The Lawman's Bride (Harlequin Historical Series)

by Cheryl St. John

  “What’s your name?” Clay asked.

  He didn’t meet Clay’s eyes, but glanced around with a feigned expression of bewilderment. “Er—gentlemen, is there a problem?”

  “Problem is you forgot to pay for your meal back there.”

  “Oh! Oh, my.” He started to lower one hand.

  “Keep ’em in the air,” Clay demanded.

  His hand shot back above his head. “How careless of me. Uh. Let me just run back in and take care of my bill.”

  “Too late for that.”

  “But—”

  “You just forget to pay for your breakfast in Wichita, too?”

  “Well, I—I, uh—”

  “What’s your name, I asked.”

  “Willard. Willard DeWeise.”

  “Well, Willard Willard DeWeise, you’ll be gettin’ three squares a day in my jail until you have a hearing. Won’t have to pay for those meals, either.”

  “You see, Marshal, I’m a bit down on my luck right now. I kept the tickets and I fully intended to repay the hotel when I could.”

  “Oh, you’ll repay them. And you’ll do your time. Never knew a man down on his luck who couldn’t earn a meal along the Santa Fe. Got a bag in there?” Clay jerked his head toward the railroad car.

  DeWeise nodded.

  “Throw it out here.”

  Owen accompanied DeWeise into the car. Seconds later, the two of them descended the metal stairs and DeWeise dropped a scuffed leather satchel on the loading platform. Clay gestured for Owen to open it, and the deputy searched the contents. Shaving gear, a wrinkled but clean shirt, socks, and a packet of letters were its only contents.

  Clay ordered DeWeise to place his hands behind his back and clamped handcuffs around his wrists. “Lock ’im up. I’ll go talk to the manager.”

  Owen prodded his prisoner toward Oak Street.

  Clay headed into the hotel.

  Harrison Webb had followed Clay’s movements and watched the interaction from a front window. Now he gestured for Clay to follow him back to his office.

  “He didn’t seem dangerous,” Clay told him. “Smalltime thief from the looks of ’im. He’ll get a hearing, and the Wichita manager will have a chance to say his piece.”

  “We have to press charges,” Harrison said.

  “Rightly so,” Clay agreed.

  “Your coffee’s on the house,” the manager said, extending a hand. “Supper too, if you want to come back later.”

  Clay shook his hand. “I’ll do that.”

  He exited the man’s office just in time to collide with a young woman on her way through the pantry area.

  The stack of plates she’d been carrying slid sideways, and Clay made an ineffective lunge to keep them from falling.

  A mountain of white china struck the floor with an ear-splitting clatter, shards flying in every direction.

  The lovely dark-haired waitress with whom he’d collided gaped at the pile of debris. “Shit, shit, shit,” she sputtered.

  The exclamation from such a sweet-looking young lady was a surprise that made him want to laugh. Instead, he pursed his lips and composed his expression.

  Her shocked expression raised and her round dark gaze locked on Clay, then dropped to the silver star pinned to his shirtfront. Her attention slid to the .45 holstered at his hip.

  The shrill whistle of the departing train seemed to jolt her into action, and she knelt to pick up pieces of china.

  “Careful,” he said, kneeling quickly and covering her hand to stop her. “You’ll cut yourself.”

  She stared at his hand on hers, and his gaze followed, seeing his dark-skinned fingers over her smaller pale ones. She drew away as though he’d bitten her.

  “This does it, Miss Hollis.” A woman’s harsh voice caught Clay’s attention, and he straightened. The barrel-shaped kitchen manager glared at the young woman at his feet. “You had your last warning. This is the end of the line for you.”

  Miss Hollis stood and brushed her hands together, raising her chin and meeting the stern woman’s accusatory glower straight on. For a woman so young and pretty, she sure had grit.

  Sophie stared back at the woman who had it in for her. She held no hard feelings for Mrs. Winters. The woman’s position was at stake, and she’d given Sophie more chances than she should have. In most cases, the first mistake was a Harvey Girl’s last.

