The Proposition

“Only fifty dollars to restore my sight.”

Jessica gasped. Most men earned a dollar a day. She knotted her hands in her skirt. The poor girl and her folks would know the truth soon enough.

“It’s worth a try. What’s the harm?” Bessy asked.

Jessica remembered that she’d once thought that herself. Placing an arm around each girl, she led them down the stairs and out the door. “The harm is you’re being taken advantage of for your money and integrity.”

While they walked, Jessica peered at her sister’s trusting face and saw a reflection of herself before she’d gone to Montreal, before she’d relied on Victor Sterling, her father Franklin Haven, and Dr. Abraham Finch. Her father had promised to ship Jessica permanently back to Montreal for her own good if she confided in her sister about her own shameful flaws.

You’ll ruin your chances with another man if you let your confinement be known. Father had tried to be helpful but had succeeded only in tearing a rift between himself and Jessica.

Her new stepmother, Madeline, was barely older than Jessica. The mayor’s four-year-old marriage had gone through difficult times with several separations during the first three years. Jessica’s stepmother had an ill sister who lived a hundred miles away, and she would often leave for months at a time to care for her. Jessica had always suspected there were other underlying problems—such as dealing with two adolescent stepdaughters and their doting father. However, since Jessica had been away, Madeline’s sister had miraculously recovered and the mayor and his wife seemed happier.

Neither one was particularly fond of the fact that Jessica had a job, but she believed both were grateful that it occupied her time. Her father likely saw it as a healthy distraction to Jessica’s worries, and Madeline was likely grateful it gave her more time with her husband.

Madeline was kind enough, but she and Jessica lacked a sentimental bond. Jessica’s real mother was a faded memory of a woman with gold earrings and ready arms for hugging. She’d slipped to her death on a patch of ice when Jessica had been six.

Neither her stepmother, sister, nor the family butler knew the true reason for her trip to Montreal to the “charm school,” otherwise known to Jessica as Miss Waverly’s Home for Unwed Mothers.

It’d been agony going, but nothing compared to the agony of returning empty-handed.

They turned the corner at the pub and bumped into a crowd of uniformed officers, one of whom was standing at the back speaking with the commander and his wife, glaring at Jessica.

She could almost hear Travis Reid’s growl.

Heavens, she thought, trying to shrink from his visual range. So he’s been told the news.

She’d never seen him in his scarlet uniform. The vision took her by surprise. The deep red color brought out the thick black luster of his hair, sharpness of his black eyebrows and cutting bite to his dark blue eyes.

“Oh, my word,” whispered Eloise. “A whole herd of handsome Mounties.”

“Miss Haven,” said Superintendent Ridgeway, the fort’s commander. “Hello.”

Jessica nodded warmly to his wife and the group exchanged pleasantries. Standing beside the commander was his sister—a possessive woman in her forties and widowed. She stepped toward Travis and draped an arm through his. “Are you coming inside?”

“In a minute.”

“I’ll save you a seat.”

His gaze speared Jessica’s. She was riveted by the anger infusing his dark face. He was going to Devil’s Gorge anyway, so what would be so difficult in taking her along?

“We’ll go inside and wait for you there,” said Eloise. “Our folks are already inside,” she explained to the others, pointing to the stained-glass door. The group made way for the women. “My father has arranged for a photographer from the newspaper.”

That was why everyone was dressed up, and although Jessica felt like an outsider wearing her everyday skirt, she had no desire to be photographed. Quigley’s Pub belonged to Travis’s sister and her husband, and the town had been invited to celebrate in the birth of their first child.

Jessica was struck again by the differences in their families. Travis came from labor-class roots. His folks had settled in Canada from Dublin almost thirty years ago and owned a busy cattle ranch. The senior Reid had been an Irish copper, disenchanted and seeking his fortune in the great new world. Two of his three sons were already Mounties, following in his police footsteps. But a cloud of rumor surrounded them—that the senior Reid had taken bribes in Ireland and was chased out of the country. Jessica’s father often reminded her that their lineage could be traced to English royalty, but she never mentioned it. Being the mayor’s daughter entailed enough difficulties.

