CHAPTER4

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M ax's state of mind dropped as rapidly as the altitude. All the way down the mountains, he rehearsed what he would say to Philadelphia and her father, testing one approach after another. No matter how he arranged the words, the end result was mortifying.

He had ruined Philadelphia and discarded her. That's what she would hear. Howard Houser would hear that his daughter had been humiliated and shamed at the brink of the altar, and further that Max had spit on the job at Houser's bank. Houser might not shoot him on the spot, but there would be retribution.

Until today, Max hadn't allowed himself to accept that he had ruined Philadelphia . Now a beautiful memory ate at his mind like acid, and what had seemed so right at the time was unforgivable.

He hadn't planned to take advantage, had later been shocked that emotions had escalated to such a high peak during the last night before he departed for Piney Creek. Neither he nor Philadelphia were the type of people to disregard honor or convention, yet it had happened.

If he had behaved with more restraint and less urgency, if they hadn't been alone in the gazebo, if Philadelphia's hands and lips had echoed her soft murmurs of protest. If he hadn't wanted to reassure her about his leaving, if she hadn't wanted to persuade him to stay. Afterward, she had lain in his arms and wept and worried aloud about whether he could ever respect her again. And he'd silently flogged himself for acting the cad and stealing her wedding night from her.

How right he had been. When she eventually married, she would begin her marriage in deceit. And he had done this to her.

"Supper's ready," Low Down called behind him.

Hunched over, staring out at the Great Plains , he spent another minute gazing out at the distant lights of Denver winking like fireflies in the dusk.

Now the question was, Could he ever respect himself again? Self-recrimination and disgust made him doubt it.

Eventually he turned toward the campfire, his shoulders still bunched in knots, his hands deep in his pockets. He watched Low Down stirring a pot over the flames and for an instant he hated her. The next time she offered to ride off and leave him, he'd tell her to go and good riddance.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he rubbed a hand across the pox marks on his jaw.

If he let her ride away, nothing would change. He'd still be married to her. He'd still have to face the painful scene with Philadelphia and her father. If he drove Low Down away, all he'd accomplish would be to carve one more dishonorable act on the ledger of his life. Sixty-three men trusted him to do what he had given his word to do. If he failed, those men would haunt his conscience for the rest of his life. Damn it to hell.

Silently, he approached the fire and accepted the plate Low Down handed across the flames. Tonight she'd made a stew out of jerky and wild onions and mushrooms. She could have prepared pheasant under glass with foie gras on the side and he wouldn't have tasted a thing.

"Is something wrong with your supper?" she asked when she finished eating and noticed that he had barely begun.

"The stew's fine."

"It's too salty, isn't it?"

"I have a lot on my mind, that's all."

The firelight softened her expression and made her skin look smoother. She might have washed her face, and it looked like she might have pulled a comb through the fringe of hair falling across her forehead. He wasn't certain and didn't care. All he could think about was Philadelphia . He would write her from Denver and inform her to expect him the following evening. He would also request that Mr. Houser be present.

"I guess we'll ride into Denver before noon tomorrow," Low Down remarked, pouring herself a cup of coffee. He nodded and made himself swallow a bite of the salty stew. After a minute or two, she made another effort at conversation. "I know a secondhand place where I can buy some dresses and a hat."

A full minute passed before her comment penetrated but when it did he scowled. "I don't want you buying secondhand."

Instantly she bristled. "No man tells me how to spend my money!"

"Dressing a wife is my obligation, not yours." How many times had he watched his father defer to his mother with a shrug and a look that said, It's your land, you decide. He had seen firsthand what a woman's money could do to a man's pride.

Low Down's chin jutted, and her eyes narrowed. "I'll pay for my own clothes, thank you very much."

"The hell you will," he snapped, setting his plate on the ground. "We agreed to treat this as a real marriage for however long it lasts. That means you don't humiliate me by behaving as if I can't provide for a wife! While we're together, I'll pay for whatever you need."

Easing back on the log, she stared hard at him. "I swear, you have enough pride for six men. What if I told you I had a little pride, too. It's not my intention to humiliate you, but I don't want to be obligated, either."

