“It just might be, Calhoun, you’ll have your work cut out for you. I’ll give you the money, because it’ll cost me a whole lot more if she starts making the miners think they ain’t getting their due.” Pruitt leaned across the table and offered his hand.
Sam had a momentary twinge of conscience, but he tamped it down. He wondered what kind of hellcat he’d be taking on in the form of the Widow Wainwright. Not that he’d actually seduce and ruin her. He’d court her, earn her trust and then find a way to send her back to Helena, her reputation intact. If she was a lady the rough mining town would probably do his work for him.
The other men gave in and grudgingly agreed to his terms. Lady luck was indeed with him tonight.
Each man added his chips to the pile and showed his cards. Finally, it was Sam’s turn. He carefully flipped each card with a fluent twist of his wrist.
“Four kings and a queen,” he said, as the other men stared at his hand in dead silence.
Sam gathered his chips, scraped them into his Stetson, and stood. “I expect I need my rest, gentlemen. Seducing a lady can be hard work.” He shrugged into his black frock coat, adjusted his string tie, and smoothed out the wrinkles from his fancy waistcoat.
“I’ll be in touch. I don’t imagine it’ll take long to accomplish the task of getting rid of Mrs. Wainwright.”
“We’re hoping you can be quick about this, Calhoun. The longer that woman stays in town, the more damage she’ll be able to do. Don’t lollygag around romancing her.” Jack pounded the table.
Samuel Calhoun took offense at Jack’s tone, and he turned back to face the poker players still seated at the oak table.
“What we are talking about, gentlemen, is a delicate matter. I take pride in my work, regardless of its nature.” He touched the handle of his revolver. “I expect you to let me undertake this courtship in the manner I deem most appropriate.”
Jack Pruitt stood, the sawdust on the saloon floor making small clouds as he stomped his foot. “Just remember, Calhoun, we hired you to get rid of her. Don’t go getting all soft and feeling sorry for the woman. Be careful you don’t go fallin’ in love with her.”
Sam stood at the bar of the Dark Horse saloon and choked out a bitter laugh. He had learned a powerful lesson years ago. Love ended in disappointment and loss.
“I promise you, gentlemen, I’ll make the Widow Wainwright sorry she ever came to town. As for me falling in love, well, there’s a better chance of you buying ice from the devil.”
Sam folded the money the barkeep handed him and stuffed it into the pocket of his vest. Taking one last draw from his cheroot, he tossed it into a polished brass spittoon and touched one finger to the tip of his hat. “Gentlemen, I’ll be talking to you.” His long legs carried him across the pine floor, and he pushed through the swinging doors. He stood outside on the wooden sidewalk and grinned when he heard Henry Sanders’s voice.
“Damn arrogant son-of-a-bitch. I’m almost hopin’ that widder woman keeps her legs shut tight just to teach him a lesson.”
Sam brushed a speck of dust from his coat and kicked at the thick mud of the street shining in the moonlight. Truth be known, he wished the same, because resistance from a woman would make the seduction a challenge. Sam loved a challenge.
More likely he’d have to work to woo the widow. Arthur Wainwright had been over sixty when he died. His widow might be near that age herself, which could work in Sam’s favor. A more mature woman might be grateful for the attentions of a younger man.
He stood before the mill office and stared at the sign hanging above him. Calhoun Lumber Company. It was simple, and when he was on an assignment, he chose to keep things as simple as possible. His life was predicated upon simplicity and deceit. He constantly re-created himself—no past, no future. He existed for the duration of the job, then disappeared.
On this assignment, he’d discovered he was a good businessman, and several times he’d been tempted to resign from his position and settle down here. But too much was at stake. If he didn’t discover more about the mine owners and their plan to turn the country to the silver standard, economic disaster would result.
That was his main reason for accepting the challenge to seduce the much-feared Widow Wainwright. If he could figure out a way to rid the mine owners of this inconvenient woman, there was a chance they’d finally accept him into their inner circle.
