Two

Amanda could not recall a time when she had been more excited. A week after her shopping trip in town, she was on her way to Tucson. On the ride there, their foreman, Bunker, prattled on and on about his memories of the town, but she was so focused on her own dreams of what adventures might lie ahead that she barely heard him. They arrived late in the afternoon, and he agreed to deliver her belongings to the boardinghouse, while she hurried to the bank to meet with Mr. Baxter.

Once inside and seated on an upholstered bench outside the banker’s office, she was so nervous that she had trouble sitting still. His name and title were prominently displayed on the glass panel of the office door: Ezra G. Baxter, President. She could see her prospective employer hunched over paperwork whenever his secretary—a thin, nervous man—hurried in or out, always taking care to close the door with a soft click. After waiting nearly half an hour, she wondered if perhaps she had been forgotten.

The secretary, who had not introduced himself, glanced her way every few minutes with an apologetic smile. Amanda stood on the pretense of taking a closer look at a painting that hung just across from the banker’s office. Now she was standing near the door and could hear paper rattling, as if someone were wadding it into balls and tossing it aside.

“Fitzhugh!” the banker bellowed, and Amanda was so startled that she leaped back and nearly collided with the secretary, who begged her pardon and then scurried into the office, once again closing the door behind him. A second later, he opened the door, raced to his desk where he grabbed a stack of papers and folders, and then indicated that she should follow him into the office.

“Mr. Baxter, this is Miss Porterfield,” he said, his voice cracking.

The banker stood. He had gray hair that was beginning to thin. He was short and stocky with eyes so small that Amanda could barely discern their color—only that they, like his hair, appeared to be gray. He wore a white shirt, a black string tie, and a charcoal-gray frock coat.

“Miss Porterfield.” He indicated a chair across from his, waited for her to be seated, and then sat down so heavily that his chair cried out in protest. The secretary hovered nearby, still clutching the paperwork. “I believe we have some acquaintances in common—Dr. Wilcox?”

At first Amanda thought he meant Addie and wondered how they might have met. But then it dawned on her that he was speaking of Addie’s father.

“Yes, sir,” she said. She noticed that he had not introduced his secretary, and she frowned. She did not like it when anyone was treated as anything less than equal. She and her siblings had been raised to show respect for every individual.

The banker studied her for a long moment. She focused on his bushy eyebrows and long sideburns to keep from meeting his gaze directly, and perhaps appearing impudent. “As you are no doubt aware, I find myself in something of a bind,” he said. “The recent death of my wife—mother of my two children—has become a problem.”

A problem? Who thought that way about someone he supposedly had loved? “My condolences, sir,” Amanda murmured.

“The truth is that I had thought to hire a man to tutor my children, but others have convinced me that simply will not do, given my daughter’s age. Therefore, you have been recommended as a substitute.”

Amanda flinched. She did not like being relegated to the position of substitute. “I am applying for the position of tutoring your son and daughter, sir. I am not interested in a temporary position as a substitute while you seek a more suitable candidate.”

Baxter frowned. She met his gaze and smiled. “Yes, of course. That is why we are here.” He cleared his throat and continued. “You will receive a monthly stipend of fifty dollars in addition to room and board at Miss Dooley’s boardinghouse. I will need your services only for the remaining weeks of the term. You will—”

“Why do you feel the children need tutoring? It is my understanding that they are quite bright and—”

Baxter pursed his lips and glared at her. He was a man clearly used to giving instruction and asking questions rather than answering them. He glanced over his shoulder at his assistant, who quickly sorted through the papers he carried and handed one to him. “I hold here the attendance record for my children for the months since their mother’s passing,” he said as he skimmed the paper, then passed it to her.

“According to this, your daughter has missed a good deal of class time, and your son has hardly been in school at all.”

“Precisely.”

“And of the days missed, how many were due to illness, or to the time surrounding the loss of their mother?”

“She was not lost, young lady. She died.” He pointed to the stack of papers and folders. “It’s all here, Miss Porterfield,” he said testily. “May we perhaps not get the cart before the horse in the matter and complete the interview?”

“Of course. I apologize,” Amanda said softly as she clasped her hands primly on her lap and tried to arrange her expression to one of respect and rapt attention. Inside, however, she was wondering what she might be getting into. Her instinct was to end the interview immediately, find Bunker before he left, and head back to the ranch.

