A Cowboy Unmatched (15 page)

The riverboat cruise up the Trinity to Liberty proved uneventful, and Nicole managed to secure a modestly priced room at a boardinghouse run by a doctor and his wife, a house recommended to her by one of the ladies she'd met in the boat's saloon. The fee included dinner and breakfast the following morning, so when she left the boardinghouse to search for employment, her spirits and energy were high. By midafternoon, however, both had sunk to rather dismal depths.

No one was hiring. Or at least no one was hiring an unknown young woman who'd arrived in town the previous evening unescorted and under mysterious circumstances. It didn't help that she was only looking for temporary employment. By the time she figured out that bit of honesty was hurting her prospects, she'd already visited half the businesses in town.

She hated lying. Every time she entered a shop and offered Juliet's name as her own, her conscience cringed. Then she compounded matters by starting to withhold her intention of leaving in a few weeks. No doubt the merchants she'd approached could sense her perfidy. That had to be why each and every one of them sent her away.

But what was she to do? She couldn't draw Jenkins a map by dropping her name like bread crumbs. If he or his sons found her before she made it to New Orleans, the dagger was as good as gone.

Of course, if she couldn't find work, her money was as good as gone. Another bleak prospect.

Nicole groaned and dropped onto a bench outside a tiny frame building painted with large white letters proclaiming it to be Liberty's post office. Her feet hurt, her stomach gurgled from having missed lunch, and the dagger bulging from her too-small sheath had nearly rubbed her inner thigh raw.

She had not wanted to leave it in her room, even buried in her satchel. The doctor and his wife seemed like kind, honorable people, but who knew what the other guests might be like. What if someone started snooping through her things, looking for valuables to pilfer? So she'd opted to keep it in her garter sheath in lieu of
her usual—much thinner, much more comfortable—blade. The jewels alone would tempt a thief to take it even if he were unaware of the legend surrounding it. So she'd make do keeping it with her. Perhaps the doctor would have some salve she could borrow tonight.

She might need a headache powder, too. Nicole winced and raised her gloved fingers to rub the throbbing place at her temple. The pain had been growing in proportion to the number of merchants who denied her employment during the course of the last four hours.

What would she do if she couldn't find work? She had enough funds for another night or two at the boardinghouse, but then her purse would be empty.

Nicole twisted her head to look through the window behind her. She could write to her father. But that would mean giving up her plan—because her father would surely demand she return home. Worse, it would announce her location to Jenkins. The man's second cousin ran the Galveston post office and could easily be convinced to hold on to a letter addressed to Anton Renard long enough to give Jenkins a head start in tracking her down.

No. It was too soon to give up. She could still make this work. All she needed was a job to . . .

Help Wanted.
Nicole squinted at the lettering barely visible on the back wall by the postmaster's counter. Sucking in a breath, she shamelessly pressed her face to the window glass. A notice hung beneath the narrow sign. Several notices. Tacked to the wall. Small scraps of paper curling at the edges. Some fresh and new, others faded and tattered.

They were the most beautiful wall decorations she'd ever seen.

Her hunger forgotten, she sprang from the bench on reenergized legs and dashed to the door. At the last minute she remembered to brush out her skirt and straighten her undersleeves before entering.

“Afternoon.” The man behind the counter set aside the papers he was sorting and smiled at her.

“Hello.” Nicole dipped her chin. “Would you mind if I peruse the employment listings on your wall?”

“Help yourself, though I don't think any of those will suit you.” He straightened his spectacles and turned back to his papers, dismissing her.

Nicole swept past him and approached the back wall. Suitability was in the eye of the beholder. And her eye was desperate.

Her gaze brushed the first advertisement. Sawmill operator. Not exactly a position amenable to full skirts and bell-shaped sleeves. Farmhand. Probably not. Several workers were needed at the beef-packing plant at Liberty Landing. The gristmill needed repair. Nicole's heart thumped painfully in her chest. Surely there was something here that required brains over brawn.

Cow puncher. Stage driver. Ferry operator.

Angry tears pooled in Nicole's eyes.
No. No
. No!
There had to be something here she could do. There had to be.

Her search came to rest on the last item, tacked high and nearly out of reach over the counter.

Wanted: Secretary
.

Secretary? Nicole snatched the notice from the wall, tearing it straight off the nail. Clutching it to her breast, she sent a prayer of thanks heavenward, then held it up and scanned it for pertinent information. It specified the employer was looking for male applicants, but the advertisement was yellowed from age. Obviously none of the local males were interested in or qualified for the position. That could work in her favor.

She marched up to the counter. “Excuse me? Can you give me directions to—” she glanced back at the paper—“Oakhaven?”

The postmaster looked up from his papers, an expression of true alarm on his face. “Oakhaven? You don't want to go there, miss. Trust me.”

“Oh, but I do.” Nicole gave him her best lady-of-the-manor stare. “However, if you don't feel comfortable directing me, I'm sure someone else will supply the information I need.”

“It's not that. I can tell you how to get there.” He tugged his spectacles off his nose and began shining the lenses on the tail of his vest. “It's just that I can't recommend the position to you. Not with a clear conscience.” He leaned forward over the counter, as if pleading. “He's mad, miss. If you go out there, you'd be taking your life in your hands.”

She brushed aside his concerns. “What would a madman want with a secretary? Surely you exaggerate.”

“No, ma'am.” He shook his head violently. “The fellow moved onto that vacant plantation over a year ago, but he's never farmed a single acre. As far as I can tell, he's never done anything to earn an honest living. All he does is blow things up. None of the merchants
will deliver inside the gates after Connor nearly got his leg severed by flying timber last fall. A lady like you would be eaten alive.”

