Chapter 1

Idaho Springs, Colorado
September, 1874

Someone has made a big mess here, and I am not going to clean it up. This is not my problem. Please, Lord, don’t let this be my problem.

Bear McCall pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing his thumb and forefinger into his eyes, and then looked across the depot once more, praying what he’d thought he’d seen would turn out to be a mirage or hallucination or something.

“There has to be some mistake. I’m here to pick up a package.” The telegram his neighbor, Charlie, had delivered yesterday said clearly that a package would arrive for him on the noon train and he must pick it up in person that day.

A package from Chicago. The only person he knew in Chicago was his cousin, Isabelle, and he hadn’t seen her in a score of years, not since he’d headed west when he was sixteen. What she would be sending him, he couldn’t imagine, but his curiosity had been piqued enough to make him travel down his mountain and into town to find out.

The station clerk looked up from his puttering and gave him an I-already-told-you-once stare. “If your name’s McCall, that is what was left for you. And I’d appreciate it if you’d take delivery so I can go to lunch. Been waiting all morning for you to show up.” He went back to punching and stamping and tapping cards together.

The skinny clerk must’ve felt safe behind the metal grill and high counter. Most men didn’t have the nerve to brush Bear off like that. He hunched his shoulders inside his flannel jacket and flexed his hands. No matter what the dunderhead behind the counter said, there had to have been a mistake somewhere along the line.

He approached the bench along the far wall as he would a pint of nitro.

If there was one thing that made him more uneasy than a woman, it was a little girl. And here sat three of them looking at him like they expected him to pound them to powder like rocks in a stamp mill.

Hair red as fire, and those eyes. Big as globeflowers in high summer. And pinned to each of their coats was a paper that said “Deliver to Mr. C. McCall, Idaho Springs, CO.”

The biggest one—who still looked mighty small to him—stood and locked eyes with him, her chin coming up. She was pale and tight as a bowstring, but she didn’t run away. Bear almost smiled. Grown men had been known to avoid looking him right in the eye, but this little sprite held his stare like a stone-cold gunfighter.

“Are you Mr. McCall?”

Scratching his beard, Bear shrugged and nodded.

Her wrists stuck out a good few inches from the sleeves of her thin coat, and one of her black stockings had a sizeable ladder running up the outside. Her shoes had seen better days, too. She was probably about ten—not that he had much practice in guessing little girls’ ages—but her face had a world-weary look to it, as if she’d seen too much hardship for her years. With a quiet dignity, she opened her coat and tugged out a battered envelope.

“I’m supposed to give this to you.”

He took the envelope, careful not to let their fingers brush.

The middle one jumped up like she’d been sitting on a coiled spring. Her braids bounced on her shoulders, and sprouting up all over her head, wispy strands escaped, making a red halo.

“You took a long time. We been here forever.” Her hands went to her narrow hips and she tilted her head to the side, squinting up at him. She had more freckles than a speckled pup. Her greeny-brown eyes accused him.

“Sorry,” he mumbled then scowled. Pint-sized they might be, but they were women for sure, already putting him in the wrong.

The smallest one, her hair a mass of strawberry ringlets, stuck her finger into the corner of her mouth and stared at him like he was a freak in a sideshow. Her hair was the lightest of the three, and her eyes, though still hazel, were more green than brown. Her feet swung from the edge of the bench in impossibly small buttoned-up boots. This one scared him more than the other two combined. The kid was practically a baby.

Number One picked up a battered valise and motioned to the other two. “Come on.”

“Hang on a minute. What are you doing here in Colorado, and where’s your ma? Is she gonna be back soon?”

“Ma’s dead.” Number Two crossed her arms. Her bottom lip trembled in a way that made Bear’s knees wobble and his chest cave in. Please don’t cry. Please-don’t-cry. Please-don’tcry!

Then it hit him. Isabelle was dead?

And her girls were here.

Staring at him.

Panic clawed his chest like a hungry badger.

“Ma died last week, and she left a paper that said we was to be sent to you,” Number One said.

Her matter-of-fact tone did nothing to lessen the mule-kick her words delivered. Before he could grab hold of this bit of news, Number Three scooted off the bench, reaching for the floor with one toe before slipping off the edge. She sidled up to Number One and tugged on her sleeve.

“I gotta go.” Her version of a whisper filled the room.

“Again?”

“You just went, not even half an hour ago.” Number Two’s eyes rolled, and her trembling lip firmed up into a sneer. “You’re leakier than an old bucket.”

The little one tugged on the big one’s sleeve again. “I gotta go potty.”

His palms began to sweat.

Number One handed the bag to Number Two. “Here. Don’t lose this. We’ll be back.” She held her hand out for Number Three, and they disappeared through the side door. Bear breathed a sigh. Talk about sidestepping a cannonball.

