waited in a panic for Morecastle’s reply.
What had Sylvie done, leaving her boys to him? Surely there had to be a better situation than this. But maybe she didn’t realize that. His sister couldn’t know how hard his life was, for he’d kept it from her. He should have been honest. If he had told her the truth, she would never have left her children in his custody.
He thought of Alice and the boys waiting at the station and decided he’d best go fetch them. And bring them where? As he contemplated this, the telegraph sprang to life and his message came through. Mr. Morecastle now wanted him to come to Cripple Creek in person with cash immediately, or he would not hold the pair. Dillen sent his reply.
Now he needed to find a place for Alice and the boys while he headed up the line to Cripple Creek. His first thought was Mrs. Louise Pellet. She was his foreman’s niece and ran a clean boardinghouse in town. Maybe she’d be willing to take the boys for a spell if he could persuade her to let him pay her on time. He and her Bill ate Sunday supper at Mrs. Pellet’s table, which was a meal he anticipated all week. He couldn’t think why she’d do him this favor, but she was a Christian woman. Maybe that was reason enough.
The only other person he thought might help him was a woman whose name he wasn’t quite sure of. Alma, or Erma? He knew the last name was McCrery and he thought she was the wife of Sylvia’s husband’s uncle. He recalled she was a widow who lived alone in a big house in Chicago. He knew the street as well, since he’d met her at Sylvia’s wedding and attended the reception there. She’d been ancient then and the connection was tenuous, but it was all he had.
The telegram that he sent to Mrs. Edna McCrery was brief. Just that since the death of Sylvia and Mrs. McCrery’s nephew, Ben Asher, there were two orphan boys who he could not care for. Would she take them?
He didn’t wait for a reply. Leaving Alice alone on the train station platform had been a combination of raw panic and bad judgment. If she was wise she would have boarded the next train heading down the mountain.
Dillen removed his hat before entering the railroad station and raked his fingers through his shaggy hair. He wished he’d had time for a cut and to shave off his three-days’ growth of beard before seeing her again, because he knew he looked like what he was: a no-account bronc breaker. When he entered the depot and found it empty, Dillen broke out in a sweat.
He was still sweating when he heard someone call his name.
“You Dillen Roach?”
He turned to see a man in uniform shuffling forward. The stationmaster, he realized. The man was so stooped he appeared to be addressing Dillen’s boots.
He nodded, then spoke up. “Yes, sir.”
“She headed over to the hotel.”
There were several hotels in Blue River Junction, and more than a few were wholly unsuitable for a lady to enter and all of which he could not afford.
“Which one?”
The man scowled. “Blue River Junction Hotel, course!”
Dillen replaced his hat.
“She left you a message.” He slid a small white envelope across the counter.
Dillen had to remove his work gloves to open the tiny thing. Inside was her calling card with her name embossed in raised black font—Alice Lorraine Pinter Truett. He flipped the card and saw her neat looping script in pencil.
We are lunching at the hotel.
Please feel free to join us at your earliest convenience.
* * *
Alice secured a porter and, after speaking to the ticket operator, determined that the only acceptable hotel in this small oasis in the mountains was the Blue River. She was told the establishment was within easy walking distance, but the ice made travel a challenge. She was greatly relieved to see that the ladies seemed respectable and the male residents did not strut about with pistols on their hips like gunslingers, except Dillen. She had noted that he was armed.
The hotel itself was a pleasant surprise, opulent in a way that was not garish, but still it gleamed with polished wood, fine fabrics and chandeliers with sparkling crystals. The dining room appeared an inviting place to begin.
She gave her luggage to the bellman and saw it secured before tipping him for his trouble. Her father always handled the money and Alice had limited experience with such matters. Then she left word with the clerk at the front desk about her expectations that a Mr. Roach would be joining them in the dining room. She felt quite pleased at having conducted the business by herself. As long as no one could see how her knees were knocking beneath her skirts, she might almost be mistaken for a competent caregiver. It was a small step toward proving her mettle but she still counted it, along with making her trip from Omaha unescorted. Sylvia’s death proved to Alice that her friend had managed more life in her short years than Alice had in her entire lifetime, and she was three years older than Dillen’s sister had been. The realization disconcerted and had brought her to this place despite her mother’s objections. She would see Dillen and reconcile what had passed between them one way or the other. From the look of him, he had not been pining for her. Even more annoying, he had run out on her a second time. It was enough to make her feel as if she carried some form of plague.
Once settled in the dining room, close to the woodstove, she had not even time to lift the menu before Colin tugged at her skirt. A few minutes later they had returned from the privy and prevailed on a waiter to allow them to wash their hands. This time she read the first menu item before Colin again tugged at her skirts.
“Where’s Uncle Dillen?”
She knew that children should be seen and not heard. She knew because her mother had constantly said so. Still, she did not have the heart to shush him. At six, Colin was an inexhaustible sponge, soaking up everything around him and curious as a cat.
“I’m not sure, dear.”
She redirected their attention toward lunch, and soon her selection was served. The fare was excellent, far better than the bustle and rush of the rail station meals. Alice savored her pot of gunpowder tea as the boys devoured their apple pie as if they had not already eaten everything on their plates. They seemed to be always hungry. Alice watched them with a mixture of pride and sorrow. Very soon she would have to give them up and return to her home. She had only had them for three weeks. Two after Sylvia took ill. And one since her friend’s burial beside her husband, Ben Asher.
The hotel manager finally arrived, as she had requested, and she asked if he knew Dillen Roach.
“Roach, yes, ma’am. He took over the Harvey place, about three miles outside of town. Small spread, but nice. Horses mostly. Hear he’s a real whiz with horses. I can get you directions.”
Alice frowned at learning Dillen had a horse ranch. A man with a home was usually able to wed. Perhaps to a woman to whom he had professed the most tender of emotions and declared the most honorable of intentions. But that was before he learned the truth. Why hadn’t she told him sooner?
Because deep in your heart you wanted a man who loved you for yourself and not for your money. She could hardly blame him for leaving her. A lie was a black and evil thing.
She asked the manager if Mr. Roach was married.
“No, ma’am.”
She closed her eyes in a vain effort to hide her relief. But the joy was short-lived, for if Dillen had a place of his own and had not even written her, well, that told her all she needed to know. She thanked the manager and he took his leave. Alice poured another cup of tea with a shaking hand.
If there was anything Alice had learned following Dillen’s leave-taking, it was that, unlike the other men in her life, Dillen was not lured by her family’s fortune. Without that money, what was she? She felt the determination to learn the answer to that question. She had lived a sheltered life quite long enough. Alice was ready to see what she was made of.
She