And Mr. Foster himself sounded like a perfectly reasonable prospect. He described himself as a man of thirty years old who had recently moved to a little town in Colorado to care for Anna. He’d found work at a new hotel. He had a home that he described as small but tidy and offered to have both the town marshal and the lady who ran the mail-order bride advertisement business write to her in good reference to his character. Delia had already declined that offer in the return letter she’d mailed off a week ago. The fact that he’d offered was testament enough to his character, and besides, if she felt strangely about him when she arrived, she’d simply board the train again and return home.
But most important of all, Mr. Foster was five years her senior and didn’t appear taken aback that Delia had reached five-and-twenty and remained unmarried. Unlike nearly every gentleman in Manhattan.
It didn’t bother Delia much, as she’d never intended to marry, but to go from having men paying visits with distinct intentions only a few years ago to speaking to her as if she were a sister had been a shock. Not that any of them had maintained an interest back then, of course. She was far too forthright. If she were entirely honest with herself, it felt nice that Mr. Foster was eager to marry her sight unseen and didn’t care a whit about her age. Even if she didn’t particularly care to be married at all, it was flattering to be wanted in that way.
She placed his letter back into her reticule and stood with an assured smile. If all went well, she would be on a train to Colorado by the end of the month. She would write articles about her experience that were so compelling Roy would have no choice but to print them. And if he didn’t, there was nothing at all stopping her from sending them to another newspaper.
She, Cordelia Elliott, was about to become the most sought-after newspaperwoman in the country.
Chapter Two
CREST STONE, COLORADO
There were so many people waiting on the platform for the train to arrive that Maxwell Foster was inclined to grab hold of Anna’s hand.
But one look at his eleven-year-old daughter’s expression changed his mind.
Anna stood next to him, arms crossed, and a frown draping her freckled face. She’d made it clear to him that she had no interest in a new mother.Ihada mother, she’d told him when he announced to her that Miss Cordelia Elliott would be coming to Crest Stone to marry him.She’s dead, and I don’t need another one.
Except she did need a mother, and badly. Max was failing at being a father. He had no experience at all in caring for children, much less a headstrong, trouble-making girl like Anna.
So instead of taking Anna’s hand, he kept a close eye on her as they waited for the train to arrive. Her gaze flitted down the platform to a pair of children about her age, a boy and a girl, who were pushing each other and giggling.
“Are they friends of yours?” Max asked.
Anna shrugged.
He pressed his lips together in frustration. Trying to have a conversation with Anna was harder than talking to a brick wall.At least the wall didn’t act as if he were the most irritating person in town.
The worst part was that he wasgoodwith people. Strangers warmed up to him quickly, and he made friends and acquaintances with ease. It was why he’d been so good at cards in the past, and it was why he’d found an excellent position at the newest hotel in Crest Stone within a day of arriving in town.
But if anyone asked Anna, she’d describe him as a bumbling oaf of a man with no redeeming qualities whatsoever.
If anyone had offered him the opportunity to lay a bet on whether he’d be a good parent, he’d have put everything he had on the line. And then he would have promptly lost his shirt upon meeting Anna. Max had never failed at anything in his life, but fatherhood was looking to be the first.
The sigh rising in his throat died quickly when Mrs. Carlisle, the livery owner’s wife, greeted him. She had her baby girl nestled against her, and she carried a few envelopes in one hand.
“Good morning, Mrs. Carlisle,” Max said with a smile. He nudged Anna, who was looking at the ground.
“Hello,” Anna said sullenly, her arms still crossed.
Max cringed inwardly at the girl’s actions and wished for the hundredth time that her mother had paid more attention to Anna’s manners when she was alive. Perhaps then she’d at least be polite to other people, even if she still despised him.
“Good morning, Anna,” Mrs. Carlisle said, as if Anna had greeted her warmly. “Did you speak with your father?”
