by Cat Cahill
As he approached the house on the way back, he spotted a figure moving across the yard between the house and the outbuildings that sat out back. He squinted through the night, trying to decipher who it might be. Without thinking, he veered toward the side of the house. The figure reached the house and leaned against the wall—doing what, he had no idea. But curiosity had gotten the better of him now. It was too much to hope for that it would be her. In fact, it shouldn’t be her, if he knew what was good for him—and her. Likely, it was Mrs. Ruby, ready to tell him exactly what she thought about him skulking around her house.
Yet, he kept walking toward the person. It was a woman, that much he could tell now. Her skirts moved in the chill night breeze, and she clutched her arms to her chest. As he moved closer, the muted light from the kitchen window illuminated her dark hair. His heart sped up. Could it be?
He should go. He knew that. But would it hurt to simply say hello? Perhaps apologize for his poor manners earlier? Ask her if she liked her trunk?
No. It was wrong. It could get him run out before the sun came up tomorrow. And it might give her the wrong idea about him. He’d promised himself that he would never subject another woman to what he’d expected of Colette.
He stopped still, decided to turn around and say not a word. He had taken one step away from the house when a voice stopped him.
“Who’s there?”
He stopped again and closed his eyes. He’d acted stupidly. If only he’d listened to the intelligent part of his brain before he’d gotten this close. He turned around slowly.
The mere sight of her drew a smile to his lips.
She was gorgeous. There was no other word for it. The soft light made her look almost angelic. She wore a much plainer dress than she had arrived in. It matched Mrs. Ruby’s—a light gray with what used to be a crisp white apron but now sported various food stains from top to bottom. Her hair fought to escape the white cap she’d perched on it. She watched him carefully, tucking a flyaway lock behind her ear.
“Monroe Hartley,” he said by way of introduction. “We met earlier, when your trunk took a tumble.”
“Oh. Yes. I remember.”
The light was too shadowy to tell, but he was almost certain her face had turned that same shade of pink he had seen earlier. It was endearing, and smacked of innocence.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be here.” He shoved his hands into his pockets.
“No, you shouldn’t.” She rubbed her hands up and down her arms and glanced over her shoulder. She lowered her voice when she spoke again. “But I’m glad, because I wanted to thank you for fixing my trunk. It looks almost new. You truly have a talent.”
Her flattery threw him speechless.
“So . . . thank you. I must go inside now.” She turned, and on a whim, he reached out and grabbed her arm. And then immediately berated himself for his impropriety. This was not the kind of woman he could do things like that with.
But she didn’t pull away—not immediately. Instead, she stopped and glanced down at his hand.
He let go of her, gently and slowly. “I’d like to know your name.” He hated himself for asking, but he needed to know.
She looked up at him. He would never forget the vivid green of her eyes this afternoon, though they looked much darker under the stars. Now they were fixated on him.
“After all, I’ve seen your underthings. The least I should know is your name.” He shot her his best smile.
“I . . .” She ducked her head, and he just knew her face held that pretty blush again.
He watched her breathe as she contemplated his request. He could barely breathe himself, wondering if she was going to send him away, nameless.
Finally she looked up, and a small smile played on her face. “You may call me Miss Daniels.” A clatter sounded from within the house. With a start, she retreated inside, leaving him standing alone in a place he should—without any question—never have been.
Miss Daniels. It made him laugh out loud as he crossed the tracks back toward the tents. It was a challenge, and Monroe Hartley never passed on a challenge, even when every fiber of his being warned him against it.
“Evening, Boss.” John Turner fell into step next to him. “What’s the plan tomorrow?”
Monroe pushed thoughts of Miss Daniels from his mind. Work was what he should be focusing on. “Finish the framing by noon. Then we move on to siding.” A train had arrived a few days ago with everything they needed for the walls before it returned north to Cañon City.
Turner paused. “It would be best to put the lath on first. Start with the interior walls rather than the exterior.”
Monroe scowled at the ground. “Siding first to give the lath some protection from the elements.”
