It left the taste of sour pickle juice in his mouth.
“Double.”
He paused.
“I’ll pay you double what you make at the saloon.”
A hint of desperation had crept into her voice. The money would come in handy, but it was something else that tugged at him, a feeling that there was more going on that she wasn’t saying.
“Mr. Houston...I really want you to be the one escorting me.”
Maybe he could make himself stand being near her in short doses—for the money—and because it would salve his conscience concerning his sister. “How long?”
“Two days. All I need is two days of your time.”
His gut told him to stampede for the door. He should listen to it.
“Please? I really need your help.”
There it was—she’d finally come around to asking him. Now was his chance to squash her the way she’d squashed him. So why wasn’t he throwing it back at her like he’d planned? “What time did you say this ribbon-cutting happens?”
Something glimmered, lighting her eyes. Hope? “The ceremony starts at eleven.”
“Guess I could see my way to doing it for the money. Long as we are clear on that.” At least that was what he was telling himself. “I’ll be by at ten.”
“That will make us late.”
“Half past nine, then.”
She stretched out her hand. “Agreed.”
He hesitated. It was how business deals were made, although usually it was man-to-man. Touching her seemed a might more personal than he wanted at the moment. He kept his hand stuffed in his pocket. “Agreed. Two days.”
Slowly she pulled her hand back. “Yes. Thank you, Mr. Houston.” She turned toward the stairs.
He could handle this. Two days would pass quick enough. Long as he kept the upper hand, it would be easy money. He could tell her off later. Feelin’ a bit ornery, he decided to let her know who was in charge. “Miss Lansing?” Her proper name rolled off his tongue easy enough.
She stopped. “Yes?”
“I’m not much for waiting.”
A slight hesitation was the only indication he’d unnerved her before she replied, “Neither am I, Mr. Houston. I’ll see you in the morning.”
She spun her trim backside on him and walked to the stairs. He watched the swaying movement of her burgundy skirt as she mounted each stair until she stepped out of sight on the landing. A queer feeling rolled in his gut that had nothing to do with the absence of food there.
Turning toward the door, his gaze collided with the desk man’s. The man watched until Caleb stepped through the ornate entryway to the street and let out a long—long—breath.
Heaven help him. Hannah was all grown up.
Hannah woke early the next day, her thoughts on last evening’s encounter. Dressed and ready, she waited at the sitting room window, watching for Caleb to emerge from the saloon.
He hated her. She felt it to her bones. What she’d done years ago had ruined any hope of friendship between them.
She raised her chin. It didn’t matter. This wasn’t a social visit. Paying him would keep things businesslike and proper between them. He was the right man for the job. Although it hurt deep inside that he wouldn’t do it out of the goodness of his heart. He would have—before. But obviously, things had changed. He had changed.
She thought back to the first look she’d had of him in the lobby. He was as tall as a ship’s mast, and, though lean, he looked solid, as though nothing could move him from the path he set. The day’s growth of whiskers and the simple clothes he wore had only enhanced his ruggedness. And the gun belt—low on his hips... He carried a gun now. Years ago he’d only carried a knife.
How much more had he changed on the inside? Was it a fantasy of her own mind that she even knew him at all?
If only things were different. If only she hadn’t been forced to make a choice. The ache in her breast deepened, and she tugged on the pendant. But no. She hadn’t really been forced. She’d done what she had to do. The stark reality was that, at sixteen, she’d wanted to speak more than she’d wanted anything else, even Caleb’s friendship, and so she’d made that vow to Grandfather—a vow that existed to this day.
Absently she twirled the long gold fringe on the heavy draperies. Caleb had been lanky then. That wasn’t the case any longer. Last night she’d noticed his stance that guarded their privacy. How his wide shoulders had easily blocked out the curious stares of Mr. Bennett and Jackson. He’d fairly cocooned her in a corner of the lobby. The thick red hair of his childhood had darkened to the color of a rich brown cherrywood color, and his face—always a bit angular—was now square-jawed and firm. A man’s face. She swallowed. The boy she’d caught sand crabs with on the beach was gone, and in his place stood a compelling stranger. A compelling—brooding—stranger.
A polite knock sounded on her door. She opened it to Jackson.
“Mr. Houston is in the lobby.”
Hannah nodded her acknowledgment and shut the door. She walked to the bedroom and stood before the full-length mirror to smooth her skirt. For the third time that morning, she puffed the sleeves on her blouse and repositioned her blue velvet hat just above her chignon. “What Mr. Houston thinks is not my concern,” she told her image. “It’s the manager at the Hotel Del that I need to impress.” She took a deep breath, grabbed her parasol and started for the door.
In the lobby, the sight of Caleb waiting for her, holding what looked to be a new black Stetson, had her gripping the handle of her parasol a bit more tightly than necessary. He’d been busy. He’d shaved, which brought the strong line of his jaw into view. His hair hung wet and slightly wavy where it brushed his white shirt collar. Instead of the bandanna he’d had on yesterday, a dark gray bow tie circled his neck. He wore a dark gray vest and black pants. And his boots... He’d polished them recently—this morning? Caught off guard by the sudden butterflies inside, she pressed her hand snug against her tummy.
He walked to the base of the stairs, looking her over in much the same way she’d just appraised him. “Mornin’.” He took her cloak from her arms and draped it over her shoulders.
Edward had done the same for her numerous times over the years. So why did Caleb’s closeness and his clean, soapy scent stir those butterflies in her stomach into a frenzy? He picked up a black wool coat lying on the wing-back chair and, with a crooked finger, slung it over his shoulder as he escorted her through the lobby and out the door.
“You’re mighty quiet,” he said once outside.
“I...I expected the same person I met last evening. You...you clean up well.”
He huffed. “I’ll change if that’s what you want. You are paying me to accommodate you.”
“No. Of course not. I’m...more than pleased.” She opened her parasol and propped it on her shoulder. For all his surliness, he sure watched her closely.
“Don’t see those much around these parts.”
“I burn easily.” And she needed something to keep her hands busy. With so many years of signing her thoughts, her hands retained the connection of the words and motions—a weakness should she suddenly forget herself and start signing in the midst of her confrontation with Mr. Barstow today.
“Hmm. Well. Let’s get a move on.”
He accepted her answer easily