Longing for Julia, page 8
The Mounties reassembled at the end of the platform, close to the exit doors. Holt and Evan held their horses’ bridles, and Julia and the Rossmans stood at Holt’s side.
“How fast are the fires spreading?” Ryan asked.
“Sir, they’re beyond our worst fears,” said Evan.
Ryan stopped. The entire group hushed and listened.
“How so?” asked Ryan.
“Some of the fires have merged. One of them is huge,” said Holt. “It started out with a few acres of scrub, and it’s now up to a couple hundred. The winds and the drought are working in its favor. Folks in the area believe it started with a lightning storm.”
“How close were you able to get to it?”
“With our horses, we rode for a full day out of the mountains,” said Holt. “Fifty or sixty miles, or thereabouts. What makes it so troublesome is that the winds are conspiring against us, always blowing straight down the mountains toward Calgary.”
A chill of warning raced up Ryan’s spine. It was coming this way.
CHAPTER 7
The waiting began at sunrise. Ryan hated waiting, yet the following day, that’s what everyone’s advice seemed to be. Wait. Wait for the fires to fade on their own.
Right after breakfast, Ryan approached Superintendent Ridgeway in the fort’s courtyard.
“Sir, I think we should reconsider our options. According to the scouts, one of the fires is spreading. The rail line leads more or less in that direction. We could fill up a water car and take a team of men and horses to contain it.” Ryan knew they couldn’t douse a fire that size, but they might be able to prevent it from expanding by digging trenches across its path and dousing the ground with water. The British had accomplished something similar once in Africa.
Listening closely, the superintendent chomped on an unlit cigar. Behind him to the east, the rising sun met the prairie grasses. To the other side, in the west, rocky peaks stood in silhouette. A warm wind stirred Ryan’s shirt and pressed his breeches to his legs.
“Listen, son, every summer it’s the same thing. Brush fires come and go. They’ll die down on their own when the rain comes. There’ve been two others that have already died.”
“But there’s a severe drought.”
“This is prairie land. There’s always a drought. I’ll admit, this year it’s lasted longer than most, but what you’re suggesting is a major operation. Wait. Wait just a few more days and you’ll see the fires fade. In the meantime, get acquainted with the other surgeon. John’s delighted that headquarters finally sent him another doctor.”
Still uneasy thirty minutes later, cloistered in the fort’s small hospital, Ryan found himself bandaging the twisted ankle of a constable, as Dr. John Calloway looked on.
“Most of the gauze and supplies you’ll need are in the overhead cupboards.” John, tall and eager to show Ryan around, opened one of the doors. “Ointments and tonics are stored along the north wall, the coolest area of the wing.” John grinned. “It’s good to have another set of hands around here.”
“I’m not complaining that the hospital is empty, but I wish there was more for me to do.”
“Wait. Just you wait and see how busy it can get.”
Their patient limped out of the room on crutches.
John peered at Ryan. “You look a lot like your brothers, though you’re older and bigger, and half your ear’s missing.” His tone was friendly. “I never knew Mitch and Travis had another brother.”
Which meant they didn’t talk about him, thought Ryan with a twinge of loneliness. Why would they? He’d deserted them along with everyone else. “When do you figure they’ll be back from the cattle drive?”
“Wait a few more days.”
With nothing better to do, Ryan headed to the jailhouse to acquaint himself with the Mounties on guard. As he crossed the courtyard, his boots skimming the short, parched grass, he heard a voice call out behind him.
“Wait! Sir, wait!”
Ryan’s hand fell to his holster. On instinct, he spun around and pointed his revolver, just in case the voice belonged to someone who had a grudge.
It was the short man in the gold plaid suit Ryan had seen yesterday at the train depot. Coughing, he adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles. “Sir, I meant no harm. My name is Harrison Hobbs.”
The antiquities dealer was accompanied by David Fitzgibbon and his monkey. Ryan groaned and put away his gun. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people. You could get your head blown off.”
