Promises Kept Read online

  Colt watched her fill her arms with dishes and then head back to the kitchen. He’d kept his eyes on the door until she returned again. He was watching when she moved to the table next to the four cowboys. Even though she was some distance from him, he could see that she was a sight to behold with her dark auburn hair curling past her waist. He was waiting for her to make her way to his table so he could get a closer look.

  As soon as Victoria reached the table next to the four men, she recognized them. They had been drunk and disorderly in the dining room a month ago, and the sheriff had to be summoned. Even with her back to them, the distinct odor of whiskey filled the air. Quickly stacking the dishes in her arms, she turned to leave when one of the men reached out and snagged her skirt.

  “Hey, honey, don’t hurry off. Sit down with us,” the leader of the foursome said.

  Victoria ignored him and tried to move away, but he maintained his hold on her skirt. When he gave the cloth a tug, she almost fell backwards into his lap. She struggled to keep the china from falling to the floor. His three companions found his antics humorous and guffawed like misbehaving children. Victoria tried to turn back to the table to set the plates down, but the man tightened his grip. She feared if she tried to pull away from him her dress might rip.

  “You can have dessert with us, honey,” the man said to her. “I like what I’m seeing.”

  “I got a better idea. We can have her for dessert,” one of his companions added.

  “Yeah, that sounds even better,” another agreed, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

  “Let me go!” Victoria demanded, showing a bravado she didn’t feel. Her heart was fairly pounding out of her chest from fear. She was always fearful around men who consumed too much whiskey. It was difficult to know if these men were just having a little fun at her expense, or if their intent was more nefarious. By the way they were leering at her, she assumed the worst.

  Mrs. Wellington walked from the kitchen and saw what was happening across the room. She promptly set the coffeepot aside and made her way to the table. Before she had taken more than a couple of steps, the tall cowboy appeared at Victoria’s side.

  “You boys need to mind your manners,” Colt said in a pleasant but no-nonsense tone.

  Victoria’s tormentor looked up at the man beside her. “You need to mind your own business,” the man retorted. His companions laughed and jabbed each other in the ribs at their buddy’s bluster.

  Victoria thought the drunk must be crazy to challenge the man looming next to her. He was a huge, dangerous-looking man with a deep, commanding voice as ominous as his appearance. The top of her head barely reached his chest. No doubt he was the man Mrs. Wellington was going on about in the kitchen, and for once she wasn’t exaggerating. Victoria may not have chosen the word stunning for him . . . lethal was the word that came to her mind.

  “Let her go,” Colt demanded.

  The man grinned at Colt as he pulled Victoria’s skirt higher, showing the men at the table her petticoat. “I don’t think so. We’ve decided this gal is gonna join us for dessert.”

  Victoria shifted all of the dishes to one arm, and with her free hand reached back to tug at her skirt, to no avail. The miscreant wouldn’t release her.

  The largest man of the four stood. “In case you haven’t noticed, cowboy, there’s four of us and one of you.”

  Colt smiled, but it wasn’t a smile that reached his eyes. “Then I guess we’re about even.” He made a quick mental note that the man holding the woman’s skirt was wearing his gun on his right side. The same hand he was using to hold her captive. Big mistake. He leaned over and wrapped his fingers around the man’s hand and squeezed until he heard his trigger finger snap.

  The man yelped loudly, released the cloth, and clutched his hand to his chest. “You broke my finger!” he cried. The two men who were still seated jumped to their feet.

  “I’d say that’s three to one now,” Colt stated.

  Even though she was free to move, sheer terror kept Victoria frozen in place. She couldn’t take her eyes off the cowboy who was facing down the four men.

  Seeing the woman hadn’t moved, Colt stepped in front of her.

  “I’ve told you men before I will not tolerate problems in this dining room. Now pay your bill and leave and do not come back,” Mrs. Wellington instructed when she was a few feet from the table.

