Lucky Penny

Lucky Penny

by Catherine Anderson

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In this stirring novel of the Old West from New York Times bestselling author Catherine Anderson, a desperate woman’s impulsive ruse brings a rough-looking stranger into her life...

To support her orphaned niece, impoverished Brianna O’Keefe accepts work with a Colorado rancher. To guard herself from unwanted attention, she resorts to a harmless little lie: that she’s married to a Denver gold miner named David Paxton. When her boss forces her to write her “husband,” hoping he’ll take Brianna off his hands, she can only pray that no real David Paxton exists who can expose her.

When Colorado marshal David Paxton gets a letter from a stranger claiming to be his wife, and pleading with him to come for her and his “daughter,” he dutifully sets out to find this woman and the child he may have sired. What stuns Brianna is that David is convinced the young girl could, in fact, be his. As David and Brianna’s wary attraction blossoms into a deeper desire, David warms to the idea of a ready-made family. But can his dream survive Brianna’s lingering distrust...and his own heart-held secrets?

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780451236036
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Publication date: 01/31/2012
Series: Coulter Family Historical , #3
Pages: 432
Sales rank: 140,595
Product dimensions: 4.10(w) x 6.70(h) x 1.40(d)
Age Range: 18 Years

About the Author

Catherine Anderson is the author of more than thirty New York Times bestselling and award-winning historical and contemporary romances including the Harrigan Family series, the Coulter Family series, the Comanche series, and the Mystic Creek series. She lives in the pristine woodlands of Central Oregon.

Read an Excerpt


No Name, Colorado

Monday, April 6, 1891

David Paxton couldn’t quite credit that his little town had grown so quiet that he could rock back on his chair outside the jailhouse with nary a care to sour his mood. Over the past four months, since he’d changed his peacekeeping tactics, the barroom brawls and gunfights, common occurrences in the past, had become a rarity. At first he hadn’t felt confident that the change would last, but now he was finally starting to believe it would. No more tension, no need to keep an eye out for potential trouble. It had taken him a while to adjust to the change, but now that he had, his job as marshal seemed so easy it was almost boring.

In the early-morning breeze, his shoulder-length hair drifted across his face, making everything look limned in gold before he lazily pushed the strands back. How long had it been since he’d felt this relaxed? At least a year, damn it, or his eyes weren’t blue. Being tense and on guard all the time wasn’t good for a man’s constitution. Feeling certain he wouldn’t be awakened by the sound of gunfire last night, he had slumbered deeply. Hell, he felt so good he could swear he wasn’t a day more than twenty instead of the venerable thirty that he actually was. It was hard to believe he’d turn thirty-one in only a couple of months.

Old Mose Hepburn, the local drunk and David’s only prisoner, was sleeping it off in the cell block, as happy as a grub worm in a rotten log to be snoozing on a lumpy cot. Most times, he had to compete with rats for space in the hayloft of Chris Coffle’s livery stable. If the cantankerous old fart kept to his usual pattern, he wouldn’t come around until along about noon, and by then Billy Joe Roberts, one of David’s deputies, would be on duty to walk across the way to get Mose some breakfast. David sighed with contentment and flexed his shoulders, glad to be slothful for a change and let his mind wander. No appointments, no meetings, and no rowdy cowpokes. His languorous mood was magnified by Sam, his fluffy gold and white dog, who lay beside him, snoring louder than a two-man crosscut saw.

It was a long-missed pleasure for David to watch the town of No Name awaken. And, oh, what a fine morning it was, putting him in mind of his early years, when he’d sometimes had nothing better to do than sit on the back stoop and watch the grass grow. The planks of the boardwalk creaked as he shifted his weight. A fly, the first David had seen since last autumn, buzzed in to cut circles in front of his nose. Sunlight spilled over the roof peaks at the opposite side of Main Street and slanted under the overhang. Butter yellow warmth bathed the lower half of his face where his hat brim didn’t cast a shadow and seeped through his leather duster and shirt to make him feel toasty despite the chill temperatures of early spring. Yep, and boy howdy, it was shaping up to be a great day.

Slumped on the tottery contraption of ancient wood he still called a chair, David extended his long legs and crossed his booted feet to study his spurs. He hated the damned things, would never use them on a horse, and felt silly wearing them, but his sister-in-law Caitlin insisted they were “necessary accoutrements” to his new marshal’s outfit. Trust her to come up with a big word for every little thing. Turning his ankles, he noted with grim satisfaction that the once-silver rowels were now pewter gray and specked with dry mud. Not so long ago, he would have rushed over to Gilpatrick’s general store for some polish to restore their sparkle. Not anymore. He’d learned the hard way that a town marshal who paraded about in a starched shirt, pressed blue jeans, and spit-shined boots was asking for trouble. Now, under the direction of his elder brother Ace, a renowned ex-gunslinger, David dressed more like a roughrider than a peacekeeper, and he sure did appreciate the results. No upstart fast guns had called him out into the street in well over three months.

A loud thump brought Sam’s snoring to a halt and caught David’s attention. Squinting against the light, he directed his gaze across the way to the source of the noise. Roxie Balloux, the buxom and ever-cheerful proprietress of No Name’s best restaurant, had just emerged from the establishment from a side service doorway with a five-gallon slop bucket in each hand. Reddish brown hair caught at her crown in a coiled braid, she looked fetching in a tidy, blue-checked gingham housedress with lacy shoulder caps and a fashionable new bustle that was supposedly more streamlined than its predecessors. To the delight of most men, the effect was lost on Roxie. She was plump in all the right places and needed no posterior enhancement. Hell, Roxie wearing a bustle was sort of like ladling whipped cream over apple pie à la mode, a bit too much of a good thing. Not that any man with blood still moving in his veins could think about food when he admired her backside. Sadly, she would turn thirty-five in August, making her a mite too long in the tooth for David, who still hoped to marry and raise a family.

As Roxie descended the porch steps, Old Jeb, a black dog belonging to Jesse Chandler, the chimney sweep, appeared out of nowhere, barking excitedly and circling at her feet as she upended the buckets over the trash barrel. She let loose with a sigh, audible even at a distance, and gingerly routed through the slop to find the shaggy beggar a treat. She tossed the canine a ham hock generously peppered with what looked like coffee grounds. Jeb wasn’t fussy and dropped onto his belly in a patch of grass, still yellow from winter, to gnaw happily on the bone.

Sam, who either heard Jeb chewing or caught the smell, jerked awake and whined. David lowered a hand to his pet’s head. “No way, you rascal. Every time you eat Roxie’s slop, you get the squirts.”

The shepherd grunted and went back to snoring. David rocked, shifted, and went back to lollygagging, his gaze idly scanning the businesses across the street. Next door to the eating establishment, Tobias Thompson, so thin he didn’t cast a shadow standing sideways, emerged from his dry-goods store with broom in hand. Same as always, he wore a blue bib apron over black trousers and a white shirt with a turned-down collar that sported a red necktie. Even in the shade of the boardwalk overhang, his bald pate gleamed like polished agate as he bent to the task of sweeping his doorstep.

Watching the man work, David reached under his hat to scratch, hoping to high heaven he’d never lose his hair. He guessed he’d just wear a hat all the time when he got old. He wore one most of the time, anyhow.

The batwing doors of the Golden Slipper saloon creaked open just then. David glanced to his left, expecting to see Mac, the owner of the establishment, stepping out for a breath of fresh morning air. Instead, Marcy May Jones, the newly hired upstairs girl, posed in the doorway. David damned near swallowed his tongue. She wore a pink wrapper—in a manner of speaking—with the sash looped carelessly at her waist, one slender shoulder and most of one breast artfully displayed. David was so taken aback that he couldn’t think what to do or say. He was the marshal, after all, responsible for law, order, and upholding the decency codes of the town, but how in the Sam Hill did a man tell a lady to get her pretty little ass back inside where it belonged?

