She spun to a dizzying halt to stare at Mrs. Pauder’s crumpled dress. Stop this, she ordered herself. You’re working yourself into a fine dither. That won’t help the situation. You must keep a clear head. Stay calm. David Paxton doesn’t have the look of a wealthy man. He will never part company with enough money to hire professional investigators, and even if he does, a process like that takes time. You can run with Daphne, if you must. You have the remainder of her dress money. That should be enough to hire a horse and travel to the nearest railway. You can book passage from there to a large town, change your name, and no one will ever find you.
She felt better with that half-formulated plan taking shape in her mind. She heard Abigail bumping around in her quarters. The warning sent her diving for the sewing chair. By the time the proprietress flung back the cubicle curtain, Brianna was, to all appearances, hard at work.
“You’ll be docked an hour,” the woman said. “You were gone longer than that, but I’ve decided to be generous.”
Brianna had been absent from the shop for no more than twenty minutes, but she’d learned the hard way that contradicting her boss only made matters worse. “Thank you,” she pushed out. “I need all the time I can get.”
“Who was that man?”
Brianna wanted to lie, but in a tiny town like Glory Ridge, the word was probably already out. “His name is David Paxton.”
Abigail sucked in a sharp breath. “Your husband?”
A dagger of pain stabbed behind Brianna’s eyes. Her thoughts were in such a tangle, she couldn’t think how to reply. He isn’t my husband. He only bears the same name. That would incite a dozen questions she wasn’t prepared to answer. He believes he is Daphne’s father, but he isn’t. Again, such a reply would stir curiosity. In short, Brianna couldn’t think how to respond, but she had no choice but to say something. She settled on, “No, he’s not my husband.”
“But that’s your husband’s name.”
“Yes, that is my husband’s name. You are correct. But he is not the same David Paxton.”
Abigail smelled a juicy tidbit of gossip and entered the cubicle. “That’s peculiar. What is he doing here? What did he want?”
Desperation made Brianna bold. She met Abigail’s birdlike gaze. “Miss Martin, you are my employer, and I hold you in high regard, but my position here in no way privileges you to pry into my personal affairs.”
Abigail’s bony cheeks went pink with anger. “Well, I never! Don’t forget your place, madam, or you shall find yourself without a job. You aren’t the only woman in Glory Ridge who is skilled with needle and thread.”
Brianna was well aware that times were hard in the community and others had applied for her position. That said, those applicants lacked Brianna’s ability to design gowns of high fashion and quality, and Abigail was no fool. “That’s true,” she dared to reply. “Have you someone else in mind that you might prefer?”
Abigail thinned her lips and turned to leave the cubicle. Brianna knew she’d just bested her employer, but she was too unnerved to feel smug. Others were bound to ask the same questions Abigail just had. How on earth would she answer them? Oh, God, oh, God, why is that man here? I asked you for a miracle, and instead you sent me a catastrophe. Brianna had worked hard to build a life for herself and Daphne in this tiny town, inhabited by narrow-minded, judgmental provincials who stood ready to shun anyone touched by even a hint of scandal.
David Paxton had brought with him far more than a hint.
David sat on the edge of the boardwalk outside the restaurant, his daughter perched beside him. She’d fetched a pretty new cloak of deep blue wool from the boardinghouse to protect herself from the chill, but she’d drawn her small hands from the matching muff to drink her sarsaparilla. As the wind whipped up dust devils in the street, David questioned the wisdom of allowing the child to consume a cold drink. With every sip, she shivered.
Oh, well, he was new to this father business. He had wanted Daphne to have her refreshment inside the restaurant, but she’d felt uneasy in the more formal surroundings and asked to come outdoors. Had she never eaten at the restaurant? Probably not. Sighing, David lifted the side of his duster to drape it around her shoulders before taking another sip of his drink, wishing it were beer instead of soda pop. She grinned up at him, her mouth ringed with dark liquid, Dory Paxton’s dimple flashing in her cheek.
“Thank you, Papa. It is a bit chilly, isn’t it?”
