The Secret Admirer Romance Collection

by Barratt, Amanda; Beatty, Lorraine; Bull, Molly Noble

  He opened his mouth to speak the words, though at the sight of the perfect oval face that flitted through his dreams every night, his mind went blank. “I’m, uh…good.”

  Simpleton. He broke their gaze.

  She sighed and filled two cups.

  Mr. Dempsey reached for his. “Was that Cyrus Eddings’ son you were talking to?”

  Maisie nodded. “Thomas. He’s returned from New York to help with his family’s ranch.”

  “Cyrus’s been bad sick for a few weeks.”

  “I certainly hope the people of Blackwater will be kinder to his family than they were to mine.”

  Her vibrant green eyes filled with unshed tears that set Lucky’s chest to aching. She was much too young to know that kind of pain.

  “Darlin’, I know you’re hurt, and I’m sorry things went the way they did, but please don’t let this fester into bitterness. That won’t harm anyone but you.”

  She stood a little straighter. “I’m not. I’m still working my way through Pa’s journals, and once I find the truth, everyone will know why he turned the way he did.” Maisie set the coffeepot down and retrieved her pad and pencil. “Now what can I get either of you besides coffee?” Her full lips curved into an unconvincing smile.

  Goodness, but she was beautiful.

  “How about a thick stack of flapjacks?” Mr. Dempsey grinned. “With lots of butter and syrup.”

  “Of course.” She scribbled something on a pad then turned to him, blond wisps working loose from her bun and brushing her fair cheeks. “Lucky?”

  I’m powerful hungry this morning, ma’am. How’s about a whole mess of scrambled eggs, bacon, some potatoes. And would you grant me the favor of your company whilst I eat, Miss Maisie? At her expectant look, his tongue rooted in place. “Uh, flapjacks. Please.”

  He was an idiot. Probably for the best that he could never loosen his tongue to invite her to sit with him. What interest would she have in a big, stammering oaf? Especially one with his past.

  “Two plates of flapjacks.” She jotted the order then glanced again at him. “It’s unusual to see you on a Tuesday morning, Lucky. It’s real nice.”

  He twisted to face her, his heart beating like a thousand stampeding horses. Nice—to see him? He nodded, tried to smile. It’s always real nice to see you, too, Miss Maisie. I think you’re about the sweetest gal God ever created. Mr. Dempsey’s boot landed hard against his shin, and the table shook, coffee sloshing over the sides of both their cups.

  “Yes, ma’am.” A knot formed in the pit of his stomach. Speak, fool. But he could tell any further attempt at words would only jumble on his tongue.

  Maisie’s brows furrowed in disappointment. “I’ll, um, have those orders out shortly.” She turned toward the kitchen.

  He clamped his eyes shut and rubbed the heel of his palm against his forehead.

  “Son, what’s wrong with you?” Mr. Dempsey shook his head. “You can talk the ears off a cornfield, but you walk in here and forget how to string more than two words together.”

  Lucky reached for his coffee. He wasn’t experienced with women like some men, nor did he care to be if it meant bedding a different woman every payday. He didn’t have the polish—nor the money—that the Eddings fella obviously had. Lucky was a simple hired hand, simple enough that any time he came near her, even a smile got twisted and came out all wrong.

  “You gotta pursue her. Let her know how you feel.” Dempsey prodded. “Make an offhand remark about the flowers.”

  Those thunderous hooves beat a stampede through his chest again. He loved her, had from the first time he’d laid eyes on her. But the idea of speaking those things aloud set his innards to quivering. He shrugged. “I don’t know how.”

  “Son, she don’t bite. Just speak up, get to know her. You won’t find any gal as good-hearted, and you both could use a friend. You’d be good for each other.”

  He had no doubt she was good-hearted, given who her father was and what he’d done for Lucky before his death.

  Lord, I can only hope we might be good for each other one day, but what do I have to offer her?

  Lucky shook his head. “A gal like her deserves friends who are honorable and decent.” Everything he wasn’t.

  Dempsey leaned in. “I don’t hire dishonorable men, Tolliver. You may have done some questionable things, but you’ve paid your debt. Sheriff Blanton saw the good in you. I’ve lived by the motto that every man deserves a second chance. This is yours. Quit thinking of yourself as the scoundrel you once were and start living like the man you want to be.”

