Morrow Creek Runaway

The men surrounding him appeared intrigued by that.

“Exactly how,” McCabe wondered with a twinkle in his eye, “would all those heartbeats get used up extra quickly, Doc? Because some of us are hog-tied to uppity women ourselves.” Here, he aimed a meaningful glance at Jack Murphy. “We might need to consider protecting ourselves from overexertion.”

All the saloongoers guffawed at that, but Miles was too busy contemplating Doc Finney’s description of Rose to wonder about the salacious possibilities inherent in his warning.

Most likely, secretive would describe Rosamond these days. So would uppity, if an opinionated old coot like Finney was doing the describing. Back home, Rosamond had certainly known her own mind. Miles had definitely found her this time.

“Just don’t try getting into that society by fibbin’ that you know Mrs. Dancy ‘from back east,’” a lumberman warned him. “I tried that, and her hired men dumped me in a ditch.”

Miles had expected Rosamond to be wary. Given everything he knew about her entanglements with Arvid Bouchard, she had reason to be. Still, he’d been counting on her being eager to see him.

So, if the truth were known, had the Bouchards.

After all, Miles was the stableman who’d helped Rosamond feed apples to the Bouchard household’s horses. He was the stableman who’d carried heavy loads of coal for his favorite housemaid. He was the stableman who’d pined for his Rosamond from afar...and now found his best chance at being near her again thwarted by two hired thugs and a whole town’s worth of gossipy, intrusive menfolk.

Well, Miles hadn’t gotten this far by quitting easily.

He’d traveled for weeks by rail, horseback, ferry and foot to tell Rosamond McGrath his true feelings for her. He now stood less than a mile from Rose—his Rose. He was not a man who would be daunted by a few complications.

“I can get into the marriage bureau.” Miles swallowed the rest of his ale in a single gulp. He eyed the assembled men. “By this time tomorrow, I’ll be Mrs. Dancy’s favorite client.”

Or I’ll die trying, Miles swore to himself.

Not long after that, he said goodbye to his newfound friends. He picked up his flat-brimmed hat, shouldered his valise and set out to make his vow as real as the ill-gotten money that still burned a hole in his bag...and in his heart.

What I won’t do, he promised himself further, is tell Rose where that damn money came from. That would not endear him to her—nor would it encourage her to trust him. To get what he wanted from Rosamond, Miles needed her good regard and her trust alike.

He needed a second chance. He was damn sure about to finagle himself one, no matter what he had to do to secure it.

* * *

Rosamond was saying her farewells to Gus when she first heard the kerfuffle at her front door. She tried to concentrate on what her very first client was telling her about his new bride and their plans, but the sounds of raised voices and scuffling feet stole her attention. What could be happening now?

Sensing the same disturbance, Gus broke off. He cast a worried glance down the hallway, beyond the parlor’s entryway where they both stood. “Sounds like trouble. You want me to go an’ help your bruiser put down all the hubbub?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Winston. That won’t be necessary.” Thinking of scrappy Gus Winston getting into a scuffle, Rosamond hid a smile. “I’m sure Mr. Durant has matters well in hand.”

A firm, raised male voice contradicted her statement.

A familiar firm, raised male voice. It couldn’t be.

But if it was...

Wholly unexpectedly, a host of memories flooded Rosamond. She could smell hay and horses and fresh green apples. She could feel the heavy burden of the coal bin being chivalrously removed from her grasp. She could reexperience the heart-pounding excitement and surge of pure joy that had come every day from venturing to those Beacon Hill stables and seeing—

“Don’t sound too much like he’s got things in hand,” Gus observed dourly. He turned toward the hallway, ready to help deal with the disturbance. “I should be goin’ anyhow. Abigail—I mean, the new Mrs. Winston—will be waitin’ on me.”

Gus’s reddened cheeks and shy smile at his mention of his new bride reminded Rosamond of all the positive effects she was having here in Morrow Creek—and pulled her sensibly away from the fanciful memories that had swamped her, too. There was no reason at all, she chided herself, to be thinking fondly of—

“Miles Callaway!” The stranger’s words carried easily from her house’s guarded doorway to the parlor. “All I want to know is if Miles Callaway has been here to see Mrs. Dancy.”

Rosamond swayed. She felt her insides somersault.

It couldn’t be him. It simply couldn’t be. Not here.

But it definitely sounded like him.