David tilted his portable camera toward the ground with one hand, and touched his cap in greeting with the other. “Good morning.”
Ryan nodded. At the sight of the reporter, he wondered what Julia was doing this fine day, but didn’t ask.
“Mr. Fitzgibbon here was kind enough to bring me,” said Hobbs. “You’re Dr. Ryan Reid, are you not?”
“Would that be Reid with an e or an i?” Ryan asked him.
“Huh?”
“Your company, Worldwide Antiquities, misspelled it.”
“How do you know I’m from Worldwide Antiquities?”
“Wild guess.” Ryan peered down at the gent’s suit coat. “You’ve got a card sticking out of your pocket that says so.”
When Hobbs laughed, his jaw elongated. His long brown hair was tied at the back and sat curled between his shoulder blades like a squirrel’s tail. Still, he was a cheerful-looking sort.
“Sorry about the misspelling, sir, but surely you’re impressed with the violin’s value—” Hobbs stopped abruptly. He turned sharply toward David, as if realizing he shouldn’t be discussing price in front of anyone else.
“What violin?” asked David. He stepped back, centered Ryan in the camera’s view and snapped a photograph. The magnesium flashlamp ignited, covering Ryan’s boots with soot and ash.
Ryan held up his hand. “Enough pictures.” Then he told Hobbs, “You made a mistake in the value. One too many zeroes. And the comma should have been a period.”
“I received a duplicate of your letter. I don’t believe any mistakes have been made. That’s why I’m here. I’d like to see the violin. My specialty is string instruments. Why, just last month, a monk who’d emigrated from the Swiss Alps brought in a cello I couldn’t believe…”
The man continued talking while Ryan stood in total dismay. One hundred and eighty-eight thousand dollars?
Surely they meant $188.00 and had printed one too many zeroes. Or had mistaken a comma for a period. After all, they’d misspelled his name, and it was reasonable to assume they’d made a mistake in the price, too. Even at $188.00 it equaled the cost of an entire house!
Hobbs continued rambling. “…finest tonewood materials, I believe from the Carpathian Mountains in Romania, true to one of Amati’s apprentices. Perhaps made in Italy as we suspect. On the other hand, there’s the possibility of a German master…”
One hundred and eighty-eight thousand dollars!
Had Adam known how much his violin was worth? He’d taken the thing into battle, for cryin’ out loud.
Hobbs was in his own world. “The rich, mature sound of the tonewood penetrates to the back of the concert hall—”
Chaos interrupted them. The monkey squawked and jumped off David’s shoulder as a woman visiting with the superintendent’s wife waved to them from the raised boardwalk of the office buildings. “Yoo-hoo, David, good morning!”
David muttered. “Not now. Please, not now.”
The woman wouldn’t be dismissed. She stuck out her arm so the monkey could jump up on it. “I’ve got another question for you, David, regarding photography. I was wondering about the chemical composition of the processing agents. Just a minute and I’ll come down there to speak with you!”
“Who’s that?” asked Hobbs, studying the woman’s pretty face and the mass of chestnut-brown hair spilling over her shoulders.
“She won the pleasure of my company for twenty-four hours in a raffle once,” said David. “Now she thinks she owns me. Miss Clarissa Ashford. The jeweler’s daughter.”
“She’s beautiful,” whispered Hobbs.
“Have you ever heard of the tiny South American tree frog? It’s got brilliant red and green colors but is filled with poison.” David gripped his camera. “I’ve gotta run.”
“Wait!” Miss Ashford shouted after him. “Wait!”
The monkey chirped and raced to catch up with David as he clattered away with his rickety camera. The lady kept hollering, while Hobbs turned back to Ryan as if nothing extraordinary was happening.
One hundred and eighty-eight thousand.
“Now, sir, may I please see that violin? Let’s not wait any longer. I dislike waiting. Don’t you?”
Julia found Sergeant MacAllister more appealing as the days wore on. She discovered he was precisely twenty-six, which thankfully made him closer to thirty than twenty. He was now only six years her junior. And his birthday was in the spring, while hers was in the fall, so at certain times of the year he was only five years younger.
