Tracie Peterson, Tracey V. Bateman, Pamela Griffin, JoAnn A. Grote

by Prairie Christmas Collection

  He edged away from the fireplace. “What do you want to visit about?”

  “Your going to Paris.”

  “Paris! I don’t want to go anywhere close to Paris,” he said bluntly. “What I want is to go west, not east.”

  She shuddered. “West? Have you lost your senses? The West is unfinished. Nothing but sagebrush, Indians, and other wild things.”

  “The far West is new territory. A man can get a foothold. Become anything he wants to.”

  “That’s nonsense. What is it you want to become that you can’t achieve right here in Peoria? After we get back from Paris.”

  He was amazed at how innocent her smile appeared, how convincing her eyes. “Before you get back, I shall be gone.”

  Rosella’s mouth took a cunning twist into a half-smile that he had learned spelled danger.

  “David,” she said ever so sweetly, “I’ve given the past five years to turning you, a raw Welsh immigrant, into a gentleman with the savoir faire to be my escort in Paris. And I just spent a king’s ransom on my wardrobe and yours.”

  “Rosella, you’ve been telling everyone you and the judge are going.”

  She wasn’t listening. She’s already plotting her revenge.

  Her thin smile sent a shiver down his spine. “That is no way to repay the kindness I have extended you. That makes me very unhappy. And Marshall won’t be happy, either.”

  “That sounds like a threat, Rosella. I repeat, you’ve told—”

  “About a month ago, Marshall decided he couldn’t go. Too many court cases on the docket, or so he says. So, David dear, because I am going and I will not go without an escort, you are going.”

  “No, Rosella, I’m not.” He turned to the maid. “Please bring me my coat.”

  Fury darkened Rosella’s face. “Hear me well, my young friend.” Her eyes sparked a look he had seen turned on others. Never on him.

  Her hand shot out, lightning fast, and grabbed his wrist. Rosella stared hard into his face. “If you think you can run away on a whim, think again. If you even consider such a thing, I shall tell Marshall you took advantage of my disturbed state during this upsetting time of the year—Meghan’s disappearance—and you forced yourself on me.”

  “You would be lying and would have to prove those accusations in court, Mistress Tillotson.” David clamped his jaw tight, revealing none of his own rage.

  “Ha! Don’t you worry about court. Have you any idea what Marshall would do to you? You’d be ruined!” Her evil smile suddenly turned sweet. “But enough of this. Look over there, dear.” She waited until he looked. “See the lists on my desk? I have a million things to attend to.”

  He started to speak, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand.

  Her mood shifted, and her voice was now light and happy as a child’s. “Your wardrobe is ready at the tailor’s. Pick it up, and I’ll send word so you can accompany me to the country.”

  David grabbed his hat and coat from the maid and left without a word. He stormed down the stairs, jamming his hat on his head and his arms into his coat as he went. Propelled by fury, he scarcely noticed the storm or the stately homes he passed as he stalked toward Peoria’s downtown and his boardinghouse across the tracks.

  Rounding the corner of Jefferson and Main, he came face-to-face with an ill-dressed waif. They collided, and she went spinning toward the street. He grabbed for her, managing to get a grip on her coat, stopping her fall. Angry and frustrated, David forgot both when he looked down into her eyes—clear green with flecks of gold, framed by long, smoky lashes. Her eyes … they reminded him of someone.

  Little else of her face showed between the striped woolen cap pulled down to just above her eyes and the large coat collar covering her cheeks. But the eyes: He couldn’t help staring. They held him captive, nearly drowning him in the sorrow reflected there. Only once before had he seen such deep sadness. When his father was killed in the coal mines of Wales, his mother’s eyes never lost that look. What has happened to you, little mud lark, to scar you so?

  He let go of her coat and stepped back. “I’m so sorry. Are you hurt?” She shook her head, and an auburn curl escaped from her cap. Her coat was soaked, and snow spilled over her shoe tops. “You are not properly dressed for such weather. You must get inside at once.”

  “Indeed, I shall avail myself at the first opportunity.”

