by Beth Ciotta
Seth greeted him with a crooked smile. “Mornin’.” Hat in lap, he lazed in a wing chair, his feet propped on a tapestry-covered footstool, crossed at the ankles.
“Make yourself at home,” Josh quipped.
“Wouldn’t be hard to do.” His friend cast his green gaze about the large room. “Never would’ve pegged Mason as having a taste for the finer things in life. Upholstered sofa and chairs, rosewood tables, roll top desk. Carpet, for chrissakes. Paris must be pleased. That’s if she’s of an amiable frame of mind.” He looked at Josh. “How’s she adjusting to married life?”
He tucked in his shirt, dragged his fingers through his hair. “She doesn’t know.”
“If she likes it or not?”
“That we’re hitched.”
Seth uncrossed his ankles, planted his boots on the woven carpet and leaned forward. “How’s that?”
“She doesn’t remember the ceremony.” Ignoring his friend’s look of disbelief, he shrugged then motioned the man to follow him outside. “Let’s head to the Moon for some coffee. Oscar’s probably got a pot brewing by now.”
“How can she not remember?” Seth asked, stepping onto the porch and shutting the door behind them.
“The whiskey. The fever.”
“Why haven’t you told her?”
“I’ve tried. Something keeps coming up.”
Seth snorted. “I bet.”
Josh ignored the lame inference and hurried toward the Desert Moon. A brisk walk and a strong cup of Arbuckle’s would rid him of his tension. And put Paris out of earshot. “Heard anything more from her brothers?”
“They’ll be in Florence in a matter of days. Haven’t figured exactly how I’m going to break it to them that I tricked their little sister into marrying you without getting my ass kicked.”
“If you mention the part about walking in on us in bed together, it won’t be your ass at risk.” Josh pushed through the backdoor of the opera house and followed his nose.
“You’re not the least bit intimidated by the Garretts, are you?”
He looked over his shoulder at the man who’d policed the Mexican border with nerves of iron. “Neither are you.”
Seth grinned. “No. Then again I’m not the one who stole away their baby sister.”
“I didn’t steal anything.” She’d given her heart of her own free will. The marriage vows were another matter. If Seth hadn’t instigated the proceedings, her brothers would have. By taking her into his home, his bed, he’d compromised the woman. Marriage was inevitable. Although knowing the way Paris’s mind worked, she wouldn’t see it that way. For sure and for certain she was going to kick up a fuss. The sooner he broke the news, the better. Maybe after breakfast …
“Mornin’, gentlemen.” Standing at the cast iron stove, Oscar greeted them with a smile and a pot of freshly brewed coffee. He nabbed three cups from the cupboard and placed them on the long, planked table. “Nice to see you again, Sheriff Wright.”
“Coffee smells good,” Seth said, pulling up a Windsor.
Oscar filled their cups to the brim. “Hope you like it strong.”
“The stronger the better,” Josh said, taking a seat next to his friend. He motioned to Oscar to join them.
“You here because of the shooting?” the barkeep asked Seth.
Seth frowned. “What shooting?”
“Cobb Sprite caught a belly full of lead last night after accusing someone of cheating at cards,” Josh explained.
The stern-faced lawman eyed him over the rim of his cup. “I’m surprised you allow your patrons to carry.”
“Didn’t happen here. Happened at the Lucky Lady.”
Seth narrowed his eyes. “Who pulled the trigger?”
“I know you’d welcome a reason to hang Niles, but it wasn’t him. According to the men I interrogated he was backstage.” He raised his eyebrows. “Otherwise engaged.”
Getting the picture, Seth scowled. “Cobb survive?”
Josh shook his head. “Buried him last night.”
“What’d you do with the shooter?”
“Couldn’t identify him. There were only a few witnesses and they aren’t talking. Claimed it was an accident.”
“They’re lyin’,” Oscar chimed in.
Seth eyed Josh. “Protecting someone?”
He shook his head. “Scared of someone.” He’d read it in their twitchy mannerisms. “Niles didn’t help matters by pointing out I have no legal authority.”
