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  OPHELIA

  The Widows of Wildcat Ridge Book #16

  Charlene Raddon

  OPHELIA

  Copyright © 2019 by Charlene Raddon

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  Charlene Raddon

  www.charleneraddon.com

  www.silversagebookcovers.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Typesetting by Cordially Chris Author Services

  OPHELIA/ Charlene Raddon. -- 1st ed.

  WHAT READERS ARE SAYING ABOUT OPHELIA:

  “This is the best conclusion to a multi-author series ever. Charlene Raddon did a great job with Ophelia. The storyline and characters are amazing. I hate to see this series end.” ~ Marcia Montoya

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to every woman who has had the misfortune to suffer an unfaithful husband.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My sincere thanks to everyone to helped with this book, particularly Kathi Oram Peterson, Maureen Mills, Sheila Mast, Georgia VanDruff, and Christine Sterling

  The true alchemist do not change lead into gold; they change the world into words”

  ~ William H. Gass

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Tweleve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Visit Charlene on Social Media

  Upcoming Releases

  Other Books by Charlene Raddon

  Chapter One

  May 27, 1886, Wildcat Ridge, Utah Territory

  The train swayed and jounced as it rounded another curve. Everywhere Ophelia Crane looked, she saw trees, patches of snow, meadows and, in the distance, high snow-capped peaks. Her thoughts drifted to another mountain where she'd once lived.

  Creede, Colorado, had also been beautiful. Rugged and often cruel, like the men who struggled to dig, gouge and mold it to fulfill their ambitions.

  Her life had taken a wide turn there, too. She'd left behind the sordid fight to survive—all she'd known since the age of twelve—and become a legal, honest, respected wife and, before long, a mother. All the things she'd dreamed of obtaining and never believed could truly be hers.

  Faces and events from that far away life flashed through her mind. What happened to the other girls she'd worked with? Lost to drugs, alcohol and violence, or trapped still in that God-awful world of men and money? Few women from that side of life lived beyond thirty. Ophelia had managed to escape. Had any of the others?

  Perhaps one or two had found a Mortimer like the one who'd rescued her. Or won the likes of Deuce, the tender and gentle gambler who had stolen her heart, then vanished. For the girls' sake, she hoped they had each found happiness.

  Mortimer Crane had given Ophelia his name and love, as much as he was capable of loving. He had given her a home and two precious children—her pride and joy. But the pain of his infidelity and neglect had eroded what feelings she'd had for him. She wasn't sure what she felt anymore, except disappointment, disgust and a touch of pity.

  Now, twenty years later, at another of life's crossroads, this train carried her to a new existence that would give her freedom and independence.

  Or would it simply return her to what she had before?

  No, never would she go there again. This was a move forward. Ophelia Crane would never earn her living in a bed again.

  The train slowed, blowing its whistle to announce its impending arrival. Excited and anxious, Ophelia took a hand mirror and hanky from her bag. She made certain her hair hadn't come loose from its bun and did her best to clean any soot from the journey from her face.

  Out the window to her left, a mountain stripped of trees and capped with snow came into view. Mine tailings marked the remains of a destroyed gold mine. Alongside the railroad tracks, a stream rushed through a defile carved from the earth, swift and swollen by spring snow melt. Beyond the stream, lay an untidy arrangement of muddy streets lined with stores and businesses, and, higher up on a hill, an assortment of homes, some ramshackle, some new and sparkling.

  She tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear and replaced the mirror as the locomotive rattled, hissed, belched smoke, and squealed to a halt beside a small depot.

  “Wildcat Ridge,” the conductor shouted, and the door of the car squeaked open. The only passenger disembarking, she pulled on her gloves, adjusted the fit of her hat and made her way to the exit.

  The narrow metal steps looked hazardously inadequate. She paused. A hand inserted itself into view, offering aid. Ophelia glanced up to see two gentlemen, both handsome. The first, with a gloved hand outheld, was tall, distinguished and familiar, Judge Cornelius Owen Vaile. The second, a stranger perhaps a decade younger, stared at her with a foolish grin and a look of expectation in his puppy-brown eyes.

  A distinct, inexplicable sense of familiarity struck Ophelia. Studying his carved features, intense brown eyes, slightly curved mouth and scarred forehead, she couldn't imagine ever having seen them before and forgotten them.

  “Dear Mrs. Crane,” Judge Vaile said. “Ophelia, so good to see you again.”

  The other man nodded to her. “Ophelia.”

  She frowned. Who had given this stranger permission to use her given name? But never mind him. She clasped the older man's hand. “Owen, I'm so delighted to see you. You've no idea how I've looked forward to this opportunity to get to know you better away from ballrooms, opera houses, and courtrooms.”

  “Indeed. I feel the same. You look wonderful.” Owen helped her down onto the wooden platform. Her black bombazine dress rustled as she moved, and she reached back to fluff the bustle crushed by hours of sitting on the hard, wooden train seat.