  He smiled. She might look like a poor waif, but her speech was that of a lady. Interesting. He wondered what she looked like without that unsightly cap. He gestured at the three-story brick structure across the street. “The Pinkney Building is a good place to get warm. The bakery there is the best in town.”

  She thanked him, and he watched as she slipped and slid her away across the street. The bakery would be warm. They would give her a free sample of the day’s special. Once in front of the three-story building where Judge Tillotson had his offices, she looked back at him, nodded, then disappeared inside.

  Alone on the empty street, David’s frustration returned. With every step, he seethed at Rosella’s cunning entrapment. Indeed he had escorted her through five years of social events, but it was at the insistence of her husband who never seemed to be available. Now I know why. She’s demented, he thought.

  By the time David reached his room at the boardinghouse, he could see no way to gracefully disentangle himself except to flee far and fast. He knelt before the steamer trunk given to him by his mother. Taking out the little coffer locked away inside, he counted the money he had saved. Eighty-four dollars, after the payment of his room and board. Enough to take him west if he guarded his spending.

  He decided to accept the suit Rosella promised him. The tailor shop was in his neighborhood, so he hurried over. There, to his chagrin, he found a complete wardrobe waiting. A month ago when he went in to be fitted for one suit, he had no idea what Rosella had planned. It took two trips for David to carry his new wardrobe to his room.

  From the mountain of items laid neatly on his bed, he chose the tuxedo for the dinner at the Tillotsons’ prairie mansion. His mind raced as he carefully folded the items of clothing into his soft-sided leather case. “I know one thing. I am not going to the country with Rosella. Or anywhere else.”

  David snapped the case shut and changed into his riding clothes. “I shall stop over at the judge’s office and write the referral letter. Then all he’ll have to do is sign it, and I’ll be out of Rosella’s clutches before tomorrow dawns.”

  Chapter 3

  Inside the spice-scented bakery, Lucinda sat thawing her nearly frozen extremities and sampling immodest amounts of oatmeal cookies, lemon custard pie, and cherry cobbler the owners urged on her. Business was brisk, but in the dim corner where she was seated on a crate near the ovens, no one paid her any mind. While she ate, she took stock of her situation.

  For the first time, she allowed herself to review the events of last Wednesday. Was it only two days ago that she had still thought of herself as the wealthy Countess Lucinda Porter, fresh out of widow’s weeds? Though her house and buildings had burned to the ground, she did own the ground. Her father’s business partner, whom she called Uncle, took care of the legalities. After the fire, she had stayed in his lavish home and been treated with great kindness but not allowed to look at the books. Wednesday last, he had sat her down and told her the whole story.

  Papa always assured Lucinda and Mama that they would always be well cared for. Never did anyone dream he would be temporarily deep in debt and both parents would die in a carriage accident before the debts could be paid. Uncle tried everything he knew to save her estate, he said. But even with the infusion of her inheritance, there was only enough money to pay off half the loans. However, he assured her he would gladly assume her debt if she would marry him. Uncle was a man twice her age, pompous and demanding. She quickly understood she would become his hostage until the debt was paid. She signed over her property to him.

  Having chosen poverty, here she was in Peoria.

&nb
sp; Lucinda’s reverie was interrupted when a tall, thin woman dressed in calico and moccasins walked into the bakery from the interior darkness of the back hallway. Long dark hair pulled into double braids down her back framed her furrowed bronze face. Taking no notice of Lucinda, the woman began checking the contents of the ovens. When she finished, she straightened up and walked over to Lucinda.

  Lucinda blushed at having been caught in her silent examination. Clear, nearly colorless blue eyes stared at her with an intensity that felt to Lucinda like they pierced her soul. She felt a deep connection to the old woman and, with it, a tremor of anticipation.

  “I am known to all as Yarrow Woman. You are a stranger here.” Her voice enfolded Lucinda like a warm blanket. She hadn’t felt this safe since before the fire.

  “Yes. I’m seeking transportation to the Tillotson estate. I’m expected this afternoon to assume duties as a kitchen maid.”

  The old woman looked deep into Lucinda’s eyes. “I have been prayerfully searching for some answers about my future, and I now have the feeling you and I are going to be bound together somehow.” Taking Lucinda’s hands, she examined them. “You have never served.”

