19

Shepard waited for Thomas to meet his gaze before continuing softly, "Stop pestering her to marry you. It's embarrassing, not to mention, makes you seem awful desperate throwing yourself after a woman who's more than made her feelings on the matter clear."

At Thomas's reluctant nod, Shepard grunted and left. He took his time checking on the animals and giving them some attention—he preferred not to use the word stalling, even though he silently acknowledged it was precisely what he was doing.

When he'd put off returning to Jeremiah's room as long as he could, and he could no longer ignore the sharp pang of guilt at having left Hazel alone all day, Shepard gave Flapjack, Bouncy, and Bubbles a farewell pat and took a deep breath.

Tucking in his shirt and raking his hands through his hair, Shepard squared his shoulders and left the hotel stables. He briefly made eye contact with Thomas, where he sat at a table dealing a hand of cards and was pleased to see the curly-haired man pale slightly before averting his gaze.

He took the stairs one at a time, swallowing against a rush of nerves that increased with every breath. His palms grew sweaty, and his footsteps slowed as he tried to prepare himself for what lay beyond.

Cautiously opening the door, he stepped inside and found Hazel sitting in the wingback chair near the fireplace, staring inside the tin box resting on her lap.

"Any change?" He whispered, closing the door behind him.

She jumped at his voice and slammed the lid down. A guilty expression settled on her face as she pressed a hand to her chest to still her racing heart. "You're back," the words spilled free before she could stop them, laden with surprise and relief.

He gave her a funny look and nodded, unsure of what to say.

Hazel hugged the box to her chest and stood, setting it back on the washstand before she returned to her vigil at Jeremiah's bedside, "It might be wishful thinking, but I believe his fever eased a little over the past hour."

"That's good to hear," Shepard murmured, standing on the opposite side. "Sorry I was gone so long. I-"

"It's fine, Shepard," Hazel interrupted with a quick shake of her head, briefly meeting his gaze before studying Jeremiah's sleeping form.

She tried to order her thoughts and speak what was honestly on her mind. It wasn't fair that Shepard was gone most of the day, leaving her alone to deal with worrying over Jeremiah and unable to escape as he did.

All morning and most of the afternoon, she'd played through this moment in her head, dreaming up the varied ways she might deliver scathing rebukes to make her feelings known.

But now that the moment was upon her, Hazel realized that spending the last hour and a half reading through her mother's love letters—when all she'd intended to do was check for fire damage—had left her emotionally exhausted.

"How are the repairs coming along?"

Shepard watched her for a moment, "The roof's finished... do you still want to send word to Bertie?"

Hazel slowly shook her head and avoided looking at him when she said, "Not yet." She pressed a gentle hand to Jeremiah's brow and clucked her tongue in dismay at finding him warmer than before.

Without a word spoken between them, Shepard opened both windows and resumed the tasks that had become his usual routine when tending to Jeremiah.

Every now and then, Hazel's eyes wandered to the tin. She'd never been good at keeping secrets from Shepard, so it was only a matter of time before she revealed this particular one. It would be better for her peace of mind to get it done and over with now, she reasoned.

For all she knew, Shepard might take one look inside, understand the type of person she was, and want nothing more to do with her. So, showing him could be seen as a preemptive strike and prove Jeremiah to be mistaken.

Shepard glanced at the clock, then mumbled an excuse and left, only to return shortly thereafter with dinner.

When he handed her a bowl of chicken vegetable stew and her very own basket of rolls, she heaved a sigh of defeat. "All right. I'll show you what's inside."

Blinking like an owl, Shepard's eyebrows snapped together as he finished chewing and followed her gaze to the tin on the washstand before saying, "Inside what? The box?"

Hazel nodded and proceeded to tear off a portion of her first roll and dip it in her stew before plopping it in her mouth.

"But," she proclaimed mid-chew, holding a finger in the air. She swallowed before lamely continuing, "Only because I believe we both could use a diversion."

Triumph glowed within Shepard's eyes, and his lips curled in a wide grin, leading her to believe he'd somehow manipulated her by dropping the subject. Had he planned it all along? Worn her down over the last week with patience and kindness? If he had, he was far more devious than she remembered.

Once they'd finished eating, Shepard wiped his hands on his trousers and wiggled his fingers in an exaggerated show of anticipation when she offered him the tin. His face was alight with excitement, and she couldn't help but smile.

Shepard took the tin, murmuring softly, "We meet again," before curling his fingers around the rim of the lid. But he hesitated in pulling it free and looked at her, "I'm not gonna open it to find love letters from Thomas or another lover of yours, will I?"

Hazel seriously considered ripping the box out of his hands but somehow managed a civil, "No."

"Excellent," Shepard breathed, popping the lid open with a gentle tug.

"Those were thankfully burned along with the dresser."

Shepard's startled gaze flew to hers, then narrowed, "Really? Thomas wrote you love letters?"

Hazel crossed her arms over her chest, bracing herself for his reaction. "You'll never know, will you?"

