by Jodi Thomas
“Thank you,” Charlotte said, shaking.
“Miss Charlotte,” Birdie tried again. “Are you sure you’re—”
Charlotte cut her off, stepping lightly in front of Birdie so only Charlotte was facing the sheriff.
“I don’t believe I know your name, but I can see by the badge you’re a lawman.”
Is Charlotte flirting with this man? wondered Birdie. What about her plans to marry Captain Newcastle? Did she step in front of the carriage on purpose? Birdie had some questions, but she wasn’t about to get any answers until Charlotte had finished her conversation with the sheriff.
“Sheriff Holden, ma’am,” he said.
Birdie noticed he tipped his hat to Charlotte, in a slow salute. It was an innocent enough gesture, but somehow it had a lot more heat than the nod he gave the farmer. Whatever was going on here appeared to be mutual.
“Very nice to meet you, Sheriff Holden,” Charlotte fluttered.
Sheriff Holden leaned lazily against a porch post and gave Charlotte a lopsided grin.
“And who have I had the pleasure of saving?” he asked.
“I’m Charlotte Rutherford,” she said. “And I’m very grateful for your services just now.”
Sheriff Holden stood up straight, any hint of impropriety gone. The entire atmosphere changed from tropical heat to frosty.
“Miss Rutherford,” he said. “I’ve had a few meetings with your father. I hope his continued interest in the town is not marred in any way by this unfortunate accident.”
“Near-accident,” Charlotte corrected, looking to Birdie for confirmation.
Birdie opened her mouth, but Charlotte returned her attention to Sheriff Holden.
“I’m sure Father will be very happy to hear you saved me just now.”
“Oh, no need to mention it to your father. Really. I wouldn’t want him to think Dallas was an unsafe place for a beautiful woman like yourself.”
Birdie stifled a smile. The game was back on, apparently.
“Everything all right here?” came a familiar baritone. It was Captain Newcastle.
“Yes, Captain,” Charlotte said, never taking her eyes off the sheriff. “Everything is just fine.”
Birdie knew it was unreasonable to hope Charlotte would stay focused on Sheriff Holden. Captain Newcastle shifted his gaze to Birdie. She couldn’t meet his eye but she knew he was looking at her. Was it possible he felt an attraction to her?
“I see you got the job,” he said with a grin, indicating her dress. “Welcome to the world of uniforms.”
Birdie felt the color rise in her cheeks. He only wanted to tease her.
“May I see you ladies back to the hotel?” Captain Newcastle asked.
“I was just about to offer my services,” Sheriff Holden said.
Suddenly a man came flying through the double wooden half doors of the saloon two stores down. He landed facedown in the dust. Another man came running out and pulled the first man up by his shirtfront.
“Fight! Fight! Fight!” came the shouted encouragement from inside the saloon.
Birdie’s stomach knotted. She’d seen enough drunken fights to last her a lifetime.
“Looks like your business calls, Sheriff,” Captain Newcastle said to Sheriff Holden. “I’ll see these ladies home.”
Sheriff Holden, clearly having lost some silent game, quickly tipped his hat a final time and raced to break up the bar fight.
Captain Newcastle took Charlotte’s arm and guided her across the street. Birdie knew this was protocol and tried not to wish it were she on his arm as they crossed the street. By the time they were safely on the hotel steps, the three of them looked back. Sheriff Holden had dispatched the fighters and sent them in different directions.
“What a brave man,” Charlotte said.
“Are you trying to make me jealous?” Captain Newcastle asked with mock scorn.
“Not really,” Charlotte said absently, and drifted into the hotel.
Birdie smiled sheepishly at the captain and followed Charlotte into the lobby.
If Charlotte was planning on marrying the man, she certainly had an interesting approach, Birdie thought.
* * *
Dangerous Jack Simon, the WANTED poster tucked safely in his back pocket, cleaned his fingernails with a pocketknife as he watched Birdie enter the hotel.
