What was it? Carson wondered. What had Becky said that transformed Marlee’s already lovely face into one of such merriment?
The day was cold but windless and the high sun overhead sent its rays down onto the girls. When Marlee turned her head, her hair seemed to shine with hints of red, at least all he could see of it under her bonnet.
He wondered what her hair looked like beneath that bonnet. He’d caught a glimpse of it in Willard Meade’s store when he’d seen her peek through the curtained doorway from the back room. Silky and soft, surely. He’d had an overwhelming urge to go to her, touch her locks, coil them around his fingers.
An urgency grew in him with predictable results at the memory of later that evening when he’d found her alone in the alley. How lovely she’d looked in the moonlight. Then, how she’d tried to pull a gun on him to scare him away.
Carson’s desire for her grew. She was a proper young lady raised among polite society back east. He hadn’t expected her to attempt to bluff her way out of their encounter in the alley. She had spirit—something else he hadn’t expected of her—which was probably the reason he’d kissed her.
Placing his palms against the cold glass of the window, Carson leaned in as he watched Marlee and her friends across the street. He’d kissed her, all right. It was hardly the way he conducted himself, certainly not the sort of thing he made a habit of doing. Surely every mama in town had pushed a young lady or two his way, hoping for a match. Carson didn’t have time for matters of the heart. Business, making money, securing a solid financial footing was what mattered.
Carson drew in a long, heavy breath as he studied Marlee. Her slender hands, the sway of her skirt, the little glimpse of her ankle he’d caught, the bodice of her dress that swelled to—
“You okay, Mr. Tate?”
Carson snapped back to attention as Drew Giles, his office helper, walked through the door, staring as if he’d suddenly lost his mind. Not that he blamed him. Carson wasn’t given to long moments of gazing idly out the window.
Barely twenty years old, Drew was a tall, slim young man with a shock of thick blond hair. He’d helped out at Carson’s office for several months now and seemed to have a good head on his shoulders.
Drew walked closer, then glanced out the window. A knowing grin spread over his face. “I see you’re admiring the town’s Christmas decorations.”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” Carson told him.
“Bigger things to come,” Drew said. He nodded out the window. “The whole idea of running the trains was Marlee’s idea.”
Carson frowned—both because he didn’t like that his feelings were so obvious, and that he had no clue what the “train idea” was.
“Seems some of the ladies were worried about enough folks coming to the festival,” Drew said. “The way I hear it, Marlee had the idea to run trains to all the nearby towns and bring them in for the day. Hundreds of people will be coming to Harmony.”
Carson glanced out the window again. Marlee had thought of that? It was a damn good idea—yet fraught with problems.
“We’ll get all kinds. Pickpockets, scam artists, thieves. The sheriff will have his hands full, that’s for sure,” Carson said. “But at least my investors aren’t coming until next month. I sure as hell don’t want them here deciding on whether to invest in my weaving mill with a town full of criminals.”
“They changed their plans,” Drew said. “They’ll be here during the festival.”
Carson’s head snapped around. “What the hell?”
Drew pulled a telegram from his back pocket and presented it to Carson.
“I just picked this up,” he said.
Carson scanned the telegram, then crushed it into his fist. “Damn it. This is going to play hell with getting my mill going. I can’t have those men here with scalawags and riff-raff running loose in our streets.”
He grabbed his Stetson and headed out the door.
Carson spotted Chord Barrett outside the jailhouse nailing Wanted posters beside the door as he made his way down the boardwalk. He’d left his office in such a hurry he hadn’t picked up his coat, but he was still so fired up about trainloads of strangers coming to town that the cold barely registered.
“Hell …” he muttered as he saw that Sheriff Thompson’s horse wasn’t tethered to the hitching post in front of the jail. He’d wanted to speak to the man personally. Not that he had anything against Chord. He’d proved himself a good deputy, despite the fact that he had the voice of a lark and toured the country doing musical performances with that family of his.
A man couldn’t pick his family—as Carson well knew—and he doubted Chord would have selected those peculiar parents of his who’d given their children musical names. He doubted, too, that Chord would otherwise have been part of the family in which all the kids—sons and daughter alike—favored each other so strongly, all of them tall, with light brown hair and cool blue eyes.
“Afternoon, Carson,” Chord called. “How you doing?”
“Not so good,” he replied.
Chord turned away from the Wanted posters and laid the hammer aside. “Sheriff’s out at the Dawson ranch. What’s on your mind?”
“What the hell is the town thinking, bringing in trainloads of strangers?”
Chord threw up his hands in surrender. “I’ll be damned if I know. Those ladies on the festival committee should have talked to the sheriff before doing all of this. It’ll be nothing but trouble, that’s for sure.”
“More than you think,” Carson told him. “Those investors who’re interested in the weaving mill are coming smack in the middle of the festival.”
The deal for the construction of a weaving mill on the outskirts of Harmony had been in the works for months. Carson had arranged for investors from back east to come take a look at the place and hear the details of his plan. He wouldn’t be the only one to benefit from the mill, of course. It would bring new jobs and new wealth to Harmony.
Chord muttered a curse under his breath, then opened the door to the jailhouse. “Ian, get out here, will you?”
Harmony’s other deputy, Ian Caldwell, strode outside. He was a tall man, solid, and knew how to take care of himself. Carson had seen him drag drunk cowboys out of the Gold Garter Saloon and toss them into jail with little effort.
Carson told him what he’d just explained to Chord, and Ian shook his head. A quiet moment passed, then he muttered, “Women.”
As one, they all turned to gaze down the street.
Marlee, Audrey and Becky stood outside Flora’s Bake Shop. Lucy Hubbard had joined them. Moments dragged by in silence, until finally Ian spoke.
“Why won’t a woman just do what you tell her to do?” he mumbled.
There was no hostility in his words, no anger, not even any confusion or wonderment, only a longing and a hurt that seemed to roll from him in waves.
Everyone in town had speculated that something had gone on between Ian and Lucy back in Marlow, Colorado. Nobody knew for sure, one way or the other, because neither of them spoke of it.
“I’ll talk to the sheriff when he gets back in town,” Chord said. “He could order the musical performances canceled—which would suit me just fine—but that’s what’s bringing everybody to town.”
Ian shook his head. “I don’t see the sheriff doing that.”
“He may not care so much about disappointing folks who want to hear Christmas music,” Chord said. “But he sure as hell doesn’t want to hurt the