His assignment as a member of the United States Secret Service was too important to let an issue like one woman’s feelings interfere. He’d already spent months creating his false identity to discover the roots of a massive counterfeiting operation. He was close to gaining their trust, and the information he needed to expose their plot.
Jack’s warning echoed in his mind. Sam shook his head. He could protect himself from falling in love while seducing the Widow Wainwright. He no longer possessed a heart to lose.
Chapter Two
“Mud.” Amanda Wainwright sighed deeply as she gazed out the carriage window. “This whole town is brown and gray and covered in mud.”
She was alone in the carriage, so no one answered her. Lately, she’d taken to talking to herself to fill in the blanks and alleviate the loneliness. People might think her a bit daft, or maybe eccentric, if they heard her. Rich widows were allowed to be eccentric, weren’t they?
She touched the black veiling on the hat perched next to her. She hated widow’s weeds; each glimpse of herself reminded her she was completely and utterly alone.
Amanda took a deep breath; she needed to prepare herself for the days ahead. She still felt inadequate for the task Arthur had charged to her upon his deathbed. Her dying husband had begged her to make things right for the workers who had sacrificed so much of their lives to make him a rich man.
The stench of sickness had hung over him when he’d extracted the promise from her. She’d vowed to create the Miners’ Benevolent Association for the workforce in his mines. It seemed an impossible task. She’d never had any responsibility other than directing servants and being an obedient daughter and wife. What did she know of miners and their problems?
The carriage halted, and Amanda stretched the muscles that had cramped on the long trip into the mountains. Snatching the despised hat, she set it upon her head and spread the heavy veiling across her shoulders to shield her face. The door opened and her driver nodded to her politely.
“We’re here, ma’am.”
Amanda wrapped the ribbons of her black, beaded bag around her thin wrist and held out a gloved hand. The man assisted her to the ground, and mud oozed over the toes of her boots. Lifting the hem of her bombazine gown, she walked to the steps and into the Parmeter House.
Amanda stood at the polished wood counter and waited patiently. A few minutes passed before a tall woman in a dark gray dress bustled out a doorway and smiled warmly at Amanda.
“Land sakes, you must be the Widder Wainwright.”
Amanda felt bitterness sting her tongue as her face grew hot. She hated being identified as the surviving mate of a dead man. It was always followed by looks of pity for the poor widow.
The woman searched a warren of cubbyholes behind her, finally turning to hand a key and an envelope to Amanda.
“My name’s Harriet Parmeter, and I own this place. I put you up in the best room I got, but let me know if there’s anythin’ you need.” The woman’s smile grew warmer. “That nice Mr. Penny set you up with three meals a day and Lee Chan to do your laundry.”
Amanda nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Parmeter, I appreciate your hospitality.” A thick, tight band squeezed her chest as warmth rushed once more to her cheeks beneath the veil.
“Call me Harriet. Your agent’s been telling folks what you plan to do for this town, and well—I’m real thankful I can give you a bit of hospitality.”
Amanda wasn’t sure how to react to this kindness and open gratitude. Her only th
ought in preparing for this journey to Willow Creek had been fulfilling the infernal promise she’d made to Arthur.
It was possible Amanda was in Willow Creek to discover if she were still alive. She’d started to imagine she was slowly fading to become a ghost, wandering about the rooms of her hotel in Helena, lost and without purpose.
Harriet pointed toward the stairs. “Last room on the left. Mr. Penny ain’t in his room right now, but I’ll let him know you got here just fine.”
“Thank you. Could you please have my driver bring my things up to the room?” Amanda fingered the large skeleton key.
The woman hurried from behind the counter while fastening a spotless white apron around her waist. “You must be near starved, comin’ all that way from Helena. I’ll fix up somethin’ for you right away. I bet a nice pot of tea would wash some of that road dust outta your throat.”
Amanda nodded, grateful for the older woman’s kindness. “Tea would be lovely, but please don’t go to any special trouble.”
