Imitations of a Lady Read online

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  The train whistle hissed and blared, and the wheels came to a screeching stop against the tracks. Jesse shot up in his seat and wiped his hand along his drooled-on jaw. He set his hat on the bench and stretched, scanning the passengers exiting onto the platform.

  Plenty of men exited the train, but only three women descended the metal stairs, and each of them was decidedly not Miss Williams. The first woman was well over forty years old, the second carried a baby, and the third was anything but proper.

  At last, a young woman placed a gloved hand on the railing and put her other to gathering the folds of her fanciful dress. She was pretty, Jesse would give that to Grams, but the girl took only one step before the heel of her boot lodged itself in the cracks of the metal-racked stairs.

  Jesse stepped from the wagon and walked toward her. As was the way with such women, she’d be in need of assistance. She swiveled her foot back and forth, leaning from one side to another, but her efforts were to no avail. The boot was securely lodged. She glanced over a shoulder and then below, her lips pressing into a hard line.

  What was she deliberating? Jesse hesitated, watching on from a few feet away.

  The woman bent, rather swiftly, unlaced the boot, and then knelt before it to set it free.

  Jesse grinned. He’d never seen a woman in such clothes move so swiftly. With a final effort, she pulled. She pulled so frantically, that when the boot was set free, her herculean effort sent her tumbling backward, onto the gravel below.

  Jesse darted forward, chiding himself. Now the lady would be hurt and embarrassed, and he’d be left picking up the pieces of her mishap. “Are you alright?” Jesse asked, reaching out his hand to assist her.

  She pushed from the ground and dusted off her dress. “Pardon me,” she said, but anger dripped from each word. She struggled to catch her breath. A few strands of blonde hair escaped her bun, a stark contrast to her otherwise tamed appearance. “My blasted heel planted itself in that step, quite stubbornly in fact, and freeing it took all my strength,” she said, almost shouting. She held up her boot and met Jesse’s gaze. Blue eyes—dazzling blue eyes. “Heels—a monstrous invention made especially for restricting women—”

  He smiled, and her voice broke off. “No need to pitch a fit. Allow me to assist you, Miss…?”

  She wobbled, without his assistance, to one of the many benches lining the station and sat. “I won’t require your help, thank you.”

  Jesse followed, more intrigued. “Miss, you took quite the tumble…”

  She pulled back her shoulders and lifted her chin. Her lips lifted in a suspiciously practiced smile. She seemed to wear her expression as a mask. “Thank you for your concern, but you needn’t worry a moment longer about me.” She replaced her boot without another word.

  He felt helpless to assist her, yet incapable of leaving her. Not only was he curious by this strange woman, he felt inexplicably captivated.

  “Thank you for your assistance,” she said, even though she’d refused both his efforts. Her voice was softer now, not anything like when she first spoke after falling. “I do hope you will forget my clumsiness. Travel has the tendency to bring out the worst in a person, and I’ve been travelling for so long—all the way from Virginia.”

  “Consider it forgotten,” he said without hesitation. It was as clear a lie as Jesse’d ever muttered. Forgetting such a scene was impossible. But to his bewilderment, he found himself wishing to offer some comfort to this beautiful, but odd, stranger.

  “Now, if it is not too much to ask,” she said, standing. “I beg you will forgive me. I am sure my party is already in search of my whereabouts. I would not wish to keep them waiting another moment.”

  He laughed. Surely this couldn’t be his errand, and yet… “You aren’t Miss Williams, my grandmother’s companion, are you?”

  The lady flinched, closing her eyes for a moment. “How ever did you guess?”

  He grinned. Grams was in for a surprise. “Only lady from the East on board the train, far as I can tell,” he said. “Jesse Davis, here to escort you to Northwind Range.”

  “Mr. Davis, how kind of you to meet me,” she said, curtsying. The movement was mechanical, rigid. “I am impatient to see your grandmother. Five years is far too long to go without seeing such a kind woman.”

  His brows lifted, and he smirked. Either this woman was generous in her compliments, or she hadn’t met Grams. “Kind? Perhaps it’s been far too long. My grandmother is a lot of things, but kindness is hardly her defining quality.”

