“What does that mean?” asked Chance. “Is he just no good as a lawyer, or not one at all?”
“He is not one at all, my good man. James is my valet, and he excels at the position.”
“Valet?” repeated Chance.
“Yes. In this country I believe you would call him my manservant.”
“Dammit, Burnsey, I know what a valet is.“
“Please pardon me. My mind is a bit muddled.”
“Oh, yeah.” Chance threw the cell door open. It flew back and clanked against the bars, sending a loud ringing throughout the small room.
Burnsey jumped as if he’d been goosed. From beneath narrowed eyes, he frowned at Chance. “Please have a care, Sheriff.”
Chance pointed a finger at Burnsey. “What I’d like to know, Mr. Burns, is why you felt the need to lie about the man.”
“Simple.” Burnsey leaned back on his elbows and crossed his legs. In his red-flannel long underwear, and with a disheveled ascot tied haphazardly around his neck, he didn’t quite project the image he seemed to be aiming for—that of the elegant, self-possessed, highborn lord. “As I believe you Westerners are fond of saying, I was saving Trixianna’s bacon.”
Chance snorted in derision. “She doesn’t need her bacon saved. That woman can take care of herself.”
“I am well aware of that now, but I wasn’t sure of your position at first and assumed if you thought she had a solicitor it would keep you from doing anything rash.”
“So how long did you think you could carry on that little lie?”
“Long enough, Sheriff. Long enough.” Burnsey rose to his feet. “Is the coffee on?”
“Yeah. You know where it is.” Chance walked back to his desk and sat down. He watched Burnsey trudge over to the potbellied stove, stubbing his big toe halfway there. Hopping on the other foot, he rubbed the toe and cursed his “royally rotten aching head.” Chance winced when Burnsey turned his backside toward him and gave him a glimpse of a bare, pale buttock. The man had no shame. Chance shook his head.
With shaking hands, Burnsey managed to pour himself a cup of coffee without scalding himself. Carrying the cup with both hands, he settled in a chair across the desk from Chance. He blew on the steaming brew, then tilted his head and inhaled. As he released a deep sigh, his gaze bleary seemed to be focusing on Chance. “So, Sheriff, this is the big day.”
Chance nodded.
Burnsey peered at Chance over the rim of his cup. “Is Fanny ready?”
“Far as I know.” Chance stared at Burnsey, scanning his face for…something. The man wasn’t saying what was on his mind. His eyes, shot through with whiskey-induced redness, held cynical skepticism.
“She’s going to make a fine wife.”
“Uh-huh,” agreed Chance.
Burnsey’s head shot up. “Do I sense some reticence on your part, sheriff?”
“If I knew what the word meant, I’d probably deny it. It sounds like an insult.”
“It isn’t.” He glanced into his cup, his lips drawn in a tight line. Then he said in a voice laced with admiration, “She’s an excellent cook.”
“Trixianna?” asked Chance.
“No, Fanny. She also has a keen fashion sense. She dresses exquisitely.”
“I never noticed,” admitted Chance.
“Oh, my, yes. Lovely shades of purple she wears. Very regal.” Burnsey’s brow furrowed. His eyes were glazed over…with thoughts of Chance’s betrothed.
Chance stared. Lost in his reverie, Burnsey didn’t even seem to notice Chance sitting across from him and gawking. Like a fist to the solar plexus, Chance recognized the besotted look on Burnsey’s face.
The man was in love with Fanny.
As surely as the sun would set this evening and the rooster would crow in the morning, Burnsey loved Fanny Fairfax.
What a disaster.
Burnsey loved Fanny.
Chance loved Trixianna.
Trixianna loved Chance.
Who did Fanny love? She didn’t love him, Chance knew, but did she love Burnsey? And if she did, why hadn’t she broken off their engagement? He glanced at his pocket watch. He had three hours to find out. “Burnsey?”
A befuddled look crossed Burnsey’s features. He roused himself long enough to peer at Chance. “What?”
Chance stood up and headed for the door. “I’ve got business. You know your way out.”
“See you later, then, Sheriff.”