  Colt held his hand up to halt Mrs. Wellington’s progress. In case bullets started flying he didn’t want her getting too close. “I think they were just leaving, Mrs. Wellington,” he said, not taking his eyes off the men.

  The four glared at Colt, taking measure of the man and the weapon he wore low on his hip. They glanced at each other, passing an unspoken signal.

  They’ve done this before, Colt thought. It didn’t matter, he was confident he could take them. He understood the necessity of assessing a situation quickly—a man didn’t live long in this country by being careless. All three were right-handed, and they wore their holsters too high to be fast on the draw. And judging by their bloodshot eyes, they had consumed a lot of whiskey, which would make them even slower than normal. If they were anything like most bullies, they liked to taunt women, but they would back down when confronted by someone equal in size. He reasoned the man who stood first thought he was the most fearsome of the group. Watching their eyes, he instantly knew when they’d made a decision. The big man was going to be the one to draw. Another mistake.

  Before the man pulled his gun halfway out of the holster, he was staring down the barrel of Colt’s pistol. “I wouldn’t if I were you,” Colt said. “Now pay what you owe the lady and leave.”

  The man hesitated, his eyes flickering from Colt to the two men beside him.

  To Colt’s amazement, the two men looked ready to draw. Whiskey brave. “Don’t,” was all he said.

  That one word was uttered in such a deadly cold voice it sent shivers down Victoria’s spine.

  The man released his pistol, allowing it to drop the few scant inches to the holster. The other two men held their hands in the air as they backed away.

  Colt kept his gun trained on them. “Pay up.”

  After digging in their pockets, they threw some coins on the table and hurried toward the door. Before he left, the man with the broken finger turned back and yelled, “You’d best be leaving town, stranger.”

  Holstering his pistol, Colt glanced at Mrs. Wellington. “I think George and I would like some of that apple pie you mentioned, and please tell your cook that was the best steak I ever ate.”

  “Thank you for lending assistance, Mr. McBride. Maybe those rowdies will stay out of here now,” Mrs. Wellington responded appreciatively. She smiled at him and added, “And you just told her.”

  Colt didn’t catch her meaning at first, until he heard a soft voice behind him.

  “Thank you . . . and thank you for . . . handling those men.” Victoria didn’t know what to make of the man standing in front of her. He’d just faced four men ready to kill him and he was ordering pie just as calm as you please.

  Turning around, Colt gazed down at the woman he’d defended, and he felt like he’d been kicked by his prize bull. The most beautiful blue eyes, bluer than his Wyoming sky in summer, were staring up at him. A few seconds ticked by before he found his tongue. “You’re the cook?” He’d expected that some little old lady like Helen, the older woman who cooked for him, had prepared that excellent meal. He enjoyed Helen’s food, but he had to admit, even she had never served up such a perfect steak.

  “Yes, I am,” Victoria replied, thinking Mrs. Wellington was correct on another score. His eyes were as black as midnight.

  When he’d seen her from across the room, Colt thought she was a real looker, but he hadn’t expected her to render him speechless. He found himself regretting his decision to leave St. Louis in the morning. If he’d seen her when he first arrived he would have made a point of taking her to dinner.

  “Victoria will get that pie for
you, and I’ll warm up your coffee,” Mrs. Wellington offered.

  Turning away from those intense eyes, Victoria half ran back to the kitchen on wobbly legs. She was still shaking from the confrontation as she carefully placed the dishes into the sink. After taking several deep breaths, she finally calmed down enough to cut the pie instead of her fingers. She couldn’t decide who was the most frightening: those four drunken cowboys, or the cowboy who had intervened. Yes, she could. The man with the ominous black eyes was, by far, the most terrifying.

  Victoria delivered the pie to Colt’s table, and found Mrs. Wellington chatting comfortably with the two men.

  “Victoria, I didn’t introduce you. This is Mr. McBride from Wyoming. Perhaps he knows some of your relatives.”

