By the time they reached her room, her heart was hopping around in her chest. The doorknob wouldn’t turn.
“Here.” He unlocked the door, held out the key. “Be sure you lock it.”
She took the proffered key, being careful not to touch him or look at him.
Inside, she locked the door, tested it, and threw herself on the bed. Surely Reverend Lyons would be back tomorrow. Surely he would have ideas about what she could do. After Papa died and before Mama married Ned Grimes, Mama had found employment.
Hassie pushed away the thought that Mama had come to Missouri and married Ned Grimes because no job ever paid enough to support the two of them. After all, Hassie didn’t have children to support. One of the effects of marriage to a sick old man, who liked his whiskey more than his wife, was no children.
Tomorrow Reverend Lyons would help her find a way to get by, and she and the tall bounty hunter with icy gray eyes would go their separate ways.
T
HE NEXT MORNING
Hassie lay awake in bed, luxuriating in feeling clean and rested. She couldn’t remember the last time she had slept through the night, not catnapped, listening for Cyrus’s labored breathing or cries of pain.
A thump sounded outside the door, and she rose, hoping the sound heralded delivery of a pitcher of water. Before she put the key in the lock, thinking to peek out and see, she heard voices.
“Family is one thing, business is another,” Mrs. Reston said. “If you had seen the look on Mr. Sterling’s face when he felt that cold bath water yesterday, you’d know what I mean. We’re going to lose business with her behaving like that. I can’t do everything myself, and I shouldn’t have to.”
“We’re the only hotel in town.”
“And the next town and the next hotel are only a few hours away.”
“I’ll talk to her.”
The second, male voice had to be Mr. Reston. If they were worried about business, shouldn’t they be having this discussion somewhere else?
“You’ve talked to her every other day since she’s been here. Now I’m talking to you, telling you, I want her on the stage back to your sister tomorrow. She’s making work, not doing work.”
“All right, if you insist....” Mr. Reston’s voice faded as the two of them moved off down the hall.
Hassie opened the door and brought the water pitcher inside. Warm. Nothing sat in front of Bret’s door. Had he taken his water in already right under the quarreling couple’s noses?
The words she’d overhead ran through Hassie’s mind over and over as she washed, put up her hair, and dressed. The sullen maid was Mr. Reston’s niece, and he had just agreed to send her away. Mrs. Reston didn’t want to do the work herself. Didn’t that mean they needed someone who was willing to do the work who would be polite?
A sharp knock sounded on the door, and Hassie threw it open, the solution to the Restons’ problem and her own taking form in her mind.
“I figured if you were still asleep, those two woke you up,” Bret said. “Ready for breakfast?”
The sight of him distracted Hassie from thoughts of employment. He had shaved. The rough look had disappeared with the beard, even if his expression was as stony as ever. The strong jaw and flat planes of his cheeks emphasized the breadth of his cheekbones. His tan was too even for shaving to be an unusual thing. Without the contrast with his even darker beard, his hair looked close to black. Mama would have called that sable.
“Barber,” he said.
He had done that yesterday too, read her mind. What if she tried to tell him her idea?
She pulled her handkerchief from her pocket and put it on her head like a maid’s cap, pulled the covers up on the bed and tucked them in, pretended she had a feather duster, and moved around whisking imaginary dust from the bureau and washstand.
Pausing to see if he understood, she could tell he did, and she caught a flicker of something more. Amusement? If so, not enough to last more than a second or raise a smile.
“All right, we’ll talk to them after breakfast. If they have any sense they’ll agree, and they may put you to work on the spot.”
Her stomach did more flips. This time in a good way, but she barely managed to eat a little breakfast. Fear of the future had changed to eager anticipation of a safe place to stay, enough to eat, work she knew how to do. She could buy a new dress with the money already in her pocket, a hat, shoes.
Hassie expected the Restons to worry about a maid who could not talk to their guests. She half-expected Bret to offer them a bribe to take her, although he no longer had four gallons of corn whiskey up his sleeve.
Instead the Restons all but fell on her with enthusiasm, but Bret—Bret’s behavior reminded her of the way he had checked her room to be sure the bed had clean sheets and no bugs.
