She was in the kitchen feigning reading by the oil lamp when Walker came through the house and went upstairs. She heard the thump of heavy boots down the hallway; then their bedroom door opened and shut.
Tucking a bookmark into her book, she wiped away her tears and then crept up the stairway, straining to hear his activity. Was he so angry that he wouldn’t talk to her?
She heard first one boot drop and then the other. When the bedcovers rustled, she walked into the room. Walker, sitting in bed, looked up from the journal he was reading.
“What are you crying about?”
“Nothing.” She marched to the closet and removed her dressing gown.
Laying his reading aside, he sighed. “Anyone could have left the lid off that barrel.”
“No, it’s my fault and I’m sorry. I don’t pay enough attention to what I’m doing.” She crossed the room and sat down on the bed, determined to stay calm. She knew he hated it when she cried.
“Don’t worry about it. You’ll learn. You’ve only been here a short while.” Softening, he asked, “Would a hot bath make you feel better? I’ll have Flo heat some water.”
While the thought of soaking her cares away was enticing, she knew a bath wouldn’t solve the problem. They had to communicate on an emotional level. They needed to talk. The marriage would never grow otherwise, and she dearly wanted it to bloom, to thrive so that eventually, solving little problems like the chicken fiasco would be as automatic as breathing.
“We need to talk, Walker. I’m sorry if I get in the way. I only want to help.”
“I’m sorry I make you feel that way. Your efforts are duly noted, but I’m not a talker, Sarah. Afraid I never will be. If you need something, just ask me but don’t expect me to read your mind.”
Sarah thought that was a little harsh, yet he was right. It would take years to learn each other’s way, to develop trust and communication. But she would learn. She would show them all that she could be a sterling wife and helpmate. Ranching was second nature to Walker, and Flo had cooked for S.H. for forty years. How could she expect to master in a few weeks what had taken others a lifetime to perfect?
She swallowed the lump in her back throat. “A bath would be nice.”
“Hey.” His eyes gentled. “It’s not the end of the world. You made a mistake. I make them all the time.”
“Thank you.” Tears welled in spite of her promise to not cry.
“Just be more careful next time.”
“I promise I will. I know what mash looks like now.”
And she wouldn’t likely mistake it again.
Later, Sarah ran a finger over the cover of her dime novel.
“Are you going to turn out the light?”
She gave her husband an absent love pat. “In a minute. I want to read a few pages of my book.” She met his gaze. “Thank you for being so thoughtful. I love to read. I even thought about writing a book someday.”
He turned to his side. “That’s nice.”
An hour passed. She sat up and slammed the book shut. “Walker!” She rolled toward him and he grunted. “I’m going to write that book.” She didn’t know a wit about ranching, but she was well educated. She could write. She knew she could. And get the work published.
Opening an eye, he stared at her. “You’re going to what?”
“I am going to write a love story.” After all, she was living one—somewhat. But their union would grow year by year, and one day she would realize that what others thought was pure folly would be prove to be good judgment. She felt sorry for Lucy. This could have all been hers… “I can do it. Will you permit it?”
“You want to write a book?”
“Yes. A romance.”
He wadded his pillow beneath his head. “Have you ever written anything before?”
“I’ve written letters, and once I wrote a short poem that took second place in a contest. May I use your den?”
Walker frowned. “Why my den? Can’t you write in the parlor or the kitchen? Or even up here, where you wouldn’t be disturbed?”
His hesitation puzzled her. She questioned him with a look. “Do you mind? The kitchen and parlor are noisy, and this room is so stuffy in the daytime.”
“My study is my place, Sarah. A man’s place.”
He rolled over and adjusted the covers, and she knew he was thinking about his furniture. She wouldn’t touch his furniture.
But she decided not to push him. She still felt guilty about the chicken incident and she didn’t want to completely spoil the day.