  The judge put a hand on his companion's shoulder. “May I introduce my friend and the manager of the Crane Hotel, Mr. Brody Duvall?”

  “Did you say manager?” The title took her aback.

  “That's right.” A wave of dark hair slid down onto Duvall's high forehead. He focused on her face with an intensity that left her feeling antsy. Behind them, the train squealed, belched, and chugged off to its next stop, too loud to encourage conversation.

  She concentrated on her old friend, Owen. “What a beautiful setting for a town. I had no idea.”

  “Now you know why I gave up my judgeship to live in this mountain paradise with my dear bride.”

  “Yes. I'm eager to meet Hester. I'm sure we'll be great friends.” As she spoke, Ophelia slid her gaze across the railroad tracks to her new home. “I saw the Crane Hotel on the way in. Shall we walk there? I'd like to see more of the town. Is there boardwalk all the way?”

  “Of course, although the streets we'll need to cross will be muddy. There's not much to the town. The miners' cottages along the foot of the hill over there were full before the disaster. Those buildings over there behind the livery were part of the red-light district, with Chinatown next door.” He pointed southwest. “Both were abandoned after the mine closed. At the other end of town where your hotel stands, there were other buildings, but Mortimer moved
them to his new town, along with the church and rectory.”

  The very mention of her husband's name robbed the day of a bit of its sunlight. “Does he spend much time here anymore?”

  “Not really, especially since…” He let the words fade away, looking like he wanted to kick himself. She knew why.

  “Since his little maid is no longer in his employ?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “But she still resides here, doesn't she?” Ophelia realized they were leaving Duvall out of the conversation and didn't care. She disliked the way he smirked at her as if he knew something she didn't. As if she should know him.

  Had she once? Good heavens, she'd “known” so many men. She doubted she'd recognize any of them now.

  “Yes, Cady lives on the hill with her husband, her sister and the couple's infant daughter, Melody.”

  “What a beautiful name.” She glanced around for her luggage and spied it stacked on a baggage cart nearby.

  Owen followed her gaze. “We'll have that delivered to your room.”

  He extended his elbow and she looped her hand through. Glancing over his shoulder at Duvall, he asked. “Coming, Brody?”

  He nodded. “Reckon so. Need to return to work.”

  “At the hotel?” A stupid question. Owen had already said he managed Crane Hotel.

  Duvall winked at her. “That is where I'm employed.”

  The wink and the sarcasm prompted a desire to knock the annoying man down a peg. “We'll discuss that later.”

  Who was he, other than her new source of irritation and Owen's friend? Why did she dislike him when she'd just met him? True, he had proven himself rude and presumptuous, yet she sensed more to it than that. Could Mortimer have hired him to spy on her?

  No. Mortimer Crane had no knowledge of her visit to Wildcat Ridge. Regardless, he could have been sent to spy on other employees. Either way, she expected the man would be trouble.

  Owen broke the stilted silence that followed, saying, “I'm having a small get-together at my home to welcome you, Ophelia.”

  “Oh, Owen. Not tonight, please. Besides being exhausted from the journey, I feel as if I'm covered with soot and grime.”

  “I understand.”

  As they ambled along, Owen related bits of information about the town, such as the battle the widows waged to keep Mortimer from moving the opera house to Cranesville.

  “Is anyone performing there now?” she asked.

  “The proprietress of the Last Chance Saloon sings there every Friday. She has a wonderful voice. On Saturdays, Hester does her best to schedule other talent. This week it will be a magician from Vienna.”

  “How fun. Perhaps I'll attend.” A good magician always promised entertainment.

  Owen offered her a hand as they crossed a muddy street, but Brody made that unnecessary by swooping her into his arms and carrying her across. She felt incensed and intrigued at the same time. It was presumptuous of him to do such a thing, but also very gallant.

  Strong muscles reassured her of her safety, and she'd felt unnervingly comfortable with the situation. He set her down when they reached the boardwalk.

  At last, they reached the hotel, a two-storied stone building, with numerous windows and a unique entry framed by large living pines, the branches towering over the roof.

  “Those are lodgepole pines,” Owen said. “They grow as you see these, quite tall with the bulk of their branches high at the top. Indians used them for their lodges, which is where they got their name.”

  “Interesting. What happens if a tree dies or falls?”

  He chuckled. “I have a feeling your husband isn't great at looking ahead. But decades will pass before that's likely to happen.”

  They went inside and were met by an attractive woman. She greeted the judge, ignored Brody, and peered at Ophelia curiously. “Hello. I'm Mrs. Dobbs. May I help you?”

  “Hello. I am Ophelia Crane. Mrs. Mortimer Crane. Would you show me to my husband's suite, please? And send up a bath.”

  The woman stiffened, her muscles rigid. “Certainly. Right away. Will Mr. Crane be joining you?”

  “No. He will not.” She said it with a little more emphasis than necessary and scolded herself for allowing her emotions to show.

  “I'll start the water heating for your bath right away.” She scurried into a room Ophelia suspected must be the kitchen.

