fireplace sizzled with the last of the ice-covered logs they had rationed for this evening. The warmth penetrated Cassandra’s cracked leather boots.
“You’re pleasant and...and wholesome.” The landlady’s eyes flickered over the scar on Cassandra’s cheek before she politely gazed away from it. “He’ll like you.”
Cassandra ran her hand along her right cheek, wondering if she’d ever be comfortable again with her own looks. Sometimes when she was alone and immersed in a task, she blissfully forgot about the burn injury, but in the presence of others, their curiosity and sympathy rarely allowed her that freedom.
“And as for you liking him,” the landlady continued on a cheery note, “fortunately, you get to make the selection.”
Giggles of excitement erupted at the table. The sound was much nicer to listen to than the sadness and despair when Cassandra had first arrived.
They were all survivors of what everyone now, nearly a year and a half later, was calling the Great Chicago Fire. A catastrophe that had caused over three hundred deaths and had left a hundred thousand people homeless. The fire had stolen the only two people Cassandra had loved—her beautiful younger sister, Mary, and their fearless father—and had made Cassandra silently question in the horrible months that followed whether she wished to go on without them.
Once, on what would’ve been Mary’s nineteenth birthday, Cassandra had walked quietly to the railroad depot and had almost leaped onto the tracks before an oncoming locomotive. The only thing that had stopped her were the nearby voices of two children—a brother and sister arguing over a hopscotch game they were chalking on the pavement. It was then that Cassandra had realized what her little sister would desire, more than anything: for her to live a full life.
And so ever since Mrs. Pepik had come upon the idea of advertising “her young ladies” as mail-order brides in the Western newspapers, the boardinghouse had become a sanctuary of laughter and amicable debates.
Cassandra, good with geography, logically minded and possessing a surprisingly natural skill with investigation, had helped track down some missing persons in the aftermath of the fire. She’d found intervals of employment for herself and some of the other women, and she’d gone to the records office to follow up on lost documents for others. She had comfortably and voluntarily dealt with lawyers, bankers and jailers. Due to her meticulous uncovering of lost people and papers, some of the workingmen she’d encountered had jokingly nicknamed her “That Lady Detective.”
Now, Mrs. Pepik stretched closer, eager to hear of the decision at hand. “Cassandra, which man will it be?”
A slender young woman in the corner spoke up. “I’d take the jeweler in Saint Louis.”
“Oh, no,” said another, “My vote is on the reverend in Wyoming Territory.”
Cassandra’s dearest friend and roommate, dark-haired Natasha O’Sullivan, offered her perspective. “Which man stands out for you, Cassandra? Which one does your heart point to?”
Cassandra took a moment, pressed back against her chair and decided. “The man from California.”
She shuffled through the letters till she found his again. The one she’d been rereading ever since she’d received it three days ago.
“But he sounds as if he works too hard,” someone said.
“California,” Cassandra repeated. Of all the replies to her carefully worded advertisement, his clearly stood out.
“Because of all the sunshine,” Mrs. Pepik assumed.
“Because you’d like to find employment as a detective,” said Natasha. “And California would allow you that as a woman.”
“That is true,” said Cassandra. “But mostly it’s because I know him.”
Feet stopped shuffling. Women stopped talking. Hands froze on correspondence.
Cassandra peered down at his signature. Jack McColton. She was besieged with a torrent of emotions. How could she express to her friends all that she felt? Jack was a link to the loving past, a tender link to Mary and Father, a link to pleasurable times and heart-thrilling memories. Yet, he was also a link to painful times, to an explosive night and accusations she never should have made, to a time when her skin had been perfect and her looks had been whole. She’d behaved so shamefully when she was younger, assuming her good fortune would last forever.
Mrs. Pepik glanced at his name and cleared her throat. “How is it that you know this man, Jack McColton?”
Trying to ignore another wave of apprehension, Cassandra proceeded to explain.
Four Months Later Napa Valley, California
“I urge you to reconsider.”
“Is this why you called me to your office? It’s too late. She’ll be here any moment.” Jack McColton removed his Stetson. He ran a hand through his black hair as he stood by the door, exasperated at the contrary advice he was receiving from his attorney.
June sunshine and summer-fresh air poured in from the window, rustling the gauze drapes.
“Don’t throw it all away, Jack.” Hugh Logan was more than an attorney; he was slated to be best man at the wedding. Jack had come to trust him as a dependable friend in the three years he’d been living and working in the valley.
Hugh, in his mid-thirties and a few years older than Jack, rose from behind his mahogany desk to allow his tailor to mark his new suit. The tailor, a rotund man from eastern Europe who didn’t speak or understand English well, quietly pinned the gray sleeves.
“I’m not throwing anything away,” Jack insisted.
“A new ranch. Two dozen horses. A veterinarian practice. Neighbors who would like nothing more than for you to marry one of their daughters.” Hugh’s red hair glistened from a recent cut at the barber’s.
“I was intending to find a suitable wife in Napa Valley, but things don’t always work out the way you plan.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s time to throw away the plan.”
“I know this girl.”
“You mean you knew her five years ago.”
Jack, many inches taller with broader shoulders than his friend, disagreed. “I’ve got to go.”
“Reconsider, Jack. Take your time with this. Court her all over again. Then get married if you still want to. Maybe what she’s truly attracted to is that big ranch of yours.”
Jack scoffed.
“That’s the attorney in me speaking.” Hugh’s gaze flashed down to the tailor, who was kneeling and making his way round the edge of the waistcoat, giving no indication that he was intrigued by the conversation. Even so, Hugh lowered his voice. “You know it’s fair advice, Jack. Hell, last night in the saloon you told me yourself she spurned you when you were livin’ in Chicago. Now that my head has cleared, I’d like to bring it to your attention, for the record, that the only thing that’s changed since her rejection then and her acceptance now is your net worth.”
Jack frowned. “It’s not the only thing.” Yet the comments cut deep into his pride. Cassandra had never been the easiest woman to deal with; in fact, she’d been downright spoiled by her father. But she’d suffered through a hell of a lot since Jack had last seen her. Both physically and emotionally.
And five years ago, he hadn’t proposed marriage to her. Damn, at the time when he’d approached her, she was engaged to someone else. It had all been so complicated and convoluted.
Yet, he did recall that her rejection hadn’t been a gentle one.
Jack rubbed his jaw.
The tailor asked Hugh to turn, then continued pinning.
Mail-order brides weren’t uncommon in these parts. Jack didn’t know any personally, but