by Lisa Plumley
Surely Miles wouldn’t risk Mr. Bouchard’s wrath merely for the sake of a few minutes with her…would he? Because if he had…
Well, if he had, that would be very telling about Miles’s feelings for her. Could it be that Miles’s feelings for her matched her feelings for him? That they’d both been unable or unwilling to say so back in Boston?
If that was the case, then Rosamond had some decisions to make. Because any man who cared enough about her to risk ruination, a beating—or worse—just for the sake of spending time with her, could not simply be dismissed. No matter what her suspicions about him might have been initially. That meant—
“Mrs. Dancy?”
Judah’s voice broke into her musings. Rosamond glanced up to find her security man eyeing her worriedly.
“Are you all right? I guess you’re thinking about Callaway and how much you want to see him, but you seem kind of…lost? Or something.” He shrugged, unable to describe her demeanor more specifically. “My brother, Cade, is the eloquent one, not me.”
Lost. That just about summed up her life so far. Judah didn’t know the half of it—but he’d nearly guessed anyway.
Rosamond mustered a reassuring smile. “It’s not the eloquence that counts, Judah. It’s the caring. You’ve got plenty of that. So don’t you worry.”
Her security man seemed brightened by her praise.
“And I’m fine. Thank you for your concern, but I’m just a little tired. The puppy, Riley, kept me awake again.” It sure wasn’t thoughts of Miles Callaway keeping her tossing and turning. Oh, wait—it was that. Seeing Miles again had done her in. “The poor thing spends half the night whimpering.”
“If you’re angling to give her to me, you’ll need a better selling pitch than ‘she whimpers all night.’” Jokingly, Judah held up both hands. “I don’t need a ‘guard dog’ of my own.”
“Don’t worry, I’m keeping her.” If nothing else, because she reminds me of Miles. Also, because the puppy was eminently lovable. “There’s no need to look so scared.”
“I’m not scared. I just don’t know how to look after a puppy, that’s all.” Judah shifted his massive feet. “I didn’t sign on for detective duty, either. So if you’re still planning on tracking down Callaway, you ought to ask Coyle. I reckon he’d know what to do. There isn’t too much he doesn’t know about.”
Rosamond considered sending her newest security man in search of Miles, then rapidly discarded the idea. Both men were impossibly tough. Both were willing to go to improbable lengths to get what they wanted—at least if Miles’s appearance here in Morrow Creek was anything to go by. Forcing Miles and Dylan Coyle together—especially at cross-purposes—would be unwise.
Besides, she wanted to talk to Miles, not vex him. She wanted to see him, to question him…to find out why he’d rejected her and her mutual society. Her pride demanded it, didn’t it?
Bringing Miles to her own personal stronghold by force wouldn’t endear her to him. Nor would it be easy to explain. Most women didn’t have three burly bruisers at their disposal. Rosamond didn’t particularly want to explain why she did.
She was fortunate that Miles hadn’t asked her to.
“Maybe,” she decided, “I’ll send Miss Yates again.”
“Exactly where are you going to send her?” Judah asked. “I told you, Callaway’s gone from Miss Adelaide’s place.” He crossed his beefy arms. “If I were you, I’d give up on him.”
“Has he left town altogether?”
“Miss Adelaide didn’t seem to think so.”
“Then I’ll just keep sending people until I find him.”
“Have you thought of going after him yourself?”
Of course she had. It was impossible. “No.”
“Because I reckon he might show himself on your account.”
“There’s no reason in the world that he would.”
Judah scoffed. “Then you haven’t spent enough time around men, Mrs. Dancy. Because the way Callaway looked at you…let’s just say, I reckon he’d come running if you did the calling.”
She looked away. “You know I don’t leave the household.”
Everyone knew that. Everyone in town. The good thing about the West was, not many people questioned such things.
“Maybe it’s time you did leave. Just for a spell.” Judah gave a heartfelt gesture. “It might be good for you to leave.”
It would be terrible for her to leave.
Rosamond shifted in her chair, full of resistance and wanting and maddening disquiet. She didn’t want to abandon her sanctuary. Inside her house’s four walls, she felt safe and secure. “I have everything I need right here.”
