Miss Leonard’s eyes widened in obvious mortification at her father’s words. “Daddy, I never favored Mr. Milton. I like—”
“Hush, girl. Stop making everything about you.”
E.V. glanced over his shoulder at Willum watching them unabashedly as he leaned against the doorframe. Based on Willum’s smug grin, E.V. didn’t want to wager on what his friend was thinking. He turned back to Leonard.
“No,” he answered with complete assurance in his decision. “I will not escort your daughter to the Whitworth soiree in exchange for a lumber contract. Nor will I marry her in exchange for one.”
“I’m only asking you to escort Abby to the party,” Leonard countered. “If you want to marry her, that’s your own decision. I won’t mind though. The contract price is more than fair, especially if you want Abby, too.”
“Fair? For who?” E.V. pointed at Miss Leonard. “For her? How do you think your daughter feels about being a bargaining chip in contract negotiations? She’s not a commodity you can sell or trade. Show some respect.”
Leonard’s nostrils flared as he stepped closer to E.V. in an obvious attempt to intimidate with his Goliath size. “You insult me, boy.”
While E.V. never considered himself prone to sarcasm, this was one moment he truly wanted to respond with—you think so?
Instead, he wisely responded with, “Sir, I would be honored to sign a contract with you, because my mill could use your lumber, but not at the expense of my self-respect or your daughter’s.” He returned the contract unsigned. “Have a Merry Christmas.”
Leonard stormed outside. “Abigail, come!”
Miss Leonard didn’t move. She looked at E.V. with such longing in her eyes that he knew, in his attempt to defend her honor, he’d unwittingly earned her devotion.
“I, uh,” he stuttered, trying to think of some response.
A smile spread across her face. She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him as if she would never let go, and then she burst into tears.
Unsure of what else to do, E.V. awkwardly patted the top of her head. “There, there, it’ll be all right.”
“Oh Mr. Renier, no one has ever loved me like you do.”
“Me?” Stiffening, E.V. felt the color drain from his face. “Miss Leonard, I, uh, you, uh …”
Her father yelled for her again, and she complied this time, darting out the mill’s front entrance, saving E.V. from further awkwardness.
Within moments of the door closing, Willum slapped E.V.’s back. “I suppose I’ll give you this instead of burning it like I’d planned.” He stuffed a crumpled envelope in E.V.’s palm. “I read what she wrote, and I’m not sorry.” Willum stepped to the door and gripped the handle then stopped and turned around. “E.V.?”
“Yeah?” he answered, meeting Willum’s intense gaze.
“Mrs. Ellis doesn’t take kindly to rejections.”
Chapter 9
Bury the booty, hide the corpse, bury the booty, hide the corpse, Larkin repeated over and over as she carried the last two rum bottles securely against her chest with one hand while holding her black boots in the other. She wasn’t too sure why the childhood chant her brother had made up resurfaced from her memory. After all, she hadn’t thought of it in the last five years since Sean had died. Yet whenever he’d invited her on his nightly escapades, she’d repeat the words to calm her nervousness. He, not her, had been the bold, courageous, adventuresome one in the family.
As she twisted the knob on the kitchen door, her heart pounded. Click. The sound of the latch echoed throughout the dark room laden with food and serving items for the Christmas soiree. Larkin held her breath and waited for Cook or one of the maids to stagger into the kitchen and demand to know what she was up to at precisely 1:31 on a Saturday morning. No good would have been Sean’s honest answer.
Hearing nothing, she opened the door enough to ease into the chilly night, and then she slowly pulled it closed behind her.
Seven trips and yet undiscovered. After days of searching the house, she was confident she’d found all the hidden liquor bottles and Mama’s sick tumtum medication.
Larkin breathed a sigh of relief, although the action did little to settle her rapid pulse. So she breathed even deeper until her breath was no longer ragged and her chest didn’t feel as if it would explode.
Then … she went to work.
Within minutes, she had her boots on and black riding cloak tied tight, the hood pulled securely down over her head. She wedged the bottles with the others in the wheelbarrow then covered them with a couple of horse blankets to dampen the sound of any glass clinking against glass. The cloud cover kept the moonlight from exposing her work.
