Memory's Embrace by Linda Lael Miller Read Free Book Online Page B

bells chimed, and the sound broke the spell, causing Joel Shiloh to stiffen and look patently restless.
    “That actor—” he began, but his words fell away. He let out a long breath. “I’ll be where I was yesterday,” he finally said. “If you need me, I’ll be there.”
    Tess could only nod. There would only be five miles between them, not five hundred. Why did she feel so bereft and broken? She should be happy to be rid of Joel Shiloh, troublesome character that he was.
    To her surprise and, if his expression could be believed, to his own, Joel bent and kissed her forehead. And then he was gone, bolting up into the wagon seat, driving off. His voice floated back to her on the April breeze, singing a bawdy song.
    Half laughing and half crying, Tess went inside the house, climbed the stairs to her room, and closed the door. She put her camera in its place on the bureau, sat down on her bed, and covered her face with both hands.
    At noon, she went downstairs to join Derora, Mr. Waltam, and the other boarders for lunch. All except Mr. Wilcox had been to church and were respectably circumspect. Tess was grateful for that, because the last thing she wanted to do was make conversation.
    Among other things, Derora Beauchamp prided herself on her modern, forthright opinions and her knowledge of current affairs. For this reason, she took weekly newspapers from Seattle, Portland, and San Francisco, reserving Sunday afternoon for the pleasant task of reading each tabloid from beginning to end.
    Today, however, she was somewhat distracted. Roderick had gone back to the ship, to rest up, he said, for tonight’s performance.
    Settling back into the rumpled satin pillows, Derora allowed herself a contented smile. After last night, she could believe that the dear lad needed a rest. She needed one herself.
    But good habits are nothing if they are not studiously maintained, she reflected, opening the first newspaper that came to hand, The Seattle Times , with a determined flip of the pages.
    The advertisement was there, as always. Until now, Derora had always skimmed it to see if any changes had been made and then gone on.
    But this time the thing took up a half-page—they had to be rich, those Corbins—and a sketch was included. Derora sat up straight, her mouth dropping open, just for a moment, in surprise. The peddler—this sketch was of the peddler, Joel Shiloh!
    “No,” said Derora, in disbelief, even as she studied the drawing. Same strong jawline and square chin, same direct gaze and straight nose. The hair was shorter—
    The bold-faced print above the likeness drew Derora’s attention, she read it with a rising sense of excitement.
    Have You Seen This Man? Five Thousand Dollar Reward Willingly Paid. Contact Adam Corbin Port Hastings, Washington.
    “Port Hastings,” Derora repeated to herself, and then she studied the sketch again. Was this a picture of the peddler who called himself Joel Shiloh or wasn’t it? The resemblance was striking, but it could be only that, a resemblance.
    She got her spectacles out of the drawer in her bedside table and put them on. “My goodness,” she muttered, staring at the drawing in the newspaper and thinking of the places five thousand dollars could take her, all of them far from plodding Simpkinsville, thank you very much. “If you’re not Mr. Joel Shiloh, you certainly should be,” she told the newsprint image.
    Derora closed the newspaper and folded it neatly. Then she removed her spectacles and hid them away again, in the depths of the drawer. Contact Adam Corbin, in Port Hastings, the advertisement had said. But how? It was Sunday and the telegraph office would be closed ….
    She rose from the bed, dressed, and groomed her hair. Andrew McMichaels, the telegraph operator at Western Union, was a friend of hers. Surely she could prevail upon him to send a wire; this was an emergency situation, after all.
    What if she were wrong, though? What if Joel Shiloh were not the person