“I see that you come highly recommended,” the banker continued as he picked up a piece of stationery lying on the large blotter that covered his desk. “Your father was respected throughout the region as well, and I believe that your brother will be on the ballot to become our next district sheriff.”

“Yes, sir.”

He removed his spectacles and took his time folding the stems and pocketing them before he leaned forward and said softly, “Tell me, Miss Porterfield, why should I entrust my children to your care?”

Why indeed.

Not for the first time since leaving the ranch early that morning, Amanda felt uncertain of her decision to come to Tucson. After all, what did she really know about teaching? She was educated—her parents had insisted on that—but she had begun to understand that her ability to read and write, her knowledge of such topics as geography, history, and art, and her grasp of the basics of mathematics and science was only the beginning. Imparting that knowledge to young minds would take discipline and creativity and…

On the other hand, it could be an adventure. Amanda smothered a smile as Baxter once again cleared his throat and drummed his fingers on the desk impatiently.

“I love children,” she began, and saw that this made the banker sigh with exasperation, so she changed tactics. “However, I also understand that they can be a challenge—especially once they reach their teen years. I am not so very far from that age myself, Mr. Baxter.”

The flicker of interest that passed over the man’s haggard face told her she was on the right track. “Go on.”

Amanda scrambled for some credential she might offer. “Living on a ranch rather than in a town can expose one to many different personalities and circumstances,” she said. “I assure you that I have faced, or at least been privy to, any number of difficult situations.”

“Such as?”

She told him of her younger brother Trey’s illness as a child, and then of her father’s shocking death that the family first thought was an accident, but later turned out to be murder. She told him of her mother’s debilitating grief that was lessened by the family taking in an abandoned toddler. And the more she talked, the more certain she was that instead of convincing him she was the right person for the job, she actually validated his opinion—and hers—that she was the last person he should trust to tutor his children.

“I know the examples I offer are…”

“And what of your plans, Miss Porterfield?”

“My plans?”

“Yes. To wed and have a family of your own.”

She was so taken aback that she stammered out the first thing that came to mind. “I have no plans, sir. Only hopes.”

To her surprise, he smiled and stood. He came around the desk and offered her a firm handshake. “Welcome, Miss Porterfield. It is my opinion that you will have your challenges, but the fact is that you are the sole applicant for the position, and I have no choice.” He nodded to his associate, who finally set down his burden of papers and folders on the desk, then stepped away as if awaiting further instruction. “Please join my children and me for dinner tomorrow evening. Our home is just behind the boardinghouse. You will meet Ellie and Eli, see the library where you will conduct sessions, and make sure you have whatever supplies you may need for the task. We dine promptly at six.” He shook her hand again, dismissing her, as his secretary collected the untouched papers once again before moving to open the door and ushering her out.

When the door had clicked shut, Mr. Fitzhugh pulled a leather satchel from under his desk, packed the papers and folders inside, and presented it to her. “You will want to go through these thoroughly before tomorrow’s dinner,” he said. “Mr. Baxter will expect you to know everything about his children before you are introduced.” He glanced at the closed door leading to his boss’s office and lowered his voice. “I’m afraid they can be something of a challenge—especially now that their mother is gone.”

Amanda accepted the satchel. “I’ll return this. Thank you.”

“No need,” he assured her. He blushed and then walked with her past the tellers—both of whom seemed more interested in her than in the customers they were serving.

It was when she reached the street that she realized it appeared she had the job and could begin her new life as an independent woman. She smiled all the way back to the boardinghouse.

Miss Dooley’s was an imposing Queen Anne structure wrapped with a spacious porch, featuring twin garrets on the second floor with windows that overlooked the town. In the midst of a cluster of adobe dwellings and shops, the place was an oddity, to be sure. Bunker had told her the Dooley family had settled in Tucson from Ohio, and that Mr. Dooley—the current owner’s father—had built the house in this style to pacify his wife’s wish to return east as soon as possible. “It’s not the usual kind of place you expect to see in these parts, but folks around here have gotten to like it. Miss Thelma Dooley is the last of the family—never married, took good care of her folks in their later years, then turned the place into a boardinghouse.”

Amanda stood staring up at the house’s gleaming windows and twin garrets. Oh, she did hope she would be assigned one of those garret rooms. She climbed the front steps and lifted a brass door knocker to announce her arrival. Before she could lower the knocker, the heavily carved solid wood door swung open, and a man filled the doorway.

