To Seduce a Rogue

by Tracy Sumner

  Obviously, Stokes questioned the Sentinel operation enough to have men watching. Men close enough to receive copies of the newspaper and come calling in less than twenty-four hours. Perhaps, Stokes had miscalculated the problems a small press could create, because these men appeared to be out of their element. They didn’t look like thugs. Hell, they looked like sons of his father’s contemporaries, perhaps dressed less formally.

  “Could you explain why you’re using a knife on my newspapers?”

  The shorter one took a step forward. “Who are you?”

  Adam leaned calmly against the doorjamb. His chances of escaping this predicament without injury were slim indeed. If he didn’t excite them too much, maybe he could get some information before the melee began. “Seems to me, the one breaking and entering should answer the questions.”

  The tall one scowled at his friend. “Harry, there’s only three of them that work here. One’s a goddamn woman, the other an old man. Who the hell do you think this is?” His accent was southern, but he sounded more like a Virginian than a South Carolinian. These men were probably Stokes’ personal boot lickers.

  Harry took another step forward. “We came to issue a warning, Mr. Chase.”

  “A warning from whom?”

  “No more editorials like the bank legislation piece,” Harry said and squinted. He had blue eyes, a bit on the pale side. Weak eyes, but they didn’t waver from Adam’s as he added, “You’ve got a very vulnerable staff, Mr. Chase. An old man and a woman.”

  Adam lifted off the doorjamb. “If my staff receives so much as the touch of a raindrop, the person who caused it will be very sorry.”

  “Are you threatening us? Harry, he’s threatening us.” The tall one clenched his fists, his eyes narrowing.

  “Shut up, will you,” Harry said.

  Adam tapped his finger against his lips. “Interesting. Harry. From Virginia, if I had to guess. That is all very interesting.”

  “Mr. Chase, you’re not very smart, are you?”

  Adam shook his hands, loosening his fingers up. He wished Eaton were here to help him out with this one. “Give Stokes a message from me. You tell that bastard I don’t appreciate interference or advice.”

  When they came at him, Adam yanked his knife from his boot. He slashed it across Harry’s arm as the man closed in on him. Adam wanted them to go back to Stokes with a scar or two.

  The tall one paused, his glance jumping to the knife gripped in Adam’s steady hand. “Take care of him,” Harry yelled, holding his arm awkwardly against his side. Blood flowed down his wrist, over his hand and fingers.

  Like a trained bull, the tall one charged. Adam jumped to the side, the bull slamming into his shoulder. Adam steadied himself and flipped the knife to his other hand. He brought it up and around, piercing the skin at the back of the bull’s neck. It was a superficial wound; he didn’t want to kill the man, just slow him down. The bull lifted his hand to his neck and Adam took the opportunity. He raised his knee, slamming it into the bull’s groin. The bull dropped to his knees like a rock.

  Adam walked toward Harry, who was glancing about, his eyes wide and alarmed. The situation had obviously gotten far beyond his control. Adam threw the knife to the floor and swung his fist as hard as he could, knocking Harry right off his feet. Adam realized his mistake when he heard a sound behind him.

  He had turned his back on the bull.

  The bull grabbed him by the shoulders, twisted him around and threw a fist into his face. Bright, white stars exploded behind Adam’s eye, and a slow pulsing commenced. Adam staggered, nearly falling over Harry, who lay stock-still on the floor like a sack of flour.

  The bull came right back at him, but Adam ducked the punch and threw one of his own. The blow rocked the bull’s head back, and for a moment Adam imagined escaping with his face intact. Luck was not with him this time: he had backed into the press.

  Before he could move out of the way, the bull threw another punch Adam could not block, and he ended up on the floor. He tried to pick himself up, but the bull made up for his lack of intellectual deftness with physical agility. He got to Adam first. Adam’s head connected with something hard and immobile and his world faded to black.

  * * *

  Gerald rubbed his eyes, concentrating on the road ahead of him. His feet felt heavy, but then, he had just left a warm bed. If he finished the newspaper deliveries early, he could go home before noon. The copies that went to Columbia and Charleston had gone with the stage yesterday. Oliver Stokes’ copies had gone then, too. Mr. Whitefield still needed his copies and all the businesses in town needed theirs.

