"An exciting western romance sure to be a classic."
Reviewed by Suzanne Tucker
Posted July 6, 2007
Romance | Romance Historical
Lark Morgan is on the run from her wealthy ex-husband, a
man with savage pride who won't forget the humiliation of
his wife filing for divorce. Lark has taken the job as
school teacher in Stone Creek, Arizona, where she meets
Rowdy Rhodes. Rowdy is a rounder and a rascal with many
secrets of his own. His "Pa" has a checkered past as a
train robber and Rowdy, at one time, rode with him.
Stone Creek needs a sheriff and Sam O'Ballivan, whom we
first met in THE MAN FROM STONE CREEK, has not only given
Rowdy the sheriff's badge but secretly made him a member of
the Rangers. These train robberies must stop and Rowdy is
afraid his Pa and outlaw brothers might be involved. The
Rangers expect him to nab them at any cost.
Together Rowdy and Lark face real dangers, hiding their
secrets, until their worlds collide in a deadly game. Rowdy
planned to move on once he'd uncovered the truth of the
train-robbing and unraveled the secrets behind Lark's past.
Can the love they find for one another complicate things,
or can it set them free? Take this wonderful journey of the
heart and find out.
For many years now, Ms. Miller has graced us with the charm
of the western romance. A WANTED MAN is no exception. This
exceptional story soothes the heart and makes us believe
that love conquers all. THE MAN FROM STONE CREEK was a
wonderful beginning to this series and A WANTED MAN is a
lovely second chapter. It's fun being reunited with Sam and
Maggie and being introduced to new and honorable
characters. Treat yourself to the newest edition to
Linda Lael Miller's exciting western adventures.
You'll be glad you did.
SUMMARY
The past has a way of catching up with folks in Stone Creek,
Arizona. So schoolmarm Lark Morgan and Marshal Rowdy Rhodes
are determined to hide their secrets—and deny their instant
attraction. That shouldn't be too hard, since each suspects
the other of living a lie. Her too-fancy clothes and
big-city ways inspire gossip all over town; his blond good
looks and impudent grin belong to a man sporting a
gunfighter's coat. But Rowdy and Lark have one truth in common: the very real
dangers they face. Like the gang of robbers wreaking havoc
on the railroad heading toward Stone Creek—the men Ranger
Sam O'Ballivan expects Rowdy to nab. And as past and current
troubles collide, Rowdy and Lark must surrender their
stubborn pride to the greatest power of all—an undying love.
ExcerptStone Creek, Arizona Territory
January, 1905 Rowdy Rhodes leaned back in the whorehouse bathtub, a
cheroot jutting from between his teeth, and sighed as he
waited for the chill of a high-country winter to seep out
of his bones. Jolene, an aging madam with pockmarked skin, three visible
teeth and a bustle the size of the Sonoran Desert, sloshed
another bucketful of steaming water at his feet. "I done
seen everything now," she told him, her eyes narrowed in
lascivious speculation as she studied Rowdy's submerged
frame. "Ain't nobody never brought a dog to my bathhouse
before." Pardner, the old yellow hound, sat soaked and bewildered in
the tub next to Rowdy's. He'd gotten pretty scruffy on the
long ride up from Haven, the dog had, and Rowdy meant to
take him for barbering next. They could both do with a
haircut, and Rowdy was itching for a shave. Pardner was just plain itching. "Always a first time," Rowdy said, drawing on the cheroot
and then blowing a smoke ring. Jolene lingered, probably hoping to do less-hygienic
business, but willing to settle for whatever conversation
might come her way. "It's one thing, you payin' for clean
water for yourself, but I don't see how as it makes a
difference to the dog." Rowdy grinned and blew another smoke ring. "We'll be
wanting steaks, soon as we're dried off and decent, if you
can scare them up," he told Jolene. "Pardner likes his
rare." "If that don't beat all," Jolene said, pondering the
hound. "I can get steaks, all right, but they'll cost you a
pretty penny. And if you've a mind to pass the time
upstairs with any of my girls, cowboy, your partner here
will have to wait in the hall." Given that he was naked, and in a prone position, Rowdy
didn't see any profit in pointing out that he didn't have