"This is not negotiable, Low Down. I'll provide." Hating it, he remembered Jellison telling him to do right by the wife he had. And by God, he would. He wasn't going to have Low Down weighing on his conscience, too.

"I thought we agreed to be cordial. Even I know that tone isn't cordial. So. Are you mad at everybody and everything, or are you back to blaming me for everything under the sun?"

Part of the difficulty was that she didn't understand. By her own admission she had never loved anyone.

She'd never lost someone with whom she had planned to spend her life. She'd never had a good name to lose. Didn't care what her neighbors thought of her. And someone called Low Down wouldn't comprehend what it did to a man to recognize that he'd dishonored the principles he lived by and held dear.

Thrusting a hand into his pocket, he caught up the green marble and gripped it hard.

"I thought you said you'd never been to Denver ," he said abruptly, changing the subject.

He had to stop blaming her. In the end, their marriage was everyone's fault and no one's fault. If he continued to see the collapse of his life every time he looked at her, he would never be able to make love to her and be rid of her. If ever there was a misnomer for an act, it was "making love." He and Low Down would never make love. He would do his duty, and she would permit it.

"I didn't say I hadn't been to Denver . I said I'd never heard of Fort Houser ." Standing, she stretched then picked up their plates and shook off the scraps. "I spent a year in Denver a long time ago. That's how I know about the secondhand place." Turning her head, she glanced toward the lights twinkling on the plain. "I worked in a laundry down in Chink Alley. Most folks think Chinamen do all the washing and ironing, but that ain't—" she paused and inhaled deeply "—that isn't always so. And some think a Chinaman would cheat you as soon as look at you, but the Chinaman I worked for treated me square. I had no complaints."

"You worked in a commercial laundry?" She was so different from any woman he'd known that she was incomprehensible.

"It was honest work," she said sharply, taking offense at his expression. "I've done a little bit of everything in my day. I even worked on a ranch way back when. That was down in New Mexico . I helped with the cooking and cleaning in the main house, so it isn't like I learned much about tending cows.

But I did learn that ranching isn't an easy life."

He poured another cup of coffee and watched her clean the plates and spoons they'd used. "I've never known a woman like you," he said finally. Women didn't live the life she described.

Her laugh was husky and appealing in a way he hadn't expected. And when she smiled, her eyes caught a sparkle of firelight. "I've heard that before."

"Last night, you said you didn't want to live in another woman's house."

"I thought about that today," she said, not looking up at him. Since they hadn't camped by a stream tonight, she wiped off their plates with sand and a moistened rag. "That house is always going to be Miss Houser's place."

"Miss Houser would never have been happy living on the ranch. Eventually, I would have had to build a place in town." He didn't know why he was telling her this, except possibly he wanted to make up for blaming her again. Or maybe the reason was less noble; maybe he just wanted to talk about Philadelphia . "I realized that after I wrote the letter you read, while I was recovering from the pox. The house was a mistake."

She stopped scrubbing the stew pot and blinked at him. "You built her a house knowing she wouldn't like it?"

"We disagreed on where we should live," he said, staring into the flames beginning to die under the coffeepot. " Philadelphia preferred to live in town near her father and her friends." And she had believed it more seemly for a banker to be part of the town society and community. "I prefer to live on the ranch where I can continue to manage my land and stock." Where they resided wouldn't be a problem now, nor would the difficulties of juggling banking with ranching.

"See, now there's another problem with husbands," Low Down said, speaking earnestly as if Max had agreed it was a given that husbands were problematical. "She wants one thing, you want another, and so you just go ahead and do it your way. That's what husbands do, and it's one of the reasons why I didn't want one."

"When two people disagree, someone has to make a decision."

"Yeah, and it's you, and you decide your way."

"Look, the reason I mentioned the house was to tell you that Miss Houser wouldn't have liked living five miles outside of town. You don't have to think of the house as another woman's." That wasn't entirely true, as every room had been designed with Philadelphia in mind. At the moment, he regretted raising the subject at all. "Miss Houser never saw the house or stepped foot in it." Another change of topic was needed. Looking at her across the fire, he said, "Tell me about you."

