The Telegraph Proposal Read online

  “You’re ready to get rid of them?” Carline’s question brought Yancey out of her memories.

  They’d walked another block without Yancey realizing it. “I think it only fair to Nathan.”

  Carline stopped, forcing Yancey to do the same. “You’re really going to leave Helena if he asks you to come to Denver?” Carline’s face and words were filled with a combination of awe and dismay.

  Knowing full well how difficult it would be, Yancey nodded. “I will.”

  “But Helena is your home.”

  Not if Nathan asked her to make a home with him, although Yancey didn’t say the words aloud. She and Carline had talked many times about how much they’d be willing to sacrifice for the man they would marry. Of course, Yancey had always pictured Hale during those conversations . . . at least until recently.

  The picture of Nathan St. John was hazy, like some of the photos her brother-in-law, Roy, developed and then discarded. But just because the picture was blurry didn’t make the subject itself bad. Once she met Nathan and had a clear image of him to treasure, she’d be able to replace Hale in every way.

  In the meantime, all of her treasures—none of them things Hale had even given her—needed to be discarded.

  Yancey started walking again. “Even if Nathan never asks me to go to Denver, I still think that as part of the promise I made to Isaak, now is the time to get rid of my Hale treasures. Are you going to help me or not?”

  Carline sighed. “Well . . . I think one doesn’t necessarily have to go with the other, but of course I’ll help. It was my idea in the first place.”

  They reached Yancey’s home in five minutes more. The scent of baking bread greeted them as soon as they opened the kitchen door.

  Mother stood by the stove with a dozen golden-brown dinner rolls.

  “Mm.” Yancey sniffed the air. “Those smell delicious. Might Carline and I have one to share?”

  Mother glanced at the clock over the sink. Not a single blond hair fell out of place. If she removed her yellow apron, she’d be ready to host the Ladies’ Aid Society. Yancey hoped to learn the trick of looking presentable while cooking one day. Preferably before Nathan asked her to Denver.

  “I suppose half a roll won’t spoil your appetites.” Mother turned her gaze on Carline. “Are you joining us for dinner tonight?”

  Carline shook her head. “I would love to, but Uncle Eugene is here from Butte. He’s trying to talk my parents into sending me to a finishing school somewhere in Boston or Philadelphia. I can’t remember which.”

  Yancey pressed her lips together to keep from commenting on Mr. Eugene Nordstrom and his overbearing plans for Carline. The time to discuss it wasn’t now.

  Mother lifted two dinner rolls from the baking sheet and held them out. “You look like you could both use a whole one. Enjoy, my dears.”

  Taking the rolls and calling their thanks over their shoulders, Carline and Yancey hurried to her bedroom and closed the door.

  The moment the latch clicked behind her, Yancey gave into the desire to share her opinion of Mr. High-and-Mighty Nordstrom. “Just because your uncle has made you his heir doesn’t give him the right to dictate your life while he lives. He either trusts you with his millions or he doesn’t.”

  Carline bit into her roll, an exasperated look on her face.

  “I know you don’t like discussing this, but honestly.” Yancey ripped her roll in half, a puff of steam escaping into the air. “Do you want to attend a finishing school?”

  Carline swallowed. “I might.”

  The admission shocked Yancey so much, she almost dropped the warm bread. “But why?”

  Carline sat on the floral quilt of Yancey’s mostly made bed. “If you are going to leave me for Denver to marry Nathan, why wouldn’t I want to see a bit more of the country?”

  “But . . .” I want you here so I can always come visit you. The sentiment was so selfish, Yancey winced even though she’d stopped herself from saying the words aloud. She placed the torn roll on her desk—she wasn’t hungry anymore—and sat on the bed next to her friend. “If seeing the country is your goal, is attending a school the best way to do it?”

  Carline sniffed. “What I want is to love, be loved in return, and to start a family of my own. I’ve never really wanted anything else.”

  Yancey sensed a but coming. She kept silent, waiting for Carline to speak again.

