“Sweet bread. I miss the taste of sweet bread.” The words had come out of his mouth faster than he thought they could. And he caught the way he’d pronounced his R a bit too—well, a bit too much.
“Sweet bread it is then.” And Lord have mercy, she smiled, wide and targeted right at him, making his knees want to give way again. Damn.
“Come, Jake. Must show you the town and such,” Tom said, while waving a hand impatiently.
“Yes, sir.” He couldn’t help it any more, his mouth moved of its own accord. “Nice to meet you, Miss Peabody.” He wanted to grab her hand and kiss it, but he fetched his hat and while placing it on his head, tipped it at her.
Her smile widened.
As he started to leave, awash with the electricity that was Meredith, suddenly the inebriated Mr. Matlock at the bar sat up and started laughing. He pointed a finger at the ladies. “Mad Mere’s here! Mad Mere’s here! Crazy as a loon, Mad Mere’s here!”
“Oh, you shut up, you old fool,” Laura hollered and wrapped an arm around Meredith, protectively hiding her from the woken drunk.
Jake faltered in his step, catching Meredith’s visage duck into the plaid, her eyes clenching closed. That was the face of deep shame. Jake ought to know. He’d felt it on his own many a time.
He wished he knew Meredith well enough to tuck her into his arms. He already wished that.
But he thought she would recoil if he touched her. Sauntering past Laura to the intoxicated man, Jake hefted him by his collar.
The man stank of beer oozing through his pores. His blurry red eyes met Jake’s.
“I—I don’t know you,” he croaked with fowl breath.
Jake smiled. Genuinely. Menacingly. “You will.” Then he picked up the man, slung him over his shoulders, and stormed out the Stop with Tom dryly chuckling behind.
“I knew my wife was correct,” Tom said, catching up as Jake steered toward the jail. “You are the right lawman.” Striding in front now, Tom welded a huge ring of keys and opened the jail, Jake on his heels. “That there is Mr. Matlock. Town drunk.”
“Only on Monday through Satur-Saturday,” Mr. Matlock said as he was jostled on Jake’s shoulders. “I drink in Great Falls on Sunday.”
“Good to know.” Jake walked into the only cell and hefted his inmate from his back and onto a cot. He worked out a kink in his back as he crossed the other side of the cell door then slammed it shut.
Tom rocked back on his heels, a wide, eager smile on his ruddy face.
Jake realized then he might have overreacted to the drunk’s calling Meredith mad but didn’t want to discuss it at the moment. Or ever. Besides, Tom had seemed to agree with what he’d done. But the man kept smiling at him like the Cheshire Cat.
Finally, Jake sighed. “What?”
“Meredith surely is pretty, ain’t she?”
“
L
ord
have mercy, did you just see that?” Laura asked.
Oh, Meredith had, and she wished she’d recorded it to watch over and over again. The new sheriff, Jake Cameron—could a name be sexier?—had picked up Mr. Matlock as if he weighed nothing, hoisted him on his broad shoulders, and marched him out. All because Mr. Matlock, like usual when drunk, had chanted that awful nickname she’d earned.
Mad Mere.
When she’d first landed here, in this time, in this territory, she’d zigzagged down Main Street screaming. Naked. Yeah, that hadn’t been her finest moment.
The fact was, maybe she was a little insane. She was here, after all. A little more than four months and she was still here.
However, what she’d never told anyone was she deserved a lot worse.
Meredith nodded and swallowed, still a little hazy after meeting Jake. God, the man was beautiful. Tall drink of water, she should call him. Probably a little more than six towering feet of him with powerful, lean muscles showing through his black waistcoat and matching coat. And the show of strength, hauling out Mr. Matlock as though he were a small sack of potatoes, had been spectacular. She’d never seen anything like that. Not in real life.
But was this real life?
Laura rolled in both her lips in an obvious effort to keep from smiling. “I think that handsome man fancies you.”
Meredith blinked, even stepping a little away from Laura.
He couldn’t. She was...well, she was a thief for one thing. He, an obvious sheriff. She was a liar, and one look into his steely eyes conveyed honesty. Strict adherence to morality. She’d bent the rules. And he...he just couldn’t have taken a fancy to her. There was no way.
Besides, she was in her thirties, albeit early thirties. Not in her bloom as they would say from this time. In her own era, as much as there was a condescending sense of progression from times of past, who did the major magazines hire for their photo spreads? Sixteen year-olds, that’s who. Oh, how she wished to jot down her thoughts regarding the similarities of social norms then and now, how horribly little had changed in more than one hundred fifty years. But then she remembered how she came to this kind of understanding: she was stuck in the past.
Meredith swallowed. Probably audibly.
Laura hummed an all-knowing note. “Don’t you give me that look, missy. I know when a man wants a woman.”
