“She Was Late for Her Train…But Fate Led Her to the Cowboy of Her Dreams”

…

The thought made her chest tight.

What if he wasn’t there? What if something had happened to him? The letters had stopped two weeks ago, right before she’d left Boston.

She’d told herself he was simply busy preparing for her arrival.

Now doubt crept in like cold water.

Lillian walked carefully along the boardwalk, avoiding the places where boards had warped or broken.

Her boots, the good ones she’d saved for meeting Vernon, were already dusty.

A sign ahead read, “Mrs.

Crowley’s boarding house.

Clean rooms, fair prices.

She was studying the sign, calculating whether she could afford even one night when her heel caught on a protruding nail.

Lillian lurched forward, arms windmilling, and her carpet bag flew from her grasp.

She hit the street on her hands and knees, petticoats tangling around her legs.

The contents of her bag scattered across the dirt.

her hairbrush, her spare gloves, Vernon’s letters tied with ribbon, the small silver thimble that had belonged to her mother.

Damn it.

The word escaped before she could stop it.

Heat flooded her face and not from the sun.

You heard? A man’s voice low and unhurried.

Lillian looked up and found herself staring at scuffed boots, denimclad legs, and then a face shadowed by a wide hatbrim.

He crouched beside her and she saw weathered features, a strong jaw, eyes the color of summer sky.

He was perhaps 30 with sunbroned skin and calloused hands that he held out to her.

I’m fine.

She ignored his hand and tried to stand, but her skirt was twisted under her knees.

I just need you need to let me help you up before a wagon comes through.

He took her elbow gently but firmly, and Lillian found herself pulled to her feet with surprising ease.

There you go.

She brushed at her skirt, mortified.

Thank you.

I’m not usually so clumsy.

New boots on an old boardwalk.

He bent and started gathering her scattered belongings.

Happens to everyone, at least once.

Lillian knelt to help, trying to reach Vernon’s letters before the stranger could see them.

Too late.

He picked up the ribbon bound packet and held it out to her.

His expression didn’t change, but she felt certain he’d seen the masculine handwriting on the top envelope.

Thank you.

She took the letters and shoved them into her bag.

He retrieved her hairbrush, her gloves, the thimble.

When everything was collected, he stood and offered his hand again.

Cole Mercer, I work at Red Crest Ranch out past the creek.

Lillian Parker.

She shook his hand briefly.

His grip was warm and steady, his palm rough with work.

I’m just passing through.

That’s so.

He tilted his head slightly, studying her.

Where are you headed? Colorado Springs.

The words came out defensive.

I’m meeting someone there.

Long way from here.

Cole’s gaze moved past her to the train station.

You missed your connection.

The train left early.

Lillian hated how her voice shook.

I have to wait until Thursday for the next one.

That’s three days.

It wasn’t a question.

You got a place to stay? I was just looking at Mrs.

Crowley’s.

Lillian gestured toward the boarding house sign.

Cole nodded slowly.

She’s fair.

Charges $2 a night for a room.

Includes breakfast.

Dinner’s extra if you want it.

$6 for three nights.

plus meals.

Lillian did the arithmetic and felt her throat tighten.

She’d have nothing left for the train ticket.

Nothing left at all.

You all right, Miss Pocker? Cole’s voice gentled.

You look a little pale.

I’m fine.

The lie tasted bitter.

Thank you for your help, Mr.

Mercer.

She turned toward the boarding house, but Cole spoke again.

Mrs.

Crowley might need help.

She’s been looking for someone to do mending and such.

Could work out a trade for your room.

Lillian stopped.

Hope flickered.

Fragile and dangerous.

You think she’d consider it? Can’t hurt to ask.

Cole stepped past her and opened the boarding house door.

Come on, I’ll introduce you.

The front room was dim and cool after the streets glare.

Lace curtains filtered the sunlight.

A round table held a vase of dried flowers.

Everything was neat and carefully tended.

Lillian heard footsteps and then a woman appeared from a back hallway.

Mrs.

Crowley was perhaps 50 with graying hair pulled back in a tight bun and sharp eyes that took in everything.

She looked at Cole first, then at Lillian, then at Lillian’s dusty dress and disheveled appearance.

Cole Mercer, what have you dragged in this time? But her voice held warmth beneath the tartness.

This is Miss Lillian Parker, ma’am.

She’s a seamstress from Boston.

Mr.

Train Connection needs a place to stay until Thursday.

Cole spoke with easy confidence, as if he made such introductions regularly.

I thought you might could use someone with skilled hands.

Mrs.

Crowley’s eyes narrowed that.

So, what kind of seems work you do, Miss Parker? Lillian forced herself to stand straighter.

All kinds, ma’am.

I worked at Hendrickson’s dress shop in Boston for 4 years.

I can do alterations, mending, embroidery.

I can make patterns and construct garments from scratch.

Hendrickson’s closed down 6 months ago.

Mrs.

Crowley’s voice was matter of fact.

I heard about that.

Economic troubles.

Yes, ma’am.

Lillian met her gaze directly.

That’s why I’m traveling to Colorado Springs.

To meet a man, I’d guess from those letters Cole found in the street.

Mrs.

Crowley crossed her arms.

Matrimonial arrangement.

The bluntness startled Lillian into honesty.

Yes, ma’am.

Does this man know you’re coming? I wrote to him.

He He wrote back inviting me.

Lillian’s voice faltered.

But I haven’t heard from him in 2 weeks.

Mrs.

