Mail-Order Groom

As far as Adam was concerned, the confidence man deserved a special place in hell for taking advantage of lonely women. He deserved much worse than that for what he’d done in Kansas City.

A few minutes’ hike brought Adam within sight and earshot of the station. Stealthily he circled its boundaries. He’d scouted the place days earlier with Mariana, learning the lay of the land and the locations likeliest for an ambush. Today, everything appeared unchanged. All the same, Adam felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Frowning, he kept on moving.

Birds chirped, unconcerned by Adam’s arrival. A squirrel stopped, stared at him, then dashed up a tree. A few yards away, the station hunkered on sloped ground, surrounded by ponderosa pines and the occasional scrub oak; the mountain loomed behind it. Gaining a foothold amid the fallen pinecones and crunchy dried needles was tricky; so was imagining a woman lonesome enough to accept an offer of marriage from a hard-nosed killer.

Not that any of them knew that’s what Roy Bedell was, Adam reminded himself as he crouched to survey the shingled log cabin station and its peeled-log porch. All of Bedell’s “brides” had considered Bedell a kindred spirit—at least until he cleaned out their prized belongings, absconded with their savings and broke their hearts. Adam wanted a better fate for the woman in the photograph, but Mariana was right—something was off-kilter here.

Muscles tightening, Adam withdrew his spyglass. He aimed it toward the station’s twin windows. Several minutes’ patient watching rewarded him with a view of Mose Hawthorne, the man who hauled firewood, repaired equipment and sometimes manned the telegraph. He arrived every day on a sporadic schedule and spent his nights in a cabin closer to the town of Morrow Creek.

Most people did. Those who came out west wanted to be near a town site, where they could find friends and necessities and convivial conversation. Adam didn’t know why the station’s proprietress had accepted her isolated assignment. The detective in him reasoned that she probably had something to hide. The man in him hoped she liked to be alone … the same way he did.

But that was outlandish. It didn’t matter whether he felt a kinship with the woman—whether he thought he understood her. She was a mark. He’d vowed to protect her. Nothing else mattered.

A thorough check revealed that she wasn’t at the station. Adam searched harder. He’d glimpsed her once, but only from a distance. Now, as odd as it sounded, he wanted more … and was denied. As though sharing Adam’s disappointment, the place’s big calico cat slunk into view, stared at him through baleful eyes, then vanished. A rhythmic tapping issued from inside the cabin.

Silence fell. Mose Hawthorne moved from the desk to the cast-iron stove, fiddling with something. A few minutes later, the scent of coffee filled the air. Lulled by the peaceful tableau, Adam released a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding.

Everything was fine. She was fine. Bedell wasn’t here.

Adam tucked away his spyglass. He slung his rucksack over his shoulder, then turned. At the same instant, something came at him. Something big. Something long and rough. A tree branch.

In confusion, Adam ducked too late. The branch walloped him on the side of the head. He went down with an involuntary grunt.

The damp tang of moss and dirt filled his nostrils. Again the branch came down. It whacked the ground, collapsing his fallen hat like a squash under a cleaver. Adam shoved. His palms skidded on twigs and leaves. He forced himself upright again.

The branch caught him in the side. His breath left him.

“For the last time, stay out of my business.”

Bedell. Even woozy and gasping, Adam recognized that pitiless voice. It had haunted his dreams for well over a year.

Mariana. If Bedell or his brothers had gotten to her first, she wouldn’t have survived. Roughly, Adam sighted Bedell. He honed in on his bland face with its underachieving whiskers. His fist followed his gaze. With a surprised shout, Bedell fell.

Adam seized the man’s coat and hauled him upward. Without his customary hat, Bedell looked young. Too young.

Disoriented by Bedell’s baby-faced appearance, Adam hesitated. It didn’t feel right to hit a skinny, callow youth.

“Ah.” Unmistakable cunning filled Bedell’s voice, erasing all impressions of innocence. He sighted something over his shoulder, then nodded at it. “You do have a weakness.”

Reflexively Adam twisted to look at whatever Bedell had seen. He drew his firearm, then turned back to Bedell. He fired.

At the same time, another shot rang out.

The birds fled the trees. Both men fell.

Savannah nearly walked right past the curiously squashed-up flat-brimmed hat lying on the ground outside her station.

