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The only begging Colette had ever done in her life was done asking Chief Lomery to release Beatrix because she was an unwitting accomplice.

  That alone was enough to earn anyone’s admiration.

  Except William and Amity Vanderpool-Vane’s.

  Why can’t you be sensible for once?

  Mother’s words haunted Colette. She stared absently at the pie she’d yet to eat. She was sensible. She was twenty-two years old, owned two farms, and was a patron to a handful of artists because she recognized their potential. Her leadership involvement in six charities should be enough to prove to her parents that she had maturity and good sense. And she had goals. She alone had the vision for an exclusive art studio in Denver to provide an avenue for local artists to showcase their works.

  Her parents lacked vision because they didn’t see beyond their own lives or social class. Besides their regular gifts to the church and occasional donations to social fund-raisers, her parents never did anything unto the least of these as Jesus commanded. They never gave aid at the orphanage or served meals to the impoverished. They never delivered food to the widows.

  And yet she did all of that…and did it without expectation of praise for her actions.

  Father finished the joke he was telling.

  Mother and Robert laughed.

  Colette sighed. If her parents could choose between her and Robert as their child, they’d choose him. Why not? He would never do anything to earn a lecture like the ones her parents had cruelly dispensed in the carriage.

  Why can’t you be sensible for once?

  Mother would never say that to Robert. She would never have reason to.

  Robert Moring, Esq. Reputable lawyer. Youngest deacon in the church. Admired by members of both political parties, he’d served on former Governor Eaton’s staff and then on Governor Adams’s until he accepted the position of campaign organizer for Job Cooper’s gubernatorial bid. Her parents adored Robert, and not solely because he shared their political views. He never dominated a conversation. Never gave the impression he thought he was better than anyone. He was as comfortable with children as he was those his age or his parents’ or grandparents’ ages.

  Robert was a true gentleman.

  Colette tapped her fork against her pie. During their two years of courting, not once had they ever discussed love or marriage. Did he not think she would agree to marry him?

  She would…wouldn’t she?

  She’d never thought about marrying him until now. She couldn’t know what she would answer until he proposed. She did know what she wanted was a passionate, forgiving, and empowering love like the one her parents shared.

  Colette studied Robert’s comfortable face. Would she want to wake up to that pleasantry for the rest of her life? Of course. If he was like his father and grandfather, he would age well, although unlike her father, Robert would likely bald. For all his virtues, Robert was too cautious. He never took risks. He never leaped before looking. Never did anything silly just for the fun of it. While no one would ever describe Robert as having a zest for life, she could do worse than him.

  Why can’t you be sensible for once?

  “Oh, Mother,” Colette said under her breath. She laid her fork on her dessert plate and looked at her father. “I’ve given your lecture some thought.”

  Her words brought a halt to the conversation in the room.

  She continued with, “I apologize for bringing dishonor to the Vanderpool-Vane name. First thing in the morning, I will apologize to Uncle Schelley for trespassing on his property and apologize to Beatrix for enlisting her to join my”—she sought the exact descriptor her father had used—“imprudent action.” She looked at her mother. “You’re right about the purchase of my donkey farm being impetuous.” Impetuous it was. Insensible it wasn’t. “I will do the wise thing and hire a manager.”

  “Darling, I specifically said the wise thing was to sell it.” Mother’s chin lifted. “As I also told you to do with that llama farm you wasted money on. At the rate you spend money, your inheritance will be gone before you reach thirty. Will that be fair to your husband and to your children?”

  Colette winced. She should say something to Mother about how hurtful her words were. But Mother continued to look so disappointed and so sure of her low opinion of Colette that she had to look away. This moment was about proving to her parents that she was a grown woman who made mature decisions.

  “Father, I’ve only owned the donkey farm for two weeks,” she said and hated how her voice trembled with emotion, “but I believe time will prove it, as with my llama farm, to be a wise investment. Would you advise me on how I go about hiring a manager?”

  He tugged on the pointed edge of his orange-and-gray beard. “I will. Come to my office tomorrow after you pay your apologies to your godfather and to Beatrix.”

  “Thank you. I need you and Mother to realize that opening an art studio isn’t a passing fancy.” Colette noted the skeptical looks her parents exchanged. “I’ve dreamed of this studio since I was a child. I have the finances to support the artists who have the skills I wish I had. In the carriage, you said I needed to start having long-term goals. This studio and my eventual art museum are lifelong passions for me. I am committed to this and will do whatever necessary to prove to you both my commitment.”

  Mother shook her head. “You have no idea what a lifelong commitment requires.”

  Father’s slight nod in agreement tore at Colette more than his harsh lecture in the carriage had. What would it take for them to realize she was a committed person? Become more like Robert would be a start.

  Realizing the answer sat across from her, Colette turned a sweet smile upon Robert. “A girl could not ask for a more gentlemanly suitor. That is why I agree we should marry. Would you like to have the ceremony before or after the election?”

  His unreadable expression stayed focused on her as he took his leisure in thinking. “You have no preference for when we marry?”

  What an odd question. Not one she would’ve had, but it was one typical of Robert and his I’m-too-busy-planning-tomorrow-to-enjoy-the-moment-today way of thinking.

