<< Go Back

Fairest of Heart

By Karen Witemeyer

Order Now!

Prologue
Chicago, Spring 1892

"Keep your eyes down and head bowed," Edith instructed. "Do nothing to draw attention. A woman like Narcissa LaBelle lives for the spotlight, so you must make yourself dim in comparison. I won't be able to help you once her troupe leaves town."

Penelope Snow bit her lip and nodded, doing her best to stave off the tears misting her eyes as she smoothed the brown calico apron she wore over a shapeless, mud-colored dress. She and Edith had selected her wardrobe with care—opting for functional, drab pieces that would hide the figure that had caused so much trouble in her last position.

You're going on an adventure, Pen. A chance to see new places. Meet new people. Don't dwell on what you're leaving behind. The Lord has provided a fresh start. Make the most of it.

"Ah, my lamb." Edith clutched Penelope to her breast in an unexpected embrace. "I'm going to miss you so."

The cook from Wyndham's School for Girls rarely showed emotion and seemed to regret her outburst a heartbeat after it happened. Stiffening, she set Penelope away from her with a sniff and paced to the window of Madame LaBelle's sitting room where they'd been asked to wait.

Penelope followed and placed her hand on the elderly woman's shoulder. "I'll miss you, too. Miss Wyndham might have taught me grammar, literature, and history, but the lessons I learned at your knee are the ones I carry in my heart."

Edith reached across her chest to cover Penelope's hand with gnarled fingers. Knuckles swollen and arthritic from years of hard work. Skin rough and calloused. Yet those same hands had cradled Penelope as a baby, lifting her from the basket a stranger had abandoned on the school's back stoop in the middle of a winter storm. Those hands had taught her to knead bread and sew a fine stitch. They'd folded over hers while she learned to pray to a God who loved all his children, no matter how humble their beginnings.

The sitting room door opened, and Penelope jerked her hand away from Edith's shoulder. She turned to face whoever entered, ducking her chin as she'd been coached. The maid who had shown them into this small parlor upon their arrival now held the door wide as a striking woman swept inside.

Penelope stole a quick glance at the woman who would be her employer, and had to lock her jaw to keep from gaping like a fish. Madame LaBelle was the most beautiful woman Penelope had ever seen. So elegant and sophisticated. She moved with such grace, her skirt didn't even rustle. And what a skirt it was! Bright red silk patterned with delicate black flowers that danced like blooms in a breeze, silhouetted against a sunset. Black lace fanned out along the hem with matching lace accents hugging the actress's waist to emphasize her hourglass figure. The squared-off neckline dipped lower than the current high-necked style, setting her apart as a woman of boldness and confidence. Her presence demanded attention.

"Ah! Here you are, my dears." Madame LaBelle's face lit up as if she'd been searching for them for hours. "Let's get down to business, shall we?"

Her arm moved in an artful flourish as she gestured for Penelope and Edith to precede her into the seating area located in front of the small hearth.

"Have a seat on the settee," she invited as she alit on the longer, pale green sofa. "You'll have to excuse my ragged appearance." She lifted a hand to her perfectly coifed chestnut locks. "I've been packing all day. It's quite fatiguing." She smiled at Penelope. "Which is why I'm so grateful to have you joining our merry band of travelers."

Narcissa LaBelle arched one brow as she examined Penelope from head to toe. Her smile flattened into something much more assessing and calculated. Too late to hide now. Though the idea of this exotic woman with her rich olive skin, sculpted cheekbones, and worldly air finding anything the least bit threatening in Penelope's appearance was laughable. Like comparing a queen to a milkmaid.

Although, if the papers were correct, Madame LaBelle's last-minute decision to leave Chicago and join a troupe touring the west stemmed from a review in the Tribune that dared to suggest she had grown too old to play a convincing ingenue on stage. Penelope imagined such harsh criticism could make even the most beautiful woman insecure. Her heart stirred. How difficult it must be to have others constantly scrutinizing and picking apart her appearance and talent.