David wasn’t the only male on the street who reacted with a start. Tobias froze with his broom in midswing, and his grown son, Brad, the town’s newly appointed garbage collector, almost took out an overhang post with the right rear wheel of his fully loaded wagon as he cut the corner from the alley onto Main. One of the mules brayed in protest as Brad jerked hard on the reins to stop.

“Good morning, Mr. Thompson,” Marcy crooned to Brad as she caressed one hip, smiled, and tipped her head so that the henna tint of her brown hair flashed in the morning light. “I keep hopin’ you might pay me a call one of these nights, and my little heart’s just broken that you never come.”

Trying to back up his team, Brad turned three shades of crimson and gripped the lines in one hand to tug at his shirt collar, which apparently had shrunk a size between one breath and the next. “I . . . um . . . Well, lands, Miss Marcy, I’m a happily married man.”

“I’m partial to happily married men, Mr. Thompson. They know how to treat a lady.”

Brad coughed and ran a hand over his face. “Well, um, my Bess—she wouldn’t like it if I visited you. No, ma’am, she wouldn’t cotton to that at all.”

Marcy sighed theatrically. “Too bad. Her bein’ in the family way and all, I bet you’re not gettin’ any at home. If you should start to feel cross and out of sorts, you come see me. I’ll cure what ails you. You have my personal guarantee.”

Tobias glared at Miss Jones and then at his son’s broad back. He was clearing his throat and about to speak when Brad’s wife, Bess, a petite and very pregnant blonde, emerged from the dry-goods store. Prior to having children, Bess had been the schoolteacher, and despite her diminutive stature, she still carried herself with an air of authority even though she now had the swaybacked posture common to so many women heavy with child. She stepped off the edge of the boardwalk into full sunlight, circled the wagon, and stood between her husband and the saloon as she met Marcy’s gaze. The sparks that shot from her green eyes could have set fire to stone. David realized her anger stemmed from jealousy, which baffled him. Miss Marcy was easy enough on the eyes, he guessed, but she didn’t hold a candle to Bess.

“Where is Mac?” she demanded of the prostitute. “I’m guessing he doesn’t know his upstairs girl is indecently exposing herself on the town boardwalk in broad daylight!” Bess had perfected the schoolmarm haughtiness that always snapped kids to attention. Chin up, eyebrows arched, she almost made David want to dive for cover. “You’ll kindly remove yourself from public view, Miss Jones, or I shall report you to the city council. We do have laws in this town to protect the innocent!” With a fling of her left arm, Bess gestured up the street at the schoolhouse. “Children are out and about, my good woman. I don’t believe that Charley and Eva Banks would be pleased to learn that their boy Ralph witnessed this indecent display on his way to school.” Bess fluttered her fingers in front of her chest and added with shrill accusation, “Your feminine protrusions are showing.”

“They’re called tits, honey,” Marcy replied drily. “You got so much starch in your petticoats, it’s a wonder you don’t crackle when you walk.”

David was greatly enjoying himself until Bess turned that fiery green gaze on him. He leaped to his feet as if he’d just been prodded with a pitchfork tine. “We do have a city ordinance about appropriate public attire, Miss Marcy,” he said loudly, so Bess would hear, hoping as he spoke that ordinance was the proper term. The city council had so many names for laws—appendages, bylaws, and all manner of other shit—that he could never keep them straight. Bottom line, he had been appointed marshal because he was halfway smart and fast with a gun, not because he had a gift with words. “Standing about on the boardwalk in nothing but a—” David glanced at Miss Marcy and, like Brad, had a sudden urge to loosen his collar. Even worse, he plumb forgot what that pink thingamajig she wore was called. It had slipped farther off her right shoulder, and the brown of her nipple was playing peekaboo with him every time the breeze shifted. “Well, ma’am, no offense, but parading about in one’s birthday suit, even if it’s sort of covered, is against the law. You need to go back inside.”

Wearing a jade dress that matched her eyes and sporting a belly as big as a Texas watermelon, Bess pointed a rigid finger at the prostitute. “Immediately!”

“I’m goin’, I’m goin’,” Marcy replied with a seductive thrust of her hip as she turned away. “Don’t get your lacy little knickers in a twist. I ain’t never stole anybody’s husband yet and don’t plan to start. They come of their own free will.”

Bess’s face turned as red as her husband’s. She reached up to rest a fine-boned hand on Brad’s knee, and the man jerked as if he’d just been touched with a hot brand. David, who’d been courting Hazel Wright, the new schoolteacher, and was thinking about asking her to marry him, got an itchy feeling at the nape of his neck. If this was any indication, maybe wedded bliss wasn’t so blissful. Hell’s bells, all Brad had done was accidentally look, and as a result, he’d probably get burned biscuits for supper.

Bess abandoned her husband to march across the rutted street, which was still muddy in spots from a recent rain. As she approached David, he wondered how a perfectly wonderful morning had so quickly gone to hell.

“Marshal Paxton,” she said, using a tone that took David back in time to the classroom, when nuns had cracked rulers over the backs of his knuckles when he misbehaved. “We, the citizens of No Name, pay you well to keep this town respectable, yet you sat there on that dilapidated chair doing absolutely nothing while a harlot hawked her wares on Main Street at eight o’clock in the morning!”

David rubbed his whiskery jaw and repositioned his hat. “You heard me tell her to go back inside, Bess. What else can you expect me to do, get her in a headlock and drag her back in?”

“That is not the point!” Bess’s lips drew back over her teeth in a snarl so fierce that David cringed. Sam whined and crossed his snow-white paws over his eyes. “The point is that you gawked at her for a full three minutes before you said a single word.”

“Gawked? I didn’t gawk.” Well, he guessed he had, but not on purpose. “I was just taken aback, Bess, and as the marshal, I can’t go off half-cocked. I needed to think of an appropriate way to handle the situation.”

Judging by the flare of pink on her cheeks, Bess was less than mollified by his explanation. “Mark my word, I will attend the next city council meeting and lodge a complaint. You never hesitate to arrest a man who disturbs the peace, yet you fail to act when the perpetrator is a half-dressed female of ill repute!”

David scratched beside his nose. “That isn’t fair. It’s different with a woman.”

“How so?”

David scuffed his heel on a plank. “Well, when a man breaks the law, I can go to fisticuffs with him if it becomes necessary—or shoot him if all else fails. It’s a whole different story with a lady.”

“Marcy May Jones is not a lady!” Bess ran a molten gaze from the top of David’s head to the toes of his dusty boots. “Not that I’m certain you’d recognize the difference anymore. You used to be a fine, upstanding marshal. Now just look at you! A saddle tramp has better personal hygiene.” She jabbed a dainty finger at his duster. “That thing is absolutely filthy! And just look at your face. I’ll bet you haven’t shaved for the better part of a week.”

David put a blade to his jaw every three days now, usually right before bedtime so he could sprout a new crop of whiskers before sunrise. “My duster isn’t dirty. I just greased it up to make it look that way.”

Bess held up a staying hand. “I’ve heard all about your reasons for changing your appearance, and it’s a bunch of stuff and nonsense, if you ask me. Looking mean and disreputable to keep the peace? Ha. There’s more to the job than just dispensing with the riffraff. A marshal should represent our community in fine fashion and set a good example for our children! He should be clean shaven and keep his hair cropped short. He should change clothes every single day! He should—”

“Hold on just one minute,” David protested. “I change clothes every blessed morning. And just because I look dirty doesn’t mean I am. I bathe regular, and I brush my teeth morning and night.” He gestured at his duster, which Ace’s wife, Caitlin, had designed and made from soft leather purchased at the cobbler’s shop. “You have to admit that there’s been no trouble around here for almost four months now. Say what you want about how I look, but it scares off the rowdies.”