She could picture the article in the monthly paper now:
Sarah McKay’s (wife of local rancher Walker McKay) first novel, Love’s Eternal Flame, has broken all sales records. The fascinating and brilliantly written romance novel has swept fiction circles from Boston to Wyoming with a vengeance, and Mrs. McKay’s fans are demanding that she write faster. When asked what her secret for penning riveting love stories was, Mrs. McKay says she’s living her own romance, and cannot write any less.
She dropped a kiss on Walker’s forehead, then leaned over him and blew out the lamp. Settling back onto her pillow, she sighed. A novelist. Love’s Eternal Flame—or Flaming Love. Love with a Handsome Stranger wasn’t bad—no, Love Burns Brightly…
Forever Love had a nice ring to it.
Chapter Nineteen
Sarah eyes skimmed over the gleaming parlor. There wasn’t a hint of dust on the cherrywood tables, moss-colored drapes, or hand-hewed oak mantel. The open window carried the scent of lemon oil throughout the immaculate room. It was clear her dusting services wouldn’t be needed here.
She’d woken thinking she would most definitely write Papa this morning and tell him that she was married and about to pen her first book, but the idea quickly dimmed. She had thought it would be so easy to confess what she’d one, but she was finding the ruse easier and easier to perpetrate with each passing day. If she told Papa she would have to tell Walker, who would tell Flo and S.H. The list went on and on. She’d wait a while longer before stirring that hornet’s nest. Forgive me for worrying Papa, Father, but at least he knows I’m safe. I hope he isn’t too concerned, but he probably is. What father doesn’t worry about his child when he has no idea where she is?
Strolling into the room, she paused at the open window, sniffing. Mouthwatering aromas drifted from the bunkhouse kitchen. One glance at the mantel clock assured her that the old cook would be up to his elbows preparing dinner and wouldn’t want to be bothered, but she fairly longed to tell someone about the book. Walker had not been impressed, but that didn’t surprise her. His praise was hard to come by. As she left the parlor and started back upstairs, she noticed that the door to her husband’s study was closed. Was he working at home this morning? She’d overslept, and by the time she’d read another chapter of the dime novel, dressed, and come downstairs for breakfast, Flo informed her that Walker had been up for hours.
The closed door lured her back down the stairs. Obviously, if he was in, he was busy, but too busy for a brief visit from her?
Stepping off the last stair, she edged toward the study door and rested her hand lightly on the door handle.
“Sarah! You’re not to go in there!”
Sarah jumped, hastily withdrawing her hand. Rubbing her palm on her skirt, she turned to face Flo. “I was only going to say good morning.”
“You know Walker doesn’t like anyone to bother him when he’s in his study.”
“But I was just—”
“You’d better stay clear of Walker when he’s in there, honey. His patience goes only so far.” Flo eyed her sternly on her way back to the kitchen.
Sarah sighed and then followed the housekeeper, looking for a notepad and pencil. She was eager to start her book. A little while later she was settled in the parlor and jotting down plot ideas when a ruckus in the kitchen drew her attention. S.H. burst through the doorway, heading for Walker’s study in a dead run.
Sarah listened as the foreman expla
ined about a bull being down in the north pasture. A minute later, the two men left the house with a flurry of boots on the wooden floor and the slamming of doors.
Sarah sat until the sound of galloping horses left the barnyard. Laying the book aside, she stepped into the hallway. Her gaze swept the deserted foyer. She was relieved to see that Flo had disappeared too.
The open door to Walker’s study beckoned to her. Edging along the length of the foyer table, she argued with herself about the inadvisability of entering sacred ground. Walker had forbade her to rearrange the furniture, and he didn’t want her writing her book in his study, but he hadn’t said anything about taking a peek inside. Besides, from the sound of things, he and S.H. would be tied up with the lame bull for most of the morning. Her slippers eased along the polished floor. If Walker’s study was anything like Papa’s, it could use a little attention. Papers, books, and journals would be everywhere. Sarah didn’t think it would hurt anything to just step in for a moment and look the room over.
In a flash she entered the study and quietly shut the door. Leaning against the wooden panel, she paused to let her racing heart catch up.
