the doorway into the hall. Bill had turned one of the two first-floor bedrooms into his study. She paused at the door, looking in, then continued down the long corridor toward the kitchen.
Chance knew he was in trouble. He had to convince her to keep the Flush open, to keep everybody working and the customers pouring in. If he didn’t, the past six months would have been for nothing. Six months of keeping his eyes and ears open and his mouth shut, biding his time, waiting for Bill’s partner to surface.
“I know why you’re closing it,” he called after her. “And it’s not because you’re a schoolmarm shocked at the idea of owning a saloon.”
“Schoolteacher,” she corrected. She grabbed her cloak off a peg by the back door and readied herself to go outside.
He held the door for her, then followed her down the back steps. “A woman like you wouldn’t be bothered by what people would think.”
“A woman like me.” She kept walking, past the row of cabins and the bunkhouse, toward the barns and corral.
Rowdy and Gus, busy with morning chores, tipped their hats to her as she marched by.
“A woman who’s smart, who knows her own mind.” He caught up with her and took her arm. She immediately pulled it away. “I like smart women.”
“How fascinating.”
He was losing her. He had to think of something, and fast. She skirted a pile of horse dung, rounded the corral and stopped at the edge of the meadow filling a long valley choked with spring wildflowers as far as the eye could see.
She shaded her eyes from the early morning sun and looked out at the smattering of cattle, what remained of Wild Bill’s herd.
“You’re afraid,” he said on impulse.
“What?” She turned to look at him.
“You heard me. You’re afraid.”
“Of what?” Her spine stiffened.
“Of everything.” He nodded toward the house. “The saloon, the customers, Delilah and the girls. Jim, Tom, the hired hands—” He glanced back at Rowdy and Gus who’d stopped their work and were watching. “And me.”
“I most certainly am not!”
“The ranch, too. It’s still a ranch, you know. A hundred head or so. Angus beef. Damned fine stock.”
Her cheeks blazed, not with embarrassment this time, but anger. It bothered him that after only two days he knew her well enough to know the difference. The breeze caught a tendril of her hair, freed it from the tight little bun at the back of her head, and whipped it across her face.
“John, er, Mr. Gardner told me the stock were worthless.” She looked out across the valley at the cattle as an excuse to stop looking at him.
“Gardner’s an idiot. This was a profitable cattle ranch once. I can tell. With a couple thousand head and the right help, a man could really make something of himself here.” Without thinking, he crouched and plucked a handful of grass from the muddy ground, sifting it between his fingers as he gazed off into the distance. “Good water and sweet grass. It’s a choice piece of land, Dora. Believe me, I’d know.”
The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. He bit off a silent curse and abruptly stood, tossing the last few blades aside.
“Would you?” Dora looked him up and down. “And what exactly would a man like you know about land and cattle ranching?”
He froze, his gaze locked on hers. He’d gotten carried away, and the slip would cost him. Dora Fitzpatrick was no simpleton.
“Just what is your history, Mr. Wellesley? No one seems to know.”
Which was exactly how he wanted it.
“Mr. Wellesley?” She looked at him strangely. Her gray eyes had gone soft, all tenderness and concern. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had looked at him like that.
“I, uh…”
“Were you a rancher before you went into…um, gambling?”
He looked out over the rolling green pastures flecked with spring columbine and purple sage, and thought for a fleeting moment about the man he’d once been. Dora watched him closely, and he had the uncomfortable feeling she saw right through him.
“No,” she said crisply, though the canny look in her eyes contradicted her verdict. “I didn’t think so.”
He forced a smile and slipped easily into the pretense that had become as comfortable as a pair of old boots. She was not going to turn this around on him. He circled back to his original statement. “Trust me, you’re afraid.”
She looked at him, and for a heartbeat he saw in her eyes that he was right. An uncomfortable feeling gripped him. He sucked in a breath, sharp with the scents of cattle and sage and the barest hint of lilac. He hadn’t noticed before today that she wore perfume.
“You don’t know me,” she said.
“No, I don’t.” He thought about the life he’d had, rich and full of promise, before the unthinkable had happened eighteen months ago. What would he have thought of Dora Fitzpatrick then? “I don’t,” he said, “but I’d like to.”
Chapter Four
“I want that painting removed by the time I return from church.”
“Whatever you say, Miss Dora.” Jim continued sweeping the broken glass, cigar butts and other evidence of the saloon’s profitable Saturday-night business into a tidy pile near the swinging double doors.
Dora gazed at her reflection in the mirror above the bar and adjusted her hat. “I mean it, Jim. And I’d like you to lock the doors after I leave. The saloon is closed. No one’s to be admitted.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I know you think I’m being unreasonable. But I’m certain Tom and Delilah, and the…um, girls, can find decent jobs elsewhere.” She meant to retain Gus and Rowdy to take care of the place, and to help her with the conversion of the saloon into a school—if she could afford it. She wasn’t certain, yet, that she could.
Jim hadn’t lied. Last night’s take, together with Friday’s, had been enough to pay the weekly salaries of the staff, in addition to one of the outstanding bills from a local merchant. She’d have to make arrangements to pay the rest of her father’s debts over time.
Surely the town council would see things her way. Last Call was in desperate need of a school, and one less saloon could hardly matter. She was certain John Gardner would help her convince them, and Sunday services at the Methodist church in town was the perfect place to begin her campaign.
“Are you ready?” Chance stood silhouetted in the entrance, morning sun at his back, casually twirling his watch fob.
“Perhaps I should have asked you to lock the doors sooner,” she said to Jim.
The bartender shot him a grin.
“I’ve got the buckboard right out front.”
Surely he didn’t think she was going to church with him? Did gamblers even go to church? She didn’t think so.
Snatching her reticule off the bar, she walked toward him. “You’re supposed to be leaving today.” As an afterthought she checked her pocket to make certain her diary along with her father’s letter were tucked safely inside.
“Not before church. Wouldn’t be proper, now would it?”
She disregarded his open appraisal of her attire as she approached, then ducked neatly under his arm and out the door. She was seated on the buckboard, reins in hand, before he realized her intent.
“Whoa!” he called as she snapped the reins.