Bess rolled her eyes. “You have become a disgrace! Your poor mother must be embarrassed half to death.”

In truth, David’s mother slept better at night now that no upstarts were calling him out. That said, she tolerated no slovenliness in anyone, so she did try to sneak up behind David with her scissors now and again to trim his hair. But he wasn’t about to mention that to Bess. “How my mother feels about my changed appearance is none of your business, Mrs. Thompson.”

“My husband and I help pay your wages, Marshal Paxton! I guess I have some say.”

Bess waddled back across the street. Damn. He’d heard tell that pregnancy made women emotional, but this particular female had become downright ornery. Normally Bess was mild tempered. Didn’t she realize that Miss Marcy was no threat? Brad wouldn’t look at another woman if he was paid to do it, not willingly, anyhow. He’d been taken by surprise this morning, but that didn’t mean he’d liked what he saw. Not enough to be unfaithful to Bess, anyhow.

Sam whined again. David glanced down and saw that the dog had finally uncovered his eyes. “Coward. You kill rattlers without blinking, yet you quake and hide from a pregnant female? Explain that to me.”

Sam groaned and rolled over on his back, legs sprawled for a belly rub. David gave him a scratch with the toe of his boot. “You worthless mutt. Bess wouldn’t hurt a fly. She’s just out of sorts right now. While carrying Dory Sue, Caitlin took offense at every imagined slight and cried all during her last month. Remember that? Everybody had to carry an extra handkerchief to help mop her up.”

David had lost his yen for whiling away the morning, but as he started into the office to catch up on paperwork, someone shouted his name. He turned to see a man riding up Main on a sorrel gelding.

“Yes?” David called.

The man guided his horse over to the boardwalk. “You the marshal?”

“That’s right.” David tucked the left side of his duster behind the butt of his Colt .45 to expose his badge and softly shushed Sam, who growled in warning because the fellow was a stranger. “What can I do for you?”

“If your name’s David Paxton, I brung you a heap of mail.”

“That’s my moniker, but I get all my mail here at the No Name post office.”

“Not all of it, I reckon.” The fellow had a canvas tote on the saddle in front of him. He tossed it at David’s feet. “The Denver postmaster’s been holdin’ these here letters for goin’ on six years. He returned a few of ’em, but mostly he just tucked ’em away, hopin’ David Paxton would show up someday to get his mail.”

David’s brows snapped together in bewilderment. Who would send him letters in Denver? He visited the larger town every now and then, mostly by train to get his cattle to market, but he had never lived there.

“Anyhow,” the man continued, inclining his head at the bag, “as you can see, the amount of unclaimed mail is substantial and was takin’ up a lot of needed space. Postmaster was about to dispose of it when the sheriff told him the marshal down here goes by the name of David Paxton.”

“There must be a mistake,” David replied. “You sure there’s not another man with the same name up that way?”

“Not so far as I know. And if there is, he ain’t never gone to the post office to collect his mail.” He nodded at the bag again. “The sender must think you live there. All the letters is addressed to you, general delivery.”

David had to admit, if only to himself, that he’d never met anyone outside his family with the surname Paxton, let alone another Paxton with the same first name. “Strange.”

“Yeah, well.” The other man shrugged. “If you figure the letters ain’t meant for you, throw ’em out.”

David watched the fellow turn his horse and ride away. Then, after tossing the dregs of his coffee into the street, he bent to pick up the bag, which was weighty with mail. Whistling for Sam to follow him, he carried it inside and emptied the contents on his desk. The letters had been grouped in small bundles and bound together with twine. The return address on one of them sported the name of a gal named Brianna Paxton who lived in Glory Ridge, Colorado, a place David believed was southeast of No Name.

As Sam settled in his favorite spot behind the wood box, David lifted the blue speckled pot simmering on the rusty stove to refill his mug. Then he sat at his battered old desk, drew his knife from his trouser pocket, and sliced the twine on a bundle of envelopes. After cutting the first seal, he settled in to read a missive picked at random, which was dated only a few weeks ago and written in an elegant feminine hand. He was barely aware of the rumbling snores that vibrated through the wall that separated the cell block from the front office.

Darling David:

I hope this finds you well and that you have finally struck it rich in the Denver gold fields.

David frowned. Nobody had done any gold mining to speak of in the immediate area of Denver for many years.

I write again, as I have many times before, to plead with you to come for me and our little girl, only this time I do so with more urgency. My employer, Charles Ricker, wishes to marry, and when he takes a wife, he will no longer have need of a housekeeper, cook, or tutor for his sons. In Glory Ridge, there is very little by way of respectable employment for a lady. Our daughter and I will shortly be in dire straits. I miss you dreadfully, especially at night when I recall our brief but delightful times together. If you come for us, I promise that I will be a loving wife and more supportive of your dreams.

Forever yours,


David’s frown deepened. Who the hell was this lady? He knew no one named Brianna, sure as heck hadn’t married her, and had not sired her child. Or had he? Sweat beaded on his brow.

Just then a light tap came at the door and David glanced up to see Hazel Wright stepping into the office. As pretty as a spring morning in a yellow day dress and green shawl, with her honey-colored hair swept up in a fluff of curls atop her head, she smiled brightly as she closed the door, her blue eyes sparkling.

“I just wanted to stop by and say good morning before going to the schoolhouse,” she said, fingering the gold pendant that David had given her the previous evening. “We had such a lovely time last night. At least, I thought so.” A blush stole into her cheeks, telling David she was recalling their farewell kiss, which had been pleasant and stirring. “How is your day starting out?”

It had started off great, but now David was getting a bitch of a headache, and Hazel, the woman he might marry, was the last person he wanted to see. “Fine.” I just found out I may have sired a daughter out of wedlock, but everything else is just dandy. Remembering his manners, he pushed erect, swept off his Stetson, and tossed it on the mail, hoping the hat would prevent Hazel from noticing that the sender of all the letters bore his surname. “Would you care for a cup of coffee? It’s fresh, not coffin varnish like Billy Joe always has on hand.”

She shook her head, curls bouncing. “I’d love to, but I need to go. The children will run wild if I’m late.”

“Well.” That was all David could think to say. “I’m pleased you stopped by to say hello.”

She pinned shimmery blue eyes on his, giving David the uncomfortable feeling that she wanted him to kiss her again. It bothered him that he felt no urge to hotfoot it around the desk. Hazel was lovely, a well-educated lady, and perfect for him. Her acceptance of the pendant last night also told him that she would be receptive to a proposal of marriage. It was inappropriate for a woman to welcome such an expensive gift from a gentleman otherwise.

David should have felt jubilant. He wasn’t the only man in No Name who’d tried to win Hazel’s affection. But something—David couldn’t pinpoint precisely what—was missing in his feelings for Hazel. He liked her and enjoyed her company. Practically speaking, he should have been as happy as a cow in a cabbage patch that she’d chosen him when others had tried so hard to gain her favor.

So why was he waffling? Maybe it was because he still harbored fanciful notions about finding his one true love. His older brothers, Ace and Joseph, had found the women of their dreams. Sadly, it hadn’t occurred for David yet. If he waited around much longer for something magical to happen, he might grow too old to raise a family. He wanted a brood of children. A practical man would tie the knot with Hazel before some other fellow beat him to it.

David circled the desk, grasped Hazel’s shoulders, and pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead. “Have a wonderful day. Maybe, if things are quiet around here this evening, I can take you to supper at Roxie’s. She serves roast beef on Mondays. As I recall, that’s one of your favorites.”

Hazel nodded, still searching his gaze as she fingered the pendant. “Last night when you gave me this, I—” She broke off, looked away, and moistened her lips. “Please tell me if I read something more into it than you intended.”

