Chapter 3
“Stephen McDowell,” Lyla murmured to herself as the train pulled to a stop just outside of West Hope, California, “you had better be worth the effort.”
Oh, but train travel was exhausting. She’d never been further away from New York than a single visit to the country when she was small, and that had been by coach, not the train.
She’d assumed coaches would be far more difficult to travel in; they were slower, for one thing, and smaller, and they stopped so often on the rutted roads.
But halfway through the journey, she was longing for a few stops, preferably overnight, so she might lay her head on a pillow that wasn’t constantly rocking back and forth.
The noise alone was exhausting, the motion was draining, and being constantly surrounded by nosy strangers was grueling, too.
It was no wonder, she supposed, that she was so exhausted!
Ah, but here she was at last! From the moment she had accepted her match with Stephen McDowell until now, arriving in West Hope, a solid month had passed.
Just enough time for her to say her goodbyes, pack up her few belongings, and triumphantly tell Albert Woods that she was leaving and would never return.
She only hoped her words proved true—but nothing and no one, not even unfavorable circumstances, could convince her to go crawling back to Albert Woods and ask for her position to be restored.
When she turned her back on New York, it was for the last time and for good.
And the only one she truly missed was Della.
It was the fifteenth of September. California was hot—hotter than New York had been, for there was little shade here in West Hope.
She stood for a moment on the platform, taking in her surroundings.
The town itself was situated not too far from her; a brisk five-minute walk would land her in the heart of it, she surmised.
And another five minutes would put her on the other side. Even from this distance, it was clear there wasn’t much to it.
“So very different from New York,” she murmured, and had to smile at herself.
Had there been a hint of wistfulness in her voice?
No, she did not miss the city, and she would not allow herself to compare her new home to what she had left behind.
With a resurgence of her determination, she bent to pick up her valise, stood straight and squared her shoulders, and began to walk.
She had expected her husband-to-be to meet her at the station. But there had been delays on the line, and the train was a day later than anticipated. Surely that must be the reason that he was not there.
Even with her decision to allow for the man’s absence, she still felt her perturbation grow as she drew closer to town.
It was good to be on solid ground and to stretch her legs—but it was so terribly hot!
It was the middle of the afternoon, and the sun was beating down on her bonnet as though she wore nothing on her head at all.
He might have thought of coming back again today, she told herself, frowning.
He ought to have been on the lookout, really—after all, she was coming all the way from New York.
He certainly could have bothered to ride out to the station…
She was hot, she was tired—and, she had to admit to herself, she was feeling rather overwhelmed.
The decision to make the trip had been difficult enough; added to that the stress of the journey, and she felt nearly on the verge of collapse.
It made her think of the adage her mother had always spoken of, the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Her mother had used it often, whenever Lyla’s temper got the better of her—sometimes she would be chiding, sometimes laughing.
A twinge of pain twisted Lyla’s heart, briefly.
“Oh, Ma, what would you think of me now?” she said aloud.
Her voice was quiet, but it was evidently audible enough to those passing by who were nearest her.
The town was busier than she would have expected for its size; one elderly woman glanced up and gave her a rather suspicious look, a young couple offered her a tentative smile, and a young man, who had been strolling along with his hands in his pockets, stopped short, raising an eyebrow.
“Beg your pardon, miss?”
She glanced at him, summed him up in a second—the type who thinks himself good-looking, with little evidence to back up such a belief—and shook her head.
“Nothing, sir.”
“Aw, come on, I’d like to know what you were sayin’.”
There was something about the accent here out West that she did not care for, Lyla decided. It was somehow lazy and too swift, all at once.
“I was not speaking to you, sir.”
“Well, you are now,” he said, with what he probably imagined was an ingratiating grin.
He offered her a hand. “I’ll take your bag for you, miss, and help you along.
Where are you headed? We don’t see many strangers around these parts…
” He gave her a long look, from the top of her bonnet to the toes of her boots, and she stiffened under the weight of his gaze. “Especially pretty ones like you.”
