Page 9 of The Forever Cowboy (Noble Ranch #1)

He was probably the world’s weakest man.

If not, why was he standing at the front door of the Berkley home?

Sterling lifted a hand to knock but then stuffed his hand into his coat pocket.

What was he doing here?

He stared at the simple two-story structure that was only a couple of years old, painted white, with a small yard that was overgrown and in much need of manicuring since the last time he’d visited. When had that been? In April before the wedding?

Back then, he’d gone to town a couple of evenings a week to call on Violet.

When the weather had permitted, they’d strolled outside.

The other times, they’d visited in the parlor while her mother and sister sat on the opposite side of the room, embroidering or sewing and pretending not to pay attention to him and Violet.

Their courtship hadn’t lasted long, perhaps six months, maybe nine, before he’d proposed marriage to her. That had been plenty long enough for him. He’d assumed she’d had enough time too.

But somehow, he’d been wrong about everything.

So what was he doing back at her house? Why was he getting himself involved with Violet again?

He shifted his attention to the hitching post where he’d tied his horse. He shouldn’t be here. He needed to ride out of town as fast as he could, back to the ranch.

With an exasperated breath, he pivoted to go. But the moment he did so, he took in the storm clouds that were forming above the mountains in the west. At midday, the sun overhead was starting to warm the air, but from the looks of things, the high country would get more snow before the day was out.

He only had to picture Violet and Hyacinth as they’d looked last night on his porch, cold and tired and scared. He didn’t want to think of them out another night, especially if it were snowing.

As much as he’d tried to deny Violet’s claim about being in trouble, deep inside, he knew she was right. Even if he wished she hadn’t come to him for help, she had. Now he might be the only one who could do something for the two women.

Besides, if he rode back to the ranch, he’d only drive himself crazy like he had all morning, wondering where the women had gone and if they were safe.

He’d tried to focus on his meeting with Thatcher and come up with a plan to vaccinate the herd against blackleg.

He’d fed the cattle in the pasture, broken ice for them to drink, separated out any others that looked sick.

But through it all, he hadn’t been able to stop worrying about Violet.

He hated himself for how weak he was when it came to her, hated that she could fill his head so completely again, hated that he couldn’t remain indifferent toward her, hated that he cared what was going on in her life, hated that he didn’t want her to be in danger.

He dropped his head, disgusted with himself. He was only asking for more pain and heartache by getting involved in her life again. But what else could he do?

He tipped the brim of his hat lower to shield his eyes from the bright rays of the sun. Then he forced himself to turn back around and knocked on the door with several firm raps.

He might be the world’s weakest man, but he couldn’t leave until he talked to Mr. Berkley and was reassured that Violet and Hyacinth had someplace to live and weren’t in danger of having to work at the dancehall.

He waited, listening for footsteps inside or any sign that someone was coming to the door.

Only silence greeted him.

He lifted a hand and pounded against the door again, this time louder, before stepping back and scanning the windows. The curtain in the parlor shifted. Someone—maybe Violet—was there but perhaps was too afraid to answer the door. Maybe she hadn’t seen his approach and was using caution.

“Violet.” He leaned closer to the door, hoping his voice would carry to the parlor. “It’s me, Sterling.”

He waited quietly.

A moment later, footsteps echoed in the hallway. They were too heavy and halting to belong to Violet.

The lock on the other side rattled, and the door opened to reveal Mr. Berkley standing on the threshold.

With a receding hairline and spectacles, Violet’s father had always looked scholarly and gentlemanly.

But today he wasn’t wearing a coat or vest. His shirt was wrinkled and untucked with stains streaking the front.

He wore one suspender to keep his trousers up, and the other dangled down his leg.

Something was definitely wrong.

“Sterling?” Mr. Berkley’s eyes were bloodshot and his face in need of a shave. Even his hair, which had always been so neatly trimmed, needed a cut. His forehead was grooved with creases, making him appear ten years older than the last time Sterling had seen him, the day of the wedding.

“Mr. Berkley.” Sterling peered beyond the man, hoping for a glimpse of Violet so that he could reassure himself she’d come home and hadn’t run off somewhere else.

The signs of her were everywhere—the tall vases with the dried floral arrangements, the artfully arranged decorations on the side table, the elegant rug that matched her color scheme.