“No, of course you didn’t.” David chucked her gently under the chin. “My intentions are—” David hauled in a deep breath, feeling like he had as a kid when he’d been about to jump into a swimming hole. Crazy. He’d been thinking about proposing for weeks. Giving Hazel the pendant had been his way of testing the water. So why did he feel like a bear with its paw caught in a trap? “My intentions are honorable,” he settled for saying. “I, um—just need some time to think things through and do some planning before taking the next step.”

Her timorous expression suddenly grew radiant, her smile as sweet and warm as sorghum on hot flapjacks. Going up on her tiptoes, she kissed David on the mouth. Before he could respond, she drew back to leave.

“Supper at Roxie’s!” she said cheerfully. “I’ll look forward to it all day.”

David stared solemnly at the door after it closed. Was this how it felt when a man was in love? Maybe it didn’t get any better than this. Hazel stirred David physically. He felt confident that he’d enjoy the intimacies of marriage with her. They got along well, shared a few interests, and hadn’t thus far disagreed on any important moral issues. Maybe that combination of things was what constituted love, and he just had his head in the clouds, wishing for earthshaking emotions that would never come to him and possibly didn’t even exist.

David turned back to the letters piled on his desk, most of which were still unopened. Brianna. The name didn’t ring a bell, but there was no denying that he was the addressee on every envelope. He resumed his seat to continue reading. Because Brianna’s more recent letters made little sense—he might forget if he’d bedded a woman, but he sure as hell wouldn’t forget if he’d married one—he searched for letters written four or five years ago. Sadly, the content of those made little sense, either, more or less mirroring the more recent missives except that she failed to mention how much she missed him at night. David was frowning over this when he came across a newer envelope that included a note written by a child, the printing awkward and comprised of a few brief sentences. There were no misspellings or errors in punctuation, which made David suspect that the little girl’s mother had supervised the composition.

Dearest Papa:

Mama says you are far too busy mining to come visit me, so I write to tell you we are fine and doing well. Mr. Ricker has lots of spring calves, and we’ve got many chicks that will soon be old enough to lay eggs. This morning I am helping Mama make dumpling stew. I hope you will come see me soon.

Your loving daughter,


David stared thoughtfully at the name. Daphne? There it was, definite proof that he wasn’t the child’s father. He’d never in a million years curse a little girl with that name. Rose, Iris, or Violet, maybe, but Daphne? Her classmates probably teased her unmercifully.

Sifting through the mountain of mail, David located an envelope that had been addressed to him in that same childish hand. At least the kid had written something halfway interesting in her last note, unlike the mother, who seemed fixated on repeating herself, the recurring theme, “Please come for us.”

David’s heart squeezed as he began reading Daphne’s second offering.

Dear Papa:

The man at the genrul store gives me pennys to post letters to you now becuz mama has vary little munny. Mr. Charles her boss got mareed and his new wife sed there wasn’t enuff room in one howse for too laydeez.

Clearly Daphne’s mother had not been present to help the child write this note. The misspellings and lack of punctuation made it difficult to read.

Mama had to find other work in gloree rij. She kleens howzes washiz uther peeples cloze duz dishez and sohs dressuz at nite.

David paused and had to back up where commas had been omitted.

We have a room in the atik at the bording howse but mostly I sleep on a pallut by mamas chare while she sohs until the we ours.

After finishing that letter, which was grimmer in content than the last, David fished until he found another envelope addressed to him in Daphne’s handwriting. He paused less frequently now, mentally inserting commas where they were absent and deciphering the child’s misspelled words by sounding them out.

We dont alwaze have enuff food but mama sez she iznt hungry and gives every bit she finds to me. I am smart and know she goze without only becuz there isnt enuff for too. Sometimes the food is from peeples garbuj drums but I eat it anyhow becuz there is nuthing else.

The most recent letter from Daphne tugged at David’s heart even more.

I gess you wont ever come to see me papa. Mama says you are way to buzy trying to find gold and make us rich. But if you could send me munny so mama can make me a dress, I would be very hapy. I am in school now, and the other girls make fun of me becuz my dress is to short and has pachez all over it. Mama trys real hard to make the pachez purty, cutting budderflize and starz out of scraps but evrybudy can still tell they are pachez. I’m not vary big, so the cloth for a dress won’t cost vary much.

David made a good income from his cattle ranch, had plenty in the bank, and also earned wages as a marshal. Even though he felt reasonably certain this little girl wasn’t his, he could afford to send her money for clothes. If there were a child in No Name in such dire straits, he wouldn’t hesitate to reach in his pocket.

Troubled, David addressed an envelope to Daphne Paxton and slipped in enough money to provide her with a half dozen school dresses, a pair of decent shoes, any other necessities, and food for several months as well. He refrained from writing a note to accompany it. He wasn’t the child’s father, and he didn’t want to kindle hope within her that her papa was undergoing a change of heart.

It was the best that he could do. And, hey, it was quite a lot in the general scheme of things. Many men would send nothing to a child not their own.

A few minutes later, while en route to the post office, which lay at the south end of town between the Chandler couple’s combination chimney sweep/candle shop and the livery, David was haunted by Daphne’s last letter. He’d lost his pa at a tender age and knew firsthand about hardships. But eating food from garbage drums? He shuddered at the thought. And it tore him up to imagine a little girl wearing patched, undersize dresses and worn-out shoes that pinched her toes. From the sound of it, Brianna Paxton turned her hand to every kind of work available and still wasn’t able to keep the wolves from her door. What kind of man abandoned his family and left them to fend for themselves? Not any kind of man, and it made David ashamed to think anyone of that ilk bore his name.

Incensed, David shoved open the post office door with a little more force than necessary, startling Baxter Piff, the postmaster, a stocky fellow of about fifty with a shock of unruly red hair, a bushy gray beard, and sharp blue eyes that missed nothing. Sam preceded his master to the window. When David slapped the envelope down on the counter, the other man glanced at it and said, “Didn’t know you had any other kin here in Colorado, only a sister out in California.”

“Oregon,” David corrected, dimly aware of Sam settling at his feet. “And this person isn’t kin,” he added gruffly. “Only a friend with the same last name.”

“Hmm.” Baxter weighed the envelope and quoted David an amount for postage. “Strange, that. Never met no other Paxtons so far as I recall.”

The headache that had been bedeviling David throbbed with increased intensity, pounding like a fist in his temples. “I’ve never met anybody else named Piff, either. That doesn’t mean I won’t someday.”

Baxter nodded. “Maybe, but I doubt it. My grandpappy changed our name. Originally it was something French, and nobody could say it right. Ain’t likely that anybody else came up with the same idea unless they’re related to us.”

“Well, Paxton isn’t French, it’s easy enough to pronounce, and it’s the last name of lots of folks.”

“How do you know it’s not French? Ain’t like you’ve traveled the world and seen faraway places, meeting folks with different names along the way.”

“I’ve traveled enough—all the way from Virginia to California and then back here.” David’s neck went hot. Paxton wasn’t that common, but at the moment, he would guzzle kerosene rather than admit it. “You’d argue with a fence post, Baxter. This job doesn’t keep you busy enough, and your boredom’s showing.” He fished in his pocket for coins and plopped them on the other man’s outstretched palm. “How long before that letter reaches its destination?”

The postmaster licked his finger and leafed through a thick tome. “Glory Ridge,” he muttered. “Hmph. Three days, best guess. It’ll go by train partway. Then it’ll be switched to a stagecoach for delivery. No main railway anywhere close, and the town’s probably too small for a connecting branch like we got.”

Until this morning, David had been only vaguely aware that Glory Ridge existed. Now he had reason to hope he never heard tell of it again. He just wanted Daphne to get the money as soon as possible, and then he’d return to his office, discard those letters, and wash his hands of this whole damned mess.

