hurried to the back room for a broom, a dustpan, and a paper-lined crate. The sooner she got this mess removed, the sooner the incident would be forgotten. Just her luck for something like this to happen when Mrs. Winters was aching for her to make a mistake. Maybe she would use her three-day pass and travel while the dust settled. She’d already invented the story, she might as well follow through.
The marshal was waiting for her when she returned. She drew up short at the sight of him.
He reached for the dustpan. “You sweep. I’ll dump.”
She didn’t let go. “You don’t have to help.”
“My fault.” He tugged.
She held fast. “Not really. I was in too big of a hurry.”
The man propped a hand on his hip and squinted down at her. “You arguin’ with a lawman?”
His eyes were blue. A blue made softer and brighter by the color of the chambray shirt he wore. That silver star gleamed in a beam of light filtering in from the dining hall.
It was the August heat that stuck the high white collar of her starched black shirt to her neck and sent beads of perspiration trickling down her temple. She wasn’t given to fits of nerves or emotion, but this was definitely more than a glow.
She handed him the dustpan.
Beneath the stiff white apron and black skirt that made up her plain uniform, her damp skin prickled. She was definitely going to have to change before she served customers. She knelt and picked up the largest pieces of china and piled them in the crate.
Marshal Connor hunkered down to gather a share of debris. The bay rum he’d used after shaving that morning was a familiar scent. She’d detected it on several occasions while serving him at the lunch counter. She’d always tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible.
A waitress stepped around them on her way to the dining hall, craning her neck to watch. Sophie gave her a glare, and she hurried on.
The man beside her hadn’t noticed the interaction. Sophie’s sideways glance found a closely shaven dark square jaw, ebony brows and lashes. The hair that fell over his collar was the rich deep color of strong coffee. Perspiration rolled along her spine. Running headlong into the marshal certainly hadn’t fallen into her plans for not attracting attention to herself. He glanced up and caught her perusal.
“Clay Connor,” he said with a nod.
“I know. Sophie Hollis,” she replied.
His blue gaze traveled across her face and hair before he turned back to his task.
They finished cleaning up, and Clay picked up the crate. “Where to?”
She wasn’t about to tell him the waitresses’ most well-kept secret. All accidentally broken china was smuggled from apron pockets to outhouse to keep the damages from being deducted from their paychecks.
“There’s a rubbish bin out back.”
She led him through the sweltering kitchen to the rear door. The dry Kansas wind plastered tendrils of hair to her damp cheek, but the air felt better than the confinement of the building. She pointed out the bin.
A piercing whistle rent the summer day, preceding the arrival of the one-twenty. She glanced at the watch she wore on a chain around her neck. Orders for forty-seven had been wired ahead and she had to be at her station in a clean crisp uniform when they arrived. “I have to go,” she told him.
He dumped the crate and set it on the ground with a nod. “Sorry for the mess.”
She shook her head. She had to say something. “Thank you. For helping me.”
“Least I could do.”
Gathering her hem, she ran for the back entrance, pumped a pitcher of water, and flew up the stairs to her room. After peeling off her damp clothing, she washed with a cool cloth and dusted herself with lilac talcum powder.
She was Sophie Hollis, and no one had reason to think differently. Boldness and confidence were convincing. You are who people want to believe you are.
A disturbing thought nicked her self-assuredness. Before today she’d remained inconspicuous, just one of the girls. Now the city marshal had taken notice of her. Had a good clean look. A good enough look to remember her. Good enough to recognize her face on a wanted poster.
Chapter Two
The marshal returned for supper. He was at one of Emma’s tables, but Sophie spotted him the moment she carried a dinner tray from the kitchen. No worry. She had this role down perfectly. She knew her strengths, and being convincing was one of them.
The plate fiasco had been the highlight of conversation around the dining hall that afternoon. Sophie was weary of the looks and questions. These girls lived for a whiff of excitement, she told herself, refusing to become irritated.
“He’s having the flank steak, sautéed mushrooms and a roasting ear, with cheesecake for dessert,” Emma whispered from behind her as Sophie filled two cups from the gigantic silver coffee urn.
“I didn’t ask,” she whispered back. She hadn’t had her own dinner yet, and she got a little testy when she was hungry.
“He’s partial to that cheesecake,” Olivia Larson said on her way by.
“I don’t care.” She looked over her shoulder to find the two females grinning at each other. “Very well, enjoy yourselves at my expense,” she said lightheartedly.
After placing the filled cups on a tray, she carried them to her customers, two cattle ranchers who’d just had the filet mignon cooked in brandy.
Try as she might, she couldn’t keep her gaze from drifting across the room to the marshal. He sat at a corner table where he could watch both the door to the street and what was happening outside the front windows.
He met her gaze and offered a nod.
Sophie quickly turned back to her table. “Are you gentlemen ready for dessert?” she asked.
“I am a man who appreciates sweets,” the older of the two men replied with a wink.
“I’ll have the applesauce cake,” the other answered.
“And you, sir?” she asked the first gentleman.
“What’s your favorite?” he asked.
“I’m partial to the chestnut pudding.”
“Then that’s what I’ll have,” he decided.
“I’ll be right back.” She carried the tray to the kitchen and asked for their desserts.
When she returned and set plates in front of them, her newfound admirer asked, “Do you like the opera, miss?”
“I do.”
“Will you join me this Saturday evening?”
