Chapter 3
Morgan arrived at the Pennyroyal ten minutes before his meeting with Jane.
She was already in the dining room, sitting at a table near the window that had the widest view of the main street.
She raised her head as he walked into the room, and he knew she had seen his approach.
Her smile wavered, veering toward uncertain, as if she wondered if it would be welcome or appropriate. He thought it was both.
He shrugged out of his coat as he walked toward the table and laid it over the back of an extra chair. He tossed his hat on the seat. “Good morning, Miss Middlebourne. You’re early.”
“So are you.”
Morgan pulled out the chair at a right angle to hers and sat. “Have you ordered?”
“No. I was waiting for you.”
She sat at the table very primly, he thought.
The cotton napkin already covered her lap, and her hands were folded together on top of it.
Her spine was straight, not quite touching the back of the chair.
The smile she’d greeted him with had already faded.
She held his gaze for a moment longer and then her eyes darted to the window and the street beyond.
“You look well rested,” he said. She was wearing a crisp white shirt beneath a short-waist wool jacket the color of port wine.
Her skirt was the same color as the jacket, and from what he could see, fit her closely at the waist and hips and then flared all the way to her ankles.
He could not look at her shoes without an obvious examination but imagined they were as hopelessly unsuited to Morning Star as her fashionable New York clothes. “Your headache’s gone?”
She nodded. “It was kind of you to help me.” She smoothed the napkin over her lap and refolded her hands. “I thought about it again this morning, and I do remember locking my door.”
“Is that right?” Morgan shrugged. “Passing strange that you should have that memory. It opened for me.”
“So you said.” Jane briefly directed her gaze toward the door that led to the kitchen. “That young woman you mentioned last night, the one who brought you your beer, she’s working here this morning.”
“How do you know that?”
“She was here when I came downstairs. She invited me to sit where I liked and told me that you had asked her to look in on me last evening. She said she declined because I had been particular to say I did not want to be disturbed, and she hoped she had done right by minding my wishes and not yours.”
Morgan’s mouth pulled to one side. He shook his head, torn between amusement and dismay. “Did she tell you that her cousin is the sweetheart of one of the men who works for me?”
Jane’s brow furrowed. “No. She didn’t.”
“There’s a wonder.”
“She mentioned that you were sitting alone. She had some hesitation going to your table because you appeared to be deep in thought.”
“See?” Morgan leaned toward her and set his forearms on the table.
“There is nothing that happens in this town that is considered so dull that it doesn’t bear repeating.
I figure there are not more than four, maybe five, people who don’t know by now that I was at the station to meet you yesterday.
It doesn’t matter that they don’t know why.
Speculation is a favorite way to pass the time in Bitter Springs, like playing dominoes or reading dime novels. ”
She lifted an eyebrow. Her smile was faintly mocking. “Do you imagine it is different elsewhere? I assure you, I am quite familiar with speculation passing for fact. In New York there are newspapers entirely dedicated to creating a story where none exists.”
“There is no newspaper in Bitter Springs.”
“That could very well be a point in its favor.”
“I am forced to agree that you might be right.”
Jane tilted her head toward the kitchen door as it opened. “She’s coming now. Please don’t scowl at her.”
Undecided, Morgan grunted softly.
“Yes,” said Jane when Cil Ross offered her coffee.
Morgan merely pushed his cup and saucer toward her. “Do you have cream and sugar for Miss Middlebourne?”
Jane raised her hand before Cil could reply. “Neither for me. I prefer my coffee black.”
Morgan was skeptical, but he said nothing.
Cil said, “There’s steak and eggs. Hotcakes so light you’ll have to drown them with molasses to keep them on your plate. Applesauce. Grits. Fried potatoes. Oatmeal. What’s your pleasure?”
“Oatmeal,” said Jane.
Morgan broke the silence that followed Jane’s request. “She’s waiting for you to say something else.”
“Please?” said Jane.
Morgan grinned while Cil choked back a laugh. “Not that. She wants to know what else you want to eat.”
“Oh.” Jane looked up at Cil. “Nothing else, thank you.”
“Oatmeal will sit in your belly,” Cil said, “but it won’t put meat on your bones. How about some bacon on the side?”
Morgan’s look cautioned Jane about pitting her will against Cil Ross’s. She said, “Bacon will be fine.”
“Good. And you, Mr. Longstreet? Do the hotcakes tempt you?”
