Morrow Creek Runaway

Almost a year after her ignoble departure from Boston, Rosamond had created the haven she’d always longed for. In the unlikely refuge of Morrow Creek, she was finally secure.

Unless a particular and unwanted “gentleman caller” arrived, that is. If that happened, all her security would be shattered.

Rosamond couldn’t bear to consider it. “I’ll be back for the next round,” she assured everyone. “Good luck!”

“It’s the next inning!” Tobe called. “Inning!”

But Rosamond gaily waved off his assertion and headed for her private parlor, hauling in a deep breath as she went.

If nothing else, she was in charge here. She had friends, security, a family of rescued women and their children, and a useful occupation to occupy her mind. She’d done good work here.

As proof, Rosamond reminded herself, she was about to meet the first and most satisfied client of her mutual society.

The just-married Mr. Gus Winston, waiting in her parlor.

Chapter Two (#ulink_0f117213-7c6b-55e9-a582-be0e636c24bc)

Within half an hour of his arrival at the saloon, Miles had the dispiriting realization that he’d become an expert at subterfuge. Wholly without meaning to, he’d become a man who knew how to pick a lock, when to trade cash for information and where to find answers that didn’t send him off cockeyed on a wild, time-wasting goose chase. He’d learned how to suss out the truth and how to protect himself. He’d had to. The kind of people he’d dealt with were neither reputable nor trustworthy.

At this point, maybe he wasn’t, either.

But the urgency of his search had demanded more from him. More, maybe, than he’d been willing to give at the outset. But he’d had no choice then. Now that Miles was so close—now that he knew Rosamond McGrath was within reach—he couldn’t quit.

He’d always been able to handle himself, of course, Miles recalled as he studied his ale. He had the usual masculine willingness to fight, if the outcome of that fight mattered. In his time, he’d settled a few disputes with his fists. He had the musculature that came from hoisting horse-and-carriage equipment from dawn to dusk, the wits that came from growing up in the hardscrabble city tenements and a hardheadedness that owed itself, quite naturally, to his Callaway forebearers.

Each of them was as stubborn as a stuck mule and more than eager to boast about it. But they also had the charm of several fallen angels to sweeten their obstinacy. Miles’s own father had possessed unholy amounts of charisma...coupled with an unfortunate unwillingness to quit playing faro until his pockets were empty.

Too bad he could always finagle the faro dealer into letting him play a mite longer on credit, Miles remembered. Without that damnable charm of his, Silas Callaway might have been able to save and move out from the grimy tenements. That certainly would have pleased Miles’s mother. But none of the Callaways had ever really expected to leave the rougher side of Boston—at least not unless it was in service to someone like the Bouchards.

In the end, Miles had been the only one who’d left.

He’d brought some of that infamous family charm with him, though, he reckoned as he signaled the barman for some food. He’d twisted the Callaway charisma into use not for gambling but for a greater cause.

For Rose. For finding her, just as he’d promised, and for—

“You must be Callaway.” A huge, friendly-faced man wearing homespun trousers and a loose buttoned shirt stepped up to the bar beside Miles. He ordered, then nodded at Miles. “The man with all the questions about Mrs. Dancy and her establishment.”

Mrs. Dancy. Miles still couldn’t get used to that.

He knew Rosamond had married. But how? Why?

Had she really, as Genevieve Bouchard had insisted, become smitten with Elijah Dancy and run away with him in the night?

He couldn’t believe the woman he’d known would do that.

Even if she had, she would have written to someone. To him.

Knowing there had to be more to this situation, Miles nodded calmly at his interrogator. “I am. You know Mrs. Dancy?”

Another, more curt nod. “Yep. But I don’t know you.”

With new respect, Miles eyed the man. He had the burly build of a stevedore, the jovial demeanor of a gambler who always won big and the jaded gaze of someone who knew better than to trust an outsider.

“Miles Callaway.” Miles offered his hand to the man. “I’m new in town. I couldn’t help hearing about Mrs. Dancy’s place. I don’t mind saying, it’s got me mighty intrigued.”

The man laughed, then accepted Miles’s handshake. “Daniel McCabe. I wouldn’t get yourself all het up about Mrs. Dancy’s society, if I were you. It sounds scandalous, but it’s not.”

With a genial nod for the barman, McCabe accepted what appeared to be a midday meal of beans, bacon and bread. All around them both, the business of the saloon continued apace, full of low conversations, clinking gambling chips and quickly dealt cards. More whiskey flowed. Clouds of cigarillo smoke drifted toward the ceiling, almost obscuring Jack Murphy’s painted image of a cavorting water nymph behind the bar.

“The Morrow Creek Marriage Bureau?” Miles repeated the name he’d heard used. “Sounds scandalous to me—and to every other man who doesn’t want to get hitched in the next week.”

Another laugh. “Officially, it’s called the Morrow Creek Mutual Society,” McCabe informed him. “But around these parts, we took to calling it the marriage bureau pretty quickly.” He aimed a speculative glance at Miles. “If you don’t want to step into a wedding noose, what’s your interest in Mrs. Dancy?”

“I’m an old friend of hers.”

“You don’t say?” McCabe sized him up. “Such an old friend that you don’t know where she lives or what she’s been up to?”

McCabe’s genially voiced question belied his sharp demeanor. Despite his easy ways, this was no country bumpkin. This was a man who would fiercely protect the people he cared about. Reevaluating his initial opinion of him, Miles regrouped. Usually, folks overlooked whatever logical inconsistencies arose during his questioning of them. Especially when they were knocking back ales. Daniel McCabe was different.

“We didn’t part willingly.” With real mournfulness, Miles stared into his ale. “I aim to make up for that when I see her.”

“Aha. You poor lovelorn fool. You need another drink!”

Generously, McCabe ordered him one. Somehow, Miles had stumbled onto the best tactic for use with the big man—love.

After glimpsing the wedding band on McCabe’s hand, Miles understood where the man’s good-natured resignation toward romance came from. Possibly his guardedness, too.

After all, true love didn’t always run smoothly. Miles knew that for himself. He’d waited too long with Rosamond. Now she—

“We become damn fools when some woman turns our heads, don’t we?” McCabe proposed, offering a toast. “Here’s to you.”

Miles raised his glass, then quaffed. The moment he and Daniel McCabe sealed their newfound camaraderie, other saloon patrons began drifting nearer. If Miles had been fortunate in sniffing out information before, he was doubly lucky now.

Everyone, it seemed, wanted to help McCabe’s buddy.

In very short order, Miles learned where Rosamond Dancy lived—and with whom. He learned what her mutual society did and how popular and sought-after an admission to it was among the local menfolk. He also learned, discouragingly, that gaining a personal interview with Mrs. Dancy was next to impossible.

“She’s practically a ghost,” Hofer, the mercantile owner, confided in a dour tone. “She hardly comes out. Not ever.”

“She just keeps things running, quite efficiently, behind the scenes,” added Thomas Walsh, editor of the Pioneer Press newspaper. “I find her ingenuity very admirable, myself.”

“You ain’t getting no place near her,” opined Mr. Nickerson, who ran the Book Depot and News Emporium. “’Specially as a stranger to town. If Mrs. Dancy doesn’t want to see you, her two bruisers make darn sure you stay away.”

That put Miles on alert. “She has guards?”

“Two of ’em. Seth Durant and Judah Foster. Head-knockers, they are.” The barman, Harry, raised his arms high over his head. “Big as apes, both of ’em, and twice as mean, too.”

That was a complication Miles hadn’t counted on.