Nicole Foster - Cimarron Rose

Katlyn struggled to sound confident, optimistic, to say something to assure her mother she would be taken care of, even though Katlyn had no idea how she would do that. Robbed by the outlaws of the money they’d carried with them, alone in Cimarron, without even the promise now of work—Katlyn forced away the worries threatening to overwhelm her.

“I’ll find work here, until the doctor says you can travel. Then I’ll find something in Las Vegas. I’ll take care of you, I promise.”

“I do believe that’s supposed to be my promise, honey. And I’ve done it, haven’t I? All those years, by myself, after your daddy decided to leave me with nothing but a kiss and a baby. I had my singing and that was all I needed to keep us, and keep us well. You aren’t going to be able to do the same washing dishes or teaching school.”

“Maybe Isabel could help,” Katlyn said doubtfully. She’d stayed with her half sister for a little more than a year, elated to find her after growing up apart. But Isabel was now recently married, with two boys, a baby on the way, and her ailing grandmother living with them. Every cent and every inch of space in the household were spoken for, and then some. Katlyn knew even as she said the words that apart from offering a sympathetic ear and a recipe for a soothing balm, there was nothing Isabel could do.

“I’m sure your sister is a fine woman, but she’s not my daughter.” Penelope echoed her thoughts. “No, Katie, I’m not the kind to take charity. You ought to know that about me by now. And we don’t need to. Why, it’ll be so simple.”

“Simple?” Rain slashed the window, the rhythm of it pounding in Katlyn’s head. She was tired, worried, afraid if she dared to admit it. What could her mother be thinking?

“Of course. I already have a job here.”

“Mama, you can’t—”

“No, darling, but you can.”

Katlyn stared. Triumph had put a delicate flush into Penelope’s pale cheeks. Katlyn wondered if fever had made her mother delirious.

“That’s ridiculous,” she said, her spirit reviving at the mere idea of taking her mother’s place. “I’m not a singer. All I’ve ever done besides follow you is a little teaching. No one would ever believe I was you, even if I was crazy enough to agree to do it. Tomorrow, I’ll go to the hotel and tell them the truth. Then they can look for someone else to—”

Katlyn suddenly stopped, appalled as the tears started spilling down her mother’s ashen face. Her mother, who always laughed her way through hardship and pain.

“Katie, please. You can’t tell them I’m—like this. If anyone knew, if anyone would see me now…Katie, I would rather die.”

Penelope grabbed at her hand when Katlyn opened her mouth to try to comfort her. “Don’t say no. I’ll be well again soon and then it won’t matter. Just don’t let them know. Please, do this for me. Promise me you will. And think of the money. It’s more than you could ever make in some little teaching job or worse, cleaning or cooking. Why, what do you know about that, anyway? We need the money, and you can get it for us. I know you can sing and that’s all that matters. I’ll teach you anything else you need to learn.”

Katlyn sat back down and tried to think of an argument that would persuade her mother of the impossibility of what she was asking. Katlyn McLain, become the St. Louis Songbird? She nearly laughed out loud.

And yet…She thought of the money she could make to help her mother. Penelope was right—the salary the owner of the St. Martin had promised was far more than any money she could make at a menial job even if she worked day and night.

And, though it chafed to admit it, Penelope was also right about her skills. What work could she do? She had grown up on riverboats and in hotels, watching her beautiful mother charm with her golden voice. Penelope had never taught her anything about cooking or sewing or keeping a house. Knowing how to dress for a performance, paint her face and arrange her hair, Katlyn was sure, were skills not in great demand in Cimarron.

But far more compelling was the fact that her mother needed her—desperately. No one had ever actually needed Katlyn McLain before. All her life, until this very moment, Katlyn had felt that fate had misplaced her. Growing up she was a burden of responsibility to her mother. And when she’d gone to live with her sister, she was an extra mouth to feed.

If by some miracle she succeeded as a singer, she could take care of Penelope without having to depend on charity from anyone. She could finally be of some true value to someone she loved and cared for. And she could carry on her mother’s tradition of independence with pride.

“You have my hair, that won’t be a problem,” Penelope was saying, her voice trembling. “Those blue eyes are your daddy’s but no one will take notice of that. If you use a little paint they’ll believe you’re older. I’ll dress you, tell you how it should be done. Thank goodness you’ve inherited my curves! You’ll do fine, Katie, I just know it.”

“It would be a lie,” Katlyn said more to herself than to her mother.

“We’re not hurting anyone.”

“Aren’t we? They’re expecting the St. Louis Songbird.”

“Well, I’m giving you my name. That’s what they’re paying for. They’ll have their singer and I’ll have my reputation. We’re not cheating anyone of anything. They need me and I need you. It’s that simple.”

Katlyn couldn’t help but laugh. “It won’t be simple at all. I’m not you, Mama. I’m just plain Katlyn.”

“Not anymore,” her mother said firmly. “Now you’re the St. Louis Songbird.”

Case Durham paced the wide length of the St. Martin’s lobby, looking over the four people who made up most of his modest staff at the hotel. Stern appraisal marked his sharp emerald gaze. He lifted one dark brow and looked down his nose at his employees. “I trust everything is in order for her arrival?”

“Oh, yessir, Mr. Durham, sir,” the young girl he’d paused in front of blurted out nervously. “Spit and polished everything top to bottom.” The girl motioned to the left of the lobby. “And our town’s band—what there is of it—they’re all tuned up and ready to play.”

Case took in the ragtag-looking group of makeshift musicians greeting him with jagged toothy grins and what looked like from the faded wear and ill-fit of them, second-or third-hand uniforms.

What they lacked in skill, at least they might make up for in enthusiasm, he told himself.

A gangly boy, with a stray piece of straw lodged in his mussed hair, anxiously twisted a worn cap in his hands as he nodded toward the balcony. “And I painted the banner up there on the railing, just so she knows fer sure she’s welcome here.”

Case turned toward the bright red letters splashed across a huge white banner that read Welcome To The St. Martin Hotel St. Louis Songbyrd.

Suppressing a smile at the misspelling, Case turned back to the young man. “Bucky, I’m sure she’ll appreciate that very much. I didn’t know you could read and write. Who taught you?”

Bucky stopped twisting the cap in his hands and straightened. “My ma did, ’fore she passed on.”

“Well, I’m glad to know that. In time, there may be a place for you under this roof.” Case flicked the straw out of the lad’s hair. “Unless you’re particularly partial to sleeping in straw, that is.”

Bucky seemed to search Case’s unsmiling face, then returned his employer’s serious look. “Thank you, sir. I’d be honored to sleep in a real bed here in the hotel.”

Again, it was all Case could do to hold back a grin, but better he intimidate them a little. Employees were more productive if they harbored a little uncertainty as to their boss’s satisfaction with them. Hard work and respect went hand in hand when it came to making a venture successful.