Katie Rose (22 page)

He’d made it easier for Emily to stay. Why?

Cursing under his breath, he pushed through the swinging doors and strode into the smoke-filled room. Faro dealers took up one side of the saloon, while cowboys danced with brightly gowned girls. The barkeep looked his way and Thomas gestured to the bottles behind him.

“Whiskey.”

An amber glass was pushed in front of him and Thomas downed it in one shot. The liquor burned all the way to his gut, but didn’t bring him much relief. Thoughts of Emily wouldn’t leave his head, and he cursed himself ten times for being a fool.

She was more trouble than she was worth. Yet when he’d seen her forlorn face and witnessed the humiliation she’d suffered, he knew he had to do something. But he also knew he’d been avoiding an important issue for too long. For when he succeeded in his mission, Emily would suffer much greater pain than she did today. He felt as if he were riding at a flat-out gallop to a place called disaster.

“Well, honey, you’re a success!”

Rosie beamed as Emily entered the bedroom. It was well past midnight, and Mrs. Hamill had just left. Tired as she was, Emily couldn’t stop the smile of pleasure at Rosie’s words.

“Yes, it was a success, in its own way. Eleanor Hamill is a real Sherlock Holmes devotee. Why, the minutiae she remembers is just marvelous! And she has the most fantastic brain. I could talk with her for hours.”

“I think that’s just wonderful.” Rosie yawned, stretching her arms over her head in such a way that Emily couldn’t help but observe that Rosie was dressed for bed in a black negligee so sheer it made her blush. But Rosie didn’t notice, for she continued chatting away.

“She seemed like she was real interested in you, and would take you under her wing.”

“I think so.” Emily nodded in agreement. “She’s already asked me to tea, and to meet with the Ladies’ Sewing Circle. I sure hope it works. Thomas is going to help me set up shop in town, so it looks like we just might be on our way.” Emily looked fondly at the reflection in the mirror. “You know, Rosie, I never thanked you for your support. You are … I mean were … are … a good friend.”

“Why, thank you, honey.” Rosie looked genuinely touched. Her beautiful eyes seemed almost misty, and she glanced away, embarrassed at the show of emotion. Brushing at her cheeks, she looked back at Emily, and her expression was filled with both appreciation and regret. “That’s real sweet of you to say. Actually, you’re my first real friend, too, outside the working girls. I’m learning all kinds of things from you. I only wish I were still alive to make use of them.”

The silence that followed was almost palpable. Emily had to acknowledge to herself that Rosie might someday simply vanish from her life. As painful as that thought was, Emily refused to give it credence. No one really knew when their time would come. She would simply enjoy Rosie’s company all the more, knowing it for the gift it was.

“Now that we have that out of the way,” Emily said briskly, returning to her logical thoughts, “it’s time to take the next step in the investigation. Tomorrow I’m going to find Bertie Evans.”

“Hmm.” Rosie frowned, her beautiful brows
drawing closer together. “I don’t think your preacher man’s going to like this one bit.”

“He doesn’t have to know,” Emily said practically, but her own brow wrinkled in thought. Keeping Thomas at arm’s length was no longer as appealing as it once was.

The next day, Emily awoke early and worked feverishly on the hats. She wanted at least a dozen models to display in the shop, for it would show the women what she was capable of doing.

By late afternoon, she had to take a break. She rose and brushed her hands together, removing tiny snips of thread and pieces of feathers. Smiling in satisfaction, she surveyed the hats lined up on the table.

They were gorgeous. There was a white Parisian bonnet, with a plume of dove feathers and pink ruching. There was a dark blue sun hat piled high with fashionable netting, a stuffed bird, and fruit. There was a beautiful dark green day bonnet with a pale silk lining, cock feathers, and elegant fawn-colored ribbons. Beside it was a pert short velvet cap with a cocky arrangement of dried baby’s breath and a neat black satin bow in the back, meant to be worn at a rakish tilt. Emily had even included a velvet snood for winter, decorated with ostrich feathers, and a yachting-style hat that was perfect for the new bicycling fad. While it wasn’t a complete collection, it was a good overview of her skills.

