Chapter 9
“I’ll be back, Mrs. Gallagher, but don’t hold dinner for me if I’m not.”
“And where are ya goin’?”
Sheridan thought about not answering the question, but felt the woman deserved to know what her plans were. After all, she worked here. It shouldn’t come as a surprise when a new owner walked in the door. “I’m going up the hill to see Mr. Steele.”
“I see. An’ why would you be doin’ that?”
She let out her breath. “I’m hoping to convince him to buy the business.”
Mrs. Gallagher didn’t respond for the longest time, but disappointment shone from her wide blue eyes. “I suppose if that’s what you want to do.”
“It is. You know, as well as I do, that I shouldn’t own this house.”
Again, Mrs. Gallagher held her own counsel, perhaps knowing that she couldn’t argue the point. She poured hot water from the kettle over the loose tea leaves in the teapot and slowly nodded, as if accepting her decision. “You know, you could rent a horse from Mr. Yancy at the livery.”
“I would,” she glanced down at the narrow skirt of her town dress. “But I wouldn’t be able to ride it in this dress.”
Mrs. Gallagher placed the teapot on the stove then turned toward her. “He has buggies for rent as well.”
Sheridan shook her head and smiled. “Unfortunately, while I know how to ride, I’ve never learned how to drive a rig. I’m afraid I would be a danger to every pedestrian on the street.” She finished buttoning up the cape. “No, a nice brisk walk will do me good.”
“If’n you say so.” There were certain phrases Mrs. Gallagher said where her Irish accent really came out. This was one of them. “Don’t be surprised if this is a complete waste of your time. Mr. Steele never sees anyone, as far as I know.”
Sheridan slipped the scarf over her hair and twisted it around her neck. “It’s my time to waste.” She pulled on her gloves. “And besides, I’ll never know if I don’t ask.”
It was colder than she expected when she stepped outside.
She could see her breath as she strolled through the town at a brisk pace, her focus on the house high up on the hill, passing people who, she assumed, were quick to conduct their business and go back to the warmth of their homes.
She did notice that more people now smiled at her than not, and that made her feel good.
By the time she made it to the top of the hill, she was slightly out of breath, and her hands were cold, despite the warm gloves. Her feet were cold, too, but at least her ears were not, the scarf she’d slipped over her head and around her neck keeping her warm.
She knocked on the big, fancy door with its panels of etched glass, covered by thick draperies, then turned around to look at the view while she waited for someone to answer.
From up here, it was magnificent. One could see almost the entire town, though not as far as Josie’s, which was at the opposite end.
When no one came to door, she knocked again.
And waited longer. She noticed a small turnkey doorbell and turned it.
The sound it made seemed very loud in the silence, but maybe Mr. Steele hadn’t heard her knock.
He’d certainly hear this. After a moment or two, she saw the drapes covering the window beside the door fall back into place before a gruff voice demanded, “Go away.”
“Mr. Steele.” She spoke through the closed door. “My name is Sheridan DuBois. I—”
The draperies twitched again. “Go away!”
“Please, Mr. Steele, I’d only like a moment of your time.”
“No,” and that was the last thing she heard except for the odd, shuffling footsteps walking away.
Sheridan stared at the closed door, hoping he’d change his mind and come back, but as the minutes ticked away, she realized he wouldn’t.
Both Lucy and Mrs. Gallagher had been right.
Mr. Steele was not sociable at all. Her shoulders slumped with disappointment.
She so needed to sell Josie’s business, but it didn’t look like Mr. Steele was going to be the answer to her prayers.
Disappointed but still determined, she left the house on the hill and started the long walk home.
The sign swinging from an iron bar attached to the side of the building simply read “Conrad’s”.
As she approached, she could hear music from within the building as someone played a piano—badly.
It made her cringe the way the player pounded the keys.
That person could obviously use a lesson or two.
She had half a mind to push through the door and offer that very thing when the batwing doors were pushed open.
Sheridan stepped back as three men exited the saloon, only one of whom seemed to have no trouble walking.
The other two swayed, then laughed because they did so.
From the looks of them, and the fact that one of them had to lean against the doorjamb to remain standing, they’d spent a great deal of time in the saloon, drinking.
Probably gambling, too. And whatever else men did in such establishments.
