The words seemed to hang there in the air between the two of them.
Tilly blinked, and her mouth fell open for a moment.
“If that don’t beat all,” she said. “’Spose you could tell the judge how you feel, and he’ll forget about sending me to prison?”
But Daisy felt no urge to rise to the bait. “You and I both know I can’t change that, Tilly. But maybe I could write to you, while you’re in prison. You told me once you don’t have any family. And you won’t be in there forever... When you get released, you could come out to the ranch where we’ll be living, if you want. The Dancing D, it’s called, north of Mason a few miles. We could give you work...”
She thought it likely that Tilly would jeer at that, but if the woman had truly thought about what she would do when her prison sentence was done, she’d have to have realized her options would be severely limited. Decent folks would shun her if they knew she’d served time. Unless she traveled many miles and lied about her background, there would be little open to her but jobs so menial Tilly might be tempted into lawbreaking again, or prostitution—and she would be too old by then to be very appealing as a soiled dove.
“You oughta be smart an’ take her up on it, Tilly,” Mose muttered from the far cell. “You ain’t gonna be gettin’ many nice offers like that, you know.”
Tilly was still staring at her as if she couldn’t believe her ears. “Well, I’ll be jiggered,” she murmured, shaking her head. “You really mean it, don’t you? Does that handsome husband-to-be of yours know you’re offering a jailbird a job?”
Daisy nodded, and didn’t mention the fact that Thorn had warned her Tilly would probably laugh in her face at such an offer. “He said it was okay.”
“And what would I do on a ranch, Daisy Henderson?” Tilly retorted, cynicism gleaming from her hard eyes. “Round up longhorns with the rest of the cowpunchers?”
Daisy shrugged. “From what I hear, the woman who cooks for the ranch hands is getting along in years. You always wanted to be a cook, didn’t you? I can’t think of a better audience for your culinary skills than a bunch of cowboys...”
Daisy could see Tilly was turning it over in her mind, imagining it. The idea of cooking for men had to appeal to her, but Tilly also had to know she’d be a lot older by then, not to mention worn down by the harshness of years of prison life—hardly someone the cowboys would flirt with.
“We’ll see,” she said at last. “I don’t even know how many years off that’ll be yet, before I can take you up on such an offer. Why did you make it—and why forgive me, if you don’t mind me asking? It seems like you’ve got it made—you’re about to marry a handsome hero and go off to a peachy new life as Thorn Dawson’s wife. You’re shaking the dust of this town off your boots. It would be easy for you to leave it all behind—and especially to leave me behind. It’s not like we were ever friends, and you don’t owe me a thing. Why do you need to be asking for any more trouble?”
Daisy took a deep breath before replying. “Because I’m a Christian, Tilly. The Bible instructs us to forgive and offer help.”
The woman whistled. “All those Sunday mornings you took off work to go to church taught you that? I thought you were wasting your time, but I guess not.”
Daisy nodded. “I learned a lot from Reverend Chadwick’s sermons and reading my Bible.”
Tilly looked wistful. “I never did have a Bible, but I didn’t have much book learning, neither, though I can read and write enough to get by. Reckon I couldn’t understand the Good Book, though.”
Daisy hadn’t dreamed she’d be offered such an open door by Tilly, but saying a quick silent “thank You” to God, she walked right through it. Reaching inside her reticule, she pulled out the New Testament she used to read on her breaks. “I think you could, Tilly, if you give it a try. I want you to have this.”
The woman’s eyes widened as she recognized the book she’d often caught Daisy reading. “Oh, no, I couldn’t—not your Bible, Daisy.”
“This is just the New Testament, Tilly. My family Bible—with the Old and New Testament—is at home, so I’ll still have one to read, too. Please take this one. Start with the Gospels—they’re right at the beginning. If you pray and read it, it will give you hope—I promise it will.”
