by Sara Orwig
While he ate, Mary escaped from the dining room, relieved to get away from the scrutiny of strangers. She entered the steamy warmth of the kitchen with its stew bubbling on the big wood-burning stove, loaves of freshly baked bread on the counter, and venison roasting in the large oven. Water boiled in two kettles, one in readiness for another pot of coffee, the other to scald the dishes. Pans hung from the ceiling and on the walls, and coals burned in a fireplace at one end of the room. She hurried to place dishes on the counter and stir the stew.
An hour later there were only three customers left in the dining room—the burly bull-whackers and the pale stranger with golden hair. The presence of the three men made her nervous, because they had long since eaten and were dallying over coffee.
She stirred the stew, wondering if she should announce that the dining room was closed so the men would have to leave. While she debated, she heard the soft whisper of the swinging doors open and close.
The burliest of the two dark strangers stood only a few feet behind her, arms akimbo on his hips, a grin on his face.
“Sir, you don’t belong in my kitchen,” she said, facing him, her heart racing.
“Now, miss, don’t be so unfriendly. It’s a cold day outside. My friend and I want a place to stay and a little kindness shown to us. We’re good men, with plenty of gold dust lining our pockets. We can have a little party.”
“Get out of this kitchen.”
“As I see it, there’s no reason for me to go. Come give me a little kiss.”
“I’ll scream. Get out!”
“You’re not going to scream,” he said softly, “and get that one fellow hurt. If you yell, he’ll come through those doors, and then he’s going to get hurt. You don’t want that on your conscience.” He grinned as he talked, moving closer to her. Heart pounding, Mary backed up. His hand shot out and caught her left wrist.
“Leave me alone!” She ground out the words. He laughed and began to pull her closer.
She reached back, her fingers closing over the handle of the kettle of boiling water. She picked it up and flung it at him.
He screamed, jumping back, while she picked up a second kettle, steam curling up from it.
He let out another yell and ran for the back door. His friend burst into the room and stared at Mary, who held the kettle of boiling water. Dodging and swearing, he dashed through the back door as she tossed the water.
Water arced across the kitchen, splashing harmlessly over the floor in a sizzling stream while the back door banged against the wall. A blast of cold air and snowflakes tumbled inside.
“I don’t guess you need any help,” drawled the blond stranger who stood in the doorway to the dining room, laughter bubbling in his voice.
She whirled around. Her nerves were stretched thin, her patience gone. She raised the empty kettle. “Customers don’t belong in my kitchen. Get out, mister. You’ve paid and eaten. Now, go!”
“Hey, Irish, wait a minute,” Dan said, laughing as he confronted her.
“Get out of here, I said,” she ordered, throwing the kettle.
“Hey! Dammit!” He ducked, and the kettle clanged on the wall behind him. Instantly she lobbed another at him, yanking them off the wall and throwing with all her strength. He sidestepped and yelled, waving his hand at her as she heaved the third and fourth pans.
“Hey! I just want to talk. Silas—”
A skillet banged over his head and hit him as it fell. He swore, and she yelled at him again.
“Get out!” Mary’s temper boiled. Everyone in town knew Silas had promised to marry her, and this wasn’t the first stranger to try to use Silas as an excuse to meet her. She flung two pans. “Get out of my kitchen.” She yanked up the butcher knife.
He swore and jumped back through the swinging doors. “To hell with it!” he shouted. She heard a clatter of boots, and silence.
Trembling seized her as she locked the kitchen door. She pushed open the swinging doors. Her father stood in the empty dining room, his blue eyes round, his nose and cheeks as red as holly berries, tufts of white hair showing beneath his cap.
“Is dinner over?” he asked, swaying slightly.
“Oh, Pa. Dinner’s been over for ages. It’s half-past two now.”
“Well, Mary, love, I was delayed on my way home. Now hunger tears at my insides. Seems the last customer left in a bit of haste.”
“That he did, Pa,” she said with resignation. “Sit down. I’ll bring you some stew.”
He bumped into a table and sat down. “That’s a lovely idea, darlin’. Something hot to warm a man’s cold insides on a wintry day.”
