“YOU’RE A MESS, CHILD. Were you really out in that wilderness on your own?”
A different woman had entered the room, a basket on one arm, a dress draped over the other. She was middle-aged and her brown hair was pulled back into a simple bun. Was she the housekeeper? Two boys followed her in with buckets of water that they carried behind a screen in the corner of the room, then left to get more. The basket the woman set on the nightstand had little meat pies in it. Bless her, Violet thought, at least someone knew soup wouldn’t be enough.
“Yes,” Violet replied. “Foolish, I know. I just got in a bit of a panic after some outlaws absconded with me; then they died—at my feet. It was suddenly paramount that I get back to civilization immediately.”
“Oh, you poor dear. I can’t imagine witnessing such violence.” The woman shook her head and walked to the wardrobe to hang the dress she was carrying.
Mentioning those outlaws brought that gruesome scene into her mind, so she quickly did what she’d done during her ride to Butte when those images had plagued her—she thought of Morgan and his lovemaking, her real reason for fleeing. She had some very real regret that she would never see him again. He’d protected her, treated her well, was the bravest man she’d ever known. He was smart, even funny, and he’d given her such an amazing romantic experience. But there was a hard, dangerous side to him that enabled him to thrive in this rough, wild land and that she didn’t completely understand or feel comfortable with. But she really must have been in a panic to set out for Butte without a care for her own safety. In hindsight, it had been a stupid thing to do.
“I’m Mrs. Hall,” the woman said, returning to Violet’s bedside. “Abigail Hall, the housekeeper here, though someone’s been calling me Abby recently and I rather like it, so it’s fine if you do, too, Miss Violet. Do you need help getting to the tub?”
Violet smiled. “I’m not sure, but if there is hot water in it, I’ll definitely manage to get into it somehow. I need to send a telegram today, too. I was going to ask Mr. Sullivan’s sister to do me that favor.”
“Don’t bother her about it. She can be . . . forgetful. But I’ll bring you some paper and send it for you myself. The doctor mentioned that you need rest.”
“Thank you.”
“Mr. Sullivan expects you to join him and Miss Kayleigh for dinner tonight,” Abigail said. “But I can delay that for a day, if you’re not up to it. He might be in an all-fired hurry to talk to you, but I think the doctor’s recommendation should be taken into account.”
“Why is he in a hurry to speak with me?”
“That man is always in a hurry, but in your case, I expect he’ll make you an offer for your mine, now that you’ve found it. It can be dirt-poor and he won’t care, not if it’s near Callahan’s mine.”
Violet frowned, bothered by the fact that both Kayleigh and Abigail knew she’d been with Morgan and had located her father’s mine when she hadn’t told either of them that, or mentioned it to Sullivan’s men, as far as she could remember. It was beginning to feel a little odd; then again, she hadn’t disabused them of their assumptions, had just evaded confirming them, and she would rather not lie about it if she didn’t have to.
So she simply said, “I can’t sell either mine.”
“Well, then, that’s that. Perhaps for once he’ll take no for an answer.”
That sounded somewhat ominous. Nonsense. She was letting Morgan’s rants about Sullivan get to her. But Morgan wasn’t a liar. Had his obsession with his mine colored his thinking about Sullivan’s efforts to acquire it? He had said that Sullivan had left a pile of notes for him at his hotel that he’d never even read. She supposed there was nothing wrong with persistence like that—as long as it didn’t turn into coercion. But she wouldn’t be in this town long enough to get badgered into selling a mine she wasn’t sure she had the right to sell. Even if she did have the right, she couldn’t do that to Morgan.
She spent close to an hour in the porcelain tub and didn’t care that the water got tepid, not when she’d longed for a real bath for more than a week. Abigail brought her dinner, which served as confirmation that dining with her hosts had been put off, but the housekeeper warned Violet that she would be carried to the dining room tomorrow evening if necessary. There was that Sullivan impatience again.
Of course, that wouldn’t be necessary. She was feeling better, more like herself already. But she was relieved by the delay. Once she turned down Sullivan’s offer for the mine, whatever it was, she’d probably have to leave his house immediately. She didn’t think he’d actually kick her out, but she’d feel uncomfortable remaining. It was too bad he hadn’t invited her to breakfast instead. Then she could go straight to the train station afterward.
She spent most of the next day in bed, getting as much rest as she could before her train journey home. Abigail confirmed that she’d sent the telegram to her brothers. With all of her clothes out of her valise for washing, she’d been able to find all of her hairpins and put her hair up properly. Her clothes had been returned clean and pressed, so she felt quite presentable for dinner. Abigail led her to the dining room.
The interior of the Sullivan house was as grand as its handsomely designed brick fa?ade, which had so impressed her the day she’d come to see where he lived. She walked through well-lit, carpeted hallways past beautifully appointed rooms with fine furniture, tasteful fabrics, and gleaming silver bowls, vases, and mirror frames. She wasn’t the first to arrive in the dining room.
Kayleigh, who was standing by a chair at one end of the long table, smiled and greeted her. “Feeling better today, Miss Mitchell?”
“Still a little sore,” Violet replied. “But yes, much better and somewhat civilized again.”
“Callahan’s camp is primitive, is it?”
She didn’t confirm that she’d been there, saying instead, “Everything outside of town is.”
She glanced about the room at furnishings and luxury goods that couldn’t possibly have been bought in this town: fine china, silver cutlery, a crystal chandelier, a long dining table with ornate legs. It reminded her of Morgan’s dream to bring fine things to the people in the territory. She hoped he attained his goal—and she really ought to stop thinking about him.
“Do sit, Miss Mitchell,” Shawn Sullivan said as he entered the room.
She swung around to see the man she’d met at dinner with Katie and her fiancé. Sullivan had brown hair sprinkled with gray, but Katie had gotten her green eyes from her father. Wearing a well-cut charcoal-gray business suit, he was smiling and appeared as gregarious as he’d been that night in the hotel dining room. The man couldn’t possibly be as nefarious as Morgan had depicted him. He came forward to pull out a chair for her, one that placed her halfway between him and his sister, who took the seats at either end of the table.
“You have been most kind to offer me your hospitality, Mr. Sullivan.”
“Of course, of course, how could we not? I’m glad my men encountered you and were able to help you. We were concerned when you left so suddenly with Morgan Callahan after he was spotted in town. I know Katie said you hoped he would guide you to your father’s mine; I was just surprised that he agreed to. It couldn’t have been pleasant dealing with someone that stubborn and rough around the edges. But I expect you’re on good terms with him now?”
An actual direct question to get their assumptions confirmed. There was no point in denying it or trying to evade it this time, when she had in fact told Katie that. And she didn’t have an alternate excuse ready for where she’d been all this time.
“Somewhat,” she said. “At least when he’s not accusing me of working for you.”
Shawn laughed. “Did he?”