“Yes, ma’am.” He cleared his throat. “Could I ask a favor?”
“A favor? What can I do to help you, Doctor?”
“Miss Fairchild is slow to rouse from her faints. I’d be beholden if you’d wait just a few moments longer and help her to the boarding house.” His glance darted to the curtain. “She’s not recovering as quickly as you and will need assistance getting settled there. Do you know anything of her circumstances?”
Ciara tried to keep all emotion from her voice. “I believe she was expecting to be met in Fort Sheridan.” The particulars of Abigail’s personal arrangements should not matter. After hearing the young girl relate her story of a marriage by proxy, Ciara vowed never to be forced into a similar situation. “She’s a mail-order bride on her way here to meet her future husband.”
“Hey, Doc?” A man’s weak voice came from behind the curtain. “This gal’s rousing, and I’d just as soon not listen to her caterwaulin’ agin.”
“Excuse me. I must see to my patient. She should be ready to leave in a quarter hour.” The doctor hurried to the back room.
Ciara rose, leaning one hand on the back of the chair to steady her balance. She needed to gather her wits, and lolling about in a swoon would not serve any purpose. Walking the distance of the room and back helped to clear her head, and she felt strength returning to her limbs. Tomorrow, after she was well rested, she’d be more fit to begin her search.
****
The following morning dawned bright and clear. The bed in Ciara’s room was the softest she’d slept in since leaving the train in Cheyenne, and she was so tired she slept straight through breakfast. By the time she’d dressed and entered the dining room, only a scattering of dirty plates and a bowl of red apples remained on the table. As she reached for one, she heard approaching footsteps.
“Ah, there you are. Did yesterday’s drive tucker you out?” The boarding house owner stopped at the end of the table.
Ciara tucked the apple into a side pocket of her skirt. “That it did, Mrs. Renato.” She glanced at the older woman who stood at the end of the table, a tray braced at her waist.
“Everyone calls me Belle. Sorry, but the meal’s over.” She flashed a smile as she loaded dirty dishes on the tray. “The regular bunch was hungry this morning, plus I served a couple of townsfolk.”
“I don’t eat much anyway.” Her words were in direct contrast to her rumbling stomach. If she was still lodging here tonight, she vowed to grab a couple extra rolls at supper and keep them in her room.
“Always have a pot of coffee on. Can I get you a cup?”
Rather than cause more work by requesting tea, she nodded. “Please, if you don’t mind.”
“Be right back.” With the loaded tray held at shoulder height, Belle strode from the room.
Ciara grabbed another apple and took a big bite as she perched on the end of the bench. The day was not starting well. Not used to her hands being idle, she pulled a cloth bundle from her reticule and set it on the table. Tugging at the knot in the scarf, she unwrapped the items and shuffled the tarot cards that for years had guided her future.
“Here, miss.” Belle set out a mug with steaming black liquid, a chipped glass cup of sugar, and a small metal pitcher. “Are those tarot cards?”
She looked up into the woman’s interested dark eyes. “Oh, you know the practice?”
“Haven’t had a reading since I worked at The Lucky…um…” She looked away, out the window and her mouth tightened. “Not in years.”
Ciara heard the yearning tone in Belle’s voice. “Shall I lay out a spread?”
“Why not?” The wood bench creaked as the ample woman sat across the table. “I always say, a body should be open to all of life’s influences.”
Was this woman a kindred spirit? A pang skittered through Ciara’s chest. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed sharing tarot with another who believed. The next several minutes were filled with the ritual of shuffling, cutting, and laying out the cards. After a quick glance, Ciara started the reading, encouraged by Belle’s responses to her interpretations.
“And this last card, the lovers in upright position, represents the result. Look for a man from your past who brings riches”—as she spoke, she tapped the appropriate cards in the spread—”and your long period of patience will be rewarded.” This reading was the most positive spread Ciara had seen in ages. She looked up and smiled.
