Читать книгу To Tease A Texan - Georgina Gentry - Страница 8

Lark walked into town and found the weather-beaten old hotel. She didn’t have much money, and she’d have to find a job fast. The frail, elderly man at the desk seemed curious. A stranger, particularly an unescorted woman, was a novelty in any area of the West.

“How’s the job opportunities around here?”

His gold-rimmed glasses slid down his thin nose. “For a lady?”

She didn’t want to lie, but she surely didn’t want anyone tracking her back to Buck Shot and the bank robbery. “You see, I was a mail-order bride for a rancher in the next county and when I got here, he didn’t want me, drove me to the nearest crossroads. I managed to catch a ride on a wagon, and now I’m pretty much stranded here.”

“What kind of a low-down polecat would do that to a lady?” His voice was sympathetic.

She thought about Larado, that rascal. “Reckon I’m not a very good judge of men. Anyway, thought I might be able to get a job, earn enough for a train ticket back to Texas.”

He scratched his white head. “Café might could use a new cook.”

Lark sighed. She was a terrible cook, unlike her perfect sister, Lacey. “I’m a pretty good cowboy, really good with horses. I can rope and shoot better than most men.”

The old man laughed. “Sorry, miss, you know most ranchers aren’t gonna hire a female as a ranch hand.”

His condescending attitude made her want to reach across the counter and smack him.

“Besides,” he said, “even if a rancher was to hire you, where would you sleep? You wouldn’t want to share a bunkhouse with a bunch of wranglers.”

Now that was the truth. She pictured being surrounded by snoring, dirty cowboys scratching and breaking wind. “Well, I’ll look around and see what’s available in the morning. Is there a place to get a bite?”

“A café down the street, not too good. I told you they was needing a cook.”

She turned to go. They’d think not too good if she was doing the cooking.

“Oh, and Mrs. Jones is looking for a housekeeper. She’s got the biggest house in town, but she’s real particular.”

“Thanks.” Lark wasn’t much on housekeeping either. “Maybe I’ll look into it.”

The old man had known what he was talking about. She got herself a quick sandwich, which wasn’t too good, then walked back to the small hotel. This was barely a town—few citizens, and not a lot of activity. It would be a perfect place to hide out until she could raise enough money to leave. She’d forgotten to even ask if a stage came through at all. It was obvious there was no train. Maybe it would take a while for word of the bank robbery to drift to this sleepy hamlet.

She counted her money and went to bed early. Tomorrow she would figure out what to do next. When she closed her eyes she saw Larado’s rugged face and crooked grin, then cursed the night she had gotten involved with the saddle tramp.

The next morning, she began to look for a job. Already word had spread about the newcomer in town, because a ranch wife stopped her to offer her a job as a bunkhouse cook. Lark sighed. She was desperate, but not that desperate. Besides, after they tasted her cooking she’d be fired right off.

She found some ranchers having coffee at the local cafe and tried to hire on as a ranch hand. One old geezer laughed so hard, he almost swallowed his false teeth. Lark managed not to whack him in the eye. The others seemed to think she was joking. Discouraged, she went out on the wooden sidewalk and looked up and down. What to do?

There was a saloon on the street, but she’d already decided she’d never work in a saloon again, no matter how desperate she got.

She tried the general store, but the short, bald owner said he and his wife could handle the business and suggested that if she needed a job she should get married. Lark had a terrible urge to push him into the pickle barrel, but managed to restrain herself.

It was still early. She returned to the hotel lobby, wondering if there was a local paper. The old man at the desk told her there was a weekly and handed her a copy. There were no job listings, but a mail-order bride column. Ha! She wasn’t that desperate yet.

Abut that time, an elegant man came down the stairs carrying a black-and-white cat. “Ah, a damsel in distress? May I be of assistance, mademoiselle?”

“Meow,” said the cat.

Lark looked at the man. He was about fifty, maybe, finely dressed, with a small mustache and goatee. His accent was foreign.

“How do you do?”