For a heartbeat too long, Rosamond wanted it to be him. She wanted it to be Miles, her Miles, come to her door in Morrow Creek—no matter how unlikely that would be. Even if it was Miles, she assured herself dizzily, that didn’t mean she could trust him. It didn’t mean—

“Mrs. Dancy?” Gus’s worried tone cut through her haze of disbelief. “Are you all right? You look about to tumble over. You’ve plumb gone white as a sheet, too.” Protectively, Gus shooed her toward the upholstered settee. “Go on. You better have yourself a little sit-down. You want me to get Bonita?”

“I— No.” In midretreat toward her settee, Rosamond stopped. She squared her shoulders. “I’m fine, Mr. Winston. Truly, I am.”

Gus peered disbelievingly at her. “I ain’t swallowin’ it. It ain’t like you to fib, anyhow. I know that for certain.”

Rosamond almost laughed. Gus had no idea.

“Let’s just get you off on your wedding trip with Mrs. Winston.” Deliberately, Rosamond steered herself and Gus back to the parlor doorway. Her heart threatened to burst through the bodice of her practical, ladylike dress. Her hands trembled. But that didn’t mean she intended to dither uselessly in her parlor. “In the meantime, I’ll sort out the trouble with Mr. Durant.”

“You? Pshaw.” Gus waved. “That there’s men’s work.”

“Being a good husband is a man’s work,” Rosamond demurred. “And that is your job now, so don’t delay!”

“Well, if you’re sure you don’t need my help...”

“I am. Positively.” Another rumble of voices came from the entryway. Rosamond was dying to know how there could be another man on earth who sounded so like Miles. Her Miles. “Bon voyage!”

Almost ushered out, Gus stopped. “Huh?”

“Have a nice trip with Mrs. Winston,” Rosamond amended.

“Oh. I will.” Another blush. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

Because I’m conspicuously trying not to sound like a runaway housemaid. She’d once heard Mrs. Bouchard say bon voyage to an acquaintance. It had struck Rosamond as sophisticated.

“Because here at the Morrow Creek Mutual Society, we like to create a sense of occasion for our clients.” Deftly, Rosamond maneuvered them both a few more feet down the hall. Now she could almost glimpse the man who stood facing down Seth. Given her protector’s size, that was saying something. Any man who wasn’t immediately dwarfed by Seth had to be considerably sized himself. Six feet at least, and very strongly built.

Just like Miles. His considerate ways had seemed twice as incongruous when paired with his massive size and his rough-and-tumble job as head stableman and driver. His smiles had seemed twice as rare, too, coming from a man who’d been reputed to enjoy a brawl or two.

“There. Well, thank you for becoming one of our clients.” Formally, Rosamond nodded at Gus. “I wish you all the best.”

He eyed her prim stance, then lifted his gaze to her face. “Aw, shucks, Mrs. Dancy. Ain’t no call for formality ʼtween us!”

Gus lurched forward, then startled her with a tremendous hug. He wasn’t a large man, but he had the wiry strength of a man who worked hard for a living. Besides, even the smallest man was stronger than a woman—a woman who didn’t want him to touch her, didn’t want him to envelop her, didn’t want him to take—

Feeling smothered in panic, Rosamond shoved Gus. Hard. He stumbled backward, momentarily looking like another man—a man who’d laughed at Rosamond’s paltry efforts to protect herself.

Arvid Bouchard had viewed his former housemaid’s resistance to his unwanted advances as proof of her Irish-born, redheaded, working-class “liveliness,” not her wish to escape him. He’d pursued her relentlessly. Eventually, stuck with no place to go and no one to turn to, Rosamond had simply gone numb to what was happening with her employer. She’d seen no other choice.

She’d paid dearly for her inaction, too.

“Don’t touch me.” Rosamond raised her head, her gloved hands balled into fists. “Don’t ever touch me! Even my friends and the children here don’t—” She broke off, realizing too late how inappropriate this was. How shocked Gus looked. It was true that Rosamond could not bear to be touched. But Gus’s gesture had been an openhearted farewell, not an attempt to hurt her. He was still gawking at her, in fact, still trying to figure out what had caused her outburst. Rosamond couldn’t explain. “Oh! I’m so sorry, Gus. Please forgive me. I didn’t mean it.”

