Margaret Brownley - [Rocky Creek 02] Read online

  Alone at last, Mary Lou looked up and down the street. No town could possibly be this boring. There had to be something . . .

  She walked the length of Main Street, passing various saloons all the way to the Wells Fargo bank.

  Any hope that the town might have something of interest to offer faded the moment she reached the end of the boardwalk, which dropped off without warning.

  She turned with a sigh and stared in the other direction. What was Jenny thinking to bring them here?

  This had to be the sorriest-looking town she ever did see. Even Haswell wasn’t this drab. Rocky Creek was every bit as dull and boring as it appeared from their hotel-room window.

  As if to read her thoughts, a bay gelding tethered to the hitching post in front of the bank neighed and nodded his head.

  She stomped past the bank again.

  “Miss Higgins.”

  Recognizing the smooth resonant voice, her pulse quickened. Willing herself to stay calm, she turned and tried to act surprised. “Mr. Trevor.”

  Jeff Trevor stepped away from the bank entrance, a smile on his face. “Should I be encouraged that you remember my name?”

  “Only if you plan to run for office,” she said. Not that women could vote, of course.

  He chuckled and looked her up and down, his eyes warm with approval.

  “You’re looking mighty pretty, ma’am,” he said.

  Acknowledging the compliment with a gracious smile and nod of the head that even Jenny would approve, she bid him good day and continued on her way.

  He fell in step beside her as she knew he would. “The boys and me are planning a little get-together next week. Nothing fancy. A little music, a little dancing, some refreshments. I thought perhaps you and your sisters might like to join us. There aren’t many single women around here, and I’m sure the boys would welcome your company.”

  She stopped and faced him. He was taller than he appeared on the stairs of the hotel. A thrill of excitement coursed through her. Dancing? Music? Maybe the town wasn’t as boring as she thought.

  She studied him. In spite of his odd clothes, he really was pleasing to look at. If it were physically possible to drown in a man’s eyes, she was in terrible danger of doing so.

  “So what do you say, ma’am?” he asked.

  She didn’t know, really, what to say. If this invitation was his way of apologizing for his brazen behavior yesterday, it would be rude of her to turn him down. On the other hand, she didn’t want to do anything to encourage him.

  “Next week?” she asked, biding for time.

  “That’s right, ma’am. I’ll be happy to provide transportation for you and your sisters.”

  She bit down on her lower lip. “I’ll have to ask Jenny.”

  “Of course. Leave a message with the hotel desk clerk. He knows how to contact me.” His eyes dark and powerful, he continued to study her.

  Since he was more or less blocking the boardwalk, she didn’t have much choice but to stare back at him, hoping he’d take the hint and move.

  “I better head back to the hotel,” she said at last, indicating the direction she wished to go.

  “Of course,” he said, stepping to the side.

  “Thank you for the invitation.” Not knowing what else to say, she brushed past him. Her shoulder rubbed against his arm, and a tingling sensation settled in the pit of her stomach.

  “Just one more thing,” he called after her.

  Her heart jolted. She turned to face him. “Mr. Trevor?”

  His steady gaze bored into her. “Do you happen to know your ring size?”

  Her breath caught in her lungs. Did she hear him right? “R–ring size?”

  “Since we’re all gonna be together, I figure it’s as good a time as any to make our engagement official.”

  Her mouth dropped open. Obviously, the man wasn’t about to take no for an answer. “Mr. Trevor!”

  “Feel free to call me Jeffrey.”

  His attempt at geniality only annoyed her more. “I do not now nor ever intend to marry you. Nor do I intend to call you by your Christian name.” Even she knew that calling a man by his first name was the height of familiarity. Fueled by anger, her voice was steady and firm. “Furthermore, I shall not be attending your dance.”