She quickened her step, hoping to pass them by without so much as a glance. She wasn’t quick enough, though. One of the men noticed her, a big, slovenly creature who looked like he hadn’t seen the benefit of a bathtub in months and the only one who didn’t seem as in his cups as the other two.
“Well, well, will ya look at who it is!”
She ignored him and tried to walk past him, her head held high, her focus straight forward.
He took a step in her direction, then grabbed her arm and swung her toward him, his smile filled with bad intentions. Fear skittered up her back as she tried to free herself. “Take your hands off me!”
“Come on, sugar, give us a little kiss.” The grip on her arm tightened as he pulled her closer. She could smell his rancid breath. It made her stomach rebel as much as her fear did.
Too startled to scream, Sheridan struggled to get away from him.
She nearly managed to get free, but he just dug his fingers into the soft flesh of her arm, then wrapped his other arm around her, drawing her closer still until she was pressed up against his belly.
The smell of his unwashed body was almost as bad as his breath.
His companions did nothing but laugh and encourage him. Neither one of them would be of any help. Besides, they could hardly stand up straight, even if they were so inclined.
“Leave me alone!” she managed to yell as his embrace tightened even more. She could feel the strength in his arms. She was no match for it.
“Don’t be so mean, sugar.” His mouth came perilously close to hers. “I jes’ wan’ a kiss. Jes’ one little kiss.”
She tasted bile in the back of her throat as her stomach roiled. Panic pressed down on her almost as tight as his grip.
Sheridan did the only thing she could think of. She stomped on his foot with the sturdy heel of her shoe. Hard. So hard, she imagined she could hear bones crushing, though she knew that was impossible. The action had the desired effect though. He howled in pain, in outrage, and released her.
She didn’t care that she caused him pain. She wanted to cause him more. While he hopped around, desperately holding his wounded foot, she smacked him across the face. That only served to enrage him more.
He grabbed her again, pulling her close, his arms like steel bands trapping her, and tried to plant his mouth on hers.
She turned her head at the last minute. The only thing his lips touched was her cheek, but that was more than enough. She stomped on his foot again.
Wyatt took a sip of his coffee and looked at the woman sitting across from him at the Wagon Wheel. He’d followed Lucy’s advice and invited Tamara Willis out for a piece of pie, even though his visit with Julia Applebaum had been a complete disaster.
He’d been right about Tamara Willis, too, and never again would he put himself through another date like the one he was sitting through right now.
Unlike Julia, Tamara had opinions. A lot of them.
She had definite ideas about what she wanted, too, and it wasn’t living and working with him on Stone Creek.
No, she wanted more. Very much like Katie.
And he definitely did not want another woman like Katie.
“You should cut your hair.”
Wyatt reached up and smoothed his hair back from his forehead. Yes, it was a little longer than he usually wore it, but it was still neat. “Cut my hair? Why?”
“You look unkempt.” Tamara wrinkled her nose. “Like you just walked in from the field.”
He laughed. “That’s because I did.”
“And that suit.” Again, with the wrinkled nose. “It’s awful. Doesn’t fit you well at all. Don’t you have another?”
He looked down at the black suit, usually reserved for weddings and funerals, and couldn’t see anything wrong with it.
Yes, it may have been old, but it was still in great shape.
Fortunately, there hadn’t been many weddings he’d attended in the past couple of years.
Even less funerals, for which he was thankful.
“Did you even bathe before you came to pick me up?”
He glanced at his hand, holding the fork much too tightly. It was clean. He looked at his other hand. It was clean, too. He had, indeed, bathed before changing into this suit. He’d even shaved and splashed on some aftershave. Apparently, that wasn’t good enough.
What had Lucy been thinking? If Tamara Willis was her idea of a possible match for him, she had definitely lost her touch. And he’d tell her so as soon as he could gracefully, politely, remove himself from Tamara’s presence.
“You know, when we marry, you’ll have to sell the ranch. We’ll have to live in Santa Fe if we’re going to get you elected Senator. Or Governor. Yes, that’s the route we’ll take. First Governor then the Presidency.”
Wyatt said nothing, since it seemed she had their whole lives planned out, though where she got the idea they were getting married, he’d like to know.
When he invited her out for a piece of pie and a cup of coffee, he hadn’t mentioned anything about getting married.
He simply stated that he’d like to get to know her better.