LITMIR.BIZ

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would readily cross him.

      He leaned toward Reinhart. “For a fellow who says he’s not very smart, you seem to do all right.”

      Mr. McCoy was far too perceptive by half. Hadn’t Anna thought the same thing only moments before?

      Reinhart stood and tugged his ill-fitting jacket over his rounded stomach. He tipped back his head since Mr. McCoy was a good foot taller, and waved his bowed and skeletal index finger. “You know my rate. Pay or don’t. Don’t make me no never mind.”

      Once he’d exited the room, Anna’s flagging reserve of strength finally deserted her. Desperate to alleviate her discomfort, she pushed off from the chair and stumbled. Mr. McCoy was at her side in an instant. He hooked his arm beneath her shoulder, carefully avoiding her injury.

      “I’m quite well,” she said, and yet she found herself leaning into the bolstering support he offered.

      Her stomach fluttered. This was what her mother had warned her about. Victoria Bishop had declared men the ruin of women, turning perfectly sensible ladies into churning masses of emotions—robbing them of the ability to make sensible decisions. Sheltered from even the most banal interactions with gentlemen her own age, Anna had inwardly scoffed at the exaggerated tales.

      Occasionally older men had flirted with her over the years. Once in a while, a stray husband of one of their acquaintances decided that charming a suffragist was a sign of virility. She’d been singularly unmoved by the obvious ploy. Their honeyed words had sluiced off her like raindrops off a slicker.

      With Mr. McCoy near, a whole new understanding dawned. This wasn’t the forced regard she usually deflected. His touch made her restless for more. There was an unexpected tenderness within him, a compassion that drew her nearer, tugging at the edges of her resolve.

      “You’re not well at all.” He gingerly assisted her to the bed. “You’re exhausted. We’ve overdone it. I’ll fetch the doctor.”

      “No,” Anna said, crumpling onto the mattress, too tired to care about detectives and gunshots and unassuming veterinarians who surprised her with their fierce protectiveness. “I simply need to rest.”

      To her immense relief, no one argued. Instead, in a flurry of pitying looks and murmured orders to repose, Izetta and Jo reluctantly exited the room.

      Only Mr. McCoy lingered, one hand braced on the doorknob, the other on the wall, as though propelling himself from the room.

      Was he that eager to be free of her?

      He briefly glanced over his shoulder. “Rest. We can discuss what needs to be done later.”

      At least the change in position had temporarily alleviated the worst of her pain. If only her troubled thoughts were calmed as easily.

      She desperately searched her memory for the events preceding the rally. A little girl had handed her a bouquet of flowers. Yellow flowers. Anna had recalled the color matched the child’s dress.

       My mama says you’re a hero.

      Anna was no hero. She was hiding in her room. Once she stepped out the door, she’d have to face reality. Just the idea sent a wave of fatigue shuddering through her.

       You two can pretend to be engaged.

      How did one simple sentence cast her emotions spinning? Disparate feelings pummeled her senses faster than she could sort them all out. She should have been more outraged by the suggestion. Her injury had obviously sapped her strength. For all her uncharacteristically mild response, she knew she should have felt as horrified as Mr. McCoy had appeared.

      A lowering realization. She might be a suffragist, but she was also a woman. Not a bad-looking woman either. Anyone would have believed they were engaged. He could do worse. Anna wrinkled her nose. His opinion was of absolutely no concern.

      Or was she reading him all wrong? Was he uncertain of his own appeal? No. That couldn’t possibly be the case. Certainly there were plenty of ladies in Cimarron Springs eager for the attentions of the handsome veterinarian. While she may have been relatively isolated from the normal courting and machinations of men and women, she was not completely ignorant. If she trailed him through the crowded lobby, no doubt she’d observe more than one lady casting him a second glance. Which meant he couldn’t possibly believe the problem rested with him.

      Why on earth was she debating with herself?

      She was wasting all sorts of time and energy on an absolutely worthless endeavor. None of her speculations mattered. The only way to navigate this mess was with facts—identify the difficulty and solve the problem. Mr. McCoy wasn’t a problem. He was simply a diversion.

      A diversion who’d soon be out of her life.

      Another thought sent her stomach lurching. “How did he find me, anyway? The detective. Could someone else do the same?”

      “He saw me. The day of the rally, carrying you. You’re listed in the hotel register as my...as my guest.”

      Long after he was gone, Anna stared at the closed door. Something about how he’d said guest piqued her curiosity.

      Mr. McCoy was hiding something.

      * * *

      Caleb caught up with his sister and blocked her exit. “What were you thinking?”

      “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

      “Yes. You do.”

      “Fine.” She sniffed. “I saw the register. You’re already listed as her fiancée. The engagement seemed like an excellent idea.”

      “No. It’s not.”

      What if Anna discovered his deception in the guest registry, as well? With Jo spouting off about fiancées and his own collusion with the hotel, she’d never believe the two occurrences were not connected.

      What would she think? He didn’t even want to contemplate the answer.

      “At least everyone would quit assuming you’re mooning over Mary Louise,” Jo said.

      While that idea did hold some appeal, he wasn’t letting her off the hook that easily. “Stop pushing, Jo. This is Anna’s decision.”

      “Anna?”

      “Miss Bishop is an intelligent, independent woman. She will make her own decisions regarding her life. If she wants help, she’ll ask.”

      He kept thinking about her trunk. The week before, when they’d switched rooms, he’d carried the trunk himself. While he trusted the hotel staff, the fewer people who knew her whereabouts, the better.

      The trunk had been expensive. A sturdy wooden affair with brass buckles and leather straps. Even the stack of books she’d plunked on her side table were leather bound. Her clothes were exquisitely tailored, there was nothing ready-made about Anna Bishop. Nothing at all. He’d traveled far enough away from Cimarron Springs, and he understood that even in the United States, a land built on equality, a class system prevailed. The McCoys had always been a hardworking lot who eked out a humble existence.

      Judging from her wardrobe and her luggage, Anna had probably never cooked a meal for herself. He’d read the newspaper clippings Jo collected. Anna’s mother was not just Victoria Bishop; she’d been nicknamed “the heiress.” He might not know much about women, but he didn’t figure an heiress would cotton to the kind of living in Cimarron Springs.

      She was above his touch, both in wealth and in her ideology. And while his brain understood the implications, he feared his heart was not as wise.

      Jo rubbed her thumbnail along her lower teeth, a sure sign she was worried about something. “Did you think Anna looked pale?”

      He’d thought she was stunning. His heart picked up its rhythm, and he absently rubbed his chest. The first few days he’d corralled his wayward thoughts. When he caught himself staring at her lips,

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