personal.

As the realization sank in, her heart thumped painfully in her chest, leaving her light-headed.

The twitchy man shrugged. “That’s the problem. That’s your problem. My guess is, he’s going to try again.”

Anna searched the expectant faces staring at her. What was she supposed to do? What was she supposed to say? She glanced at Izetta who remained at her vigil near the window.

“I’ve asked the others.” The widow offered an apologetic grimace. “There’s been no great trouble with our local chapter. We’ve gotten the usual threats, of course. The occasional brick through the front window and painted slurs. But no one has taken responsibility for the shooting. Perhaps they wanted the notoriety of targeting a suffragist with a large following.”

Though no hint of censure showed in Izetta’s voice, Anna’s ears buzzed. “I’m only well-known because of my mother. I’m hardly worthy of notice otherwise.”

She thought she heard mutterings from Mr. McCoy’s direction, but when she caught his gaze, his face remained impassive.

Jo sidled through the doorway and exchanged a glance with her brother.

Anna welcomed the interruption. “Have you heard anything new?” she asked Jo.

With any luck the criminal had been found and all this conjecture was pointless.

“Nothing. But there’s a telegram from your mother. I’ve been keeping her informed of your progress. I did as you requested, I brushed over the details so she wouldn’t worry. Perhaps I blunted them too much.” Jo glanced at the curious face of the detective and cleared her throat. “Never mind. We can discuss that later. Alone.”

Anna exhaled slowly, gathering her thoughts, following Mr. McCoy’s lead by keeping her face bland. Perhaps they had kept the details too blunted. Thus far her mother had been sympathetic, but impersonal. As though she was commiserating with a distant acquaintance instead of her only daughter. Not that Anna expected her to come charging to Kansas City. Victoria Bishop had never been one for nursing the sick. She considered any weakness, even ill health, an inconvenience.

There was no need to involve anyone else in this mess, especially if the shooting was targeted at her. Anna might have been injured, but she was no victim.

Bracing her left hand on the seat, she suppressed a grimace. “Then I shall return home. To St. Louis.”

She’d been sitting upright too long, and the injury in her side had turned from a dull ache into a painful throbbing.

“Nah.” The Pinkerton detective grunted. “I don’t think that’s a good idea either. You’re known. You’re not hard to find. I ain’t that smart. Other people could do the same.”

He was plenty smart, Anna had no doubt of that. Studying the faces turned toward her, she had the distinct sensation they wanted something from her.

That she was the only person in the room who hadn’t been apprised of the predetermined plan. “What do you propose I do?”

Caleb held up his hand, silencing Reinhart. “Come to Cimarron Springs. Stay with Jo.”

A thread of anxiety coiled in her stomach. She wasn’t helpless. She wasn’t a victim. She wouldn’t be delivered onto someone’s doorstep like an unwanted package.

“And how will that attract any less attention?” Anna gritted her teeth against her clouding vision. “I do not mean to sound arrogant, Mr. McCoy, but my name is not unknown. I have dealt with reporters before. They are far wilier than one supposes. It won’t take long for them to discover where I am.”

Jo stepped forward. “Not if we give you a new name. You can be Anna Smith or something. Caleb and I will keep in touch with the detective. Cimarron Springs is quiet. You’ll have a chance to recuperate.”

A chilly perspiration beaded on her forehead. Anna couldn’t shake the sensation she was missing something in the exchange. “It’s very kind of you, but I am not unfamiliar with small towns either. Gossip is rampant, and curiosity is lethal to your plan. We’re bound to slip up sooner or later.”

The excuse sounded weak even to her own ears. She’d been a controversial figure since before she was born—the illegitimate daughter of heiress Victoria Bishop. Her mother had been singularly remorseless in her infamy. Senior ladies in their chapter had regaled Anna with stories of her mother’s brazen disregard for convention.