“They do, as long as you bring them with steak, two eggs, scrambled, potatoes, and that applesauce you mentioned.” He intercepted Jane’s wide-eyed astonishment. “I don’t much like oatmeal,” he said. “And I had grits at breakfast yesterday.”
Cil winked at Jane. “Didn’t I just say?” Chuckling under her breath, she pivoted smartly and headed back to the kitchen.
Morgan turned to Jane as soon as Cil was out of earshot. “What was that about? What else did she tell you before I arrived?”
Jane picked up her fork and fiddled with it, turning it over several times before she spoke. “I think she might have predicted what you would have for breakfast.”
“Jesus,” Morgan said feelingly. When he saw Jane’s lips purse with disapproval, he reminded her that he was not a godly man. “Taking the Lord’s name in vain is the least of the commandments I’ve broken.”
“I’m not sure they were numbered for purposes of ranking. I believe they deserve equal weight.”
“Maybe so, Miss Middlebourne, and maybe the next time I get the urge to invoke the Lord’s name, I’ll just kill Miss Ross instead.”
Jane pressed her lips together, but it was an inadequate stopper for her amusement. Laughter bubbled anyway. “You have a wicked sense of humor, Mr. Longstreet.”
“I was being serious, Miss Middlebourne.” His tone was dry as the dust on his boots, but he saw Jane was unfazed by it. She did not believe him. He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Jane set down her fork and returned that hand to join the one in her lap. “I will,” she said. “I do.”
Morgan picked up his coffee cup. It felt too small, too dainty, in his hand. Like Jane.
“You are scowling again. The coffee’s not to your liking?”
“I haven’t tried it yet.”
“Then perhaps you should reserve judgment.”
One of his ginger eyebrows kicked up. “You’re still talking about the coffee, aren’t you?”
Jane smiled. “You said something like that last night. Yes, Mr. Longstreet, I’m still talking about the coffee.”
Morgan gave a short nod, took a swallow, and imagined he manfully concealed the fact that he burnt the inside of his mouth.
Still, the swirl of cold air that entered the room was a welcome diversion.
When Jane looked toward the dining room entrance in anticipation of more guests, Morgan sucked in a breath.
By the time she turned back, he was returning his cup to the saucer.
“There’s a pitcher of water on the sideboard over there,” she said. “Shall I get it for you?”
Except to make her chuckle, his sour look had no impact on her. “Your concern is noted. I’ll be fine.”
“You ordered a big breakfast. It would be unfortunate if you were unable to taste it.” Her eyes swiveled to the pair entering the dining room. “Who are they?”
Morgan glanced behind him. “Howard Wheeler and Jack Clifton. They’re here every time I am so I’m figuring them for regulars. They used to be with the railroad. Stayed behind when it moved on. That’s about as much as I know, and I have that from Ida Mae.”
“Mrs. Sterling.”
“Yes. Her husband worked the rails with them and settled here same as they did. He was marshal after that. For years, in fact. Killed in an ambush on Morning Star land. It was the Burdick property back then. The story that went about at the time was that he was mistaken for a rustler. Everyone knows now that he was murdered, plain and simple.”
“I never thought of murder as plain and simple.”
“This one was.”
“Was I wrong to have the impression that you are a relative newcomer to Bitter Springs? You seem to know a lot.”
“I told you how it is here. Some stories you can’t avoid. I didn’t grow up in these parts, but I had a passing acquaintance with Benton Sterling years ago. His wife remembers it.”
Jane nodded. “I thought she treated you familiarly.”
“I don’t know about that. She’s good to everyone. ’Course she makes everyone’s business her own.” He gave Jane a sharp, pointed look. “And if you tell her I said so, I’ll—”
“Break one of God’s commandments, Mr. Longstreet?”
Morgan’s smile was wry. “Several.”
Both of her dark eyebrows lifted. “Well, you can rest easy. I can keep a confidence.”
If that were true, Morgan thought, she would be the first woman of his acquaintance who could.
Cil appeared with their food. Ribbons of steam rose from Jane’s bowl of oatmeal and Morgan’s plate of hotcakes.
The distinctive aromas of bacon and steak hovered in the air.
Cil set down a small pitcher of molasses syrup in front of Morgan.
“Mind you eat them warm,” she told him. “They’ll be tastier. ”
When she was gone, Morgan looked over at Jane. “She winked at you again.”
“Did she? Maybe she has something in her eye.”
“Hmm. I’m sure that’s it.”
Jane picked up her spoon and slipped it into her oatmeal. She tasted it, relishing the slightly nutty texture of the oats. “Aren’t you going to eat?”