Harriet sniffed. “I got biscuits coming outta the oven anytime now, and fresh butter, made this morning. Won’t be no trouble ’tall to bring you up a tray.”
She scuttled behind Amanda like a mother hen, urging her up the stairs. “Go on and wash up, I had fresh water put in your room. You look pure tuckered out from all that travelin’.”
Amanda’s legs felt weighted down with lead, and a familiar throbbing pain at the back of her head reminded her she was exhausted. She’d been moving through a thick, white fog for nearly five months. She slowly climbed the stairs, her gloved hand trailing along the banister. What was it Father Mikelson had said to her before she left Helena? That helping others would bring purpose and meaning back to her life?
Amanda hated the endless void that had descended upon her after Arthur’s death. Not that their marriage had been a normal arrangement, with loving partners dedicated to making each other happy. It had been closer to a successful business deal, brokered by her father to expand a financial empire.
Before Arthur had taken ill, she had social engagements, visits to the theater, and her duties as a volunteer with the Helena Library Association. Lately, her only outings were to mass, and her only visitors were sad-faced widows and lawyers paying condolences.
The bright, cheerful, and exceedingly clean hotel room surprised her. A beautiful hand-stitched quilt covered the bed, a small velvet chaise sat in the center of the room, and a brightly painted screen created a private corner for her to dress. The large room also held an oak chiffonier, a washstand, and a matching vanity.
Two windows let plenty of sunlight into the corner room. Amanda uttered a small prayer of thanksgiving, as her one unconquerable fear since childhood had been of the dark. She managed to control the fear a bit, but she always slept with her curtains open, allowing any bit of moonlight into her room.
Crossing the room to see the view out the back window, she discovered a small corral below. A dark black horse stood beneath her, his head lifted regally. He was a magnificent creature.
Excitement surged through her. It would be wonderful to ride again, to feel the wind whipping about her as she raced on horseback. Perhaps she could borrow a horse from the local livery. In a small town, it would certainly be appropriate for her to go for a horseback ride each day. Even a widow should be allowed some fresh air and exercise.
Amanda yanked the long pin securing her hat loose and tossed the offensive head-covering onto the bed with an irritated air. Unfastening the white cuffs of her gown, she threw them down after the hat before pouring water into a large ceramic bowl. It was tepid, but splashing it on her face improved her mood. Harriet Parmeter was right; she needed to wash the road dust off.
Her trunk, along with several carpet bags and hatboxes, arrived—a paltry wardrobe for a woman of her wealth. All her dresses were dark black wool or bombazine, the appropriate attire for a widow, and she hated every one.
A brisk knock at the door dragged her back to reality. When Amanda murmured her permission to enter, Harriet Parmeter burst into the room with a cheerful laugh, holding a cloth-covered tray before her. An enticing aroma of cinnamon filled the air, and her stomach grumbled in response.
“Enjoy your tea, and I’ll be back up in a while to get the tray.” Harriet set the tray on the vanity and waved a hand as she exited the room before Amanda could murmur her thanks.
Amanda poured a steaming cup of tea and inhaled the relaxing herbal scent of chamomile. She polished off the food and licked her fingers in delicious defiance. Acting the part of the prim and proper widow exhausted her.
How she wished she could discard her black gown, don a bright riding habit, and take that beautiful stallion in the corral beneath her window for a run. She sighed at the image; she imagined the wind brushing against her face and the hard muscles of the magnificent creature moving beneath her.
A perfunctory tapping on her door shattered her daydream. Mr. Penny, dressed in a dark suit without a wrinkle, stood outside holding his bowler hat in his hands.
“Begging your pardon, Mrs. Wainwright.” Amanda shook her head. “Please don’t apologize, Mr. Penny. Let me thank you for arranging such delightful accommodations.”
The tips of Jacob Penny’s ears turned bright red as he adjusted his string tie. “I…I’m…”
Amanda had forgotten how tongue-tied Mr. Penny became whenever she gave him a compliment.