“Just a mite.” He tucked her close to his side, enjoying the feeling of her slightness against him. New at the job though he was, he liked being a father. “Is the sarsaparilla tasty?”
“Very tasty.” She took another swallow and then lowered the half-empty bottle to her knees and leaned closer to David’s warmth. A yawn tugged at her lips, finally won the war, and stretched her mouth wide. “Hmm,” she said, resting her head against his rib cage. “I like having you here, Papa.”
“Why, because I make a good pillow?” he teased.
She giggled and loosened one hand from around the bottle to rub her eyes.
“Are you sleepy, pumpkin?” David asked.
“Only a little.”
“Do you normally take a nap after school?”
She bobbed her head. “On the pallet beside Mama’s chair. Afterward, she gives me supper, and I do homework or play quiet games until bedtime.”
“Then you go to the boardinghouse?”
“No, I sleep on the pallet until Mama finishes cleaning the restaurant. Then she comes back and takes me to the boardinghouse.”
“Ah.” David wondered when Brianna ever rested. He drew out his pocket watch. It was half past three. He guessed it was well past Daphne’s usual nap time. “When does she finish at the restaurant?”
The child yawned again. “I dunno,” she said drowsily. “I’m always asleep when she carries me home.”
David had already determined that Brianna worked almost ceaselessly. A pretty woman like her deserved better. She had the most tempting mouth he’d ever seen. Inappropriate thought. Allowing himself to feel attracted to Brianna Paxton might undermine his resolve to sort out this situation, and for Daphne’s sake, he had to remain focused, not on the mother but on the future well-being of the child.
He settled his gaze on the marshal’s office across the street, more determined than ever to set up a hearing with the lawman and judge. Brianna might balk and dig in her heels, but in the end, she would be much better off with him paying all her expenses.
Bending his head, he whispered to Daphne, “I think the rest of your drink will keep. It’s time for you to go inside with your mother and take a short nap.”
Daphne leaned back to fix him with a worried look. “You might be gone when I wake up. Won’t you please come to my May Day presentation tonight, Papa? Hope Blinstrub has hers memorized perfectly, and she always laughs when I make a mistake. I won’t be as scared if you’re there. Mama can’t come because she has to work.”
David hated to hear that Brianna’s boss—or the dictates of her budget—would prevent her from attending the child’s performance. He had a good mind to do something about that. Taking on Miss Martin, the termagant, would be a challenge, but he had a feeling the silly woman was so hungry for masculine attention that maneuvering her might be fairly easy.
“I wouldn’t miss your recitation for anything,” he assured the child. “As for me taking off while you’re asleep, no way, little lady. From now on, you’re stuck with me. Tight as a tick to a hound’s neck, remember?”
She didn’t seem convinced. Thinking quickly, David fished the coin from his shirt pocket. “I’ll tell you what. While you’re napping, you stand guard over our lucky penny. That way, you can be extra sure I won’t go haring off while you’re asleep.”
Daphne accepted the collateral and stuck it in the pocket of her cloak. “You’d never run off without our penny, ’cause it’s magic.”
“You’ve got that right. Our lucky penny is almost as good as having a geni
e in a bottle.”
“A what?”
David made up a quick tale about a man who had a genie trapped in a jug. As he spun the story, Daphne went limp against him. When he heard her emit a soft little snort, he was once again reminded strongly of his ma, who swore up and down she never snored. It had become a family joke, with him and all his brothers often asking her if she stayed awake all night to make certain sure of that.
After depositing his own sarsaparilla at the edge of the boardwalk, he recapped Daphne’s and put the half-finished drink into the deep pocket of his duster, leaning the bottle just so to prevent a spill. Scooping his daughter into his arms, he walked to the dress shop, only a few yards away. By juggling his burden, he was able to open the door, enter the establishment, and nudge the portal closed behind him. Brianna immediately appeared, her eyes wide, her expression filled with censure. David had a bad feeling she was afraid of him as he sidled past her into the cubicle. Why? He knew it could be a hard world for a woman alone. Had she been ill-treated by some of the men in town? As shabby as Glory Ridge was, the residents seemed to be God-fearing enough. Even so, David knew a respectable, kindly air often concealed a black heart.
