“Mr. Howard. I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
“I didn’t expect to be coming back so soon.”
She held the door wider, and he came inside. So did a gust of wind and many flurries. She closed the door and made sure it was secure, then invited him back into the parlor. Whatever it was he wanted, surely this conversation had to go better than the one earlier that day.
“What brings you by?” she asked, deciding not to glance in the hallway mirror as she passed it. It was better not to know just exactly how much hair was coming out of her bun.
“I’ve come with an apology,” he said, putting his back to the fire, but not sitting.
“From your mother?”
“No, from myself. I was completely irrational, and I can’t even find words to explain why. Please just know that I’m very sorry for acting like such a child, and I hope you can forgive me.”
Sarah took a seat and regarded him. Poor fellow—his face was red from cold. No wonder he didn’t want to come away from the fire. “I suppose I could,” she said slowly, “but you must promise me one thing.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“To speak what’s really on your mind. I don’t enjoy games, Mr. Howard. Life is too short to be spent guessing what other people mean.”
He nodded. “I agree. And to that end, I bring you this from my mother.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small note.
The fragrance that wafted from it was a strange combination of flowers and moss. Sarah tried not to hold it too close to her nose as she read.
My dearest Miss Palmer,
I’m told that your sweet aunt is very ill, and that you won’t be able to join us tomorrow afternoon for our luncheon. This saddened me. Not only is your aunt an excellent woman and I hope to see her in good health soon, but I will miss your presence. Is it at all possible for you to reconsider? Our gathering would be so much merrier with you there.
Millicent Howard
She lowered the note and shook her head. “I take it you mean this as an example of someone not saying what they mean?”
“Precisely.” He finally left the fire and took a seat. “I spent a little time talking with Mother before she wrote that note. She’s eager for you to come so she can show all her friends what a kind, gracious hostess she is.”
“I see.” Sarah read it over again. “Interesting how she can beg me to come without actually apologizing at all.”
“I did notice that, yes.”
Sarah studied the flames and their patterns of yellow, red, and touches of blue while she thought it over. It would be so satisfying . . . No. She shouldn’t think that way. And yet . . .
“What are you thinking? You’ve got some sort of brew boiling—I can see a glint in your eye.”
“Me? A brew? Whatever are you talking about?” She gave him her most innocent look.
“Hmmhmm. I’m not convinced. What’s going on inside that brain of yours?”
“Well, I was just thinking. She’s expecting me to be grateful for this invitation and to feel obligated. What if I went, but was exactly the opposite? What if I found a way to somehow turn things back in my favor? I have no plan because I don’t have enough information, but what if I found some way to humiliate her, show who she really is to everyone in attendance? That’s where my greatest feeling of satisfaction would come from—fate reaching in and taking its revenge.”
“But this isn’t fate,” Stephen reminded her. “It’s you, using the information you have to cause her all sorts of discomfort.”
“What if it were fate giving me a hand?”
Stephen didn’t reply for a moment, but then he grinned. “I like it,” he said. “But nothing that will actually hurt her, all right? No hidden weapons of any kind.”
“Weapons? Are you joking?”
He grinned. “Of course. Well, a little. You just look so bent on revenge, I wanted to draw a clear boundary.”
“I know how to use a gun—Mr. Brody, my boss, taught us all. But I would never dream of bringing one to your mother’s party. I believe in more discreet weapons—poison, daggers disguised as hat pins, things like that.”
“That makes you all the more dangerous. I may have to watch this party from behind the potted plant in the corner. Something tells me I won’t want to miss it.”
“Speaking of missing things, I’m sure you’re missing your dinner about now.”
He came out of his chair like a shot. “Right you are. I don’t mean to be rude—I’ll be on my way.”
She held up a hand. “That’s not what I meant. I wondered if you’d like to join us. I’m about to take some chicken and dumplings out of the oven.”
“Oh. Well, in that case, maybe I won’t leave so suddenly.”
