At Liberty to Love (Texas Romance Book 7)

by Caryl McAdoo

  To top it off, she visited the millinery for a classy headpiece, a small triangle of silk sporting a single plume and large faux emerald that sparkled in the light.

  There she also came across a lovely bottle of French perfume simply beyond exquisite. She loved its hint of jasmine that wafted on a sweet spring breeze.

  Halfway down the last flight of stairs, she spotted him standing a few feet back from the landing. His stare as she navigated the final steps made her heart pick up its pace, bolstered her confidence that the extravagant feather atop her head truly enhanced the effect she’d been hunting. The look in his eyes...inhibited swallowing.

  Stepping off the last stair, she approached. He inhaled deeply then shook his head. “Oh my.” He drew in another long breath, closing his eyes. “You smell better than you look. I mean, you look outstanding, but your fragrance is even better. Not that you didn’t smell good before… I mean…” He finally just shrugged. “Your appearance shames me. I should have brought my dress blues.”

  She grinned. “I understand, but here.” She handed him her door key. “On my couch, you’ll find some new threads…the least Henry Buckmeyer could do.”

  At first, he didn’t take it, then scooped it up like a kid in a candy store and took the stairs two at a time.

  “I’ll wait on the deck, just outside the dining room.”

  He waved one hand but didn’t look back.

  Might do the man a bit of good to have his pride pricked. She chuckled, so enjoying the highly pleasant distraction he afforded.

  Dressing took the man longer than expected, but the wait certainly proved worth it. The ready-made suit fit perfect. She loved the shirt’s high collar and how it seemed to choke him.

  He grinned then extended his arm. “Thank you.”

  She slipped her hand under then over his offering. “You’re welcome.” She glanced down. He’d shined his boots. Perchance that accounted for the extra time.

  Once at their table, he hurried ahead and held her chair. Of all Wallace’s charms, social graces never topped the list. Not that he wouldn’t have pulled out a chair or opened a door for her, he just didn’t think of doing so.

  No one had instilled such gentlemanly manners. Marcus took the seat across from her then leaned in a bit.

  “So tell me true. Why are you going to San Francisco?”

  After that night, she’d not see him again until only God knew when—if even then. So why not? She’d wanted a sounding board, but the only one she’d even been tempted to reveal her heart to had been May, but that would have been like speaking straight to Daddy, and he was the last person she wanted knowing her true intentions.

  She held her peace until the waiter finished setting waters in place and headed toward the kitchen. Though she took the principal part and ordered for them both, her dinner partner didn’t seem to mind.

  Perhaps the Golden Rule came into play.

  “Are you a man of honor, Marcus?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ve never broken a confidence or betrayed a trust.”

  “Then you may be exactly the one with whom I need to discuss my plans.”

  One eyebrow raised slightly, and his mouth conveyed a rather bemused expression. “How so, dear lady?”

  For two sips of red wine, she studied his eyes, then filled her lungs and exhaled slowly. “It is my intention to adopt a child. An infant for certain. What I’m conflicted about is the notion of a second…an older child.”

  He took his first taste of wine. Had she shocked him? Was that the odd expression she saw? Certainly surprise at the least.

  Setting his glass down, he leaned his head slightly to the side as though he’d rejected his initial response for one he calculated she wanted to hear. But that wasn’t what she needed. She hoped for his true opinion.

  “Commendable on the first, but perhaps ill-advised on the second.”

  “Really?” That seemed quite honest and not at all what she would have anticipated. “How so?”

  “If I’m remembering it right, doesn’t the Bible say that the sins of the fathers are visited on children up to the fourth generation?”

  “Yes, it does. But also that His mercy endures forever. What’s your point?”

  “An infant would never know his or her parents.” He paused too long.

  “And?”

  “Well, a baby who counted you its mother from the start would have a better inclination to emulate you and your values. While an older child…might not. It seems the elder would be more likely to follow in his—or her—parent’s footsteps.”

  Not the answer she’d anticipated, but his logic had merit, and she’d never considered that aspect. “I would have bet hard money you’d not have quoted the scriptures.”

  “Really? And why not if I may ask?”

  The waiter approached carrying a tray with two soup bowls. Good. His delivery of the appetizer would give her time to frame her answer.

  After a quick exchange with the server over the main course, then half a dozen spoonfuls of the gumbo that couldn’t hold a candle to that served round her daddy’s table, Rebecca leaned back.

  “To answer your question, sir. I thought a man of letters such as yourself would quote some literary genius to make a point, not the Good Book.”

  Nodding toward her bowl, he grinned. “You don’t like gumbo?”

  “No, no. It’s delicious. It’s just that compared to Miss Jewel’s, it rates a poor second at best.”

  “I thought it excellent, and gumbo is one of my favorites, so I consider myself a bit of a connoisseur. So where is it that I may partake of this Miss Jewel’s soup?”

  “She’s our family cook…at home, and I’ve never eaten any dish anywhere that can compare to her counterpart.”

  “One more reason to visit Clarksville.”

  “Indeed. Before…when I first mentioned adopting…I feel as if you didn’t tell me your heart. At least not the whole of it.”

