***
Jem Baxter? David shook his head. When he’d first hit on the idea of using an assumed name, he’d thought it was brilliant, but when the moment came, the only names that sprang to his mind belonged to two of his horses, Jem and Baxter. Why couldn’t he have come up with something more dignified? Miss Waterford had accepted it easily enough, though, and since that was the point, he supposed it was all right.
He stepped down the hallway to the lobby, where he found the check-in counter. “I’d like a room for a few nights, please.”
“Of course.” The pretty lady behind the counter picked up a pen. “What’s your name, please?”
“Jem Baxter.” This time, it rolled more easily off his tongue.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Baxter. I’m Elizabeth Brody. Will that be two nights, or three?”
That was a good question. He’d like to take some time to get to know Miss Waterford, but if things went wrong, he’d most likely want to leave in a hurry.
Mrs. Brody seemed to understand his hesitation. “Why don’t I put you down for two nights, but if you need to leave sooner or want to stay longer, you can just let me know and we’ll adjust accordingly?”
“Thank you, ma’am. That sounds like the best idea.” David paid her the amount she quoted, and she directed him up the stairs.
The room was cleaner than any hotel room he’d ever seen, and the bed was a far sight more comfortable too. This Mr. Brody seemed to understand the importance of keeping his guests happy. It only took a moment for David to place his bag on the bed and glance around, and then he was ready to go downstairs again. He had a waitress to observe. Was she really happy here, or was she making the best of it because she considered it the lesser of two evils?
And just why did she consider him an evil?
He thought back on the moment when he’d first seen her. She’d approached his table with trepidation, her hands shaking, and he could tell that she didn’t feel entirely comfortable in her new role. She had a sweet face, expressive eyes, and beautiful hair—he didn’t usually notice women’s hair, but he noticed hers. He’d had an overwhelming desire to protect her, to tell her there was no need for her to be nervous—to tell her she didn’t have to work at all if she didn’t want to. He’d had every intention of seeing to her needs for the rest of his life, and he found that desire hadn’t changed one bit since getting her letter. In fact, seeing her had only made it stronger.
Just what was he doing here? He’d said that he only wanted to see her and make sure she was all right, but now he knew that was a lie. He was really here to see if he could win her back.
Chapter Six
“That Mr. Baxter seemed to take a shine to you,” Polly said with a grin as she plunged a tablecloth into the hot water basin.
“What? Oh, no, I don’t think so.” Camille concentrated on the washboard, hoping no one would notice her red cheeks. Or if they did, they’d think it was the heat in the small laundry building that had been constructed at the back of the hotel for washing in cold weather. It was certainly nicer than anything she’d had to work with back home—there, she’d had to use a corner of the kitchen, and that was awkward when it got in the way of meal preparation.
“Well, I do. He waited around long enough to speak with you after the service.” Polly took the heavy cloth and wrung it between her hands.
“He was just grateful for a nice meal,” Camille protested. “He really should have thanked Ruth and Sarah—they’re the ones who deserve the credit for the food.”
“But they don’t deserve the credit for making his heart go pitty-pat.”
“Oh, come on now, Polly,” Giselle said as she carried a basket of dirty napkins to the basin. “You shouldn’t be so hard on her. After all, maybe she’s never had a secret admirer before.”
“He’s not a secret admirer!” Camille snatched up the bar of soap that stood at the ready and gave a gravy stain a good swipe. “Let’s just finish our task and get ready for the next train, shall we? From what you keep saying, we don’t have a lot of time.”
“She makes a good point,” Giselle said. “The train will be here in about thirty minutes.”
The girls finished up the rest of the laundry and got it hung on the lines strung in the shed and the corner of the kitchen. Then they changed their aprons and got ready for the meal.
Camille was filling up the water glasses on the tables when she heard a scream from the front of the hotel, and then the slamming of a door. She set the pitcher down with a thunk and ran to see what was going on.
A woman leaned against the door, panting, her hand on her chest. “Wild dogs,” she gasped. “They’re out there on the street, growling and trying to attack.”
Mr. Brody threw back his coat, pulled his gun from the shoulder holster Camille had noticed he always wore, and nodded to the woman. “Please step aside—I’ll see what’s going on.”
“Oh, be careful,” she implored as she did what he asked.
Mr. Brody opened the door slowly at first, then wide enough to slip through. All the girls crowded at the windows to watch. Four bedraggled dogs stood in the center of the road, snarling at anyone who came near. One man thought to chase them off with a stick and charged them on his horse, but one of the dogs attacked the horse’s flank and leg, leaving it bloody. Camille gasped. An injury like that . . . if it became infected, the horse could die. She didn’t think the dogs were rabid, but she couldn’t tell from where she was.
People up and down the sidewalk disappeared into the stores along the way, pushing their children in front of them so they could protect them from the potential danger.
Tom came around the corner of the hotel, carrying a rifle. He stood to the side while Mr. Brody leveled one shot, then another. One by one, the dogs were felled, and as soon as the danger was past, Camille threw open the door and ran outside. She couldn’t help it—she had to see to the horse.
