King's Fancy Page 3

  “Yet you ran into the raging fire with no thought to your own safety.”

  The man leaned nearer, his pencil moving rapidly over the paper. His last sentence wasn’t a question, but she couldn’t let the implication go unanswered. “I did think of my safety, but those children have their whole lives ahead of them.”

  “You’re young, so do you. Don’t you?”

  Fancy smiled at the reporter’s round-about way of asking her age. “Some would say I’m a spinster at twenty-six.” She soothed her face, unknowingly spreading soot on her cheek. “I look older, I know. I’ve…worked hard.” Fancy was embarrassed, she knew she was pale and thin. If only Standish would allow her to eat more, she might be able to put a little meat on her bones. The man kept her on starvation rations, even though she could work harder if he gave her more to eat. “Is that all, can I go now?” She really needed to get some salve on her hands.

  “No. No. Hold on. I want a photograph and the father of the little girls you saved has arrived and he has something for you.” The reporter moved his palm downward to emphasize his order for her to remain seated.

  “A photograph?” Fancy almost panicked. “I don’t think so. I look horrible.” She tried to pat her hair, then winced when the burned place on her palm was irritated by the action.

  “You’re supposed to look horrible, lady. You almost died.” The photographer set up his tripod, then threw the black cloth over his head. “Just look at the camera and smile.”

  Fancy tried to smile, but she was so sure she looked a fright, the effort was more of a grimace.

  “There you go. All done.”

  “Miss Grace? Miss Grace?”

  Not used to hearing herself addressed so properly, Fancy almost didn’t turn to see who was speaking. She was still in a daze, sitting in front of the rubble that used to be the two-story Victorian where she’d raced through a curtain of flames to get to two precious little girls whose Nanny had left them unattended while she flirted with the blacksmith on the corner. “Yes? I’m Fancy.”

  As soon as she said those two words, she winced. Normally, she tried not to introduce herself in that manner.

  Because she wasn’t fancy. Not in any way, shape, or form.

  Fancy was plain. Painfully plain. And she knew it.

  Nevertheless, this time, the acknowledgment of her identity didn’t illicit a full-blown laugh or even a titter. Instead, this man hugged her and began to cry.

  “You saved them! You saved my little girls.”

  Fancy held the man while he trembled. “I am so glad I was able to do this for them, sir.”

  He stood back and pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket to wipe his face and blow his nose. “My name is Laurence O’Malley. My little girl’s names are Susie and Margie. I lost my wife last year, she died trying to give birth to our third child. I don’t know what I would’ve done if I lost my babies too. How can I ever repay you?”

  Fancy held up her hands. “My existence so far has been nothing special. Saving your children has given my life meaning. I don’t need any further thanks.”

  Her words made him cry anew. “You don’t understand.” He reached inside his jacket and took out a small leather pouch. “I have money, but what good would it be without my family?” With shaking fingers, he handed the pouch to her. “Take this please, it would be an honor if you’ll allow me to express a tiny fraction of my gratitude. You have no what value I place on my children, what they mean to me.”

  “I can only imagine. I wish I knew from personal experience.” She’d love to have children, but that would never be. Ignoring the pain in her palms, she curled her hands into fists, not wanting to accept money for such a thing.

  “My heart is so full, please let me share.”

  “Take it, Miss.” The reporter urged her.

  Fancy accepted the small pouch and held it to her breast. She didn’t look into it; the contents seemed unimportant in comparison to what it represented. “Thank you.”

  As Mr. O’Malley moved away to rejoin his tearful children, the reporter and photographer moved with him, leaving Fancy alone. A crowd had gathered, but the fire brigade and the city lawmen kept the gawkers at bay. When no one else approached her, she stood up on shaky legs and made her way down the sidewalk to pass easily through the crowd. She was grateful no one stopped her. One woman patted her on the arm, but most gave her a wide berth. Fancy knew most of the reason for their avoidance was where she worked. In fact, she was amazed the reporter hadn’t asked her about it in the interview.

  Perhaps, he didn’t know. After all, Fancy didn’t look like a saloon girl.

