Authors: Vickie McDonough
“Ah, good evening, Miss Lansing.” Mr. Taylor smiled at her. “Let me introduce Harlan Otis of the
Philadelphia Daily.
Harlan, meet Mariah Lansing, an up-and-comer at Goodwell Publications.”
Holding a glass of punch in one hand, Mr. Otis gave a stiff bow in her direction, and then looked her over as men often did. “A pleasure, Miss Lansing.”
“Mr. Otis.” Mariah nodded at him.
“So, are you a clerk at Goodwell?” Otis twirled one side of his handlebar mustache.
Mariah held back her sigh and glanced at her bemused editor.
“Uh… no, actually, Miss Lansing is one of our writers.”
Mr. Otis’s fuzzy brows lifted, and then he slurped his cup of punch, leaving droplets of liquid on his mustache. “Ah… a fashion reporter? Or perhaps a cooking column?”
Mariah prepared herself for the regular reaction when people learned that she wrote dime novels. Some folks considered them sleazy, even though they were just action-oriented stories. So what if occasionally the hero and heroine fell in love? There was nothing sordid about that. She made sure of it.
“Actually, I write dime novels.”
Mr. Otis’s mustache danced as he burst out laughing, and Mariah exchanged a “not again” glance with her editor.
“Too funny, Miss Lansing. I do love a woman with a sense of humor.”
Mariah scowled and opened her mouth, but Mr. Taylor beat her to it.
“It’s the truth, Harlan. Mariah, here, has seven dime novels to her name, with several more contracted. People all across America are discovering her stories and have been writing fan letters.”
“Writing is a man’s business. Dime novels are dying out, just like the penny dreadfuls in Britain.” Mr. Otis harrumphed. “I can’t believe there’s a market for ones written by a female. Women should be busy tending the home, not writing dime novels.”
Mariah lifted her chin. “Sir, my grandfather came to America with dreams of settling in the West. He only made it as far as Chicago before my grandmother dug her heels in and refused to travel farther. I’ve thoroughly studied the West and write my stories for people like him—people who can’t travel as far as they can dream.”
Mr. Otis waved his beefy hand in the air, and he turned to her editor as if she were nothing more than a pesky fly. “Take heed, Taylor, that venture is doomed to fail.” He turned and marched off.
Shaking her head, Mariah sighed. “Why is it so hard for people to believe that a woman can write something exciting?”
Mr. Taylor gave her a consoling pat on her shoulder. “Give it time. Folks are often slow to adjust to new things. I’m pleased with your work and sales figures.”
“Thank you. That’s good to know. By the way, I’ve finished
Sergeant Samuels and the Indian Maiden
. I’ll turn it in tomorrow.”
“Great! Excellent. I’ll have Mildred cut a payment draft in the morning so it will be ready when you come in. I wish all my writers would beat their deadlines as early as you.”
Mariah basked in his offhanded compliment. They were few and far between for a woman working in a man’s field. Mr. Taylor excused himself and followed some men outside, so Mariah looked around the room for Silas. Normally, he was at her side, even to the point of being annoying, but tonight, he’d been strangely distant.
The room buzzed with conversation from small groups of people dressed in their best. When she didn’t see him in the masses crowding the buffet tables, she crossed to the open double doors and went out on the veranda. Clusters of two to five people sat chatting at the small, round tables brought in especially for the evening. On the fringes where the light turned to shadows, a few couples could be seen standing too close to one another, but no Silas.
With her feet aching from her new shoes, Mariah was ready to call it an early night, but first she must find her missing fiancé. He was most likely off conversing with one of his business associates from the paper. She wandered back through the crowded parlor and dining room, down the hallway. Peering inside the music room filled with the gentle sounds of a string quartet, she studied the faces in the packed room but didn’t see the object of her search.
She started to bypass the library but noticed the door ajar. From previous evenings at Sterling House, she knew the library was off-limits. Mr. Sterling had a vast first-edition book collection and didn’t want anyone accidentally spilling anything on his volumes. She skirted past the door, but whispers and a woman’s giggle drew her back. Probably just some young sweethearts looking for privacy. Her curious nature made not opening the door impossible.
