“Good heavens,” she huffed, running to the door. “There are sleeping people here.” Her hand fumbled with the lock; he wished he wore his six-shootin’ Black-Eyed Susan.
But were her fingers fumbling because of him? And would he be able to shoot straight, anyway, his hands trembling so?
“Lila, it’s me.”
Even Bronx recognized Miss Frieda’s puffed-up tone. She was surely a woman who wanted her way, and he wondered what she was about now. His gaze traveled the pile of bedclothes. Miss Frieda was bound to notice and cackle aplenty.
Wondered why Asa was so inspired by the busybody, then slapped his mouth like he’d said it out loud. No explaining the heart and what it wanted.
Miss Frieda did the blushing now, though, stepped through the doorway with the bluster of a bad storm. “You were right, Lila. I slept poorly all the night through. I hope...you can forgive me, and the good Lord, too. Your...Malina needs a proper home. I’ve got my trap outside, so we’ll get her quick to the boarding house for rest and recovery.”
Nobody moved, least of all Bronx, surprise so claimed his muscles. Then he found his voice. “Why, mighty kind, Miz Frieda. But a big change of heart.”
Her gray eyes, not old at all, moved up and down over Lila. He could almost digest Asa’s interests when kindness shone in them. The floor squeaked under her pointy boots as she shuffled from one foot to the other. Like she wondered if she’d be welcome, or need a speedy retreat.
First off, Miss Frieda’s wide shoulders slumped, then she straightened up, raised her face. “Lila, Mr. Bronx, too. I said my nightly prayers and wondered. Had I been blessed with a daughter, and she fell upon hard times and was all alone somewhere, how might it be for a stranger to take her in? And taking strangers in is what I do best.”
“Why, Miss Frieda, I...I don’t quite know what to say.” Lila moved first, but then Miss Frieda stepped, too, and they ended up in an embrace. For some fool reason, Bronx sniffed and his eyes did a little itch.
“Well, I’d not have seen the light hadn’t it been for you and Emmett. About not judging, just caring. Now, let’s get the patient wrapped up against the weather. And you two.” She glared first at Bronx, then Lila. “I’m serving up a breakfast big enough for a lumberjack in my dining room. One hour. I’ll expect you. Then, Mr. Bronx, you head over to the Delaware. Asa paid a call after supper, and mentioned he’s pleased as Punch over your efforts yesterday. He knows you’re dining with me for breakfast, and won’t be an earlybird. And you.” She smiled at Lila. “There’s Bible study this morning to gussy up for. I recommended your session hither and yon at the literary society, so expect a fine attendance. After breakfast, my hired girl and I’ll wipe some vinegar around the sickroom.”
Lila brightened, and Bronx all but touched her joy. Likely, a good attendance meant a fuller mite box. Sure as certain, he’d laid a half eagle in it just last night. But no. As Lila’s face softened, he got it. She was grateful for Miss Frieda’s loving kindness.
And he, grateful for Asa’s. Likely, he could stick around for another day or two. Just keep hidden with his shoeblack. Maybe shave off his mustache.
“Now, I’ll go in to our patient.”
“Malina,” Lila said, soft. “Her name is Malina. She will be so grateful. As am I, Miss Frieda. Let me go in with you. I need a bit of toilette before I venture into the public eye.”
“I’ll wait outside,” Bronx offered, reckoning his presence had no business assisting with womenfolk readying themselves and utilizing words like toilette. Him, back at the boardinghouse, he’d not need much but a quick wash up and teeth clean before climbing into his waist overalls. He sniffed. Couldn’t wait to get ’em softened up at the laundry.
If he stayed long enough, that is.
All Lila did was smile at him and his blood pounded like a freight train moving through his veins. How could he leave her? Or leave without her?
“Wait on me, Bronx. We can walk back to the boardinghouse together.”
“Sure enough.”
She and Miss Frieda disappeared behind the closed door.
He stared at his hands again, at the streaks of shoeblack left over from the rub upon Emmett’s overcoat. What a coil. A night with Lila, make that two, and he started to wonder more and more how he might let another red-headed widow into his heart.
Much less, with a Pinkerton on the move.
But...his mood darkened. He’d never enter hers. He had to go. He was an outlaw, a thief, a killer. No wife of a preacher man would ever take him on, and no way could even Bronx Sanderson offer anything less than honorable marriage.