“It’s from Papa!” she cried. “Look, Mama! He sent heaps and heaps of money! I just asked for one new dress, but this is enough for a hundred!”
Papa?
Bewildered, Brianna plucked the envelope from her
daughter’s hand. A cold sense of unreality washed over her as she perused the return address, written in a bold, masculine hand:
Marshal David Paxton, No Name, Colorado.
It couldn’t be. David Paxton didn’t exist. Brianna had invented him one long-ago night in Boston, and forever after she had claimed he was her husband and the father of her child. He wasn’t an actual person, only a man she’d dreamed up to lend her an air of respectability in a world that ostracized women who bore children out of wedlock.
“Look, Mama!” Daphne cried. “He sent lots and lots! Maybe even enough for”—the child gulped before voicing her dearest and most oft-repeated wish—“shoes, too?”
Trembling with shock, Brianna shushed the child again and parted the envelope to peer at the currency.
Dear God in heaven.
In all her twenty-six years, she’d seen this much money only once, after she’d left Charles Ricker’s employ and emptied her five-year savings account to rent the attic room of the boardinghouse, purchase blankets for the cot, and buy Daphne eats. Pulling out the bills, Brianna stared in stunned amazement. A quick glance told her there was at least a hundred dollars, if not more.
Incredulous, she fixed her gaze on Daphne’s glowing countenance. For an instant, she wanted to shout with delight and bounce across the floor with her daughter. Then reason banished the urge, trickling into her mind like ice water and filling her with foreboding. Her husband, David Paxton, did not exist, yet figments of one’s imagination could not address an envelope or fill it with cash. David Paxton, her counterfeit husband, had suddenly taken on substance. This was
not
manna from heaven but a catastrophe. What if this man showed up in Glory Ridge?
“Mama?” Daphne studied Brianna with worried blue eyes. “What is it? Aren’t you pleased that he sent us money?”
Brianna fished in the envelope, hoping to find an accompanying note, something—anything—to explain this strange turn of events. Over the last six years, during which she’d written to David Paxton in Denver repeatedly under duress by her employer and never received a
reply, she’d grown confident that no man of that name dwelled in the city or surrounding area.
No worries.
Her invented marriage was safe from exposure. No one would ever respond to her missives, in which she’d been forced by her boss to plead countless times for assistance. She and Daphne were secure, their social status protected by a fragile guise of legitimacy. On her left hand, Brianna wore a simple gold band, which she’d purchased from a Boston pawnbroker, enabling her to pose as a married woman who could apply for employment out West. There had been no jobs in Boston—well, next to nothing, anyway, the alternatives now best forgotten—and her infant niece had required constant care. Brianna had desperately needed a position where she could keep the baby with her while she worked.
Charles Ricker’s advertisement in the
Boston Herald
had saved the day. Reeling from the death of his wife, the rancher had needed a cook, housekeeper, and tutor for his sons, preferably a widow, with or without a child of her own. Brianna had learned the hard way that a woman without male protection was often victimized by men, so she decided it would be safer to portray herself as a lady with an errant husband who might resurface. So it was that David Paxton had been born. Brianna had written to Ricker, fabricating the story that she still told now. Ricker had found her trumped-up qualifications satisfactory and wired traveling funds for Brianna and her daughter.
Brianna tried never to recall those disastrous first months when her lack of knowledge about cooking and ranch animals had been a torment that had almost cost her the job. Fortunately, her tutoring skills were genuine and well above average. Ricker had eventually come to accept that his housekeeper would never warm his bed, and he’d been marginally satisfied with Brianna’s work. The years had passed pleasantly enough until Ricker met a lady he wanted to marry. With his boys almost grown, Brianna’s services had become superfluous.
Now here she sat, staring stupidly at an envelope that threatened to destroy the life she’d built in Glory Ridge for
herself and Daphne. David Paxton was
real
. Panic welled within her. “My, my, it
is
a fair sum of money, dear heart. You’ll have several new dresses and new shoes as well. Apparently your papa found a huge gold nugget!”
Daphne beamed with pleasure. “And he remembered me, Mama! You always say how much he loves us. But sometimes I wondered. I did, and that’s a fact. But this proves I was wrong.”
