Lucky Penny (7 page)
She was better off single even if her grand dreams of opening her own dress shop never came to fruition, which was a distinct possibility. Since leaving Ricker’s household, she had been able to save nothing for that ambitious endeavor. Like syrup simmered overlong, life had boiled down to a thick, sticky substance that clung to her weary
feet. She saw no way out. No matter how hard she worked, she never made enough money to set a penny aside. And as Daphne grew older and her needs increased, it would get worse. She couldn’t expect envelopes full of cash to arrive on a regular basis, after all.
Maybe this is all there is. You might spend the rest of your life working for Abigail, lining her purse instead of your own.
Everything within Brianna rebelled, but her practical nature made it impossible to keep her head in the clouds. If only she could afford a subscription to a large city newspaper, she might be able to acquire another live-in position. Unfortunately, even though she could now spare a few coins for a single issue, there were none available in Glory Ridge. And the local paper, a weekly edition, had no section set aside for paid advertisements.
Daphne moaned and stirred in her sleep, whispering, “Papa.” The word electrified Brianna’s nerves. She still shivered when she recalled that envelope filled with money. After so many years of writing letters and receiving no responses, she could scarcely believe that a David Paxton actually existed. The very thought made panic nip at her spine. She couldn’t allow herself to fly into a flutter and pace the floor. In her mind, she heard Sister Theresa’s gentle intonations from her childhood, always the voice of reason.
All will be well. Pray about it, have faith, and all will be well.
Brianna paused in her sewing to take a deep, fortifying breath. As calm settled over her, she was able to think more clearly. Yes, David Paxton had sent a great deal of money, but he’d included no note. He had most likely been given the letters by mistake and, after reading Daphne’s letters, had felt sorry for the child, thus the generous gift. That did
not
mean the man believed Daphne was his daughter and might journey to Glory Ridge. Brianna had never stepped foot in Denver, had never even visited a town in that vicinity, and had never clapped eyes on a flesh-and-blood man named David Paxton. It followed that this gentleman knew he was not Daphne’s sire.
Leaving her chair for a brief stretch of her spine, Brianna circled the shadowy shop. She paused over the three bolts of cloth that the child had chosen for her new dresses.
Fingering the material, Brianna smiled softly and ordered herself to stop fretting over possibilities that would never happen. Unless David Paxton was daft, he’d never in a million years take it upon himself to visit Glory Ridge. For what reason? To lay claim to someone else’s wife and child? No man in his right mind would ever do that.
May 1, 1891
A
It had been a tiring journey. David had traveled by train as far as he could, making Blue and the nervous Lucy as comfortable as possible in a stock car. Unfortunately, here in the far eastern reaches of Colorado’s high plains, railway service was sparse. At the last stop, he’d been told there was a train that went toward Glory Ridge, but it wouldn’t show up for days, and the tracks would end sixty miles short of that destination. David couldn’t wait around; he had marshaling duties in No Name, and he’d already been absent longer than he liked. He could either hit the trail or take a stage. It wasn’t a difficult choice. Rattling across country in a crowded coach was his idea of purgatory, and tethering Blue and Lucy to the rear of a carriage would be cruel. The teams of horses that pulled the coaches were swapped out at nearly every station, but a domestic equine or mule traveling behind could rest only during the stops. Otherwise they had to run all day and sometimes well into the night.
David refused to put Blue or Lucy through that. He preferred traveling alone, keeping a slow pace for the sake of his animals.
“We should get there in a few hours,” David informed the roan, whose ears flicked in response. “At the livery stable, you can have all the hay and oats you can eat. You, too, Lucy,” he tossed over his shoulder.
Lucy emitted a noise peculiar only to her, a cross between a bray and a whicker that always made David smile. He’d left Sam at his ranch to spare him getting foot worn, but now he wished he’d brought the silly mutt along. He missed the shepherd, especially at night by the fire. Sam sang along when David played his fiddle, barking, howling, and growling, and when David shook out his bedroll, the canine snuggled close, helping him stay warm.