“All right then, Boss.”
Turner continued to walk alongside him. It would be one thing if the man simply offered a decent suggestion here and there, but Turner was more inclined to state an unfounded opinion, or worse, question Monroe’s every decision. He gritted his teeth and reminded himself to be patient. After all, no one was born knowing all there was to know about building. He’d been just as ignorant a few years ago. The one thing Turner didn’t have to learn was how to keep the crew working. And that was important, Monroe reminded himself often.
When they reached Monroe’s tent, Turner made no move to go to his own tent.
“Something else you need?” Monroe asked.
Turner shook his head. His jaw worked, almost like he was itching to say something.
Monroe waited, not entirely patient.
“I just wanted to say thank you.” Turner rubbed a hand over his shaved chin. “For taking me on as foreman. I know I get ahead of myself sometimes.” He glanced off to his left, where the hotel stood in darkness. “I want to head up my own crew one day. Be in charge of building grand places like this one.”
Monroe relaxed, air rushing through his teeth. He’d suspected Turner was simply ambitious, and confirming it warmed a corner of his heart. The man was more like him than he’d wanted to see. “This is as good a place as any to learn, I suppose. And you’re halfway there, seeing how you keep the men on schedule. Get some sleep. You’ve got some walls to build tomorrow.”
Turner grinned, almost like an eager little boy. He thanked Monroe and then disappeared toward his tent.
When Monroe lay down, thoughts of Turner and the hotel and his schedule slid away. But the emptiness didn’t hit him until just before he fell asleep.
Miss Daniels certainly did a good job of keeping his mind occupied.
Chapter Seven
Every part of Emma ached. Her feet, her legs, her sides, her arms, even her neck. The work was much harder than she had bargained for, but she refused to give in. Reaching into the basket of clean linens, she pulled out yet another wet bedsheet and flung it over the line that crisscrossed its way between several wooden stakes hammered into the ground.
Caroline leaned against one of the poles, her eyes closed.
“Are you feeling well?” Emma asked.
Caroline nodded, her eyes still closed. “I think so.”
“You mustn’t give in to it. That feeling of wanting to crawl up the stairs and throw yourself into bed,” Emma clarified.
Caroline opened her eyes. She smiled softly at Emma. “I know. I’m trying. It’s simply that this is so much . . . more than I ever thought it might be.”
“It will get easier.” Emma pulled a clothespin from the pocket of her apron—one of the three she had treated with baking soda nearly every night to remove the stains from all of her cooking and serving mishaps.
“When the maids and the kitchen staff come, I know.” Caroline pushed herself away from the pole and reached into the basket for a towel.
“Hang the bedsheets,” Emma said as she clasped the last clothespin onto her sheet. “I’ll hang those. They’re heaviest.”
Caroline chewed on her lip. Then she took the towel anyway.
Emma hid a smile by lo
oking in the other direction. As shrinking as Caroline might seem at times, she had a will of steel. All of the girls had tried—Penny more than once—to get her story out of her, but all Caroline would say was that circumstances beyond her control had forced her to leave her well-to-do family in Boston. Though come to think of it, none of them had been particularly forthcoming with why they were here. All Emma had told her new friends was that she needed to support her family. She’d left out the more dire details.
After the evening meal, Emma offered to retrieve the dry laundry while the other girls set about cleaning the kitchen and preparing the items needed for the next morning’s breakfast. Basket under her arm, she made her way outdoors. She paused on the little stoop just outside the door and drew in a breath of the clean, cool air. This was why she asked for the chore of taking down, ironing, and folding all the linens and towels—for a few stolen moments of chill breeze on her skin, the distant Wet Mountains dancing in her vision, and the glory of the setting sun behind her over the massive Sangre de Cristos. It was nearing midsummer, and with it came a strong desire to be outside, soaking in every last ray of sunshine.
