“Sounds good to me,” Clay said, moving toward the doorway. “I’m amazed you kept the old one going as long as you have.”
“It weren’t easy, I’ll give you that, but that old girl served us well. That she did. I’ve no doubt this new one will be just as good. Maybe better.” The engineer grinned like a man in love.
“With you at the helm, I’ve no doubt, either.” Clay unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows as they walked down the stairway. Excitement zipped up his spine. There wasn’t a job that had to do with mining gold he didn’t love. “I can’t wait to hear her hiss the first time.”
“Me, either,” Raymond agreed.
Hours later, long after the sun had set and a million stars twinkled overhead, they were both grinning ear to ear as the newly installed boiler was christened. Fulfilling every promise of her advertisement, the machine handled the job with ease and accuracy.
“Listen to that, boss,” Raymond shouted. “She sounds sweeter than a songbird. Course, the real test will come tomorrow morning, when we hook her up to the stampers.”
They stood outside the stamp mill, watching the cloud of steam rolling out of the round stack fade into the night sky. Clay grasped the man’s broad shoulder. “You’ve done a heck of a job. There’ll be a bonus in your pay at the end of the month.”
The man bowed his head. “Aw, that ain’t necessary, boss. You already pay me more than I ever dreamed. The missus says so every month.”
“Well, you deserve it. The stamp mill wouldn’t produce like she does without you.” Clay glanced down the street. The rows of buildings climbing the mountainside were dark. Store owners and residents had long ago called it a night and taken to their beds. The sight caused the long day to catch up with him, and he stretched his arms overhead, arching against stinging muscles. “I hear my bed calling, and you’d better head home before the missus comes looking for you.”
Raymond laughed. “Anna will have supper waiting for me. You want to come along and have some?”
The big German was married to a woman half his size, and the two, though they’d been married for years, acted like love-struck kids—something that never ceased to amaze Clay.
“Thanks, but no. I’m too tired to eat.”
“Gotta eat to keep up your strength,” the worker said, letting out a rough laugh. “That’s what my Anna always says.” A stern expression overtook his face. “Are you sure you won’t come along? Anna won’t mind. Matter of fact, she’ll be fretting if she thinks you went to bed hungry.”
“I’m sure. Tell her I’ll make up for it at breakfast.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then, boss. Night.”
“Good night,” Clay offered as he turned to walk up the street, while Raymond went the opposite direction, toward the edge of town where a dozen mail-ordered houses sheltered miners and mill workers and their families. There were two other such clusters of homes on the other end of town, and every one of them had tenants. No, Clay thought, not tenants, owners.
It was customary for most towns like this to be completely owned by the mine. The stores, the houses … everything people needed they bought or rented from the mine. From what he’d seen, it worked all right, for most towns. But he wanted more from Nevadaville. Wanted it to be a place where people thrived, set down roots and were proud of their accomplishments. Which was why he’d invested in businesses, but only as the financier, and in housing. He’d set up payment plans so anyone willing to work was able to afford a home—their own home. Every single house he’d ordered and erected had been sold, and had people living in it.
An odd emptiness made itself known inside him, making him pause in the street and gaze at the north end of town, where a large house stood empty. The one he’d built for Miranda. He’d thought a lot about that house the past couple of days—ever since meeting Katherine Ackerman.
Clay dropped his gaze and walked toward his office, which doubled as his sleeping quarters. It was all he needed. Thinking of Katherine was just as irrelevant as thinking about Miranda. Both women had been fragments of his imagination—actresses pretending to be people they weren’t. The most frustrating piece of it all was how he’d fallen into that trap again so quickly.
Kit, snuggled in the comfortable bed in room 202, listened as the muffled noise faded. She waited for another sound. Something louder, for the hiss hadn’t been startling enough to wake her. When nothing came, she slipped out of bed and went to the window. The moon and stars were so bright her breath caught. She’d been in the mountains for several days, but until this moment hadn’t noticed how close to the heavens she truly was.
