The Lawman's Bride. Cheryl St.John

girls. Now the city marshal had taken notice of her. Had a good clean look. A good enough look to remember her. Good enough to recognize her face on a wanted poster.

      Chapter Two

      The marshal returned for supper. He was at one of Emma’s tables, but Sophie spotted him the moment she carried a dinner tray from the kitchen. No worry. She had this role down perfectly. She knew her strengths, and being convincing was one of them.

      The plate fiasco had been the highlight of conversation around the dining hall that afternoon. Sophie was weary of the looks and questions. These girls lived for a whiff of excitement, she told herself, refusing to become irritated.

      “He’s having the flank steak, sautéed mushrooms and a roasting ear, with cheesecake for dessert,” Emma whispered from behind her as Sophie filled two cups from the gigantic silver coffee urn.

      “I didn’t ask,” she whispered back. She hadn’t had her own dinner yet, and she got a little testy when she was hungry.

      “He’s partial to that cheesecake,” Olivia Larson said on her way by.

      “I don’t care.” She looked over her shoulder to find the two females grinning at each other. “Very well, enjoy yourselves at my expense,” she said lightheartedly.

      After placing the filled cups on a tray, she carried them to her customers, two cattle ranchers who’d just had the filet mignon cooked in brandy.

      Try as she might, she couldn’t keep her gaze from drifting across the room to the marshal. He sat at a corner table where he could watch both the door to the street and what was happening outside the front windows.

      He met her gaze and offered a nod.

      Sophie quickly turned back to her table. “Are you gentlemen ready for dessert?” she asked.

      “I am a man who appreciates sweets,” the older of the two men replied with a wink.

      “I’ll have the applesauce cake,” the other answered.

      “And you, sir?” she asked the first gentleman.

      “What’s your favorite?” he asked.

      “I’m partial to the chestnut pudding.”

      “Then that’s what I’ll have,” he decided.

      “I’ll be right back.” She carried the tray to the kitchen and asked for their desserts.

      When she returned and set plates in front of them, her newfound admirer asked, “Do you like the opera, miss?”

      “I do.”

      “Will you join me this Saturday evening?”

      “I’m afraid I have to work the dinner shift,” she replied easily. “It’s kind of you to ask, however.”

      “Perhaps the following week.”

      She refilled their coffee cups. Enough girls had been hired after her that she never had to work Saturday evenings unless she volunteered. “I’ll have to see whether or not I’m on the schedule to work next Saturday evening.”

      As though encouraged, he smiled and picked up his fork.

      She hadn’t meant to encourage him. She wasn’t interested in what he had to offer. All she wanted was to be in control of her own destiny, and being bound to a man wasn’t part of that plan.

      She attended to her other patrons and eventually returned to the coffee urns.

      “What did he say to you?” Emma whispered.

      Sophie glanced at the marshal who was finishing his cheesecake and a cup of coffee. “Who?”

      “Charles Barlow. They say he’s the richest rancher between here and Wichita.”

      “Oh, him. He invited me to the opera house.”

      Emma looked as though she would swoon. “You’re the luckiest woman in all of Kansas.” She fanned herself with the hem of her apron. “He’s taken a shine to you, hasn’t he?”

      “He’s a man,” Sophie replied dryly. “Men take a shine to anything in skirts.”

      “When are you going to the opera?”

      “I said no.”

      “What?”

      “I told him I had to work.”

      Emma touched her fist to her forehead in a frustrated gesture. “Any girl here would give a month’s wages for that invitation. Why didn’t you say yes?”

      “Because I don’t want to go with him.”

      “Trade me tables.”

      “What?”

      “Trade me tables. Maybe he’ll ask me.”

      “Mrs. Winters would have my hide,” Sophie objected.

      “She’s gone for the evening. Come on, why not? Give someone else a chance. I won’t take your tip. Please, Sophie.”

      She didn’t share Emma’s passionate need to endear herself to a man, but neither did she have the heart to stand in her way. Sophie waved her off. “Go. They’re ready for coffee refills.”

      Emma kept her squeal discreet, composed herself and picked up the pot Sophie had just filled and set it on her tray. With a determined nod, she headed for the table where the cattlemen sat.

      Sophie observed as Emma greeted the ranchers. The Barlow man said something to her, and she blushed and giggled.

      Shaking her head, Sophie wiped her hands and glanced at the table she’d traded for. Marshal Connor had finished eating and was glancing around for his waitress. Darn it. She gathered herself and approached.

      “Would you like more coffee?” she asked him.

      He glanced up at her. “No thanks. I’ll be makin’ myself a pot when I get back to the jail. I have work to do tonight.”

      “What kind of work keeps you busy in the evening?”

      “I make a weekly report to the county court, one to the railroad, as well.” He took coins from inside his leather vest and laid them on the table. “I have a stack of papers this high on my desk that I never seem to get through.” He held his palm a foot above the tabletop.

      “I’ll see that Emma gets her tip.” She stacked his plates and set the empty cup on top. She couldn’t help asking, “Get a lot of mail, do you?”

      “Telegrams mostly. Why?”

      “Well, you said you have so many papers on your desk.”

      “If someone’s wanted by the law you say he has a paper out on ‘im.”

      “I see. You mean wanted posters.”

      He nodded.

      “How much do those papers actually look like the criminals? I mean, can you actually recognize an outlaw from one of those drawings?”

      “Depends mostly on the artist.” He stood and pushed in his chair. “Pinkertons have the best artists.”

      They glanced at each other and she looked away.

      “Have a good evening, Marshal.”

      He picked up his hat from the seat of a chair and held the brim a moment before settling it on his head with a nod. “Evenin’, Miss Hollis.”

      He turned and strode out the door.

      For the rest of the dinner shift, Sophie thought of little else than that stack of “papers” on the marshal’s desk. She didn’t even taste her chestnut pudding as she sat in the employees’ dining room after her shift.

      It was probable that her likeness was on one or more