Moments later, after Sarah had finished up with the dumplings, Felicity brought the children in to the dinner table, then dished up a serving for her mother. After she delivered it to the sick room, she came back, and they said grace over the food. Sarah glanced out the window, hoping John would make it back before the storm grew too much worse. As far as she knew, he’d gone on foot.
Almost as if he read her thoughts, Stephen mentioned that he’d pulled his carriage up under the overhang of the house. Sarah was glad he’d done so—it was a much better place for his horse than out in the open.
Felicity asked James to say grace, which he did reluctantly, and then they began to eat. This recipe was one Sarah had perfected at the Brody and she knew it was good, but still, she watched Stephen’s face for his reaction. She wasn’t disappointed when his eyes all but rolled back in his head.
“This is so good,” he said after he swallowed his first bite. “You made this, Sarah?”
“Yes, I did. We serve around two hundred plates of it a week at the hotel where I work.”
“That’s incredible, but I can understand why. It’s delicious.” He took another bite, and then another. Sarah grinned as she watched him. She loved seeing people appreciate something she’d done.
The kitchen door opened, and John came through as though he’d been blown inside. “It’s getting pretty fierce out there,” he said. “Whoever brought that buggy might want to think about staying the night.” He glanced up and caught sight of Stephen. “Oh, hello, Mr. Howard. Is that your rig out there?”
“It is. Do you think I’d make it home if I left now?”
“All the way back to Howard Mansion? I don’t think so. I only made it home because the telegraph office is a short ways away, and I clung to fences and trees. I think you should put your horse in our shed and make yourself comfortable.”
“I hope that wouldn’t be too much of an imposition,” Stephen said.
“Of course not,” Felicity replied. “We wouldn’t dream of sending you out in this.”
“In a case like that, let me see to my horse immediately.” Stephen rose and stepped into the hallway, where he grabbed his coat. John took him outside to show him where he could bed down the animal and park the carriage, and Sarah took a moment to dish up a plate of dinner for John.
“We’ll let the boys sleep on the floor in our room, and give theirs to Mr. Howard,” Felicity said. “James has a full-sized bed that can be used. I’ll go make it up fresh as soon as we’re done eating.”
“I don’t wanna sleep on the floor,” Charlie announced. “I want my bed.”
“That’s too bad,” Sarah told him. “Pirates, you see, don’t have beds.”
His eyes immediately lit up. “Pirates?”
“That’s right. They sleep right on the deck of the ship, or sometimes in hammocks. They don’t have soft, downy beds like you have.”
Karl tugged on her arm. “Tell us about pirates.”
“I’ll tell you all about them after you’ve eaten your dinner and put on your nightclothes.”
All three boys fell to eating without another word.
Felicity sighed. “I wish I could get them to obey as quickly as you do.”
Sarah hadn’t meant to make her cousin feel inferior in any way. “I just have a fresh batch of stories to bribe them with, that’s all.”
The men came back in, stomping and blowing into their cupped hands. Felicity got them each a mug of coffee, and they wrapped their fingers around the warmth.
“Is the horse secure for the night?” she asked.
“Yes, thank you,” Stephen replied. “I appreciate the use of your hay.”
“We only have one horse, and plenty of feed,” John said. “It’s not a bother. In the meantime, the telegram has been sent, and we’ll hear back shortly, with any luck.”
Sarah hoped so. It would be wonderful if Dr. Wayment could come out and examine her aunt. She’d had a visit with him not long before she left Topeka—if anyone knew her most recent state of health, it would be him.
After everyone had eaten a slice of pie, Felicity went upstairs to change out the bed and make pallets on the floor for the boys. Sarah helped them put on their nightshirts, and while they sat up in their blankets, she told them a tale.
“About a hundred and fifty years ago, there lived a fearsome man named Blackbeard. Well, that was his nickname—can you imagine any parents naming their child Blackbeard?”
The boys giggled.
“He was called that on account of he had a black beard, right?” James asked.