Lyla’s discomfort was mounting—and so was her irritation. She narrowed her eyes at him.
“I hardly think a complete stranger should speak to a girl he doesn’t know in such a manner,” she said.
The thought crossed her mind with a sharp pang—could this be the man she was supposed to marry?
Surely not! Stephen McDowell was older, she was certain; this fellow couldn’t have been more than twenty.
She fervently hoped that Stephen McDowell had learned better manners by the time he reached his age…
“No?” The stranger made another reach for her bag, and she snatched it from his hand, stepping back.
Defensively, she held on tightly to the handle with both hands, daring him to take it from her, whether it truly be motivated by politeness or—or something else.
“Aw, come on, I’m just teasin’ you, miss!
Makin’ you feel welcome in our little town.
What are you doin’ here, anyhow? It’s clear to see you ain’t from around here—that neat little dress you got on is a little low-cut, isn’t it?
And that accent of yours…” Another grin.
“Come on with me to the saloon. I’ll buy you a whiskey, and you can tell me all about it.
You’re from back east, ain’t you? I reckon those rosebud lips have never touched whiskey in your life. ”
She gaped at him, hardly able to believe his audacity. The gall of him! And to think that he could take advantage of her because she was a girl on her own in a place she didn’t know!
“How dare you, sir!”
“What’s your name, miss?”
He obviously wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
What would he take? Other than another step toward her.
She glanced around for help, but the passersby had melted into the afternoon heat as though they’d vanished; other than a small group of young men further down the street, glancing their way and talking among themselves, there was no one she could turn to.
And they, she thought savagely, were likely just waiting for the first man to step aside so they could get their own turn at flirting with her.
“It’s none of your concern, is what it is!”
“That’s an odd one,” he said, laughing. “French, eh?”
“Would you just leave me be?” she demanded, her normally quick sense of humor completely dismantled by her exhaustion and irritation. “I’m in no mood to be trifled with!”
“Oh, I wasn’t about to trifle with you,” he grinned, stepping forward again. “I reckoned on buyin’ you some whiskey first…”
He reached for her again. Her patience was at an end, and her exhaustion offered no barrier to her anger.
From sheer frustration—at the ludicrous situation she found herself in, at Stephen McDowell’s failure to appear to collect her, and at the fact that she’d been chased from New York because of Albert Woods’ repulsive behavior to begin with—she spun slightly to the side and then back, like a top, like a dancer, both hands firm on the valise.
Her arms were strong from years of hard work.
The bag struck him in the middle with a sound like a bat, and he doubled over, a cry ripping from his throat.
She glared at him.
“Now, really!” she said. “You’re overreacting a bit, aren’t you?”
A moment too late, she remembered all the rather bulky, hard-edged novels she had brought with her, which made up most of the weight in the valise.
The troublemaker’s cry of pain and surprise drew a few of the other young men running.
“Tom? What happened?”
“Tom! You want us to call for Doc Earhart?”
“You ought to have known better, Tom,” observed a less sympathetic friend, shaking his head.
“She’s a redheaded woman, after all.” He glanced up at Lyla and winked.
On any other day, she might have laughed at his audacity, flirting with her in the wake of what had just happened.
As it was, she nearly hauled off and smacked him one, too.
“Good Lord!” she cried. “Are all the young men in West Hope like this?”
“Well, there’s an awful lot of us bachelors, miss,” said the winker. “And precious few women to go around.”
“I think she’s ruptured something,” moaned Tom from where he had landed on the ground.
“That’s ridiculous,” Lyla said. “Get up. You’re not hurt.”
Almost absently, the third young man lifted her bag from her hand, weighed it briefly, then handed it back to her with a whistle.
“What’s goin’ on over here? An accident?”
Another voice, this one older and more authoritative.
Lyla turned to see the stock figure of a middle-aged man step forward from the depths of the nearby saloon.
A silver star glinted on his chest. There were no sheriffs in New York, but she had read plenty of novels about the Wild West, and she knew who this man was.
“Deputy Morrow,” called one of the young men. “Just in time.”