Hart raised a brow. “So you wanted her to lie, too?”
She waved a hand, the sleeve of her gown dripping lace. “You make it sound so sordid. We were only trying to help.”
“I don’t need help,” Hart told her. “I’m perfectly capable of finding myself a wife if I wanted one. And I don’t.”
She leaned forward, frown gathering. “And why not?”
Her husband knew the full story of his past, his upbringing in the crowded orphanage, his short time as an outlaw, the deadly consequences of his decision to testify against the gang. Would Wyckoff be strong enough to deny this woman if she asked him about it? Would the story have any chance of remaining hidden if the sheriff or Hart told her?
Would he escape this room without giving her something?
He squared his shoulders. “I was in love once. She died. I don’t much care to try again.”
Mrs. Wyckoff made a commiserating noise. Then she rose and went to the sideboard. “I don’t believe you met my daughter, Ursula.” She returned to hand him a daguerreotype. “I thought my first husband silly for insisting that we name her after me and even sillier for going to the expense of having this made.”
Hart gazed down at the little girl with a riot of pale curls and a grin that likely tugged at her father’s heart. “Is that why you call her Miss Eugenie now?”
Mrs. Wyckoff retrieved the image. “This isn’t Eugenie, Mr. McCormick. It’s her older sister. My Ursula died when she was seven. She wandered too close to the hearth, and her dress caught on fire.”
His stomach clenched. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”
She stroked the picture as if she would have liked to stroke her daughter’s curls. “So am I. I still miss her.” She dropped her hand. “But my point is this: Where would Eugenie and my son John be now if I had been afraid to try again? Where would any of them be if I had refused to marry after my first husband died?”
He sat straighter. “It’s different for a woman. You don’t have much choice but to wed.”
She set down the picture. “I had choices, Mr. McCormick. I could have kept all my suitors dangling and raised my children in peace. I chose to marry and continue with life. So must you.”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” Hart said with a shake of his head, “but there’s no must about it. Besides, my job keeps me too busy to take a wife.”
She nodded. “I’ll speak to Lewis about changing your schedule.”
That was not what he’d had in mind. He enjoyed his work, knew he made a difference. “I live in a small cabin on the Howards’ land. It doesn’t have room for another.”
“I’m certain your wife wouldn’t mind staying in a hotel while you build her a house. Or perhaps Clay Howard can be persuaded to sell you one of his properties in town.”
He wasn’t about to ask the successful businessman for another favor besides allowing Hart to live in the cabin. “Mrs. Wyckoff, I won’t go along with this.”
She eyed him. “Is it Beth Wallin?”
She could not have guessed his feelings. He kept his face impassive from long practice. “No.”
She sighed. “I thought she might be too young to join the Literary Society and accept this assignment, but Mrs. Howard assured us she was a woman of character despite her years and had had much success with her own family. Perhaps I should take on the task instead. After all, you would have a difficult time refusing your superior’s wife.”
He would indeed. Except for a short stint last year when Henry Adkins had been elected, Lewis Wyckoff had been sheriff since Hart had arrived in 1865. He’d listened to Hart’s story, his dreams, and taken a chance that a onetime outlaw would make a good deputy. Hart had never given him reason to regret his decision. He wasn’t about to start now.
“Why are you doing this, Mrs. Wyckoff?” he asked. “You and your husband have been nothing but kindness. Why force me to wed?”
For the first time, her face softened. “Oh, Hart. I’m not trying to harm you. Seattle needs men like you—strong, certain, forthright. But keeping everyone at arm’s length is no way to live. If Miss Wallin cannot find you a woman you’d be proud to call wife, I’ll simply have to delay her entrance into the Society and undertake the commission myself.”
He couldn’t do that to Beth. Hart rose and slipped on his hat. “Don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. Wyckoff. The Literary Society would be fortunate to have Beth Wallin as a member. I promise you, if there’s any woman on this earth who could make me consider matrimony, it’s her.”
As Beth went about her chores that afternoon and the next morning, she gave considerable thought as to who might be the right match for Hart. She didn’t believe his protests. Her brothers had all reacted that way to courting, only to fall in love when they found the right brides. Hart might bluster all he liked, but the ladies of the Literary Society were right—he’d make some woman a fine husband.
She decided as she cleaned out the main cabin, which served as a rooming house for her brother’s logging crew, that he needed a woman of substance, maturity. As she helped John’s wife, Dottie, bring in the wash hanging on the line before a squall came in, she determined that an impoverished lady might touch on his sense of chivalry and convince him to help. And she kept her promise. She said nothing to any of her family about her plan.
She had a few women in mind when she went to fetch the mail on Wednesday. Wallin Landing had its own post office, sanctioned by the Postmaster General of the United States, no less, but someone had to carry the letters and parcels from Seattle to her brother James’s store and back. When she stopped at the mercantile on Front Street, however, Seattle’s postmaster was apologetic.
“A big storm ran down the Strait,” Mr. Pumphrey told her, rubbing at the counter with his thick fingers. “I heard it even toppled houses in Victoria. All ships have been delayed, alas.”
“We’ll send someone back later in the week,” Beth promised. “Have you seen Deputy McCormick today?”
“He rode past not a quarter hour ago, heading toward the docks.” He leaned across the counter, heavy features lifting. “If you see him, will you tell him his books arrived?”
Beth glanced to the far wall, where leather spines promised adventure and romance. Mr. Pumphrey had stocked the largest collection of books and magazines of any mercantile in Seattle. Her brother John usually had to be dragged from the store before he spent all his money.
“What did he order?” she asked.
His smile brightened his green eyes. “Dime novels—cowboys, train robberies, kidnapped maidens. Perhaps he learns something about being a deputy by reading them.”
She promised to let Hart know. Leaving her brother’s horses tied in front of the store, she started for the docks. Dime novels. Who would have thought? They were thrilling, sensationalist, romantic. A shame he hadn’t learned more from them than the importance of enforcing the law.
The docks were busy as she approached. When she was a girl, Seattle had boasted only one wharf. Now six others stretched across the shores of Elliott Bay. Three ships had made it to port before the big storm. Sailors and teamsters were still working to unload the cargo. The steamer from San Francisco had also docked, longboats heading out to ferry the passengers and luggage ashore.
Even in all the movement, she easily spotted Hart’s black hat, his tall figure. Because it was useless to call over the whine and whir of the nearby