Amanda gasped and nearly dropped the satchel. For this was not just any man. This was the man from Eliza’s store. The stranger she’d been warned to avoid. This was none other than Mr. Grover.

Amanda stepped farther away from the door, teetering dangerously on the edge of the porch’s top step. Mr. Grover reached out, catching her by the forearm before she stumbled. “Easy there, miss. Didn’t mean to startle you.” He released her arm and held the door open for her to enter.

Their eyes met, and she saw recognition cross his handsome face, followed by a scowl. “Miss Porterfield, I believe.” She noticed he did not have the manners to remove his hat, and that irritated her enough to bring her to her senses.

“Do we know each other, sir?”

The scowl turned immediately to a grin—and not just any old grin, but the most charming one Amanda had ever seen. The man had dimples. “My mistake,” he said.

Flustered beyond the ability to speak, Amanda swept past him and through the doorway with all the grandeur she could manage. Once inside, she heard his boots on the steps leading to the street, accompanied by his soft laughter.

And then it hit her—Mr. Grover could also be boarding with Miss Dooley. What other business could he possibly have on the premises? Or maybe he had come to ask about a room but been turned away.

“Oh, please let it be the former,” she whispered, for living in close quarters with the handsome, mysterious cowboy practically guaranteed the adventure she longed for.

“Miss Porterfield?” The voice cracked with old age as a small, bent woman of indeterminate years emerged from the shadowy depths of a room just off the foyer. Amanda had remained standing in the doorway as she tried to regain her composure. The woman edged past her and closed the door, leaving them in near darkness with only a thin thread of sunlight highlighting a thick layer of dust on an ebony, mirrored coatrack that dominated the space. “You’ll have to learn to shut the door behind you on coming and going. I can’t take the dust.” As if to prove her point, she launched into a prolonged coughing spell.

“I apologize,” Amanda managed once the coughing eased.

“Since you are here, I am assuming that Ezra Baxter has hired you, although I knew he would—no choice, really. That will not be the case here, I assure you. There are rules to be followed,” the woman continued. “The front door is locked promptly at eight in the evening. I have the only key. You will have a key for your room, of course. Meals in the dining room daily at six and five.” She pointed one spindly finger toward a room on the opposite side of the hall. “Noonday is not served, except on Sundays after church. No supper is served on the Sabbath. If you plan to be absent for any meal, I need notice a day in advance.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Amanda said. “Mr. Baxter has asked that I come for supper at his home tomorrow evening.”

“Very well.” Miss Dooley said no more. In fact, she seemed to have momentarily forgotten that Amanda was still there.

“Is my room…”

“Top of the stairs, first door to your left. It’s open, and your trunk is there. I told your friend Mr. Bunker there was no reason for him to wait. I knew Ezra would hire the first person who came through the door—he’s that desperate. Your friend asked me to wish you luck and tell you good-bye. I’ll get the key and be up directly.”

Amanda was halfway up the stairs when the woman added, “I’ll tolerate no male visitors except in the parlor with me present, unless they are family, and there will be no spirits on the premises at any time. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Amanda trudged on, pausing on the landing to look out a small arched window at the street below. She saw Mr. Grover standing outside a shop on the main street. He was talking to another man, and their conversation seemed quite serious. At the top of the stairs she faced a long, narrow hallway with doors to either side. One door was partially open and revealed a sink.

“Bath at the end of the hall is shared,” Miss Dooley shouted from below. “Best fasten the latch when you are in there or risk being interrupted.” Miss Dooley’s voice faded as a door on the first floor near the back of the house opened and closed with a bang.

Amanda stood for a moment at the top of the stairs to get her bearings. She breathed in the scent of furniture polish, the leftover odor of fried bacon from what she assumed was breakfast served earlier that morning, and cigar smoke she identified as coming from a room at the rear of the hall. She heard a man clear his throat, as if trying to rid himself of some blockage in his lungs. He sounded as if he was choking, and she was tempted to go to his aid when she heard Miss Dooley mounting the stairs.

She leaned over the bannister and motioned toward the open door. “Is he all right?” she whispered.

“Ollie? He’s fine. Don’t pay him any mind.” She opened the door to the room she’d indicated would be Amanda’s. “Well, come in,” she barked as she moved quickly to the windows and pushed back the heavy draperies to reveal one of the large rounded windows Amanda had admired from the street. And when she saw her trunk at the foot of the four-poster bed, she felt a swell of pleasure tighten her chest.