Anna had eventually grown old enough to hear the harsher opinions of her mother’s behavior, and suffer for them. For a time she’d ignored her notoriety. Then the parents with children attending Miss Spence’s Boarding and Day School for Girls had demanded her removal. They didn’t want their daughters’ reputations sullied by association.

Victoria Bishop had marched into the school, her heels click-clacking along the marble floors. Anna had waited outside the office, her buttoned leather boots swinging to and fro, while her mother told Miss Spence exactly what she thought of Anna’s expulsion.

A succession of tutors proficient in various subjects had followed. A more focused education, if a touch lonely. Training for solitude had served her well. Despite all the women she met in her travels, most of her time was spent alone. Traveling. Writing letters. Organizing the many separate chapters into a united front.

Proving herself worthy of her mother’s legacy.

“You’ll be there as my friend,” Jo said. “A friend who had an accident and needs some quiet.”

“It could work.” The detective spoke. “Remember, though, if you show up out of the blue with someone they ain’t never heard of before, people will talk. You gotta give them something to talk about or else they’ll make up the missing pieces on their own.”

Anna’s side was on fire, and she wasn’t opposed to resting. After her near-failed attempt at dressing herself this morning, she’d admitted the gravity of her wound. She was exhausted. Mentally and physically. Though she’d never admit her weakness, she was still grappling with the realization that someone wanted her dead.

Dead.

Jo planted one hand on her hip and drummed her fingers on the dressing table. “The last page of the Crofton County Gazette has a listing of visitors with each edition. You know the stuff, ‘Mrs. Bertrand’s two grandchildren are visiting from St. Louis. The Millers have gone to Wichita for the wedding of their niece.’ That sort of thing. How would we print Anna’s visit in the paper? That should give us some ideas.”

Caleb reached into the side pocket of his bag. “You’re brilliant, Jo. I’ve got a copy right here.”

Anna surveyed their enthusiasm with a jaded eye. A small town was simply Miss Spence’s School for Girls all over again. She’d be a pariah once the townspeople uncovered her true identity. Already, too many people knew their secret, and the McCoys didn’t strike her as proficient in subterfuge. Sooner or later someone was bound to discover the truth.

While she didn’t think the townspeople would stalk her with pitchforks and torches like the beast in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, there was bound to be awkwardness. Most small communities she’d frequented had narrower rules of propriety than larger cities.

Flipping over the paper, Caleb frowned at the last page, his eyes scanning the columns. “It’s all family visits. We’re too well known. If we dig up another McCoy cousin, they’ll figure out we’re lying soon enough. What about Garrett? Could she pretend to be a relative of his?”

“No,” Jo spoke emphatically. “Garrett’s family is quite off-limits.”

The sorrow in her voice gave Anna pause.

Caleb didn’t seem to notice. “All right then, let’s see what else.” A half grin lifted the corner of his mouth. “Here’s something interesting. ‘JoBeth Cain and her brother, Caleb McCoy, will attend the suffragist rally in Kansas City calling for an additional amendment to the constitution allowing for the women’s vote. Daughter of the renowned suffragist, Victoria Bishop, is set to give the keynote speech. Garrett Cain is escorting a prisoner to Wichita.’” Caleb shook his head. “I guess we did make the news.”

“It’s a small town.” Jo shrugged. “Everyone makes the newspaper.”

Mr. McCoy folded the paper and squinted. “Well, I’ll be, here’s something I didn’t know. ‘Mr. Frank Lancaster has brought his fiancée, Miss Vera Nelson, for an extended visit with his family. A mail-order bride advertisement was recently listed in The Kansas Post by a woman with the name of Miss Vera Nelson. Mr. Lancaster declined to comment on the happenstance.’” Caleb rubbed his chin. “I spoke with him two weeks ago when his dog had the mange. I had no idea he was considering taking a wife.”

“I suppose if you sent away for a bride like a pair of shoes from the Montgomery Ward wish book,” Jo said, “you wouldn’t want that to be common knowledge.”