"Your appearance is far from ragged, Madame." Honest admiration colored Penelope's tone. "You're the most compelling woman I've ever seen."

Narcissa LaBelle stopped her perusal of Penelope and blinked, a hint of vulnerability visible in her brown eyes for half a second before her polished poise slipped back into place.

"Well, aren't you a delightful girl?" A new smile blossomed across the actress's face, one wide enough to show off her straight, white teeth but not so wide as to draw lines around her eyes. Her expression did, however, emphasize the small beauty mark at the bottom edge of her left cheekbone. "How old are you, child?"

"Nineteen, ma'am. I'll be twenty next month." Penelope answered, bowing her head in a show of submission.

A servant didn't volunteer her opinions or converse with her betters like an equal. Madame LaBelle might forgive her forwardness in offering a well-intentioned compliment, but from this point forward, Penelope intended to demonstrate that she knew her place.

Answer directly. Speak only when spoken to. Display deference and decorum at all times.

"When Miss Wyndham recommended you, she assured me you were literate and wrote with a fine hand. Is that an accurate assessment?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Edith leaned forward and pulled a folded sheet of paper from her purse. "I brought a sample of her penmanship, Madame." She held out an essay Penelope had written before she'd left Wyndham to take a position in the Carlisle household. "She graduated with top marks."

"Excellent." Madame LaBelle gave a cursory glance to the essay then handed it back to Edith, obviously not caring about the content, only the appearance of the handwriting. "I'll need someone to oversee my correspondence in addition to tending to more mundane duties." She returned her attention to Penelope. "Sometimes I have difficulty falling asleep. I'll likely ask you to read to me on those occasions. If I were to ask you to fetch me a book of poetry to sooth my restless spirit, which would you select?"

It was a test. Penelope's pulse reacted instantly. She searched her mind for the poems she had learned in school, trying to imagine what a famous actress might prefer. But she knew nothing of Madame LaBelle's tastes. So before the silence could stretch too long, she mentally clasped the one piece of verse that had always spoken to her heart, a tale of love between ordinary people. A man's adoration and a woman's dedication. A love lasting from first blush through old age.

"Tennyson," she finally said. "I find his rhythms soothing, and his idyllic scenes conjure peaceful images."

Madame LaBelle leaned forward, her gaze challenging, expectant. "Such as?"

Penelope gripped her hands together tightly in her lap, closed her eyes, and recited a few of her favorite lines from The Miller's Daughter.

"With farther lookings on. The kiss,

The woven arms, seen but to be

Weak symbols of the settled bliss,

The comfort, I have found in thee."

Madame LaBelle leaned back, a gleam of satisfaction shining in her dark eyes. "Ah. So you're a romantic."

"Sentimental, perhaps," Penelope conceded. "I find that men in the real world rarely live up to poetical expectations." Hence the need to clobber Gerard Carlisle over the head with a silver tea tray last week, forcing her to leave his mother's employ without a reference.

Madame LaBelle laughed, the sound throaty and jaded. "I like you, Penelope. If you're as good at removing stains and pressing dresses as you are at reciting sappy poetry, you should suit my purposes admirably."

Penelope lifted her chin to look her new employer in the eye. "I'll work hard for you, ma'am. You'll have no cause to question my dedication."

"That's good." Madame LaBelle rose gracefully from the sofa, an intensity firing her eyes that dispelled all comradery from the room.

A frisson scurried down Penelope's spine as she pushed to her feet.

"I demand unswerving loyalty from my employees, Miss Snow. Serve me well, and you will be rewarded. Betray me, and you'll find yourself tossed out on your ear. Are you willing to accept my terms?"

Penelope swallowed. Miss Wyndham had made it clear when Penelope left the school this morning that she would not be welcomed back. Scandal tainted her after the incident at Carlisle House, and scandal would destroy a school that relied on a pristine reputation to recruit students.

Edith had called this position with Narcissa LaBelle an answer to prayer, arising at just the right time to meet Penelope's greatest need.