She was so intent on retrieving her repentant fiancé’s telegraph message that she glanced at the hat, did not think much of it and kept on striding toward home. Her encounter with the family at the depot platform had reinforced the dreams that had driven her west, and Savannah knew she wouldn’t accomplish those dreams by dawdling. Besides, her nose fairly twitched with the seductive fragrance of coffee brewing. She wanted to get home, grab a restorative cup and check the wires with Mose.

Then she glimpsed a man’s fallen body. He lay with one arm out flung, his face hidden. His knees gouged the dirt as though he’d been dropped cold while crawling toward her station. He looked like one of the lifeless “prizes” that her calico mouser, Esmeralda, sometimes left on the station’s front porch.

Chilled by the realization, Savannah sank to the ground beside him. Too late, she saw that the leaves nearby were speckled with blood. Now so were her hands and her dress.

This could only be one man. One man—late but determined.

“Mose!” Savannah yelled. “Come quick!”

Her husband-to-be had arrived at last and if he died before she could marry him, they were both in big trouble.

Chapter Two

Several hours later, Morrow Creek’s sole physician, Dr. Finney, stood in Savannah’s private quarters at the station.

Near him on her rope-sprung bed, the man she and Mose had carried inside now lay insensible in the summertime heat. His clothes were mucked with sweat and dirt and blood, but Savannah had instructed Mose to give him her bed anyway. The man’s face was filmed with perspiration, defying her attempts to cool him.

Lowering her improvised fan, Savannah gazed in concern at the man. Naked from the waist up—a necessity for Dr. Finney’s treatment—he now lay atop the bedding, silent and pale, arms akimbo.

“It’s not decent to leave him exposed this way,” she said.

“It’s not decent for you to be here at all.” Dr. Finney tugged uncomfortably at his necktie. Crossly he shoved medical instruments in his bag. They clinked in place beside a tattered book on animal husbandry, two tins of curative powder and a bundle of bandages. “As soon as you’re able to round up some help, I’d suggest you and Mr. Hawthorne move this man to town.”

“And where shall we move him to?” Savannah asked. “The Lorndorff Hotel? The saloon? Miss Adelaide’s boardinghouse?”

“Your flippancy is uncalled for.” The doctor frowned, still preparing to leave. “A decent woman would not even be aware of the existence of Miss Adelaide’s … establishment.”

“Well, I am.” Given her background, Savannah had discerned the most disreputable of Morrow Creek’s businesses right away. Then she’d vowed to avoid them. “As far as we know, there’s no one except me who can take care of this poor man. I can’t possibly move him.” Especially if he’s my secret mail-order fiancé. “Especially while he’s in this dire condition. If you would please tell me how to care for him, I’ll simply—”

Dr. Finney interrupted. “I realize you are not from around these parts, so I’ve made certain … allowances for you.” His disapproving gaze swept over her homespun gown and tightly wound blond hair. He sighed. “I know you have an unconventional occupation, working out here at the station. I understand you prefer to keep to yourself, as is your right. But none of those factors excuse you from the expectations of polite society.”

“No one in polite society needs to know he’s here.”

“Are you asking me to lie? Because I assure you, I will—”

“I’ll be here.” Mose stepped forward, his expression amiable. His shoulders were wide, his manner no-nonsense, his tone gentle—as gentle as it had been when he and Savannah had first met backstage at the Orpheum Theatre almost twenty years earlier. Mose nodded at the tight-lipped doctor. “I’ll serve as the lady’s chaperone. I’ll safeguard her reputation.”

Savannah guffawed, gesturing to the bed. “The man is cataleptic! I doubt he’ll threaten my virtue anytime soon.”

Mose shot her a warning look. “What she means to say,” he assured the doctor, “is that her character is above reproach. As a good, respectable woman, she only wants to do her Christian duty and care for an injured traveler. Nothing more.”

“Hmm.” Dr. Finney frowned. “This is very irregular.”

His censorious gaze swung around to her. Pinned by his severe demeanor, Savannah sobered. Mose was right. She needed to be more careful. She and her longtime friend had traveled west to start new lives—not to repeat the mistakes of their old ones.

As a good, respectable woman …

Reminded of her goals, Savannah realized that, with a few moments’ unguarded frankness, she’d nearly undone almost a year’s worth of careful behavior. Since coming to live near Morrow Creek, she’d striven to present herself as the woman she wanted to be … not the woman she’d been back in New York City.