  Miss Williams’s gaze fixed on the gravel before her. She visibly took a breath. “Shall we retrieve my trunks then?”

  Had she ignored him? His smile dropped.

  She handed him the stubs of her receipts. “I much prefer to wait in the coach,” she said.

  “The wagon’s o’er yonder,” Jesse said, flicking his head toward the end of the line. He looked to the slips of paper in his hands. He reread the stubs, and his eyes narrowed. He’d been mistaken. Miss Williams was as frilly as they came. “Five trunks? What on earth do you need so many for?”

  She cleared her throat, pulling her fan at her wrist and wafting it against her cheek. “Pardon me, Mr. Davis. If you will escort me to the wagon, I will await your return there.”

  He sniggered. One of those pretentious types. “You can see yourself to the wagon. I’ll attend to your multitude of trunks.”

  She fanned her cheek once more, attempting to block the blush that rose. “Please forgive me, Mr. Davis. I had no intention of bothering you. Shall I ask an errand boy to attend to my trunks instead? I would not dream of presuming your assistance.”

  Jesse raked a hand through his blond hair. Grams would have his neck if she’d heard Miss Williams speak of hiring help. “No need,” he mumbled before turning to retrieve her trunks. He’d kidded Grams about taking the buggy or a spare horse. The joke would’ve been on him. The five trunks hardly fit in the back of the wagon. By the time he loaded them and took the seat beside Miss Williams, she was noticeably calmer, more composed.

  Jesse flicked the reins, beginning their journey back to the ranch. The ride was more awkward than Jesse could’ve imagined; twenty-five minutes, and neither of them spoke.

  A pretty and mannered lady—that’s what his grandmother had called Miss Williams. Fragile, Grams had said. Jesse scowled. Miss Williams seemed anything but fragile. The way she tumbled off the train steps, then nearly reproached her own boot—her actions were anything but mannerly or fragile. Her anger had flared, and she seemed only mildly embarrassed. She’d even refused his offer of assistance. Why, Miss Williams had seemed almost agreeable in that stubborn and independent way…until she spouted off demands and gave Jesse the stubs for five trunks. Five trunks—it was more belongings than any reasonable woman owned!

  “Is it much farther?” Miss Williams asked, repositioning her hat. “I hardly remember.”

  Jesse shook his head. How could she forget such scenery? “Just another mile or so,” he said, gesturing to the road’s curve. Hillsides scattered with trees and brush surrounded them, and tall, brown cliffs towered on one side. The cattle grazing in the pastures moved between patches of wildflowers. Jesse had been born on the ranch, and he was fairly certain he’d die there too. “You’re already looking at our land. Northwind Range property stretches as far as you can see to the east.”

  Miss Williams straightened and squinted in the distance. “Yes, the memory is coming back to me now. Just another mile,” she said, clasping her hands together.

  “It’s a wonder you agreed to act as a companion for Grams. She ain’t the easiest to get on with, especially the older she gets. Scaly, old bristle of a woman.” He paused, chewing on the edge of his lower lip. “Why did you agree to coming on as a companion, Miss Williams?”

  Her chest caved, and she sighed, shrugging. “It seemed the right thing to do for a friend of such a beloved aunt. Aunt Eleanor cared so deeply for your grandmother, and after
what my aunt did for me after my brother Frederick died—” She stopped, turning from him.

  Jesse cleared his throat. Grams would have his hide. He hadn’t reached Miss Williams in time to prevent her falling, she’d nearly hired help with her trunks, and now he’d accidentally brought up her brother’s recent death? “Pardon me,” he said, shaking his head. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  Chapter 5

  Cora’s chest burned. She’d hardly spoken to the man on the wagon bench beside her. Before the incident with her boot, she’d considered herself calm and collected. She’d read Lettie’s notes over and over, for the entirety of the train ride from Crooked Creek to Denver and down to Overstead.

  Her character was decided—a tight-lipped version of Lettie. Careful words, no contractions; Slight smile, no laughter; Ample amount of questions, bare minimum answers. Slow steps. Soft voice. Practiced curtsies and fancy dresses.