“That’s right. He sailed in the Atlantic, capturing ships and stealing their goods. They say he was the most feared pirate who ever lived. He wore knee-length boots and a velvet coat, and his hat was this wide.” Sarah held up her hands, and the boys seemed duly impressed.
“Did he have a parrot?” Karl wanted to know.
“I don’t believe he did, but I could be wrong,” Sarah told him. “You can imagine him with a parrot, if you like.”
“Do pirates eat chicken and dumplings?” Charlie asked.
“I’m sure they do, if they get the chance. Most of the time, they eat whatever they can buy when they come on land, things that will last a long time at sea. They eat a lot of crackers.”
“Crackers?” James pulled a face. “Crackers are for sick people and babies.”
“And for pirates,” Karl said.
“Pirates aren’t babies,” Charlie protested.
Sarah held up both hands before an argument could break out. “When you’re at sea, you eat whatever you have. Pirates also eat fish.”
“Do they eat mermaids?” Charlie’s eyes grew wide.
“No, they most certainly do not eat mermaids.” Sarah wanted to correct that notion before any of them had nightmares. “They eat regular fish. They catch them with fishing poles, and the cook fries them up in butter.”
“Do they eat pie?”
Sarah turned at the sound of the new voice behind her. Stephen was leaning against the doorjamb, his arms folded across his chest, looking amused. “I hope you don’t mind, but I couldn’t help hearing your story from across the hall. I love a good pirate tale.”
“I promised the boys a story if they ate their dinner,” Sarah explained, unsure why she suddenly felt embarrassed.
“A good dinner and a good story. These are lucky boys.” Stephen motioned to the rug where Sarah sat. “May I join you?”
“Of course.” She scooted over a little, and Stephen sat down beside her. “Now, what was I saying?”
“Mr. Howard asked if pirates eat pie,” James reminded her.
“Well, of course they do! What kind of silly question is that?” Sarah turned to him with astonishment on her face.
“I didn’t realize it was silly.” Stephen looked confused. She liked him better that way.
“It’s all in their name, you see. Pi-rates eat pie.”
He looked at her another moment, then burst out laughing as comprehension dawned. “I see. I never knew that before.”
“Sarah knows everything,” Charlie informed him solemnly.
“I’m beginning to realize that,” Stephen replied.
“All right, that’s all for tonight.” Sarah wanted to call an end to this before her cheeks burst into flame. “Lie down, boys, and let me cover you. Pirates don’t have such nice blankets, so you should feel especially lucky.”
They obediently snuggled up, and she gave them each a kiss on the forehead. Then she and Stephen left the room, and she closed the door.
“I feel terrible, taking the boys’ room away from them,” Stephen said.
“Oh, don’t be worried about them.” Sarah nodded toward the closed door. “They’re having a grand adventure, pretending to be pirates sleeping on the deck of their ship. They won’t even miss their beds.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I can’t tell you enough how much I appreciate this.”
“Do storms often come up like this in Denver?” Sarah asked.
“We do get a lot of snow, being in mountainous country like we are. And yes, sometimes those storms come up suddenly.”
“I hope your mother won’t be too concerned about you.” Sarah paused. “Oh! What about her luncheon tomorrow?”
“We’ll have to see if the sun comes out in the morning and begins to melt everything away,” Stephen replied. “If it does, her party will go on as planned. If not, well, I’m sure she’ll just move it to another date. It would take more than a blizzard to keep Millicent Howard from throwing a party.”
Sarah led the way downstairs, where she offered Stephen another slice of pie. He looked like he was about to refuse, but then he took it anyway.
“You’re going to fatten me up, Miss Palmer,” he said as he cut into the slice with the side of his fork.
“I doubt that. You seem to have a very trim physique,” she replied, then turned away quickly as her cheeks burst into flame again. Why had she said that? Now he was going to think she’d been looking at him, when she most definitely had not. That wasn’t to say that he wasn’t nice to look at, because he was. She just wasn’t looking at him like that.