As he left the building and turned north, he saw his brother Ace braking his wagon near the hitching post in front of the marshal’s office. Sam gave a happy bark and raced ahead to greet David’s family. Caitlin’s red hair gleamed like copper as her husband took fifteen-month-old Dory Sue from her arms and assisted her from the wagon. Little Ace, almost three and a half, barely gave his father a chance to release Caitlin’s elbow and hand her the baby before leaping from the driver’s seat. While catching his son, Ace lost his hat. His jet-black hair shone like polished onyx as he bent to retrieve his Stetson.

David swore under his breath. Not today. He loved his oldest brother and always enjoyed when Ace dropped by to chat while Caitlin took the kids shopping. But this wasn’t a good time. There was all that mail piled on David’s desk, and Ace, who seldom missed anything, wasn’t likely to overlook those return addresses. That would prompt him to ask questions—lots of questions—and right now, David had no answers. Sweat sluiced down the cleavage of David’s spine as he strode toward his office.

Balancing Dory Sue on her hip, Caitlin waved, then lifted her blue skirts to gain the boardwalk. “Loafing as always, I see,” she accused teasingly, her cheek dimpling with pleasure as she went up on her tiptoes to kiss David’s. “And prickly, too,” she added with a smile when her lips met with whiskers. “How are you?” She leaned back to study him, her blue eyes filling with concern. “What a scowl! Where’s that famous grin I’m so accustomed to seeing?”

David did his best to smile as he bent to peck his niece on the forehead. Except for the jet-black hair Dory Sue had inherited from her father, she was the picture of her mama, delicate of feature, with big blue eyes and porcelain skin. She thrust out her chubby arms, saying, “Unca Day-Day! Unca Day-Day!”

David chuckled and soon found his arms filled with lace-trimmed pink gingham and baby-girl softness. He pressed his nose to the child’s ebon curls to breathe in the clean, sweet scent of her. Over the top of her head, he met Caitlin’s questioning gaze.

“It’s just been a troublesome morning,” he confessed. “Nothing serious, and even if it were, seeing all of you is just the thing to take my mind off it.”

A flush of pleasure flagged Caitlin’s cheeks. She caught Little Ace by the arm as he tried to scale David’s leg like a miniature pole climber. “Wait your turn. Uncle David is saying hello to your sister right now.” To David, she said, “We’re hoping you can join us for lunch at Roxie’s. My errands won’t take long. I need a few things from dry goods, and then I’m taking the children to the cobbler shop to be measured for shoes.” She rolled her eyes. “Ace refuses to order any from Montgomery Ward. He says ill-fitting, mail-order shoes are bad for their feet.”

David nodded. “I agree. Even if you specify the size they’re in right now, it’ll be a few weeks before the shoes arrive.” He handed Dory Sue back to her mother and swept Little Ace up to sit on his shoulder. “The way this little pistol is growing, his feet may be an inch longer by then.”

“Or two,” Ace put in with a smile directed at his wife. “Stop fussing. I know cobbler-made shoes are more expensive, but Shelby can use the business.”

“But, Ace, the kids will outgrow them in nothing flat!”

“And when they do, we’ll have more made. I’m not a poor man who has to pinch pennies on his children’s footwear.”

Little Ace chose that moment to grab David’s camel-brown leather hat. When the child put it on, his tiny dark head disappeared inside the bowl. When he pushed at the brim to peek out, everyone laughed.

“I think you need to grow some before you steal Uncle David’s hat, boy.” Ace fetched his son, returned David’s headgear, and set the child on his feet beside his mother. “No bargaining with Shelby,” he told his wife as he bent to kiss her cheek. “He’s a fair man, and the prices he quotes will be fair as well.”

Caitlin sighed, caught hold of Little Ace’s hand, and smiled in farewell. “You can drink some coffee, but don’t you dare eat any of those cookies from Roxie’s that David keeps in a tin,” she said over her shoulder as she started across the street. “You promised me lunch at her place, and I mean to hold you to it.”

Ace grinned and shook his head. To David, he murmured, “Is it my imagination, or is my wife getting headstrong and bossy?”

David laughed. “Now, there’s a question I wouldn’t touch with the tip of a long-barrel rifle.”

“No, truly. If a problem’s developing, maybe I should get a handle on it.”

David stifled a chuckle. Ace worshiped Caitlin and catered to her every whim. Only her sweet nature saved her from being spoiled and impossible to please.

“What’s so funny?” Ace asked.

David held up his hands. “Nothing! She’s one of the dearest people I know. If she’s getting a little headstrong and bossy, it’s nobody’s fault but your own.”

Ace bent to scratch Sam behind the ears. “So you do think she’s bossy.”

“I don’t think any such thing. Didn’t you just hear me say how dear I think she is? Damn it, Ace. Don’t put words in my mouth.”

Ace straightened from petting the dog. Though David wasn’t considered by most people to be a man of diminutive stature, he’d always felt short because Ace, who was actually only his half brother, was so blooming tall. In some parts of the country, there were full-grown trees that hit him below the chin. Big, muscular, and as solid as a chunk of rock—that was Ace. It was mind-boggling to realize that a tiny woman like Caitlin had not only brought the infamous Ace Keegan to his knees but now ruled his every thought, word, and gesture. A tear in her eye filled Ace with panic.

Slapping his brother on the shoulder, David led the way into his office. Sam danced to enter first and find his favored spot behind the stove. As David removed his hat and made to toss it at the hook on the wall, he stopped dead, remembering the mail on his desk. A knot formed in the pit of his stomach.

Ace glanced at the mound of envelopes and took his usual place in the chair across from David’s. Rocking back, he crossed his ankles and arms, the very picture of nonchalance except for the tic of his jaw muscle.

“So,” Ace said, still aiming for a cavalier manner, “that’s a heap of mail from someone named Paxton. Do we have a chatty relative I’m not yet aware of?”

After taking a seat, David slumped his shoulders and looked Ace in the eye. Since Joseph Paxton Sr.’s death, when David had been knee-high to a grasshopper, Ace had been the only father he’d ever known, stern and demanding in many ways, but also David’s best friend. He could have more easily cut off his right arm than lie to him. Family honor was a bitch sometimes.

“All these letters arrived this morning,” David replied. “The Denver postmaster has been saving them for about six years. They’re written by a gal named Brianna Paxton to her husband, David Paxton, who apparently married her, got her with child, and then abandoned her to find his fortune in Denver.”

“Well, little brother, that counts you out. You’ve never been a gold chaser, and I didn’t raise you to be a spineless pollywog that leaves a pregnant woman to fend for herself.”

Oh, how David yearned to leave it there, to just laugh and say, “You are so damned right.” Instead his scalp prickled, and his lungs ached as if he’d run three miles. “In my younger years, I wasn’t exactly an angel, Ace. When I went to Denver alone, I did plenty of honey dipping, and I was usually too far gone into a bottle to think about consequences.”

There, David thought. I’ve said it. And with the utterance, he felt sort of nauseated.

Ace rubbed beside his nose. “You ever get so drunk you had loss of memory? I’ve been there, waking up with no recollection of the previous night, sometimes with a woman in my bed whose face and name I couldn’t recall.”

David sank deeper into the embrace of his chair, elbows pressing hard on the arms. “I drank heavy. Gambled heavy, too. It was exciting to me back then. Denver seemed like a big city compared to No Name. Still does, only it’s gotten fancier. Now that I’m older, it just doesn’t hold the same appeal for me.”

“That isn’t what I asked.” Ace sat forward. “Were you ever so drunk that you could have been intimate with this woman and not remembered it the next day?”

David puffed air into his cheeks. “Only if she was a sporting woman, and they always take care of things like that with a sponge soaked in vinegar.”

