around the barrels of flour, her black crepe dress rustling as she moved through the store, checking every aisle and corner. Not in the hardware section or meandering among the groceries. Perhaps she’d gone to the candy counter. Charlotte spun around and saw only Mrs. Gavin and Beatrice Ward. Oh, dear.
“Sasha?” Once again she swept the length of the store. Her panic escalated with every step.
Sasha wasn’t anywhere.
Miss Ward looked up sharply, her pinched mouth gloating in triumph. “That’s the way those filthy urchins are. It’s bred into them. I could have told you she’d run off. You can’t trust their type for an instant.”
Charlotte blanched at the cruel words. “She’s only four and doesn’t know her way around town yet.”
“Now, don’t you worry, Mrs. Miller,” Mrs. Gavin said calmly. “She can’t have got far.”
But worry was exactly what Charlotte felt, along with shame and fear that washed through her in ice-cold waves. Why hadn’t she noticed that Sasha had left? She hadn’t even realized the difference between Sasha and Lynette. What sort of mother was she? Now Beatrice Ward would tell everyone what had happened, and they’d say she was unfit to raise a child.
They wouldn’t take Sasha away, would they? Charlotte’s heart rattled against her rib cage. Sasha was all she had, her only family, the only person she had to love.
She raced from the store, her feet barely touching the three wooden steps. She looked left. Then right. Horses. Pedestrians. A stray dog. No little girl.
Where was Sasha?
She ran first one way and then the other. Sasha. Sasha. Her name beat into Charlotte’s brain in time to her pounding footsteps.
Then she saw her. In the arms of a stranger. A tall, lean man with the piercing gaze of a hunter cradled Sasha with the gentleness of a father.
Her steps slowed, stopped.
Starkly handsome, the man’s dark hair swept the collar of his buckskin jacket. Dark whiskers dusted his cheeks. His eyes, shadowed under the brim of his well-worn hat, stared straight at her. He did not smile. He looked like... Charlotte swallowed hard. He looked like an Indian. Or a gunslinger. An outlaw.
Yet Sasha clung to his neck with total trust, her head nestled on his shoulder.
“Sasha?” The word caught in her throat.
The man’s stony gaze swept her from head to toe. He must not have found the assessment pleasing, for his stern expression never changed and he made no move to hand Sasha to her.
Her panic escalated.
Who was this man, and what was he doing with her daughter?
* * *
Wyatt couldn’t stop staring at the woman. Sun-gold ringlets, touched with a hint of sunset, peeked from beneath the black bonnet. The heavy, black dress only made her porcelain skin look more fragile. Clearly, she was in mourning. Just as clearly, she was this girl’s mother, though the two looked nothing alike.
“Sasha.” Her gentle voice trembled.
Sasha? He stiffened at the peculiar name, but the girl stirred and turned to the familiar voice.
“Mama.” The thin little arms reached for the porcelain-skinned woman, who rushed forward.
“Where have you been? Where did you go?” In seconds the girl was out of his arms and into her mother’s. The woman kissed the girl’s dirty face and hair. “Don’t ever leave me again, understand? I was worried to death.”
Instead of answering, the girl burrowed her head into her mother’s perfectly formed shoulder.
The woman nodded at him, half in fear and half with gratitude. “Thank you. You have no idea how worried I...” She gulped and averted her gaze. “Thank you, truly.”
“My pleasure, ma’am.”
He wanted to tip that pretty face up so he could get a second look, but she kept her focus on her daughter.
“Yes, well, I should get home to fix supper.” She backed away a step.
“My name’s Wyatt Reed.” Now, why in blazes had he done that? He liked to keep contact with strangers to a minimum. Get in, do the job and get out. No emotional attachments.
“Charlotte Miller.” Her gaze darted up for a moment, and her cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink.
He wanted to touch that cheek to see if her skin was as soft as it looked, but beauties like her weren’t meant for men like him. Still, he couldn’t stop staring. A man didn’t see all that many pretty women on the frontier. Who could blame him for taking an extra-long look?
“Like I said, I should go home,” she murmured, again backing away.
He cleared his throat, reluctant to let her go. “I don’t suppose you could tell me where to find the mayor.” It was the only thing he could think to ask, even though he already knew where the town hall was located. “Evans, is it?”
“Yes, Mrs. Evans.” Her pretty little chin thrust out with pride.
“Mrs.?” Baxter hadn’t mentioned that little detail.
“Pauline Evans is a fine mayor, every bit as good as her late husband.” She started out strong defending her mayor, but with every word her certainty faltered, as if she’d lost her nerve.
For some reason, he wanted to encourage her. He dug around for a suitable response and found none. “I have business to take care of. Don’t suppose you’d know where I can find her?”
Again, she ducked her head. “You might try the town hall. If not there, then she’d be at home.”
“Town hall?” He pretended he didn’t know where it was to gain a few more seconds with her.
Her color deepened. “I’ll show you there. It’s on my way.”
A peculiar thrill ran through him. She would willingly walk with him through town? It had been ages since any woman walked in daylight with Wyatt Reed. And this one was a beauty. She’d match up to any ballroom belle back in Illinois.
“Let’s go home,” she whispered to Sasha.
Home. The old ache came back, hard and furious. Wyatt Reed wouldn’t find home until he set foot in San Francisco.
“Can you walk?” Charlotte murmured to Sasha, her face aglow with love for her daughter.
Sasha nodded solemnly and slid to the ground. “Go home.”
For the first time, Wyatt noticed the girl’s peculiar accent. Her voice had been too garbled by tears earlier, but now the foreign lilt was unmistakable. Sasha must not be Charlotte Miller’s natural daughter. A knot formed in his gut. That meant she could be one of the orphans.
His simple job just got a whole lot more difficult.
