4 

I’m disappointed in you, Barrett.” Richard’s normally placid brown eyes flashed with anger. For a second, Barrett considered ignoring his friend’s comment, but he knew Richard too well. The man would not leave the morning room, where they were currently enjoying a late evening repast, complete with some of Mrs. Melnor’s berry pie, until he was satisfied.

“What did I do wrong now?” Barrett helped himself to a second piece of pie. “I attended the symphony, although you know I enjoy that about as much as being thrown from a horse. Before and after the performance, I spent at least an hour talking to every potential constituent you sent my way. I—”

Richard’s hand made a slicing motion. “You were stupid, and you don’t even know how stupid you were.”

“I’m sure you intend to rectify that lapse.” Barrett infused his words with sarcasm, hoping to deflect Richard’s annoyance.

It didn’t work. His newly appointed business manager frowned. “You ignored Miriam during intermission. Instead of devoting yourself to the finest woman in Cheyenne, possibly in the entire territory, you wasted time talking to a seamstress. Honestly, Barrett, I don’t know what you were thinking, if you were even thinking.”

Barrett decided not to respond while Richard reached for his cup and took a long swallow of coffee. The man was on a tear, and the easiest way to end it was to let it run its course.

“I’ll admit the seamstress is pretty enough, if you like dark hair and eyes,” Richard conceded as he forked a piece of pie, “but no one can compare to Miriam. She’s a golden goddess, and yet you didn’t seem to know she was there.”

“That’s not true. She was my companion for the evening. I escorted her to and from the opera house. I never left her side. As I recall, it was you who took her away. What was I supposed to do? Drag her from you? I don’t think that would have accomplished anything other than make us all look foolish.”

Richard didn’t bother to swallow his pie before he retorted. “I only took her away because you were gawking at the seamstress.”

“Her name is Madame Charlotte, and I wasn’t gawking.”

Throwing up his hands in exasperation, Richard glared at Barrett. “See what I mean? You’re defending the woman who sews your future wife’s clothing rather than caring about Miriam, the woman who’s going to share your life and help you get elected. You don’t deserve her. A woman like Miriam should be cherished, not ignored for a mere seamstress.”

That made four times Richard had called Charlotte a seamstress. It wasn’t a matter of class. Barrett knew that. Unlike Miriam’s parents with their rigid ideas of social standing, Richard had never before denigrated a person simply because of the work he did. There had to be something else bothering his friend. Barrett took another bite of pie, chewing carefully as he thought about what Richard had said.

“It sounds to me as if you fancy Miriam yourself.”

There was a second of silence before Richard said, “It’s you and your career I’m worried about. That’s all.”

The words rang false.

If Warren had been thirty years younger, he might have jumped with joy, but legs that were more than half a century old did not take kindly to such exuberance. Instead, he poured himself a glass of whiskey and toasted his good fortune.

She was perfect. Not beautiful, but not ugly, either. Not so young that people would gossip, but young enough that she could give him a child of his own. Best of all, she was respectable. Highly respectable, unlike the women who saw to his other needs. No one would look askance if Warren married a hardworking widow with a small child. They’d applaud him for his kindness. They’d see that he was indeed an upright citizen, a man worthy of membership in the Cheyenne Club.

Gwen Amos was perfect.

“You shouldn’t have disappeared with him.”

Miriam took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “I didn’t disappear. Richard and I remained on the sidewalk in full view of anyone who came outside. And, Mama, I might add that there were many who did.”

Her mother picked up the silver-backed mirror from Miriam’s dressing table and scrutinized her reflection. Apparently pleased that she had not discovered any new wrinkles, she nodded briskly. “What exactly did you talk about?”

“Music. Richard told me that although he enjoyed the Ninth, his favorite piece by Beethoven is the allegretto from the Seventh Symphony.” As Miriam had expected, her mother rolled her eyes. She might as well be speaking Greek for all Mama understood. Perhaps that was why the memory of her conversation with Richard lingered in Miriam’s mind. It was the first time she’d found someone who shared her love of music enough to spend a quarter of an hour discussing the finer points of two melodies.

Barrett would have listened politely if she had told him that the tempo was slightly too slow during the first movement of tonight’s performance, but he wouldn’t have understood. Richard did. Barrett would have agreed if she’d announced that the “Ode to Joy” was a magnificent piece of music, and then he would have changed the subject. Richard was different. He’d asked her why she cared for the Ode, what specific aspect of the music touched her heart.

Richard might not be as handsome as Barrett. He might not be quite as wealthy. He might not be a man her parents would consider a suitable son-in-law because he had no aspirations outside of Wyoming, but he challenged her in ways no other man had. That was the reason—the only reason—she couldn’t stop thinking of him.