Crowley and Cole exchanged a look that made Lillian’s stomach drop.

“What’s his name?” Mrs.

Crowley asked.

“Vernon Caldwell.

” Lillian pulled the letters from her bag.

“He lives in Colorado Springs.

” “He’s a merchant there,” he said.

“Owns a dry goods store.

” Cole’s expression hardened.

Mrs.

Crowley’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

“What?” Lillian looked between them.

“What is it?” “Vernon Caldwell.

” Mrs.

Cwley said the name like a curse.

“I know that name.

He came through here about 3 months ago.

Stayed at my boarding house for 2 weeks.

Told everyone he was a cattle buyer from Denver.

Left town owing money to half the merchants on Main Street.

The floor seemed to tilt under Lillian’s feet.

No, that can’t be the same man.

Was he about 40 years old, dark hair, fancy dresser, talked real smooth about opportunities and investments? Mrs.

Crowley’s voice was relentless.

Said he was looking for a good woman to help him build his business.

Each word was a blow.

Lillian’s hands shook as she looked down at Vernon’s letters.

The beautiful handwriting, the promises of a home and security, the descriptions of his prosperous store and his position in Colorado Springs society.

He wrote to me for 6 months.

Her voice came out barely above a whisper.

He sent photographs of himself.

He seemed He seemed sincere.

I’m sorry, honey.

Mrs.

Crowley’s tone softened.

But I’d bet my boarding house that Vernon Caldwell never lived in Colorado Springs.

Men like him move from town to town, spinning stories, taking what they can get.

The matrimonial agencies don’t check their claims.

They just collect their fees and pass along the letters.

Lillian couldn’t breathe.

She’d spent her last dollars traveling west to meet a liar, a con man.

She’d given up her room in Boston, her few friends, everything familiar for a man who didn’t exist.

Miss Parker.

Cole’s hand touched her elbow.

You need to sit down.

I’m fine.

But she wasn’t.

The room was spinning.

Cole guided her to a chair anyway.

Mrs.

Crowley disappeared and returned with a glass of water.

Lillian drank it without tasting it.

What am I going to do? The question came out broken.

I can’t go back to Boston.

There’s nothing there for me, and I can’t go forward to a man who doesn’t exist.

You can stay here.

Mrs.

Crowley pulled up another chair.

I do need help.

And from the look of those stitches on your dress, you know your trade.

I’ve got mending piled up that I can’t manage with my arthritis getting worse.

You work for me.

I’ll give you room and board.

Just until Thursday, Lillian asked.

Mrs.

Crowley shook her head.

Longer if you want.

There’s steady work here for a good seamstress.

The dress shop in town closed two years ago.

Women have to make do with mail order dresses or sew their own, and most don’t have the skill.

You could build a business in Quartz Hill.

Lillian looked around the modest front room.

I don’t know anything about this town.

It’s a good town, Cole spoke quietly.

Mining operations steady.

Ranch is doing well.

Railroad brings regular traffic.

Not as big as Colorado Springs maybe, but honest people here look after their own.

I’m not.

Lillian stopped.

She’d been about to say she wasn’t one of their own.

But what was she? A woman with $17 and a trunk full of dresses.

A woman who’d been fooled by pretty words and false promises.

I don’t know.

You don’t have to decide today.

Mrs.

Crowley stood.

Come on upstairs.

I’ll show you the room.

You can work off three nights lodging, and by then you’ll have had time to think.

Lillian followed her up narrow stairs to a small room under the eaves.

A single bed with a blue quilt, a wash stand, a chair by the window, plain and clean, and nothing like what Vernon had promised.

The big house in Colorado Springs, the servants, the position in society.

I’ll leave you to settle in.

Mrs.

Crowley moved toward the door.

There’s a basin and pitcher if you want to wash up.

Come down when you’re ready, and I’ll show you the mending.

When the door closed, Lillian sat on the bed and pulled out Vernon’s letters.

She read them one by one, seeing now what she’d missed before.

the vagueness beneath the flowery language.

The way he never quite answered her questions about his business or his home, the requests, subtle but persistent, for her to bring whatever fund she could manage.

She’d told him about the $75 she’d saved from her work at Hendrickson’s.

He’d written back with enthusiasm, suggesting she could invest it in his expanding store.

She’d planned to bring it all to show him she was a partner who could contribute.

Thank God she’d lost her nerve at the last minute and left the $75 with her landlady in Boston to be sent on after she’d settled in Colorado Springs and made sure everything was as Vernon claimed.

That money was all she had left in the world now, and she couldn’t even access it, stranded here in Arizona.

Lillian folded the letters carefully and put them away.

She wouldn’t burn them or tear them up.

She would keep them as a reminder.

Trust had to be earned.

Pretty words meant nothing.

Actions were what mattered.

She washed her face and hands, changed into a clean dress, and went downstairs.

Mrs.

Crowley was waiting in the front room with a basket of mending.

Let’s see what you can do.

Lillian picked up the first item, a man’s shirt with a torn seam.

She examined the fabric, the original stitching, the extent of the damage.

Then she selected thread from her bag, threaded her needle with quick, practiced movements, and began to work.

Her stitches were small and even, nearly invisible against the fabric.

She reinforced the seam at both ends, checked her work, and handed the shirt back to Mrs.

Crowley.

The older woman inspected it closely, then nodded.

That’s good work.

Real good work.

Thank you, ma’am.

Call me Ruth.

Mrs.

Crowley.

Ruth settled into her chair.