  Continuing to peruse his mental list, he turned onto Main Street. He enjoyed getting up early. The calm, solid darkness just before dawn was enchanting. The crickets and frogs were sleeping, the stars not as bright as the sun was just beginning to steal the sky. It was a dull kind of darkness, but, nonetheless, he liked it. He heard a rooster crowing somewhere and thanked the good Maker that he didn’t have to put up with one of those harassing beasts. He’d never wanted to be a farmer. Not for a minute. How his only son, his only child, had felt the pull of that calling was one of the great mysteries of life.

  Laughing to himself, he pulled his key from his pocket. Adam had taken to locking the office door. His boss was a city man, and Gerald knew he couldn’t teach an old dog new tricks. Of course, if it made Adam feel better, everything tied up safe and sound, all the better then.

  Adam and Miles were so close in age, hell, Gerald was old enough to be the boy’s father. And, like an old dog...no new tricks for him, either.

  His heart jumped when he stepped to the boardwalk. The Sentinel’s door was wide open. He crossed the distance in three brisk strides and rushed inside.

  And pulled to an abrupt standstill, his eyes rounding. His gaze swept past it all: papers on the floor, Adam’s desk on its side, the new inkwell Gerald had purchased sitting beside it in two large pieces, a puddle of black ink congealing under it.

  The press.

  He raced to it, running his hands along the smooth metal surfaces. The cylinders looked to be intact, the racks of lead type undisturbed. The newspapers he’d left on the press were now on the floor. Gerald squatted, groaning as his bad knee popped. The newspapers, some still bound with string, other gaping like a raw wound, had been slashed, destroyed. Why had they left the press alone? He pushed himself to his feet. It was going to be a long day. A long week.

  He didn’t quite know what to do; clean up as much as he could and get a message to Adam? Thank the Maker the boy had gone home.

  He had gone home, hadn’t he?

  He wiped his hand over his eyes. Overturned desks, scattered papers.

  Overturned desks. As a sinking feeling crept into his stomach, he walked cautiously behind the desk. The tall side stood maybe three feet off the floor. Sure enough, Adam lay next to it, on his side, pushed against the wooden legs. That was why Gerald hadn’t seen him at first.

  Gerald felt tears prick his eyes, thinking the boy looked lifeless. Dead. No. Gerald could see Adam’s chest rising and falling beneath a bloody, torn shirt. The shirt had once been black. Now it was a deep, dark red.

  He stooped and rolled Adam to his back as gently as he could. Gerald sucked in a sharp breath as he got a look at the boy’s face. A wide ring of purple, the skin swollen and bruised, surrounded one eye. Gerald lifted a clump of matted hair lying like a limp rag on Adam’s forehead. A nasty gash that was more than likely the source of the blood, lay open. Blood seeped, trailing down Adam’s face.

  Gerald sighed as he opened the buttons on Adam’s shirt. An enormous bruise that probably meant cracked ribs. The knuckles on the boy’s right hand were bruised and swollen. Gerald grunted. Good. He had given as good as he got.

  Adam stirred slightly and moaned.

  “Adam?”

  Another moan.

  Gerald had raised a rambunctious, always-injured son, but head wounds. Oh, so much blood. Gerald turned and gas
ped, drawing a deep, clear breath.

  “Don’t go...retching...on me...old man.” Adam’s dark eyes opened, barely. Pain twisted his face, but at least he was conscious.

  “Just rest easy. Everything will be all right.”

  Adam swallowed, his mouth opening then closing. He tried again. “Charlie.”

  Gerald frowned. “Charlie? Charlie isn’t here.”

  Adam closed his eyes and swallowed again. His voice was so faint that Gerald had to lean down to hear his words. “I know. Go...go check on her. They might...might have gone there.”

  “What?”

  Adam lifted his hand, then let it drop to the floor. “Just go,” he breathed.

  “Will you be all right?”