He straightened his shoulders, swallowed, and finally found his tongue. His large Adam’s apple bobbed as he spoke.
“Some of the people, the miners and their families, they, um, they want to offer their condolences.” He swallowed again, glancing at her face before lowering his gaze to study the floor.
Amanda fought the urge to shut the door and lie down upon her bed to continue her wonderful daydream of riding the stallion. She most certainly did not want to face another room full of pitying eyes and sad expressions of condolence. Not again. Not ever again if she could help it. But, of course, there would be no escaping her duties as the Widow Wainwright. Arthur’s employees had the right to express their grief and offer condolences.
“Of course,” she said. “Please allow me to make amends to my appearance, and I’ll meet you downstairs in the lobby.”
Mr. Penny nodded and backed away from her door. Before turning to leave, he twisted his black felt bowler hat in his thin fingers and cleared his throat again.
“I feel I should warn you, Mrs. Wainwright.” He set his hat back upon his nearly bald head. “There are some difficulties with your plans for the Miners’ Benevolent Association. We should discuss things as soon as you’ve rested.”
Amanda was bone-tired and weary of all the things Arthur Wainwright still demanded of her, even from the grave.
“We can talk tomorrow, Mr. Penny. My husband taught me no problem is insurmountable if considered carefully and thoughtfully.” She slammed the door shut before he could respond.
Amanda leaned against the door and pondered Mr. Penny’s warning. She’d come to Willow Creek to help people. She planned to build a school and homes for the miners who’d worked for her husband. A sudden flash of pride warmed her as she realized the miners now worked for her. She was wealthy enough to see her plans through, and she didn’t understand Mr. Penny’s cryptic remark. He always took things so seriously; likely he was seeing problems where none existed.
She crossed the room to peek out the window again and looked down to discover a man standing at the corral. He held something out to the stallion, and the horse gently took it. She examined the man’s appearance, from the tips of his knee-high, polished boots to the thick dark hair curling at his collar. He was quite tall, and his shoulders were broad, filling out the dark frock coat he wore with a casual elegance. Amanda wished he would turn to leave so she could catch a glimpse of his face. Then she scolded herself for such a foolish and improper yearning. She was n
o innocent girl, after all. She turned from the window in disgust. She was a mature, world-weary woman facing yet another round of murmured condolences from sad mourners.
She looked at the bed and decided to display one small act of defiance. Fastening the lace cuffs back on her sleeves, she brushed a few stray curls into her tight coiffure and left the room. The hated veiled hat sat upon the quilt, discarded and lonely in the silence.
***
As the Widow Wainwright arrived in town, Sam marveled at the stately way she moved down the boardwalk toward the hotel. Swathed in black from head to toe, not an inch of her was visible to the eye. Yet he admired the way she carried herself with pride and confidence.
Yes, he decided, she must be an older woman. Not as old as her husband, judging by the sprightly way she’d jumped from her carriage. Mature. In his opinion, a woman of maturity was always more delightful because a man wasn’t required to play coy games of flirting and courtship. Timid virgins no longer interested him, if in fact they ever had.
He stood on the veranda of the Dark Horse Saloon and ignored the pleas from Sally to come back in and keep her company. He’d paid Sally for the view, not her services.
He climbed back through Sally’s window and found her lounging across the pink silk coverlet on her bed, her breasts exposed and her legs crossed in a provocative display. He tossed her a coin, picked up his black felt hat, and gave her one of his most charming grins. “Perhaps another time, my dear.”
He left her screaming obscenities. He didn’t have to pay for a woman, but whores made the arrangement clean, without emotion and unrealistic expectations.
He considered his plans to woo Amanda Wainwright using cold calculation and charm. He’d certainly been blessed with an abundance of that commodity. He knew all the right words, the sweet phrases that could soften a woman’s heart and make her cling to him. He’d learned the many ways to maneuver his way into a woman’s graces, and how to make her feel as if she were the center of his existence. But deep in his heart, it had always been a game.
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