Number Two gave him a hard look. “Are you my uncle?”

He rubbed the back of his neck and pulled his hat down. “No. Your ma was my cousin.”

“So what’s that make us?”

Pure trouble. Times three. “Blamed if I know.”

She flipped her braids over her shoulders and hiked the bag higher. “You’re kinda big, aren’t ya?”

He grunted, his mind still reeling.

“You always this grouchy? ’Cuz if you are …” She didn’t finish the sentence, but her freckled face said volumes. “Is your wife grouchy like you?”

He scowled and jerked like she’d kicked him in the shin. “Don’t have a wife.” Thank the Lord.

“Just as well, if you’re always this cranky.”

“You’re kinda mouthy, aren’t ya? I thought kids were supposed to be seen and not heard.”

“Yeah, I get told that a lot.”

A smile quirked his lips at her long-suffering expression.

Number One and Number Three returned. Number One squared her shoulders, checked that Number Two still had hold of the bag, and said, “We’re ready.”

Well, he sure wasn’t. There was no way. He was not being saddled with three little girls.

“What about your pa? Where’s he?”

Number One shrugged. “He’s been gone a long time. Ran off. Ma didn’t know where he was, and she didn’t want him back, nohow.”

Bear felt as if he were grasping for any handhold or tree root to keep himself from falling off this particular cliff. He thrust his hands into his pockets. How had he gotten into this mess? He had a claim to run. The nip in the air said he should be greasing and preparing his traps for the winter, not nursemaiding a gaggle of girls he’d never seen before.

They looked up at him with expectant eyes, and his gut twisted.

There was no help for it. He couldn’t just leave them here, and sending them back where they came from didn’t seem to be an option, either. He’d have to find somewhere else to park them. They certainly weren’t coming up to the cabin with him. He had a strict policy when it came to females invading his home: they weren’t welcome. Period.

Stalking over to the ticket window, he banged on the counter. “Hey, I want some service!”

The fussy clerk stuck his head out of the back room, a sandwich in his hand. He finished chewing and swallowed. “I’m on my break.”

“You’re going to know the meaning of the word ‘break’ if you don’t get out here.” Bear grabbed the grillwork window and shook it.

The man flinched and edged to the counter, his thin eyebrows bunching under his green visor. “What do you need?”

“Four tickets to Denver. When’s the next eastbound?”

The clerk fumbled with some papers. This guy must be new. Bear had never seen him before. Not that Bear came into town that often. Twice a year was enough.

“Half an hour.”

“How much?” Bear reached into his coat. Blamed nuisance, having to go to Denver. Good thing he’d secured everything at the cabin before he came down. This little errand shouldn’t take more than a day or two, and Charlie would probably check on the place anyway, nosy as he was.

The clerk told him the price, and Bear forked it over.

He shoved the tickets and the envelope Number One had given him into his coat pocket and turned back to the girls.

All three girls sat side by side on the bench once more, and all three of them stared at him, Number Three with fascination, Number Two with accusation, and Number One with resignation.

Emmylou Paxton had never been so humiliated in all her life, and that was saying something, considering where she’d come from.

Every ounce of hope drained out as she stood in the Denver depot.

“So that’s how it is. Bertha showed up first.” Cletus Bloggett shrugged. “I went ahead and married her yesterday. We’re leaving for my claim on the next train.”

His new bride, a buxom blond with pink cheeks, blinked wide blue eyes and took his arm as if staking a claim.

Emmylou gulped. “But you’re betrothed to me. I have your letter.” She dug in her reticule.

“Well, I figured I’d better my chances by answering mor’n one ad in the Matrimonial News. Thataway I could have my pick of brides.” Cletus tucked his thumbs under his suspenders and nodded as if his words and his plans made perfect sense. “You and Bertha both answered the ad, and when she stepped off the train, I knew she was the one I wanted. I mean, look at her, with all that blond hair and all those curves. I had both your pictures, but I wanted to look you over myself. Now that I see that you’re kinda skinny, and redheaded to boot, I’m thinking I made the right choice. But you’d already set off from Harrisburg, and I didn’t have no way of calling you off.”

Hot tears burned the backs of Emmylou’s eyes and tingled down the inside of her nose, but she blinked hard to fight them off. All the accusations Aunt Ida had hurled at her about being skinny, redheaded, and a flaming nuisance to have to care for came back like an avalanche.

They were drawing a crowd of onlookers, and shame swirled into her cheeks. Why didn’t they mind their own business? Didn’t they have something better to do?

She straightened. “I’ve spent the last of my money just getting here. I have none for a return trip.” Not that she wanted to go back to Pennsylvania, ever. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“I dunno.” Cletus dug in his back pocket and pulled out a much-folded newspaper. “You could always take out another ad or two.”

