Two Brides Too Many (17 page)

Dr. Morgan Cutshaw topped Nell’s list. It was true the man had put his wrong foot forward—on multiple occasions—where Kat was concerned, but it didn’t take a scholar to see that he’d noticed her.

Now, if only Kat would pay attention.

Kat drove Hattie’s wagon up the hill and turned onto Pikes Peak Avenue. Nell and Hattie had continued cleaning while she went to town, but she was anxious to get back to work. The cabin wasn’t much, with only one room and a few crude furnishings, but she would soon run out of rent money, and she needed a place to live.

As she parked the wagon and secured Hattie’s horse to the juniper tree, Kat looked down at Cripple Creek. The town teemed with life and reconstruction. She was getting used to seeing burros and mules in the streets and hearing train whistles and the thud of the stamp mills, and that gave her hope that she could adapt to life in this cabin as well. She pulled the new washboard and kettle off the wagon seat and climbed the wood steps to the porch. The crate of Patrick’s belongings sat to one side of the door. She’d finish dealing with them another time.

As soon as Kat opened the door, her eyes went wide and her jaw dropped. The chrome trim on the potbellied stove gleamed. Fresh newspaper lined the shelves above the cupboard and a lace curtain hung over the window. The place fairly sparkled. She set the washboard
and kettle on the clean cupboard, and looked over at Nell. “It can’t be the same place. It looks so homey.”

“Good.” Nell beamed, and a sprig of blond hair fell loose. She pushed it back behind her ear.

“It still needs a few finishing touches—a few knickknacks and pictures.” Hattie returned the chair to the table. “I daresay you girls have done an amazing job.”

Kat twisted to look into the woman’s warm eyes. “Not without your elbow grease and your lace curtain.”

Hattie waved the comment away. “So, did you see Doc Hanson, dear?”

“He wasn’t available.” Instead she’d just spent half a dollar to have Dr. Cutshaw confound her and remove her stitches.

Do you have a problem with my removing your sutures, Miss Sinclair?

Of course she had a problem with it. The man was kind. He treated women with respect and had a fatherly way with children—and he was maddening to no end.

“Dr. Cutshaw removed your stitches then.” Nell’s eyebrow shot up.

Nodding, Kat hung the washboard on a hook near the door.

“And?”

“And I think he did a competent job of removing my stitches.” Kat didn’t bother to keep the sarcasm from her voice.

“That, my dear, is saying the least about our good Dr. Cutshaw.” Miss Hattie patted her fleshy cheek. “Why, if I were a younger woman…I loved my George, don’t get me wrong, but he’d understand me falling for a man like Morgan Cutshaw.”

Kat refused to engage in such a conversation, and if Nell and
Hattie chose to play matchmaker, she wanted no part in it. Instead, she walked to the window and looked out at the hills.

She didn’t need a husband. That was Nell’s dream.

She was just recovering from the debacle with Patrick. Pursuing the “good doctor” wasn’t something she cared to do.

In fact, it was absurd.

T
WENTY
-T
HERE

Y
ou cheat!”

Lewis P. Whibley watched as the man across the table from him pulled a butcher knife out of his belt and slammed his fist into the faro table. Two sets of burly arms grabbed Lewis from behind and dragged him sideways through the Pullman coach. He heard the door open and then the sound of the wheels squealing against the rails. The room darkened as the train entered a tunnel, then as soon as it emerged, his captors hoisted him onto the landing and threw him out onto the gravel and dirt along the rail bed.

Tumbling, Lewis grabbed for whatever he could to slow his momentum. Pine limbs and scrub oak seemed eager to help punish him for his misdeeds in the rail car. Watching the train disappear into the distance, he could see first his valise, then his beloved faro table, being thrown to the elements.

Lewis quickly took an inventory of his body. There was considerable stinging and aching everywhere, but no serious bleeding, and nothing seemed broken. He pushed himself to his feet and stumbled
over rocks for several hundred yards to recover his belongings. Only then did he look around to orient himself. There appeared to be a roadway a short distance down the hill, but nothing to indicate civilization anywhere close. It was late evening, and he knew he would need to find shelter soon. The train tunnel appeared to be his best hope for protection against weather and the natural inhabitants of these forests. There wouldn’t be another train until morning, he hoped.

Darkness came quickly, with barely a sliver of a moon. Lewis shivered in the cold and drafty tunnel, even after donning every piece of clothing he had packed in the valise. The cold turned out to be merely an irritation compared to the recognizable
who-whooing
of owls and the unrecognizable growls coming from somewhere beyond the other end of the tunnel. At least, he told himself they were coming from beyond the tunnel.

Lewis looked up past the crescent moon. “If You’re really up there, I could use a little help,” he mumbled. “I believed in You when I was a boy but got too busy to pay You much mind and kinda figured You don’t care for drifters and gamblers. Well, anyway, if You are up there, and You have a mind to, I’d appreciate anything You can do. Amen, I guess.”