She returned to the kitchen to rinse her hands in a sink full of water. Beyond their plot of land she could see a wedge of street and shops. The blond stranger was striding away, his hat pulled low, his collar turned up. She remembered his laughter and regretted her temper. He had mentioned Silas, but she doubted if he actually knew who Silas was. He was a handsome one, that blond, and she wondered how many women were in his life.
In the biting cold, Dan strode along a street empty of its usual traffic of wagons and carts and carriages. He still hadn’t told Mary O’Malley about the money—something he had procrastinated about too long, but his time had been spent with Dulcie and building houses. He liked Denver and he saw the promise in it. His long legs stretched out while he alternately fumed about the hot-tempered Mary O’Malley and questioned Silas’ taste in women.
Six blocks farther along, he began to pass the sporting houses. One stood at the end of the street, its fresh coat of pale blue paint looking lovely with snow on the roof and windows. The ornate gingerbread trimming was appealing. A porch circled the house, with scrollwork along the overhanging roof and posts. Dan felt a swift stab of pride. He had designed and built it himself, hiring four men to help him. It was the first house he had built when he came to Denver, and it was the best work he knew how to do. He had gotten the job to build the Potter house because of it. Lester Potter had liked the house and asked Dan to build one for him. Thinking about the Potter house, Dan glanced up at the sky, wondering how long the snow would fall. He couldn’t work outside in this kind of weather.
He strode up the porch steps and stomped snow off his feet before going inside. When he opened the door a bell jingled and a maid appeared, a smile breaking forth when she saw who it was.
“ ’Afternoon, Arietta. Is Miss Dulcie in her office?”
“Yes, sir. You go on back, and I’ll bring you some hot coffee.”
He strode down the hall, still looking around and admiring the house, wondering when he would stop feeling proud of it. It had been his first real effort, and he had been so terrified of failure that he still had to study it as if to make certain that he had actually accomplished what he had set out to do. The door to Dulcie’s office was open. She sat with her back to him, her black hair piled high on her head, wearing a red woolen dress. A cheroot lay smoldering in an ashtray to her right as she shuffled through papers on her desk.
“All work and no play makes a very dull day,” he said. She turned, laughing and coming up out of the chair as he closed the door behind him. She crossed the room straight into his arms, and he caught her up to kiss her fully on the mouth.
She returned his kiss for almost two minutes before she wriggled away. “Brr. You’re wet and cold!”
“That’s what usually happens when I walk in the snow.”
“You haven’t been working, have you?”
“No. Merely admiring your magnificent house.”
Her brown eyes twinkled warmly. “It is magnificent. And so is the man who built it. I love it, Dan. How can I ever thank you enough?”
He shrugged. “Maybe there are one or two things you can do.”
A throaty laugh came from her as she took his hand and crossed the room. She placed the cheroot between her teeth and handed him one. “Here, have a smoke. Did you give Miss O’Malley Silas’ money?”
“The money! Damn, I completely f
orgot.”
“Forgot? How can you forget fifteen thousand dollars?”
He sat on a chair, hooking his knee over the arm and letting his foot dangle in the air. “I can’t imagine Silas coming back to her.”
“That doesn’t matter. You promised Silas—”
“I know. I’ll give her the money. But I don’t want to take her out, and she isn’t going to want to go.”
“Why not?”
“She’s a baby. She looks fifteen years old.”
“Fifteen? She can’t be! Did you ask Silas how old she was?” Dulcie asked, coming to sit on his lap. He swung his leg off the arm to hold her, playing with one of her midnight locks, looking at her slender throat.
“Marry me, Dulcie.”
Her head turned and her brown eyes surveyed him tenderly. “You’re sweet.”
“The hell I am.”
