by Jill Gregory
As if something wonderful were going to happen …
Most likely, she told herself, people will know who you are and stay as far away as they can.
At first the lobby and dining room of the hotel looked to be a blur of people, lanterns, swirling gowns, loud music, laughter, and stamping feet.
Then the blur dissolved into a throng of people—ranchers and townspeople, miners, gamblers, and merchants. Women in a rainbow of gowns, their faces flushed and bright, men in expensively cut black suits or denim and buckskin. There were three fiddlers and a harmonica player on a raised platform at one end of the hotel dining room, where all the tables and chairs had been cleared to make way for the dancing. Colored lanterns added a festive glow, and against the walls of the dining room and the lobby were refreshment tables draped with white linen cloths, sagging with pies and cakes and cookies, pitchers of lemonade, decanters of whiskey and bourbon and elderberry wine.
“Well, now, Emily Spoon, there you are. My, my, just look at you.” It was Nettie Phillips. She had tapped Emily on the shoulder and grinned at her—and Emily drew a breath of relief to find a friendly face.
“And who is this handsome gentleman?” Nettie turned toward Lester.
“May I introduce my cousin, Lester Spoon.” Emily kept a firm grip on Lester’s arm as she felt him trying to slip away. Always as shy around women as Pete was cocky, Lester mumbled something unintelligible, but resigned himself to waiting as Nettie Phillips took charge of more introductions.
“You’ve met Margaret Smith, of course.” She waved a hand toward the young matron whom Emily had encountered in the mercantile. “But Lester hasn’t—and you may as well both meet the rest of the Smith clan,” she said briskly as the four people she’d been chatting with all visibly stiffened. “Here’s Margaret’s husband, Parnell,” she indicated a tall, reedy man with a high forehead and spectacles, who made no effort to shake Lester’s hand. “And his parents, my good friends, Bessie and Hamilton Smith.”
Emily thought poor Margaret looked as if she didn’t know whether to greet the Spoons or pretend they didn’t exist. Her mother-in-law, Bessie, looked equally nonplussed. Emily took swift stock of the tall, stalk-thin woman in plum sateen. Bessie’s white hair was piled atop her head in plump sausage ringlets. Her very pale blue eyes blinked rapidly in her long face as Nettie completed the introductions. Beside her, her short and plump husband frowned, twisting the end of his mustache between two thick fingers.
With a sinking heart, Emily remembered—Hamilton Smith was a banker.
“Miss Spoon.” The banker sounded grim. “Mr. Spoon.” As he looked at Lester, he sounded even grimmer.
Dismayed, Emily wondered why she’d ever thought coming to this dance was a good idea. If Nettie’s dearest friends couldn’t summon up even a morsel of friendliness upon Nettie’s own recommendation, what would the rest of the town do?
Parnell Smith, who had his mother’s height and pale coloring, was studying her and Lester as if expecting them both to pull out guns and try to steal his pocket-watch, fob, and Margaret’s thin gold wedding ring.
And Margaret—
Emily paused, suddenly noting that Margaret Smith was no longer regarding her with reluctance or wariness, but with interest. Very definite interest. The young matron had begun eyeing Emily’s dress.
Her own gown was pretty, a white-sprigged muslin with pouffed sleeves and a square neckline. But sapphire blue would have suited her better, Emily thought.
Margaret’s eyes had grown round. “My … my goodness, what a lovely gown,” she burst out. “I haven’t seen anything quite so smart since our last trip to New York!”
“Emily made this gown herself,” Nettie put in. “It’s the latest style back east. She knows all about the latest fashions, yes, indeedy.”
Bessie Smith was examining the fragile lace of the décolletage and the tight-fitting sleeves. “Well! I must say, it’s quite breathtaking, Miss … er, Spoon. You’re obviously an accomplished seamstress.”
“Bet she could make you a gown just as nice for that bankers’ convention you’re going to in Denver next month,” Nettie remarked.