She’d loved to decorate, was actually quite talented at it, claimed she’d learned her trade from her mother after moving so often over the years and having to decorate each new house.

During their courtship, Violet had shyly admitted that she hoped one day to have a house-decorating business of her own.

And of course, he’d told her he couldn’t wait for her to decorate their house—the house he’d been saving to build for her.

“Can I help you?” Mr. Berkley’s gaze darted up and down the street before he shrank back, but not before Sterling glimpsed the fear in his eyes.

Maybe the fellow really was in trouble from gambling, which was strange, because Mr. Berkley had never struck Sterling as a gambler, unless he’d started gaming after his wife and daughters had gone east.

“I came to check on Violet. Wanted to make sure she’s okay.”

“I’m sorry.” Mr. Berkley began to close the door. “She’s not home right now.”

“She’s not?” Sterling shot out a hand and braced it against the door to hold it open. “Do you know where she went?”

“I imagine she’s out running errands.”

“So she returned home?”

“Returned?” Mr. Berkley’s eyes widened, revealing hopefulness. “Have you seen her today?”

A warning rang inside Sterling. If Violet had come to him in secret in the middle of the night, that probably meant she didn’t want her father knowing her whereabouts, and that included her trip out to his ranch. “No, I haven’t seen her today.” That was the truth, even if it wasn’t the whole truth.

“Oh.” Mr. Berkley’s shoulders sagged. “So you don’t know where she is?”

Sterling hesitated. He had to say something to Mr. Berkley about the dancehall. But he had to do so carefully, in a way that didn’t make things worse for Violet.

“Listen, Mr. Berkley. I know about the dancehall job you want Violet and Hyacinth to take.”

“Then you have seen my daughters, haven’t you?”

Disappointment sifted through Sterling. He’d hoped Mr. Berkley would angrily step forward and declare he’d never consider having his daughters work in a dancehall. But his lack of denial told Sterling that everything Violet had spoken about her father was true.

“Where are they?” the middle-aged man persisted. “At your ranch?”

“Why would I be here looking for Violet if she was at my ranch?” He had to throw the man off Violet’s trail any way he could.

Mr. Berkley’s gaze once again darted to the street both ways, a wildness in his expression. The fellow was obviously in trouble for his gambling debts.

Sterling couldn’t formulate an ounce of pity. Instead, only anger burned through him. What kind of father would sell his daughters to a saloon in order to save himself from ruin? A coward of a father, that’s what.

Sterling straightened his shoulders and then leveled his most severe glare upon the man. “You’re despicable.” He spat the words. “Trying to force your daughters to pay for your debt, your problems.”

Mr. Berkley took a rapid step back. “I’m not—”

“Don’t come near Violet or Hyacinth again.” Sterling didn’t realize he’d shifted his coat aside and gripped the handle of his revolver until Mr. Berkley’s gaze slid there. “Stay away from them, do you hear me?”

Mr. Berkley seemed to swallow hard. “I don’t have a choice about them working at the dancehall. I shook on the deal with Claude.”

“Unshake the deal.”

“I can’t. I signed the offer this morning.”

“I don’t care if you signed a note in blood.” Sterling’s voice rose with his anger. “You resolve your own problems like a man instead of cowering behind your daughters.”

Mr. Berkley had the decency to finally look chagrined. With a shaking hand, he tugged at one of the undone buttons on his shirt. “Maybe you can loan me the money, Sterling. For old times’ sake.”

Sterling didn’t know the amount Mr. Berkley owed but guessed it was substantial if he was in trouble enough that he’d sell out his own daughters.

“Please, Sterling. I promise I’ll repay you.” Mr. Berkley grabbed Sterling’s arm, revealing overlong fingernails that were lined with grime.

What had happened to bring him to this point?

Something in the man’s expression told Sterling that owing gambling debts wasn’t a new problem, that he had a history of the trouble.

If so, why hadn’t Violet ever told him about her father’s issues?

Sterling had the feeling the story was complex, had even been embarrassing.

Even so, that didn’t excuse her for not telling him.

Was it possible he’d never given her the opportunity to be open?

Had he been so enamored with her that he’d glossed over deeper issues?

Had he pushed them too fast and, in doing so, neglected having more meaningful conversations?