Brianna’s heart caught. It concerned her to know that Daphne felt unloved by her sire, for if any child on earth deserved to feel cherished, Daphne did. That was the problem with pretend papas. They could show no affection because they didn’t exist.
The thought drew Brianna’s attention back to the thick stack of silver certificates on her palm. With a brush of her thumb, she uncovered three tens, several fives, a number of ones, and four twenties. If the money had been from Daphne’s real papa, Brianna would have felt it was little enough and long overdue, but the child’s biological father, Stanley Romanik, was in Boston, the spoiled son of a prosperous farmer. Seven years ago, he had raped her sister, Moira, in the convent conservatory, accepted no responsibility for the pregnancy, and gotten away scot-free.
“Mama, is there enough money for you to have a new dress, too? The ones you wear don’t fit right, and one of them keeps splitting on the side.”
Brianna gathered the child into her arms for a fierce hug. How many six-year-old girls, deprived as Daphne had been, would think to share money that had been sent in an envelope addressed solely to them? Brianna had no intention of wasting a cent of this blessing on herself. Daphne would have new dresses and a pair of good shoes, but the remainder would be saved to ensure that the child had a roof over her head and food in her stomach for a few more months. As for David Paxton—well, that was a worry for later. She mustn’t betray by expression or action that she was shocked or disbelieving.
“Do you think he may come for us soon?” Daphne asked.
“I doubt it, dearest. One gold nugget doesn’t make a man rich. It was kind of him to share some of his find with you, though.”
“And with you!”
Brianna stopped short of shaking her head. She mustn’t unwittingly reveal to this intelligent child that the story she’d grown up believing was a pack of lies. “And with me. Of course, with
me
! I am his wife, after all.”
“And he loves us both dearly. You’ve been right all along, Mama. He’s just been working so hard to find gold that he hasn’t had time to write letters or come for us!”
“Yes,” Brianna agreed, without much alternative. She’d tried to make Daphne believe her father was a good person, and it looked as if she’d succeeded. Brianna tucked the certificates back into the envelope. “May I have this for safekeeping?”
Daphne nodded and then twirled in her patched and faded dress. “Mama, I’ll soon look like the other girls! Maybe Hester and Hope won’t tease me anymore. Maybe they’ll even let me play with them. Do you think so?”
If Brianna had her way, Daphne’s new clothing would outshine anything her classmates wore. “You’ll look even better than they do, and I’m sure they will let you play!” She slipped the envelope into the pocket of her skirt and guided her daughter through the shop to look at cloth. Daphne was embracing a lovely pink, patterned with delicate roses, when Abigail’s harsh tones interrupted them.
“
What
in tarnation is going on out here?” With a scathing glare at Brianna, she fingered an imaginary film of dust on a glass case filled with ribbons and gewgaws. “I pay you a good wage to
work
, and time wasted will be taken into account when I tally your pay! When you’re not sewing, you should be cleaning.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am.” Brianna injected humility into her voice. “Daphne’s papa sent her some money to buy dresses, and we were trying to choose some cloth. Of course I thought of purchasing it here, rather than going elsewhere.”
Though Daphne had suddenly become a paying customer, Abigail pinched her nostrils in disapproval. At forty-
plus, she was a bitter woman, plainer than flat bread, with white-blond hair slicked back into a chignon and a pallid complexion offset only by glittering, raisin-colored eyes. The latter were beady and ever watchful, reminding Brianna of a raptor hunting for a hapless creature to injure with a snap of its beak. In an attempt to brighten her appearance, Abigail wore colorful gowns that accentuated her paleness. When men entered her shop, she fawned over them, hopeful that a masculine eye might wander her way. If the woman had been kinder, Brianna might have given her advice on how to showcase her face, but as it was, she felt no such inclination. The lonely result of Abigail’s harsh nature was no less than she deserved.
“You’ll work overtime to make up for your idleness.” Abigail added sibilance to the last word. “If you fail to do so, I shan’t forget come Monday when I calculate your wages.”
Exhaustion threatened to slump Brianna’s shoulders, but she stood erect even though she knew her infraction of five minutes would cost her an hour of toil without pay. “As you wish, of course, but please bear in mind that I only just left my seat.”