She had done it. She had left her childhood home and come to a place where she was in charge of her comings and goings, the people she would meet, the things she would do. For the first time in her life, Amanda felt truly grown-up.

“I’m full up,” Miss Dooley was saying as she smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from the coverlet on the bed. “There are five of you. Oliver Taylor works at the saloon down the street. He sleeps during the day and is out much of the night. Across the hall from him is Mrs. Rosewood—she lost her husband some time ago, moved in here last fall, and keeps mostly to herself. Then there is Miss Lucinda Jenson, who opened a hat shop last month.”

“And the fifth boarder?”

Miss Dooley frowned. “Just left. He’s as new as you. Mr. Grover is the name he gave.” She hesitated. “I am unsure of his occupation, but he paid in advance, and in these hard times one cannot afford to reject a lodger who does so.” She spoke as if talking to herself rather than Amanda—as if trying to convince herself she had made the right move. But then she turned her sharp eyes on Amanda and added, “You would do well to stay clear of that one. He is too handsome for his own good, and men like that…” She handed Amanda the key and scowled, waiting for her to agree.

“I’m quite sure that I will be busy enough with the Baxter twins that I will have little time for socializing,” Amanda assured her.

Miss Dooley let out a huff of disbelief. “You’re quite a pretty thing, aren’t you? I cannot imagine what Ezra must have been thinking, hiring a mere girl to take charge of those children. You have experience?”

Amanda was not about to allow herself to be interviewed by Miss Dooley now that she had secured the approval of Mr. Baxter. “I am prepared to meet the requirements of the position,” she replied as she walked to the door and waited for her landlady to take her leave.

“Supper promptly at five,” Miss Dooley repeated.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Amanda closed the door and then, in a fit of pure joy, took a running leap onto the bed and nestled into the soft feather mattress.

* * *

Seth’s decision to move on to Tucson had come with some complications. For one thing, the hotel was expensive and full up, while the rooms over the three saloons in town were rent-by-the-hour accommodations.

His remaining choice was between camping outside of town or taking the last available room at the boardinghouse. In the end, he had opted for the boardinghouse.

He’d met briefly with his Wells Fargo contact when that man had come through town on the stagecoach. The agent had taken a certain amount of pride in providing Seth with what he called the perfect cover for his activities. “The groundwork’s been laid for folks to think you are checking out land for potential investors from the East. Most folks won’t believe it, but after a week no one will pay your comings and goings the slightest mind. As long as you stay out of trouble,” he’d added.

But trouble was part of the job. The cover story would do for explaining why Seth often took forays into the countryside, checking out various locations. But to gather information Seth also needed to frequent local dens of pleasure, play cards, and down shots of rye whiskey with the locals. Sometimes those encounters could lead to fights. Sometimes his best source of information came from spending a night in jail with others.

Back in Whitman Falls, he’d had Lilly at the Dandy Doodle to act as an extra set of eyes and ears. Here in Tucson that would not be the case. He’d already had the opportunity to study his housemate and local bartender, Oliver Taylor, and found him to be a man with a drinking problem of his own, and far too much interest in gossiping to be of use. The landlady was the suspicious type and would be more so if he started asking questions. The current district sheriff was rumored to be in cahoots with some shady businessmen in the area and, unless Jess Porterfield could defeat him in the next election, was likely to hold his position as the local lawman. Seth was on his own. The last thing he needed was the distraction of Miss Amanda Porterfield.

The fact that the Porterfield woman would also be bunking at the boardinghouse had never occurred to him. The fact that she was in Tucson at all was bad enough. The fact that apparently she would be living close to him, taking meals with him, and generally, be aware of his comings and goings was most unsettling.

Of course, it wasn’t that she was the problem—he was. From the minute he’d laid eyes on her back in Whitman Falls, he had been unable to get her out of his mind. He wondered if his fascination with her was really a sign that it was time for him to give up his undercover work and live a normal life—with a wife and family and people who knew and accepted him for who he really was. A wife that maybe looked a lot like…

“Drop it, Grover,” he muttered, and tightened his resolve to ignore Miss Amanda Porterfield.

