by Bella Bowen
“That’s right,” she said carefully. “Was she consoled, then?”
He shook his head. “She’d left it on the wash stand. We ran back to get it, but Fritz beat us to it. He said he threw it in the fire.”
Tears leaked from the outer corners of Mary’s eyes, but he suddenly swung her in a wide circle and the drops flew away.
“Thank you,” she said, suspecting he’d done it on purpose.
“You’re welcome. But if I’ve already brought you to tears, maybe I’d better not tell you the rest.”
She shook her head. “Tell me.” It was a priceless opportunity to know what the boy in those memories had actually been thinking.
He shrugged and she relished the feel of his shoulder moving beneath her hand. No longer the shoulder of a fifteen year old boy.
“I told Fritz I was going to stay until his father got home, to make sure he didn’t hurt his sister.”
She gave him a nod of approval. “Very gallant.”
“Very foolish. I’m sure I made him madder by thinking he would harm his own kin. That’s when the skirmish started in earnest. I hadn’t had much experience fighting, but I did my best. I was a taller boy, so I wasn’t easy to take down. In the end, Fritz gave me a sound beating. He said I had no business kissing a ten year old girl. Mary confessed she’d lied to me, but that didn’t earn me any pity from him.
“The last thing I remembered was falling backward and hitting my head. When I woke up, I was draped over the back of a horse. Fritz took me down the mountain and left me at the well on the edge of town. He told me he’d kill me if I ever stepped foot on his mountain again.”
That wasn’t what her brother had told her. When Fritz returned, he said he’d left Rebel with a doctor, but it didn’t look good, that the boy would probably die of his wounds.
Mary had wept off and on for the rest of the summer. Since Rebel never returned, she’d feared Fritz had been the death of him. It had been a horrible cloud hanging between them. Each time their eyes met, they were reminded. So it was a relief to both of them when Fritz told her about the bride school. A chance to be free of one another and the ghost that haunted them.
But Rebel wasn’t a ghost. Did Fritz know?
“Tell me something,” she said.
“Anything.”
“Why did you say your name was Rebel?”
His smile slipped quickly from his face. “I don’t remember doing that.”
She was such a fool!
“You did,” she lied. “In the beginning.”
He frowned. “Did I?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mary knew if she couldn’t change the subject quickly, John would sort back through their conversation and know she was a liar! But she couldn’t very well turn away from her own question.
“Did your father call you that?” she asked.
The clouds moved away from John’s forehead and he smiled. “Yes. When I was thirteen he started calling me Rebel, no doubt because of my even-tempered nature.” His eyebrows bounced up and down, and she laughed. “When I started school in Boston so soon after the end of the war, you can imagine why the name Rebel would cause problems. So I went back to my given name.”
She nodded in understanding, then sought for a new topic. If he realized he’d never mentioned the nickname, he might suspect who she was.
The waltz ended, and an instant later, Milly was at her side with her arm around Mary’s elbow.
“Alexandra,” she said. “Come with me a moment, would you? To visit the powder room?” She gestured to a door along the back wall, left of the fireplace, while at the same time, she nodded in the opposite direction.
Mary followed the nod and realized Fontaine had come in from the cold. Her coat was caked with snow and her back was turned while she took off her hat and hung it on a peg.
“An excellent idea,” Mary said quickly. She gave John a bob of a curtsy and strode away with her friend.
“Milly!” Fontaine called out.
“Keep going,” Milly hissed. “The door on the left. Stay inside. I’ll come for you.” She gave Mary a little push and turned back.
Mary forced herself to walk normally until she was on the other side of the door. When she pushed the portal shut, she leaned back against it, not trusting her legs to hold her up a moment longer.
“Are you all right, Mary?” Mary Lou sat in front of a mirror and fussed with her hair. “You and Mr. Hermann seemed to have a great deal to talk about. I’m sorry if you’ve missed out on the dancing.”