David hunched his shoulders against the chill, grateful for the protection of his leather duster and the applications of grease that had rendered it windproof. Sadly, it reached only to his knees when he was standing and fell open astride a horse to leave his legs exposed. He could stop to don his chaps, but it was too much bother. Better to keep moving and put this trip behind him. With any luck, his stay in Glory Ridge would be short. He’d meet this Brianna Paxton, she would explain everything to his satisfaction, and he’d head home tomorrow.
If it didn’t play out that way—well, David’s imagination had been working overtime. He just wanted to get this whole mess settled and put it behind him. How could he have fathered a child with a woman he couldn’t remember? It seemed impossible, yet he couldn’t escape the fact that it might have happened. Thinking about it gave him a sour stomach. His thoughts alternately stampeded like maddened cattle or swirled in his head like dust devils, tangling his emotions like a popcorn garland after a year in storage. What if Daphne was his little girl? If so, was he obligated to make an honest woman of the mother? Where did that put his future with Hazel Wright? If he knew Hazel, she wouldn’t take kindly to the news that he’d fathered a child with another woman.
David looked across the landscape. Folks who hadn’t
been here thought the plains were flat, with little of interest to see. They were dead wrong. The high prairie undulated with swells and dips that could have concealed a drove of bison just over the next rise if there’d been any large herds left. Nowadays the buffalo grass grew tall and mostly unmolested by the huge mammals from which it had gotten its name, forming a thick moving carpet of wind-driven green that struck a stunning contrast to the broad expanses of blue sky. Off to his right and sheltered by a stone outcropping, his mother’s favorite little meadow anemones made a splash of bright color. Near them, beardtongue made a splendiferous showing. On a sandy hill ahead of him, two male prairie chickens were strutting, dancing, flapping their rust-colored wings, and filling the bulbous orange sacs on each side of their necks to make a booming sound that could travel for miles. It was late for mating season, but the cocks had apparently misplaced their calendars. Not that David blamed them. Being limited to romancing the ladies for only a short while each spring would drive any male to drag it out as long as possible.
Nope. The prairie wasn’t boring to him. And his ma, an amateur botanist, shared his interest; weather allowing, she loved to take her daily constitutional on the grasslands around Ace’s ranch.
Blue whickered, and Lucy emitted a soft sound, distracting David from his musings. Narrowing his eyes, he searched the horizon.
Buildings.
He hadn’t expected to reach Glory Ridge until evening, but there it was. He would be facing Brianna Paxton soon.
The thought made his stomach twist. Her thank-you note had been polite. She was grateful, but she would accept no more financial gifts, and she would someday pay him back, with interest. She’d also made it clear that Daphne wasn’t his child. All very fine, David thought, but then why had Daphne herself referred to him as her father?
David didn’t expect his first meeting with Brianna to go well. For reasons unspecified, she’d done a turnaround, pleading with him for years to come fetch her, and now, suddenly, hell-bent on keeping him away. Maybe she’d met
some fellow and didn’t want David to interfere with her plans to marry. Or perhaps he was just the wrong David Paxton. He hoped it was the latter, but he wouldn’t sleep well until he knew for certain. The men in his family didn’t sire children and then shirk responsibility, damn it.
Well, the grim possibilities would have to wait. He wasn’t going to meet with Brianna when he looked like a drover hitting town after a cattle drive. He had a powerful craving for a glass of ale to wash down the trail dust, followed by a bath, a fresh change of clothes, and a shave before he enjoyed a sit-down meal. Most towns had a restaurant of some sort. Meatloaf sounded really good, a juicy steak even better. And, boy howdy, he wouldn’t curl his lip at hot biscuits and sausage gravy, either.