A sea parting to open a way for her to escape her troubles would have been preferred, but it seemed her miracle was more in line with the caravan that arrived at just the right time to spare Joseph's life when his brothers sought to kill him. Slavery hadn't been much of an improvement of his lot, but Joseph made a life for himself through hard work and integrity. He earned his master's respect, and in the end, God led him to a life of blessing. She could do the same. She would do the same.

Fighting off a shiver of trepidation, Penelope steeled her nerves and straightened her spine.

"I accept."


Chapter One
Bosque County, TX
Six months later

"Come out with your hands up!" Titus Kingsley sighted down the barrel of his Winchester repeater from his protected position behind a dilapidated wagon.

It had taken three days to track the Buchanan brothers to this homestead outside Walnut Springs after they robbed the bank in Meridian. Captain Bill McDonald had assigned Titus the case along with two other Texas Rangers from Company B. It was his first time to ride lead, and he aimed to bring his quarry to justice. At twenty-seven, he lacked the experience of the more seasoned officers, but he'd been the one to piece together the connection between the Buchanans and the railroad machine shops in Walnut Springs, so Captain Bill had given him free rein to follow his hunch and chase the bank robbers to ground.

"You're surrounded by Rangers, Buchanan."

Carson was covering the rear, and Hoffman stood ready, tucked behind the side of the barn about forty yards west of the ramshackle house where the brothers were holed up.

Titus lifted his head just enough to throw his voice across the yard. "You ain't gonna win a shoot-out. Better to surrender peacefully."

The loud clink of breaking glass drew Titus's attention to the window left of the door. A pistol barrel poked through the opening, knocking away the jagged shards of the rectangular window pane a second before the gun fired.

Titus ducked behind the wagon bed. He'd suspected the Buchanans weren't terribly bright, but opening fire on a group of trained Rangers confirmed it.

Hoffman's rifle cracked off a 3-shot volley from the barn, drawing their attention and giving Titus the chance to find a better angle. Dropping to his knees, he crawled under the wagon and slithered down to the hitching end where he'd have a clear line of sight to the window.

A second weapon broke through the glass. Higher and to the left. Revolvers. Deadly, but they lacked range. Hoffman should be fine if he held his position at the barn. Carson was the one Titus worried about. The kid was wet behind the ears. Good marksman, but he tended to rely on his gun more than his brain. Which was why Titus assigned him the rear guard. Carson would keep the Buchanans from escaping, if it came to that, but Titus intended to keep the brothers occupied and take them down before they made the attempt.

Titus flattened onto his belly and dragged his Winchester in front of him. Raising up on his elbows, he tucked the rifle stock into his right shoulder and used his left hand to support the barrel. He slowed his breathing. Sighted his target. And fired.

One of the Buchanans cried out. The second revolver disappeared from the window. The first continued firing, but the shots flew wild. Titus sighted the second man, aiming for his shoulder. If he would just stand a little taller or move slightly to the left . . .

A shot rang out. Muted. Distant. From behind the house. Was Carson trying to breach on his own? Foolish kid was gonna get himself killed.

"Hoffman! Cover me!"

Titus drew his rifle to his chest then rolled out into the open. As soon as he cleared the edge of the wagon, he sprang into a crouch, ready to fire at the fugitive behind the window, but Hoffman had a steady percussion of shots working. His repeater echoed loudly as he moved away from the barn with a slow, even stride. He'd have to reload soon. The '73 Winchester favored by the Rangers held fifteen cartridges. More than the six-shooters the Buchanan brothers sported, but Hoffman was probably down to his last few rounds. Time to breach the door.

Staying low, Titus ran for the house. When he reached the door, he brought his boot heel up and smashed it near the lock, splintering the wood and sending the door crashing into the house.

"On the floor!" The barked order bounced off the walls like canon fire. It didn't matter that he couldn't see the brothers yet, they knew he was in the house. He'd use that to his advantage. Assert control. Demand compliance. Instill fear. "Guns down. Hands up. Now!"

