Free Romancing the West by Beth Ciotta Page A

curled up on the sofa with a pencil and her journal. Only she didn’t write about her day, but a fictional heroine’s encounter with a swash-buckling pirate, not that she confessed as such to Mr. Pinkerton. Even though Paris had described him as open minded, his statement regarding Wilde and glorified violence stuck in her craw.
    They fell into companionable silence. Next thing she knew it was past midnight. Her lids were drooping and Mr. Pinkerton was yawning, so she’d locked her journal in her desk and asked him to read aloud. Better sleep deprivation than succumbing to a concussion. He’d smiled at her request, a small smile, but one that had made her stomach flutter. Most distressing to have a man in her house, especially one as handsome as Phineas Pinkerton. Not that she was attracted to him in the romantic sense. She was, however, keenly aware of his charismatic aura.
    He read very well, though she shouldn’t have been surprised what with him being a professional who recited poetry on stage. But it was the sound of his voice, deep and rich with character, that mesmerized her. He brought new life to a story she’d read a dozen times. Regardless, she must’ve drifted off somewhere in the middle and now it was morning.
    Morning.
    Emily bolted to her stockinged feet. Where was Mr. Pinkerton? On instinct, she whirled to her rolltop desk, jiggled the lid. Still locked. She checked for the key hidden in the locket hanging around her neck.
    Still there.
    Mr. Pinkerton, however, was not where she’d left him. Had he gone to bed? Fallen asleep never to wake up again? Had he experienced another dizzy spell, tripped on the stairway, and knocked himself out? Her vivid imagination spun wild and disastrous scenarios as she scrambled out of the room and up the steps. There were three bedrooms on the second floor. They were all empty. Even Mrs. Dunlap was out and about. What time was it anyway?
    She hurried back down the hall, slipping and sliding over the polished wood floor. Mrs. Dunlap was not only a knitting fanatic, but fussy neat. Since her memory was spotty, she often scrubbed and straightened a room twice in one day. Although this house and its furnishings were worse for wear, everything was in its place and dust-free.
    The hems of the long robe clutched in her fists, Emily rushed down the stairs, toward the smell of coffee. She burst through the kitchen door and found Mrs. Dunlap standing at the sink scrubbing a griddle. “Have you seen Mr. Pinkerton?”
    “Yes, of course, dear. You introduced us yesterday, remember? Handsome young man, don’t you think?”
    Emily’s heart thudded. Not because she was envisioning the poet’s dashing profile, but because she was imagining him dead! “Mrs. Dunlap, I’m wondering if you’ve seen Mr. Pinkerton today.”
    “Certainly. He made me breakfast.” The grey haired woman looked over her shoulder at Emily and smiled.   “Handsome and handy in the kitchen. Unmarried, too. I asked.”
    “Of course, he’s not married, he’s . . .”
    “What?”
    She couldn’t say it. She could barely think it. She could imagine a lot of things, but homosexuality was a little, no, a lot out of her scope. Her father would’ve declared Mr. Pinkerton a sinner. Emily viewed him as an enigma. She could not condemn what she did not understand. “Love is never wrong.”
    “What, dear?”
    Emily started and refocused on Mrs. Dunlap who’d resumed her vigorous scrubbing. “Nothing. I was just . . .” She crossed the room and placed a hand on the elderly woman’s sturdy shoulder. The only thing feeble about Iris Dunlap was her mind. “I need to speak with Mr. Pinkerton.” There. That sounded direct. Didn’t it?
    “Why didn’t you say so, dear? He’s in the barn.”
    “The barn?”
    “Yes, he said he’d be in the barn. Or was that yesterday? No, wait. When did he arrive? I . . .”
    Emily raced out the back door and across the vast yard toward the listing barn. The grass was slick