  She shook her head. “No preference. I’m ready whenever you are.”

  His smile seemed strangely suspicious, totally unlike Robert. “Then how about this Sunday?”

  Mother’s face paled to match her ivory-and-silver dinner dress. “A six-day engagement is unacceptable. People will talk about the marriage being a…necessity.”

  “It can be a small ceremony,” Robert said in that serene voice of his, clearly unfazed by Mother’s insinuation. “We could have a celebration ball at a later date.”

  “You may as well elope,” Father remarked.

  Elope? Colette forced a smile to cover her horror.

  She couldn’t elope. She had things to do, such as purchase train tickets for a forget-about-your-broken-engagement shopping trip to St. Louis with her dear, sweet Beatrix. Not to mention Colette’s charity work. Someone needed to help Millie come up with ideas for the autumn fund-raiser to help Reverend Layfield start a mission to the natives living near Grand Junction. No one enjoyed brainstorming ideas like Colette did. She also needed to meet with the local artists whose work she was supporting.

  She sipped her coffee as she sought for a way to explain why she and Robert needed to wait at least three months to marry. Or six. Robert needed time to focus on Mr. Cooper’s gubernatorial campaign, and then came the holidays. Should Mr. Cooper win, like his processors, he would appoint Robert to his staff, and Robert would need time to adjust to a new job. Nine months would be better to wait to marry. No, a year because their friends needed time to grow used to seeing them as the future Mr. and Mrs. Robert Moring.

  A year engagement minimum.

  They should wait to marry until next summer.

  But if she said that, in light of how she’d proclaimed she w
as “ready whenever he was,” she would look fickle. Fickle was another word for not taking life seriously.

  Colette took another slow sip of her coffee.

  “Mrs. Vanderpool-Vane,” Robert said, breaking the uncomfortable silence, “what date would you recommend?”

  Mother grinned in delight. “I’ve always loved Christmas weddings.” She pushed her chair back and stood. “Robert, please join me in the parlor. We should consult my calendar for open dates.”

  He looked at Father.

  “Go on, Rob. I’d like to have a few moments to speak to my daughter alone.”

  “Of course, sir.” Robert dutifully followed Mother out of the dining room, without a backward glance at Colette. Mother’s “I’m leaning toward mid-December” were the last words Colette heard before they disappeared from view.

  She shifted in her chair to face her dour-faced father. “Why do you look displeased with me? I listened to your rebuke and am doing all you asked of me.”

  Father laid his napkin on the table. “Follow me.”

  Colette stood and obeyed, following him out the dining room, down the foyer, and outside onto the patio. He wrapped her arm around his before leading her into the garden. Colette steadied herself for a lecture on if she was sure she was making the right decision because her actions seemed hasty and ill-conceived, which was typical of her, although she knew that not to be true because many of her decisions came after long periods of inward reflection.

  “Your mother and I are concerned that you’re too unfocused with your compassion.”

  That was an abrupt change of topic. “I don’t understand.”

  “Having wealth has allowed you to throw a little compassion here and a little compassion there without it doing much good…but also without it doing much harm.”

  Colette raised her chin in defiance. “The people who are helped by my charity work would disagree.”

  “They probably would,” he conceded. “That compassionate heart of yours wanted to cheer up Beatrix, so you broke the law. You saw llamas being mistreated, so you bought a farm, and you did the same for a score of donkeys. The more you love, the more your capacity to love grows. How many local artists do you support so they can spend their day on creating future masterpieces?”

  “Not enough.”

  His gaze flickered toward hers. “What will those llamas, donkeys, and artists do when you lose interest in helping them? Before you answer, think about all the projects you’ve started and resolutions you’ve made and never finished.”

  Colette trailed her fingers along a flowering hedge. Too many unfinished projects and resolutions littered her path. Why focus on them? That was yesterday. Today she was a new person. “Father, I can hire a manager if the task is beyond my abilities or if I lose interest. But think about how long I’ve been doing charity work.”

  “Even when you were a child, you gave your toys away.”

  “My interest in helping artists will never waver.” She waited for Father to acknowledge he believed her, but he said nothing more as they strolled around the garden.

  Colette breathed deep, inhaling the sweet pine and floral scent, listening to the sounds of insects chirping. She loved their family garden as much as she loved the Rocky Mountains. Oh, she enjoyed an occasional holiday in San Francisco. She’d had as much fun in Portland as she had during visits to Santa Fe, New Orleans, and New York City. Never did she want to live anywhere but here. Near her friends. Near family.

  “Let’s have a seat.” Upon reaching an iron bench, Father waited to sit until after Colette did. He crossed one leg over the other and rested an arm on the back of the bench. “It’s a beautiful night.”

  Colette studied the star-dotted sky. “It’s so peaceful. Sitting here, I see trees and mansion rooftops. On the roof of Uncle Schelley’s building, Beatrix and I saw nothing but open sky. The world is so much bigger when one’s view isn’t limited.”