  Colt almost laughed. Mrs. Wellington had obviously never been to Wyoming or she would have realized that it was so vast it would be a miracle if he knew the young woman’s relatives. Not wanting to be rude, plus the fact that he wanted to talk to Victoria, he asked politely, “Where are your relatives located?”

  “They’re . . . ah . . .” Victoria stalled, trying to think of what she should say. She was saved from telling another lie when the twins appeared in the doorway, waving to get her attention. “Excuse me,” she replied, and rushed over to the boys. The boys were ready for bed and they came to remind her she had promised them a story tonight. She took them by the hand and walked upstairs, without sparing a glance back at the cowboy.

  Colt watched her lean over to speak with the two little boys in the doorway. He heard her say, which was difficult with Mrs. Wellington’s chatter, “Of course you get your story tonight.” So much for wishing he didn’t have to leave tomorrow. Wasn’t that just typical, he thought, all the beautiful women were already taken. Too bad.

  Chapter Two

  Once the boys were settled for the night, Victoria trudged downstairs to finish cleaning the kitchen. Seeing Mrs. Wellington had finished washing the dishes, she spent her time making preparations for breakfast. It was after eleven o’clock by the time she climbed the stairs to her tiny third-floor room. Pulling the leather pouch from her apron pocket, she clutched it to her chest as she crossed the room to open the small window. She looked out at the thousands of twinkling stars in the night sky surrounding the full moon. It was such a clear night that the man in the moon looked like he was smiling at her. There was a time she would have said a prayer, but that time had long past. God didn’t listen to her prayers.

  Mrs. Wellington’s curiosity about the letters was understandable. She had never received a single visit, much less a letter, since she had been at the boardinghouse. But how could she possibly explain what she had done? From the day she arrived at the boardinghouse, she hadn’t been forthcoming with Mrs. Wellington about her past. Now, two years later, she didn’t know where to begin with the truth. Mrs. Wellington was a woman of some means, and she had been fortunate to have a husband of forty years who had cared for her until his death. She had never had the responsibility of supporting two young boys weighing heavy on her shoulders every day. There was no way she could possibly understand Victoria’s reasons for advertising for a husband.

  The idea had come to her when she’d overheard a man in the dining room relating a story about his friend in Wyoming advertising for a mail-order bride. The man had placed an advertisement for a wife in the newspaper and had received so many responses he had a wide selection of ladies to choose from. Why couldn’t she place an advertisement like that? She didn’t necessarily want a husband, since most men frightened her, but she would set aside her fears for the boys. She had to think of their future, and that road led to finding a husband. It wasn’t as if men were beating down her door asking for her hand. Oh, plenty of the men who frequented the boardinghouse flirted with her, but not one had expressed an interest in a ready-made family. She’d received her fair share of crude offers, but Mrs. Wellington had a way with words that shriveled a man in his boots if she overheard anyone uttering a word that might be considered the least bit disrespectful. Judging by the remarks she’d heard from the women diners, she was to be pitied. They often told her no man would want to take on the responsibility of a woman with two small children. They were right, she grudgingly agreed. She needed to widen her horizons if the boys were to have a home.

  In the past, it had been necessary for her to accept whatever job she could find just to keep the boys fed. Circumstances had forced them to sleep in barns, or just about any dry place they could find. Now they had a roof over their heads and regular meals, but most of her small salary was used for clothing and shoes for the boys. If it weren’t for the dresses Mrs. Wellington had given her to alter for herself, she would have been parading around the boardinghouse in her birthday suit. She’d even used some of the cloth to make reticules to sell at the general store for extra cash. They now had the basic necessities, but she was no closer to being able to afford a home. While she appreciated the two small rooms Mrs. Wellington included in her compensation, she wanted Cade and Cody to have a home of their own. She wanted a place no one could take away from them.