“Don’t forget to put on some clothes, Burnsey. And take a bath. You smell like the back end of a mule.”
Chance pushed his Stetson low on his forehead and stepped out into a cold drizzle. His clothing was instantly soaked. He strode down the boardwalk, his head bent, his thoughts racing.
The streets were empty. All the women in town were either cooking up something special for the wedding reception, or in the church decorating it with early fall flowers. He remembered Fanny talking about roses, mums and ribbon garlands. She wanted candles placed just so about the church, and had specified where each and every one was to go. Right now the pews were being dusted and polished, and the floor swept so the menfolk could track in mud later. He knew the light drizzle wouldn’t let in much light through the polished windows, but the candle glow would suffice.
Preparations for Grand Fork’s biggest wedding in a month of Sundays had begun a long time ago, and right now, the process was in full swing. How was he going to stop it?
These thoughts passed through Chance’s fevered brain as he hurried to the Fairfax home. His stride lengthened until he was almost running.
Thoughts of the previous night spent in Trixianna’s loving embrace nearly brought him to a standstill. He should have felt more guilt and remorse about his actions, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. He loved her, and nothing would tarnish his memories of the night they had shared.
He slowed his step as he approached the mayor’s stately red-brick home. What would he say to Fanny? No immediate words of wisdom came to mind. He considered himself a well-spoken man, seldom at a loss for words, but Fanny left him befuddled and speechless most of the time. He never knew what to say to her, and he couldn’t understand her when she deigned to speak to him. Theirs was a relationship based solely on long-time acquaintance. And a union of politics.
She was soft-spoken, never raised her voice and never complained. At least not to him…until the other evening when he’d brought Frank home drunk and requested a simple kiss from her.
He trudged up three wide wooden stairs. Shaking the rain from his clothing, he removed his hat. He brushed back his damp hair and knocked. His heart was in his throat, his mind reeling.
Fanny’s mother, Eloise, pulled the door to and peered out. She stared at him in obvious surprise. “Why, Chance, whatever are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to see Fanny. Is she home?” he asked knowing full well she was. He shuffled his feet and clutched the wet brim of his hat between his thumb and forefinger.
“It’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding,” Eloise reminded him. She pursed her mouth as if she were sucking on a lemon.
He felt as if that same lemon were in his own mouth. “It’s important, ma’am.”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head, then gestured him into the darkened foyer. “No sense standing there in the rain.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Chance cautiously followed her inside, aware of his bedraggled, soaked appearance. He soon stood in a spreading puddle.
She gave him a disparaging glance. “I’ll see what Fanny says.”
“I’ll wait here.”
“See that you do,” she stated, turning her back to him. She started up the stairway, her hand trailing over the polished mahogany banister, and disappeared down the hall. He heard the whisper of a door opening, then closing.
Releasing a long drawn-out sigh, Chance glanced around. Although he’d been in the Fairfax manse on numerous occasions, he still felt ill at ease and out of place. Too many breakables, skinny-l
egged tables and portraits of stuffy ancestors. The heavy drapes were always closed against even the meagerest of daylight. The house felt about as welcoming as a cemetery at midnight on a foggy night. Today was no different. He strained to hear Eloise and Fanny, but heard nothing but the steady drip, drip, drip of the rain in the eaves and the thumping of his own heart. Like a watch winding down.
He waited.
And waited.
After what seemed like hours, Fanny called to him from the top of the stairs. “Chance.”
He glanced up, and started forward. He then stopped at the base of the stairs, unsure if he was to proceed.
She had her back to him, one hand on her hip, the other around the newel post at the top of the stairs. One slippered foot tapped against the carpeted floor in an impatient cadence. Dressed in a voluminous wrapper of dark purple silk, her hair tied up in rags, she gifted him with her abundant backside. An aura of brusque peevishness accompanied her voice. “What is it, Chance?”
“I, um,” he stuttered. Feeling foolish, he cleared his throat. “Aren’t you going to turn around?”
“Bad luck,” she declared. “Now what is it? I’ve got a hundred things to do.”
