Montana Territory, 1880
How had this happened to her?
Eugenia Rutherford stared in dismay as the train chugged out of sight. When she told Daddy how they’d cast her off the train like a common criminal—he’d fix their wagon for good. Daddy didn’t suffer fools gladly.
But then she remembered. She couldn’t tell her father. She’d run away to prove a point.
The depot sign swung in a light July breeze. Surveying the hardscrabble mining town of Silver Strike, her nose wrinkled. Apropos, considering who she was—the daughter of one of the richest men in California. A silver king.
She just hadn’t counted on being unceremoniously dumped in the middle of Nowhere, Montana. Maybe she’d gone too far this time.
No sign of a porter. Grimacing, she clutched her valise and picked her way over the railroad track toward the station. She couldn’t wait to shake the dust off this one-horse town.
Visor shading his brow, a man pored over a train schedule at the ticket counter. She rapped her gloved knuckle on the pane of glass, and he jumped.
He scowled. “What?”
Not the usual deferential treatment to which she was accustomed. Her mouth tightened. Maybe Daddy needed to buy this whole stinking town and teach them a lesson.
“I’d like a ticket to Chicago, if you please.”
He mumbled the price of a ticket.
“I’m Eugenia Rutherford, and I don’t carry money.”
“No money, no ticket.”
She frowned. “Do you know who my father is, sir?”
“I don’t care if you’re the queen of Alibaba. No money, no ticket.” And with that, he snapped the window closed.
“How dare you …”
But what now? She did a slow one-eighty and spotted the ornate Silver Strike Hotel at the end of what passed for Main Street.
Daddy would wire her some credit. Might as well get a decent meal and a room for the night. Although, what this last outpost of civilization considered a decent meal was anybody’s guess.
NEXT MOVE, YOURS.
Cort crushed the telegram in his fist.
“Bad news, mister?”
Cort glanced at the telegraph operator. “The worst.”
He’d found Mrs. Anderson’s note when he returned to the house from the fields. She’d resigned and “borrowed” his buckboard, which she promised to leave outside the telegraph office. Hired right out from under him by the confounded sender of the telegram.
Women. They were all alike. Loyalty meant nothing. Good riddance to the lot of them.
Except … What was he going to do about Granny?
Since the stroke, she needed constant care. His energetic grandmother had shriveled into someone he no longer recognized. Her vivacious spirit reduced to a low ember. The doc told Cort not to expect her to live long.
Cort wouldn’t wish to prolong her life. Not the way she was now. But he missed her. Really missed her.
He’d already left her too long alone at the homestead.
Ten-year-old Luke, from the foundling home, who ran errands for the telegraph office, plucked at Cort’s shirtsleeve. “Who’s gonna take care of ole Miz Dahlgren now?”
Cort exhaled. “A good question, young man. A very good question.”
The boy stuffed his hands in his trousers, which needed patching. Something his grandma had done in her spare time—making new clothes for the children at the Home in Silver Strike near their old homestead.
“I’m purt near strong as a growed man.” The boy flexed a nonexistent muscle. “I know the way to your farm. I happen to be in the market for extra work.”
“Oh you are, huh?” Cort rolled his tongue in his cheek till a thought struck him. “How do you know where we live? I didn’t realize you’d been to the homestead before.”
“I delivered a telegram to Mrs. Anderson yesterday.”
Another telegram?
“You didn’t happen to read—I mean notice—what it said, did you? Or who sent it?”
Luke squared his thin shoulders. “I did not, sir. I am a professional.”
Fair enough. Besides, Cort could well imagine who’d sent the first telegram to the farm. That blasted man was playing chess with people’s lives. But to shanghai an elderly woman’s nurse was diabolical even for him. And for what purpose?
Cort hadn’t the foggiest idea. Next move, yours. What did that mean?
He scrubbed the back of his neck with his hand. The way Granny was fading, he didn’t think he’d have long to worry about her situation. He’d truly be alone then.
Feeling a kinship with the orphan, he reached into his pocket. “I’ll keep your offer in mind, young fella.” He pulled out a penny. “Why don’t you treat yourself and get something sweet at the mercantile?”
Luke drew himself up, all four foot eight inches. “I work for a living, sir. I don’t take handouts.”
An interesting attitude for a foundling, but he couldn’t fault Luke’s work ethic. Or his budding entrepreneurship.
“Call it an investment in the future. And remember me when you make your first million, okay?”
Luke grinned and took the coin. “All right then. I’ll buy taffy. I can split it with the little guys at the Home.”
Enterprising and generous. He ruffled Luke’s windblown hair. No wonder his grandmother had been so involved with the orphanage before the stroke last winter stole her vigor.
Cort headed to the mercantile to leave an employment notice on the bulletin board. Could use some divine help right about now, God. He had to find someone to take care of Granny, at least through harvest.
Hitching her skirt free of the mud clogging the street, Eugenia maneuvered past the wagons rolling down Main. She dodged the horses tied at the railing outside the mercantile and hurried to the boardwalk.
She stopped at the telegraph office to wire her father. “I’ll be in the hotel restaurant waiting for his reply.”
This wasn’t turning out like she’d planned. In a snit last night, she’d thrown a few garments in her valise and stormed off to the train station near the Rutherford mansion in Sacramento. Her name—her father’s name—had been enough to get her a seat in first class in lieu of an actual ticket.
Eugenia never bothered to carry money. She was a Rutherford. Rutherfords didn’t need coinage.
She regretted the harsh words between her and her father. They’d always been close, but Daddy had to understand she was an independent woman. She didn’t intend to be used as a marriage pawn to further his empire.
They’d argued over the copper king fellow, the latest in a long line of would-be suitors.
Eligible bachelors from the best families, as well as others who were self-made. But she’d turned up her nose at them all. Like the upstart copper king who’d had the nerve to call her spoiled.
Looking down her nose at him, she’d shown him the door last February. “I prefer a clean-shaven man to a rough-bearded yokel like you.” Her father had been incensed at her behavior.
She was determined to marry—or not—at her own pleasure.
Most women married for love or money. She had no need for money—Daddy made sure of that. As for love?
She’d never been in love in her life. Nobody—including Daddy—could make her do anything she didn’t want to do. And marriage topped the list.
Her widowed father had never denied her anything she wanted. Daddy needed to understand how determined she was to be in charge of her own destiny. It wouldn’t take long for him to see things her way while she visited her dear friend, Muriel, in Chicago.
“I don’t carry money.” She smiled as the waitress presented the bill. “I’m Eugenia Rutherford, you see.”
The waitress blinked at her. The people in this town didn’t appear too bright.
“My father will compensate you for the meal and accommodations once he wires me the money.”
The waitress opened her mouth then. And what followed wasn’t pleasant. Outraged, Eugenia demanded to speak with the hotel manager.
“You’re going to speak to the manager, dearie,” snarled the waitress. “We know how to deal with moochers like you.”
“Moocher? How dare—?”
The manager proved no more helpful than his staff. Instead, he wrapped his beefy hands around her upper arms and hauled her out of the chair.
“Unhand me,” she yelled. “I demand you unhand me.”
The manager towed her toward the lobby. “You’ll pay your bill or we’ll settle this with the sheriff.”
Dragging her heels, she caught hold of the reception desk. “Sheriff?”
But he shoved her toward the front door. Making a spectacle. Of her, Eugenia Alice Rutherford.
“What ’bout her bag, Mr. Penrod?” the waitress called.
The manager grunted as Eugenia’s shoe smacked his shin. “Toss it on the street.”
And without further ado he tossed her onto the boardwalk.