Want struggled with pride in the other woman’s eyes, but at last she reached a hand through the bars and took the leather-bound volume. “Guess I’ll be having some time to read, that’s for sure, and I’ll need all the hope I can get. Thank you, Daisy. You’re better to me than I deserve.”
Daisy felt tears stinging her eyes, even as peace settled over her heart. “You’re welcome, Tilly. I have to go now, but I’ll visit again.”
“I’d like that.”
Daisy left the jail then, knowing she had a shift to finish at the restaurant, but her heart felt so light it might well float away. She couldn’t wait to tell Thorn and Billy Joe about her time with Tilly.
* * *
Everything was in readiness. The pews were packed with what looked like the entire population of Simpson Creek. The mayor and his wife were there, with Mrs. Gilmore looking none the worse for her recent abduction. Mrs. Detwiler, the matron who was the social arbiter of Simpson Creek, was present, as were all the Spinsters Club members. Thorn’s sisters and their families had made the trek from Mason to welcome her into the family, and she was looking forward to getting to know them better. A couple of Thorn’s Ranger compadres had come, too. Wonder of wonders, Mr. Prendergast had even closed the hotel restaurant for several hours, ostensibly so that he could attend, but also because he knew no one in town would be anywhere else but at this church, seeing Daisy Henderson wedding Thorn Dawson.
The Spinsters Club had decorated the ends of the pews with sunflowers, the only blossoms still plentifully in the late summer Texas sunshine. But Daisy’s bouquet was made up of—what else?—daisies, grown in Mrs. Detwiler’s greenhouse, mixed with some creamy ivory roses that matched the hue of her mousseline de soie bridal dress beautifully.
Billy Joe, wearing his new Sunday-best suit and proud as a peacock in full bloom that his mother had picked him to walk her down the aisle, wore a daisy as his boutonniere. Standing at the altar was Sheriff Bishop, Thorn’s best man, with Dr. Walker serving as his other groomsman. Milly and Prissy, carrying sunflowers, attended Daisy as dual matrons of honor.
And now, as she drew near to the altar where Thorn waited for her, she saw why she needn’t have worried about what he would wear to their wedding. He had on a new frock coat of an elegant black fabric, with an ivory paisley silk cravat rather than the string tie she would have expected. He wore an ivory rosebud as his boutonniere.
How devastatingly handsome could one man be? How had he managed to obtain such a stylish suit in Simpson Creek, one of the smallest towns in Texas? For a certainty, he didn’t buy it at the mercantile, nor would Milly, even if she had the ability, have had time to make it for him, what with his long absence in Austin.
He must have bought it in Austin, Daisy guessed. The finest tailors in Texas had their shops in the state capital, so that the wealthy and powerful figures of government could be clothed at the height of fashion.
The fact that Thorn had taken the time to be fitted for such a well-designed suit, looking forward to their wedding and planning ahead for that day, when he had been busy dealing with so many details about his future, touched her heart. It might be years before he would need to dress so stylishly again, but he had known it would please her on this special day, so he had taken the time and the trouble.
And then Daisy and her son reached Thorn’s side, and Billy Joe was handing her over to her groom. Reverend Gil Chadwick was murmuring the age-old words, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today...”
* * * * *
Read on for an extract from THE NANNY SOLUTION by Barbara Phinney.
Thanks for choosing Lawman in Disguise. I hope you enjoyed reading about Thorn and Daisy’s journey to love. My favorite heroes are like Thorn—tough, but not so much so that they don’t want to serve as good role models to troubled boys like Billy Joe, and wanting to make a better life with a woman who has known only hard work and the disappointment of a previous brutal husband. In my other job, as an ER nurse, I see too many abused women and find myself hoping and praying for a happily-ever-after for each of them.
