“Hello.” Nicole dipped her chin. “Would you mind if I peruse the employment listings on your wall?”
“Help yourself, though I don’t think any of those will suit you.” He straightened his spectacles and turned back to his papers, dismissing her.
Nicole swept past him and approached the back wall. Suitability was in the eye of the beholder. And her eye was desperate.
Her gaze brushed the first advertisement. Sawmill operator. Not exactly a position amenable to full skirts and bell-shaped sleeves. Farmhand. Probably not. Several workers were needed at the beef-packing plant at Liberty Landing. The gristmill needed repair. Nicole’s heart thumped painfully in her chest. Surely there was something here that required brains over brawn.
Cow puncher. Stage driver. Ferry operator.
Angry tears pooled in Nicole’s eyes. No. No. No! There had to be something here she could do. There had to be.
Her search came to rest on the last item, tacked high and nearly out of reach over the counter.
Wanted: Secretary.
Secretary? Nicole snatched the notice from the wall, tearing it straight off the nail. Clutching it to her breast, she sent a prayer of thanks heavenward, then held it up and scanned it for pertinent information. It specified the employer was looking for male applicants, but the advertisement was yellowed from age. Obviously none of the local males were interested in or qualified for the position. That could work in her favor.
She marched up to the counter. “Excuse me? Can you give me directions to—” she glanced back at the paper—“Oakhaven?”
The postmaster looked up from his papers, an expression of true alarm on his face. “Oakhaven? You don’t want to go there, miss. Trust me.”
“Oh, but I do.” Nicole gave him her best lady-of-the-manor stare. “However, if you don’t feel comfortable directing me, I’m sure someone else will supply the information I need.”
“It’s not that. I can tell you how to get there.” He tugged his spectacles off his nose and began shining the lenses on the tail of his vest. “It’s just that I can’t recommend the position to you. Not with a clear conscience.” He leaned forward over the counter, as if pleading. “He’s mad, miss. If you go out there, you’d be taking your life in your hands.”
She brushed aside his concerns. “What would a madman want with a secretary? Surely you exaggerate.”
“No, ma’am.” He shook his head violently. “The fellow moved onto that vacant plantation over a year ago, but he’s never farmed a single acre. As far as I can tell, he’s never done anything to earn an honest living. All he does is blow things up. None of the merchants will deliver inside the gates after Connor nearly got his leg severed by flying timber last fall. A lady like you would be eaten alive.”
It did sound rather daunting, but she couldn’t afford to be choosy. This could very well be her only option for gainful employment. No time to be squeamish.
“I’m willing to take my chances,” she assured him, lifting her chin in challenge. “Now, if you’d be so kind as to write down the directions for me?” Nicole laid the advertisement in front of him and smiled in such a way that made it clear he’d best not argue.
The man stared at her for a long minute, then shrugged and pulled a pencil from behind his ear. “Your choice,” he said as he scribbled a few notes at the bottom of the ad. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I won’t.” Nicole smiled sweetly as she accepted the paper from him. Then, tucking the paper into her money purse as if it were a fifty-dollar gold piece, she waved her thanks and headed back to the boardinghouse.
She’d managed to wring an address out of the postmaster, now all she needed to do was convince a madman to hire a female secretary before he blew her to bits.
Darius Thornton laid down the journal he’d been reading and rubbed his eyes. He’d been up all night again. Reading. Studying. Taking notes. It was always this way when the latest publication from the Franklin Institute arrived in the post. He’d been particularly intrigued by the article on boiler plates. The author proposed a correlation between the thickness of the boiler plates and the likelihood of explosion. It was a fascinating concept, and one he’d not yet considered. It might make for a worthy experiment.
He glanced across his desk and noted the other piece of mail that had arrived yesterday. A letter from his mother. He pushed it farther away, angling it behind a stack of boiler diagrams he’d been working on. If he couldn’t see it, he wouldn’t fall prey to the guilt it inspired.
