Page 86 of The Prospector's Only Prospect
“No. No.” Pearl shook her head. “Hiram— I’ll explain somewhere private.” Her lashes quivered as she realized ears were cocked in an effort to eavesdrop. “But, oh, I’ve missed you.” Pearl gave her another exuberant hug, rubbing Marigold’s back. “Your last letter sounded so discouraged. I was worried. That’s why I convinced Uncle Felix I had to come. I must say, things aren’t nearly as primitive as you made them sound. I’ve been very comfortable.” She drew back.
Marigold had already noted how much Denver had grown through the summer, but— “How did you get here? By stagecoach?” Impossible. Uncle Felix had been destitute after the fire.
“We found a family coming to homestead. When I arrived, I was directed to the Dudleys’ to wait for Mr. Gardner to come vote. They were kind enough to put me up in one of their rooms.” Pearl waved vaguely toward a row of shacks behind the saloon.
“Good heavens, you’re not serving here, are you?” In a saloon? Marigold was appalled, but she couldn’t imagine Uncle Felix had given Pearl more than a little pin money.
“No!” Pearl laughed with outraged amusement. “But…” She leaned in to confide, “I have been helping Mrs. Dudley make corn whiskey.”
“For heaven’s sake, Pearl.”
“I wanted to help. They’re being so kind, not even charging me for the room.” She leaned in again. “I think they see it as currying favor with my intended.” Her brows lifted in amusement.
“Your—” Marigold’s heart juddered to a halt in her chest.
Pearl’s big eyes grew wider as gravel crunched behind Marigold. Someone’s shadow fell onto her sister’s face.
Pearl swallowed, then adopted her most charming expression, the one that always had men tipping their hats and rushing to pick up something she’d dropped.
“Mr. Gardner?” She pitched her voice in a way that suggested she had been waiting her whole life to meet him. “I was assured you would turn up here for the vote today. I’m Pearl Martin.” She offered her hand. “I’m so glad to meet you at last.”
“But he’s m-m…”Marryingme.He’s mine.
Marigold had to press her lips together to steady them. Her stomach was purged dry by her travel sickness, but it managed a final death clench that nearly sliced her in half. Such acute jealousy arose in her, she wanted to slap her sister’s hand for daring to touch him.
“Miss Martin.” Virgil shook Pearl’s gloved hand while wearing a frown of confusion. “Marigold told me you were staying in Topeka to marry someone else.”
“No,” Pearl said firmly. “An acquaintance from church took me in when we lost our home and her son was… Well, I didn’t have feelings for him and”—her gaze struck Marigold’s with a hint of censure—“his interest in me was not as romantic as I was led to believe.”
Virgil’s brows became a single, disgruntled line as he shot Marigold a look that asked,What the hell is going on?
You’ll find me to be a fair, respectful man to all but liars, cheats, and thieves.
Marigold’s heart gave a disconcerting jolt as she heard suspicions seeping back into his mind, bricking a wall between himself and any tenderness he might have felt toward her.
“Since Marigold’s letters assured me you’re a good man and a good father, I was encouraged to pursue the offer of marriage you had extended.” Pearl wore her most earnest and engaging smile. “You haven’t written me to retract it.”
Virgil’s gaze traveled over Pearl in a more detailed study, the way a lot of men did, as though he hadn’t known women came in such pretty colors and styles. He shot Marigold another look of confusion.
“Butyou’veagreed to marry me,” he said.
“What?” Pearl’s outrage was lost in the collective gasp of their audience.
As an awkward silence took hold between the three of them, voices in the crowd carried clear as a bell.
“They’re sisters?” someone asked.
“Yes. That plain one’s been living with him at Quail’s Creek. Now the pretty one has turned up.”
“Shhh.”
“Pearl,” Marigold strangled on her own voice. “I was going to send you a letter today. It’s in my bag…” She glanced back at the cart, thinking the rushed words were horribly inadequate when her sister was right here, believing she still had a chance with Virgil.
Did she?
Virgil wore his most thunderous expression.
“No, she’s not a widow,” one of those infernal spectators was saying. “Missus Davis is divorced.”
