Cimarron Rose. Nicole Foster

the St. Louis Songbird.”

      “Well, I’m giving you my name. That’s what they’re paying for. They’ll have their singer and I’ll have my reputation. We’re not cheating anyone of anything. They need me and I need you. It’s that simple.”

      Katlyn couldn’t help but laugh. “It won’t be simple at all. I’m not you, Mama. I’m just plain Katlyn.”

      “Not anymore,” her mother said firmly. “Now you’re the St. Louis Songbird.”

      Case Durham paced the wide length of the St. Martin’s lobby, looking over the four people who made up most of his modest staff at the hotel. Stern appraisal marked his sharp emerald gaze. He lifted one dark brow and looked down his nose at his employees. “I trust everything is in order for her arrival?”

      “Oh, yessir, Mr. Durham, sir,” the young girl he’d paused in front of blurted out nervously. “Spit and polished everything top to bottom.” The girl motioned to the left of the lobby. “And our town’s band—what there is of it—they’re all tuned up and ready to play.”

      Case took in the ragtag-looking group of makeshift musicians greeting him with jagged toothy grins and what looked like from the faded wear and ill-fit of them, second-or third-hand uniforms.

      What they lacked in skill, at least they might make up for in enthusiasm, he told himself.

      A gangly boy, with a stray piece of straw lodged in his mussed hair, anxiously twisted a worn cap in his hands as he nodded toward the balcony. “And I painted the banner up there on the railing, just so she knows fer sure she’s welcome here.”

      Case turned toward the bright red letters splashed across a huge white banner that read Welcome To The St. Martin Hotel St. Louis Songbyrd.

      Suppressing a smile at the misspelling, Case turned back to the young man. “Bucky, I’m sure she’ll appreciate that very much. I didn’t know you could read and write. Who taught you?”

      Bucky stopped twisting the cap in his hands and straightened. “My ma did, ’fore she passed on.”

      “Well, I’m glad to know that. In time, there may be a place for you under this roof.” Case flicked the straw out of the lad’s hair. “Unless you’re particularly partial to sleeping in straw, that is.”

      Bucky seemed to search Case’s unsmiling face, then returned his employer’s serious look. “Thank you, sir. I’d be honored to sleep in a real bed here in the hotel.”

      Again, it was all Case could do to hold back a grin, but better he intimidate them a little. Employees were more productive if they harbored a little uncertainty as to their boss’s satisfaction with them. Hard work and respect went hand in hand when it came to making a venture successful.

      And, damned if he wasn’t going to see this disaster through until it was precisely that.

      He’d sunk his last dime into this gamble. Taking a calculated risk, Case relied on his keen business sense, which told him that the gamble would eventually pay off in spades. But this place was fast impressing upon him that he would finally be forced to learn what had always gone against his grain: the fine art of patience.

      And right now, the key to that success was giving him his first lesson. For the dozenth time, he flicked open the silver pocket watch in his palm. She was over an hour late. And nothing irked him like tardiness. Especially when he thought of the salary he’d had to promise the famed St. Louis Songbird to lure her out West to his godforsaken hotel. She was probably some pampered prima donna, used to making her hosts wait just so she could make an entrance. He’d have to bite his tongue, he was sure, and he would, as long as she pulled in the customers the way everyone swore she would.

      He’d never tell her as much, but the truth was the renowned singer was his last hope in saving his hotel. Unlike his other ventures, nothing had seemed to work when it came to trying to clean up this place and draw decent folks in.

      It had seemed a reasonable gamble at the time he’d chosen to buy the hotel, but of late he’d begun to question whether his instincts for investing had abandoned him. Cimarron, positioned advantageously on the Santa Fe Trail, had begun to thrive with the profits of ranching, mining and trading. There was plenty of money being made to be spent, and few places to spend it.

      But after six months in business, Case saw that his best customers were still renegades, gamblers and assorted desperados on the run from the law. Not only did that kind scare other customers away, but more importantly, they made the hotel unsafe for his six-year-old daughter Emily.

      After all it had cost him to clear the debts Emily’s mother had left him to face, if this hotel failed, he’d lose everything. Everything but what mattered most, that was. He would not risk losing his little girl. Not after the fight it had taken to keep her with him.

      He kept telling himself leaving Emily in Colorado would have been far worse for her. But in truth, he had to accept the fact that he couldn’t keep her here with him safely much longer if the St. Martin continued to draw trouble like flies to honey. He guarded Emily with his life, but this was no way for a child to live.

      If the St. Louis Songbird didn’t turn his luck and do it quickly, he’d have to swallow his pride and his pocketbook and give the whole thing up.

      Case clicked his silver watch open and closed, his polished boots slapping hard and fast across the glistening pine floors. His small staff waited in a line, barely daring to breathe as he strode past.

      “She’d better be worth the wait,” he muttered to no one in particular.

      “Oh, Mr. Durham, she’s supposed to be the best! Just the best!” the girl declared. “I ain’t never heard her sing, mind you, but some of the folks who come through here from out East say her voice puts a hold on you like a magic spell.”

      “We’ll see, Becky,” he murmured impatiently. “But if she doesn’t get here soon, we may never find out if she can even carry a tune.”

      Or rescue a hotel, Case added silently, wondering with growing cynicism just how impressive a woman this St. Louis Songbird really was.

      Katlyn smoothed sweaty palms down her mother’s yellow satin skirts as she stood in front of the St. Martin Hotel.

      The plain two-story beige frame building didn’t look like much, even compared with the more ruggedly built storefronts and saloons. In fact, rather dusty and neglected-looking, it would be easy to ignore.

      Katlyn wished she felt the same. Instead, she felt ridiculous. All this face paint and these fancy frilled clothes felt as foreign to her as her sister’s Mexican food had tasted when she’d first come out West.

      All this pretense was her mother, not her.

      Catching a glimpse of herself in the hotel window, she adjusted her hat with its jaunty yellow plume and scolded herself. “Well, Katie, my girl, like it or not, it had better be you if you’re going to pull this off. You’ve promised her and you can’t turn back now.”

      Straightening her shoulders, she hitched up her flagging courage along with her petticoats and shoved open the hotel door.

      The door barely had time to close when Katlyn froze in utter surprise. Nothing her mother had told her had prepared her for this!

      “She’s here!” someone shouted, and the room swelled with sudden applause and cheers of welcome. A little brass band launched into playing some festive tune she couldn’t quite make out, nearly unnerving her. At one boy’s prompting she gazed up to a balcony and saw a sweeping banner painted especially for her mother. Loud clapping and smiling faces filled the lobby with welcome. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the sad irony of it all. Everyone there seemed truly delighted she’d come.

      Everyone except for him.

      Off to the side of the little gathering, a dark imposing figure of a man towered above the others. He stood still and in silence, as though merely an observer, not part of the celebration.