Mother didn’t understand. No one in his family did. Not really. His father and brother had put a good face on things and told him to take all the time he needed, that King Star Shipping would be there for him when he was ready to resume his duties. But Darius could read between the lines. They all thought him . . . emotionally damaged.
They didn’t understand his mission. His calling. His need to redeem his greatest failure. The little girl’s cry still haunted his dreams. Whenever he closed his eyes, he relived the torture of not reaching her in time. So he rarely closed his eyes anymore. He slept only when exhaustion rendered him unconscious—and dedicated every waking moment to finding ways to make steam engines safer. Read everything he could get his hands on. Studied schematics. Examined old boilers and engines. Conducted experiments.
Steamboat boiler explosions took hundreds . . . no, thousands of lives every year. Innocent lives. Lives that didn’t deserve to be cut short. Lives more worthy than his own. Yet God hadn’t spared those lives. He’d spared his. The only way Darius could rationalize such an injustice was to assume that God expected him to do something with the time he’d been given. So he poured himself into his work and refused to be distracted from his course. Not by society. Not by business. Not even by well-meaning family members who loved him and wanted him home.
Scratching at an itchy spot on his jaw through his half-grown beard, Darius scowled. Enough of that melancholic nonsense. He yanked open his desk drawer, pulled out his logbook, and began jotting down ideas for an experiment involving boiler plates. He referred back to the article from the Franklin Institute and tried to decipher the notes he’d scribbled in the margins.
Blast. He couldn’t even read his own writing—words he’d penned only hours ago. Darius ran a hand over his face. He must have been more tired than he’d thought last night. He flipped through the previous pages of his logbook and examined the contents. His frown deepened. His penmanship wasn’t much better there. Too many scratched-out words and sideways notations in the margins. How was he ever going to submit his findings on boiler safety to the Franklin Institute when his notes were in such a sorry state?
Darius shoved his notebook aside and blew out a heavy breath. He didn’t have time for this. He’d advertised for a secretary weeks ago. Why had no one applied? It was beyond frustrating.
He pushed up from his chair and paced across the carpet. Passing the untouched breakfast tray his housekeeper had brought hours ago, he snatched up a scone that had gone stale. He shoved it in his mouth, grimaced as he chewed, and washed it down with a swallow of the tea that had cooled too far to even be called tepid.
He had to eat something if he wanted to avoid Mrs. Wellborn’s scolding. He was certain the woman kept an accounting of each morsel served him just so she could tell if he ate anything or not. The tyrant. A corner of Darius’s mouth twitched upward slightly as he contemplated his housekeeper. At least she’d ceased pestering him about eating his meals while they were hot. She was an intelligent woman, after all, and could recognize a lost cause when she saw one. His work took precedence. Over everything.
Now, if he could just convince one of the mewling cowards from Liberty to hire on as his secretary, he’d really be able to make some progress. It wasn’t his fault Miles Connor hadn’t had the sense God gave a goose. The fellow made the unwise decision to snoop around the pond instead of remaining at the house during one of Darius’s experiments. Had he known the grocer was about, he would ha
ve warned him of the danger. But no, the man just strolled up to the pond, bold as you please, without a word to anyone. By the time Darius realized he was there, the steam had built up too high in the boiler for the safety valve to release, and the two men had to run for cover. The explosion had been a mild one—fully under Darius’s control, of course—but Connor took exception to being showered with a few splintered timbers and iron shards.
Oakhaven had seen few visitors since that ill-fated day.
Darius reached for a boiled egg from the breakfast tray, thinking it would taste better cold than another scone. At the same moment, a knock sounded on his study door.
“Come in,” he called as he sprinkled a pinch of salt over the egg.
The door opened, and Wellborn, his butler, stepped inside. “You have a caller, sir.”
“A caller?” Darius bit off half the egg, suddenly ravenous now that his stomach had recognized the arrival of food. He chewed quickly and sent the egg the way of the scone before glancing up. “Who is it? I don’t have time for idle chitchat with the neighbors, you know.”