"There's nothing to tell." A shrug lifted her shoulders.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-eight. How old are you?"

"Thirty-one. Where are you from?"

"Now that one's harder to answer." After stacking the dishes in a pile, she reached for her coffee cup.

"When I was about four, I was sent west on one of those orphan trains. The journey originated in New York City , so that's probably where I'm from. Who knows?" She frowned down at the wedding ring on her left hand. "I was adopted by a family in Missouri , so I usually say I'm from there. I ran away when I was thirteen, and I've been drifting around on my own ever since. End of story."

Max tried to guess what questions his mother would ask about his new wife, what she would expect him to know. "So you have no family?"

"I never thought of the Olsons as family, and they didn't think of me that way. They had four kids of their own and three adopted. We were a labor force, that's all." Lifting her hands, she examined her fingertips.

"For years I had cuts and scrapes and little scars on my fingers from pushing a needle through leather. At the Olson's shop, we made leather goods. Chaps, vests, hats, boots, you name it. But tanning the hides was the worst. I don't ever want to do that again." Alarm flickered in her eyes. "You don't skin cows on your ranch, do you?"

"No." He thought about his sister and Philadelphia and their genteel upbringing and could not imagine them scraping a cow hide. "Did you go to school?"

"Not regular. But I can read and write," she said defensively. "And I know things they don't teach in school. I know how to survive off the land. I can hold my whiskey as good as any man. I know how to stretch a dollar. I ain't afraid of hard work."

As if the conversation had made her angry, she stood and strode into the darkness. Max heard her muttering to Rebecca and Marva Lee while he considered what she had told him and matched her comments to Preacher Jellison's remarks.

He had no idea what his mother and sister would make of her. If it came to that, he wasn't sure what he made of her.

Whatever else she was, he accepted that she was capable and self-reliant. Both nights she'd carried her share of the work as they set up camp. Without discussing it, they had split the tasks as if they'd traveled together before and knew each other's habits well.

Her voice came out of the darkness from somewhere near the picket line. "When are we going to get to the poking?"

Subtle and modest she was not. Max gazed into the flames burning low above the embers. "Maybe tomorrow," he said after clearing his throat.

"Sooner begun, sooner done," she called in a snappish tone. He didn't want to think about it.

Long after Low Down lay wrapped in her bedroll, he sat beside the fire pit staring at the coals and thinking about the next few days.

*

Denver had grown and changed since Low Down had last passed through. There were more hotels, more saloons, more shops, more trees in the residential areas, more everything. The last time she'd been here, drovers were yee-hawing a herd down the main street, and gunshots were as common as horse apples.

Now there seemed to be an oyster bar on every other corner, and more silk hats than caps or Stetsons.

Hustlers worked the board sidewalks and called to passengers in hacks and fancy carriages.

Construction crews seemed to be everywhere. She wouldn't have recognized the place.

"I've never stayed at the Belle Mark, but I've heard it's clean and comfortable," Max said, raising his voice above the rattle of a passing beer wagon. Pointing toward Fourteenth Street , he turned away from the noisy mayhem of downtown.

If he hadn't stayed at the Belle Mark, then where did he usually stay when he and his family visited Denver ? Wherever it was, he didn't want to be seen there with her.

By now she ought to know better than to allow this kind of assumption to undermine her confidence.

Such as it was. Besides, she knew she didn't belong in fancy diggings, and Max knew it, too. A plain old cheap-side boardinghouse was good enough for her, and that's undoubtedly where they were headed.

As long as the room had a real bed and clean sheets, she'd think she was sleeping in a palace.

Her mouth fell open when she saw the Belle Mark. This was not a boardinghouse, and staying here wouldn't be cheap. The Belle Mark was four full stories of redstone elegance. The front door gleamed with brass fittings and a green-and-white-striped awning extended to the street. She couldn't get over it.

Never in her life had she stood beneath an awning.

Next she noticed a man dressed in a green uniform all shiny with brass buttons and gold epaulets standing at the foot of the awning, smiling at passing carriages with an expression that invited passengers to stop and step inside. He flicked a glance toward Max and Low Down, noted their horses and travel-worn appearance, then turned away without interest.