She shot a glance at her wounded visitor. For his sake and her own, she needed to make Dr. Finney accept her plan. She needed to care for her husband-to-be here, away from prying eyes. The faster he healed, the faster they could marry.

And the longer this took, the less likely the doctor would be to relent in his stance. If there was one thing Savannah had learned to understand in her former life, it was human nature.

“I know it’s unusual for me to ask this of you, Dr.

Finney. I do appreciate your help with everything. You’ve been positively invaluable this afternoon.” Beaming, Savannah took the doctor’s arm. “I’m afraid the shock of this event simply has me a little undone. I’m just not myself at the moment. I am sorry for any misunderstanding I’ve caused.”

At her apology, the doctor brightened. “There there.” Paternally he patted her hand, nestling it near his elbow. “You’ve been very brave through everything. I’ve known more than a few battlefield nurses in my time, and not one of them would—”

“Oh!” Giving a theatrical groan, Savannah swayed. “I’m sorry. I seem to be getting a bit woozy.” Weakly she grappled for the bedpost. She missed. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Mose, his arms crossed, shaking his head. Ignoring him, she turned to Dr. Finney. “My! It’s a good thing you had such a firm hold on me, Doctor. I might have fallen just now!”

“Well then. You’d better sit down.” Dr. Finney helped her to a chair—obligingly kicked into place by an on-cue Mose. The doctor gave her an assessing look. “You appear quite pale.”

“I feel quite pale.” Savannah fanned her face. Making every effort to suppress her natural vigor, she swanned into the chair. “Yes, that’s much better. Thank you so much, Doctor.”

“You’re welcome. I had no idea you were this delicate.”

He sounded thrilled by her fragility … exactly as she’d hoped he would. Savannah hated to playact this way, but she was in a right pickle. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. She had to manage with the skills she possessed … such as they were.

“Well …” Feebly Savannah fluttered her fingers. “I guess I am. And to have my moral fiber questioned in such terms … I suppose it simply took the last of my strength to withstand it.”

“Oh I do apologize.” Dr. Finney took her limp hand in his. “Truly, I didn’t mean to impugn your honor. I think it would be fine for you to care for this wounded gentleman—with Mr. Hawthorne’s supervision and my expert oversight, of course.”

“Of course! I couldn’t possibly manage alone.”

Behind the doctor, Mose stifled a guffaw. Perhaps she was overplaying her role, Savannah realized. But it was working.

“Shall I stay a bit longer, until you’re feeling restored?” Dr. Finney consulted his small, leather-bound journal. “Mrs. Marshall is expecting the arrival of a new baby today, but I—”

“Oh, no! I’ll be fine. Please go help Mrs. Marshall.”

The doctor peered at her. “Are you absolutely certain?”

“She’s certain,” Mose said. Loudly and indisputably.

It took a few more moments’ performance, but eventually Dr. Finney agreed. Leaving her with medical instructions, a tincture for neuralgia and a fatherly admonishment not to “strain” herself, the doctor took himself back to Morrow Creek.

The moment the door shut, Mose turned to her, laughing. “Bravo. Your best performance yet. And the most shameless.”

“The most expedient, you mean.” Not the least discomfited by her own audacity, Savannah bustled to her patient’s bedside. “Nothing convinces a man of a woman’s fine character more than her apparent weakness.

Why men expect a woman to be capable of hauling firewood, handling thirty-pound cast-iron pots, carrying babies, and hoeing knee-high weeds—all while appearing frail and helpless—is beyond me. Honestly. You’re all contrarians.”

“Maybe.” Her longtime friend gave her a searching look—one that had nothing to do with her theories on femininity. “But at least we men take life straight out, the way it comes to us. We don’t uproot ourselves, learn a new trade, finagle a wedding—”

“Stop it. We’ve already discussed this.” Savannah knew what Mose was suggesting—that she was being foolish to force her new life into fruition. Although Mose had been loyal enough to come out west with her, he’d always been skeptical about her plan.

On the other hand, Mose hadn’t been the one whose sordid personal story had been splashed across every tabloid newspaper in the States and beyond. Mose hadn’t been the one who’d turned to Warren Scarne for help and comfort … only to wind up unemployed and heartbroken. Savannah had been. She’d vowed to never land herself in such a pitiable position ever again.