Morning took way too long to arrive, but as soon as it did, Lewis shed his extra clothing and walked to the road he’d seen the night before. For several hours he sat on a rock and waited for someone to pass by. He had plenty of time to relive the events on the train. He’d have to be more careful to choose players who couldn’t spot a well-practiced bluff. All in all, it was not the worst night of his career. At least this time he didn’t have to start from scratch and buy a new table.

Lewis craned his neck and looked up the road, exhaustion weighing
him down. He’d barely slept, afraid of being eaten alive by whatever owned that growl. Now, with no traffic on the road, he decided that if he was to sleep in a bed tonight, he would have to start walking toward town. He set out. Within an hour, he heard the sounds of a wagon behind him and set his table and bag on the ground. As it approached, he could hear the man driving it ask him if he needed a ride.

“Yes, yes! Thank you! I’m headed to Cripple Creek.”

“Well, me and the missus are goin’ to Victor, but we could give you a ride as far as the Y in the road.” The farmer had fewer teeth than a one-year-old. “You plan on jumping off there, ya hear?”

Nodding, Lewis grabbed his valise and table.

The man’s wife stared at the faro table. “Sir, we’re not in favor of gambling, and we don’t regularly assist those that prey upon poor, misguided souls. But seeing how the mister already promised, we’ll give you a ride.”

Lewis found it hard to say whose mustache was thicker—the mister’s or his wife’s. “Much obliged, ma’am.”

“At the back of the wagon.”

“Ma’am, I—”

“Now or never, Slick.”

Lewis fairly ran to the back of the wagon and jumped on as the driver snapped the reins. It was only then that he saw the contents of the wagon. Chickens. Hundreds of chickens in crates, covered by a canvas tarp. The stench made his eyes water. Determined to be thankful for the ride, he leaned against the cages to get some rest. He was immediately set upon by the chickens, who pecked him through the mesh.

Lewis jumped away. He nursed a few new wounds as he lay across the tailgate and, resting his head on his valise, soon closed his eyes. When the wagon finally stopped, his eyelids popped open and he grabbed his bag, ready to claim his cabin.

Lewis dropped to the ground, confused at the depot sign facing him. Why didn’t the chicken folks wake him at the crossroads?

The big, black letters seemed to mock him.
VICTOR
. How could he have slept all that way? He cursed, dusted himself off, and headed to the first saloon he saw. The men on the train had taken what was on the table, but he had a few hidden dollars in his vest pocket. If he could set up for one night, maybe he could afford a bed after his take and get to Cripple Creek tomorrow. That’s when his luck would change.

Tomorrow.

T
WENTY
-F
OUR

M
organ parked the horse and carriage he’d rented from Jesse’s Livery in front of the boardinghouse and tugged the pocket watch out of his vest: 3:50 p.m. He was ten minutes early, but he couldn’t imagine how it had happened. Not after all the indecision. Women were supposed to be the ones concerned with fashion, fussing over their outfits like hummingbirds at a spring flower. Opal had done her share of it every time they went out. But he didn’t understand his own fretting as this was simply a courtesy outing. He’d been rude to Miss Sinclair and he was trying to make it up to her. That was all. Drawing a deep breath of cool air, Morgan stepped out of the carriage and tied Jesse’s black mare to the rail at the bottom of the steps.

As usual, music met him at the door. He’d grown accustomed to the greeting here and rather enjoyed it. The phonograph played tonight, accompanied by rhythmic footsteps. He removed his hat and knocked, wrestling with his errant thoughts, the ones that wondered what kind of music would come from Kat Sinclair’s home.

Hattie opened the door, her cheeks pink. “You’re here!” The words
puffed out on shallow breaths. She must have been doing a dance more vigorous than a waltz. “Where did the time go?” She turned on her heel and motioned for him to follow her into the parlor. A frilled collar disguised her double chin, and she wore fine gloves and boots that looked freshly polished. He began to worry that the ladies expected an evening of fine dining.

Once Hattie quieted the phonograph, she looked him over, from the styling wax in his hair to his polished shoes. “If you don’t look handsome, Doctor. I’m a widow wishing she were some years younger…maybe with auburn hair?”

Morgan felt the flush that tipped his ears. He did like reddish-brown hair, but did this woman have to be so blunt?

Hattie bent toward him and raised a crooked finger to her lips. “It’ll be our little secret.” She winked and led him to the sofa.

She settled at one end then he sat at the other. Both of them had a view of the staircase through the open parlor door. “You look lovely this evening, Mrs. Adams.”

A blush pinked Hattie’s fleshy cheeks. “Why, thank you, kind sir. But please, call me Miss Hattie.”

“I’ve gone and scheduled this treat during mealtime, so I was wondering if it would be appropriate if I provided supper here at the boardinghouse afterwards.” The doctor hoped she would agree, since he had already ordered the meal from the best restaurant still standing.

“Splendid! My George and I always enjoyed an evening at home with friends.” Hattie’s attention seemed to wander toward the hallway, and Morgan found himself glancing that way too. Quiet wasn’t something he was accustomed to here, and the ticking of the mantel clock took over the room.