"Max?" She rode up beside him, frowning at the man in the green uniform. The uniform and cap and the man's superiority intimidated the bejezus out of her. "Is that man the owner of the hotel?"

"He's just the doorman." While she continued to stare at the details of his uniform, Max added, "His job is to open the door for patrons of the hotel."

Lordy. The man was togged out like a general in a foreign army, and all he did was stand in the awning's shade and open the door? He looked like he ought to be deciding who would live and who would die.

She noticed how he deliberately ignored them. "You know, this place is just too fancy-dancy. There used to be a boardinghouse down on Walnut Street that took overnight lodgers. Let's go there."

"After a summer of living in a tent, I'm ready for a real hotel."

There he went, deciding things his way. Already she recognized the set jaw and closed expression that stated he had made up his mind and no argument from her would change his decision.

Fuming, she shifted in her saddle and searched for a way to deal with the situation since she had to accept it. "All right," she said finally. "You go inside and get us a room, then let me know the number and I'll come along later." Maybe there was a back entrance without an inflated swell in a uniform passing judgment on all who walked beneath his awning.

For a moment she believed Max would accept her suggestion and a rush of relief made her feel light-headed. Nothing but embarrassment lay under that awning. Max would hate being seen in a place like this with such a sorry specimen as her, and she would feel ashamed because she knew she looked like the devil. Hell, she looked so disreputable and wrung out that sixty-three men had refused to share her bed. And the sixty-fourth wasn't chomping at the bit for his opportunity, she thought, sliding a look up at Max.

"We're honorably married," he said slowly, his gaze fixed on the man in the green uniform. "I'm not going to have my wife slipping in after registration like some dollar-a-night doxie." His shoulders pulled back and squared, and his eyes went as hard as blue stones. He was going to insist that the two of them walk past the man in the green uniform and stroll on inside as if they had as much right to be there as anyone else.

Maybe he had that kind of backbone, but she didn't.

Low Down swung off of Rebecca and thrust the reins up at him. "I'm going to buy me some dresses,"

she announced, anxious to escape. "I'll find you later." She'd already taken a few steps toward California Street before he called to her in an exasperated voice.

"Have the bills and your parcels sent to the Belle Mark."

Low Down nodded and hurried toward the noisy rush and bustle of traffic. A few years ago, no one would have given her a second glance. Now, with Colorado a state and Denver the capital, with the new air of cosmopolitan growth, Low Down found herself the object of disapproving stares from the windows of carriages and from ladies passing on the street. Well, that didn't bother her. Since when did she care what anyone thought of her?

But she paced up and down in front of the Colorado Merchant's Bank for twenty minutes before she could make herself raise her chin, square her shoulders, and push open the doors. Almost immediately a frosty-eyed gentleman strode toward her wearing an expression that said his bank wasn't for the likes of her. She bit her lips and thrust out her chin. "I got some money I want to invest. Or ain't my money as good as everyone else's?"

In the end he was a banker. The word "money" rearranged his opinion regarding how a respectable woman ought to look. She could have smelled of worse things than mule and perspiration and he would still have smiled when she untied the thong around her neck and showed him the chipping-in money, Frank's nuggets, and her heavy pouch of gold dust. The banker led her to an office off the lobby, and before they finished doing business, he'd even called her "ma'am" once or twice.

With her valuables safely seen to, Low Down was free to attend to the distasteful chore of acquiring dresses. To her surprise, there were ready-made shops along Fifteenth Street displaying dresses in their windows. She walked along the storefronts, peering at gowns targeted to high society right down the scale to dresses fit for ordinary women. By angling her head at an awkward tilt, she caught a glimpse of a few price tags and gasped. The prices matched the high-faluting array of ruffles and bows and braids and ribbons.

She could only think that Max hadn't known the cost of female fashion when he'd insisted on paying.

Certainly she hadn't. And she was no more inclined to waste his money than to waste hers. Waste not, want not.

The secondhand shop was where she remembered it, thank heaven, on a side street mired in horse droppings, where the sanitation arrangements still consisted of hogs wandering free between the buildings. The pungent odor of boiling malt wafted from the brewery, and the saloon on the corner still offered nickel beer. The city fathers probably wouldn't agree, but it was comforting to discover that some things hadn't changed.