As she dared a glance at Travis’s sweltering dark looks, she could very well imagine him with a sword to someone’s throat, whispering a black threat. He’d never do it for money, but if the cause were right—

“Let me join you young ladies inside,” said Annabelle Ridgeway, a round matron dressed in green ruffles. Pulling the commander’s sister with her, she followed Eloise and Bessy inside. Several Mounties stood at the door, ushering them in. When one of the officers winked at the younger women, they blushed and smiled.

The commander chewed on an unlit cigar and nodded to Jessica and Travis. “It’s all worked out. Travis is leaving at six in the morning, and you and your chaperon are going with him. I’ll leave you to figure out the details.”

“Oh,” said Jessica, catching her breath as the older man entered the pub, leaving them behind. Travis didn’t budge. Nor did he speak, but he was seething.

She felt like a moldy piece of cheese being inspected. “Say something, please.”

“Congratulations. You got your way. You used your power and position—your father’s, not even your own—to force your company on me. Now it’s an official order from my commander. I have to escort the mayor’s daughter safely to Devil’s Gorge.”

“This is important to me. It’s not a trivial whim—”

“Neither was my journey. It was supposed to be a personal leave. I’ve been arranging it for months and was looking forward to being alone. Now I have to watch over you.”

Her loose wavy hair bounced on her shoulders. “You don’t have to watch over me. Mr. Merriweather and I are perfectly content to—”

“I have to watch over two incompetent—”

“I said you don’t have to watch—”

“You haven’t changed a bit.”

His cold words felt like a slap in the face. “Why do you dislike me so much?”

“Because I know you.”

She stumbled back.

No, you don’t, she wanted to scream. You knew me years ago but you don’t know me now. It was something words alone couldn’t prove. Only the passage of time could. But she’d done more damage by forcing his hand like this.

She pressed a shaky palm to her gurgling stomach. She wouldn’t argue. But when her lips trembled, her mood darkened. “What makes you think you’re so superior to me?”

“Ha,” he snorted. “I think I’m superior? I’m not here to prove anything to you. I wanted you to leave me alone. Why do you have to butt into people’s lives? You butted into Caroline’s and now you’re butting into mine.”

“I didn’t want that for Caroline—”

“I don’t want to hear—”

“She made it difficult—”

“Leave her alone. She’s dead.”

The cold blade of truth sliced the conversation.

Jessica spun away and headed for the pub, the fabric of her long-sleeved blouse whipping through the air. “We’ll meet you in the morning at the fort’s gate, at five minutes to six.”

“I’m not finished speaking.” His grip on her arm ripped her from her spot.

Her head snapped back, blond hair swaying against her chest. “I am.” She tried to yank free but his hold was like a wooden clamp.

“You’ll listen to me until I say you can go.”

The man was a vain mule but she would tolerate him for the duration of her cause. She’d never ever trust him. Lord only knew how condescending he’d be if he knew the truth. She trembled and tried again to pull free.

He held fast and drew her closer, an inch away from his patronizing face. “I’ll supply your horses.”

She didn’t flinch. “But we’ve got two perfectly—”

“I said I’ll supply them. The broodmares I’m bringing are valuable, and I won’t chance the interaction of horses whose temperaments I don’t know.”

“All right. You bring them.”

“And I’ll pack the supplies and food.”

“But Mr. Merriweather—”

“You and Giles can each bring one small bag with a change of clothes.”

“But that’s not nearly—”

“One bag. Can you manage or not?”

“One bag,” she repeated. “And my reticule of course, plus my small duffel with my notepad and pencils.”

“I said one.”

She nodded slowly. “Okay. One.” She aired her frustrations in one big exhale. “Are we finished?”

“Seven days and nights,” he said, holding open the door for her to enter. But he was no gentleman, she thought. “That’s all I’ve promised. When we get there, there’ll be a Mounties’ outpost with three men you can count on for further help, and a small inn where you can stay while you’re writing. I’ll be heading back immediately, so you and your chaperon can find your own way home.”

It was better than nothing. However, she stormed by him in annoyance.

Peering around the noisy crowd, she tried to find the hosts. She’d give her regards then leave. Mr. Merriweather needed to know they had to repack. Maybe the mercantile was still open for her to buy a lighter bag. Luckily, it was Monday and she’d already done her banking earlier today.

