by Jenna Kernan
He wanted to go to his nephews and hug them and tell them that he’d take care of them, but the truth was he could barely take care of himself.
His attention turned back to Alice. He drank in the sight of her. Damn, he thought, what he wouldn’t give to have a woman like Alice Truett. Everything, anything, but wanting didn’t make that possible. He sure had learned that lesson well.
Dillen found the strength to step forward. This next part would sure be hard. But it had to be done, for the boys’ sake.
As he neared her, he became aware of the mountain of luggage on the cart behind her. It looked like they’d emptied an entire freight car. He had a sudden horror that all that gear might belong to Alice. But that was impossible, wasn’t it? Dillen counted four hatboxes and knew with cold certainty that they all belonged to the wealthy, entitled miss who might already be spoken for. That thought put a hitch in his stride. He fumbled in his pocket, feeling the two silver dollars knock together. How much would it cost to take all that gear to the hotel? Worse still, how much would it cost to rent her a room?
More than he had, he knew. Dillen gritted his teeth. He couldn’t afford Alice for even one afternoon—let alone a lifetime. The truth bit into him with sharp teeth, but he couldn’t shake it off.
He came to a stop before them. Colin leaned back to stare, his mouth dropping open as he gaped, looking very much like he might cry. Cody had also spotted his uncle and gave a sharp tug on Alice’s sleeve before turning around, almost like a soldier awaiting inspection.
Colin likely knew his uncle only through stories, if his uncle ever came up at all. Dillen wondered which stories he might have heard and scowled as a series of possibilities danced through his mind. He met Cody’s gaze. Two years was a long time to a child. Did the boy recall him?
Alice did not need Cody’s warning for she now regarded him with a steady stare and a tight expression that took the lush, full curve from her enticing lips. Didn’t matter. Even frowning, seeing Alice was like seeing a butterfly in December. He still felt dizzy with the effort of not reaching out to touch her. He noticed the hollows beneath her cheeks now. She’d lost weight and sleep, he realized, judging from the smudge marks under her eyes. Had she been at Sylvie’s grave when they’d lowered his sister into the ground?
Sylvie had written him on occasion, when he had a place to receive mail. She had said that she and Alice had remained friends after his parting. Her presence here told him without words that this was true.
“Mr. Roach,” said Alice, her voice formal, but still sweet music to his ears.
Had she really let him kiss her that Christmas Eve, before he’d met her family and everything had gone to hell?
He found himself reaching, clasping her by the shoulders and turning her so he could look at the face he thought of each night and every day on waking. Alice stared up at him, her mouth now slightly open as she drew in a surprised breath. He acted on instinct, pulling her in and holding her close, feeling her stiffen and then, an instant later, go as pliant as a willow branch. He inhaled the sweet fragrance of her skin and felt the soft brush of her hair on his face. Then she was stiffening again, turning to stone in his arms as she leaned away. She gave him a small shake of her head and then glanced to the boys, collecting their hands once more.
“I am exceedingly sorry for your loss, Mr. Roach,” Alice said, her tone stiff with formality. “Your sister was a good friend, a loving wife and an exemplary mother.”
Now Dillen felt awkward. He shouldn’t have hugged her. He had no right. She might even be spoken for, though Sylvie had not mentioned it. He glanced to her left hand and saw it sheathed in a finely made black leather glove, revealing nothing. He met her gaze, finding the small line between her brows that indicated concern. He waited, his stomach knotting as she pulled the boys forward so they stood shoulder to shoulder just before her now.
“These are your nephews.” Then she spoke to the pair. “Colin and Cody Asher, this is your mother’s only sibling, your uncle Dillen Roach.”
The woman could make a formal introduction like nobody’s business.
Dillen knelt down to meet the two at eye level. “Hello, boys. I’m your ma’s brother.” Colin stuck his thumb in his mouth as he fell back against Alice, huddling against her as if trying to disappear into the fine wool and velvet of her skirts. Dillen turned to Cody and extended his hand, open and up as he would to an unfamiliar dog. The boy looked at Dillen’s empty hand. Confusion wrinkled his brow as he glanced from his uncle’s empty hand back to his uncle. Why the devil hadn’t he thought to buy a peppermint stick? Instead he had brought them nothing. How appropriate. “You remember me, son?”
Cody nodded. “Yes, sir. You use to come by Sundays for supper and play the fiddle. You used to pour medicine from a bottle into your coffee when Ma wasn’t looking. Are you feeling better now?”
Dillen glanced to Alice, whose look showed reproach at this revelation. It was true. He had brought liquor into his sister’s home. Young and dumb, he’d been. Now that memory shamed him, but it did serve to illustrate what he already believed. He’d make a terrible parent, maybe even worse than his own father, if that were possible.
Dillen gave the boy a gentle punch in the arm. “I still occasionally feel the need to take a dose.”
Alice might as well know that he was not the man she hoped he’d become. Show her right off the disappointment he was and confirm in her mind that she was well rid of him. No use putting it off. Dillen rose to face her.