Determined to accomplish her task as quickly as possible, Larkin quietly pushed the wheelbarrow down the path leading to Mrs. Ellis’s property at the end of the street. The tip of her nose already felt frozen. Please, Lord, please, she prayed, but for what she begged, she didn’t know.
Her heart ached. Her soul grieved. She felt so … alone.
“Dig a little quicker,” Mrs. Ellis ordered, raising the lamp to shine where E.V. was digging. “I’m freezing out here.” She leaned on the butt of the shotgun she held in her left hand. “Make the hole deeper, too. Don’t want no varmints digging where they shouldn’t.”
E.V. held back his grumbles and continued to shovel dirt. He wasn’t about to point out that any additional varmints on her densely wooded plot were opportunities to add pelts to the multicolored fur coat she wore over a calico gown hemmed short enough to show the tops of her U.S. Army-issued boots. Likely her dead husband’s. Husband one or husband two—E.V. wasn’t about to ask in case it would incite her wrath.
This was the first time he’d been on her property and not been shot at.
Thankful the night was void of moisture and breeze, E.V. jammed the shovel again into the soft ground. Why dig a hole in the middle of a walking path?
“Care to tell me what the hole is for, ma’am?” he asked, adding another scoop of dirt to the shin-high mound next to him.
“Nope,” came the clipped response. “I suggest you stop talking before I start disliking your worthless hide again.”
He opened his mouth, intent on reminding her that other than his lone question she had done all of the talking, when the sweetest voice he hadn’t heard in the last sixteen days interrupted their conversation.
“E.V.? What are you doing here?”
E.V. swiveled around and almost dropped the shovel. Larkin stood not five yards away, with a wheelbarrow of all things. Even in the shadowy darkness she took his breath away.
“I invited him,” Mrs. Ellis answered crisply.
“Oh. Well, thank you, Mrs. Ellis, for having the foresight to get us aid.” While her words sounded sincere, Larkin nervously looked to the left and to the right. “Is anyone else here?”
“Just us three and the good Lord.” Mrs. Ellis set the lamp on the ground. “At the rate Renier is digging, we’re likely to be here till kingdom come.” She turned and walked away, muttering, “I knew I should have brought that second shovel. Back in a jiffy. And I mean jiffy.”
The sound of her boots crunching the twigs and leaves underfoot died away.
E.V. spoke first. “I trust you.”
She lowered her cloak’s hood. Her skin looked pale in the lamplight. “You don’t know what I’m doing.”
He shrugged. “Mrs. Ellis’s note said you needed help.”
“I could be doing something reprehensible.”
E.V. gave her a look to let her know how unlikely he believed her guilty. “Sweetheart, I have full confidence in the integrity of your character.”
Her mouth moved yet no sound came forth. The dimples on the sides of her mouth appeared in one of her rare, glorious smiles.
E.V.’s heart skipped a beat. Whatever she had in the covered wheelbarrow, he didn’t know, couldn’t suspect, and didn’t care. The fact that losing-lawyer Harvey Milton was now courting Larkin had no bearing on his thoughts either.<
br />
Two years was an awfully long time to wait to kiss the woman he loved.
Feeling no longer bound to any oaths he’d made to her father, he tossed the shovel to the ground. In hindsight, he’d say he didn’t remember running over to Larkin, but he had to have because she was still standing beside the wheelbarrow in his embrace when Mrs. Ellis returned.
“Now that you two have gotten that outta the way, can we get this hole dug?”
Larkin broke free and peeked around E.V., whose hands lovingly rested on the back of her head and on her waist. Mrs. Ellis not-so-lovingly held a shovel and a second lantern in one hand and her shotgun in the other. A myriad of responses ran through Larkin’s mind. The best of which—I had a speck in my eye and I needed his help to remove it—didn’t sound remotely believable. Clearly Anna was right. She, Larkin Whitworth, wasn’t and never would be crafty. Thus, this seemed to be another one of those sometimes the best explanation was no explanation moments. She hoped.
Besides, Mrs. Ellis’s eyesight was too sharp for her not to have seen how splendidly E.V. had been kissing her. Larkin touched her lips and smiled and sighed happily and—oh my. Her first kiss had been a lovely and magical moment indeed.