Keeping his gaze fixed on the clutch of buildings ahead, David felt his heart sink as he drew closer. Why in Sam Hill was a place like this named Glory Ridge? There was no ridge in sight, and there was nothing glorious about it. As he rode in at the west side, he decided the community could serve as a model for the term
one-horse town
. He could have chucked a stone the full length of the main street. At the opposite end, the sagging roofs of a community church and tiny schoolhouse bore testimony that the ranching profits in these parts were meager. The short expanses of boardwalks and shop awnings were in no better repair. Clumps of bastard toadflax had sprouted up to line the walkways with spots of brightness, and field bindweed, sporting delicate pink flowers, formed knotted mats in between. The whole town looked shabby. David couldn’t help but draw comparisons to No Name, which was at least kept tidy and in good repair, with a layer of fresh paint slapped on all the buildings every summer.
The hotel looked none too inviting. The letter E was missing from the sign that hung at an angle out front, and the windows looked too grimy to admit much light. David sighed. The beds probably weren’t much better. He hated lumpy mattresses. He could only hope that the sheets and linens were clean. Time to worry about that later, though. Clucking his tongue to Blue, he guided the gelding toward the livery, a dilapidated structure with weathered plank
siding and a battered billboard above the stable doors that hung catawampus and flapped in the breeze.
David dismounted out front, eyeing a rickety buckboard that sported a For Rent banner fluttering on the sidewalls. Gathering Blue’s reins, he started into the building only to find his path blocked by an elderly fellow in blue denim dungarees held up by purple suspenders that clashed with his bright red shirt.
“Howdy, stranger,” he said. “How can I hep ya?”
The man’s drawl told David he harkened from somewhere south of the Mason-Dixon Line. He rested a hand on Blue’s neck. “I need to put my stock up for the night.”
The man nodded and spat a stream of tobacco juice before rocking back on his bootheels and hooking his thumbs under his suspender straps. A growth of grizzled whiskers lined his jaw. “I got three empty stalls, so ye’ve come to the right place.”
David inclined his head. “Sounds good. I’ll see to their needs myself, if you don’t mind. My horse has been ridden a long stretch, and the mule has been carrying a load. I’d like to walk them and rub them down before they’re fed or watered.”
“Happy to accommodate ya.” He smoothed a hand over his ruffled gray hair. “Got me a hitch in my get-along. Hip injury years back. Walkin’ a horse is a trial for me.”
As the man turned to lead the way, David noted how he swung his right leg out to the side with every step. “Upkeep around here must be taxing for you.”
“Don’t do much of it,” the proprietor called over his shoulder. “Hired me a young fellar for the heavy work. I run the place during the day, and he takes over at night. In exchange for muckin’ out stalls and handlin’ the rare customer after hours, he gets three squares, the use of a cot in the tack room, and a fair to middlin’ wage.”
The stalls were better than David had dared to hope. Both were clean, with layers of fresh straw, and the feed troughs held no remnants of hay from prior feedings. No sign of mouse or rat droppings, either. He was equally glad to note that the water buckets had been upended instead of left to sit half filled with stagnant, slimy water.
Despite the tumbledown condition of the building, David felt compelled to say, “You run a first-rate operation here.”
“Love horses—mules, too, as far as that goes,” the older man replied. “Yer welcome to check the hay. Ya won’t find no mold or cheat grass. I only buy quality.”
One devoted horseman recognized another. David knew he would find good fodder. “How much for a measure of oats for my friends? They deserve a treat.”
“Oats are covered by the fee. Same goes for hay and fresh water.” The man gimped into the adjacent stall to take the load from Lucy’s back while David relieved Blue of the riding gear. The moment her pack was removed, Lucy buckled her front legs and rolled in the clean straw, grunting with pleasure. Glancing over the dividing wall, the livery owner said, “That is one
fine
-lookin’ blue roan, son. Never seen his like.”
David chuckled. “His sire is a magnificent black, and I was aiming for a duplicate when I let him cover my blue roan mare. Didn’t happen the way I planned, but I can’t complain about the results.” Stroking Blue’s arched neck, David added, “He is fine.”
“Breedin’ for color is like tossin’ dice. When you cross a black with a blue roan, the foal’s color can go either way, with the off chance of some other colors poppin’ up.”