truck with whores. His .44 was within easy reach, as
always, but shooting a woman, saint or sinner, was outside
the boundaries of his personal code. Unless, of course, she
drew first. "No time for idling with the ladies," he said, feigning
regret. He idled with plenty of ladies, whenever he got the
chance, but he favored fine, upstanding widows. "You lookin' for ranch work?" Jolene asked, in no apparent
hurry to rustle up the steaks. "Maybe," Rowdy answered. The truth was, he'd been summoned
to Stone Creek by none other than Major John Blackstone and
Sam O'Ballivan, an Arizona Ranger he'd chanced to encounter
down south, a little over a year before, in the border town
of Haven. He'd come partly because he and Pardner hadn't
had anything better to do, and because he was curious. And
there were a few other reasons, too. He suspected his pa was somewhere in these parts, up to his
old tricks, for one. "Try Sam O'Ballivan's place," Jolene said helpfully. "Sam's
a fair man, and he's always hirin' on hands to feed them
cattle of his." Rowdy nodded. "Obliged," he said. "Not that you're hurtin' for money, if you can afford clean
bath-water and a steak for a dog," Jolene added. "A man can always use money," Rowdy allowed, wishing Jolene
would order up the steaks, go back to riding herd over the
drunks he'd seen out front in the saloon swilling whiskey,
and leave him to bathe in peace. Pardner gave a despairing whimper. "Just bide there for a while," Rowdy told him quietly. Pardner huffed out a sigh and hunkered down to endure. He
was a faithful old fella, Pardner was. He'd trotted
alongside Rowdy's horse for the first few miles out of
Haven, but then he'd gotten footsore and come the rest of
the way in the saddle. As they traveled north, the weather
got colder, and they'd shared Rowdy's dusty old canvas
coat. Remembering the looks they'd gotten from the townsfolk, him
and Pardner, riding into town barely an hour before, Rowdy
smiled. Even with a new and modern century underway, the
Arizona Territory was still wild and woolly, and odd sights
were plentiful. He wouldn't have thought a man and a dog on
the back of the same horse would attract so much notice. "You run along and see to those steaks," Rowdy told Jolene.
Even with the bucketful of hot water she'd just poured into
his tub, the bath was lukewarm, and there was cold air
coming up through the cracks between the ancient, warped
floorboards. He wanted to scrub himself down with the harsh
yellow soap provided, dry off, and get into the clean duds
he'd saved for the purpose. Of course, Pardner needed sudsing, too, and Rowdy didn't
reckon even Jolene's services extended quite that far. Jolene hadn't had her fill of visiting, that much was clear
by her disgruntled aspect, but she lit out for the kitchen,
just the same. Rowdy finished his bath, dressed himself, then laundered
Pardner as best he could. He was toweling the poor critter
off with a burlap feed sack when he heard the sound of
spurs chinking just outside the door. Rowdy didn't hold with the use of spurs, branding irons or
barbed wire. Whenever he encountered anyone of those three
things, he bristled on the inside. Out of habit he touched the handle of his. 44, just to make
sure it was on his left hip, where it ought to be. Pardner bared his teeth and snarled when two drifters
strolled in. "Easy," Rowdy told the animal, rising from a
crouch to stand facing the strangers. One was short, and
the other tall. Both were in sore need of a bath, not to
mention the services of a dentist. The short one looked Pardner over, scowling. His right hand
eased toward the .45 in his holster. Rowdy's own .44 was in his hand so fast he might have
willed it there, instead of drawing. "I wouldn't," he said
affably. "It's a hell of a thing when a man's expected to bathe
himself in a dog's water," the taller one observed. He had
a long, narrow face, full of sorrow, and thin brown hair
that clung to the shape of his head, as if afraid of
blowing away in a high wind. "For an extra nickel," Rowdy said, "you can have your own." The short man took a step toward Rowdy, and it was the tall
one who reached out an arm and stopped him. "Me and Willie,
here, we don't want no trouble. We're just lookin' for hot
water and women." Willie subsided, but he didn't look too happy about it.