We might as well be on friendly terms if we’re going to work together.

Now, tell me about Boston.

What brought you west besides a false promise? Lillian picked up the next item from the basket.

A child’s dress with a ripped hem.

My parents died when I was 19.

Fever took them both within a week of each other.

I had to leave school and find work.

Mrs.

Hendrickson hired me at her dress shop.

I was good at it and I thought I’d found a place, but the economy got worse and she had to close.

I couldn’t find other work.

The room I was renting cost more than I could afford.

I saw the matrimonial agency’s advertisement and I thought she stopped throat tight.

You thought it was a way out.

Ruth’s voice was gentle.

Nothing wrong with that, honey.

Women have been making such bargains since the beginning of time.

Better to marry a stranger who can provide than starve on your own.

But it doesn’t always work out the way the advertisements promise.

Have you ever married? Lillian asked.

then caught herself.

I’m sorry, that’s too personal.

I was married.

Ruth picked up her own mending.

Tom Crowley.

He died 15 years ago in a mining accident.

We had a good marriage, but it was short.

This boarding house has been my living since then.

They worked in companionable silence for a while.

Lillian’s hands moved automatically, her mind still churning.

Vernon Caldwell didn’t exist, not as he presented himself.

She had no future in Colorado Springs.

Her money was in Boston, and she was trapped in Quartz Hill, Arizona with $17 and a trunk full of clothes.

But she had her skill.

She could sew.

And Ruth was right.

There was no dress shop in town.

Ruth.

Lillian set down the mended dress.

If I stayed longer than Thursday, where would I work? Do you have enough mending to keep me busy? Some Ruth looked up.

But I was thinking bigger than that.

The merkantile has a back room they don’t use.

It’s got good light from the windows.

I could talk to Mr.

Harrison about renting it to you cheap.

You could set up a proper seamstress shop.

Women would come once they knew you were here.

I don’t have money for rent or for fabric and notions to start with.

Work that out with Harrison.

He’s got daughters who need dresses.

Might trade you space for sewing.

Ruth’s eyes gleamed.

And I know half a dozen women right now who’d pay for alterations or new dresses if they knew someone skilled was available.

It was impossible.

Lillian couldn’t simply stay in a strange town and set up a business, could she? She thought of Boston, the crowded boarding house, the shuttered shops, the lines of unemployed workers.

She thought of Vernon’s lies.

She thought of having nothing and nowhere to go.

“I’ll think about it,” she said.

Finally, the front door opened and Cole Mercer walked in.

He’d cleaned up since earlier, changed his shirt, combed his hair.

He held his hat in his hands.

“Evening, Ruth.

Miss Parker.

” He nodded to them both.

“I came by to check that you got settled.

” “All right.

” “Mr.

Mercer,” Lillian set aside her mending.

“That’s kind of you,” Cole, he corrected.

“Mr.

Mercer is my father, and he’s been dead 10 years.

” Ruth stood.

I’ll make coffee.

Cole, you staying for supper if you’re offering.

Cole’s smile was easy.

I brought venison from the ranch.

Figured you could use it.

Put it in the kitchen.

Ruth headed toward the back of the house, leaving Lillian and Cole alone in the front room.

Cole sat in the chair Ruth had vacated.

You doing all right? I’m working.

Lillian picked up her needle again.

Mrs.

Crowley Ruth has been very kind.

She’s good people.

Cole watched her stitch for a moment.

I’m sorry about Caldwell.

That’s a hard thing to learn.

It’s my own fault for being foolish.

No.

His voice sharpened.

It’s his fault for being a liar.

Don’t take his shame on yourself.

Lillian’s hands stilled.

She looked up and found Cole watching her with surprising intensity.

“You couldn’t have known,” he continued.

“Men like Caldwell, they’re practiced at deception.

They know how to write the right words, make the right promises.

You did what you thought was best with the information you had.

” Something in Lillian’s chest loosened slightly.

“Thank you.

What will you do now?” Cole asked.

Ruth thinks I should stay.

Set up a seamstress business here.

Lillian set down the dress she was mending.

It seems impossible.

Why? I don’t know this town.

I don’t know anyone here.

I have no money, no customers.

No, you know Ruth.

You know me.

That’s a start.

Cole leaned forward.

And I’d bet before the week is out, you’ll know half the women in Quartz Hill.

They’re going to be curious about the new seamstress, and once they see your work, they’ll be lining up.

You can’t know that.

I know this town.

His confidence was steady, unshakable.

I’ve lived here my whole life.

I know how it works.

A skilled seamstress.

You’ll have more work than you can handle inside a month.

Lillian wanted to believe him.

The alternative was returning to Boston with nothing or continuing on to Colorado Springs to confirm what she already knew.

That Vernon Caldwell had never existed.

Either option felt like failure.

I’ll think about it, she said again.

Cole nodded and stood.

That’s all anyone can ask.

Now, let me help Ruth with that venison, and you can tell me about Boston over supper.

That night, lying in the narrow bed under the eaves, Lillian listened to the unfamiliar sounds of Quartz Hill, horses in the street, voices from the saloon down the block, the creek of the boarding house settling.

Everything was strange and foreign and nothing like what she’d planned.

But her hands didn’t shake anymore.

The tightness in her chest had eased.

And when she thought about setting up a seamstress shop, about making a place for herself here, the idea didn’t seem quite so impossible.

She thought about Cole Mercer’s steady presence, his quiet confidence.

He’d helped her without asking for anything in return.