Mrs. Franklin crossed her arms. “There’s nothing wrong with doing what needs to be done. I’m sure the girl had her reasons. For a woman, sometimes marriage is the only answer.”

“Wait,” Jo snapped her fingers. “That’s perfect. Marriage is our answer, as well. Anna can come to visit as your fiancée.”

“My fiancée.” Caleb’s eyes widened.

Anna started. “What?”

“You two can pretend to be engaged.”

Shocked silence filled the room. Anna recalled the scores of letters her mother had received over the years from desperate women. All of them had one thing in common—they had pinned their hopes on a man.

“No!” Anna and Caleb replied in unison.

Chapter Four

Anna leaned more heavily on her left arm. “Absolutely not. I mean no disrespect, Mr. McCoy, but I will not hide. I’m not going to change my name or pretend to be something I’m not. That goes against everything I stand for.”

She wasn’t relinquishing her independence. Killer or no killer. If the shooting had been caused by the opposition, then such a concession meant they’d won.

Jo’s arms flopped to her sides. “We can say you had a whirlwind romance.”

Caleb laughed harshly. “No one would believe it.”

“You’re right.” Jo appeared crestfallen. “Of course you’re right.”

“You’re missing the point,” Caleb said. “No one would ever look for anyone in Cimarron Springs. She might as well wear a banner and parade down Main Street.”

“True enough. Remember Elizabeth Elder’s first husband? The bank robber? He hid all his loot in a cave by Hackberry Creek. No one ever suspected a thing. You didn’t suspect him, did you, Caleb?”

“He didn’t treat his livestock very well.”

“Or his wife.” Jo’s voice strangled. “This may have escaped your notice, but people are just as important as animals.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “People are more important than livestock.”

“I was making a point. There were obvious signs of bad character.”

Caught up in the tale of the loot hidden by the creek, Anna made a noise of frustration at the sudden change of subject. “What happened to the bank robber and his poor wife?”

“He’s dead now, God rest his soul.” Jo’s voice was stripped of remorse. “Elizabeth remarried and she’s doing fine. She’s living in Paris now.”

“France?”

“Texas.”

“I see,” Anna said. “At least I think I understand.”

A little dazed by the turn of the conversation, Anna considered Mr. McCoy’s earlier denial. Why would no one believe they were engaged? The idea didn’t seem far-fetched enough to incite laughter. Disbelief, certainly. Skepticism, perhaps. But outright mocking laughter?

She studied the fidgety detective and knitted her forehead. “All we have are rumors and speculation. For all we know, they’ve captured the man responsible, and this conversation is all for naught.”

Reinhart’s continued presence, especially considering his fierce demand for payment if he provided information, struck her as suspect. What had he said before? Something about cataloguing everything he saw and heard. Why the sudden interest in an injured suffragist if no one had offered him compensation? She had the distinct impression the detective never made a move without an ulterior motive. He certainly hadn’t moved from his chair during the entire conversation.

“This isn’t your case, Mr. Reinhart,” she prompted. “You indicated that a moment before. Why are you here?”

“Because it suits me.”

He shot her a look of such naked disgust that Anna inhaled a sharp breath. The sudden effort sent a shaft of agony tearing through her side.

She’d seen that reaction before, a curious mixture of disdain and resentment. “You’re not an admirer of the women’s movement, are you?”

“A woman’s place is in the home. Not squawking out in public and making a spectacle of herself. Women are too emotional for politics.”

Izetta gasped. “How dare you!”

Mr. McCoy pushed away from the door frame, plumping up like a gathering thundercloud. Anna gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. The Bishop women were not victims.

They did not need to be saved like milquetoast princesses from a Grimm’s fairy tale. “A woman’s place is wherever she chooses.”

The detective made a great show of rolling his eyes. “If the woman wears the pants, what’s the man supposed to wear?”