“They try to take care of things like that with a sponge, but it’s about as effective as pulling out before the gun goes off. Sporting women do get pregnant. You know that. Sometimes they get rid of it. Sometimes they don’t. Many a child has grown up sleeping under the staircase of a whorehouse. Now, I asked you the question, square and honest. Were you ever that drunk?”

David could now pinpoint the source of his headache and nausea, and it had a terrible name: Truth. He closed his eyes, willing it away because suddenly Hazel Wright seemed mighty appealing. David didn’t want his nice little life messed up by a child he’d sired with a woman he couldn’t remember. “Yes,” he pushed out. “There were times when I got that drunk.”

Ace made a sound that reminded David of a bellows releasing a blast of air. A creak of wood signaled that he had gone limp and slumped back in his seat.

Finally David opened his eyes. “I don’t know what to do next,” he confessed. “If this woman used to be a working girl, and I got her pregnant, why didn’t she look me up? And why would she pretend to be married to me?”

“It’s possible that she didn’t realize she was pregnant for two or three months,” Ace replied, “and maybe she looked for you in Denver and couldn’t find you. As for taking your name and claiming to be your wife, I’ll remind you that Christian folks don’t look kindly upon an unmarried woman with a bun in her oven. It’s possible that she finally left the area and pretended she had a husband so decent folks wouldn’t shun her and the child.”

Ace didn’t take kindly to holier-than-thou churchgoers. He worshiped weekly with Caitlin, sometimes even taking her to Denver to attend Mass, but he drew the line at acting as if he were sinless. He felt that many people lost their way as Christians, and David agreed with him. That was undoubtedly why he’d been hesitant earlier to embarrass Miss Marcy. Her being an upstairs girl didn’t make her less of a human being.

“So you think this woman”—David gestured at the mail—“might actually have had my child?”

“It’s possible. That doesn’t mean I’m saying it’s probable.”

“Ever since I read some of the letters, I’ve been trying to convince myself of that,” David said. “That it’s improbable, I mean. It’s the possibility that has my guts tied in knots.” In a rush, he told Ace about sending Daphne money. “My gut tells me I’ve never clapped eyes on this woman, Ace.” He broke off and swallowed a lump of guilt. “But my conscience won’t let it go. What if I did bed her? She could have been a fancy girl in one of the Denver saloons and mistook me for a gold miner. Back then, before you got the railway connection built, I drove my cattle to market, and I was as dirty as any nugget digger you ever saw when I reached town. How do you tell the difference between a miner and a cowpoke? By the boots they wear? It isn’t like I talk a whole lot about myself when I toss a skirt. Fact is, I don’t talk much at all, except to say nice stuff, leaving off before I tell a woman I love her.” David felt like a ten-year-old again. “Even working girls like to hear nice stuff. Right?”

Ace nodded. “I raised you right. What you do with what I taught you is your business. If you choose to burn those letters, I won’t hold it against you. I’m hard put to say I’d do differently. A woman and child, out of the blue? You have your life here in No Name. They aren’t a part of it. I guess what I’m saying is, do what your heart tells you to do, David. If you can live with it, I sure as hell can.”

David’s headache suddenly eased. He pushed at the heap of letters, his fingertips sensitive to the rasp against grained paper. “I can’t live with fathering a child and leaving her to eat scraps from garbage drums. If I was once with that woman—if I got her pregnant—” David broke off and released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Well, if I did that, I have an obligation to the woman and the kid. Drunk or not when he makes a mistake, any man worth his salt takes responsibility for his actions. I can’t burn the letters and just let it go.”

“I’d feel the same. But let’s not jump the gun. It’s possible there’s another man around Denver, or was a few years back, named David Paxton. I suggest you head up there and scour the area, not only Denver, but all the outlying mining communities, for any trace of a man of that name. If he exists, there should be some record, a signature when he checked into a hotel, a transaction in his name at the assayer’s office if he was a miner, a bill at a dry-goods store, something. And if you find evidence that another David Paxton exists, it’s my feeling that you have no obligation to hang your hat on this gal’s hook.”

“And if there is no evidence of another David Paxton?” David didn’t know why he asked the question, because he already knew the answer, but for some reason, he needed to hear Ace say it. “Do I go find the woman? Will I know when I see the child if she’s mine? Look at little Dory, damn it. Except for your black hair, she looks nothing like you. What does a man do in a situation like this?”

Ace shoved at the mail again, his dark face taut. “He does what his heart and conscience tell him to do. If you decide it’s possible this child is your daughter, can you live with ignoring that fact?”

David shook his head. “I wouldn’t have much respect for myself as a man.”

“Then you need to hop the train to Denver. Do some checking. Hit the saloons, talk to people, see if anyone remembers this fellow.”

“That’ll take a spell, especially if I visit outlying towns,” David mused. He glanced toward the cell block. “It’s been pretty quiet around here lately, though. My deputies can handle everything if I’m gone for a few days, I reckon.”

“It may take more than a few days if you find no evidence that another David Paxton ever stepped foot in Denver. In that event, you’ll have to put your foreman in charge of your ranch and let your deputies do the marshaling while you make another trip.”

David nodded grimly. If he could find no trace of another man with his name, he’d be taking quite a long trip to a tiny little town named Glory Ridge.

Chapter One

Glory Ridge, Colorado

April 10, 1891

The hum and clack of the Singer sewing machine sang as softly in Brianna’s ears as a lullaby, the sounds so familiar and soothing to her that she could lose herself to the rhythm for hours, barely aware of the ache in her ankles from constantly working the pedal. A window to her right offered the only brightness in her work cubicle, and that was precious little on an overcast day. Even so, Brianna squinted to see rather than fire up the lantern before sundown. Kerosene cost dearly, a fact the shop owner, Abigail Martin, pointed out when anyone but herself needed extra illumination. Providing sufficient light so her employee didn’t struggle to see came under the heading of wasteful. Brianna’s lips compressed. She was in no mood for another scold today.

A lock of Brianna’s curly auburn hair escaped its coronet to tickle her cheek, but she ignored the irritation and kept pushing the two pieces of rose taffeta forward, ever gauging the evenness and tightness of the stitches. Abigail cawed like a disgruntled crow when she found a flaw. At present, the tempting fragrance of toasted bread and hot tea drifted from the old hag’s living quarters, irrefutable testimony that the woman loafed behind the closed door, indulging in afternoon treats instead of working.

Brianna knew it was wrong to have hateful thoughts, but since leaving Charles Ricker’s employ two months ago, she’d come to detest Abigail. The lady was mean-spirited and miserly, never offering to share the bounty from her kitchen, not even with a child. She also had a propensity for hogging the glory. The shrew presented all finished gowns to her customers and took credit for their innovative design. Oh, how Brianna yearned to speak up and claim the creations as her own, but the fangs of hunger, always threatening to slash at her daughter’s belly, kept her silent. She needed this job. The paltry sum she received each week, along with what she made at the restaurant and doing odd jobs, paid their rent and usually, though not always, provided sufficient food for Daphne. For now, that had to be Brianna’s only focus.

Nevertheless, she dreamed as she worked of owning her own dress shop. The display windows would sport the very latest in fashion and the finest quality available. Wealthy women would pay dearly to purchase Brianna Paxton originals. They would, oh, yes, they would, and Brianna’s coffers would overflow with the profits, putting an end to this hand-to-mouth existence.

To Brianna, sewing was similar to a waltz, her partner a machine. She followed its lead, aware of every hitch in its gait. Even when pain stabbed like knives beneath her shoulder blades from sitting hunched over, she was grateful for her talent with a needle, for that alone would one day free her and Daphne from the clutches of poverty.

Brianna often sent up prayers for the nuns at the Boston orphanage where she’d lived as a child. They had been wise to teach her a trade. Without this job to supplement her other income, she and her child would be out on the street, begging for handouts from the citizens of Glory Ridge, who were hard put to take care of themselves. As it was, Brianna occasionally had to snatch hunks of bread and cheese from the restaurant kitchen she cleaned every night and was sometimes left with no choice but to forage in trash barrels for food.