She was one beautiful woman, he thought. If he could stay ahead of the law, maybe he’d get a chance to speak to her.
He’d almost gone into the bar looking for a card game. No one noticed him as the fight started in the street. He smiled to himself. That man who landed in the dust could have been him. He’d been thrown out of better bars than this one. But luck had kept him outside—and out of the arms of the law. The fact that he had spotted Birdie and had identified both the sheriff and a captain of the military made him feel his luck was about to change. He knew who to follow and who to avoid. Once the sheriff was safely back in his office, maybe Jack would try his hand at starting a friendly game of poker after all. The men in the bar were definitely drunk enough to be easy marks. A few winning hands and there’d be enough money to buy several shots of Dallas’s finest Irish whiskey.
He glanced up at the grand three-story St. Nicholas Hotel. He might not have enough money to get a room at the fanciest place in Dallas, but he could probably cheat his way into enough money to visit a hotel in the seedier part of town. Having just arrived, he didn’t exactly know where that was, but he was sure a barmaid would be happy to steer him there.
* * *
Charlotte and Birdie made their way back to Charlotte’s room. A middle-aged man was standing outside the door. Miss Quigley was with him.
“Father!” Charlotte exclaimed.
“Charlotte!” Judge Rutherford, a large man with an equally large walrus mustache, frowned at his daughter. “I’ve been looking for you for an hour!”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Father,” Charlotte said.
Birdie was surprised by Charlotte’s tone. Every ounce of feistiness was gone. Although they had only known each other a few hours, Birdie was surprised to see Charlotte act so contrite. She suspected act was the operative word. Charlotte appeared to do whatever she liked.
“If it weren’t for this lovely woman who assured me you were in good hands,” Judge Rutherford said, nodding toward Miss Quigley, “I would have called the sheriff.”
“If he’s going to call the sheriff, maybe I should disappear more often,” Charlotte whispered to Birdie before turning a brilliantly remorseful expression toward her father.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
“I was shopping,” Charlotte said, opening her eyes wide to look as innocent as possible. “I still don’t have a dress for the ball.”
“I thought I’d paid for at least two dresses for the ball,” he said.
“Three,” Miss Quigley said under her breath.
“If you’ve no further need of my seamstress,” Miss Quigley said to the judge, “I have other work that needs tending to.”
“Of course, Miss Quigley,” Judge Rutherford said. “And thank you.”
“You’re most welcome, Judge,” Miss Quigley said. “Our Birdie is a very reliable young woman.”
Birdie loved the sound of “our Birdie.” Even though she’d been at the St. Nicholas less than twenty-four hours, it was the first time she’d belonged anywhere in two years. If her past was anything to go by, “reliable” might be stretching things, but she longed for an opportunity to rectify that. It was too soon to let her guard down, but images of a safe and warm Christmas and a new beginning in the new year were already popping up in her head.
“Now that I know you’re all right,” Judge Rutherford said, looking at his watch, “I have a meeting to attend.”
“All right, Father,” Charlotte said.
“You may have dinner in the dining room or have something sent to the room,” the judge said.
“Yes, Father,” Charlotte replied.
Birdie, who had only known Charlotte for one day, knew better than to believe she was going to stay put. How could her father not see that? But, of course, her own parents never had a hint that Birdie would up and leave in the middle of the night.
Birdie sighed. If only we were the angels our parents thought we were.
“We’ll be off then,” Miss Quigley said. “Good evening.”
“Oh! I forgot, I have your shawl,” Birdie said, pulling the shawl from around her shoulders and holding it out to Charlotte.
“Oh no, you keep it,” Charlotte said. “I have others and that one looks so nice on you.”
Birdie looked to Miss Quigley, who gave her a curt nod.
“Thank you,” Birdie said. Even if she had to move on, it would be lovely to have a warm shawl.
“And you’ll be back tomorrow?” Charlotte asked. “We need to start working on my dress.”