As a native Texan, I find Texas history is dear to me, especially the beautiful Hill Country, though I live elsewhere now. The Reconstruction period after the Civil War was a particularly difficult time in Texas history, but an interesting one to me particularly because of the reorganization of the Texas Rangers as the Texas State Police. I found myself wondering how a former Ranger who still wanted to serve the state in law enforcement might react when he has to serve with such a corrupt unit, and thus I created Thorn Dawson. I found it difficult to write about his mission to infiltrate the outlaw gang without using the term undercover, a word that did not come into usage until the next century. I hope you enjoyed reading about his efforts to bring down the outlaw gang.
I would love to hear from you! You can write to me in care of Love Inspired Books, Mills & Boon, 195 Broadway, 24th floor, New York, NY 10007, or email me via my website at www.lauriekingery.com.
Blessings,
Laurie Kingery
Chapter One
Boston, 1882
Victoria Templeton sank into the Queen Anne chair. Her mouth fell open in a most unfeminine manner as she gaped up at her pacing, overwrought mother. “What do you mean, ‘we’re broke’?”
Abigail Templeton-Smith continued to pace, all the while wringing her black handkerchief. When the maid entered the front room with afternoon tea, the older woman flicked the small black square, essentially shooing away both the girl and the refreshments.
Victoria’s attention then settled on her mother’s gown. The mourning outfit was terribly outdated, its black bombazine dull in the barely lit room with the window curtains drawn tight. Where was the tasteful mourning suit Mother had worn just yesterday? The last time this old thing saw any use was when they’d buried Victoria’s father, ten years past. “Mother? What’s really going on?”
“Must I repeat it? We’re broke!” Abigail dropped onto the settee and plucked at the skirt of her outfit. “I had to dig this old thing out because I gave all but one of my mourning clothes to Bess.”
Her mother’s maid? “Why?”
“She found a buyer over on Tremont Street. An actress from Chickering Hall, in fact, who approached me last week, saying my mourning outfits would add to an upcoming play. Can you imagine the cheek of that woman? I brushed her off at the time, but after I saw Mr. Lacewood, well, I sent Bess to see her...”
Victoria struggled to follow her mother’s words. Mr. Lacewood had been her stepfather’s solicitor, but what did he have to do with her mother’s mourning outfits?
“...and she was able to get a pretty penny for them. Naturally, I retained this old thing for when I’m at home and one good one for—”
“Why on earth did you sell your mourning clothes?” Victoria interrupted, all the while trying to refrain from gaping unbecomingly at her mother.
“Do not interrupt. It’s terribly ill-mannered.” Abigail blinked before finishing her tale. “As for why, well, I did it for a train ticket!”
“Where are we going?”
Her mother looked away. “Not we, Victoria. Me. I’m going down to the Carolinas to stay with your aunt Eugenia until this dreadful mess blows over.”
Victoria wanted to remind her mother that the “dreadful mess” was her second husband’s recent suicide. But since the marriage hadn’t been a happy union, what else would her mother call it?
Still, something else was terribly wrong. Her mother had never been a loving woman who’d defend her only child to the death, but would she really abandon her own daughter? Would she plan her departure even before Charles was cold in the ground? Yes, Boston was talking about his suicide, and yes, Victoria had yet to shed a tear for the oily character, but his death was hardly a “dreadful mess.”
Victoria moved to sit down beside her mother, her back straight, thanks to her corset, and her expression as firm as the bustle that she’d pulled up behind her. “I want the truth, Mother. You’ve just told me we’re broke and that you’re leaving. I know you met with Mr. Lacewood this morning about Charles’s affairs. And this?” She flicked at her mother’s skirt, receiving in return a sharp glare. “I can’t believe you still have this, let alone have it on. Now, Mother, it’s time for the whole truth. Every last detail.”
Though Victoria was only twenty, she had inherited her father’s sensibilities instead of her mother’s shallow neediness. She loved her mother but couldn’t deny that the woman who’d given birth to her was not known for her warmth and compassion.
Her mother edged away. “Charles had some heavy gambling debts. Ones that must be paid.”
“Gambling debts! Why must they be paid if Charles commit—” She cut off her own words. No need to constantly repeat the words that were the unfortunate reality.