“Admit it. You enjoyed your show for Dr. Finney just now.” Mose followed her, his expression concerned. “You haven’t seemed so chirpy in months. Are you sure you’re ready to leave your old life behind you? The stage, the lights, the applause—”

“Shh!” Worried that her patient might overhear their conversation, Savannah aimed a cautious glance at the man. Then she turned to Mose. “Of course I’m ready,” she assured him. She picked up a cloth from the basin, wrung it out, then dabbed it across her patient’s forehead, being careful to avoid his new bandages. She nodded at him. “He’s the proof of it, isn’t he?”

“He was shot in the back and left for dead.”

Well, that was a troubling detail. Shootings weren’t common in Morrow Creek. It had been all they could do to prevent Dr. Finney from calling for Sheriff Caffey and rounding up a posse. Mose—knowing that the last thing Savannah wanted was a lawman hanging about—had claimed he’d accidentally wounded the man when he’d spotted him in the trees … and that had been that. For now.

All Savannah could do now was hope that the danger was past—for all of them—and carry on with her plans as they were.

“Shot in the back,” Mose reiterated. “And left for dead.”

“I heard you the first time.” Considering that problem, Savannah gently cleansed the man’s sturdy chest and shoulders. She dipped her cloth in the basin again, turning the water pink with blood. She set back to work, washing near the bandages that crisscrossed the man’s midsection. Dr. Finney had stitched up her tardy fiancé, but he still bore a gunshot wound, a couple of broken ribs, several nascent bruises and a lump on his head.

“He’s a city man—a telegraph operator from Baltimore,” she reminded Mose. “A pair of thieves probably followed him from the train station and robbed him. Likely he didn’t know better—”

“He never arrived at the station, remember?”

“He might have taken another train. An earlier train.” Disconcerted, Savannah eyed her patient. She so longed for him to be the answer to her dreams—the key to her future. She didn’t want to admit the possibility that she might be wrong about him. “He might have arrived sometime when I wasn’t at the depot.”

“You’ve been at the depot every day. And he’s armored up like a common ruffian, too.” In demonstration, Mose pointed to the bedside table. On it lay the fearsome pistol they’d found on one side of the man’s belt. And the gun they’d salvaged from the other side of his belt. And the knife they’d slipped from his boot. “What do you make of that miniature armory of his?”

“Like I said, he was a simple city man. He was probably worried about coming out west and armed himself for protection. You know how the penny papers like to exaggerate the dangers of life outside the States. It’s a wonder anyone emigrates at all.”

“Humph.” Mose crossed his arms. “He looks like he could handle himself, even without all that firepower.”

Speculatively Savannah bit her lip. Her fiancé did appear more robust than she’d expected. Even in his current condition, his torso and arms were corded over with muscle. His trouser-covered legs appeared powerful, too, right down to his big bare toes peeping out from his pants hems. Both his hands bore the scars of rough living, but they also looked elegant. She could easily imagine his fingers working the sensitive telegraphy equipment that had brought them together over the wires.

“Well, you can’t reckon much by appearances. He probably has a very gentle heart, just like he told me in his letters.” Savannah ignored Mose’s skeptical snort. “And I’m the last person who would judge someone by what they look like—or—by what they might have done in the past. He and I are here to make a new beginning for ourselves. Together. And that’s that.”

“So if he’s an armed and dangerous outlaw on the run, you’re fine with marrying him? You’re hunky-dory with that?”

At Mose’s incredulous tone, Savannah smiled. She gave her friend a pat. “Of course I’m not. I have thought about this.”

“Good.” Mose appeared relieved. “I thought you had, but—”

“If he were an outlaw, he’d hardly have a respectable name to lend me, now would he?” With all reasonableness, Savannah skipped straight to the heart of the matter. She didn’t have to pussyfoot around with Mose. “You know I can’t go on much longer with my own name. What happened back in Missouri proved that.”

She’d first attempted to start over in Ledgerville. It hadn’t worked out, to say the least. But the lessons she’d learned in Missouri had made Savannah much savvier about her next attempt to forge a new life. She longed to live in town, in homey Morrow Creek just down the mountainside, but she didn’t dare approach the people there until everything was arranged just so. Until she was properly wed and respectably behaved.

