Sycamore Hill by Francine Rivers Page B

working in the bar at nine o’clock each evening. I wrote a note
requesting an appointment and sent it home with Katrina. The following morning
Katrina returned, saying that her mother had agreed to talk with me. I was
invited to the hotel Friday evening after nine, if that was acceptable. I
agreed without giving it a second thought.
    The hotel was filled to capacity that evening. The front rails
were packed with saddle horses, and several buckboards and carriages were
standing at the back. As I came up the street, I could hear the noisy laughter
and honky-tonk music. Now and then a man would shout something and more
laughter would burst forth.
    Entering the open doorway, I went to the desk to ask where I might
find Marba Lane. The short, balding man with wire-rimmed spectacles looked at
me curiously, then pointed a finger toward swinging doors that hid the crowd in
the bar.
    “In there, ma’am,” he said, pushing his glasses up while he looked
at me oddly. “Why don’t you sit down over there.” He indicated a chair shadowed
behind a large potted plant. “Miss Lane will be finished in a few minutes. I’ll
go and tell the boss you’re waiting for her.”
    The clerk reappeared a moment later, casting me a cursory glance.
He did not say anything, but I assumed he had notified Marba Lane’s employer
that I had arrived. A moment later the swinging doors opened, and the man I had
seen accompanying Marba Lane on the first day of school came through. He
spotted me in the corner and walked toward me, a charming smile curving his
sensuous mouth.
    “Miss McFarland,” he greeted in a deep, husky voice, and I stood.
“Marba is going to be detained a little longer than usual, I’m afraid. We were
late getting her show started this evening. The crowd is bigger than usual,” he
explained. I felt a curious glance sent in my direction by the desk clerk. Then
he focused his interest on the register.
    “Why don’t you sit down? Can I get you something to drink?” the proprietor
asked, and I was flattered by his solicitude.
    “No, thank you.” I shook my head, feeling rather overwhelmed by
the man’s good looks and charm. The brown eyes were warm and moved over my face
quickly, lingering just a second longer on my mouth.
    “I should introduce myself,” he laughed apologetically and
extended his hand. “I’m Ross Persall. I own this place.” He held my hand firmly
and just a little longer than necessary.
    I muttered some amenity. A woman started to sing in the barroom
behind the swinging doors. The voice was pleasant and strong, though lacking in
formal training. But it was the lyrics that brought a flush of red up under my
skin. Ross Persall was watching me closely, and his mouth tilted up at the
corner. The song continued, and raucous laughter blended with the singing and
ruthlessly pounded piano. I touched my cheek with my fingertips and wondered if
I should leave and come back later.
    “Not exactly what you would hear in Boston, is it?” Ross Persall
commented not unkindly. I could see no hint of ridicule for my embarrassment in
the warm brown eyes, and I smiled.
    “This isn’t exactly Boston, is it?” I gave a faint laugh. “And
quite frankly, I prefer Sycamore Hill.”
    “I’m glad to hear it. That means you’ll be staying on.”
    “Well, I hope so,” I demurred, sitting down again. I glimpsed
James Olmstead as he passed the swinging door. He was laughing with all the
rest of the men in the bar.
    “How are things going at the schoolhouse?” Persall asked me. He
put his foot up on a bench and leaned his arms across his raised knee. He
seemed in no hurry to get back about his own business.
    “I think they are going very well,” I said without fake modesty.
“The children are eager to learn. That, of course, makes things easier.”
    “Katrina likes you,” Persall informed me.
    “That’s nice to know.” I smiled.
    “I can understand why,” he said, grinning. “You’re not only smart,
you’re