by Beth Ciotta
Fedderman turned serious. “What do you mean? You had a talk with her, didn’t you? You offered to escort her to Florence, didn’t you?”
“She wasn’t interested.”
“Why didn’t you put your foot down?”
Josh shifted. “Something else came up.”
“Now listen here, son. Regardless of Miss Paris’s tough exterior, she’s still a woman. A young one at that. It ain’t fittin’ nor safe for her to travel alone.”
Josh stalked to the hitching post and unwound Buckshot’s reins. “She won’t be alone. You heard her. She’s taking the stage. That particular coach is usually packed. Besides Moe Wiggins drives that rig. He’ll look out for her.”
“Moe Wiggins is half-deaf and long in tooth.”
“He’s a crack shot, and he’s got Turkey Dan riding shotgun. Stop worrying.”
“She’d make as good a wife as any.”
Josh reached for the stirrup and missed. “Pardon?”
“Paulette … Paris … whatever her name. If you look past the dirt and muss, I bet she’s right pretty. She’s sure tough enough to endure a rough and rowdy place like Chance. Damned convenient if ya’ ask me. Given Mason’s will and all.”
“No one asked you,” Josh snapped, longing for a numbing shot of whiskey. Every time he thought of his uncle’s accident his heart twisted into a throbbing knot. Though Mason had spent most of his time roaming the territory enforcing federal laws, he’d been the guiding force in Josh’s teen years. Someone to admire, to emulate. A colorful character even by frontier standards, Mason Burke had been his orphaned nephew’s hero.
Josh rolled back his shoulders and sighed. “Sorry, Hank.” Knowing his idol was dead and believing it were as different as a nun and dove. “I’m just … I don’t know why the hell I confided in you.”
Fedderman’s steady gaze held a father’s sympathetic gleam. “Better than letting it fester. You know you can trust me to keep your business private.”
“That I do.” Hank was a good friend. But Seth was an even better one, and Josh hadn’t confided in him. He’d been too stunned when he’d exited the lawyer’s office in Florence to say much of anything. When prodded, he had managed to tell Seth he’d inherited the Desert Moon, but had stopped short at the wife clause. Seth would have laughed himself to death, and he’d lost enough family, thank you. Between Mason’s demise and Paris’s appearance, the last couple of weeks had held more drama than a sensationalized novel.
“I’m just thinking since you’re shopping for a wife anyway … ”
“A body would have to be missing some marbles to take up with that Loony-Lucy,” Josh said. “Last time I looked, I had a full pouch.”
Fedderman grunted. “Ain’t how I see it.”
“Then maybe you oughta get your eyes checked.” He swung into the saddle, rested his forearm on the pommel, and leaned forward. “Listen, Hank, Paris isa far cry from Molly. She’s bull-headed, strong-willed, and she packs one hell of a punch. She’ll be fine.”
Cringing at the slump of his friend’s shoulders, he racked his brain for a compromise. “Tell you what. I’ll pass through Florence and ask Seth to keep an eye out for her once she gets into town.”
“What about before she gets into town? What about between here and there?”
“She’ll be fine,” he reassured the man. Or was he trying to reassure himself? Uncomfortable with the notion, he touched the brim of his hat in farewell and spurred Buckshot toward the outskirts of town. Paris had mentioned she had a plan. Well, so did he. He aimed on fulfilling his uncle’s last wishes. Aimed on settling in Chance and on running its one and only opera house: Mason’s beloved Desert Moon.
He’d even resigned himself to the notion of marriage: Mason’s damned stipulation. He’d approach the distasteful union in a sensible and logical manner. Marry an even-tempered woman. A woman who could cook and sew and give him a brood of babies. He could do that without risking his heart. Sensible and logical.
As he passed the Grand Hotel, his thoughts turned unwillingly to Paris. Not a sensible bone in her body or a logical thought in her head, and a damned sight far from even-tempered. Taming an impulsive girl like that would be a demanding job, if not impossible. She’d make a damned irritating wife. Not that he was actually considering Hank’s suggestion.
Josh kicked Buckshot into a lope, anxious to put some distance between himself and the enigmatic girl. Whatever his irrational attraction, he’d be over it by the time he got to Chance. He smiled, suddenly looking forward to the week’s ride ahead of him. Yup. He’d be over Paris Pauline Getty by then. Out of sight, out of mind.
