Jonathan chuckled. “The train?”
She nodded, entirely serious, as the curls that had fallen from their pins bounced. “It always brings someone new and interesting.”
“That is true,” he acknowledged. It was exciting in a way, seeing who and what might arrive each time the train pulled into the depot. Last week, there had been a fellow selling patent medicines, and this week, an operatic singer on his way to California had stopped for a couple of nights and had entertained half the town in the church.
“But are you sure about the snow?” he asked, trying not to grin as he knew what her answer would be. It had snowed for the first time that season a few weeks ago, and his new wife had been as giddy as a child with a stash of penny candy.
“Of course! I can’t wait until it comes again.”
“Oh, it will,” he said ominously.
“It’s nothing to you because you grew up with it,” she said. “I—”
At that very moment, the door to Figaro’s Saloon flew open and a man stumbled out backward. Jonathan threw an arm out across Catherine, else the fellow would have landed on top of her.
The man lay on the ground before them, his eyes staring up at the sky. Jonathan peered down into his face. The man blinked slowly at him and a languid smile stretched across his face. “You got a nickel?”
Satisfied the fellow wasn’t hurt, Jonathan reached for Catherine’s hand and led her around the man. He had to step into the street to make that happen. At least the snow from a few days ago had melted, but it had left the road muddy.
“Are you all right?” he asked Catherine as he stepped back up onto the plank sidewalk.
She nodded. “I was simply surprised, that’s all.”
She didn’t move to extract her hand from his, and Jonathan relished the feel of it nestled safely against his own palm. Her gloves were soft but he imagined the skin of her hands to be even softer.
They walked hand-in-hand all the way back to the boarding house, where they entered right in the middle of an argument between Mrs. Bell and a tall fellow in a battered brown hat.
“Excuse me,” he said, handing Catherine’s parcels to her and gesturing for her to leave the entryway. “What’s happening here?”
“I came for a room, but this woman says she can’t give me one.” The man turned to face Jonathan. They were about equal in height, but this fellow was broader—and had a look so sour that it could cause a snake to wither up and die.
“I told him I needed to wait for you,” Mrs. Bell said, her hands planted on her hips.
Jonathan nodded, entirely understanding why she wished to have his opinion. At first glance, this man wasn’t the sort one could assume would be a good guest. His clothing had seen better days, and under that old hat, his blond hair looked as if it hadn’t met soap in months.
“What’s your business in Grover’s Gulch?” Jonathan asked.
The man looked ready to sneer at the question, but then seemed to think better of it. “I’m looking to join up with one of the mining operations.”
Jonathan nodded. At least he had a job in mind, which meant he wasn’t likely here to cause trouble. “We have rooms available. I’ll rent one to you for the posted rate, provided you agree to the rules. I don’t tolerate fighting, drunkenness, or lady visitors in any place but the parlor. If you can’t agree to those, there’s another boarding house down the road.”
“They’re full,” the blond man said.
Jonathan said nothing. Either the fellow would agree to the rules or not. He didn’t ask much, but he intended this boarding house to be a place of civility. A place where gentlemen didn’t need to worry after their wallets and where ladies felt welcome to reside.
“All right, I’ll take the room,” the man finally said.
Mrs. Bell handed him the lodging book, and he carefully wrote out his name—Frank Prince. The neatness with which he formed his letters was entirely at odds with his demeanor and appearance, but Jonathan kept that opinion to himself.
After Prince handed over his first night’s payment, Mrs. Bell gave him a key and directed him to a room upstairs.
“He’s an ornery one,” she said as soon as Prince had disappeared around the corner at the top of the stairs.
“I’ll keep my eye on him,” Jonathan replied. Prince’s expression had left him with a sick feeling in his stomach, and it wasn’t until Catherine returned to the parlor—a hand resting gently on her growing belly—that he realized why.
The expression Prince wore before he agreed to take the room was the same Jonathan’s father would get when he grew angry.
“Is everything all right?” Catherine asked, resting a hand on his arm.