A glance at the dogs didn’t reveal any foaming at the mouth, so Camille assumed the risk of rabies was minimal. The rider had steered his injured horse over to the shade of the hotel. Camille went down on her knees in the snowy mud, not caring at all about her borrowed dress and clean apron, and examined the wound. It was as she had feared.
“This must be stitched up immediately,” she said, noting the amount of blood running down the horse’s leg.
Grace had followed her and stood with her hands clasped together. “But Dr. Wayment is out of town, and I saw Dr. Pettigrew get on the train just this morning.”
What rotten timing. “We don’t need a doctor—I can do this myself. I need a bottle of whiskey, a needle and thread, and some lengths of bandages.”
Grace just stood there, her mouth going slack.
“I need your help, please. Can you fetch the things I asked for?”
Grace blinked, nodded, and ran inside the hotel while Camille took off her apron and pressed it to the horse’s leg.
“You’re sure you know what you’re doing, miss?” the rider asked, worry etched on his weathered face.
“My father bred horses on our farm in Kentucky,” she told him with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “It was his living. I used to follow the veterinarian on his rounds. I’ve seen this type of thing done scores of times, and I’ve assisted in some surgeries as well.”
He gave her a nod. “I’m much obliged.”
Seemingly from out of nowhere, Mr. Baxter stepped forward. “Do you need an additional man to hold the horse? I’ve got a firm hand.”
“Perhaps. We might not need you, but if you’ll stay nearby, that would be much appreciated.” She tried not to think about the way the other waitresses had teased her about him. He was handsome, to be sure, and knowing that he had some skill with horses made him that much more interesting, but she couldn’t be distracted right now.
Grace returned with the things Camille had asked for, and she got right to work. It was also best if she ignored the small crowd that had gathered. Gracious, didn
’t they have anything better to do than to gawk at her?
She started by pouring the whiskey liberally down the horse’s flank and onto its leg. Then she threaded the needle and put a knot in the end. She closed her eyes for a moment, willing herself to remain strong, and then she stuck the needle through the horse’s torn flesh on the right side of the wound.
The animal bucked and shied away. She couldn’t blame it in the least—she could speculate what the poor thing must be thinking.
Mr. Baxter came to the horse’s side and spoke to it soft and low, gripping the bridle, and Camille pulled the thread through and then picked up the flesh on the other side with the tip of her needle.
Back and forth they went—the rider trying to maintain a grip on the reins as the horse stepped away, Mr. Baxter doing all he could to keep the animal calm and staying strong on the bridle, and Camille working feverishly to get the flesh stitched before the men lost control of the horse altogether. She realized she was cold, but that didn’t seem important. She heard the train arrive and the footsteps of guests crossing the porch and entering the hotel. She was aware of all this, but focused on her task, knowing she couldn’t stop now.
She reached the end of the gash and tied off the thread. She’d forgotten to ask Grace to bring scissors, so she bit the thread and sat back on her heels, studying her handiwork. It was only at that moment that she realized she’d used bright red thread. A humorous choice, but she supposed it was the first color Grace could find, and it really didn’t matter anyway.
“You’ll want to pour more whiskey on it a few times a day until it’s healed,” she told the rider. “I think it’ll do just fine.”
“Thank you,” the man said, reaching out and shaking her hand vigorously. He didn’t seem to notice that her fingers were covered with blood. “You saved my horse’s life.”
“I wouldn’t say that necessarily,” Camille protested, suddenly embarrassed. “We have no way of knowing how much danger there actually was.”
“Nevertheless, I’m beholden.” He took up the horse’s reins and led it away.
As soon as they were out of sight, Camille leaned up against the side of the hotel and exhaled. She didn’t realize Mr. Baxter was still there until he spoke.
“He’s right, you know. That was some excellent work.”
“I just did what I’ve seen done before. I’m certainly not any sort of expert.”
“It took a great deal of courage, Miss Waterford. You have my respect.” He glanced down at her, and the corners of his mouth twitched. “You also have a great deal of mud on you.”
“What?” Camille glanced down as well, then chuckled. “I look like I’ve taken a mud bath. If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Baxter, I’d best go clean up, and then I’m sure I’m needed in the dining room.”
“Of course.” He touched the brim of his hat as she turned and scurried away.
What would Giselle think of the way Camille had treated her dress? It was smeared with mud from the knees down, a thick layer she could almost scrape off. Camille knew what her next laundry project would be.
Once in the attic dormitory, she eased out of the dress carefully so she wouldn’t flick mud all over the room, and then she pulled on her funeral dress. It was stiff and hot, but she’d do what she had to—the Brody Hotel’s waitresses wore dark dresses, so that’s how it would be.
Of all her cleaning up, though, the hardest part was the blood on her hands. She’d never stopped to consider how hard it was to wash up blood—it wasn’t something she’d done often. She scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed at the basin in the corner before every last bit was finally gone, and she knew she’d wash up again downstairs after she dumped the basin out.
When she finally entered the dining room ready to work, the meal service was over and the tables had been reset. She was on time to help wash the dishes, though, so she took up a spot at the basin and fell to it.