“I doubt that Miss Spoon would be interested in—”
“Oh, I’d be glad to make you a dress,” Emily interrupted swiftly. She added a smile, and was amazed to see Bessie’s taut face relax. “I’m thinking of setting up a shop—one day. And do you know what, Mrs. Smith? Black chiffon and sea-foam green would be splendid on you. I see something with a ribboned overskirt, a bodice adorned with seed pearls, and—”
“Really!” The woman stepped closer, her pale blue eyes taking on a fascinated sparkle. “I saw a picture in a mail-order catalogue of a ball gown adorned with seed pearls and gold spangles…”
“Oh, yes—that’s all the rage in the East,” Emily assured her, thinking of the gown Mrs. Wainscott had worn to the theater the night before Emily had left her household forever. “If you’d like to come by our ranch tomorrow, I’d be happy to draw a sketch for you—you could make suggestions, of course.”
To her astonishment, Bessie Smith accepted readily, and her daughter-in-law began inquiring about hats and slippers and shawls.
“Well, Mr. Spoon.” Deserted by his wife and mother, who both suddenly bunched around Emily Spoon and Nettie, gabbing a mile a minute, Parnell Smith suddenly found himself forced to make conversation with the huge, red-haired outlaw who was shifting uneasily from one booted foot to the other. “We heard you and your family have set up ranching at the Sutter place.”
“It’s the Spoon place now. And Emily wants to call it the Teacup Ranch—since she’s hankering to get herself a full matching set of teacups soon as can be.” Lester might have been shy around women, but he’d never been the least intimidated by any man. He glowered at the Smiths, as if daring them to sneer at the name.
“Indeed.” Hamilton Smith raised his goblet of brandy to his lips. “To the Teacup Ranch.”
There was an awkward pause.
“I trust things are going along well at the … er, Teacup Ranch?” Parnell asked stiffly.
“Things are going along right fine.”
“Glad to hear it. So long as you stick to ranching, there won’t be any problem then.” Hamilton Smith fixed him with a hard stare.
“What else besides ranching do you think we’d be doing? Care to be more specific?” Lester challenged, his face hot. “Say what you mean, Mr. Fancy Banker! If you have the guts to do it!”
“Now see here,” Hamilton exclaimed, his face flushing with anger, but Parnell quickly stepped forward.
“This is a town dance. Not a saloon. If you want to start a fight, Spoon, I’ll oblige you, but step outside—”
“Fine with me,” Lester began, but suddenly his gaze fell once more on Emily, now surrounded by a whole herd of chattering women. She looked so vibrant, so happy. The women of Lonesome were admiring her gown, asking her questions, seeking her advice, and she looked more pleased than he’d seen her in a long time.
If he got into a fight with that Margaret Smith’s menfolk, it would ruin everything.
“You want to fight or not, Spoon?” the banker’s string-bean son asked with determination, though Lester saw him swallow past his Adam’s apple.
“Nope.” Lester sighed with resignation. “I don’t. Think whatever you want. I don’t give a damn.” Turning on his heel, he sloped away.
It was the first time he—or Pete, as far as he knew—had ever turned away from a fight. It felt terrible, he thought.
I need a drink, he decided, heading toward one of the refreshment tables set up along the wall. Whiskey was called for. Good strong red-eye. This going straight business was turning out to be a lot harder than it sounded.
Emily didn’t even have a chance to notice that he’d gone. The little crowd of women surrounding her kept growing. She caught Nettie’s eye and saw satisfaction there, and felt a rush of gratitude toward this feisty old woman who was trying to smooth her way.
/> And then she spotted Clint Barclay and her breath got stuck in her throat.
He was standing before the blue-draperied window of the hotel’s dining room, looking more dangerously handsome than ever, his tall, broad frame encased in dark pants and a white lawn shirt and black string tie. His dark mahogany hair was neatly combed, his lean jaw clean-shaven.
He was deep in conversation with a beautiful little redhead. An unpleasant sensation jolted through Emily as she saw the intent way he was listening to the girl. The redhead’s charms were well displayed in a low-cut green gown that hugged her tiny but perfectly shaped figure the way a grape’s skin hugs a grape. The girl was laughing, her head tilted provocatively up at the tall sheriff, and he had leaned down toward her as if to catch every word she spoke—or as if to see every charm she flaunted.
