David turned back to the letters piled on his desk, most of which were still unopened. Brianna. The name didn’t ring a bell, but there was no denying that he was the addressee on every envelope. He resumed his seat to continue reading. Because Brianna’s more recent letters made little sense—he might forget if he’d bedded a woman, but he sure as hell wouldn’t forget if he’d married one—he searched for letters written four or five years ago. Sadly, the content of those made little sense, either, more or less mirroring the more recent missives except that she failed to mention how much she missed him at night. David was frowning over this when he came across a newer envelope that included a note written by a child, the printing awkward and comprised of a few brief sentences. There were no misspellings or errors in punctuation, which made David suspect that the little girl’s mother had supervised the composition.
Dearest Papa:
Mama says you are far too busy mining to come visit me, so I write to tell you we are fine and doing well. Mr. Ricker has lots of spring calves, and we’ve got many chicks that will soon be old enough to lay eggs. This morning I am helping Mama make dumpling stew. I hope you will come see me soon.
Your loving daughter,
Daphne
David stared thoughtfully at the name. Daphne? There it was, definite proof that he wasn’t the child’s father. He’d never in a million years curse a little girl with that name. Rose, Iris, or Violet, maybe, but Daphne? Her classmates probably teased her unmercifully.
Sifting through the mountain of mail, David located an envelope that had been addressed to him in that same childish hand. At least the kid had written something halfway interesting in her last note, unlike the mother, who seemed fixated on repeating herself, the recurring theme, “Please come for us.”
David’s heart squeezed as he began reading Daphne’s second offering.
Dear Papa:
The man at the genrul store gives me pennys to post letters to you now becuz mama has vary little munny. Mr. Charles her boss got mareed and his new wife sed there wasn’t enuff room in one howse for too laydeez.
Clearly Daphne’s mother had not been present to help the child write this note. The misspellings and lack of punctuation made it difficult to read.
Mama had to find other work in gloree rij. She kleens howzes washiz uther peeples cloze duz dishez and sohs dressuz at nite.
David paused and had to back up where commas had been omitted.
We have a room in the atik at the bording howse but mostly I sleep on a pallut by mamas chare while she sohs until the we ours.
After finishing that letter, which was grimmer in content than the last, David fished until he found another envelope addressed to him in Daphne’s handwriting. He paused less frequently now, mentally inserting commas where they were absent and deciphering the child’s misspelled words by sounding them out.
We dont alwaze have enuff food but mama sez she iznt hungry and gives every bit she finds to me. I am smart and know she goze without only becuz there isnt enuff for too. Sometimes the food is from peeples garbuj drums but I eat it anyhow becuz there is nuthing else.
The most recent letter from Daphne tugged at David’s heart even more.
I gess you wont ever come to see me papa. Mama says you are way to buzy trying to find gold and make us rich. But if you could send me munny so mama can make me a dress, I would be very hapy. I am in school now, and the other girls make fun of me becuz my dress is to short and has pachez all over it. Mama trys real hard to make the pachez purty, cutting budderflize and starz out of scraps but evrybudy can still tell they are pachez. I’m not vary big, so the cloth for a dress won’t cost vary much.
David made a good income from his cattle ranch, had plenty in the bank, and also earned wages as a marshal. Even though he felt reasonably certain this little girl wasn’t his, he could afford to send her money for clothes. If there were a child in No Name in such dire straits, he wouldn’t hesitate to reach in his pocket.
Troubled, David addressed an envelope to Daphne Paxton and slipped in enough money to provide her with a half dozen school dresses, a pair of decent shoes, any other necessities, and food for several months as well. He refrained from writing a note to accompany it. He wasn’t the child’s father, and he didn’t want to kindle hope within her that her papa was undergoing a change of heart.
It was the best that he could do. And, hey, it was quite a lot in the general scheme of things. Many men would send nothing to a child not their own.
