The stage was late. Most of the town didn’t even notice, but the three men who paced back and forth waiting anxiously for its arrival and trying hard to hide their jitters certainly did.
Lucas, who felt in charge because of having collected the passage money from the other two men, pulled out his gold watch on the long gold chain over and over to study the time.
Donnigan simply checked the sky. The sun was moving on past where it should have been at the proper arrival time. Wallis stomped back and forth, back and forth, spitting chewing tobacco at the end of his boots. Then the three would shift positions slightly and begin all over again.
“Fool driver!” exclaimed Wallis angrily, letting go with another streak of brown stain. “Shouldn’t be allowed to fritter away his time and keep workin’ men waitin’.”
Donnigan had to smile in spite of his own impatience.
“Do you want to come over to the hotel for coffee?” asked Lucas hospitably, but just as he asked the question a cloud of dust appeared in the distance.
With the sighting of the stage, Donnigan really felt his stomach begin to rile up. “This is it! This is it for sure,” he said to himself. “There’s no turning back now.”
Then a new thought struck him. “What if she isn’t even on the stage. Maybe she changed her mind or got sick or—”
He felt sudden exultation like he had when he had escaped the bear’s long fangs. But only for a moment. He admitted to himself that even though he was terribly nervous about the whole doings, he would be dreadfully disappointed if she did not show up.
The stage rolled to a halt in a whirl of dust. As the three men held their breath, the stage master stepped forward and opened the door.
Out stepped a lady. She was not too tall, rather pleasingly plump and had a slightly nervous yet generous smile. She scanned the three men before her, then looked again at the tall blond man with the broad shoulders and wide Stetson and gave him a special smile. As Donnigan’s heart leaped in response, Lucas stepped forward.
“Welcome, Miss—?” he said, lifting his hand to doff his hat.
“Kingsley,” said the young woman; her voice was soft and husky with emotion. “Erma Kingsley.”
Lucas suddenly looked as nervous as a schoolboy. “You’re mine,” he blurted, then flushed with embarrassment. “I mean—Lucas Stein here, ma’am.” He reached out a hand and she accepted it.
Donnigan was momentarily disappointed, and then his attention jerked back to the stagecoach where another woman was making her appearance. She was tall and a little stiff, her eyes dark and piercing. She straightened to her full height and surveyed the men. Before any of them could make a move she spoke in broken but careful English, “Which of you is the gentleman Tremont?”
Wallis swallowed his chew of tobacco and his face turned deep red. Donnigan wasn’t sure if it was the fault of the potent chew or his nervousness over meeting his Risa.
At length he seemed to get hold of himself, but not before the woman had given him a dark, stern look.
“Ma’am,” he said and copied what he had seen Lucas do. Only in his great agitation, the hat that he had intended to doff flipped from his shaky fingers and went flying into the dust at his feet. He stammered and stuttered and bent to retrieve it, slapping it on his thigh and making a little puff of dust lift almost in the lady’s face.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he had the good sense to apologize. She did not look pleased.
Donnigan turned his attention back to the stagecoach door. So far two very different women had descended. If Donnigan could have had anything at all to say in the matter, he would have hoped the third one would be somewhat like the first one.
But as he lifted his head, a little wisp of a thing was descending the steps. Maybe his wife-to-be wasn’t on that stage, after all.
The young girl moved slowly toward the little group, and Donnigan noticed that she walked with just the slightest limp. She was a pretty youngster. Donnigan wondered fleetingly if she was the daughter of a local farmer or rancher, but he hadn’t seen her around before. Perhaps she was a visiting niece of someone.
Miss Erma Kingsley turned as the young girl neared them. She spoke again in a voice that didn’t sound quite as strained now. “This is Miss Kathleen O’Malley,” she said evenly, and Donnigan was glad he didn’t have a chaw of tobacco in his lip. He surely would have swallowed it just as Wallis had.
Kathleen O’Malley? His thoughts ran quickly But she’s a child. I—I ordered a—a woman.
“I guess you must be Mr. Harrison,” Miss Kingsley said to Donnigan, “as you are the only one left.” She gave him a warm, candid smile and Donnigan found himself wishing again that the fates had been kinder to him. For a brief moment he envied Lucas. Then he turned to the approaching Miss O’Malley and carefully doffed his Stetson.
“Miss,” he said and forced a smile. He could hardly address her as ma’am, now could he?
She returned his smile with a hesitant one of her own—and as Donnigan looked into the clear dark eyes, he felt his heart give a little flip.
Chapter Nine
Adjustments Begin
Kathleen had stopped to take a deep breath before disembarking from the stagecoach. Her heart was thumping and her hands felt sweaty. She straightened her bargain bonnet on her dark curls and smoothed the nearly new gloves over her small hands. Her whole outfit had been purchased in Boston as part of the “passage deal.” It was simple and inexpensive, but it was new. Kathleen was grateful for that. Her own patched wardrobe had been painfully inadequate.
Now as she paused at the top of the steps and brushed the dust and wrinkles from her skirts, she took one more deep breath. Please, she begged whoever was “in charge,” Please let him be Irish.
There was a little cluster before her when she stepped out. For a minute she stopped and squinted into the harsh afternoon sun, letting her eyes adjust from the dark interior of the stage.
There was Erma, already smiling confidently at a short, well-dressed, bespectacled gentleman who stood with his watch still in his hand as though he were timing something. “Surely he’s not,” Kathleen murmured under her breath, then quickly switched to, “He must be Mr. Stein.” The gentleman was well into his forties, she guessed.
Kathleen’s eyes shifted quickly to the other little man who was bustling about, thumping his hat against his leg and grinning rather ridiculously. The stern Risa stood frowning at him—and Kathleen judged that she was looking at another “match.” The man was rather ill-kept, but his hair was slicked down and his face shining from a morning scrubbing. Kathleen judged him to be even a bit older than Mr. Stein.
“But I don’t see Donnigan,” she whispered to herself, and a stab of fear shot through her. Had there been a mistake? Had Mr. Jenks sent her all this long way out west with the name of a man who didn’t really exist—just for spite?
Then her eyes looked beyond the two couples and she saw another man. Tall and broad and blond—and looking pained and worried. For a moment she thought she was looking at the very man Erma had described to her on board ship. Surely—surely this was Erma’s intended. But no. Erma was already paired.
“Sure now, and he’s a—a giant,” Kathleen mused, her feet refusing to move farther. Just as she thought of turning and retreating to the safety of the stagecoach, the man looked up, seemed to realize who she was, and smiled. In that one warm, nervous smile, Kathleen saw a reflection of her own feelings. She managed a tentative smile in return—and then he was moving toward her with confidence and more grace than she would have expected from such a large man. Kathleen stepped forward to meet him. One thought was uppermost in her mind. He’s not Irish—and that’s the truth of it.