fireplace. “Let’s have a bite to eat before we settle into our chairs for the evening.”
“May I be of service in some way?” said a low voice from behind her.
A deep breath, hands planted on her hips and a slow pivot brought her about to face a well-dressed man standing beside Mr. Green.
“And you would be?” She arched a brow. This had better be someone who could fix the situation.
“The owner of this establishment. Is there a problem?” he asked.
“There most certainly is, Mr....” She shooed her hand between them, since he hadn’t felt it necessary to reveal his name. “My reservation has been given away. According to Mr. Green, my children and I have no place to go but out in the cold to freeze to death.”
“There is the meeting of the Grange. The whole town is booked.”
“And I am one of the people who booked.”
“I understand your frustration, ma’am. Let me think on it a moment.” The hotel owner frowned and twirled his mustache between his thumb and forefinger. “There is Mrs. O’Hara’s. She might have a room.”
For some reason this made Mr. Green’s eyes go wide as dollars.
“Very well, I suppose that will have to do.” If it didn’t she’d be back to camp out in this lobby. “And where will I find Mrs. O’Hara?”
“A few streets north of here will be a saloon. Make a right and go three blocks. That will take you near the edge of town. You can’t miss the place. It’s the only building around.”
She’d rather not walk the children past a saloon, but there appeared to be no help for it.
She bundled Mary up tight. Jess took the bags.
“Give my regards to Mrs. O’Hara,” Mr. Hotel Owner called as she hustled the children out into the first snowfall of the season.
“Auntie Lilleth,” Jess said, his shoulders hunched under the burden of the bags. “I hope Mrs. O’Hara’s place isn’t far. It’s so cold I can’t rightly feel my toes.”
“Careful, Jess, ears are everywhere.”
* * *
Trace opened the front door to Clark Clarkly’s Private Lending Library, stumbled inside and then closed the door with the heel of his shoe.
He shivered from the chill lingering in his coat and dumped the load of books on his desk, letting them fall out of order. He tossed his broken glasses on the pile.
Ordinarily, he would light a fire in the big hearth that took up most of the wall behind his desk, but not this afternoon. Snow drifted past the window, growing heavier by the minute, and he needed to get to Hanispree Mental Hospital.
Unless he missed his guess, the staff wouldn’t venture away from their cozy quarters to make sure the inmates were warm. It was back out into the cold for good old Clarkly.
Over the years, as an investigative journalist for the family paper, Trace had uncovered plenty of nasty secrets. Hanispree Mental Hospital had some of the worst. It was a stink hole of corruption. The more he poked around, the more determined he was to expose the malignant soul of the place.
To the casual observer, Hanispree looked like a resort where the wealthy might come to relax. Its gardens were manicured and the marble staircase inside gleamed. Expensive wood floors reflected layers of polish.
The truth that he had discovered ate at his gut. Polished floors and gleaming marble were a facade. Hanispree Mental Hospital was little more than a prison for the cast-off members of wealthy families. He was certain that some of them had no mental illness whatsoever.
A movement beyond the window caught his attention. He figured he’d be the only one foolhardy enough to go outdoors with a storm blowing in. He walked to the window and pulled aside the filmy curtain.
What the devil? Lilleth and her little brood were making their way down the boardwalk, their bodies leaning into the wind. He’d assumed they would be settled into the hotel by now.
He started to reach for the doorknob, to run after her and find out if there was something amiss.
But she had a husband, no doubt a fine man who was at this moment coming to her aid. Trace would do well to remember that he was not himself at the moment, but Clark Clarkly.
If she discovered who he was it might spell disaster for the exposé he was writing. If his true identity was revealed, what would happen to all the folks at Hanispree? He needed to keep his distance.
Trace peered after Lilleth, his eye to the windowpane trying to see up the street, where Mr. Gordon no doubt waited with open arms.
The investigative journalist in him began to gnaw at something. It was trivial, really. But Lilleth detested being called Lilly. He’d witnessed her wrestling half-grown boys to the ground for teasing her with that name.
A knock low down on the front door brought his attention and his eye away from the window.
He opened the door to let in a flurry of flakes and young Sarah Wilson.
“Little Sarah.” He closed the door behind her, then brushed an inch of snowflakes from the brim of her hat. “What are you doing out in this weather?”
“Good day, Mr. Clarkly. I’ve come to borrow a book.”
Bless her heart, coming out in the elements. He was familiar with Sarah. She was a nine-year-old bundle of curiosity, as well as a dedicated reader. Her mother was in frail health, and Sarah escaped into stories as often as she could.
Clark Clarkly and his lending library did have their uses in the community. He wasn’t a complete waste.
“As luck would have it, I picked up a shipment of new books just an hour ago.” Trace lurched toward the desk and snatched one up, along with his shattered spectacles. “I’ve just the thing for a girl your age, Miss Sarah.”
He opened the ledger on his desk and Sarah signed her name in it, her promise to return the book.
“I’ll bring it back real soon,” she said.
“Not until the weather clears.” He would give her the book to keep, along with a few others, when his assignment was finished and he went back home to Chicago. “Come along, I’ll see you home.”
Trace put on a heavy coat, picked up his collection of new books and gathered Sarah’s mittened hand in his.
Outside, he closed the door behind him and glanced in the direction that Lilleth had gone, but she and her family had vanished.
Met up with her husband, no doubt, the lucky man. In his mind’s eye, Trace saw the pair of them snuggled in front of a snapping fire. He wished his Lils and her man the best, truly he did.
“You’re going to like this story, little lady.” Trace walked in a direction away from Hanispree Mental Hospital, but there was no help for it. “It’s the tale of a girl just your age.”
*