It shamed her, that. Her Irish pride burned hot every time she thought of it. Fortunately, she’d been blessed with a goodly amount of stubbornness, which stood her in good stead when circumstances drove her to do things that went against her grain and humiliated her. She’d heard people say that the end justified the means. In Brianna’s case, the end, keeping Daphne nourished, justified the depths to which she sometimes sank. Until their circumstances improved, there was no room in her life for a fierce sense of dignity. That was a facet of her nature she had to bury deep within herself. Daphne had to eat, and the child had no one in the world but Brianna.

Brianna sometimes wondered from which of her parents she had inherited her strong personality. They’d both been Irish, according to the nuns, and apparently impoverished, because they’d left their infant daughters on the orphanage doorstep with only a note to provide the good sisters with their first and last names. Other than that, Brianna knew nothing about her sire or dam. Her identical twin, Moira, had been humble and malleable of nature, giving Brianna reason to believe that one of their parents had been iron willed and the other possibly complaisant.

Or perhaps life itself had molded Brianna into the willful person she’d become. Growing up in an orphanage had made her feel unimportant. She’d been one of a flock, like the offspring of a brood hen that had laid all her eggs in a communal nest. The nuns had been affectionate, but their attention was spread thin. Only determination and an abundance of individuality made Brianna stand out. To this day, she could remember how she’d yearned for her favorite nun, Sister Theresa, to notice her. Maybe that craving had pushed Brianna into becoming bolder. A harsh reprimand from the sweet little nun had been better than no special consideration from her at all.

Brianna frowned thoughtfully as she fixed a gathered sleeve to the armhole of the garment. It had been from Sister Theresa that she’d first heard the proverb “Pride goeth before destruction.” Those had been only words to Brianna as a child. It had taken the harsh lessons of experience years later to teach her their meaning.

Well, she had learned, all right, and the events triggered by her reckless behavior at age eighteen would haunt her for the rest of her life. Tears of regret stung Brianna’s eyes whenever she thought of those times, for it had been her sister, Moira, who had paid the price for Brianna’s indiscretions, her sister who ultimately was destroyed.

Spilled milk, and no sense in crying over it. Moira had been dead for more than six years, and the time for weeping had passed. Now all Brianna could do was keep her promise to raise Moira’s daughter as her own. She’d been unable to do it in fine fashion, but at least she’d managed. Not even Daphne knew Brianna wasn’t her real mother, and unless Brianna allowed herself to dwell on the past, she seldom remembered it, either. Daphne was her child in every way that counted.

Running footsteps thumped outside on the boardwalk. Then, as if Brianna’s musings conjured her up, Daphne burst into the shop. Brianna didn’t have to see the child to know it was her. No adult would create such a clatter and bang with door and bell. Biting back a smile, Brianna turned, swept aside the curtain that separated her cubicle from the display room, and settled a censorial gaze on her daughter, who now added to the din, slamming the portal closed without a thought for the additional noise.

“Quiet! You know how angry Miss Martin gets when you make a racket!”

Flushed from running in the chill breeze, the six-year-old bounced across the plank floor, golden curls tumbling over her shoulders. Sometimes Brianna wondered where the girl had gotten her church-angel fairness. From the man who’d raped her mother, she supposed, for neither Brianna nor Moira had ever been blond, even in early childhood. Daphne had blue eyes instead of green. Only her finely arched brows, so like Brianna’s own, marked her as an O’Keefe. Right now she shifted from one foot to the other with excitement as she waved a fat envelope beneath Brianna’s nose.

“It’s from Papa!” she cried. “Look, Mama! He sent heaps and heaps of money! I just asked for one new dress, but this is enough for a hundred!”


Bewildered, Brianna plucked the envelope from her daughter’s hand. A cold sense of unreality washed over her as she perused the return address, written in a bold, masculine hand: Marshal David Paxton, No Name, Colorado.

It couldn’t be. David Paxton didn’t exist. Brianna had invented him one long-ago night in Boston, and forever after she had claimed he was her husband and the father of her child. He wasn’t an actual person, only a man she’d dreamed up to lend her an air of respectability in a world that ostracized women who bore children out of wedlock.

“Look, Mama!” Daphne cried. “He sent lots and lots! Maybe even enough for”—the child gulped before voicing her dearest and most oft-repeated wish—“shoes, too?”

Trembling with shock, Brianna shushed the child again and parted the envelope to peer at the currency. Dear God in heaven. In all her twenty-six years, she’d seen this much money only once, after she’d left Charles Ricker’s employ and emptied her five-year savings account to rent the attic room of the boardinghouse, purchase blankets for the cot, and buy Daphne eats. Pulling out the bills, Brianna stared in stunned amazement. A quick glance told her there was at least a hundred dollars, if not more.

Incredulous, she fixed her gaze on Daphne’s glowing countenance. For an instant, she wanted to shout with delight and bounce across the floor with her daughter. Then reason banished the urge, trickling into her mind like ice water and filling her with foreboding. Her husband, David Paxton, did not exist, yet figments of one’s imagination could not address an envelope or fill it with cash. David Paxton, her counterfeit husband, had suddenly taken on substance. This was not manna from heaven but a catastrophe. What if this man showed up in Glory Ridge?

“Mama?” Daphne studied Brianna with worried blue eyes. “What is it? Aren’t you pleased that he sent us money?”

Brianna fished in the envelope, hoping to find an accompanying note, something—anything—to explain this strange turn of events. Over the last six years, during which she’d written to David Paxton in Denver repeatedly under duress by her employer and never received a reply, she’d grown confident that no man of that name dwelled in the city or surrounding area. No worries. Her invented marriage was safe from exposure. No one would ever respond to her missives, in which she’d been forced by her boss to plead countless times for assistance. She and Daphne were secure, their social status protected by a fragile guise of legitimacy. On her left hand, Brianna wore a simple gold band, which she’d purchased from a Boston pawnbroker, enabling her to pose as a married woman who could apply for employment out West. There had been no jobs in Boston—well, next to nothing, anyway, the alternatives now best forgotten—and her infant niece had required constant care. Brianna had desperately needed a position where she could keep the baby with her while she worked.

Charles Ricker’s advertisement in the Boston Herald had saved the day. Reeling from the death of his wife, the rancher had needed a cook, housekeeper, and tutor for his sons, preferably a widow, with or without a child of her own. Brianna had learned the hard way that a woman without male protection was often victimized by men, so she decided it would be safer to portray herself as a lady with an errant husband who might resurface. So it was that David Paxton had been born. Brianna had written to Ricker, fabricating the story that she still told now. Ricker had found her trumped-up qualifications satisfactory and wired traveling funds for Brianna and her daughter.

Brianna tried never to recall those disastrous first months when her lack of knowledge about cooking and ranch animals had been a torment that had almost cost her the job. Fortunately, her tutoring skills were genuine and well above average. Ricker had eventually come to accept that his housekeeper would never warm his bed, and he’d been marginally satisfied with Brianna’s work. The years had passed pleasantly enough until Ricker met a lady he wanted to marry. With his boys almost grown, Brianna’s services had become superfluous.

Now here she sat, staring stupidly at an envelope that threatened to destroy the life she’d built in Glory Ridge for herself and Daphne. David Paxton was real. Panic welled within her. “My, my, it is a fair sum of money, dear heart. You’ll have several new dresses and new shoes as well. Apparently your papa found a huge gold nugget!”

Daphne beamed with pleasure. “And he remembered me, Mama! You always say how much he loves us. But sometimes I wondered. I did, and that’s a fact. But this proves I was wrong.”