And Emily, who’d been speaking to Carla Mangley, the blonde girl she’d seen with Clint Barclay after her run-in with Jenks, faltered in midsentence, forgetting what she was about to say.
“Um … I… uh …”
“Yes, Miss Spoon? Can you or can you not make my daughter a dress and matching bonnet in time for the box lunch social?” Carla’s overbearing mother, Agnes, repeated her daughter’s inquiry, a hint of impatience in her voice.
Then she too followed Emily’s glance and caught sight of the sheriff’s dark head bent toward the redhead.
“Oh!” she gasped. “Just what does that Berty Miller think she’s doing?” Her rounded and delicately powdered cheeks turned a bright red. “Excuse us a moment,” she muttered, and seizing her daughter’s arm, ducked away from the little throng with Carla in tow, exhibiting all the determination of a cavalry officer leading a charge.
But Emily never had an opportunity to see what happened when she descended upon Clint Barclay and Berty Miller. Someone tapped her shoulder, and she discovered that the sea of women had somehow parted. She gazed up at the scrubbed, eager face of an impossibly tall young cowboy in a red shirt.
“Wondered if I could have this dance, ma’am?”
She was swept forward into a rousing do-si-do before she knew it, and barely had time to learn that the cowboy’s name was Fred Baker—then a sleek man in the elegant garb of a gambler invited her to waltz, followed by a stream of other partners. She caught sight of Lester near one of the refreshment tables, then lost him in the whirl of shifting colors and heart-thumping fiddle music. At last she was so breathless she retreated from the dance floor in search of a glass of lemonade, and it was at the refreshment table that Pete found her, sipping lemonade with several cowboys surrounding her, making flirtatious conversation and awaiting the opportunity to ask her for a dance.
“Yahoo!” He grabbed the glass of lemonade from her, sloshing some over the side as he set it down, then spun her around. “I won fifty dollars! How ’bout that, little sis?”
Emily gasped dizzily as he finally stopped spinning her, and she grinned at him as the cowboys retreated, casting dark looks at Pete.
“Good for you. Now we can buy more stock.”
“Stock! How about all of us taking a trip to Denver, staying in a fancy hotel, going out for a big gut-busting dinner—”
“Pete!”
“Come on, Em, we all deserve some fun. This ranching is hard work.” He grinned. “See that fancy gambler over there?”
He was pointing to the gambler she’d waltzed with. “Name’s Lee Tarleton—he won five hundred dollars. Wish I’d done that, but fifty’s better than nothing. Where’s Lester?”
Pete scanned the room for their cousin. “Got to tell him my good news.”
“I haven’t seen him in a while. Oh, look, he’s dancing!”
Lester was plodding across the dance floor with a woman she recognized as one of the saloon girls who’d been eating apples on the balcony her first day in town.
“Well, good for him. Reckon I’ll find me a girl to dance with too!” Pete started off toward a knot of young women sitting near the lobby staircase, then turned back. “You all right, Em? That sheriff hasn’t bothered you, has he?”
Bothered her? Clint Barclay hadn’t even noticed her presence. She might as well be sitting at home sewing curtains or scrubbing floors for all he knew. Or cared.
“No one’s bothered me. But, Pete, maybe you should let me hold on to your winnings—”
He was already gone, though, charging toward the group of young women, and as Emily watched he selected the prettiest one in the flounciest pink dress she’d ever seen and swept her off to join the throng of dancers.
She turned back to retrieve her glass of lemonade and suddenly had the eerie sensation that she was being watched. Looking over her shoulder, she realized that her instinct was true.
She was being watched. By a man standing less than ten feet away, holding an empty shot glass of whiskey, wiping a hand across his mouth.
Slim Jenks.
As she met his eyes, he gave a sneering smile, set his shot glass on a table behind him, and advanced straight toward her.
ATCHING SLIM JENKS HEAD TOWARD Emily Spoon like a snake slithering toward a mouse, Clint swore under his breath.
“I beg your pardon, Clint?” Tammy Sue Wells, the daughter of one of Lonesome’s ranchers, seized his arm as he took one determined step away from her. “Wait a minute, honey,” she exclaimed in dismay, “where’re you going?”