Rowdy reckoned he'd have shot Pardner just for being there,
if he'd had his druthers. Fortunately for him, his sidekick
had interceded before it would have been necessary to put a
bullet through his heart. Pardner, who looked a sight with his fur all ruffled up and
standing upright on his hide like quills on a porcupine,
from the rubdown with a burlap sack, growled low and in
earnest. Yes, sir, Rowdy thought, looking down at him, he did want
barbering. "That dog bite?" Willie asked. A muscle twitched in the
beard stubble along his right cheek. He carried himself
like a man of little consequence determined to give another
kind of impression. "Only if provoked," Rowdy answered mildly, slipping the .44
back into its holster. He was hungry, but he tarried, for
it was his habit to take careful note of everyone he
encountered, be they friend or foe. Pappy had taught him
that, and it had proved a useful skill. Just then Jolene trundled in with the littlest Chinaman
Rowdy had ever seen trotting behind her. The sight put him
in mind of a loaded barge cutting through the muddy
Mississippi with a rowboat bobbing in its wake. "Ten cents if you want clean water," Jolene told the new
arrivals, dearly relishing the prospect of ready
commerce. "A nickel if you don't mind secondhand." Willie and the sidekick didn't look as though they were in
a position to be too picky. "A dime for a tub of hot water?" Willie demanded,
aggrieved. "It's plain robbery." The tall man took a tobacco sack from the inside pocket of
his coat and dumped a pile of change into a palm. After
counting out the coins carefully, he handed them over to
Jolene. "We'll have the best of your services," he said formally. The Chinaman, strong for his size, nodded at a go-ahead
from Jolene and turned Pardner's tub over onto its side, so
the water poured down through the gaps between the
floorboards. "I ain't bathin' in the same tub as no dog, Harlan," Willie
told his friend stoutly. Harlan sighed. "Willie, sometimes you are a trial to my
spirit," he said. "That mutt was probably cleaner than you
are before he even set foot in this place." "Them steaks are about ready," Jolene informed Rowdy,
giving Pardner a dark assessment. "I don't reckon the dog
could eat out back, instead of in my dining room?" "You 'don't reckon' right," Rowdy said pleasantly. With
cordial nods to Harlan and Willie, he made for the
bathhouse door, Pardner right on his heels. Lark Morgan watched slantwise from an upstairs window of
Mrs. Porter's Rooming House as the stranger strode across
the road from Jolene Bell's establishment to the
barbershop, the dog walking close by his side. The man wore a trail coat that could have used a good
shaking out, and his hair, long enough to curl at the back
of his collar, gleamed pale gold in the afternoon sunlight.
His hat was battered, but of good quality, and the same
could be said of his boots. While not necessarily a person
of means, he was no ordinary saddle bum, either. And that worried Lark more than anything else-except maybe
the bulge low on his left hip, indicating that he was
wearing a sidearm. She frowned. Drew back from the window when the stranger
suddenly turned, his gaze slicing to the very window she
was peering out of, as surely as if he'd felt her watching
him. Her heart rose into her throat and fluttered there. A hand coming to rest on her arm made her start. Ellie Lou Porter, her landlady, stepped back, her eyes
wide. Mrs. Porter was a doelike creature, tiny and frail
and painfully plain. Behind that unremarkable face,
however, lurked a shrewd and very busy brain. "I'm so sorry, Lark," Mrs. Porter said, watching through
the window as the stranger finally turned away and stepped
into the barbershop, taking the dog with him. "I didn't
mean to frighten you." Lark willed her heart to settle back into its ordinary
place and beat properly. "You didn't," she lied. "I was
just-distracted, and you caught me off guard." Mrs. Porter smiled knowingly. There wasn't much that went
on in or around Stone Creek, Lark had quickly learned, that
escaped the woman's scrutiny. "His name is Rowdy Rhodes,"
she said, evidently speaking of the stranger who had just
entered the barbershop. "As you may know, my cook, Mai Lee,
is married to Jolene's houseboy, and she carries a tale
readily enough." She paused, shuddering, though whether
over Jolene or the houseboy, Lark had no way of
knowing. "It's got to be an alias, of course," Mrs. Porter
finished. Lark was not reassured. If it hadn't been against her
better judgment, she'd have gone right down to the
barbershop, a place where women were no more welcome than
in her former husband's gentlemen's club in Denver, and
demanded that the stranger explain himself and his presence
in her hiding place. "Do you think he's a gunslinger?" she asked, trying to
sound merely interested. In her mind she was already
packing her things, preparing to catch the first stagecoach
out of Stone Creek, heading anywhere. Fast. "Could be," Mrs. Porter said thoughtfully. "Or he might be
a lawman." "He's probably just passing through." "I don't think so," Mrs. Porter replied, her face draped in
the patterned shadow of the lace curtains covering the
hallway window. "What makes you say that?" Lark wanted to know. Mrs. Porter smiled. "It's just a feeling I have," she
said. "Whoever he is, he's got business around here. He
moves like a man with a purpose he means to accomplish." Lark was further discomforted. She barely knew her
landlady, but she'd ascertained at their first meeting that
Mrs. Porter was alarmingly perceptive. Although the other
woman hadn't actually contradicted Lark's well-rehearsed
story that she was a maiden schoolteacher, she'd taken
pointed notice of her new boarder's velvet traveling suit,
Parisian hat, costly trunk and matching reticules. Stupid, Lark thought, remembering the day, a little over
three months before, when she'd presented herself at Mrs.