He stopped and bowed low, took her hand, and kissed the back of it. “I am very well. And you, miss?”

She pulled her hand away. “I’m new in town,” she said. “I don’t suppose you know of any jobs?”

“Hmm.” He pulled at his goatee. “Come along with me and Miss Mew Mew to my shop, and we’ll talk. At the very least, yes, I can offer you a cup of tea.”

“That would be very nice. It’s cool out there this morning.”

He transferred the cat to the other arm. “I am Pierre. I own a millinery shop down the street. A beautiful woman like you, you wear fine hats, yes?”

“Sometimes.” Actually, she wore a Stetson more often than anything, but she was flustered at the compliment. “And I am…Lacey, Lacey Van Schuyler.” She decided to use her sister’s name in case the law was looking for Lark.

“A beautiful woman always has lots of hats, oui.” He escorted her out on the wooden sidewalk and down to a tiny shop at the end of the street. “Here I make the beautiful chapeaus for the lovely ladies.” He opened the door and escorted Lark inside, where he put Miss Mew Mew in the shop window. The big cat promptly curled up to doze in the sun while he stirred up the tiny parlor stove and put on a kettle of water.

Lark looked around. It was a small shop with a display of fine ladies’ hats in the window. “Oh my, these are beautiful.”

He smiled at her. “I have talent, yes, and I eke out a living here, but sometime I will move on.”

Lark walked around, admiring the hats. “You seem so out of place in this town. I’d expect you’d be more at home in some big city like New York or Chicago.”

Pierre frowned as if his head hurt. “I was previously in San Francisco, and before that Cincinnati, but unfortunately, rich widows seemed to think my interest was more than professional and…” He shrugged and didn’t finish.

So this is what a gigolo looks like, she thought.

He made the tea and poured it into dainty cups, gesturing her to a chair. “Ah, this is more like it. Perhaps business will be slow today.”

“You actually make a living selling hats in this village?”

“Let us say, I have been the beneficiary of some very generous older ladies. I keep thinking I’ll find another, perhaps one who has inherited a rich ranch or something.” He gave her a charming smile.

“Ah.” She nodded as the realization struck her. “And you meet these ladies because they come into your shop?”

“Oui, I fulfill their, ah, most wonderful dreams.”

She looked around at the hats. “You have a lot of real talent,” she said.

He smiled again. “That’s exactly what the ladies said. Oh, you mean in the millinery business, yes?” He took a crisp linen napkin and wiped his penciled mustache. “But enough about me. How have you landed in this pitiful little town?”

She paused and looked away, thinking about that damned rascal of a cowboy. She hoped he was rotting in jail by now. “Let us just say that I had to leave the last town rather…well, unexpectedly.”

“Ah, me too!”

She didn’t have anyone else to trust, and now she admitted, “I’m looking for a job, and not having much luck because I’m not too good at housekeeping or cooking.” She sipped the hot tea and savored it. “I’ll only be able to stay at the hotel another day or two, and then if I don’t find a job, I’m not sure what I’ll do.”

“Tsk, tsk.” He made a clicking sound and gave her a sympathetic look. “I have a back room where I store supplies. You might manage to sleep there, oui?”

She was immediately on guard. “I’m not sure—”

“No obligation.” He shook his head. “Unless you know an older rich lady, maybe a widow?” He looked hopeful.

“Sorry, I’m not from around here. I don’t know anyone.”

“Oh,” he sighed. “Well, you could model the hats for the old bats—I mean, the lovely ladies who come in. If they think they would look like you in my creations, they will buy. Besides, it might amuse me to teach you the millinery business. Of course, the salary would be quite small.”

“Almost anything would be acceptable,” she blurted. “Until I figure out what I’m going to do next.”

Pierre gave her a searching look. “I think we both may be in the same boat, maybe misunderstood by the law, no?”

She started to deny it, thinking of that damned cowboy and the mess he’d gotten her into. Then she sighed. “Misunderstood by the law, yes. Pierre, if you’re offering me a job, I’ll take it, but I have to warn you I know nothing about sewing or ladies’ accessories to speak of.”

