“Ooh!” Emily screamed. “We’re moving!”
“Sit down, honey.” Mr. Harris’s voice came from the back. “Don’t want you to fall out.”
“I wanna go fast!”
Clarissa sighed. Emily always wanted to do everything fast—she talked fast, skipped instead of walking sedately and gobbled her food. Part of Clarissa lived in perpetual amusement; the other part endured perpetual exasperation and worry.
“Miss Seaforth,” Mr. Harris called, “that’s Sammy Greywolf who’s drivin’ us.”
“H’lo, Sammy,” Emily called. “My name’s Emily.”
“How do you do, Mr. Greywolf,” Clarissa added.
“The boy let out a whoop. “Ya hear that, Gray? Mister Greywolf.”
“Yeah,” Mr. Harris said drily. “I hear. Next thing you know you’ll be wearin’ a black silk top hat.”
The boy laughed and flicked the reins. “Where to, ma’am?”
“Oh.” Mentally she counted up the precious few coins at the bottom of her reticule.
“I—”
“Take her to the Smoke River Hotel,” Mr. Harris said.
“Righto, Gray. Then I’ll drive you on over to the livery stable.”
The wagon thumped along over what must be the main street and stopped in front of a white-painted three-story hotel. The next thing she knew two strong hands gripped her around the waist and lifted her down onto the board sidewalk.
“You’re shakin’,” he said quietly. “Anything wrong?”
“N-no. Thank you.”
He released her. “Nervous about meetin’ up with Caleb, maybe? Woulda thought he’d be there to meet your train.”
“He—he didn’t know when we were arriving. Exactly.” She couldn’t look at him.
“Hey, mister, what about me?” Emily stood in the wagon, arms extended. Mr. Harris swooshed her down so fast she screeched with delight. “Again! Do it again!”
Gray obliged, swinging the girl back into the wagon and then out again, while keeping one eye on Miss Seaforth. Something was wrong. He didn’t want to lay eyes on Caleb Arness anytime soon, but she did. He didn’t for one minute believe the man hadn’t known when they were arriving. So what was going on? Where was he? Probably drunk in some bar, or maybe down at Serena’s place.
Well, shoot, it wasn’t his problem. He lifted her suitcase out of the wagon and suddenly realized how light it was. “I guess you shipped your trunk on ahead, huh? You want Sammy to deliver it from the station?”
“I shipped no trunk, Mr. Harris.”
“You mean you came all the way out West with—” All at once it hit him. She had nothing but what few things were packed in that small suitcase and the clothes on her back. And he’d bet most of the things in the suitcase were Emily’s. In fact, he’d bet Miss Seaforth didn’t have a bean to her name.
“Wait for me, Sammy.” He picked up her suitcase, grabbed Emily’s hand and escorted Miss Seaforth up the steps and into the hotel.
“Harold,” he said to the skinny desk clerk. “Miss Seaforth and her daughter need a room,” he announced loudly. “And,” he murmured, “put it on my bill.”
“Yessir, Mr. Harris,” the clerk acknowledged under his breath.
“And, Harold, tell Rita that their restaurant meals are included.”
He turned to look down at Emily, who was holding on to her mother’s skirt, then hunkered down to her level. “Miss Emily? I want you to go next door with your momma and have a dish of ice cream, okay?”
“Are you coming, too, mister?”
“Yeah, in a little while. You got a favorite flavor of ice cream?”
She sent him a grin that made him feel funny in the middle. “Yes! Strawberry.”
Miss Seaforth laid a restraining hand on the girl’s red curls. “Oh, I don’t think—”
“Right.” Gray straightened to face her. “Don’t think. Your daughter wants some ice cream, and that’s all there is to it.”
“Mama, I think ice cream is the deliciousest thing in the whole world! Can I have another dish?”
Clarissa set her spoon beside her teacup. “No, honey. You’ll spoil your supper. And it’s may I have another dish.”
“But Mister Cowboy said—”
“Mister Cowboy—I mean Mr. Harris is not your father.”
“Nobody’s my father, not since Papa went away.”
She sighed. “Your papa didn’t go away, honey. Your papa was lost at sea, remember?”
Emily surveyed her with interest. “What’s lostatsea mean?”
“It means he is not able to come back, even though he wanted to more than anything in the world.” Clarissa swallowed hard over something stuck in her throat. Thank the Lord the restaurant was deserted at this hour of the day. Her nerves were badly frayed. The waitress, Rita she said her name was, said it was too late for lunch and too early for supper, but tea and ice cream would be no problem. The woman wore a crisp blue apron and had a kind face; watching her bustle back and forth made Clarissa feel a little calmer.
The restaurant next door to the hotel was cool and dim, and the red-and-gold carpeting muffled the sound of footsteps. At least the room was not swaying, like the train.
Emily scraped her spoon around and around in her bowl of ice cream. “Can I play with Sammy tomorrow?”
“No, you cannot.”
“Then what are we gonna do tomorrow, Mama?”
Clarissa pressed her lips together. She hadn’t the faintest idea what she would do tomorrow. She had expected Caleb to meet the train, and now she felt completely at sea, alone in a strange town, a small—very small—Western town, where she knew no one, in a wild, untamed state she had only recently learned was a state, with exactly two dollars to her name. What on earth would she do when that was gone?
She drew in a long, slow breath and closed her eyes. She couldn’t simply sit and wait for Caleb to realize she was here and come to find her. What if he were away on business? He could be gone for days, even weeks. If he didn’t show soon, she must look for some sort of employment, she decided. Even though she had never worked a day in her life, she had Emily to think of. She had to do something.
The waitress approached. “More tea, ma’am?”
“Oh, no thank you. Rita, may I ask you a question?”
“Why sure, miss. Fire away.”
“Well...um, does this restaurant need a...a dishwasher by any chance?”
The waitress’s dark eyebrows went up. “You don’t look like the dish-washin’ type to me, ma’am. Besides, we already got a dishwasher, Rosie Greywolf.”
“Oh. I see.”
Emily perked up. “Izzat Sammy’s mama?”
“It is,” Rita verified. “Rosie’s been washin’ dishes here for more years than I can remember.”
“What about the mercantile across the street—Ness’s, is it? Would