  Adam nodded, too exhausted to reply. He heard Gerald’s rapid footsteps, then the slam of the door. He would be all right. His face felt battered and misshapen; his body ached beyond belief. God, his chest. It felt like someone had beaten a hammer against it. That was not far from the truth. Boots, hammers, what was the difference? The only redeeming pain he felt was the pain in his hand.

  Eaton would be proud of him.

  The boyhood lessons had sure as hell come in handy.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Compunction

  Uneasiness or hesitation about the rightness of an action.

  “Jared Chase,” she said, her breath caressing his cheek, “what have I gotten us into?” She pressed the wet cloth against his face.

  He inhaled, then whispered, “Roses.”

  She didn’t utter so much as a squeak. She couldn’t just yet. His voice was ragged. Blood smeared all over him, his lovely skin torn and bruised. She felt like she was suffocating, each breath painful. “Gerald, where do you suppose Doc Olden is?”

  “I don’t know. Miles is trying to find him.” Gerald turned in a slow circle, surveying the destruction in the office. “A knife, Charlie. They brought a knife.”

  “They were playing for keeps, weren’t they?” Tears pricked her lids. She hadn’t felt like crying in a long time.

  “The knife. Mine.”

  Her hand clenched around the rag, squeezing drops of water on Adam’s chest. “That knife...that knife is yours?”

  He nodded slowly, then grimaced from the effort.

  She grimaced with him. “Do you want to sit up?”

  “Yes.” He bent his arms, placing his palms flat against the floor. Charlie wrapped her arm around him and assisted until he leaned weakly against the wall. He swallowed and reached to rub his chest. “Whiskey. Desk. Bottom drawer.”

  She opened the drawer, which was not an easy task as the desk lay on its side. The same flask he had placed in her hand the day of the picnic sat amidst a dozen pencils. She grabbed the canister, noticing for the first time the letter E burned into the leather casing. Could this be Eaton’s?

  She felt a frown pull as she squatted beside Adam: knees raised, elbows propped on them, head bowed against his arms. She felt an alarming pulse of guilt rush through her. She had done this to him as surely as if she had thrown the punches.

  “Here,” she murmured, trying to keep the tremor from her voice. She touched the flask to his calf.

  He raised his head, blinked at her once, and took the flask from her outstretched hand. She watched his throat constrict as he drank.

  “Do you think you should be drinking?”

  “I most...certainly do.”

  “We’ve called for the doctor—”

  “No doctor.”

  She gasped. “Yes, doctor.” If he only knew how he looked.

  He slanted a shrewd glance her way, the ring encircling his eye as vivid as a sunset. His face did look better—she’d cleaned off much of the blood—but his head still bled, and his clothes were beyond repair. And Gerald had mentioned possible broken ribs.

  “How is that...old fool going to...help me?” His hand shook as he took another drink.

  She couldn’t argue with the old fool part. She gestured to his head. “You need stitches.”

  He regarded her with a resigned expression, then something on her face made him laugh. Almost immediately, his face paled. “Outside. Can’t breath. In here.”

  She didn’t argue, just helped him up. Gerald turned to watch them lumber along, Charlie’s hand at Adam’s back.

  At the door, Adam pushed her away. She took a deep breath as tears threatened, pricking angrily behind her lids. She didn’t know what to say to him. What to do. God, she had made a mess of things. An incredible mess. He had tried to tell her what this business was like. How dangerous it could be. She hadn’t believed it, hadn’t believed Stokes would operate that way.

  But, he did operate that way.

  Charlie felt the anger ripple through her. She dug her nails into her palms. Oliver Stokes wouldn’t get away with this.

  * * *

  From Widow Davis’ kitchen window, Charlie watched the old woman walk to the garden, a basket hanging from her arm, a black and gray cat clinging to her legs like jam on bread. She looked back once just to make sure. Widow Davis, on her knees in the dirt. How fast could her chaperone make it back?

  Not as fast as Charlie could make it up to Chase’s bedroom.

  Before she lost her nerve, she placed her cup in the dry sink and raced from the room. Tiptoeing up the stairs leading to the bedrooms, she held her breath for fear someone would hear her. She stopped when she heard Doc Olden’s raspy voice: bed rest and liquids, no heavy lifting for a month, no horseback riding for two weeks.