Porter's door and inquired after a room. I should have worn
calico, or bombazine. Now, in light of the stranger's arrival, she had more to
worry about than her wardrobe, plainly more suited to the
wife of a rich and powerful man than an underpaid
schoolmarm. What if Autry had found her, at long last? What
if he'd sent Rowdy Rhodes, or whoever he was, to drag her
back to Denver or, worse yet, simply kill her? Lark suppressed a shudder. Autry's reach was long, and so
was his memory. He was a man of savage pride, and he
wouldn't soon forget the humiliation she'd dealt him by the
almost-unheard-of act of filing for a divorce. Denver
society was probably still twittering over the scandal. "Come downstairs, dear," Mrs. Porter said, with unexpected
gentleness. "I'll brew us a nice pot of tea, and we'll
chat." Lark wanted to refuse the invitation-wished she'd said
right away that she needed to work out lesson plans for the
coming week, or shop for toiletries at the mercantile, or
run some other Saturday errand, but she hadn't. And she'd
surely aroused Mrs. Porter's assiduous curiosity by jumping
at the touch of her hand. "Thank you," she said, smiling determinedly and under no
illusion that Mrs. Porter wanted to "chat." Lark knew she
was a puzzle to her landlady, one the woman meant to
solve. "That would be very nice. If I could just freshen up
a little-" Mrs. Porter nodded her acquiescence, returned Lark's smile
and descended the back stairway, into the kitchen. Lark hurried into her room, shut the door and leaned
against it, staring at her own reflection in the bureau
mirror directly opposite. She'd dyed her fair hair a dark
shade of chestnut, in an effort to disguise herself, but
her brown eyes, once her greatest vanity, were her most
distinguishing feature, and there had, of course, been
nothing she could do about them. She supposed she might
have purchased dark glasses and pretended to be blind, but
her funds had been nearly exhausted by the time she reached
Stone Creek, and she'd needed immediate employment. Even in
an isolated place like that one, where teachers were hard
to come by, nobody would have hired someone with such a
hindrance and, besides, the illusion of blindness would
have been almost impossible to sustain. Keeping her hair dyed was hard enough. She laid a hand to her bosom and forced herself to breathe
slowly and deeply. She mustn't panic. Most likely Mr.
Rhodes was merely passing through, whatever Mrs. Porter's
speculations to the contrary. Lark smoothed her crisp black skirt, straightened the cameo
at the throat of her white shirtwaist, patted her hair.
