Cheryl St.John - The Lawman's Bride

They reached the second-floor landing, and she dared a look at the lobby below, saying a silent goodbye to her last hope of freedom.

“Your speech is cultured and flawless. Quite different from when you first came to me.”

She hadn’t come to him. He’d bought her from a band of Sioux.

“You barely spoke English, as I recall.”

During six years as a captive, she’d had little opportunity to speak her own language.

“I confess I’m hurt,” he said, pausing in the hall outside their adjoining rooms. Moisture glistened on the shoulders of his fine black coat. “All I’ve done for you, and this is how you repay me?”

She studied a smear on the wallpaper to avoid meeting the chastisement in his eyes.

“I’ve been so patient.” Those words came out as a thoughtful sigh. “Quite considerate really.”

Turning, he fitted a brass key into the lock and guided her into his room. For the past two years they had traveled as father and daughter. He claimed the ruse was so that no questions would arise, but his true strategy was to keep her under his careful watch. Her door to the hall was always kept locked, and he held the only key.

“Perhaps you need more attention. A bit more of an investment in our arrangement.”

Garrett set down her bag and shed his coat to reveal the same vest and pressed white shirt he’d been wearing earlier in the evening. He was twice her age but fit and dapper with razor-sharp cheekbones and an elegant square forehead. His hair couldn’t be called fair or blond because of its dark undertones.

Reluctantly, she removed her damp shawl and hung it on the hook on the back of the door.

He bent to open her carpetbag and dumped its contents on the floral carpet. Two of her simplest dresses spilled out, followed by a book, a length of beads and a strand of pearls.

Holding the pearls in his palm, he straightened, studied them for a moment, finally closing his long fingers over the necklace.

“You wouldn’t have gotten far with such a meager stash,” he told her. “Not a wise decision.” He leaned toward her to clasp the pearls around her neck, speaking against her ear as he did so. “Not wise at all. I haven’t taught you everything yet. There is more…much, much more.”

Another stone joined the first in that riverbed of hopelessness. He reached to her throat to unbutton her collar, then unfastened the row of buttons until he reached the waistband of her skirt.

Her heart thumped in her chest, but she held her anxiety in check, her expression revealing nothing of what she felt. Show people what they want to see. He’d taught her well. She conveyed regret and submission with her downturned eyes.

Garrett slid the shirtwaist down her arms, skimming his fingertips against her bare skin. “If not for me, you would be some man’s squaw,” he told her. “You would be cooking scrawny rabbits over a fire and suckling a squalling brat. If I hadn’t fostered you, you’d be living with a mangy trapper who beat you over every small offense.”

Garrett turned her around and unfastened her skirt, pushing the fabric to the ground in a silken swish of petticoats. “You should be grateful you’ve been spared all that. Grateful you’re not down on Tucker Street, selling yourself to every drunk who comes through the doors with two bits.”

She closed her eyes, fearing what he said was true. Anything was better than the things he described. She owed him for sparing her that kind of life. He’d always provided well and he was polite. He’d taught her the craft he considered an art, rewarding her when she learned and excelled.

“Plenty of other young women would be delighted to exchange places with you this very minute, Gabriella.”

Even though she was a mere possession, Garrett was clever and handsome, well-mannered and clean. She could be a lot worse off.

Her life had been spared long ago, but spared for what? She’d gone from being a child to being a possession. The lessons she’d learned at the hands of the Sioux were as much a part of her as her dark hair and white skin, most importantly: show no fear.

She opened her eyes and met Garrett’s, watched as he turned back the coverlet on his bed and beckoned her forward.

Yes. Her life could be a lot worse.

Newton, Kansas, 1887

What’s a girl like me doing in a place like this?

She glanced into open doorways as she strolled down the second story hallway of the dormitory housing the young women who worked in Fred Harvey’s elegant Arcade Hotel and restaurant.

Each from good families, the young ladies were of irreproachable character and had provided references and letters of recommendation to acquire their positions in the lavish hotel and esteemed restaurant. The irony of her presence here amused her.

Emma Spearman exited her room, closing the door behind her with a soft click. “Good morning, Sophie. Did you sleep well?”

“Very well, thank you. And you?” she replied.

Emma’s bright smile revealed her pleasure. “I used to sleep in a lumpy bed with two sisters who tossed all night and stole the covers. My three noisy brothers were in a loft overhead. My nights here are heaven, thank you.” She tucked her arm through Sophie’s and said in a conspiratorial tone, “I will never admit this to a one of them, but I do sometimes miss my siblings. I’m taking the train home for a visit the first of next week.”

Sophie smiled. A bed with two sisters and those noisy brothers overhead sounded like heaven to her.

“What about you?” Emma asked. “You haven’t seen your family since you’ve been here, have you?”

So what was Sophie doing working and sleeping among people of good character? Well, she’d lied. Fabricated a background, established her own requirements and met her own standards. People wanted to believe her, so they did. She was attractive, well-educated, dressed smartly and spoke in a cultured manner. Her contrived references had been believable.

She was Sophie Hollis now, daughter of a Pennsylvania farmer, come to Kansas to broaden her perspective and earn money to tuck away.

“I’ll be traveling east very soon,” she thought up on the spot. “My father is remarrying, so I’ll be attending the wedding.”

“How exciting,” Emma said. “A wedding!”

“Who’s getting married?” Sophie’s roommate Amanda Pettyjohn caught up with them, her pretty blond curls bouncing against her neck, her fawn-colored eyes sparkling.

Maybe she shouldn’t have gone that far, Sophie thought belatedly. Mentioning marriage in this place was like dangling a juicy bone above a hungry dog’s head. Everyone knew the young women working here were eager for husbands, but two years of service was required before a Harvey girl could resign her position. Each of them had signed a contract.

“Sophie’s father,” Emma told her.

“You didn’t tell me.” Amanda’s tone revealed injury.

Sophie wasn’t used to transparent displays of emotion. “I only got the telegram last evening. I didn’t say anything, because I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.”

“Well, of course, you didn’t. Your own dear mother could never be replaced.” Amanda patted her arm as they reached the back stairs and started down. “I was devastated when my father remarried. At least you’re grown and don’t have to endure living in the shadow of step-siblings. Has your father known his new fiancée long?”

Sophie was in the process of inventing a reply when she was spared.

“There’s a train within the hour,” the starched and puffed head waitress of the dining room announced from the bottom of the stairs. “It’s going to be a hot day, so you’ll want your heavy chores completed early.” The Harvey House employees called Mrs. Winters the trail boss for good reason.