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Authors: Mona Hodgson
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tell her she’d been foolish to take such a risk going to the creek—a woman alone. But she’d come from Maine with no concept of the personal danger that awaited her here in the West.
“Miss Sinclair, you are no longer in the genteel society of Maine.” The late afternoon activity of carts, mules, and pedestrians on the street commanded Tucker’s attention as he continued. “You need to be mindful of the fact that here in Cripple Creek there are a whole lot more men than there are women. Fact is”—he held his hand up, his fingers spread—“I can count on one hand the, uh, respectable single women in town and still have fingers left.”
His speech had no sooner run the course of his breath when regret tied a knot in his chest. She had discovered all of that for herself, and didn’t require a lecture from him. Expecting her to tell him so, he braced himself for her well-deserved wrath and looked her direction.
Instead, her lips sealed, Miss Sinclair worried the hem of her mud-encrusted cape. The tears streaming down her face caught his breath and wrenched his heart. A scolding for stating the obvious would have been easier to withstand.
“I’m sorry,” he said, guiding the horses up Third Street. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
She sniffled and shook her head. “It’s not your fault. You were right—I was foolish.”
Had he actually said that? “You’re new here. You didn’t know they camp down there.” Tucker shifted the reins to his left hand. He pulled ahandkerchief from his coat pocket and held it out to her. “You’re safe now,” he said.
Nodding, she accepted the handkerchief and blotted the muddy rivulets on her face.
“I’ll have you home soon.”
“Miss Hattie will think I’ve been wallowing with pigs.”
He formed a fist around the reins just thinking about those pigs.
“Next time you want some peace and quiet by the water, consider sitting at the stretch of creek on my father’s property. Down Second Street off of Warren Avenue. Second cabin on the left. I put a bench down there for just that purpose. No miners.” He pulled up on the reins in front of the yellow boardinghouse and brought the wagon to a stop. “I’ll help you down.”
Silent, she slid the handle of her reticule over her wrist and gathered her soiled skirt with her left hand. “That won’t be necessary.”
Tucker hurried around the back of the wagon anyway, just in time to watch Miss Sinclair’s foot slip off the bottom step, her boot still coated with slick mud. Her hand held fast to the grab bar as her feet dangled inches from the ground.
Her forehead pressed against the wood siding, and a sigh of resignation escaped her lips. “If you insist on helping me down, Mr. Raines,” she said, her words muffled, “I suppose I could oblige you.”
Swallowing his laughter, Tucker planted his hands on her waist. He lifted her off the wagon and set her on the ground. He’d helped his sister from a wagon many times, but holding on to Miss Sinclair weakened his knees. And as he released her, he found himself hoping to see her again soon … at the bench by the creek.
SEVEN
uesday evening a steady rain tapped on the cabin’s tin roof in rhythm with Kat’s flow of words. She added the period to her last sentence, capped her jar of ink, and smiled down at her fifth article for Harper’s Bazar .
Although Harper’s Bazar was predominately a fashion magazine, in her column Kat wrote stories about real women in the West. This month she’d written about a young woman in Victor who had lost her sister and brother-in-law to disease and had taken in her five nieces and nephews. Writing for such a prestigious magazine still seemed like a dream to Kat.
However, life with the man who stood at the washstand in the corner was the most unbelievable dream. Morgan caught her gazing at him and gave her one of his dimpled smiles that made her grateful she was seated. The man had an uncanny ability to sweep her
“Miss Sinclair, you are no longer in the genteel society of Maine.” The late afternoon activity of carts, mules, and pedestrians on the street commanded Tucker’s attention as he continued. “You need to be mindful of the fact that here in Cripple Creek there are a whole lot more men than there are women. Fact is”—he held his hand up, his fingers spread—“I can count on one hand the, uh, respectable single women in town and still have fingers left.”
His speech had no sooner run the course of his breath when regret tied a knot in his chest. She had discovered all of that for herself, and didn’t require a lecture from him. Expecting her to tell him so, he braced himself for her well-deserved wrath and looked her direction.
Instead, her lips sealed, Miss Sinclair worried the hem of her mud-encrusted cape. The tears streaming down her face caught his breath and wrenched his heart. A scolding for stating the obvious would have been easier to withstand.
“I’m sorry,” he said, guiding the horses up Third Street. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
She sniffled and shook her head. “It’s not your fault. You were right—I was foolish.”
Had he actually said that? “You’re new here. You didn’t know they camp down there.” Tucker shifted the reins to his left hand. He pulled ahandkerchief from his coat pocket and held it out to her. “You’re safe now,” he said.
Nodding, she accepted the handkerchief and blotted the muddy rivulets on her face.
“I’ll have you home soon.”
“Miss Hattie will think I’ve been wallowing with pigs.”
He formed a fist around the reins just thinking about those pigs.
“Next time you want some peace and quiet by the water, consider sitting at the stretch of creek on my father’s property. Down Second Street off of Warren Avenue. Second cabin on the left. I put a bench down there for just that purpose. No miners.” He pulled up on the reins in front of the yellow boardinghouse and brought the wagon to a stop. “I’ll help you down.”
Silent, she slid the handle of her reticule over her wrist and gathered her soiled skirt with her left hand. “That won’t be necessary.”
Tucker hurried around the back of the wagon anyway, just in time to watch Miss Sinclair’s foot slip off the bottom step, her boot still coated with slick mud. Her hand held fast to the grab bar as her feet dangled inches from the ground.
Her forehead pressed against the wood siding, and a sigh of resignation escaped her lips. “If you insist on helping me down, Mr. Raines,” she said, her words muffled, “I suppose I could oblige you.”
Swallowing his laughter, Tucker planted his hands on her waist. He lifted her off the wagon and set her on the ground. He’d helped his sister from a wagon many times, but holding on to Miss Sinclair weakened his knees. And as he released her, he found himself hoping to see her again soon … at the bench by the creek.
SEVEN
uesday evening a steady rain tapped on the cabin’s tin roof in rhythm with Kat’s flow of words. She added the period to her last sentence, capped her jar of ink, and smiled down at her fifth article for Harper’s Bazar .
Although Harper’s Bazar was predominately a fashion magazine, in her column Kat wrote stories about real women in the West. This month she’d written about a young woman in Victor who had lost her sister and brother-in-law to disease and had taken in her five nieces and nephews. Writing for such a prestigious magazine still seemed like a dream to Kat.
However, life with the man who stood at the washstand in the corner was the most unbelievable dream. Morgan caught her gazing at him and gave her one of his dimpled smiles that made her grateful she was seated. The man had an uncanny ability to sweep her
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