She'd been reckless, keeping the clothes from her old life,
and she should have changed her first name, too, as well as
her last. Autry had taken everything else from her-her
pride, her self-respect, her dignity. She'd fled with her
favorite gowns, two weeks' allowance, and the money he kept
hidden in the humidor in his study. A few garments and the name her mother had given her at
birth seemed little enough to claim as her own. After steadying herself as best she could, Lark walked
decorously to the top of the stairs, glided down them and
swept into Mrs. Porter's spacious, homey kitchen. The huge
black cookstove, with its shining chrome trim, radiated
warmth, and the delicious scent of brewing tea filled the
room. "I've set out a plate of my lemon tarts," Mrs. Porter said,
with a nod to the offering in the center of the round oak
table. "Mr. Porter loved them, you know." She paused,
sighed sadly. "Dear Mr. Porter." Lark assumed Mr. Porter was deceased, since Mrs. Porter
always referred to him in the past tense, but there were
signs of his presence all over the house. His hat still
hung on a brass hook in the front entry way, for instance,
and books with his name inscribed on the flyleaf lay open,
here and there, as though he'd just been perusing them. A
half-smoked cigar lay in the ashtray on his desk in the
study, and his birthday-January 28-was noted on the wall
calendar next to the pantry door. Not quite daring to inquire after him, Lark simply nodded
and helped herself to one of the tarts. "Sit down and make yourself comfortable, dear," Mrs. Porter
urged. "One shouldn't eat standing up. It's bad for the
digestion." Circumspectly Lark took a chair, careful to avoid Mr.
Porter's. Roomers came and went, but, as if by tacit
agreement, no one ever sat in Mr. Porter's place. At
present, Lark was the only permanent boarder, although a
traveling dry goods salesman occasionally took the large
room adjoining the kitchen. Secretly Lark coveted that room, because it had its own
entrance, a brick fireplace, a desk and a small sitting
area, but the price of it was beyond her means. Ironic, she
reflected, since her weekly budget for freshly cut flowers
to grace her dining room table back in Denver would have
covered a month's rent, with money to spare. "Maybe he's come to work on the railroad," Mrs. Porter
speculated suddenly. Lark hoped the look on her face would pass for puzzlement,
though it was actually apprehension. Had she realized the
railroad was coming to Stone Creek, she wouldn't even have
gotten off the stagecoach at all, let alone taken a room
and applied for the recently vacated teaching position at
the town's primitive little school. Indeed, she'd been
settled in before she'd known, with the last of her funds
spent to secure living quarters. Mrs. Porter smiled brightly, setting two bone china teacups
on the table with a merry little clatter. "I'm referring to
Rowdy Rhodes, of course," she explained, her tone cheerful,
her eyes alert. "Mr. Porter always complained that I just
say things, out of the clear blue sky, with no sort of
preamble whatsoever." She paused, frowning a little. "Yes,
I'm sure he's here to help build the railroad." "It's quite all right," Lark said. Everyone else in Stone
Creek was excited at the prospect of train tracks and a
depot linking them to such far-flung places as Flagstaff
and Phoenix; the economic benefits were considerable. To
Lark, however, the coming of the railroad meant disaster,
because Autry owned it. By spring, the countryside would be
crawling with his minions and henchmen-he might even show
up himself. Just the thought of that made her shiver. Mrs. Porter sat down, then poured tea from the lovely pot,
which matched the cups and saucers. Looking at the delicate
objects, Lark was seized by a sudden and poignant yearning
for the life she'd left behind. Unfortunately, that life
had included Autry Whitman, and therefore been untenable. "How are things going at school?" Mrs. Porter asked
companionably, but the questions she really wanted to ask
were visible in her eyes. Who are you, really? Where did you come from? And why are you so frightened all the time? A part of Lark would have loved to answer those questions
with stark honesty. Her secrets were a very heavy burden
indeed, and Mrs. Porter, while an obvious gossip, was a
friendly woman with motherly ways. "Little Lydia Fairmont is finally learning to write her
letters properly," Lark said, glad of the change of
subject. "She's a bright child, but she has a great deal of
trouble with penmanship." Mrs. Porter sighed and stared into her teacup. "Mr. Porter
loved to read," she said. "And he wrote a very fine hand.