She was pleased with her efforts. Although some of her creations had been transported from Boston,
her updating had helped them tremendously, and her own good taste was apparent. There were no monstrosities in her collection, such as bonnets with stuffed mice, beetles, or lizards, nor any of questionable wearability. All were obviously well constructed, and simply beautiful.

Straightening, she put on her glasses and took up her case. On second thought, she put on one of her hats, adjusting it in the mirror until it looked perfect. A walking advertisement never hurt, she thought, tying the ribbons beneath her chin. Watson, sensing that she was about to renew her sleuthing activities, leaped up to join her. Emily smiled and let him into the bag. As she was preparing to leave, Darrel ventured in through the back door.

“Are you going out, miss?”

Emily was about to reply, when a thought made her hesitate. Somehow Thomas had discovered her whereabouts surprisingly quickly when she’d gone to the newspaper office. The last thing she needed was for him to find out she was trying to trace Bertie Evans. Although she couldn’t be sure that Darrel had informed on her, it didn’t escape her attention that the boy had been hired by Thomas. She shrugged absently.

“No, I thought I’d just take a little walk. I’ve been working so hard on those hats, and I need some fresh air. Can you do something for me? I’d like those boxes brought down from the attic to transport the hats. If you could please take care of that now, I would appreciate it.”

Darrel glanced up the stairs, then back at her.
Emily could almost hear his thoughts. Unable to come up with a graceful way out of the task, he turned and ventured toward the upper floors of the house. Emily waited until she heard the attic door slam, then snatched up her case and started toward town.

Her plan was successful. Emily strode onto the boardwalk, unhindered by Thomas. Congratulating herself on her own cleverness, Emily crossed the road and headed toward the post office. But she never saw the cowboy step out of the saloon, nor did she see him watch her enter the post office door, following her movements with dark, shifty eyes.

Inside, Emily grimaced as the clerk recognized her. Thank goodness, no one else was there, and instead of his outright rudeness she only had to endure his leering stare as she approached.

“Miss Potter. I was wondering when I’d see you again. I was hoping you’d take me up on my offer to meet me later.”

Emily glared at him coldly, with all the interest a scientist shows a particularly gruesome insect he’s about to dissect. Refusing to give in to his insinuation, she gestured toward his post box.

“I am trying to locate a Miss Bertie Evans,” Emily explained, using the story she’d concocted last night. “She used to work at my house, and I have some letters that need to be forwarded to her.”

The clerk’s face fell, but he turned toward his books, grumbling. “You’re the second person asking after her this week. What’s so interesting about a housekeeper?”

“I have no connections with anyone else making
inquiries,” Emily answered primly. “You wouldn’t happen to remember who else asked for her?”

The clerk shrugged as he flipped through the huge book, but his manner softened. “That preacher man, the one that’s new in town. He said she used to be in his congregation, and he wanted to invite her to his service on Sunday. Though why she’d want to come all the way from Greeley to hear him speak is beyond me. Here it is. Evans. Bertie. She’s at number four Ninth Avenue, in Greeley. I’ll take her mail.” The clerk thrust out his hand.

“Oh, I forgot to bring it with me. Aren’t I silly? I’ll have to go back home and fetch it!” Emily shrugged, playing a dimwit with considerable success. There were times when it paid to be female, she thought.

The clerk seemed more annoyed than suspicious. “I’m closing in a few minutes. Bring them tomorrow.”

Emily walked outside lost in thought. So intense was her analysis that she didn’t notice the cowboy loitering by the post office door, scowling as he watched her go. All she could think about was Thomas, and why he was asking about Bertie Evans.

The dreaded suspicion welled up inside her again, and she knew she’d have no peace until she had some answers. Whose side was Thomas Hall on anyway?

