The Silver Hills Boarding House

Chapter One

One

Silver Hills, Montana

The dry dirt of Main Street roiled and soared around Elizabeth “Lizbet” Fontaine as she stepped down from the jitney, the last to exit, after her stepfather, his new wife and the children, Frankie and Jubal, her half sister and brother.

She ached all over from the crowding and the constant jolting and jostling of the open-sided conveyance as it rattled, huffed and popped over cattle trails and a few rocky, crooked passages generously called roads.

She was coated in grit, not just on the outside, but inside her mouth, her nostrils and her ears, too.

Her pale copper hair, which she regarded as her best feature, was grimy, and here she’d washed it so carefully just that morning, at the hotel in Kalispell. Given it precisely one hundred strokes with her natural bristle brush, too, once it had had a little time to dry.

Now it felt like straw, and her scalp itched.

Behind her, the jitney emitted a sound so reminiscent of a gunshot that Lizbet jumped, placed one tremulous hand to the base of her throat.

Purposefully, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.

In that moment, though, she would have given everything she had, which admittedly wasn’t a great deal, for a long soak in a bathtub full of clean, hot water, followed by a change of clothes and a good meal.

Her stepfather, William Keller, beckoned to her to join him and Marietta, his bride of six months, on the broad board sidewalk in front of Happy Jack’s General Store.

Marietta, standing close beside her doting husband, linked a possessive arm with his. She was a stunning creature, Marietta was, an erstwhile stage actress who hoped to become a film star once she and William reached their final destination: Hollywood, California.

Marietta’s ice-blue eyes narrowed as Lizbet dutifully complied with her stepfather’s summons, and her dark, fashionably short hair gleamed in the afternoon sunshine.

There was no love lost between the two women, though Lizbet tried to keep the peace for the sake of the children.

Her sister, Frances, known as Frankie, was only eight years old, and Jubal, their brother, just five.

Both of them were still reeling from the sudden loss of their mother, and Lizbet’s, barely a year before, and neither of them had taken to Marietta, who made no effort whatsoever to comfort either little one, let alone mother them.

Frankie and Jubal were, in fact, the only reason Lizbet had agreed to leave her position as a teacher at a private girls’ school back home in St. Louis and set out for the raucous, ill-behaved West.

At twenty-two, Lizbet was already considered a spinster, although that had never troubled her much. She’d loved her job, and she’d had her share of suitors—none of whom met her standards, alas, since she was in no hurry to tie herself down.

In California, she had long since decided, she would find another position—her references were impeccable—and establish a modest but respectable home for herself, Frankie and Jubal.

As Lizbet moved toward her waiting stepfather, Frankie and Jubal followed close on the heels of her scuffed shoes, Jubal actually catching hold of her skirt.

Neither child liked to let Lizbet out of their sight, at least not since their mother’s sudden death from pneumonia.

She felt a pang of sorrow and took that small, grubby hand firmly into her own. Squeezed once, to let the boy know she wasn’t going to leave him.

He was depending on her, and so was Frankie. Desperately so.

“Elizabeth,” her stepfather said, as another man approached. He was dressed much the way William was, although his tailor-made trousers, waistcoat and linen shirt were clean. “There is someone I want you to meet. He’s an old friend of mine.”

Marietta folded her arms across her shapely chest and smirked a little.

“This is Mr. Henry Middlebrook,” William said buoyantly, his smile white and wide in his dusty face, as though he were introducing Lizbet to the President himself. “Henry, my stepdaughter, Miss Elizabeth Fontaine.”

Something inside Lizbet shrank back as she took in Mr. Middlebrook, who was, it seemed, a friend or business associate of William’s. He was portly, bewhiskered and, she saw as he swept off his pristine top hat and bowed slightly, quite nearly bald.

His tiny brown eyes swept over Lizbet’s person at outrageous leisure, and she suppressed a shudder. His smile made her cringe, though she managed not to show it.

Actually, if it hadn’t been for Frankie and Jubal, and the sad fact that she had nowhere to go, Lizbet would have turned on her heel and walked—perhaps run—away. In that exact moment.

Alas, for the time being, she was decidedly stuck.

“You are certainly a lovely sight to see, Miss Elizabeth,” remarked Mr. Middlebrook, his tone oily-smooth. “May I call you Elizabeth?”

Lizbet hesitated.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Marietta’s mocking smile was still in place, and she felt a sudden and fierce need to slap the woman square across that rouged and powdered face with all the strength she had.