Copperplate, you know. Quite elegant." "I'm sure he did," Lark replied, saddened. Then,
tentatively, she ventured, "You must miss him very much." Mrs. Porter's spine straightened. "He's gone," she said,
almost tersely, "and that's the end of it." Feeling put in her place, Lark busied herself stirring more
milk into her tea. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to
pry." Mrs. Porter patted her hand, her touch light and cool. The
house was large, and it was cold, except for the kitchen,
since the fireplaces in the parlor and dining room were
never lit. When she wasn't at school, where there was a
potbellied stove and plenty of wood, Lark either shivered
in her room, bundled in a quilt or read at the table where
she was sitting now. There had been no snow since before Christmas, but the
weather was bitter, just the same. Would the winter never
end? Though spring would surely bring trouble, Lark longed
for it with helpless desperation. "No need to apologize, dear," Mrs. Porter said
graciously. "Have another lemon tart." Lark, who had been hungry ever since she'd fled Denver, did
not hesitate to accept the offered refreshment. The back door opened, and Mai Lee, Mrs. Porter's cook,
dashed in, a shawl pulled tightly around her head and
shoulders. She carried a grocery basket over one arm, with
a plucked chicken inside, its head lolling over one side. "Make supper, chop-chop," Mai Lee said. "Have some tea first," Mrs. Porter told the woman
kindly. "You look chilled to the bone." "No, no," Mai Lee answered, hanging up her shawl and
setting the basket decisively on the worktable next to the
stove. "Stand here. Be warm. Cook chicken." Mrs. Porter rose from her chair, fetched another china cup
and saucer from the breakfront, with its curvy glass doors,
and poured tea, adding generous portions of sugar and
milk. "Drink this," she told Mai Lee, "or you'll catch your
death." Dutifully Mai Lee accepted the tea, only to set it aside
and grab the dead chicken by its neck. "I tell man at
mercantile, chop off head," she announced. "But he no do."
Her eyes glowed with excitement. "On way there, I see Rowdy
Rhodes in barbershop. He getting haircut. Dog getting
haircut, too. Horse at livery stable, plenty of grain. " Mrs. Porter sat down again, poured herself more tea and
took a tart, nibbling delicately at the edge. "Mai Lee,"
she said appreciatively, "it will be the Lord's own wonder
if I don't lose you to the newspaper one of these days.
You'd be a very good reporter." "I no read or write," Mai Lee lamented good-naturedly,
spreading her hands wide for emphasis before slamming the
chicken down on the chopping board to whack off its head
with one sure stroke of the butcher knife. "Cannot be
reporter." "How did you know Mr. Rhodes's horse was at the livery
stable, let alone how much grain it receives?" Mrs. Porter
asked, both amused and avidly curious. Mai Lee frowned as she worked her way through the
intricacies of the question, put to her in a language that
was not her own. "I hear man talking outside barbershop,"
she said finally. "He work at stable." "Ah," Mrs. Porter said. "What else did you learn about Mr.
Rhodes?" Mai Lee giggled. She might have been sixteen-or sixty. Lark
couldn't tell by her appearance, and it was the same with
her husband, who joined her each night, late, to share a
narrow bed in the nook beneath the main staircase, and was
invariably gone by daylight. Both of them were ageless. From the limited amount of information she'd been able to
gather, Lark surmised that the couple was saving
practically every cent they earned to buy a little plot of
land and raise vegetables for sale to the growing
community. "He handsome," Mai Lee confided, when she'd recovered from
her girlish mirth. "Eyes blue, like sky. Hair golden. Smile-
" here, she laid a hand to her flat little chest "-make
knees bend." "He smiled at you?" Lark asked, and could have chewed up
her tongue and swallowed it for revealing any interest at
all. Mrs. Porter looked at her, clearly intrigued. Mai Lee began hacking the chicken into pieces and
nodded. "Through window of barbershop. I look. He wink at
me." She giggled again. "Not tell husband." The pit of Lark's stomach did a peculiar little flip. She'd
seen Mr. Rhodes only from a distance; he might have been
handsome, as Mai Lee claimed, or ugly as the floor of a
henhouse. And what did she care, either way, if he winked
at women? It only went to prove he was a rounder and a rascal. With luck, he'd move on, and she'd never have to make his
acquaintance at all. Unless, of course, Autry had paid him to track her down. Suddenly Lark was as cold as if she'd been sitting outside,
under a bare-limbed oak tree, instead of smack in the