  Lucinda looked and saw what Yarrow Woman saw—hands soft and manicured. She shook her head.

  Yarrow Woman let go of Lucinda’s hands and continued to study her. “You will serve the Tillotsons scarcely any time at all and then never anybody else.” Her words were soft, her tone reassuring.

  Lucinda felt the blood drain from her face. I cannot fail in my first position. Where will I turn?

  Yarrow Woman’s expression softened. “I apologize for upsetting you, but God moves in unexplained ways, and on occasion I receive impressions about a person’s future. I give all praise to the Lord and take no credit unto myself.” She waved a work-hardened hand in a gesture of helplessness. “I am not usually this forthright, but I could not seem to contain this message.”

  Lucinda’s heart skipped a beat.

  The woman stood quietly, her eyes fixed on Lucinda. “I have never been to such a place, but I see beyond great mountains of granite, across a desert of death, to a city built by silver.”

  Lucinda shivered and closed her eyes.

  “Do not let your necklace be seen. Keep it hidden and in your possession at all cost.”

  Lucinda’s eyes flew open. She felt for the outline under her dress. “Ho–how do you know these things?” she stammered.

  “From childhood I have been gifted with second sight. It is not a thing I control. In the Sioux tribe, I was a wise woman. Now that I know Jesus as my Savior, I receive only that which He chooses to give me.” She turned and started back toward the shadows.

  Lucinda jumped up. “Do you see when I shall go to that far-off land?”

  “You will begin the journey tonight, of course.” The words were spoken matter-of-factly as she entered the dim hallway.

  “Surely not tonight. How will that happen?” Lucinda called, but Yarrow Woman continued down the hallway.

  Lucinda felt warmth deep in her chest, yet at the same time she shivered at Yarrow Woman’s words. To consider that she could be out of work by tomorrow was frightening. She had no place else to go. Her fingers trembled as she dusted crumbs off her clothes. She wouldn’t consider the possibility of being let go. I must work hard to please and make myself so useful that they will find me irreplaceable. She thanked the bakery owners and let herself out, vowing to waylay any conveyance that might be moving upon the prairie toward the Tillotson mansion.

  Lucinda walked along Main Street’s crowded sidewalk, clutching her valise in one ungloved hand and the collar of her coat tightly about her throat with the other. She mulled over her experience in the bakery and decided that people of the working class were kind and honest. She liked them. Surely one of them would give her a ride.

  She approached several kind-looking shoppers, but they gave her sharp looks and continued on their way. Desperation drove her to walk in the street, where she hailed sleighs, carts, wagons, any conveyance moving and some that were parked, but all she received were blank stares or curses for her trouble.

  The wind picked up, building the drifts ever deeper until the shoppers gave up and vanished, leaving the streets deserted. “Oh, please, dear Jesus, help me find a ride. Please.”

  Before the noon church bells chimed, the storm retreated inside low-slung gray clouds. Still, she trudged up and down Main Street, around and through the drifts, battling mounting despair. She kicked at a drift of snow blocking the sidewalk. The more discouraged Lucinda became, the more she clung to Yarrow Woman’s words. She said I would serve scarcely any time at all. But she did say I would serve. That must mean I will get to the Tillotson mansion somehow.

  She walked into the middle of the street and looked both ways but saw no wagons. Not even a rider. What was she to do? She turned her back to the wind and began to cry, no longer able to hide her despair. It was then she heard hoofbeats pounding hard and fast. Before she could move from the center of the street, he was upon her.

  He reined the charging horse to a skidding stop. “Excuse me,” a deep voice said, “are you or are you not going to cross the street?”

  She whirled around and found herself staring up into the face of the fine-looking man who earlier that morning had directed her to the bakery. Now he sat astride a magnificent chestnut stallion that refused to stand still.

  With eyebrows knit together, he asked, “Why are you still out in this weather?”

