The Circle Eight: Nicholas (12 page)

Perhaps finding Grace would be simple and straightforward. Perhaps his grim predictions would not come to fruition. Perhaps they would be married before the summer was out.

Perhaps not.

They stopped at a ramshackle building with boards across its windows and a white paper nailed to the door. The words Fuller’s Home for Orphans had been nearly scratched out, reading “F—ll—’s H—e f-r Or—s”.

Winnie
made a sound of distress. Nick’s gaze snapped to her. Every drop of color had drained from her face.

“No.”

“It’s closed, Winnie.”

“No. It can’t be.”

“I’m going to guess there are no children in his building. There might be rats the size of small children but no humans.” He didn’t know what possessed him to say such a thing. Perhaps it was the crushing weight of disappointment and the idea he had dared to hope for something. Nothing, of course, was ever going to come from hoping. He should have remembered that and not allowed his emotions to get tangled up.

“Don’t be such a jackass,” she snapped. “What’s wrong with you?”

“A lot, if you ask my brothers.”

“This isn’t a time to joke, Nicholas.
” Her voice was tight with anger and hurt.

“I know. I don’t mean to.”

“It certainly sounded as though you meant it.” She closed her eyes and her chin dropped to her chest.

Nick’s heart twisted. He sidled close to her and dug deep for the courage he needed. No mat
ter what, he needed to be at her side because he didn’t want to not be there. Ever.

“I’m sorry, Winnie. M
y mouth doesn’t check with my brain before it takes over.”

She shook her head.
“Someone must know about the orphanage. We can knock on doors and ask. This can’t be the end.”

“That’s what we should do. People tend to live in one neighborhood. There has to be people who were here ten years ago. We’ll knock until we find them.”
He didn’t know where his optimism came from but it felt liberating to hear it out loud.

Some color had come back to her cheeks. “
Thank you.”

“I don’t want you to give up. This whole thing ain’t gonna be easy. I reckon a closed orphanage is just another bump in the road.”

“Josie’s illness was the first.” She looked sadly at the ramshackle building. “And the worst.”

He could imagine losing someone who was as close as a sister. His youngest brother
, Benjy, was kidnapped when he was five. The Grahams had spent the next five years mourning their brother. Their brother Caleb had been the one to bring Benjy home. Nothing had been the same since. Nick had his own secret over Benjy’s disappearance, one that festered in his gut since that fateful day.

He managed to swallow the lump in his throat
that had formed. Benjy was safe now, perhaps never to be the same person he might have been, but alive. Nick couldn’t allow himself to play the “what if” game when it came to his younger brother. Just couldn’t.

“Where should we start?” Winnie pulled him back to here and now.

He looked around and noted a few relatively new buildings with fresh boards and signs proclaiming their retail missions. One building was two stories high but didn’t have a sign. There were at least half a dozen houses on the street along with a milliner’s shop and all were weathered wood structures.

“Let’s go to the milliner’s
shop.”

“A likely place to start. They may have been in that location for some time.”

“That’s what I thought too.”

They rode over to the shop, nodding politely to those folks walking along the street who gave them curious stares. Houston was a big place but perhaps i
t wasn’t so big. People tended to stay with who and what they knew. Strangers were just that—strangers.

Winnie, however, had such an open face and beautiful smile, she received few stares but much more welcoming gestures than Nick did. When they arrived at
the milliner’s shop, named “Hats Paradise”, he helped her dismount. He was very conscious of being watched and did his best to keep a bland smile on his face. Winnie murmured her thanks and took his arm.

Their boots
thunked against the oft-swept wooden sidewalk. He opened the door to the shop and a rush of ladies’ perfume and mothballs swept across them. Nick resisted the urge to wrinkle his nose and chose to breathe through his mouth instead. Ladies’ shops gave him the itches and he damn sure wouldn’t be here if not for Winnie.

Someone had built shelves into the walls and they were currently full of dozens and dozens of hats. The store was full of hats of every shape, size and color. Some had features, sprigs of flowers, even some with what appeared to be fruit, which had to be fake, and miniature birds. There were straw hats, felt hats, beaver hats, lace hats and countless other types he couldn’t identify. Someone really liked to make hats.

“Good afternoon?” Winnie called out when no one appeared to greet them.

“Be right out!”
a muffled voice replied from behind a curtain. A sturdy sewing machine sat in one corner with an overstuffed basket of thread, buttons, ribbon and an assortment of geegaws.

A
tiny woman with a dress as gray as a winter sky shuffled out from behind the curtain. She was likely no more than thirty years old but she dressed as though she were twice that. Her dishwater blonde hair was up in an excruciatingly neat bun while a pair of half-glasses perched on the end of her nose.

She looked them up and down before speaking. “
Can I help you folks?”

Winnie pulled out her friendly smile. “Good afternoon, ma’am. My name is Winifred and this is my husband, Nicholas Graham.”

“Graham, eh? I’ve heard tales of the Grahams, shot Mr. Troxler they did. Caused lots of trouble in town. That your kin?” The milliner narrowed her gaze at Nick.

“Ma’am, I
surely did not shoot any Mr. Troxler. I live on a ranch two days’ ride from here.” He put on what he thought was his best smile, or he hoped it was. He had no idea their family had a reputation in Houston now. It was disconcerting to say the least.

“Hmph. You do have the look of a rancher.” She eyed his legs as if she could spot horse hairs on his trousers or something. He resisted the urge to hide behind Winnie. “I’m Harriet Gregson. I hope you’re here to buy a hat.”

Hell’s bells.

No, they weren’t
, but he had a feeling the crotchety Miss Gregson was not about to give up any information if they didn’t make a purchase.