Mary pushed away from the door and took a seat in front of the farthest of four mirrors on the wall. Lanterns sat on the long, narrow table and cast warm light up at her face, making her cheeks look high and her eyes sunken.
“I don’t mind,” she said quietly. “He started telling me a story and it turned out…to be a long one. But entertaining.” She lifted away the lace and stared at herself in the mirror. How could she have ever believed she looked anything like Alexandra Campbell?
Sick with anticipation, she waited to see who would be the first to call her out for her deceptions—Fontaine, or John. Which one would be the first to realize she was the unpolished girl from the mountain pretending to have been invited to the ball?
It couldn’t be eight o’clock, let alone midnight, and yet she felt her world growing round and orange…like a pumpkin.
~ ~ ~
The Wednesday night dance was called short on account of weather.
It seemed like ages before Milly came to the powder room to collect Mary and give her the news, that the men were going to bunk up together in the hotel so there would be enough room for the brides to stay the night in town. Fontaine wasn’t going to risk anyone freezing to death on her watch.
By the time Mary and Millie stepped back into the assembly hall the men were assisting the rest of the women into their coats and wraps. A man for each woman, elbows cocked at the ready, they marched them out the door and into the cold. John, however, was gone.
She and Millie hurried to cover themselves and it took both of them to gently lay the hood of Alexandra’s heavy cloak over the little pink hat.
Mr. Harris offered them both an elbow. “Miss Campbell, John Hermann has gone to help Mr. Willot with the boards. He asked me to see after you.”
“Thank you,” she said, trying not to sound as disappointed as she felt.
Elsa opened the door for them and the wind whipped inside. It swirled a surprising amount of snow into a white tornado that twirled toward the dance floor as if prepared to take its turn. Without music, it sank and shattered.
Mr. Harris led them out into the fury and Mary had to trust the man's sense of direction because she had to bend her head into the driving storm. Cold, hard snowflakes hit her face and threatened to freeze her lashes to her cheeks. With one hand clenched on her escort and the other dutifully keeping her hood in place, she couldn't have reached out to catch herself if she fell.
Unfortunately, Mr. Harris may have assumed that the best way to protect two women from the weather was to get them to their destination as quickly as possible. The man hurried along with no regard to slippery shoes or the fact that the boards that had been placed over the snow and slush weren’t wide enough for three people walking abreast. He plowed toward the wood. She released his arm and tried to hang back, but he clamped his arm down tight and pulled her along. His determination, however, wasn’t going to help her walk on water.
Her left foot landed solidly on the board, but her next step was doomed to land at the bottom of an icy hole. Falling quickly away, her hand came free, but instead of her toes sinking into the slush, they lifted into the air. Her entire body was swept up and away from the danger and she found herself clutched against the chest of a tall man. She held as still as possible so as not to throw off his balance as he plowed through the dangerous street. There was no doubt his boots were filling with icy water with every step, but he made no sound.
Curiosity got the best of h
er and she looked up into the concentrating glower of John Hermann. Though he frowned against the biting snow, he afforded her a wink and a fleeting smile before tramped purposefully but carefully across the road and up onto the boardwalk.
There, he set her on her feet, then leaned his face close. “I shouldn’t have left you. Forgive me.”
She smiled and shook her head. Large snowflakes attacked her chin and the corner of her mouth, but she didn’t want to look away from him.
“I'm sorry we didn't get a chance for a polite goodbye, Miss Campbell.” He had to holler to be heard above the wind. “Don't let them marry you off until you're ready.” He tipped his hat then looked into her eyes for the length of one heartbeat, then another, and then he was gone.
Mary stood stock still for a moment and watched him pick his way across the boards and back to the assembly hall where the musicians were ready to brave their way out.
“Come on, Alexandra.” Milly tugged unforgivingly on her arm.
A long minute later, the two of them burst through the doors of Mrs. Kennedy's Hotel with Mr. Harris on their heels. Mrs. Kennedy stood in the entryway and barked orders in four different directions.
