“Oh, I love the cadence of the last sentence.” Thora placed a hand on the table in the middle of the shop. “But tell me how you came to be a performer.”
Shaking her head, Cinnia tied a knot in the white string on the package. “That story would require an entire pot of tea.”
Here’s a willing interview subject. Anticipation skittered over her skin. “I have the time, and I’m a wonderful listener.”
A smile brightened Cinnia’s face, making her eyes flash. “I’ll go and put on the kettle. Please, follow me.”
As she moved through the shop, Thora noted the layout resembled the saddlery next door. At the back stood a small kitchen containing a table and two chairs, counter with a sink but no water pump, and a black wood-burning stove. Tall cupboards hung from the wall shared with the shop. On the other side of the stove, a wall ladder led up to what she assumed was a sleeping loft. She settled in to listen to Cinnia’s story. Two pots of tea and a plate of pirozhki—baked buns filled with a meat mixture—were consumed in the telling.
Sometime later, Thora reluctantly bade farewell to her new friend and tucked her journal into her reticule. What an interesting life Cinnia led. Almost as fascinating as the story of Savina, the injured ballerina who found a new career as a bareback performer in a Wild West Show. Cinnia shared how she altered one of her vaudeville costumes for Savina to wear in her audition. Hearing Cinnia’s tale spoken aloud, instead of reading about the events, was even more interesting. Well, what does that realization say about my chosen profession?
Thora consoled herself with the thought that the majority of people couldn’t afford such entertainments. But the price of the dime novels, and her publisher’s statement, ensured her stories were read by thousands every week—at least, she hoped so.
Back at the hotel, she carried the package of her new clothing to her hotel room and sat at the table by the window to review her notes. She gathered enough details on Cinnia’s eventful life to fashion quite a long story. Too bad Savina performed on the East Coast and wasn’t available to be interviewed. Once she was finished with Cinnia’s story, Thora might write to Savina and conduct an interview by correspondence. Not as satisfying as an in-person discussion, but she’d receive the same details.
Luckily, Savina’s cousin, Trent, managed the Rolling M Ranch just on the other side of the river. Maybe she could talk with him. The distance was short enough for an enjoyable walk.
As she headed through the front door, Thora wondered at not seeing Laura or Josie but figured hotel chores kept the pair occupied. Or possibly Josie was in school at this hour. Surely, one operated in Morgan’s Crossing.
Once on the front porch, she smoothed a hand over her new brown skirt and green shirtwaist. The straw boater she’d packed from home was more sensible for a stroll. A quick tie of the ribbons under the chin secured the hat. Now, at least, her clothes didn’t set her off as being a visitor.
Taking a breath, Thora tip-tapped down the steps and onto the path. Onward to her new adventure.
~**~
Although he had to bolt down his supper of beef stew and yeast rolls, Harte stepped into the hotel entry at the agreed-upon time and rang the brass bell on the registration desk. Past the small counter was a room with several sofas and chairs. He’d seldom seen rooming houses with such nice furnishings. On the rare occasions when he could afford a hotel, he’d always found the furniture to be older and more worn.
Footsteps sounded along a hallway, and a brown-haired woman came into view, wiping her hands on a towel. “Welcome to the Morgan’s Crossing Hotel. I’m Missus Fitzhugh, the manager. Do you need a room for the night?”
At the unexpected sight of a female clerk, Harte swept off his hat. “No, ma’am.” He noticed the searching look in her blue eyes, but such silent questioning always happened. “Name’s Harte Renwyck, and I’m here to speak with one of your guests, Miss Thora Alviss.”
“Is Miss Alviss expecting you?” Her brown eyebrows rose, wrinkling the woman’s brow.
That’s one way to state the situation. He gave a quick nod. “We made arrangements earlier in the day.”
“Well, I’m not quite sure if I should share this information about a hotel guest.” Her lips pressed into a thin line.
Familiar with her gesture, Harte recognized that the woman knew something but held back the information. His senses went on alert. “Miss Alviss wished to interview me this morning, but I was working at the mine. So, we agreed…” He almost choked on the inaccurate word. “We set quarter past six as a convenient time for us both.”
