“She’ll leave.”
Reese thought it over. “A proxy marriage is risky.”
“No riskier than the other plan.”
“All right, David, but don’t quibble about the amount. She’s worth any amount. And David…”
“Yes?”
“If she asks, tell her you deposited the requested amount in her account.”
“She requested that much money?”
“She requested much, much less than I’m sending,” Reese explained.
“Think, David, why would she need a specific amount of money?”
“Taxes. Of course, she owns a house and possibly other property.”
“And when those crooks in office find out she can pay the tax she owes, they’ll probably raise the tax. They want the land, not money. I’m sending enough to allow her to keep her house and whatever else she owns. She’s got to have a place to go to when our arrangement ends. She can’t stay in Wyoming.”
“Anything else?” David wanted to know.
“If you need it, there is more money where that came from, but don’t tell her that. And David, hurry back.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to go to Richmond yourself?”
“I’m positive,” Reese told him. It was safer for Reese to stay in Washington and have a vague picture of Faith somewhere in Richmond, than to be able to visualize the tiniest details of her surroundings. He intended to follow his plan and remember to keep the relationship purely business. Their arrangement was temporary. He would never forget that.
Reese’s eyes narrowed and his face darkened at the thought. He carefully folded the telegram and placed it in the breast pocket of his jacket, next to his heart. Snatching his coat from the hook on the hall tree, he thrust his arms into the sleeves, then put on his hat and gloves.
“Where are you going?” David looked at his cousin. Reese’s lighthearted, triumphant mood had vanished.
“To the telegraph office and the train station. You change and pack. You’ll be traveling most of the night. I’ll take care of the other details.”
* * *
Forty-five minutes later, the key on the telegraph handset in Bert Winthrop’s Richmond office began to jangle. Bert grabbed a pencil stub and began to write.
“It’s for you, Miss Collins.”
Faith jumped as if she’d been shot. She stood up and walked hesitantly to the counter, her body stiff from the long wait on the hard, wooden bench. “What does it say?” Her soft voice quivered with suppressed excitement.
Bert Winthrop looked down at her. She was standing on tiptoes, attempting to read the words scrawled on the paper from across the width of the high counter. Her face was flushed from excitement or from the heat of the stove; he couldn’t tell which. Her big gray eyes sparkled. He realized for the first time, that Faith Collins was a beautiful woman. He always thought of her as Miss Collins. Efficient, quiet, hardworking, dull, Miss Collins. A diligent, gray sparrow in a houseful of flighty hens. The transformation was amazing. This Miss Collins took his breath away.
“What does it say, Mr. Winthrop?” Faith asked again.
Bert read the hastily scribbled words. “It says, ‘Delighted by your acceptance. David will arrive early morning. Waiting anxiously for your arrival. R. Jordan.’”
“May I see it?” Faith asked.
“You can keep it.” Bert handed over the paper.
Faith clutched the piece of paper to her bosom. She shifted her weight from one leg to the other, bobbing up and down in front of the counter.
“I guess this means you’ll be goin’ out west.” Bert’s observation brought Faith to her senses.
She tucked the note into her new black, silk purse and carefully walked back to the bench. She smoothed the strands of hair that had escaped from her tidy bun and took a deep breath to calm her nerves.