“I reckon ye did.” His knowing tone didn’t blame her for it. He gave her a measuring look. “I’m sorry for it, too. Most folks won’t mean you no harm, but sometimes—well, you only have to ask Mrs. Cooper about that one. Sometimes folks do want to hurt a woman. Daisy had herself an awful time with—”

Rosamond was confused by Gus’s mention of the livery stable owner’s new wife, a renowned cookery book author and now stepmother to little Élodie Cooper, but she didn’t have time to ponder the matter further. Because just as Gus was winding up his commiserating speech, the duo at her doorway parted.

“She said not to touch her,” the stranger growled.

Rosamond had a brief impression of dark clothes, fast movements and pure masculine authority before all tarnation broke loose. The stranger stepped protectively between her and Gus, his arms outstretched to shield her. Seth shouted and pursued him, having evidently been given the slip at the door. Gus straightened like a cornered rooster, not giving a single inch.

Astonished, Rosamond stared at the back of the stranger’s head, at his brown hair falling in collar-length waves beneath his hat and at his broad shoulders stretching the black fabric of his coat, and wondered why a bearded outsider who smelled like whiskey and cigar smoke had decided to come to her rescue.

She couldn’t shake the impression that this man could have dodged her protector at any time. He simply hadn’t had sufficient motivation to do so—until Gus had touched her.

“Nobody asked you to git in on this.” Gus’s eyes narrowed. His weathered hands curled into fists. “This here’s a lady’s house. You ought to learn to mind your manners.”

“So should you. Start by saying goodbye.”

“Why should I?” Gus demanded. “You gonna make me?”

Oh, dear. If Rosamond didn’t do something, they’d come to blows. More than once, she’d seen Seth or Judah dispatch an unwanted or rowdy male visitor to her Morrow Creek Mutual Society. Typically, those men worked with their fists. She didn’t want to see Gus mixed up in a melee. For whatever reason, she didn’t want this stranger to be on the receiving end of one of Seth’s mighty sockdolagers, either. As a onetime railway worker, Seth was as strong as an ox and twice as ornery.

Gus shifted a sideways glance toward Seth. The two of them appeared to be formulating a plan, but they were about as covert as a pair of cantankerous mules resisting being saddled. “Who kicked up his heels an’ made you boss, anyhow?” Gus goaded.

The stranger didn’t budge. “When I see a woman in need, I step in. Any decent man would do the same.”

Again, his voice sounded so familiar. Raspy, faintly accented with a secondhand brogue, roughened by the coarse environments of tenements and stables. He sounded just like Miles. Or maybe Rosamond only wanted him to sound like Miles...

“It’s my job to step in.” Seth took a swing. He missed.

How had he missed? He was always so effective. So tough.

Seth looked shaken by his failure to topple the stranger. So did Gus, whose eyes widened—then narrowed again in renewed readiness. All three men froze in wary postures, leaving the air fairly vibrating with tension and combativeness.

Seth had missed. He’d failed to protect her.

Rosamond quailed, distracted from her musings about Miles. For the first time, the fortress she’d fashioned for herself here in the Arizona Territory felt in real danger of crumbling. Maybe Seth and Judah weren’t so very tough, after all. Maybe if genuine danger came calling, Rosamond would find herself all on her own. Just the way she’d always been.

The notion terrified her. If her own house wasn’t secure...

Well. She’d just have to make it secure.

“All of you, stop this at once!” Rosamond stepped from behind the shielding arms of the stranger to sweep a chastising glance at them all. “Gus, please give my best wishes to Abigail. Seth, please return to your post, lest some other miscreant try to invade this house today. And you, sir—” she swallowed hard, hoping to dredge up a bonus quantity of courage “—should leave immediately, before I take it into my mind to stomp your foot, wring your ear and drag you out of this house myself.”

A heavy silence descended. More than likely, all the other ordinary sounds were drowned out by the furor of Rosamond’s heartbeat pounding in her ears. Then, gradually, the laughter of the children playing outside returned. It was followed by the steady ticking of the grandfather clock to Rosamond’s left.

She drew in another fortifying breath, not quite daring to look the stranger in the face. She both did and did not want to confirm that he wasn’t the stableman she remembered, wasn’t the man she’d thought of so often since leaving Boston, could not be Miles Callaway, come thousands of miles to arrive at her door.

“Please don’t make me repeat myself,” she warned.

Gus tipped his hat. “Thanks kindly, Mrs. Dancy.” He had the audacity to wink. “You sure know how to throw a lively bit o’ entertainment here at the marriage bureau, that’s for sure.”

