Cimarron Rose. Nicole Foster

shoved open the door of the saloon. “I’d like to hear what I’m paying for.” Holding out a hand, he invited her inside.

      Or ordered her, Katlyn thought, tempted to refuse him. But if she did, she would only give him another reason to suspect her.

      Slowly she walked in, acutely aware of Case behind her, watching. Katlyn sat at the piano. She flexed her fingers a little, trying to keep them from shaking, and blessed her mother’s insistence that she learn to play. At least this way she wouldn’t have to look at Case while she tried to convince him performing came as naturally to her as breathing.

      She chose the first song that came to her, a sweet, sad Irish ballad she’d learned as a girl. At first the notes and words came tentatively. Then, gradually, without her being aware of it, the music flowed into her and out in her voice. For a few moments she closed her eyes and she was Katie again, sitting alone in her mother’s hotel room, singing romantic ballads to herself and dreaming of true love.

      Case stood at the bar, his hand arrested in the motion of reaching for glasses, and stared at her.

      She sang like an angel, the sweet clarity of her voice weaving magic into the air like pure gold threads in a tapestry. There was nothing contrived or practiced about her singing. Nothing he ever expected to hear from a woman who had earned a reputation from entertaining on riverboats.

      Instead, her song touched him, warm and true, and caught him in a moment of enchantment.

      When she finished, Katlyn sat with her hands on the piano keys for a moment before she came out of her dream and slowly turned to face Case.

      He looked almost stunned and her heart plunged. “I—I haven’t practiced,” she stammered. “I’m sure once I’m able to—”

      “Practice, yes, I know,” he said, his voice low and rough. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sure your reputation alone will make you a success.”

      Katlyn opened her mouth, closed it, and finally managed to find her voice. “I don’t want to be a disappointment.” To anyone, she added silently.

      “Why should you be?” Case shifted as if throwing off some troublesome feeling, the edge back in his voice and demeanor. Moving behind the bar, he poured out two glasses, offering one to Katlyn.

      “A toast,” he said, raising his glass to hers when she stepped up to the bar to take the drink. “To Penelope Rose, my new songbird.”

      Katlyn acknowledged the toast with a forced smile. She took a sip of the brandy and tried not to cough. She had always hated spirits.

      Case laughed at the slight grimace she couldn’t quite curb. “I have no idea why you’re here, and I can’t picture you on a riverboat stage. What a puzzle you are, Miss McLain.”

      “Do you think so?” Katlyn walked away from the bar. She went around the room, idly touching a table here, a curtain there. “You’re more the puzzle. You don’t seem the kind to invest so much here, in Cimarron of all places. Why not Denver or Las Vegas or even Santa Fe? And why a hotel where bullets in the walls are as common as nails?”

      Case walked around the bar and went through the ritual of cutting and lighting a cheroot and taking a long draw before answering her. He leaned back against the ornately carved oak bar, appraising her with that calculating glint in his eyes Katlyn found so disturbing. “Why not?”

      “Your daughter. It’s not exactly the place for a child.”

      “Touché, Miss McLain. Except my daughter is not your business. I’m here because of her and that’s more than you need to know.”

      “And I’m here because I choose to be and that’s more than you need to know,” Katlyn snapped, stung by the brusqueness in his voice. “Now that we have that settled, I’m going to bed. I have a lot of practicing to do before Monday.”

      She stalked toward the doors, intending to leave with the last word. But before she could push her way out into the foyer, a long, low moaning sounded through the room. It might have been the wind, though it had a peculiarly human quality to it.

      Katlyn’s determined stride faltered.

      “Is something wrong?” Case asked.

      Katlyn whirled on him. “No, only I should have expected this place to be drafty considering you admit the walls are used for target practice on a regular basis.”

      “Oh, that’s not the wind.” Case saw the flash of uncertainty cross her face. He knew he shouldn’t risk unnerving her any more tonight. But her bravado seemed forced, a part of the persona of the St. Louis Songbird, not the real Katlyn McLain.

      That made it irresistibly tempting to tease her into revealing more of the woman hiding behind all of the theatrical trappings. The warm, passionate woman he had heard when she sang.

      He gave her a wicked smile. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s harmless. It’s only one of my resident ghosts.”

      Chapter Three

      One hour. The clock on the writing desk ticking off the seconds sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet room. Every tick grated at Katlyn’s nerves until finally she snatched up the clock and jammed it under the bed pillows.

      She hardly needed another reminder of what she had to do tonight.

      Turning back to the full-length mirror, she fidgeted with the shoulder of her dress, wondering how her mother ever felt comfortable wearing so much flounced satin and lace. The emerald satin did compliment her coloring. But Penelope had painted her face and arranged her hair so elaborately, Katlyn felt like a stranger to herself.

      A stranger she didn’t particularly like.

      Very soon, though, that stranger would have to stand onstage and pretend to enjoy singing to an audience. Katlyn, countless times over the last two days, had come close to confessing all to Case Durham and offering to wash dishes, or scrub floors, anything but pretend to be the St. Louis Songbird.

      Then she would look at her mother, pale and fragile, and see the hope in Penelope’s eyes, or the satisfaction when Katlyn successfully copied one of Penelope’s mannerisms, or echoed her singing style.

      So she stayed. In this blasted hotel, where the guests shot holes in the walls, the staff teased her about the ghosts of dead gunfighters haunting the halls, and Case Durham watched her as if he had known all along she was a fraud.

      “Miss McLain?” the voice foremost in her mind called through the door.

      Katlyn jumped. The man must be a devil, reading her thoughts.

      “Miss McLain?” Case said again. “I’d like to speak with you a moment.”

      Wonderful, Katlyn thought, just what I need now. She could hardly refuse him, though.

      Tweaking the shoulder of her dress one final time, she breathed deep and flung open the door. “Yes, Mr. Durham?”

      Case, confronted with an image of emerald ruffles and a defiant blue glare, could only stare at her for a moment, struck by the picture she presented. Although the dress and the rouge and the piled-up curls fit the image he’d had of Penelope Rose, it all looked wrong on her.

      Except for the defiance. Somehow, he had the feeling he wasn’t the first man to see that fire flash in her eyes.

      “I see you’re ready,” he said finally.

      “Of course,” Katlyn said. Her nervousness receded in a tide of indignation. He had assumed his polite mask, but not before she saw his obvious disapproval. “Now that you’ve satisfied yourself I’m not still in my petticoats, is there anything else?”

      Case smiled a little at her flushed face and the mutinous cant of her chin. No meek little sparrow, his songbird. “I came to wish you luck.”

      “Don’t worry, I won’t embarrass you. I