  A home wasn’t the only thing the boys needed. They talked incessantly about having a father who would teach them all the things boys wanted to know. Just tonight, before they fell asleep, they’d asked her if they would ever have a pa. Many times they would end their nightly prayers asking for a pa to teach them to ride and rope. They wanted to be cowboys, and she had never even been on a horse. If she had any say in the matter they wouldn’t be cowboys, but she recognized every boy needed to know how to ride a horse. Finding the right man, a good man, was the challenge. She wanted them to grow up to be honorable men, not like the men she’d seen in her young life. No matter how she circled the problem, she needed to find a man who could provide a home and teach the boys skills to survive.

  She’d heard what Mrs. Wellington said tonight about needing to do her part when God provided a man. While she appreciated Mrs. Wellington’s beliefs, they were no longer her own. When she was younger she’d prayed and prayed for a different life, but nothing ever changed. The time for praying and dreaming about what she wanted was over. She was determined the boys would have a home and respectability, and it was up to her to find a way to change their circumstances. She decided, as the cattlemen who dined at the boardinghouse were so fond of saying, it was time to take the bull by the horns. So she’d written the advertisement: Lady of marriageable age with two young boys in need of husband. I am a good cook and used to hard work. She’d finished the ad by including her name and address at the boardinghouse. She had decided it best to say straightaway that she came with responsibilities, so there would be no surprises down the road. She didn’t actually state the boys were her children, but the implication was there all the same.

  So far, she had been less than impressed with the responses. One man wrote that she should come out West, and if he liked the looks of her and she performed her wifely duties to his satisfaction, then he might send for the boys. Well, no, thank you very much. She’d seen enough men at the saloon in Abilene to know when they were just interested in one thing. As Mrs. Wellington so aptly stated, They want the milk and not the cow. Another letter she’d received was from a man describing himself as a married man of considerable wealth who wanted to hire her as a housekeeper. Of course, she would be required to share his bed because his wife was beset with headaches. As if! Every letter she’d received had mentioned her wifely duties. Is that all men think about?

  After striking a match to the lamp on the table, she took a seat in the rocking chair and carefully opened the pouch. Several gold double-eagle coins dropped to her lap. Puzzled, she peeked inside and saw the folded letter with her neatly printed name on top. Tracing the letters with her fingers, she was nervous and excited at the same time.

  She stared at the letter. Maybe this one would be different. She took a deep breath and slowly unfolded the letter. Dear Miss Victoria . . . She read the letter a second time, and questions fil
led her mind. How old is Mr. Barlow? Is he a widower? Does he have children? Who is Bartholomew? He described himself as hardworking and honest. Good, he’s not a cowboy but a farmer. He reads the Bible and goes to church. He reads Shakespeare. Maybe that was a sign he was the right man. Since living at the boardinghouse she had access to Mr. Wellington’s vast collection of books, and it seemed he’d had a particular fondness for Shakespeare. Surprisingly, she had also developed a liking for the man’s writings.

  Mr. Barlow offered more information than the other men had given her in their terse replies. The most telling line he’d written was his promise to provide for her and the boys. Those few words touched a soft spot in her heart. Unlike the other letters she’d received, he hadn’t once mentioned her wifely duties. Of course, if they were wed he’d have every right to expect her to . . . well, she knew what would be expected. She picked up the coins from her lap. It was no small sum of money, certainly more than she needed for the stagecoach. Perhaps he didn’t have to scratch out a meager existence as she had done her entire life. It must have occurred to him that she could take his money and never make it to Wyoming. That trusting gesture told her more about the man than his written words. He obviously dealt honestly with people and expected the best from them. Maybe this was the one man she could trust. A farmer.

  Dawn peeked through the window, and Victoria had to force herself from the comfort of her small bed. She had tossed and turned all night, trying to decide what she should do. She walked to the window and pushed back the curtain, allowing the morning breeze to fill the room. Hearing voices from the street, she peeked out to see Mr. McBride talking to the stagecoach driver. Mr. McBride’s deep voice resonated in the quiet of the early morning, and the light of day did nothing to lessen his intimidating countenance. He looked even larger than he had last night with that big, black cowboy hat on his head. She watched as he tossed his valise to the top of the coach with little effort.