Birdie was about to point out that they still had no fabric or embellishments for Charlotte’s great design but held her tongue. She looked at Miss Quigley once again for confirmation. The decision, after all, wasn’t Birdie’s. She knew Charlotte was a handful and certainly overindulged, but Birdie liked her. Charlotte seemed so sure of herself, never second-guessing her moves. Birdie was once like that—and it was comforting to see a woman who could still have confidence in herself.
One day, I’ll have that confidence again. Until then, I’m happy to support a woman who still has hers, Birdie thought.
“Birdie will see you at ten in the morning,” Miss Quigley said.
“Ten o’clock?” Charlotte started to protest, but the look in Miss Quigley’s eyes silenced her. “Ten o’clock will be fine.”
Confidence would only get you so far with Miss Quigley.
Chapter 5
Galveston was as far west as Detective Hilbrand had traveled in his life. He’d expected the island to be a small, sleepy hamlet but found himself in a bustling seaport full of busy people. People not particularly interested in helping a stranger locate a young woman from a black-and-white sketch.
No one on the docks had seen her. Was Galveston the end of the road? Had he lost her?
He patted the pockets of his jacket, locating the butt of a cigar he’d managed to make last the entire voyage from New Orleans. Lighting it, he headed into one of the wharf-side bars, hoping the whiskey would put the men—or women—in a talkative mood.
The bar was incredibly noisy. At first, the din was the only way the detective could gauge how crowded the place was. It was so dark it took a full minute for his eyes to register the various shapes slumped over tables as sailors, river rats, and longshoremen looking for their next job. He threaded his way to the bar and ordered a shot. No need to specify a brand or a particular alcohol. You drank what was on hand.
Galveston was not New York.
Detective Hilbrand downed the shot and gritted his teeth against the rawness of the alcohol. As truly ghastly as the drink was, it did manage to warm him up. The boat ride had chilled him to the bone.
Experience had taught him that, in a place like this, it was better to wait for someone to engage him in conversation rather than start asking questions. If most people had something to hide, men and women holed up in a bar in a port town all had something to hide. Hoping someone would feel like talking, he ordered another drink.
“Buy a girl a drink?” came a smoky voice from behind him.
He turned to see a woman of indeterminate age. The cleavage spilling from her stained satin dress certainly left nothing to the imagination. But between the dim light and the pound of makeup the woman wore, it was hard to tell much more about her other than she knew how to pack a corset.
“Sure,” he said, moving over to make a space for her at the bar.
“Brandy,” she said.
“They have brandy?” he asked, impressed.
“No,” she replied, a hard smile on her lips. “My name is Brandy. They do have champagne,” she said as she signaled the bartender.
So we’re going to play this game. Saloon girls always ordered glasses of “champagne” for top dollar.
He could tell by the look in her eyes that she was as tired of the game as he was—but neither of their professions left them much choice other than to proceed.
She took a sip of her drink as the detective pulled the sketch out of his jacket.
“Have you ever seen this woman?” he asked.
Brandy took the sketch from him and studied it. She took another sip, then met his gaze.
“She doesn’t look like the type of girl who’d come to a place like this,” she said sadly. “And if she did, she wouldn’t look like that anymore.”
She handed the picture back to him. “Sorry I can’t be of more help.”
“Look again,” Detective Hilbrand said, refusing to take back the sketch.
He knew she’d keep the conversation going in order to get him to buy another round. If she had something to offer, she certainly wasn’t going to tell him this early in the game. So he waited.
“She your wife?” Brandy asked. “Not that I care if you have a wife, you understand. But you’re a handsome one, I’ll say that. She must have been crazy to leave a man like you.”
She moved closer to him. She must be new to her profession, he thought. She was moving much too quickly to make this encounter as profitable as possible.
“No, I’m just trying to find her,” he said, pulling out his badge. Might as well make this as painless—and economical—as possible. The badge had its desired effect. Brandy pulled back.
