Chapter Three
Lark walked into town and found the weather-beaten old hotel. She didn’t have much money, and she’d have to find a job fast. The frail, elderly man at the desk seemed curious. A stranger, particularly an unescorted woman, was a novelty in any area of the West.
“How’s the job opportunities around here?”
His gold-rimmed glasses slid down his thin nose. “For a lady?”
She didn’t want to lie, but she surely didn’t want anyone tracking her back to Buck Shot and the bank robbery. “You see, I was a mail-order bride for a rancher in the next county and when I got here, he didn’t want me, drove me to the nearest crossroads. I managed to catch a ride on a wagon, and now I’m pretty much stranded here.”
“What kind of a low-down polecat would do that to a lady?” His voice was sympathetic.
She thought about Larado, that rascal. “Reckon I’m not a very good judge of men. Anyway, thought I might be able to get a job, earn enough for a train ticket back to Texas.”
He scratched his white head. “Café might could use a new cook.”
Lark sighed. She was a terrible cook, unlike her perfect sister, Lacey. “I’m a pretty good cowboy, really good with horses. I can rope and shoot better than most men.”
The old man laughed. “Sorry, miss, you know most ranchers aren’t gonna hire a female as a ranch hand.”
His condescending attitude made her want to reach across the counter and smack him.
“Besides,” he said, “even if a rancher was to hire you, where would you sleep? You wouldn’t want to share a bunkhouse with a bunch of wranglers.”
Now that was the truth. She pictured being surrounded by snoring, dirty cowboys scratching and breaking wind. “Well, I’ll look around and see what’s available in the morning. Is there a place to get a bite?”
“A café down the street, not too good. I told you they was needing a cook.”
She turned to go. They’d think not too good if she was doing the cooking.
“Oh, and Mrs. Jones is looking for a housekeeper. She’s got the biggest house in town, but she’s real particular.”
“Thanks.” Lark wasn’t much on housekeeping either. “Maybe I’ll look into it.”
The old man had known what he was talking about. She got herself a quick sandwich, which wasn’t too good, then walked back to the small hotel. This was barely a town—few citizens, and not a lot of activity. It would be a perfect place to hide out until she could raise enough money to leave. She’d forgotten to even ask if a stage came through at all. It was obvious there was no train. Maybe it would take a while for word of the bank robbery to drift to this sleepy hamlet.
She counted her money and went to bed early. Tomorrow she would figure out what to do next. When she closed her eyes she saw Larado’s rugged face and crooked grin, then cursed the night she had gotten involved with the saddle tramp.
The next morning, she began to look for a job. Already word had spread about the newcomer in town, because a ranch wife stopped her to offer her a job as a bunkhouse cook. Lark sighed. She was desperate, but not that desperate. Besides, after they tasted her cooking she’d be fired right off.
She found some ranchers having coffee at the local cafe and tried to hire on as a ranch hand. One old geezer laughed so hard, he almost swallowed his false teeth. Lark managed not to whack him in the eye. The others seemed to think she was joking. Discouraged, she went out on the wooden sidewalk and looked up and down. What to do?
There was a saloon on the street, but she’d already decided she’d never work in a saloon again, no matter how desperate she got.
She tried the general store, but the short, bald owner said he and his wife could handle the business and suggested that if she needed a job she should get married. Lark had a terrible urge to push him into the pickle barrel, but managed to restrain herself.
It was still early. She returned to the hotel lobby, wondering if there was a local paper. The old man at the desk told her there was a weekly and handed her a copy. There were no job listings, but a mail-order bride column. Ha! She wasn’t that desperate yet.
Abut that time, an elegant man came down the stairs carrying a black-and-white cat. “Ah, a damsel in distress? May I be of assistance, mademoiselle?”
“Meow,” said the cat.
Lark looked at the man. He was about fifty, maybe, finely dressed, with a small mustache and goatee. His accent was foreign.
“How do you do?”
He stopped and bowed low, took her hand, and kissed the back of it. “I am very well. And you, miss?”
She pulled her hand away. “I’m new in town,” she said. “I don’t suppose you know of any jobs?”
“Hmm.” He pulled at his goatee. “Come along with me and Miss Mew Mew to my shop, and we’ll talk. At the very least, yes, I can offer you a cup of tea.”
“That would be very nice. It’s cool out there this morning.”
He transferred the cat to the other arm. “I am Pierre. I own a millinery shop down the street. A beautiful woman like you, you wear fine hats, yes?”
“Sometimes.” Actually, she wore a Stetson more often than anything, but she was flustered at the compliment. “And I am…Lacey, Lacey Van Schuyler.” She decided to use her sister’s name in case the law was looking for Lark.
“A beautiful woman always has lots of hats, oui.” He escorted her out on the wooden sidewalk and down to a tiny shop at the end of the street. “Here I make the beautiful chapeaus for the lovely ladies.” He opened the door and escorted Lark inside, where he put Miss Mew Mew in the shop window. The big cat promptly curled up to doze in the sun while he stirred up the tiny parlor stove and put on a kettle of water.
Lark looked around. It was a small shop with a display of fine ladies’ hats in the window. “Oh my, these are beautiful.”
He smiled at her. “I have talent, yes, and I eke out a living here, but sometime I will move on.”
Lark walked around, admiring the hats. “You seem so out of place in this town. I’d expect you’d be more at home in some big city like New York or Chicago.”
Pierre frowned as if his head hurt. “I was previously in San Francisco, and before that Cincinnati, but unfortunately, rich widows seemed to think my interest was more than professional and…” He shrugged and didn’t finish.
So this is what a gigolo looks like, she thought.
He made the tea and poured it into dainty cups, gesturing her to a chair. “Ah, this is more like it. Perhaps business will be slow today.”
“You actually make a living selling hats in this village?”
“Let us say, I have been the beneficiary of some very generous older ladies. I keep thinking I’ll find another, perhaps one who has inherited a rich ranch or something.” He gave her a charming smile.
“Ah.” She nodded as the realization struck her. “And you meet these ladies because they come into your shop?”
“Oui, I fulfill their, ah, most wonderful dreams.”
She looked around at the hats. “You have a lot of real talent,” she said.
He smiled again. “That’s exactly