  There was no denying this act went against every genuine part of Cora. But it was a performance—as much for Lettie’s sake as Cora’s.

  Maggie and Lettie had helped Cora take in all of the many gowns left by Charlotte; each one had only needed a reduction in the waist and an inch at the hem. Her current choice of dress was feminine, pink, and frilly—the perfect complement to Cora’s crafted character.

  But she’d already broken character in her first moments off the train, and in front of Mrs. Davis’s grandson, no less.

  This stranger, with blonde hair and hazel eyes, was much too attentive, and attractive. He’d seen the break in her behavior, the inequalities between her dress and breach of temper, Cora was sure of it.

  Cora set her sights on repairing the damage. At least it had been Jesse Davis and not Lucy Davis. From the way Jesse talked, his grandmother was the harder egg to crack.

  “Here at last,” Jesse said, pulling the horses to a stop at the drive. His voice was deep with a musical quality to it. “Northwind Range.”

  What Cora had seen along the drive, amidst her anxieties, had been lovely. Cliffs and peaks in the distance, flowers dotting the grassy knolls—Overstead had a distinct beauty. It was different from Crooked Creek. The dirt and cliffs of Overstead had a tint of red, and it contrasted beautifully with the now setting sun.

  But the house. Cora’s mouth dropped. The house was beautiful and larger than anything she’d imagined. The wrap-around porch was complete with rocking chairs and flower pots. The house stretched two stories high and was roughly twice the size of Maggie’s boarding house. Cora shut her mouth in an instant, realizing Jesse watched her. “Just as I remember,” she said, fanning her cheek. She’d been hiding behind the fan far too often. It’d become a crutch and would remain one, at least until Cora found her footing in this strange new world.

  “You do?” Jesse asked, flicking his chin toward the house once more.

  “I do,” Cora replied, setting down the fan. What would Lettie have said—something poetic? “A rose in the desert—that is how I described it to my mother. Overstead has vegetation enough—don’t get me wrong—but the color of the soil. I’ve heard such a color used to describe the land of New Mexico, and that, Mr. Davis, is unequivocally a desert.” She inhaled. At least Cora’s mother had provided her with one useful bit in her upbringing. She’d lived in a desert town until she was eight… Until her mother could no longer care for her, or until her mother no longer wished to…

  “A rose?” Jesse asked, lifting a brow. “I never thought of this house as anything more than a place to lay my head.”

  She bit back a retort. He’d been spoiled with splendor all his life. “The house is red, Mr. Davis, the color of a rose. And anyhow, I meant that your home is a beauty, as is a bloom among dry land.”

  “A lovely metaphor. Did they teach you to speak like that at finishing school?” he asked, cracking a smile. “Just as they taught you to walk in those heeled boots?”

  Laughter threatened, but Cora helped herself down from the wagon, despite her better judgment (a lady always accepted help). She wouldn’t listen to Jesse’s teasing because Mrs. Davis awaited behind the front door, and Cora desperately needed to convince the old woman that she was Lettie. Laughter was her enemy.

  The moment had arrived, and like each time Cora stepped on stage to sing or dance, a rush of adrenaline and clarity swept over her. She clutched the folds of her dress and stepped toward the house. “Will you be accompanying me, Mr. Davis? Or shall I meet your grandmother alone?”

  He grunted, hopping down the side of the wagon.

  Cora’s lips lifted, and she took his outstretched arm. She hadn’t cracked yet, but Jesse Davis was just the type of man to be her undoing. His teasing, observations, and undeniable charm—he was dangerous.

  The door opened at the hand of a fair-faced woman, a woman in her forties with brown hair. The woman’s head dropped at the sight of Cora, and she bowed. “Welcome, Miss Williams. Miss Luellan at your service. Mrs. Davis expects you in the sitting room.”

  For a moment, Cora forgot her upbringing and Milton and all of her ugly past. She stood taller, smiled brighter. For once, Cora felt respected. She felt like a lady. “Thank you,” she said before stepping into the house.