“Of course you may,” William interjected, his voice jovial.

No, Lizbet thought. No, Mr. Middlebrook. You may not call me by my given name.

But she said nothing.

Frankie and Jubal were her mother’s children, yes, but they were William’s flesh and blood as well, and legally he had all the say-so where they were concerned.

He paid them little mind, most of the time, being consumed by Marietta and his business holdings, but there was some kind of scheme brewing between him and his elderly cohort, and Lizbet couldn’t afford to cross him.

Not just yet, anyway.

At that moment, a surrey came around the next bend in the road, followed by a rustic wagon pulled by mules, and stopped alongside the still-sputtering jitney. The wagon halted, too, though at a small distance.

The fancy rig was new, still smelling of leather and oil, drawn by two immaculately groomed horses, both black as coal.

Lizbet was reminded of a hearse, and a chill trickled down her spine like droplets of water from a melting icicle.

Had this man come with a surrey and a buckboard, simply to squire the little party to the town’s one hotel? No. Something was definitely amiss.

“May I?” Mr. Middlebrook asked, his tone sleazy somehow, like the predatory expression on his face as he offered his arm to Lizbet.

She stiffened, ready to dig in her heels.

The old man didn’t wait for an answer; he took Lizbet firmly by the elbow and steered her forcibly toward the waiting surrey.

“Now see here,” she protested, stumbling a little, shocked and indignant.

He ignored her.

Jubal clung to Lizbet’s hand, and now Frankie was clutching at her skirt.

“Sir,” Lizbet snapped, stung by the man’s audacity. “Kindly remove your hand from my arm!” She felt the heat of primal fury climb her grimy neck and throb in her cheeks.

Beneath his patchy white beard, Mr. Middlebrook’s slack jaw tightened visibly, though his smile remained, fixed and devoid of all good humor.

The world seemed to fall silent and still around Lizbet then, around all of them, as if they were figures in a photograph or a painting, not living, breathing people.

It was William who broke the spell; he gave a boisterous laugh, as though they were all players in a lively comedy.

“Don’t be difficult, Elizabeth,” he wheedled, pretending to fondness, though she recognized the grim undercurrent coursing beneath his sunny words and countenance.

“Mr. Middlebrook is our host, and he’s a very important man. ”

Lizbet jerked her arm free of Henry Middlebrook’s too-familiar grip, stepped back and pulled the children against her sides, holding them tightly.

It was at that moment that another voice interjected, “Leave the lady alone, Henry. She’s made her preferences clear, after all.”

Lizbet, her breath so fast and so shallow she feared she might actually swoon, turned her head and saw a tall, solemnly handsome man standing a few feet away.

He carried a bulging burlap bag over one broad shoulder, and very briefly, despite his decisive manner, Lizbet glimpsed an immeasurable sorrow behind his gray eyes.

His hair was dark, a little too long, but clean, and his hands looked strong. His clothes were typical of a farmer: dungarees and a frayed cotton shirt.

He walked with a slight limp, an indication that he might have served in the Great War. Perhaps that accounted for the flash of sadness she’d seen a moment before.

Lizbet stifled a ridiculous urge to run to this stranger and fling herself into his arms.

“I don’t recall asking for your opinion, Gabe,” Mr. Middlebrook said in an easy drawl that didn’t match the barely bridled fury he exuded, along with the smells of heavy cologne, whiskey and sweat.

“Why don’t you just run along on home, back to that little farm of yours, and tend to your own business? ”

Gabe flung the bag, which probably contained feed, into the bed of an already-loaded buckboard Lizbet had failed to notice before.

Having done that, he placed his hands on his hips, regarded Mr. Middlebrook skeptically and replied, “When a man tries to take a woman someplace she doesn’t want to go, it’s my business, all right.”

His gaze linked with Lizbet’s, asking a silent question.

“There really is no cause for concern—er—Gabe,” William butted in. “Henry here is a family friend, and he’s merely trying to be courteous. I’m afraid Lizbet—Elizabeth—is somewhat overwrought from the long, difficult journey we’ve just made.”

“I’ll need to hear that from Miss Elizabeth, Mister,” Gabe answered. “That’s she’s all right with getting into that surrey, I mean.”

Lizbet felt rooted to the ground, hard beneath her sore feet, which had swollen inside her plain and practical shoes.

She looked at the children, then at this man called Gabe. Was he named for Gabriel, the archangel? It was a foolish and fanciful thing to wonder, but in that moment, it seemed fitting if he was.