At least one brother was still in the front room. He couldn't be sure of the second without visual confirmation. The second Buchanan could have retreated deeper into the house after taking Titus's bullet to the shoulder.

A heavy bang announced a breach from the rear. Carson. So, he'd held his position as instructed. Good. But if Carson hadn't been advancing on the house, what had he been shooting at?

No time to ponder. Had to press his advantage.

Flattening his back against the wall by the open doorway that led into the front room, Titus inched toward the opening, then snapped a quick peek into the room before dodging back to safety. The view was a blur, but he'd identified two men. One hunkered at the base of the window, shoving bullets into his revolver's cylinder with shaky hands. The other huddled in a corner, whimpering.

"Gun down, Buchanan," Titus ordered as he spun into the room, rifle-first, "or I give you a souvenir to match the one your brother's got in his shoulder."

The half-loaded revolver fell to the floor. The younger Buchanan raised his hands above his head.

"I got the big one." Carson's voice echoed low behind Titus.

Titus nodded, glad to have another Ranger in the room to watch his back. He focused his attention on the thief in front of him. "On the floor. Face down."

Buchanan complied, his movements slow, his chin tucked toward his chest in submission. Titus moved deeper into the room and kicked the revolver out of Buchanan's reach. Circling a chair, he approached the prone suspect, then knelt over him, pressing one knee into Buchanan's back. After glancing to the far wall to ensure Carson had big brother Ted contained, Titus set his rifle down and pulled out the leather strap he used for binding prisoners. He pulled back one wrist at a time and secured Percy Buchanan's hands behind his back.

"You good in there, Kingsley?" Hoffman called from outside the window.

"Yep. Got both suspects in custody. Check the perimeter then bring the horses round."

"Will do."

Titus pulled Percy to his feet and dragged him toward his brother. "How's his shoulder, Carson?"

The other Ranger shrugged. "He'll live."

Titus bit back a sigh. Carson's calloused attitude grated. Just because they hunted criminals didn't mean they couldn't extend a little common decency. Rangering made a man hard, but if that hardness calcified his soul, he'd be no better than the thieves and murderers he hunted.

"I've got bandages in my saddlebag. Take him out front and dress the wound. We'll get him back to Walnut Springs and see if there's a doctor there to patch him up."

"Walnut Springs ain't got no doctor," Ted ground out between moans as Carson jerked him to his feet.

"Maybe you shoulda thought of that before you opened fire on a company of Texas Rangers." Carson crooked the man's good arm behind his back and herded him toward the hall. The pair drew up short, however, when Hoffman braced himself in the doorway. He glared at Carson then turned his head to meet Titus's gaze.

"Found this stuffed in the pie safe." He held up a bulging gunny sack.

Percy's muttered curse confirmed the contents. The money from the First National robbery in Meridian. But that didn't explain the scowl on Hoffman's face or Carson's agitation.

"Found somethin' else out back," Hoffman continued. "Somethin' you should see."

Titus's gut clenched. That shot he'd heard from behind the house. Someone had taken a hit. Titus released Percy and immediately strode for the doorway, trusting Hoffman to take charge of the prisoner.

"It's just a mangy dog," Carson blurted as Titus stepped around him. "Nothin' to get all worked up about."

Titus jerked to a halt. "You shot a dog?"

"He came out from behind the woodpile, growlin' at me. What was I supposed to do? Just let him attack?"

"The critter's still breathin'," Hoffman said, his tone thick with disapproval. "Wasn't sure if I should put him down. Thought you oughta take a look first."

Ever since Titus had brought a half-dead mutt back to headquarters and nursed him back to health after finding him half-starved during a scouting mission, the Rangers of Company B treated Titus like some kind of animal expert. Seeking his opinion on everything from horse ailments to cat conniptions. One fella even asked for advice on fowl feed after getting a letter from his mother bemoaning the fact that her favorite laying hen had stopped producing. He really didn't know more than the average rancher or farmer, but he'd always had an affinity for God's creatures, and they seemed to sense that about him, finding peace in his presence, just as he did in theirs. And now one of those creatures might be dying thanks to a situation he'd orchestrated.