  From the plastered walls to the smooth wooden floors, the house was spotless—sparkling almost. Velvet furniture and fringed drapes, cowhide rugs and candle sconces, but the loveliest of all lay at the center of the sitting room—a Steinway grand. Cora’d dreamt of such an instrument. She’d heard they existed, even saw one in a catalogue Maggie brought home to the boarding house. The legs curled in delicate curves and decoration. The keys glistened in the afternoon sunlight.

  Cora turned her attention to the woman in the corner of the room. A tall but shriveled woman, a woman with deep lines near her mouth and above her brows, stood. Her sagging neck snapped toward Cora, and she held out her hand.

  Cora dropped Jesse’s arm and stepped toward Mrs. Lucy Davis. Hesitation almost overcame her, but the rush of performance took over once more. “My dear Mrs. Davis,” Cora said, feigning emotion. She grasped the woman’s hand. Lettie had done as much to her. “I cannot express my gratitude upon receiving your letter. How do you do?”

  “Spoken like a true lady,” Mrs. Davis said, clicking her tongue at Jesse. “Now you see why I’ve sent for a companion, don’t you?”

  Jesse exhaled, shaking his head back and forth. “Grams.”

  “I doubt you’ve ever asked me ‘how do you do’ in your life.” The old woman took a shaky step toward the sofa. She leaned on Cora’s arm, surveying her. “You’ve grown a foot since I saw you last. And your eyes—you look nothing like the mouse I met years ago.”

  Cora’s breath hitched, but she forced a tight-lipped smile. “My father says as much.”

  Jesse took the other arm of his grandmother, helping her to her seat. “I wouldn’t worry about what Grams says. Her eyesight is failing.”

  Mrs. Davis licked her shriveled lips. “My eyes might be failing, but my hearing is quite intact!”

  Cora patted the old woman’s arm, grateful for a change of subject. “Quite right.”

  “Cease your patting. I’m no dog, Miss Williams.”

  Laughter climbed Cora’s throat once more, but she swallowed it. Mrs. Davis was a firecracker if Cora had ever seen one! It took all her effort to frown and feign apology. “Forgive me.”

  Mrs. Davis cackled. “I forgot how you ladies are taught to go on and on about how sorry you are for every misstep. No matter of consequence, my dear. I’ve already forgotten it. Now, sit. Tell me about your travels.”

  Cora took a seat next to the woman, making sure to smooth her dress as Lettie had taught her. She spread her fan once more, wafting it. “I suppose I might say the journey was pleasant enough, but Heaven knows that would be a lie. Quite the contrary, Mrs. Davis, but it suffices to say that I am happy to be here now.”

  Mrs. Davis laughed once more, and this time it was boisterous. “I could do with a good story or two.”

  Cora sh
ielded the smile that slipped across her face. Despite the woman’s brashness, Cora liked her. “Shall I start with the details of my dining or the crudeness of the company—not to mention the condition of the seating?”

  “Do,” was Mrs. Davis’s only reply.

  Cora tapped a finger against her chin. What would Lettie have said about those she met in Crooked Creek? “I fear my fellow travelers had not been taught in the art of conversing.”

  “Hear, hear,” Mrs. Davis said, tapping a finger against Jesse’s collar. “I fear my own grandsons lack such behaviors.”

  Jesse rolled his eyes and moved to leave.

  “You will stay,” Mrs. Davis said. Her face trembled, an effect of her age. “You would benefit more than almost anyone in hearing Miss William’s experience. Your father is the exception.” She turned to Cora. “My son Frank knows nothing of conversation. His version consists of cattle and cowboys. You’d think after all these years and our family’s prestigious standing in the community, these men—or rather boys—would take an interest in something other than the ranch. Goodness knows I supply them with money and example enough.”

  Cora pressed her lips into a thin line and shook her head. “Dear Mrs. Davis, your fortitude is to be commended.”

  Mrs. Davis smiled for the first time since their meeting. Her teeth were thin and jagged, but the showing of them was reward enough for Cora. “I think we shall get along quite nicely, my dear,” the old woman said.

  Jesse threw his head back and sighed in exasperation. “The calves, Grams.”

  She flicked her hands at him. “After you unload my companion’s belongings, you are free to go. As I told you, Miss Williams, the men have little mind for anything other than the ranch.”