1

OCTOBER 1890
HOPE SPRINGS, TX

Ruth Fulbright held her sleeping seven-year-old daughter snugly on her lap in the middle of the stagecoach seat while the passengers who considered themselves her betters exited the conveyance. The pomaded dandy sitting to her left jostled her with his elbow when he tried to stand. She leaned right to get out of his way, and a plume from the hat of an exiting matron nearly took out her eye.

Gracious. Who knew stage travel could be so hazardous? She’d thought bandits would be the worst peril she might face on the twenty-mile trek from the train station in Weatherford. She’d never imagined pitying glances, snobby sniffs, and pointed plumage could inflict such damage. Not that they’d done more than scrape a few sore places on her pride. A woman raised in the South after the devastation of war learned how to hold her head high in any social arena.

Her dress might be threadbare, her shoe leather paper-thin, and her wedding ring missing from her finger, but she was clean, respectable, and had no reason to feel shame.

As the dandy to her left shuffled past, his hunched form bumped Ruth’s daughter.

“Pardon,” he mumbled, though his glare seemed to blame her daughter for being in the way. A true gentleman would have waited for Ruth and Naomi to exit first, thereby clearing his path, but he obviously viewed her as an obstacle and not a lady.

“Mama?” Naomi roused, her head lifting from Ruth’s chest and her lashes fluttering upward to reveal the soft brown eyes that were so much like her daddy’s.

A pang hit Ruth’s stomach, though it didn’t jab as deeply as it once had. Stephen had been gone two years now. Two years, three months, and nine days. She really ought to stop counting. Stop marking time by her losses instead of her gains. But it had been so long since she’d had a gain. . . .

Enough of that. Ruth straightened in her seat and smiled at her daughter. “Mornin’, sleepyhead.” She brushed Naomi’s bangs back and kissed her forehead. “We’re here.”

Naomi’s eyes widened, and her lips curved upward. “At our new home?”

Ruth nodded. Her daughter immediately pulled away from her and jumped down to the coach floor.

Praise the Lord for the optimism of youth. Ruth didn’t know how she would have endured the last few months without Naomi’s ability to see sunbeams shining through every cloud. Heaven knew there’d been enough clouds to support a league of rainmakers in her life lately. It was hard to remember that, however, with her daughter pulsing with excitement directly in front of her.

“Let’s go!” Able to stand at her full height inside the stage, Naomi rushed toward the exit, nearly colliding with the pomaded dandy climbing down. She halted at the last moment and spun around, urging her mother to her feet with an impatient wave. “Come on, Mama. Hope is waiting for us!”

“Hope Springs,” Ruth corrected, even as her daughter’s misspoken words filled her tired soul with cautious expectancy.

Hope had to be waiting for them here. Ruth had no place else to look.

As soon as the dandy reached the ground and stepped aside, Naomi bounded out of the coach like a rabbit eluding a snare. Ruth grinned and shook her head. Let the girl run and play. She’d been cooped up in train cars and stuffy stagecoaches the entire day. If Ruth weren’t nearly a quarter of a century old, she’d join her. Heaven knew her legs could use a good stretching. Too bad society frowned on such displays by grown women.

Yet as she grasped the handle to balance her exit from the stage—no gentleman, pomaded or otherwise, was apparently available for the duty—all urge to play was consumed by a sudden onslaught of locusts swarming through her belly.

What if Mrs. Lancaster had grown tired of waiting and hired another cook? Dorothea had assured Ruth that her cousin would hold the job for her, but Ruth had been delayed a week finding someone to give her a fair price on her ring so she could afford the train fare from Clarksville to Weatherford and then stage fare to Hope Springs. What if her employer viewed that as a breach of contract?

She rubbed the bare place on her finger where her wedding band used to be, mourned its loss for a heartbeat, then stiffened her shoulders and went in search of her luggage. She’d done what needed to be done to carve out a new life for her daughter. Regrets made a poor foundation for building a future. She preferred to rely on faith.

God had led her to Hope Springs. She was certain of it. Too many pieces had fallen in just the right places at just the right time for there to be any other explanation. And if God had led her here, He wouldn’t abandon her.

Be content with such things as ye have, Ruth quoted to herself as she patiently waited for the driver to hand down the last of the trunks and hatboxes of her wealthy travel companions, for he hath said, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.