  Lucky sipped his coffee. What was it that Dempsey saw in him—or that Maisie’s dearly departed pa, Sheriff Jonathan Blanton, had seen in him six years earlier? He was a good-for-nothing cattle rustler, or rather, the kid stupid enough to stand guard while the rustlers scoped out a herd. And lest he forget, an attempted murderer. Like he could forget. Had Sheriff Blanton not convinced him to testify against the other gang members, he’d have been the guest of honor at his own necktie party.

  “Sorry, Mr. Dempsey, but I don’t know who that man is.”

  Chapter 2

  Margaret Ann Blanton!” Ma’s voice boomed through the house, nearly shaking the shingles from the roof. Despite her frail condition, she could still muster a convincing sternness when needed.

  “I’m coming!” Maisie sighed. The answers she sought would have to wait until after Sunday services. She marked her place in Pa’s journal and trudged from the bedroom.

  Ma stopped her at the front door with a firm stare. “I know you’re not thrilled about going to church, young lady,” she whispered, likely so neither Charlotte nor her brother, Simeon, might hear, “but I could’ve used the help preparing.”

  Ma’s pointed words stung like a hoard of angry bees, particularly at the sight of the heavy-laden picnic basket she held. “Sorry, Ma.” She ducked past, relieving her mother of the burden.

  Charlotte had harnessed the team and readied the old farm wagon for the drive to church. But for Ma’s feeble health, they could’ve easily walked there before the service, but in her present condition, such a trek would so tire Ma, she’d be unable to participate in the worship or picnic afterward.

  They loaded into the wagon and, with a cluck of her tongue, Maisie started the team toward the little church. Moments later, they drew up in the busy churchyard. Ma smiled and nodded to the other families, unaware or unaffected by their cool responses. They weren’t lost on Maisie. Perhaps because she was older, she’d seen the changing reception of the townsfolk as Pa had begun his slow fall from grace. At first they’d asked after his health. When he insisted things were fine, their concern grew to irritation and eventually to anger. As hard as Ma and Pa had tried to keep things from her, she’d been painfully aware of the rumblings within the town of removing Pa from his position as sheriff. That had finally happened after Ma’s accident.

  “Come, children.” Ma shepherded them inside. Maisie headed for the back row, though Ma cleared her throat and nodded to a spot farther forward.

  Maisie shot her a pleading glance. When Ma didn’t back down, she chose a pew in the middle of the church and, standing beside it, allowed her family to file in before she took the aisle seat. Once settled, Maisie scanned the faces in the room. All familiar, all unwelcoming—except for Thomas, who stood across the church smiling unabashedly at her when she glanced his way. Irritation niggled at her.

  Mr. and Mrs. Dempsey seated themselves next to Simeon, Mr. Dempsey clapping the boy on the shoulder. “How’re you, young man?”

  “Real good, sir.”

  The rancher grinned. “Stand up there, son.” When Simeon complied, Mr. Dempsey eyed him closely. “I reckon you’ve grown about three inches since I last saw you. Another couple, and you’ll be man-sized.”

  Simeon beamed. “Yes, sir. Ma says I’m outgrowing my pants faster’n she can sew new ones.”

  Robert Dempsey laughed.

  His wife, Agatha, turned a knowing
glance in Ma’s direction. “Oh, Georgette, I recall those days. Just ask if you need help sewing.”

  As Ma nodded, the rancher turned to Charlotte. “And look at you, little lady. You get prettier every time we see you.” He gave one of her blond braids a playful tug.

  Charlotte’s cheeks flushed. “Thank you, sir.”

  Just as Mr. Dempsey turned Maisie’s way, someone stepped up beside her in the aisle.

  “Good morning, Maisie.”

  At Thomas Eddings’s courtly bow, her stomach clenched. She longed for the days when she and her family were acknowledged in church, but somehow, Thomas’s attention felt more like she was being made a spectacle. Perhaps two years ago, she’d have welcomed it, but so much had changed now.

  “You look lovely this morning.”

  She forced a smile to her lips. “Good morning, Thomas.”

