Chapter 1 
Chapter 1 Rachel Paxton carefully wrapped the lustrous silk gown in brown paper, tied string around it firmly, and handed the package to Mrs. Winston’s maid. Mrs. Winston handed her a crisp ten-dollar bill.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Rachel said, her eyes downcast.
“You’re welcome, Miss Paxton. I’ll see you at my house next week for a fitting on that travel ensemble.”
“Very good,” Rachel said. She walked with the customer to the door. Once Mrs. Winston and her maid were outside, she closed it and let out a quiet, “Thank You, Lord!” She would be able to pay her month’s rent, buy a few supplies for her business, and eat reasonably well for a while.
She went to her worktable and took out the pattern she would use for the next customer’s formal ball gown.
The street door swung open, and she looked up, smiling as the postman entered.
“Mr. Bailey, good morning.”
“Good day to you, Miss Paxton.” He handed her two envelopes.
“Thank you very much.” Rachel waited until he left, and opened the first one. Her account at the yard goods store had accumulated a bit more than she’d remembered. She hoped another customer would pay her this week. Even though she was constantly busy with her sewing for Boston society women, Rachel sometimes found it hard to get by. With a sigh she opened the second envelope.
Her heart lurched then raced as she read the heading. The letter was from an attorney she had never heard of, a Mr. Donald McClure, Esquire, of Fort Worth, Texas. What on earth would a lawyer two thousand miles away want with her? She held her breath and skimmed the letter, which was written with a clear, bold hand.
Dear Miss Paxton, This letter is to inform you that you are the heir of Mr. Randolph Hill, deceased March 23 instant …
Stunned, Rachel plunked down onto the stool she used when pinning up ladies’ hems, the letter dangling limply from her hand. This communication made no sense to her.
Mr. Hill’s name she recognized. He was the man whose ad in the newspaper’s matrimonial column she had answered a year ago. They had corresponded for a few months. Rachel had received a total of four letters from him. He sounded like a nice man, sincere and hardworking. But after he told her about the rough life he lived on his ranch, she had decided that she was not really made for that kind of life. She was a city girl, and she thrived on contact with other people.
It was true, she didn’t like having to earn her living or having to share a small boardinghouse room with a woman who cooked at a nearby restaurant. She and Rhoda got along all right, but both of them longed for homes of their own and, God willing, families to love and nourish.
A small part of Rachel’s heart longed for adventure—and love—but she didn’t think the ranch in wild and distant Texas was the right place for her. She’d written to Mr. Hill apologetically, telling him she regretted taking up his time. She advised him to look elsewhere for a bride. Someone less timid and fearful than she was would be better suited for the role.
Now he was dead. How? Why?
She read the first part of the letter again, but Mr. McClure didn’t divulge that information, only that Randolph Hill had named her sole heir to his estate.
Rachel couldn’t imagine why Mr. Hill had done that after she’d turned him down. She read the rest of the letter carefully, her dismay growing line by line.
One provision of the bequest was that Rachel must live on Mr. Hill’s property for at least a month to inherit it. Was this his way of forcing her to go to Texas, even though he was no longer there? Was it some warped revenge for her rejection?
Her mind whirled. She would have to write to the attorney this evening. She didn’t want to leave her business and strike out for Fort Worth. In fact, she couldn’t. She barely had enough money to cover her month’s expenses, let alone train fare all the way to Texas.
The door opened and two ladies came in, smiling and chattering as they walked.
Rachel crammed the letter into the cupboard where she kept extra lengths of cloth. She would deal with it this evening. Meanwhile, it could simmer in the back of her mind. As of that moment, she was inclined simply to tell Mr. McClure that she wasn’t coming and didn’t want Mr. Hill’s ranch.
“Hello, Miss Simpson,” she said to one of the women, a debutante who was an occasional customer.
“Good morning.” Miss Simpson held out a hand toward her companion. “Miss Paxton, this is my cousin, Cynthia Bowman. She’s interested in a couple of summer day dresses.”