He’d introduced her to Ruth without expectation.

He’d looked at her like she was a person worth knowing, not a desperate woman to be pied.

Vernon Caldwell had written beautiful letters.

Cole Mercer had picked up her scattered belongings from the dirt and made sure she had a place to sleep.

Lillian closed her eyes and let herself imagine just for a moment, what it might be like to stay.

Morning came with the smell of coffee and bacon drifting up through the floorboards.

Lillian dressed in her plainest work dress and went downstairs to find Ruth already in the kitchen frying eggs in a cast iron skillet.

“You’re up early,” Ruth said without turning around.

“Coffee’s on the stove.

” Lillian poured herself a cup and sat at the small kitchen table.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said about the Merkantile’s back room, and I’d like to see it if Mr.

Harrison is willing.

Ruth flipped the eggs onto two plates and brought them to the table.

Eat first, then we’ll walk over together.

Harrison opens his store at 7:00.

They ate quickly, and by the time the sun had fully risen, Lillian found herself standing in front of Harrison’s merkantile with Ruth at her side.

The store was already open, and a bell jangled as they stepped inside.

Ruth Crowley, a fixet man with graying whiskers, looked up from behind the counter.

What brings you in so early? Business, Frank.

This is Lillian Parker.

She’s a seamstress from Boston, trained at Hendrickson’s.

I told her about your back room.

Harrison’s eyebrows rose.

The backroom’s full of old stock and dust.

Could be cleared out in an afternoon, Ruth said.

And Miss Parker here does work that would put those male order dresses your wife orders to shame.

That’s so.

Harrison studied Lillian with sharp merchant’s eyes.

What kind of work you do? Everything, sir.

Alterations, repairs, custom dresses, men’s shirts, children’s clothes.

I can work from patterns or create my own.

Lillian kept her voice steady.

Ruth mentioned you have daughters, three of them.

Harrison’s expression shifted slightly.

My wife’s been after me to take them to Tucson for new dresses.

Says the catalog doesn’t fit them right.

I could make them dresses that fit perfectly, measured to each girl, styled however they like.

Lillian saw the opening and pressed it in exchange for use of the back room for 3 months.

After that, we can discuss rent.

Harrison scratched his jaw.

3 months is a long time.

Three dresses per daughter is nine dresses total, Lily encountered.

Plus alterations for whatever else needs fixing in your household.

That’s worth 3 months rent of a storage room.

Ruth made a small sound that might have been approval.

Let me see this back room first, Lillian added.

If it won’t work, then we’ll discuss other terms.

Harrison led them through the store, past shelves of dry goods and barrels of flour to a door at the rear.

He unlocked it and pushed it open.

Dust moes swirled in the sunlight streaming through two large windows.

Boxes were stacked half-hazardly.

Cobwebs hung in the corners, but the room was spacious.

The light was good, and Lillian could already see where she’d place her workt.

“I’ll take it,” she said.

“Nine dresses for three months use.

I’ll need it cleaned out by tomorrow.

My boys can clear it today.

” Harrison extended his hand.

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Miss Parker.

But those dresses better be as good as Ruth says.

” “They will be.

” Lillian shook his hand firmly.

As they walked back to the boarding house, Ruth was smiling.

You drive a hard bargain for someone who arrived in town yesterday with $17.

I learned from watching Mrs.

Hendrickson negotiate with fabric suppliers.

Lillian felt a spark of something she hadn’t felt in months.

Possibility.

When do I start measuring Mr.

Harrison’s daughters? This afternoon, if you’re ready, I’ll spread the word you’re here.

By tomorrow, you’ll have customers.

Ruth was right.

By the time Lillian had measured all three Harrison girls, ages 8, 12, and 14, and sketched initial designs based on their excited chatter about ruffles and ribbons and styles they’d seen in magazines.

Two other women had appeared at the boarding house, asking about the new seamstress.

Mrs.

Whitmore needed her Sunday dress taken in.

Mrs.

Chen wanted a shirt mended for her husband.

Both women looked at Lillian’s work with a Harrison measurements and asked if she could make them custom dresses, too.

I’ll need fabric, Lillian told them.

And I’ll need payment in advance for materials.

How much? Mrs.

Whitmore asked.

Lillian did quick calculations.

$3 per dress for materials, $5 for my labor.

I can have them ready in two weeks.

” Both women agreed without hesitation.

By the end of the afternoon, Lillian had contracts for five new dresses and a pile of mending that would take her a week to complete.

She sat at Ruth’s kitchen table that evening, counting the advanced payments, and realized she had enough money to buy her train ticket to Colorado Springs three times over.

But she wasn’t thinking about leaving anymore.

“You’re going to need help moving that workt Harrison’s holding for you,” Ruth said, setting down a cup of tea.

“It’s solid oak, too heavy for us to manage.

I’ll ask Mr.

Harrison if his boys can deliver it.

” “Or you could ask Cole.

He’s coming by for supper again.

Said he had something to discuss with you.

” Lillian looked up sharply.

“With me? What about?” didn’t say.

Ruth’s expression was carefully neutral, but he doesn’t usually come to town two nights running unless there’s good reason.

Cole arrived just as the sun was setting, carrying a package wrapped in brown paper.

He handed it to Ruth.

From the ranch, Mrs.

Patterson made extra preserves and thought you might like some.

That woman’s too generous.

But Ruth looked pleased.

Stay for supper.

I made stew.

Over the meal, Cole asked about Lillian’s arrangement with Harrison.