  “I'll leave you in Mrs. Dobbs' capable hands, Ophelia,” the judge said. “I have matters to attend to at my office.”

  “Of course. Thank you for meeting me, Owen, and please tell Hester I'll visit her soon.”

  “I'll do that. I'll see you later, Brody.”

  The hotel manager nodded and turned to Ophelia. “Will you be needing your trunks before your bath, Mrs. Crane?”

  “Yes. Since it will take time for them to arrive and the water to heat up, I thought I'd take a nap while I wait.”

  “Very good. I'll show you to your suite.”

  She would have preferred to be done with Mr. Duvall but didn't argue. Why did the man irritate her so? That obnoxious, knowing look on his face as if he knew something shameful about her? Her heart jerked at that notion.

  Could he have heard about her former life? Surely not. Owen would never have said anything, even if he knew her secret, which she doubted. In all her years in Salt Lake City, she'd never run into anyone from her infamous past. Here, in this small bump in the road, it would be even less likely to happen. Perhaps his attitude came more from knowledge of her husband's nefarious activities. Was he laughing at her? Pitying her?

  Heaven forbid.

  Brody fetched a master key from behind the check-in desk and led her up the staircase which began to the right of the front entrance, curving upward to follow the north wall until it reached the second floor. From there, a wide corridor crossed to the other side of the building with a decorative railing that looked down on the lobby.

  As she followed her guide down another hallway toward the rear of the building, she couldn't help but watch the way the muscles in his broad back worked beneath his broadcloth coat. Coffee-colored hair curled over the top of his collar. An enticing aroma—a combination of pines, bergamot, fresh air and man—trailed after him. No man should be allowed to be that attractive, especially one of his years. He had to be near her own age, and she no longer considered herself young, although, at thirty-seven, she wasn't old either.

  “Here we are.” Brody fit a key into the lock on a door marked Private, pushed it open, and stepped back to allow her to enter.

  The man had proper manners, she'd give him that. Wherever he'd come from, he'd had a good upbringing.

  She held out her hand for the key and he deposited it on her palm. The main room of the suite featured a rock fireplace, bracketed by shelves lined with books. A comfortable seating arrangement of sofa and chairs, and a desk Mortimer undoubtedly used as an office when in residence made up the bulk of the furniture. A fancy sideboard offered brandy, whiskey, sherry and other liquors.

  A second room held a bed with a bench at the foot, a lovely and elegant dresser and matching wardrobe. An ornate folded screen shielded a dressing and bathing area. The entire room seemed decorated to please a woman.

  Ophelia hated it on sight. She imagined Mortimer in that large bed with a woman and made up her mind to have it stripped and replaced with furnishings of her choice so that it no longer held any remembrance of its former occupant.

  “Is there anything I can get for you, Mrs. Crane?” Brody asked. “A sherry perhaps?”

  “A sherry sounds perfect. Thank you, Mr. Duvall.” She went to the door, handing the key back to him. “But not here. Please show me to a room on the south side with a view of the town.”

  His brows rose, but he said nothing and merely led her down the back hall. As they walked, she asked, “Tell me, Mr. Duvall, what experience have you had in managing hotels?”

  He laughed, an ominous forewarning.

  “Only what I've gained he
re, Mrs. Crane. The previous manager married and left. I was the first one to come along afterward, I believe, and, on Owen's recommendation, your husband hired me. That was a year and eight months ago.”

  “I see.” Aware of the furrowing of her brow, she purposely cleared it. For some reason, she'd assumed he was new. Instead, he had over eighteen months of experience running the hotel. “I'll take a look at the books in the morning and see how things stand.”

  Halting in front of a door, he said, “Look, I'm aware that you have questions about my abilities in the managing department, and I don't blame you. The truth, Mrs. Crane, is that I'm a gambler by trade. I came here to visit Owen. We go back a long way and try to get together once a year at least for a game of draw. It just happened I was here when your previous manager quit. But I believe I've done a fair job of it, and frankly, I've surprised myself by enjoying it.”

  He opened the door and offered her the key. Taking it, she entered and looked around. The room was small and plain with only the required furniture needed in a hotel chamber. “This will do for tonight.”

  His mouth curved up slightly. “Why do I get the feeling we'll be making some changes in the hotel soon?”

  “Because it's true, Mr. Duvall. And thank you for your honesty as regards your experience. It's something I've received little of from people in my life.”

  “Being married to Mortimer Crane, I can believe that. If you need me further, I'll be in my office off the kitchen.” He turned to walk away.

  “Wait. Why did you say that about Mortimer?”

  “Forgive me, Mrs. Crane. I didn't mean to criticize your husband. Please, chalk it up to poor manners and forget about it.”

  He escaped before she could question him further. She wondered where his living quarters were.

  Ophelia closed the door, locked it and began unbuttoning her dress as she walked to the quilt-covered bed. The man's forthrightness had surprised her. He apparently had little respect for Mortimer. Perhaps she had misjudged him. One thing was certain, she would find out.