  The room she shared with Amanda wasn’t the fanciest, but it had been adequate. Not only were three meals a day provided, but they were prepared by a gourmet chef. Looked like she would miss her favorite dessert tonight, that heavenly rich chestnut pudding made with cinnamon and red wine.

  She wasn’t afraid, just angry at herself for not being able to carry out her plan. She would have to move on and utilize a back up strategy. Luckless shame. She really liked it here. “I’ll clean this up and then pack my things,” she told Mrs. Winters. “I’ll get a broom.”

  “Now wait a minute.” The marshal had a voice pitched so low that a person felt its vibrations through the floorboards.

  She and Mrs. Winters gave him their surprised attention.

  “This wasn’t the lady’s fault.” He gestured over his shoulder with a thumb. “I barreled out o’ Mr. Webb’s office right into her. She didn’t see me comin’ or have time to move.”

  When it looked as though Sophie wouldn’t be sent packing after all, Mrs. Winters’s expression revealed disappointment.

  “I’ll pay for the damages,” the marshal went on. “It would be my fault if she was to lose her job because o’ my two left feet.”

  Harrison Webb was now standing beside the marshal, staring at the mess on the highly polished wooden floor. “If Marshal Connor says so, it’s a fact,” he told Mrs. Winters. “This man’s the law.”

  “Very well,” Mrs. Winters said. “Just clean it up. There is another train arriving shortly.”

  “You will not pay for the damages, Marshal,” Mr. Webb declared. “As you said it was an accident.”

  Sophie hurried to the back room for a broom, a dustpan, and a paper-lined crate. The sooner she got this mess removed, the sooner the incident would be forgotten. Just her luck for something like this to happen when Mrs. Winters was aching for her to make a mistake. Maybe she would use her three-day pass and travel while the dust settled. She’d already invented the story, she might as well follow through.

  The marshal was waiting for her when she returned. She drew up short at the sight of him.

  He reached for the dustpan. “You sweep. I’ll dump.”

  She didn’t let go. “You don’t have to help.”

  “My fault.” He tugged.

  She held fast. “Not really. I was in too big of a hurry.”

  The man propped a hand on his hip and squinted down at her. “You arguin’ with a lawman?”

  His eyes were blue. A blue made softer and brighter by the color of the chambray shirt he wore. That silver star gleamed in a beam of light filtering in from the dining hall.

  It was the August heat that stuck the high white collar of her starched black shirt to her neck and sent beads of perspiration trickling down her temple. She wasn’t given to fits of nerves or emotion, but this was definitely more than a glow.

  She handed him the dustpan.

  Beneath the stiff white apron and black skirt that made up her plain uniform, her damp skin prickled. She was definitely going to have to change before she served customers. She knelt and picked up the largest pieces of china and piled them in the crate.

  Marshal Connor hunkered down to gather a share of debris. The bay rum he’d used after shaving that morning was a familiar scent. She’d detected it on several occasions while serving him at the lunch counter. She’d always tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible.

  A waitress stepped around them on her way to the dining hall, craning her neck to watch. Sophie gave her a glare, and she hurried on.

  The man beside her hadn’t noticed the interaction. Sophie’s sideways glance fo
und a closely shaven dark square jaw, ebony brows and lashes. The hair that fell over his collar was the rich deep color of strong coffee. Perspiration rolled along her spine. Running headlong into the marshal certainly hadn’t fallen into her plans for not attracting attention to herself. He glanced up and caught her perusal.

  “Clay Connor,” he said with a nod.

  “I know. Sophie Hollis,” she replied.

  His blue gaze traveled across her face and hair before he turned back to his task.

  They finished cleaning up, and Clay picked up the crate. “Where to?”

  She wasn’t about to tell him the waitresses’ most well-kept secret. All accidentally broken china was smuggled from apron pockets to outhouse to keep the damages from being deducted from their paychecks.

  “There’s a rubbish bin out back.”