Missus Fitzhugh sniffed. “She’s not here. I will leave a message that you called, Mister Renwyck.”
Not here? The gall. Jamming his hands in his front pockets, Harte rocked back on his heels. How could the pestering female demand he appear and then not be around to conduct the blasted interview? “Are you sure she’s not in her room?”
A loud sigh sounded. “Yes, I’m sure. I have checked. She never returned from her morning errands and missed dinner and supper.” Eyes wide, she pressed fingertips to her mouth. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have revealed so much.”
Missed meals? That fact meant no one had seen her in hours. He shot a glance through the front window that faced the peaks in the western mountain range. The setting sun colored the bottom of a cloud bank a rosy orange. His pulse kicked up. Not much time before the sun disappeared altogether. “Did Miss Alviss ask for directions to a certain location in town?”
“Not of me. She’s only been here since yesterday and is not familiar with the area.” Frowning, she twisted the towel between her hands. “I’m a mite worried. Do you think I should raise an alarm? Morgan’s Crossing doesn’t have a sheriff.”
Urgency tightened his muscles, but he would help no one if he dashed off without facts. “Ma’am, I’m an ex-US Marshal, and I need all the details before I ride out to search.”
The woman’s frown eased. “Miss Alviss came down for breakfast, and we chatted about where she’s from and her reason for being in town. Then she headed out after learning the saddle maker was the person she needed to talk to regarding something related to that boxing match in Sweetwater Springs. I was in and out of the room serving and clearing, so I didn’t hear everything she said to another boarder here, Bill Simms.”
“Saddle maker is a blond man by the name of Andrusha?” Seeing her nod, he turned, intending to visit the shop. Then he realized the business must be closed at this hour. “Where does he live?”
Flipping the towel over her shoulder, she pointed toward the window. “He built a house a bit past the road fork on the livery side of town.”
“Thanks, Missus Fitzhugh.” Harte pulled open the door and loped down the street toward the livery, settling his hat on his head as he ran. Saddling Blaze and riding out to speak with the Andrushas ate up precious sunlight. He learned Miss Alviss had been with Missus Andrusha for the midday meal, but the dressmaker had no idea of where the writer was headed.
Concern rising as he searched, Harte scoured every street and alley in the small town. His hands tightened on the reins, making Blaze sidestep. “Easy, boy.” He patted the stallion’s dapple-gray neck. If she wasn’t in town, then he had to widen his search. But if she’d wandered off into the prairie hours ago….
Anxiety dropped into his gut like a stone in a pond, and his pulse thumped. From the Andrushas’ house, he trotted Blaze up the hill toward the mine then took the road that led over the river. Once he clomped across the bridge, he glanced in both directions, wondering what in the surrounding area might have caught her attention.
In a nearby pasture, a bull pawed the ground opposite a large oak tree. The massive creature wandered away a few feet then turned back, squared off with the tree, and lowered its head.
The animal acted like it had something cornered …or someone. Intrigued, Harte rode along the split rail fence as close to the tree as he could.
“Help! Hey, you on the horse, can you hear me?”
/> The speaker was certainly female, but several tones raspier than he remembered Thora’s being. But the voice belonged to her. Harte glanced again at the agitated animal. Who else but Thora Alviss could have made the bull this frustrated? I know that exact feeling.
Locating her, and knowing that she was most likely unharmed, helped ease the dread in his gut. “Well, I know this time you definitely were not following me, Miss Alviss. Are you stuck?”
“Oh, Harte. Thank goodness you rode by. I’ve been up here for absolutely ages.”
This morning, he was “Mister Renwyck” spoken with a haughty inflection on his last name, and now she called him by his first name? The lady must indeed be panicked. Should he tell her he’d been searching, not idly riding past? First, he needed to let his heart rate return to normal. “What caught your fancy at that height? Did you climb to get a better view?”
A branch rustled, and her frowning face appeared amidst brilliant scarlet leaves.