Oh, it was no use.
After three tumultuous days of justifying their age difference in her mind, Julia finally tried to ignore it. If only Ryan would allow her to forget.
Holt came for her on Saturday evening. They took a stroll along the boardwalk after dinner and he answered questions about his family back East. She found herself thrilled when he told her he admired a woman with so much intelligence that she published her own newspaper. On Sunday morning, he met her and Pete by the church doors after service and included her son in a lively conversation about bullfrogs and horses on the walk home. She’d been touched by Holt’s sincerity. Then, on Monday at high noon, in between his duties at the fort, he took the time to call at her shop to deliver a basket of handpicked wild roses.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t there to receive them in person because she was calling on customers to collect advertising fees, and interviewing the Sweeney family to include the birth of their third son on the society page. Later, she visited the livery to find out about the theft of three saddles that had occurred the night before.
That evening, Holt showed her more kindness by having a lovely dinner delivered from the diner next door. The roast beef and vegetables went a long way to feeding her, Pete and Grandpa. There’d even be enough left over for another dinner for Pete. Holt hadn’t left a card or anything, but she knew it was from him.
Holt’s gifts were proof that he was a considerate, even-tempered man worth getting to know. As for Mr. Shapiro, he came calling again. Julia told him gently but quite directly that they weren’t suited. He was disappointed, saying he was counting on her to iron his shirts later that day. She told him he would have to wear them wrinkled.
Everything would have gone smoothly with Holt if Julia hadn’t bumped into Ryan at the fort the following day, Tuesday, in her attempt to drop by and thank Holt for his roses.
“Does he have your knickers in a knot?” Ryan eyed the single rose she’d taken from Holt’s bouquet and slipped into her hatband.
Julia sent him a cool glare.
“I mean, when he kisses you,” Ryan continued. “Does he get your knickers twisted?”
“That’s a crass and vulgar thing to say. But I half expect it from you.”
“I see. So the answer is no.”
“What he does and doesn’t do to my knickers is none of your concern.”
“Don’t get so upset. If he hasn’t kissed you yet, he might work up the steam by the end of the week. Some younger men get a little shy around mature women.”
“Uhh.” Julia scowled in exasperation before tugging on the lines of her horse to get her buggy moving.
“I’ll let him know you stopped by,” Ryan hollered, laughing after her.
The man’s head was too big for his hat. The most maddening thing of all was that Ryan was right. Holt hadn’t worked up the courage to kiss her yet.
“Please tell Holt I was here to thank him for the roses and roast beef,” she hollered back smugly.
“I’ll tell him thanks for the roses, but the dinner was on me!”
Julia stopped her buggy with a soft jolt and turned around in her seat. “What do you mean? Why would—why would you send me a meal?”
Ryan glanced at her worn clothes before answering. “Just my way of saying sorry you didn’t enjoy the lobster.”
Her cheeks prickled as though stung with tiny needles. “Why didn’t you leave a note?”
“Because I wanted you to enjoy the meal, no strings attached. Did you?”
Slowly, she nodded. “Thank you.”
He sighed with such contentment that her embarrassment set in. Perhaps he’d noticed that she wasn’t doing as well as she was letting on. She turned back to her horse, slapped the reins and left Ryan behind.
By Wednesday, the newspaper article about Ryan’s return to town was almost complete and ready to run. Thank goodness. She would hand the entire project over to David and wash her hands of Ryan. He was getting too close for her comfort.
She had a notion at the back of her mind to run a continuing a series about the Reid family. Despite her personal distaste for Ryan, he was the third son to enlist with the Mounties. Folks found that sort of thing interesting.
Maybe the society page could use an infusion of encouraging articles about men and women who contributed to the town. She could start with the new schoolteacher who’d just arrived from Vancouver and knew how to speak four different languages, or the boot maker who’d lost one hand in a hay baling accident when he was a boy, but still made the best pair of cowboy boots this side of the Rockies.