“Of course, sir.” Wellborn’s dour expression never altered. Nor did he comment on the fact that no neighbor had come to chat in several months. A fact they were both well aware of.
Darius salted the second half of his egg and popped it into his mouth.
Wellborn didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow. “Your caller is an applicant. For the position you posted in Liberty a few weeks back, I believe.”
Darius choked the egg down and lunged across the carpet toward his butler. “Why didn’t you say so, man? That’s the best news I’ve had in days. Send him in at once.”
Wellborn’s disapproving gaze raked Darius from his rumpled hair, to his unshaven jaw, to his rolled shirt sleeves. “Perhaps you’d like to freshen your appearance first, Mr. Thornton?”
Darius shook his head. “Time is of the essence, Wellborn. Please show the man in.”
Wellborn opened his mouth, held it for a moment, and closed it. “Very good, sir.” He bowed his head slightly, then left to collect the applicant.
Darius watched the flawlessly attired butler stride out the study door. The world was far too concerned with superficial trappings to Darius’s way of thinking. What difference did a few whiskers or wrinkles make when people were dying? Nevertheless, he took a few seconds to shove his shirttails into his trousers.
“Your applicant, Mr. Thornton,” Wellborn’s ponderous voice echoed through the chamber. “Miss Nicole Greyson.”
Miss? Darius spun around to find a young woman stepping forward as his butler backed out of the room. Her wine-red dress was the height of fashion, sloping over her slender shoulders in a deep V and nipping in at her tiny waist before belling out to the floor. The straw bonnet she wore framed her face in a perfect oval, showing off rich brown curls and a smile that projected confidence mixed with confusion as her golden brown eyes scanned his appearance.
She was quite the loveliest creature he’d ever seen. And the worst possible applicant he could have imagined.
Chapter 6
Nicole needed a moment to recover from the shock of seeing her future employer in a state of dishabille. Shirt sleeves rolled up over muscular forearms, collar open at his throat, eyes red rimmed, dark whiskers lining his square jaw, blond hair tousled as if he’d lost his only comb.
Maybe he really was a madman. Thank goodness she’d continued with the false surname. She’d decided to drop Juliet’s name in favor of her own since Oakhaven was rather remote, and if the postmaster was to be believed, townsfolk avoided it as much as possible. Yet caution demanded she maintain a measure of anonymity. Was lying about half a name less of a sin than lying about the whole thing?
“Miss Greyson.” The man offered her a courtly bow, one that would have been right at home in any Boston drawing room.
Perhaps he was just slovenly, not actually mad. She could deal with slovenly. Especially since he appeared to be familiar with bath water. No stench wafted toward her as he made his bow.
“Mr. Thornton.” Nicole dipped her head and offered him a smile. “I understand you’re in need of a secretary. I’m here to offer my services.”
“Well, I’m afraid your services aren’t exactly what I had in mind.” He eyed her clothing as if it told him all he needed to know about her. “I’m sorry you came all this way, but I am not looking for someone to help me pen fancy invitations and polite correspondence. You’ll be of no use to me.” He waved her toward the door. “I’ll have my man compensate you for your time.”
His out-of-hand dismissal raised Nicole’s hackles. How dare he assume he knew her capabilities simply because she’d worn a stylish dress? Was it a crime to want to look her best for this interview?
“Perhaps if I’d arrived donned in a pair of trousers, with my hair in a tangled mess—a style you apparently prefer—you’d have shown me the courtesy of granting an interview before sending me away.”
His gaze shot to hers at her scathing tone. His brows arched in surprise, then turned downward in displeasure. “Time is my most precious commodity, Miss Greyson. I refuse to waste it.” He stepped closer, and Nicole fought the urge to back away. “I know your type. Well-educated in literature, art, and . . . embroidery. You have lovely penmanship and a high opinion of yourself but no real skill in the things that matter to me. Science, mathematics, mechanics. Besides, you are far too young and much too pretty to work for a man in close company.”