“How’s the horse?” Giselle asked as she plunked a handful of forks into the hot water.
“I believe he’ll be all right, but there’s always the risk of infection. I’m sorry for taking off the way I did—I should have stayed here to help with the meal.”
Giselle put her hand on Camille’s shoulder. “You did exactly the right thing. That animal needed help, and not one of us could have done what you did. Don’t think anything more of it.”
Camille smiled. “Thank you.” It felt so good to be appreciated for something she’d done.
As soon as the dishes were washed, Grace grabbed Camille’s hand and pulled her toward the door. “Come on—we’re going shopping. If I have to look at that dress for one more second, I believe I’ll scream.”
The girls grabbed their coats and headed down the muddy street toward the general store. Camille was curious to see the place, knowing that Susan and Polly worked there with their father when they weren’t at the hotel. At that moment, they were helping Sarah and Ruth with bread and pies, so she wouldn’t be seeing them at the store, but she could imagine what their tasks might be.
Mr. Appleby greeted them with a booming hello and encouraged them to let him know if they needed anything. Grace led Camille straight to the fabric counter, and they looked over the dark material available.
“Black just doesn’t look good on you,” Grace said, giving Camille a once-over. “I think you should always wear pink and purple, but that’s not an option for the dining room, so let’s find you some dark blue. That would suit you best, I think.”
They found a dark blue cotton that was lightweight enough that it wouldn’t suffocate Camille while she worked. Then they found a brown that Grace said wasn’t ideal, but was still better than black. With the right lengths of both fabric cut for them by a sour-faced clerk, they made their way to the front of the store, where Mr. Appleby added up Camille’s purchase.
“And a gentleman asked me to be sure to include a hair ribbon to go with each dress,” he told her, his eyes twinkling.
“I’m sorry—what?”
“A young gentleman was just in here and paid for two hair ribbons for you. Seems you have a secret admirer.”
There was that phrase again. Wait . . . was it Mr. Baxter who’d been in here? “Do you know who he was? Can you describe him?”
“Well now, he said he wanted to remain unanimous.”
“I beg your pardon?” Now Camille was even more confused.
“I think you mean ‘anonymous,’ Mr. Appleby,” Grace said. “Is that right?”
“Yes, quite right. He didn’t want you to know anything about him.”
Camille shook her head. This was becoming quite annoying. “And how did he know I was making dresses?”
“Well, I suppose he saw you back there at the fabric counter. That would be a pretty easy thing to guess.” Mr. Appleby gave her a look of concern. “Are you all right, miss? You seem upset.”
“I’m not quite sure what I am. It just seems . . . well, it seems rather presumptuous that he’d think I’d accept a gift from a total stranger. And even if he is the man I suspect he is, I still barely know him, and I’m just not accustomed to that sort of thing.”
“You said he was a young man, correct?” Grace said. “He wasn’t an older man, maybe leading a limping horse?”
Camille glanced at her friend. If it was the horse’s rider wanting to thank her for what she’d done, why would he be leading the horse around town with him? That was one thing she was learning about Grace, though—the girl didn’t often think as logically as maybe she ought to.
Mr. Appleby had begun to shake his head before Grace even finished her question. “He was a young man, probably twenty-five or so. And that’s all I’m going to say, ladies.” He paused. “Unless you feel you’re in some kind of danger. Has he threatened you? Should we talk to the marshal?”
“No, it’s nothing like that. Please don’t be worried,” Camille assured him. She didn’t think Mr. Baxter was a threat. She thought he was overstepping his bounds, most certainly, but she
didn’t suspect him of intending anything inappropriate. And if he did, Mr. Brody wore a gun. She was sure Mr. Baxter would be on his best behavior while in Mr. Brody’s hotel.
Chapter Seven
David walked down Main Street, ducking his head against the wind but also to keep from being recognized. He hoped Miss Waterford hadn’t seen him in the general store—that would ruin his surprise and make it rather awkward.
The wild dog attack earlier that day had taken them all by surprise. He’d thought that Topeka was a large-enough town that feral animals wouldn’t dare come so close, but with the harsh weather, they’d most likely been driven to where they could find food. Mad with hunger, they’d lost their natural caution and followed the scents of food on the air. Mr. Brody had handled the situation in the only logical way, and the man was a fair shot, too.
David had never expected Miss Waterford to run after that injured horse and take control of the situation so entirely. With all his experience on ranches and working with animals, he didn’t think he would have been able to do what she did. She’d been nervous, which was completely understandable, but she hadn’t let it slow her down. She was courageous, smart, and beautiful—her list of positive attributes just kept growing.
Realistically, he could stay in Topeka about three days. Longer than that, and he feared the neighbor boy would become lax in his job. Would three days be enough time to convince Miss Waterford to marry him after all?
Of course, first he’d have to tell her who he was, and that might be a little problematic.
He’d meant to give her some space when he used the name Jem Baxter, but now he regretted that decision. If he’d told her who he was right off, it would have scared her away, but he wouldn’t be faced with the problem he had now—telling her the truth and hoping she wouldn’t hate him forever.
A Begrudging Bride (Kansas Crossroads Book 11) Page 4