Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Sheila opened her eyes with a start, listening intently for the sound that had awakened her. The distant creak of a floorboard.
She waited, gripping the arms of the reading chair, holding her breath, waiting to see if it repeated itself. There was nothing.
It was only a dream.
She’d been having a nightmare. In it, outlaws had broken in and were rummaging through the house downstairs. Desperate men, here to rob and murder. And worse.
Suspended on that frightening edge of the dreamworld, Sheila was too paralyzed to move, afraid even to breathe. She strained to hear the sound again. The silence was broken only by the scratch of a branch against the window.
The oil lamp at her elbow flickered, and monstrous shadows loomed on the wall. She couldn’t look away from the wavering, threatening figures. She couldn’t even blink for fear that they could actually be some horrible intruder who had invaded this house, this room.
From the windows, the moon spilled its cold, blue light, illuminating carpet and bed.
The figures were just shadows. She stole a glance at the corner next to her chair.
Her father’s shotgun sat at the ready where she’d left it.
Even though this was not New York City, she was still a woman alone in an unfamiliar place.
Heartened by the sight of the weapon, Sheila plucked up her courage.
She reached for the watch she wore pinned to her shirt and realized it was covered by the woolen charcoal-colored waistcoat she’d borrowed from her father’s wardrobe.
Her excuse was that the evening temperature cooled last night.
But the truth was that she wanted a part of him near her, a sense of him with her, as she waited and fretted over his delayed return.
Worries about his well-being had been dogging her ever since she arrived on Wednesday. What if he’d been thrown from a horse and hurt in the fall? He could be lying out there, injured and alone in the wilderness, fighting off wolves. Or brigands. Or natives.
Her father could be sick, battling fever.
On the endless train ride from New York to Denver, she’d read in the newspapers that the President’s Quarantine Act had not stemmed the yellow fever epidemic that was sweeping outward like a wave beyond New Orleans.
What if the contagion had already spread this far?
What if her father had gone to some nearby mining camp where the fever had struck everyone down?
What if he contracted it and had no one to care for him?
And in the back of her mind, another thought had nagged at her. A thought that annoyed her for its selfishness, but she couldn’t shake it. If the worst had happened, if her father was dead or had simply gone off, what would become of her?
It had been a very long time since she’d seen him, but he was still her father.
Distance and years had divided them, but she loved him.
And she hoped he would want her to be part of his life now that she was grown and mature and independent.
She desperately wished that he wouldn’t send her back to New York.
She had crossed half a continent with more courage than sense, perhaps, but not because she wanted adventure. She wanted a father. And a place to belong. Some proof that the loneliness of those polished New York parlors had not been the whole of her life.
Sheila looked around the room, orienting herself. As she did, the hot panic in which she’d awakened, along with her pounding heartbeat, gradually subsided. Her hands rested on a book that lay open on her lap, and she pushed it to the side.
Since arriving here, she’d learned a few things. It had been a terrible idea to go to Marlowe’s ranch after dark, alone and unarmed. Even now, she cringed at the thought of how poorly he must think of her. She’d showed bad judgment and a lack of understanding of the danger she’d put herself in.
New York City had its hazards, of course.
And it wasn’t always safe for a woman to move around the different neighborhoods by herself.
Even for men, some areas were positively unsafe.
Perhaps her impetuous behavior had been the result of her sudden freedom.
Her grandparents had seen to it that she always had a chaperone or a manservant on hand to follow her and watch over her.
In the city, she was never alone. Never exposed to danger.
Elkhorn was not New York, but in this town, she had already experienced the difficulty of walking the few blocks to the general store and the butcher shop and the hardware store to speak with Mrs. Lewis.
Harassment at every turn. Drunkards slouched against walls and sat on steps to the street.
Dust-covered cowboys called out comments as they drifted by on their horses.
Miners and ne’er-do-wells stumbled from the saloons, unable to focus eyes bloodshot from liquor and lack of sleep.
Even the large, slovenly man wearing the sheriff’s badge had paused to leer at her as she walked past.