A sigh slipped from her lips as she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the sill and her chin on her fists. Perhaps it was the people. She’d lived in Chicago her entire life, but never felt the camaraderie this town possessed. Everyone she’d met today was friendly and welcoming, and seemed overjoyed to meet her. That may have been because of Jonathan Owens. “Oscar’s Kit” was how he’d introduced her. He was a very charming man. Handsome, too, though not as handsome as Clay. Then again, there probably weren’t many men that handsome. She’d never really noticed such things before, but ever since she’d met him, her mind seemed to stay focused on Clay—in a way, compared everyone else to him. To his handsome face, solid chest, strong arms and deep voice, which even now seemed to echo in her ears.
Jonathan was slender, wiry, a build that matched his pale blue eyes and blond hair. He was sophisticated and, well, attractive. Whereas Clay, with his dark blue eyes that could look almost black at times, and hair so dark brown each strand reflected the sun’s rays, looked … Kit sighed, searching for the description she wanted.
Powerful came, but that wasn’t quite right. He was authoritative and commanding, but she’d seen a gentle and caring side to him, too. Reliable? Trustworthy? Respectable? They all fit, but weren’t quite right. She frowned. When had she started to think of him in that way? He was a foe, not a friend.
It was the town’s doing. Every person she’d encountered in Nevadaville today thought highly of him. She’d asked several people if they knew Sam, and most said yes, they knew him, but then told her to talk to Clay. That was it. End of conversation.
What troubled her most was they all said it with respect, and would go on about how wonderful Clay was, to the point she’d started to agree, thinking of how he’d already come to her aid, more than once. If it wasn’t for him, she might still be roaming the hillsides.
Heroic, that was a good word for him. Like the hero in a book.
A falling star caught her attention, and she smiled. What should she wish for? It could be to meet Sam, but she’d manage that on her own, didn’t need to waste the lucky chance of a falling star on it. No, this wish should be for her, for something she dreamed of obtaining.
Her gaze went to the north end of town, where the large house stood. It had caught her attention as soon as she’d stepped onto the boardwalk outside the hotel this afternoon. Though large and stately, it wasn’t too formal, and fit nicely with the rest of the town. The large front pillars looked welcoming, yet in a peculiar way, lonesome.
A need to know who lived there built inside her. The interior must be beautiful. Perhaps she could stop by and introduce herself, or maybe Jonathan could take her there, make the introductions for her. He’d invited her to lunch with him tomorrow.
She turned back to the sky. The falling star was long gone, leaving no trail. Nonetheless, she closed her eyes and wished. Fancied living in that house, sheltered by the tall trees as fluffy flakes of snow fell upon the roof and piled up on the walkway leading from the end of the road. Christmastime—her favorite time of the year—would be enchanting in that house, and of course, it would be filled with family. Her family.
The image grew so real in her mind, her heart skipped a beat. She smiled and let the air flow slowly from her lungs. After fluffing the curtains, arranging each panel so it fell evenly over the glass panes, she made her way
back to bed and let her imagination be the guide that led the way to more dreams of the big house.
Hours later Kit awoke gently, easing from dreamland like a bubble floating on a breeze. A smile still curved her lips, and it increased as she accepted how tranquil the dreams had left her. The inside of that house was as beautiful as the outside. She’d seen herself floating down a wide staircase dressed in a red velvet dress—no, the dress had been burgundy, with lots of white lace. And below, at the bottom of the stairs, had been a large Christmas tree, fully decorated with pinecones, snowflakes made from white lace and candles, dozens of candles.
She closed her eyes, remembering the dream she’d had moments ago. But for the life of her she couldn’t picture the man who’d stood next to the tree. Her heart started to thud, and she tried harder to recall his image. In the dream, she’d been ecstatic to see him, had been holding her hand out for him to guide her down the last few steps.
Opening her eyes, Kit stared at the ceiling. It was no use; the dream was gone, along with the mystery man. She sat up, accepting the fate of dreams. They rarely came true, not without a lot of work, and she had other, more pressing dreams, too, things to do to make them come true.
