Chapter 1
The heat from the September sun was like a physical assault to the young woman who stepped down from the train at the Austin depot. Her ivory cheeks were slightly flushed, and a few vagrant tendrils of raven-black hair escaped the chignon under her hat. She fanned a lacy handkerchief in front of her face as she eagerly scanned the crowd for a familiar brown Stetson, and the tall, white-haired man who would be wearing it.
A sizable throng had gathered at the depot for the arrival of the noon train from Fort Worth. Families embraced returning prodigals, while others waved goodbye to passengers boarding the train. Commissions to write soon and be careful were issued in a cacophonous blend of English and Spanish, with the train’s hissing white steam and sharp whistle providing the percussion for this discordant orchestra. With amazing alacrity, porters wheeled long, flatbed carts loaded with luggage, managing to skirt old ladies, businessmen, and young children.
Mexican women dressed in bright, full skirts strolled the platform hawking homemade candy, flowers, and Texas souvenirs. Vaqueros leaned lazily against the depot wall, toying with lariats, rolling cigarettes, or squinting at the train they were reluctant to board, for they preferred open spaces and the cerulean ceiling of the Texas sky to the narrow confines of a railroad car.
Many of these cowboys noticed the young woman who watched each approaching carriage expectantly. Her gray eyes, which had been so full of excitement only minutes ago, became clouded with anxiety as the crowd began to diminish. The folds of her skirt swished behind her enticingly as she walked the length of the platform and back again. Dainty, high-button shoes tapped on the smooth boards with each step.
One by one, the vaqueros sauntered toward the train bound back to Fort Worth. Most cast one last, longing look at the girl who, despite the heat and her obvious agitation, maintained a cool appearance.
With a screech of steel on steel, a geyser of steam, and a long blast of the whistle, the train slowly inched away from the depot, gained momentum, and finally chugged out of sight.
The platform emptied of people. The Mexican vendors covered the wares in their baskets, and the porters parked their carts in the shade of the building.
The girl in the navy-blue serge suit, white shirtwaist, and tan felt hat stood beside her meager luggage looking forlorn and lonely.
Ed Travers bustled out the depot door, sighted the girl, and, tugging his vest over his rotund stomach, hurried toward her.
“Miss Holbrook?” he inquired politely. “Miss Lauren Holbrook?”
The dismayed eyes brightened at the sound of her name and she smiled, parting perfectly formed lips to reveal small white teeth. “Yes,” she answered breathlessly. “Yes, I’m Lauren Holbrook. Did Ben… uh… Mr. Lockett send you for me?”
Ed Travers covered his bafflement with a reassuring smile. “No, Miss Holbrook, not exactly. I’m Ed Travers, the depot manager. I’m sorry I kept you waiting, but the telegraph machine—” He broke off, impatient with himself for bungling what was already a delicate situation. “Forgive me for rambling and forcing you to stand in this heat. Come with me and I’ll explain everything.” He signaled to a lounging porter, who reluctantly came forward to carry Lauren’s luggage.
Mr. Travers indicated the end of the platform by tipping his bowler hat. Still Lauren hesitated. “But Mr. Lockett told me—”
“Mr. Lockett did come for you, Miss Holbrook, but he fell ill and asked—”
“Ben is ill?” she asked quickly, paling and clutching the station manager’s arm in alarm.
Her reaction stunned Ed Travers. Why did she keep referring to Ben Lockett? What was this girl to that old buzzard? She was beautiful. No question about that. And Ben had always had an eye for the ladies. Everyone in Texas knew what kind of marriage Ben had with Olivia, but even so, this girl was perplexing. Where did she come from? Why had she come to Texas to see Ben Lockett? She could be no more than twenty, and Ben was in his sixties. Maybe she was a relative. She certainly didn’t look like a doxy. And why would Ben be setting up a mistress? He had—
“Mr. Travers, please.” Lauren was anxiously waiting for an explanation, and the pleasant, kindly man was studying her with an unsettling intensity. Having arrived after an arduous trip from her home in North Carolina only to find that Ben was not here to meet her was disconcerting enough. Of course, he had warned her that if he couldn’t leave Coronado, he would send someone else to greet her. “Is Mr. Lockett ill?”
“Ben?” Travers asked distantly. Then, clearing his throat, he said, “No, not Ben. I guess he sent Jared after you, and he’s the one who’s sick.”
He was leading her down the platform with an encouraging hand under her elbow.
“Jared?” she asked.
My God! She didn’t even know Jared! But then, it would be distressing to think that this lovely young woman had anything to do with him. It all came back to Ben. What was his game this time? He had a reputation for practical jokes and surprises, usually embarrassing for the recipient. But would Ben’s legendary humor extend to victimizing an innocent like Miss Holbrook? In the few moments he had spent with her, Ed Travers had inferred that Lauren Holbrook was trusting and naive to a fault, uncommon as that was in this third year of the twentieth century.