Rachel quickly assessed the fashions the two women were wearing. She put on her best smile, relegating the attorney’s letter to the far recesses of her mind. “Welcome, Miss Bowman. I see you like the new, longer bodice.”
“Not necessarily,” Miss Bowman said. “Is that the fashion in Boston now?”
“Let me show you some of the newest patterns I’ve received from New York and Paris.”
Rachel turned to her pattern boxes, determined to end this interview with a sizable new order.
Three weeks later Rachel was taking measurements from Mrs. William Stafford, a new mother whose wardrobe needed adjustments.
“I’m certain I can let out the gray worsted and the striped silk. I’m not so sure about the muslin.” She slid the measuring tape around Mrs. Stafford’s hips. The lady had certainly retained some of the weight gained during pregnancy, but mostly in the area of her waist. Her bust was also a little larger, but since she had decided not to nurse her infant, Rachel was sure that would soon decrease. Mrs. Stafford was one who would restrict her diet, no matter what.
“I can’t believe that green dress won’t button,” the woman said in an aggrieved tone.
“I’m sure you’ll be back into it in a few weeks,” Rachel said. “Sometimes it takes ladies awhile to get their figure back, but I know you can do it.”
“Hmm, yes. Well, in the meantime, it’s so hot this summer; I suppose I will need another dress. Something loose and flowing, perhaps?” She arched her eyebrows.
Rachel nodded. Some women saw her as their last hope to retain a fashionable silhouette. “Of course. And I’ll stitch it up so that it carries a wide sash at the waist and you can adjust it as your weight changes. Or perhaps an empire waist would flatter you.” She ruffled through the pattern sketches. “What do you think of this?” She pointed to a dress that would allow for a weight loss—or gain—of five or ten pounds.
The door was flung open, and a boy of about twelve stood panting on the step, peering in at her.
“Telegram for Miss Rachel Paxton.”
Rachel opened her mouth and then closed it. Telegrams meant bad news. Tragedy. She’d never had one before in her life. Slowly she stepped toward the boy. He handed her an envelope but lingered. For a moment she wondered if he was waiting for her to read it and send a reply, but then she realized he wanted a coin for his service. She hurried to a cupboard and took a copper from the tin box within.
“Thank you, miss.” He tipped his hat and scooted out the door as soon as he had pocketed the coin.
“I hope it’s not bad news,” Mrs. Stafford said.
Rachel stuck the envelope in the cupboard with the tin.
“Don’t you want to read it?”
She turned to face Mrs. Stafford. “I’m sure it can wait until we’ve finished.”
“But, my dear.” The customer walked over and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Surely it’s important. If you’d like privacy, I can come back later.”
“No.” Rachel didn’t want to take a chance the customer wouldn’t return, meaning she would lose the sale. She managed a smile. “If you’d like, I can give you a cup of tea and take just a moment to look at the message.”
“That sounds like a good plan,” Mrs. Stafford said.
Rachel kept the teakettle on the back of the small stove’s flat top in the room behind the shop. In five minutes she’d brought it to a boil. She prepared tea and took the cup and saucer on a tray out to the shop. Mrs. Stafford was sitting on her stool and eyeing two sketches that she held, one in each hand.
“Thank you.” She accepted the cup and laid the sketches on the worktable. “I’m hovering between these two. Perhaps I’ll be extravagant and have you make one of each.”
“I’m sure you’d put two summer dresses to good use, ma’am.”
Mrs. Stafford sipped her tea. “Mm, that’s very good. Now read your telegram, dear. Take all the time you need.”
Glad for such an understanding customer, yet dreading what she would read, Rachel moved slowly to the cupboard and took out the envelope. Her parents were dead, and she had only one sibling, a much older brother who had moved to Connecticut ten years ago. Had something happened to Gideon? She certainly hoped not, even though they weren’t close and she hadn’t seen him in a decade.
Her hands shook as she forced the flap open and drew out the slip of paper. Of all things! It was from that lawyer. It took her a moment to absorb the full import of the message.
