Deeply Devoted (15 page)

She’d taken a long time with her toilette, hoping to impress Mac. When he’d picked her up in the brougham tonight, she’d caught his appraising look as he handed her into the carriage with orders to the driver, then took his seat next to her rather than across from her.

As they continued to make their way across the room following the maître d’, Clara caught sight of a pretty blonde coming toward them on the arm of a soldier. No, it couldn’t be . . . It was Greta! She got the distinct feeling that Greta didn’t wish to be seen, but Clara stopped and spoke as they drew nearer. “One moment please, Mac. I want to say hello to someone.”

The look on Greta’s face showed her unease, but she quickly recovered as Clara spoke. “Greta, what are you doing in town tonight?”

The soldier holding Greta’s arm coughed and looked at Greta to say something. “I . . . we . . . er . . . I was just having a cup of coffee with my friend here. Bryan, this is Clara Andersen, Peter’s mother.”

“How do you do?” he said with nod.

“This is Mac Foster.” Clara indicated Mac at her side. “This is my daughter-in-law’s sister, Greta.”

Mac nodded and said, “I see. Hello.”

Greta made a move to go, but Clara’s hand stopped her. “Are you staying in Cheyenne tonight?”

“
Ja
, we are,” she answered, not looking her in the eye. She offered no further explanation, to the disappointment of Clara.

Mac nudged Clara. “Our table is waiting.”

“Well, have a nice evening then.” The young couple hurried away, leaving Clara wondering as the waiter seated them at a cozy table away from the crowd.

“Do you have more information for me, Mac? I’m anxious to hear what you’ve found out,” Clara said, folding her napkin after their delicious late-night dinner. She had eaten only half of her meal, suddenly mindful to watch her figure now that she had the attention of an eligible bachelor. Somehow her appetite had fled soon after Mac’s invitation to dinner, and then when he’d asked for a table in the corner where it was more private, well . . .

Clara’s stomach developed a severe case of the butterflies whenever she was in Mac’s presence. His enigmatic persona swallowed her up. She hoped she didn’t appear too eager to dine with her private investigator, but she couldn’t help this growing feeling for him.

Mac pushed his empty plate away, leaned back in his chair in a comfortable pose, and stared at her through dark eyes. “Why are you in such a hurry to talk business? I thought I made it clear that this was a dinner date.”

Clara felt flustered and fidgeted with her spoon as she stirred her coffee. “I . . . I’m just asking, that’s all.”

“Set your mind at ease. I hope to have confirmation on the facts we discussed in a week or so. These things take time, you know. I’ll be wired as soon as my contact has anything of substance.” He took a sip of his coffee, then blotted his mouth with his napkin. She noticed he had long, slender fingers as he folded the napkin and deliberately placed it next to his plate. Hands that might play the piano? Or stroke a woman’s cheek?

Now why was she thinking these thoughts?
What’s wrong with me?

“How about dessert? I may be able to make it worth your while.” His eyes toyed with hers with a mischievous twinkle, crinkling at the corners.

Clara felt the heat rise in her face. “I don’t think I could eat another bite, but thank you.”

“So that was your daughter-in-law’s sister that we met earlier? Is the soldier courting her? It must have been hard for him to get time away from Fort Russell to escort her to dinner.” He tilted his head upward. “You know, the third floor here has been purported to be a lover’s getaway, and . . . er . . . possibly other things go on as well.”

Clara’s heart pounded fast under her corset. Was he making reference to Greta or taunting her? She wasn’t sure. Not at all sure. “I’ve heard stories . . . but it’s all speculation. As to Greta, I know very little about Catharine or her sisters. That’s why I’m paying you to find out.” A nagging thought about Greta popped into Clara’s mind. How old was she anyway? Was she safe with this soldier? Clara had a mind to go find them and check on her. She wouldn’t want anything to happen to her, even if she was Catharine’s sister.

“Ah . . . always the reminder for services rendered. Tell me, my lovely Clara, what have you been doing for enjoyment since your husband died?”