She thought then of Caleb Marlowe shifting without a word between her and the street when those riders thundered past. At the time, she had been too proud to appreciate the gesture. Now, alone in the night, she understood it differently.
The bright spot in her day had been when Mrs. Lewis stopped by to visit this afternoon. The kindly woman had brought her supper and offered to stay the night. Sheila had refused. With a gun at her side and a good book on her lap, she was fine.
She peered at the tiny hands of the watch. It was almost four in the morning.
Four in the morning. Since Sheila arrived here, she’d found herself completely unconcerned with routine.
Her days and nights were so different from the world she left behind.
No one dictated when she slept or if she slept.
Her days were spent as she pleased, and the hours had largely been filled with poking around her father’s house.
At first, she’d excused it with the thought that she was looking for some clue as to where he’d gone.
She soon realized, however, that she was searching for something else.
She was looking for hints as to who her father was in the hope of finding answers to a thousand questions she had about why he’d abandoned her.
Answers like that, unfortunately, didn’t sit in medicine cabinets.
Sheila stretched. She thought perhaps there was yet enough night left that she should get up and put on her nightgown.
And then she heard it. There was no mistake this time. It was no dream. No nightmare. The sound of someone walking. Moving about downstairs.
She listened and waited, trying to convince herself that he had returned, after all. She prayed that these were the sounds of her father’s boots. She tried to imagine him coming in after his difficult journey. Exhausted after a long ride through the dark of night.
If her father was in fact the person downstairs, he would have no way of knowing that she’d arrived in Elkhorn and that she was upstairs. The owner of the livery knew. Caleb Marlowe knew. But her father might not have seen either of them at this time of night.
“Where’s the dang cabinet?” A man’s voice reached her.
Sheila’s hopes took flight like a bird with a shattered wing, immediately plummeting downward with ever-increasing speed.
Optimism turned to caution. And then to fear.
It wasn’t him. Someone else, knowing the town doctor was missing, had broken in to steal his valuable surgical equipment and medicines.
What would he do if he found her here?
The sound of someone else reached her from the kitchen. There was more than one person downstairs.
Cold fear prickled in her scalp and washed down her neck, spreading through her like icy spring floodwaters. Iron claws clutched her throat, squeezing it in a grip so tight, she could taste the burning bile.
She had to do something. She couldn’t stand and wait and surrender like some damsel in a dime novel.
Fear might make her hands shake a little, but it would not make her helpless.
Sheila reached for the shotgun. It was loaded, both barrels. It was similar to a longer gun she’d fired many times, target-shooting at the home of a friend on the banks of the Hudson. But could she shoot a man?
She heard the sound of footsteps again, right below her. The floorboards were creaking under someone’s weight, and then a door squeaked. Whoever it was, he’d gone into her father’s consulting room.
Sheila looked wildly at the door, at the window. She had to get out.
When she was up and halfway across the room, she stopped dead. A man was coming up the stairs.
A gruff voice called up sharply from the foot of the stairway. “Where the hell you think you’re going?”
“I heard something.” The answer came from the upstairs hallway.
Panic tore at her. Her brain was on fire. She could barely think. Barely breathe.
Sheila forced her leaden legs to move. She backed toward the window. She had to jump. It was only the second story. But before she could push the window open, her door swung inward.
“Damn my eyes. What do we have here?”
“Stay where you are.” Sheila pressed her back against the wall and pointed the shotgun, ready to shoot.
The man was tall and burly, and his wide body filled the doorway.
From the sound of his voice, he was not much older than she was, if that.
He wore a dark-brown coat, a black waistcoat, and a bandana.
Tan pants were tucked into boots. The wide brim of his brown hat cast a shadow across a round, boyish face.
He wore a smirk, however, that was as menacing as his voice.
“Ain’t this a nice surprise.”
Sheila’s heart hammered in her chest. Her palms sweated. She didn’t think she’d ever been as frightened as she was at this moment. Suddenly, the future her grandfather had planned for her in New York felt very appealing.