Morrow Creek Runaway

“I would advise you to stay away,” old Doc Finney put in, sipping his sarsaparilla. “A woman who is both secretive and uppity is dangerous to a man’s well-being. A man only gets so many heartbeats per ticker, you know. A woman like that’ll use them all up, faster than you can say ‘Bob’s your uncle.’”

The men surrounding him appeared intrigued by that.

“Exactly how,” McCabe wondered with a twinkle in his eye, “would all those heartbeats get used up extra quickly, Doc? Because some of us are hog-tied to uppity women ourselves.” Here, he aimed a meaningful glance at Jack Murphy. “We might need to consider protecting ourselves from overexertion.”

All the saloongoers guffawed at that, but Miles was too busy contemplating Doc Finney’s description of Rose to wonder about the salacious possibilities inherent in his warning.

Most likely, secretive would describe Rosamond these days. So would uppity, if an opinionated old coot like Finney was doing the describing. Back home, Rosamond had certainly known her own mind. Miles had definitely found her this time.

“Just don’t try getting into that society by fibbin’ that you know Mrs. Dancy ‘from back east,’” a lumberman warned him. “I tried that, and her hired men dumped me in a ditch.”

Miles had expected Rosamond to be wary. Given everything he knew about her entanglements with Arvid Bouchard, she had reason to be. Still, he’d been counting on her being eager to see him.

So, if the truth were known, had the Bouchards.

After all, Miles was the stableman who’d helped Rosamond feed apples to the Bouchard household’s horses. He was the stableman who’d carried heavy loads of coal for his favorite housemaid. He was the stableman who’d pined for his Rosamond from afar...and now found his best chance at being near her again thwarted by two hired thugs and a whole town’s worth of gossipy, intrusive menfolk.

Well, Miles hadn’t gotten this far by quitting easily.

He’d traveled for weeks by rail, horseback, ferry and foot to tell Rosamond McGrath his true feelings for her. He now stood less than a mile from Rose—his Rose. He was not a man who would be daunted by a few complications.

“I can get into the marriage bureau.” Miles swallowed the rest of his ale in a single gulp. He eyed the assembled men. “By this time tomorrow, I’ll be Mrs. Dancy’s favorite client.”

Or I’ll die trying, Miles swore to himself.

Not long after that, he said goodbye to his newfound friends. He picked up his flat-brimmed hat, shouldered his valise and set out to make his vow as real as the ill-gotten money that still burned a hole in his bag...and in his heart.

What I won’t do, he promised himself further, is tell Rose where that damn money came from. That would not endear him to her—nor would it encourage her to trust him. To get what he wanted from Rosamond, Miles needed her good regard and her trust alike.

He needed a second chance. He was damn sure about to finagle himself one, no matter what he had to do to secure it.

* * *

Rosamond was saying her farewells to Gus when she first heard the kerfuffle at her front door. She tried to concentrate on what her very first client was telling her about his new bride and their plans, but the sounds of raised voices and scuffling feet stole her attention. What could be happening now?

Sensing the same disturbance, Gus broke off. He cast a worried glance down the hallway, beyond the parlor’s entryway where they both stood. “Sounds like trouble. You want me to go an’ help your bruiser put down all the hubbub?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Winston. That won’t be necessary.” Thinking of scrappy Gus Winston getting into a scuffle, Rosamond hid a smile. “I’m sure Mr. Durant has matters well in hand.”

A firm, raised male voice contradicted her statement.

A familiar firm, raised male voice. It couldn’t be.

But if it was...

Wholly unexpectedly, a host of memories flooded Rosamond. She could smell hay and horses and fresh green apples. She could feel the heavy burden of the coal bin being chivalrously removed from her grasp. She could reexperience the heart-pounding excitement and surge of pure joy that had come every day from venturing to those Beacon Hill stables and seeing—

“Don’t sound too much like he’s got things in hand,” Gus observed dourly. He turned toward the hallway, ready to help deal with the disturbance. “I should be goin’ anyhow. Abigail—I mean, the new Mrs. Winston—will be waitin’ on me.”

