folded his newspaper, then nonchalantly rose to his feet and followed.
The fellow, settling a bowler on his head, was hellbent on making a beeline for the deserted passenger car. As his foot hit the first step, a pair of boots appeared on the metal platform above, and he looked up into the barrel of Deputy Sanders’s Colt. As if to escape, he turned, but came up short against Clay’s .45. Eyes as wide as silver dollars, he raised his lily-white hands above his head.
“What’s your name?” Clay asked.
He didn’t meet Clay’s eyes, but glanced around with a feigned expression of bewilderment. “Er—gentlemen, is there a problem?”
“Problem is you forgot to pay for your meal back there.”
“Oh! Oh, my.” He started to lower one hand.
“Keep ‘em in the air,” Clay demanded.
His hand shot back above his head. “How careless of me. Uh. Let me just run back in and take care of my bill.”
“Too late for that.”
“But—”
“You just forget to pay for your breakfast in Wichita, too?”
“Well, I—I, uh—”
“What’s your name, I asked.”
“Willard. Willard DeWeise.”
“Well, Willard Willard DeWeise, you’ll be gettin’ three squares a day in my jail until you have a hearing. Won’t have to pay for those meals, either.”
“You see, Marshal, I’m a bit down on my luck right now. I kept the tickets and I fully intended to repay the hotel when I could.”
“Oh, you’ll repay them. And you’ll do your time. Never knew a man down on his luck who couldn’t earn a meal along the Santa Fe. Got a bag in there?” Clay jerked his head toward the railroad car.
DeWeise nodded.
“Throw it out here.”
Owen accompanied DeWeise into the car. Seconds later, the two of them descended the metal stairs and DeWeise dropped a scuffed leather satchel on the loading platform. Clay gestured for Owen to open it, and the deputy searched the contents. Shaving gear, a wrinkled but clean shirt, socks, and a packet of letters were its only contents.
Clay ordered DeWeise to place his hands behind his back and clamped handcuffs around his wrists. “Lock ‘im up. I’ll go talk to the manager.”
Owen prodded his prisoner toward Oak Street.
Clay headed into the hotel.
Harrison Webb had followed Clay’s movements and watched the interaction from a front window. Now he gestured for Clay to follow him back to his office.
“He didn’t seem dangerous,” Clay told him. “Small-time thief from the looks of ‘im. He’ll get a hearing, and the Wichita manager will have a chance to say his piece.”
“We have to press charges,” Harrison said.
“Rightly so,” Clay agreed.
“Your coffee’s on the house,” the manager said, extending a hand. “Supper too, if you want to come back later.”
Clay shook his hand. “I’ll do that.”
He exited the man’s office just in time to collide with a young woman on her way through the pantry area.
The stack of plates she’d been carrying slid sideways, and Clay made an ineffective lunge to keep them from falling.
A mountain of white china struck the floor with an ear-splitting clatter, shards flying in every direction.
The lovely dark-haired waitress with whom he’d collided gaped at the pile of debris. “Shit, shit, shit,” she sputtered.
The exclamation from such a sweet-looking young lady was a surprise that made him want to laugh. Instead, he pursed his lips and composed his expression.
Her shocked expression raised and her round dark gaze locked on Clay, then dropped to the silver star pinned to his shirtfront. Her attention slid to the .45 holstered at his hip.
The shrill whistle of the departing train seemed to jolt her into action, and she knelt to pick up pieces of china.
“Careful,” he said, kneeling quickly and covering her hand to stop her. “You’ll cut yourself.”
She stared at his hand on hers, and his gaze followed, seeing his dark-skinned fingers over her smaller pale ones. She drew away as though he’d bitten her.
“This does it, Miss Hollis.” A woman’s harsh voice caught Clay’s attention, and he straightened. The barrel-shaped kitchen manager glared at the young woman at his feet. “You had your last warning. This is the end of the line for you.”
Miss Hollis stood and brushed her hands together, raising her chin and meeting the stern woman’s accusatory glower straight on. For a woman so young and pretty, she sure had grit.
Sophie stared back at the woman who had it in for her. She held no hard feelings for Mrs. Winters. The woman’s position was at stake, and she’d given Sophie more chances than she should have. In most cases, the first mistake was a Harvey Girl’s last.
The room she shared with Amanda wasn’t the fanciest, but it had been adequate. Not only were three meals a day provided, but they were prepared by a gourmet chef. Looked like she would miss her favorite dessert tonight, that heavenly rich chestnut pudding made with cinnamon and red wine.
She wasn’t afraid, just angry at herself for not being able to carry out her plan. She would have to move on and utilize a back up strategy. Luckless shame. She really liked it here. “I’ll clean this up and then pack my things,” she told Mrs. Winters. “I’ll get a broom.”
“Now wait a minute.” The marshal had a voice pitched so low that a person felt its vibrations through the floorboards.
She and Mrs. Winters gave him their surprised attention.
“This wasn’t the lady’s fault.” He gestured over his shoulder with a thumb. “I barreled out o’ Mr. Webb’s office right into her. She didn’t see me comin’ or have time to move.”
When it looked as though Sophie wouldn’t be sent packing after all, Mrs. Winters’s expression revealed disappointment.
“I’ll pay for the damages,” the marshal went on. “It would be my fault if she was to lose her job because o’ my two left feet.”
Harrison Webb was now standing beside the marshal, staring at the mess on the highly polished wooden floor. “If Marshal Connor says so, it’s a fact,” he told Mrs. Winters. “This man’s the law.”
“Very well,” Mrs. Winters said. “Just clean it up. There is another train arriving shortly.”
“You
