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A blast of night air and her own determination sobered her. She ignored him and turned to the small crowd of anxious faces that, she realized, were her employees now. “I’ll see you all tomorrow.”
“G’night, Miss Dora,” they said in unison.
“Good night.”
It was a good night. A wagon load of miners with money to burn showed up at the Flush round about midnight. A dozen easy hands of poker later, Chance had cleaned them out. He went to bed smiling and a hundred dollars richer, but for the second night in a row couldn’t sleep.
Every few minutes he caught himself peeking out the lace-draped windows of his room to the cabin out back where Dora sat at the desk, late into the night, scribbling away in her diary. Once she glanced up at his room, but it was dark, and he took care, this time around, to stand in the shadows.
What had she found in that safety deposit box? He had to know. Whatever it was, she’d taken it with her. Tomorrow he planned to search her cabin. The fact that Bill even had a safety deposit box stunned him. He hadn’t expected it, and he was a man who didn’t like surprises.
She had mettle, he’d give her that. Standing on that stage tonight took guts, though her speech hadn’t accomplished what she’d intended. The other thing that struck him was that she was practical, Bill’s daughter through and through. She’d shelved those prissy sensibilities, at least for the time being, and had let the Flush ride.
“A school,” he said to himself in the dark. The woman couldn’t be serious.
When he finally did sleep, he had the dream. It was worse this time. He woke up in a cold sweat, the bed sheets twisted around his legs. He was close, so close he could feel it. The money was here. He was here. It was one of them, he was sure of it. Tom? Jim? Rowdy or old Gus? Hell, it could even be Grimmer or Gardner. For all he knew it could be Dora Fitzpatrick herself.
Wild Bill had had a partner—a silent partner who’d known about the money. That’s why he was killed. Chance was going to find out who it was if it was the last thing he did.
It very well might be.
Dora Fitzpatrick was not going to close the saloon. He’d make damn sure of it, no matter what he had to do.
“You want me to do what?” Chance blinked the sleep from his eyes, sat up in bed and pulled the sheet up over his bare torso. Dawn’s light streamed through the lace-curtained windows. He’d forgotten to draw the shades.
Dora stood outside the cracked door of his room, key in hand, her eyes averted. “I’d like you to pack your things.” She shot him a quick glance, her gray eyes widening at his state of undress. “I knocked, but you didn’t answer.” She started to close the door.
He threw off the covers and leaped from the bed. He caught the edge of the door before it closed. “Uh, hang on a second. What’s this about?”
She braced herself, her posture straightening, her chin tipped high, her hand white-knuckled on the doorknob. Their gazes locked through the two inches of open door. She was perfectly aware that he was bare-assed, but refused to let it show in her expression.
Her nostrils flared as she drew a breath, her cheeks blazed scarlet against her will. He’d be damned if she was pretty. She wasn’t, at least not in the way he was used to women being. All the same, there was something powerfully attractive about her that he couldn’t put his finger on. Maybe it was that stubborn will of hers.
“Tonight you may stay in one of the unoccupied rooms across the hall. On the opposite side of the house.” She didn’t blink, not an eyelash. Dora Fitzpatrick had grit.
He pulled on the door, widening the gap another inch. She held fast to the knob, fighting him. “I like this room. Why would I move?”
She tipped her chin higher, her gray eyes steel. “Because I’m telling you to.”
She knew he’d been watching her last night. She knew and yet she hadn’t drawn the curtains over the window. And that made all the difference.
He smiled, aware that their interaction was arousing. At least to him it was. “You are the proprietor, Miss Dora. So I guess I’d best move.”
“Besides,” she said, less sure of herself now. She looked away. Down the hall he heard Delilah and a few of the girls whispering. “Tomorrow’s Sunday, and I’m closing the place for good. You’ll have to be on your way.”
“Now wait a second!” He jerked the door wide.
She jumped, her hand flying off the knob as if it were cattle-brand hot. Her gaze washed over his body as he stepped, naked, into the hall.
“Mr. Wellesley!” She spun on her heel and fled toward the spiral staircase.
Delilah let out a laugh. The girls giggled. They were all in their dressing gowns and up too damned early for their own good.