middle of Mrs. Porter's cozy kitchen. Mai Lee proceeded to build up the fire in the cookstove,
then placed a skillet on top and lobbed in a spoonful of
lard. She peeled potatoes while the pan heated, a model of
brisk efficiency, and politely spurned Lark's offer to
help. Mrs. Porter sat in companionable silence, sipping her tea
and flipping through that week's copy of the Stone Creek
Courier. Lark set the table for three, while the aroma of
frying chicken filled the kitchen. Steam veiled the
windows. Lark picked up a book, a favorite she'd owned since
childhood, and buried herself in the story. She'd read it
countless times, but she never tired of the tale, in which
a young woman, fallen upon hard and grievous times, offered
herself up as a mail-order bride, married a taciturn
farmer, slowly won his heart and bore his children. The knock at the back door brought her sharply back to
ordinary reality. "Now who could that be?" Mrs. Porter mused, moving to
answer. A blast of frigid air rushed into the room. And there in the open doorway stood Rowdy Rhodes, in his
long, black coat, freshly shaven and barbered, holding his
hat in one hand. Mai Lee had been right about his blue eyes
and his smile. Lark was glad she was sitting down. "I heard you might have rooms to let," he said, and though
he was addressing Mrs. Porter, his gaze strayed immediately
to Lark. A slight frown creased the space between his
brows. "Of course, you'd have to let my dog stay, too." The yellow hound ambled past him as if it had lived in that
house forever, sniffed the air, which was redolent with
frying chicken, and marched himself over to the stove,
where he lay down with a weary, grateful sigh. Mrs. Porter, Lark thought, with frantic relief, was a
fastidious housekeeper, and she would never allow a dog.
She would surely turn Mr. Rhodes away. "It's two dollars a week," Mrs. Porter said instead,
casting a glance back at Lark. "Normal price is $1.50, but,
with the dog-" Rhodes smiled again, once he'd shifted his attention back
to the landlady. "Sounds fair," he said. "Mr. Sam
O'Ballivan will vouch for me, if there's any question of my
character." "Come in," Mrs. Porter fussed, fond as a mother welcoming
home a prodigal son, heretofore despaired of. "Supper's
just about ready." No, Lark thought desperately. The dog sighed again, very contentedly, and closed its
eyes. Mai Lee stepped over the animal to turn the chicken with a
meat fork and then poke at the potatoes boiling in a
kettle. She kept stealing glances at Rhodes. "I'll show you your room and get a fire going in there,"
Mrs. Porter said, only then closing the door against the
bite of a winter evening. "Land sakes, it's been cold
lately. I do hope you haven't traveled far in this
weather." Lark stood up, meaning to express vigorous dissent, and sat
down again when words failed her. Mr. Rhodes, who had yet to extend the courtesy of offering
his name, noted the standing and sitting, and responded
with a slight and crooked grin. The pit of Lark's stomach fluttered. Mrs. Porter led the
new boarder straight to the room at the back, with its
fireplace and outside door and lovely writing desk. The dog
got up and lumbered after them. For a moment, Lark was so stricken by jealousy that she
forgot she might be in grave peril. Then, her native
practicality emerged. Even presuming Mr. Rhodes was not in
Autry's employ, he was a stranger, and he carried a gun. He
could murder them all in their beds. Mai Lee set another place at the table. Voices sounded from the next room. Lark discerned that Mrs.
Porter had undertaken to lay a fire, and Mr. Rhodes had
promptly assumed the task. Lark stood up, intending to dash upstairs and lock herself
in her room until she had a chance to speak privately with
Mrs. Porter, but Rhodes reappeared before she could make
another move. She dropped back into her chair and was
treated to second look of amusement from the lodger. Indignant color surged into Lark's face. Mrs. Porter
prattled like a smitten schoolgirl, offering Mr. Rhodes a
tart and running on about how it was good to have a man in
the house again, what with poor, dear Mr. Porter gone and
all. Why, the world was going straight to Hades, if he'd
pardon her language, and on a greased track, too. Rhodes crossed to the table, took one of the tarts and bit
into it, studying Lark with his summer-blue eyes as he
chewed. He'd left his coat behind in his room, and the gun
belt with it, but Lark was scarcely comforted. He could be a paid assassin. He could be an outlaw, or a bank robber. And whatever his name was, Lark would have bet a year's
salary it wasn't Rowdy Rhodes.
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