  “Very perceptive. My first impression was why. You’re still young enough to have children. Why not find a suitable mate and have babies of your own?”

  “Flattery does not become you. The Lord has not seen fit to bless me. I…you see…I find myself…” Tears popped out quite unexpectedly and filled her eyes. She widened them to keep any from falling. “With this hole in my heart.”

  A sincere concern appeared in his eyes. He reached across the table and covered her hand. “That’s so understandable, fair Rebecca. But I spoke truth just now, not flattery. Regardless of what the calendar claims, you are still young and a very beautiful lady.”

  She bore into the windows of his soul. “I have a mirror. Forty-two is not young, nor an age when a woman usually prepares to bear her first child. Not to mention that my husband has gone and died of pride and stubbornness.” She dabbed her cheek to catch one escapee.

  He didn’t flinch, but seemed to open his eyes wider. For too long, she teetered on the edge then had to look away.

  “It’s just a number, Bitty Beck.”

  She looked back. “My brother and husband have such big mouths.”

  “No, ma’am. They do not. But if you prefer I not use Levi’s pet name for you, I’ll certainly refrain. My point was that you are still young and deserving of that moniker.”

  Mercy, she would surely miss this man and his company. Had she ever known a more worthy adversary?

  Tears threatened to erupt. Ford hated that in himself, but even worse, the sorrow in her eyes. No doubt somewhat due to Wallace’s untimely death, but seemed to him the bigger sorrow of her heart had to do with her not being a mother.

  Man, would he love partnering with her on that project, but then if the General still held sway over whom she wed, then his lack of coin would surely disqualify him. His love-hate relationship with filthy lucre again raised its ugly mug.

  The waiter came with the main course, a nice slab of beef for him and a grilled chunk of white fish smothered in leeks and mushrooms for her. Tickled him how she took
the liberty of ordering without even a word of succor.

  But then, she was paying, so why not? And he appreciated it even more since he would never have picked the pricy steak.

  Between bites, he studied on each part of her face. Halfway through, he set his knife and fork down. The more he looked, the more it became quite apparent the lady’s features were anatomically correct.

  Or had he been blinded by her inner beauty?

  “Something wrong with your steak?”

  “No, ma’am.” He steadied his gaze on her eyes.

  “Then what?”

  “Only you. I’ve been trying to memorize your features.”

  “Eat. I’m not that pretty.”

  Without leaving her eyes, he picked up his fork in compliance, his mission to please her in every area.

  “I must disagree, though it pains me to be at any odds with you. The only debate is if your physical features are so perfect or if the beauty of your soul has swayed my opinion.”

  Her lips pursed then erupted into a wide grin. “I repeat myself. You, sir, are an unadulterated flirt and flatterer.”

  “No, ma’am. I am only an artist who for the last dozen years hasn’t seen anyone or anything worthy of putting oil to canvas before today.”

  “Oh, my dear, Mister Ford. Won’t you please enjoy your dinner? You may paint me when you come back through Texas, if you should ever find yourself here again. But for now, if you please, can we change the topic of conversation? Please?”

  Though he hated not extolling her beauty, for her sake, he bridled his tongue and mentally thumbed through the categories for a topic. In no time, he had it. “And so, Rebecca, are you thinking of a boy or a girl?”

  “Good question.” Rebecca filled her lungs then exhaled slowly. What did she really want? Did she know her own heart? “The old wives say a son first, then he needs a little brother.”

  He grinned. “What do you say?”

  Almost on their own, her shoulders hiked an inch. “I’m not sure. I suppose I figured that as soon as I laid eyes on him or her, I’d know my baby. And the same with an older child.”

  “Leading with your heart can be dangerous.”

  She bought a bit of time with another bite of fish, then more with a sip of wine. “What happened twelve years ago?”

  His eyes closed, and the corners of his mouth turned down, taking with them that wonderful smile of his, as though the question pried too deeply into his soul.

  “I’m sorry. Forgive me for asking.”

  “No.” He looked at her, set his fork down, and leaned back. “My daughter went first. She died in my arms.” He inhaled and held it. His eyes glistened with tears. “Julia died the same day, about an hour later.”

  She reached across the table and patted his hand. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.”

  “No. I opened the door, and well...” He wiped his cheeks then shook his head. “You’d think after all these years, but well…” He shrugged. “Like the fool I am, I burned all of her paintings. The ones I still had, the first one I did of her, I sold. I’ve tried to track it down, but couldn’t. And well…”

  He grinned, lifting her heart. How could he do that?

  “Well what?”

  “I did come across an even earlier painting. One I’d done before Julia and…” He chuckled. “The idiot wanted five hundred dollars for it—not that I was buying—but compared to the one of Julia it ranked a poor second at best. I finally gave up trying to find it. I had saved up fifty dollars hoping that would be enough.”

  “Mercy, who’d you sell the painting to in the first place?”

  He shook his head. “It went at auction, and the buyer was a broker. He sold it to some fancy lady who wandered in one day for cash and didn’t remember her name or much about her.”

  “How much did it sell for originally?”