But, thought Julia, glancing down at the final draft of her article about Ryan, this story wasn’t nearly as inspirational as those pieces would be. This one leaned toward the negative.
A soft afternoon breeze rolled through the front window and stirred her hair. It was ten degrees cooler in the shade than in the blazing sun today, and everyone was staying indoors if they could help it. She’d worn her thinnest blouse because of the heat, the one with the open neckline that didn’t reach right to her chin like most of her others.
“You were right about the article about the black sheep.” David rose from behind his desk and joined her at the counter. “It’s going to sell a lot of papers.”
Julia felt a twinge of guilt. She wasn’t sure she should run the article on Ryan the way it was written. “Let me work with this a bit. It still—”
“It’s fine the way it is.”
“But the first paragraph is so harsh—”
“It’s the truth. Every word of it.”
“But it’s not the way I wish to sell—”
“You’ve been reworking this article for three days. I’ve never seen you this torn up about a piece. What is it that you want to say in the article that hasn’t been said?”
She sighed. “I’m not sure.”
“Then please leave it alone. It’s fine.”
If it was fine, why did holding it between her fingers make her hands quiver? If it was honest, why did she weigh every word and wonder whether she was being fair?
“You know, it’s too bad we don’t know more about that violin of his.” David watched a wagon roll by the front window. “We might include mention of it.”
“What’s special about his violin?”
“There’s an antiquities dealer chasing him around town. I just saw him slip into the pub behind Ryan.” David nodded in the direction of Quigley’s Irish Pub down the street. “I get the feeling that the instrument is worth a lot of cash.”
“Really?” That was odd. But perhaps it was an angle she could include in her article. Something optimistic. Julia grabbed her straw hat from beneath the counter, adjusted the scooped neckline of her blouse and headed toward the door. “Then I need to see Ryan.”
Quigley’s Irish Pub wasn’t the sort of establishment Julia frequented. Normally she would never go there alone, but she was desperate. If she didn’t change something about Ryan’s story, then she’d have to live with it the way it was written.
The pub was owned by Ryan’s sister, Shawna, and her husband Tom Quigley. Since both of them were still out of town—Shawna visiting relatives to the south, and Quigley on the cattle drive—Julia figured it was safe to enter. There would be no other family members looking down their noses at her as she questioned Ryan.
Julia pushed through the stained-glass doors and stepped into the noisy space. Her eyes moved over the line of Mounties seated along the bar. They were off duty, of course, wearing denim pants and light-colored shirts, but she recognized their faces. What she didn’t expect to see, at a table in a far corner, was a most unlikely pair.
Holt MacAllister laughing and drinking with Ryan Reid.
Dismayed, Julia turned on her heel and headed for the exit and the sunlight.
“Julia!” Holt called out.
She sighed, stopped and slowly turned around to face them.
“Over here!”
Both Holt and Ryan stood up as she approached. Judging by the way Ryan’s shoulders stiffened, he disapproved of seeing her here. His eyes skimmed the neckline of her low-cut blouse.
“The surgeon and I were just having a drink.” Holt stepped to another table and got her a chair. “Here. Join us. Dr. Reid’s been telling me about England. Did you know he’s been to Africa?”
For one second, the eagerness in Holt’s voice reminded her of her son. Were all young men impressed by tales of adventure?
Julia’s stomach tightened as she sat down. Ryan was dressed in a freshly ironed white shirt that tapered into the narrow waist of well-worn blue jeans. The shirt made his skin look browner and his shoulders broader. It was difficult to think around him. Cigar smoke drifted over from the next table. The soft glow of the wall lantern behind Ryan made her strain to see the subtle expression in his dark eyes.
She gave him a cool smile, as if to say, I’m here to speak to you, but it’s for work, not pleasure.
While Holt flagged down a barmaid to ask for a glass of apple cider for Julia and another round of Guinness for the men, Ryan dipped close to her ear, his proximity making her shiver. “You’ve got a strange way of looking at a fellow.”