He studied her for a moment, then smiled and lifted his shoulders in a shrug, his attention once more focused on the tin.

Hazel held her breath and dug her fingers into her upper arms as Shepard pulled the lid away.

He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting to find. Hazel had said it was only paper, and he now saw she'd spoken true.

But a part of him had envisioned something more exciting within the myriad of options that single word encompassed. A cache of pirate treasure maps, for instance, or something equally rousing. Not a stack of letters possibly full of nothing more thrilling than old family recipes.

Some were stuffed neatly in weathered and aged envelopes, but most of them were loose sheets of creased paper. They'd belonged to Amalia Jones; that much was evident from her name scrolled across the top of each in a masculine script.

"They are love letters... but they belonged to my mama," Hazel whispered, nervously licking her lips.

Shepard resisted the urge to read the letter open to his gaze and looked at Hazel. "Who are they from?"

"My father, mostly," She grimaced as the word left her mouth, but what else was she to call the man whose only role in her life had been that of siring her? "There's one from my mama written to him in there too."

"Have you read them?"

Hazel nodded, "Yes... all but the last one are from before I was born. He was a titled gentleman in England."

"I didn't realize she was British."

"She wasn't," Hazel said with a sad smile bending her lips, "she was from Connecticut. But her father had family living in England—an older sister. They were quite wealthy. Mother once told me she'd been rebellious and headstrong when she was young, so they'd sent her abroad at seventeen to live with her aunt. Within a month of arriving, she met my father."

Hazel sighed and shook her head. "Not exactly the sort of thing you hoped to find, I'd wager?"

"What happened?" He gently asked, brushing his fingers against the worn edges of the envelopes.

Hazel stared at the tin box in silence before quietly saying, "They had a passionate love affair that lasted for almost a year. In one letter, he promises to marry her and inform his father of his intentions." Hazel grimaced when her voice wobbled.

She blinked away the tears stinging her eyes, unsure what she'd said to bring them on in the first place.

Clearing her throat, she swallowed and continued, "But in the next, Ayden—that was his name—states his family has forced him to abandon her and marry within his class. She wrote to him about her heartbreak but never sent it and returned to America the day of his wedding without telling him she carried his child."

Shepard looked at the letters, surprised by the rush of sympathy and compassion flooding through his veins for Amalia Jones. Growing up, he'd often wondered what drove the girls at The Lilypad to work for a woman like Hetty Barrett.

Did they enjoy their work? He'd once asked his pa that very question and never knew a man could blush as red as a tomato until that moment. Pa had choked when he said, "I imagine some of them do," before quickly changing the subject.

But Shepard never considered their stories might echo Amalia's plight. It hadn't even occurred to him.

"What's the last one say? The one you mentioned wasn't from before you were born." He asked, leafing through them and wondering if they were in chronological order, and the letter he sought was at the bottom.

The question hung in the air unanswered as he lifted up the last envelope and stared at the creased and torn paper at the bottom of the tin that had his face on it. It took him a minute to realize what he was staring at.

He'd never seen his wanted poster from two years ago, he realized. It had, thankfully, only been out in circulation for a short amount of time, but there'd been a perverse part of him that wondered what the Marshals had put on it.

Immediately apparent, it was an average, run-of-the-mill poster. His name—preceded by the caption 'Notorious Badman'—was printed below a rendering of his likeness in big, bold letters, with 'The Devil' shoved in between as though the nickname was a natural part of it.

Notorious badman? He scoffed. Not likely.

Below that was the typical warm and welcoming caption of being wanted dead or alive—for a reward of thirty-five hundred dollars. Shepard arched a brow at that and let out a low whistle. Not a bad amount, really, much higher than he expected.

"Toffee-colored hair?" He quietly murmured upon noticing that particular description among the list of characteristics on either side of his rendering. "My hair is much darker than toffee." He pulled a lock forward and turned awkwardly to evaluate it. Yep, definitely darker.

Twenty-one years old, weight two-hundred-twelve pounds—that seemed oddly specific—light complexion, star-shaped mark on the right hand, American nationality.

Shepard snorted a laugh, wondering how they'd come up with some of these and continued reading. Six feet four inches tall, medium build, toffee hair color—he rolled his eyes at that again but grunted in acceptance to the other parts.

However, his eyes nearly bugged out of his skull in disbelief when he came to the next bit—train robber and highwayman.

"Lies," he muttered, before reading the line below his name aloud, "Wanted for train and stagecoach robberies, dangerous man and killer, but not cold-blooded." He shook his head and scowled at the paper. "Where'd you find this, Jonesy?"

Hazel's brow puckered. "Where'd I find-"

Her eyes widened, her hands flew to her mouth, covering a sharp gasp, and she didn't need to look in a mirror to know the blood had drained from her face as she remembered what lay beneath her mother's letters.

"I can explain," she blurted, instantly cursing her poor choice of words.