  He didn’t look the least bit daunted. If anything, he appeared even more confident than before. “Don’t you worry none, ma’am,” he said. “There’ll be plenty of time to announce our engagement. About next week . . . if you change your mind, you know how to reach me.” With that, he turned and walked back toward the bank, whistling as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  Staring after him, she muttered, “Of all the nerve.” She looked around to see if anyone had witnessed the odd exchange. Much to her annoyance, a previously unnoticed old man sat in a rocking chair in front of the general store looking straight at her.

  Just then Brenda walked out of the store carrying a small package. Mary Lou motioned for her to hurry. “It’s about time,” she snapped the moment Brenda joined her.

  “What’s the hurry?” Brenda tucked the package into her pocket. “It’s only been a short while.”

  Mary Lou said nothing. Instead, she hurried toward the hotel so fast that it was all Brenda could do to keep up.

  Six

  To a potential suitor, your reputation is all. It’s not how a woman

  has comported herself; it’s how she is perceived.

  — MISS ABIGAIL JENKINS, 1875

  Marshal, come quick. There’s trouble at the Gazette.” Redd was flushed and out of breath from running.

  Rhett rose from his desk in one swift movement and grabbed his hat. Brawls and fistfights were daily occurrences at the saloons, but the newspaper office? That was a new one on him.

  By the time he reached the office of the Rocky Creek Gazette, a crowd had gathered outside. He pushed his way through the spectators. No robbers or gunmen greeted him. No drunken troublemakers.

  Instead, he found Miss Jenny Higgins threatening the newspaper editor with her parasol. Slumped in his chair, Jacoby Barnes held his arms over his head to ward off any imminent blows.

  Though the two of them were screaming at each other, Rhett couldn’t make hide nor hair out of what they were yelling about.

  “Break it up,” he bellowed. Because neither one of them seemed to hear, he rushed around the editor’s desk and grabbed the parasol out of Jenny’s hand.

  The immediate danger to his person no longer an issue, Barnes lowered his arms. Jenny placed her hands on her hips. They both started talking at once.

  “This man—”

  “This woman—”

  The rest of their sentences were so garbled together, they sounded nonsensical.

  “Quiet, both of you,” Rhett said, growing impatient. “Now, one at a time. Miss Higgins, you go first.”

  Jenny tossed her head back and shot daggers at the editor. “My sisters and I take great pride in our reputation. But this . . . this despicable man doesn’t care a whit about anything but selling”—her eyes flashed—“newspapers.”

  “It was a mistake,” Barnes whined.

  “It was a mistake, all right,” Jenny stormed. Since she looked about to attack the editor physically again, Rhett grabbed her by the arm and pulled her away.

  “You stand there, and you”—he pointed to Barnes—“stay right where you are.”

  Barnes pushed his spectacles up his imposing nose with an ink-stained index finger. Elbows on the desk, he pressed his hands together and regarded Jenny with narrowed eyes, his carefully trimmed mustache twitching up and down like a seesaw. The angry red scar that stretched from brow to chin made his face look lopsided but no less obstinate.

  “It was an honest mistake,” Barnes said.

  Jenny scoffed. “Honest? Don’t make me laugh.”

  Accusations flew back and forth, each one growing louder in pitch.

  Rhett cut the argument off with gesturing arms. “Calm down, both of you. Now would you kindly explain what’s going on here before I haul you both off to jail for disturbing the peace?”

  “See for yourself,” Jenny said. She snatched a newspaper off the desk and held it up for him to read.

  The headline stretched across the width of the page in big bold letters: The Hussy Sisters Begin Manhunt.

  Rhett blinked. “Hussy sisters?”

  “I thought their last name was Hussy. That’s what I heard.” Barnes shrugged. “Everywhere I went, I heard about ‘those hussy sisters.’ Naturally, I assumed that was their name. Like I said, it was an honest mistake.”

  Jenny glowered. “You wouldn’t know honest from a horse’s—”

  “Quiet!” Rhett ordered. “I can’t think with all this racket.” He turned to Barnes. “All right, what do you propose to do to rectify your . . . eh . . . mistake?”

  “I offered to run a correction in the next edition.”

  “Not good enough,” Jenny snapped. “He doesn’t even know when the next edition will be published.”