“Ah, but mademoiselle looks talented.” He set his cup down, went over to a shelf, and began to dig through boxes. “Look, you take a felt form like this.” He pulled a black, large-brimmed hat from a box. “You pull up one side with a pretty jeweled pin, like so.” He demonstrated. “Then you add a veil, and ooh la la, a magnificent chapeau.”

“Why, it is beautiful!” Lark set her cup down. “Pierre, you are an artist.”

He shrugged. “It is nothing. I know what the ladies like.” He smiled modestly as he walked over and put the hat in the window. “Now get your things, my dear. My back room isn’t much, but it will do.”

In less than a month, Lark became quite successful at modeling hats for ladies who came in to shop. Men began to come in to buy gifts for their wives and to ogle the new girl in town. Lark was smart and more talented than she had realized. Pierre soon taught her to take a basic hat, add veils and flowers or plumes, and turn it into a thing of beauty. Business began to pick up as the weather warmed.

Several young cowboys tried to court Lark, but she made it clear she wasn’t interested. Somehow, none of them seemed as charming as the big Texan. Once Pierre mentioned that he might be moving on to a larger town, suggesting Lark might want to buy him out. Frankly, Lark told him, she couldn’t see herself in a lady’s hat shop the rest of her life—and besides, she didn’t have any money except the small salary he’d been paying her. Uncle Trace would certainly have loaned her the down payment, but Lark was still too proud and stubborn to ask her wealthy in-laws for help.

One day at the café, she picked up a Texas newspaper that a traveler on the weekly stage had apparently left behind. Out of idle curiosity, she began to look through it. Someone had a black horse for sale. Someone else had some house furnishings, some cattle. Maybe there were some job listings. Then she spotted the matrimony ads. Middle-aged lady who is a good cook, looking for widower with a nice ranch. Young lady looking for a young man of good family who is interested in matrimony. She started to put the paper on the table, then an ad caught her eye: Sheriff in up-and-coming west Texas town, former Texas Ranger, would like to meet respectable young lady. Object: Matrimony.

A sheriff. If the law was looking for her, what better protection could she have than being married to a sheriff? Lark wasn’t interested, of course, but she took the paper back to the shop with her, thinking about the ad. A sheriff. In west Texas, far, far from here. In fact, west Texas was far, far from everything. She commented on the ad to Pierre.

He sat in a chair with Miss Mew Mew in his lap and now he got the slightly pained expression of one with a headache. “A bumpkin? A sheriff? Surely you jest, my dear Lacey?”

“Of course.” She shrugged and began to empty boxes of new merchandise. “Although, sooner or later, I would like to return to Texas.”

“Texas!” Pierre sniffed. “What was it General Sherman said? ‘If I owned both hell and Texas, I’d live in hell and rent out Texas.’”

“But true Texans are never really happy anyplace else.” She blinked back tears.

Pierre took the paper from her hand as he stroked Miss Mew Mew’s fur. “Hmm. Any rich widows in here?”

“I haven’t the vaguest idea.” She began dusting display cabinets. “You know, a sheriff’s home would be the safest place in the world for me.”

“Hmm,” Pierre sighed. “And he’s young, perhaps handsome. You’re pretty, my dear, I suppose you should marry.”

“I can’t cook or keep house. Why would any man want me?”

“Mademoiselle, you are so naive, you give me a headache. Are you going to correspond with this hayseed of a lawman?”

She shook her head. “I reckon not. It was just a thought, after all.”

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Besides,” he smiled, “he might have a rich old lady in the family.”

“I doubt that. Lawmen are usually poor. Of course, that doesn’t matter if you’re in love.”

“My dear, you are more naive than I thought.”

“I’ll admit it.” She paused and looked out the window, her thoughts dreamy. “I want a big, handsome Texan who will sweep me off my feet and we’ll live happily ever after.”

Pierre made a moue. “Even if he’s a poor sheriff?”

She shrugged. “Forget the sheriff. I already have.”

