Cimarron Rose. Nicole Foster

      Chapter One

      Cimarron, New Mexico territory, 1875

      A gust of wind rattled the window of the small room, its cool draft sliding inside to brush against Katlyn McLain’s neck. She shivered, drawing her thin woolen shawl a little more tightly around her as she bent over the bed to look again at the woman lying there.

      In the wavering lamplight, stripped of her glitter and paint, Penelope Rose seemed small and faded. Katlyn touched her mother’s face, then tucked the blanket more snugly around her. Even without the doctor’s grim news, she had known her mother was ill. Her pale thinness, the dullness of her penny-bright hair, the droop of her shoulders all betrayed Penelope’s sparkling facade.

      Katlyn dropped back down onto the wooden chair she’d pulled close to the bed, feeling a little pale herself.

      She hadn’t slept since she’d arrived hours ago in Cimarron, cold, wet, aching, and half carrying Penelope, with nothing between them but the clothes on their backs.

      A tap at the door brought Katlyn to her feet again. Before she could move to answer it, the owner of the boardinghouse, Mrs. Donaldson, pushed open the door and came inside. She put the tray she carried on the dresser top and then looked sternly at Katlyn.

      That expression made Katlyn want to laugh. A thin little sparrow of a woman, Elspeth Donaldson appeared meek—until she spoke and a rich Scottish burr rolled out. “Now, lass, I’ve brought you some tea, and a wee bit of that stew I had left from supper. You won’t be doin’ your ma any good by starvin’ yourself.”

      “Thank you,” Katlyn said, smiling a little at Mrs. Donaldson’s fussing. “I am hungry. But I—”

      “I won’t be hearin’ any more about you payin’ me,” Mrs. Donaldson said, giving Katlyn one of her daunting stares. “You just eat that. I know you’re hungry, walkin’ all that way after such a terrible experience. You’re a brave lass, and there’s no one can say different.”

      Katlyn wanted to say she felt anything but brave. But she only smiled her thanks and went to pick up the steaming cup of tea.

      “A nice sleep will do your ma good, you’ll see,” Mrs. Donaldson added, eyeing Penelope with a shrewdness that made Katlyn feel the other woman knew everything about her mother. “She might feel differently about stayin’ though. I don’t suppose she thought it would be like this.”

      No, of course she didn’t, Katlyn silently agreed as she shut the door behind Mrs. Donaldson.

      Her mother should never have come here. Penelope belonged back on the Mississippi riverboats, where she was flattered and pampered, not in the New Mexico high country.

      But Penelope had insisted on coming to Cimarron to sing at the St. Martin Hotel. And when her mother made up her mind, no one could convince her otherwise.

      Katlyn hadn’t believed her when Penelope said she needed a rest, a change of scenery to revive herself. Then, when she’d added that it would be lovely, being so near her only daughter, Katlyn knew something was very wrong.

      Nothing