It did sound rather daunting, but she couldn't afford to be choosy. This could very well be her only option for gainful employment. No time to be squeamish.

“I'm willing to take my chances,” she assured him, lifting her chin in challenge. “Now, if you'd be so kind as to write down the directions for me?” Nicole laid the advertisement in front of him and smiled in such a way that made it clear he'd best not argue.

The man stared at her for a long minute, then shrugged and pulled a pencil from behind his ear. “Your choice,” he said as he scribbled a few notes at the bottom of the ad. “Just don't say I didn't warn you.”

“I won't.” Nicole smiled sweetly as she accepted the paper from him. Then, tucking the paper into her money purse as if it were a fifty-dollar gold piece, she waved her thanks and headed back to the boardinghouse.

She'd managed to wring an address out of the postmaster, now all she needed to do was convince a madman to hire a female secretary before he blew her to bits.

Darius Thornton laid down the journal he'd been reading and rubbed his eyes. He'd been up all night again. Reading. Studying. Taking notes. It was always this way when the latest publication from the Franklin Institute arrived in the post. He'd been particularly intrigued by the article on boiler plates. The author proposed a correlation between the thickness of the boiler plates and the likelihood of explosion. It was a fascinating concept, and one he'd not yet considered. It might make for a worthy experiment.

He glanced across his desk and noted the other piece of mail that had arrived yesterday. A letter from his mother. He pushed it farther away, angling it behind a stack of boiler diagrams he'd been working on. If he couldn't see it, he wouldn't fall prey to the guilt it inspired.

Mother didn't understand. No one in his family did. Not really. His father and brother had put a good face on things and told him to take all the time he needed, that King Star Shipping would be there for him when he was ready to resume his duties. But Darius could read between the lines. They all thought him . . . emotionally damaged.

They didn't understand his mission. His calling. His need to redeem his greatest failure. The little girl's cry still haunted his dreams. Whenever he closed his eyes, he relived the torture of not reaching her in time. So he rarely closed his eyes anymore. He slept only when exhaustion rendered him unconscious—and dedicated every waking moment to finding ways to make steam engines safer. Read everything he could get his hands on. Studied schematics. Examined old boilers and engines. Conducted experiments.

Steamboat boiler explosions took hundreds . . . no, thousands of lives every year. Innocent lives. Lives that didn't deserve to be cut short. Lives more worthy than his own. Yet God hadn't spared those lives. He'd spared his. The only way Darius could rationalize such an injustice was to assume that God expected him to do something with the time he'd been given. So he poured himself into his work and refused to be distracted from his course. Not by society. Not by business. Not even by well-meaning family members who loved him and wanted him home.

Scratching at an itchy spot on his jaw through his half-grown beard, Darius scowled. Enough of that melancholic nonsense. He yanked open his desk drawer, pulled out his logbook, and began jotting down ideas for an experiment involving boiler plates. He referred back to the article from the Franklin Institute and tried to decipher the notes he'd scribbled in the margins.

Blast. He couldn't even read his own writing—words he'd penned only hours ago. Darius ran a hand over his face. He must have been more tired than he'd thought last night. He flipped through the previous pages of his logbook and examined the contents. His frown deepened. His penmanship wasn't much better there. Too many scratched-out words and sideways notations in the margins. How was he ever going to submit his findings on boiler safety to the Franklin Institute when his notes were in such a sorry state?

Darius shoved his notebook aside and blew out a heavy breath. He didn't have time for this. He'd advertised for a secretary weeks ago. Why had no one applied? It was beyond frustrating.

He pushed up from his chair and paced across the carpet. Passing the untouched breakfast tray his housekeeper had brought hours ago, he snatched up a scone that had gone stale. He shoved it in his mouth, grimaced as he chewed, and washed it down with a swallow of the tea that had cooled too far to even be called tepid.

He had to eat something if he wanted to avoid Mrs. Wellborn's scolding. He was certain the woman kept an accounting of each morsel served him just so she could tell if he ate anything or not. The tyrant. A corner of Darius's mouth twitched upward slightly as he contemplated his housekeeper. At least she'd ceased pestering him about eating his meals while they were hot. She was an intelligent woman, after all, and could recognize a lost cause when she saw one. His work took precedence. Over everything.

Now, if he could just convince one of the mewling cowards from Liberty to hire on as his secretary, he'd really be able to make some progress. It wasn't
his
fault Miles Connor hadn't had the sense God gave a goose. The fellow made the unwise decision to snoop around the pond instead of remaining at the house during one of Darius's experiments. Had he known the grocer was about, he would have warned him of the danger. But no, the man just strolled up to the pond, bold as you please, without a word to anyone. By the time Darius realized he was there, the steam had built up too high in the boiler for the safety valve to release, and the two men had to run for cover. The explosion had been a mild one—fully under Darius's control, of course—but Connor took exception to being showered with a few splintered timbers and iron shards.

Oakhaven had seen few visitors since that ill-fated day.

Darius reached for a boiled egg from the breakfast tray, thinking it would taste better cold than another scone. At the same moment, a knock sounded on his study door.

“Come in,” he called as he sprinkled a pinch of salt over the egg.

The door opened, and Wellborn, his butler, stepped inside. “You have a caller, sir.”

“A caller?” Darius bit off half the egg, suddenly ravenous now that his stomach had recognized the arrival of food. He chewed quickly and sent the egg the way of the scone before glancing up. “Who is it? I don't have time for idle chitchat with the neighbors, you know.”