Not only did he want to know how much she would earn, he wanted to know whether she would have to pay for her own meals out of that. When the Restons assured him Hassie could eat with them, he barely grunted approval before insisting on seeing the small room on the top floor that would be hers.
“How hot does this get in summer? For that matter how cold does it get in winter?”
Was he trying to ruin everything? He wanted rid of her didn’t he? Mr. Reston started talking about windows and breezes that would cool the room if she left the door open and heat rising from the floors below in winter.
The frown on Bret’s face didn’t bode well, and Hassie toyed with the notion of shocking him by telling him to stop, except that would shock the Restons too. Better if they thought she couldn’t make so much as a squeak than to have them hear the kind of sounds she could make.
The arrival of a boy with a telegram for Bret saved her. His scowl disappeared as he read it and so did his critical, time-consuming attitude toward her new job. He folded the paper and tucked it in a pocket.
“The Army doesn’t care about getting Rufus identified, so I’ll tell the undertaker to go ahead and bury him,” he said to Hassie before turning back to the Restons. “If Mrs. Petty doesn’t work out, you can’t just dismiss her like a woman with kin to go to or who can speak up on her own behalf. I need your word on that. We were going to speak to this preacher, Lyons, before we realized you might have a position.”
“We understand the particular, ah, difficulties,” Mrs. Reston said. “My husband can address any other concerns you have. Hassie and I have work to do.”
So a demotion from Mrs. Petty to her given name also came with the job. So be it. Hassie followed Mrs. Reston up the stairs eagerly. Name changes had come with life changes before, and Hassie liked her given name better than Petty.
B
RET HAD OFFERED
the Army the money, the horse, and the equipment Rufus Petty stole for ten percent of what he found in the saddlebags. Their counteroffer sat in his pocket. Five hundred, do what he liked with the horse, saddle, and other tack.
He wired an acceptance and calculated. Fort Leavenworth was a good five days’ ride away, but it wasn’t far off the path he had planned to take anyway, and delivering the money would save fees to Western Union or a bank for handling a transfer. He’d take the money to Leavenworth in person, bring the horse along and get a decent bill of sale for it or talk them into paying for it.
A short talk with a land agent convinced Bret the chances of selling the Petty place were poor. Too many farmers with small holdings had pulled up stakes after the war and left their land for squatters. And most of those places were in far better shape than the Petty farm.
The fellow did agree to keep an eye out, let Mrs. Petty know if there was an offer, but he held out no false hope. Bret decided against even mentioning it to Mrs. Petty. She probably knew better than anyone else the place was worthless except for the still, and whoever found that and stole it wouldn’t be coming around to pay her.
Back at the hotel, he packed to leave and went looking for Mrs. Petty—Hassie the maid—and something about that didn’t sit right. She was in a room on the second floor, pulling sheets off the bed with vigor. For a long moment, he leaned against the frame of the open door, watching. A soft sound vibrated through the air—humming. She was humming.
Strange how different women—people—could be. Like horses, he supposed. Some were bred for racing and needed coddling to survive. Some were bred for plainer things like the cavalry horse tied outside. The women in his family mourned everything the war had cost them. The bitter lines beside his mother’s mouth were so deep they’d never disappear.
Unlike Hassie Petty, Hassie Ahearne Petty, his mother, sisters, and Mary were gentlewomen. No Sterling woman would ever take a position as a maid and hum as she worked. What would Mrs. Petty look like after a month of decent food and few worries? She already looked years younger.
If following rumors of one outlaw or another with a price on his head brought him anywhere close to here again, maybe he’d stop back by and see. Then again maybe it was better to leave her alone, happy in a plain life that had her humming as she worked.
Arms full of linens, she caught sight of him. The humming stopped. She hesitated a moment before moving a few steps closer and mouthing, “Thank you.”
Her eyes looked purple again in this light. They weren’t, of course. Bluish gray. He’d decided that in the restaurant yesterday. “I’m glad it worked out. You’ll be running this place in a year.”
She smiled a little, not believing it any more than he did.
