Cheryl St.John - The Lawman's Bride

“Yes, ma’am,” Emma and Amanda chorused.

Mrs. Winters pointed an accusing finger at Sophie. “One more infraction by you, young lady, and you can pack your bags.”

Sophie listened to the continuation of the tirade she’d endured at least once a day for the past month. Her kitchen and dining room skills were improving, for goodness sake. This was her first attempt at domestic chores after all, no matter what her references said.

The woman inspected each of them with a critical eye. “Your morning duties are listed on the blackboard, ladies. Do them promptly. If the heat causes your clothing to become damp, change immediately. We must be prepared in case Mr. Harvey makes one of his sudden unannounced visits.”

She turned and marched away.

Sophie watched her lumber into the dining hall. “Sudden unannounced visit sounds so much better than sneaky inspection. ”

“Did she refer to sweat? ” Emma asked, mischievously covering her lips as though she’d said a curse word.

“Surely she knows Harvey Girls simply glow, ” Amanda added.

“Whatever did you do to make her take such a dislike to you?” Emma asked.

Sophie shrugged.

“Every man who comes in does a double take when he sees Sophie,” Amanda told her. “Maybe the trail boss is jealous.”

The three of them shared a giggle and, joined by coworkers, hurried to their morning tasks.

Clay Connor crossed his ankles and leaned back in his chair, the Newton Kansan and a cup of steaming coffee his only concerns in the world. Or so it should seem to the other occupants of the hotel dining room. On his left, an elderly mother and her son discussed the details of disposing of their husband and father’s clothing and personal items. The son kept bringing the subject around to a land deed.

On his right, three merchants from Florence had several catalogs open and were bemoaning the fact that Montgomery Ward could offer items at a lower price than they could.

Straight ahead at the lunch counter, a slender fellow in a worn serge jacket folded his napkin and prepared to leave without paying for his dinner. The manager had sent for Clay when he’d first seen the man who met the description of someone who’d pulled the same stunt at another Harvey House in Wichita.

Without turning his head, Clay glanced out the window and confirmed that Owen Sanders, one of his deputies, was still out front on the loading platform. With the dining hall and lunch counter filled with Sante Fe passengers eager to return to their train cars and continue their journeys, a low-key arrest was imperative. Even though he didn’t see a gun on the man, Clay wouldn’t take chances with the well-being of innocent bystanders.

The patron under the marshal’s scrutiny had seen the upside of forty. His clothing and shoes were well-cut and of fine material, but on the verge of shabby. With impeccable manners he finished his meal—breaded veal and vegetables, cheesecake and coffee—neatly folded the white linen napkin, and fished in his pocket as though searching for a tip.

The man waited until all the waitresses were occupied and the manager was out of sight before grabbing his hat and heading for the door.

Clay folded his newspaper, then nonchalantly rose to his feet and followed.

The fellow, settling a bowler on his head, was hellbent on making a beeline for the deserted passenger car. As his foot hit the first step, a pair of boots appeared on the metal platform above, and he looked up into the barrel of Deputy Sanders’s Colt. As if to escape, he turned, but came up short against Clay’s .45. Eyes as wide as silver dollars, he raised his lily-white hands above his head.

“What’s your name?” Clay asked.

He didn’t meet Clay’s eyes, but glanced around with a feigned expression of bewilderment. “Er—gentlemen, is there a problem?”

“Problem is you forgot to pay for your meal back there.”

“Oh! Oh, my.” He started to lower one hand.

“Keep ‘em in the air,” Clay demanded.

His hand shot back above his head. “How careless of me. Uh. Let me just run back in and take care of my bill.”

“Too late for that.”

“But—”

“You just forget to pay for your breakfast in Wichita, too?”

“Well, I—I, uh—”

“What’s your name, I asked.”

“Willard. Willard DeWeise.”

“Well, Willard Willard DeWeise, you’ll be gettin’ three squares a day in my jail until you have a hearing. Won’t have to pay for those meals, either.”

“You see, Marshal, I’m a bit down on my luck right now. I kept the tickets and I fully intended to repay the hotel when I could.”

“Oh, you’ll repay them. And you’ll do your time. Never knew a man down on his luck who couldn’t earn a meal along the Santa Fe. Got a bag in there?” Clay jerked his head toward the railroad car.

DeWeise nodded.

“Throw it out here.”

Owen accompanied DeWeise into the car. Seconds later, the two of them descended the metal stairs and DeWeise dropped a scuffed leather satchel on the loading platform. Clay gestured for Owen to open it, and the deputy searched the contents. Shaving gear, a wrinkled but clean shirt, socks, and a packet of letters were its only contents.

Clay ordered DeWeise to place his hands behind his back and clamped handcuffs around his wrists. “Lock ‘im up. I’ll go talk to the manager.”

Owen prodded his prisoner toward Oak Street.

Clay headed into the hotel.

Harrison Webb had followed Clay’s movements and watched the interaction from a front window. Now he gestured for Clay to follow him back to his office.

“He didn’t seem dangerous,” Clay told him. “Small-time thief from the looks of ‘im. He’ll get a hearing, and the Wichita manager will have a chance to say his piece.”

“We have to press charges,” Harrison said.

“Rightly so,” Clay agreed.

“Your coffee’s on the house,” the manager said, extending a hand. “Supper too, if you want to come back later.”

Clay shook his hand. “I’ll do that.”

He exited the man’s office just in time to collide with a young woman on her way through the pantry area.

The stack of plates she’d been carrying slid sideways, and Clay made an ineffective lunge to keep them from falling.

A mountain of white china struck the floor with an ear-splitting clatter, shards flying in every direction.

The lovely dark-haired waitress with whom he’d collided gaped at the pile of debris. “Shit, shit, shit,” she sputtered.

The exclamation from such a sweet-looking young lady was a surprise that made him want to laugh. Instead, he pursed his lips and composed his expression.

Her shocked expression raised and her round dark gaze locked on Clay, then dropped to the silver star pinned to his shirtfront. Her attention slid to the .45 holstered at his hip.

The shrill whistle of the departing train seemed to jolt her into action, and she knelt to pick up pieces of china.

“Careful,” he said, kneeling quickly and covering her hand to stop her. “You’ll cut yourself.”

She stared at his hand on hers, and his gaze followed, seeing his dark-skinned fingers over her smaller pale ones. She drew away as though he’d bitten her.

“This does it, Miss Hollis.” A woman’s harsh voice caught Clay’s attention, and he straightened. The barrel-shaped kitchen manager glared at the young woman at his feet. “You had your last warning. This is the end of the line for you.”

Miss Hollis stood and brushed her hands together, raising her chin and meeting the stern woman’s accusatory glower straight on. For a woman so young and pretty, she sure had grit.

Sophie stared back at the woman who had it in for her. She held no hard feelings for Mrs. Winters. The woman’s position was at stake, and she’d given Sophie more chances than she should have. In most cases, the first mistake was a Harvey Girl’s last.