“Good.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve also had an inquiry about a private performance. A wealthy mining investor, new to Virginia City. The compensation would be…substantial.”
Something cold settled in Rose’s stomach. Vincent’s private performances had grown more frequent lately, and more lucrative. They also required her to sing in drawing rooms and private dining halls where the audience was smaller, more intimate, and where the line between performer and entertainment grew dangerously thin.
The men often wanted to wrap an arm around her. Have her sit on their lap and sing to them. Or share a drink with them. She hated that vile stuff. Hated every retched part of it—the stench, the way it loosened men’s tongues and freed their hands. Made them either angry or far too pushy.
She forced down the bile that rose at just the thought. “When?”
“Saturday afternoon. Nothing too demanding—an hour or two of your most popular songs.” Vincent’s hand settled on her shoulder again, that familiar weight of ownership. “Appearances like this are stated in your contract.”
She forced herself to nod. “I know.”
She had to leave on Saturday’s stage. Escape.
As soon as she reached her room, she drafted a telegram to send back to Walnut Springs.
ARRIVING SUNDAY MORNING STAGE IN BUTTE STOP SHOULD REACH WS MONDAY STOP WILL MEET IN CAFÉ MONDAY NOON STOP WILL WEAR HAT WITH RED FEATHER STOP SIGNED R P FULL STOP
The red feather—she wore it with the ruby dress Vincent sometimes insisted on. It would be distinctive enough without looking gaudy. Hopefully.
She inhaled a deep breath and released it. Two days. She had to remain calm so Vincent didn’t suspect anything.
No matter what, she couldn’t let him follow her. She had no doubt he’d look for her. And if he found her, there was no telling how he’d make her pay for daring to defy him.
CHAPTER 4
The streets of Butte City teemed with more desperate souls than James remembered from the last time he’d been here three years ago. He’d forgotten how rough mining towns could be.
He eased his wagon along the muddy ruts, eyeing the men slouched against doorways or gathered in knots near the saloons. The mining boom had drawn fortune-seekers from every corner of the country, and most of them looked like they’d sell their own mothers for a decent claim.
This was no place for a woman alone.
Just picturing Rose out here, picking her way through these streets with no one to watch her back, set his jaw tight. He’d known there would be little reliable transport she could find from here to Walnut Springs. The stage line didn’t run that far into the mountains. And the freight wagons that did were hardly meant for a lady. There hadn’t been time to respond to her last telegram. He’d just come knowing she’d need help.
A painted sign in the window of Loeser’s Dry Goods read Stage Stop Inside. He reined his team to a halt before the building. The horses stamped at the muck, tossing their heads, eager to be away from the racket and press of bodies. He didn’t blame them.
The bell over the door jingled as he stepped in. He took in the cramped space, barrels of flour stacked beside bolts of calico.
And then he saw her.
Even with her back turned, it had to be Rose. That auburn hair, not so bright as the coppery tangle she’d worn as a child, was gathered beneath a plain traveling hat, a single red feather tucked into the band. Her dress was a simple blue, the skirt dulled by dust but still somehow refined. When she shifted, he caught the profile that had haunted his sleep for years.
She was more beautiful than he remembered, more than he’d let himself imagine. No longer the skinny girl with freckles and grass stains on her pinafore. In her place stood a woman, grown and graceful. The gentle curve of her cheek, the line of her neck above the collar—it left him breathless.
She spoke to a grizzled man in worn buckskins, her voice low and musical even in conversation. James couldn’t make out the words, but that voice…
…that voice.
It still carried the same sweet cadence that had lulled him to sleep on sunny days during those long-ago summers at the ranch.
He moved closer, finally catching her words.
“—to Walnut Springs.”
The man she spoke to scratched his beard and answered with a rough voice. “Walnut Springs, eh? That’s a fair piece into the mountains. I could get you as far as Deer Lodge. That’s half the distance, maybe. Eight dollars, and you’d be riding in the back of a freight wagon, with supplies for the mining camps.”
Her shoulders stiffened. “Eight dollars? For halfway?”
“Take it or leave it, lady. Ain’t nobody else heading that direction for another week, maybe two.”
