She had become skilled at disappearing.
After Samuel Hartwell died, everything had changed slowly.
At first Beatrice had only asked Evelyn to help more.
Then the housekeeper was dismissed.
Then the cook.
Then the laundress.
Then the girl who came twice a week to clean the bedrooms.
Whenever Evelyn asked why, her mother said finances were difficult.
Whenever Evelyn suggested taking work in town, Beatrice insisted respectable Hartwell women did not hire themselves out.
So Evelyn stayed.
And somehow, year after year, helping became serving, serving became obligation, and obligation became the shape of her entire life.
Lillian had lessons.
Lillian attended dances.
Lillian visited Cheyenne.
Lillian owned three riding dresses and gloves from Chicago.
Evelyn owned two decent dresses and one winter coat she had repaired four times.
She had tried not to resent her sister.
Resentment felt ugly.
And Lillian had never been openly cruel.
But neither had she stopped any of it.
Not until tonight.
If Lillian even noticed.
Evelyn approached the far end of the table with the coffee pot.
That was where James Mercer sat.
She knew who he was before anyone introduced them.
Everyone in Cedar Ridge knew James Mercer.
Thirty-two years old.
Owner of the enormous Double M Ranch north of town.
Tall enough to make most men look smaller simply by standing near them.
He wore a black coat over a charcoal vest, but there was nothing polished or delicate about him. His shoulders belonged beneath a saddle, his hands were scarred, and the faint line above his right eyebrow came from being thrown against a corral fence during a cattle stampede.
Three unmarried women had found reasons to speak to him before dinner.
Evelyn had noticed because it was difficult not to.
James Mercer had the sort of face people remembered.
Strong jaw.
Dark hair.
Gray eyes.
But those eyes were not looking at Lillian.
Or Silas.
Or the jeweled women leaning toward him.
They were watching Evelyn.
Every time she crossed the room.
She approached with the coffee pot.
“Coffee, Mr. Mercer?”
He placed his hand lightly over his cup.
“No, thank you.”
She nodded.
Then he asked, “Have you eaten?”
Evelyn froze.
Around them conversations continued.
“Excuse me?”
“Dinner.”
His voice was quiet.
“Have you eaten?”
She forced a smile.
“I’ll have something afterward.”
James’s gaze moved toward her apron.
Then toward the kitchen door.
Then toward Beatrice.
“Do you work here?”
Silence began spreading across the table.
Not all at once.
One conversation stopped.
Then another.
Beatrice’s fork paused.
Evelyn felt heat climb her throat.
Before she could answer, her mother gave a small laugh.
“Oh, goodness, no. She’s our oldest daughter. She’s simply much more helpful serving.”
No one laughed with her.
James Mercer slowly turned his head toward Beatrice.
“Your daughter.”
“Yes.”
“And she cooked this meal?”
Beatrice’s smile tightened.
“She enjoys keeping busy.”
James looked at the bread.
The roast.
The preserves.
Then back at Evelyn.
“Did you prepare all of this?”
Evelyn wished desperately for the floor to open.
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“Mr. Mercer—”
“Yes.”
Something changed in his face.
Not pity.
Evelyn would have hated pity.
It looked more like anger.
