A Love to Cherish Read Free

voices that made him think of bubbling mountain brooks and sighing winds.
    It was more than her delightfully dulcet voice that made Casey think his intuition had failed him. This woman couldn’t be Belle Parker, the mercenary whore who had coerced McAllister’s young, naive son into marriage. This appealing young woman with rich brown hair, peaches-and-cream complexion, and wide brown eyes, was dressed conservatively in a serviceable gray gown covered by a large white apron. No woman who looked like Isabelle Henderson could possibly be a whore. He had expected to find a flamboyantly beautiful woman servicing miners sexually, not someone resembling the girl next door serving meals to them. Perhaps, Casey thought, this young woman was merely an employee, or not the same Isabelle Henderson he sought.
    “Anything will do,” Casey said, taking a seat at one of the tables. “Whatever you have to hold me over till supper, miss.”
    “It’s Mrs. Henderson,” Belle said, sizing the man up as a stranger in camp. She didn’t trust strangers. Being always on the lookout for her father-in-law’s men was beginning to take its toll on her. “I can serve you up a plate of beans and biscuits.”
    “And coffee,” Casey added. He knew it was rude to stare at the woman but seemed unable to look away.
    Belle nodded and turned back to the kitchen. Casey continued to stare at her, stunned to note that she was limping. Though slight, her limp was nevertheless noticeable … and surprising. Men rarely were attracted to whores with deformities. Most madams would consider a lame whore a disability and bad for business. Either he had the wrong woman, Casey thought, or McAllister had lied about his daughter-in-law’s profession. Casey didn’t like being deceived. Unfortunately it was too late for second thoughts. He had already taken his bonus from McAllister and wired it to Simon Levy. Casey might not like McAllister, but he had agreed to do a job and he’d never reneged on an assignment in his entire career as a Pinkerton detective.
    Belle peeked out the kitchen door at the handsome stranger while the beans were heating, gnawing her lower lip with even white teeth as she considered his strong chin and rugged features. He was handsome, no doubt about it. Those were the men she trusted least. Yet she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off him. Shiny dark hair brushed the nape of his neck, and though she hadn’t noted the color of his eyes, she knew they would be unusual. He was big; she could see his muscles rippling beneath his clothing. The man didn’t look like a miner. Dressed in crisp canvas trousers, plaid shirt andleather vest, wearing leather boots that were scuffed but of good quality, his attire was too new to mark him as a miner.
    Belle noted that the man wore one gun at his hip, a Colt single-action pistol. What Belle didn’t know was that Casey carried an Underhammer “bootleg” percussion pistol beneath his vest. The gun was of small caliber but practical for personal protection when one wanted to carry concealed weapons.
    A few minutes later Belle returned with a plate of beans and a cup of coffee, which she sat down before Casey. “I haven’t seen you around before, mister. Going to try your hand at mining?”
    Casey shoved his hat back on his head and smiled at Belle. “The name’s Walker, Casey Walker. I’m just passing through. What kind of hotel is the Cary House?”
    “The best, Mr. Walker. It was built after the Ruffles Hotel burned in 1856. Expensive, too. If it’s too steep for you I can recommend another.”
    “I’ll keep that in mind. How long have you been serving meals in Placerville, Mrs. Henderson?” Casey asked as he dug into his beans.
    “Long enough.”
    “Is your husband a miner?”
    “I’m a widow,” Belle said crisply.
    “Any children?” He tried to make the question sound casual.
    Warning bells went off in Belle’s head. “I don’t believe that’s any of your business, Mr.