Belle sighed and dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her apron. “Ah, Miss Morrissey, you do spin a wondrous tale.” She patted the back of Ciara’s hand. “For nights to come, I’ll think of this when I lay my aching body onto my bed.”
“Wait and see if good fortune doesn’t arrive on your doorstep.” With a lump in her throat, she stared at the colorful cards against the rough wooden table. “I wish the reading were my own.”
Belle squeezed Ciara’s hand. “Troubles, my dear?”
“Following yesterday’s robbery, I’m in need of immediate employment.” Being the recipient of the woman’s concern didn’t set well with a person used to caring for others. “Do you need assistance here? Perhaps I can cook or bake.”
“Sorry, I already have help in the kitchen and barely make ends meet.” Belle’s smile was tight. “You might try the Star Hotel or Perrin’s laundry.”
Inwardly, Ciara shuddered at the image of standing over a steaming wash kettle all day. What a waste of her training.
The door from the street opened and heavy steps sounded in the entry. “Belle? You here?”
That voice. The sheriff’s deep tones skittered along her skin like an intimate touch. She remembered their risqué exchange in the doctor’s office and wondered how she could look the man straight in the eye. Maybe she’d claim her loose tongue was caused by her head injury.
“Yes, Sheriff.” Belle stood and faced the doorway.
“I need some sandwiches. Deputy’s heading out with—oh, excuse me, ladies.”
Ciara looked over her shoulder to see Sheriff Riley sweep his hat from his head. Her gaze met his dark and inquisitive one. “Morning, sir.”
“Morning.” He glanced at the table, brows pulling together, then squinted. “What’s this?”
“Tarot cards.” Belle laughed and waved a hand at the table. “Miss Morrissey was kind enough to share what my future holds. Give me ten minutes on those sandwiches.” Her departing footsteps on the wooden floor faded.
Well, Ciara had met enough non-believers to recognize Quinn Riley as one. With swift moves, she pulled the cards into a stack, tied the scarf around them, and stood. “The practice helps pass the time and is often entertaining.” She squared her shoulders and forced a conciliatory tone into her words. “I want to express my appreciation for your assistance yesterday. I heard you got me to the doctor and arranged my room here.”
“Part of my job, miss.” He stepped closer, and his gaze scanned her face. “Are you recovered from yesterday’s event?”
“Thank you for asking.” My, the man was tall. She had to tilt back her head to maintain eye contact. Her insides warmed at his kind inquiry. With little effort, she might believe his reason for asking was personal. “Physically, I have. Now I must tend to my financial recovery.”
“I don’t understand.” He scratched at his chin. “Can’t you send a wire to wherever you’re from and have funds wired to the bank here in town?”
Her thoughts went to the Morrissey family house back east, currently occupied by friends and boarders. What they paid in rent barely covered the taxes and upkeep. “If only that could be. Circumstances force me to seek employment in this fair town.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed before he spoke. “You’re staying?”
Did she have to spell out the details of her pitiful situation to this man? Her throat constricted at the reminder she was alone in the world and had to make her own way. “I must. At least until you find the culprits who stole my valuables.”
“We’re trying.” A muscle jumped in his
jaw.
“Well, don’t let me keep you from that task.” Chin held high, she grabbed her parasol and her reticule and marched out the front door, blinking back bitter tears. Letting the sheriff see her momentary weakness served no purpose.
Once on the rough boards that formed the sidewalk, she snapped open the parasol and held it over her head. This narrow avenue faced by the boarding house had little traffic, and she turned to her left, heading toward the town’s main street.
As she walked, she noticed the women weren’t wearing gloves for their morning stroll. Most of the women wore only thin petticoats, and a few were even bareheaded. Bull City wasn’t like the cities she knew—no street lamps, no buildings made from brick or masonry, no paving or cobblestones to mark the thoroughfare’s boundaries.
Ciara noted the usual assortment of stores but counted only one of each type. Back home… a lump lodged in her throat. Quincy, Massachusetts remained her home. But without her beloved family, the townhouse there held little of an emotional tie.