  Truth be told, she wasn’t. Not really. She worked in a make-shift kitchen behind the saloon where she prepared meals for the adjoining hotel dining room. In addition to the meals she prepared, she was also responsible for cleaning the hotel and the saloon. Her hours were long, her pay almost nonexistent. Standish didn’t even allow Fancy to eat her own cooking.

  As she moved down the plank sidewalk, she kept her gaze down, clutching the pouch in an injured hand. Her muscles were still so shaky, Fancy grew fearful she’d drop the gift from Mr. O’Malley, so she stuffed it in the pocket of her apron, right next to her lucky coin. Fancy laughed to herself. So far, the coin hadn’t brought her much luck. But that was okay. The coin’s value didn’t lie in any good fortune it might bring. No, the worth of the coin lay in the memories it brought to mind. For a few shining hours, she’d had a friend. Sometimes when she lay in her lonely bed, Fancy would wonder and dream about the man her Robin Hood must be today. He’d be a hero, she was sure of it, there was no way he could be anything else.

  As she dwelt on the past, Fancy hurried on to her unfortunate present. Most of the shops she passed were boarded up, a sign of the sad times. Since the war, countless businesses had failed. Many men never returned from the battlefield and the families they left behind had moved back east. The cities shrank, the southern economy was in tatters. Fortunately, some enterprises seemed recession proof and the saloon happened to be one of those lucky establishments. Standish Gillespie intended to take full advantage of that fact, as he’d always taken full advantage of her. Fancy Grace rued the day he’d bought her from the Galloways.

  “Out of my way! Out of my way!” A surly man came barreling down the sidewalk toward her, pushing people out of the way left and right. “I’m in a hurry!”

  She plastered herself against the side of the blacksmith shop, allowing the old gentleman to push past. As she did, Fancy made eye contact with the woman who’d left the O’Malley children unsupervised. She was crying frantic tears, clinging to the arm of the burly giant of a blacksmith who looked annoyed at her nearness. The nanny’s display wasn’t surprising, considering she’d almost been responsible for the death of two children. Fancy didn’t know what caused the blaze, but the children weren’t old enough to know how to do anything other than hide from the danger beneath the bed. Laurence O’Malley would undoubtedly buy a new home and hire a new nanny. This woman should count herself lucky the children were alive, and she wouldn’t be held accountable for their deaths.

  Fancy hurried on, she was a mere half block from the saloon when it hit her she’d never completed the errand Gillespie had ordered her to perform. Stopping in her tracks, she wheeled around to run to the market for his tobacco. How could she have forgotten?

  Foolish question, considering the house fire that had drawn her attention away from the task she’d been assigned. If she returned to the saloon without his tobacco, Standish would beat her. His anger required little provocation. She was already miserably late, and he wouldn’t care one whit about what had kept her.

  “Fancy! Fancy!”

  Too late, she’d been spotted. Knowing there was no choice, she halted her steps, hearing Gillespie’s heavy tread coming behind her. She closed her eyes and winced, steeling herself for what was to come. Turning around before he reached her would result in a slap to the face. Presenting her back wouldn’t sav
e her, but a blow to her shoulder would be easier to absorb and less likely to break a bone.

  “Where are you going? Have you been slacking off?”

  She braced herself, knowing he wouldn’t wait for an answer. The impact of his fist on her collarbone sent Fancy to her knees as surely as if someone had jerked her feet out from under her. Going down hard, she instinctively put out her hands to catch her fall, then screamed when her full weight landed on her raw, burned palms as they scraped across the rough wood.

  “Get up, you ugly bitch!” Standish grabbed her hair and jerked Fancy to her feet. “Where’s my tobacco? Did you steal my money?”

  “No, no, no.” She reached into a side pocket in her dress and held out the silver dollar. “I forgot to go after I stopped to help…”

  “I don’t want to hear your excuses.” He shoved her toward the saloon. “Get to work. You’re late getting dinner on the table!”