Everything…except someone to share it with.
But that was nonsensical. She had her friends. She had her children. She had an adorable new puppy that still hadn’t adjusted to its new home and thus kept her awake at night.
Just like thoughts of Miles kept her awake at night.
If she were honest with herself, that had been true for a long time now. Even during the days she’d spent with Elijah Dancy, Rosamond hadn’t been able to stop thinking of Miles.
If what he’d said was true, he’d thought of her, also.
The realization made her feel downright exhilarated.
“The fact of the matter is,” she told Judah to distract herself, “given another chance, Mr. Callaway will undoubtedly join my mutual society. That’s why I sent you with that message for him today, to offer him another try at it.” That, Rosamond decided, had been as reasonable an excuse as any to see him. “Speaking of which, let’s let Seth have a chance at delivering it next.”
Judah looked exasperated.
“And then what? We’ll start sending the youngsters over one by one?” He tossed down the note he’d withdrawn, knowing better than to refuse by pressing it into her hand. “No, ma’am. These shenanigans have got to stop. You’ve sent Miss Yates once, Seth once and me twice to fetch Mr. Callaway. That’s just in the last two days!” He shook his head. “Something’s got to give.”
“Well,” Rosamond said stubbornly, “it won’t be me.”
“It won’t be Callaway, either,” Judah warned her. “I don’t see it happening. Maybe another man would be better—”
“Maybe.” Dylan Coyle came into the breakfast room wearing a somber look. He tipped his hat to Rosamond. “Sorry, Mrs. Dancy, but I’ve got some bad news about that thorn in your side.”
He meant Miles. Rosamond recalled referring to him as the thorn in her side on the day he’d brought over Riley. The remembrance made her suppress a smile. She’d attempted more humor in the past two days than she had in the past two months combined.
Maybe Miles had a positive effect on her spirits. Despite everything, maybe seeing him again had been good for her.
“Bad news? About Miles? What is it?”
Neither of her hired men remarked on her familiar way of talking about Miles. Probably, they’d already guessed she had a past with him. Either that, or they both believed Rosamond deserved the scandalous reputation some of the townsfolk had accused her of having when she’d arrived in Morrow Creek.
She had to do a better job of being ladylike. But first…
“Stop looking at me with woebegone faces and tell me!”
“He’s locked up.” Seth shouldered his way into the breakfast room, looking peculiarly triumphant about delivering his bad news—especially as compared with the other two men. “He’s hunkering down in Sheriff Caffey’s jailhouse right now. It doesn’t look like he’ll be seeing daylight anytime soon, either, on account of his being new to town.”
Judah frowned. “Sheriff Caffey doesn’t like strangers.”
“Sheriff Caffey doesn’t like anybody,” Seth disagreed.
“Sheriff Caffey is a bad sheriff and a bad man,” Dylan added, “but that doesn’t change the facts. He’s got your man.”
Her man. Rosamond liked that. Unwisely. “What did he do?”
“Fix an
election. Wrangle himself an underserved job.” Dylan ticked off items on his fingers. “Gloat about both those things, impede the press who reported on his wrongdoings—”
“No.” Exasperatedly, Rosamond waved at him. The vagaries of town politics didn’t matter. Nor did Dylan’s inside information as a former Pinkerton man. “What did Mr. Callaway do?”
Dylan shrugged. “I reckon you’ll have to ask him.”
“You didn’t find out?”
“I thought it was more important to get here straightaway and tell you so you could rescue him.”
Rosamond boggled. “What makes you think I’d rescue him?”
All three of her security men stared at her.
After a moment, Seth asked, “Isn’t it obvious?”
“It’s what you do,” Judah explained, looking befuddled by her inaction. “This whole household is proof of it.”
Still flummoxed, Rosamond stared back at them.
“They mean,” Dylan said, “that you save people.”
Rosamond didn’t see things that way. “In the same circumstances, anyone would have done the things I’ve done.”
“Not anyone.”
“Not for anyone.”