“Short pants,” Izetta declared. “Especially if they insist on acting like children.”

“Say now!”

“That’s enough,” Caleb growled. “You’re not here for your opinion.”

“I don’t work for you.” The detective rested his fisted knuckles on his thighs, elbows out, one bony protrusion jutting through a hole in his sleeve. “Either way, you got a problem, Miss Bishop. A big one. This wasn’t a warning. Whoever took that shot meant to leave you dead.”

Stomach churning, Anna shifted to the edge of her seat. She’d underestimated the limits of her endurance, but she wasn’t about to let that infuriating little man witness her frailty.

Mr. McCoy’s sharp gaze rested on her ashen face. He motioned toward the detective. “You’ve had your say. If you hear anything else, let us know.”

“For a price.”

Widening his stance, Mr. McCoy fisted his hands beneath his biceps. The posture was uniquely male, a declaration of his authority.

He might be a quiet man, but she doubted anyone who knew Mr. McCoy well would readily cross him.

He leaned toward Reinhart. “For a fellow who says he’s not very smart, you seem to do all right.”

Mr. McCoy was far too perceptive by half. Hadn’t Anna thought the same thing only moments before?

Reinhart stood and tugged his ill-fitting jacket over his rounded stomach. He tipped back his head since Mr. McCoy was a good foot taller, and waved his bowed and skeletal index finger. “You know my rate. Pay or don’t. Don’t make me no never mind.”

Once he’d exited the room, Anna’s flagging reserve of strength finally deserted her. Desperate to alleviate her discomfort, she pushed off from the chair and stumbled. Mr. McCoy was at her side in an instant. He hooked his arm beneath her shoulder, carefully avoiding her injury.

“I’m quite well,” she said, and yet she found herself leaning into the bolstering support he offered.

Her stomach fluttered. This was what her mother had warned her about. Victoria Bishop had declared men the ruin of women, turning perfectly sensible ladies into churning masses of emotions—robbing them of the ability to make sensible decisions. Sheltered from even the most banal interactions with gentlemen her own age, Anna had inwardly scoffed at the exaggerated tales.

Occasionally older men had flirted with her over the years. Once in a while, a stray husband of one of their acquaintances decided that charming a suffragist was a sign of virility. She’d been singularly unmoved by the obvious ploy. Their honeyed words had sluiced off her like raindrops off a slicker.

With Mr. McCoy near, a whole new understanding dawned. This wasn’t the forced regard she usually deflected. His touch made her restless for more. There was an unexpected tenderness within him, a compassion that drew her nearer, tugging at the edges of her resolve.

“You’re not well at all.” He gingerly assisted her to the bed. “You’re exhausted. We’ve overdone it. I’ll fetch the doctor.”

“No,” Anna said, crumpling onto the mattress, too tired to care about detectives and gunshots and unassuming veterinarians who surprised her with their fierce protectiveness. “I simply need to rest.”

To her immense relief, no one argued. Instead, in a flurry of pitying looks and murmured orders to repose, Izetta and Jo reluctantly exited the room.

Only Mr. McCoy lingered, one hand braced on the doorknob, the other on the wall, as though propelling himself from the room.

Was he that eager to be free of her?

He briefly glanced over his shoulder. “Rest. We can discuss what needs to be done later.”

At least the change in position had temporarily alleviated the worst of her pain. If only her troubled thoughts were calmed as easily.

She desperately searched her memory for the events preceding the rally. A little girl had handed her a bouquet of flowers. Yellow flowers. Anna had recalled the color matched the child’s dress.

My mama says you’re a hero.

Anna was no hero. She was hiding in her room. Once she stepped out the door, she’d have to face reality. Just the idea sent a wave of fatigue shuddering through her.

You two can pretend to be engaged.

