Chapter Eight
THE DAYS TURNED INTO weeks, and Max, Delia—and even Anna—settled into a routine of sorts. Anna was hardly perfect, but there was a noticeable difference in her with Delia around, although she still rarely spoke to Max unless she had to.
And Delia . . . He smiled at the thought of her as he accepted the wrapped bundle of pastries from the baker.
They were slowly getting to know one another.
Sometimes he wished it would move faster, that he could simply throw his arms around her and kiss her the way he’d wanted to since their wedding.
But there was something about her that made him slow down. He reminded himself that she was from a good family back East, and the last thing he wanted to do was frighten her. Slower was better. Every time he took her hand, she smiled at him, and that was enough to keep him hopeful.
With a bounce in his step, he approached the door to the house.
The fellow who took his job at the front desk during the evening hours had arrived two hours early with a story about his wife being angry with him for such a number of reasons that Max could hardly believe half of them.
Liam had shaken his head and sent Max on home.
With mild weather and the sun shining brightly overhead, he figured it would be a nice afternoon to take a stroll out of town with his family.
Family. He mused over the word as he pressed the door open.
“Oh! You’re home!” Delia jumped up from her seat at the table, the pen in her hand clattering against the wood where it had fallen. She swept up the papers in front of her, casting him a broad smile as she tapped them against the table.
“Henry arrived early,” Max said, watching her curiously. “What are you writing?”
“Oh, I . . .” She glanced down at the sheets in her hands. “A story.”
“A story?” he repeated. “Like Anna’s circus book?”
She laughed a little as her cheeks grew pink. “Not a book. Just . . . my thoughts on traveling here and the town and . . .”
Of all the things he’d expected to come home to, his wife writing a story about her life wouldn’t have ever crossed his mind.
She tilted her head. “What did you bring home?”
He was still holding the pastries wrapped in their brown paper. “I stopped by the bakery for a few things. I thought we could take a little walk out of town. You, me, and Anna. Is Anna here?”
Delia shook her head, the papers clutched to her chest. “She’s gone to spend time with her friends.”
Max couldn’t be angry with that. He was glad Anna had made friends in town, and ever since the evening she’d come home late and Delia told her she wouldn’t get supper until she washed up, Anna had been good about arriving home when she said she would.
“Well, would you like to come with me?” He held up the package, hoping that if his company didn’t tempt her, perhaps the blueberry crumble and sugar cookies might.
She smiled at him. “Of course. Just let me put this away.” She took the pen and inkwell and disappeared up the stairs.
Max busied himself with filling a canteen while he waited, and soon enough, they were strolling arm-in-arm down the road toward the south.
Before long, they’d passed the last building, and it was just them, the worn road, and the railroad tracks.
“Do you have a destination in mind?” Delia asked.
“Not particularly. It’s such a nice day, and I thought you might like to get out of town and see the countryside.”
She looked up at him, her smile more dazzling than the sun that sat in the western sky over top of the mountains.
“That was very thoughtful,” she said, her hand tightening around his arm. “Where does this lead? If I were to board the train in Crest Stone and head this direction, where would I arrive?”
“Santa Fe,” he replied.
“That sounds fascinating, doesn’t it? Just the words alone. Santa Fe.” She repeated the name with a wistful air.
Max tried not to laugh. “I should have guessed that you enjoy writing. You always have a dreamy sort of way of seeing the world.”
“I don’t know about that.” Her cheeks went pink, and he had the distinct impression that discussing her writing embarrassed her.
“You needn’t hide it,” he said, hoping to encourage her. “It’s good to have an interest such as that. In fact, if you’d like a reader, I’m happy to oblige.”
“Oh.” She turned away, facing the soaring Sangre de Cristos mountains to the west, whose snowy tops glistened in the sunlight. “Perhaps.”
Something told him not to press her. Max had no creative calling himself, but he could understand how one might feel nervous about sharing such a thing with someone else.
“I’ve heard there are great dunes of sand on the other side of those mountains, toward the south.” He gestured in the general direction, hoping the change in conversation might set her at ease.
“Really? Without an ocean in sight?” She seemed fascinated by the idea.
“I haven’t seen them myself, but I read about it in the Canon City newspaper.”
“It’s a shame there isn’t a newspaper in Crest Stone,” Delia said. “People might appreciate reading about the goings on in town.”
“I’m sure there will be one day. Goodness knows there are enough rumors in town and scandalous reports of outlaws in the valley to keep a newspaper in business.”
“Oh, look at that!” Delia pointed at a little hill toward the southeast. “It doesn’t look too far. Shall we climb it?”
He agreed, and fifteen minutes later, they were gasping for breath at the top.
He turned around to admire the view. The hill wasn’t very high, but it was enough to see Crest Stone laid out to the north, the railroad tracks leading through the middle of town and the two mountain ranges bracketing each side.
If he squinted, he thought he could see smoke rising from the vicinity of the large mining encampment nestled in the base of the Wet Mountains to the east.
“It’s quite picturesque, isn’t it?” Delia said, her voice laced with awe.
“I imagine it isn’t anything compared to New York City.”
“It is, though,” she said. “It’s different, and it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Max looked around for a stone or something else Delia could use as a seat, but she plopped right down on the dirt and tucked her legs beneath her.
“After that climb,” she said, “I fear I could take a little nap right here.” She yawned for emphasis.
“Then we should eat to keep you awake.” He sat beside her and unwrapped the pastries.
Delia chose a cookie and held it up to admire it. “This looks wonderful.”
They ate in silence for a bit, admiring the view. Then, out of nowhere, Delia asked, “Do you like your work?”
Max smiled. Liking it was an understatement. “I love it. The people are fascinating, and Liam has become a good friend.”
She dusted crumbs off her hands and looked up at him. “Do you ever miss what you did before?”
He lifted his eyebrows. “Are you asking me if I’ll gamble away everything we own one day?”
She looked confused for a second before shaking her head. “Not at all, actually. That hadn’t crossed my mind. Although perhaps I should ask you that? I did once have a friend whose father couldn’t stay away from games of chance, and he lost his entire business.”
“I have no intention of gambling ever again,” he said sincerely. “And no, I don’t miss it at all. I only stuck with it to pay for lodging and food.”
“You must have enjoyed something about it,” she said.
“The people. I loved meeting new people and figuring them out. It was never the games at all, and the fear of losing everything I made with a bad hand worried me constantly. But I stayed with it because of the people.”
She watched him a moment, smiling. “That makes perfect sense, given what you do now. It’s good you were able to find something that makes you happier than your previous line of work.”
“It is.” He paused, curiosity getting the better of him. “What made you ask?”
She shrugged. “Perhaps it’s as you said, and I simply didn’t realize I had the fear of losing everything to a gambler.”
He had the feeling that wasn’t the answer, but it didn’t particularly matter as long as she trusted him to keep her safe.
“We ought to head back,” she said. “I wouldn’t want Anna to arrive to an empty house.”
He stood and held out a hand to help her up. “Thank you for indulging me.”
Delia laughed as she clasped his hand. “I should be thanking you.” She continued to hold his hand, despite the fact she was standing.
“Not at all.” His eyes held hers for a moment, and that undeniable desire to draw her closer to him was so strong that he had to press the fingers of his free hand against his leg before his arm rose of its own accord.
Her breathing went shallow, almost as if she, too, sensed the change in the air between them.
“Anna,” she said, her throat bobbing as she swallowed.
That was enough to bring Max to his senses. He cleared his throat, dropped her hand, and began to lead them back toward the road.
They’d gone almost halfway down the hill before Delia gave a little squeak beside him, slipped, and began to slide down the slope.