A few minutes later, while en route to the post office, which lay at the south end of town between the Chandler couple’s combination chimney sweep/candle shop and the livery, David was haunted by Daphne’s last letter. He’d lost his pa at a tender age and knew firsthand about hardships. But eating food from garbage drums? He shuddered at the thought. And it tore him up to imagine a little girl wearing patched, undersize dresses and worn-out shoes that pinched her toes. From the sound of it, Brianna Paxton turned her hand to every kind of work available and still wasn’t able to keep the wolves from her door. What kind of man abandoned his family and left them to fend for themselves? Not any kind of man, and it made David ashamed to think anyone of that ilk bore his name.
Incensed, David shoved open the post office door with a little more force than necessary, startling Baxter Piff, the postmaster, a stocky fellow of about fifty with a shock of unruly red hair, a bushy gray beard, and sharp blue eyes that missed nothing. Sam preceded his master to the window. When David slapped the envelope down on the counter, the other man glanced at it and said, “Didn’t know you had any other kin here in Colorado, only a sister out in California.”
“Oregon,” David corrected, dimly aware of Sam settling at his feet. “And this person isn’t kin,” he added gruffly. “Only a friend with the same last name.”
“Hmm.” Baxter weighed the envelope and quoted David an amount for postage. “Strange, that. Never met no other Paxtons so far as I recall.”
The headache that had been bedeviling David throbbed with increased intensity, pounding like a fist in his temples. “I’ve never met anybody else named Piff, either. That doesn’t mean I won’t someday.”
Baxter nodded. “Maybe, but I doubt it. My grandpappy changed our name. Originally it was something French, and nobody could say it right. Ain’t likely that anybody else came up with the same idea unless they’re related to us.”
“Well, Paxton isn’t French, it’s easy enough to pronounce, and it’s the last name of lots of folks.”
“How do you know it’s not French? Ain’t like you’ve traveled the world and seen faraway places, meeting folks with different names along the way.”
“I’ve traveled enough—all the way from Virginia to California and then back here.” David’s neck went hot. Paxton wasn’t that common, but at the moment, he would guzzle kerosene rather than admit it. “You’d argue with a fence post, Baxter. This job doesn’t keep you busy enough, and your boredom’s showing.” He fished in his pocket for coins and plopped them on the other man’s outstretched palm. “How long before that letter reaches its destination?”
The postmaster licked his finger and leafed through a thick tome. “Glory Ridge,” he muttered. “Hmph. Three days, best guess. It’ll go by train partway. Then it’ll be switched to a stagecoach for delivery. No main railway anywhere close, and the town’s probably too small for a connecting branch like we got.”
Until this morning, David had been only vaguely aware that Glory Ridge existed. Now he had reason to hope he never heard tell of it again. He just wanted Daphne to get the money as soon as possible, and then he’d return to his office, discard those letters, and wash his hands of this whole damned mess.
As he left the building and turned north, he saw his brother Ace braking his wagon near the hitching post in front of the marshal’s office. Sam gave a happy bark and raced ahead to greet David’s family. Caitlin’s red hair gleamed like copper as her husband took fifteen-month-old Dory Sue from her arms and
assisted her from the wagon. Little Ace, almost three and a half, barely gave his father a chance to release Caitlin’s elbow and hand her the baby before leaping from the driver’s seat. While catching his son, Ace lost his hat. His jet-black hair shone like polished onyx as he bent to retrieve his Stetson.
David swore under his breath. Not today. He loved his oldest brother and always enjoyed when Ace dropped by to chat while Caitlin took the kids shopping. But this wasn’t a good time. There was all that mail piled on David’s desk, and Ace, who seldom missed anything, wasn’t likely to overlook those return addresses. That would prompt him to ask questions—lots of questions—and right now, David had no answers. Sweat sluiced down the cleavage of David’s spine as he strode toward his office.
Balancing Dory Sue on her hip, Caitlin waved, then lifted her blue skirts to gain the boardwalk. “Loafing as always, I see,” she accused teasingly, her cheek dimpling with pleasure as she went up on her tiptoes to kiss David’s. “And prickly, too,” she added with a smile when her lips met with whiskers. “How are you?” She leaned back to study him, her blue eyes filling with concern. “What a scowl! Where’s that famous grin I’m so accustomed to seeing?”