She stood outside the shop that he’d told her about and surveyed the tiny store with its neat little window and bright green door. He was right. It was perfect. Which only added to her suspicions.

Turning abruptly, she started home. She couldn’t
continue to play this cat-and-mouse game. As outrageous as it was, she would follow through with her plan. Tonight she would see Thomas, get inside his room, and look through his belongings. She would do her best to unmask him once and for all. And whatever she discovered, she would have to live with. But knowledge was far better than this uncertainty.

Emily was sure of it.

Someone entered the post office, banging the door shut behind him. The little clerk snorted in annoyance, then spoke without turning around.

“I’m closed! Whatever it is will have to wait till tomorrow!”

“I don’t wait on no man,” a voice said coldly.

The clerk turned slowly, his throat dry. He saw the outlaw standing at the counter. His eyes shifted from the likeness on the poster hanging right behind him, back to the man himself. Emmet Colter looked uglier and meaner than even the wanted poster indicated. His fingers were hitched in his trousers, just enough to show the handle of his gun, and his stance was menacing—or what the clerk could see of him above the counter. But it was his eyes the clerk would never forget. Cold, black, and heartless, they were the eyes of a killer.

The clerk swallowed hard. “What can I do for you?”

“Who is that woman that was just here, and what does she want?”

“Miss Potter?” the clerk stammered. “She was
asking for the address of the housekeeper who lived at Shangri-La. That’s all.”

Emmet’s lip curled with disdain, then he spat on the floor. “I don’t like that Miss Potter asking so many questions, and I especially don’t like people helping her. Now, what did you tell her?”

The clerk felt as if he were going to faint. Sweat broke out on his brow. Slowly, he weighed the risks—and then the small amount of backbone he still possessed caused him to lay his finger on the books, then shrug.

“Silverton. I said she’s in Silverton.”

Emmet’s smile broadened, and he fingered the pearl-handled pistol in his belt. “All right then. Now, if I hear you ran to the sheriff, I may have to pay you another visit, and I don’t think you want that.”

“No.” The clerk shook his head nervously.

“Then we understand each other.” Emmet tossed a coin on the counter, and the clerk closed his eyes in relief as the outlaw sauntered out the door.

Opening his eyes when he heard the door shut, the clerk exhaled the breath he’d been holding. He steadied his nerves, then drew himself up to his full five feet five inches, and brushed the coin to the floor.

He was no man’s doormat. He was a representative of the U.S. Mail.

“You look wonderful.”

“I feel like a plucked chicken,” Emily said, trying to breathe, though the tight dress made that a challenge. Under Rosie’s ministrations, she’d bathed and
powdered herself, then corseted and laced her undergarments with considerable difficulty. She’d forced her feet into tiny velvet slippers, and jet earrings pinched her lobes. Yet the result was worth it. Rosie gave her an approving smile as Emily surveyed the results of her toilette with pleasure.

Rosie had been right. The red dress was perfect—the neckline daringly low and fringed with scalloped black lace, framing her face and making her skin appear like cream. The waist was tiny, but Emily had managed to squeeze into it, and the gown fell to her feet in an elegant swish of crimson satin. The bustle in the back was small, in the current fashion, and required only padding instead of the horrid steel contraptions that used to be built into dresses. Still, it felt quite strange to Emily as she turned herself to look at her silhouette, and saw that she actually had a decent figure.

“Now some lip rouge. Just lean over the mirror and I’ll show you how to put it on. You made a mess of it when you went to the saloon. Purse your lips like this.”

Emily giggled, then followed Rosie’s suggestions. It was like nothing she could ever have imagined, seeing her face right next to that of a specter in the gilt-framed glass, especially receiving a lesson in applying lip rouge. Yet she was grateful for the assistance.

There was a knock downstairs and Emily straightened abruptly. “He’s here. Are you sure I look all right?”