  “Ahh … my … the train left with my trunk on it. I only have what is in that carpetbag.” She gestured at the shabby bag resting on the curb. “And I must … I am trying to …” Lucinda, you’re babbling. She took a deep breath. “I have the promise of work as a domestic at the Tillotson estate, but I can find no transportation to take me there.”

  She said a silent prayer of thanks that her voice sounded strong and clear. “I must be there by early afternoon if I’m to claim the position.” She kept her unwavering gaze on his face. His skin was a weathered brown common for farmworkers and did not match the gentleman his riding habit and coat suggested. His eyes focused on her with a force that made her uncomfortably aware of how common she must look. Covered with a dusting of snow, peering out from under a boyish woolen cap, the rest of her buried inside the giant coat, she must look awful.

  Swallowing hard, she continued to stare at him. His broad shoulders were covered in a stylish long coat layered with a cape buttoned high around his throat. He had a regal tilt to his head, accented by a Cossack hat that gave him the appearance of an English nobleman, a scowling English nobleman. Then he flashed a wide smile that lit his face.

  Even in her misery, Lucinda smiled back. Was he as kind as he looked? Had her prayer for a ride been answered? “I would pay you to take me to the estate.” Her voice filled with hope, and she opened her palm to show twenty-five cents. “I know this isn’t much, but perhaps we could work out an arrangement where I might pay you later….”

  His laugh cut her off. “You’re not familiar with money, are you?”

  She shook her head. “I was served by a woman who took care of all the details of my life.”

  “You have offered far too much.” The horse tossed his head and gave an impatient stamp. “Kambur says it is time we were off. My name is David Morgan, and you are … ?”

  “Lucinda. Mrs. Lucinda Porter, late of Chicago.”

  He nodded at the introduction. “You are fortunate, Mrs. Porter. I’m traveling to the Tillotson estate. Put your money away. I shall be happy to deliver you to your destination if you have no objection to riding astride and double.”

  Dumb with gratitude, she shook her head and picked up her carpetbag. He removed his foot from the stirrup and reached out his hand. “Let me have your satchel.” She handed it up to him, and he hung it from the saddle horn opposite his own fine case. She hiked up her skirt, slid her square-toed brogan into the empty stirrup, and let herself be pulled up behind him. Ladies gener
ally rode sidesaddle, but she wasn’t going to point that out.

  “Put your arms around my waist and hang on,” he ordered. “I don’t relish being out in this weather longer than necessary.”

  Gingerly, she reached around his waist.

  “My dear lady, this is no time to be shy. I mean to ride hard, and if I cannot feel your arms, you’ll probably land in the road at the first corner. Now slide closer so your face rests against my back, and lock your hands together in front.” His brusque voice left no room for argument.

  Lest she be left behind, Lucinda positioned herself tight against his back and clasped her hands around his waist. Even from the back, this man radiated power, someone to be reckoned with.

  “That’s better,” he said and flicked the reins. The horse leaped forward. They whirled away up the steep incline and out onto the prairie.

  As they flew along, she silently repeated his name, David Morgan, an important name she must not forget. When she was sure she would not forget his name, she began to wonder just how much twenty-five cents was. It must be a goodly sum. She must learn about money.

  All she had to her name was contained in the small trunk left on the train and the well-used carpetbag—and of course, her necklace and the clothes on her back. She reminded herself that she was probably going to be known as Lucy Porter, household servant, hoping to arrive at the Tillotson estate in time to serve other people’s lavish Christmas parties.

  She sighed and let her thoughts drift to this man she was clinging to. She was certain that the likes of David Morgan would not normally give the current version of Lucinda Porter a second glance. That he did said much about him. But such a man was bound to have a beautiful lady waiting at the Tillotsons’, most likely his wife. If he isn’t married, Lucinda, he’s far above your station now.

  The sky lightened the farther into the country they rode. Lucinda studied the beautiful homes on expansive grounds. A majestic redbrick house, clearly visible at the top of a rise, caught her fancy. It cheered her when they turned up the wide road that led toward the front entrance guarded by thick white columns—the Tillotson mansion. However, they veered to the left onto the tradesmen’s narrow lane that ran alongside the house. She had never entered a house through the servants’ entrance. Once more she was reminded of who she had become.