“
Of course. A woman I met earlier recommended your shop. Since we were nearby I thought we had to come in.” Winnie sounded earnest. He was damn convinced.

Miss Gregson beamed. “I do have the highest qua
lity hats this side of Houston.”

“That is what I was told. I need a new bonnet for Sunday visiting.” Winnie drifted over to the straw brimmed hats. “These would be lovely for a summer day
.”

Miss Gregson clapped her hands together. “You are so fair, the straw would not be the right hat for you. No, indeed, I have experience in these kinds of selections.
I would recommend a green hat and I have just the thing.”

The hat maker puttered around showing her wares, exclaiming every ten seconds about a hat and gushed when Winnie complimented one.

It was enough to make Nick lose the dinner he recently paid for with what little money he had.

Winnie, clever woman, had selected a hideous green hat with not only a feather, but one with two tiny birds in a nest perched on the side. The brim was wide, which it had to be to support the weight of the ridiculous concoction.

“This will be perfect, Miss Gregson.” Winnie gazed at herself in the mirror on the wall. “You were right to recommend the green color.”

“I told you so. With your fair hair, it’s just the thing.” Miss Gregson looked proud enough to pop. She
went behind the small desk in the corner. “Now let me write up a receipt for you.” She stopped, pencil in hand, and looked at Nick with a smattering of distrust. “You can pay for the hat, can’t you?”

Nick was about to tell her she would have to pay them to take the hat when Winnie stepped in again.

“Of course we can. I am holding the funds since my husband has a hole in his trouser pocket.”

Nick had no such hole and resented Winnie offering to pay again. It was bad enough she offered at dinner. He was not poor, but he did have to choose carefully how to spend what coin he had. She didn’t have an entire family ranch depending on profits to survive season to season. Her money was for her alone. He had a hard time imagining that problem.

“The hat is seven American dollars. I don’t take Texas redbacks. I will take gold or silver in trade, though.” Miss Gregson, still poised with her pencil over the receipt book, watched Nick’s face. He told himself not to react outwardly.

Inwardly he shouted at the top of his lungs.

Seven dollars? That could feed an entire family for a month!

“A reasonable price for such a fine piece of craftsmanship.” Winnie handed the woman seven
American dollars. He wanted to ask her how she had come by that money but it wasn’t his business.

Nick wanted to tear the hat into tiny pieces, then burn it and scatter the ashes over Miss Gregson’s stoop. Then he remembered why they had come into the milliner’s shop.

“I wondered if you could help me with something.” Winnie closed her reticule, her friendly smile still in place. “I wondered, do you remember Fuller’s Home just across the street?”

“Remember it? Of course I do. There were some scoundrels who would escape from its confines and cause mischief.” The milliner shook her head. “Mr.
Fuller had his hands full with those young’uns.”

Winnie leaned against the woman’s desk and leaned down conspiratorially. “I donated money for several years. I too am a business owner here in Houston.”

“Of course you are. I could tell that from the moment I saw you. She’s a strong, smart lady, that one is, I told myself.” Miss Gregson turned a sour look in his direction. “I don’t expect your husband understands women in business.”

“He is quite understanding, actually. His dinner wasn’t to his liking and I’m afraid it
’s put him in ill humor.” Winnie shook her head. “We were hoping to donate to Fuller’s Home again and were disappointed to see it had closed.”

Miss Gregson nodded. “Oh yes, it’s been nearly two years since it shut its doors. After Mr. Wegman died
, he was the housemaster, Bertha couldn’t run the home alone. She was good with the young’uns but had no head for business.”

“That’s so sad. I remember Bertha when we toured the facility. She had a strict hand.” Winnie was outright lying now and she did it without batting an eyelash. Nick, with seven siblings and had experienced prevarication of every shape and form, was impressed yet again with her.

“That she did. Luckily the rich folks up yonder needed a nurse for their own young’uns and hired her.”

“That is lucky.” Winnie adjusted her hat as she stood. “Which rich folks? I’d like to express my gratitude to them.”

“Oh, that would be nice. They are a nice family.” Miss Gregson walked to the door and stepped outside.

Nick and Winnie followed. She flashed him a triumphant grin and his lips twitched in response. Damn but that woman was beautiful.

The milliner pointed with one bony finger. “The big house on the hill with the green shutters and red door. I believe their name is Fritz.”

They took their leave of the claustrophobic shop and mounted their horses once more. Winnie set off toward the Fritz house with a single-minded determination. Her green hat trembled with each clop of the horse’s hooves.

He promised himself he would burn the hat after they found Grace. For now, he would endure looking at it.

“That hat makes my eyes hurt,” he blurted.

She laughed, that musical sound that tugged at his gut. “I think it’s unique, just like its maker.”

“Unique is one word to use. I can think of a few more.”

She tsked at him. “Be nice, Mr. Graham. She was a kind lady who gave us the information we needed.

“After you lied to her.”

She shrugged. “Small white lies that won’t cause her any harm. Besides, she sold a hat—”

“For a ridiculous sum of money.”

“She sold a hat, which will help her survive another month in business. She was right about women business owners, you know. It’s a man’s world and difficult to survive.” Winnie’s expression had turned serious. “I don’t have money to throw away but I thought it important, especially if her information leads me to Grace.”

He couldn’t argue with that, nor could he fault her logic. Nick constantly fought against what people assumed about him because of his brothers or his sisters. Not many knew who Nicholas Graham was. They called him “one of the Grahams” or “Matt’s younger brother” or something similar. He had no identity outside of his family or the Circle Eight.

Until Winnie.