Paris Garrett? I believe you are next.” Mrs. Bernbaum swatted at a bothersome fly then motioned Paris to come forward and join her and her seventeen-year-old daughter, Mary Lee, under the sprawling shade tree.
Paris sat cross-legged on the grassy incline, panic rendering her immobile.
Thirty-some heads turned her way.
Emily leaned into Paris, her small voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “Did you think of a story yet?”
“No.” Sweat trickled down the side of Paris’s face. Why, oh, why had Rome forced her to come to the stupid Lemonade and Storytelling Social Club picnic? Half of the women and men of Heaven were here. The same people she’d embarrassed herself in front of last Sunday when she’d interrupted Preacher McBride’s sermon with an impromptu song. It’s not as if she’d done it on purpose. She’d been inspired. The bouncy ditty had just … come out. Preacher McBride had been considerably more forgiving than her brothers and the rest of the congregation. “The Lord has blessed you with a mysterious talent, my child. Your melodic rhymes do tend to stick in one’s mind.” He sighed. “If only your song had praised God rather than Boston’s blueberry pancakes.”
“Paris?” Mrs. Bernbaum perched her fists on plump hips.
Mary Lee frowned.
Several of Paris’s classmates pointed and giggled. Nothing like being a nine-year-old laughing stock.
Emily clasped her hand and squeezed. “Use one of mine. You know them all by heart. Just pick one.”
“That would be stealing,” Paris mumbled out of the side of her mouth.
“I don’t mind.”
“For a preacher’s daughter you’re mighty loose with the ten commandments, Emily McBride.”
“I believe in a forgiving God.” Her fair-haired friend smiled. “It’s not sinful to bend the rules for the right reasons.”
Paris frowned. “I know you didn’t hear that from your pa.”
“Course not. I heard it from Rome.”
Seeing that Emily worshiped the silver-tongued Garrett, naturally she’d take his word as gospel. Paris rolled her eyes, thinking her friend was a ninny for having mushy feelings for any boy, especially one of her fickle brothers. Then again, Emily was a full year older than Paris and given to more girly notions.
Mrs. Bernbaum hollered for Paris to hurry up with her story. “We don’t have all day, child!”
Admitting defeat, she smoothed her sweaty palms on her skirt. “Remind me to pay back Rome with a kick in the shin,” she whispered to Emily. “I could’ve been at home practicing the piano. But, no. He thinks I need to socialize.” She stood and wove her way though the maze of blankets and picnic baskets. All she had to do was tell a short story. Any story.
Nearing the shade tree, she overheard Mary Lee say, “I can’t believe you invited Goofy Garrett to speak, Mother. She’ll ruin everything.”
Paris glared at snooty Mary Lee Bernbaum, suddenly inspired. She turned to the crowd and cleared her throat.
Her story came out in song.
“On a balmy summer day, by a babbling silver creek, sat Rome and Mary Lee. He was talking pretty talk, she was smiling—all at once, they were K-I-S-S-I-N-G! La-dee-dee! La-dee-dee! Rome was kissing Mary Lee! La-dee—”
“I hate you!” Mary Lee shrieked.
The audience burst into shocked laughter.
Rome stalked to
ward Paris.
Mrs. Bernbaum grabbed a stick and marched toward Rome.
Emily slapped a palm to her forehead and fell backward in the grass.
“You incorrigible little snoop!” Mary Lee flew at Paris. “You musical freak!”
“I’m not a freak! I’m not—”
“Miss Paris.”
Mary Lee grabbed her by the shoulders and shook.
“Wake up, Miss.”
Paris shot upright, eyes wide, and stared into the grizzly face of Moe Wiggins, her kind-hearted coach driver. A man of few words, unlike her other traveling companion, she’d grown quite fond of the weathered man over the last two days.
“You were dreaming, Miss.”
Paris disagreed. “Dreams are generally pleasant.” Her heart pounded. Heaven’s laughter rang in her ears. More like a nightmare. She wasn’t sure Rome had ever forgiven the impromptu performance that had resulted in Mr. Bernbaum fetching his shotgun. If it weren’t for Athens’s diplomatic fast-talking, their skirt-chasing brother and snooty Mary Lee Bernbaum would have found themselves good and hitched that day.