“Oh, Chaaance,” one of them, Lily, called from down the hall. She waved, and the girls continued to giggle. Delilah shooed them back as Dora hurried past.
He watched, grinning, as she half stumbled down the staircase into the saloon. Ten minutes later he was dressed and chasing after her.
“You’re not serious about this school idea?”
She stood in the center of the saloon, hands on hips, surveying the place with narrowed eyes and a frown. Her brows pinched together as she turned a slow circle. At first he thought she was ignoring him. She wasn’t, he realized. She was thinking.
“As serious as a boll weevil in a cotton field.” She jotted a few lines into her red leather-bound diary, then strode to the far end of the room.
Chance followed. “What do you know about cotton fields?”
She lifted the lid of Tom’s antique piano and peeked inside. “Nothing,” she said, distracted. “But I know a lot about running a school. Hmm…” She plucked a few of the piano wires, closed the lid, then inspected the adjacent stage. “This will do nicely.”
“Do for what?”
She turned to him and, for the first time since the incident upstairs, looked him squarely in the eyes. “For the children’s performances, of course.”
“You mean you teach music?” He hadn’t pegged her for a music teacher.
“I teach everything.” She cast him a dismissive look, then walked back to the center of the room. “Reading, composition, mathematics, science, drama and music. Oh, and Latin.”
“Latin?” The instant he caught up with her she was off again. He dogged her steps. “Who besides scholars and bookworms speak Latin.”
“Read, not speak. Those urchins I saw playing in the street yesterday could benefit nicely from it, I think.”
Chance shook his head. “You’re not like any schoolteacher I ever met.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
He laughed. Not at what she said but the way she said it, as if she knew she was different and damned proud of it. “You’re set on closing the place, then?”
“You don’t think I’d continue to operate a saloon?” She scribbled more notes into the diary, then scowled at the card tables in front of the bar. “We’ll need desks. Perhaps these can be modified.”
“Why not? A woman like you’d do a damned fine job of it.”
She turned on him, one blond brow lifted in astonishment. “You’re not serious?”
“As a boll weevil in a—”
“Honestly, Mr. Wellesley.” She capped her fountain pen and snapped the diary shut. They disappeared into the deep pocket of her dress.
He reminded himself he wanted a look at that diary, but he’d have to wait until she was asleep. She carried it with her every waking moment.
She did an about-face, snaked between the card tables toward the stage, and hurried through the doorway into the hall. Bill had turned one of the two first-floor bedrooms into his study. She paused at the door, looking in, then continued down the long corridor toward the kitchen.
Chance knew he was in trouble. He had to convince her to keep the Flush open, to keep everybody working and the customers pouring in. If he didn’t, the past six months would have been for nothing. Six months of keeping his eyes and ears open and his mouth shut, biding his time, waiting for Bill’s partner to surface.
“I know why you’re closing it,” he called after her. “And it’s not because you’re a schoolmarm shocked at the idea of owning a saloon.”
“Schoolteacher,” she corrected. She grabbed her cloak off a peg by the back door and readied herself to go outside.
He held the door for her, then followed her down the back steps. “A woman like you wouldn’t be bothered by what people would think.”
“A woman like me.” She kept walking, past the row of cabins and the bunkhouse, toward the barns and corral.
Rowdy and Gus, busy with morning chores, tipped their hats to her as she marched by.
“A woman who’s smart, who knows her own mind.” He caught up with her and took her arm. She immediately pulled it away. “I like smart women.”
“How fascinating.”
He was losing her. He had to think of something, and fast. She skirted a pile of horse dung, rounded the corral and stopped at the edge of the meadow filling a long valley choked with spring wildflowers as far as the eye could see.
She shaded her eyes from the early morning sun and looked out at the smattering of cattle, what remained of Wild Bill’s herd.
“You’re afraid,” he said on impulse.
“What?” She turned to look at him.
“You heard me. You’re afraid.”
“Of what?” Her spine stiffened.
“Of everything.” He nodded toward the house. “The saloon, the customers, Delilah and the girls. Jim, Tom, the hired hands—” He glanced back at Rowdy and Gus who’d stopped their work and were watching. “And me.”
“I most certainly am not!”
“The ranch, too. It’s still a ranch, you know. A hundred head or so. Angus beef. Damned fine stock.”
