“He didn’t seem dangerous,” Clay told him. “Small-time thief from the looks of ‘im. He’ll get a hearing, and the Wichita manager will have a chance to say his piece.”
“We have to press charges,” Harrison said.
“Rightly so,” Clay agreed.
“Your coffee’s on the house,” the manager said, extending a hand. “Supper too, if you want to come back later.”
Clay shook his hand. “I’ll do that.”
He exited the man’s office just in time to collide with a young woman on her way through the pantry area.
The stack of plates she’d been carrying slid sideways, and Clay made an ineffective lunge to keep them from falling.
A mountain of white china struck the floor with an ear-splitting clatter, shards flying in every direction.
The lovely dark-haired waitress with whom he’d collided gaped at the pile of debris. “Shit, shit, shit,” she sputtered.
The exclamation from such a sweet-looking young lady was a surprise that made him want to laugh. Instead, he pursed his lips and composed his expression.
Her shocked expression raised and her round dark gaze locked on Clay, then dropped to the silver star pinned to his shirtfront. Her attention slid to the .45 holstered at his hip.
The shrill whistle of the departing train seemed to jolt her into action, and she knelt to pick up pieces of china.
“Careful,” he said, kneeling quickly and covering her hand to stop her. “You’ll cut yourself.”
She stared at his hand on hers, and his gaze followed, seeing his dark-skinned fingers over her smaller pale ones. She drew away as though he’d bitten her.
“This does it, Miss Hollis.” A woman’s harsh voice caught Clay’s attention, and he straightened. The barrel-shaped kitchen manager glared at the young woman at his feet. “You had your last warning. This is the end of the line for you.”
Miss Hollis stood and brushed her hands together, raising her chin and meeting the stern woman’s accusatory glower straight on. For a woman so young and pretty, she sure had grit.
Sophie stared back at the woman who had it in for her. She held no hard feelings for Mrs. Winters. The woman’s position was at stake, and she’d given Sophie more chances than she should have. In most cases, the first mistake was a Harvey Girl’s last.
The room she shared with Amanda wasn’t the fanciest, but it had been adequate. Not only were three meals a day provided, but they were prepared by a gourmet chef. Looked like she would miss her favorite dessert tonight, that heavenly rich chestnut pudding made with cinnamon and red wine.
She wasn’t afraid, just angry at herself for not being able to carry out her plan. She would have to move on and utilize a back up strategy. Luckless shame. She really liked it here. “I’ll clean this up and then pack my things,” she told Mrs. Winters. “I’ll get a broom.”
“Now wait a minute.” The marshal had a voice pitched so low that a person felt its vibrations through the floorboards.
She and Mrs. Winters gave him their surprised attention.
“This wasn’t the lady’s fault.” He gestured over his shoulder with a thumb. “I barreled out o’ Mr. Webb’s office right into her. She didn’t see me comin’ or have time to move.”
When it looked as though Sophie wouldn’t be sent packing after all, Mrs. Winters’s expression revealed disappointment.
“I’ll pay for the damages,” the marshal went on. “It would be my fault if she was to lose her job because o’ my two left feet.”
Harrison Webb was now standing beside the marshal, staring at the mess on the highly polished wooden floor. “If Marshal Connor says so, it’s a fact,” he told Mrs. Winters. “This man’s the law.”
“Very well,” Mrs. Winters said. “Just clean it up. There is another train arriving shortly.”
“You will not pay for the damages, Marshal,” Mr. Webb declared. “As you said it was an accident.”
Sophie hurried to the back room for a broom, a dustpan, and a paper-lined crate. The sooner she got this mess removed, the sooner the incident would be forgotten. Just her luck for something like this to happen when Mrs. Winters was aching for her to make a mistake. Maybe she would use her three-day pass and travel while the dust settled. She’d already invented the story, she might as well follow through.
The marshal was waiting for her when she returned. She drew up short at the sight of him.
He reached for the dustpan. “You sweep. I’ll dump.”
She didn’t let go. “You don’t have to help.”
“My fault.” He tugged.
She held fast. “Not really. I was in too big of a hurry.”
The man propped a hand on his hip and squinted down at her. “You arguin’ with a lawman?”
His eyes were blue. A blue made softer and brighter by the color of the chambray shirt he wore. That silver star gleamed in a beam of light filtering in from the dining hall.
It was the August heat that stuck the high white collar of her starched black shirt to her neck and sent beads of perspiration trickling down her temple. She wasn’t given to fits of nerves or emotion, but this was definitely more than a glow.
She handed him the dustpan.
Beneath the stiff white apron and black skirt that made up her plain uniform, her damp skin prickled. She was definitely going to have to change before she served customers. She knelt and picked up the largest pieces of china and piled them in the crate.
Marshal Connor hunkered down to gather a share of debris. The bay rum he’d used after shaving that morning was a familiar scent. She’d detected it on several occasions while serving him at the lunch counter. She’d always tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible.
A waitress stepped around them on her way to the dining hall, craning her neck to watch. Sophie gave her a glare, and she hurried on.
The man beside her hadn’t noticed the interaction. Sophie’s sideways glance found a closely shaven dark square jaw, ebony brows and lashes. The hair that fell over his collar was the rich deep color of strong coffee. Perspiration rolled along her spine. Running headlong into the marshal certainly hadn’t fallen into her plans for not attracting attention to herself. He glanced up and caught her perusal.
“Clay Connor,” he said with a nod.
“I know. Sophie Hollis,” she replied.
His blue gaze traveled across her face and hair before he turned back to his task.
They finished cleaning up, and Clay picked up the crate. “Where to?”
She wasn’t about to tell him the waitresses’ most well-kept secret. All accidentally broken china was smuggled from apron pockets to outhouse to keep the damages from being deducted from their paychecks.
“There’s a rubbish bin out back.”
She led him through the sweltering kitchen to the rear door. The dry Kansas wind plastered tendrils of hair to her damp cheek, but the air felt better than the confinement of the building. She pointed out the bin.
A piercing whistle rent the summer day, preceding the arrival of the one-twenty. She glanced at the watch she wore on a chain around her neck. Orders for forty-seven had been wired ahead and she had to be at her station in a clean crisp uniform when they arrived. “I have to go,” she told him.
He dumped the crate and set it on the ground with a nod. “Sorry for the mess.”