She told him about the back room, the Harrison girls dresses, the new customers.

“You work fast,” he said.

“Most people take weeks to get established.

” “I don’t have weeks,” Lillian set down her spoon.

“I have $17 and no certainty about anything.

” “You have more than that now,” Ruth pointed out.

“Those advanced payments put you at $32.

which I’ll spend on fabric tomorrow.

Lillian felt the familiar anxiety creeping back.

And then I’ll be back to having almost nothing until the dresses are finished and paid for.

That’s how business works, Cole said.

You invest, you work, you get paid.

Then you do it again.

But what if? Lillian stopped herself.

What if the customers didn’t like the dresses? What if she’d measured wrong? What if she failed and ended up with nothing again? What if what? Cole’s voice was gentle.

What if I can’t do this? The words came out barely above a whisper.

What if I’m fooling myself, thinking I can just stay in a strange town and build a life from nothing? Ruth and Cole exchanged a look.

You’re already doing it, Ruth said firmly.

You’ve been here 2 days and you have five customers and a workspace.

That’s not fooling yourself.

That’s making something real.

But Vernon, Vernon Caldwell was a liar who prayed on desperate women, Cole interrupted, his voice harder than she’d heard before.

You trusted him because he seemed trustworthy.

That’s not your fault.

But don’t let his lies make you doubt yourself now.

Lillian looked at him, startled by the intensity in his eyes.

I saw you negotiate with Frank Harrison this morning, Cole continued.

Ruth told me about it.

You didn’t beg or plead.

You offered value for value.

That’s not desperation.

That’s business sense.

You were watching.

Lillian wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

I was buying supplies at the Merkantile.

Cole’s expression softened.

I wasn’t spying, but I was impressed.

Something warm unfurled in Lillian’s chest.

“Thank you.

Now, about that workt,” Cole said, changing the subject.

“I can bring a wagon to town tomorrow and move it for you if you want.

” “I don’t want to be a bother.

” “It’s not a bother.

I come to town twice a week anyway for ranch business.

” Cole pushed back from the table.

I’ll be here around 10:00.

That work for you? Yes.

Thank you.

After he left, Ruth looked at Lillian with knowing eyes.

That man doesn’t usually offer to haul furniture for strangers.

He’s just being kind.

He’s interested.

Ruth started clearing the dishes.

And before you start ftting about it, there’s nothing wrong with that.

Cole Mercer is one of the good ones.

Steady worker, honest, respected around here.

His family’s been at Redest Ranch for three generations.

I just got here, Lillian protested.

I’m not looking for I can’t.

Nobody’s saying you have to do anything, Ruth said.

I’m just telling you that if you decide you’re interested back, Cole’s worth considering, unlike certain lying conmen who write pretty letters.

That night, Lillian couldn’t sleep.

She kept thinking about Cole’s words.

Don’t let his lies make you doubt yourself now.

The problem was Vernon’s lies had shaken something fundamental.

How could she trust her own judgment anymore? She’d been so certain he was real, so convinced that his letters reflected genuine feeling, and she’d been completely wrong.

The next morning, she threw herself into work.

She went to the merkantile and bought fabric.

Calico for Mrs.

Whitmore, a soft blue cotton for Mrs.

Chen, pretty printed material for the Harrison girls.

Frank Harrison gave her a discount, reminding her that she was technically his tenant.

Now, by the time Cole arrived with the wagon, Lillian had already swept out the back room and scrubbed the windows until they gleamed.

She was measuring the space when she heard his voice at the front of the store.

Miss Parker, where do you want this table? She hurried to the front and found Cole and Harrison’s two sons hefting a massive oak workt.

By the window, please best.

They maneuvered it into place, and Lillian ran her hand over the smooth surface.

It was perfect, solid, level, exactly what she needed.

Thank you, she said to Cole.

This is wonderful.

There’s more in the wagon.

Harrison said you could have the chairs and shelving unit, too, part of your arrangement.

By noon, Lillian’s workspace was set up.

She had her table, two chairs, shelving for fabric and supplies, and her sewing basket from home arranged just so.

It looked like a real shop.

Her shop.

“You need a sign,” Cole said, leaning against the doorframe.

“Something to let people know you’re here.

” “I can’t afford a sign right now.

” “I could make you one,” he straightened.

“I’m fair with woodwork.

Nothing fancy, but clear enough.

What would you want it to say? Lillian thought for a moment.

Parker, dress making and alterations.

That’s simple and direct.

I’ll have it ready by next week.

Cole moved toward the door, then stopped.

There’s a social at the church this Saturday.

Dancing and food.

I was wondering if you might like to go.

Lillian’s heart jumped.

As in, together, if you’re willing.

Cole’s expression was open.

Hopeful.

I know you just got here and you might not be interested, but I thought it could be a good way for you to meet more people in town.

Good for business.

Good for business, Lillian repeated, not sure if she was relieved or disappointed by the practical framing.

And because I’d like to spend time with you, Cole added quietly.

If I’m being honest, there it was, direct and clear.

No flowery language or elaborate promises, just simple truth.

Lillian wanted to say yes, but Vernon’s letters were still in her trunk upstairs, a reminder of how wrong she could be about men.

“I need to think about it,” she said finally.

Fair enough.

Cole didn’t look hurt, just patient.

Let me know by Friday.

Social starts at 7:00.

