He’d been working nonstop in the barn since dawn, so she headed into town later in the morning, clean laundry and finished mending piled into the wagon box. The winter sun peered weakly through the clouds to the east, barely warming much of anything. The plains were quiet and cold, the snowy bluffs rising far to the west and the ice-covered North Platte keeping her company as she drove.
When she reached the outskirts of town, Celia made her first stop at Mrs. Purcell’s home, where she delivered a stack of freshly laundered and pressed linens and promised to return in a week to pick up another load. She spent a couple of hours making all her deliveries, picking up a few new items to fix and launder, and enjoying conversation.
She carefully sorted just enough coins to stop at the mercantile for more flour. She’d heard the shopkeeper had recently gotten a delivery of flour from farther east, where the weather hadn’t been so extreme. And it was just in time, too, considering she didn’t have enough left to even bake a loaf of bread.
As Mr. Talley poured some of the precious flour into a sack for her, Celia glanced about the shop. She loved coming in here, seeing what new items had arrived and dreaming of purchasing something extravagant, such as a hairbrush with a handle made from glass or a pretty porcelain teapot with pink flowers and gold edges.
“A couple of men were in here yesterday, asking after your husband,” Mr. Talley said, his eyes on the flour he was carefully pouring.
Celia drew her gaze away from the little jars of penny candy sitting nearby on display. “Oh? Was it Mr. Cecil? I know Jack was wanting to speak with him regarding some repairs needed for our plow.”
The shopkeeper shook his head as he drew a length of string around the top of her flour sack. “I didn’t recognize these gentlemen.” He paused and peered at her over his mustache. “They were rather well-dressed. Each of them purchased a few items, which I greatly appreciated. I asked them where they’d come from, but neither one answered.”
Celia furrowed her brow, trying to figure out who the men might be and what they might want with Jack. Maybe it had something to do with what he was working on in the barn? “Did they say where they were staying?”
“The hotel.” Mr. Talley handed her the sack.
“Thank you,” Celia said. “Both for the flour and for the information.”
Outside, sack in her arms, Celia made her way across the road to the hotel. As she stepped around patches of ice and deeper drifts of snow, she hoped she could bring some good news back to Jack.
She’d never had much cause to visit the hotel since she’d lived in Last Chance, and now, blinking in the dimmer light inside, she wasn’t entirely certain what to do. She didn’t even know the men’s names.
“Excuse me,” she said to young Drew Foster, who was working behind the desk. “I’m looking for a couple of men who might be staying here.” She gave the young man the description Mr. Talley had given her—which wasn’t much—but the clerk seemed to know right away who she was talking about.
“Yes, Mr. Jones and Mr. Smith,” Mr. Foster said, clearly pleased with himself for remembering. “They’ve been quite generous with the staff here. I believe they’ve just returned, too. I’ll run up and fetch them for you, if you don’t mind waiting?” He gestured at a chair and Celia gratefully took a seat, resting the flour in her lap. She’d been so curious about the men that she’d forgotten to put the flour into the wagon she’d left out front of the mercantile.
As nice as the hotel was, the cold air leaked in about the door and the windows, and so she drew her coat tighter around her as she waited. As soon as the clerk appeared on the stairs, one of the men trailing behind him, Celia stood, eager to discover what Jack might be up to—and how she might help.
“Good afternoon, dear lady,” the man said as soon as he cleared the bottom step. He had a funny lilt to his voice, one Celia hadn’t heard before. It was almost musical sounding, and between that and his fine clothing, it appeared this gentleman had come from somewhere quite far away from Last Chance. He stretched out a hand in greeting.
Uncertain what exactly he meant to do, Celia shifted the flour to her left arm and let him take her right hand. The man bowed and dropped a light kiss on the back of her glove. The sleeve of his jacket was slightly frayed. “Good afternoon, Mister . . . ?”
“Jones,” the man supplied. “And who do I have the great pleasure of meeting?” He grinned at her, gold filling the space between two teeth while the others looked as if they weren’t long for remaining attached to his mouth. He was freshly shaven, but a nest of scars peeked up over his collar along his neck. And the silk vest he wore under the jacket was rife with water stains.
He was like a dress that had been made over—a veneer that appeared well-to-do, but remained poor under the surface.
She took a tiny step backward from him, instantly wary. “I’m Celia Thornton.” Using her previous name separated her from Jack, which felt like a wise thing to do at the moment—at least until she found out what this man wanted.
“Ah, Mrs. Thornton! My colleague and I were hoping to meet you.” He grinned with those teeth, and Celia’s heart thumped hard against the walls of her chest. She glanced toward the front desk, but Mr. Foster had gone elsewhere. She was alone here with this strange man.
“You were?” she tried to say lightly.
