hooves rumbled over Eden Street, shaking the foundation of the Cattleman Hotel. Above Will Canfield’s desk the chandelier swayed, the dangling crystals striking a discordant rhythm. The quaking sent a rippling bull’s-eye over his coffee.
A knot settled in the pit of Will’s stomach. The cattle drive filled him with a mixture of jubilation and dread. Jubilation because tomorrow the town would reap the financial benefits of thriving stockyards. Dread because cowboys fresh off the trail were known for their carousing and brawling. After four years serving in the Union Army, Will’s instincts had propelled him to the rank of captain. The war might be over, but he’d learned to trust his gut. Trouble was coming with this bunch. The drovers were two weeks late, which meant those boys would be chomping at the bit.
The sheriff would have his hands full keeping the peace tonight.
A thin keening sound filtered through the commotion; a mournful squalling like the bleating of a baby goat. Will cocked his head toward the door, hearing only the muted roar of the funeral-slow procession below. His ledger vibrated, and the sharp steel nib of his fountain pen jumped. With a sound of frustration he capped his inkwell. He’d finish the accounts later.
By now most of the town had lined the streets for the astounding spectacle. A new band of drovers meant an infusion of cash, and merchants treated their arrival as a celebration. Earlier, Will had caught the fading refrain of a cowboy band playing “Sweet Nightingale” on dulcimer and fiddle.
As one of the town founders and owner of half the buildings in Cowboy Creek, he should join them. Kicking back in his chair, he threaded his hands behind his head and grinned. Instead of worrying about a bunch of drunken cowboys and the trouble they were bound to cause later, he might as well enjoy his success. All of his plans were falling into place. Along with his friends Noah Burgess and Daniel Gardner, he’d set out to make Cowboy Creek a thriving boomtown, and the steady stream of cattle drives into their stockyards proved their achievement.
The faint keening noise caught his attention once more, and he swiveled in his chair. Movement stirred outside the door. Probably the porter, Simon, with his noon meal. When another moment passed but no knock sounded, a twinge of apprehension skimmed along his spine.
Will absently rubbed his aching leg. A piece of shrapnel, a souvenir from the Battle of Little Round Top, remained lodged deep in his thigh. Fearful of sepsis, the doctors had advised cutting off the limb above the wound. Will had forcefully declined, taking his chances with an infection instead. His risk had paid off. Though saddled with a painful limp, he’d kept his leg and finished out his service in the Union Army.
With his cane propped near the door, Will limped the distance. His temporary rooms took up most of the third floor of the hotel. In the luxuriously appointed suite the furniture was covered in plush burgundy velvet. Forest green damask curtains lined with gold fringe draped the windows and filtered out the afternoon sunlight. The space had been designed to impress, and he’d spared no expense. Putting Cowboy Creek on the map meant courting politicians. And if there was one thing statesmen enjoyed, it was being impressed.
Prosperity had the unfortunate side effect of attracting thieves, as well. Upon reaching the door, Will nudged the kick plate with his foot. His senses on alert, he angled his body and peered into the empty corridor.
Nothing.
He glanced down. A lumpy basket of laundry had been abandoned on his threshold. Scratching the back of his neck, he searched for the person who’d left the hamper. Most likely a new maid had made the mistake. The regular staff knew he sent his washing to Chan Lin, who ran the Chinese Laundry on First Street.
The blankets twitched, and Will nearly leaped out of his skin. Heart pounding, he watched with a mixture of horror and wonder as a tiny infant fist attached to a reed-thin arm poked out from beneath the smothering mound. Though the explanation was obvious, his mind refused to believe his eyes. Keeping his body distanced, he stretched out his arm, flicked back the edge of the blanket and recoiled.
Two drowsy blue-black eyes peered up at him.
There was a baby in that basket, all right. The child’s face was red and wrinkled and capped with a shock of dark hair.
Bracing one hand against the door frame, Will extended his bad leg and crouched then studied the odd sight. “Where did you come from, little...uh, person?”
Was it a boy or a girl? He gingerly lifted the opposite edge of the blanket, revealing a minuscule pair of feet encased in soft pink booties. “Girl.”
Abandoning any further exploration, he let the blanket fall back into place. He hadn’t survived the War Between the States without learning when a calculated retreat was in order. He was taking those pink booties at their word.
Sitting back, he dragged one hand through his dark hair. Clearly the baby had been deliberately abandoned in front of his door. Since there weren’t too many women in town, he considered the handful of suspects. Opal Godwin was pregnant, but there was no way this baby was hers. She and her husband were good people with a thriving business. They’d never abandon their child.
Of the four mail-order brides who’d arrived on last month’s train, the widow, Leah, had been four months pregnant with her late husband’s child. There was no missing her condition, which ruled out the other three women. If Leah was obvious in her fifth month, how did a woman hide a full-term pregnancy?
As Will considered other possibilities, the infant’s face screwed up like an apple left too long in the sun. The sound started off innocuous enough. A quiet mewling that barely registered. All too soon the quaint noise intensified into a boisterous wail. Will’s eyes widened at the sheer volume the infant produced. Miniature fists pummeled the air and diminutive pink-swathed feet kicked in frustration.
Growing alarmed, he tentatively reached for the bundle, scooping up several layers along with the infant. The child was impossibly light and small. Even with the enveloping blankets, her entire body nestled into the crook of his elbow.
A flash of movement at the end of the corridor snagged his attention. Not wanting to spook whoever might be hiding in the shadows, Will cautiously searched for the cause of the disturbance. From the corner of his eye he spotted a flicker of blue calico. His discovery was quickly followed by the sound of footsteps hastily pattering down the stairs.
He hesitated only an instant before snatching his cane with his free hand and giving chase. The woman had taken the back way. Planning to block her escape, Will took off in the opposite direction, toward the guest staircase.
As he clumsily navigated his descent, his feet sank into the Oriental carpet overlaying the treads. Mindful of the babe in his arms, he traversed the distance in short order, his bad leg screaming at the sudden exertion. He burst into the lobby and caught a glimpse of familiar blue calico pushing through the crowds. Ignoring his shout, the woman slammed through the brass-lined double doors.
His young porter, Simon, shot him a curious glance as he raced past and followed her outside.
The smell hit him first. A wall of dust polluted with the stench of four thousand animals. Bodies jostled. Men discreetly elbowed each other. Heads bobbed, eyes searching for a better look at the spectacular procession.
In front of the horrified onlookers, the mysterious woman charged straight into the parading line of cattle. Someone shrieked.
In a fraction of a second, the scene descended into chaos. People pushed and shoved. The cattle lowed. The crowd parted. Will’s heart lodged in his throat as an enormous steer with a great spread of pointed horns lunged toward them. He ducked behind a boardwalk support beam, shielding the infant with his body, then braced for a devastating blow.
A whoosh of air skimmed past their scanty shelter. He glanced up.
A cowboy riding a brown-and-white paint horse galloped into the pandemonium. In a blur of hooves, the rider dodged lethal horns and redirected the steer. Spooked animals set off in a trot. Displaying singular precision, the talented horse and rider feinted and parried, urging the steers back into line and slowing their frantic pace. When one particularly stubborn bull refused direction,