After he left, Lillian sat at her new workt and tried to focus on cutting patterns for the Harrison girl’s dresses, but her mind kept wandering to Cole’s invitation, to the way he’d helped her without asking for anything in return, to the steadiness in his voice when he said he was interested.

She was cutting fabric for the youngest Harrison girl’s dress when she heard a commotion in the front of the store.

Raised voices, a woman crying.

Lillian set down her shears and hurried to the main room.

Frank Harrison was behind the counter, his face flushed.

A woman in a worn traveling dress stood in front of him, tears streaming down her face.

“Please,” the woman was saying.

I just need enough for a ticket home.

I’ll pay you back.

I promise.

I’m sorry, miss, but I can’t extend credit to strangers.

Harrison’s voice was firm, but not unkind.

It’s not personal.

It’s just business.

I don’t have anyone else to ask.

The woman’s voice broke.

I came here to meet my husband, but he’s not he’s not who he said he was.

Lillian’s blood ran cold.

She stepped forward.

What’s your name? The woman turned, her eyes red and swollen.

She was young, maybe 20, with fair hair falling loose from its pins.

Sarah.

Sarah Mitchell.

Who are you supposed to meet, Sarah? Vernon Caldwell.

The name was a saab.

He wrote me such beautiful letters.

He said he owned a hotel in Tucson.

He said he’d meet me at the station there.

But when I arrived, no one knew him.

No hotel, no business, nothing.

I’ve been searching for 3 days.

I spent all my money trying to find him.

And now I’m stranded, and I just want to go home.

The room spun.

Lillian gripped the edge of Harrison’s counter.

Vernon Caldwell, she managed, dark hair, about 40, writes about building a future together.

Sarah’s eyes widened.

You know him? He wrote to me, too.

Promised me he owned a dry goods store in Colorado Springs.

I came here on my way to meet him, and I learned it was all lies.

Lillian’s voice shook with anger.

How many women do you think he’s done this to? I don’t understand.

Sarah swayed on her feet.

Why would he? What does he want if not marriage? Money.

Ruth’s voice came from the boarding house entrance.

She must have heard the commotion.

Men like Caldwell cast a wide net.

They write to multiple women at once, make promises, get them to travel west with whatever money they’ve saved.

Then they meet the ones who show up with cash, take what they can, and disappear.

But I don’t have any money, Sarah whispered.

I spent it all getting here.

Then he won’t meet you, Lillian said.

That’s why he wasn’t at the station.

You’re not worth his time anymore.

The words were brutal, but Sarah needed to hear them.

She needed to understand what Caldwell was.

“What am I supposed to do?” Sarah asked.

I can’t get home.

I can’t afford food.

I don’t know [clears throat] anyone here.

Lillian looked at Ruth.

Ruth looked back at her with raised eyebrows, waiting.

Come with me, Lillian said.

Ruth runs a boarding house.

We’ll figure something out.

I can’t pay.

I know.

Come anyway.

They walked Sarah to the boarding house, got her settled in a chair with tea and food, and let her cry herself out.

When she’d calmed down enough to talk coherently, she told them the same story Lillian had lived.

A woman alone, desperate for security, taken in by beautiful promises.

“I have a cousin in St.

Louis,” Sarah said.

“If I could just get there, she’d take me in.

But the train ticket costs $28 and I have $3 left.

Lillian did the arithmetic.

$25.

It might as well be a,000.

How are you with a needle? Ruth asked.

Sarah looked up.

I can sew basic things.

Nothing fancy.

Can you hem and do simple repairs? Yes.

Ruth glanced at Lillian.

You’ve got more mending than you can handle right now.

Sarah could help.

You pay her a fair wage.

She earns enough for a ticket home.

It was a good plan, logical, practical.

But Lillian’s bank account, if you could call $32 a bank account, couldn’t sustain paying another worker.

Not yet.

Not when she still had to buy supplies and pay for her own room and board.

I can’t afford to hire anyone right now, she said reluctantly.

I’m sorry.

Sarah’s face crumpled.

Ruth frowned.

“What if we did it differently?” Ruth said slowly.

“Sarah stays here, helps with the mending.

I feed her and how her Lillian, you take on extra work from the extra help Sarah provides, which means more income.

When Sarah’s earned enough to cover her ticket, she goes home.

Until then, she’s safe and fed.

” That’s asking you to take on all the cost, Lillian protested.

I’m asking you to take on extra work so Sarah’s labor has value, Ruth countered.

And I’m doing what needs doing.

This girl isn’t the first woman who’s been lied to, and she won’t be the last.

We help when we can.

Lillian looked at Sarah’s desperate face and thought about her own arrival in Quartz Hill two days ago.

If Ruth hadn’t offered help, where would she be now? All right, she said.

We’ll try it.

Sarah started crying again, but this time from relief.

That evening, working by lamplight with Sarah hemming Mrs.

Whitmore’s dress under her direction, Lillian realized something.

Vernon Caldwell hadn’t just lied to her.

He’d lied to dozens of women, maybe hundreds.

He was still out there, still writing letters, still making promises he had no intention of keeping, and she couldn’t do anything about it.

The helplessness made her furious.

“You’re pulling those stitches too tight,” Sarah said hesitantly.

Lillian looked down and saw that she’d been working on one of the Harrison girls dresses with angry, uneven tension.

She put it aside.

“You’re right.

I need to focus.

Are you all right? I’m angry at Caldwell, at myself for believing him, at the fact that he’s going to keep doing this to other women.

I keep wondering if I could have known, Sarah said quietly.

If there were signs I missed.

Me, too.