Emma nearly laughed to herself as she stepped lightly down the stairs to the ground. She’d begun to develop a few freckles across her nose, thanks to the small cap she wore here instead of the usual wider-brimmed hat she would’ve worn at home. Mother would be appalled. But here . . . it didn’t seem to matter. The only person she hoped to impress was Mrs. Ruby, and all Mrs. Ruby cared for was work done well and good manners.
As she unpinned a sheet from the line, Emma reveled in the colors the sun created as it headed toward the horizon behind her. While the tall mountains obscured its final descent, the oranges and purples and pinks it brought forth shot above the peaks into the sky, making the entire valley look like some sort of wonderland. How lucky she was to live here. When she interviewed for the position, the woman at the office claimed Emma could be sent any number of places—the desert of Arizona, the plains of Kansas, the shores of California. But somehow, by some blessed intervention, she had landed here in this magnificent place. She only wished she could share its beauty with her sisters. How they would love it! Lily would chatter on nonstop about the views while Grace would sit quietly and attempt to replicate the sunset in paints. Emma smiled thinking about it. She had tried to put the majesty of the landscape into more than one poem, but had yet to write one that did it justice.
Voices from behind the barn drew her attention away from her own thoughts. Mr. McFarland appeared, hands in his pockets. He nodded to Emma and made his way through the yard, toward his own shanty. Just as he rounded the corner of the house, the breeze stirred into a wind, picking up the small cloth in Emma’s hand and sending it sailing across the yard toward the barn.
Emma moved to retrieve it, but the wind only caught it again. She picked up her skirts and began to run after it. It was not particularly ladylike, but the last thing she wanted to do was explain to Mrs. Ruby that the wind had stolen a cloth from her. The inevitable stains from the dirt would be enough to fret about. She passed the barn and finally snatched the cloth from the ground—only to find herself face-to-face with Monroe Hartley.
“Good evening, Miss Daniels.” He took off his hat. “Runaway laundry?”
Emma stood up straight, smoothed her skirts, and tried to catch her breath. How was it this man found her at, yet again, a most inopportune time? She held up the cloth. “As you can see, I’ve caught it.” Her voice came out a bit breathy. She waited for her body to relax, but it did no such thing.
“It was an excellent display of athleticism.” A smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
Emma clasped her hands together in front of her, the cloth imprisoned between them. Her heart hammered, and she glanced down at Mr. Hartley’s work to keep from catching his eye.
His gaze followed hers to the length of wood lying on a bench next to him. It had hinges on its side, and for the life of her, Emma could not place it.
“Stall door,” Mr. Hartley supplied. “The latch came off. I’m attempting to repair it.”
“Isn’t that Mr. McFarland’s work? Until the stable hands arrive, I mean.”
Mr. Hartley shrugged. “It is. I offered to do it so he could attend to other business.”
Emma looked up at him. For a moment, his face looked almost vacant, as if he was somewhere else. “You do like to keep busy,” she finally said.
The warm smile was back. “I do. And what do you do to keep busy, Miss Daniels?” The emphasis on her name drew a smile to her own lips. “Oh, wait, I remember! You write poetry.”
Her face went warm. His words brought that embarrassing moment back to mind—the contents of her trunk strewn across the ground, baring her entire life to a man she hadn’t even been properly introduced to.
“I do,” she said carefully. “It isn’t very good.”
“I’d like to hear some.” His eyes held hers, and she swallowed hard. The teasing smile was absent now. Was he serious? Why would he want to hear her amateur attempts at rhyme?
“I . . .” Words had entirely disappeared from her vocabulary. As she searched for something to say, a whistling sounded from behind her. Emma started. With a last quick glance at Mr. Hartley, she moved with purpose back toward her basket of laundry. “The wind took my cloth,” she said by way of explanation when she drew closer to Mr. McFarland.
“Aye,” he said, a tool of some sort dangling from his hand. “It’s strong tonight. You’d best get inside. I fear a storm is a-brewing.”
Emma nodded. He moved on, and she swallowed her fear of being found alone with Mr. Hartley. She tossed the cloth into the basket and plucked another sheet from the line. In just a few days, she would be able to post an envelope with money back to her family in Kentucky. She couldn’t risk losing that.