“How fast are the fires spreading?” Ryan asked.
“Sir, they’re beyond our worst fears,” said Evan.
Ryan stopped. The entire group hushed and listened.
“How so?” asked Ryan.
“Some of the fires have merged. One of them is huge,” said Holt. “It started out with a few acres of scrub, and it’s now up to a couple hundred. The winds and the drought are working in its favor. Folks in the area believe it started with a lightning storm.”
“How close were you able to get to it?”
“With our horses, we rode for a full day out of the mountains,” said Holt. “Fifty or sixty miles, or thereabouts. What makes it so troublesome is that the winds are conspiring against us, always blowing straight down the mountains toward Calgary.”
A chill of warning raced up Ryan’s spine. It was coming this way.
CHAPTER 7
The waiting began at sunrise. Ryan hated waiting, yet the following day, that’s what everyone’s advice seemed to be. Wait. Wait for the fires to fade on their own.
Right after breakfast, Ryan approached Superintendent Ridgeway in the fort’s courtyard.
“Sir, I think we should reconsider our options. According to the scouts, one of the fires is spreading. The rail line leads more or less in that direction. We could fill up a water car and take a team of men and horses to contain it.” Ryan knew they couldn’t douse a fire that size, but they might be able to prevent it from expanding by digging trenches across its path and dousing the ground with water. The British had accomplished something similar once in Africa.
Listening closely, the superintendent chomped on an unlit cigar. Behind him to the east, the rising sun met the prairie grasses. To the other side, in the west, rocky peaks stood in silhouette. A warm wind stirred Ryan’s shirt and pressed his breeches to his legs.
“Listen, son, every summer it’s the same thing. Brush fires come and go. They’ll die down on their own when the rain comes. There’ve been two others that have already died.”
“But there’s a severe drought.”
“This is prairie land. There’s always a drought. I’ll admit, this year it’s lasted longer than most, but what you’re suggesting is a major operation. Wait. Wait just a few more days and you’ll see the fires fade. In the meantime, get acquainted with the other surgeon. John’s delighted that headquarters finally sent him another doctor.”
Still uneasy thirty minutes later, cloistered in the fort’s small hospital, Ryan found himself bandaging the twisted ankle of a constable, as Dr. John Calloway looked on.
“Most of the gauze and supplies you’ll need are in the overhead cupboards.” John, tall and eager to show Ryan around, opened one of the doors. “Ointments and tonics are stored along the north wall, the coolest area of the wing.” John grinned. “It’s good to have another set of hands around here.”
“I’m not complaining that the hospital is empty, but I wish there was more for me to do.”
“Wait. Just you wait and see how busy it can get.”
Their patient limped out of the room on crutches.
John peered at Ryan. “You look a lot like your brothers, though you’re older and bigger, and half your ear’s missing.” His tone was friendly. “I never knew Mitch and Travis had another brother.”
Which meant they didn’t talk about him, thought Ryan with a twinge of loneliness. Why would they? He’d deserted them along with everyone else. “When do you figure they’ll be back from the cattle drive?”
“Wait a few more days.”
With nothing better to do, Ryan headed to the jailhouse to acquaint himself with the Mounties on guard. As he crossed the courtyard, his boots skimming the short, parched grass, he heard a voice call out behind him.
“Wait! Sir, wait!”
Ryan’s hand fell to his holster. On instinct, he spun around and pointed his revolver, just in case the voice belonged to someone who had a grudge.
It was the short man in the gold plaid suit Ryan had seen yesterday at the train depot. Coughing, he adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles. “Sir, I meant no harm. My name is Harrison Hobbs.”
The antiquities dealer was accompanied by David Fitzgibbon and his monkey. Ryan groaned and put away his gun. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people. You could get your head blown off.”
David tilted his portable camera toward the ground with one hand, and touched his cap in greeting with the other. “Good morning.”
