Promise Me (3 page)

Amanda's legs felt weighted down with lead, and a familiar throbbing pain at the back of her head reminded her she was exhausted. She'd been moving through a thick, white fog for nearly five months. She slowly climbed the stairs, her gloved hand trailing along the banister. What was it Father Mikelson had said to her before she left Helena? That helping others would bring purpose and meaning back to her life?

Amanda hated the endless void that had descended upon her after Arthur's death. Not that their marriage had been a normal arrangement, with loving partners dedicated to making each other happy. It had been closer to a successful business deal, brokered by her father to expand a financial empire.

Before Arthur had taken ill, she had social engagements, visits to the theater, and her duties as a volunteer with the Helena Library Association. Lately, her only outings were to mass, and her only visitors were sad-faced widows and lawyers paying condolences.

The bright, cheerful, and exceedingly clean hotel room surprised her. A beautiful hand-stitched quilt covered the bed, a small velvet chaise sat in the center of the room, and a brightly painted screen created a private corner for her to dress. The large room also held an oak chiffonier, a washstand, and a matching vanity.

Two windows let plenty of sunlight into the corner room. Amanda uttered a small prayer of thanksgiving, as her one unconquerable fear since childhood had been of the dark. She managed to control the fear a bit, but she always slept with her curtains open, allowing any bit of moonlight into her room.

Crossing the room to see the view out the back window, she discovered a small corral below. A dark black horse stood beneath her, his head lifted regally. He was a magnificent creature.

Excitement surged through her. It would be wonderful to ride again, to feel the wind whipping about her as she raced on horseback. Perhaps she could borrow a horse from the local livery. In a small town, it would certainly be appropriate for her to go for a horseback ride each day. Even a widow should be allowed some fresh air and exercise.

Amanda yanked the long pin securing her hat loose and tossed the offensive head-covering onto the bed with an irritated air. Unfastening the white cuffs of her gown, she threw them down after the hat before pouring water into a large ceramic bowl. It was tepid, but splashing it on her face improved her mood. Harriet Parmeter was right; she needed to wash the road dust off.

Her trunk, along with several carpet bags and hatboxes, arrived—a paltry wardrobe for a woman of her wealth. All her dresses were dark black wool or bombazine, the appropriate attire for a widow, and she hated every one.

A brisk knock at the door dragged her back to reality. When Amanda murmured her permission to enter, Harriet Parmeter burst into the room with a cheerful laugh, holding a cloth-covered tray before her. An enticing aroma of cinnamon filled the air, and her stomach grumbled in response.

“Enjoy your tea, and I'll be back up in a while to get the tray.” Harriet set the tray on the vanity and waved a hand as she exited the room before Amanda could murmur her thanks.

Amanda poured a steaming cup of tea and inhaled the relaxing herbal scent of chamomile. She polished off the food and licked her fingers in delicious defiance. Acting the part of the prim and proper widow exhausted her.

How she wished she could discard her black gown, don a bright riding habit, and take that beautiful stallion in the corral beneath her window for a run. She sighed at the image; she imagined the wind brushing against her face and the hard muscles of the magnificent creature moving beneath her.

A perfunctory tapping on her door shattered her daydream. Mr. Penny, dressed in a dark suit without a wrinkle, stood outside holding his bowler hat in his hands.

“Begging your pardon, Mrs. Wainwright.” Amanda shook her head. “Please don't apologize, Mr. Penny. Let me thank you for arranging such delightful accommodations.”

The tips of Jacob Penny's ears turned bright red as he adjusted his string tie. “I…I'm…”

Amanda had forgotten how tongue-tied Mr. Penny became whenever she gave him a compliment.

He straightened his shoulders, swallowed, and finally found his tongue. His large Adam's apple bobbed as he spoke.

“Some of the people, the miners and their families, they, um, they want to offer their condolences.” He swallowed again, glancing at her face before lowering his gaze to study the floor.

Amanda fought the urge to shut the door and lie down upon her bed to continue her wonderful daydream of riding the stallion. She most certainly did not want to face another room full of pitying eyes and sad expressions of condolence. Not again. Not ever again if she could help it. But, of course, there would be no escaping her duties as the Widow Wainwright. Arthur's employees had the right to express their grief and offer condolences.

“Of course,” she said. “Please allow me to make amends to my appearance, and I'll meet you downstairs in the lobby.”

Mr. Penny nodded and backed away from her door. Before turning to leave, he twisted his black felt bowler hat in his thin fingers and cleared his throat again.

“I feel I should warn you, Mrs. Wainwright.” He set his hat back upon his nearly bald head. “There are some difficulties with your plans for the Miners' Benevolent Association. We should discuss things as soon as you've rested.”

Amanda was bone-tired and weary of all the things Arthur Wainwright still demanded of her, even from the grave.

“We can talk tomorrow, Mr. Penny. My husband taught me no problem is insurmountable if considered carefully and thoughtfully.” She slammed the door shut before he could respond.

Amanda leaned against the door and pondered Mr. Penny's warning. She'd come to Willow Creek to help people. She planned to build a school and homes for the miners who'd worked for her husband. A sudden flash of pride warmed her as she realized the miners now worked for her. She was wealthy enough to see her plans through, and she didn't understand Mr. Penny's cryptic remark. He always took things so seriously; likely he was seeing problems where none existed.

She crossed the room to peek out the window again and looked down to discover a man standing at the corral. He held something out to the stallion, and the horse gently took it. She examined the man's appearance, from the tips of his knee-high, polished boots to the thick dark hair curling at his collar. He was quite tall, and his shoulders were broad, filling out the dark frock coat he wore with a casual elegance. Amanda wished he would turn to leave so she could catch a glimpse of his face. Then she scolded herself for such a foolish and improper yearning. She was no innocent girl, after all. She turned from the window in disgust. She was a mature, world-weary woman facing yet another round of murmured condolences from sad mourners.