Hope was springing, and she aimed to catch it.

A tan object hurtled down toward her head. Ruth gasped and threw her arms out just in time to snatch it from the air. Good grief. She’d been so busy preparing to catch hope that she’d nearly been flattened by her valise.

“Sorry, ma’am.” The shame-faced driver drew his hat from his head and dropped to his knees atop the coach roof. He grabbed the railing and leaned over the side. “I thought you were Old Tom. Are ya all right?”

It wasn’t exactly flattering for a lady to be mistaken for a grizzled coachman, but to be fair, the man who’d ridden shotgun and had been catching the luggage had been standing in her position the moment before. The other passengers had drawn him away with their complaints over how their belongings were being treated, and Ruth had stepped into the space he’d vacated.

Ruth set her valise on the ground, then brushed the front of her dress to wipe away the worst of the travel dust that had exploded across her chest when the valise hit. That done, she aimed a smile in the driver’s direction. His apology had been sincere, and the kind words buoyed her spirits. “No harm done. If you hand that last bag down a little more slowly, I’m sure I’ll be able to manage it with more finesse.”

She lifted her arms above her head to receive the next bag, and the driver reared back. Ruth swore she could hear the question running through his mind. What was the greater sin, arguing with a lady or subjecting her to physical labor?

Ruth wiggled her fingers in an effort to absolve him of any perceived wrongdoing. “I’m stronger than I look,” she assured him. “Besides, you have a schedule to keep.”

The driver glanced over at the passengers on the boardwalk who were waiting to board. “Tom!” he yelled, clearly looking for a third option. Old Tom, however, was either hard of hearing or his ears were already filled to capacity with the haranguing he was receiving. He didn’t so much as flinch at the driver’s call.

Muttering under his breath, the driver slapped his hat back on his head and pivoted to reach Ruth’s carpetbag. He let it dangle from one arm as if weighing it, then grudgingly handed it over the side, leaning far enough down to ensure the bag touched her hands before he released his grip.

Knowing precisely how heavy the bag would be—not very, since her store of dresses numbered only two beyond her current ensemble—Ruth handled the bag with ease. “Thank you, sir.”

He tipped his hat, admiration shining in his eyes and infusing Ruth with confidence that she could, indeed, manage whatever challenges came her way. Picking up her valise, she marched past the well-dressed crowd and scanned the area for her daughter.

Naomi spotted her first. “Mama, look! A kitty.”

“Oh my.” Ruth tried not to think about muddy paw prints on Naomi’s best dress, or fleas or rabies, as she bent forward to examine the stray cat dangling from her daughter’s arms. The poor thing looked half strangled, its white belly exposed and back legs stretched long.

She’d never seen a stray cat react to capture with such calm. Most hissed and scratched or fled before being scooped up. This black-and-white tabby must belong to someone. Or at least had in the past. Maybe he’d been left behind by a resort guest.

“Better let him go, sweetie. He doesn’t belong to us.”

Naomi let out a loud sigh, then kissed the animal atop its head and gently set him down. “Bye, kitty.”

The beast zoomed away, making a beeline for the three-story resort hotel that stood directly across the street. With a scrabble of claws, it climbed the tree that shaded the walkway. Ruth watched its impressively speedy ascent until the oak’s branches hid it from view. Another movement slightly above the tree caught her attention.

A man stood on a balcony. Dark hair. Dark suit. Expensive suit. Even from here she could see the tailored lines. The fingers of his left hand tapped idly at the wooden railing as he surveyed the goings-on beneath him like some kind of overlord. An overlord who happened to be looking directly at her.

Ruth ducked her chin. Whoever he was, she wouldn’t stand and gawk as though she had no manners, even if that was precisely what he was doing. He was probably another stuffy resort guest. The wealthy loved to look down their noses at poor peasants. When they deigned to notice them at all.

“Here to take the waters, miss?” A young lad of maybe sixteen or seventeen approached, a warm smile on his face. He wore a dark green uniform with Hope Springs Resort embroidered in gold on his jacket front. “I’d be happy to help you with your luggage.”

