“Oh, no, the boardinghouse is just fine.” Clara couldn’t imagine sleeping in a hotel as fine as the one standing upon the hill behind the depot. She likely wouldn’t sleep as she worried about wrinkling the bedsheets.
“Good,” Mr. Carlisle said, and Clara detected a hint of relief in his voice. He bent down and gathered the two carpetbags she’d brought. “You haven’t a trunk?”
Clara shook her head, trying not to let her embarrassment color her face. She didn’t possess one, and she could hardly have asked her father—who disapproved highly of this venture of hers—to purchase one. So she’d settled for her mother’s old carpetbag and another gifted to her from Violet. They just barely fit her possessions, but she’d managed to bring enough clothing to be serviceable, and a few small mementos and items for her toilette.
But if Mr. Carlisle found it strange she’d come without a trunk full of goods, he didn’t show it. In fact, he smiled as he lifted the carpetbags.
“Tomorrow I’ll show you about town, if you’d like,” he said.
“I’d enjoy that.”
He gestured at her to go first, and so Clara entered the livery, Mr. Carlisle following with her bags. It smelled of straw and horse inside, exactly the same as the livery where Papa occasionally rented a carriage and horses. She breathed it in, and it gave her courage. How strange to come such a distance, only to find something that reminded her so easily of home.
Mr. Wiley stood just inside the big door that led to the street, speaking with a man holding the reins of a horse. The man was dusty and wore clothing that looked as if it had seen numerous days of hard travel in the saddle. He glanced at Clara, his eyes lingering on her a moment too long, and not leaving until Mr. Carlisle paused beside her.
Clara swallowed hard, and, ignoring the strange man, turned to Mr. Wiley. “Thank you again, Mr. Wiley, for entertaining me this afternoon.”
“It was my pleasure, miss,” he said, pulling on his hat.
“I’ll return in a while,” Mr. Carlisle said, his eyes on the dusty man even as he spoke to Mr. Wiley.
Mr. Wiley nodded, and Mr. Carlisle pulled the smaller door open for Clara. She escaped through it, back into the warm sunlight and away from the chill that stranger had brought.
Too many men have been too long without women in the territories, her father had said, ignoring the fact that Colorado would soon likely be a state. At the time, it made no sense. After all, wasn’t that exactly why men such as Mr. Carlisle were placing advertisements for brides? But now that she was here, and she’d seen the look in that man’s eyes, her father’s words took on a different meaning. Even Violet, as supportive as she was, asked Clara if she oughtn’t learn to shoot a pistol before leaving home. Clara had laughed those concerns away, certain Violet had read one too many dime novels about outlaws and Indians. But now . . . perhaps she should have taken her friend’s worry seriously.
“The boardinghouse is safe,” Mr. Carlisle said, seeming to know her exact thoughts. “It’s run by a gentleman and his sister who came from somewhere in Minnesota, I think. Or Wisconsin?” He shook his head. “They don’t rent rooms to people of questionable character.”
Clara wondered where the folks of questionable character slept, but that felt like an odd question to ask.
They crossed the road, Clara lifting her skirts and stepping as carefully as possible. At least it wasn’t wet. She couldn’t imagine the mess this road would become in the rain or snow. Mr. Carlisle led her across the railroad tracks and past the depot. They passed several partially built structures and newly constructed buildings, including—to Clara’s delight—what appeared to be a church. Farther down the road, men called loudly to each other from within a saloon missing three of its four walls.
The last building they reached was completed, and a large painted sign above the door declared it to be Darby’s Boardinghouse. Mr. Carlisle pushed the door open, and Clara entered.
A cheerful parlor room met her gaze. A few chairs and a comfortable-looking settee sat positioned as if for conversation. A dining room was off to the right, beyond the stairs, and from there, a woman just slightly older than Clara, with a plain face and hair as black as a crow’s wing, came bustling in.
“Good afternoon, Miss Darby,” Mr. Carlisle said. He set the carpetbags down and removed his hat.
“Mr. Carlisle,” she said in return, even as her friendly but curious eyes flicked back to Clara.
“May I introduce Miss Brown? Miss Brown, this is Miss Darby, the proprietress of this boardinghouse.”
The two ladies nodded at each other and exchanged pleasantries.
“I assume you’re in need of a room?” Miss Darby asked, glancing at Clara’s carpetbags.
“I am, thank you,” Clara replied.
“I’ll be taking care of the bill,” Mr. Carlisle said.
His words made Miss Darby’s eyebrows raise. Clara wanted to protest, to assure him that was unnecessary, but the truth was, she had little in the way of funds to pay for more than a few nights. And most of that money had been a gift from Violet, hidden inside the carpetbag she’d given Clara.
“Then I’ll ready the room.” Miss Darby swept upstairs to presumably do just that.
“Thank you, Mr. Carlisle,” Clara said, as soon as Miss Darby was out of earshot. “I would offer to—”
“It’s no bother,” he said, straightening. “You are my responsibility.”
Responsibility. The word made her sound as if she were one of his horses, in need of grooming and feeding. She’d come here to be his wife, not hisresponsibility. Unless . . . Had he already changed his mind about her, just as Gideon had?