  “But Uncle Eugene isn’t wrong. As his heir, I’ll attract certain men.” Carline pinched off a piece of bread and popped it into her mouth. Her cheeks turned pink as she chewed. A sure sign she was about to mention the man she secretly loved. “We both know Windsor Buchanan will never propose to a girl who spit tea all over him the first time they met. Like you, I need to move on from my infatuation with a man who hasn’t noticed me in years. Who knows, maybe I’ll find my own Nathan St. John in Boston ... or Philadelphia.”

  Yancey wrapped her right arm around Carline’s shoulders. They’d endured a lot together, none more difficult than the men they’d loved so long but maybe not so well. “What if you send a letter to Antonia Archer telling her what kind of man you want? She found Nathan for me. I’m sure she can find another Windsor Buchanan for you.”

  An unladylike snort came from Carline. “I doubt it. That man is one-of-a-kind.” She popped the rest of her bread into her mouth.

  Yancey chuckled. Windsor was almost as tall yet more muscular than the Gunderson twins, wore his dark brown hair hanging to his shoulder blades and his beard to the middle of his chest, and if he ever trimmed either to a fashionable length, he would be the handsomest man in all of Helena . . . maybe in the entire territory. He ran his own bladesmithy and was so precise when sharpening knives, axes, and other cutting tools that his customers waited as much as a month for his skill rather than going across town for the same services. He lived in what amounted to a shed behind his business, dressed like a rough mountain man except on Sundays, when he greeted congregants at the church door in a full suit and tie, and ate only what he’d hunted or grown himself. He was the epitome of manliness, yet he’d attended Romeo and Juliet three nights ago after Yancey begged him to make the sixth in their party. He hadn’t agreed until he heard Carline was part of the group. Yancey had taken it as a sign he wasn’t as immune to romance as he appeared, leading her to impetuously say, “Tonight is a night for falling in love,” as soon as the whole party arrived at Ming’s Opera House.

  The comment earned her a swift kick from Carline and several desperate glances after the entire party was seated in the box.

  Yancey gave her friend’s shoulders a squeeze. “I thought Hale Adams was one-of-a-kind. Nathan is proof I was wrong.”

  “Speaking of which”—Carline stood and brushed crumbs from her skirt—“we’re here to formally dispose of your Hale treasures. I need to be home in half an hour, so we’d best get to work.”

  Yancey stood, too. “You’re right. Let’s get this over with.”

  Carline lifted the bottom edge of the quilt while Yancey pulled on the leather handle of the rectangular oak box hidden under her bed. The pine floorboards were scratched from the hundreds of times she’d pulled or pushed the box across them.

  Knowing she was doing the right thing didn’t stop Yancey’s chest from aching. She’d loved Hale for so long. So very long. And—in truth—he was a good man. He just didn’t care two beans or a pickle for her.

  She opened the lid. On top were a deep pink dried rose and a blue satin ribbon. The rose was important because Hale had brought a dozen of them to her mother the first time he’d come to the house for lunch. Ever since then, pink roses had been Yancey’s favorite flower. She lifted the rose from the box, held it over the waste bin, and crushed the crisp petals inside her fist.

  “Goodbye, Hale,” she whispered as she sprinkled the crumbled rose over lint, hair cleaned from her brush, and other bits of refuse.

  She nudged the ribbon aside to take out a yellowed newsprint advertisement for Hale’s law
firm. She ripped it in quarters and let the pieces flutter into the waste bin. Next came an article about a case he’d won. She ripped and released it. As the pieces fell, the heaviness in her chest lifted.

  Not much, but enough to keep going until nothing was left but the blue ribbon.

  She held it up, her hand shaking.

  “Are you sure?” Carline knelt beside Yancey.

  She laid the satin across her thigh, smoothing it with her hand. Every other treasure was adjacent to Hale—something he’d done that had nothing to do with her. “This is my one true memory with him.”

  “I know.” Carline wrapped her arm around Yancey’s waist.

  “How many times have we planned ways for me to wear this in my hair or sew it into my dress or wrap it around my bridal bouquet?”

  Carline answered by hugging Yancey closer.