Lark forgot about the conversation until a few days later, when Pierre brought her a letter from the post office. “Look here, my dear, he’s answered. Open it so we can see what he says.”

“What are you talking about?” Lark took the envelope, puzzled. She certainly wasn’t expecting any mail. Besides, it was addressed to her sister. She almost said so and then she remembered that she was passing herself off as Lacey Van Schuyler.

Pierre stroked his tiny mustache, looked very pleased with himself. “I was trying to help you get back to Texas, yes?”

She had a sudden feeling of disaster. “What have you done?”

“Written a sweet letter to the young Texas hayseed who is looking for a mail-order bride. Now open it, my dear, and see what he’s got to say.”

Lark gasped in horror. “You sent my name to that sheriff without even telling me about it?”

“Well, why not?” he defended himself. “I believe in amour, in love. Besides, he might have a rich old lady in the family.”

“How could you?” For a moment, Lark had visions of the law coming to arrest her for using her sister’s name or tracking her down as an accessory to a bank robbery.

Pierre smiled. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Now let’s see if the sheriff liked what I wrote.”

“You have a lot of nerve. And I have no intention of getting myself mixed up in a mail-order marriage.”

“Suppose,” Pierre said, “he is the man of your dreams, the big Texan of romantic novels?”

“I think I ought to throw it away,” Lark said.

“Ah, and disappoint that nice young sheriff?”

“How do you know he’s either nice or young?” Lark demanded. “He’s probably some old geezer, old enough to be my father.”

“Aren’t you the least bit curious?” He stroked the sleepy cat.

Lark shrugged and opened the envelope. The handwriting was big and awkward, as if the author was not good with the written word. “‘Dear Miss Van Schuyler: I am glad you answered my advertisement and might be looking for a husband.’”

“Me? How dare he think I would do that?” She was outraged. “I could certainly get a husband if I wanted one.”

Pierre shrugged and took the letter from her hand, then read aloud. “‘I am tall and dark-haired.’ Ah, very good. I told him you were tall and pretty.”

“I’m not interested.” At that point, Lark tore the letter in two, marched to the trash, and threw it away.

“You’re not even going to see if he’s old?” Pierre looked crestfallen.

“I don’t care how old he is.” Lark began applying a veil to a new spring straw hat.

“I hate to think I wasted my time, oui?” Pierre retrieved the letter from the trash and pieced it together, reading aloud. “‘My name is Lawrence Witherspoon. I have a good job as the new sheriff of Rusty Spur here in west Texas.’”

“Lawrence Witherspoon? Sounds prissy. Besides, I’ve heard of Rusty Spur,” Lark snorted. “Wildest, most lawless town—and so remote, they almost have to ship daylight to it.”

Pierre shrugged and read some more. “‘I am considered good-looking by the ladies…’”

“Oh, what a vain man.”

The Frenchman’s gaze swept over the page. “Hmm, he’s almost thirty. He says he hopes to save enough to buy a ranch someday. That sounds like your kind of man, my dear.”

She wouldn’t admit it, but it did. Lark sighed. A ranch sounded good to her. She was suddenly very homesick for Texas and the cowboy life she loved.

“At least you’re not older than he is. In the West, you might be getting a little long in the tooth.”

“I beg your pardon, I am only twenty-five,” Lark said.

“Way past marrying age in Texas.”

“I am very picky.”

“If you’re looking for the perfect man, he doesn’t exist, my dear. You just find one you love and marry him, warts and all.”

“Humph. Men,” she snorted. “They’re only looking for someone to clean, cook, and pick up after them. Our lovesick sheriff can just find himself another girl.”

“Well, all right.” Pierre patted his cat. “I’m becoming an old meddler.”

Lark patted him on the shoulder. “It’s all right, no harm done.” For the second time, she tossed the letter in the trash.

However, late that night, lying sleepless in her little room at the back of the shop, Lark kept thinking about the letter. She pictured some earnest young sheriff checking the post office every day for the letter that was never going to come. Lark had a tender heart. The least she could do was answer and explain that she hadn’t written in the first place and had no interest in matrimony.