He reached for her valise, but she shook her head. “Thank you, no. I’m not a guest of the resort.” Though it soothed her prickles a great deal to have him treat her with the same courtesy he would have treated her better-dressed companions. Whoever had trained him had done an admirable job. “I’m Mrs. Lancaster’s new cook. Could you point me in the direction of the Homespun Café?”

“Glad to.” He beamed at her, his cheerfulness so contagious that the weight of her insecurities and doubts lifted, leaving a giddy excitement in their place.

He steered her around the other travelers, then pointed down the street to a modest structure at the end of the block. “The café’s the last building on the right before you get to the courthouse square. If you don’t find Myrtle Lancaster inside, check around back. She keeps chickens and a garden out there. Might be tendin’ to those.”

“Thank you.” Wishing she had a spare coin to reward the kind young man for his thoughtfulness, Ruth settled for a bright smile. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“My pleasure, miss.” He tipped his hat, then turned to resume his duties at the resort.

“Come, Naomi,” Ruth said with a lift of her chin. “Time to see where Mama’s going to work.”

Naomi skipped along beside her mother, brown braids bouncing. “Did you hear what he said, Mama? They have chickens! Do you think they’ll let me help gather the eggs? I’m super good at it. ’Member?”

“I do remember.” Naomi had loved tending to the chickens on their farm. Scattering their feed, collecting the eggs. She’d followed her mama out to the coop every morning before the bank had foreclosed on them. Naomi had only been five, but even at that young age, she’d handled the eggs with extreme care, never breaking a single one. “We’ll have to see what Mrs. Lancaster prefers.”

Ruth prayed her employer would be a kindhearted soul who enjoyed children, not a termagant who expected them to be seen and not heard. Naomi was a darling child. Well-behaved. Obedient. But silent, she was not. Her inquisitive nature and exuberant spirit didn’t lend themselves to a reticent demeanor.

Ruth needn’t have worried, for the instant they stepped inside the welcoming atmosphere of the Homespun Café, they were overwhelmed with the whirlwind that was Myrtle Lancaster.

At the sound of the door, a middle-aged woman wearing a ruffled apron in the most extraordinary shade of fuchsia jumped up from a seat near the side window, abandoning a cup of tea and a fashion magazine. “Hello!” She bustled forward, her blue eyes twinkling. “Welcome to the Homespun Café.” Her canary-yellow calico skirt swished back and forth beneath her violently pink apron, giving Ruth the impression that she had fallen inside a kaleidoscope. “I’m afraid I can only offer a limited menu of sandwiches and lemonade until my new cook arrives, but I have an assortment of quilts and other locally crafted items that can serve as wonderful mementos of your visit to Hope Springs.” She waved an arm toward the west side of the room where an assortment of items adorned strategically arranged tables and racks. Quilts. Cloth-lined baskets finished with lace and bows. Milking buckets decorated with hand-painted flowers.

“I hope my stay will be longer than a visit.” Ruth set down her valise and extended her right hand. “I’m Ruth Fulbright. Your new cook.”

Mrs. Lancaster squealed in glee, then completely ignored Ruth’s outstretched hand and swooped in for a hug.

Ruth froze at the effusive greeting, not quite sure how to react, but her hostess didn’t seem to care. She released her hold as swiftly as she had engaged it, leaving Ruth to teeter unsteadily like a weather vane in a gust of swirling wind.

“Oh, Mrs. Fulbright, you’ve no idea how happy I am to see you!” Mrs. Lancaster bent slightly and slapped her hands on her knees. “And this little ladybug must be Naomi. Dorothea told me all about you.”

Naomi grinned. “The man at the hotel said you have chickens. I’m a real good egg-getter.”

“Are you, now? Well, it just so happens I’m in need of a skilled egg collector. Can you start work tomorrow? I pay a penny a week.”

“You don’t have to—” Ruth’s declension died when Myrtle gave her a wink that clearly stated she was not welcome to participate in this negotiation.

Naomi clapped her hands and turned pleading eyes to her mama. “Can I, Mama? Please?”

“Only if you follow Mrs. Lancaster’s instructions to the letter.”

“I will, I promise.” Her vow lisped a bit through the gap of her missing front tooth, but the sparkle in her eyes warmed Ruth’s heart.

“That’s settled then,” Myrtle said, straightening. “Why don’t you go out back and say hello to my feathered ladies while I show your mother around?”