“Where’s her napping pallet?” he asked.
Brianna opened a trunk to withdraw a folded quilt, which she spread on the floor beside her chair. Once again, David noted how stiffly she held herself as she bent over. It went beyond strange. He’d seen someone move like that, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember who. He knelt on one knee to gently lay Daphne down. She murmured in her sleep. It didn’t escape David’s notice that she had one small hand in her cloak pocket, no doubt to protect their lucky penny. He couldn’t resist smoothing her tousled golden curls.
As he pushed erect, he withdrew the bottle of sarsaparilla from his pocket and set it on the windowsill. Brianna jerked at the movement of his hand. David gave her a long, searching look. He had never struck a woman in his life, and it bothered him that this particular female thought him capable of that.
As he left the cubicle, he glanced into the open trunk, noting an array of sewing notions and yardage, but what caught his eye was a stack of dime novels, uppermost a far-fetched tale about Ace Keegan, the infamous gunslinger. He almost chuckled. What would Brianna say if he told her Ace was his half brother? Not a wise move, he quickly decided. Somehow he didn’t think that would ease Brianna’s mind much about his stratum, and it sure as hell wouldn’t assure her that he was harmless.
Meeting her gaze, he tried to ignore the lovely curve of her cheek and the shadows of fear in her green eyes. He regretted that he unsettled her so, but he didn’t see that he had a choice but to continue on his present course. “I’ll be off to the marshal’s office to arrange that hearing,” he said.
“For in the morning,” she inserted.
“As I said, I’m hoping to get it over with tonight. The sooner this is settled, the better.”
She knotted her hands at her sides. “There is nothing to settle, sir.”
David forced a smile. “Save your breath for the marshal and judge, darlin’. It’s wasted on me.”
David thought for just an instant that he saw steam coming out of her ears. He turned and walked out.
After Paxton left, Brianna paced the cubicle. He was the most insolent man she’d ever had the misfortune to meet. That arrogant stance, with one lean hip cocked and his knee slightly bent, smacked of self-importance, and when those incredibly blue eyes met hers, she got the unsettling feeling that he saw far more than she wanted to reveal. He had a way of smiling slightly—a condescending twist of his lips—that made her want to slap his handsome face.
Handsome? Brianna could scarcely believe that she had allowed her mind to wander in that direction, but there it was, an inescapable fact. That chiseled countenance, so burnished by exposure to the sun, was undeniably attractive, possessing a masculine appeal that undoubtedly made female hearts skip beats. Not mine, she assured herself. Well, only when she was enclosed in a small area with him. Then her heart definitely went out of rhythm, not because she found him attractive, but because he was intimidating. He towered over her, and his breadth of shoulder made her feel dwarfed. Though she’d yet to see him without the duster, she knew his upper body had to be as powerfully muscled as his long, lean legs. If he turned that strength against her, she would be helpless to defend herself.
The thought made her lungs hitch. She would never be truly alone with the man, so worrying about it was silly. Here in town, he’d never dare touch her. Help was only a shout away.
Grabbing for calm, Brianna went over to close her trunk, a habit drilled into her by her boss, who insisted that the cubicle always look tidy. As she started to lower the lid, her gaze caught on the books that had been lent to her by women in town. She kept them stored in the camelback so she might return them when the ladies came into the shop. A cold, clawing sensation ripped at her belly. She dropped to her knees, rifled through the cheap publications, and closed her hand over the one that was now striking terror into her heart. It was entitled Slave Trade in Mexico, which was underscored with a subtitle, Little Girls and Young Women, Kidnapped for Profit.