  She led him through the sweltering kitchen to the rear door. The dry Kansas wind plastered tendrils of hair to her damp cheek, but the air felt better than the confinement of the building. She pointed out the bin.

  A piercing whistle rent the summer day, preceding the arrival of the one-twenty. She glanced at the watch she wore on a chain around her neck. Orders for forty-seven had been wired ahead and she had to be at her station in a clean crisp uniform when they arrived. “I have to go,” she told him.

  He dumped the crate and set it on the ground with a nod. “Sorry for the mess.”

  She shook her head. She had to say something. “Thank you. For helping me.”

  “Least I could do.”

  Gathering her hem, she ran for the back entrance, pumped a pitcher of water, and flew up the stairs to her room. After peeling off her damp clothing, she washed with a cool cloth and dusted herself with lilac talcum powder.

  She was Sophie Hollis, and no one had reason to think differently. Boldness and confidence were convincing. You are who people want to believe you are.

  A disturbing thought nicked her self-assuredness. Before today she’d remained inconspicuous, just one of the girls. Now the city marshal had taken notice of her. Had a good clean look. A good enough look to remember her. Good enough to recognize her face on a wanted poster.

  Chapter Two

  The marshal returned for supper. He was at one of Emma’s tables, but Sophie spotted him the moment she carried a dinner tray from the kitchen. No worry. She had this role down perfectly. She knew her strengths, and being convincing was one of them.

  The plate fiasco had been the highlight of conversation around the dining hall that afternoon. Sophie was weary of the looks and questions. These girls lived for a whiff of excitement, she told herself, refusing to become irritated.

  “He’s having the flank steak, sautéed mushrooms and a roasting ear, with cheesecake for dessert,” Emma whispered from behind her as Sophie filled two cups from the gigantic silver coffee urn.

  “I didn’t ask,” she whispered back. She hadn’t had her own dinner yet, and she got a little testy when she was hungry.

  “He’s partial to that cheesecake,” Olivia Larson said on her way by.

  “I don’t care.” She looked over her shoulder to find the two females grinning at each other. “Very well, enjoy yourselves at my expense,” she said lightheartedly.

  After placing the filled cups on a tray, she carried them to her customers, two cattle ranchers who’d just had the filet mignon cooked in brandy.

  Try as she might, she couldn’t keep her gaze from drifting across the room to the marshal. He sat at a corner table where he could watch both the door to the street and what was happening outside the front windows.

  He met her gaze and offered a nod.

  Sophie quickly turned back to her table. “Are you gentlemen ready for dessert?” she asked.

  “I am a man who appreciates sweets,” the older of the two men replied with a wink.

  “I’ll have the applesauce cake,” the other answered.

  “And you, sir?” she asked the first gentleman.

  “What’s your favorite?” he asked.

  “I’m partial to the chestnut pudding.”

  “Then that’s what I’ll have,” he decided.

  “I’ll be right back.” She carried the tray to the kitchen and asked for their desserts.

  When she returned and set plates in front of them, her newfound admirer asked, “Do you like the opera, miss?”

  “I do.”

  “Will you join me this Saturday evening?”

  “I’m afraid I have to work the dinner shift,” she replied easily. “It’s kind of you to ask, however.”

  “Perhaps the following week.”

  She refilled their coffee cups. Enough girls had been hired after her that she never had to work Saturday evenings unless she volunteered. “I’ll have to see whether or not I’m on the schedule to work next Saturday evening.”

  As though encouraged, he smiled and picked up his fork.

  She hadn’t meant to encourage him. She wasn’t interested in what he had to offer. All she wanted was to be in control of her own destiny, and being bound to a man wasn’t part of that plan.

  She attended to her other patrons and eventually returned to the coffee urns.

  “What did he say to you?” Emma whispered.

  Sophie glanced at the marshal who was finishing his cheesecake and a cup of coffee. “Who?”

  “Charles Barlow. They say he’s the richest rancher between here and Wichita.”

  “Oh, him. He invited me to the opera house.”

