“You’re adamant about this?”

  “I am.”

  “Odd, that. I’m recalling someone who spoke rather heatedly about women not having opportunities. She looked like you, but I must be thinking of someone else.”

  “I suppose you think you’re being amusing.”

  “I think I’m being ironic. Ridley and Ben employ a housekeeper. So does Amanda Springer. What’s her name?”

  “Mary Cherry.”

  “That’s right. Ellie worked for the Frosts in that capacity for years. From what I can tell, it afforded her a good life and prepared her for managing the Butterworth. Mrs. Cherry and Mrs. Rushton also benefit from their employment. If you can see that hiring a housekeeper is not shirking your responsibilities but shifting them, maybe you can see your way clear to partnering with me.”

  “Partnering?”

  “Junior partner. Like a New York law firm.”

  “What about Clay?”

  “Still my assistant. Yours, too, if you agree.”

  “I would require compensation.”

  “Naturally.”

  “It would have to be at least as much as Mrs. Fish is paying me.” Lamplight glanced off Roen’s teeth as he smiled up at her. Clearly, she thought, he was enjoying himself.

  “Ah, the negotiation begins. How much is that?”

  When she told him, his grin vanished. “What?” she asked. “Is it too steep? She pays me by the piece, so it’s difficult to calculate the salary on a weekly or monthly basis. I’ve given you my best estimate.”

  “I trust your numbers, but now I am wary of Mrs. Fish’s goodwill. She can afford to do better by you. I certainly will.” He named a figure that was two-and-one-half times what she was earning from the dressmaker.

  “Can you truly offer so much? You already have an arrangement with Clay, and earlier you wrote a draft to me for the household. In light of this, I should give it back to you.”

  “If you do, I will have Mr. Washburn at the bank deposit it directly into your account. Northeast Rail pays me very well, Lily. When it comes to money and knowing my value, I am a better negotiator than you.”

  Lily had no argument for that. He was right. Unaccountably, she felt a lump forming in her throat and tears blur her vision. She blinked back the tears before they dripped on Roen. The lump, though, would not be swallowed. She wanted to tell him that there was still so much she had to learn, but then she suspected it was something he already knew.

  * * *

  • • •

  Abe Butterworth was a genial innkeeper, perpetually pink-cheeked and kindly featured. He owned the hotel, and Ellie was indispensable as its manager, but the registration desk was his personal fiefdom. He welcomed everyone with equal enthusiasm, made the weary traveler feel at home, and greeted the return guests as if they were family. Folks in Frost Falls couldn’t have named a situation in which Abe’s temper was tested, but then they were unfamiliar with Victorine Headley.

  “I reserved the suite,” Victorine said, tapping her gloved fingers on the desktop. She did not allow herself to be distracted by her reflection in the polished wood. A boy, whose name she could not recall, had carried her bags into the hotel, and now he was pressed against the wainscoting waiting further instructions. “How often do I need to remind you that I reserved the suite before I’m permitted to go there? And my trunk is still on the bed of that contraption standing outside your establishment. The boy says he can’t carry it in. I believe him because he barely managed to get it on the wagon.”

  “I’ll see to your trunk, Miss Headley, but there is nothing I can do about the suite.”

  “How is that possible? You own the hotel, don’t you? It’s called the Butterworth. Your name is Butterworth. That would make them connected in any guest’s mind.”

  “Yes,” he said, drawing a breath and releasing it slowly through a forced smile. “I own the hotel, but my guests—all of my guests—deserve consideration. I’ve explained that your reservation for the suite was to have begun several days ago. When you did not arrive and sent no word that you were delayed, I gave the suite to a family of five who found their accommodations uncomfortably crowded. They would have made do, if you had arrived as planned, but they didn’t have to since you are only arriving now.”

  “You’re giving me their room?”

  “No, but there’s another one available. I assure you it’s clean and comfortable.”

  “I’ve been traveling in a private car that was clean and comfortable.”

  “Well, perhaps you’d like Frankie to take you back to the station. Your car is still there, isn’t it?”

  “On a side track.”

  “Then . . . ?”

  “If I’d wanted to stay there, Mr. Butterworth, that’s what I would have done, but it’s the middle of the night, I was looking forward to a bath—your suite does have a bath, I hope—and sleeping in a bed bigger than a coffin.”

  “The suite does indeed have a bath, but since you won’t be able to use it until the Mastersons leave, I can arrange for a tub and hot water to be carried up to your room.”

  “Wooden tub? I’ve seen pictures.”

  “Copper with a muslin liner. I believe you’ve seen old photographs. The Butterworth is a modern hotel.”

  Victorine offered a bland smile. “If modern means quaint, then it certainly is.”

  Abe Butterworth opened the registration book and pushed it toward Victorine. He held out a pen. “If you intend to stay, I need you to sign the book.”

  “When is that family leaving?”

  “The day after tomorrow. In the morning if the trains are running on schedule.”

  Huffing softly, she took the pen. “Then it could be a week or more.” She signed her name. “I expect to have that suite as soon as it becomes available.”

  “You will, Miss Headley. You have my word.”