Ryan nodded. At the sight of the reporter, he wondered what Julia was doing this fine day, but didn’t ask.
“Mr. Fitzgibbon here was kind enough to bring me,” said Hobbs. “You’re Dr. Ryan Reid, are you not?”
“Would that be Reid with an e or an i?” Ryan asked him.
“Huh?”
“Your company, Worldwide Antiquities, misspelled it.”
“How do you know I’m from Worldwide Antiquities?”
“Wild guess.” Ryan peered down at the gent’s suit coat. “You’ve got a card sticking out of your pocket that says so.”
When Hobbs laughed, his jaw elongated. His long brown hair was tied at the back and sat curled between his shoulder blades like a squirrel’s tail. Still, he was a cheerful-looking sort.
“Sorry about the misspelling, sir, but surely you’re impressed with the violin’s value—” Hobbs stopped abruptly. He turned sharply toward David, as if realizing he shouldn’t be discussing price in front of anyone else.
“What violin?” asked David. He stepped back, centered Ryan in the camera’s view and snapped a photograph. The magnesium flashlamp ignited, covering Ryan’s boots with soot and ash.
Ryan held up his hand. “Enough pictures.” Then he told Hobbs, “You made a mistake in the value. One too many zeroes. And the comma should have been a period.”
“I received a duplicate of your letter. I don’t believe any mistakes have been made. That’s why I’m here. I’d like to see the violin. My specialty is string instruments. Why, just last month, a monk who’d emigrated from the Swiss Alps brought in a cello I couldn’t believe…”
The man continued talking while Ryan stood in total dismay. One hundred and eighty-eight thousand dollars?
Surely they meant $188.00 and had printed one too many zeroes. Or had mistaken a comma for a period. After all, they’d misspelled his name, and it was reasonable to assume they’d made a mistake in the price, too. Even at $188.00 it equaled the cost of an entire house!
Hobbs continued rambling. “…finest tonewood materials, I believe from the Carpathian Mountains in Romania, true to one of Amati’s apprentices. Perhaps made in Italy as we suspect. On the other hand, there’s the possibility of a German master…”
One hundred and eighty-eight thousand dollars!
Had Adam known how much his violin was worth? He’d taken the thing into battle, for cryin’ out loud.
Hobbs was in his own world. “The rich, mature sound of the tonewood penetrates to the back of the concert hall—”
Chaos interrupted them. The monkey squawked and jumped off David’s shoulder as a woman visiting with the superintendent’s wife waved to them from the raised boardwalk of the office buildings. “Yoo-hoo, David, good morning!”
David muttered. “Not now. Please, not now.”
The woman wouldn’t be dismissed. She stuck out her arm so the monkey could jump up on it. “I’ve got another question for you, David, regarding photography. I was wondering about the chemical composition of the processing agents. Just a minute and I’ll come down there to speak with you!”
“Who’s that?” asked Hobbs, studying the woman’s pretty face and the mass of chestnut-brown hair spilling over her shoulders.
“She won the pleasure of my company for twenty-four hours in a raffle once,” said David. “Now she thinks she owns me. Miss Clarissa Ashford. The jeweler’s daughter.”
“She’s beautiful,” whispered Hobbs.
“Have you ever heard of the tiny South American tree frog? It’s got brilliant red and green colors but is filled with poison.” David gripped his camera. “I’ve gotta run.”
“Wait!” Miss Ashford shouted after him. “Wait!”
The monkey chirped and raced to catch up with David as he clattered away with his rickety camera. The lady kept hollering, while Hobbs turned back to Ryan as if nothing extraordinary was happening.
One hundred and eighty-eight thousand.
“Now, sir, may I please see that violin? Let’s not wait any longer. I dislike waiting. Don’t you?”
Julia found Sergeant MacAllister more appealing as the days wore on. She discovered he was precisely twenty-six, which thankfully made him closer to thirty than twenty. He was now only six years her junior. And his birthday was in the spring, while hers was in the fall, so at certain times of the year he was only five years younger.
