Cimarron Rose. Nicole Foster

other woman knew everything about her mother. “She might feel differently about stayin’ though. I don’t suppose she thought it would be like this.”

      No, of course she didn’t, Katlyn silently agreed as she shut the door behind Mrs. Donaldson.

      Her mother should never have come here. Penelope belonged back on the Mississippi riverboats, where she was flattered and pampered, not in the New Mexico high country.

      But Penelope had insisted on coming to Cimarron to sing at the St. Martin Hotel. And when her mother made up her mind, no one could convince her otherwise.

      Katlyn hadn’t believed her when Penelope said she needed a rest, a change of scenery to revive herself. Then, when she’d added that it would be lovely, being so near her only daughter, Katlyn knew something was very wrong.

      Nothing would have caused her mother to leave St. Louis except failure.

      Now Katlyn worried she would also fail. Fail her mother when she most needed her.

      The doctor made it clear Penelope couldn’t be moved, perhaps for several weeks, and then only to a hospital that offered a special treatment for her condition. Expensive treatment Katlyn had no idea how she would afford.

      The trip here had been cursed from the start. First, by storms. The stage sat mired in mud after the sheeting rains, vulnerable to the three outlaws who had robbed the passengers, leaving them stranded miles from Cimarron. The long walk into town across the rugged terrain had caused Penelope’s collapse. Katlyn felt lucky they had at least been able to find shelter at one of the town’s two boardinghouses, knowing her mother would rather have died than have been carried into the St. Martin, sick and bedraggled.

      “Honey, you look fierce enough to scare away a ghost.” Penelope smiled when Katlyn, startled out of her dark thoughts, jumped out of her chair to her mother’s side.

      “How are you feeling? Is there something I can get you?”

      “Yes, Katie, my dear, you can stop looking at me as if the undertaker is waiting outside the door.”

      Katlyn breathed deep. “Mama…”

      “Oh, please—” Penelope waved a limp, shaky hand at her daughter. “Don’t go repeating all those dreadful things that doctor tried to tell me. I’ve told you, I just need a little rest. A few weeks and I’ll be ready to sing again.”

      “You’re going to be in bed a few weeks, at least. And then…then we’re going to Las Vegas. It’s west of here, in the territory. There’s a hospital there and—”

      “And I will not go anywhere! I can’t lose this job, Katie. I can’t.” Penelope’s voice dropped, and she looked away from Katlyn.

      But not in time for Katlyn to miss the sheen of tears in her mother’s lovely eyes. “I’m sorry, Mama,” she said softly, taking Penelope’s hand. “I know how much you wanted this job. But the doctor says you need to be at that hospital.”

      Katlyn struggled to sound confident, optimistic, to say something to assure her mother she would be taken care of, even though Katlyn had no idea how she would do that. Robbed by the outlaws of the money they’d carried with them, alone in Cimarron, without even the promise now of work—Katlyn forced away the worries threatening to overwhelm her.

      “I’ll find work here, until the doctor says you can travel. Then I’ll find something in Las Vegas. I’ll take care of you, I promise.”

      “I do believe that’s supposed to be my promise, honey. And I’ve done it, haven’t I? All those years, by myself, after your daddy decided to leave me with nothing but a kiss and a baby. I had my singing and that was all I needed to keep us, and keep us well. You aren’t going to be able to do the same washing dishes or teaching school.”

      “Maybe Isabel could help,” Katlyn said doubtfully. She’d stayed with her half sister for a little more than a year, elated to find her after growing up apart. But Isabel was now recently married, with two boys, a baby on the way, and her ailing grandmother living with them. Every cent and every inch of space in the household were spoken for, and then some. Katlyn knew even as she said the words that apart from offering a sympathetic ear and a recipe for a soothing balm, there was nothing Isabel could do.

      “I’m sure your sister is a fine woman, but she’s not my daughter.” Penelope echoed her thoughts. “No, Katie, I’m not the kind to take charity. You ought to know that about me by now. And we don’t need to. Why, it’ll be so simple.”

      “Simple?” Rain slashed the window, the rhythm of it pounding in Katlyn’s head. She was tired, worried, afraid if she dared to admit it. What could her mother be thinking?

      “Of course. I already have a job here.”

      “Mama, you can’t—”

      “No, darling, but you can.”

      Katlyn stared. Triumph had put a delicate flush into Penelope’s pale cheeks. Katlyn wondered if fever had made her mother delirious.

      “That’s ridiculous,” she said, her spirit reviving at the mere idea of taking her mother’s place. “I’m not a singer. All I’ve ever done besides follow you is a little teaching. No one would ever believe I was you, even if I was crazy enough to agree to do it. Tomorrow, I’ll go to the hotel and tell them the truth. Then they can look for someone else to—”

      Katlyn suddenly stopped, appalled as the tears started spilling down her mother’s ashen face. Her mother, who always laughed her way through hardship and pain.

      “Katie, please. You can’t tell them I’m—like this. If anyone knew, if anyone would see me now…Katie, I would rather die.”

      Penelope grabbed at her hand when Katlyn opened her mouth to try to comfort her. “Don’t say no. I’ll be well again soon and then it won’t matter. Just don’t let them know. Please, do this for me. Promise me you will. And think of the money. It’s more than you could ever make in some little teaching job or worse, cleaning or cooking. Why, what do you know about that, anyway? We need the money, and you can get it for us. I know you can sing and that’s all that matters. I’ll teach you anything else you need to learn.”

      Katlyn sat back down and tried to think of an argument that would persuade her mother of the impossibility of what she was asking. Katlyn McLain, become the St. Louis Songbird? She nearly laughed out loud.

      And yet…She thought of the money she could make to help her mother. Penelope was right—the salary the owner of the St. Martin had promised was far more than any money she could make at a menial job even if she worked day and night.

      And, though it chafed to admit it, Penelope was also right about her skills. What work could she do? She had grown up on riverboats and in hotels, watching her beautiful mother charm with her golden voice. Penelope had never taught her anything about cooking or sewing or keeping a house. Knowing how to dress for a performance, paint her face and arrange her hair, Katlyn was sure, were skills not in great demand in Cimarron.

      But far more compelling was the fact that her mother needed her—desperately. No one had ever actually needed Katlyn McLain before. All her life, until this very moment, Katlyn had felt that fate had misplaced her. Growing up she was a burden of responsibility to her mother. And when she’d gone to live with her sister, she was an extra mouth to feed.

      If by some miracle she succeeded as a singer, she could take care of Penelope without having to depend on charity from anyone. She could finally be of some true value to someone she loved and cared for. And she could carry on her mother’s tradition of independence with pride.

      “You have my hair, that won’t be a problem,” Penelope was saying, her voice trembling. “Those blue eyes are your daddy’s but no one will take notice of that. If you use a little paint they’ll believe you’re older. I’ll dress you, tell you how it should be done. Thank goodness you’ve inherited my curves! You’ll do fine, Katie, I just know it.”

      “It would be