a start. Her heart dropped. She hadn’t taken the bracelet off since her grandmother had put it on her, making her promise never to part with it.
“This will keep you safe and bring you luck,” Grandmother Loveridge had promised on her deathbed. “Be true to who you are.”
She fought the urge to turn around in the surging throng of people, go find him and demand he give it back. But she knew she couldn’t do that for fear of being arrested. Or worse. So much for the bracelet bringing her luck, she thought, heart heavy. She had no choice but to continue moving as she was swept up in the flowing crowd. Maybe she could find a high spot where she could spot her mark. And then what?
Mariah figured she’d cross that bridge when she came to it. Pulling off her scarf, she shoved it into her pocket. It was a great device for misdirection—normally, but now it would be a dead giveaway.
Ahead, she spotted stairs and quickly climbed a half dozen steps at the front of a bank to stop and look back.
The street was a sea of cowboy hats. One cowboy looked like another to her. How would she ever be able to find him—let alone get her bracelet back given that by now he would know what she’d been up to? She hadn’t even gotten a good look at him. Shaken and disheartened, she told herself she would do whatever it took. She desperately needed that bracelet back—and not just for luck or sentimental reasons. It was her ace in the hole.
Two teenagers passed, arguing over which one of them got the free T-shirt they’d scored. She thought of the cowboy she’d seen earlier up on the stage, the one throwing the T-shirts. He’d looked right at her. Their gazes had met and she’d felt as if he had seen into her dark heart—if not her soul.
No wonder she’d blown a simple pick. She was rusty at this, clearly, but there had been a time when she could recall each of her marks with clarity. She closed her eyes. Nothing. Squeezing them tighter, she concentrated.
With a start, she recalled that his cowboy hat had been a light gray. She focused on her mark’s other physical attributes. Long legs clad in denim, slim hips, muscular thighs, broad shoulders. A very nice behind. She shook off that image. A jean jacket over a pale blue checked shirt. Her pickpocketing might not be up to par, but at least there was nothing wrong with her memory, she thought as she opened her eyes and again scanned the crowd. Her uncle had taught her well.
But she needed more. She closed her eyes again. She’d gotten only a glimpse of his face when he’d grabbed first her scarf and then her arm. Her eyes flew open as she had a thought. He must have been on to her immediately. Had she botched the pick that badly? She really was out of practice.
She closed her eyes again and tried to concentrate over the sound of the two teens still arguing over the T-shirt. Yes, she’d seen his face. A handsome rugged face and pale eyes. Not blue. No. Gray? Yes. With a start she realized where she’d seen him before. It was the man from the bandstand, the one who’d thrown the T-shirt and hit her. She was sure of it.
“Excuse me, I’ll buy that T-shirt from you,” she said, catching up to the two teens as they took their squabble off toward a burger stand.
They both turned to look at her in surprise. “It’s not for sale,” said the one.
The other asked, “How much?”
“Ten bucks.”
“No way.”
“You got it free,” Mariah pointed out only to have both girls’ faces freeze in stubborn determination. “Fine, twenty.”
“Make it thirty,” the greedier of the two said.
She shook her head as she dug out the money. Her grandmother would have given them the evil eye. Or threatened to put some kind of curse on them. “You’re thieves, you know that?” she said as she grabbed the T-shirt before they could take off with it and her money.
Escaping down one of the side streets, she finally got a good look at what was printed across the front of the T-shirt. Stagecoach Saloon, Gilt Edge, Montana.
* * *
LILLIE CAHILL HESITATED at the back door of the Stagecoach Saloon. It had been a stagecoach stop back in the 1800s when gold had been coming out of the mine at Gilt Edge. Each stone in the saloon’s walls, like each of the old wooden floorboards inside, had a story. She’d often wished the building could talk.
When the old stagecoach stop had come on the market, she had jumped at purchasing it, determined to save the historical two-story stone building. It had been her twin’s idea to open a bar and café. She’d been skeptical at first, but trusted Darby’s instincts. The place had taken off.
Lately, she felt sad just looking at the place.
Until recently, she’d lived upstairs in the remodeled apartment. She’d moved in when they bought the old building and had made it hers by collecting a mix of furnishings from garage sales and junk shops. This had not just been her home. It was her heart, she thought, eyes misting as she remembered the day she’d moved out.
Since her engagement to Trask Beaumont and the completion of their home on the ranch, she’d given up her apartment to her twin, Darby. He had been living in a cabin not far from the bar, but he’d jumped at the chance to live upstairs.
Now she glanced toward the back window. The curtains were some she’d left when she’d moved out. One of them flapped in the wind. Darby must have left the window open. She hadn’t been up there to see what he’d done with the place. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know since she’d moved most everything out, leaving it pretty much a blank slate. She thought it might still be a blank slate, knowing her brother.
Pushing open the back door into the bar kitchen, she was met with the most wonderful of familiar scents. Fortunately, not everything had changed in her life, she thought, her mood picking up some as she entered the warm café kitchen.
“Tell me those are your famous enchiladas,” she said to Billie Dee, their heavy-set, fiftysomething Texas cook.
“You know it, sugar,” the cook said with a laugh. “You want me to dish you up a plate? I’ve got homemade pinto beans and some Spanish rice like you’ve never tasted.”
“You mean hotter than I’ve ever tasted.”
“Oh, you Montanans. I’ll toughen you up yet.”
Lillie laughed. “I’d love a plate.” She pulled out a chair at the table where the help usually ate in the kitchen and watched Billie Dee fill two plates.
“So how are the wedding plans coming along?” the cook asked as she joined her at the table.
“I thought a simple wedding here with family and friends would be a cinch,” Lillie said as she took a bite of the enchilada. She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the sweet and then hot bite of peppers before all the other flavors hit her. She groaned softly. “These are the best you’ve ever made.”
“Bless your heart,” Billie Dee said smiling. “I take it the wedding has gotten more complicated?”
“I can’t get married without my father and who knows when he’ll be coming out of the mountains.” Their father, Ely Cahill, was a true mountain man now who spent most of the year up in the mountains either panning for gold or living off the land. He’d given