Drawing a cleansing breath, she climbed from the bed and proceeded with her morning routine. Half an hour later, she searched the contents of the armoire. As promised, Mr. Reins had delivered her trunks to the hotel, and just as she’d guessed, he’d referred to her as Kit Becker. Not that it mattered by then, as she’d already told Mimmie Mae her real name, as well as Jonathan. She’d encountered him shortly after she’d left the hotel yesterday. He’d introduced himself and, upon learning she was Oscar’s granddaughter, immediately invited her to join him for a cup of tea at the Gilded Parlor.
She giggled at the name. The residents of Nevadaville certainly enjoyed their gold. Practically everything in town was named after it in some way or another. Her wandering mind returned to the wardrobe. Though she loved velvet, could wear it every day and never tire of it, she chose a green twill skirt with a matching jacket and yellow blouse. By noon the sun would be high, and she had learned yesterday how stifling velvet could become in the heat.
Dressed and ready to face the day, she checked the room one last time before pulling open the door. Hungry this morning, as if she hadn’t eaten for weeks, she decided upon steak and eggs for breakfast. The meal would give her the energy to search out Clay. Jonathan had said he was installing a new boiler—that monstrous piece of machinery she’d seen.
Locking the door to her room, she pocketed the key and marched down the hall. It appeared the only way to meet Sam was through Clay, so that’s what she’d have to do.
The center of the stairs leading to the ground floor was covered with a thick, dark green carpet that boasted red and pink roses. Watching the pretty petals disappear beneath her skirt, she heard Mimmie Mae’s voice.
“There she is now,” the woman said.
Kit’s fingers tightened on the banister. She took a breath and secretly told her nerves to settle down. The look on Clay’s face was fierce, a mixture of civility and annoyance, and that had her swallowing hard. “Good morning, Mr. Hoffman,” she greeted him, but didn’t descend the final three steps.
“Miss Becker.” His tone didn’t hold an ounce of humor.
What had she expected—that he’d be happy to hear she had lied to him? Her toes trembled. This was new for her. She’d never flat-out lied to someone before. Well, she had told several people she was Katherine Ackerman, but that was mainly so Mr. Watson wouldn’t learn she’d left Chicago. Not that that mattered anymore; by now he’d probably discovered where she’d gone. And sent a wire to Clay. She gulped.
He left the desk to move closer to the stairs. Mimmie Mae, after casting a wide smile, exited through the little door behind the chest-high registration desk. Kit wished she could call the woman back. She really didn’t want to be alone with Clay. Not with the way he was glaring at her right now.
“Katherine Ackerman is Kit Becker?” he asked, resting one hand on the large post at the end of the railing.
His tone made her stomach flutter. She gripped the banister until her fingers throbbed. “Yes, she is. I am.”
“I see.” He stretched his opposite hand toward her, palm up.
The picture of him standing there, arm out, was remarkably close to her dream. Enough to make her breath catch. She forced the air to continue to flow, chiding herself for having such fanciful thoughts. The man in her dream had been smiling, and Clay was not smiling. He gestured to her again. Knowing her options were nil, she laid her fingers upon his, then almost pulled them back at the way the heat of his palm shot up her arm.
He helped her down the steps, and his hand, firm and fiery, continued to hold her fingers even after she had stepped off the final stair. Now she had to look up to see him, an act that left her feeling vulnerable. Shame heated her cheeks.
“Where does that leave Henry?” he asked.
His eyes were scrutinizing, and his very presence encompassing, making the air flowing in her lungs thin and ineffectual. The man in her dream appeared, floating around his image until the two merged into one.
“Who?” she asked, growing woozy.
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten Henry?” The sound of Clay’s voice tickled her eardrums as he whispered, “The stinking kid with a boil on his backside.”
The words hit her like a thunderbolt, sending her back to earth with a shattering crack. Her cheeks blazed. “There was no boil,” she insisted.
He turned and led her toward the dining room. “What a relief.” His tone was definitely sarcastic.