A slow grin spread across Seth’s face. “That’s what he thinks.” He glanced at Oscar. “Get me a bible.”
The barkeep scrambled from the room before Josh could stop him. “I’m a theater owner now.”
“You’re a lawman who owns a theater,” Seth amended. “You think I made this trek just to deliver your supplies? I’m conducting an investigation of my own and I’m relatively certain your snake of a cousin is involved. I’m going to find out who burned down the original Lucky Lady and you’re going to help me. I’m swearing you in.” He winked. “You can thank me later.”
Oscar burst back into the room sporting a bible and a look of alarm.
Josh rubbed the back of his neck. “What now?”
The somber man pointed out the window, indicating wispy plumes of smoke. “I’m not sure, but I think your house is on fire.”
Blast!” Paris fanned the white smoke billowing up from the frying pan. Another failed batch. Wrapping a cloth around the red-hot handle, she carried the pan to the log house’s back door and tossed the crispy contents outdoors alongside similar looking disasters. A mangy brown dog trotted over, sniffed at the food and then trotted away.
“Not even good enough for a mutt.” Sighing, she went back inside and clanged the frying pan on the stove. Never in a million years would Josh believe her cooking was this bad. She could hardly believe it herself. How many times had she watched Boston make his signature blueberry pancakes? Why hadn’t she paid closer attention? Perhaps she’d used too many eggs or too little flour. Maybe the griddle was too hot. Or maybe she should have listened to her mama all those years ago when she’d insisted she spend at least as much time behind the stove as she did the piano.
If she’d learned anything after playing her scales day after day, practice makes perfect.
She mixed up another bowl of batter.
Ladling dollops into the frying pan, she decided that Josh’s decision to hire her as a cook instead of a performer wasn’t entirely disagreeable. After all, wasn’t he really giving her what she wanted? Time to polish her act. To bolster her nerves before going on stage. Yes, things were definitely going as planned … in a roundabout way. She’d simply look at this culinary challenge as broadening her horizons. As it happened, food factored into one of the ideas she had for attracting patrons back to the Desert Moon. From what she’d observed, the Lucky Lady didn’t even offer so much as pickles or peanuts.
Spatula in hand, she contemplated the crazy things a person did for love. Wait until she told Emily that she actually cooked for a man. She got all teary-eyed just thinking about it. Although maybe it wasn’t emotion choking her up so much as the smoke from the charred pancakes. She scraped at the blackened mess with a mumbled curse.
The back door burst open. She squealed and jerked as three men rushed the room. A burnt pancake flew off of her spatula and hit a duster-clad dandy square in his broad chest.
“What’s on fire?” Josh snapped.
Me, Paris thought, gaping at the man who’d stolen her heart. Though he’d tucked his tails into his loose-fitting jeans, the fastenings of his white shirt gaped open revealing bronzed skin and a smattering of dark hair. She shivered recalling those chest hairs tickling her bare breasts. The things he’d done to her in bed … Belatedly she remembered his question. “Breakfast,” she choked out between coughs.
Oscar Pike rubbed a hand over his curly black hair making it stand on end. “Seein’ there ain’t no emergency, I best git back. Left something on the stove myself.”
After a pained look at the smoking pan, he skedaddled.
Waving his hand in front of his face to disperse the haze, Josh glanced at the batter bowl then propped open the back door. “Smoke’s thick enough to choke a horse. Just how many pancakes have you burned?”
She shrugged sheepishly, hoping he didn’t note the dozen or so she’d tossed outside. “A few.”
Chuckling, the handsome stranger brushed charred crumbs from his black vest and loosened the knot of his ebony tie. “You know what they say, Josh. Practice makes perfect.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Paris said, duly reminded that they weren’t alone. Tidying her braid, she studied the man who stood even taller than Josh. He cut an impressive sight dressed in black from hat to boots with the exception of a crisp white shirt. He swept off his hat to fan away the smoke, revealing a head of cropped blond hair. When he smiled, she relaxed. His dimples and sparkling emerald eyes reminded her of Athens. “You must be Seth.”