The bright sunlight stabbed at her eyes as she read the painted names above the doors of the various businesses. Not many existed in this undeveloped town, lessening the opportunities for a job. A sad task to be pondered later. Maybe she could learn something of her father by talking with the townspeople.
On a whim, she stepped into the dusty street and spun in a circle, extending her parasol toward the first place she’d inquire about Shamus Mulcahy. Hansen’s Barber Shop. Back on the boardwalk, her steps slowed as she approached the shop. Men often were in a state of dishabille while being shaved or receiving a haircut. In the east, a lady would not consider stepping into this exclusively male world. But this was the west, and she’d already observed several rules of society that were more lax. Surely, a prosperous businessman like her father would be a regular customer of this establishment.
With her hand on the doorknob, she took a deep breath.
“Mama, look.”
“Oh.” A woman gasped. “Hush, Penelope.”
Ciara glanced toward the voices and caught the disapproving glare of a tall woman hurrying past, a young pig-tailed girl in tow. Maybe this rule still held true.
This business wasn’t the only place to check. Ciara straightened her jacket front and walked toward the next store. Drawing abreast of the milliner’s shop, she looked through the window at the display of hats. Some were several seasons out of date, and Ciara shook her head at the sorry state of fashion in the west. Spying an older woman at the back counter, she turned the door knob and entered. As she walked down the store’s main aisle, Ciara put on her friendliest smile. “Good day.”
The woman’s narrowed gaze moved over Ciara’s outfit from head to toe. “Good day, miss. What may I help you find?”
Ciara resisted the urge to check her buttons to make sure none gaped open. “My name is Ciara Morrissey, and I’m new in town. In fact, I arrived only last night.” She paused, confused by the woman’s intent stare at her hat. “Is there something wrong?”
“That hat! The detailing!” As her head angled first right then left, the woman’s blue eyes lit. “Where did you purchase it?”
A wave of indulgence flowed through her. Ciara moved her head in both directions so the woman could see it from all sides. “I construct hats for a design shop in New York City. This is one from the spring collection. Do you like it?”
“Excuse my manners. I’m Mrs. Evelyn Turner, and I own this shop.” The trim shopkeeper stepped out from behind the counter. “I’m happy to see feathers are being used again.”
“They are, but in smaller proportion than several years ago.” Ciara’s hopes rose. Her knowledge of eastern fashion could prove useful. She stood still while the woman continued her inspection.
“I’d like to hear more about constructing the hats.” Mrs. Turner held her full burgundy skirt with one hand as she circled Ciara.
“The designer sends me patterns and materials, and I sew them together.” She glanced at the woman’s open, friendly face and plunged on with her story. “I’ve been nursing invalid relations for the past three years and needed employment that allowed me to remain close.”
“Three years?” A finger tapping her chin, Mrs. Turner eyed her. “So, you are well experienced. Between the dresses and hats, On occasion, I have more orders than I can handle and need an extra set of hands. Did you say you had just arrived?”
The tension that hadn’t left her stomach loosened, and Ciara nodded. “I came in on yesterday’s stage.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Turner laughed and leaned a hand on the counter. “You’re the young woman people are talking about. The one who bravely took up the reins when the driver was injured.”
People were talking about her? “In truth, I was more frightened than brave. I only wished to get us to safety.”
“Miss Morrissey, if you remain in Bull City, please know I may have occasion to hire your talents.”
“That is generous, Mrs. Turner. I am unsure of what the next few days will bring. I arrived in town with the intention of…” Ciara hesitated before continuing. “I hoped to meet with an old acquaintance. Perhaps he is someone you know.”
Mrs. Turner squared her shoulders. “I pride myself with knowing most of the residents of my town. Such knowledge helps build business. Who are you seeking?”
“Would you know where I might find Shamus Mulcahy’s place of business?”