The soft sounds of a fiddler and accordion player wafted above the chatting heads, a lively melody winding through a cloud of cigar smoke. Jovial diners filled one side of the pub, feeding on cabbage and beans while on the other side, people threw darts at dartboards, raised their glasses at the walnut bartop, or clapped along to the music.

“There you are, Travis,” said his sister Shawna, coming up beside them.

Jessica was surprised to find Travis still at her side. When she turned to look, she brushed against his rock-hard chest. His presence dominated her.

Shawna, long black hair tumbling over her shoulder while she held a three-month-old baby in her arms, peered tentatively at Jessica and nodded. “Miss Haven.”

The baby boy, with lids closed, balled up one tiny fist and sucked on the other’s loose fingers. Jessica smiled. She had that to look forward to. “Shawna, I want to offer my congratulations and wish you and your family the best.”

The woman kept her distance. “Thank you.”

Jessica knew she wasn’t welcome even though invitations had been extended to the whole town. Her father always went to these events—for the company of his friends, yes, but Jessica knew he also went for harmless political reasons, to have his photograph taken and name written in the papers. It seemed to work, for the town had reelected him twice, and most folks genuinely liked him. Except the Reids. “I’m leaving now. I’ve got an early start in the morning.”

Travis grumbled but Jessica ignored him. She noticed the commander’s sister, the eager widow, waving to him from the opposite side of the pub and felt more ill at ease.

“You won’t be joining your father, Miss Haven?” Shawna nodded at the well-tailored heavy man in the corner with the slim redheaded wife at his elbow.

“I’ve come only to give my regards to you. Good night.”

“Good night,” Shawna offered a bit too readily.

A man bumped Jessica from behind as she swung away.

“It’s dark,” said Travis. “You need someone to walk you home.”

“I’ll be fine,” Jessica hollered above the crowd, squeezing past his sister.

She couldn’t help but overhear the sister’s whispered comments to her brother. “What’s this I hear about you taking her to Devil’s Gorge? You know how Caroline felt about her…how we all feel about her.”

Travis whispered something back but Jessica was already out of earshot and heading to the exit. She burst through the doors, eager for calm, pine-scented air and the privacy to slow her beating heart.

Her walk home was only two blocks, but the streets were darker and lonelier than when they’d come. She picked up her pace. A man skidded beside her and nearly made her jump.

“Travis, you scared me.”

“Just wanted to make sure the mayor’s daughter got home to her mansion safely.”

She bristled. People treated her politely because of who her father was, and never, it seemed, on her own merit. “My house is in view. You can leave.”

“One bag,” he reminded her.

“I’ll manage.”

“Quarter to six at the fort’s gate.”

“Quarter to…”

Now he wanted her there even earlier than before.

“Do you think we’ll be able to stand each other for seven days?”

Her heart quivered at the question. “Yes,” she answered dutifully, knowing it was best to appease him. She no longer cared what he thought of her personally. Nothing mattered except finding Dr. Finch and having him return her most precious gift.

She’d been unable to trace any adoption agencies in Montreal that had dealings with a Dr. King or Finch, but someone at the university had told her Dr. Finch was planning an agency out West. Devil’s Gorge, she figured, was as good a starting point as any to search. An adoption agency for a fee, she imagined, and wondered if her baby had been sold.

She couldn’t tell Travis more or he might react the same way her father had, or worse, he might jeopardize her plan.

Her father’s words rang in her mind. You weren’t lucid that night, honey. Your accusations against Dr. Finch have proven to be false. Please don’t say any more about them. People will think you’ve lost your mind, and it will ruin your future chance of marriage.

But, she reminded herself, Travis was a police officer. He’d been sworn to uphold the law, despite what he might think of her character or reputation if her problems were revealed.

Leaving Travis behind, she ran across the dirt street to the stylish board-and-batten home with its pillars and broad white porch. She couldn’t recall clearly what’d happened seventeen months ago on the night of her delivery, so she needed to locate the attending doctor—Finch or King, or whatever name he went by—and ask him.