A lone electric lamp illuminated a man and woman in a passionate embrace. Mariah’s cheeks heated at the blatant display. She reached for the handle to close the door but accidentally jiggled it, causing the man to look up with startled gray eyes.
Mariah gasped.
Silas?
Amelia Winfield peered over her shoulder, her mouth tilted in a scathing smirk.
Pressing her hand to her chest, Mariah caught her breath and spun around. She hurried down the hallway, dodging the curious glances of those she passed. She quickly claimed her cloak, and a doorman opened the front entrance, allowing the cooler outside air to soothe her scorching cheeks. Lifting her long skirts, she trotted down the steps and suddenly stopped at the bottom. Now what?
She’d ridden to the banquet with Silas. It was too far to walk home, and a lady shouldn’t be alone on the streets at night. Oh, why hadn’t she heeded her grandma’s reservations instead of being her normal stubborn self? Had her heart suspected what her mind refused to allow her to believe? Was that why she’d had doubts about her fiancé?
The valet, evidently not expecting anyone to be leaving so early, hopped to his feet from his perch on the low stone wall that bordered the walkway. “May I help you, madam?”
“I need the Wellington carriage, please.”
“Yes, madam.” He hurried down the walkway and turned the corner, disappearing from sight.
Silas’s quick footsteps clattered down the stairs. “Mariah, wait.”
Not wanting a public confrontation, she looked for a nook or cranny in which to hide, but no such place was at hand. With resignation, she straightened her back and turned to face her
former
fiancé.
“It’s not what you think, Mariah, darling.” He straightened his tie and brushed his hand over his slicked-back hair. His normally thin lips looked puffy. “Amelia forced herself on me.”
Mariah huffed. “I’m supposed to believe little Amelia Winfield overpowered you and forced you to kiss her? What is she? All of five-foot-two?”
Lamplight illuminated the desperation that flashed through his eyes. “Uh—yes. That’s exactly what happened. She’s been chasing me for months.”
“And I guess she also forced you into the isolated—and might I add
restricted
—library?” She crossed her arms over her chest, guarding her heart, as Silas fumbled for a response. Never had he kissed her as he had Amelia. Mariah hadn’t minded his chaste good-night pecks on the lips, thinking that showing any more ardor should be reserved for married life. In fact, she knew nothing of passion—except what she’d just witnessed. And that was plenty.
“Just take me home.”
He glanced toward the door. “I—uh—I’m not ready to leave yet. There are some important people I need to talk to.”
“That’s fine. I’ve already called for your carriage. The driver can return here after he drops me off.”
“Mariah.” He laid his hands on her shoulders. “Don’t let something so petty ruin our evening. People will think it odd that you’ve gone and I’m still here. As my fiancée, it’s expected that you’ll be by my side all evening.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Of all the insensitive cads. I am no longer your fiancée.” She jerked away from his touch, pulled off her engagement ring, and tossed it at him. The diamond glinted in the lamplight then bounced off Silas’s hands as he struggled to catch it. The ring clinked on the stone walkway just as the carriage pulled up. The valet opened the door, and Mariah glanced up at the driver. “Please take me home and then return. Mr. Wellington wishes to remain here.”
She took her seat, and before the door shut, she saw Silas on his hands and knees, searching for his mother’s ring. A tiny shaft of concern stabbed her. She hoped her impulsive reaction hadn’t caused the antique to get lost. Even though she no longer wanted it, the diamond-and-ruby ring was a cherished family heirloom.
The door closed on the future Mariah had thought she’d wanted. Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes. How could things change so fast? Most women would be crying over the loss of a fiancé, but betrayal and anger scalded away her tears.
A trip out west sounded better and better with every turn of the carriage wheel as it bumped along the brick road.
A hairy tarantula skittered across the top of Adam McFarland’s head. He jerked and tried to lift his hand to brush it away, but his arm felt weighted down, his body sluggish to react. A loud train whistle and the feeling of his body slipping sideways on the bench jarred him fully awake. He shoved out his left arm to halt his slide and grabbed his new Clay Barton felt hat lying on the seat next to him before it slid into the aisle. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes as the Northern Pacific clattered and shimmied its way west.