  “Indeed it is.” He shifted on the bench to face her. “The world is so much bigger once you see what real hurt and real poverty in life circumstances looks like. That’s why I want to give you a glimpse of what a focused charity looks like. And when you return, if you still want to open an art studio and a museum, I will help finance them.”

  “What do you mean by a focused charity?”

  His voice softened. “Several years ago, the two-week anniversary train trip that your mother and I take became more than a holiday for us. It’s a cover.”

  Her parents doing something secretive? How intriguing…and yet unbelievable. Her parents were some of the least exciting people she knew.

  Father, though, looked utterly serious.

  Colette leaned forward. “A cover for what?”

  Chapter Three

  Always resignation and acceptance. Always prudence and honour and duty. Elinor, where is your heart?

  ―JANE AUSTEN, Sense and Sensibility

  Father stared at the sky for a long, quiet moment. “Your mother and I escort girls rescued out of prostitution to a female academy in Kansas. During the train ride, we help prepare these young ladies for their new lives.”

  Colette studied her father’s face, intrigued by the secret and fascinating life her parents had hidden from her. Yet she couldn’t help but ask, “You and Mother really help prostitutes to a new life?”

  “We do.” The firmness of his tone chased away Colette’s lingering skepticism.

  “Does anyone else know?” she whispered.

  “A few select people. And now you.”

  “Is it dangerous?”

  He drew her hands together. “Sweetheart, I would not ask you to do this if it was dangerous or if I thought you could be harmed in any way. But what we do isn’t as simple as when you pick up a crate of used clothes from your friends and deliver it to the orphanage. We travel under false names. We keep secrets from those we love. Sometimes we’ve had to lie to people for their protection or ours. Don’t be hasty in agreeing to do this. Consider you now have a fiancé and a wedding to plan.”

  Colette drew in a breath. If her social-maven mother could rescue someone out of a life of crime and depravity, then she could do it, too. “I want to do this for you,” she answered. “I want—no, I need you and Mother to start seeing me as an adult who takes life seriously.”

  “Having an excuse to leave the wedding planning to your mother has nothing to do with your willingness to do this?” He gave her a knowing look.

  Colette sighed. “Partially. Mother is quite vocal with what she wants and expects.”

  “You can tell her no.”

  “How easily do you find it to tell her no?”

  “Being an adult means knowing when you need to speak up for yourself, as much as knowing when to let things go.” He paused. “You know your mother loves you?”

  Knowing her mother loved her wasn’t the same as always feeling loved.

  She squeezed his hands. “I know she does. The anniversary trip isn’t until September. A lot of wedding plans can be achieved in the meantime.”

  “Ever the optimist you are.”

  She raised her chin. “Success is more likely to be achieved when you begin with the belief you will succeed. Now tell me how I go about rescuing these girls from prostitution.”

  “They’ve already been rescued,” he clarified. “Your job will be to simply chaperone them to Kansas. There is, however, a strict list of rules you must not break even if you don’t like them or if you think they don’t make sense, and if you can’t promise to follow the—”

  “I will! I promise to follow every rule.”

  He studied her face for a long moment before he began detailing what she would have to do if she took his and Mother’s place. The task wasn’t dangerous. They’d never experienced any problems in the past. The benefactor, though, tolerated no alterations to her carefully organized—and
quite secretive—rescue ring. So for Colette to do this, everything hinged on if, Father stressed, the benefactor would agree to only one chaperone.

  If? Colette held back her scoffing. Life was too short to worry if something would work out. Begin with believing that it would.

  She always did.

  * * * *

  The Import Company

  Helena, Montana

  Thursday, August 30, 1888

  Jakob Gunderson carefully wedged a bundled package of what felt like bed linens underneath the dining chair. He wasn’t as good a packer as his father was, but he doubted anything else could be added to the delivery wagon. And this was the third wagonload of upscale furniture and home decorating items to go to the house that Carline Pope’s uncle had insisted on buying for her because nothing said I’m sorry you’re now an orphan like the gift of a new home.

  “Anything else going?” Jakob yelled into the open double doors to the stockroom.

  Pa strolled outside carrying a trio of brass candlesticks. “Carline’s uncle added these, too.”

  Jakob leaned against the wagon bed. “Where do you expect me to put them and not risk they fall out? I can’t dodge every hole in the road.”

  “Excellent question.” Pa eyed the wagon, his frown growing. “I’ll find a place. Madame Lestraude is inside. She’s looking for you.”

  Jakob tensed. In the last three months, since a few days after The Resale Shop fire when Madame Lestraude invited him to help her rescue girls out of prostitution, she’d always been discreet in conveying job orders. To approach him directly in public had to mean the job was pressing. He brushed the sleeves of his chambray shirt, then patted the thighs of his waist overalls to remove as much dust as possible before he strolled into the storeroom. He walked past Isaak’s office, then stepped into the store front.

  To his right, Mrs. Wilson and two ladies perused the table of scented candles. Similar faces. Same brown hair. The other ladies likely were her older sisters who, according to the newspaper’s society page, were in town for a late summer holiday. Beyond them, Carline stood solemn as her uncle pointed to a framed landscape that Pa had hung on the wall above the cabinet because Ma loved the painting.