Chapter Eight
RUBY, A THIEF? CHARLOTTEcouldn’t possibly believe it.
At the restaurant, she barely tasted the remainder of her meal as she turned the waitress’s words over in her head. And as they walked back to her boarding house, she began to wonder at the possibility of the woman’s words being true. Mark reassured her that they’d find out for certain, that it could all be a misunderstanding. How they’d find out whether or not it was true, Charlotte didn’t know, especially since no one in town could point them toward where Ruby lived—or could even tell them if she was still in Cañon City.
The next morning, she awoke not with Ruby or what still awaited her back in Baltimore on her mind. Instead, she sat up with a start, rubbing her eyes as if that could erase the embarrassing dream she’d just had. When that didn’t work, she stood and splashed water from the nearby basin onto her face.
Charlotte blinked at herself in the small mirror that sat atop the spindly dressing table. Her eyes were wide and her hair a wild mess, even as droplets of water dripped down her face. She laughed at herself and sank into the chair that sat in front of the dressing table.
As much as she often acted on impulse, Charlotte considered herself a reasonably sensible woman. For instance, most girls in her position would have acquiesced to her father’s request. But all Charlotte could see was a lifetime of misery, and so, very sensibly, she thought, she said no and came here.
Where she now spent her days—and apparently her dreams too—with the devilishly handsome Mark Becker.
She grabbed a brush and began to tame her hair. It was far less embarrassing to think about hairstyle than to relive that dream kiss. She needed to pushthatfrom her mind before she met with him today, or else she’d probably blush scarlet the moment she laid eyes upon him.
But it was no use.
Mr. Becker was waiting for her in the parlor when she finished breakfast. He gave her an easy smile, and Charlotte’s face went warmer than the sun on an August day in Maryland. But, gentleman that he was, he said not a word about it, even though she was almost certain he could read the thoughts that went through her mind.
She needed to get a hold of herself. Because truth be told, she didn’t necessarilymindremembering that dream.
“I thought we might speak with the sheriff,” he said.
Charlotte nodded, not entirely trusting herself to speak. His eyes were particularly green today, and had she noticed the way his hair curled just slightly at the nape of his neck? She looked down, which seemed much safer than lookingathim any longer—at least until she could come to her senses again.
“I’ve not met him, but I’ve heard Sheriff Young is—” He stopped mid-sentence as a young man entered the boarding house.
The newcomer came immediately to Charlotte. “I’ve the mail for the ladies here,” he said as he held out a stack of envelopes and a small parcel tied with string.
“I can take it,” she said. “Thank you.”
Blessedly, Mr. Becker had a coin in his pocket that he handed the boy. Charlotte crossed the room to the little desk that sat just outside the parlor near the front door. Grateful for the distraction from Mr. Becker’s broad shoulders and the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled, she sat the envelopes and parcel on the desk.
The topmost envelope caught her eye. It was addressed toMiss Charlotte Montgomeryin a light, swoopy script that Charlotte immediately recognized.
Mama.
Charlotte collected the letter with fingers that trembled just slightly. Of course Mr. Becker would have had to inform her father about where she was staying. She couldn’t blame him for that. After all, he was only doing his job.
But she hadn’t expected either of her parents to reach out to her so soon.
Clutching the envelope in her hand, she returned to the parlor where Mr. Becker waited.
“Are you well?” He looked at her with concern tracing his features. And all Charlotte could think was that at least the presence of the envelope had caused her mind to right itself in regards to him.
“Yes,” she finally said before showing him the envelope. “It’s from my mother.”
Ever the gentleman, he gestured at the nearest seat, a chair with a straight back and a red upholstered cushion on the seat. Charlotte sank gratefully onto the chair. Then she drew in her breath, pressed her shoulders back, and slid her finger under the lip of the envelope to open it. It was best to get the reading of it over with. At least then she’d know whether to pack her bags and leave—whether to Baltimore or elsewhere—or remain where she was.
Mr. Becker occupied himself with examining the paltry décor on the fireplace mantel while Charlotte read. The letter was short and to-the-point.