“If you’re a copper, why are you chasing some poor girl all over hell?” Brandy demanded. “Don’t you have better things to do with your time?”
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I do. But let me ask you one other question. If you were a girl with a skill . . .”
Brandy’s eyebrow shot up.
“If you were a seamstress and you landed in Galveston, where would you go?”
“Anywhere but Galveston,” she said. “There are no jobs here for ladies with skills.”
* * *
By midmorning, Birdie had hemmed a petticoat for a widow staying in one of the suites, sewn buttons onto several officers’ uniforms, and added new boning to a corset for a guest whose seventeen-inch waist had grown a bit since her last gala.
Birdie eyed the two dresses Charlotte Rutherford had spurned. The sight of them made her extremely nervous. Even if Birdie managed to make a gown in time, what if Charlotte rejected it as she had the others?
“I wouldn’t worry,” Miss Quigley said, as if reading her mind. “Miss Rutherford seems to have taken to you. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
The clock on the mantel chimed. Ten o’clock.
“Am I free to go to Miss Rutherford’s?” Birdie asked.
Miss Quigley gave a nod. Birdie quickly retrieved her sewing supplies and headed out the door.
“If Miss Rutherford wishes to retain you for the day, make sure she remembers to order lunch for you. You need to keep up your strength.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Birdie said, smiling to herself. She wasn’t sure whether she was smiling because she knew there would be lunch or because someone cared that she ate.
“And bring your shawl,” Miss Quigley said. “Miss Rutherford always seems to have errands to run. She can’t seem to stay still.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Birdie said, grabbing her new shawl.
Racing up the stairs, Birdie almost collided with a woman heading down.
“Oh, excuse me,” Birdie said, suddenly realizing she was speaking to the mean-spirited woman who had been arranging the delicate glass balls in the lobby when she’d arrived.
The woman seemed to recognize her too.
“That was a pretty little trick, fainting to get Mrs. Cockrell’s attention,” the woman sneered. “Or was it to get Captain Newcastle’s attention? Either way, I see it worked.”
The woman looked Birdie up and down, studying the uniform.
“Won’t help you any,” she continued. “Seamstresses don’t last long here. You may be the latest, but you won’t be the last.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. . . .” Birdie began, but realized she didn’t have a name at hand for this woman.
“Mrs. Firestone,” the woman said. “And I know you’re Birdie. Everyone’s heard of you after your shenanigans.”
Birdie had never heard the word shenanigans, but she could tell by the woman’s tone that it wasn’t a compliment. Birdie took a deep breath. She could not afford to make enemies.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Firestone,” Birdie said, offering a smile. “I hope now that we’re both working in this establishment, we can be friends.”
“Not likely,” Mrs. Firestone said, continuing down the stairs. “You’ll be gone before I even learn your name.”
But you’ve already learned my name, Birdie thought.
Charlotte’s door opened before Birdie could knock.
“You’re late,” Charlotte said, although she seemed more excited than angry.
“I’m so sorry,” Birdie stammered. “I ran into one of the other servants on the stairs and had a rather unpleasant exchange.”
Birdie wondered why she was telling Charlotte this. Surely this was too much information to share with a hotel guest. But she thought Charlotte seemed as if she might be interested in hotel intrigue.
“Don’t tell me it was that loathsome Mrs. Firestone,” Charlotte asked, as she let Birdie into the room.
“You know her?” Birdie asked, surprised.
“Oh, I know everyone by this time,” Charlotte said. “Don’t take it personally. She absolutely despises every pretty young woman who comes into the hotel.”
Birdie had had such a rough time of it these past two years, she couldn’t imagine that anyone could still think of her as pretty. But it was still nice to hear.
“Why is that?” Birdie asked.
“She is sure Captain Newcastle is going to take one look at Olive . . .”
“Olive?”
“Her horse-faced daughter. Mrs. Firestone is sure he’ll be her son-in-law by the end of the ball.” Charlotte laughed. “Good luck, I say.”
“She’s no competition for you, then?”