She got out of bed and lit the lamp. Then she dug the letter out of the trash, reread it, and sat at the little desk to pen a reply.

Dear Mr. Witherspoon:

I received your letter and enjoyed reading it.

Now she paused. It would be humiliating to him to say that she wasn’t interested and that her employer had sent the letter without Lark’s knowledge. Maybe he would think something he had said in his letter would have changed her mind.

To be honest, I don’t think you would be interested in me. My womanly skills aren’t too good. I’d rather ride horses and go hunting than clean house. I’m a terrible cook but I can handle a rope better than most cowboys. Now that you know this, you probably won’t want to write me anymore, and I’ll understand. However, I am a Texan too, and really love the Lone Star State. Remember the Alamo!

Most sincerely,

Lacey Van Schuyler.

She addressed the envelope to Sheriff Lawrence Witherspoon, General Delivery, Rusty Spur, Texas, and the next morning, put it in the mail. There, that took care of it. She would lose her correspondent without hurting his feelings. She returned to work in the millinery shop and for the next several days, thought nothing more about it. After all, with the business doing as well as it was, she was busy—and she had that bank robbery accomplice thing hanging over her head to worry about.

Then one day, Pierre rushed in, all excited, waving an envelope. “Look, dear, you’ve heard from your sheriff again.”

“He is not my sheriff,” Lark reminded him. “And it’s probably a note thanking me for answering and saying he hopes I’ll understand if he looks elsewhere.”

The Frenchman’s eyes lit up. “You answered his letter?”

Lark hated to admit it. “I wrote him and told him what a bad housekeeper and cook I was. You know, that’s what most men are looking for.”

He winked at her. “Obviously, my dear, you are naive.”

“Pierre!” Lark was almost speechless.

“Well, open it and let’s see what he says,” Pierre suggested.

Lark took the letter from his hand and opened it. “‘Dear Miss Van Schuyler,’” she read. “‘You are being very modest about your assets. Every woman is born knowing how to cook and clean.’”

“That’s what he thinks,” Lark said, outraged. “I can see he is one of those who think women should shut up and stay obedient and in the kitchen.” She read some more of the large, painful handwriting. “‘I do like a woman who likes horses and ranch life. Did you say you were pretty?’”

Lark snorted, and Pierre nodded. “That’s number one with most men. And you are pretty, child.”

“I don’t think so,” Lark countered. “I’m too tall for a girl, and I’ve got some Cheyenne blood. Some Texans wouldn’t be interested in a woman who is part Indian.”

“Well, maybe the sheriff’s different.”

“I’m not going to answer this letter,” Lark said. “I can’t imagine being stuck with some hick sheriff who’s looking for a pretty girl who’s a perfect housewife.”

“He didn’t say that’s what he wanted,” Pierre defended him.

“How do you know? You never met him,” Lark snorted.

“He just sounds like a nice man, that’s all. Lawmen are usually upstanding citizens.”

And it would be a safe haven for a girl on the run from the law, Lark thought. She tried to imagine Lawrence Witherspoon. He might be tall and red-faced with buck teeth. He might be short and balding and burp a lot.

“I just think this has gone far enough,” she said. “I regret the impulse to write him. I won’t write again.”

“Oh, by the way, I got a letter too.” Pierre waved the envelope. “A rich old lady I’ve corresponded with in the past has invited me to come to New York.”

Lark felt her mood fall. “I never thought you’d be going away. I’m so fond of you.”

“And me you, and so is Miss Mew Mew, aren’t you, kitty?”

The black-and-white cat blinked and swished her tail.

“Anyway,” Pierre said, “life moves on. I’ve already found a buyer for the shop since you aren’t interested. Perhaps the new owner will keep you on, although she has two daughters.”

Lark went to the window and looked out. Dusty Plains was a very small town. Although business had increased, it wouldn’t support four women and she knew it. “I’d been thinking about moving on anyway.”

Pierre stroked his mustache. “Ah, to go meet that young sheriff?”

