He waited, listening for footsteps inside or any sign that someone was coming to the door.
Only silence greeted him.
He lifted a hand and pounded against the door again, this time louder, before stepping back and scanning the windows. The curtain in the parlor shifted. Someone—maybe Violet—was there but perhaps was too afraid to answer the door. Maybe she hadn’t seen his approach and was using caution.
“Violet.” He leaned closer to the door, hoping his voice would carry to the parlor. “It’s me, Sterling.”
He waited quietly.
A moment later, footsteps echoed in the hallway. They were too heavy and halting to belong to Violet.
The lock on the other side rattled, and the door opened to reveal Mr. Berkley standing on the threshold. With a receding hairline and spectacles, Violet’s father had always looked scholarly and gentlemanly. But today he wasn’t wearing a coat or vest. His shirt was wrinkled and untucked with stains streaking the front. He wore one suspender to keep his trousers up, and the other dangled down his leg.
Something was definitely wrong.
“Sterling?” Mr. Berkley’s eyes were bloodshot and his face in need of a shave. Even his hair, which had always been so neatly trimmed, needed a cut. His forehead was grooved with creases, making him appear ten years older than the last time Sterling had seen him, the day of the wedding.
“Mr. Berkley.” Sterling peered beyond the man, hoping for a glimpse of Violet so that he could reassure himself she’d come home and hadn’t run off somewhere else. The signs of her wereeverywhere—the tall vases with the dried floral arrangements, the artfully arranged decorations on the side table, the elegant rug that matched her color scheme.
She’d loved to decorate, was actually quite talented at it, claimed she’d learned her trade from her mother after moving so often over the years and having to decorate each new house. During their courtship, Violet had shyly admitted that she hoped one day to have a house-decorating business of her own. And of course, he’d told her he couldn’t wait for her to decorate their house—the house he’d been saving to build for her.
“Can I help you?” Mr. Berkley’s gaze darted up and down the street before he shrank back, but not before Sterling glimpsed the fear in his eyes.
Maybe the fellow really was in trouble from gambling, which was strange, because Mr. Berkley had never struck Sterling as a gambler, unless he’d started gaming after his wife and daughters had gone east.
“I came to check on Violet. Wanted to make sure she’s okay.”
“I’m sorry.” Mr. Berkley began to close the door. “She’s not home right now.”
“She’s not?” Sterling shot out a hand and braced it against the door to hold it open. “Do you know where she went?”
“I imagine she’s out running errands.”
“So she returned home?”
“Returned?” Mr. Berkley’s eyes widened, revealing hopefulness. “Have you seen her today?”
A warning rang inside Sterling. If Violet had come to him in secret in the middle of the night, that probably meant she didn’t want her father knowing her whereabouts, and that included her trip out to his ranch. “No, I haven’t seen her today.” That was the truth, even if it wasn’t the whole truth.
“Oh.” Mr. Berkley’s shoulders sagged. “So you don’t know where she is?”
Sterling hesitated. He had to say something to Mr. Berkley about the dancehall. But he had to do so carefully, in a way that didn’t make things worse for Violet.
“Listen, Mr. Berkley. I know about the dancehall job you want Violet and Hyacinth to take.”
“Then you have seen my daughters, haven’t you?”
Disappointment sifted through Sterling. He’d hoped Mr. Berkley would angrily step forward and declare he’d never consider having his daughters work in a dancehall. But his lack of denial told Sterling that everything Violet had spoken about her father was true.
“Where are they?” the middle-aged man persisted. “At your ranch?”
“Why would I be here looking for Violet if she was at my ranch?” He had to throw the man off Violet’s trail any way he could.
Mr. Berkley’s gaze once again darted to the street both ways, a wildness in his expression. The fellow was obviously in trouble for his gambling debts.
Sterling couldn’t formulate an ounce of pity. Instead, only anger burned through him. What kind of father would sell his daughters to a saloon in order to save himself from ruin? A coward of a father, that’s what.
Sterling straightened his shoulders and then leveled his most severe glare upon the man. “You’re despicable.” He spat the words. “Trying to force your daughters to pay for your debt, your problems.”