How did one simple sentence cast her emotions spinning? Disparate feelings pummeled her senses faster than she could sort them all out. She should have been more outraged by the suggestion. Her injury had obviously sapped her strength. For all her uncharacteristically mild response, she knew she should have felt as horrified as Mr. McCoy had appeared.

A lowering realization. She might be a suffragist, but she was also a woman. Not a bad-looking woman either. Anyone would have believed they were engaged. He could do worse. Anna wrinkled her nose. His opinion was of absolutely no concern.

Or was she reading him all wrong? Was he uncertain of his own appeal? No. That couldn’t possibly be the case. Certainly there were plenty of ladies in Cimarron Springs eager for the attentions of the handsome veterinarian. While she may have been relatively isolated from the normal courting and machinations of men and women, she was not completely ignorant. If she trailed him through the crowded lobby, no doubt she’d observe more than one lady casting him a second glance. Which meant he couldn’t possibly believe the problem rested with him.

Why on earth was she debating with herself?

She was wasting all sorts of time and energy on an absolutely worthless endeavor. None of her speculations mattered. The only way to navigate this mess was with facts—identify the difficulty and solve the problem. Mr. McCoy wasn’t a problem. He was simply a diversion.

A diversion who’d soon be out of her life.

Another thought sent her stomach lurching. “How did he find me, anyway? The detective. Could someone else do the same?”

“He saw me. The day of the rally, carrying you. You’re listed in the hotel register as my...as my guest.”

Long after he was gone, Anna stared at the closed door. Something about how he’d said guest piqued her curiosity.

Mr. McCoy was hiding something.

* * *

Caleb caught up with his sister and blocked her exit. “What were you thinking?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes. You do.”

“Fine.” She sniffed. “I saw the register. You’re already listed as her fiancée. The engagement seemed like an excellent idea.”

“No. It’s not.”

What if Anna discovered his deception in the guest registry, as well? With Jo spouting off about fiancées and his own collusion with the hotel, she’d never believe the two occurrences were not connected.

What would she think? He didn’t even want to contemplate the answer.

“At least everyone would quit assuming you’re mooning over Mary Louise,” Jo said.

While that idea did hold some appeal, he wasn’t letting her off the hook that easily. “Stop pushing, Jo. This is Anna’s decision.”

“Anna?”

“Miss Bishop is an intelligent, independent woman. She will make her own decisions regarding her life. If she wants help, she’ll ask.”

He kept thinking about her trunk. The week before, when they’d switched rooms, he’d carried the trunk himself. While he trusted the hotel staff, the fewer people who knew her whereabouts, the better.

The trunk had been expensive. A sturdy wooden affair with brass buckles and leather straps. Even the stack of books she’d plunked on her side table were leather bound. Her clothes were exquisitely tailored, there was nothing ready-made about Anna Bishop. Nothing at all. He’d traveled far enough away from Cimarron Springs, and he understood that even in the United States, a land built on equality, a class system prevailed. The McCoys had always been a hardworking lot who eked out a humble existence.

Judging from her wardrobe and her luggage, Anna had probably never cooked a meal for herself. He’d read the newspaper clippings Jo collected. Anna’s mother was not just Victoria Bishop; she’d been nicknamed “the heiress.” He might not know much about women, but he didn’t figure an heiress would cotton to the kind of living in Cimarron Springs.

She was above his touch, both in wealth and in her ideology. And while his brain understood the implications, he feared his heart was not as wise.

Jo rubbed her thumbnail along her lower teeth, a sure sign she was worried about something. “Did you think Anna looked pale?”

He’d thought she was stunning. His heart picked up its rhythm, and he absently rubbed his chest. The first few days he’d corralled his wayward thoughts. When he caught himself staring at her lips, he closed his eyes and pictured the day of the rally. He pictured the blood staining his shirt and his hands. Anything that prevented him from thinking of her in a romantic fashion.