His amused expression transformed into a mask of disbelief. “This is sure as certain a first.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Josh laughed, while pushing open the window above the washbasin. “Seth generally makes a memorable impression on the fairer sex. He’s not used to being forgotten.”
Paris blushed to the roots of her hair and wiped her hands on the apron she knotted around her waist. “I’m sorry. It’s just that … that night … I was … ”
“Delirious,” Seth finished. He shook his head, cast a sideways glance at Josh. “You gonna tell her?”
“Tell me what?” She glanced back and forth between men. Goodness they made an imposing pair.
“Seth brought your carpetbag,” Josh said, shooting his friend a menacing look. “It’s outside in a buckboard along with some housing supplies. We’ll tote them in after breakfast.”
Green Eyes hooted while taking a seat at the kitchen table. “The longer you put it off—”
“Stow it.” Josh sidled up to Paris. His attention slid from the batter-encrusted bowl to the burnt remnants in the skillet. “Need some help?”
She glanced over her shoulder at Seth. A cloudy vision of him holding a shotgun sprang to mind. Trepidation skittered down her spine, or maybe Josh was simply rattling her senses with his close proximity. He pressed his hand to the small of her back, an affectionate gesture that sparked images of this morning. She suddenly felt as hot as the griddle. Don’t think about his hands … his mouth … She handed him a pot of coffee and shooed him toward the table. “No, thank you.” She cringed at the squeak in her voice. “Like your friend said, practice makes perfect and I need to be perfect by dinnertime.”
She ladled fresh batter into the pan, watching out of the corner of her eye as Josh snatched two mugs from the cupboard and took a seat. His unshaven jaw and rumpled hair reminded her that he’d been roused out of bed in the midst of their love play. She sighed, causing him to look her way. He quirked a grin as if reading her mind. Embarrassed, she concentrated on her cooking. Merciful heaven, could he be any more handsome?
“I’m thinking we should postpone your official start,” he said.
She spun around, eyes wide. “Why? Because of a few scorched pancakes?” She hated feeling so inept. If he’d only give her a chance. “First I can’t sing. Now I can’t cook.”
“Official start of what,” Seth asked.
Josh calmly filled the mugs then set the kettle on a folded towel. “Mason promised her a job.”
“As a performer,” Paris pointed out.
“Not specifically.”
“It was implied.” She stomped her foot. “Oh, I wish I would have brought M.B’s initial telegram.”
Josh angled his head. “But you didn’t.”
Seth cleared his throat, reached for his coffee. “So you hired her to … ”
“Cook for the Desert Moon,” she snapped, turning back to flip her pancakes. Bubbly batter meant time to flip, right? “And now he’s back-peddling, which hardly seems fair since I told him three days ago!”
“Told him what?”
“That I can’t cook!”
“At all?” Seth asked, clearly shocked.
Temper sparking, she flipped another pancake so as not to chuck her spatula at their visitor’s head. “Is there a law somewhere that says just because you’re born female, you’re an innate seamstress and cook?”
“It has nothing to do with your abilities,” Josh said. “If business is anything like last night—”
“It won’t be,” she assured him. “Red won’t be able to compete with what I have to offer.”
She heard a choking sound, turned, and saw Josh scowling at his mug. “Too strong?” she asked.
“Red Adams?” Seth sipped his coffee and grimaced.
Josh narrowed his eyes. “You’re not prancing around on stage.”
She harrumphed. “And you say I have a one track mind.”
“Tucker always did have a good eye for entertainment,” Seth said, heaping sugar into his coffee. “I take it Red’s attracting a crowd.”
“Standing room only,” Paris said. “But I’ll fix that.”
“Dammit, Paris.”
“How?” Seth asked, pushing the sugar bowl toward his grim-faced friend.
Confident she’d concocted a brilliant plan, she turned her attention back to the stove. “We’re going to offer patrons home cooked meals.”
“But you don’t cook,” Seth said.