  “I thought I already had that,” she said, trading the pen for the key he held out. “I’ll expect my trunk shortly.”

  Mr. Butterworth nodded and watched her go. Behind her back, he gave Frankie Fuller a significant look meant to convey equal parts sympathy and dismay. Frankie grinned and clasped his hands, holding them about six inches forward of his belly, then he picked up Victorine Headley’s cases and followed in her haughty wake.

  Abe’s good humor returned. He supposed that the boy had a good point. Miss Headley’s ill temper was likely related to her condition.

  * * *

  • • •

  Victorine slept until noon. That was why Roen didn’t see her in the dining room when he went to collect his lunch at the Butterworth. He left alone for the location he had mapped out. It was out of the question that Lily could join him when she’d ticked off all the things she had to do that day. Roen noted that once again none of the seven things included finding a housekeeper. He had considered asking Ellie for a recommendation but bit back the question in the event that Lily changed her mind. The decision had to be hers, and what seemed so logical, even natural, when they first struck the deal might be giving her second thoughts as time passed.

  He missed her, though, and had every day since their initial excursion. She was a restful and conscientious companion. She asked thoughtful questions, followed directions, and listened. If he could have glimpsed into her mind, he was sure he would have seen an elaborate arrangement of cogwheels turning furiously. She was a quick study, and it was further confirmation that Clay took after her.

  Roen’s chuckle made his horse nicker. He leaned forward and patted the animal’s neck. “That’s right, boy. She’s a fast learner. Cautious, too. But neither of those is helping her see that she’s standing on the tracks and this train is barreling down on her.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Martin Cabot also slept late. Victorine had been stubbornly opposed to him taking a room at the Butterworth; therefore, he showed up at Mrs. Brady’s boardinghouse in the middle of the night and considered himself fortunate to share a bed with only one other occupant. The man woke long enough to introduce himself as Clark Bennett, laid claim to the left side of the bed, and promptly returned to sleep. Martin never heard him leave in the morning, so there was no time to learn anything about Mr. Bennett. Martin did that after he woke, going through the man’s possessions to determine the man’s trade, the depth of his pockets, and whether or not he carried weapons. Martin Cabot’s own pistol fit neatly in a leather holster strapped to his chest and was virtually invisible under his jacket. If Bennett had something similar, he was certainly wearing it. Martin wasn’t worried. He could sniff that out. He was also able to conclude that his bedmate was a salesman, in this instance a hawker of medicines. There was no case to examine, but plenty of sample bottles lined the top of the dresser. The man’s clothes were modest but of decent quality, leading Martin to the opinion that Bennett was moderately successful at what he did.

  It could be worse, Martin concluded. These drummers moved on and then he would have the room to himself. It would cost Victorine, and she would fuss about it, but she would pay in the end. She’d have to; otherwise he would be moving into the Butterworth. Her edict that he keep his distance be damned. It did nothing but make his job more difficult anyway.

  Because he rose late, Mrs. Brady was no longer serving breakfast. She never served a meal in the afternoon and told him if he wanted dinner, it arrived at the table promptly at six. There were currently seven other boarders, five of whom regularly appeared at dinnertime. Mrs. Brady was tall, angular, and carried herself with military bearing. Without saying as much, she managed to communicate that she expected to know his intentions. Martin’s response was polite but noncommittal, and he left without making a distinct impression, which was always his goal.

  Martin arrived at the Butterworth thirty minutes later after he’d taken a brisk walk around the town. He stopped in several shops and looked around but never introduced himself and bought nothing except a newspaper. He smiled pleasantly at those who looked in his direction. He even ran into Clark Bennett trying to sell his wares at the druggist’s. Mr. Bennett didn’t recognize him, which pleased Martin.

  The Butterworth’s wraparound porch was an appealing feature. He counted ten rockers across the front and imagined there were more along the side. Snow dusted all of them. It was too cold to sit outside, but he could picture people using them in every other season. If he wasn’t tortured by boredom first, he could see himself settling in Frost Falls.

  Victorine was not in the dining room. Either she had risen early and already been, which was unlikely, or she would appear sometime while he was enjoying his meal, which would ruin it. A third possibility was that she would have breakfast in her room, but the Butterworth did not strike him as an establishment that would offer that amenity. He hoped he was wrong.

  He was told he could sit anywhere, and he chose a table for two where he had an angled view of the town’s wide thoroughfare. He ordered steak and eggs and black coffee from a comely woman who introduced herself as Ellie Butterworth and welcomed him to Frost Falls. She tried to engage him in conversation, but he was a practiced deflector, and she left without knowing his name or where he was from.

  He did not make firm eye contact with any of the other five diners, although he did observe them from time to time over the top of his newspaper. The Frost Falls Ledger was only a weekly broadsheet, but it contained articles reprinted from Denver’s Rocky Mountain News and those tidbits common to small-town papers. There were three birth notices and one death reported. The death was a native of Frost Falls but no longer a resident. The town’s population remained on the plus side.

  Martin folded the paper and put away his spectacles when his food was brought to the table. He looked down at the plate as it was placed in front of him, but the hand that delivered it was so delicately beautiful that he allowed himself to follow the curve of those fingers all the way to their owner’s face.