“Music!” Mama sniffed. “I suppose that’s perfectly respectable, but make sure it doesn’t happen again. Even though the man is almost old enough to be your father and no one would think you were interested in him, you wouldn’t want people to have the wrong impression, would you?”

“No, Mama.”

Two days later, Charlotte pinned on a hat and slid her hands into gloves. Though she was only going next door and could forgo a cloak, no well-dressed lady would consider leaving her home without a hat and gloves.

“I should be gone only a few minutes,” she told Molly, who was watching Élan in her absence. It was a quiet time in the shop, and Charlotte needed a few items for David. Gwen had chuckled over the fact that Charlotte, whose creations dressed many of Cheyenne’s wealthiest women, bought clothing for her son. A proverbial shoemaker’s child, she had declared. Be that as it may, David had worn holes in his socks, and while Charlotte might be an expert seamstress, darning was not one of her accomplishments. Fortunately for her, Yates’s Dry Goods occupied the northern half of the building that housed Élan. With the James Sisters Millinery just down the block, Charlotte and Mr. Yates had chuckled over the fact that the city’s women could clothe themselves from head to foot, all without crossing a street. Men who wanted custom-tailored suits had a slightly more difficult shopping experience, for the best tailors were more than a block away, but for those less particular customers, Mr. Yates offered ready-made trousers, shirts, and coats.

Charlotte was reaching for the doorknob, preparing to enter Mr. Yates’s establishment, when the door swung open.

“Mr. Landry.” Though it was foolish in the extreme, Charlotte’s heart began to race. The man looked even more handsome dressed in his ordinary clothes than he had at the opera house. She had thought nothing could compare to the sartorial elegance of his evening coat, but the tweed sack coat he wore this morning was at least as attractive. Or perhaps it had nothing to do with the clothing and everything to do with the man inside.

“Madame Charlotte.” He doffed his hat in greeting, then wrinkled his nose as he closed the door behind him and moved to her side, positioning himself so that the slight breeze would not chill her. “I suspect it’s very forward of me, but would you object if we dispensed with formality? My friends call me Barrett, and I’d like to count you among them.”

It was a simple request, yet it warmed Charlotte’s heart more than the October sun. “I’d be honored if you called me Charlotte.” She paused before pronouncing the name that then lingered on her tongue. “Barrett.” She had called him that in her mind, but this was the first time she had spoken the word. It felt good and at the same time oddly unsettling to be so familiar with him. Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, Charlotte gestured toward the package Barrett held in his left hand. “I see your shopping excursion was successful.”

One of the crooked smiles that she found so endearing lit his face. “Promise you won’t tell Mr. Bradley I was here.”

“That’s an easy promise to make, since I have no idea who Mr. Bradley is.”

“He’s my butler. Richard and Warren convinced me that I needed one if I was going to live on Ferguson Street.”

Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “I live on Ferguson Street,” she pointed out, “and I don’t have a butler.”

“Touché. I should have said that they convinced me that if I was going to live in an excessively ornate house with enough rooms for a family of ten, I needed a butler. Now I find myself in a predicament, because that very same butler believes that he should be responsible for all of what he calls procurement.” Barrett gave the brown-paper-wrapped package a rueful look.

Charlotte couldn’t help it. She chuckled as she stared at the man who stood so close that she could smell the bay rum on his cheeks. Listening to Miriam’s description of him, Charlotte had believed Barrett to be like Jeffrey. He wasn’t. Jeffrey would never have mocked his station in life, especially if it was such an exalted one. Jeffrey would have found a way to ensure that everyone knew that he lived in a mansion, and Charlotte doubted that he would have done his own procurement, as Barrett called it.

“I have to disagree with you. Your house is not excessively ornate,” she said firmly. “I find it tasteful and remarkably restrained.” Though the three-story brick building boasted four chimneys and an equal number of bay windows, not to mention a turret, nothing about it seemed ostentatious. Compared to some of the other cattle barons’ houses, it could almost be described as modest. “I can’t disagree with one part of your description, though. Your home is large, especially compared to my lodging.” She accompanied the last sentence with a gesture toward the second floor of the building.

“That’s right. I heard you lived above your shop.”

“With Mrs. Amos and her daughter.” Charlotte couldn’t help smiling at the irony. “Four of us live in a fraction of the space you own.”

The instant the words were out of her mouth, Charlotte winced. Perhaps she would be fortunate and Barrett wouldn’t notice that she’d said “four.”

