by Jo Goodman
“Well,” she said slowly, “I suppose because she wanted to make mischief.”
One of Morgan’s eyebrows lifted. “Mischief? That’s your explanation?”
“That is my guess.”
“She’s twenty-two,” he said flatly. “Finn Collins makes mischief. He’s maybe half her age.”
Jane said nothing for a time. Neither did Morgan. His silence felt like a tactic to prompt another response from her. Jane wanted to believe it only worked because the pressure of what she was trying to hold back was greater than the pressure of his silence. “Rebecca has always found a certain amount of perverse pleasure in creating situations that will end badly. More often than not, she creates them around me. I thought I was being clever and careful with our correspondence. I was so certain she did not suspect that it was my intention to leave New York. I told Alex, of course, but he would never have shared a confidence with his sister. David did not know.”
Jane pressed her lips together briefly. Gathering her thoughts, she shook her head slightly. “It does not matter how she found out. The most obvious conclusion is that she did. She read the letter before I posted it and exchanged the photographs. She might have been trying to ensure that you would make a proposal and that I would leave, but it’s also possible that she saw into the future to this very end and knew your disappointment would be profound and that I would be stranded.”
Morgan unfolded his arms and examined the photograph again before his gaze returned to Jane. “Was that difficult to say?”
“Not as difficult as it should have been. Whatever little satisfaction comes from speaking ill of others is transitory at best. Making a habit of it poisons one’s soul. If Rebecca were here, she would take issue with everything I told you, and you would believe her.”
“Would I? How do you know?”
“Everyone believes Rebecca,” she said simply. In Jane’s mind it was as absolute a fact as the earth’s revolution around the sun. “Regardless of what she’s done, has thought about doing, or will do, it is unfair to lay all the blame at her feet.”
“Cousin Frances,” said Morgan. “I thought we would get around to her eventually.”
Jane said nothing.
“That’s what you meant, isn’t it? She bears some of the responsibility.”
“It’s done,” Jane said tiredly. “There is nothing to be gained from sifting through the confusion to the source of it. I am here. Your correspondence was with me. I wrote the letters you received.”
“All of them? Are you sure?”
Jane suddenly felt cold to her marrow. A moment earlier there had been no doubt. Now it niggled at her, shaking her defenses. “I suppose it does not matter if I did or not,” she said on a thread of sound. “You proposed to the woman in the photograph.”
“It seems so.” Morgan tossed Rebecca Ewing’s picture sideways. It struck the beveled edge of the table and fell on the floor. He left it there. “How well do you think you know me, Miss Middlebourne?”
Jane turned on her side, slipping one arm under her pillow to elevate her head. She tugged on blankets until they covered her shoulder. “Much less than I thought I did.”
“Not so different from me, then.”
“I suppose not.”
“Are there things you want to know? Something more than, say, the color of my hair.”
“Did you pen all of your own correspondence?”
The right corner of Morgan’s mouth kicked up. Amusement gave way to a chuckle deep at the back of his throat. “Yes. I take it your question arises because I am more tolerable on the page than in person. Better written than spoken.”
Jane smiled a little herself. He had spared her from making the blunt observation. “Have you ever been married?”
“Ah. So you do wonder what I left out. No, Miss Middlebourne, I have never been married.”
“There must be single women in Bitter Springs.”
“Yes. One of them trotted off to refill my beer in the saloon. That’s when I left.”
“You didn’t want the beer?”
“I did, but I wanted to see you more.”
Jane was skeptical and she let him see it in her narrowing eyes.
Morgan held up his hands, palms out. “I swear. I was concerned. I could see you weren’t well when you stepped off the train.”
Jane went from skeptical to frankly disbelieving. “I was fine and you know it, and I didn’t step off. You carried me off.”
“Not quite how I remember it, but it doesn’t change the fact that you came a long way to be here. I thought I should look after you.” He set his hands together again and rested them against his belt buckle. “You were right that I was set to propose back there at the platform.”
“I know. In front of God and witnesses. You told me, remember? And then you thanked me for rescuing you from acting the fool.”
“I should have made a better apology.”
“You said what you meant.”
“I would have written it better.”
Jane’s smile was a bit rueful, a bit wistful. “Yes,” she said. “I’m sure you would have.”
Morgan nodded shortly. “You want to know what I was thinking just before you interrupted my declaration?”
“I don’t know. Do I?” When he said nothing, she finally nodded. “Yes, please. Tell me.”
“I was thinking that I made a contract with you and that I needed to honor it.”
“To be a man whose word means something.”
“Yes,” he said. “To be exactly that.”
“That’s important to you?”
“Yes.”
“So it was no romantic impulse that I forestalled.”
“No. I told you I am not a romantic.”
“I know what you told me.” And perhaps he was right about it. “You reconsidered that contract quickly enough. What does that say about you and your word?”
“That I would make a fine lawyer if I did not have such a disgust of them.”
Jane laughed quietly. Her eyes crinkled. When she sobered, she said, “Cousin Franny’s husband was a lawyer. He was made a federal judge in the County of New York two years before he died.”
“A judge,” said Morgan. “Well, at least you were not related to him by blood.”