But sure enough, there she was, seated across from him at supper. He turned his attention to the other boarders, mentally recording their names and any possibility they might be a help or a hindrance in the work he had to do. To the Porterfield woman’s right was Mrs. Rosewood, fifties, widowed, dowdy in appearance. Next to him was a shopkeeper, Miss Jensen, who could be trouble since she was already flirting with him. Miss Dooley presided from the head of the table while Ollie, the bartender from the saloon, took his place at the foot. The food had been placed in the center of the table for the boarders to help themselves family-style, but Seth couldn’t help thinking they made a most unlikely family. Ollie had been the first to reach for the meat platter the minute Miss Dooley raised her head from the silent grace she informed them would begin every meal.

No one protested when the bartender took more than his share, and the only sounds in the room were the clink of flatware on plates, the muffled noise of street traffic from outside, and the necessity of having to chew and swallow without the cover of conversation. And through it all, Seth had the oddest feeling that Miss Porterfield was working very hard to keep a giggle at bay.

Her mouth twitched as she picked at her food and sipped her water. She kept her head down, focusing her attention on her plate, except for the couple of times she glanced at her dinner partners from under lowered lids framed in a lush fan of pale lashes. Then, as if a signal had sounded, the widow passed her plate to Ollie, who added the beef rib bones that he’d sucked clean to her leavings, then his cutlery, and passed the stack on to Miss Jensen, and so on around the table until Miss Dooley presented the stack of dishes to a hired girl who appeared from the swinging door that led to the kitchen.

A moment later, the girl returned balancing a stack of small plates and a steaming pie that she set in front of Miss Dooley. The landlady sliced the dessert expertly into six even pieces, dished a piece onto each plate, added a fork, and passed them down the line.

All this was done without uttering a single word.

The military precision with which this feat was accomplished was ridiculous, and Seth felt a bubble of laughter clog his throat at the same moment he made the mistake of glancing at Miss Porterfield. She had just taken a bite of her pie, and when she looked up, she actually winked, as if they shared a secret.

Seth frowned and concentrated on devouring his pie. This would not do. For her own safety, they could have no connection. At breakfast he would take a place at the far end of the table next to Ollie, so that looking at her would be less likely.

Seth washed down the pie with the rest of the water in his glass, wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin, and stood. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, addressing his landlady. “That was a mighty fine meal.”

“For some of us, it is still in progress,” Miss Dooley retorted, her fork in midair. “Do you have pressing business, Mr. Grover, that would prevent you from waiting until everyone has finished?”

Seth heard a soft snort and saw that Miss Porterfield had covered half her face with her napkin. The tremble of her shoulders told him she was laughing. He had to fight a smile as well because there was no denying the absurdity of the landlady’s ridiculous rules that were more appropriate for toddlers than for grown men and women.

“You’ll forgive me, ma’am, but my employer expects me to accomplish a good deal while I am here in Tucson. And while you made it quite clear that the start of the meal is sacrosanct, you said nothing about the length. Perhaps if you require your boarders to abide by your schedule, it would be best if I found other accommodations.”

He had paid her a full month’s rent in advance, although if things went well, he expected to be here less than a week. He had paid her with gold coins and had not missed the way her eyes had widened in surprise. Now she looked at him in horror.

“Not at all. You are quite within your rights to come and go as you please—within the confines of my curfews, of course.”

“Then I’ll say good night,” he replied, including the others as he placed his napkin next to his plate, pushed his chair into place, and left.

He was barely down the front steps when he heard the bartender call out to him. “Hold on there, fella. I’ll walk with you.”

“On your way to work?” Seth asked, seeing no recourse but to wait for the short, pudgy man.

“I’ve got some time. Never saw anybody stand up to the old lady the way you did. Rocked her back on her heels, all right.” He chuckled. “She’s one tough old bird, that one, but she sets a fine table.”

“You lived here long?”

“Going on five years now. Seen a number of boarders come and go—Mrs. Rosewood and me have been here the longest.”

“The widow?”

“Yeah. Keeps to herself, that one. She don’t go out much.”

They walked along in silence past the closed shops. “Now those two young misses…” Ollie continued, chuckling under his wheezing breath. “That hatmaker sitting next to you was making eyes at you, all right, and the other one? You ask me, that little girl is headed for trouble, especially once she faces the Baxter twins.” He let out a low whistle. “That whole Baxter family has got the idea they are something special. That boy is meaner than a cornered copperhead. Him and that girl will give her trouble she ain’t never thought about,” he predicted.

“Maybe you should warn her,” Seth suggested.

“Naw. No chance of that. We keep different hours, her and me. You, on the other hand…”

“Why would I say anything? I don’t know the family.”

