The Confidential Life of Eugenia Cooper (5 page)

“Maybe I oughta go and tell him his lady’s runnin’ off.”

She gave the man a sideways look but continued to maintain her silence.

He sat straighter and made a show of leaning toward the window. “Fine fella like that surely would pay well for the return of his woman.”

Gennie’s heart had begun to pound. One word from this ruffian and she’d be found out. In all likelihood, she’d be summarily hauled from the train. Depending on whether Gennie could convince him otherwise, Chandler might also tell her father.

She sighed. Though she’d asked the Lord to close this door if it was not one He wanted her to walk through, Gennie had never considered He might actually do so.

The vile man leaned toward the window, then glanced over at her and smiled. The twin emotions of fear and loathing battled as she tapped on his arm.

“Look here, sir,” she said. Then the whistle blew and the train jerked forward, knocking the ruffian back in his seat. “A pity.” Gennie settled back for the ride. “We’ll never know what might have happened, will we?”

Somewhere between Buck Springs and Deadwood, Mae caught up to the horse thief who’d taken her prize mare. Negotiations broke down when the distressed damsel attempted to take back what was rightfully hers. She lost a day and a night languishing in the jail-house—they both did—until finally some man figured out you couldn’t steal what was yours.

She could’ve complained, maybe even found fault enough to call the governor—an old friend who’d surely listen—but a woman of the West had no time for such trifling matters. Though, in a backward manner, she had done her job and seen the thief captured.

And so Mae, reunited with her steed, rode off into the sunset. It was only when she reached the horizon that she realized she’d ridden into a trap.

Denver, Colorado

Today was shaping up to be the best day he’d had in ages. Daniel Beck pushed back from his desk and walked to the window. Today the white-capped Rockies appeared deep purple against the brilliant blue of the July sky, putting him in mind of Scafell Pike near the Beck ancestral home in Britain.

Recollections of feeble childhood attempts at scaling the mountain, along with later successful endeavors, were among the rare good memories of time spent with his younger brother, Edwin. Three years and
thousands of miles separated them now, as did one lovely, green-eyed female.

Two, actually.

Daniel stepped away from the window. He wouldn’t let ancient history wreak havoc on a perfect, if unseasonably cool, day.

Shifting his thoughts, Daniel reached for the telegram from his man in Chicago. It contained good news—a solution was on the way to a problem more troubling than any of his business ventures could produce. It was a very good day.

Though his office was of considerable size, today it would not hold him. He longed to be outdoors. He scooped up his hat and strode out the door.

His assistant found him on the stairs, just a few steps from freedom.

“You’ve a note, sir, just delivered, and these letters too, all marked urgent,” Hiram called.

Daniel briefly considered the possibility that news of the aftereffects of the Leadville miners’s strike might be contained in any or all of the correspondence. While Beck Mines had come through the disruption without suffering permanent harm, many others had not. Too often the mail delivery contained more unofficial pleas for help than anything else.

He could deal with that tomorrow.

“Leave them in my office, Hiram.” Daniel took the stairs two at a time, bypassing the formality of speaking to the cluster of banker types crowding the building’s palatial lobby. Several called his name, but Daniel kept walking.

“But, sir,” echoed above the other voices as Daniel weaved through the crowd and out into the midmorning sunshine.

Denver smelled like mud and horse manure, a beautiful scent to a man whose greatest displeasure had always been being cooped up indoors.

His driver met him at the door, but Daniel waved him away. “Go on home, Isak. I’m of a mind to ride today.”

Daniel turned toward the livery, intending to saddle the spirited bay mare he kept in town for days like today. Yanking at the starched collar that threatened to strangle him, he waited for a streetcar to pass, then set out across the busy thoroughfare.

“Sir, begging your pardon,” came the persistent voice of Hiram Nettles.

Daniel stopped short and let a buggy full of females pass, keeping his attention focused on the livery and not the enticement a quartet of finely dressed women offered. By necessity, his was a solitary life, and one of the reasons for that rode in the back of the buggy beside the mayor’s daughter.

“Lovely morning, isn’t it, Mr. Beck?” Anna Finch called.

Daniel tipped his hat at Barnaby Finch’s youngest daughter and her companions. “Indeed it is, Miss Finch. Ladies.”

Anna leaned forward, holding on to her absurd creation of a hat with both hands. “Will I see you at the Miller soiree this evening?”

Daniel took a deep breath and let it out slowly. At best, the Miller soiree would be an evening of pointless and below-average conversation. At worst, the occasion would be another in a seemingly endless parade of political events disguised as parlor entertainment. In either case, he’d rather be horsewhipped than attend.

Unfortunately, Anna Finch took his silent no for a yes.

“I look forward to renewing our acquaintance then, Mr. Beck,” she called as the buggy turned and mercifully disappeared around the corner.

Barnaby Finch, Daniel’s neighbor, had been trying to pawn Anna off on him since she returned from her East Coast school last summer. For her part, Anna seemed a more-than-willing participant in the
scheme. Obviously Finch figured he owned half of Colorado, so buying a husband for his youngest shouldn’t be an issue. He’d certainly had no trouble betrothing the other four in a similar fashion.

But Daniel Beck could not be bought. Better men than Barnaby Finch had tried and failed.