  She let him manhandle her. After all, she had no choice. When did she ever have a choice? Her life was a series of unfortunate events. After her parents died of yellow fever, she and her beloved brother were placed in an orphanage. When she grew old enough to crawl over the fence, they had run, deciding to live on the streets of New York City. Unfortunately, she’d lost her brother and her days became even more difficult and cruel. The one bright spot in her memory was when she’d run into the young boy who was never far from her thoughts. Her Robin Hood. Sadly, not too many days after their meeting, the authorities rounded up the street kids and returned them to the home. This influx of unwanted children caused the orphanage to be overrun, so Fancy had been one of many sent on orphan trains to cities in the South and Midwest. The idea had been admirable, the intent being to place the children up for adoption. As with other things, the end result didn’t pan out as planned. Many of the unfortunates ended up being sold to factories and farms as indentured servants. This had been Fancy’s fate. She’d been sold and resold, passed from family to family. She might never be a mother, but she knew plenty about raising children. Some of the circumstances had been worse than others. In some homes she’d been treated decently and in others, no better than a dog.

  But even those places, where she’d been ignored and abused, were better than working for Standish Gillespie. He took great pleasure in afflicting pain on top of humiliation. She tried so hard to save the small wage he paid her, so she could one day buy her freedom, but he made her pay for the meager amount of food she ate and the rags he called clothing.

  “Since you wasted half a day milling around, I’m only paying you half a day’s wages,” he barked as they neared the entrance to the saloon. “Go down the alley, don’t walk through the front door, the customers will see you. Don’t want you turning their stomachs.”

  “Yes, Mr. Gillespie,” she meekly answered, anxious to get to the little hovel she called home so could clean her ravaged hands before going to work. “I just need a moment to prepare.”

  He pushed her along until they came to the back door, where he placed the toe of his boot to her backside and pushed. This time, she caught herself on the door to save herself from falling.

  “Hurry up, or I’ll withhold the second half day’s wage.”

  At this point, she was too whipped down to argue. “Yes, sir.” She didn’t have the energy or the wherewithal to disagree.

  Once she was blessedly alone, Fancy poured water from a pitcher into the wash bowl. The light was dim in the tiny room, but she found a clean rag to dab at her ruined palms. Tears ran down her cheeks as she did her best to apply some healing salve. Work would be very difficult tonight. As she swayed, the pouch Mr. O’Malley had given her bumped against her thigh. For the first time, her curiosity was piqued. She’d wanted nothing for saving the children, but he’d insisted. Using the tips of her fingers, she extracted the pouch and pulled at the drawstring. What she saw inside made her jaw drop.

  Gold.

  Twenty-dollar gold pieces.

  Ten twenty-dollar gold pieces.

  Fancy gasped, she’d never seen so much money in her life.

  All she could think about, all that seemed important…was that she was free. This would pay the price of her indentured servitude.

  “Oh, thank the Lord. Thank the Lord.”

  Her knees too weak to support her, Fancy sank down to the bed and cried for joy.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Kiss me, King. Hold me tight. I can’t wait to marry you.”

  King cradled Caroline in his arms. “Oh, my darling. You are my only love.”

  While the music played, he held his sweetheart in his arms. He wore his best dress suit and she was radiant in an evening gown that looked to be made of moonbeams. They were happy, all was as it should be.

  Out of nowhere, a wind began to blow, darkness seemed to rise all around him. A force beyond his control pulled Caroline from his grasp. As her fingers slipped from his, King shouted. “No! No! Come back. Come back!”

  All around King, a storm raged. He could hear men shouting, guns blasting. A bugle blew, cannons boomed. The screams of the wounded vied with the cries of the mourners. Time swirled in a never ceasing circle of nightmares and dreams.

  After an eternity, King found himself in a dark wood, his footsteps mired in sinking sand. Ahead of him, through the shadows, he could see the lights of home. With all his strength, King struggled to cover the seemingly endless distance to the arms of the woman he loved.

  As he drew nearer, the gas lamps cast a pale glow onto the broad verandah. Inside his home, beyond the open French doors, King could see happy couples dancing. The sound of music drifted to him on the trace of an autumn breeze.