Now, she’d go inside the house, quietly latch the door and silently prepare for the morning. But what she ached to do, standing on the rooftop of her father’s unblemished mansion, was to shout up and down the streets.

She wanted to speak about the unspeakable. The disappearance of her child.

Chapter Three

To Travis’s displeasure, his traveling companions arrived at Fort Calgary two minutes late. Travis slid his pocket watch back to the inside of his suede-leather vest. His spurs jangled. The weight of his guns shifted at his hips. Leaning against the pine logs of the palisade gate with the horses tethered inside, he looped one worn, black leather boot over the other and watched the unlikely couple shuffling toward him. Each dragged a square leather sack.

“Hmm,” Travis muttered to himself. “Too heavy to carry.”

Morning light broke through the dark clouds. The streets were quiet, although he heard the faint hooves of two horses echoing beyond the steel bridge leading to the center of town, thudding softly beyond the store facades, restaurants and the big hotel. Another workday was beginning.

Flecks of apricot highlighted Jessica’s braided hair and puffy face, still rumpled from sleep. For the first time in years, he had the opportunity to take a long look at her.

Other men considered her pretty but she was rather plain, in his opinion. And a bit old, in her early twenties, to still be unmarried. He, on the other hand, was close to thirty. If you took away her fancy clothes, starched blouse and embroidered skirt, untwisted her hair from the fancy knots, you’d be left with an undistinguished blonde, face freckled from the outdoors and with a much-too-eager smile.

Money-bought prettiness.

But she wasn’t wearing her usual display of gold rings and necklaces. Come to think of it, she hadn’t yesterday, either. Only one thin, gold chain adorned her throat, with a cluster of ridiculous silver baubles strung through her ears. Frivolous and boring is how he’d describe her.

And it was strange, meeting a woman who wanted to work. His sister Shawna had founded the town library, and sometimes she helped at the pub, but her husband owned the pub. That was different. He sucked in a breath, wondering how on earth these two in front of him planned on riding through nearly two hundred miles of narrow mountain paths dressed like that. And their bulging bags obviously needed to be repacked. If they couldn’t balance the weight, no horse should.

He stepped out and tilted the brim of his black-felt Stetson. “Morning.”

“Fine one it is, sir,” said Giles Merriweather. “Not too hot and not too cold. Not too many bugs, but just enough to keep life interesting. Are the horses inside?”

Travis nodded and stepped aside for the old gent to enter. He was an English butler, emigrated from Plymouth thirty years ago and he’d adopted and adored everything Western since. A wide sombrero topped long gray hair, a blue-denim shirt complete with silver rivets draped a narrow chest, and tight denim trousers flanked meaty legs. Too tight to move comfortably.

Travis was also wearing denim pants, his rugged Levi’s, miner’s pants that could take the abuse of a trip like this, but his were old and relaxed.

“New boots,” Travis said as the man squeaked by in shiny brown leather.

Merriweather beamed, huffing as he passed. “I bought them yesterday.”

Blisters by nightfall, thought Travis.

“Good morning,” hollered Jessica, yanking on the leather straps of her huge bag, her impeccably pressed skirt and blouse fluttering in the soft breeze, framing her curves. And there was that eager smile, trying to win him over.

Never.

“New luggage?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, a smile dimpling her cheeks. “We bought them late last night. Luckily the mercantile was still open after I left the pub.”

“I suppose you thought when I said one bag apiece, I meant the biggest crate you could find.” He shook his head and her smile lost its dazzle.

She held out the straps, indicating that he should take over the pulling and yanking.

She had a few matters to learn about survival in the wild.

He brushed past her, snubbing her extended hand. “Funny, but I had a feeling I’d need to bring two spare saddlebags. You’re both going to repack before we leave. Congratulations, that’ll make us late. And I hate to be late.”

He heard her loud intake of breath. Then she clawed her bag through the gate’s opening. Six muscled horses, cast orange in the rising sun, stood tethered to the hitching posts.

“Let’s not make the horses wait too long, folks,” he said. “I’ve brought you each a derringer. Pack them in your bags.”

Jessica unbuckled her bag and took the small silver gun. Fifteen minutes later, after he’d helped Merriweather repack, Travis came up behind Jessica and looked down at her open bag, resting in the grass. “Problems?”