NO. She didn't want to explain; that was the last thing Hazel wanted to do. Maybe she could divert Shepard's attention with the letters. Yes, it was at least worth a try. What had he asked just seconds ago?

Hazel wracked her brain for several agonizing moments, choking on a sigh of relief when it came to her. The last letter. He wanted to know what it said.

"He died," she croaked out.

"Why do you have this?" Shepard asked at the same time. The left corner of his mouth lifted in a lopsided grin as he withdrew the wrinkled wanted poster, "About the only thing on here they got right is my damn birthmark."

Hazel groaned and covered her face with both hands. Damn and blast, her attempt at diversion hadn't worked.

"Yes, I thought the same thing when I first saw it," she weakly replied, dropping her hands to her sides in defeat.

Muttering another curse under her breath, she swallowed and squared her shoulders before meeting Shepard's gaze and saying, almost defiantly, "But you must admit it's a rather good drawing."

Shepard grinned and leaned back in his chair, folding his left arm across his chest as he held up the paper and studied it once more. "Must I?"

"It's a very favorable portrait," Hazel growled, tempted to rip the blasted thing out of his hand. "You look quite handsome."

"You think I'm handsome, Jonesy?"

Hazel rolled her eyes and refused to answer.

He winked at her and set it back in the tin atop the letters. "You didn't answer my question."

And she wasn't going to, Hazel silently admitted as she grabbed onto the opportunity to try once more at distraction. "He died."

Shepard blinked and stared at her with a look of confusion on his face. "Who died?"

Hazel bit back a smile of victory, "My father. The last letter," she plucked the tin from Shepard's lap, quickly hid the wanted poster beneath the letters, and withdrew the one in question.

Shoving the lid back in place, she set the tin on the washstand before turning to Shepard and holding the letter out.

His eyes narrowed, the expression on his face saying he knew precisely what she was playing at but was willing to go along—for now.

"It's actually a letter within a letter," Hazel added. "The first one being from his solicitor, saying he'd been directed to forward the second to my mother upon his death."

Shepard took the envelope and turned it over, brushing his thumb against the broken red wax seal. Then, he lifted the flap to find a folded slip of paper and another envelope inside, just as she'd said there would be.

"You can read it," Hazel whispered, sitting on the end of the bed and bracing her hands on the brass footboard. "You might as well now that you know about everything else."

Her heart slammed against her ribs and her stomach twisted into thousands of knots as she watched him slowly remove the second letter and begin reading.

The paper looked almost new compared to the others in the stack, and the black ink stood out in stark relief on the white background.

23 February 1868

Beloved Amalia,

I write this letter in the hopes you never receive it. Because if you do, it means this accursed illness has won, and I am dead, and never got the chance to beg for your forgiveness and proclaim to the world how deeply and ardently I still love and adore you.

I dream of you, my dearest, and ache for the days spent in your warm embrace. How you must loath me for my weakness, for that's what it was. Weakness. Had I been stalwart and possessing a firm resolve, I would never have acquiesced to my father's wishes and given you up.

Not a moment goes by that I don't regret how it ended between us. Oh, my dear, my darling, what hopes I had for our future. Lost, every last one of them forfeit. Please forgive me, though I know I don't deserve it. You are and always have been the beat of my heart, the soul in my now frail body.

You showed me what it truly meant to live and be blissfully happy in our short time together. You, my beloved Amalia, will always be the love of my life.

Forever yours,

Ayden

Shepard refolded the letter and returned it to the envelope, but before he could order his thoughts enough to comment on it, the clock on the mantel chimed the hour of ten, and Jeremiah let out a raspy groan that brought both Shepard and Hazel to his bedside.

Hazel lifted the wet cloth and felt Jeremiah's brow, then sighed in relief and smiled, "His fever broke."

"What are you two doing here?" Jeremiah sleepily grumbled as he covered a slight cough and opened up a bloodshot eye. "Thought I told you not to fuss over me."

Shepard bit back a grin and blinked away the sting of tears. He swallowed against the lump in his throat and hoarsely said, "We wanted to admire the view from your window."

Jeremiah studied Shepard with narrowed eyes and hmm'd, which turned into a hacking cough that shook the bed.

"Thirsty?" Hazel murmured with a smile once it subsided and offered a partially filled glass of water.

"Yes, please, my throat feels parched as a desert and twice as raw." Jeremiah rolled partway onto his right elbow and drank every last drop, then sank into his pillow with a tired groan.

Hazel refilled the glass and held it out in silent question.

Jeremiah grunted but made no move to reach for it. "I hate to admit it," he rasped, his voice low and full of defeat as he stared at the glass with longing, "but I'm damn near as feeble as a newborn kitty cat."

Hazel braced a hand behind him and helped hold the glass to his lips while sitting on the bed.

"Hungry?" Shepard asked, wanting to be helpful instead of standing idly by watching. At Jeremiah's hesitant nod, Shepard mumbled an excuse and all but ran from the room.