“The front of your coat is all wet.” She lifted a gloved hand to touch him, and then hesitated. He looked at the finely made, fitted black leather sheathing her hand like a second skin. Had she bought her mourning attire especially for this journey? Of course she would have. Nothing but the best for the Truett family. Their eyes met and held.
“Why’d you bring them, Alice, when I asked you not to?”
She bristled as if he had struck her clean across the face. “You said nothing of the sort.” She released Cody and rummaged in a small velvet reticule that hung from her slim wrist by a satin cord. A moment later her gloved hand reemerged holding a folded scrap of paper. She straightened the page and cleared her throat before reading aloud. “‘Interested in taking the pair. Stop. Immediate delivery. Stop. Will pay for transport for both plus handler. Stop. Wire arrival date and time.’”
Dillen’s stomach dropped six inches as he realized two things simultaneously. He’d sent Alice the wrong telegram, and that meant that the horses that his boss was expecting him to have purchased were not going to be delivered.
Dillen snatched the telegram and read. Then he threw down his hat and swore.
“Holy hell!”
Alice gasped and covered Colin’s ears too late as Dillen pressed a hand to his forehead and swayed. He had two duties. Help Bill Roberts with the jobs he could no longer manage at the ranch and purchase and train those two green horses. How was he going to tell his boss that he’d failed to buy the twin Welsh ponies? Worse yet, how was he supposed to train two horses he didn’t have?
What had he wired Alice exactly? Something about writing after the first of the year. He muttered a curse, because he knew the breeder had at least one other offer.
He retrieved his hat, turned to Alice and said, “I gotta go.”
“What?” she yelped.
But Dillen didn’t answer because he was already running over the icy platform toward the telegraph office.
Chapter Three
Dillen Roach ran to the telegraph station. If Alan Harvey found out that he’d sent that telegram, then he was out of his situation in the dead of winter.
Dillen waited in a panic for Morecastle’s reply.
What had Sylvie done, leaving her boys to him? Surely there had to be a better situation than this. But maybe she didn’t realize that. His sister couldn’
t know how hard his life was, for he’d kept it from her. He should have been honest. If he had told her the truth, she would never have left her children in his custody.
He thought of Alice and the boys waiting at the station and decided he’d best go fetch them. And bring them where? As he contemplated this, the telegraph sprang to life and his message came through. Mr. Morecastle now wanted him to come to Cripple Creek in person with cash immediately, or he would not hold the pair. Dillen sent his reply.
Now he needed to find a place for Alice and the boys while he headed up the line to Cripple Creek. His first thought was Mrs. Louise Pellet. She was his foreman’s niece and ran a clean boardinghouse in town. Maybe she’d be willing to take the boys for a spell if he could persuade her to let him pay her on time. He and her Bill ate Sunday supper at Mrs. Pellet’s table, which was a meal he anticipated all week. He couldn’t think why she’d do him this favor, but she was a Christian woman. Maybe that was reason enough.
The only other person he thought might help him was a woman whose name he wasn’t quite sure of. Alma, or Erma? He knew the last name was McCrery and he thought she was the wife of Sylvia’s husband’s uncle. He recalled she was a widow who lived alone in a big house in Chicago. He knew the street as well, since he’d met her at Sylvia’s wedding and attended the reception there. She’d been ancient then and the connection was tenuous, but it was all he had.
The telegram that he sent to Mrs. Edna McCrery was brief. Just that since the death of Sylvia and Mrs. McCrery’s nephew, Ben Asher, there were two orphan boys who he could not care for. Would she take them?
He didn’t wait for a reply. Leaving Alice alone on the train station platform had been a combination of raw panic and bad judgment. If she was wise she would have boarded the next train heading down the mountain.
Dillen removed his hat before entering the railroad station and raked his fingers through his shaggy hair. He wished he’d had time for a cut and to shave off his three-days’ growth of beard before seeing her again, because he knew he looked like what he was: a no-account bronc breaker. When he entered the depot and found it empty, Dillen broke out in a sweat.
He was still sweating when he heard someone call his name.
“You Dillen Roach?”
He turned to see a man in uniform shuffling forward. The stationmaster, he realized. The man was so stooped he appeared to be addressing Dillen’s boots.
He nodded, then spoke up. “Yes, sir.”
“She headed over to the hotel.”
There were several hotels in Blue River Junction, and more than a few were wholly unsuitable for a lady to enter and all of which he could not afford.
“Which one?”
The man scowled. “Blue River Junction Hotel, course!”
Dillen replaced his hat.
“She left you a message.” He slid a small white envelope across the counter.
Dillen had to remove his work gloves to open the tiny thing. Inside was her calling card with her name embossed in raised black font—Alice Lorraine Pinter Truett. He flipped the card and saw her neat looping script in pencil.
We are lunching at the hotel.
Please feel free to join us at your earliest convenience.
* * *
Alice secured a porter and, after speaking to the ticket operator, determined that the only acceptable hotel in this small oasis in the mountains was the Blue River. She was told the establishment was within easy walking distance, but the ice made travel a challenge. She was greatly relieved to see that the ladies seemed respectable and the male residents did not strut about with pistols on their hips like gunslingers, except Dillen. She had noted that he was armed.
