Two Brides Too Many (11 page)

“It seems as if you do a fair bit of volunteering.”

She straightened, tugging on the hem of her jacket. “I do, but everyone here does in a tragedy.”

Tragedy
was the word that best described the devastation he’d witnessed in the aftermath of the recent fires. And here he was concerned about someone enjoying his piano.

“It seemed shameful to let such a fine piano sit here unattended.” Miss Taggart caressed the ivory with her gloved hand. “I apologize if I was presumptuous.”

She pursed her lips, and Morgan sighed, wondering if he’d ever learn to stop and think before he jumped to conclusions. Miss Taggart
didn’t know that seeing a woman sitting at the piano would send a hundred jabbing memories straight to his heart. She was a bit presumptuous, but she cared about her community, and he couldn’t fault her for wanting to enjoy the piano.

He removed his hat and cleared his throat. “I apologize, Miss Taggart. Of course, it’s good that you were here to watch over my belongings. Thank you.”

“I accept your apology.”

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to make storage arrangements until I have a house.”

Her green eyes widened. “There isn’t any extra room at the church right now, but I know of the perfect place.”

Morgan glanced from the piano to the two trunks and the bookcase on the depot platform.

“Hattie’s Boardinghouse. The widow has plenty of room there, and it’s just up Hayden from the hospital, on Golden Avenue.”

“That sounds like a good possibility.” Morgan lowered the lid over the piano keys and pulled the blanket over it.

“Splendid. It’s settled then, and I’ll take you there.”

And before Morgan knew what was happening, Miss Taggart had hold of his arm and they were walking, together, to the boardinghouse.

F
OURTEEN

K
at climbed the stairs to her room, her arms full of clothes, Rosita on her heels. The house was quiet except for the light sounds of Nell puttering in the kitchen. Hattie had taken the others to see the house Thelma’s husband had found for them. Kat laid the laundry on the bed and reached for Rosita’s clean dress.

“I do this.” Rosita pulled her dress off the pile before Kat could.

Kat grabbed a bath towel from the bed and shook it out. “You helped with the clothes at your old house?”

Focused on her task, Rosita nodded and carefully laid the dress out flat, then smoothed the blue sleeves over the bodice. Apparently, Miss Sunny had already put the child to work. The woman’s inference that she would someday employ Rosita for
that
kind of vocation still made Kat’s skin crawl. But she couldn’t provide for Rosita either. Lucille and her family were leaving Hattie’s tomorrow, and the landlady would no longer need the sisters’ help in exchange for their rent. And Judson Archer had yet to call on Nell.

Lord, help me. What will we do?

She had to do something. Someone in Rosita’s family had to be concerned about her whereabouts. That’s when Kat remembered the hint of hope Miss Sunny had wedged into her ugly comments. Miss Sunny had heard Rosita mention a grandmother.

The child was still folding her dress when Kat pulled her unmentionables from the pile. “Do you remember your grandmother?”

“Abuela
.” Her eyes fill with tears. “I miss Abuela. I miss Mama.”

Kat guessed the word meant “grandmother.” “I’m sorry, Rosita. I’m trying to help you. I want to try to find her.”

Rosita wiped her wet cheeks, then folded in the sides of her skirt.

Blinking back her own tears, Kat sat on the bed. This wasn’t just about avoiding her duty to care for the child. She really did want what was best for Rosita. She had to hope the child’s grandmother was alive; she’d do everything she could to find the woman.

Her bottom lip quivering, Rosita carefully folded the bodice of her dress over the skirt.

“Did she live in Cripple Creek?” It seemed unlikely, but Kat didn’t want to leave any stone unturned.

“Not Abuela. Me and Mama moved.”

“Do you remember where she lived?”

“Far away.”

Sighing, Kat swallowed her frustration and continued folding clothes.

“Did your grandmother ever come here to Cripple Creek to see you?”

Rosita shook her head, her eyes brimming with sadness. “Too far, Mama said.”

Kat’s heart ached for the grandmother and her granddaughter. The woman may not even know where they’d moved to, or that her daughter was dead and Rosita needed her.

Kat didn’t even know the little girl’s family name, let alone the grandmother’s given name.

“Do you have another name? I am Miss Kat Sinclair, and you are Miss Rosita…”

“Just Rosita.”

Kat bit her lip. It wasn’t the child’s fault. Kat was frustrated, and she needed someone to blame.

Patrick Maloney
.

She was here because of his promises. Kat flopped back on the bed, and Rosita giggled.

“All done with work, HopHop.” The little girl toddled over to her pallet and sat down with the cotton bunny.

Kat rose from the bed and put the various stacks of clean clothes in their proper places while Rosita played with HopHop. After Kat set her unmentionables inside her trunk, she pulled out the bundle of Patrick’s letters. She should burn them all. But first, she felt the desire to read them again. There had to have been clues to his deception in them—something that could teach her not to make the same mistake again. She’d start with the first letter—the one where he’d said just enough to sound like a good man. Leaning against the chest, she slid the letter from its envelope.

Dear Miss Sinclair,

I read your note in the Cripple Creek Times with rapt attention.

I am a foreman at the Mary McKinney Mine here in gold country.

I am a single man in search of the right woman.

But not a single-woman man, waiting for the right woman. Kat studied the penmanship. It was now obvious it was a woman’s hand.

It would please me to know you.

I will wait ever so impatiently for your letter.

With high regards,

Patrick Maloney

She had answered his first letter with her stomach in knots. She’d apparently mistaken qualms for keenness. Kat pulled the most recent correspondence from her short stack.