“Poppycock.” Abigail wagged a thin forefinger. “You’ll put nothing over on me, Mrs. Paxton! I know how long you’ve been dillydallying.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Brianna nearly choked on the words. “I only beg you to remember I seldom leave my station, and today the infraction has been five minutes, no more.”
Regal in posture, Abigail sniffed her disdain, turned, and vanished into her apartment, where she supposedly toiled. Brianna knew better. The walls were thin, and she seldom heard her employer’s machine in use. She didn’t know what the woman did all afternoon and during the night while Brianna stitched gowns that sold for a handsome profit. Maybe, like Brianna, Abigail had a passion for dime novels. God knew she could afford to buy as many as she wished. Brianna’s reading was limited to rare moments when she wasn’t working. A few ladies in town lent her books when they’d finished with them. Raised to appreciate fine literature, Brianna had at first scorned the grand portrayals in
dime novels of the Wild West. After a time, however, she’d been starved for fine print and had come to anticipate with great eagerness any work of fiction or nonfiction. Her favorites were the stories featuring Ace Keegan, the infamous gunslinger who’d once killed three men with one bullet.
“I’m sorry,” Daphne whispered after Abigail’s angry departure. “Now she’ll make you work longer with no money. I know she’s never fair when she tallies your wages.”
Brianna bent to hug her daughter. “No, she’s never fair, so we may as well enjoy the infraction! You have some yardage to select, young lady.”
Daphne grinned, displaying the gap where she’d lost two front teeth. “I like this one!” she cried, returning to the pink floral print.
“It is a particularly fine choice.” Brianna turned the child’s attention to a polka dot pattern, white on dark blue. It would make up nicely with appropriate trim, piping possibly, with a bit of lace. “And we mustn’t forget that you’re in desperate need of a winter cloak and muff!”
Daphne beamed with delight. “I need to write Papa a thank-you note!”
“You do, indeed. Run over to the boardinghouse to fetch my writing materials.”
After the child raced from the shop, Brianna briefly considered returning the cash to the sender, but envisioning the resultant look of disappointment on Daphne’s face, she quickly banished the thought. The money was a godsend, and the child now had her heart set on new dresses her mother couldn’t afford. That man never would have parted with such a large sum if he were in dire straits. So in a separate note, written secretly, Brianna would thank Mr. Paxton for the kindness and apologize for the mistake. She would explain that Daphne’s father was a gold miner in Denver, not a town marshal. Then she’d add that no further gifts of money would be accepted and express her intent to keep Mr. Paxton’s address and pay him back with interest when her finances improved. Surely that would be enough to clarify the situation in his mind.
* * *
Hours later, Brianna was still hunched over the Singer sewing machine, its shiny black surface, trimmed in gold, a blur as she focused burning eyes on a blue silk creation. The light cast by the hissing lantern was not the best to see by, and her temples throbbed. Tomorrow afternoon and evening, she would spend hours doing handwork on both the rose and blue gowns, and by night’s end, when she scurried to the restaurant to do the cleanup, her fingertips would burn from pushing on the blunt head of a needle because Abigail was so miserly with her thimbles.
Oh, precious Lord, the restaurant cleanup.
Brianna nearly groaned, for she had that yet to do before she could drop like a rock onto the narrow cot in the boardinghouse attic room that she and Daphne called home. For now, the little girl slept on a pallet near Brianna’s chair, and there she would stay while Brianna tidied the kitchen of Glory Ridge’s only restaurant. When that task was completed, Brianna would return to collect her child and then stumble under her inert weight as she carried her to their humble abode, which was barely large enough to accommodate the narrow bed and washstand.
If only she truly did have a husband, Brianna thought hazily. Perhaps then she could see an end to this life of toil. Unfortunately, even if Brianna conveniently killed off her fictitious spouse, there seemed little demand in Glory Ridge for a widow with a child. Besides, Brianna had gotten her fill of men, not only in Boston when she’d struggled to support an infant daughter, but also here in Glory Ridge. Charles Ricker had tried to force himself on her more than once, and now she was bedeviled nearly every weeknight by the aging owner of the restaurant, who was supposedly happily married but had a hankering for something new.