The Debutante's Holiday: Western Historical Romance (The Debutantes of Durango Book 6) Read online

  The Debutante’s Holiday

  The Debutantes of Durango

  Peggy McKenzie

  Copyright 2020 by Peggy McKenzie

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means , including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design-Dar Dixon @ Wicked Smart Designs

  Editor-Trayce Layne @ 3C Edit Services

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  More books in the series…

  Peggy McKenzie & Friends

  Brides of the Rio Grande

  About the Author

  The End

  About this book

  The Debutante’s Holiday

  Book Three

  The Debutantes of Durango Series

  (A Western Historical Romance)

  Abigail Livingston is tired of the uncertainty—are her suitors really interested in her or her father’s fortune. The only way to know for sure is to pretend to be someone else. But her plan derails the moment she boarded the train to Durango.

  Matthew Bellamy is on a mission. His business and financial future depends upon his ability to keep a certain wealthy debutante out of trouble. But when he loses her on the way to Durango, he realizes he’s the one in trouble.

  Just because they can, doesn’t mean they should.

  Chapter 1

  Abigail Livingston plopped down on her bed and flung herself against the pillows. “I’m sick of being paraded around town like a prized pony.” She sighed in frustration.

  Her friend, Gwendolyn Patterson, sat down beside her. “How can you say such a thing, Abbie? You are the belle of the ball wherever you go.” Gwen sighed her own sigh of frustration, but hers was tinged with envy.

  Abbie shook her head. “You just don’t understand.” How could she explain to Gwen why she was tired of being chased by supposedly noble gentlemen when there was nothing noble about their intentions.

  “Then explain it to me, please. How is it that you are so unhappy when you have dozens of eligible bachelors buzzing around you like bees in a clover field. I know if I were in your shoes, I’d be as happy as a pig in a peach orchard enjoying every minute.”

  “Where do you come up with these strange sayings you are so fond of? Bees in clover. Pigs in peaches. Really, Gwen, talk in plain English, please.”

  “I’m sorry. Gosh, you are really out of sorts today, aren’t you?” Gwen snipped.

  Abbie took a deep breath. “I suppose I am.” She cut an apologetic look to her friend. “I’m sorry for my bad-temper. Will you please forgive me?”

  “Of course. Think nothing of it.” Gwen dismissed Abbie’s disagreeable attitude with a wave of her hand.

  “Thank you.” Abbie tried to put her feelings into words so that her friend could understand her frustration, but Gwen just wasn’t getting her message. She tried again. “Gwen, you said you would be happy in my shoes, but are you so sure about that?”

  “Well, of course. Why wouldn’t I be happy? You are beautiful. Rich. And every man in town is after you. Of course, I would be happy in your shoes.” Gwen’s confidence in the matter irritated Abbie.

  “You think so, do you? Very well then, if you would like to be in my shoes, here they are.” Abbie reached down and pulled off her shoes and threw them at her friend. “But let me warn you, they aren’t as easy to walk in as you might think.”

  Gwen pushed the shoes off her lap and shoved them to the floor. “Abbie, what’s gotten into you?”

  They heard a carriage approach the house and both rushed to the window to see who had arrived. Abbie caught sight of the carriage and its owner just before it disappeared underneath her family’s huge covered portico. She knew instantly who it was and she was in no mood to entertain its owner.

  “That looked like Wesley Pepperdine. It was Wesley Pepperdine, wasn't it? Oh, we must hurry downstairs. We wouldn’t want to miss an opportunity to say hello to Wesley Pepperdi— ”

  “I’m not going to say hello to that arrogant clodpoll. Haven’t you seen how he preens every time he passes a mirror in the hallway? Holmes will greet him at the door, and he can leave his calling card in the bowl like the rest of them.”

  Gwen looked at her like she had suddenly grown another head on her shoulders. “What on earth is wrong with you? I’m not leaving this house until you tell me what has you in such a mood. Out with it, Abbie. Tell me what this is all about?” Gwen sat on the edge of her bed and fluffed her skirt. Abbie recognized the gesture and she knew Gwen wasn’t stepping a foot outside Abbie’s bedroom door until her friend had the answer to her question.

  Abbie sat next to her and studied her friend’s face hoping for understanding. “Gwen, I’m not ungrateful for the opportunities I’ve been given. Not in the least. But with these opportunities, come hardships as well.”

  Gwen frowned. “From where I’m sitting, you have the life every young woman begs for. You have a doting father, a sweet loving mother, and you are an only child. Forgive me, but as the youngest of seven, I’m not seeing your problem. What I wouldn’t give to be an only child sometimes.” Gwen lamented.

  “Would you? Let me ask you this. What would you do if you had a dozen suitors all at once, and— ”

  “I’ve already told you. I’d be happy as a pig in a peach orchard.” Gwen said amused by her intentional repetition of her unusual saying.