Oh, it was no use.
After three tumultuous days of justifying their age difference in her mind, Julia finally tried to ignore it. If only Ryan would allow her to forget.
Holt came for her on Saturday evening. They took a stroll along the boardwalk after dinner and he answered questions about his family back East. She found herself thrilled when he told her he admired a woman with so much intelligence that she published her own newspaper. On Sunday morning, he met her and Pete by the church doors after service and included her son in a lively conversation about bullfrogs and horses on the walk home. She’d been touched by Holt’s sincerity. Then, on Monday at high noon, in between his duties at the fort, he took the time to call at her shop to deliver a basket of handpicked wild roses.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t there to receive them in person because she was calling on customers to collect advertising fees, and interviewing the Sweeney family to include the birth of their third son on the society page. Later, she visited the livery to find out about the theft of three saddles that had occurred the night before.
That evening, Holt showed her more kindness by having a lovely dinner delivered from the diner next door. The roast beef and vegetables went a long way to feeding her, Pete and Grandpa. There’d even be enough left over for another dinner for Pete. Holt hadn’t left a card or anything, but she knew it was from him.
Holt’s gifts were proof that he was a considerate, even-tempered man worth getting to know. As for Mr. Shapiro, he came calling again. Julia told him gently but quite directly that they weren’t suited. He was disappointed, saying he was counting on her to iron his shirts later that day. She told him he would have to wear them wrinkled.
Everything would have gone smoothly with Holt if Julia hadn’t bumped into Ryan at the fort the following day, Tuesday, in her attempt to drop by and thank Holt for his roses.
“Does he have your knickers in a knot?” Ryan eyed the single rose she’d taken from Holt’s bouquet and slipped into her hatband.
Julia sent him a cool glare.
“I mean, when he kisses you,” Ryan continued. “Does he get your knickers twisted?”
“That’s a crass and vulgar thing to say. But I half expect it from you.”
“I see. So the answer is no.”
“What he does and doesn’t do to my knickers is none of your concern.”
“Don’t get so upset. If he hasn’t kissed you yet, he might work up the steam by the end of the week. Some younger men get a little shy around mature women.”
“Uhh.” Julia scowled in exasperation before tugging on the lines of her horse to get her buggy moving.
“I’ll let him know you stopped by,” Ryan hollered, laughing after her.
The man’s head was too big for his hat. The most maddening thing of all was that Ryan was right. Holt hadn’t worked up the courage to kiss her yet.
“Please tell Holt I was here to thank him for the roses and roast beef,” she hollered back smugly.
“I’ll tell him thanks for the roses, but the dinner was on me!”
Julia stopped her buggy with a soft jolt and turned around in her seat. “What do you mean? Why would—why would you send me a meal?”
Ryan glanced at her worn clothes before answering. “Just my way of saying sorry you didn’t enjoy the lobster.”
Her cheeks prickled as though stung with tiny needles. “Why didn’t you leave a note?”
“Because I wanted you to enjoy the meal, no strings attached. Did you?”
Slowly, she nodded. “Thank you.”
He sighed with such contentment that her embarrassment set in. Perhaps he’d noticed that she wasn’t doing as well as she was letting on. She turned back to her horse, slapped the reins and left Ryan behind.
By Wednesday, the newspaper article about Ryan’s return to town was almost complete and ready to run. Thank goodness. She would hand the entire project over to David and wash her hands of Ryan. He was getting too close for her comfort.
She had a notion at the back of her mind to run a continuing a series about the Reid family. Despite her personal distaste for Ryan, he was the third son to enlist with the Mounties. Folks found that sort of thing interesting.
Maybe the society page could use an infusion of encouraging articles about men and women who contributed to the town. She could start with the new schoolteacher who’d just arrived from Vancouver and knew how to speak four different languages, or the boot maker who’d lost one hand in a hay baling accident when he was a boy, but still made the best pair of cowboy boots this side of the Rockies.