Gus saluted, then left with a grin. Seth, for his part, retreated the merest quantity of steps, then mulishly stopped.

“Since when have I not meant what I said?” Rosamond asked.

Improbably, the stranger laughed at that remark.

Seth, looking more embarrassed than she wanted, stomped all the way back to his usual post in the entryway. From there, he surveyed their latest visitor through distrustful eyes.

So did Rosamond, albeit from beside him. Clearly, in the end, shielding her household of women and children was up to her. Her protectors, Seth and Judah, could only do so much—especially if she were the one causing all the trouble.

Reminded of her earlier overreaction to Gus’s bear hug, Rosamond winced. The poor man hadn’t deserved that. She’d physically retaliated against him! She’d berated him. She was so sorry for that. It wasn’t at all normal to dislike being hugged.

It also wasn’t normal for anyone to get the better of Seth. Yet her latest visitor had easily gotten past Seth and avoided his blow, too. Who in the world was he? And why was he there?

Miles Callaway, she remembered the stranger saying. All I want to know is if Miles Callaway has been here to see Mrs. Dancy.

This man was looking for Miles. He’d unwittingly roused Rosamond’s bottled-up memories at the same time, but that wasn’t his fault. If Miles was in any trouble, Rosamond wanted to know.

She’d liked Miles. She’d more than liked Miles.

He’d been her staunchest ally in the Bouchard household. He’d been a friend, and, yes, the subject of her girlish daydreams about love and romance, too. She hadn’t ever admitted as much to him. In fact, she hadn’t ever done anything much more audacious than smile at Miles. But Rosamond had entertained youthful fantasies about holding his hand, about dancing with him, about learning why he seemed so strong and yet so trapped in Boston, why he seemed so charming and yet often so alone.

Those girlhood fantasies felt very far away to her now. They were part of another life—a life when she hadn’t had a hole in her heart and a soul-deep need to bar the door at all times.

“Sorry to bother you, ma’am.” With the scarcest turn to acknowledge her, the stranger tipped his hat. “I’ll be going.”

He took several strides toward the door.

In a moment, he’d be gone. Just the way she’d demanded.

But his voice still rang in the air, so reminiscent of...

Well, so reminiscent of the one man Rosamond had never been able to forget. The one man she’d never truly wanted to forget.

“Wait! Please.” In a trice, she’d caught up to him. She touched his sleeve, caught his questioning glance at her overly intrusive gloved hand, then regrouped. Hastily, Rosamond took away her hand—but not before she felt...something...pass between them. “I heard you talking earlier. I’d like to know everything you know about this...Mr. Callaway, was it?”

He hesitated, his bearded face mostly cast in shadow by his hat and his collar-length hair. Then he unwisely accepted her sham uncertainty at face value, just as Rosamond had intended.

This...Mr. Callaway, was it?

As if she hadn’t dreamed of him.

“Are you asking me to stay?” he asked. “All I wanted was to question your hired man. I heard you never entertain visitors.”

“Today, for you, I’ll make an exception. Please.” Valiantly, Rosamond cast about for a proper inducement. Now that she almost had this man right where she wanted him—in a position to reveal whatever he knew about Miles—she didn’t intend to quit. “I have tea! You must be thirsty after your travels.”

His posture sharpened. “My travels?”

His wariness confounded her. “You’re carrying a valise.”

“Ah. Yes, I am.” He lifted it in a rueful gesture, his tense shoulders easing with the motion. “It holds everything I own, some of what I’ve borrowed and none of what I need.” His gaze shifted to her household, then arrowed in on her parlor doorway with no effort at all. “Right now, I need tea.”

That meant she’d won, Rosamond knew, and felt curiously buoyant. If she could not see Miles Callaway again, at least she could find out what had become of him. After all, she would likely not be the only one who’d left the Bouchards’ employ.

Miles, as she remembered him, had loved an adventure. He’d also possessed a lightheartedness she’d envied on occasion.

This man did not seem quite so sanguine.

But then, he wasn’t her Miles, was he? He couldn’t be. She and Miles were thousands of miles apart. Neither of them had the means to cross that distance. Rosamond herself had only done it through extraordinary and trying circumstances. It was preposterous to think that an ordinary stableman could have followed her this far—or that he would have wanted to.