Though he knew he’d only been dreaming, Adam’s head itched as if the spider were actually there. He scratched the top of his head, his hand encountering something light and fluffy. Looking upward, he let out a quiet groan. Now he remembered. Ever since the pretty gal with the garishly frilly hat had taken the seat behind him, Adam had warred with those stupid feathers. He pivoted back around, resisting the urge to yank them off the woman’s hat. He knew his thoughts were unmannerly, but a man shouldn’t have to fight birds on a train ride.
He struggled to keep from smiling as he imagined the woman’s face if he were to toss her hat in the air and shoot off the offending plumage. Why did a pretty gal think she needed a headdress to improve her appearance? He shook his head, glad his twin sister, Anna, was more levelheaded and practical.
Adam stared out the window as the flat landscape of North Dakota gradually yielded to the bumps and mounds, which would soon reveal his beloved badlands. He didn’t leave home often and missed the rugged beauty of the area where his family’s Rocking M Ranch was located.
The contract he’d received while in Chicago was safe in his jacket pocket, but he tugged on the lapel anyway for a quick glance. Art dealer and gallery owner, Trenton Howard, had been far more excited about Adam’s drawings of the West than he’d expected. He’d bought all ten, right out of Adam’s portfolio, and commissioned him to draw a dozen more, with the promise of a gallery showing and future business if the pictures sold as he thought they would.
Scratching his head again, Adam wondered how he’d break the news to his sister and brother that he’d be leaving. He’d dreamed for years of traveling farther west and maybe even down south to Texas, where his family originated, to sketch pictures of cowboys, ranch settings, and even some Indians.
Anna wouldn’t like him leaving. As twins, they’d always been close. His hardworking brother, Quinn, kept the ranch running well but was quiet and preferred to be alone more than socializing with his family.
Would Quinn listen to Anna during her chatty spells? Would he hug her when she was lonely or discouraged?
The view of his mother waving good-bye at the depot after his visit in Bismarck stayed with him. She felt pulled between her children and her own needy mother, but with her children all grown now, she had decided her mother needed her more. Anna would be disappointed to learn she would be staying in Bismarck awhile longer tending their grandmother who’d broken her leg.
Adam looked out the window at the scenery whizzing past. Quinn would do what he needed where Anna was concerned, of that Adam was certain. His older brother wasn’t the most affectionate person in the world but had been a father figure ever since their pa died years ago.
For the first time, Adam considered what leaving the ranch meant to him. No more family. No familiar bed to sleep in at night. And no more of Leyna’s delicious German cooking.
Adam scratched the top of his head. Sure, there were things he’d miss, sacrifices to be made, but still the adventure of traveling called to him. Lured him like a honeybee to a flower or a lost calf to its mother. His fingers tingled as he thought of all the beautiful sights just waiting for him to discover and to draw.
A tickle, as if a broken egg had been spilled on Adam’s head and was running down the sides, forced him to scratch his head again. The lady across from him gave him an odd look and hugged her sleeping son a bit tighter. She probably thought he had lice or some other infestation.
He’d had enough. Grabbing his hat, Adam thrust himself up. He held on to the back of the wooden bench to keep from losing his footing as the train rocked down the track at an amazing speed. Looking around, he realized with a sigh that the only available seats were either next to the woman in the hat or directly across from her. Evidently, most other folks on the train were steering clear of that pesky bonnet, too.
A rugged cowboy, slouched with his leg across the seat opposite the woman, gave him a disgusted look as Adam motioned that he wanted to sit beside him. The man scowled but slowly slid his leg down and straightened in the seat. He glared at Adam as he stood, almost looking eye-to-eye. Holding his ground, Adam kept his expression neutral. Suddenly, the cowboy grinned and then plopped down beside the woman. Surprise engulfed her countenance, and she hastily gathered her skirts to keep them from touching the dirty cowboy.
Adam eased down, glad that the confounded feathers would no longer pester him. He much preferred looking at the citified gal and couldn’t help wondering why she was traveling alone. He laid his hat on the seat beside him and relaxed, glad to have solved that problem. The woman scooted as close to the window as possible, and guilt stabbed at him that he’d caused her to have to share her bench. The cowpoke slouched back in his seat, allowing his left thigh to ease closer to the woman than was proper. Adam glared at him, but the man wasn’t intimidated.