A Wanted Man: A Stone Creek Novel. Linda Lael Miller

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 had 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 potbelly 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