“Land’s sake, no. You’re an incurable romantic. Suppose I went clear out there and hated him on sight.

Suppose he was disappointed that I really can’t cook and I’m not a clingy little blond doll?”

“You have to take a chance on love or you’ll never have it. And believe me, dear, love is worth the gamble, if it’s the real thing.” He sighed as if remembering.

“I’ll be moving on as soon as I make some decisions.” With that, she put up the “closed” sign and began dusting the display cases.

That night, she lay awake for a long time. What was she to do? She might get along fine with the new owner, but Lark’s heart wasn’t in the millinery shop anyway. She longed for the sunny plains of Texas, but she couldn’t go home until she’d made a success of her life. After all, Lacey was probably doing very well now with a picture-perfect life, and Lark had surely annoyed Uncle Trace by running away from that fancy finishing school.

What happened the next morning helped make her decision. Lark had been to pick up the mail and passed the sheriff’s office. The early May weather was warm, and the door was open. A pile of wanted posters lay in disarray on the floor by the desk, and on the top was a fair likeness of Lark with the caption: $500.00 reward. Accessory in Buck Shot bank robbery.

She grabbed up the posters. Underneath was another with a sketch of Snake and Larado. $1000.00 Reward. Bank robbers and killers. Teller shot in the back. Contact Buck Shot law enforcement.

Oh my God. She hadn’t thought Larado would shoot a man in the back. Since there was a poster out on her, it wouldn’t be but a little while before someone around here recognized her. Very quietly, she clutched the posters, glancing around. She could hear the elderly sheriff talking to an inmate in a cell in the back. So far, so good. Lark went out the door, made sure no one saw her, and tore the posters to shreds. She was too close to the town of Buck Shot and she sure didn’t want to end up in prison. Damn that Larado for getting her into this mess. She’d like to slap that handsome, grinning face into next week.

Late that afternoon, she told Pierre she would be leaving the next morning.

“So soon? But Miss Mew Mew and I don’t want you to go until we’re ready to leave town.”

“I’ll miss you, but I’ve got some prospects.”

“Ah, the young sheriff?”

“Who?” Lark hadn’t given another thought to Lawrence Witherspoon since she’d mailed the letter a few days ago.

“You wrote him again, didn’t you?”

“I don’t think it was meant to be.”

“I’m sure you two will be very happy.”

Lark laughed. “You’re getting ahead of the story.”

“I started the correspondence, so I’m responsible for this love match.”

“I may not even go to Rusty Spur. West Texas is tough country, even for Texans. Now I’ve got some packing to do. You ought to be gathering up things too, if you’re leaving for New York.”

They ate supper together one last time. Afterwards Pierre tried to give Lark a little extra money, which she refused. The next morning, with much tears and hugs, Lark caught a stage. Except she really didn’t know where to go from here. She’d at least try to get farther away from the scene of the bank robbery. Later, she took a train and rode that farther south. When she crossed the Red River, she knew she was back in Texas, God’s country. She was homesick for her uncle’s ranch and too pigheaded stubborn to go home defeated. She decided she couldn’t face “I told you so.” But in the meantime, what to do? Where to go?

Rusty Spur. The words popped into her head. She’d heard it was an isolated, tiny town way out in west Texas. West Texas was a vast, empty, flat prairie. The chances that anyone would find her there were pretty small. She wouldn’t have to marry the sheriff—she’d go out there, get herself a job, and make her decision later. If she didn’t like the town, she could always leave and go someplace else. “Everyone says that’s the trouble with you, Lark,” she muttered. “You never face up to anything. When the going gets tough, you run.”

This was the most loco thing she’d done in her life—except for running away and then getting mixed up with Larado, that drunken saddle tramp.

In Dallas, she sent a wire to the sheriff in Rusty Spur:

Dear Sheriff Witherspoon. Stop. Coming to visit your town. Stop. You are not obligated in any way. Stop. I intend to get a job and just need a friend. Stop. Most sincerely, Lacey Van Schuyler.