Brianna had read the book more than once. Oftentimes at night, she was so keyed up from working feverishly at the restaurant that she couldn’t fall asleep. Losing herself in a story helped her grow drowsy. Normally, she read dime novels, which were, by their very nature, quite short, the aim of them being to entertain and titillate. But this particular issue was different. Instead of embellishing on the derring-do of Western heroes, it was a factual account that incited terror into the heart of any female who resided in the West. It was about horrible men who would go to any length to abscond with a young girl or woman who would bring a high price across the border. Little girls had been stolen. Older girls, on the cusp of adulthood, had also disappeared. They were taken across the Rio Grande and sold to the highest bidder, after which they became the toys of wealthy men. What truly struck trepidation into Brianna was the author’s repeated warnings that blondes commanded the most money, and little girls Daphne’s age were especially prized.
Brianna’s hands shook as she opened the publication. Her vision hazed over so she couldn’t make out the print. No need. She had most of the text memorized. Dear Lord. From the first instant that she’d clapped eyes on David Paxton, she’d pegged him as a ruffian. He didn’t look, or act, like any lawman she’d ever seen. What if he was a criminal? In many dime novels, mention was made of the men without conscience who resided in Deadwood, South Dakota, that most evil of all towns. That lawless cesspool of humanity was a gathering spot for scoundrels, many of them hiding from the law to avoid punishment for their foul, incomprehensible deeds. Murders were rumored to be committed in Deadwood on a daily basis, and the inhabitants often rode out to rain terror upon the law-abiding folks in Montana and Colorado.
Brianna snapped the book closed, determined not to let her imagination run away with her. Only now that the suspicion had crept into her mind, she couldn’t shove it back out again. Who was David Paxton? Was that even his real name? What if he had gotten his hands on all her and Daphne’s letters by foul means? From the start, Brianna had prayed she was writing to a nonexistent person. She had envisioned the Denver postmaster holding the missives for a time and then tossing them out onto a burn pile or into a trash barrel to be carried away to the local dump. What she hadn’t considered was that the correspondence might fall into the wrong hands.
Now, suddenly, Paxton’s crazy behavior didn’t seem so crazy, after all. A blond little girl like Daphne, so fair and blue of eye, might bring as much as a thousand dollars in Mexico, making it well worth the while of a criminal to get his hands on her. Brianna’s employer, Ricker, had always dictated what she should write in the letters. Had he encouraged her to tell David that his little girl was a flaxen-haired beauty? Brianna had written so many missives she couldn’t remember. Ricker had been anxious to be rid of Brianna from the beginning. He�
�d hoped to hire a more accommodating woman who would not only keep house and tutor his sons, but also warm his bed. On that count, and others, Brianna had been a huge disappointment to him. Within a month of her arrival in Glory Ridge, he’d started insisting that she write weekly letters to her errant husband in Denver to bring him back to heel. It made sense that he might have told her to include specifics about Daphne: her age, her coloring, her progress with academics.
If so, Daphne’s physical description would have been enough to make any slave trader drool over the profit he stood to make if he could get his hands on her.
Tossing the book back in the trunk, Brianna faced the unthinkable. The events today had not been twists of fate. That ruffian who called himself David Paxton wasn’t here with honest intent. He’d somehow gained possession of those letters, and now he was bent on taking Daphne to sell her across the border so he could lounge about in a cantina somewhere, swilling tequila and availing himself of prostitutes.
“Drat and tarnation!”
Brianna muttered the exclamations under her breath so as not to wake Daphne. Hands shaking, she held up Mrs. Pauder’s gown, staring with dismay at the left underarm seam, which she’d just sewn to the waist with the wrong sides together, leaving the raw edges showing. What in heaven’s name had she been thinking? Blast that man to perdition for rattling her so. Now she’d have to carefully rip out each stitch, no easy task with dusk soon to descend and the light of only one lantern to see by.
Just then Brianna heard a tap at the front door of the shop, which she’d locked a few seconds ago when the clock struck five. She groaned and tossed the dress aside. As she circled the curtain, she saw her new nemesis through the glass and stopped dead in her tracks. David Paxton, or whatever his real name was, bent to peer past the Closed sign and poised his knuckles to knock again. Brianna considered ignoring the summons, but she’d seen the glint of determination in his eyes earlier and knew he wouldn’t hesitate to make a racket if she dared. She wanted no more unpleasant exchanges with her employer today. She absolutely could not lose this position.