“He was a good man, Mr. Longstreet, and I was heartbroken when he died.”
Morgan sat up. “Then I’m sorry for that.”
Jane accepted him at his word. Her eyes wandered to the door. “Where are you staying tonight?”
“The bathhouse.”
“So no cell for you.” She thought he might be moved to grin. He was not. “I still do not know why you did not look closer to home for a wife.”
“Perhaps I did, and no one would have me.”
“At the risk of flattering you, I think finding some young woman in Bitter Springs to have you would not have been a problem.”
He shrugged. “I don’t come into town often, and what I know about courting a woman is as much as I put in my letters. Sitting on a porch swing, holding hands, trying to be interesting, well, it seemed like more tiring work than mustering calves for branding and not nearly as satisfying.”
Jane’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh my. It seems you have given this some thought.”
“I did. I heard about papers and periodicals that accepted inquiries. I wrote to several.”
“I suppose there were dozens of replies.”
“Not dozens,” he said. “An even dozen.”
So she was one out of twelve, Jane thought. Or rather Rebecca was.
“Your letter was the only one that I responded to with a request for more information.”
Jane wished she were not heartened to hear that. There was no place for emotion, especially not the one that was seeking entry into her heart. Hope only crushed her.
“I answered the other letters,” Morgan said, “but for the purpose of putting an end to them. I did that before I heard from you again.”
�
�And if I had not written a second time?”
“Then I would have tried again. There are churches that facilitate introductions, but it seemed wrong to apply through them the first time. I am not a godly man, and I did not want to be mistaken for one.”
“Oddly scrupulous.”
His quicksilver grin whitened the scar at the corner of his mouth. “Even a godless man can have scruples.”
Jane’s headache had subsided to a dull ache. If she slept through the night, it would be gone by morning. “I think you should go now, Mr. Longstreet. We still have the morning and part of the afternoon to come to terms. I would like to think about what I’ve learned. I imagine you will want to do the same.”
Morgan said nothing immediately. He searched her face for a long moment before he slowly got to his feet. “Breakfast?”
“Yes. I’d like that.”
“Very well. In the dining room. Does seven suit?”
“It does. I rise early.”
He smiled a little then. “At Morning Star we call that sleeping in.”
Chapter Three
Morgan arrived at the Pennyroyal ten minutes before his meeting with Jane. She was already in the dining room, sitting at a table near the window that had the widest view of the main street. She raised her head as he walked into the room, and he knew she had seen his approach. Her smile wavered, veering toward uncertain, as if she wondered if it would be welcome or appropriate. He thought it was both.
He shrugged out of his coat as he walked toward the table and laid it over the back of an extra chair. He tossed his hat on the seat. “Good morning, Miss Middlebourne. You’re early.”
“So are you.”
Morgan pulled out the chair at a right angle to hers and sat. “Have you ordered?”
“No. I was waiting for you.”
She sat at the table very primly, he thought. The cotton napkin already covered her lap, and her hands were folded together on top of it. Her spine was straight, not quite touching the back of the chair. The smile she’d greeted him with had already faded. She held his gaze for a moment longer and then her eyes darted to the window and the street beyond.
“You look well rested,” he said. She was wearing a crisp white shirt beneath a short-waist wool jacket the color of port wine. Her skirt was the same color as the jacket, and from what he could see, fit her closely at the waist and hips and then flared all the way to her ankles. He could not look at her shoes without an obvious examination but imagined they were as hopelessly unsuited to Morning Star as her fashionable New York clothes. “Your headache’s gone?”
She nodded. “It was kind of you to help me.” She smoothed the napkin over her lap and refolded her hands. “I thought about it again this morning, and I do remember locking my door.”
“Is that right?” Morgan shrugged. “Passing strange that you should have that memory. It opened for me.”
“So you said.” Jane briefly directed her gaze toward the door that led to the kitchen. “That young woman you mentioned last night, the one who brought you your beer, she’s working here this morning.”
“How do you know that?”
“She was here when I came downstairs. She invited me to sit where I liked and told me that you had asked her to look in on me last evening. She said she declined because I had been particular to say I did not want to be disturbed, and she hoped she had done right by minding my wishes and not yours.”
Morgan’s mouth pulled to one side. He shook his head, torn between amusement and dismay. “Did she tell you that her cousin is the sweetheart of one of the men who works for me?”
Jane’s brow furrowed. “No. She didn’t.”
“There’s a wonder.”
“She mentioned that you were sitting alone. She had some hesitation going to your table because you appeared to be deep in thought.”
“See?” Morgan leaned toward her and set his forearms on the table. “There is nothing that happens in this town that is considered so dull that it doesn’t bear repeating. I figure there are not more than four, maybe five, people who don’t know by now that I was at the station to meet you yesterday. It doesn’t matter that they don’t know why. Speculation is a favorite way to pass the time in Bitter Springs, like playing dominoes or reading dime novels.”
She lifted an eyebrow. Her smile was faintly mocking. “Do you imagine it is different elsewhere? I assure you, I am quite familiar with speculation passing for fact. In New York there are newspapers entirely dedicated to creating a story where none exists.”