A delicious sense of expectancy washed over her as she waited for her pulse to return to normal. Her glance slid over the masculine lair with its rich furnishings: the massive desk, burgundy leather sofa, and wingback chairs before a cold fireplace. Heavy gold damask draperies opened to reveal a large picture window that overlooked the unkempt rose garden. Closing her eyes, she released a quick breath. She was in.
Hurrying to the window, she feasted on the garden’s fountains pouring water from the large vases perched onto a lovely, lily pad-covered fishpond. What an exquisite sight it would be if only it were tended. Maybe one day she would be able to convince Walker to allow her to plant new flowers in the spring.
Turning back to the room, she walked among the furniture, touching each piece and admiring the quality. This room would please Papa greatly, but nice things meant nothing to her. In many ways, she wished her husband were a struggling farmer who needed a young wife to help him make his way in the world. Money made people independent. Maybe if they were poor, Walker would need her more.
Sitting down in his chair, she leaned back, closing her eyes. Walker’s scent surrounded her: leather, soap, and musk. Opening her eyes, she spotted an open ledger and a stack of unpaid bills. Today must be the day Caleb came for dinner. Every two weeks he and Walker combined business and pleasure over a plate of Flo’s fried quail and hot biscuits.
Caleb Vanhooser was a strange little man. If he weren’t Walker’s friend, Sarah wouldn’t like him. He’d done nothing to her personally, and he was ever the perfect gentleman, yet her instinct kept her reserved. There was something odd about the way he had avoided her at their party, as if she were an outsider and would never be anything more.
Shifting the ledger ever so slightly, she scanned the columns of numbers. Spring Grass’s handsome profit impressed her, as well as Walker’s generous tithes to the church. She sighed. Walker was her dream husband, and this was an area in which she could offer competent help. If there was one thing Sarah knew, it was numbers. A teacher had once told her she could keep books for the government if she wanted. Cooking and housekeeping came hard, but she excelled in mathematics.
Scanning the ledger, she felt a twinge of conscience; she hadn’t meant to snoop, but she wanted to skim Walker’s books and make sure they were accurate. He wouldn’t have to know—not until he felt more comfortable with her delving into his business.
Sarah heard the back screen door open. Hurriedly shoving the ledger back into place, she arranged pencils the way they had been. Today wasn’t the best time to start her fact-check, but the next time the house was empty, she would begin.
At least writing Love’s Eternal Flame and rechecking Walker’s figures would give her something productive to do.
Chapter Twenty
A gents Kate Warne and Frank Roche stepped onto the Mallory porch and knocked on the shanty door. A crowd of towheaded children from toddlers to teenagers ceased their play in the front yard to stare at the newcomers. All boys, Kate thought.
The door opened, and a man with his thumbs hooked between his suspenders and undershirt met their unsmiling gazes. The tall, thick man eyed the strangers coldly.
“Jack Mallory?” Kate asked.
“Might be. Who wants to know?”
Kate flashed her badge. “Kate Warne, Pinkerton National Detective Agency.” She waited for the usual response.
“Woman detective?”
“Yes, sir. We’d like to talk to you if you have a minute.”
Mallory opened the door wider, allowing them to enter. Sleeping pallets were spread across the dirt floor of the small sod shack. A long table sat at the south end of the room. “Frank Roche, my partner,” Kate said.
Jack nodded toward his wife. “This here is Naomi—the missus.”
Kate smiled. “Ma’am.” The two detectives sat down.
“What is it?” Naomi frowned. “Has something happened to Lucy?”
“No, ma’am,” Frank said. “We’re just here to ask a few questions regarding your daughter’s departure.”
“What about it?” Jack asked, sitting down across from them at the table.
“Have you heard from your daughter recently?”
“No. We sent her a letter, but we ain’t heard nothing back. Why?” Naomi glanced from Kate to Frank, concern etched in her eyes.
“I assure you there is no reason for alarm. We’re hoping that your daughter will be able to help with a missing person’s case we’re investigating.”
