Nicole Foster - Cimarron Rose

And, damned if he wasn’t going to see this disaster through until it was precisely that.

He’d sunk his last dime into this gamble. Taking a calculated risk, Case relied on his keen business sense, which told him that the gamble would eventually pay off in spades. But this place was fast impressing upon him that he would finally be forced to learn what had always gone against his grain: the fine art of patience.

And right now, the key to that success was giving him his first lesson. For the dozenth time, he flicked open the silver pocket watch in his palm. She was over an hour late. And nothing irked him like tardiness. Especially when he thought of the salary he’d had to promise the famed St. Louis Songbird to lure her out West to his godforsaken hotel. She was probably some pampered prima donna, used to making her hosts wait just so she could make an entrance. He’d have to bite his tongue, he was sure, and he would, as long as she pulled in the customers the way everyone swore she would.

He’d never tell her as much, but the truth was the renowned singer was his last hope in saving his hotel. Unlike his other ventures, nothing had seemed to work when it came to trying to clean up this place and draw decent folks in.

It had seemed a reasonable gamble at the time he’d chosen to buy the hotel, but of late he’d begun to question whether his instincts for investing had abandoned him. Cimarron, positioned advantageously on the Santa Fe Trail, had begun to thrive with the profits of ranching, mining and trading. There was plenty of money being made to be spent, and few places to spend it.

But after six months in business, Case saw that his best customers were still renegades, gamblers and assorted desperados on the run from the law. Not only did that kind scare other customers away, but more importantly, they made the hotel unsafe for his six-year-old daughter Emily.

After all it had cost him to clear the debts Emily’s mother had left him to face, if this hotel failed, he’d lose everything. Everything but what mattered most, that was. He would not risk losing his little girl. Not after the fight it had taken to keep her with him.

He kept telling himself leaving Emily in Colorado would have been far worse for her. But in truth, he had to accept the fact that he couldn’t keep her here with him safely much longer if the St. Martin continued to draw trouble like flies to honey. He guarded Emily with his life, but this was no way for a child to live.

If the St. Louis Songbird didn’t turn his luck and do it quickly, he’d have to swallow his pride and his pocketbook and give the whole thing up.

Case clicked his silver watch open and closed, his polished boots slapping hard and fast across the glistening pine floors. His small staff waited in a line, barely daring to breathe as he strode past.

“She’d better be worth the wait,” he muttered to no one in particular.

“Oh, Mr. Durham, she’s supposed to be the best! Just the best!” the girl declared. “I ain’t never heard her sing, mind you, but some of the folks who come through here from out East say her voice puts a hold on you like a magic spell.”

“We’ll see, Becky,” he murmured impatiently. “But if she doesn’t get here soon, we may never find out if she can even carry a tune.”

Or rescue a hotel, Case added silently, wondering with growing cynicism just how impressive a woman this St. Louis Songbird really was.

Katlyn smoothed sweaty palms down her mother’s yellow satin skirts as she stood in front of the St. Martin Hotel.

The plain two-story beige frame building didn’t look like much, even compared with the more ruggedly built storefronts and saloons. In fact, rather dusty and neglected-looking, it would be easy to ignore.

Katlyn wished she felt the same. Instead, she felt ridiculous. All this face paint and these fancy frilled clothes felt as foreign to her as her sister’s Mexican food had tasted when she’d first come out West.

All this pretense was her mother, not her.

Catching a glimpse of herself in the hotel window, she adjusted her hat with its jaunty yellow plume and scolded herself. “Well, Katie, my girl, like it or not, it had better be you if you’re going to pull this off. You’ve promised her and you can’t turn back now.”

Straightening her shoulders, she hitched up her flagging courage along with her petticoats and shoved open the hotel door.

The door barely had time to close when Katlyn froze in utter surprise. Nothing her mother had told her had prepared her for this!

“She’s here!” someone shouted, and the room swelled with sudden applause and cheers of welcome. A little brass band launched into playing some festive tune she couldn’t quite make out, nearly unnerving her. At one boy’s prompting she gazed up to a balcony and saw a sweeping banner painted especially for her mother. Loud clapping and smiling faces filled the lobby with welcome. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the sad irony of it all. Everyone there seemed truly delighted she’d come.

Everyone except for him.

Off to the side of the little gathering, a dark imposing figure of a man towered above the others. He stood still and in silence, as though merely an observer, not part of the celebration.

Katlyn’s eyes met his razor-sharp green gaze, and the look he gave her made her nervous heart skip a beat.

This she hadn’t counted on. The patrician nose, the arrogant lift of his chin, the expensive cheroot at his lips, the tailored cut of his clothes told her he must be Case Durham, the hotel owner.

He might be just a little demanding, darling, her mother had said.

But one look told Katlyn he was far more than that. Impossibly tall, his angled face and stern glare stripped her of her remaining bravado. She instinctively wanted to run.

In the same instant an image of her mother, desperately pale and weak, intruded. And Katlyn heard her own voice, vowing she would do anything to help Penelope. Anything. Even face Case Durham.

The object of her fear quieted the fanfare with a single sweep of his palm. His staff took a step back and waited while, in a leisurely ritual, he doused his cheroot and buried it in a tray.

Watching him, Katlyn’s heart beat faster and harder, whether purely from nerves or from a growing sense of annoyance with the arrogance radiating from the man, she wasn’t sure.

He made his way to her in a few long-legged strides, offering her a curt nod of his head and a cool handshake in welcome. “I’m Case Durham. I own the St. Martin. We’ve corresponded several times.”

Katlyn nodded in reply. This close to him, she could see he wasn’t as dark as the shadows had painted him, with the exception of his expression. His hair was more the color of polished oak, his eyes a deep, mesmerizing green, sharp and hard as gemstones.

As hard as Case Durham seemed to be. An image of the many dashing gamblers and fancy gentlemen who, upon first meeting her mother, had swept Penelope’s hand in theirs, bowing deeply into it with gentle kisses, made this first introduction sorely lacking by comparison.

Mister Durham, it seemed, wasn’t impressed by reputation.

“We’re glad you’ve finally arrived. It’s so late, I was beginning to worry for your safety.”

Katlyn bristled, but bit back her temper. How dare he make a comment about being late after all she and her mother had gone through to come to his wretched hotel?

“I’m late, Mr. Durham, because my stagecoach was attacked and robbed before I reached Cimarron. I suppose you could have found that out if you had bothered to inquire.”

A wry smile almost teased at one corner of his mouth, but in the next instant it vanished. His eyes riveted on her and he laid the palm of his large hand on her arm, commanding her full attention. “Tell me. Were you hurt in any way?”