Clara squirmed in her seat and moistened her dry lips, remembering that he’d asked her this question before. “I attend church and volunteer for a variety of things there. Before Peter was married, we frequently got together for dinner. I read a lot.”

“Sounds perfectly perfect, but boring and lonely. Are you lonely, Clara?” He paused, and when she didn’t answer, he continued. “Allow me to add a little fun to your life. It’ll be good for you.” A charming grin split his face, and his eyes smoldered through lashes too thick for a man.

She sucked in air, then released a heavy sigh. Best to say what was on her mind so there would be no misunderstanding. “That depends on what kind of fun you propose. If you mean fun up on the third floor, then I’m not interested,” she answered, compressing her lips. “That would be entirely wrong.”

Mac laughed. “That was not what I meant. However, I’ll admit the thought has crossed my mind. Not to worry, I’ll respect your wishes and your morals, though mine may differ somewhat.”

Clara blinked. What did he mean by that? She wasn’t sure if she should be flattered or not. Mac’s way of talking confused her, but she was drawn to him. “It’s getting late—I should be getting home,” she said, glancing at the watch fob dangling from her neck. She made a move to leave.

“What’s the hurry? No one is home waiting, right?” He shoved his chair back and was at her side in a heartbeat. “Besides, I’d like to have more evenings like this with you.” He leaned over to pull her chair out, and Clara could feel his warm breath along her neck.

She stood and he offered her his arm. “You’re right. There’s no one to answer to but a lonely house.”

Mac patted her hand and pulled her close to his side as they left the Tivoli. Clara couldn’t remember when she’d felt in such high spirits, and for a short while all her burdens lifted like clouds blown away by the prairie winds.

Sometime during the night, the rain stopped. Catharine was awakened with a kiss from Peter, who was shirtless but dressed in clean trousers that Angelo had delivered promptly at seven. They were too large, but Peter belted them tightly around his hips.

“Good morning, my sweet one.” He took a seat on the side of the bed. “I hated to wake you, but if we’re to have breakfast and pick up your sisters . . .” He smiled tenderly at her as he fingered a red curl lying on her shoulder. “Did I ever tell you that you’re beautiful in the morning when you first wake up?”

Pulling the covers around her chest, Catharine sat up and stretched, then stifled a yawn. “I don’t believe you have, but I’m sure I’ll never tire of hearing it from you,” she whispered. She gazed at his handsome jawline, remembering his delicious kisses and more during the night. Loving him was heaven on earth for her . . . like breathing fresh air. She’d never tire of him and didn’t want to let him go.

“I had a breakfast tray delivered to our room.” He indicated covered dishes on a nearby table. “I might let you share it with me, if you can drag your beautiful self from the bed to the table.”

She flashed him a wicked look. “I’m afraid I’m too worn out from last night.”

“You little tease. I might be tempted to get back into bed, but instead you leave me no alternative!” He leaned down and flicked back the covers, leaving her just the sheet, then lifted her in his arms, showering her with kisses along her cheek and neck. She returned his kisses with fervor, wrapping her arms about his neck. “Peter, you’re so good to me.” She saw a flicker of desire in his blue eyes as a muscle twitched in his jaw.

“Nothing’s too good for my bride. Let’s have something to eat now. Then we can continue later tonight, the next night, and forevermore trying to make one another happy. Mmm . . . that might be nice.”

The look he gave her melted her heart. He kissed her again, then he sat her in a chair at the small table and lifted the pot of tea he had steeping for her. “See if this meets with your satisfaction,” he said, handing her the cup. Admiring his strong forearms as he lifted the covered domes from their plates, she reached up to push away a lock of sandy brown hair from his eyes.

Over toast, fresh blueberry jam, and scrambled eggs, they talked about the Cristinis’ delightful supper and their frolic in the rain. Peter teased her lips with a piece of buttered toast. She caught his hands and kissed his knuckles, and finally he popped the toast into her mouth. Love was spilling over in her heart, and even more, a closer friendship with her husband was beginning. She marveled at how sweet and attentive he was to her. She didn’t mention his attitude a couple days before, not wanting to spoil their brief honeymoon.