“Not the way you’ve done it.”
The unified responses of her men made her laugh with disbelief. “I’m just one woman! One ordinary woman.”
“Right.” Seth nodded. “Now then…do you want company?”
“Company to go where?”
“To the jailhouse. To get Callaway.”
“I’m not going to get Mr. Callaway.” That would mean leaving. Leaving the safety of her household made Rosamond quake—quite literally—with fear. “However,” she announced with sudden satisfaction, “we now know exactly where to deliver my note to Mr. Callaway, don’t we?”
*
Miles hadn’t intended to get Rosamond’s attention by having himself thrown into Sheriff Caffey’s jailhouse. But once he’d wound up in the hoosegow anyway—and once he’d recognized Dylan Coyle perusing the wanted posters—Miles realized this tactic might work out handily for him. Rosamond was far too softhearted to allow him to remain behind those cold black iron bars for very long. As soon as Coyle returned with the news of Miles’s incarceration, Rosamond would likely skedaddle down to save him.
After all, back in Boston, Rosamond had saved several abandoned cats, finding them new homes as mousers among the staff in neighboring mansions. She’d nursed to health a pair of forlorn lost ducklings she’d found in the park while making a delivery for Genevieve Bouchard. She’d even taken the blame for other housemaids’ mistakes, knowing that Arvid Bouchard would never voluntarily see her—his “favorite housemaid”—dismissed.
Because of that, Miles realized, it would be very like Rosamond to rescue him. Almost in the same way she’d rescued all the fallen angels in her care. Not that that’s why he’d done what he’d done. Not in the least. But now that it was done…
Well, now that it was done and he realized the full implications of his supposed misdeeds, Miles didn’t feel sorry.
He felt…hopeful. Despite everything. Especially when, lying on the lumpy jailhouse bunk with his arms crossed under his head and his heart full of bittersweet memories of Rosamond, Miles heard the first unmistakable feminine footsteps on the raised-plank boardwalk outside the jailhouse and grew instantly alert.
This was it. Rosamond was here.
Damnation, but he was lucky to have a woman like her.
Not that he had her. Not yet. But Miles knew it was only a matter of time. He and Rosamond belonged together. She was wary, understandably so, but he was determined. He knew he could win.
He could win Rosamond, and he could win love for them both.
Pretending not to feel as eager as a green schoolboy, Miles forced himself to remain still. He didn’t want to draw the attention of his watchful jailer, Deputy Winston— no relation to Gus. He also didn’t want to alarm Rosamond. Miles wasn’t sure if she’d ever been in a jailhouse before. The place wasn’t exactly the posh Lorndorff Hotel. It would be a shock for Rosamond to see him there. So Miles didn’t move as he heard the jailhouse door open and close. He didn’t speak as he inhaled the fresh air that blew inside to accompany the jail’s visitor.
He didn’t so much as blink as he anticipated Rosamond.
“Well, if this isn’t a fine how-do-you-do, I don’t know what is,” came the sound of a feminine voice. “Deputy Winston, isn’t it about time you chipped out a little self-respect and quit incarcerating honest people at Sheriff Caffey’s whim?”
Surprised, Miles sat up. He stared.
An unfamiliar woman winked back at him from the other side of his cell bars. She had untidy hair, an invigorated glow and the most bizarre set of garments Miles had ever glimpsed.
She looked, it occurred to him, like one of the protesters for female suffrage who occasionally marched in Boston.
Deputy Winston groaned. “Grace Murphy. Missing us already, are you? I know you’ve spent a lot of time here, but we don’t seem to have any charges pending for you. It must be a mistake.”
Grace Murphy chuckled. “Give me time, Deputy. Soon I’ll be raising a whole passel of rabble-rousers. I’m already capable of outthinking you. Soon, we Murphy women will outnumber you, too.”
Another groan. Obviously distressed, Deputy Winston shot an annoyed glance at Miles. If he expected masculine solidarity, though, he was disappointed. Miles only shrugged.
He liked uppity women. Judging by her name and demeanor, Grace was saloonkeeper Jack Murphy’s wife. He liked Jack Murphy, too. He doubted the man would wed just any conventional woman.