Abigail’s voice fell to a whisper. “I gave him control over your estate. I’d given him everything. It isn’t good form for a woman to deal with finances and we both know that Charles proved me wrong whenever I made a suggestion about money.”
Victoria wanted to interject that apparently Charles was the one who was proved wrong in the end, but the bitter comment lodged in her throat. There was no good reason to point out the obvious, and Mother was shamed enough.
“Charles said that profit could be made with the right investments.” Abigail’s voice hitched as she continued, “A month ago, he promised me we would see changes in the investments. Only then did I suspect what type of ‘investments’ they really were.”
Victoria gasped. “What were they?”
“He was gambling. Heavily, I’m afraid.” Abigail’s chin wrinkled, her cheeks flamed. “Mr. Lacewood said, considering how he’d spent more than we owned, the best thing would be to liquidate the estate.”
“Whose estate?”
Her mother said nothing.
Victoria smacked the settee beside her, causing the older woman to jump. “Mine! Given to me by my father for my future! Wasted because you think it unseemly for a woman to handle her own finances! Mother, how could you?”
“I had no idea he was gambling!”
With an unfeminine snort, Victoria stormed to the window and shoved open the curtains to let in the weakening October sun. While in mourning, one kept the draperies closed, but Victoria couldn’t stand the dimness.
Then remembering that a good deal of the fine local population strolled past at this time of the day, she hastily yanked the drapes back together. Best not to appear unseemly. The black wreath on the front door of their Federal-style town house had limited their visitors. And thankfully, her mother had insisted on a small funeral. Just as well, considering the cause of death. Suddenly the white crepe at the neck of Victoria’s black dress all but choked her. Oh, she couldn’t wait to be free of this thing! Surely six months of mourning a thief was overdone.
A thief! She spun and pushed her hands against her hips. “Now we have nothing?”
Abigail sniffed. “I was as shocked as you are.”
“So shocked he stole from us that you came home and sold all of your mourning outfits for a train ticket south.”
“Not all of them and don’t make it sound so horrible, please. I saved one good outfit for when I travel.”
“First class, I assume.”
At the acid tone, Abigail bit her lip, but didn’t look up. “I can’t be seen traveling second class out of
Boston. Please don’t make a fuss, Victoria. This house and the summer home in Portland will be put up for sale immediately.” Abigail finally looked up with a hollow expression. “And please don’t solicit your friends for money. Allow me to leave Boston gracefully. I need to be gone before the ad is published.”
“What about Francis? He could help, surely?”
Abigail shook her head. “No. You two weren’t engaged yet. Charles had promised he would make the arrangements, but he didn’t and I dare not ask now. Francis’s father doesn’t tolerate this kind of disgrace. He’s a Brahmin, after all.” She let out a shaky sigh. “We’ll never be able to secure a decent marriage for you here.”
Victoria blinked. It had been her hope to marry into Boston’s highest class. Surely Francis would help; after all, their families had been considering a marriage between them. But even as she thought that, she knew the truth. Dutiful Francis would want nothing except to maintain propriety. He’d told Victoria decency and honor were values on which the United States were built. To discard them would be discarding all patriotism.
“What am I to do, Mother?” Victoria asked quietly. “Have you given any thought to me?”
Abigail’s expression softened and she leaned forward, all the while patting the space beside her on the settee. Victoria refused to comply. “My dear, if I could take you, I would. But Eugenia is trying to find good matches for your unruly cousins. Each is bent on having a career first, then after that, choosing their own husband.”
“That’s not a new idea, Mother.”
“At least you were going to allow us to arrange your marriage.”
Of course. Why wouldn’t she? The men in the circles Victoria frequented were wealthy, Brahmin men with long, drawling accents and Old World charm. Who wouldn’t want to marry into that lifestyle? Victoria knew little of her cousins, but she could read the writing on the wall here. Aunt Eugenia was afraid of competition. And her mother would never risk her invitation by arriving with Victoria.
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