Lydia’s breath came in gasps, and her eyes stung from the tears she’d held back all day. So much for making the best of the situation. The moment May fell asleep, the strong facade Lydia had kept all week crumbled.
Try as she might, she hadn’t managed to believe the Lord intended her to be here.
In this place.
Doing what her mother insisted she must do.
A sob tore from her throat, and Lydia silenced it by taking a deep breath. The spot she’d chosen was private enough, with only one darkened room having a view; still she worried someone might happen upon her.
Funny how she had no trouble making a spectacle of herself to get sent home from all the finishing schools she’d attended over the years, yet she couldn’t shed a single tear in front of a witness.
She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. Always she had found a way out of her predicament, a way to get back home. This time, however, her situation seemed a bit more…dare she even think it?
Permanent.
Tears sprang afresh, and this time she gave them free rein to flow down her cheeks and soak her frock. To think Papa knew of this and still—
“Anything wrong, ma’am?”
Lydia scrambled to her feet, then reeled backward and thudded against the wall. Her head banged against the rough stones, and she cried out. A pair of strong arms lifted her off her feet.
“What are you doing? Put. Me. Down.”
As if he hadn’t heard her, the stranger whirled around with her in his arms and headed for the boardinghouse.
“Put. Me. Down!”
The man froze. A slice of moonlight cut across chiseled features she might have thought handsome had the oaf not just hauled her around like a sack of potatoes.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.
He cocked his hat back, revealing more of the face she knew must have caused more than a few women to take notice. “I thought I was helping a lady in distress.”
“The only distress I’m feeling is because I’m being tossed about by a complete stranger. Put me down before I call for the sheriff.”
This time he complied, setting her feet on the rocky ground, then taking a step backward. “Go ahead.”
Lydia gave him a look. “I mean it. I will.”
The cowboy leaned against the side of the rooming house and crossed his arms over his chest. “Like I said. Go ahead. There’s just one problem.”
“What’s that?”
He shrugged. “Far as I know, there’s not a sheriff in Dime Box. Leastwise there wasn’t one this afternoon.”
No sheriff? This was interesting. Dare she hope?
“Since when is there not a sheriff?”
Another voice spoke up. “Ed says the sheriff is going to be sworn in tomorrow morning.” The Widow Sykes turned the corner. “You ought to know that, Cal.” She turned to Lydia. “Everything all right out here, Miss Bertrand? I was takin’ a pie out of the oven and thought I heard some commotion.”
She gave the stranger a look, then turned her attention to the innkeeper. “Yes, I’m fine. Will you excuse me? I’d like to return to my room.”
“Let me go with you.” The landlady gave the man named Cal a nod, then reached for Lydia’s arm. “What say I walk with you just to be sure you’re all right?”
“That’s not necessary, really.” A light breeze blew past, bringing the scent of something delicious in its wake. “What sort of pie is that? It smells wonderful.”
“It’s my mama’s recipe. She called it a Jeff Davis pie. She was from Savannah, you know.”
“Might I have the recipe?”
The older woman stopped short. “You like to cook, do you?”
“Very much,” Lydia said, “although I haven’t had the chance to do so in far too long.”
“Now isn’t that interesting? I was just asking the Lord for some kitchen help this mornin’. I can pay in wages or free rent. You interested?”
The dark-haired gal reminded Caleb of his mama’s banty rooster, and he would’ve told her so except he intended to leave there in one piece. He watched the Widow Sykes usher her out of sight, then lifted his gaze to the heavens. The stars shone bright.
Somewhere beyond them was his real home. Knowing this made what he faced tomorrow seem a little less awful.
It occurred to him that in all their time together Ed hadn’t mentioned anything about the charges against him. Of course he hadn’t asked, either, but then neither he nor Ed cared much for idle chatter. They’d worked most days in silence.
By the time Caleb climbed under the threadbare blanket and laid his head on the pillow, he’d come up with a sizable list of possible crimes he’d committed. Some he’d already confessed to, and a few others he might have forgotten.
Still others might have been blamed on the Wilson boys but committed by others. That happened occasionally.
A spark of hope rose. What if I can prove I’m innocent? What if Ed’s mistaken?
He winced when he thought of the man he was. The Good Book said the Lord could wash a man clean and turn his scarlet sins to pure white.
If the Lord said it, Caleb believed it. Understanding it—now that was another matter.
But then, come tomorrow he’d have plenty of time to study on the idea.
That night he slept in short doses and met the Lord in His Word well before sunrise. Dressed and ready before six, Caleb wandered downstairs with the intention of taking one last walk around Dime Box before meeting Ed.
Passing the dining room, he turned down good coffee, then thought better of it and sat down to let the widow pour him a cup. One cup turned into two, and before he knew it, he had a plate of eggs and bacon sitting before him.
He stabbed a fork into his eggs and took a hefty bite, then washed it down with black coffee. Before his mug could hit the table, Widow Sykes wandered in from the kitchen and set a pan of biscuits on the table, then disappeared with a promise to bring more butter and some honey.
He grabbed three biscuits, then set one back on the plate. No sense being greedy, even though he sat alone in the dining room. Two more bites of eggs and he was ready for that butter and honey.
Once the bacon was gone, Caleb began to wonder if she’d forgotten. The biscuits smelled too good to ignore, so he decided to taste one plain. It was so good he had another.
Caleb winked. “They’d be even better with butter and some honey.”
He thought to call his landlady’s name just to see if she was heading this way, then decided he’d amble into the kitchen and help her find that butter and honey. One push on the door and he found it stuck. On the second try, it almost felt as if the door pushed back.
He gave it a good shove, and the door cooperated, swinging open to reveal the Widow Sykes standing at the black cookstove.
The door slammed against the wall, and a woman screamed. Caleb took a step forward, then tripped.
About the time he landed on his posterior, he found the source of the roadblock—and presumably the caterwauling. There in all her honey- and butter-covered glory was the dark-haired gal from last night.