Her fortitude returned with vigor. She picked up her pace. Clay didn’t falter as he strolled beside her, still holding her hand, which by now probably had blisters on every finger. He stopped near a table and pulled out a chair with his free arm. Gesturing with a nod, he indicated she was to sit. A part of her, a large part, didn’t want to, but she did. Not because he said so, or because she didn’t want to make a scene in front of the dozen or so people who were gawking as if they’d just seen a circus bear, but because she had to, and not just to meet Sam. She’d lied to Clay and had to find a way to make him understand why. Gramps would expect that of her.
Clay let go of her hand and sat on the chair adjacent to hers.
She fidgeted, repositioning her skirt and tugging on the cuffs of her jacket. Why didn’t he sit across from her, as Jonathan had last night? It would seem less personal, and give her more space. A part of her wanted to bolt for the door. Not because she was scared, but because there was something about Clay that had her insides doing somersaults.
“Two orders of steak and eggs, Mimmie Mae, and coffee,” he said.
Kit turned to the woman, who’d magically appeared beside the table. “No,” she said, finding it difficult to speak over her rough throat. “I’ll just have toast and tea.” Actually, even that might come right back up, the way her stomach was performing.
Clay cast an insufferable gaze toward Mimmie Mae as he repeated, “Two orders of steak and eggs.” Turning the gaze upon Kit, he added, “One coffee and one tea.”
She opened her mouth, but the woman was already moving away. “Coming right up.”
His attitude had ire attempting to gain rank among Kit’s jumbled nerves. “How do you know if I like steak and eggs?”
One of his dark brows arched. “Oscar’s granddaughter loves steak and eggs.”
“How would you know that?”
“She also loves reading books, kittens, peach pie and sweet potatoes.” He held up a finger. “And climbing trees.”
He’d named her favorite things, in almost the exact order—from when she’d been twelve. “How would you know any of that?”
“I knew Oscar. And if there was one thing Oscar did, it was talk about his granddaughter, Kit.” He emphasized her name with a mocking tone.
“Perhaps I’ve changed since he died.”
His eyes dimm
ed, took on an almost bored expression. He sat back and crossed his arms. “Perhaps.”
Mimmie Mae returned, with coffee and tea, as well as cream and sugar. “How’d you sleep last night, darling? Find the room to your liking? The bed soft enough?”
Kit couldn’t be rude. The woman was so sweet, and her friendly demeanor alone made one want to smile. “Oh, yes, Mimmie Mae, everything is just perfect. Very comfortable. Thank you. I may settle in and never want to leave.”
“Good.” The hotel owner patted her shoulder. “That would be wonderful. Oscar would like that.” She turned to Clay. “Your breakfast will be out in a minute.”
He took a sip of his coffee. “Thanks.” Nodding toward his cup, he added, “This hits the spot already.”
“A man your size can’t keep skipping meals. Anna told me you refused to come home with Raymond and eat after working most of the night. I’ve half a mind to mention it to Clarice.”
The dollop of cream Kit intended to pour into her tea turned into a half a cup. Would have overflowed the rim of her teacup if Clay hadn’t reached over and taken the little kitty-shaped pitcher from her fingers. He set the creamer on the table and looked at Mimmie Mae with a devilish smile. “What Clarice doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
The woman giggled and walked away, while Kit, insides and mind racing in all directions, wound her hands into her skirt. He’d be much easier to deal with if he was as homely as a flea-bitten stray dog—actually, she’d always had a soft spot for stray dogs. But hearing the name Clarice had her thinking about the house of ill repute again. She’d forgotten to ask about that yesterday, and the image of Clay visiting the house was more disturbing than the thought of Gramps visiting it.
“Is the tea not to your liking?” Clay’s gaze was serious, yet she swore there was a hint of mischief glittering in those blue eyes.
The cup rattled upon the saucer as she picked it up. The tea tasted like warm milk, but she nodded, licking her lips. “It’s fine. Just how I like it.”
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