Her reddish hair looked almost brown against their vibrancy, but her blue eyes flashed with annoyance. Good. Irritation is better than fear.
“I climbed, because I wanted to stay alive. I have since learned that choice was a big mistake, entrapping me multiple feet off the ground.” She blinked fast and sniffled. “I walked through the pasture, because I assumed it was the shortest way to the ranch house that must be off in that direction somewhere.”
Seeing the blustering woman exhibit vulnerability calmed him. For a reason he couldn’t explain, hearing Thora’s rambling words calmed him even more. She didn’t mention being injured. Instead, she sounded affronted that the bull would guard its territory. The Easterner didn’t know much about protectiveness and male behavior—related to bulls or men.
The branch snapped upward, causing a few leaves to fall to the ground. “Uh.”
“Are you all right?” Harte leaned forward and moved his head to get a glimpse of her, but the leaves obscured her position.
“Now a bee is buzzing too close, and if I swipe at it, I might fall.”
Every muscle in his body tightened. “Whatever you do, don’t bat at it.” The horror of his younger brother’s death from bee stings surfaced, clouding his vision. His breath caught in his chest, and he grabbed hold of the saddle horn to steady himself.
“All right, I won’t.”
Shoving aside the long-ago pain, Harte ran through the present situation. To think he’d imagined her being prey to wolves or coyotes or snakes while lost on the prairie, yet, she’d been only a stone’s throw from the town.
The bull snorted, stomped on a wad of straw, and stared upward into the tree.
“See what I mean? That nutty bull hates me. He chased me up here and won’t let me down. Can you do something to distract him?”
Harte dismounted and tied Blaze’s reins to the lowest fence rail. “You want me to climb into the pasture and lure him away from the tree?”
“Yes but…afterward.”
“After what?” As if putting his body between her and a two-thousand-pound bull wasn’t enough of a risk, what did she want now?
“You need to climb up to where I am and untangle my hair from a branch. Actually, I think the correct term is twig. But I can’t do it myself because I fear I’d lose my balance on this perch.” Again, the branch shifted to one side, and she peered out, nibbling on her lip. “At least, not without your help.”
Her fearful tone did him in. Since their first meeting, he’d never heard her act in any manner other than confident. In the waning light, he gauged the distance from the fence to the tree. Maybe the rope coils he carried would stretch as a barricade to hold the animal at bay. He did not want to swing a lasso at a bull he knew nothing about. The possibility of being dragged through the pasture proved unappealing.
Working fast while keeping an eye on the bull, he tied the ropes on the top and bottom rail, crossed them in the middle then looped the remainder around the tree. He swung on top of the lowest branch, resting his stomach for a second before hoisting a leg atop the branch.
About four feet higher perched a wide-eyed Thora, her arms wrapped about the limb, feet dangling. “Hi.”
Harte wondered how a city dweller like her climbed as high as she had. Try as he might, he couldn’t keep his gaze from taking in the sight of frilly lace and silky ribbons at her pantalettes’ hems. He smiled and nodded. “Evening, Miss Alviss.”
“I’d tell you to avert your gaze, but right now, I just need help.” She huffed out a breath, and a long tendril of hair fluttered before her face. “Because of this awkward situation, we can be on a first-name basis.”
“You did call me Harte.” Harte grinned, hoping to distract her from the threat of the bull below. He stood on the branch and climbed to the next one, which brought his chest near her position.
Sure enough, her hair was wrapped around a twig and a couple leaves from above. “I’ll need both hands so excuse the impropriety of my closeness.” He eased forward to rest his stomach against the branch and couldn’t prevent his chest from touching her side. Ignoring the heat caused by the contact might be harder than he’d imagined.
She gasped then squeaked.
A glance at her tight-pressed lips indicated Thora experienced the same instant tingle he had. Feeling as if his fingers were as fat as sausages, he plucked at the locks of silky hair, releasing a few strands with each tug, focusing on the task itself. If Harte dwelt on how good her hair felt, he’d get sidetracked. Better to think of other, and more neutral, topics. “How was the rest of your day?”