She nodded to Mary and Millie. “You two, into the parlor to get warm. And you,” she pointed at Mr. Harris, “you'll be bunking with Mr. Charleston in number four. Collect your things quickly, sir. And thank you for your sacrifice.”
The doors opened again. Mary turned to see if John had come for that polite good-bye, but it wasn’t John. It was Fontaine.
Their eyes met dispassionately for a second before the gunslinger’s regard turned to a glare. The game was up. The charade was over.
Mary wouldn’t have been surprised if the ceiling began to crumbling above their heads, but the only sign of danger was when one of Fontaine’s femininely sized cowboy boots moved to the side, widening her stance. Mary’s attention went to the other woman’s hip where she knew a gun was hiding beneath her heavy deerskin coat. But Fontaine’s hand never moved toward it. And if Mary thought Mrs. Carnegie’s enforcer was angry at being misled, it was nothing compared to the disappointment on her friend’s face when she realized Mary half-expected to be shot for the slight.
“Of course you wouldn’t –” Mary took a quick step toward her. “I wasn’t afraid…”
The gunslinger stomped toward Mrs. Kennedy and ignored Mary outright.
“I’ve got a room for you, Fontaine,” the proprietress said.
“I don’t want no room. I’ll be sleepin’ on the stairs.”
Mrs. Kennedy shook her head. “On the stairs? Don’t be ridiculous. They’re not children. And they’ve only met the brides tonight—”
“It’s the women I can’t trust,” Fontaine muttered, then headed for the stairs. Mary was sure Fontaine was referring to her alone. Of course, she couldn’t blame her either. She knew just how anxious the woman was while Mrs. Carnegie was out of town. And here Mary’d gone and thrown a hitch in things.
Oh, she wasn’t regretting the fact that she’d taken Alexandra’s place. After all, she might never have seen Rebel—John—again had she not been brave for the Scotswoman’s sake. And after wondering for seven years if a boy had died for kissing her, it was a blessed relief to learn that he had not. But even more blessed was looking into those eyes again—eyes that were as heart-wrenching and wish-inspiring as they’d ever been—and hear from his own splendid lips how he, too, remembered their summer together with fondness.
But she did regret hurting Fontaine, one of her firm friends at Diamond Springs Ranch. When students and brides became friendly with Mary, for one reason or another, it was understood that in a matter of months, or even weeks, that friend would marry and leave the ranch for good. But with Fontaine and the other staff, it was more akin to family. They all expected Mary to move on one day, but it might have been another year or so before Mrs. Carnegie deemed her ready.
So Fontaine was more like a sister—a sister Mary’d never had. And now she’d betrayed that sister.
If only she hadn’t turned around… If she’d just hurried into the parlor as she’d been told, she might have protected that sister’s heart.
CHAPTER NINE
Fontaine was not on the stairs when Mary climbed toward the third floor room she would share with Millie. She’d lollygagged as long as she could, waiting to see if John might poke his nose in to check on her. Since he wasn’t staying at the hotel, it was silly of her to expect him to come. After all, his boots might have been full of ice water before he’d ever scooped her up and carried her to the safety of the boardwalk. He would have needed to hurry indoors, perhaps to his father’s house, before he lost his feet to frostbite. He was a Wyoming man, after all. He knew the dangers of the cold. Freezing just a few more minutes in order to see her would have been foolish.
Wonderful, yes, but foolish.
It had been the second most momentous occasion in her life, discovering that Rebel had survived. It should have been enough excitement for one night. Finding John and telling him her real identity would have to wait until morning, but find him she would. The charade was over. No more need to pretend she was Alexandra Campbell from Chester County, Pennsylvania. And none of the men from the dance would ask her to tea, so it didn’t matter to them who she was, or wasn’t.
She paused to catch her breath halfway up the final staircase. There was no sign of Fontaine, no chance to press her apology. As heavy as that left her heart, she was equally relieved. If given a bit of time to think on it, the gunslinger might decide to send Mary back to the ranch right away, which would remove any chance of finding John in the morning!