E.V. sighed loudly (perhaps it was more of a groan). “Ma’am,” he said to Mrs. Ellis, releasing Larkin and turning around, “I suspect anything I say won’t endear me to you.”
“Nope.” Mrs. Ellis’s tone likely sounded as harsh as normal to E.V., but having spent enough time with the woman, Larkin had long learned to distinguish between annoyed grumpiness and amused grumpiness.
Larkin tugged on E.V.’s woolen coat sleeve, drawing his attention. She whispered, “She has a hard time expressing love. She really likes you.”
His upper lip curled. He grimaced and muttered, “Her love is toxic.”
“Kiss her again, Renier,” Mrs. Ellis added louder this time, “and I’ll have no choice but to shoot yer worthless hide. Nothing personal, mind you, but she is courting that even more worthless Harvey Milton. You ought not be kissing another man’s woman.”
Stunned at the news, Larkin stared openmouthed at them. “I’m not courting Mr. Milton.”
“You’re not?” and “Why not?” came in unison.
Larkin glanced back and forth between the two. “Where did you hear that news?”
This time E.V. and Mrs. Ellis glanced back and forth between each other and her.
“Can’t say I can recall,” Mrs. Ellis answered, frowning.
With a confused frown of his own, E.V. scratched the side of his head. “Tuck told me because Anna told him. I assumed you’d told her.”
“No,” Larkin said barely loud enough to hear herself.
While she hadn’t seen Anna in the last three days because she’d been focusing on finding all of Mama’s liquor bottles, the last time they’d talked, they’d not discussed any men in Larkin’s life. Or courting. Anna hadn’t even given her weekly Willum Tate exaltation. Anna wasn’t a gossiper, so Larkin knew her friend wouldn’t have shared the information with Jeremiah unless she heard it from a reliable source. Who would make up a rumor she and Mr. Milton were courting? And why?
“With the soiree approaching, I’ve been distracted, helping Mama prepare.” Dreading what she’d hear, she asked, “Has anything else been said about me?”
She stood in stunned silence as E.V. and Mrs. Ellis took turns sharing all they’d heard about her being a drunkard.
E.V. tucked strands of her loosened hair behind her ears. “Sweetheart, I didn’t—don’t—believe any of it. I’ve defended you when I could. Reverend Bollen says he’s gone privately to those he’s heard gossiping and spoken to them.”
Mrs. Ellis added, “I told them all it wasn’t true. People tend not to listen to what I say.” Her voice had softened, reminding Larkin how wounded her heart was. Back to her normal bluster, she added, “If you said something publicly—”
Larkin shook her head. She wouldn’t say anything that would cast negative aspersions on her mother. She’d rather people believed she was a drunkard than for them to know Mama was. Those who were her true friends would trust what they knew of her character and not believe any rumors.
Remembering her agenda, she asked, “Is the hole deep enough?”
Mrs. Ellis examined it. “A foot deeper than we need.”
“You told me to—” E.V. glared at Mrs. Ellis. “Then why did you get another shovel?”
Mrs. Ellis glared right back. “What did I tell you about talking so much? Don’t make me shoot you.”
“I wasn’t—ugh!” E.V. looked to Larkin. “I take it we’re burying something?”
“Yes.”
When he didn’t ask what, she drew in a deep breath to still her apprehension and fear. Shame. She should have told E.V. this well before now.
“Three days after my brother’s seventeenth birthday,” she said, focusing on him since Mrs. Ellis already knew everything, “he told Mama he had a cough that was bothering him. Papa said he was pretending to be sick and refused to call the physician. Mama believed Sean, so she gave him the honey-whiskey cordial she always gave us when we were ill. The more Sean coughed, the more Mama medicated him.”
His brows drew together. “For how long?”
“A week, maybe. He had a seizure and died. After that, we moved from Olympia to Tumwater.” Larkin swallowed to ease her dry throat. “Mama believes sadness of heart also needs medicating. Birthdays, weddings, holidays, all resurface her grief.”
“That’s why her hands shook when she served me tea.”
