“Morning Star is eight miles out of town.”
“I remember.” Jane looked over her shoulder at the trunk in the bed of the wagon. His letters were in there. She kept all of them, stored them in a black lacquered box with a brass hasp and lock. The lock was necessary to keep them away from Rebecca, who had been known to treat Jane’s possessions as if they were her own. Until Jane left the Ewing household, she had worn the key on a necklace, keeping the slender gold chain out of sight with high, fitted collars. When that was not possible, she pinned it to her chemise. If Rebecca knew about the box and was frustrated by her inability to access the contents, she never indicated it. Jane was confident that Rebecca had never mentioned its existence to her mother. Cousin Frances would not have stood for Jane having secrets. Frances Ewing must know everything.
“I would not have minded if you wanted to return home tonight,” she said. “I would have understood.”
“Understood?”
“Yes, that you would like to be where you find comfort. Morning Star is that place, isn’t it? You wrote as if it were.” When he did not comment, Jane also fell silent. She stared in the direction of the Pennyroyal, feeling a mixture of excitement and dread as it filled her field of vision.
Morgan pulled up on the reins. The cinnamon-colored mare stopped in front of the hotel’s porch entrance. “If Mrs. Sterling doesn’t have a spare room, I’ll find one at Taylor’s Bathhouse. Maybe the Sedgwick place. Jail’s probably empty. I can always bunk in a cell if it comes to that.”
Jane did not have the impression that he was trying to inveigle an invitation to share her room. He said it without guile, without inflection. His manner was matter-of-fact. “I hope the jail will not be necessary,” she said.
“So do I, Miss Middlebourne. So do I.”
Jane thought this last was said with more feeling than she had heard from him before. She wondered at it but had no idea what she might ask to confirm it. The opportunity was taken from her when the doors to the hotel opened and a broad-shouldered man with hands as large as dinner plates loped across the porch and down the steps to greet them.
Jane felt the man’s slow, wide smile as a physical force when it was turned on her. Disarmed, she could not help but return it.
Morgan said, “This is Walt Mangold. Walt, Miss Jane Middlebourne. She’s going to take the room I reserved.”
“Is that right? That’s the sort of kindness that will come back your way tenfold. Believe it. Miss Middlebourne, is it? Well, I reckon you’re plum tuckered. Most folks that land at the Pennyroyal straight from the train are. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise, Mr. Mangold.” She put out her hand. It was swallowed whole in a grasp that was surprisingly gentle and gentlemanly.
“It’s Walt.” He released her. “Hardly recognize the other.”
Morgan reached across Jane and handed the reins to Walt. “I’ve been thinking I’d stay in town tonight instead of heading back. Does Mrs. Sterling have another room for me?”
“We’re full up. Just registered that Wanamaker fella.”
Jane thought that Morgan handled the exchange smoothly. He had introduced her without offering an explanation for her presence, her connection to him, or why he was staying in town. The room he told her had been reserved for the two of them had been reserved in his name alone. He played his cards close, though whether it was because he thought she might not agree to stay or because he might not want her to, she did not know.
Jane wanted to press her palms against the knot tightening her belly. Instead she placed one hand in Morgan’s as he offered to help her down from the buckboard and used the other to steady herself.
“Thank you,” she said. She eased her hand out of his as he made another study of her face. “Is something wrong?”
“I was going to ask you. You’re pale as a salt lick.”
Jane had no reply. She turned toward the steps and began to mount them. Behind her, she could hear Morgan giving Walt instructions about her belongings and the horse and wagon. It was only marginally reassuring that he thought of her first; his instructions regarding the horse were more detailed.
Jane was at the Pennyroyal’s entrance when Morgan caught up to her. He reached for the doorknob before she could but did not immediately open the door. She stared straight ahead. “What is it, Mr. Longstreet?”
“Are you going to run off?”
The question surprised her. It was no good asking what she had gotten herself into. She was into it. “Not for at least twenty-four hours. Perhaps not even then.” Jane felt him hesitate and wondered if he were trying to gauge the truth of her words. “I did not know you were a redhead,” she said.
“How’s that again?”
Jane’s eyes swiveled in Morgan’s direction. She regarded him from under slightly raised eyebrows. “I did not know you were a redhead. Your photograph failed to reveal that. I mention it because you are not the only one who must come to terms with expectations, whether they are reasonable or not. Perhaps if I had known you had hair the color of a lighted fuse, I would have made more inquiries about your temperament. We are both of us deceived, Mr. Longstreet, but I acquit you of intentionality. If you cannot acquit me of the same, no amount of time spent together will make a difference.”
Jane set her jaw and faced forward again. “I am not going to run off.”
Morgan lifted his hat, raked his hair once, and set the Stetson back on his head. “You really think it’s the color of a lighted fuse?”
His hair was the color of the sun sitting low on the horizon. It was beautiful. Jane did not tell him that. “Please open the door.”
Morgan did, and he held it open until Walt came through with Jane’s bags and trunk. He joined Jane at the polished walnut desk while Walt set everything down at the foot of the stairs and called out for Mrs. Sterling.