But Ruth says men like him are practiced at lying.

They know what to say to sound sincere.

Still, Sarah sat down her hemwork.

I should have been smarter.

We both should have been, Lillian agreed.

But we’re here now, and we’re not going to let him destroy us.

That’s what matters.

Sarah managed a small smile.

Ruth said, “You’re building a business here.

Starting over.

” Trying to.

That’s brave.

Lillian thought about that.

Was it brave or was it just survival? She wasn’t sure it mattered.

They worked in silence for a while longer and then Sarah spoke again.

The man who helped you move furniture today.

Cole, is he? Are you two? No, we’re not.

Lillian kept her eyes on her stitching.

He’s just been kind.

He looked at you like you were more than just someone to be kind to.

He asked me to a church social on Saturday.

Are you going? I don’t know.

Lillian tied off a thread and cut it clean.

How am I supposed to trust my judgment about men? I thought Vernon was sincere.

I was wrong.

What if I’m wrong about Cole, too? Cole’s here, Sarah pointed out.

He’s real.

You can see him.

Talk to people who know him.

Watch how he acts.

Vernon was just words on paper.

It’s not the same thing.

She was right, but it didn’t make the fear any easier to face.

Friday morning arrived with rain drumming against the windows.

Lillian woke to the sound of it and lay in bed trying to decide what to tell Cole about the church social.

She’d been avoiding him all week, burying herself in work, using every excuse to stay at her work table when he came by the merkantile.

She got dressed and went downstairs to find Sarah already in the kitchen helping Ruth prepare breakfast.

You need to give that man an answer today, Ruth said without preamble.

He’s coming by at noon to deliver your sign.

You can’t keep ducking him.

I’m not ducking him.

You hid in the back room twice this week when he walked in.

Ruth cracked eggs into a bowl.

That’s ducking.

Sarah glanced between them but said nothing.

She’d been quiet all week, working steadily on the mending pile, asking few questions, keeping to herself.

Lillian liked her for it.

I just don’t know what to say, Lillian admitted.

Yes or no? Those are your options.

Ruth poured the eggs into a hot pan.

Anything else is just cruelty.

The words stung.

I’m not trying to be cruel.

Then what are you trying to be? Lillian sat at the table and dropped her head into her hands.

Careful.

Being careful is smart.

Being paralyzed is different.

Ruth slid eggs onto three plates.

Vernon Caldwell lied to you.

Cole Mercer has been nothing but honest.

Those are facts.

What you do with those facts is up to you.

After breakfast, Lillian went to her workroom and tried to focus on finishing the youngest Harrison girl’s dress.

The ruffles needed attaching.

The hem needed completing, and she had promised delivery tomorrow, but her hands felt clumsy, and she had to unpick three seams because the stitching was uneven.

At noon, exactly, she heard Cole’s voice in the front of the merkantile.

Her heart jumped into her throat.

Miss Parker, Frank Harrison called Cole’s here with your sign.

Lillian sat down her work and walked to the front.

Cole stood by the counter holding a wooden sign.

The lettering was clean and carefully carved.

Parker dress making and alterations.

It’s beautiful, she said, and meant it.

I’ll hang it above your door if you want.

Cole’s voice was carefully neutral.

Got the brackets and nails right here.

Yes, thank you.

She watched him work, his movements efficient and sure.

He measured twice, marked the spots, drilled small pilot holes, and secured the sign in place.

When he stepped back, it looked professional, official, like she really was a business owner and not just a desperate woman pretending.

There you go.

Cole gathered his tools.

Anything else you need? This was the moment.

Lillian took a breath.

About the church social tomorrow.

Cole went very still.

Yes, I’d like to go with you.

If the invitation still stands.

Something shifted in his expression.

Relief, pleasure, warmth.

It stands.

I’ll pick you up at Ruth’s at 6:30.

That all right? That’s fine.

Cole smiled then, really smiled, and Lillian felt an answering warmth in her chest that scared and pleased her in equal measure.

After he left, Frank Harrison looked at her with knowing eyes.

That man’s been sweet on you since the day you fell in the street.

We barely know each other.

Sometimes that’s all it takes, recognition.

Harrison went back to his inventory ledger.

My wife and I knew each other three weeks before I proposed.

Been married 22 years now.

That evening, Sarah helped Lillian press her best dress and pin up her hair in a style she’d seen in a magazine.

They worked in companionable silence until Sarah finally spoke.

“I’m jealous,” she said quietly.

Not in a bad way, just you’re building something here.

You have people who care about you and I’m just passing through, counting days until I can leave.

Lillian looked at her in the mirror.

You could stay.

Ruth would let you.

There’s enough work.

No.

Sarah shook her head.

This isn’t my place.

I need to go home.

Face my family.

Admit I was foolish.

Start over where people know me.

Is that really home if you have to admit you were foolish? Sarah’s hands stilled in Lillian’s hair.

What do you mean? I mean, if your family is going to judge you for being deceived by a practiced liar, maybe they’re not the safe haven you think they are.

They’re my family.

So was mine, and they’re dead.

Lillian’s voice was sharper than she intended.

I’m just saying don’t run back to something that might hurt you worse than staying would.

Sarah finished pinning the last curl and stepped back.

I’ll think about it.

The next evening, Cole arrived at Ruth’s boarding house in clean clothes and a hat that looked new.

He offered Lillian his arm and they walked the three blocks to the church together.

The social was already in full swing when they arrived.

Music spilled out into the evening air.