She looked at the bed and decided to display one small act of defiance. Fastening the lace cuffs back on her sleeves, she brushed a few stray curls into her tight coiffure and left the room. The hated veiled hat sat upon the quilt, discarded and lonely in the silence.

***

As the Widow Wainwright arrived in town, Sam marveled at the stately way she moved down the boardwalk toward the hotel. Swathed in black from head to toe, not an inch of her was visible to the eye. Yet he admired the way she carried herself with pride and confidence.

Yes, he decided, she must be an older woman. Not as old as her husband, judging by the sprightly way she'd jumped from her carriage. Mature. In his opinion, a woman of maturity was always more delightful because a man wasn't required to play coy games of flirting and courtship. Timid virgins no longer interested him, if in fact they ever had.

He stood on the veranda of the Dark Horse Saloon and ignored the pleas from Sally to come back in and keep her company. He'd paid Sally for the view, not her services.

He climbed back through Sally's window and found her lounging across the pink silk coverlet on her bed, her breasts exposed and her legs crossed in a provocative display. He tossed her a coin, picked up his black felt hat, and gave her one of his most charming grins. “Perhaps another time, my dear.”

He left her screaming obscenities. He didn't have to pay for a woman, but whores made the arrangement clean, without emotion and unrealistic expectations.

He considered his plans to woo Amanda Wainwright using cold calculation and charm. He'd certainly been blessed with an abundance of that commodity. He knew all the right words, the sweet phrases that could soften a woman's heart and make her cling to him. He'd learned the many ways to maneuver his way into a woman's graces, and how to make her feel as if she were the center of his existence. But deep in his heart, it had always been a game.

Sam returned to his office. He still had work to do to keep his business running, and even a sham business needed a leader who could make decisions.

Nearly an hour later, Sam shook his head as he headed toward the corral. He needed to focus, to concentrate on his objective, make his plan and carry it out to the best of his ability. He could create the image of any man he wished; it was his gift, and the main reason he'd been trusted with such an important assignment. If he sometimes felt lost in the deceit, unable to remember who he had been before he worked for the Secret Service, it was an advantage.

He found his horse, Stranger, standing in the corral, waiting for the treat he knew was hidden in his master's pocket. The horse tossed his head at the sight of the apple and gripped it with his lips. Sam brushed his fingers through the dark, silky mane, and marveled that this magnificent animal belonged to him. Stranger held the key to his dreams of rebuilding his family's wealth. Someday he would own a ranch that bred horses renowned for their speed and beauty. He'd recoup all the wealth and prestige that the Boston upper-class snobs had stolen from him, and he'd return to the society that now scorned him.

People gathered in front of the hotel and piqued his curiosity. What was going on so late in the day? Perhaps a medicine show had arrived in town, or mummers. He walked slowly around the building and stopped to see what all the excitement was about.

A small crowd of miners and their families stood in two lines. A familiar looking woman in a dark black gown moved amongst them, and a little rodent-like man followed closely behind her. She took her time as hands pressed into hers, and she listened to each individual with rapt attention.

Auburn hair was piled on her head, and Sam admired the way the late afternoon sun highlighted the color with bright flashes of russet. She had an elegant demeanor, as though she were in a ballroom being presented to royalty.

When she finally turned so that Sam could glimpse her face, a hot flash of desire whipped through him.

The Widow Wainwright was no pasty-faced bluestocking. Nor was she old and decrepit. Sam held his breath. The late afternoon sun peeked out from behind a cloud, burnishing her with golden light, and Sam beheld the face of an angel.

Chapter Three

Amanda paced across the length of her room again and tried to ignore the rumbling in her stomach. It was nearly midnight and she couldn't sleep. Her body ached with exhaustion, yet she had toss
ed and turned in her bed for hours. She'd hoped she could drift into a dreamless sleep, but here she was, wide-awake and pacing again.

She considered the challenges she faced and wondered if she were up to the task her husband had bequeathed her. Her mind churned, and sleep continued to elude her.

She stood at the window and spied the stallion standing in the pale moonlight. A sense of comfort settled over her, as if he were her guardian, keeping watch and protecting her. She shrugged off the ridiculous notion.

Her stomach growled again. Perhaps if she found something to eat it might help her fall asleep. Pulling on her robe and lifting the candle, she decided to make her way to the kitchen. She left her slippers by the bedside, in hopes her bare feet would mask her movements. She didn't wish to disturb any of the other guests in the hotel or create gossip about the strange widow woman who wandered about in the middle of the night.

She stepped carefully down the staircase, and sniffed the comforting scent of beeswax. It reminded her of the convent, the only place she'd ever really considered home, and for a few moments she reviewed her reasons for remaining in Willow Creek.

She'd spent several hours earlier in the day greeting the miners, looking into their faces and listening to their awkward, yet heartfelt, condolences. They were sturdy men, with tinges of desperation shading their eyes. How could she manage to do anything to change the conditions under which these men toiled and suffered?

The pine floor was cold and she regretted her impulse to leave her slippers behind. She'd warm a little milk on the banked embers of the stove, perhaps find a bit of that delicious pie Harriet had served at dinner.

Amanda swung the kitchen door open and nearly dropped the candle when her eyes clashed with a surprised amber gaze. A man. A strange warmth coursed through her as his gaze moved slowly down her body, lingering on her breasts before rising to scrutinize her face. Her cheeks flooded with heat, and she nearly turned to hurry back to her room, when a deep but gentle voice stopped her.

“I beg your pardon, ma'am, I didn't mean to alarm you.”