After she’d sent the wire and gotten back on another train headed west, she had grave misgivings. Land’s sake, what kind of fool thing had she done? Well, she needed a place to hide out until this whole thing blew over and no more wanted posters got sent out. The Territory might not send posters to Texas anyway. The farther away she got from the scene of the crime, the better off she was.

The train only went within ten miles of the town, although it was building that direction, the conductor told her. Then she had to take another stagecoach. She almost lost her nerve and got back on the train. After all, running away when faced with trouble was the thing she did best. Just as she was making that decision, the train slowed to a stop, and the conductor put her valise out on the crossroads. There was nothing visible for miles.

“You’ll like the town,” the conductor assured her. “Tough new sheriff turned it from a wild, wide-open place to a quiet place to live.”

“Oh?” She was intrigued. Lawrence Witherspoon didn’t sound like a gun-totin’, two-fisted lawman. But how could she tell? “I—I’m not sure I want to go—”

“But of course you do, ma’am.” The conductor took her elbow and helped her off the train even as she was protesting. “Town needs strong young women to make it grow. You got folks there?”

“Uh, no, thinking of opening a business.”

“A woman running a business?” His craggy face was nothing short of incredulous. “No wonder you’re hesitating, lady. Women wasn’t meant to run businesses.”

That was like waving a red flag at a bull.

“I beg your pardon, I’m a very good businesswoman.” She marched off the train and stood there with her valise as the train switched to another track and pulled out.

What had she done? She stared after the departing train, wishing she were on it. There was no place on earth as flat and desolate as west Texas. In the distance, she saw a cloud of dust on the horizon, and then a stagecoach loomed into view. After a few minutes, it pulled up near her in a rattle of harness and a cloud of dust.

“You for the stage, ma’am?” A lanky young boy stared at her with open curiosity. “We don’t get many people on the weekly stage, especially not purty women.”

She decided to ignore that remark as he hopped down, threw her valise up on top, and helped her into the stage. There was nobody else aboard.

Good, Rusty Spur really was a sleepy town with only a weekly stage. Chances were her wanted posters might not be arriving out there. She knew enough to open her own millinery shop…if she could get financing from the local bank. That would buy her some time, and then she could decide what to do next. Maybe when she had her own successful store, she’d be willing to let her family know where she was.

It was a long, dusty ride in the rattling coach out to Rusty Spur. There was a crowd gathered on the street as the dusty stagecoach rolled down Main Street. What was this all about? Then she saw the banner hanging over the middle of the street. WELCOME LACEY VAN SCHUYLER.

Oh dear, she hadn’t expected this kind of attention.

The stage drew up before the two-story hotel and the crowd gathered around. As she stepped out, shaking the dust from her dark blue skirt, a man limped forward. “Miss Van Schuyler?”

He wasn’t young at all, he was old and missing a front tooth. Her heart plunged. She had a terrible urge to say, No, I’m Jane Smith. Miss Van Schuyler got off at the last stop. Except out here in west Texas, Rusty Spur was the last stop, and she seemed to be out of money and out of alternatives. “Uh, yes, I’m Lacey Van Schuyler.”

He grinned and nodded. “Lawrence is gonna be mad at me for writin’ you and signin’ his name, but once he sees you, it won’t make no never mind.”

“You’re—you’re not Sheriff Witherspoon?”

He shook his head. “I’m just Bill, his friend who works at the post office and telegraph office. Here he comes now.”

Everyone turned to look at the man elbowing his way through the crowd. “Hey, Sheriff,” everyone greeted him. “Good to see you, Sheriff.”

She turned to get back on the stage and flee, but the stage was already pulling out, leaving her stranded on the wooden sidewalk and surrounded by a friendly crowd with her fate pushing through the crowd toward her. The crowd parted, and she heard a deep voice say, “What’s all the excitement?”

The crowd parted to let him through even as she recognized the voice. It couldn’t be, but it was. Just before she fainted dead away, Lark recognized that rascal. There was no mistake. It was Larado.