Renegade Most Wanted. Carol Arens

elbow where it cradled little Maudie. “We’re staying at Mrs. Conner’s boardinghouse tonight and we’ll be here a good part of the day tomorrow. I’ll bring a bottle by the church if you’ll be there.”

      “Bless you, Mrs. Suede, that would be kind.”

      “It’s not kind, really. It’s business. Orange Lilly will have you feeling better in no time and then you’ll tell your friends.”

      If Emma won over Mrs. Sizeloff, the ladies in town would wear a trail to the homestead looking for healing in a bottle.

      He paid Mr. Wright for the goods, then escorted Emma and Lucy out into the afternoon sunshine. It beat down on the sidewalk like a son of a gun.

      “You just sold snake oil to the preacher, darlin’.” He touched a golden curl that looped alongside her cheek and drew it around his finger. She had the look of a petal blowing in the wind, but apparently she was as wily as any cowboy in Dodge. “You’re some kind of a woman.”

      Emma stared after Matt while he strode toward E. C. Zimmerman’s to order the lumber and other supplies they would need to begin building her house. Had she been insulted or praised?

      It was hard to tell by the question in his gaze while he stood in front of the mercantile touching her hair as if it was something special. A grin—or a smirk—had flashed across his mouth, but his eyes had sparked with admiration. If she wasn’t mistaken, silent laughter cramped his lungs.

      Imagine calling pure Orange Lilly snake oil! Why, in a week or so ladies all over town would be free of the female humors plaguing them. At two dollars per humor, well, she’d just see what Matt Suede would call it then.

      “Come along, Lucy. There’s nothing sweeter for ladies young and old than an afternoon respite.”

      Hopefully the child would take a nap. That would give Emma an hour or so before dinner to review the list of supplies she’d need to provide for the extra people she would be caring for.

      Lucy slipped her hand into Emma’s. Having just turned four years old, she still had plump baby fingers. That was one of the things Emma liked about four-year-olds. While they’d grown out of needing constant attention, the blush of babyhood still lingered about them.

      The boardinghouse was still three blocks away when Lucy’s steps began to drag.

      “I’m tired.” She rubbed one curled fist over her eye and yawned. A sticky smear of peppermint stick glittered on her lips and fingertips. “Would you carry me, Mama?”

      Emma stooped and picked her up. She settled her on her hip. She’d done this so many times with other children that she was sure the curve of her hip had become a chair.

      Lucy snuggled her head on Emma’s shoulder. The scent of sugar and peppermint made her anxious for the nice dinner at Del Monico’s that Matt had promised.