“That right? What would our Lucy know about a missing person?”
“We understand you were with your daughter in the train depot the morning she left. Is that right?” Kate said.
Jack nodded. “Me and the missus took Lucy to the station to catch the five forty.”
“Did you see anyone other than your daughter in the waiting room that morning?”
The man pursed his lips in thought, his dark brows drawn tightly against his weathered features.
“A young boy,” Naomi supplied. “There was a young boy waiting for the train.”
“Anyone else?”
The conversation lagged. Outside, the children’s squeals filtered through the open doorway. It was several moments before Jack said, “No, jest the boy.”
Kate frowned. “Are you sure the other person was a boy?”
Frank leaned forward and added, “Could it have been a young woman dressed like a boy?”
Shaking his head, Jack said, “Don’t rightly know. I suppose it could have been. Me and the missus weren’t lookin’ at other passengers. We were too busy trying to convince Lucy to get on the train.”
Kate and Frank exchanged glances.
“She didn’t wanna go. Got it in her head to marry some no-good neighbor boy, Rodney Willbanks. Kids.” Jack snorted. “Got her set up to marry a wealthy rancher and what does she do? Tries to run off with a man who can’t give her a roof over her head, let alone a decent life. Me and Naomi told her she was marryin’ Mr. McKay whether she liked it or not. Girl’s got a streak of orneriness in her a mile wide, but we weren’t about to let her ruin what we got goin’.”
“In what way?” Kate asked, taking notes.
“This McKay feller’s got enough money to burn a wet mule. Lucy’s not gonna ruin that for us. She’s a looker, like her ma. I told her she needed to put that to use. The McKay feller wants an heir, and Lucy’s born for breedin’, just like Naomi here.”
His wife’s face flamed.
Frank sat closer to the edge of his chair. “You want your daughter to marry for money?”
“We want her to be happy, and money goes a long way toward happiness.” Jack’s rheumy eyes wandered the squalid shanty’s cramped interior. “Ain’t nothing wrong in wantin’ the best for our daughter.”
“No, sir.” Kate closed the notebook. “You haven’t heard from your d
aughter since the morning she left?”
“Like I said, we’ve sent a letter, but we ain’t heard nothing back yet. She’ll write any day now. So…who’s this missing person you mentioned?”
“Sarah Livingston. Are you familiar with the name?”
“Livingston? Her papa the one who owns the railroad?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve heard of her. Hear she’s a real handful.”
Kate smiled. “Thank you for your time. We’ll check back in a few weeks to see if you’ve heard from your daughter.” She scribbled an address on a piece of paper and handed it to Mallory. “Meanwhile, if you hear from Lucy, please let us know.”
“We’ll be hearing from her any day now.” Jack got up to walk them to the door. “Mail’s slow. You know how it is. I ain’t lookin’ to hear anything for a while, but by now Lucy’s married to McKay. Should be gettin’ money anytime.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lucy’s our only gal. We got them five boys out there in the yard and the little one. My health ain’t so good. I hurt my back and ain’t been able to work steady for months. It’ll be a real comfort to know someone’s lookin’ after us.”
“Yes, sir.”
On that note, Kate motioned to Frank and the pair said their goodbyes.
Walking back to the buggy, Kate glanced at Frank. “Isn’t love grand?”
“Sounds like it,” he replied.
Chapter Twenty-One
Lowell Livingston prowled his study, lighting and relighting a cigar. Kate took out her notebook and consulted it. The telegram at first had given them hope, but their inability to trace its sender left Kate frustrated. If it was from Sarah, she was taking precautions not to be found.
“Our next step is to check with McKay and Lucy in Wyoming,” Kate said. She knew that Lowell didn’t want to involve the rancher, but despite an intensive search, the agency had failed to turn up anyone who had seen or heard from Sarah since her disappearance. They were all hoping that Miss Mallory—now apparently Mrs. McKay—had observed more in the train station than her parents.
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