“I found a very willing interview subject in Cinnia York Andrusha.”
“Hmm. You mean the dressmaker?”
“You’ve become acquainted with several people since your arrival.”
“All part of my former profession. Old habits die hard.” In the fading light, Harte had to lean close to see the snagged hair. Her flowery scent invaded his nose, imprinting her on his awareness.
“Missus Andrusha is more than a dressmaker. She also performed dramatic interpretations of well-known poems in a vaudeville show. Imagine traveling around from city to city and providing entertainment to so many people.”
Traveling through states and territories wasn’t so great. He’d spent years on the road with nothing but cheap boardinghouse rooms to call home. Occasionally, he stayed in one place long enough to strike up an acquaintance over a deck of cards or a game of billiards. “Uh-huh.”
The bulk of her hair now hung loose, but the last strand proved tricky. If he had a lantern, he’d be finished in only a moment or two. He could suggest cutting her free, although he doubted she’d agree. Then he’d have no excuse to be positioned in personal proximity. For once in his life, remaining close to a particular woman was exactly where he wanted to be. But, no matter what he wished, he’d do nothing to add to Thora’s discomfort. Squinting, he bent back to his task.
“After we had a cup of tea, Missus Andrusha recited a few stanzas and performed the lines quite well, adding gestures to accent the poetic words.” Thora waved a hand to the side then quickly grasped the branch again. “She told me how she designed and sewed costumes for the entire troupe. Such creativity. Did you know their manager up and abandoned them in this very town last fall? One morning they awoke, and he was gone—along with their wages. Imagine their surprise.”
“I’ll bet.” In her retelling of the interview, her voice lost its nervous tone. The next tangle proved difficult, and he tugged.
“Ow.” She winced, sucking in a breath.
“I’m almost done.”
“Glad to hear that.” She squirmed. “I’ve been stuck up here for hours and shared tea with Cinnia before setting out on my walk. Um, quite a lot of tea, actually.”
Right. With a final twist and lift, the last strand came free in his hand. He brushed a thumb over the length before releasing it. “You’re untangled now.” Bracing a hand on an overhead branch, he eased away his torso, missing the shared body heat as soon as the connect
ion was broken.
“Thank you.” Thora straightened until her back rested against the tree trunk, her brow wrinkled. “Now, how do we get down?” She tilted her head to look toward the ground.
“Climb. By now, the bull probably wandered back to its shelter for food.” Harte stepped down to a lower branch and scanned the pasture. Unfortunately, the faint purplish line illuminating the mountain ridgeline didn’t light much of the area. “When we reach the pasture, duck to the left behind the ropes then crawl through the fence rails.”
“All right. I don’t know how I managed to get so high.”
He glanced up and spotted her worried expression. “I’ll move to the other side of the trunk so you can find the path that feels right.” And to keep myself from ogling her legs as she scrambles downward. “Just wait on the lowest branch so I can be on the ground first.” As Harte talked, he climbed down the other side of the oak, keeping an eye on her progress. For a city girl, she was an adequate climber.
“I’m ready.”
Harte jumped down and lowered to a crouch, scanning the area. Senses alert, he listened for any sounds of movement but heard none. “The bull’s gone.” He straightened, stepped to where Thora sat on a limb about four feet off the ground, and lifted his hands. “Turn around, and I’ll help you down.”
“I don’t think I need the assistance.” She followed his instruction and rested her stomach on the branch, legs dangling.
Unable to resist, he clasped her waist and eased her descent until she stood on her own. Before he fully registered the softness of her form, he stood with empty hands after she’d twisted away.
Thora dashed through the fence and out of sight behind a shadowed bush. “Turn away, please. And, if such an act is possible, close your ears.”
After a chuckle at her modesty, Harte whistled a tune while he busied himself with reclaiming the ropes. Once the length was coiled, he bent over to pick up the flattened mass of straw stomped on by the bull. Only the limp ribbons identified the mangled wad as a boater.
Chasing Adventure Page 9