Naomi cast Ruth a quick look asking for permission. The instant Ruth nodded, she took off like a shot.

“Reminds me of my little granddaughters, Edna and Ethel. Twins, if you can believe it.” Myrtle swept up her teacup in one hand, magazine in the other, then trounced toward the back of the building, presumably toward the kitchen. Ruth followed, hoping that was what her employer expected. “They’ll be nine this year. Live two counties over, so I don’t get to see them nearly enough.” Myrtle tossed a mischievous grin over her shoulder. “I’ll have to spoil that girl of yours in their stead to make sure I don’t get out of practice.”

“That’s very kind of—”

“Here’s the kitchen,” Myrtle pronounced as she pushed through a swinging door. “Cookstove was new three years ago, water pump at the sink, pantry at the back. I got a gal who comes in at night to clean the front of the shop, so you’re only responsible for this area. Make a list of whatever supplies you need, and Mr. Lancaster will run them down for you. You can set your own menu, but I don’t want anything fancy. People who want fancy eat at the hotel dining room. People who want good old home cooking come to the Homespun Café. Locals too. Having pie on hand for menfolk who drop by of an afternoon has proven popular, and flapjacks tend to bring ’em in in the mornings.”

Ruth made furious mental notes. Stephen had always bragged about her cooking, and her dishes were among the first emptied at the church socials, but she’d never cooked in any kind of professional capacity. What if she made too much or not enough? What if customers didn’t like her food? What if—

“Now, I’ve arranged for a lovely little cottage for you on the outskirts of town. It’s rustic, I’m afraid, but sturdy. Dorothea mentioned that money is a little tight, so I avoided the rooming houses. With all the tourists coming in for the mineral baths and specialized treatments, prices have shot through the roof. They charge four dollars a night at Azlin’s resort. Can you believe it? Scandalous. But the people keep coming.” Myrtle shook her head as she circled around to the small table at the back of the kitchen. “You and Miss Ladybug can take your meals here, of course, after the customers have been served. We’re open seven to seven Monday through Saturday, with Sundays off. I run the gift sales and have a gal who will wait tables for you. In between meal services, you’re welcome to escape the heat of the kitchen to tend to personal errands.”

Ruth’s vision blurred at all the information being thrown at her. The most glaring of which was the four-dollar-a-night hotel room. Her wages had been promised at eight dollars a week. Even with meals included, she’d be hard-pressed to pay even a quarter of the going town rate for lodging.

“This cottage you mentioned,” Ruth inserted when Myrtle paused for breath, “how much is the rent?”

Myrtle waved a hand as if the number was not significant, but every number was significant when all one had to her name was a dollar and twenty-three cents left over from her train fare.

“There’s a down payment of the first month’s rent in advance, but after that it’s only twenty dollars a month.”

Ruth’s knees nearly gave out. Twenty dollars a month? How would she manage to keep Naomi in clothes and shoes? And with winter coming, they’d need a good supply of coal. Not to mention schoolbooks, kerosene, and essentials to set up their home. They didn’t even have a dish to eat off of. And that was after Ruth earned a month of wages. Paying upfront would be impossible.

“Is there somewhere else? Someplace smaller, perhaps. Naomi and I don’t need more than a room, really.”

Myrtle’s expression turned sympathetic. “I’m afraid not. Most folks here with space for boarders are already renting to the tourists for higher rates. Mr. Lancaster even rented out our spare room. It’s booked for the next three months. Perhaps I could speak with him about offering it to you at a lower rate after that, but we use that extra money to visit the grandchildren. . . .”

“Of course you do. Precisely as you should.” Ruth would not beg on this sweet woman’s door. She’d find a way to make this work. “I’m sure the cottage you spoke of will do nicely. It was kind of you to make inquiries for me.” Perhaps she could convince the owner to take weekly installments instead of a lump sum. Surely something could be worked out. “Whom should I see about the arrangements?”

Myrtle’s face bloomed in relief, her ebullience restored. “That would be Mr. Palmer, Mr. Azlin’s business manager. You can ask for him at the hotel.”

“Mr. Azlin owns the cottage?” Dread hardened Ruth’s stomach. Wealthy men didn’t tend to be the sympathetic sort.

“Of course, dear. Mr. Azlin owns nearly everything hereabouts.”