He felt like he’d just been dismissed. “My pleasure.” And it had been his pleasure. Though their conversation could be described as stilted at best, he had enjoyed her company—almost as much as he enjoyed looking at her and the feel of her hands on him when she’d hidden behind him.
He nodded toward Mrs. Gallagher, then gave Sheridan his best smile and exited the warm kitchen, thinking up ways to see her again. He could invite her out to the ranch, though he didn’t know if she could ride. The Serenity Hotel served a nice brunch on Sunday morning. Maybe she’d like to join him. Other ideas and excuses to see her popped into his brain, and every one of them made him smile as he climbed into the buckboard and patted the seat for the dog to join him.
Reckless jumped into the seat and leaned his heavy body against him. Wyatt ran his fingers through the dog’s soft fur before he picked up the reins. He glanced at the dog once more. “I need to thank you for playing wolf today, Reckless. If it weren’t for you, I would have figured she didn’t want to see me ever again. But you know what, boy?” He paused though he didn’t expect an answer. “I do believe she does.”
CHAPTER 4
“Mrs. Gallagher, I thought—” The words were cut off as Sheridan entered the kitchen and paused, a little surprised not to see Mrs. Gallagher, but rather a big bear of a man sitting at the table, enjoying a cup of tea. She was becoming used to all manner of men coming to the parlor house, but she couldn’t recall one ever being in the kitchen. For the most part, they either stayed in the parlor or the dining room or went upstairs with one of the girls.
He looked up and smiled, his mouth spreading beneath his thick, full beard then stood and extended his hand. “Ah, you look like your mother, you do. No mistaking it at all.” His smile widened. “You’re Sheridan.”
“I am,” she said, starting to feel a little proud after all she’d been told. “And you are?”
“Dean Langston, handyman, at your service. Your mother and I were great friends.” He took his seat again, but his attention remained on her. “Mrs. Gallagher tells me you need the old trunk brought down from the attic.”
“Yes, please, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Don’t mind at all. In fact, it’ll be my pleasure.”
“Thank you, Mr. Langston. I appreciate it, but please, finish your tea first.”
“Thank you.” He looked up at her, his merry blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “Would you care to join me?”
“I think I would.” She took a seat next to him, not hesitant in the least. Mr. Langston simply exuded goodness. He picked up the ceramic teapot with its pattern of pansies and poured some tea into the matching cup. He handed her the cup, which she accepted graciously. “You were friends with my mother?”
“I was. Good friends.” He glanced at her. “And not in the way you’re thinking. She stopped going upstairs a long time ago. Actually, I don’t think she ever did go upstairs. The former madam who started this house, Sylvie Caron, recognized a long time ago what a head Josie had for business, for makin’ money, for investing. She took over the books when they was in New Orleans and started making Sylvie more money than she ever saw before.” He drank more of his tea, swallowing it in short sips, as if too hot. “Josie invested in my handyman business, too, though it’s a secret.” His smile widened. “So don’t tell nobody.”
“Of course not. Your secret is safe with me.”
He finished his tea and stood. “Let’s go get that trunk.” He nodded toward her cup. “If you’re finished.”
She looked at her cup. “I’ll just bring it upstairs with me.” She took her cup and followed him out of the kitchen, then up the stairs. At the end of the hall was a door. He opened it to reveal a set of narrow, steep steps. Colored light shined on the treads from the stained-glass window at the top. “You don’t have to come up with me. I’ll just be a minute.”
She gave him a slight nod before he disappeared from sight. As promised, he returned in a moment, a wide, deep trunk on his shoulders. It didn’t look like it weighed anything the way he held it, but she was certain it did. Even empty, it would have weighed much more than she could handle.
“Where would you like it?”
“In my room, please.” She led the way down the hall to her room then pointed to a spot next to an upholstered chair in front of the fireplace. “Right there would be fine.”
He laid the trunk down gently, still as if it weighed nothing. “Would you like me to bring you more wood for the fire?”
She glanced at the fireplace and the embers still glowing from the night before. “Thank you. That would be lovely.”
A short time later, the fire now crackling nicely, she was alone with the trunk. She lifted the lid. It was filled with some clothing she assumed Josie hadn’t worn in a long time and two white Rousseau Peppermint tins. She pulled one out of the trunk, placed it on her lap and opened it. The lingering aroma of peppermint reached her nose, bringing with it memories and comfort. The tin was filled with envelopes though none were addressed. She unfolded the first one.
‘My dearest daughter,’it began. She looked for a date. August 1891. The last letter her mother had written before she died. She folded it and placed it back in the envelope. She didn’t want to start with the last letter. She wanted to start with the first. She opened the other peppermint tin and found one dated two days after her birth.
Mon trésor—my treasure—you will probably never see this letter, but I am writing anyway to let you know how much you are loved, how much you are wanted. Someday, when I am brave enough and strong enough, I will tell you how we came to be separated. Please know that it was not my choice. It was never my choice.
Already, her heart began to hurt, but still, she pulled another letter from the pile, this one written a few months after she was born.
My heart, it began, I have found a job. It’s not the best job in town and it’s at a place that I would rather not be, but the food is good, the living conditions are tolerable, and best of all, it will allow me to save my money so I can fight for you. I am working for Madam Sylvie Caron. She owns one of the finest brothels in New Orleans. She took pity on me, as bedraggled and heartbroken as I am, and brought me into her home to cook and clean for her and her girls. It is not the place I thought I would be, but for now, it will have to do. Madam Sylvie is good to me. She has been nothing but kind and I need her kindness right now. Your grandmother—my own mother—refuses to let me see you. Refuses to let me come back home. I am beyond heartbroken. I knew Odette could be rigid and cruel, but I never imagined she would be this cruel.
Tears blurred her vision, but she still pulled another letter from the tin. These were Josie’s own words, her own thoughts, and Sheridan could feel her mother’s love.
My dearest love, I am no longer cooking and cleaning for Madam and her girls, but I am not going upstairs either. That is my one rule and Madam has agreed to it. Madam has me keeping her books and making investments for her. I will admit, I’m quite adept at it. She’s making money, which makes her happy, and I am as happy as I can be here. I miss you with every breath I take, my darling girl. Soon…
Sheridan felt a glimmer of hope, even though she knew there was none as she slipped the letter into its envelope, put it on the floor beside her, and selected the next one from the tin.