It was at least a partial lie. Seth had had the opportunity to check up on Ezra Baxter. Whenever he moved to a new location, Seth made it his business to find out what he could about locals—especially community leaders. He had discovered that in the months following the death of his wife, Baxter had struggled in both his business and his personal life. The boy was by all reports a wild one, always at the center of any trouble from boys his age in town, and the girl—well, he didn’t know much about her. What he did know was that Baxter had taken up card playing, apparently as a way to ease his grief. He was bad at it, and he lost large sums on a regular basis. He also had a temper. Seth had not yet been at the table during one of the man’s games, but if he could believe the local gossip, Baxter was a powder keg about to explode.

Not his business, of course, but Seth had long ago learned to be aware of any potential for trouble. He turned his attention back to Oliver. “Sounds like the family has seen some tough times.”

“Haven’t we all? No reason for them to go acting like they do. You just let the little lady know that I said she should watch herself around them—the boy especially.” Ollie pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket and paused to light it, striking a match on a hitching post.

“What sort of trouble has the boy been in?”

“There’s more than one respectable female in this town who’s been accosted by that boy. Oh, nothing criminal, just takes a certain pleasure in scaring them. And that Porterfield woman being such a pretty little thing…” He drew on his cigar and shook his head.

“How old is this boy?”

“Fourteen going on twenty. I’ve had to run him off from the saloon more times than I can count. And just yesterday, the girl was caught shoplifting at the general store. Nothing came of it, of course. Folks feel sorry for them—being motherless and all—so they get away with mischief like that.”

“Well, I expect Miss Porterfield knows how to deal with mischief,” Seth said as the two men continued walking toward the saloon.

“There’s mischief, and there’s just plain meanness. These young’uns seem to enjoy hurting things—animals and people alike.”

“Sounds like somebody ought to speak to the father.”

“He’s the cause of it all—takes a belt to those kids at the drop of a hat. Not your usual punishment, either. Folks say there’s a cruelty to it—that he don’t know when to stop. I’m telling you, it’s her who needs warning. Their daddy has his own problems.” They had reached the far end of the street where three saloons were open. Ollie headed for one of them. “You coming in?”

“Not tonight,” Seth replied, and tipped his hat before moving on past the saloons to the livery stable where he’d boarded his horse.

He supposed he could slip a note under Amanda Porterfield’s door—anonymous, just warning her to watch her back. He didn’t need to get involved in her business. There certainly was no need for a conversation she might take as him being interested in developing a friendship. The way she had winked at suppertime already indicated that she was the sort who liked getting to know those around her. No doubt because they had met in the mercantile in Whitman Falls—even though she had denied remembering that—and having sized up the rest of the boarders, she had decided he was the most likely candidate to be her friend.

And the one thing Seth Grover had realized was that if a man needed to keep his true business a secret, he did not allow anyone to get too close. He’d made that mistake once, and it had ended in disaster.

* * *

The first thing Amanda noticed when she woke on her first full day in Tucson was a small folded piece of white paper near her door. The second was the smell of coffee and fried meat wafting up from downstairs. The third was that she had just fifteen minutes to dress and get down to breakfast, or incur the wrath of Miss Dooley. She could already hear the high-pitched chatter of Miss Jensen as she talked to someone on her way downstairs.

Wanting to get off to a good start on her first day, Amanda ignored the note lying on the floor, scrubbed her face at the small basin in her room, cast off her nightgown, and hurriedly donned the clothes she’d laid out on the room’s only chair. She twisted her hair into a topknot and anchored it as best she could while hopping on one foot as she thrust the other into a slipper. That would have to do until she could return to her room after breakfast and finish dressing. Tonight she would meet her pupils for the first time, and she intended to use this day to see what she could learn about them from others in town.

As she opened the door and stepped into the hallway, she heard the first of six chimes on the clock Miss Dooley kept on the mantel in the sitting room. Before closing and locking the door to her room, she picked up the note, thrust it into her pocket, and raced down the stairs, reaching her place at the table just as Miss Dooley bowed her head for the mandatory silent grace.

Under the guise of prayer, Amanda glanced around the table and immediately noticed that Mr. Grover had elected to sit elsewhere. She felt insulted. Did he think she’d flirted with him at supper the night before? She most definitely had not. If she had shared a glance with him, it was in the spirit of kindred souls who saw the humor in the landlady’s regimen. If anyone was flirting with the man, it was Miss Jensen, who had batted her eyelashes so much that Amanda had been sure the woman had an uncontrollable twitch.