Maybe my only chance is to hide from Fontaine altogether!
She spun on the step before she was aware of her decision. And she’d tripped down three stairs before she realized she was not alone.
“Where the blazes to do you think yer goin’?” Fontaine’s voice was as cold and harsh as the icy snowflakes had been earlier.
Still caught up in the possibilities, Mary turned back to find her sober friend sitting in a chair off to the right, in a shadowy alcove between the wall and a large armoire. The dark red dots of the wallpaper looked like drops of blood spattered down the hallway. It immediately sobered Mary.
“Fontaine! I have to tell you—”
“Don’t want to hear it. High time you got your fancy pink backside into that room, Alexandra.”
“You don’t understand. You see, Mr. Hermann, uh, John Hermann—”
“Went home. No use waitin’ up for him.”
“But he doesn’t know who I am—”
“Course he does. You’re Alexandra Campbell, the bride that’s not quite ready. Or are you the Scottish bride who decided she was too good for the likes of Diamond Springs Ranch? So the minute Mrs. Carnegie left town—”
“That’s not right, Fontaine. The fact is Alexandra’s already in love with someone back home—”
“Then she shouldn’t have come.”
The woman was never going to see reason as upset as she was, and Mary was wishing that instead of coming up the stairs, she’d donned the heavy cloak and gone looking for John straight away. Now that the other gentlemen were in their rooms, she was free to be herself.
“Inside, Mary. Now. And Elsa will take you back to the ranch first thing in the morning. Mrs. Carnegie can decide your punishment…and Alexandra’s.”
“But Font—”
“But nothing. Inside.”
The smallest reflection of the lamplight gave away the wet in the woman's eye, and Mary’s resistance dissolved. Her betrayal had done something no one had ever been able to do, at least since she'd arrived at Diamond Springs. No wedding vows had done it, not matter how touching. No heartsick brides who failed time and again to be invited to tea. Not even the death of a particularly adorable puppy with one bad eye…
None of it had ever affected Fontaine…until then.
Mary swallowed whatever explanation she'd been forming in her he
ad and hurried into the room. Millie’s green dress was draped over a chair. She’d been huddled beneath a heavy blanket but popped to her feet the moment Mary closed the door. Millie spun her around and started unbuttoning her pink dress before she had a chance to speak. Twice, she tried to turn, but Millie prevented it.
“Mercy, Mary. You've kept me waiting long enough. If I don't get under those covers in the next ten seconds, the sheets will cool and the shivering will start all over again.”
“Sorry,” Mary muttered and stood as still as possible while all hope of finding John fell into a ruffled pile around her legs. By the time her corset came to a rest on the floor, Millie was shooting across the bed and grasping the edges of the blankets.
A small pile of embers glowed in the fireplace, the remnants of what must have been a mighty small fire. But if it had been set, originally, for a gentleman that had been dancing all night, they were lucky there had been a fire at all.
Millie must have been too cold to notice the bedpan propped in the corner and Mary recognized the chance to make up for her behavior—to one friend, at least. She shoveled the meager coals into the pan and blew lightly across them, bringing a fiery edge to the black, egg-sized chunks. The warm air that came back at her reminded her how frozen she was herself. The long night ahead loomed like a dark cold cavern and she was glad she'd be sharing a bed. It was many a wintery night in her mountain home when she was grateful for Jens and Max, her two little brothers who clung to her in their sleep. She only hoped she wouldn't be the one shuddering at Millie's back come morning.
Her friend poked her nose out from behind the sheet to see what was keeping her and squealed when she noticed the bedpan.
“Oh, Mary! Oh, thank Heavens!” She scooted up to the head of the bed and pulled her legs beneath her.
Mary moved the pan steadily beneath the covers to take as much chill away as possible, then she dumped the coals back onto the grate and slipped her under the covers. By the time the cold was gone from her skin, most of the warmth was gone from the sheets. But at least Millie had stopped her shivering and lay still beside her.