  “Two weeks...off my horse? Are you insane?” Chase’s voice was groggy. She wondered what Doc Olden had given him.

  “No, Mr. Chase, I am in full control of my faculties this morning. You, on the other hand, have cracked ribs and a gash on your head that will leave a nasty scar, even with ten moderately neat stitches. Not to mention the various abrasions quite odd for a fight with a printing press. But, what do I know? I’m just an old drunkard.” She heard Doc Olden snap his bag shut.

  “Call me if there are any complications, and for God’s sake, keep the bandage around your chest for at least two weeks. Tied as tightly as you can stand.”

  Charlie ducked around the corner as the doctor left the room. As soon as the front door slammed, she crept from her hiding place. Chase was going to be okay. She had to get downstairs before Widow Davis discovered her duplicity.

  “You didn’t sneak all the way up here...just for that, did you?”

  Charlie stopped cold, expelled a disgusted breath and pushed open the door to his room. He was half-sitting, half-leaning against the headboard in what she would call an indisposed crumple. Dr. Olden had tied a thin bandage around his head and a thick, ugly one around his chest. She couldn’t help noticing the dark hairs that peeked from the top of the glaringly white dressing. Jerking her gaze up, she ran directly into his mocking stare. His white teeth flashed as he smiled, and then he actually had the audacity to laugh.

  A diluted, painful laugh that nonetheless provoked.

  “Stop it.” She shot a quick glance over her shoulder. “Do you want Widow Davis to come up here and find me?”

  He shrugged carefully. “Might be interesting.” His head slumped to the pillow behind his back. Like wax dripping down a melting candle, his words blurred. He looked worn and bruised. He needed sleep.

  She leaned and swept her fingers along the side of his face. He closed his eyes as a sigh escaped him. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Chase.” She turned to leave, her heart thudding in her chest. Oh, how she wanted to stay with him, hold his hand and watch him sleep. Make sure he didn’t wake in the night, dreams of his brother tormenting him.

  “Charlie?”

  She wanted to keep walking, knew she should, but his tone was so soft, so different than usual, so...warm. His eyes were open just enough to distinguish their color. Liquid brown, like the most delicious chocolate.

  “The editorial was...excellent. It was good enough...to run. I just wanted...you to know.” A silly smile sat up
on his face, as if he had not just given her the most indescribable compliment.

  Before he could say more to confuse her, she mumbled an abrupt, “Thank you, Chase,” and disappeared like a puff of smoke from his doorway.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Irresolution

  Lack of resolution; lack of decision or purpose; vacillation.

  Charlie stood on her back porch, staring into a charcoal sky filled with sparkling, silver pinpoints of light. How, she wondered, had her life gotten so tangled with Adam Jared Chase’s? She had done nothing for two days but think about him, her mood swinging wildly from guilt to concern to something she was scared to define. An emotion that made her face flame and her legs weaken.

  She jumped as something brushed her leg. Faustus meowed and plopped down by her feet. “So, is someone lonely tonight? I guess your acquaintances have deserted you.” She scratched him beneath his chin. “Don’t let it upset you, they don’t really know you. They don’t know me, either.” He purred and stretched in response.

  When would Chase return to the Sentinel office? Miles had stopped by her house the afternoon of the incident to tell her not to go there alone. Gerald was staying away until he got word as well. She could not, in her memory, recall the newspaper office being empty for this long.

  She didn’t know what Adam’s edict meant, and she was too big a coward to ask. With only bandages and a quilt between them, it would be tempting fate. For all she knew, he’d been naked underneath that quilt, which was more than she needed to imagine, much less come face-to-face with again.

  With a final scratch for Faustus, she retraced her steps to the kitchen. The aroma of dinner—beef stew and cornbread—still lingered. With a sigh, she picked up a plate and carried it to the dry sink. Without the newspaper, she’d better learn to enjoy cooking and cleaning. What else would she do?

  Faustus raced through the house seconds before a knock sounded through the house. Wiping her hands on her apron, Charlie tossed it into a chair and crossed to the door.