Mr. Wiggins thumbed up his sweat-stained hat, scratched his deeply creased forehead. “Want to talk about it?”
About how my almost sister-in-law and the whole of Heaven consider me a musical freak? “No, thank you.” She cringed remembering how the town had pushed her to arm’s length after the lemonade and storytelling fiasco. Sure they’d been amused by her Rome-and-Mary-Lee ditty, but Lord forbid she create a ditty about any of them.
Shunned by society at the age of nine.
Not that she’d cared. She’d gladly stepped into the shoes of a social misfit. Being a recluse had enabled her unlimited time at the piano and minimal interaction with the judgmental public. She wondered, not for the first time, how she’d feel when she stepped on-stage at the Desert Moon. What if the audience heckled and booed?
Stomach churning, she swung her legs over the side of the cot and focused on the rustic, one-room adobe, one of several stationhouses they’d visited since leaving Yuma. Exhausted, she struggled to pinpoint her exact location. “Where are we?”
“Midway twixt Gila Bend and Maricopa Wells.” Mr. Wiggins stretched his back. “You best hurry, Miss. We’re headin’ out in ten minutes.” He jerked his thumb at the planked table as he limped toward the front door. “We saved you a plate seein’ you slept through breakfast. Can’t offer you a bath, but there’s a pail of fresh water near the hearth.”
Paris waited until he had gone then tended to her morning rituals. Somewhat refreshed, she rifled through her carpetbag for a clean shirt, opting for Rome’s lucky poker shirt. The sight and scent of the starched ruffled shirt caused her throat to constrict. She missed her brothers terribly. Silly, considering she’d only been away for a little over a week. And it’s not as if she saw them on a daily basis. Rome and Boston spent most of their time tracking bandits. As a widower and state legislator, Athens had a young son and daughter and political aspirations that kept him on the go. London had inherited the Gilded Garrett Theater. Though they all called the Garrett estate home, Paris was the only one who spent the majority of her time under its three-story roof. She’d been so wrapped up in her quest to keep a childhood promise, she’d never imagined she’d feel homesick. Though in reality it wasn’t Heaven that she missed. How could she miss a place where she’d never really belonged? She missed her brothers, her nephew and niece, and Emily—the people who made her feel special. Safe. For a moment her mind flashed to one other who had made her feel special and protected, and something altogether different.
Her heart fluttered at the thought of Joshua Grant. A bothersome man in more ways than one. Not wanting to dwell on his knee-melting kisses, she grabbed her carpetbag, snatched up a biscuit and hurried outside. Dipping her head to shield her eyes from the morning sun, she swept past her one and only traveling companion hoping to escape his notice.
To her dismay, the dandified blowhard kept pace. He relieved her of her bag, gently set it behind the stage then returned to her side and smiled. “It is without rival in simplicity, durability and ease of operation,” he said, as though they’d been in the midst of a conversation. “The vertical feed. That’s what sets us apart.”
Paris braced herself for a long-winded sales pitch. “That’s terribly interesting, Mr. Hinklemyer, but—”
“Did I happen to mention we have an automatic bobbin winder?”
“Yes, you did.” Approximately a dozen times over the last two days. “I appreciate your enthusiasm as to the superiority of your product, but as I said, I have no talent whatsoever with a needle and thread.”
Mr. Hinklemyer pooh-poohed her admission with a dismissive wave of his plump, bejeweled hand. “Nonsense, my dear. Sewing is easy with the New Davis Sewing Machine.”
Her polite smile drooped as the traveling salesman launched into another informative tirade. Mr. Horace Hinklemyer of San Francisco, California seemed to know everything there was to know about sewing machines. Paris had never seen the New Davis Sewing Machine, but she figured she’d be able to draw one with her eyes closed by the time they reached Florence.
“Dash! Look at the way our driver’s handling my demonstrator model! Please excuse me, Miss Paris. I must see to its safe loading.”
The chubby salesman waddled to the rear of the Overland Stage where his machine was being carelessly hefted onto a hinged, chain-supported platform. It landed with a thud and a clang. Mr. Hinklemyer voiced his complaints by swearing and slapping his gray felt bowler against his thigh. Moe Wiggins shrugged his indifference and spat a stream of tobacco juice past the salesman’s slate-colored shoes. When he hoisted Paris’s carpetbag aboard, it too landed with a thud.
