Harrison paused and gazed at nothing in particular in the large office decorated only with the finest of furnishings. This whole arrangement was almost too good to be true. Either that or it was just crazy enough to work.

      The way he saw it, this was his only chance to get the inheritance he needed to secure his twins’ future. And since no other prospect had presented itself, he had no other choice but to give Miss Bowen’s dinner theater prospect, something she had mentioned in one of her previous letters, a try. What money he had saved from working for his father wouldn’t go far if he didn’t find a way to secure at least his position in his father’s businesses, if not the outright inheritance.

      It would also enable him to fulfill his lifelong goal to right the wrongs his father had done to the fine people in Boston, and to restore the Kingsley name to what it had once been.

      The discovery of his father’s true legacy still pained him greatly. It was after the death of his mother that his father had changed so drastically. He’d become a bitter, angry, vindictive man with no scruples when it came to business. Every time Harrison thought of the things his father had done, how he had cheated those poor people out of their businesses and their homes, his stomach churned with sorrow and disgust. Like now. The only way to take care of those matters would be to take Miss Bowen up on her offer, and then come back to take over the helm and set things right.

      Rather than take the risk of his post to Miss Bowen getting lost in the mail and her taking on another partner, he decided to go a faster route. He would send a telegram and head out west immediately.

      He quickly penned a short telegraph message and reached over and pulled the string, ringing for his butler.

      Forsyth stepped into his office and stopped in front of the expansive desk, his posture stiff as a wooden plank, his black suit and white shirt pressed to perfection, his white gloves immaculate. “What may I do for you, sir?”

      “Have Staimes pack my clothes. Tell him we’ll be going out of town for a couple of months or so. Let Miss Elderberry know, too, so she can pack for her and the boys. I’ll need you to take care of things here while I’m gone.” Harrison handed his trusted butler, who never revealed or spoke of Harrison’s affairs with anyone, a folded slip of paper. “Send this telegram out immediately and purchase tickets on the next train heading to Hot Mineral Springs, Colorado.”

      “Yes, Mr. Kingsley. Will that be all, sir?”

      “Yes.”

      “Very well. I will take care of this immediately.”

      “I know you will. Thank you, Forsyth.”

      “You’re quite welcome.” With that, the aging man who’d served his father well, and now him, turned and left the room.

      The leather chair creaked as Harrison settled his back into its softness. His gaze dropped to the letter, her letter, still lying on his desk. A peace he hadn’t felt in a long time settled inside him. He had a gut feeling this arrangement would indeed fulfill the nonsensical stipulations in his father’s will along with everything else, too.

      He could be back in Boston in three months with a new future for himself and his family, a future filled with hope that he himself had never known.

      * * *

      “Abby, this telegram is for you.” Colette Denis walked into the room of Abby’s three-story mansion, holding a slip of yellow paper. Abby was so grateful Colette and her two sisters had decided to come with her to Hot Mineral Springs. Since her mother’s remarriage, the Denis sisters’ maid services were no longer needed back in Paradise Haven. Mother refused to let them go, though, until Abby had come up with a plan to take them with her. She needed their services and the sisters had no family in Paradise Haven so they were more than happy to move with her and to work for her.

      Abby dropped the washcloth she was using to wipe down the windowsills and bookshelves in her office into the bucket of soapy water. She dried her hands on the only dry spot left on her apron and took the telegram from Colette. “Thank you, Colette.” She slid the paper into the pocket of her skirt. “Did you remember to stop by the mercantile and post my ad for a carpenter on their bulletin board?” Colette had a tendency to get distracted and forget what she was doing. Abby did, too, so she could relate to the girl who had a good heart but a somewhat scattered brain.

      “Oui. Well, at least I tried to, anyway.”

      “What do you mean, you tried?” Abby’s lips pursed into a frown, and she pushed back the wet strands of hair plastered on her cheeks.

      “When I went to tack it onto the corkboard, I could not reach the only empty place. This nice man offered to help, so I gave it to him. But when he looked at the ad, he asked if he could keep it.” Colette wrung her hands and her green eyes shaped like an almond shell drifted over to Abby, then cut to the floor.

      “Is something wrong, Colette?”

      Colette glanced at Abby, then back at the ground again. “I—I am so sorry, mademoiselle, but he is here.”

      “Who’s here? The man who kept my post?”

      “No, mademoiselle. Mr. Kingsley.”

      “Mr. Kingsley?” Abby frowned, then her eyes bounced open at the recognition of the name. “Mr. Kingsley is here? Now?”

      “Oui. I am sorry.” Remorse crackled through Colette’s voice. “That telegram came several days back, but I forget to give it to you. When I went to wash my dress just now, I found it.” Colette rattled on, intermingling French with English.

      Abby heard nothing more as she looked down at her soaked apron