“I’d be a rock around your neck.” Dulcie studied him while her heart constricted with pain. Each time, from that very first proposal in Montana, she had wanted to accept his offer and damn the consequences. But for the first time in her life, she was truly in love, and she wanted Dan Castle to have the life he deserved. He was twenty-one; she was almost thirty now. She was eight years older, and a soiled dove. Denver held a promising future for Dan, and she didn’t want to pull him down or cause him to be ostracized by a society that would otherwise welcome him and let him live peacefully. She studied his thickly lashed blue eyes, his handsome triangular face with prominent cheekbones and slightly crooked nose from being broken in a fight. He was handsome beyond measure, so good to her, and she loved him until it hurt.
“The answer is still no. Ask me again in a month.”
“Dulcie,” he said, his voice becoming hoarse as his arms tightened around her waist, “I want you. You’re good for me.”
“And you’re mighty good to me. Look at this, Dan,” she said, gazing around her. “You built this house for me and gave it to me so I could go into business. It’s the nicest, prettiest, fanciest sporting house in the West, and I didn’t have to pay you a greenback for it.”
“I wanted to give it to you, and it’s good business for me. Half the town’s leading citizens come here,” he said dryly.
“Maybe not half,” she answered, “but some do. That still doesn’t mean you didn’t do all this for me. I don’t need marriage. This is enough.”
“No it’s not. I want a home and family, and you’re a good woman, Dulcie. A damned good woman. In bed and out.”
She wiggled impatiently and picked up her cheroot. “Tell me about Miss O’Malley,” she said, to get his mind elsewhere. “Other than being fifteen—and I don’t think she is—why can’t you take her out? You could take out a fifteen-year-old.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
She blew a stream of smoke in his face, and he turned his head, swearing. “Dulcie!”
“Miss O’Malley.”
He picked up his cheroot in self-defense. “She’s shy, and doesn’t seem to like men. She’s plain as a stick and has a mean temper.”
“You made her angry?”
“No, I didn’t, but two strangers did. One of them followed her back to the kitchen. I was close enough to the door to hear him. A big, burly fellow who wanted to kiss her. I was just getting ready to go to her rescue when I heard a bellow. His friend rushed to the kitchen, and I followed. She threw boiling water on the bull-whacker.” Dan paused, frowning at Dulcie. “It isn’t funny.”
“You’re not a woman and you don’t understand how it feels to be mauled by some big ruffian who outweighs you by a hundred pounds! Good for her!” Dulcie exclaimed happily.
“That’s what you think! By the time I entered the kitchen, she wouldn’t listen to reason. She threw pots and pans and skillets at me. Stop laughing!” Dan snapped. “It wasn’t funny, dodging iron skillets. How that little thing could heave those skillets across a room, I don’t know.”
“Did you tell her you knew Silas?”
“I said his name and tried to tell her, but she picked up a knife. I didn’t wait to discuss it with her. I’ll go back and tell her about the money. It’s all safe in a bank right now,” he said, kissing Dulcie’s throat.
“Dan.” She pushed against him. “A Mr. Corning was here. He wanted to know who designed and built the house. He’s a railroad man. He’s moving here because of the line they’re building.”
“Benjamin Corning?” Dan asked, sitting up, eagerness in his voice.
“I gave him your office address and let him look the house over.”
“Did you show him the cornices and the bay windows?”
She smiled and stroked his cheek, taking his cheroot and hers and stubbing them out in an ashtray. “Yes, I showed him everything, just like you instructed me to do,” she said, her voice dropping a notch, her hands fluttering across his chest.
His features softened as he gazed at her mouth and leaned forward to kiss her.
Late that afternoon Dan left Dulcie’s to go to his room at the hotel. He was in the process of building a house for himself, something he had temporarily halted to complete the contract on the Potter house. He hunched his shoulders as he stomped through the snow, frowning, his thoughts on the party he was invited to tonight at the home of his banker, Charles Shumacher. It was Dan’s first big social event in Denver. He was torn between elation and anger. Eagerness filled him because he wanted to belong to Denver society, and he wanted to build houses for people here. At the same time, he wanted Dulcie for his wife. He knew full well why she steadfastly refused him. He didn’t think she would be a hindrance, but if she was, they would go somewhere else to live and she could start anew just as he had.