David did his best to smile as he bent to peck his niece on the forehead. Except for the jet-black hair Dory Sue had inherited from her father, she was the picture of her mama, delicate of feature, with big blue eyes and porcelain skin. She thrust out her chubby arms, saying, “Unca Day-Day! Unca Day-Day!”
David chuckled and soon found his arms filled with lace-trimmed pink gingham and baby-girl softness. He pressed his nose to the child’s ebon curls to breathe in the clean, sweet scent of her. Over the top of her head, he met Caitlin’s questioning gaze.
“It’s just been a troublesome morning,” he confessed. “Nothing serious, and even if it were, seeing all of you is just the thing to take my mind off it.”
A flush of pleasure flagged Caitlin’s cheeks. She caught Little Ace by the arm as he tried to scale David’s leg like a miniature pole climber. “Wait your turn. Uncle David is saying hello to your sister right now.” To David, she said, “We’re hoping you can join us for lunch at Roxie’s. My errands won’t take long. I need a few things from dry goods, and then I’m taking the children to the cobbler shop to be measured for shoes.” She rolled her eyes. “Ace refuses to order any from Montgomery Ward. He says ill-fitting, mail-order shoes are bad for their feet.”
David nodded. “I agree. Even if you specify the size they’re in right now, it’ll be a few weeks before the shoes arrive.” He handed Dory Sue back to her mother and swept Little Ace up to sit on his shoulder. “The way this little pistol is growing, his feet may be an inch longer by then.”
“Or two,” Ace put in with a smile directed at his wife. “Stop fussing. I know cobbler-made shoes are more expensive, but Shelby can use the business.”
“But, Ace, the kids will outgrow them in nothing flat!”
“And when they do, we’ll have more made. I’m not a poor man who has to pinch pennies on his children’s footwear.”
Little Ace chose that moment to grab David’s camel-brown leather hat. When the child put it on, his tiny dark head disappeared inside the bowl. When he pushed at the brim to peek out, everyone laughed.
“I think you need to grow some before you steal Uncle David’s hat, boy.” Ace fetched his son, returned David’s headgear, and set the child on his feet beside his mother. “No bargaining with Shelby,” he told his wife as he bent to kiss her cheek. “He’s a fair man, and the prices he quotes will be fair as well.”
Caitlin sighed, caught hold of Little Ace’s hand, and smiled in farewell. “You can drink some coffee, but don’t you dare eat any of those cookies from Roxie’s that David keeps in a tin,” she said over her shoulder as she started across the street. “You promised me lunch at her place, and I mean to hold you to it.”
Ace grinned and shook his head. To David, he murmured, “Is it my imagination, or is my wife getting headstrong and bossy?”
David laughed. “Now, there’s a question I wouldn’t touch with the tip of a long-barrel rifle.”
“No, truly. If a problem’s developing, maybe I should get a handle on it.”
David stifled a chuckle. Ace worshiped Caitlin and catered to her every whim. Only her sweet nature saved her from being spoiled and impossible to please.
“What’s so funny?” Ace asked.
David held up his hands. “Nothing! She’s one of the dearest people I know. If she’s getting a little headstrong and bossy, it’s nobody’s fault but your own.”
Ace bent to scratch Sam behind the ears. “So you do think she’s bossy.”
“I don’t think any such thing. Didn’t you just hear me say how dear I think she is? Damn it, Ace. Don’t put words in my mouth.”
Ace straightened from petting the dog. Though David wasn’t considered by most people to be a man of diminutive stature, he’d always felt short because Ace, who was actually only his half brother, was so blooming tall. In some parts of the country, there were full-grown trees that hit him below the chin. Big, muscular, and as solid as a chunk of rock—that was Ace. It was mind-boggling to realize that a tiny woman like Caitlin had not only brought the infamous Ace Keegan to his knees but now ruled his every thought, word, and gesture. A tear in her eye filled Ace with panic.