Someone playing a fiddle, someone else on guitar.

Inside, lanterns hung from the rafters and tables laden with food lined one wall.

People were dancing, laughing, talking in clusters.

Lily and Parker.

Mrs.

Harrison swept toward them, her daughters trailing behind.

Girls, look, it’s Miss Parker.

Show her your dresses.

The three Harrison girls twirled, showing off the dresses Lillian had delivered that morning.

They fit perfectly, and the girls faces glowed with pleasure.

They’re beautiful, Mrs.

Harrison said.

Absolutely beautiful.

I’ve already told six women they need to come see you.

Thank you, Mrs.

Harrison.

Frank tells me you’re from Boston.

How are you finding Quartz Hill? It’s different.

Lillian chose her words carefully.

But good.

People have been very welcoming.

Well, you’re providing a service we’ve needed for years.

We’re glad to have you.

Mrs.

Harrison moved off to talk to someone else, and Lillian felt some of the tension in her shoulders ease.

Cole guided her toward the refreshment table.

See, I told you you’d be accepted.

It’s early yet.

Always expecting the worst, aren’t you? But his tone was gentle, not critical.

Experience has taught me to.

Then maybe it’s time for new experiences to teach you different.

Cole handed her a cup of punch.

Dance with me.

Lillian hadn’t danced in years, not since before her parents died, when there had been neighborhood gatherings and she’d been young and hopeful.

But she let Cole lead her onto the floor and found that her feet remembered the steps.

They danced two songs and then Cole introduced her to people.

the blacksmith and his wife, the doctor, the banker, the minister who ran the church.

Everyone was cordial, curious, welcoming.

No one asked invasive questions about why she’d come west or where she’d planned to go before Quartz Hill.

Lillian was beginning to relax when a woman’s voice cut through the conversation.

I heard there’s a new seamstress in town.

Is that you? Lillian turned to find a woman perhaps 30 years old, well-dressed, with sharp eyes and a sharper smile.

Something about her expression made Lillian wary.

Yes, Lillian Parker.

Margaret Patterson.

My husband owns Red Crest Ranch.

The woman’s gaze flicked to Cole.

I see you’ve met our foreman.

Cole’s been very helpful, Lillian said carefully.

I’m sure he has.

Margaret’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.

Tell me, Miss Parker, are you married? The question was abrupt enough to be rude.

Cole stiffened beside her.

No, ma’am.

Widowed? No.

I see.

And you came west alone? That’s quite bold.

I came west for work, Lillian said evenly.

Same as many people do.

through a matrimonial agency.

I heard Margaret’s voice carried and several nearby conversations quieted.

Looking for a husband, but that didn’t work out, did it? The room temperature seemed to drop.

Lillian felt every eye on her.

The man I came to meet turned out to be dishonest, she said clearly.

I chose not to continue to Colorado Springs once I learned that.

I chose to stay here and build a business instead.

How convenient that you found a new prospect so quickly.

Margaret glanced meaningfully at Cole.

Margaret.

Cole’s voice was low and dangerous.

That’s enough.

I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.

Margaret’s smile was poisonous.

A woman alone, desperate for security, latching on to the first man who shows her kindness.

It’s a familiar story.

Lillian’s face burned.

She wanted to defend herself to explain, but her throat had closed up.

Around her, people were watching, waiting to see what she’d say.

You don’t know what you’re talking about.

Cole stepped forward.

And you’re being cruel for no reason except that’s what you do when you feel threatened.

Threatened by her? Margaret laughed.

Don’t be absurd.

You’ve been after me to court your sister for 2 years,” Cole continued, his voice carrying now.

“I’ve told you repeatedly I’m not interested.

Maybe that’s why you’re so intent on running off any woman who might actually catch my attention.

” The room went silent.

Margaret’s face turned red.

“How dare you? I dare because I’m tired of your meddling.

” Cole took Lillian’s arm.

“Come on, we’re leaving.

” He guided her out of the church and into the cool night air.

Lillian’s hands were shaking.

“I’m sorry,” Cole said once they were alone.

“Margaret Patterson is a piece of work.

Her husband’s a good man, but she’s got a mean streak.

Everything she said was true, though.

” Lillian’s voice came out unsteady.

I did come west through a matrimonial agency.

I am alone.

And I am Your what? practical, smart enough to recognize an opportunity when you see one, brave enough to start over in a strange town.

” Cole turned to face her.

Those aren’t things to be ashamed of.

She made it sound cheap, like I’m some kind of opportunist using you.

She made it sound that way because she wanted to hurt you.

Don’t give her that power.

Cole took her hands.

Look at me, Lillian.

She met his eyes.

I asked you to that social because I wanted to spend time with you.

Not because you need rescue.

Not because I feel sorry for you, but because I find you interesting and capable and worth knowing.

If Margaret Patterson or anyone else has a problem with that, it’s their problem, not yours.

Lillian wanted to believe him, but doubt had taken root in her mind.

Planted there by Vernon’s lies and watered by Margaret’s cruelty.

Maybe people will always see me that way.

The desperate mailorder bride who didn’t work out.

Some people will.

Small-minded people who need someone to look down on.

Cole’s grip on her hands tightened.

But most people in Quartz Hill aren’t like Margaret.

You’ve already seen that.

Mrs.

Harrison, Frank at the Merkantile, Ruth, Dr.

Morrison.

They don’t care how you got here.

They care that you do good work and treat people fairly.

But what if? What if nothing? His voice was firm.

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