With her sitting up and dressed, her hair swept up in a tumble of curls, smelling like cherry blossoms, her lips rosy, he’d found himself staring at those lips once more. Wondering if she’d ever been kissed. While the detective had been talking, he’d been aching to run his hand over the soft skin at the nape of her exposed neck.

Jo pinched him back to attention. “I said, didn’t you think she looked a little pale?”

Come to think of it, he’d noticed the lines around her mouth had deepened and the skin beneath her eyes had taken on the bruised look of fatigue.

“I noticed.” He dragged the words from his throat. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have brought the detective.”

Jo’s expression softened, and she touched his arm. “No, you were right.”

When the hotel staff had let him know the detective wanted to speak to Anna, he’d vetted the man first. “I’ll ask Anna if she wants me to fetch the doctor.”

“She’ll say no,” Jo said. “You know she will. She doesn’t want to be a bother. I can tell.”

“Then I won’t give her a choice.”

Jo didn’t hide her triumphant expression fast enough.

“It won’t make a lick of difference,” he said. “If she refuses our help, we can’t force her.”

“We can show her we care.”

Some of the steam went out of him. “Sure.”

“I’ll check the train station for times. We can give her the information. She can make her own decision after that. We’re doing the right thing.” Jo insisted.

Were they? Were they truly? Anna was in danger, and he was a country veterinarian. Were they really the best choice for her protection? He did know one thing—after seeing her that first day, the blood pooling beneath her, something primal inside him had broken free. He’d do anything to protect her, he knew that much for certain.

Jo rubbed her thumbnail on her bottom teeth once more. “I’ll try and be back by the time the doctor comes. No promises, though.”

“I’m sure Mrs. Franklin will be available if you’re not.”

At least fetching the doctor gave him something to do, something besides thinking of how Anna had looked at him when Jo had suggested the engagement. The look was the same one Mary Louise had given him when he’d asked to court her.

She’d looked at him with shock and derision.

At least this time his heart hadn’t been involved. Not yet, anyway. He didn’t plan on staying around long enough for any more damage to be done.

He’d go to the grave before he let anyone know he’d been playing her fiancé behind her back.

* * *

After a fitful nap that left her no more rested and no closer to a solution, Anna awoke more determined than ever. Her path ahead was clear. Her best hope at ending this turmoil was finding the person who wanted her dead or proving the whole thing was a mistake. Then she could go home.

There was every chance the police would discover that someone had accidentally shot out their parlor window like her inept neighbor, nearly killing Anna in the process. Either way, she’d go back home. Back to traveling during the week and corresponding with other suffragists over the weekends. Back to a future that looked remarkably like her past.

There was nothing unsatisfying about her life, was there? And yet her mind rebelled at the notion. The nagging feeling lingered. A sense that something was missing.

A knock sounded at the door and Anna groaned.

Was it really too much to ask for a moment’s peace? The guard at her door announced Mr. McCoy, and her agitation intensified. She wasn’t ready to see him again. Her thoughts and feelings were too jumbled, too confusing.

She considered refusing him entrance, then dismissed the idea as churlish. “Come in.”

The door swung open, and Mr. McCoy entered with another, shorter, gentleman in his later years with a smooth-shaven face, a bulbous nose and prominent ears.

The second man tipped his hat. “I’m Dr. Smith. You probably don’t remember me, but I checked in on you a few days ago.”

Anna glared at Mr. McCoy. “As I stated earlier, I’m fine. I simply need rest.”

“I’m quite sure you do,” Dr. Smith said. “I recommend several weeks of light activity. A visit to the country would do you good.”

Anna huffed. She was usually quite reasonable, but this constant interference was unacceptable. “Did Mr. McCoy put you up to this?”

The doctor washed his hands in the basin. “No. Can’t say that he did. It’s simply a treatment course recommended for my gunshot victims. I must say, my gunshot victims are usually men, but the convalescence procedure is the same. These are modern times, I suppose. Not sure I like all the change. Let’s have a look, shall we?”