Titus rushed through the house and out the back door. He spotted the fallen dog immediately, its black fur dark against the dusty brown earth. Not wanting to frighten him, Titus slowed his step and circled around to the front, so the animal could see him coming. His ribcage rose and fell in ragged, shallow pants.

"Easy, boy." Titus held out his palm as he approached.

The dog tried to lift his head, but barely managed to elevate his snout. His glossy black eyes radiated pain and confusion, tearing a hole in Titus's heart.

He crouched beside the dog and gently stroked his floppy ear. Light brown fur marked his nose, chest, and belly, reminding Titus of a black and tan coonhound, though he was likely a mixed breed.

"It's all right, boy. I'm here to help." He ran his hand over the dog's neck and down his side. A soft whine sounded when his hand skimmed over the dog's left front leg. Moving carefully, Titus slipped his hand around to his underside and felt the warm wetness of blood.

Titus didn't know much about canine anatomy, but he figured he could treat him like he would a human and at least give him a chance to pull through. He rolled the dog over onto his back to expose his belly, then pulled his handkerchief from his trouser pocket and pressed it against the hole where Carson's bullet had entered.

Movement flashed above him, and Titus discovered a red bandana dangling above his head, Hoffman on the other end.

"Here."

Titus accepted it with a nod then glanced over at Percy Buchanan who stood scowling at Hoffman's side. "What's your dog's name?"

"Ain't our dog. Just some stray Ted's been feedin' since we came here."

Titus turned back to his patient. "No one looking after you, huh, boy? Well, that's about to change. You got me, now. I'll see to it you get patched up. You just gotta hang in there for a bit."

He swirled the bandana into a rope, placed it over the handkerchief, then wrapped it up and over the dog's back and tied it off.

"Easy now," he coaxed as he scooped the dog into his arms and pushed up, first onto one knee, then to his feet.

The small pool of blood that remained behind didn't bode well for the dog's chances, but his chances would be zero if Titus didn't try.

"Where you gonna take him?" Hoffman slung the confiscated gunny sack over his shoulder and reached out a hand to pat the dog on the head. "Ain't no doc in Walnut Springs, and I doubt he'll make it much farther."

"I know a place. 'Bout ten miles north of here." He leveled his gaze at Hoffman. "I'll need you to take charge of the Buchanans for me, though. Get them to the sheriff in Meridian."

"Consider it done. I'll keep an eye on Carson, too. Make sure Ted gets to a doctor."

"Thanks." Titus strode toward his horse. "Tell Captain Bill I'll report to headquarters in a day or two. He can dock my pay for the missed time if needed."

Hoffman ambled along at his side, dragging Percy with him. "If docking is needed, it'll come from Carson's pay, not yours," the Ranger grumbled.

As they approached the horses, Carson looked up from where he'd been digging around in Titus's saddlebag for bandages. He scowled at the load Titus carried.

"You oughta just put the thing out of its misery and leave it be. We're Texas Rangers, commissioned to uphold the law and protect the citizens of this state from theft and violence. Animals ain't our jurisdiction."

Titus leveled a glare at him. "I think the Good Lord might disagree. I seem to recall him giving man dominion over the beasts at creation. That puts them under our protection. And I aim to protect this one as best as I am able." The last pup he'd rescued was living out his days on the Kingsley family farm chasing rabbits and coons to his heart's content. This one deserved the same chance, but it was gonna take more than food and a bath to set this fella to rights. "Step aside, Carson. I got a man to see about a dog."

Hoffman held out his arms. "I'll hold him while you mount."

In a matter of minutes, Titus was settled in the saddle with his patient draped across his lap.

"Hang in there, boy." Titus wrapped an arm around the dog's body as he nudged his mount into a slow canter. "Doc will fix you up."

If they got to the Diamond D in time.

Order Now!

<< Go Back