Oh, how she longed to trust him. Yet how could she dare to when he hadn’t even told her about that deadly gunfight Maisie was so proud of? When Marybeth spoke of delaying their marriage, his hurt feelings and disappointment had been obvious. Shouldn’t he have bragged about the killing, assuming she’d regard him as a hero and change her mind? She’d been honest with him about her family, at least as close to honest as she’d dared to be, but he was hiding a very significant happening in his life.
“This is the street.”
Rand steered her down a row of attractive two-story houses, several of which rivaled some of Boston’s finer clapboard homes. One redbrick structure reminded her of Boston’s older Federal-style mansions. Numerous houses were in varying stages of completion, adding to the picture of the growing community about which Colonel and Mrs. Northam had told Marybeth. Young cottonwood and elm trees lined the street, and several fenced-in yards boasted a variety of shrubbery and colorful flowers in the last blooms of summer.
“What a pretty town.” Her words came out on a sigh.
“We like it.” Rand smiled his appreciation of her compliment, and her heart lifted unexpectedly.
Peace hung in the air like a warm mantle, belying the town’s Wild West location. Maybe Esperanza would be a good place to call home after she found Jimmy. It all depended upon the people and whether or not she fit into the community.
“Here’s Mrs. Foster’s house.” Rand indicated a pretty brown house with a white picket fence, a stone foundation, a wide front porch whose roof was supported by slender columns, and gabled windows jutting out from the second floor.
A slender, gray-haired woman with a slightly bent posture bustled out of the front door. “Oh, here you are at last. Welcome, welcome.” She descended the steps, holding the railing beside them, and pulled Marybeth into a warm embrace. “I’m so glad to meet you, Miss O’Brien. Welcome to Esperanza. Welcome to my home.”
Tears flooded Marybeth’s eyes. She hadn’t been held in a maternal embrace in the four long years since Mam died, and oh, how she’d missed it. No formal introduction could have moved Marybeth as this lady’s greeting did. She obviously possessed an open heart and generous spirit, just like some of the older ladies at her Boston church. “I’m so pleased to meet you, too, Mrs. Foster.”
“Hello, Rand.” The lady embraced him briefly and then looped an arm in Marybeth’s and propelled her toward the stairs. “Come along, my dear. Tolley brought your trunk and carried it up to your room. If you need help unpacking, I’ll be happy to assist you.”
“Thank you.” Marybeth glanced over her shoulder. Da never let Mam have friends, but Rand seemed pleased by Mrs. Foster’s warm welcome.
Inside the cozy, well-furnished parlor, Mrs. Foster seated Marybeth on a comfortable green-brocade settee, waving Rand to the spot beside her. “You two sit right here, and I’ll bring tea.” She left the room humming.
“I sure am glad to see her so happy.” Rand had removed his hat and placed it on a nearby chair. He brushed a hand through his dark brown hair and smoothed out the hat line. “She’s been grieving for a long time. Probably will for the rest of her life.” The hint of emotion in his voice revealed genuine compassion. “Having you stay here will be good for her.”
Marybeth could not discern any ulterior motive in his words or demeanor. Once again she was confounded. Why would a gunslinger care about an old widow? “I’ll be glad to help in any way I can.” She eyed the piano. “That’s a beautiful instrument. Do you suppose she would let me play it?” When Da wasn’t around, Mam had taught Marybeth to play, using the piano in a neighborhood church. She’d gone to practice as often as she could, first to escape Da’s anger, later for the sheer enjoyment of playing.
“I think she’d be pleased to hear you.” Rand moved a hand closer to Marybeth’s but pulled it back before he made contact, apparently rethinking the gesture. “I’d like to hear you play, too.”
The intensity of his gaze stirred an unfamiliar sensation in her chest. Was it admiration? Oddly, traitorously, she hoped he did admire her. What girl didn’t want to be appreciated?
“Well, I’d need to practice first. It’s been a while since I played.”
He seemed about to respond, but Mrs. Foster entered the room carrying a black-lacquered tray filled with all the necessities for a lovely tea. Rand stood, as any true gentleman would, until Mrs. Foster reclaimed her seat.
“Oh, my.” He looked hungrily at the cake, the look every cook hoped for. “It’s a good thing we didn’t have any dessert at the café.”
“The café!” Mrs. Foster blustered in an amiable way. “Why, I can outcook that Pam Williams any day.” She raised her dark gray eyebrows and stared at Rand expectantly.
“Now, Mrs. Foster.” He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “There’s a reason I never volunteer to judge the Harvest Home baking contest or any other one. As a bachelor, I don’t want to get in trouble with any of the many fine cooks we’re so fortunate to have here in Esperanza. You don’t know how much we depend on your good graces to have a decent meal from time to time.”
He waggled his eyebrows at Marybeth and she bit back a laugh. It was their first moment of camaraderie, and it felt...right. Very much so. Oh, Lord, hold on to my heart. Please don’t let me fall in love with this man.
* * *
“Humph.” Mrs. Foster poured tea and passed it to her guests. If Rand weren’t so used to Mother’s Wedgwood china, he’d worry about breaking the delicate cup that was too small for his large hands.
Mrs. Foster served the cake and then focused on Rand. “Well, young man, you won’t be a bachelor for much longer. Have you chosen your wedding date?”
He did his best not to choke on his tea. Mrs. Foster’s question was understandable, but he hadn’t had time to figure out how to tell folks the wedding was off. Besides, his family should hear it first and from him. The way gossip both good and bad traveled through the community, he’d get home and find out Nate and Susanna had heard all about the “postponed” wedding.
“I’m sure everyone knows how much planning a wedding requires.” Marybeth sipped from her cup. “In fact, Maisie Henshaw tells me the church is planning to build an addition right after harvest, one that would accommodate large parties such as wedding receptions.” She took a bite of cake. “Oh, my, this certainly is an award-winning recipe.”
The smile she gave Mrs. Foster was utterly guileless, but Rand’s chest tightened. Marybeth hadn’t lied, but she hadn’t told the whole truth, either. Of course, he still had some truth-telling to do, as well, so he mustn’t judge her too harshly.
He noticed that Mrs. Foster’s eyes narrowed briefly, as though maybe she hadn’t been fooled by Marybeth’s little diversion from answering the question. She didn’t comment, however, just took a bite of cake. Food always provided a handy excuse for not saying something. Rand often used that ploy himself.
They passed several more minutes trading mundane information, as folks do when first meeting. Rand already knew everything Marybeth told Mrs. Foster, because she’d written it all in her letters. Too bad she hadn’t felt inclined to warn him about her plans to postpone the wedding until she found her brother. Guilt smote him again. He should have written to her about the gunfight. Should have anticipated someone else bringing it up. He couldn’t get over the idea that she already knew and that Maisie had told her. But what exactly did she know? What did she really think? These were things they needed to settle between the two of them, so he sure couldn’t ask her those questions in front of Mrs. Foster. The dear old lady never hesitated to give her opinion on