  King stared as he saw one graceful couple waltz toward him. The woman was dressed in an elegant white gown. She had her arms wrapped around his brother’s neck, raising her face for a kiss. Just before their lips touched, the beautiful woman turned her face to him and he could plainly see who it was… “Caroline! Caroline! Why, Caroline?”

  “Oh, God!” King jerked upright in the bed, his chest heaving, sweat pouring from his body.

  A dream.

  Swinging his legs off the bed, King hung his head, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress. On shaky legs, he stood up and pulled on his pants, staggering to the front door. He wasn’t drunk, he was exhausted. Pushing open the screen, he stepped onto the porch and strode to the railing. Puckering his lips, he let out a long breath, propping his palms on the rough-hewn surface so he could stare out into the night sky.

  Wishing he could forget.

  For the dream wasn’t really a dream, it was a nightmare. A memory.

  No matter how hard he tried, Kington Ramsay couldn’t rid his mind of the sight of the woman he loved in the arms of his brother.

  “King! King!”

  Raising his head, he stared out into the early dawn. By the pale light of the quarter moon, the figure of Boone came into view as he ran from the direction of his cabin, stuffing his shirt down into his pants.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I heard something down by the barn. When I went to check it out, I spied someone making off with one of our pigs.”

  “Hell, let me get my shoes and my rifle. Wake up, Reno! We might need him.” King hurried back into his untidy cabin, grabbing his boots, and stepping into them while he pulled his rifle from behind the door. Rubbing his eyes, he tried to clear his head. The stupid dream about Caroline still weighed heavily on his mind.

  Kingston Ramsay would never admit it, but he needed a woman.

  He was exhausted, his concentration was shot, and if he didn’t have sex soon, he would die from a chronic case of blue balls.

  Right now, however, he had something more to worry about other than a dirty house, an empty belly, and an emptier bed.

  After saddling up, the trio dashed out into the night. After a half hour’s searching, they ran into the pig, making his terrified way back toward the barn. At least he’d gotten away, but the thief was still on the loose. “Loo
k, over there!” King shouted, spying a lone figure darting into the bramble bushes. He pulled his horse up short, the white stallion’s hoofbeats ceased in cadence with Boone’s and Reno’s mounts. After five years of soldiering and two years spent carving out a home in the wilderness together, there was no need for hand signals or barked orders. The men were a team.

  The long, low hoot of an owl cut through the chill morning air, lingering a moment in the rising mist before fading eerily away.

  Boone pulled loose a twig caught in his jacket and threw it to the ground. “Damn Injun’s signaling for help.”

  “He’s gonna need it.” King yanked his rifle from the scabbard, standing to his feet in the stirrups to see over the next rise, scouting the area. There were too damn many places a man could hide in this hill country. “We’re taking him in, I refuse to lose another calf or pig to this conniving thief.”

  Reno tipped his hat back, his black eyes shining with determination. “If he’s willing to give away his location, he must think help is close enough to respond.”

  King knew his former first sergeant’s grim statement wasn’t made from fear, Reno Black had faced down blazing cannon fire from a battalion of Union troops, the prospect of a few renegade Comanche wouldn’t faze him.

  Sliding from his horse, Boone moved to the right and took cover behind a copse of cedars. He wound the reins around a branch. “I just say we go in after him. If he’s got a knife, or even a gun, there’s three of us and one of him – if we hurry.”

  Reno followed suit, ground tying his horse, his long dark hair lifted from his shoulder as the east wind picked up. “I’ll go around the back.”

  “Don’t shoot unless necessary, we don’t want to call down the whole Comanche nation on us.” His eyes continued to scan the horizon, half expecting to see a half moon of mounted braves appear on the ridge. “I don’t like this. We’d made peace with these bastards, agreed to live and let live. Why would they start stealing from us now?” King and his men had fought long and hard for a safe place of their own, carving three thousand acres out of these hills and canyons by the sweat of their brow. This was their home, Ransom, he called it, built on the banks of the Llano River, in the shadow of Packsaddle Mountain. Other than the newly hired Sheriff in Kingsland, a full day’s ride away, the only law in this land was the one they created, the one they enforced, and King wasn’t about to let someone steal what they’d worked so hard to obtain.