  “Would you be as happy if you had to ask yourself why they were courting you?” Abbie asked then stood and paced the room.

  “Why would I ask that? They would be courting me because they had fallen hopelessly and madly in love with me. Obviously.” Gwen sighed again and her eyes took on that dreamy look she got when she talked about love.

  “Are you sure about that?” Abbie pushed.

  The question caught Gwen’s attention. “What other reason could there be?”

  “In my case, there are at least two other reasons. One is my father’s wealth and power. Any son-in-law of Winston Daniel Livingston would be assured of social standing and every financial opportunity available. You name it and it would be within their grasp.”

  Gwen nodded. “Ah, I didn’t think of that.”

  “And the second reason is part of the first reason. My father’s wealth. As his sole heir, I will inherit his millions. Assets beyond most people’s dreams.”

  Gwen remained silent for a moment to take it all in. “So what you're saying is you don’t know which of these gentlemen vying to court you want you and which ones want your father’s fortune.”

  “Yes, I don’t know if any of them want me, just for me.” Abbie sat down again next to her friend and felt the sting of frustration in her eyes. “I’ve tried to ask the right questions hoping to gain some insight as to their motives, but they are elusive creatures and their answers are usually vague. Though now that I think about it, their reluctance to answer my questions should have told me all that I need to know. Don’t you think if their fe
elings for me were real, they would not be so reluctant to be honest?”

  “I see.” Gwen sat in silence and Abbie could tell her friend was deep in thought about something. Suddenly, Gwen shouted. “I have it. I have the perfect solution to your problem.”

  Abbie was all ears.

  “You need to be someone else.”

  Abbie’s disappointment must have been evident on her face.

  “No, wait, just listen. It’s the perfect solution. What if you pretended to be someone else? You can be anyone other than Abigail Livingston. Then when an eligible bachelor shows interest, you will be certain he is enamored with you and not your fortune.” Gwen’s face was glowing with excitement, but Abbie thought perhaps she'd had too much sun this afternoon from their carriage ride.

  “Gwen, how on earth am I going to pretend to be someone else? Everyone in Philadelphia knows me. It’s simply not possible.”

  “But what if you went somewhere people didn’t know you? Maybe to your cousin's place. The one who invites you every year to those balls. The ones, I might add, you refuse to attend every year saying you're too busy.” Gwen gave her a knowing look, which told Abbie she wasn't fooling her. She simply hadn't wanted to go. “Where is it she lives again? Duncan or Dunlap or…”

  “Durango. Durango, Colorado. And it's my Cousin Regina, who sends me an invitation every year.” Abbie admitted sheepishly. She hadn't actually considered going before. But Gwen might be on to something and the possibilities were quite exciting. Although, it felt wrong to only be saying yes for selfish reasons. It wasn't that she didn't love her cousin. She just hadn't seriously considered her invitations over the years...until now.

  Gwen interrupted Abbie's thoughts. “Your aunt, Regina's mom, what’s her name?”

  “You mean my Aunt, Lila. She’s my mother’s twin sister.”

  “I had no idea your mom was a twin.”

  “Twins actually run in the family. My mom and Lila. And my cousins, Roxi and Mari, are twins as well.”

  "Roxi and Mari's mom is your aunt Latisha, right?"

  "Yes. There's Lila and my mom. Then there’s Latisha, Roxi and Mari's mom, and then there's my aunt Lavinia, the youngest. But no one has heard from her in years.”

  “What do you mean no one has heard from her in years—never mind. We need to get back to the matter at hand. Will your Aunt Lila take you in and serve as your chaperone?”

  “Well, yes. Of course, but…”

  “But what? Abbie, it’s the perfect solution. You said yourself your cousin fell in love with a very handsome man in Durango, who also happens to be quite wealthy. Why couldn’t you do the same? And you don't even need him to be wealthy. You just need to find a man to fall in love with that is terribly handsome and has no idea who you are. It can't be that hard. It's not like your cousin got the last one. There must be more than one of his kind out west.”

  “Yes, and I suppose Regina wouldn't mind taking me in either. Although, she is in rather a delicate condition right now.” Abbie said discretely.

  Gwen nodded her head in understanding. “Even if she is with child, you know your cousin would take you in. Why else would she bother to keep sending you invitations if she didn’t want you to come? Now, we need a name. You could be Abigail…Abbie…”

  “No. Not Abbie. That would be too obvious, but I could use my middle name, Rose. And for my last name, I could use Collins. That’s my mother's maiden name. I like it. Rose Collins. It's perfect.” She shot a look to Gwen. “And for my story, it would need to be close to the truth. I will still be Aunt Lila’s niece and Regina’s cousin. We just don’t tell anyone who my father is. This could work. Oh my goodness, Gwen, you are a genius.” Abbie’s excitement bubbled over.

  Gwen’s face suddenly wrinkled in a frown. “But, wait. I see one problem on the horizon. Your parents. How confident are you they will be agreeable to you visiting your cousin and aunt in Colorado?”