Her cheeks blazed, not with embarrassment this time, but anger. It bothered him that after only two days he knew her well enough to know the difference. The breeze caught a tendril of her hair, freed it from the tight little bun at the back of her head, and whipped it across her face.
“John, er, Mr. Gardner told me the stock were worthless.” She looked out across the valley at the cattle as an excuse to stop looking at him.
“Gardner’s an idiot. This was a profitable cattle ranch once. I can tell. With a couple thousand head and the right help, a man could really make something of himself here.” Without thinking, he crouched and plucked a handful of grass from the muddy ground, sifting it between his fingers as he gazed off into the distance. “Good water and sweet grass. It’s a choice piece of land, Dora. Believe me, I’d know.”
The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. He bit off a silent curse and abruptly stood, tossing the last few blades aside.
“Would you?” Dora looked him up and down. “And what exactly would a man like you know about land and cattle ranching?”
He froze, his gaze locked on hers. He’d gotten carried away, and the slip would cost him. Dora Fitzpatrick was no simpleton.
“Just what is your history, Mr. Wellesley? No one seems to know.”
Which was exactly how he wanted it.
“Mr. Wellesley?” She looked at him strangely. Her gray eyes had gone soft, all tenderness and concern. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had looked at him like that.
“I, uh…”
“Were you a rancher before you went into…um, gambling?”
He looked out over the rolling green pastures flecked with spring columbine and purple sage, and thought for a fleeting moment about the man he’d once been. Dora watched him closely, and he had the uncomfortable feeling she saw right through him.
“No,” she said crisply, though the canny look in her eyes contradicted her verdict. “I didn’t think so.”
He forced a smile and slipped easily into the pretense that had become as comfortable as a pair of old boots. She was not going to turn this around on him. He circled back to his original statement. “Trust me, you’re afraid.”
She looked at him, and for a heartbeat he saw in her eyes that he was right. An uncomfortable feeling gripped him. He sucked in a breath, sharp with the scents of cattle and sage and the barest hint of lilac. He hadn’t noticed before today that she wore perfume.
“You don’t know me,” she said.
“No, I don’t.” He thought about the life he’d had, rich and full of promise, before the unthinkable had happened eighteen months ago. What would he have thought of Dora Fitzpatrick then? “I don’t,” he said, “but I’d like to.”
Chapter Four
“I want that painting removed by the time I return from church.”
“Whatever you say, Miss Dora.” Jim continued sweeping the broken glass, cigar butts and other evidence of the saloon’s profitable Saturday-night business into a tidy pile near the swinging double doors.
Dora gazed at her reflection in the mirror above the bar and adjusted her hat. “I mean it, Jim. And I’d like you to lock the doors after I leave. The saloon is closed. No one’s to be admitted.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I know you think I’m being unreasonable. But I’m certain Tom and Delilah, and the…um, girls, can find decent jobs elsewhere.” She meant to retain Gus and Rowdy to take care of the place, and to help her with the conversion of the saloon into a school—if she could afford it. She wasn’t certain, yet, that she could.
Jim hadn’t lied. Last night’s take, together with Friday’s, had been enough to pay the weekly salaries of the staff, in addition to one of the outstanding bills from a local merchant. She’d have to make arrangements to pay the rest of her father’s debts over time.
Surely the town council would see things her way. Last Call was in desperate need of a school, and one less saloon could hardly matter. She was certain John Gardner would help her convince them, and Sunday services at the Methodist church in town was the perfect place to begin her campaign.
“Are you ready?” Chance stood silhouetted in the entrance, morning sun at his back, casually twirling his watch fob.
“Perhaps I should have asked you to lock the doors sooner,” she said to Jim.
The bartender shot him a grin.
“I’ve got the buckboard right out front.”
Surely he didn’t think she was going to church with him? Did gamblers even go to church? She didn’t think so.
Snatching her reticule off the bar, she walked toward him. “You’re supposed to be leaving today.” As an afterthought she checked her pocket to make certain her diary along with her father’s letter were tucked safely inside.
“Not before church. Wouldn’t be proper, now would it?”
She disregarded his open appraisal of her attire as she approached, then ducked neatly under his arm and out the door. She was seated on the buckboard, reins in hand, before he realized her intent.