The hotel itself was a pleasant surprise, opulent in a way that was not garish, but still it gleamed with polished wood, fine fabrics and chandeliers with sparkling crystals. The dining room appeared an inviting place to begin.
She gave her luggage to the bellman and saw it secured before tipping him for his trouble. Her father always handled the money and Alice had limited experience with such matters. Then she left word with the clerk at the front desk about her expectations that a Mr. Roach would be joining them in the dining room. She felt quite pleased at having conducted the business by herself. As long as no one could see how her knees were knocking beneath her skirts, she might almost be mistaken for a competent caregiver. It was a small step toward proving her mettle but she still counted it, along with making her trip from Omaha unescorted. Sylvia’s death proved to Alice that her friend had managed more life in her short years than Alice had in her entire lifetime, and she was three years older than Dillen’s sister had been. The realization disconcerted and had brought her to this place despite her mother’s objections. She would see Dillen and reconcile what had passed between them one way or the other. From the look of him, he had not been pining for her. Even more annoying, he had run out on her a second time. It was enough to make her feel as if she carried some form of plague.
Once settled in the dining room, close to the woodstove, she had not even time to lift the menu before Colin tugged at her skirt. A few minutes later they had returned from the privy and prevailed on a waiter to allow them to wash their hands. This time she read the first menu item before Colin again tugged at her skirts.
“Where’s Uncle Dillen?”
She knew that children should be seen and not heard. She knew because her mother had constantly said so. Still, she did not have the heart to shush him. At six, Colin was an inexhaustible sponge, soaking up everything around him and curious as a cat.
“I’m not sure, dear.”
She redirected their attention toward lunch, and soon her selection was served. The fare was excellent, far better than the bustle and rush of the rail station meals. Alice savored her pot of gunpowder tea as the boys devoured their apple pie as if they had not already eaten everything on their plates. They seemed to be always hungry. Alice watched them with a mixture of pride and sorrow. Very soon she would have to give them up and return to her home. She had only had them for three weeks. Two after Sylvia took ill. And one since her friend’s burial beside her husband, Ben Asher.
The hotel manager finally arrived, as she had requested, and she asked if he knew Dillen Roach.
“Roach, yes, ma’am. He took over the Harvey place, about three miles outside of town. Small spread, but nice. Horses mostly. Hear he’s a real whiz with horses. I can get you directions.”
Alice frowned at learning Dillen had a horse ranch. A man with a home was usually able to wed. Perhaps to a woman to whom he had professed the most tender of emotions and declared the most honorable of intentions. But that was before he learned the truth. Why hadn’t she told him sooner?
Because deep in your heart you wanted a man who loved you for yourself and not for your money. She could hardly blame him for leaving her. A lie was a black and evil thing.
She asked the manager if Mr. Roach was married.
“No, ma’am.”
She closed her eyes in a vain effort to hide her relief. But the joy was short-lived, for if Dillen had a place of his own and had not even written her, well, that told her all she needed to know. She thanked the manager and he took his leave. Alice poured another cup of tea with a shaking hand.
If there was anything Alice had learned following Dillen’s leave-taking, it was that, unlike the other men in her life, Dillen was not lured by her family’s fortune. Without that money, what was she? She felt the determination to learn the answer to that question. She had lived a sheltered life quite long enough. Alice was ready to see what she was made of.
She straightened, gathering her resolve for what would come. Giving up the boys would break her heart. But she must honor her friend’s dying wish—that her boys be raised by family.
Cody straightened in the chair upon which he knelt. He lowered his fork an
d lifted his finger.
“Cody, dear, it’s not polite to point.”
“But, Miss Alice, I see Uncle Dillen, and he looks mad.”
* * *
Dillen crossed the hotel’s elegant lobby but found no sign of Alice, so he headed for the dining room. A fussy-looking gent stationed behind a high pedestal swept him with a disapproving look and his face pinched up as if he’d sucked a dill pickle. Dillen glared and the man spun about and vanished behind the swinging door to the kitchen before Dillen could ask him about Alice. He shrugged and searched the room for Alice. He found her an instant later and he paused in the doorway.
She looked right here, in the elegant surroundings. A refined lady seated at a table draped in white linen so bright it hurt his eyes. The sight made him more aware of his worn, faded dungarees and the smell of horse that emanated from his sheepskin jacket. She belonged here, but he sure the hell did not.
The boys sat facing him, heads down over their plates of pie, their legs tucked beneath them so they could reach the table. Alice sat in profile, and he admired her glossy brown hair looped up into a coronet on top of her head. The style revealed the curve of her slender neck. He’d never seen her hair down, but now discovered that he wanted that more than anything he could think of, apart from seeing her as God made her.
She lifted a fine china teacup to her mouth. Her full lips pursed to sip and Dillen’s stomach flipped clean over. His skin went all hot and prickly, and he couldn’t breathe until that tiny cup was seated back on its saucer. The woman was like a mule kick to his gut every time he looked at her.