  “He didn’t give it to me.” Yancey wrapped the ribbon around her index and middle fingers, savoring the silky feel against her skin. “Would it be so bad to keep it?”

  “I can take it for you.” Carline’s offer was made out of deep friendship. She knew what letting go would cost.

  Would that be cheating? The ribbon would be gone. Mostly. Yancey sighed and shook her head. “The entire purpose is to leave Hale Adams behind. It has to go.”

  She wriggled the ribbon off her fingers, held it over the waste bin, and let it fall.

  Across town

  Mary Lester swung her props—a mop and bucket—while hobbling across Lawrence Street toward The Import Co. Water sloshed from the tin pail, dampening the hem of her drab brown cape. Dressed as a peasant woman, she doubted her own son, Mac, would recognize her. Even so, she scattered glances left and right. No one gave her a second look. Perfect. Her disguise was working.

  As she passed one of the store’s gleaming windowpanes, she caught her reflection. Hard to say which was ugliest: her cape, the dirt-colored cotton dress beneath it, or her wig of lanky brown hair covered by a frayed mobcap.

  Movement behind the glass shifted her focus to Jakob Gunderson. He held a pen, a small jar of ink, and tags—presumably to add prices to the luxury items displayed in the store set to open in two days. The Gunderson brothers and their stepfather, David Pawlikowski, ran two stores in Helena, this new one and another across town that sold second-hand items—at least they had run both until two days ago, when The Resale Co. burned to ashes.

  Mary knew who’d set the fire and would soon make him pay. But first, she needed Jakob Gunderson.

  She placed the mop and bucket next to the door. Praying to a god she no longer believed in that it was unlocked, she twisted the knob. It turned. She let out a grateful sigh, opened the door, and stepped inside. The scents of lemon oil and beeswax mingled with the piney undertone of freshly milled wood. She kept her head down to hide her face with the brim of the mobcap. If Jakob declined her offer, she couldn’t risk him knowing her true identity. Too many lives were at stake.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but we aren’t open for business yet.” Jakob’s tone of voice held none of the derision she usually encountered when dressed like a wretch.

  It strengthened her conviction that he was the man she needed.

  “I come to see if you need a cleaning lady.” She used her hag voice and spoke loud enough for the group of ladies crossing behind her to hear before she shut the door.

  Jakob set the pricing tools on the nearest table. “We don’t need any help, but—”

  Click. She locked the door behind her.

  The audacity of her action ostensibly stopped his words.

  Now that she was safe inside, she used her normal voice. “I’m not here about cleaning.” She trudged past him, commanding him to follow with the crook of her finger. “We will talk in the back where no prying eyes can see through all these windows.”

  No answering footsteps followed. She looked over her shoulder to see him standing in the same spot.

  “You are in no danger from me, Jakob, I assure you.” The man was six feet, five inches and would tower over her even if she weren’t hunching her shoulders as part of her disguise.

  “How do we know each other, ma’am?” Again, no trace of disgust in his words, although they were stiff with formality.

  She wasn’t revealing herself to him until they were away from the windows filling the beautiful store with dusky light. She crooked her finger again. “Please. In back.” She watched him out of the corner of her eye, her breaths becoming short. What if this didn’t work?

  He frowned but followed.

  She kept her face averted even after they’d crossed into the back room and she’d closed the forest-green brocade curtain between the retail space and stockroom area in back. “I need your word as a gentleman that you won’t repeat a word of what I’m about to tell you to anyone.” Her tone sounded like steel even to her own ears, but she needed him to understand the weight of what she was about to say. “You are a man of many friends and come from a close family. If you cannot keep a secret, we are done here.”

  He was quiet for a long moment. She resisted the urge to look at him so he could see she was in earnest. Jakob Gunderson was her first—and only—choice to replace Finn Collins, whom she’d lost last April. After a year of observing Jakob closely, she knew him to be both an honest man and one who was quick-witted enough to come up with convincing lies when necessary. The icing on the proverbial cake was that his job required him to make deliveries of furniture and goods all over town. He could go anywhere and no one would find his presence the least bit odd. Familiarity made him as invisible as she was in her disguise.