“Four people?” It was not her lucky day. “Who’s there besides you, Mrs. Amos, and her daughter?”

There was no way out of the predicament save the truth. “My son,” she said. Oddly, she felt a sense of relief once she’d made the admission. Barrett Landry was not the baron. She had no reason to fear him.

Barrett frowned, but Charlotte couldn’t tell whether it was because of her words or the cloud that chilled the air and made her shiver. “You’re fortunate to have Mrs. Amos and the children. My house can be lonely, but I doubt you have that problem.”

“Indeed, I don’t. David sees to that.”

“David’s your son?”

“Yes. He’s a very special boy.”

Barrett appeared intrigued, and for a second Charlotte expected him to ask her why her son was special. Instead, he said only, “Perhaps I can meet him someday.”

“Perhaps.” It was the polite response, even if it would never happen. Though she had made a major step forward by admitting David’s existence to this man, she was not ready to expose her son to potential scorn. Barrett appeared to be kind, but there was no way of knowing how he would react if he learned that David was blind. As a cool breeze swept down the street, Charlotte shivered again. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to buy a few items before I turn into an icicle.” And I want to end this discussion of my son.

Seconds later, she was inside the store. A quick glance told her there were no other customers, and so she walked briskly toward the back counter, where the proprietor greeted her with a broad smile.

“I saw you talking to Mr. Landry.” No more than medium height, Mr. Yates looked smaller than that because of his thin frame and stooped shoulders. Weary was the adjective Charlotte normally applied to him, and yet this afternoon his gray eyes sparkled with what appeared to be amusement. “Landry’s a good man. He bought shirts from me when he first came to Wyoming, and he still comes here, even though he could shop anywhere. A good man,” Mr. Yates repeated, almost as if he realized that Charlotte needed the assurance. “Now, what can I get for you?”

“David needs new socks. I’m afraid I haven’t had time to knit.”

Shaking his head, the man who seemed older than the sixty-five years he acknowledged reached for a box of children’s socks. “Prudence used to say that knitting relaxed her, but I don’t imagine you have time to relax.”

“Unfortunately, you’re right.” She’d been busy before, but now that she was remaking Miriam’s old gowns for Mrs. Kendall’s boarders, Charlotte had even less time. Perhaps it was foolish, not telling Gwen what she was doing, but Charlotte knew that Élan’s cachet would be compromised if anyone learned she was providing gowns to the city’s less fortunate. While Gwen would never intentionally tell anyone, she might let something slip. And so Charlotte sewed in her room late at night, knowing that the light would not disturb David.

“I’m not complaining,” she told Mr. Yates. “Business is good, and needing socks gives me an excuse to visit you.” Charlotte took her time, choosing two pair each of brown and black stockings, darting occasional glances at the proprietor. It was as she had feared. Though Mr. Yates had appeared chipper when she’d entered the store, his demeanor changed when he didn’t realize she was watching him. “Is something wrong?” she asked. “You look a bit glum.”

His eyes clouded as he nodded slowly. “Nothing’s the same without Prudence.” His wife of more than forty years had died six months before Charlotte arrived in Cheyenne, and Gwen, who had known the elderly man for the half dozen years she had been in Wyoming, claimed that the difference in the man’s attitude had been dramatic. “It’s like he lost his zest for living,” Gwen had said. “Poor man.” That was one of the reasons the two women insisted that Mr. Yates join them for Sunday dinner a couple times each month. Even though David’s and Rose’s antics tired him, Charlotte knew he enjoyed both Gwen’s cooking and their company.

“Some days I don’t even want to get out of bed,” Mr. Yates admitted. “My sister down in Arizona keeps telling me I should move there. She says the weather would be kinder to these old bones.” He frowned as he calculated the cost of Charlotte’s purchase. When she’d handed him the few coins, he said, “The trouble is the store. I don’t want to sell it to just anyone, not when Prudence and I worked so hard to turn it into a success. I want someone who’ll do right by the customers.” Mr. Yates paused for a moment, his expression lightening. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in taking over, would you?”

“I wish I could.” Charlotte’s heart went out to Mr. Yates and his dilemma. He had once told her and Gwen that since he and Prudence had had no children, the store was their only legacy, and they had hoped it would continue, even when they were both gone. “I don’t know anything about running a store like this,” she said, wishing she had another answer for her neighbor. “It’s much different from Élan.” And then there was the money. She had none to spare.

The gleam in the shopkeeper’s eyes faded. “I figured you’d say that.” As his lips tightened, he nodded slowly. “It’ll be all right. I’ll figure something out.”

Charlotte wished she were as confident.