He was so wrapped in his thoughts he didn’t watch where he was walking. Suddenly there was a dark blur before him, and he collided head-on with someone.
Both lost their balance and fell into a drift. Dan reached out to brace himself, a feminine yelp coming from the soft person beneath him.
5
Dan gazed down into wide eyes that were a deep shade of lavender. The woman’s thick black lashes were laced with flakes of snow, and her cheeks were pink from the cold. Dan grinned.
“Sorry, ma’am. I wasn’t watching my step, and I do apologize.”
Her lashes fluttered, and a smile came that took his breath away. “Maybe you should move away.”
“Oh! I guess I should at that,” he said, grinning and standing up to pull her to her feet. She was tall and willowy, with an upturned nose.
They gazed into each other’s eyes and laughed. Someone yelled, and she glanced over her shoulder at a waiting carriage. “I must go.” She began to hurry away.
“Wait a minute,” he called after her. “What’s your name?”
She smiled over her shoulder as she ran to the waiting carriage. A man helped her inside and the door closed as the horses pulled the carriage down the street. Dan stared after it in consternation, her image flaming in his mind. She was breathtakingly beautiful. He wondered who she was, and if the waiting man had been a husband.
He hunched his shoulders again and went striding to his hotel, unable to get the woman out of his mind, and determined to find her.
He bathed and dressed carefully for his first dinner party in Denver society. The invitation had come as an afterthought one day when Dan was leaving the bank. He banked with Shumacher and had had several friendly conversations with him. When Charles discovered Dan was a bachelor, he casually mentioned he had a daughter. At one time Dan knew he would have looked forward with eagerness to meet Shumacher’s daughter. Now, however, with heartaches still plaguing him from his time with Melissa Hatfield, and with Dulcie in his life, he had little interest, but he was delighted to be invited for dinner. It would be a good opportunity to mix with the powerful men of Denver society, and Dan knew he would need them if he was to succeed as a builder.
Pulling on a coat and setting his broad-brimmed hat squarely on his head, he gazed at his own image i
n a mirror, startled to see himself dressed in such finery. He gave his reflection a cocky grin and left, striding outside, where snow continued to fall in tiny flakes, sparkling on the ground like millions of bits of glass tossed against a white blanket. He climbed into his carriage, taking up the reins and turning down the lane.
The Shumacher house was one of the fine new houses in Denver. Set back from the street, it was a tall stone structure with leaded-glass windows, a porch circling the house, and bays in both front rooms. Dan turned the reins over to a groom, climbed down from the carriage, and went up the steps to stomp the snow off his boots. The door opened and a servant smiled at him, offering to take his coat and hat.
His bald head shining and his thick black mustache drooping over his full mouth, Charles Shumacher came forward to greet Dan and introduce him to his slender, dark-haired wife, Hortense. “Come into the front parlor, Mr. Castle,” Hortense Shumacher said in a high voice that Dan suspected could grow tiresome. “I’ll introduce you to our friends.” He moved beside her, realizing the party was larger than he had expected. Two parlors were filled with people, and the wide double doors between them were thrown open, fires burning in the hearths in both rooms. His gaze swept over the crowd recognizing certain prominent men he had already met, sighting many whom he didn’t know at all. There were three banks in town—the Kountze brothers’, the First National Bank of Denver, and the Shumacher bank—and men from all three were present tonight. The Knelvilles, father and son, who ran a land office, were there, also Emily Parsons whose father owned a freighting business. Dan’s gaze moved over new faces.
He almost missed a step. Across the room, standing near the blazing fire, was the beauty he had tumbled with into a snowdrift hours earlier. His heart skipped a beat and began again at a more erratic pace. She was laughing, looking at three men clustered around her, her profile to Dan. She wore a blue dress that looked like it was the latest fashion. Her hair was looped in braids over her dainty ears, and the front was crimped and curled above her forehead.
She turned her head and gazed into his eyes, and for an instant Dan felt as if an invisible current bound the two of them together, wrapping them in a world shut away from everyone else in the room. Her lashes fluttered and a pink flush rose in her cheeks. He nodded, giving her a crooked smile.