Dearest Katherine,

My heart has not stilled since your last letter.

Your acceptance of my promise of marriage is all I think about.

My impatience is growing.

I long to see your face and to feel your warm embrace.

To that end, I have sent payment for your train fare.

I only wish I didn’t have to wait until the 5th of June.

He didn’t wait. Not for her.

All empty promises. And, no doubt, most of them came from the mind of the other woman. How could she have been so gullible?

She picked up another letter. After she’d looked at this one, she’d take them all down to Hattie’s stove and put her lost dreams behind her. She needed to move on. She needed the Lord to be her light. She needed to trust Him.

Kat opened another envelope.

Dear Miss Sinclair,

Thank you for your forthwith letter.

You have the penmanship of an angel.

The letters were full of this kind of sticky-sweet syrup. Those weren’t the words of the man she’d heard in the saloon talking about “getting hitched.”

I am hopeful that our correspondence will continue. I am also hopeful that we may have a future together. You’ll be happy to know that I am a man of means.

Means for other women, that is.

I own a fine horse and a comfortable home that would be yours if you agree to marry me.

Did she dare believe the man actually had a house?
I have a house for you
. That’s what he’d said in the saloon. The man had to have lived somewhere, and if he did have a house, it was hers. She had to tell Nell.

“I need to go downstairs.” Kat jumped up from her nest on the floor and glanced over at the pallet where Rosita lay curled around
HopHop, her eyes closed. She laid a quilt over the little one and then descended the stairs two at a time. She found Nell sitting at the dining room table, filling the salt cellars.

Her sister stared up at her, a frown on her face. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

“Listen to Patrick’s letter.” She lifted the page to read, lengthening her neck for dramatic emphasis. “‘You’ll be happy to know that I am a man of means. I own a fine horse and a comfortable home that would be yours if you agree to marry me.’ He’s gone. We were planning to be married. He promised it to me, and now it’s mine.”

“You said he didn’t even write—”

“I know, but the man had to have lived somewhere. What if he—”

“You’re grasping at thin air.”

“It’s all I have. It may be foolish, but I’d like to look into it.”

The front door opened, and the sound of children’s voices and shuffling footsteps echoed from the stairway.

Nell had just finished filling the last salt cellar when Hattie rushed into the room. “Is Rosita asleep?”

Kat tucked the envelope into the back of her skirt. “Yes, she’s upstairs.”

“Now if only those little ones would follow her lead.” At the kitchen door, Hattie looked over her shoulder. “Oh, I almost forgot. We have visitors in the parlor. I started the music, but could you see to them while I get us all some tea?”

Nodding, Nell stood and then turned to Kat. “We’ll talk about this later.”

Kat wanted to talk about it now, but instead she followed her sister
to the parlor. The moment she saw the couple sitting on the sofa, Kat felt her mouth fall open and her face flush. Dr. Morgan Cutshaw jumped to his feet, looking just as stunned to see her.

His wife remained seated.

Morgan leaped off the sofa at the sight of Miss Sinclair. A strange regret niggled at him as they stared at each other. He shouldn’t have given in to Miss Taggart’s insistence that she come with him. He couldn’t say why it bothered him that Miss Sinclair saw them together, but it did.

“Miss Sinclair.”

Another woman he hadn’t met studied him and then glanced at Miss Sinclair. “Is this the doctor from the hospital?”

Miss Sinclair nodded. She looked toward him, but not at him when she spoke. “Dr. Cutshaw, this is my sister, Miss Nell Sinclair.”

Now he noticed the resemblance. Their hair and eye colors didn’t match, but both had high cheekbones and pronounced chins. And they obviously had shared at least one story about a mean doctor who scolded good Samaritans for being bad midwives.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Sinclair.”

“And you, Dr. Cutshaw.”

Miss Taggart stood beside him now, peering at the original Miss Sinclair. “You know Dr. Cutshaw from the hospital?”

Miss Sinclair’s face flushed the color of a ripe plum. “Mrs. Adams is making some tea and will be with you shortly. If you’ll excuse me and my sister, we have business to attend to.” She dipped her chin in a tight but polite acknowledgment. “Dr. Cutshaw. Mrs. Cutshaw.”

Miss Taggart blushed. “We’re not married.”

“Oh.” Her brow raised, Miss Sinclair looked at him like he’d done something wrong. “I see. You…I just assumed—”

“Pardon me, ladies.” He gestured toward his companion. “This is Miss Darla Taggart. We are…uh…her father is the minister at the First Congregational Church here in Cripple Creek. She was kind enough to accompany me to see Miss Hattie about a matter.” His heart pounding, Morgan paused to draw in a breath. “In the meantime, may I have a word with you?”

After a quick glance at her sister, Miss Kat Sinclair nodded in his direction. “A moment.”

Miss Nell Sinclair extended her hand to Miss Taggart. “You and I can go see about helping Miss Hattie.” When Miss Taggart didn’t move, Miss Sinclair moved toward her. “Follow me.”

When they left the room, the sister with the auburn hair walked to the hearth and turned to face him, a storm brewing in her brown eyes. “You wanted to speak to me?”

“About our first meeting, I want to apologize for our misunderstanding.”

“It was not my misunderstanding, Doctor.”

She wasn’t going to make this easy, and he didn’t blame her.

“It was completely my fault. I made a mistaken assumption. I later learned that you yourself had been a patient. Dr. Hanson said you have stitches. How is your shoulder faring?” He hoped that wasn’t too personal a question.

“I’m—”