Larkin nodded. “She doesn’t drink regularly, but when you lose someone you love, the pain is so great that you’ll do anything to make it go away, to not feel anything.”
Instead of giving his opinion of who was to blame or offer token platitudes such as life is hard, E.V. looked at her with compassion. With understanding. He brushed a kiss across her cheek, grabbed the handles of the wheelbarrow, and pushed it over to where Mrs. Ellis stood by the hole.
In the quiet of the night, with Mrs. Ellis shining a light down on them, they laid the bottles side by side in the dirt coffin. When E.V. promised he’d be at the soiree in case she needed him, Larkin paused long enough to wipe away the tear that escaped. Over the next day or two, Mama would eventually realize all her liquor was missing. She’d panic. She’d grieve. She’d break. Who knew what she’d do at the soiree if Larkin didn’t confess everything first and promise to help Mama face her grief.
Dreading the conversation she would have later with her parents but loving them too much to keep living as they were, Larkin lifted the last bottle from the wheelbarrow. Naika ticky maika, Mama. Please, Lord, draw my parents to You, and heal my mother’s grief.
After placing Mama’s crystal decanter filled with the sick tumtum medicine in the hole, Larkin stood and watched as E.V. shoveled dirt over the bottles. Bury the booty, hide the corpse.
Allowing Mama to suffer was the only way Mama was going to face Sean’s death … and the only way Papa was going to realize Mama needed more help than he could give.
Her heart ached. Her soul grieved. Only this time she wasn’t alone.
Chapter 10
As they stood next to the refreshment table, E.V. cheerfully handed Willum a punch glass filled with eggnog. That Larkin’s father hadn’t grabbed him by the neck and tossed him out made the evening rather … well, enjoyable. The candles around the room glowed brightly. The crystal chandelier glinted with every color of the rainbow. The musicians hit each note perfectly, and, thankfully, not a single person he walked past or stood next to smelled overpowering in either the bad or good range of the odor spectrum.
“Now isn’t this more fun than measuring crown molding?” he said, grinning.
“No, I should be at the house working,” Willum grumbled. “I’m not going to get it done in time.” Yet instead of leaving, he sipped his eggnog and continued to watch the center of the Whitworth parlor where a dozen or so couples were dancing, inc
luding John Seymour and Natalie Bollen, who looked prettier than usual in her blue (or maybe green) dress.
E.V. figured Willum would know the exact shade. The man had a good eye for color. But instead of asking, since he could feel tension emanating from his friend, he drank the last of his frothy eggnog in silence. No sense asking Willum questions Willum wouldn’t—or more aptly, wasn’t ready—to answer.
As the music from the stringed quartet flittered through the open library door, E.V. scanned the parlor for Larkin or her parents. The silver Gorham bell E.V. had given Larkin when he and Willum arrived earlier rested on the fireplace mantel with the crystal bells from the two previous Christmases. Whatever feelings Whitworth had toward the gift, he hadn’t shown them. Mrs. Whitworth, on the other hand, had kissed E.V.’s cheek and said she liked how he’d matched his burnished-gold brocade vest with a burgundy frock coat.
E.V. had never bothered much with being a dapper dresser. But the romantic in him had hightailed it to Olympia this morning to find something suitable for the soiree. After learning from Anna what Larkin would be wearing, that he’d match her burnished-gold gown had been his intention. That he had to drag Willum with him and force him to buy something new was because if anyone cared less than he about being fashionable, it was Willum, who, E.V. would acknowledge, looked quite debonair in a charcoal frock coat with a black velvet collar.
Sensing someone gazing in their direction, E.V. looked around and met Reverend Bollen’s observant eyes. He and his wife rested near the piano that had been pushed to the corner of the parlor. Several other older couples lingered about the parlor’s perimeter, including the mayor and his new bride and Silas Leonard and the affluent widow he was courting. Some sat, some stood, most watched the dancers.
E.V. turned his attention to the busy center of the room.
Garrick Leonard, like the man in love he was, danced with his wife Kathleen, who looked like she was trying to have a good time but, E.V. suspected, was worried about her bedridden sister who, according to Tuck, was confident their baby would be a ten-pounder, at least.
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