All the same, he very much seemed to be Miles! Rosamond needed a closer and clearer look at him to know for sure. She intended to get herself that closer, clearer look at him, too.

Just to be on the safe side. Just to indulge her silly, woebegone sentimentality at this mysterious stranger’s expense.

“Excellent. Right this way.” Rosamond indicated the way forward, watching alertly as he preceded her.

She had not come this far by trusting lightly, though. Nor by skipping any of the necessary precautions. So she signaled for Seth to fetch Bonita, added an extra bit of cautionary instruction to her request for tea service and then joined her new guest in the parlor.

Chapter Three

Miles had never felt more jubilant in his life.

He’d found Rosamond. He’d found her. At long last, his Rose was seated directly across from him on her fancy upholstered armchair in her fancy Morrow Creek parlor, looking beautiful and pert and just a little bit thinner than he remembered her.

Worriedly, Miles examined her more closely. The experience jarred him. He’d never seen Rosamond in anything but a tidily pressed housemaid’s uniform and her requisite cap. While she’d lent a definite sparkle to those stiff and unbecoming duds, it was still odd to see her wearing a high-necked dress with a tight bodice and a full bustled skirt. Her gingery hair was a little more tumbledown than she probably intended it to be.

She seemed older. Wiser. Infinitely more cautious.

Also, she seemed, just then, to be distinctly blurry.

Confused, Miles blinked. He gestured at his teacup. Sitting on the polished tabletop before him, it was now empty of the sweetened hot liquid Rosamond had so adroitly served him earlier. He’d swilled it all in record time and then polished off a refill, too, unexpectedly dry-mouthed and in need of something to do to settle his big, restless hands.

“Is there any more tea?” he asked.

“There is. But I’m not sure you should have more. It seems to be affecting you quite strongly. More strongly than usual.”

Her words made sense, given how peculiar he felt. It was as if his head were floating a few inches above the rest of him. He hadn’t had enough ale at the saloon to be drunk. What was this?

The truth was, though, Miles felt too good to care.

Because he’d found Rosamond. She was all right. She was safe. Everything he’d done till now—everything—had been worth it.

“Looking at you, I feel like dancing a damn jig,” he told her. All three of her. “You’re well. I’m thankful.”

Thankful scarcely described the depth of relief he felt. He wanted to bawl at the depth of relief he felt. But a man did not weep. So Miles only uttered another grateful swearword, shaking his head in wonderment as he went on studying Rosamond.

If only she weren’t pretending not to know him...

“Hmm. Yes, I am well,” she said. “Given our situation, I’ll forgive you your coarse language just now, too. I can see the jubilation on your face.” She peered wistfully at him. “For a variety of reasons, I believe what you’re saying is true. I believe you are glad about something.”

Serenely, Rosamond folded her hands atop her skirts. Even while scrutinizing him as if he was her long-lost love, she seemed the very picture of ladylike decorum.

Miles told her so.

She smiled. “Thank you. You seem the very picture of someone I once knew. He was a stableman and driver in Boston.”

There was that disingenuousness in her again. It had begun when Miles had taken off his hat and coat, and hadn’t abated since. He didn’t like it. But two could play that game.

“Boston? Pfft.” He waved again. “The only good things in Beantown are rivers and bridges and a mother’s love.”

She seemed to find that amusing. “Then you’ve been there?”

“I’ve come from there. To find someone.”

“To find Miles Callaway, you said. The thing is, I am very struck by your resemblance to the Miles Callaway I once knew.”

Her tense posture suggested she didn’t trust that Miles Callaway. That’s why Miles didn’t own up to being himself straightaway. That and the tales he’d been told of Rosamond having visitors from her past hurled forcibly from her house.

Launching a scuffle with her security men would not endear him to her. Nor would being made to explain—too soon and in too much detail—exactly how he’d come to be there in Morrow Creek.

This was not the sort of reunion he’d been hoping for.

“Mmm. I reckon I have that kind of face.” He had the kind of face, it occurred belatedly to him, that felt weirdly numb. He stroked his bearded jaw, then cast a suspicious glance at his teacup. Rosamond’s tea had tasted strange, but he’d been too polite to say so. On top of his long travels and the ale he’d already consumed at Jack Murphy’s saloon, that tea had not done him any favors. He felt...odd. “So do you. You look a lot like a housemaid I once knew. Her name was Rose. My Rose.”