Deciding it was easier to concede than argue, Anna lifted her arm and tugged her shirt loose, exposing her bandaged side.

She glanced across the room to where Mr. McCoy had suddenly discovered an intense fascination for the flocked wallpaper. Staying annoyed with the man was impossible. Which annoyed her even more.

Dr. Smith perched on a chair near the bed, peeled away the bandage and squinted. “You’re excellent with a needle, Mr. McCoy. Your talents are wasted on livestock. Sorry I missed the excitement firsthand but I was paying a house call on another patient when they came to fetch me after the accident.” He reached for his bag. “While I hate to unravel all your fine work, it’s time we take out the stitches. Might hurt a bit. Can I send for someone?”

Caleb glanced around as though searching for help. “Jo had an errand. Can I fetch Izetta to sit with you?”

“No. She’s home. She’s been running herself ragged.”

“I should leave,” he said brusquely.

“Stay,” she blurted, immediately regretting her outburst. “Talk with me,” she added quickly, covering her embarrassment. “Tell me a story. I’ve read Jo’s letters, the McCoys must be excellent storytellers.”

What on earth was she blubbering about? A little pain was nothing. She didn’t need her hand held like a child.

“I’ll stay,” he said, a wealth of reluctance in his voice.

Though she’d had plenty of visitors, she’d also had too much time alone. She clung to him because he was the one constant in all her confusion, which was understandable.

That wasn’t exactly true. He and Jo and Izetta had become her salvation.

All the logic in the world failed to ease her fear. She didn’t want her independence right then. She wanted someone to hold her hand and tell her everything was going to be all right.

The doctor clipped the first stitch, and Anna hissed a breath, closing her eyes. Caleb’s hesitation said everything. She’d pushed their relationship beyond the boundaries he’d established. A forgivable mistake.

The situation had forced them into a false intimacy, and that state was temporary. She’d do well to remember the distinction. Except she’d lost all of her usual soft landing places. Normally when she was feeling alone or out of sorts, her work filled in the desolate spots. Here there were only four walls decorated with that abysmal olive-colored flocked wallpaper. She much preferred looking at a pair of kind, forest-green eyes. That was her downfall. Those infernal eyes.

Once she was home, certainly she’d forget all about him. Here there was too much time for thinking, too much temptation to read more into a kind gesture or a caring word.

Too much time for realizing that she’d almost died.

Chapter Five

She’d asked the wrong McCoy for a story, but he’d do his best. She’d been through a rough time, and Caleb wanted to infuse her with some of his own strength.

The bed depressed beneath his weight. “I’ll tell you about the time my cousin nearly got himself killed at the husking bee.”

He watched as the doctor lifted the first stitch free, then adjusted his position on the edge of the bed. The doctor studied the wound, humming softly, ignoring their exchange. With the doctor claiming the only chair, Caleb was left with a sliver of the bed for sitting on the opposite side. He plumped one pillow against the headboard and pushed up straighter, his right leg stretched out on the coverlet, his left knee bent and his foot braced against the floor so that he didn’t take up too much room.

“What’s a husking bee?” Anna asked, her head turned toward him, her expression curious and devoid of the fright he’d seen earlier.

Despite the pain and the forced confinement, she’d not complained, not once that he’d heard. She’d soldiered on through the worst of conditions. Caught in her trusting gaze, the last of his reluctance melted away.

He might not be the storyteller in the family, but for Anna, he’d give his best effort. “Back in the day, a farmer put up his corn in the barn before winter came and husked it at his leisure during the cold months. But old farmer Bainum had a better idea. He figured if all the ladies gathered every Saturday for a quilting bee, then all the fellows could hold a husking bee. He figured if he disguised the work as a party, he’d get a lot of help. That first year, he rolled out a barrel of his best hard apple cider, and every able-bodied man in the county showed up. Except Bainum cider is strong stuff. Only half the husking was finished before the boys decided they were having more fun drinking than husking.”