ESTATE WILL SEND FUNDS FOR YOUR TRAVEL AND INCIDENTAL EXPENSES Stop PLEASE ADVISE SEND BY MAIL OR BANK TRANSFER Stop SINCERELY D MCCLURE ESQ.
She stood staring at the words and feeling very stupid. Did the man expect her to reply by telegram? That would take her entire savings. She was inclined to go into the back room and throw the telegram into the firebox, but she couldn’t do that.
Mrs. Stafford stood and walked toward her. “Is there anything I can do, Miss Paxton?”
“No, no.” Rachel slid the paper back into the envelope and laid it on the cupboard shelf. “It’s something I can attend to later.”
“Not bad news then?”
“Not really. Just … business, of sorts. Now, what did you decide?” She went over and picked up the fashion sketches. For a half hour she retained a cheerful attitude and showed Mrs. Stafford fabric samples and discussed hemlines, tucks, and pleats. As she worked, a vague plan formed in her mind. Rhoda Sinclair, her roommate at the boardinghouse, was a practical soul. Rhoda knew about Rachel’s correspondence with the rancher but not about the bequest. Rachel had kept that to herself, feeling slightly guilty, as though she must have somehow offended Mr. Hill. But she and Rhoda could discuss the telegram tonight. If anyone could make sense of this, it was Rhoda.
“Of course you should go! Think, Rachel.” Rhoda shook her head and studied Rachel as they ate together that evening in their third-floor room. “The poor man has left you valuable property. If you go out for a month and hate it, you can still take possession and sell the ranch. Surely that would give you enough money to hire an assistant and maybe even set up a fashionable dress shop.”
Rachel hadn’t considered that. For several years her dream had been owning her own clothing store, but she’d never had funds to even expand the sewing business. Maybe now …
“But I’ve got several orders pending.” She eyed Rhoda helplessly. “I can’t run off and leave my customers without their new gowns. I’d never get any more business in this town.”
“If you decided to come back and resume your dressmaking.”
Rachel caught her breath. “You don’t think I’d really start raising cattle on some dusty ranch in the wilds of Texas, do you?”
“I don’t know what you’d do.” Rhoda smiled and patted her shoulder. “Think about it. If nothing else, it’s a free trip. A change of scenery. You’ll meet all sorts of people, and maybe even meet some people you’ll find helpful in your business, even if you decide to come back to Boston. And you might come back richer. Certainly not poorer. The attorney said the estate will fund your incidental expenses. I say finish up the orders you have, don’t take any more for now, and head west.”
The idea frightened Rachel. But why not? Rhoda was right. Taking the trip in itself would be an adventure, and perhaps advantageous. She’d been on her own since her father died—nearly twelve years now. She’d been fifteen when he passed away, leaving her only enough money to survive for a few months. Necessity had forced her to move into the boardinghouse and scare up enough dressmaking to keep her alive. It had taken her two years to afford rental on the shop where she now took orders and did her sewing. What if she got a thousand dollars out of this venture? Or even a few hundred? It would make a huge difference in her future.
“How long would it take you to fulfill the orders you have right now?” Rhoda asked.
Rachel did some quick calculations. “A month at least.”
“What if you hired a girl to help you? Someone to do the hems and straight seams. The buttonholes, maybe. Don’t you know someone who can do the plain work?”
“Yes,” Rachel said slowly.
“How long would it take with help?”
“Three weeks, maybe.”
“That gives you time to write the lawyer, or send him a telegram with your travel date. He’ll send you the money for your ticket.”
“I don’t know.” Rachel’s stomach was already fluttering, and she hadn’t decided yet.
“Honestly!” Rhoda jumped up and paced to the window, where she whirled in a cloud of calico skirt that Rachel had sewn for her. “Listen to me. This could be the biggest opportunity of your life!”
Rachel pulled in a slow breath and straightened her shoulders. “You’re right. I think I’ll walk over to the Smiths’ house and see if Emmy would like to do some sewing for me.”