Finally she moved to get dressed while he donned a shirt and then went to retrieve the wagon. He’d tipped the bellboy the night before to settle Star at Abney’s livery directly across from the hotel. That gave Catharine just enough time to spend on her toilette.

The dress Angelina loaned her was too short, but it was a pretty green and brown calico with a fetching row of tucks along the bodice that flared at the waist, complementing her hourglass figure. After braiding her unruly hair, she located her shoes by the door, the mud now hard and cracked and still sticking to them. They’d have to wait until she was home to be cleaned.

She laughed softly, amused by her new look. Her fingernails, usually neatly filed ovals, now had ragged edges. She hadn’t had a lot of free time, and she had quickly found out that farm work was very physical indeed. Besides the cooking and cleaning, she assisted Peter whenever a fence needed mending or barns needed mucking or the cow needed milking. Hard to believe how much her entire life had changed in less than two months. What would her mother say if she could see her now?

I do fit the part of a farmer’s wife. Would I change it for what I had before? Most definitely not!

She stared at her reflection in the cheval mirror and made a mental note to ask Peter about a new dress for church. Her clothes were showing wear, and she hoped to convince him to buy new ones for her sisters as well. They weren’t his responsibility, but they were helping out around the farm the best they could.

She stuffed all their dirty clothes into a paper sack. She’d wash the borrowed clothes, then return them the next time Peter made a trip to town. To save time, Catharine decided to go downstairs to wait for Peter. The town was thoroughly awake now, with all kind of folks moving around in wagons and carriages, or merely walking down the sidewalk on their way to their various occupations or ventures. When she stepped out of the hotel, rays of bright sunlight lit the spacious blue skies, making her squint, so she shaded her eyes with her hand.

Peter was parked a few feet away and chatting away with the pretty blonde Dorothy Miller. Catharine watched as he leaned nonchalantly against the wagon, smiling with obvious interest in what Dorothy was saying. She knew she shouldn’t stand here observing them, but she couldn’t help herself. Peter looked so relaxed and in no hurry to come after her. Why was he looking at Dorothy that way? Like a bolt of lightning from their recent storm, jealousy shot through her.

Dorothy was dressed in a smart blue dress with matching bolero trimmed in black velvet. The hat that sat cocked to the side of her head was the latest fashion in black velvet adorned with a pretty feather. Catharine sighed. Here she was in a dress that was considerably too short for her, wearing mud-caked boots. Rooted to the spot, she waited for them to finish their conversation, hoping Dorothy would leave before she caught sight of her dressed in ill-fitting clothing with a sack in her hand.

Suddenly Peter caught sight of her and motioned to her.
Ach!
There was no way she could compete or escape the company of Miss Miller. Stiffly, Catharine strolled toward them, feeling like her leather boots had shrunk at least one shoe size from the rain . . . and feeling like an outsider. All the joy she’d felt earlier had somehow dwindled to a far-away spot in her heart.

“Catharine, you remember Dorothy from church,” Peter said when she walked up to where they stood.

“
Ja
, I remember. Nice to see you again.” Catharine saw Dorothy’s eyes sweep critically over Catharine’s appearance, as if she were comparing her or sizing her up. “Are we keeping you from something? You’re out awfully early.”

Dorothy smiled and said, “It’s hardly early. It’s nine o’clock by my watch.”

Catharine felt the blood rush to her face. “You’re right. I guess Peter and I were enjoying our time so much that we lost track of the hour.” She looped her arm through Peter’s possessively, and he gave her arm a squeeze.

Dorothy observed her with a cool look. “I was just telling Peter that he should bring you to the opera some evening. There’s a divine actress by the name of Sarah Bernhardt coming to perform
Fedora
, and I’ve heard she’s incredible, though she only speaks French.”