“Just one question, Fanny, and I’ll be on my way.”
“All right.”
“Are you still sure you want to marry me? It’s not too late to back out.”
Her back stiffened. Her foot increased its rhythmic pattern. Her unrestrained buttocks jiggled, reminding Chance of Trixianna’s smaller hips that fit perfectly in the palms of both his hands. He glanced away, guilt gnawing at his insides. “Are you deliberately trying to humiliate me, Chance Magrane?”
“No, of course not.” His voice sounded empty, meaningless, even to his own ears.
“I know I’m not pretty.”
“Fanny, that’s not—”
“Don’t interrupt me,” she ordered in a frigid voice. “This may not be the marriage you dreamt about when you were younger, but this is the marriage you’re getting. I’ll make you a good wife.”
“Fanny, I know you will. I’m not trying to back out,” he stated in a deliberately calm, restrained voice. “I just want you to know that you still can get out of this if you want.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“All right then. I’ll see you at the church.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.” Chance turned his back. He trudged across the foyer, his booted feet squishing with each step. He stopped in front of the massive mahogany door, and stared at his face reflected in the rain-splattered oval glass, eyes narrowed, lips thinned, lines bracketing his mouth. He shook his head, then released a sigh. Twisting the brass handle, he glanced over his shoulder and up the stairs. Fanny had disappeared back into the bowels of the darkened house. Chance shuddered and swallowed hard. He shoved his Stetson onto his head and headed outside into the waiting, cold drizzle.
Trixianna awoke to a bleary day, the sun no more than a dull gray light edging above the horizon. She blinked the sleep from her eyes and reached across the bed for Chance. Nothing but a slight indentation in the mattress met her searching fingers. The scent of spearmint lingered in the bed sheets. She buried her face in the pillow and inhaled. An unfamiliar, yet thrilling, ache between Trixianna’s thighs reaffirmed the wondrous night she and Chance had shared. She rolled over and plopped onto her back, staring at the ceiling. Listening to the rain drone against the window glass and drip off the trees outside, she recalled what this day would bring.
Chance’s wedding.
A suffocating sensation enveloped Trixianna. Her breath felt trapped in her chest. She sat on the side of the bed, her head hanging between her knees, her heart hammering.
No regrets, she reminded herself. No grief. And most of all, no pity.
She fought the urge to seek Chance out, to cling to him and beg him not to make this terrible mistake.
But she couldn’t. He didn’t think this wedding was a mistake. He was being honorable, doing exactly what was expected of the upstanding, right-minded sheriff.
What would the people of Grand Fork think of their sheriff if they’d seen him in all his naked glory as she had last night?
A fierce blush seized Trixianna, heating her from head to toe. It was then she realized that she sat on the side of the bed in her own naked glory, bare as the day she’d been born.
She sat up and wrapped the sheet around her. After a few calming moments, she got out of bed, washed and dressed to begin her day of baking. No matter what else happened today, Bertram Sinclair would expect his pies. Later, when she delivered her baked goods, she would be ready to face Grand Fork with her head held high and a perfect smile pasted on her features. She wondered how many people she would fool.
As Trixianna trudged home after her delivery to Sinclair’s, she found that either the rain or wedding preparations were keeping most people off the street. She hadn’t had to make small talk or even polite conversation with anyone, much less Bert Sinclair. He had been in an especially foul mood. The townsfolk of Grand Fork were either skipping their dinner meal or eating at home in anticipation of the good food that would be served later at the wedding reception. Sinclair’s Fine Restaurant was virtually void of human inhabitants.
Trixianna was just unlatching the gate in Chance’s picket fence when she heard a voice calling her name. “Miss Lawless!”
The out-of-breath, excited voice and running feet pounding down the boardwalk brought Trixianna’s head up, startling her out of her reverie. Barreling down the street toward her was a bundle of vitality in the form of a small child.
“Miss Lawless!” came the call again.
Trixianna stopped with her hand on the gate. She brought her other hand up to protect her eyes from the drizzle and see if she could recognize who was calling to her.