“I’m packed and pulling out,” he said. “You be careful, Mrs. Petty.”
She nodded but didn’t come closer. Grateful maybe. Still leery definitely.
Bret slapped his hat in place, tipped it, and left her there.
H
ASSIE WENT BACK
to her work, disturbed at how her heart had quickened at the sight of Bret and her stomach had plummeted as he left. To be free of him was what she wanted. If there was ever going to be another man in her life, he wasn’t going to have icy eyes and a hard face and kill people for a living.
That wasn’t fair. He hadn’t wanted to kill Rufus, very much the opposite, but still.... He was like everyone else, even Mama a little bit, acting as if having no voice meant having no opinions, no mind.
The way he had interrogated the Restons as if he was giving them charge of a child had been embarrassing. Except he hadn’t talked down to her really, and those times he’d understood without words—no one ever did that before.
Strange in a way, right up till the end she was afraid of him, at least a little. If he came back right now, she’d still feel that way. Yet there was something about the way he moved his horse between her and the marshal when the fat man stared at her with hot eyes and wet lips that had gladdened her heart. Bret Sterling made her feel safe—from everyone but him.
If only a man would come along like Bret in some ways but different in others. A man who smiled often and was full of laughter. He’d have lighter hair. No, still sable. Blue eyes. No, still gray, but warm and alive with good humor.
Hassie flicked the feather duster around and chided herself for fanciful thoughts. One like that would have every woman who met him giving chase, tempting him with honeyed tones and fascinating conversation.
Bret’s wife would have a beautiful voice. He could already have a wife like that somewhere for all Hassie knew. Blonde, blue-eyed, elegant, and haughty in the nicest possible way.
Finished with the room, Hassie carried the dirty linens out and shut the door behind her.
Mrs. Reston’s head appeared on the stairs. “Hassie, dear, come downstairs a moment. Mr. Reston and I need to talk to you.”
Hassie gestured toward the next room on her list. “Oh, don’t worry about that. After all Clarissa is still here, and she can do some work before she leaves. Come on now.”
The bannister slid smoothly under Hassie’s hand as she followed Mrs. Reston downstairs, ready for new instructions. Polishing the beautiful dark wood would be a pleasure. All the way across the lobby and into the Restons’ living quarters where she would take her meals, Hassie speculated what she would be doing next. Maybe heating water for someone’s bath or doing laundry.
The first sign something was wrong was the presence of a stranger in the Restons’ parlor. His beefy body blocked the door to the hotel lobby as soon as she walked through. Mr. Reston stood in front of the windows with almost the same posture, but he only looked determined. The stranger had a knowing, amused expression that started Hassie’s stomach churning again.
Mrs. Reston dropped into an upholstered chair and folded her hands in her lap. “Mr. Reston and I have reconsidered our offer of employment. There really is no way we can have a mute woman interacting with our guests. However, we did promise your Mr. Sterling we would find you other, more suitable employment, and we have. Mr. Zachary works for a woman named Sally Nichols, and you’re going to go work for her too.”
Without knowing what they were talking about, Hassie knew she wanted no part of it. “No.” The sound might be hoarse and ugly, but the word was one of the few she could say that everyone always understood. “No,” she repeated, backing in the only direction left to her away from both men.
“You’re going to have to teach her not to make those kind of noises around customers,” Mrs. Reston said to Zachary.
“We’ll see. Some will probably like it, and some will want a real dummy.”
Hassie fought. Reston was so ineffective he got in the others’ way more than not, but Mrs. Reston was strong and Zachary was stronger. In the end he captured both her wrists and twisted her arms up behind her back until the pain left her hanging helpless, humiliating whimpers escaping with every breath.
“Don’t bruise her face,” Mrs. Reston panted.
“I’m not bruising anything. It’s not like this is the first one I ever corralled and dragged to Sally’s, you know. If her arms don’t work so good tonight, the marshal ought to pay extra.”
“Speaking of paying, I’m not sure a hundred is enough. We didn’t expect to have to put up with the inquisition Sterling put us through, not to mention helping you subdue her.”