  Jakob took a long, slow breath. “Before I make that promise, I need some assurance that whatever you wish to tell me is neither illegal nor immoral.”

  She chortled at the irony. “I can give you no such assurance because it is both. However, I can promise you that, should you agree, your part in it will be as a rescuer.” He had no reason to trust a stranger, but he’d trust her even less if he knew who she really was. That was why she needed his promise before revealing her identity.

  She snuck a glance at him. The Gunderson twins were almost identical in appearance. Tall, blond, well-muscled, good-looking boys with beautiful eyes—Isaak’s green, Jakob’s blue—both with distinctive brown flecks near the iris. But they differed sharply in personality. Isaak—the elder by five minutes—planned every inch of his route before taking a step forward. Jakob jumped first and looked later. If he went over a cliff, he learned how to fly on the way down, a skill she desperately needed.

  Mary held her breath, waiting for him to jump.

  “Why me? Why not Isaak?”

  Poor boy. He was so used to judging himself against his twin, he failed to see his own strengths. “Because, my dear Jakob, you are better suited for the task than anyone else in Helena, and because you need a purpose.”

  And because the sting of Miss Zoe de Fleur’s public rejection of his marriage proposal made him vulnerable. He’d want to be a hero in someone’s eyes.

  After a long moment, during which Mary took up praying again, Jakob sighed. “All right. I promise.”

  Mary pulled the mobcap and wig from her head and turned toward him.

  He gasped. “Madame Lestraude?”

  “As you see.” Although it bothered her that he used the name she’d adopted when she became a brothel owner. As a friend of her son, he knew her real name. Yet he’d chosen to call her by her alter ego. Madame Lestraude wore burgundy silk dresses, painted her face, and coiffed her hair. She was a role. A disguise. Someone the real Mary Lester had created to survive. Had she come so far she couldn’t go back to being Mary now even if she wanted?

  “I hardly recognized you, ma’am.”

  “Which was the point.”

  Jakob tipped his head to acknowledge her statement. “How can I be of service?”

  “You can help me rescue young girls from prostitution.”

  His eyes went wide and he coughed into his hand several times.
“But . . . but you’re a . . . I mean, you . . .”

  “Run a brothel where women sell themselves every day?”

  His neck and cheeks filled with splotches of red. Oh, to be so innocent again.

  “Because you don’t frequent my establishment”—or any of them, making him one of only a handful of men in Helena who refrained from visiting even the cheap crib houses—“I will forgive your ignorance of my business practices. I only accept women over the age of seventeen who come to me of their own free will. I cannot abide young girls being abducted into prostitution. These are the ones I seek to rescue.”

  Jakob ran his fingers through his blond hair. “But . . . last year. Emilia and Luci?”

  Mary understood his confusion. As far as he knew, she and Finn Collins had almost abducted Emilia Collins McCall and her sister, Luci Stanek, into prostitution. Mary looked Jakob in the eye. “I am prepared to tell you the truth, but I will remind you that you promised not to repeat any part of this evening’s conversation.” She waited for Jakob to nod before continuing. “My son made a nuisance of himself investigating Finn Collins’s death last April.”

  Jakob huffed. “What did you expect?”

  Exactly what happened. Mac couldn’t take off his county sheriff’s badge long enough to stop investigating his best friend’s death. So she’d smeared Finn’s good name. It would have worked except for three things: Emilia refused to believe that her husband—a man she’d never met and had married by proxy—would sell her and her sister into prostitution, Mac fell in love with Emilia and therefore kept investigating even when the evidence against Finn should have been overwhelming, and Mary’s own mistake.

  “I’m sure you heard that I took Luci Stanek into Maison de Joie with me.” Saying precious Luci’s name and her brothel’s name so close together brought back memories. Mary ducked her head to hide the heat creeping into her cheeks, although after all these years, she wasn’t sure if she was more angry or embarrassed that she’d been so easily abducted into the life she now led. “I was protecting Luci.”