“I—I need everything in here.”

He bent down and removed two pairs of shoes. “You won’t need these. The boots you’re wearing are enough.”

“But the high-heeled ones are in case I need something a little more formal…and the buttoned red ones…I really like them and I thought just in case—”

“No.” Without mercy, Travis tossed them into the discard pile. He rummaged through her things, quickly amassing two stacks. He couldn’t understand why she found it difficult to pack. “One shawl is enough. You won’t need two belts. And not these tonics either.” He tossed out four glass bottles.

She grabbed one. “But these are my face creams and hair soaps.”

“One plain cake of soap can service your entire body.” His look swept from her toes all the way up to her head. “Including your hair, if you must wash it in the next week.”

Her eyes narrowed. Her smile hung like a crooked picture, he thought, weak with no genuine feeling behind it.

“Let me guess,” he said. “First time in the mountains?”

She scowled. That was more like it. At least a scowl was genuine.

“Yours, too, Merriweather?”

“Ah, but I’m looking forward to the adventure, sir.”

Travis scrutinized her pack. He removed a wide-brimmed cowboy hat and tossed it up to her. “Wear this to protect your head. No sense packing it. Get rid of the bonnet.” Then he pulled out a speckled flannel cloth. “What’s this?” It looked like an infant’s nightdress.

With an embarrassed gasp, she snatched it from his fingers. “It’s private.”

He snatched it back. “You don’t need it.”

Her face reddened. She grabbed it again. “It’s…a gift for someone.”

He couldn’t believe the frivolous things she was carting. “No gifts.”

“But—”

“No gifts.”

She jumped at the tone of his voice. With her brown hat in one hand, she scrunched the flannel cloth with the other but didn’t move to put it in the discard pile.

“What’s in this compartment?” he asked.

She flew to her knees, pushing him out of the way, surprising him with her strength. “That’s my personal business.” She blushed considerably.

He moved to unbuckle the pocket but she snapped it from his hands. “Personal business,” she shouted.

The pocket was square and thick, as if it carried paper. “All right, all right. You get the idea now. If that’s your writing journal, remember, you only need to write in one. And just one pencil.”

Ten torturous minutes later, he was strapping Merriweather’s saddlebag to one of the broodmares. The butler stood twenty feet away, laughing with one of the guards.

“One more thing,” said Travis to Jessica. “You better change before we leave.”

When he turned around, he towered over her. She eyed him carefully, then looked down at her clothes, smoothing her blouse with a graceful hand. Two long braids of hair, flung over jutting breasts, sparkled in several shades of gold. A natural rouge sprang to her lips, deepening the outline of her mouth. “Why?”

“Church clothes aren’t for riding. Too much starch.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I saw a pair of cotton pants in your pile.”

“My sister threw those in.” Her earrings dangled at the side of her head, catching a beam of sunlight. “I-I’m not taking them.”

He rearranged his Stetson. “They’re the only sensible thing you’re bringing. You won’t be comfortable in anything else while riding astride.”

“Astride? I’ll be riding sidesaddle.”

“No sidesaddle.”

Her lips puckered. “But—”

“No sidesaddle!”

They glared at each other. He didn’t have time for this. Sidesaddle was how Caroline had fallen to her death.

“Must you always shriek?” She hurled her hands to wide hips and anger found her tongue. “Have you ever thought of having your head examined?”

He leaned toward her, tightening every muscle, but she didn’t back off. “Just once when I agreed to taking you on this trip.”

“Do you have to be so domineering?”

“Yes. I’m the sergeant major, remember?”

“Roughrider. Grand. Just grand,” she whispered. Digging into her discard pile, she yanked out the ivory pants. “Wait here while I slip behind that tree. God sakes,” she muttered, stalking away, hemline flinging through the air. “If the man follows me, he’s liable to accuse me of wearing too many underthings and must I bring these stockings? And am I aware of the weight of my lacy bloomers?”

Lacy bloomers. For a moment, he fumbled at the saddle.

With exasperation, he shook his head. He’d lay ten bucks that they were made of boring linen.

At least she’d surprised him by dodging behind the tree to change. He thought she’d make a fuss and insist he find a private room inside the fort.