She didn't have to wind up her courage to walk into the secondhand shop, and it didn't bother her when the woman behind the counter looked her up and down then rolled her eyes in disbelief.

Low Down grinned. "I need the works, starting from the skin out. Undies, stockings, shoes, a couple of dresses, a coat, a hat, gloves, a bag."

"Honey, you need a scrub bath, a hair wash, and a bonfire for them duds you got hanging on yourself."

Cupping her hands around her mouth, the woman shouted toward a door at the back of the store.

"Mazie? Get on out here. We got us a real challenge to deal with."

A deep sigh started high in Low Down's chest and emerged as a breath of relief. She'd come to the right place.

*

The sun was sinking toward the mountains west of town before she returned to the Belle Mark, her feet dragging with reluctance as she approached the dreaded man in the green uniform.

She was so intent on planning how she might sneak past him that she didn't immediately notice a well-dressed gent sitting on a bench beneath the awning smoking a cigar. When she realized it was Max, she stopped in her tracks and her mouth dropped.

He wore a low crowned hat over freshly barbered hair, and a dark suit set off by a snowy boiled shirt, maroon vest, and neat dark tie. His boot tops were polished to such a high shine that he could undoubtedly see the underside of the awning when he looked down.

"Well, my gawd," she said softly, walking up to him. "Maybe you have the makings of a banker after all."

A whiff of bay rum caught her attention and the rich scent reminded her that maybe she should have purchased a small bottle of lady's fragrance. Such a thought made her smile. She had never owned perfume or ever imagined that she might want to.

Max stood and removed his hat as polite as you please, and that was another first. Men didn't usually doff their hats to Low Down. She didn't look, but she hoped the snooty man in the green uniform was watching.

Max extended his arm. "I'll escort you to our suite."

"A suite? Well la-ti-da," she said lightly, trying to sound like the idea of a suite didn't make her nervous.

And she accepted Max's arm as if they were sharing a joke. She could tell he felt as ridiculous offering his arm as she felt about taking it. "Are all ranchers as rich as you?"

"This is a one-night extravagance."

Everyone in the vicinity watched them enter the Belle Mark, or so it seemed. Inside, Low Down cringed and shrank from waves of silent condemnation. And suddenly she was glad for Max's rock-solid arm because she needed something to cling to during the endless walk through the lobby and then up the grand staircase.

For years she had operated under the theory that if she kept her eyes downcast and didn't glance up, then no one would notice her. Therefore, she didn't see much of the lobby except the marble floor followed by a crimson-and-gold carpet that flowed up the staircase. But she managed a sidelong impression of shining brass and mirrors and frothy arrangements of ferns and elegantly dressed people perched on expensive furniture. Piano music shimmered from a nearby room, the rune so soft and sweet that it made Low Down's chest tighten.

Once Max led her around a curve and out of sight of the lobby, she released a breath of relief as if she had slipped safely through a gauntlet. Now she could look around.

"Oh look! There are brass numbers on each door! And crystal globes on the lamps!" The carpet runner displayed a riot of dark-colored flowers and was lovely enough to frame, and there were towering arrangements of fresh lilies on every stair landing. "I ain't never been in a place like this," she whispered to Max, too excited and awed to remember not to say "ain't." "And I never will be again. Ain't it just amazing?"

"Your parcels are inside the room," he informed her, bending to insert the key in the lock. He pushed the door open, then consulted his pocket watch. "It's five o'clock now. I made dinner reservations at the hotel dining room for eight. I'll return around seven-thirty. Will that give you enough time to—" he touched his tie and fumbled for words "—freshen up?"

Her impulse was to ask where he was going, but that was none of her business. And she was disappointed that he wouldn't be present when she examined her purchases. She didn't trust her judgment and would have liked his opinion about her new dresses. Oh hell, what was she thinking of? Men knew even less about fashion than she did.

"I'll be ready," she promised, watching him close the door behind him. The air where he'd stood smelled of bay rum and cigar smoke, and she inhaled deeply, wondering if he would keep his promise about doing some poking tonight.