“You’ll have to excuse me, Tammy Sue, there’s something I have to do.”
But another lilting feminine voice intruded before he could take another step. “There you are, Clint.” Berty Miller pounced on him and hooked her arm through his, slanting him a dazzling smile. “I know you said you have to work tonight and keep an eye on things with all these strangers in town for the poker tournament and all, but we haven’t even had a chance for more than one teensy dance yet—”
“Later, Berty.” He yanked his arm free without even glancing at her and stalked toward Jenks.
Tammy Sue and Berty eyed each other, then both let out sighs of frustration at exactly the same moment. They looked to see where the object of their attention had gone off to in such a hurry.
But to their surprise, he wasn’t walking toward another woman at all. He was headed straight toward that new wrangler from the WW Ranch, and from the expression on the sheriff’s face, it wasn’t going to be a pleasant conversation.
“I wouldn’t go another step nearer the lady if I were you.” The steel in Clint’s voice halted Slim Jenks in his tracks, only a few feet from where Emily Spoon held her ground.
Clint allowed himself one brief glance at her. He had to give her credit. She was standing straight and tall, regal as a princess—no running or dodging for her. Not that she’d need to—he was damned if he’d let the son-of-a-bitch close to her again—but she hadn’t even tried to flee.
His hard gaze centered itself on Jenks once more as the wrangler spun around to face him. “Stay out of this, Barclay. I’m warning you.”
“You got that wrong, Jenks.” Clint kept his tone low so that people strolling and chatting all around them couldn’t hear or notice anything out of the way. “I’m warning you. If I catch you so much as breathing too close to Miss Spoon, I’m going to lock you up. You got that?”
People drifted past them, headed toward the refreshment table or the dance floor, laughing, talking. But Jenks and Clint might have been alone at high noon on a deserted street for all the notice they took of their festive surroundings.
“Hell, Sheriff—she’s a Spoon,” Jenks sneered. “You don’t want her kind in this town any more than I do. So what do you care if I have myself some fun with that little piece of—?”
Clint hit him in the jaw. Jenks flew sideways, stumbling into Parnell Smith, who managed to shield Margaret just in time. As Jenks went sprawling across the floor, a gasp went up from the crowd and everyone stopped what he was doing to stare.
Hell. Clint took a deep breath, angry at himself. He hadn’t planned on doing that. It was his job to keep the peace at the danc
e, not to disrupt it. He didn’t know why he’d lost his temper with Jenks—it wasn’t like him to lose control—but there was no going back now.
He glanced at Emily Spoon. She’d gone as pale as the white linen gracing the table behind her. And she was staring at him as if she’d never seen him before.
But then, everyone was staring at him. Including Jenks, who was holding his jaw and not even trying yet to get up from the floor.
“Sorry, folks.” Clint raised his voice so everyone could hear, relieved that despite the anger still pumping through him, he sounded cool and steady. “Nothing to worry about. Go on back to having a good time.”
He grabbed Jenks by the back of his shirt and hauled him to his feet. “You—out,” he said in a soft, deadly tone.
As he started to escort the wrangler to the door of the hotel, he glanced around for Emily Spoon.
She was gone.
“Don’t say one more word,” he warned Jenks as they crossed the lobby and Clint shoved him outside onto the hotel’s moon-silvered porch. The wrangler spun around and glared at him, his eyes alight with anger, but Clint continued without giving him a chance to speak.
“Next time you won’t get off so easy. I’m beginning to think Pete Spoon was telling the truth when he said you started that fight at the saloon.”
“You’d believe that no-good thieving outlaw over me?” Jenks demanded. He clenched his fists. “He’s the one you ought to be throwing out of this dance.”
“You’re the one who wanted to start trouble with the lady.”
“Damn it, Barclay, I told you. She’s no lady—”
He broke off and backed up a pace as Clint seized him by the shirt collar.
“That’s enough, Jenks.” Somehow Clint kept his fury leashed, his voice deliberate. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get your sorry hide out of my sight. Now.”