“Are you saying there’s gonna be more of you?” The deputy shook his head. “That oughta be a crime, right then and there.”
Grace smiled. “I believe, Deputy, that when a woman informs you of her impending motherhood, it’s incumbent upon a well-mannered gentleman to congratulate her on her good fortune.”
Another, much louder, groan came from the deputy.
But Miles perked up. “Congratulations, Mrs. Murphy.”
Her intelligent gaze shifted to him. She beamed, obviously pleased. “See there?” She aimed her chin illustratively at Miles for Deputy Winston’s edification, then went on. “I knew I was correct in taking on this request for my friend Mrs. Dancy. I’d say that you, Mr. Callaway, are worth bailing out of jail.”
Miles’s smile dimmed. “Rosamond isn’t coming?”
“Of course not. It’s not possible.” Grace didn’t explain why. Her omission concerned him. Brightly, she aimed an unnerving look at the lawman in front of her. “So, Deputy. Exactly how much brouhaha are we going to stir up today?”
Deputy Winston gulped. He glanced toward the door, undoubtedly hoping the sheriff would return. That didn’t happen.
“Keep in mind,” Grace added helpfully, “that I positively relish confrontations that help ensure the greater good.” From her valise, she pulled forth a length of sturdy chain. It clanged as it hit the floor, followed by a robust lock. “Shall I chain myself to your desk? Or to Mr. Callaway’s cell?”
Deputy Winston looked again for help. None arrived.
“You know that I have a long and glorious tradition of personal protests,” Grace reminded him, straightening her unusual clothing and then busying herself with her chain. “Mr. Nickerson alone has brought charges against me at least twice per year for a decade. I’m not afraid. I am fully prepared to sacrifice myself until Mr. Callaway has achieved his freedom.”
“You could just pay his bail,” the deputy grumped.
“Pay unfair bail money?” Grace looked astonished. “I’d sooner smash my beloved bicycle to pieces than do that.” Undeterred, she raised her chin. “You should know, of course, that editor Walsh from the Pioneer Press will be here at the jailhouse forthwith if he doesn’t hear from me otherwise. Everyone will be most interested in the story he writes about Mr. Callaway’s wrongful jailing. I’ve already turned in the first dr
aft myself, in fact. It is my father’s newspaper—”
Finally, the deputy had had enough. “You’re…expecting, Grace! You can’t start a protest!” Nervously, he shifted his attention from Grace’s determined face to the chain she’d brought. “’Sides, you don’t even know what Callaway’s done!”
Calmly, Grace looked at Miles. She raised her eyebrows.
Clearly she’d been prepared to do whatever was necessary, purely on Rosamond’s say-so. But since she was asking…
“I had a misunderstanding with a man,” Miles told her, “about one of the dance hall girls at your husband’s saloon.”
Grace’s eyebrows raised a fraction higher.
“He misunderstood that a dance hall girl isn’t a prostitute. I misunderstood the law. Apparently, defending a lady’s honor is a jailing offense.” Miles shrugged. “Not that I wouldn’t have taken a wallop at him anyway. He needed stopping.”
“Yes.” Grace nodded. “That explains the nasty bruise that’s developing under your eye. One does as needs must, doesn’t one?”
“You haven’t seen the knuck who was misbehaving.”
“Yes. I’m sure he doesn’t look very fit today, either.” She gave Miles an intense once-over, then nodded again. “Very well done.” She withdrew a folded paper from her pocket, then strode to his jail cell. “Before I begin my protest, I should give you this. It’s from Mrs. Dancy. She’s gone through considerable difficulty to get it to you. Before, I was justifiably perplexed as to why. But now I understand.”
Deftly, Grace passed the note through the bars. Miles fancied he could smell rose perfume wafting from the paper.
“Don’t protest on my account,” he told Grace. “I’m fine. I might be safer here than anyplace else.” If Arvid Bouchard’s men found him and realized he hadn’t disclosed Rosamond’s location, that would be true. “Thank you for coming, though.”