Heat rushed into her cheeks, and she shoved the thought aside. Besides, he hadn't really promised it would happen tonight. He'd only said maybe.

The first thing she noticed when she stepped out of the foyer and into the suite was the pile of packages she'd purchased. Boxes and bags completely covered a blue-striped sofa and spilled onto the floor. No wonder Max had seemed so terse. He must be angry about how much money she'd spent. She'd been upset herself when she saw the final bill. The only thing that helped was guessing what her duds would have cost if she'd bought them new from the ready-made shops.

Then her eyes widened as the impact of the suite overwhelmed her. A longing came over her to bounce around the room and sit in every elegant chair, examine every bibelot on every elaborately dressed table.

But she wouldn't have touched a single item on a dare, not even if someone had offered to pay her. She was terrified that she'd break something or get something dirty. This was a look-at-only room, not intended for actual use.

And look she did, but from the center of the carpet, a safe distance from any items she felt tempted to touch. Once she'd seen and marveled at everything, she explored further and discovered an indoor water closet. Sure enough, when she pulled the handle, the water in the bowl swirled and gurgled away. She tried it several times, laughing and shaking her head in amazement.

Next to the water closet was a larger room containing a tub and a sink. After testing the tub spigots, she discovered the hot water was only tepid, but that didn't lessen the miracle of having running water right at her fingertips to turn on or off anytime she liked. No one had to haul it inside or heat the buckets at the stove. She'd heard about luxury like this, but she'd sure never expected to experience it for herself.

Leaving the water running and the tub filling, she examined the bedroom next. Someone, probably Max, had put their saddlebags in the closet. The clothing he'd worn earlier today hung on a rod, freshly washed and ironed, ready for tomorrow. None of her clothing hung there, but that didn't surprise her. Max expected her to wear her new lady things to meet his family.

Worried about the water running in the tub, she returned to the bathroom where she curiously studied Max's shaving items with her hands clasped behind her back so she wouldn't accidentally disturb his things.

Finally, she stiffened her backbone, drew a deep breath, and forced her gaze to the mirror above the basin. The dreaded moment of revelation had arrived.

"Oh my gawd!"

Shock darkened her eyes, and she cursed for a full minute. Even for her, she looked bad. There was a relatively clean oval that started at her forehead, curved in front of her ears and ended at her chin.

Beyond the oval lay a summer's worth of grime.

Her skin was golden-brown from the sun and wind-chapped. Her eyelashes were stuck together in clumps.

And, oh Lord, her hair. Her hair was so gray with dust and dried mud that she looked like an old woman. And her clothing. She'd been living in these duds for a while, and they looked it. Probably smelled like it, too.

"Well, damn!"

What she needed was a jug of brew to steady her nerves, and a miracle.

Thank heavens she'd refused to look into the mirror at the secondhand shop. Instinct had warmed her to save the shock of seeing herself until she was alone, and she was glad she'd waited. Because now she had a chance to do something about it immediately.

No wonder none of the men in Piney Creek had wanted to sleep with her.

"Stop that," she said in a low voice, turning her eyes away from the mirror. She needed to stop stewing over that bottom moment in her life when the hat was passed and the men had reached inside, their mouths turning down in dread. All remembering did was make her feel bad.

And she didn't want to feel bad tonight. She wanted to enjoy a real tub bath and the squeak of clean hair. She wanted to wring every tiny drop of pleasure out of staying in a suite—asuite, if you please. The queen of England didn't have it any better than this.

After her bath, she had to figure out how her new clothes went together, a chore she was determined to make pleasurable and not frustrating and annoying. Then she had supper to look forward to, a meal she didn't have to cook, and maybe more music, something lively, she hoped. The best tunes were the ones you could tap your toes to.

And finally, to top off this unbelievable experience, maybe tonight would be the night for a poke. And maybe a baby would result. Wouldn't it be grand to conceive a baby during her one and only night in a real hotel suite? Now that would be a fairy-tale story to remember all of her days.

Laughing softly, she slid under the water and lay on the bottom of the deep tub, blowing bubbles up to the surface.