Meredith shook her head. “He’s—I’m—no, I’m terrible. I’m Mad Mere, remember?”
Laura snorted a laugh, but quickly hid it. “No, honey. We’re all a little concerned with how you came to be here. Mr. Matlock, in his right mind, understands why you said the things you did when you...you know.”
When Meredith had kept screaming in the middle of the dirt street in a downpour of vicious rain, when she’d yelled she wasn’t from this time. She was from an age where there were concrete for roads and no horse shit to step in, where she had pretty things to wear and owned. She’d shrieked until she was hoarse, then kept hollering, until she collapsed and cried.
She’d been so scared. So alone.
Then Laura had gathered her in her arms, muddy and disgusting, cleaned her, fed her, and looked after her since. Meredith often felt she owed Laura her life. Actually, she owed her more. Because nothing felt as good as the friendship Laura had instantly offered. Her generosity was something Meredith had never seen before, never felt. It was as comforting as if Laura had swaddled her in a newborn blanket.
But it always kept coming back to haunt her—her past. All the mistakes she’d committed replayed over and over, until she’d wrap her arms around her bent knees and cry.
Laura shoved her arm into Meredith’s side. “Don’t tell me you didn’t see our new sheriff spark up when I introduced him to you. And don’t tell me you didn’t shine like a new penny.”
Meredith winced. She’d been rather obvious what with all that smiling she’d done. And she’d held his hand for at least thirty-seven Mississippis.
“Should I make dinner for you two?”
Meredith glowered. “No. Sheriff Cameron, he...he probably didn’t see me well under the blanket. Once he gets a good look at me, he won’t...There’s no need to...”
Laura gingerly, as if she were approaching a wild bronco, caressed Meredith’s arm. “Oh, honey, I don’t know what happened to you, but whatever it was makes you see only ugly when you look in the mirror, huh?”
Meredith glanced away.
Laura retracted from the touch. “I would bet our new Sheriff Cameron thinks the same as me. See those marks on his face? Probably measles or some such. But I just saw a handsome man. I think you did too.”
“He is handsome.” Meredith wanted to bite her damned tongue off for how breathy her voice had sounded.
Laura smiled once more. “Well, I won’t push neither of you, but I think it’s fine the way the both of you looked at each other. Gave me goose bumps. Like your souls knew each other, but your bodies were meeting for the first time.”
Meredith wanted to contradict, wanted to say something to the effect that no man would look at her, she was too old, she’d wasted too many years, she was a horrible person who deserved to have vicious names slung at her, to be whipped and ridiculed, to be put on a scaffold for people to throw their rotten vegetables at. She deserved to be branded a criminal.
But it was too hard to admit to. And as much as she probably should confess her guilt, she wanted Laura to think well of her. And Sheriff Cameron, even if he was out of her league.
Before Meredith could think of how to respond, a whiff of strong bay rum cologne wafted in, slightly preceding a man dressed head to toe in a top-of-the-line brown silk suit. His dark hair was smudged back with some strong-smelling oil, that same hair tincture on his glossy black, thick-as-a-walrus’s mustache. The dark-haired stranger looked too polished to be in a Montana log-cabin stagecoach stop.
“Excuse me, ladies.” His accent untraceable yet smooth as velvet.
Laura and Meredith turned to him, and he bowed, which most people had done away with, especially out here. But Meredith and Laura looked at each other and curtsied nonetheless, while they shrugged.
He smiled broadly and extended a hand while walking closer. The hand reached out to Meredith. “You must be Mrs. Casper. I’ve been told you practically run this whole town and the mine. I am Martin Bruisner from the Butte Mining Company. I’m here to—”
“I’m not Mrs. Casper,” Meredith interrupted, trying to take back her hand he’d snatched.
He kissed it anyway with a smile that never reached his eyes. “Mr. Casper’s...How shall I say this...lady friend?”
Meredith couldn’t help but laugh. “No. This is Laura Casper, Mr. Tom Casper’s
wife
.”
The man glanced at Laura, a flash of disgust apparent. He blinked and stared at her for a beat more. Then he laughed.
“Oh, you kid, funny lady. Of course, you are joking.”
Meredith frowned. “No. I don’t kid. This is Mrs. Casper.”
Laura forced a grin into place and extended her own hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Bruisner. I’m Laura Casper. My husband is already out of the house, but how may I help you?”
Mr. Bruisner never touched her. He stared once more, his dark brows knitted together. “But—but miscegenation is illegal in these parts, is it not?”
“Seeing as how Mr. Casper owns
these parts
,” Meredith hollered, “I doubt very much he’d make his holy marriage illegal.”
Laura lowered her proffered hand and turned to Meredith. “Please—”
Meredith felt her brows probably arch into her hairline, surprised Laura could be so...polite.
“Holy marriage?” Mr. Bruisner said with noticeable sarcasm. “
Holy
marriage, the woman says to me.”