One of the young Perry brothers, of the window-peeping incident, skidded to a stop before her, dripping wet. His flushed face met her expectant gaze with gleaming eyes and a wide gap-toothed smile. Water dripped off the back of his straw hat and skittered off his oilskin slicker onto the walkway. Look,” he exclaimed, his finger pointing at his chest. “I come right to the door and didn’t even take a peek in the window even if I was wanting to.”
“Good for you.” Trixianna returned his contagious smile. She took his elbow and guided him inside the gate and up the walkway. Peering beneath the brim of his hat, she asked, “Is it Michael or Thomas?”
“Michael.”
Trixianna stepped onto the porch and out of the downpour. “Let’s get inside where it’s dry. Wouldn’t you like to come in?”
“No, thank you, ma’am. Pa just sent me over to say that you got folks waitin’ on you down to the train station.”
Surprise made her mouth drop open. She closed it enough to reply, “I do?”
He nodded, spraying water around him like a soaked dog. “Sure ‘nough. Pa says they’re family. All dressed up in right nice duds, too. Pa says they’s religious folks, for certain.”
Trixianna hid the grin that tugged at her lips. “How would he know that?”
Michael leaned forward and said in a loud whisper, “They look like you—that’s how I know they’s family. One’s got red hair just like yours.”
“They? How many are there?”
He held up three fingers.
“Three, hmm? But what did your Pa say about being religious?”
“He said one’s a nun, a sister. What’s a nun, Miss Lawless? Is she your sister?”
“A nun? In my family?” Trixianna repeated. “My family? Why, we’re not even of the Catholic faith.” Could it possibly be her own family? She and Georgette did have the same shade of red hair. It took all her willpower to keep from hooting out loud and dancing a jig around the porch. She grabbed Michael, took his face in both her hands and kissed his chilled cheek soundly.
His face was bright as a carrot, as he mumbled, “Aw, shucks.” He squirmed out of her hold and backed down the stairs. His lids swept d
own to hide the frank look of regard in his hazel eyes, but not before Trixianna caught the honest, slightly young but undoubtedly male stare of admiration.
She wrapped her wool cape tightly around her and tossed the covering over her head as she scooted off the porch alongside the boy.
“Do you want to race?” he asked, excitement glimmering in his eyes.
“I surely do, young man.”
Like a child, she ran with him down the street, oblivious to the rain, ignoring the mud that flew up and splattered her clothing.
At the same time that Trixianna and Michael Perry were racing through the streets of Grand Fork, Jake, the telegraph office operator sent the other Perry brother, Thomas, off to give Chance an important telegram from the sheriff in Dena Valley. On the off chance he wasn’t home, Jake sent Thomas to Chance’s office first. He’d returned with the telegram. So he had sent him to the sheriff’s home.
Chance was walking home in the rain when Thomas caught up to him. He gave the boy a few pennies and thanked him for his trouble.
Scanning the missive, Chance saw that the sheriff had been delayed, and would arrive in Grand Fork about the same time his wedding began. The timing couldn’t have been worse.
So engrossed was he in reading the telegram that he passed right by the train station and the disembarking passengers.
He would have been astounded to see Georgette Lacina and her husband and their newfound friend, Sister Margaret, from the Little Sisters of Mercy Convent, waiting to see Trixianna. If he’d by chance looked up, he would have been shocked to realize that there were two women in Grand Fork so unbelievably similar in appearance. In fact, he would have thought he was seeing double.
And he would have been. But if he had also peeked beneath the nun’s habit and seen this woman’s face and hair, he would have thought he was seeing triple.
As it was, he passed by without a glance.
Time and chance reveal all secrets.
– 18th-century proverb
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
WITH A burst of black smoke belching from its smokestack and a screech of brakes, the westbound train pulled to a stop at the station in Grand Fork, Kansas. Maggie West stared out the window at the dreary, lowered sky burdened with shower-filled clouds. The rain slickened station platform shimmered ghostlike in the iron-gray gloom. A faint light beckoned in the solitary window of the depot. She smiled to herself. What a beautiful day it was going to be.