  Rhett scratched his head. Neither one looked like they would give an inch. He didn’t approve of Jenny’s method of finding husbands for her sisters, but he had even less respect for Barnes’s journalistic integrity. Any factual statement that made its way into the Rocky Creek Gazette was purely by chance.

  He could think of only one possible solution. Aware that Jenny was staring at him, he reached into his pocket, counted out several gold coins, and tossed them on the desk.

  “I want every newspaper you printed delivered to my office, pronto.”

  Barnes stared at the stack of coins and drooled. Jenny’s mouth dropped open.

  “Some of them may have already sold,” Barnes said without taking his eyes off the money.

  “Buy them back,” Rhett ordered. “I want every last one of them.” He glanced at Jenny, and when she offered no objection, he stepped outside.

  “Show’s over,” he said to the lingering crowd gathered there.

  Groans of disappointment filled the air. Barnes was not well liked and most of the spectators were rooting for Jenny to clobber him.

  Since some men continued to hang around hoping for more action, Rhett waved them away like a farmer chasing chickens. “Scat!”

  Everyone took off in different directions and he headed toward his office.

  “Marshal.”

  At the sound of her voice, he stopped and waited for her to catch up to him. She wore a rust-colored skirt and white shirtwaist tied at the neck with a rust-colored ribbon. Unlike last night, every last strand of her blonde hair was in place.

  “I’ll come to your office later with the money I owe you,” she said. She couldn’t have sounded more businesslike had they just finished discussing the financial terms of property or livestock.

  He frowned. “You don’t owe me a thing.”

  She tilted her head slightly, but whether in surprise or determination, he couldn’t tell. “I owe you for the newspapers,” she said.

  He shook his head. “I don’t want your money.”

  “And I don’t want your—” The look of raw pain that flashed in her eyes was quickly replaced by a hostile glare. “Charity.” She spit out the word like someone might spit out rotten food.

  Stymied by the hurt in her eyes, it took him a moment to react to the anger. “It’s not charity,” he assured her. “It’s my way of apologizing for my behavior last night.”

  She stared at him and her cheeks reddened. The eyes that had moments earlier brimmed with anger and pain now shimmered with confusion. Whether she was confused by his actions or her own, he couldn’t guess. He didn’t even know himself what confused him more.

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I want to,” he said.

  She took a deep breath and tossed back her head. “We’ll split the cost.”

  He drew back in an exaggerated gesture. “That sounds like an admittance of guilt.”

  She observed him through lowered lashes. “My own behavior last night was rather . . . shall we say, unfortunate?”

  Her face burned with humiliation, and he couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. “On the contrary, Miss Higgins, you did what any red-blooded woman would do had she been accosted by a charming, handsome marshal. You simply lost your head.”

  Her surprised expression was as good as a white flag of surrender. “I do believe you’re right,” she said slowly. “Since your charms are so irresistible, it seems only fair that you pay the entire cost.”

  She looked immeasurably relieved. A slow smile inched across her face.

  “Good day, Marshal,” she said, looking remarkably composed for a woman who had just finished negotiating payment for a kiss.

  He tipped his hat. “Miss Higgins.”

  Head held high, she walked away, everything about her in perfect control except for an intriguing flash of petticoat beneath the hem of her skirt.

  He had to give her credit. He offered her an out and she jumped on it. A moment of moonlight madness had been dealt with and dismissed, just like that.

  Now they could both relax.

  The next day, Jenny whisked about their hotel room like a small tornado.

  The Hussy sisters, indeed! She was still incensed about the headline. Is that really what the townsfolk called them behind their backs?

  But it wasn’t the headline or name-calling that kept her in a whirl as much as the mounting suspicion that it was a name she deserved. The memory of kissing the marshal stayed with her like a melody she couldn’t stop humming. No matter what she did, she couldn’t put it out of her mind.