Slapping his brother on the shoulder, David led the way into his office. Sam danced to enter first and find his favored spot behind the stove. As David removed his hat and made to toss it at the hook on the wall, he stopped dead, remembering the mail on his desk. A knot formed in the pit of his stomach.
Ace glanced at the mound of envelopes and took his usual place in the chair across from David’s. Rocking back, he crossed his ankles and arms, the very picture of nonchalance except for the tic of his jaw muscle.
“So,” Ace said, still aiming for a cavalier manner, “that’s a heap of mail from someone named Paxton. Do we have a chatty relative I’m not yet aware of?”
After taking a seat, David slumped his shoulders and looked Ace in the eye. Since Joseph Paxton Sr.’s death, when David had been knee-high to a grasshopper, Ace had been the only father he’d ever known, stern and demanding in many ways, but also David’s best friend. He could have more easily cut off his right arm than lie to him. Family honor was a bitch sometimes.
“All these letters arrived this morning,” David replied. “The Denver postmaster has been saving them for about six years. They’re written by a gal named Brianna Paxton to her husband, David Paxton, who apparently married her, got her with child, and then abandoned her to find his fortune in Denver.”
“Well, little brother, that counts you out. You’ve never been a gold chaser, and I didn’t raise you to be a spineless pollywog that leaves a pregnant woman to fend for herself.”
Oh, how David yearned to leave it there, to just laugh and say, “You are so damned right.” Instead his scalp prickled, and his lungs ached as if he’d run three miles. “In my younger years, I wasn’t exactly an angel, Ace. When I went to Denver alone, I did plenty of honey dipping, and I was usually too far gone into a bottle to think about consequences.”
There, David thought. I’ve said it. And with the utterance, he felt sort of nauseated.
Ace rubbed beside his nose. “You ever get so drunk you had loss of memory? I’ve been there, waking up with no recollection of the previous night, sometimes with a woman in my bed whose face and name I couldn’t recall.”
David sank deeper into the embrace of his chair, elbows pressing hard on the arms. “I drank heavy. Gambled heavy, too. It was exciting to me back then. Denver seemed like a big city compared to No Name. Still does, only it’s gotten fancier. Now that I’m older, it just doesn’t hold the same appeal for me.”
“That isn’t what I asked.” Ace sat forward. “Were you ever so drunk that you could have been intimate with this woman and not remembered it the next day?”
David puffed air into his cheeks. ??
?Only if she was a sporting woman, and they always take care of things like that with a sponge soaked in vinegar.”
“They try to take care of things like that with a sponge, but it’s about as effective as pulling out before the gun goes off. Sporting women do get pregnant. You know that. Sometimes they get rid of it. Sometimes they don’t. Many a child has grown up sleeping under the staircase of a whorehouse. Now, I asked you the question, square and honest. Were you ever that drunk?”
David could now pinpoint the source of his headache and nausea, and it had a terrible name: Truth. He closed his eyes, willing it away because suddenly Hazel Wright seemed mighty appealing. David didn’t want his nice little life messed up by a child he’d sired with a woman he couldn’t remember. “Yes,” he pushed out. “There were times when I got that drunk.”
Ace made a sound that reminded David of a bellows releasing a blast of air. A creak of wood signaled that he had gone limp and slumped back in his seat.
Finally David opened his eyes. “I don’t know what to do next,” he confessed. “If this woman used to be a working girl, and I got her pregnant, why didn’t she look me up? And why would she pretend to be married to me?”
“It’s possible that she didn’t realize she was pregnant for two or three months,” Ace replied, “and maybe she looked for you in Denver and couldn’t find you. As for taking your name and claiming to be your wife, I’ll remind you that Christian folks don’t look kindly upon an unmarried woman with a bun in her oven. It’s possible that she finally left the area and pretended she had a husband so decent folks wouldn’t shun her and the child.”