The best thing to do would be to not speak to Mr. Hartley again. There was nothing impolite about simply nodding to acknowledge his presence and then moving on about her business. As she opened the back door to the house, basket under her arm, that was exactly what she resolved to do, despite the curiosity that nagged at her heart.
“I THINK HE’S QUITE handsome.” Penny cupped her chin in her hand, the napkin in front of her completely forgotten.
“Well, I think we’d all be wise to keep to ourselves.” Caroline creased the pristine white linen into perfect folds, just the way Mrs. Ruby had shown them earlier. “If we wish to stay here, of course.”
“I didn’t say I’d do anything about it. I’m simply making an observation you’d have to be blind not to see,” Penny replied. She plucked her napkin up between two fingers, sighed, and dropped it back to the table. “I will never get this right.”
“Here.” Caroline reached for the piece of cloth and slowly showed Penny the correct folds again.
Emma kept her eyes fixed on Caroline’s work, happy to see how Caroline had gained some confidence today. She’d done well with all the tasks Mrs. Ruby had set before them that morning, and the praise had seemed to do wonders for her.
“Don’t you girls agree with me?” Penny asked.
Dora made an unladylike shrug. “He’s awfully fair.”
“Like a man from Norse legend,” Penny said defensively. “Emma? Don’t you agree with me?”
“I suppose,” Emma said, keeping her voice as neutral as possible. Penny may have been talking about another man on the building crew, but the only face Emma saw in her own mind was that of Mr. Hartley. The thought warmed her to her toes, and she didn’t dare meet any of the other girls’ eyes.
She could almost hear the smile that crossed Penny’s face. “Our Emma doesn’t think my Norse god holds a candle to the gentleman who fixed her trunk.”
Emma’s face burned. “I said no such thing.”
“You don’t need to. Your face says it all.” Penny lifted her chin in victory.
“Oh, hush,” Caroline said, making the last crease in Penny’s napkin. “Emma has more important thing
s on her mind. Such as learning this technique.” She held the finished napkin up.
“All I want is to keep my position here,” Emma said.
“We all want that,” Penny replied. “But what’s the harm in simply looking?”
Caroline shook her head and reached for another pressed napkin from the small stack in the middle of the table.
“None,” Penny answered herself. “No harm at all. Besides, would it be so terrible if one of those handsome men waltzed right up to you, proposed marriage, and took you away from all of this . . . napkin folding? Perhaps took you to San Francisco or back East? I, for one, would prefer to stay here, but you can’t deny you’d rather return to civilization, Caroline.”
Caroline chewed her lip, all of the confidence vanishing from her face. “I suppose not.” But the words sounded almost hollow.
Emma wondered, not for the first time, what had brought Caroline here, but Penny’s laugh shook her right out of her thoughts.
“If your Mr. Hartley found his way to that door right there, Emma, and asked for your hand, tell me you’d say no.” Penny pushed a curl from her eyes and waited for Emma’s response.
Emma pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. No one knew about her conversation with Mr. Hartley by the barn yesterday evening. Or how she’d shamelessly stood right there and let him tease her. Or how much she’d thought of him since then. It was all only a foolish distraction. One she would remain clear of in the future, she’d already determined. “I barely know the man. And I need this position.”
“That’s not an answer.” Penny’s smile widened.
“A man is hardly the answer to everything,” Dora said quietly.
Penny raised her eyebrows, and Emma could see the questions forming on her face. Dora kept her eyes fixed on the napkin in front of her. As Penny opened her mouth, Emma quickly spoke instead.
“Perhaps Caroline can show us all again how she’s gotten this fold so easily.”
Caroline nodded, seeming to understand exactly what Emma wanted—to draw attention away from a subject that Dora seemed to want to avoid. And a subject Emma would prefer to avoid herself, given the sheer joy and fluttering nerves that flew through her entire body every time she even thought of Mr. Hartley.