  For two nights now she’d tossed and turned. Her mind had seemingly turned into tumbling dice that always came up with the same memory. In her more irrational moments, she imagined she liked his kiss, liked the feel of his lips on hers. Mostly she saw it for what it was: the kiss meant nothing. It was a game. A dangerous game, as it turned out, but a game nonetheless. Even his attempt at an apology was a game.

  Oh, the shame, the shame. Thank goodness her sisters had been asleep at the time and unaware of her reckless behavior.

  She must forget it, put it out of her mind, lock it up with all the other things in her past she didn’t want to think about. The marshal apologized. She accepted part of the blame. It was over, finished. She wouldn’t give it another thought.

  You did what any red-blooded woman would do.

  The thought coming from nowhere weakened her resolve and started the sequence of memories all over again. And so it went.

  At last she could stand it no longer. She slapped her hand on her chest. Stop! No more.

  In a desperate attempt to quell her raging thoughts, she stuffed her notes into a leather satchel along with her notebook and interview schedule. The first prospective suitor was to meet her in the lobby in twenty minutes.

  She ignored the strange stares from her sisters. They both lay facedown on the bed, The Prelude by William Wordsworth open in front of them. When they weren’t staring at her, they took turns reading aloud.

  She rifled through her satchel to make sure she had everything she needed. She’d forgotten to include The Compleat and Authoritative Manual for Attracting and Procuring a Husband. She had bookmarked the Potential Husband Aptitude Test (PHAT) at the back of the book. No candidate would be allowed to court her sisters without passing the test.

  After slipping the hefty tome into her satchel, she checked her hair one last time in the beveled looking glass. Satisfied that not one unsightly strand escaped from the tightly wound bun at the back of her head, she turned to her sisters.

  “This could be your lucky day, my dear sisters,” she said, managing to sound more cheerful than she felt.

  Predictably, Mary Lou made a face and groaned. Brenda looked disinterested. Jenny shook her head. “Don’t just lie there,” she scolded. “Keep reading.”

  “I hate this book,” Mary Lou complained. “It’s got to be the dullest book I ever read.”

  “It’s a beautifully written story of a man’s life,” Jenny said.

  “All eighty years of it,” Mary Lou moaned.

  “All eighty boring years of it,” Brenda concurred.

  “Wait till you get to the French Revolution,” Jenny said, though at the rate they were going, she doubted they ever would.

  Without another word, she grabbed her satchel by the leather handle and left the room, hurrying down the stairs to the lobby.

  Marshal Armstrong sat sprawled on the horsehair settee in front of the fireplace, his hat on the cushion next to him. His arms stretched along the back, he nodded. “Miss Higgins.”

  Surprised to see him, her heart hammered against her ribs and it was all she could do to pretend indifference. “Don’t tell me it’s against the law to conduct interviews in the lobby.”

  “Not that I know of,” he said. “Better here than . . . in your hotel room.”

  Was that innuendo in his voice? She searched his handsome square face for confirmation, but his still expression gave nothing away.

  “How nice to know I’m not breaking any laws.” She felt self-conscious beneath his steady gaze but nonetheless managed to keep her voice light. Why he affected her so, she couldn’t imagine. Certainly it had nothing to do with that ridiculous kiss.

  The kiss. Now why did she have to go and think about that again?

  Irritated at herself, she briskly arranged her paperwork on the small table in front of the stone fireplace. Act busy. Don’t stop to think or, heaven forbid, remember. Never look back. Keep to the schedule. Stick to the plan. Her motto had served her well these last few years. No reason it wouldn’t serve her now.

  When he refused to take the hint and leave, she asked, “So why are you here?”

  His mouth quirked with humor. “Maybe I came to be interviewed.”

  “Sorry,” she said lightly, “but your name is not on the list.”

  She pulled out a chair and sat. She tried to maintain calm, to act like nothing improper had happened between them. Judging by the knowing look he gave her, she was doing a poor job.

  The marshal rose from the settee and sat down opposite her. Elbows on the table, he folded his hands together. The only other person in the lobby was the sleepy clerk behind the reception desk.