  “I see there’s still a bit of space in the pew.” He nodded toward the far end of the row. “May I join you?”

  She cast a quick glance around the room, noting the various reactions of the parishioners, everything from glowering stares to hushed conversations carried out behind people’s hands. Did he not notice the chilly reception, or did he not care? Either way, she really didn’t want to attract any more adverse attention, but what reason could she give him without seeming rude?

  “I suppose—”

  A flash of motion at the far end of the row caught her attention. Maisie’s heart quickened as Lucky slid into the empty space next to Mrs. Dempsey. As he sat, the ranch hand’s warm brown eyes flashed her way, and he nodded almost imperceptibly to her. A knot filled her throat at the silent greeting, slight though it was.

  She turned back to Thomas. “I suppose the space has been filled. I’m sorry.”

  Disappointment flitted across his features, though he smiled. “Then I will look for you at the picnic afterward.”

  He excused himself and took a seat directly across the aisle from her.

  The idea of sitting with Thomas Eddings at the picnic grated. She’d much prefer Lucky Tolliver’s quiet company, but that would never happen.

  Lucky waited his turn to exit the small building, glad when the citified dandy, Eddings, stepped outside. He’d been shameless in his attempts to garner Maisie’s attention before and during the service. Church was hardly the place for such trifling behaviors.

  He fixed his eyes on Maisie’s golden hair. Beyond her stood her ma, younger sister, and brother. Mrs. Blanton was far more fragile than during his stint in the town jail. In those days, she’d swept into the building each day with her son on her hip, a basket of food in hand, and a smile on her face. She’d practically run the place, even though it was her husband’s office. Now, her face was gaunt, eyes rimmed with dark circles, body withered and frail. The smile that once brightened his dreary days was replaced with a look bordering on pain—whether in body or heart, he could only guess.

  The line moved, and the Blanton family filed out, Mrs. Blanton greeting the pastor while Maisie slipped outside and disappeared. His gaze darted to the window as she scurried past, arms wrapped about her waist. His gut knotted. Was she sick? Without thought, he slipped out of line and weaved around to the side door. Stepping into the sunshine, he hurried to the corner and perused the churchgoers as they prepared for the picnic. Maisie wasn’t among them. She couldn’t have gone far. He scanned the faces a second time then looked toward the street. There she and the fancified dolt stood, deep in conversation.

  Disappointment threaded through him. Mr. Dempsey had encouraged him to ask Maisie to sit with him after church, try to have a conversation with her, but she’d run off before he could ask.

  Uncertainty nibbled at his thoughts. He could attempt to interrupt them with the excuse that he wanted to be sure she wasn’t ill. But what if he got tongue-tied again? It was embarrassing enough in front of her. He’d only make a bigger fool of himself if he turned into the stammering idiot in front of that polished blowhard. The thought set his heart to pounding.

  He closed his eyes. “Lord? What do I do?”

  “Follow your first instinct.” Mrs. Dempsey sidled up next to him. “She’s had a hard time coming to church since her pa died. I promise you, checking on her will do you both some good.”

  “She’s talking with that Eddings fella.”

  Agatha Dempsey’s brows arched. “Look again.”

  Eddings stalked back to the churchyard, hands shoved in his pockets, as Maisie rounded a corner out of sight.

  “Go after her.”

  His throat knotted. “Maybe you should, ma’am.” He shrugged. “She don’t really know me.”

  “You’ve got a good heart, Lucky. Let her catch a glimpse of it.” She gave him a gentle push toward his horse.

  Lucky’s feet stalled. At Agatha Dempsey’s encouraging nod, he drew a deep breath and shuffled toward the hitching rail, thoughts churning. He’d be a fool to let the gal who visited his dreams slip off by herself iffen she were in a bad way. A mighty big fool. Surely he could utter a few words to her. You under the weather, ma’am? Simple enough.

  Hardly.

  He mounted the big bay, and followed Maisie’s path. At the corner where she’d turned, he paused to peruse the empty street but found no sign of her. He headed down the road, checking each alley and cross street until he saw her duck around a corner near the café. She must be heading home. Lucky’s heart rate quickened. He hadn’t hoped to watch her find the second vase of flowers he’d left on her porch. Dare he spy on her?

