Wyoming Lawman. Victoria Bylin

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      Miss Marlowe’s eyes twinkled. “I’m quite accustomed to raising eyebrows.”

      Carrie grinned. “I think you enjoy it.”

      “I do,” the woman declared. “So let’s do some politicking. There are five board members including myself. We need three votes. I should be able to twist my nephew’s arm, but the third vote will be a problem.”

      Pearl’s heart soared and crashed in the same breath. She’d earned Miss Marlowe’s support, but she had a fight ahead of her. As Carrie and Miss Marlowe debated the options, Pearl heard references to Chester Gates and Lady Eugenia. Both women thought Lady Eugenia could be persuaded, but that Mr. Gates would be difficult. Carrie named the fifth board member. “What about Jasper Kling?”

      Miss Marlowe grimaced. “The man annoys me.”

      “Who is he?” Pearl asked.

      Carrie set down her cup. “He owns a shop on Dryer Street. I’m not ready to write him off.”

      Miss Marlowe wrinkled her brows. “I must admit, I don’t know Jasper well. Why do you think he’ll bend in our direction?”

      “He went to church with my parents.”

      “I see.” Miss Marlowe sipped her tea. “You’re hoping he’ll respect Pearl’s refusal to lie.”

      “Yes.”

      “He might.” She set down the cup. “Jasper’s quite determined to build moral character among our girls. Just last week he championed the purchase of McGuffey Readers for the entire school.”

      Pearl had fond memories of the textbook. The primer was full of Bible stories, moral tales and lessons for life. If Jasper Kling believed in the principles of truth and honesty, he just might support her. “There’s always hope,” she said to Miss Marlowe. “I’ll have to persuade him at the interview.”

      Toby kicked and the women chuckled. Pearl saw envy in Carrie’s eyes and something deeper in Miss Marlowe’s. Maybe regret. The older woman offered the scones. “I’ll speak to the trustees myself. You won’t have to tell your story, but you might have to answer questions.”

      “Of course.”

      After Pearl took a scone, Miss Marlowe set down the plate. “You have two letters of reference. One from Carrie and one from Reverend Joshua Blue. Do you know anyone in Cheyenne?”

      Before Pearl could answer, Carrie told the story of Sarah’s rescue from the freight wagon and Matt’s offer to write a letter.

      “Excellent,” Miss Marlowe replied. “A letter from a parent will carry weight. He’s new to Cheyenne, but he’s respected.

      Carrie looked at Pearl. “It’s going to work out, cousin. You’ll see.”

      Pearl hoped so, but she felt like Sarah alone in the middle of the street staring at a team of mules. Needing to be brave, she thought of the ribbons. Matt belonged to Carrie, but Pearl valued his friendship. Hopefully, his letter would tip the scales in her favor.

      Matt didn’t like cooking supper, but he did it for Sarah. He liked washing dishes even less, but it had to be done. As he dumped the scrub basin out the back door, he thought of his little girl tucked in bed, wrapped in the pink quilt she’d clutched all the way from Texas. The blanket no longer reached her toes, but the fabric still held the softness of a mother’s touch.

      As he shook the basin dry, he thought of his last chore for the evening. This morning he’d bought stationery and a bottle of ink. All day he’d composed the letter for Pearl in his head, but nothing sounded right. With her interview just two days away, he had to deliver the letter tomorrow. He didn’t regret his offer. He just wished he knew what to say.

      He looked at the sunset and thought of her cheeks, flushed pink as she weighed his offer to write the letter. He stared up at the sky, a medium blue that melted into dusk. He thought of the ribbons and felt good that he’d brightened her day. Inspired, he went back into the house, stowed the basin under the counter and fetched the stationery and ink from the shelf where he’d put them out of Sarah’s reach. He sat at the table, smoothed a sheet of paper, uncorked the bottle and lifted the pen. In bold strokes he wrote the date, then added, “To Whom It May Concern.”

      He wrinkled his brow.

      He scratched his neck.

      He’d have been more comfortable throwing a drunk in jail, but he’d made a promise and he’d keep it. He inked the pen and wrote, “It’s my pleasure to provide a letter of reference for Miss Pearl Oliver.”

      So far, so good. He dipped the pen again, wiped the excess and described how she’d run in front of the wagon to save Sarah. As the nib scratched against the paper, he relived the rattle of the wagon. He imagined his little girl lying in the mud and Pearl protecting her with her own body.

      He owed this woman far more than a letter. Not only had she saved Sarah, she’d restored a sliver of his faith in human beings, even in women with blond hair. Bettina had thrown Sarah to the wolves. Pearl would have died to save her. The thought spurred his hand and he told the story with ease. By the time he finished, he couldn’t imagine anyone not hiring her. In closing, he described her as loyal, honest, dedicated and kind. After the way she’d handled the awkwardness of the ribbons, he believed every word.

      He blew the ink dry, then closed his eyes. As he rubbed the kink in his neck, his mind drifted to Jed Jones hanging from a cottonwood tree. Matt had seen men hanged, but he’d never cut one down after three days. He’d lost his breakfast and done his job, but he’d paid a price. The nightmares from Virginia had come back with a new intensity. He hadn’t slept well since then, and he doubted the dreams would settle until he figured out who was behind the recent violence.

      His mind wandered until he felt a tug on his sleeve. As he looked down, Sarah leaned her head against his arm. The warmth of her temple passed through the cotton and went straight to his heart. Earlier he’d laced her hair into a single braid. Long and smooth, it gleamed in the lamplight. Thanks to Pearl, he’d gotten the hang of fixing hair. The trick was to pull with a firm hand. Before he’d seen how she did it, he’d worried too much about hurting Sarah’s head.

      Dressed in a store-bought nightie, she looked up at him with her big blue eyes. “Daddy, I can’t sleep anymore.”

      He draped his arm around her shoulders. With her tiny bones, she reminded him of a baby chick. “You will if you try.”

      “I want to hear Cinderella again.”

      The week they’d arrived in Cheyenne, he’d bought a storybook with colored pictures for Sarah’s birthday. He’d found it at the fanciest shop in town, and a clerk had told him the story behind it. A Frenchman named Charles Perrault had collected fairy tales in a book called Tales of Mother Goose. Someone else had translated the stories into English, and someone else had drawn pictures that sent Sarah into raptures of delight. She didn’t like the gruesome parts, but she enjoyed the rest. Matt had read Cinderella so many times that he had passages memorized.

      “We already had a story,” he said. “It’s bedtime.”

      “Pleeeease.”

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