  “Twenty-five dollars. I thought I was rich. The broker tripled his money. Still…I’d hoped my fifty would get it back if I found it. But then when I found the other one….”

  She didn’t detect any pride that one of his paintings had been so valued. The only emotions she sensed were regret and a deep sense of loss. So much pain, he must have really loved his wife and child. “How old was your daughter?”

  “Six months.”

  “How awful, bless the Lord that she’s with Him now.”

  He raised an eyebrow then returned to his steak with a vengeance. Had she touched a sore spot? Why wouldn’t he want to engage her about infants going to heaven if…? Oh dear. Either his anger toward God still burned hot or he didn’t know the Lord. How had the man survived his family dying without the Comforter.

  In the moment, she remembered the loss of her mother. Must have been about the same age as when he suffered his own.

  Setting his fork down, he met and held her eyes. “Fantastic meal, can’t remember enjoying myself more, and….”

  She waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. “And what?”

  “Oh, just you. How beautiful you are. Did Wallace ever tell you about almost marrying Laura?”

  “Yes, his heart was too big for his own good. She would have been so wrong for him.”

  “That’s what he said.”

  Though unsure she wanted the dinner conversation to digress to her dead husband, curiosity refused to be denied. “What else did he say about her?”

  “That she was nice enough, not hard to look at, except when compared to you—then the girl was ugly as homespun.”

  “I know he did not call her ugly. Did he?”

  A little chuckle escaped, sort of a snorting little laugh. “Wallace Ruck compared every other female to you my dear, and all in varying stages of homeliness.”

  “He did have a way with words. Mother May kept telling him if he’d just write it all down, she could get him published.”

  “Really? He never mentioned that. Why didn’t he?”

  She liked it that Ford didn’t know everything about her husband. “Mostly because of his sordid past. He claimed all the really good stories needed to stay buried along with all the men he’d killed.”

  The man nodded. “Couldn’t tell you the number of times Wallace would get halfway into a story then stop and jump ahead like he’d just figured out he didn’t want to tell the next part.”

  The waiter came, removed their plates, and refilled the water glasses.

  Ford nodded. “Shall we call it a night? Give the man back his table.”

  Was he being polite, or did he really want to be another place with someone else? “The evening is still young. Would you like to retire to the lounge?”

  “Never thought a good Methodist would suggest such a thing. I’ve been under the impression you people shunned bars and the like.”

  You people? Definitely not saved, poor man. “Not really. There’s nothing wrong with taking a little wine for the stomach’s sake.”

  “The Apostle Paul, right? Isn’t that what he told one of his disciples?”

  “You’re absolutely right.” She stood, and he jumped to his feet. “Marcus, if you’d rather, we can certainly call it a night.”

  “No, not the case at all, I assure you. Only thing that awaits me is a dark, lonely room. Well, and the memory of your beauty. I’d much rather let my eyes feast while they can. There’ll be time aplenty for reflection after you sail out of my life.”

  The smile, she couldn’t hold back, though the flatterer didn’t deserve it one bit. “You’re such a flirt. But you do have a way with words. Extend your arm, sir, and lead me to this den of iniquity.”

  Oh dear! Had she really said that?

  Was that an invitation?

  Ford did as told, but escorted her to the bar instead of where he’d rather take her—the stairs that led to her room. Probably only a slip of the tongue.

  After all, she’d been quoting the Bible since he met her, and in some circles, bars and saloons were dens of iniquity. Her hand on his arm sent his heart to double-time. Then her
fingers lingering on his when he helped her into the chair caused his breath to catch. Like the gentleman he aspired to be, took the seat across from her.

  Contrary to what his flesh so desired, a quick romp in her room wouldn’t do.

  Then again, filthy lucre darted its forked tongue. The lady rolled in gold coin. He may be a lot of things, but would never be kept by any woman. No matter how gorgeous.

  Idiot echoed through his soul. Pride goes before a fall.

  “Pray tell, sir, what topic of conversation have you been having in your head?”

  He shook it. “Am I so easy to read?”

  “Don’t change the subject. What was going on with you just now?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  She took a sip of wine and eyed him hard. Made him want to loosen his collar. “Why not?”

  “Wallace mentioned you could be pigheaded at times. Once, your father added, ‘Just like her mother.’ ”

  With a rather sly grin, she shook her pretty head. Blonde curls framed her face. Oh to have a sketch pad and piece of charcoal, oils and canvas even better. “You’re trying to change the subject again.”

  “Was I now?”

  “Yes, you most definitely were. Now what were you thinking when we first sat down?”

  A kiss would silence her, but then she’d probably slap him. Did he have a choice but to tell her? “Contradictions. The internal war that we all must wage.”

  “Now you’re just being purposely vague. Exactly what were you thinking, sir? And no generalities.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you, Rebecca. You are worse than a stray dog digging for a lost bone.”

  “Oh? So you figure if you insult me, I’ll change the subject?” Her attempt at a serious face only lasted a few of his heartbeats, then the mirth in her eyes spread to her lips.

  “Being persistent isn’t an insult.”

  “But being compared to a stray mongrel is.”