“There is no newspaper in Bitter Springs.”
“That could very well be a point in its favor.”
“I am forced to agree that you might be right.”
Jane tilted her head toward the kitchen door as it opened. “She’s coming now. Please don’t scowl at her.”
Undecided, Morgan grunted softly.
“Yes,” said Jane when Cil Ross offered her coffee.
Morgan merely pushed his cup and saucer toward her. “Do you have cream and sugar for Miss Middlebourne?”
Jane raised her hand before Cil could reply. “Neither for me. I prefer my coffee black.”
Morgan was skeptical, but he said nothing.
Cil said, “There’s steak and eggs. Hotcakes so light you’ll have to drown them with molasses to keep them on your plate. Applesauce. Grits. Fried potatoes. Oatmeal. What’s your pleasure?”
“Oatmeal,” said Jane.
Morgan broke the silence that followed Jane’s request. “She’s waiting for you to say something else.”
“Please?” said Jane.
Morgan grinned while Cil choked back a laugh. “Not that. She wants to know what else you want to eat.”
“Oh.” Jane looked up at Cil. “Nothing else, thank you.”
“Oatmeal will sit in your belly,” Cil said, “but it won’t put meat on your bones. How about some bacon on the side?”
Morgan’s look cautioned Jane about pitting her will against Cil Ross’s. She said, “Bacon will be fine.”
“Good. And you, Mr. Longstreet? Do the hotcakes tempt you?”
“They do, as long as you bring them with steak, two eggs, scrambled, potatoes, and that applesauce you mentioned.” He intercepted Jane’s wide-eyed astonishment. “I don’t much like oatmeal,” he said. “And I had grits at breakfast yesterday.”
Cil winked at Jane. “Didn’t I just say?” Chuckling under her breath, she pivoted smartly and headed back to the kitchen.
Morgan turned to Jane as soon as Cil was out of earshot. “What was that about? What else did she tell you before I arrived?”
Jane picked up her fork and fiddled with it, turning it over several times before she spoke. “I think she might have predicted what you would have for breakfast.”
“Jesus,” Morgan said feelingly. When he saw Jane’s lips purse with disapproval, he reminded her that he was not a godly man. “Taking the Lord’s name in vain is the least of the commandments I’ve broken.”
“I’m not sure they were numbered for purposes of ranking. I believe they deserve equal weight.”
“Maybe so, Miss Middlebourne, and maybe the next time I get the urge to invoke the Lord’s name, I’ll just kill Miss Ross instead.”
Jane pressed her lips together, but it was an inadequate stopper for her amusement. Laughter bubbled anyway. “You have a wicked sense of humor, Mr. Longstreet.”
“I was being serious, Miss Middlebourne.” His tone was dry as the dust on his boots, but he saw Jane was unfazed by it. She did not believe him. He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Jane set down her fork and returned that hand to join the one in her lap. “I will,” she said. “I do.”
Morgan picked up his coffee cup. It felt too small, too dainty, in his hand. Like Jane.
“You are scowling again. The coffee’s not to your liking?”
“I haven’t tried it yet.”
“Then perhaps you should reserve judgment.”
One of his ging
er eyebrows kicked up. “You’re still talking about the coffee, aren’t you?”
Jane smiled. “You said something like that last night. Yes, Mr. Longstreet, I’m still talking about the coffee.”
Morgan gave a short nod, took a swallow, and imagined he manfully concealed the fact that he burnt the inside of his mouth. Still, the swirl of cold air that entered the room was a welcome diversion. When Jane looked toward the dining room entrance in anticipation of more guests, Morgan sucked in a breath. By the time she turned back, he was returning his cup to the saucer.
“There’s a pitcher of water on the sideboard over there,” she said. “Shall I get it for you?”
Except to make her chuckle, his sour look had no impact on her. “Your concern is noted. I’ll be fine.”
“You ordered a big breakfast. It would be unfortunate if you were unable to taste it.” Her eyes swiveled to the pair entering the dining room. “Who are they?”
Morgan glanced behind him. “Howard Wheeler and Jack Clifton. They’re here every time I am so I’m figuring them for regulars. They used to be with the railroad. Stayed behind when it moved on. That’s about as much as I know, and I have that from Ida Mae.”
“Mrs. Sterling.”
“Yes. Her husband worked the rails with them and settled here same as they did. He was marshal after that. For years, in fact. Killed in an ambush on Morning Star land. It was the Burdick property back then. The story that went about at the time was that he was mistaken for a rustler. Everyone knows now that he was murdered, plain and simple.”
“I never thought of murder as plain and simple.”
“This one was.”
“Was I wrong to have the impression that you are a relative newcomer to Bitter Springs? You seem to know a lot.”
“I told you how it is here. Some stories you can’t avoid. I didn’t grow up in these parts, but I had a passing acquaintance with Benton Sterling years ago. His wife remembers it.”
Jane nodded. “I thought she treated you familiarly.”
“I don’t know about that. She’s good to everyone. ’Course, she makes everyone’s business her own.” He gave Jane a sharp, pointed look. “And if you tell her I said so, I’ll—”
“Break one of God’s commandments, Mr. Longstreet?”