This last statement threw a chunk of ice into her rapidly boiling temper. He thought her pretty. Then she remembered he also thought her worthless in all areas that mattered to him. The simmer heated again.
Nicole lifted her chin and stepped so close to him, her skirts brushed his shoes. “I’ll have you know, Mr. Thornton, that I am well versed in mathematics, including algebra and Euclidian geometry. My father never had a son, to his great regret, so he passed his business acumen on to me. Instead of reading novels as a girl, I read shipping manifests and accounting ledgers. I will admit to only a rudimentary knowledge of science and mechanics, but I’m a quick study and have a logical mind that can grasp scientific principles with ease.”
His brows were arching again, and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but she wouldn’t give him the chance.
“Audition me, Mr. Thornton. I dare you.”
His head quirked to the side. “I beg your pardon?”
“Give me the chance to prove my value.” Nicole raised a brow of her own. “If I fail to meet your expectations, you may send me on my way, and I’ll leave without a word of complaint. But if I demonstrate myself capable of the tasks you demand, well . . . then we both end up with what we want. You’ll have your secretary, and I’ll have employment. Surely that’s worth wagering a few moments of your oh-so-precious time.”
His gaze sharpened—with curiosity, thank heavens, not anger. Despite her brave words, her knees trembled beneath her skirts. Thoughts of madmen and unpredictable rages had flitted through her head. Yet now that she studied him at close range, she noticed the deep slate-blue of his eyes and a glint of intelligence. Mr. Thornton might be eccentric and rather unkempt, but she doubted he was actually mad.
The man regarded her closely for several seconds, then crossed his arms over his broad chest. “All right. I’ll accept your wager.” He stalked over to the desk that dominated the center of the room and picked up a small leather-bound book. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it at her.
It sailed in a shallow arc, spinning like a well-wound top. No doubt he expected her to squeal and lunge out of the way. Instead, she snatched it out of the air with one hand, just as she used to do with the wood-carved guns and cutlasses Tommy Ackerman used to toss her when they were under attack from invisible pirate lords.
Mr. Thornton nodded in appreciation, and Nicole couldn’t quite keep her lips from curving in a small smile of triumph.
“What I am looking for,” he intoned, “is someone who can interpret my ad
mittedly horrid handwriting, duplicate my diagrams and schematics, and reproduce my computations in an organized and thoroughly legible manner, so that I might submit my findings to the Franklin Institute, the foremost authority on advances in mechanical and physical science.” He stepped around the desk and balanced a hip against the flat edge, nodding toward the book he’d just tossed her. “Reconstruct the first five pages in suitable fashion, and we can discuss terms.”
Nicole examined the book, flipped it around when she realized it was upside down, then bent back the flexible cover and scanned the first couple pages.
Heavens. He certainly hadn’t exaggerated his poor penmanship. If she hadn’t spent so many months deciphering her father’s scratchings while overseeing his business correspondence prior to heading off to Miss Rochester’s Academy for Young Ladies, she would have truly despaired.
As it was, it would be challenge enough. But she hadn’t come all this way to give up at the first obstacle laid in her path.
Squaring her shoulders, she smiled at the man who lounged so smugly before her. “Would you mind if I used your desk?” She nodded toward the cherrywood furnishing that surely would have been quite lovely if it hadn’t been strewn with untidy papers, journals, and . . . was that a miniature engine?
“Of course.” Mr. Thornton stood and gestured for her to come around and avail herself of the chair. “You’ll find paper in the top left drawer, and here is pen and ink.” He lifted a stack of publications to reveal an ebony inkstand. “I’ll just be over here, reading.”
Taking the top journal off the stack, he dropped the rest onto the floor and moved toward an upholstered chair situated between a pair of towering bookcases. In less than a minute, he was fully absorbed in his reading, leaving Nicole free to inhale a large breath unobserved.
Collecting the papers scattered over the desktop, she arranged them into a single stack and set them aside. Now that she had room to work, she pulled out a sheet of paper, creased open the logbook, and put pen to ink.
A Cowboy Unmatched Page 13