  Lucky tied his horse at the café’s hitching rail and followed on foot. From the cross street nearest her house, he huddled behind the corner of a building and watched as she stalked up the path toward her door. She slowed, stopped. For an instant, she stared. When she glanced up and down the street, Lucky ducked out of sight but peeked again a moment later. He waited for the pretty smile to bloom when she unrolled his note, but instead, she crumpled the paper and threw it on the porch. Maisie picked up the vase and stalked inside, slamming the door after her.

  He ducked around the corner and pressed his shoulders to the building, gulping air as if he’d taken a mule kick to the gut. What had he done? What woman didn’t like flowers? Thoughts reeling, he turned toward his horse.

  Before he reached the café, hoofbeats echoed down the street beyond. In no mood to see anyone, he waited for the rider to pass, and only a moment later, a bald-faced paint with ghostly blue eyes dipped into view.

  The sight of the hauntingly memorable horse knotted his belly even further.

  Chapter 3

  As Maisie poured a fresh cup of coffee for a customer, the bell on the front door jingled. Lucky Tolliver ducked inside, book in hand, and took off his hat. His eyes settled on her, and excitement fluttered her belly. She must stop such schoolgirl foolishness. The man came every payday and sat for hours to sip coffee, read a book, and have a meal, but he never spoke other than to place his order. Even if the handsome young ranch hand were to show some interest—which he obviously didn’t have—he didn’t need to become involved with her. In this town, she was no better than poison.

  “Afternoon, Lucky. Sit wherever you like.”

  He chose his usual table near the window.

  Maisie faced the customer again. “Can I get anything more for you, sir?”

  The man declined, and Maisie shuffled off to take the order from the couple at the neighboring table. Two slices of pie. Once she’d run the order to the kitchen, she approached Lucky’s table.

  “Do you know what you’d like this evening?” She poised her pencil over the notepad.

  “Were you feeling poorly?”

  She jerked to meet his deep brown eyes. “Pardon?” Had he truly spoken a whole sentence to her?

  “At church.” He held her gaze for an instant before shifting his attention away. Maisie blinked, mute.

  He shrugged. “You, um…” He fidgeted with the cover of his book. “Never mind. Ain’t important.”

  Her eye
s stung with the threat of tears. How long since anyone in this town had asked after her health? Outside of the Dempseys, no one seemed to notice—or care. Why he’d have noticed, she couldn’t fathom. “Truth is, I wasn’t feeling particularly well on Sunday. Thank you for inquiring.”

  He gave her a halting nod but said nothing more.

  The stinging of her lower lids intensified, and a knot gripped her throat.

  From the kitchen, the cook called that the latest order was ready.

  “Excuse me, please.”

  Just inside the kitchen, she pressed her back to the wall and gulped several deep breaths.

  The owner’s wife glared. “What’s wrong with you?”

  A very good question. Lucky Tolliver’s unexpected question had nearly reduced her to tears.

  “Well?” the woman prodded from her station at the stove. “If you ain’t dying, get this pie out to the customers, or I’ll tell my husband you’re shirking your duties again.”

  Biddy. Maisie squared her shoulders and met the woman’s eyes. “I’m not shirking my duties. I needed a moment, if you don’t mind.” She wiped her eyes on her apron, retrieved the plates, and swept out of the kitchen.

  “Here you are.” She served the young couple and returned to Lucky’s table. “Sorry for the interruption. What can I get you today?”

  “Uh…” As usual, he avoided her eyes. “Fried chicken. Mashed potatoes.”

  She sighed inwardly. Four words. Of course, it was too good to last. “Anything more?”

  He glanced toward the young couple. “Apple pie?”

  “Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and apple pie.” She scribbled down the order. “And coffee.”

  Maisie noted it on her pad. “I’ll bring it directly.”

  By the time she delivered the order to the kitchen and returned with a mug, he was engrossed in his book.

  It was for the best.

  Within a short time, her other customers departed, leaving only Lucky. Rare for a Saturday, though it was still early. Maisie collected the dirty dishes and ran them back to the sink, taking a moment to rinse them since business was slow. No sooner had she begun than the bell on the front door jingled. She dropped the plates into the hot water to soak, dried her hands, and hurried into the dining room.