The woman sucked in a breath and stiffened, her eyes narrowing to a slit. “Since you’re new in town, Miss Morrissey, I should warn you about Mr. Mulcahy. He’s not the type of man with whom a decent young lady like you associates.”
Warn her? Ciara’s heart pounded. Why would she need to be warned about an entrepreneur? Uneasiness over the wording of her father’s last letter came back to haunt her. “He’s not? I was told he was a gentleman with several business interests in this region.”
“Sounds like the man has been tooting his own horn. He may believe that, but many Bull City residents would argue the point. The man is a scoundrel, and his lies have hurt the majority of this town’s citizens.” She lowered her chin and cleared her throat. “It’s not my place to speak out of turn. Go ask the sheriff about Mr. Mulcahy’s whereabouts.” She returned to her stool, gathered the garment she’d been working on, and picked up the needle. “Is that all you wanted?”
This woman’s frosty tone was as dismissive as being physically escorted out the door. A knot of worry gripped the pit of Ciara’s stomach. Maybe two different men had similar names. She couldn’t believe the man her sweet, caring mother had loved was as Mrs. Turner described.
Or possibly he had fallen into bad company.
Ciara lifted her chin and plastered on as gracious a smile as she could. “I thank you for the warning, Mrs. Turner.” She turned and walked with measured steps out the door, when what she wanted was to dash back to the safety of her room. Rather than suffer through another encounter that would only raise more questions than it answered, she strolled to the jail to speak to the sheriff. A locked door and a note stating his expected return were all she found.
With no where else to go, she stood under a shade tree and fought the tightening in her chest. She needed a distraction. Watching passersby on the sidewalks or driving past on horseback or in wagons and then assigning purposes to their errands had served her well in the past. During the last year of her mother’s illness, Ciara’s world had shrunk to the four walls of her bedroom and the small city block that could be viewed from the second floor window.
Footsteps approached from the street, and a well-dressed man lifted a bowler hat. “Good day, miss. May I escort you somewhere?”
“No thank you, sir.” She blinked and turned to the man standing at the base of the rise. “I am waiting for the sheriff’s return. His note says he should be here by noon.”
“A lot can happen to delay him, ma’am. My name’s Nate Piper. I own the apothecary shop—if you’ll allow that fact to pose as my reference.” A smi
le appeared on the man’s face, crinkling the skin around his eyes. “Let me help you.”
Why were all the men so sure they knew what was best for the women here in the west? Ciara forced a smile she didn’t feel. “Only if you can direct me to Shamus Mulcahy’s place of business.”
“I will not. That man’s a scoundrel. Good day.” Shaking his head, he walked away, his steps stiff and hurried.
Her whole body went rigid. Again, an angry response. Oh, to have come so far on what looked like a fool’s errand. Only true love for her mother’s memory kept her here in this rough town.
Sunlight broke through a bank of clouds and heated the air. She pulled the shawl from her shoulders and spread it in the small patch of shade, and then settled herself on the ground. An ache pounded at her temple again. Once more, Ciara dug into her handbag and grabbed the tarot deck to pass the time. Maybe the spread she’d create would be as lucky as the one she’d worked for Belle.
An hour later, she’d completed a less-than-positive reading for herself and two for curious and open-minded townswomen. A married woman left with new ideas of how to view the household budget, and a dubious female departed with her head down out of the clouds of a romantic dilemma. The excitement Ciara always experienced while doing tarot readings lingered.
As perspiration gathered under the heavy bun at the nape of her neck, she wondered at the wisdom of not accepting Mr. Piper’s offer. Mercy, the air was stifling. She used the deck to fan herself but received little relief. Possibly she should return to the boarding house.
A large, black horse trotted up the center of town. Even at this distance, Sheriff Riley’s broad figure and confident posture were easy to recognize. From under her lashes, she watched the way his impressive body moved in rhythm with the horse’s gait, and her heartbeat fluttered. Back east, most people walked or rode in carriages. A single rider on horseback looked so strong and rugged.
Dreams of Gold Page 3