  He could not stare, of course, but he saw enough to know she was a rare flower in a place like Frost Falls. He’d not seen a single Chinaman on his tour around town, and it was his experience that they came together in protective clusters wherever they lived. There was no such ethnic enclave in Frost Falls or he would have discovered it. She was alone, then, or mostly so. That was interesting.

  Her dark, almond-shaped eyes were downcast. He had no fear that she was studying him. Her smile could hardly be called that since it was so tentative, and it seemed to him that she remained at his side by sheer force of will. He would have liked to see her coal black hair unbound and brushing against her slim neck and shoulders, preferably with a pillow supporting her head. She was that lovely.

  He returned his attention to this plate, but now he had the vision of her small breasts and slender waist at the back of his mind and could reach for it anytime he chose. He thanked her when she finished pouring his coffee. She hurried away without acknowledging that he’d spoken. That surprised him a little. He was used to the deference her kind showed.

  In other circumstances, he’d have enjoyed teaching her how to show respect, but the fact that he was working and required to be discreet meant that he could look but not touch. That pained him. She was an unexpected complication, and the fact that she was young, easily less than half his age, only made her more desirable. He had always liked his women young.

  Pride in his greatest assets, the nondescript appearance and unremarkable manner, was all that kept him from opening his fly and relieving himself under the table. Wondering how it would be reported in the Ledger, Martin Cabot smiled to himself as he cut into his steak.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Hannah stabbed a dumpling with her fork and waggled it while she spoke. “And then Frankie Fuller fell dead asleep right there at his desk.” She dropped her head in imitation of her classmate and Clay’s best friend. “He tipped forward and cracked his slate when his head hit it, but the part that made us all laugh was that he didn’t wake up right then.”

  Lily was watching her daughter more than listening to the account. “Eat that dumpling, Hannah, before it flies off your fork and hits your brother.”

  Hannah plopped it into her mouth and spoke around it. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Roen speared a piece of chicken. “So when did he wake?”

  “When Mr. Stanton hit him with the pointer.”

  Clay frowned. “He whaled on him. Could have just given him a shake, but no, he had the pointer in his hand so he used it.”

  “No one laughed after that,” said Hannah. “We felt terrible for Frankie.”

  “As well you should,” Lily said. “Does he often fall asleep like that?”

  Clay shook his head. “Never happened before. It was on account of the train coming in so late. Frankie got himself a sometimes job taking passengers and bags to the hotel. It was his turn yesterday so he had to wait until the train arrived. He slept on a bench in the station, but he told me it wasn’t restful. That’s why he nodded off.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Lily. “Perhaps Mr. Butterworth should find someone else to help when there’s a late arrival.”

  “Now that would make Frankie real sad,” said Hannah, waggling another dumpling. “I’m serious, Ma. He’s always jingling coins in his pocket and not cause he’s showin’ off. He’s kind of musical that way.”

  “Oh, musical. Well, in that case—” Lily stopped because the dumpling on the end of Hannah’s fork catapulted across the table. It would have landed on Clay’s plate if Roen hadn’t intervened. He caught it neatly in his palm, returned it to Hannah’s plate, and then went to the sink to wash chicken gravy off his hand. Lily stared at him right along with her children when he came back to the table.

  “What?” he asked, picking up his fork.

  Lily shook her head, hardly knowing if she should be admiring or admonishing. “You’re just so . . . unexpected.”

  “Huh. I suppose that’s something.”

  And that was that. Lily watched Roen’s attention return to his meal. It was a cue that everyone else should do the same. There was no commotion, no chastisement; nothing was upended except Lily’s heart, and that, she realized, was the other thing that Roen caught neatly in his palm.

  Clay helped himself to a warm biscuit and slathered it with butter. He gave half to Ham. “Frankie told me that Mr. Butterworth gave him something extra for his trouble last night, but not because it was late. I guess the woman he delivered to the hotel was a—” He stopped, searching for a more appropriate word than “bitch.” “A real unpleasant person.”

  “Good for you,” said Roen, tapping Clay’s plate with the tines of his fork. “Your mother approves.”

  Clay nodded, grinning. “I had another word in mind.”

  “We know,” Lily said dryly. “And I feel certain fatigue accounts for this woman’s unpleasantness.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Frankie mostly talked about her private car. I guess he got to step inside to help the porter take her bags. He said it was something like he’s never seen. Not even in a book.”

  “Private car?” asked Lily, looking at Roen and not at her son. Roen had the same stillness of expression as she did. “And she’s here? In Frost Falls.”

  “Uh-huh. At the Butterworth. Made a fuss, Frankie says, about not getting the suite, but Mr. Butterworth gave it to a family when she didn’t show up to claim it. Guess she’s staying for a while. Frankie thinks so anyway.”

  Roen asked, “Did she give Frankie something for his trouble?”

  “Yeah, she did. Frankie said you could have knocked him over, she was that generous.”

  “Keeping him on a leash,” Roen said under his breath.

  “What?” asked Clay.