  Emma looked as though she would swoon. “You’re the luckiest woman in all of Kansas.” She fanned herself with the hem of her apron. “He’s taken a shine to you, hasn’t he?”

  “He’s a man,” Sophie replied dryly. “Men take a shine to anything in skirts.”

  “When are you going to the opera?”

  “I said no.”

  “What?”

  “I told him I had to work.”

  Emma touched her fist to her forehead in a frustrated gesture. “Any girl here would give a month’s wages for that invitation. Why didn’t you say yes?”

  “Because I don’t want to go with him.”

  “Trade me tables.”

  “What?”

  “Trade me tables. Maybe he’ll ask me.”

  “Mrs. Winters would have my hide,” Sophie objected.

  “She’s gone for the evening. Come on, why not? Give someone else a chance. I won’t take your tip. Please, Sophie.”

  She didn’t share Emma’s passionate need to endear herself to a man, but neither did she have the heart to stand in her way. Sophie waved her off. “Go. They’re ready for coffee refills.”

  Emma kept her squeal discreet, composed herself and picked up the pot Sophie had just filled and set it on her tray. With a determined nod, she headed for the table where the cattlemen sat.

  Sophie observed as Emma greeted the ranchers. The Barlow man said something to her, and she blushed and giggled.

  Shaking her head, Sophie wiped her hands and glanced at the table she’d traded for. Marshal Connor had finished eating and was glancing around for his waitress. Darn it. She gathered herself and approached.

  “Would you like more coffee?” she asked him.

  He glanced up at her. “No thanks. I’ll be makin’ myself a pot when I get back to the jail. I have work to do tonight.”

  “What kind of work keeps you busy in the evening?”

  “I make a weekly report to the county court, one to the railroad, as well.” He took coins from inside his leather vest and laid them on the table. “I have a stack of papers this high on my desk that I never seem to get through.” He held his palm a foot above the tabletop.

  “I’ll see that Emma gets her tip.” She stacked his plates and set the empty cup on top. She couldn’t help asking, “Get a lot of mail, do you?”

  “Telegrams mostly. Why?”

  “Well, you said you have so many papers on your desk.”

  “If someone’s wanted by the law you say he has a paper
out on ’im.”

  “I see. You mean wanted posters.”

  He nodded.

  “How much do those papers actually look like the criminals? I mean, can you actually recognize an outlaw from one of those drawings?”

  “Depends mostly on the artist.” He stood and pushed in his chair. “Pinkertons have the best artists.”

  They glanced at each other and she looked away.

  “Have a good evening, Marshal.”

  He picked up his hat from the seat of a chair and held the brim a moment before settling it on his head with a nod. “Evenin’, Miss Hollis.”

  He turned and strode out the door.

  For the rest of the dinner shift, Sophie thought of little else than that stack of “papers” on the marshal’s desk. She didn’t even taste her chestnut pudding as she sat in the employees’ dining room after her shift.

  It was probable that her likeness was on one or more of those wanted posters. But she’d used so many disguises that even the most talented Pinkerton would have trouble capturing her true image, she assured herself. If there was a drawing, it was most likely a picture of a young woman with fair hair and a beauty spot. Or of a curly-haired redhead wearing wire-rimmed glasses. None of her personas resembled the way she looked and dressed today.

  Here, she couldn’t disguise herself beyond her darkened hair. Mrs. Winters did periodic checks of their faces with a damp towel. No hussies allowed in the Harvey House.

  Sophie added her dishes to a pile, thanked the kitchen workers and found the lad who carried wood and kept the stoves free of ashes. “Jimmy.”

  “Miss Hollis.” He was stacking wood on a canvas sling.

  “Did you run my errand for me?”

  “Yes’m.” He reached into the bag that hung on his hip.

  She placed her hand on his arm to halt him while she took a moment to glance around. “Okay. Where are they?”

  “Right here.” He produced three cigars.

  Sophie gave him four coins from her tip money and closed her fingers around the cigars with a smile. “Thank you.”