“I could always sue you for breach of contract. You promised me marriage, and you’ve reneged on that promise.”

Bertha squeezed his upper arm, her doe-eyes widening.

Cletus—the rat—grinned and shook his head. “If you don’t got money for a train ride, then you don’t got money for no lawyer. Anyway, even if you did sue me, what’d you get? I ain’t rich. I got enough for me and Bertha, but if you’re hoping to squeeze me for cash, you’re gonna be disappointed.”

A train whistle sounded, and Cletus tipped his hat brim. “Gotta go. Sorry it didn’t work out.” He hefted a couple of suitcases, and with Bertha scurrying in his wake, left Emmylou standing in the middle of the depot with her bag at her feet and her dreams in shards on the floor.

The ring of onlookers glanced at one another. Some looked on her with pity, others with wry amusement, as they dispersed.

With no idea where she was going, Emmylou hefted her bag and headed for the stairs leading up to street level. She didn’t have to look in her reticule to know that she had exactly five dollars to her name. No going back, but no clear way forward, either.

Lord, now what am I supposed to do? I thought Cletus was an answer to prayer, a way out of a bad situation, but this is much worse.

The street was a morass of muddy ruts. Wagons trundled by, and pedestrians, heads down against the brisk wind, passed without looking up. Smoke blew on the air, and as she took a firm grip on the handle of her valise, she looked up at the mountains.

“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.” The verse came unbidden from her memory, and she swallowed. All right, Lord. Where do I go now?

“Hey, lady, somebody meeting you, or are you looking for a place to stay?”

A man in a bowler hat and checked suit leaned against the depot wall. He had a drooping moustache and eyes so dark they looked black … like a rat’s. He shoved away from the bricks and came toward her. Something about him repelled her, but she couldn’t say what. She was probably just jumpy because of Cletus leaving her stranded.

“Could you direct me to a boardinghouse or hotel?” Someplace where she could examine her situation and her options and decide what to do.

“I know a place. It’s not too far from here. I’ll walk you over.”

He didn’t offer to carry her bag, but he set off at a pace that made it easy to keep up, even in the thin air. After a quarter of an hour though, she began to wonder what his definition of not too far meant.

Finally, he turned up a short walkway. “This is the place. The landlady is a friend of mine. Her name’s Pauletta. I imagine she can find a place for you. She’s been looking for a few more boarders.”

The three-story brick house looked tidy enough. In fact, it was nice enough she wondered if she could afford a room. The man rang the bell, and a girl of about twelve opened it.

“Is Pauletta awake yet?”

Awake? It was almost midday. What kind of woman slept till noon?

The girl’s head bobbed, and she stepped back, inviting them in. She wore a ragged dress and a mob cap from which dirty-blond hair escaped. Emmylou followed the girl into a parlor that was positively opulent. A chandelier, fancy red wallpaper, a piano, and lots of tables and settees and ferns.

The man went to the bottom of the stairs and hollered up. “Paulie, c’mon down. I got a live one for you.” He grinned and reached into his coat pocket, withdrawing a cigar. He bit the end off, showing a lot of fierce white teeth, and spit the tobacco into a nearby fern.

Something was wrong here. The way he looked at her, sizing her up like an item in a store window, sent a chill through her. Footsteps on the stairs drew her eyes away from his, and the moment Pauletta came into view, Emmylou realized the nature of the house.

The woman was scantily clad, with a pale blue silk robe, open down the front, trailing behind her. Her black hair hung to her waist, and her cloying scent hit Emmylou even before she reached the bottom of the staircase.

“Morning, Hank.”

“Afternoon, you mean. I found this one at the station. A mail-order bride that got left high and dry. Heard it all myself. She ain’t much to look at now, but with some makeup and a different dress, she might be something. You don’t have a redhead.”

“Excuse me, but there’s been some kind of mistake. I am looking for a boardinghouse not a … a …” Emmylou couldn’t even get the word out.

Pauletta looked her over, tapping her front teeth with her long fingernail. “Spruced up, she could be something. Bit on the skinny side, but with some good food, we could fill her out. Got nice eyes and cheekbones. Right now, she’d make a nun look flamboyant, but in the right clothes …”

Emmylou, not wanting to hear another word, headed for the door where the girl waited.

As she passed, the girl touched her wrist and whispered, “Try a place called the Front Range Hotel back near the depot. It’s clean and cheap, and you should be safe enough there.”

Making her escape, shaking, Emmylou hurried up the street. They must be laughing at her now, saying she was as raw as unshucked corn. She should’ve trusted her instincts. Something about the man had been wrong. What if they’d tried to keep her there by force?

When she was out of sight of the house, she stopped and leaned on an iron-rail fence. The desire to weep made her stomach quiver and her throat ache.

The Front Range Hotel. Near the depot.