Brianna’s heart caught. It concerned her to know that Daphne felt unloved by her sire, for if any child on earth deserved to feel cherished, Daphne did. That was the problem with pretend papas. They could show no affection because they didn’t exist.

The thought drew Brianna’s attention back to the thick stack of silver certificates on her palm. With a brush of her thumb, she uncovered three tens, several fives, a number of ones, and four twenties. If the money had been from Daphne’s real papa, Brianna would have felt it was little enough and long overdue, but the child’s biological father, Stanley Romanik, was in Boston, the spoiled son of a prosperous farmer. Seven years ago, he had raped her sister, Moira, in the convent conservatory, accepted no responsibility for the pregnancy, and gotten away scot-free.

“Mama, is there enough money for you to have a new dress, too? The ones you wear don’t fit right, and one of them keeps splitting on the side.”

Brianna gathered the child into her arms for a fierce hug. How many six-year-old girls, deprived as Daphne had been, would think to share money that had been sent in an envelope addressed solely to them? Brianna had no intention of wasting a cent of this blessing on herself. Daphne would have new dresses and a pair of good shoes, but the remainder would be saved to ensure that the child had a roof over her head and food in her stomach for a few more months. As for David Paxton—well, that was a worry for later. She mustn’t betray by expression or action that she was shocked or disbelieving.

“Do you think he may come for us soon?” Daphne asked.

“I doubt it, dearest. One gold nugget doesn’t make a man rich. It was kind of him to share some of his find with you, though.”

“And with you!”

Brianna stopped short of shaking her head. She mustn’t unwittingly reveal to this intelligent child that the story she’d grown up believing was a pack of lies. “And with me. Of course, with me! I am his wife, after all.”

“And he loves us both dearly. You’ve been right all along, Mama. He’s just been working so hard to find gold that he hasn’t had time to write letters or come for us!”

“Yes,” Brianna agreed, without much alternative. She’d tried to make Daphne believe her father was a good person, and it looked as if she’d succeeded. Brianna tucked the certificates back into the envelope. “May I have this for safekeeping?”

Daphne nodded and then twirled in her patched and faded dress. “Mama, I’ll soon look like the other girls! Maybe Hester and Hope won’t tease me anymore. Maybe they’ll even let me play with them. Do you think so?”

If Brianna had her way, Daphne’s new clothing would outshine anything her classmates wore. “You’ll look even better than they do, and I’m sure they will let you play!” She slipped the envelope into the pocket of her skirt and guided her daughter through the shop to look at cloth. Daphne was embracing a lovely pink, patterned with delicate roses, when Abigail’s harsh tones interrupted them.

What in tarnation is going on out here?” With a scathing glare at Brianna, she fingered an imaginary film of dust on a glass case filled with ribbons and gewgaws. “I pay you a good wage to work, and time wasted will be taken into account when I tally your pay! When you’re not sewing, you should be cleaning.”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am.” Brianna injected humility into her voice. “Daphne’s papa sent her some money to buy dresses, and we were trying to choose some cloth. Of course I thought of purchasing it here, rather than going elsewhere.”

Though Daphne had suddenly become a paying customer, Abigail pinched her nostrils in disapproval. At forty-plus, she was a bitter woman, plainer than flat bread, with white-blond hair slicked back into a chignon and a pallid complexion offset only by glittering, raisin-colored eyes. The latter were beady and ever watchful, reminding Brianna of a raptor hunting for a hapless creature to injure with a snap of its beak. In an attempt to brighten her appearance, Abigail wore colorful gowns that accentuated her paleness. When men entered her shop, she fawned over them, hopeful that a masculine eye might wander her way. If the woman had been kinder, Brianna might have given her advice on how to showcase her face, but as it was, she felt no such inclination. The lonely result of Abigail’s harsh nature was no less than she deserved.

“You’ll work overtime to make up for your idleness.” Abigail added sibilance to the last word. “If you fail to do so, I shan’t forget come Monday when I calculate your wages.”

Exhaustion threatened to slump Brianna’s shoulders, but she stood erect even though she knew her infraction of five minutes would cost her an hour of toil without pay. “As you wish, of course, but please bear in mind that I only just left my seat.”

“Poppycock.” Abigail wagged a thin forefinger. “You’ll put nothing over on me, Mrs. Paxton! I know how long you’ve been dillydallying.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Brianna nearly choked on the words. “I only beg you to remember I seldom leave my station, and today the infraction has been five minutes, no more.”

Regal in posture, Abigail sniffed her disdain, turned, and vanished into her apartment, where she supposedly toiled. Brianna knew better. The walls were thin, and she seldom heard her employer’s machine in use. She didn’t know what the woman did all afternoon and during the night while Brianna stitched gowns that sold for a handsome profit. Maybe, like Brianna, Abigail had a passion for dime novels. God knew she could afford to buy as many as she wished. Brianna’s reading was limited to rare moments when she wasn’t working. A few ladies in town lent her books when they’d finished with them. Raised to appreciate fine literature, Brianna had at first scorned the grand portrayals in dime novels of the Wild West. After a time, however, she’d been starved for fine print and had come to anticipate with great eagerness any work of fiction or nonfiction. Her favorites were the stories featuring Ace Keegan, the infamous gunslinger who’d once killed three men with one bullet.

“I’m sorry,” Daphne whispered after Abigail’s angry departure. “Now she’ll make you work longer with no money. I know she’s never fair when she tallies your wages.”

Brianna bent to hug her daughter. “No, she’s never fair, so we may as well enjoy the infraction! You have some yardage to select, young lady.”

Daphne grinned, displaying the gap where she’d lost two front teeth. “I like this one!” she cried, returning to the pink floral print.

“It is a particularly fine choice.” Brianna turned the child’s attention to a polka dot pattern, white on dark blue. It would make up nicely with appropriate trim, piping possibly, with a bit of lace. “And we mustn’t forget that you’re in desperate need of a winter cloak and muff!”

Daphne beamed with delight. “I need to write Papa a thank-you note!”

“You do, indeed. Run over to the boardinghouse to fetch my writing materials.”

After the child raced from the shop, Brianna briefly considered returning the cash to the sender, but envisioning the resultant look of disappointment on Daphne’s face, she quickly banished the thought. The money was a godsend, and the child now had her heart set on new dresses her mother couldn’t afford. That man never would have parted with such a large sum if he were in dire straits. So in a separate note, written secretly, Brianna would thank Mr. Paxton for the kindness and apologize for the mistake. She would explain that Daphne’s father was a gold miner in Denver, not a town marshal. Then she’d add that no further gifts of money would be accepted and express her intent to keep Mr. Paxton’s address and pay him back with interest when her finances improved. Surely that would be enough to clarify the situation in his mind.

*  *  *

Hours later, Brianna was still hunched over the Singer sewing machine, its shiny black surface, trimmed in gold, a blur as she focused burning eyes on a blue silk creation. The light cast by the hissing lantern was not the best to see by, and her temples throbbed. Tomorrow afternoon and evening, she would spend hours doing handwork on both the rose and blue gowns, and by night’s end, when she scurried to the restaurant to do the cleanup, her fingertips would burn from pushing on the blunt head of a needle because Abigail was so miserly with her thimbles.

Oh, precious Lord, the restaurant cleanup. Brianna nearly groaned, for she had that yet to do before she could drop like a rock onto the narrow cot in the boardinghouse attic room that she and Daphne called home. For now, the little girl slept on a pallet near Brianna’s chair, and there she would stay while Brianna tidied the kitchen of Glory Ridge’s only restaurant. When that task was completed, Brianna would return to collect her child and then stumble under her inert weight as she carried her to their humble abode, which was barely large enough to accommodate the narrow bed and washstand.


Excerpted from "Lucky Penny"
by .
Copyright © 2012 Catherine Anderson.
Excerpted by permission of Penguin Publishing Group.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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