Biting her lip, Savannah glanced at the Guide to Correct Etiquette and Proper Behavior handbook beside her telegraph. She’d studied it until the pages were nearly worn through. Now she could only hope her improvised education proved sufficient.

“Besides,” she said, “all I want is a home. A real home. Is that so awful? For a woman to want to build a cozy home life?”

“No, but … I still don’t like this.” Mose shook his head, his forehead creased with concern. “We should have gone on to San Francisco. We should have found places with a theater company. We should have started over with something we know.”

“You know why I don’t want to do that, Mose.”

He fell silent. Then said, “I know, but there are other ways—”

“You’re free to go if you want to.” Gently Savannah squeezed his arm. “I wouldn’t like it, but I would understand.”

“No.” Her friend’s frown deepened. “Not while he’s here.”

“I already told you, you don’t have to protect me.” At Mose’s dubious look, she smiled. “It’s all well and good that you told Dr. Finney you’d stay here, and I do appreciate your help. But I’m fully prepared to handle this myself.”

To prove it, Savannah put away her cloth. Then, with careful but businesslike gestures, she set to work making her patient feel more comfortable. She pulled out the heavy quilted flannel she’d put on to protect the mattress, then straightened the bedding. As she did, she couldn’t help studying her fiancé.

Not only was he bigger and stronger than she’d expected, but he was also much better looking. His face, topped by a tousled pile of dark hair, was downright handsome. He didn’t show much evidence of eating too many tinned beans, either. Maybe he’d wanted to seem humble in his letters? He’d been too poor, he’d said, to afford to send a photograph, the way she had.

Savannah hadn’t minded parting with one of her stage photographs—one of the final mementos of her previous life.

“He looks awfully uncomfortable.” Decisively she caught hold of his leg. Using his trousers as a makeshift handle, she moved his leg sideways a few inches. She reached for the other leg, just above his ankle, then moved it, too. “That’s better.”

Something clattered to the floor.

“If you’re intending on manhandling him like that,” Mose complained, “I’d better make sure to stay here to supervise.”

“Pish posh. I’m nursing him.” Savannah bent to pick up the item that had fallen. Her fingers scraped the station’s polished floorboards. An instant later, she straightened with a long, wicked blade in her grasp. Wide-eyed, she glanced from the knife to Mose. “And I’m definitely finding out more about him, too.”

“I think that would be wise,” Mose told her.

A search of the man’s trousers and their … environs proved unproductive, much to Savannah’s disappointment. She suspected that failure owed itself to Mose’s lackadaisical search efforts.

“Honestly, Mose. Search harder! He might have a concealed pocket somewhere on him. Who knows what you’re missing?”

“He’s not a magician,” Mose grumbled. Making a face, he looked up from their still-inert patient, his hands hovering in place. “I’m unlikely to pull a rabbit from his britches.”

“Well, that’s probably true,” she agreed with reluctance. Growing up in a family of itinerant performers may have skewed her perceptions of things. Frustrated, Savannah sighed.

Finding that second hidden knife had spooked her, but good. She wanted answers about this man, and she wanted them now.

Impatiently she grabbed her supposed fiancé’s shirt from the ladder-back chair Dr. Finney had flung it to.The garment possessed no pockets, secret or otherwise.

Next she snatched up his suit coat, wrought of ordinary lightweight wool.

“Eureka.” She felt something clump beneath her searching fingers. Trembling, she pulled out a bundle of letters. Her letters. She recognized the handwriting, the postmark … the sappy sentiments she’d imprudently confessed to her fiancé.

Peering over her shoulder, Mose read aloud. “’My Dearest, Kindest, Most Longed-For Mr.—’”

Flushed, Savannah folded the single letter she’d perused.

“Why, Savannah. That’s very … impassioned of you.”

“Hush. I’m a romantic at heart, that’s all.”

“So.” Mose arched his brow. “Did you mean any of it?”

Hurt by his question, she gazed up at him. Her fingers tightened on the letters. She brought them to her heart, then raised the bundle to her nose. The papers and ink now smelled of fresh air and leather and damp wool. They smelled of him.

“I refuse to pretend for my whole life,” Savannah said. “That’s why we’re here. To have a life that’s real.”