Mr. Hinklemyer gasped.
Mr. Wiggins snickered. “Movin’ out in two minutes.”
Curbing a smile, Paris nibbled on her biscuit while waiting for the stationmaster to finish inspecting the relief team’s rig. The Overland Stage line insisted on fresh horses every few hours. Desert conditions were brutal. Rocky terrain. Blistering heat. Exhausting for horses and passengers alike. Turkey Dan, Mr. Wiggins’s sidekick, had succumbed to a mysterious fever the first day out. Ignoring his protests, Mr. Wiggins had left him to recover at Gila City, one of the many station houses situated along the route.
The one-room adobes were reasonably clean, the food decent, although the sleeping arrangements were cramped. Growing up in a well-to-do household, Paris was accustomed to spacious accommodations and the superb cooking of their longtime housekeeper. Nevertheless, she found an odd comfort in the simplicity and hospitality of the region. Each night the men had insisted on sleeping under the stars in order to allow her privacy.
Not that she’d slept all that much. Sheriff Joshua Grant kept popping into her thoughts, lecturing her reckless behavior. Accusing her of being on the lam. Who are you running from? Then she’d start feeling guilty for worrying her brothers. Darn him. If that wasn’t bad enough, he’d monopolized her dreams. Dreams full of toe-curling kisses and singing angels.
“Do hurry, Miss Paris,” Mr. Hinklemyer called from inside the coach.
Startled out of her cheek-flushing reverie, she rushed to the stage.
Out of nowhere, Burgess Riley appeared, stepping directly into her path. “Well now,” he said, treating her to a bucktoothed grin, “if it ain’t the little fireball.”
What in the world was he doing here? She dodged right to avoid plowing into the bully’s big-as-a-barn frame.
He nabbed her elbow. “I don’t recall us bein’ properly introduced. My name’s Burgess. What’s yours?”
Paris wrested her arm free. “Please, step aside, Mr. Riley.”
“Mr. Riley? I’m touched.” He stretched a beefy hand over his pea-sized heart. “You cared enough to ask about me.”
“You’re mistaken. I don’t care at all. Now please step aside.”
“Move it, Burgess, or climb on board,” Mr. Wiggins called down from his driver’s seat. �
��I’ve got a schedule to keep.”
Burgess ignored the man and leaned closer to Paris. “You know, I cursed my horse when he went lame a ways back.” He raked her body with a loathsome gaze. “Now I’m thinkin’ I should have thanked the jughead.”
Her stomach roiled with disgust. Why was he leering at her? Following Emily’s advice, she’d dressed like a boy to deter such attention. Boston’s trousers. Rome’s shirt. London’s fedora. Maybe Rome’s shirt wasn’t so lucky.
Burgess chuckled, a gruff, ugly sound that made her skin crawl. He opened the stage door and waved her inside. “After you, sweet thing.”
She glared at the bearded skunk, refusing to be intimidated. She’d grown up with four brothers who’d taught her to defend herself with fists and feet. Unfortunately, she’d already used a couple of those moves on Burgess and wasn’t sure if he’d fall for the same tricks.
Glancing over her shoulder, she scanned the dusty corral for Josh. Futile since he was halfway to wherever. Not that she needed him. Still, he did have a way with her oppressor. Like knocking his teeth out.
Ignoring the door he held open, she hastened to the front of the stage. Shielding her eyes from the morning sun, she tilted her head back and summoned Mr. Wiggins.
“What can I do fer ya, Miss?”
“I was wondering,” she half whispered, “if I might sit atop with you today? I’d surely enjoy the clear view. That is if you wouldn’t mind the company.”
“Gits mighty hot up here.”
“I don’t mind.” Anything to avoid Burgess Riley. Not to mention Mr. Hinklemyer’s endless sales pitch on vertical feeds and bobbin winding thing-a-ma-jigs.
Mr. Wiggins pursed his lips then spat a stream of brown juice in the vicinity of the lead horse. “Suit yourself.”
Smiling at the Riley man’s muffled oath, she scaled the stage and seated herself. The coach rocked with the bully’s weight as he climbed inside. When the door slammed, Mr. Wiggins yip-yipped, and with a crack of the reins, set the team of four horses into a unified trot. A cloud of dust swirled behind them as the coach rolled out of the corral.