“I do try to stay active,” he replied, and his tone of voice seemed perfectly normal. Not like he was thinking that she’d been looking at him like that. Which was nice. And a relief. And she needed to get herself under control.
After taking a deep breath, she turned back and smiled. “I’m sure Aunt Clasby is dying to know what’s going on out here. Would you like to help me carry her in some tea and pie?”
“Certainly. I don’t think I’ve met your aunt formally, but I’ve seen her at church.”
“She’s a dear. She’ll tell you exactly what she thinks about you, everyone around you, and the world at large, and she’ll make you laugh while she does it. Here—you carry the pie, and I’ll take the tea.”
When they reached the doorway at the end of the hall, Sarah reached out and tapped, then opened the door slowly. “Aunt Clasby? Are you up for a visitor?”
Her aunt looked at her over the top of a dime novel. “It all depends. Just who is this visitor? Someone tall and handsome? I’ve been hearing a man’s voice.”
“He’s tall, but I don’t think we should call him handsome. We don’t want him to become vain.” Sarah grinned at Stephen, then moved aside so he could enter. “Aunt Clasby, this is Stephen Howard.”
The older woman’s eyebrows rose. “Stephen Howard, you say? This is certainly a surprise. What brings you here, gallivanting around in an old woman’s bedroom in the middle of the night?”
“A snowstorm, I’m afraid,” Stephen replied. “I’m quite stranded, and may be for some time. But I brought pie as a peace offering for this unlawful intrusion.”
She looked at him with her lips pursed. “What kind of pie?”
“Peach. I believe Miss Palmer said it was made from fruit that was dried this summer.” He glanced at Sarah for confirmation, and she nodded.
“Very well. I suppose that will do.” Aunt Clasby reached out and took the plate. “Now, tell me. A young man as good-looking as you are must have some gossip to share. The good-looking ones always have the best stories.”
“I th
ought you weren’t going to call me good-looking,” he said with a wink in Sarah’s direction.
“No, we weren’t going to call you handsome. I chose an entirely different word.” Aunt Clasby forked up a bite of pie. “Now, out with it.”
Sarah watched the exchange with amusement. Not only was Aunt Clasby determined to give him a hard time, but he was determined to meet it with good humor.
“Well, let’s see. The best piece of gossip I’ve heard lately has to do with the sheriff’s deputy running off with the most popular saloon girl from the place he’d been sent to shut down,” Stephen said. “Turns out that during the course of the investigation, they fell in love.”
“Oh, that is good,” Aunt Clasby said. “What were they investigating the saloon for?”
“Watering down the whiskey, fixing the card games—all the usual saloon stuff that people complain about, but no one can really prove.”
“It makes me wonder why people even bother to lodge the complaints in the first place. Everyone knows there’s not really a lot that can be done.” Aunt Clasby sipped her tea, then put the cup back on the saucer. “Tell me more.”
Sarah watched and listened with a bemused smile until Felicity came in the room. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Mother really should be getting to bed.”
“I am in bed,” Aunt Clasby replied. “See? Here I am—in bed.”
“I mean, sleeping in bed,” Felicity retorted. “Mr. Howard, I found you an extra nightshirt of John’s, and I put it on your bed.”
“Thank you very much.” Stephen stood up. “And with that, I’ll say goodnight. Let’s all hope for sunshine in the morning.”
If there was sunshine, that meant there was a ladies’ luncheon to attend. As much as Sarah didn’t want to be snowed in, at the moment, that sounded all the more preferable.
Chapter Eleven
Denver, Colorado
1875
Stephen pulled the nightshirt over his head and down into place, then laid his clothing over a chair near the bed. He smiled as he looked around—this was very much the bedroom of three small boys. A shelf with books stood against one wall, and the top held toy sailboats and trains and carved wooden ducks. It wasn’t an elaborate room, by any means, but it was the perfect place to spend a childhood. These were very loved children.
The Bitter and the Sweet (Kansas Crossroads Book 9) Page 7