“I’ll admit I’m just learning, but how hard could it be to throw together some kind of stew?” She distributed six golden brown pancakes between two lovely china plates. Mason, she’d noticed, appreciated fine art and furnishings. He’d decorated his log house as stylishly as the Desert Moon, and in a fashion that appealed to her own taste. “Besides, the miners won’t be able to resist. The first meal is free-of-charge.”
“Free-of-charge,” Josh repeated, staring at the plates she set in front of them.
“A calculated risk,” Paris explained, wringing her hands. Why weren’t they digging in? True, Seth’s serving consisted of five silver-dollar pancakes while Josh’s singular monstrosity took up the entire plate, but size wasn’t everything. At least they weren’t burnt. She nodded to their food. “So, what do you think?”
Seth sampled his fare, stopping mid-chew to reach for the molasses. “Free is good.”
She screwed up her face. “You hate them.”
“Nope. Just like lots of molasses.”
Josh swallowed a fork full, smiled.
Her mama’s preaching came to mind. If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. Exasperated, she nabbed the syrup out of Seth’s hand and passed it to Josh. “All right. A free meal plus a substantial reduction on libations for the first hour.”
Seth raised a suspect brow. “Isn’t the idea for Josh to make money?”
“He will,” she said. “First we have to lure back patrons. I think I’ll have a talk with that pianist over at the Lucky Lady.”
Josh jabbed the air with his fork. “You stay away from the Lucky Lady.”
“Stay away from Niles,” Green Eyes said with a fierce scowl.
“But—”
“No buts,” Josh said.
The quiet demand brooked no argument. A sick feeling fluttered in her stomach. Had she underestimated the animosity churning between Josh and his cousin? Clearly Niles resented him for inheriting the Desert Moon. She’d pegged Fancy Pants as shallow and petty, and was relatively certain he aimed on running Josh out of business. Not that she’d let that happen. But was there something more nefarious at play? And how did Seth figure in?
Before she could ask, Tom Noggins wobbled over the threshold, rubbing the side of his head. He nodded at Paris, winced. “Mornin’, Mrs. Grant.”
Mrs. Grant? Had he been drinking? He certainly appeared shaky on his feet. Although to be fair, he had watched Josh carry her off last night, and now she was standing in his kitchen cooking. Drunk or sober, naturally, the man
would assume. She straightened her shoulders, telling herself she had no reason to be embarrassed. This was all part of being unconventional. “Actually,” she said, clearing her throat, “I’m not—”
“What happened, Tom?” Brow creased in concern, Josh gestured the man over and into a third chair.
He perched his bony frame on the edge of the seat, his weathered face wrinkled in disbelief. “I was robbed.”
“Robbed?” Paris exclaimed.
“Actually,” Tom said, looking guiltily at Josh. “You were robbed.”
Josh dipped his chin, silently entreating the man to explain.
Paris crumpled into the fourth and last chair. How could Josh be so calm? He’d been robbed! Violated! “Did they break into the Desert Moon?”
“No, no,” the livery owner said. “Nothing like that. I was cleaning out the stables like I do every morning and—”
“Oh, no,” Paris groaned, feeling heartsick for Josh. “They stole Buckshot.”
“Your horse is safe and sound,” Tom assured him. “But you can kiss that fancy saddle of yours goodbye.”
Even though saddles cost a fortune, Josh retained a calm expression. She suspected he’d rather lose ten saddles to one Buckshot. From what she’d seen he was awfully fond of that horse. She also sensed he didn’t want to add to the livery owner’s distress. Pale and clammy, the old man looked ready to pass out.
That’s when she noticed the goose egg swelling at his temple. Her mouth fell open in dismay. “Did the thief hit you, Mr. Noggins? Why didn’t you say something?” She jumped up and hurried to the washbasin. Outraged that someone would attack an elderly, pencil-thin man, she soaked a rag with cool water and snagged an extra coffee mug, wanting to offer comfort.
“That’s going to be one hell of a bump,” Josh noted before she applied the wet cloth.
“I feel so dad-blamed stupid,” Tom said, pouring a cup of coffee.
“How many were there?” Seth asked.