Daniel jerked off his collar and tossed it behind him while he waited for a team of slow moving mules to pass. The delay allowed his assistant to catch up. Rather than fall in step beside Daniel, the young man planted himself squarely in his path. In one hand he held Daniel’s muddied collar; in the other was a fistful of papers.

Daniel gave Hiram a look that had caused many a grown man to shrink back in fear. His assistant, however, merely pressed on with his cause.

“I would be remiss in my duties if I let you leave without calling your attention to the importance of these.” He thrust the papers toward Daniel. “Mr. Beck, I must insist.”

“You must insist, Hiram?” Daniel tempered his urge to laugh. “Very well.”

He folded the documents in half and stuffed them into his pocket, then pressed past a buckboard filled with mining equipment to reach the front of the livery. The rush of activity inside let Daniel know his presence had been noted and his horse was being prepared.

“Are you finished, Hiram?”

While his assistant nodded, a boy hurried toward Daniel with boots and riding attire.

“Excellent,” Daniel said. “Your work here is done. I suggest you return to the office.” He turned to enter the livery, then thought better of his abrupt dismissal. “Hiram,” he called, and the young man trotted back toward him. “Please understand I appreciate your efforts.” He patted his pocket. “And rest assured I will read these today.”

An hour later, with a bracing wind cutting across his face and the city of Denver at his back, Daniel decided he might not read anything work related today. Maybe not even tomorrow, as he had a bedroll in his saddlebag.

Then he thought of Charlotte. So like her late mother, and so unlike the Beck family whose heritage she shared.
Thank You, Lord, for that dual blessing.

Just this morning, the imp had yanked on his coattails as he headed for the door and asked, “Are you leaving me again, Papa? Won’t you be home tonight to play charades?”

Daniel halted the mare beside a gurgling stream. Charlotte was a Beck in one way: what she wanted, she generally got. He smiled. And what she stated with firmness that morning was that she required her papa to tuck her into bed tonight.

“So be it.” Daniel glanced at the sun overhead, then jumped down to water the horse. A stiff breeze whipped past and caught the papers in his pocket, sending them flying. He retrieved the ones he could, then climbed into the saddle and chased down the last. When his fingers finally closed around the fleeing envelope, his eyes took in the distinctly British stamps.

A letter from Beck Manor.

His heart sank. How had they found him? Moreover, why?

He turned the letter over and stared at the handwriting as if it might hold the key. Unless he missed his guess, his father’s hand and not Edwin’s wrote this.

Not that it mattered. He hadn’t wanted either to find him, much less send a letter as if he were still a member of the Beck clan.

Daniel shoved the letter back into his pocket, out of sight, and dug in his heels, urging the mare toward home.

When he arrived, Charlotte met him at the barn with a laugh more
like his brother’s than her mother’s. He thought of the letter in his pocket, and for a second, his temper flared.

“Ride me twice around the barn,” she called.

Daniel reached down and scooped the girl into the saddle ahead of him. The great antidote to any anger was his daughter, he remembered, as they flew at high speed in a circle so familiar the poor horse could likely run the path in her sleep.

After two laps, Charlotte was content to sail off the horse into his arms, then float to the ground in a swirl of arms, legs, and braids. Again she laughed, and this time it stabbed his heart even as it made him smile.

As was their custom, Charlotte led him around the front of the house, and then, as if she were a lady coming to call, he opened the gate for her with a sweeping bow. Any passerby would think him daft for knocking at the door of his own home, but Charlotte loved to make a grand entrance.

The door swung open on well-oiled hinges, revealing Elias Howe, who today wore the colors of his former Confederate regiment as well as a smart cap of dark wool that covered most of his gray curls. “Fancy meeting you here, miss. Top of the evening,” he said as if he hadn’t performed this routine for Charlotte almost daily since she came to live with them.

Had it been five years already?

“Charmed, Mr. Howe,” the ten-year-old said with mock formality, tugging on the strap of her overalls. “Has my lady-in-waiting departed for the evening?” she asked in an awful attempt at Daniel’s British accent.

“Indeed she has,” Elias said. “Tova’s done headed home for the night. A day of cleaning up after the likes of you has exhausted her.” Elias smiled at Daniel over Charlotte’s head. “Evenin’, Daniel.”

Daniel responded in kind, but his attention was fully on Charlotte. He was besotted with the child, as was Elias, the old ship’s cook, who bent his creaking bones into a formal bow that would have passed as appropriate in Queen Victoria’s drawing room.

The thought reminded him of the letter in his pocket, likely from a man duly knighted, who had taken tea in Her Majesty’s drawing room more than once.

Daniel’s fingers worried the edge of the letter, then abruptly withdrew from his pocket. The earl would probably like nothing better than to cast a pall on his evening with Charlotte. The letter would have to wait.

“Go wash up, Charlotte,” he said, repeating the command twice before the princess-in-training deemed it worthy of a response.

“You know I prefer Charlie.”

“And
I
prefer a daughter who does not speak in an unladylike manner to her father,
Charlotte.
” He paused to put on his sternest look, a difficult feat given the grin on the girl’s face. “Surely Miss McTaggart taught you the proper way to converse with your elders.”

The face she made nearly caused him to believe the argument was over. “Miss McTaggart had too many rules,” she said, turning a perfectly sweet expression into a pout.

“Good rules, I warrant,” he replied, “and I shall see that the new Nanny McTaggart also upholds these rules.”