“Yes, I do.” Meredith couldn’t help herself, even though she knew Laura was pulling on her plaid, trying to get her to shut up. But she couldn’t let the ass get off with that tone, those remarks. He couldn’t talk that way to the most wonderful woman the world had ever seen. “Tom and Laura love each other. Their marriage is the happiest I’ve ever seen, and if you have a problem with that—”
“Not only do I have a problem with that, but it’s against the law. The majority of our nation has a problem with that.”
Meredith huffed. “Not
my
nation, buddy. Not mine.”
Mr. Bruisner took a threatening step closer, suddenly inches from Meredith’s face. “I’m guessing with your accent it
is
, in fact, your nation. That you are not one of the millions of heathen immigrants stealing from my government. So I must ask, miss, are you an anarchist?” His voice had lowered, ominously.
It flashed through Meredith’s mind. Couldn’t be helped. Years of being an historian might be to blame, but there it was, riveting through her brain, as if she were a freaking Wikipedia, the ascension of anarchy from Greek philosophy to current time, late 1880s. Anarchy began as a utopian idea, everyone having liberty, rights, and freedom through a no-government structure. That philosophy was thousands of years old. Anarchy resurfaced after the French Revolution, trying to find a peaceful way to regain control over a government that had killed too many. It had been a pacifistic movement for so long—advocating women’s rights, freedom of one’s body, free from judgment. Freedom.
But with the world catching fire in 1848, ten countries embroiled in revolutions, anarchy, ironically, had started to become synonymous with terrorism. Bombings, assassinations, so much blood on the hands of anarchists. Or at least they were blamed.
Meredith knew she couldn’t call herself an anarchist without the man thinking the worst of her.
But, oh, how she wanted to say yes, just to goad him.
“She’s not an anarchist.” A powerful voice rang through the dinning room.
Meredith wanted to clench her eyes shut, but she turned to the second hero of the day: actually two heroes, Mr. Wan and his fourteen year-old son, Chen. It had been Mr. Wan’s remarkably loud voice calling out through the restaurant a beat ago. Now, they both stood—wide legged, arms crossed—just outside the kitchen. Mr. Wan and Chen were attired in white tunics, symbolic of Mr. Wan’s wife’s recent death. But there he was, defending Meredith.
“Don’t talk to her like that.”
Mr. Bruisner straightened and snorted. “I was just leaving.” He glared down at Meredith. “I know your type, you know? You probably think a woman such as yourself deserves suffrage. And the fact of the matter is, you probably are smarter than I, aren’t you, you little spitfire? You might even be more educated. Don’t think I missed your obvious New England, upper crest nasal drawl in your language.”
“Don’t think I missed that you have no detectable American dialect,” Meredith retorted, not able to stop herself. “That’s right, I know all about you too, Mr. Bruisner. I’d guess with your hysterical remarks about immigrants that your parents might not have been born in this country. It’s a telling sign when one—oh, how shall I put this?—when the lady doth protest too much, methinks.”
He narrowed his glimmering blue eyes at her, his nostrils over that gigantic mustache twitching.
Ah, she knew she’d found her mark and proceeded to annihilate. God save her and her blabbering mouth that always,
always
got her into trouble.
“Or was it
you
who wasn’t born here?”
Under his long black sideburns, his jaw line kicked. “I was born in America, raised in America, as American as they get.”
Meredith suddenly got bored with the conversation and rolled her eyes, earning her the amazing sight of Mr. Bruisner’s face turning red.
“You can be sure I’ll tell my employer, Mr. Cooper, president of the Butte Mining Company, about this. About all of this. He’d heard of the Casper coal here and was going to make a very lucrative offer for the land. But I’m sure he won’t touch the place now.” He pointedly looked at Laura then. “It’s dirty.”
He knew
he’d
found her mark and smirked at Meredith, somehow conscious that insulting Laura would hurt worse than anything he might throw at her.
Meredith slapped him across his freshly shaven cheek with the thick sideburn. The impact hurt so much more than anything she could have imagined. But she wouldn’t cradle her wrist as she wanted to. She wouldn’t cry out in pain.
She glared at Mr. Bruisner as he straightened, touching his flaming red cheek. He flew at her, and, God, how she hated it, but she flinched, readying for his retaliation. But he just laughed. Opening her eyes, Meredith almost screamed seeing him inches from her face. His smile was close to maniacal, and his blue eyes were wild, raking over her face.
Slowly he stood upright, towering over her.
“Good day, miss.”
He did leave. Nobody breathed for perhaps a full minute afterwards. Finally, Laura embraced Meredith. Hard.
“Silly, girl. What do you think you were doing?” she whispered into Meredith’s ear.
“He’s an ass.” Meredith’s voice shook, and she hated that obvious sign of her fear and intimidation. “No one should talk to you like that.”