Well, she had far more important things to think about than to worry about why the man, once again dressed all in black—although he appeared to have left his gun in his room—had decided not to sit across from her. Even so, it did not escape her notice that he had selected a chair that would make eye contact between them nearly impossible, especially with the dour Mrs. Rosewood seated between them.

The hired girl, whose name Amanda had learned was Bessie, made the rounds pouring coffee for everyone except Mrs. Rosewood, who was served tea in a beautiful china cup. Mr. Taylor reached for the platter of sausages and eggs the minute Miss Dooley raised her head and placed her napkin on her lap. As seemed to be his habit, the bartender took more than a single portion of the food. He passed the platter to Mr. Grover, who offered it first to Mrs. Rosewood before serving himself. At least he had manners, Amanda admitted grudgingly as she accepted the bowl of fried potatoes Miss Dooley passed to her.

She took some and then turned to offer the bowl to Mrs. Rosewood. The widow ignored her, and at the same time, Mr. Grover held out the platter of eggs and sausages to Amanda, who saw no alternative but to trade serving dishes with him, her fingers brushing his in the process. Once the exchange had been made, she noticed how he silently offered to serve Mrs. Rosewood. The widow nodded and smiled slightly.

Amanda rolled her eyes. So not only was the milliner taken by the handsome Mr. Grover, but so was the grieving widow. Well, she would not be lured into whatever game he was playing. Clearly, he was a man so arrogant that he collected female hearts like trophies. He would just have to accept that her heart was not a collector’s item.

They ate in silence again, ignoring as best they could the chomping, slurping sounds emanating from Mr. Taylor’s end of the table. At supper the night before, she had found the scene amusing. This morning, with everything on her mind regarding the Baxter twins and her new job, she found it irritating.

Bessie came out to refill coffee cups and retreated again into the kitchen. Amanda could hear the ticking of the clock from across the hall. The beats seemed in perfect rhythm with the beating of her heart. Suddenly, she thought of her family back on the ranch, sharing breakfast and talking over one another as they shared news and plans for the day to come, and the vision of sitting at this table—day in and night out—with no conversation, no laughter, no interaction at all, was more than she could take.

“How was your evening at work, Mr. Taylor?” she ventured.

Everyone froze as Ollie glanced nervously at Miss Dooley. Everyone except Mr. Grover. “It certainly seemed as if that end of town was busy,” he added, ignoring the way others glanced nervously at their landlady.

Well, she did not need—or want—his support. “Have you lived in Tucson long, Mr. Taylor?” she continued.

“Five years,” Ollie finally managed.

“And what about you, Miss Dooley?” Amanda continued, even though Mr. Baxter had already offered details of her landlady’s past. But she focused on Miss Dooley deliberately because she could practically feel Mr. Grover studying her with amusement.

Miss Dooley released a long, exasperated sigh. “Is it the will of all gathered that we partake in conversation during mealtimes?” she asked.

“All in favor?” Mr. Grover said as he raised his hand. Immediately, so did Mrs. Rosewood and Miss Jensen. “Looks like a majority, Miss Dooley,” he said softly. “I mean, I assume since she spoke out that Miss Porterfield is in favor of the motion.”

“I’ll vote for talk at supper,” Ollie announced. “But leave me out of it in the morning. All I want is to eat and get some sleep.” He stood and left the room.

“Very well,” Miss Dooley said. “However, there is to be no discussion of religion or politics—those topics can upset digestion. Agreed?”

The four remaining boarders nodded. Miss Dooley turned to Amanda. “I was born and raised here. I have watched this town develop from nothing to what it has become today.”

Amanda smiled. “Then I wonder if you would be amenable to coming to speak to my students one day?”

“Why on earth would you want me to speak with your students?”

“I can’t imagine that I will be able to maintain discipline if they have to listen to me lecture them for hours day after day. It would be wonderful to surprise them now and then by inviting local people to engage their minds and imaginations.”

A rosy flush crept over the landlady’s cheeks. She pursed her lips and fingered her coffee cup. “If you think I might have anything to contribute,” she said softly.

“Oh, I do!” Amanda exclaimed. “In fact, I am quite sure that each of you here has something of value you could teach the children.”

It did not escape her notice that the only person who did not looked pleased at her invitation was Seth Grover.