Gus’s reddened cheeks and shy smile at his mention of his new bride reminded Rosamond of all the positive effects she was having here in Morrow Creek—and pulled her sensibly away from the fanciful memories that had swamped her, too. There was no reason at all, she chided herself, to be thinking fondly of—

“Miles Callaway!” The stranger’s words carried easily from her house’s guarded doorway to the parlor. “All I want to know is if Miles Callaway has been here to see Mrs. Dancy.”

Rosamond swayed. She felt her insides somersault.

It couldn’t be him. It simply couldn’t be. Not here.

But it definitely sounded like him.

For a heartbeat too long, Rosamond wanted it to be him. She wanted it to be Miles, her Miles, come to her door in Morrow Creek—no matter how unlikely that would be. Even if it was Miles, she assured herself dizzily, that didn’t mean she could trust him. It didn’t mean—

“Mrs. Dancy?” Gus’s worried tone cut through her haze of disbelief. “Are you all right? You look about to tumble over. You’ve plumb gone white as a sheet, too.” Protectively, Gus shooed her toward the upholstered settee. “Go on. You better have yourself a little sit-down. You want me to get Bonita?”

“I— No.” In midretreat toward her settee, Rosamond stopped. She squared her shoulders. “I’m fine, Mr. Winston. Truly, I am.”

Gus peered disbelievingly at her. “I ain’t swallowin’ it. It ain’t like you to fib, anyhow. I know that for certain.”

Rosamond almost laughed. Gus had no idea.

“Let’s just get you off on your wedding trip with Mrs. Winston.” Deliberately, Rosamond steered herself and Gus back to the parlor doorway. Her heart threatened to burst through the bodice of her practical, ladylike dress. Her hands trembled. But that didn’t mean she intended to dither uselessly in her parlor. “In the meantime, I’ll sort out the trouble with Mr. Durant.”

“You? Pshaw.” Gus waved. “That there’s men’s work.”

“Being a good husband is a man’s work,” Rosamond demurred. “And that is your job now, so don’t delay!”

“Well, if you’re sure you don’t need my help...”

“I am. Positively.” Another rumble of voices came from the entryway. Rosamond was dying to know how there could be another man on earth who sounded so like Miles. Her Miles. “Bon voyage!”

Almost ushered out, Gus stopped. “Huh?”

“Have a nice trip with Mrs. Winston,” Rosamond amended.

“Oh. I will.” Another blush. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

Because I’m conspicuously trying not to sound like a runaway housemaid. She’d once heard Mrs. Bouchard say bon voyage to an acquaintance. It had struck Rosamond as sophisticated.

“Because here at the Morrow Creek Mutual Society, we like to create a sense of occasion for our clients.” Deftly, Rosamond maneuvered them both a few more feet down the hall. Now she could almost glimpse the man who stood facing down Seth. Given her protector’s size, that was saying something. Any man who wasn’t immediately dwarfed by Seth had to be considerably sized himself. Six feet at least, and very strongly built.

Just like Miles. His considerate ways had seemed twice as incongruous when paired with his massive size and his rough-and-tumble job as head stableman and driver. His smiles had seemed twice as rare, too, coming from a man who’d been reputed to enjoy a brawl or two.

“There. Well, thank you for becoming one of our clients.” Formally, Rosamond nodded at Gus. “I wish you all the best.”

He eyed her prim stance, then lifted his gaze to her face. “Aw, shucks, Mrs. Dancy. Ain’t no call for formality ʼtween us!”

Gus lurched forward, then startled her with a tremendous hug. He wasn’t a large man, but he had the wiry strength of a man who worked hard for a living. Besides, even the smallest man was stronger than a woman—a woman who didn’t want him to touch her, didn’t want him to envelop her, didn’t want him to take—

Feeling smothered in panic, Rosamond shoved Gus. Hard. He stumbled backward, momentarily looking like another man—a man who’d laughed at Rosamond’s paltry efforts to protect herself.