The doctor muttered something unintelligible.

The groan that came from Anna’s lips died in a hiss. His heart clenched at the sight of her distress. He’d never felt so helpless, so utterly inadequate.

Her grimace eased and she said, “Liquor has never been conducive to work.”

“Not even in the country,” Caleb babbled, desperate to keep her mind off her hurts. “Old Mr. Bainum was stuck husking the rest of the corn himself, and he’d given up a whole barrel of apple cider for his trouble. The next year he had an even better idea. He’d invite the ladies. Even though he’d been widowed longer than he’d been married, he knew enough from family gatherings and church picnics to realize a thing or two about ladies. A wife never showed up at an event without a covered dish, and they always kept an eye on how much cider the men drank.”

“Sounds like more work for the women.” Anna hoisted a disapproving eyebrow.

“He thought of that, as well. Once all the corn was husked, old farmer Bainum decided to throw a barn dance. Around Cimarron Springs, the ladies always like a good dance. Mr. Bainum made a game of the husking, too. He threw in a couple of ears of red corn. When a young man discovered an ear of red corn, he was allowed one kiss with the lady of his choice.”

The doctor lifted another stitch free.

For a brief moment, Anna’s face contorted in pain. “What if a lady found the red ear?”

“Then she made certain that red ear made its way into the stack of the fellow she was sweet on.”

“Did you ever find the red ear?” she asked, then winced.

The doctor murmured an apology.

Maintaining his perch on the opposite side of Anna, Caleb touched her shoulder. “Don’t get ahead of the story.” Though she was clearly uncomfortable, his tale was distracting her, and for that he was grateful. “This is about my cousin Gus. You see, one particularly memorable husking bee, we were all sitting around on stools, shucking the corn and throwing the ears onto the floor in the center, when my cousin Gus found the first red ear and asked Becky Bainum for a kiss.”

“Mr. Bainum’s daughter?”

“The one and only.”

“How outrageous. What did Mr. Bainum think?”

“Old farmer Bainum was not happy about Gus’s selection. You see, the Bainums fought for the Confederate Army during the War Between the States. The McCoys, being of good, strong Irish stock and having arrived at the Castle Garden Depot as fast as the County Cork could send them, lived in the North and fought for the North. Sometimes voluntarily, sometimes by order of President Lincoln. One thing you have to know around these parts, the war never really ended for some folks, especially old farmer Bainum.”

“Poor Gus.”

“Don’t feel bad for him just yet. Gus found three more red ears in less than an hour.”

Anna grimaced. “How did Becky feel about all those kisses? Could she refuse if she wanted?”

“She didn’t mind a bit.” Caleb grinned. “Old Mr. Bainum was another story. A man who’d gotten his neighbors to husk his corn and bring all the food for the party afterward is no fool. He knew well enough the McCoys didn’t have that kind of luck. No Irishman does. That’s when Mr. Bainum decided to fire up the pot-bellied stove.”

The doctor blotted the wound with an alcohol soaked pad, and Anna sucked in a breath. Her skin grew ashen. “Isn’t a fire in the barn, even in a stove, dangerous with all those dry husks lying around?”

“Old farmer Bainum took the risk.” Though he kept his voice even, Caleb battled the guilt swamping him. Seeing her in pain invoked a fury he’d never experienced before, along with a deep sense of tenderness. The two disparate emotions raged a battle within him. “Mr. Bainum stoked that stove until it burned hot. Soon enough, everybody took off their coats and rolled up their shirtsleeves. Everyone except Gus.”

A knowing smile stretched across her strained and pale face. “How long did he last with his coat on?”

Caleb’s stomach dipped. He shouldn’t be staring at her lips while talking about kisses. This was hardly the time or place for amorous thoughts. “Through two more kisses. Finally got too hot. Gus pulled off his coat, and six more red ears of corn fell out.”

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