  “Good point. Let’s think on this.” Abbie and Gwen paced the floor, passing each other in the middle of the room. Abbie stopped short. “I have it. Mother was just speaking to Father the other day about us all going somewhere for a holiday. Father said he couldn’t go because of business commitments. I could see Mother’s disappointment, but she agreed it was for the best, so she accepted several social commitments she had been putting off in hopes of us going away. What if I insisted that I needed a holiday and suggested I attend the Harvest Ball in Durango? It would be the perfect solution because neither of my parents are available to tag along. Oh, Gwen, you are the best friend ever.”

  “But there's still no guarantee your father will allow you to go alone.” Gwen reminded her.

  “I’m not worried about that because I’m not going to convince him. I’m going to convince my mother and then she will convince Father.”

  She turned to her friend and grinned from ear to ear. “I’m going to Durango’s Harvest Ball. The possibilities are endless, and I just know I’ll find someone to fall in love with me—well, not me—Rose Collins.”

  Matthew Bellamy stepped out of the alleyway and hugged the wall of the storefront as close as he could without drawing suspicion to his actions. His hat low over his face, he looked right and left until he finally caught sight of the man he was following, Mr. Bartholomew Pennyworth.

  His client, Mrs. Pennyworth, had hired Matthew’s agency to follow her husband because she suspected him of cheating with a friend of hers who lived across town.

  Matthew had been sitting at his desk in his new office over the recently opened Chestnut Street National Bank at the northwest corner of Tenth and Chestnut Streets when Mrs. Gladys Pennyworth, middle-aged and heavyset, stormed into his office demanding justice. Once he managed to calm the woman down, he was able to learn what it was that brought her to him.

  “Mr. Bellamy, you came highly recommend for your honesty and your discretion. It’s very important I learn the truth about Bartie without seeming to be suspicious. You understand.” The woman had sniffed into her handkerchief and dabbed her eyes repeatedly.

  Yes, he understood. It seemed that at least one out of five married couples in Philadelphia was plagued by infidelity. Most of the time, it was the husband that strayed. But every once in a while, the wife jumped the fence. He hated these types of cases because most times when the offending party was found out, they turned on him as if he were the culprit. They accused him of false accusations and shoddy detective work.

  Often times, his client would take the offending spouse’s word for it, mostly because it was easier than dealing with the truth that their spouse was guilty of betraying their marriage vows. So, they would pay him off and send him down the road as if he were the one who had done something wrong.

  And because of his company’s flailing finances, he was forced to take cases like this. He was wasting his talents tailing a bald, middle-aged man who spent more time in the bakery than at home with his wife. Maybe the wife should look to the baker instead of her friend across town.

  Matthew knew there was no way to predict one human's attraction for another, so he never discounted a person’s guilt, or determined their innocence, until he had the facts to prove it.

  He watched Mr. Pennyworth turn down Vienna Street near Frankford Avenue when he suddenly disappeared from view. Where had the man gone?

  Matthew trotted up the street to the spot where he had last seen his subject. A thin red door leading to a steep set of stairs left him in a quandary. Did he follow the man up the stairs to a possible dead end, or did he wait until he came back out? He decided to wait. And wait he did. For three hours, he sat on a bench across the street and pretended to read the newspaper. What on earth could the round little man be doing up there?

  Finally, Matthew’s patience was gone. He walked back to the narrow red door and headed up the steep stairs only to find a group of doors. Now what?

  Before he could make his decision, one of the doors to his right opened and a man came out. He nodded to Matthew and left
by the stairs. The door the man had exited was slightly ajar so he took the opportunity to take a peek inside. He wished he hadn’t.

  There across the room chained to the wall was his client’s husband. He was completely naked on all fours, wearing a dog collar, and howling like a lunatic. “Damn.” It was all he could think to say.

  The woman standing over Bartie with a riding crop turned. When she saw Matthew through the door crack, she smiled and crooked her finger at him. It was an invitation Matthew had no intention of accepting. Instead, he made his escape. Once on the street, he made a beeline for his office. He couldn’t get the image of Bartie Pennyworth’s large naked butt out of his mind.

  Twenty minutes later, he was back in his office trying to write his report. He scribbled as many notes as he could in record time because there was no way he could ever unsee that and he just wanted to put this case behind him.

  A knock on the door pulled his attention away from the Pennyworth case. He shoved the report and the client’s file into his desk drawer. “Come in.” he called out.

  A very well-dressed gentleman stepped inside his office and closed the door behind him. “Are you Matthew Bellamy?” he inquired.

  “Yes, I am. How can I help you?” He stood, shook the man's hand, and offered him the seat in front of his desk. Once the man had settled in the wooden chair, he got right to the point of his visit.

  “Mr. Bellamy, I trust that everything we discuss today is confidential and there will be no record of my visit here today.” The man studied him with intense scrutiny.