“Now don’t go finding excuses,” Ford admonished. “You’re as good as family to Tess and the kids. It would mean a lot to have you there.”
He clasped Lucien on the shoulder. “Just some food and fellowship to brighten the long nights. No need to be a stranger.”
Lucien sighed, but a faint smile touched his eyes. “Never could say no to Tess. Tell her I’ll be there.”
“I’ll let her know. Better get the supplies home.” Ford grinned before heading outside.
Lucien again leaned against the bar, still conflicted about attending a family supper. There’d been no family in his life since, well…for a long time.
He glanced up to see a familiar figure walking toward him. Julia, one of the serving girls at the Dixie, stopped beside him. Neither spoke for several minutes, lost in their own thoughts.
Lucien straightened and looked at her. “Something’s on your mind. What is it, Julia?”
She lowered her voice as she inched closer. “I wondered if you’ve had any luck tracking down your daughter. I know how much finding her means to you.”
Lucien’s shoulders slumped. For a long moment, he stared into the whiskey the bartender had set before him. Julia was the only person he’d confided in about his daughter, now a young woman, in years.
“No luck yet. It’s as if she vanished into thin air.”
Julia reached out and gently squeezed his arm. “You can’t give up hope. I know you’ll find her someday.”
Lucien shook his head tiredly. “Maybe so. It’s a big country out there. She and her mother could be anywhere by now.”
Julia nodded, features grim.
He looked at his untouched whiskey and shook his head. “It’s time I headed out. Have a good night, Julia.”
Julia watched Lucien step into the darkening night, her heart aching for the pain she knew he carried. Though he put on a stoic front, she could see the raw anguish in his eyes whenever he spoke of his daughter. She wanted to help him.
With a sigh, she hesitated several minutes before making a decision. Telling the bartender she had an errand to make, she grabbed a coat, tugging up the fur-lined hood over her head.
She hurried down the boardwalk and crossed the frozen street on her way to the telegraph office. The door jangled as she slipped inside, coming to a quick stop when she spotted a man she didn’t recognize talking with the clerk.
It took the man a while to make a decision about the telegram he planned to send. Several minutes passed before he dug into a pocket for coins, set them on the counter and left.
“Evening, Bernie,” she greeted the clerk. “I need to send a telegram.”
Bernie blinked at her over his spectacles. “Sure thing, Miss Julia. I’ll get it sent right out.”
She scribbled out a brief message, keeping the wording vague. She didn’t fully trust the confidentiality of the telegraph lines.
“I need you to promise me something,” she added as she slid the paper across the counter. “When the reply comes, bring it to me directly. Don’t tell anyone else about it.”
Bernie’s eyebrows shot up. “Don’t have to ask, Miss Julia. I keep all messages to myself.”
“Thank you.” She handed him the money to pay and tucked the receipt into her skirt pocket. As she stepped back out into the night, a prickle of unease crept down her spine. She had a feeling whatever news came back would impact several people.
She hurried back to the saloon, her mind racing. Julia hoped she hadn’t made a mistake contacting an old friend, but Lucien’sanguish tugged at her heartstrings. Maybe her friend could provide some insight into what happened all those years ago.
Chapter Eight
The smell of sizzling bacon and fresh biscuits wafted through the ranch house as Eliza sat at the breakfast table with Rachel and Ginny. She sipped coffee, enjoying the warmth seeping through the mug into her hands, a welcome contrast to the frosty air outside.
The front door swung open, and Spencer strode in, his cheeks ruddy from the cold. He paused when he saw Eliza, then removed his hat.
“Pardon the interruption. Eliza, can you take a look at Travis? Fool got himself thrown, breaking a horse. He may have cracked some ribs.”
She set down her coffee, nearly sloshing it over the rim in her haste. “Of course. Let me grab my bag.”