But, thought Julia, glancing down at the final draft of her article about Ryan, this story wasn’t nearly as inspirational as those pieces would be. This one leaned toward the negative.
A soft afternoon breeze rolled through the front window and stirred her hair. It was ten degrees cooler in the shade than in the blazing sun today, and everyone was staying indoors if they could help it. She’d worn her thinnest blouse because of the heat, the one with the open neckline that didn’t reach right to her chin like most of her others.
“You were right about the article about the black sheep.” David rose from behind his desk and joined her at the counter. “It’s going to sell a lot of papers.”
Julia felt a twinge of guilt. She wasn’t sure she should run the article on Ryan the way it was written. “Let me work with this a bit. It still—”
“It’s fine the way it is.”
“But the first paragraph is so harsh—”
“It’s the truth. Every word of it.”
“But it’s not the way I wish to sell—”
“You’ve been reworking this article for three days. I’ve never seen you this torn up about a piece. What is it that you want to say in the article that hasn’t been said?”
She sighed. “I’m not sure.”
“Then please leave it alone. It’s fine.”
If it was fine, why did holding it between her fingers make her hands quiver? If it was honest, why did she weigh every word and wonder whether she was being fair?
“You know, it’s too bad we don’t know more about that violin of his.” David watched a wagon roll by the front window. “We might include mention of it.”
“What’s special about his violin?”
“There’s an antiquities dealer chasing him around town. I just saw him slip into the pub behind Ryan.” David nodded in the direction of Quigley’s Irish Pub down the street. “I get the feeling that the instrument is worth a lot of cash.”
“Really?” That was odd. But perhaps it was an angle she could include in her article. Something optimistic. Julia grabbed her straw hat from beneath the counter, adjusted the scooped neckline of her blouse and headed toward the door. “Then I need to see Ryan.”
Quigley’s Irish Pub wasn’t the sort of establishment Julia frequented. Normally she would never go there alone, but she was desperate. If she didn’t change something about Ryan’s story, then she’d have to live with it the way it was written.
The pub was owned by Ryan’s sister, Shawna, and her husband Tom Quigley. Since both of them were still out of town—Shawna visiting relatives to the south, and Quigley on the cattle drive—Julia figured it was safe to enter. There would be no other family members looking down their noses at her as she questioned Ryan.
Julia pushed through the stained-glass doors and stepped into the noisy space. Her eyes moved over the line of Mounties seated along the bar. They were off duty, of course, wearing denim pants and light-colored shirts, but she recognized their faces. What she didn’t expect to see, at a table in a far corner, was a most unlikely pair.
Holt MacAllister laughing and drinking with Ryan Reid.
Dismayed, Julia turned on her heel and headed for the exit and the sunlight.
“Julia!” Holt called out.
She sighed, stopped and slowly turned around to face them.
“Over here!”
Both Holt and Ryan stood up as she approached. Judging by the way Ryan’s shoulders stiffened, he disapproved of seeing her here. His eyes skimmed the neckline of her low-cut blouse.
“The surgeon and I were just having a drink.” Holt stepped to another table and got her a chair. “Here. Join us. Dr. Reid’s been telling me about England. Did you know he’s been to Africa?”
For one second, the eagerness in Holt’s voice reminded her of her son. Were all young men impressed by tales of adventure?
Julia’s stomach tightened as she sat down. Ryan was dressed in a freshly ironed white shirt that tapered into the narrow waist of well-worn blue jeans. The shirt made his skin look browner and his shoulders broader. It was difficult to think around him. Cigar smoke drifted over from the next table. The soft glow of the wall lantern behind Ryan made her strain to see the subtle expression in his dark eyes.
She gave him a cool smile, as if to say, I’m here to speak to you, but it’s for work, not pleasure.
While Holt flagged down a barmaid to ask for a glass of apple cider for Julia and another round of Guinness for the men, Ryan dipped close to her ear, his proximity making her shiver. “You’ve got a strange way of looking at a fellow.”
