by Cindy Nord
“Non. Hopefully, the agent he’s hired will find something out soon.”
“Have faith, my dearest. God provides miracles every day. Which brings me to my news.”
“News?” Annabelle widened her eyes. “What news?”
“Well, back in town, I’ve overheard rumors that Doctor Jordan wants to hire a nurse for his growing practice.” A smile curved her mouth. “‘Naturally, I thought of you.”
Annabelle swallowed hard. She’d spent her entire adult life perfecting the caretaker role. Working for Owensborough’s only physician would give her the independence she desired, not to mention much-needed money for lawyer payments.
Except taking the position meant employment away from Brennen.
Her belly churned and she glanced toward the barn. The door wide open, she watched as he showed off his work to the abbess. Pride reflected in his smile as he answered her questions. Though she couldn’t hear the words exchanged, she clearly saw a growing connection between them.
“Monsieur Benedict’s has hired me to teach his helpers. He’s also offered me the task of overseeing his household.” Annabelle worried her fingers. “I’ve told him yes.”
The nun shrugged. “Change your answer to no, ma très chère. This opportunity in town may not appear again.”
Another gust of wind whipped around the manor house and tugged loose a lock from Annabelle’s chignon. Her fingers trembled as she scraped the curl behind her ear. The very thought of leaving all…this…hearth and home…
Brennen laughed at something the abbess shared.
And an ache built in Annabelle’s chest as she stared at him. Panic at never seeing him again swept over her, of being torn from a place that felt dangerously too much like home. For a heartbeat she couldn’t breathe. She glanced toward her friend. “But…I-I like it here.”
Understanding flickered in the much-too-astute woman’s eyes as she perused the homestead. “Well of course you do, ma chère. Who wouldn’t? Still, this is a short-term situation at best. Unless…Monsieur Benedict has changed his mind about selling.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “He hasn’t,” she whispered, the words sounding pathetic even to her own ears.
The pressure in her chest tightened.
“‘Tis a sad song you sing, mon ami.” The nun withdrew a hankie, wiped the perspiration from her brow, and then stowed the plain white cloth. “I’m afraid the odds that he’ll ever change are stacked against you. The adage, once a gambler, always a gambler is oh so tellement vrai – so true…no matter how much Mother Mary Agnes believes otherwise.”
Anger cut through Annabelle. Surely Sister Francois Clare was wrong. Men changed, found mettle, discovered a purpose important enough to alter their lives. “So the abbess still sees hope in him?” she asked, blinking back the tears. “I thought that was a passing fancy to keep me occupied.”
Sister Clare snorted. “You know how much the abbess loves challenges. Me…I’m more pragmatic. More importantly, ma chére, I do not want to see you hurt.” Seriousness narrowed her eyes. “Remember what I said about your caring heart?”
Annabelle lowered her gaze and nodded. “Qui, I remember.”
Shame swelled to replace the earlier rush of fury. If she believed Brennen would ever grow to care for this place, for…her, for them all, enough to set roots, she was a greater fool than he. In fact, he’d made things perfectly clear from the start that if not for Mother Superior’s interference demanding her blasted bricks, he’d have sold out weeks ago and been gone.
Their kiss echoed in her mind, leaving Annabelle trembling.
Yes he’d wanted her…even in her naiveté she could sense that. After all, he was a man skilled at tempting women; luring them into his bed. If she became one of his tumbles, once he was through bedding her, like a card cast from a losing hand, he would also discard her to his past.
Somewhere in her time here, she was the one who’d built dreams around a new beginning, and she was the one who’d allowed conflicted feelings room to grow. Worse…’twas she who’d construed the possibility of something more between them.
Hurt burned deep. On a ragged inhale, Annabelle smothered her disheartened beliefs and recentered her thoughts on the exactly why she was here, where she should’ve kept her focus from the start.
A rustling sound from the direction of the barn brought her attention to the pair moving toward them.
Sable eyes met hers.
Raking a hand through his hair, Brennen gave her a nod, then quirked his mouth into a grin. Her heart flip-flopped as she drank in his handsome visage. A gentleman rogue through and through, from the fashionable fit of his jacket to the crisp white shirt collar that pressed against his sun-bronzed throat.
An icy chill rolled through her dousing the fire his smile had kindled. Raw words scraped past thin lips, “Perhaps I should ride into town this week and at least inquire about the position.”
“A wise decision, ma belle ami,” her friend whispered back.
Annabelle compressed her lips…and recalled the taste of his kiss, a taste she’d remember forever. The wagon seemed to tilt. Her eyes slammed closed as she gripped the leather’s edge. They were strangers. She knew nothing of his ghosts of war.
While he knew nothing of the murder warrant issued for her.
Nor ever would.
Chapter Eighteen
The following morning, the spill of light around Annabelle confirmed noon had come and gone long before her stomach’s grumble proclaimed the fact. Before heading to the garden she should’ve eaten breakfast, but eagerness to sink her hands into the rich, warm earth again won out. She nudged aside a bucket filled with weeds and straightened, pressing her hands against her lower back as complaining muscles cramped.
Biting back a wince, she scowled at the pailful of wilted greens. All morning she’d kept busy yanking out the misbehaving beneficials that had escaped their spot in the garden. “Well, that’s the last of the run-away dents de lions.”
A quick tug helped her recenter her wide-brimmed hat.
With a chuckle, Ruby glanced up from the nearby vegetable row. “Don’cha mean dandelions, Miz Annabelle?”
“Qui, in America they’re called that, ma caille. But in France ‘tis dents de lions, for lion’s teeth, because the jagged leaf edges resemble the fangs of the big cat.”
“Is dat so?” Ruby said, leaning her hoe against her shoulder. “‘Dey also bring in da good bugs ‘n bees. But me? I just call ‘em annoyin’, ‘cause dey multiply faster’n wild hares.” She retucked the ends of a blue-checkered cotton turban that covered her close-cropped hair, and then smiled. “I must admit, though, Jubal’s mighty partial to da fried greens. Oh, and dat wine I make outta ‘dere yellow petals.” She laughed. “And sometimes I even use da milk sap from its roots for curatives.”
Ellie hollered from the opposite side of the garden, “One of you gals get over here and help me up…me knees ain’t what they used to be.”
“Hold on,” Annabelle answered as she carefully navigated the rows of emerging plants. With each step, the hem of her skirt dusted frilly carrot tops, ruffles of spring green spinach, and coiling pumpkin vines with leaves as big as pie tins. A moment later, she slid her hands beneath the cook’s massive arms and helped lift her.
On an unladylike grunt, the woman straightened and stepped back. “Thank ye kindly, me love.” A tenuous smile followed as embarrassment darkened her eyes. “I know I’m fatter’n a pig on a roastin’ spit.”
Annabelle bit back a chuckle. “Nonsense, ma chére. You’re a testimony to your wondrous trade.”
“Well, I can’t argue with you there,” the cook quipped. “And on that truth, I’ll go round us up some vittles.”
Ellie patted Annabelle softly on the cheek before waddling off toward the summer kitchen.
Barking dogs in the distance had Annabelle peering past the row of cabins. Cloaked in afternoon light, a long-limbed Negro guided a mass of livestock toward her. As lean as the bean
poles she’d anchored this morning in the garden, the drover wore a ratty straw hat atop his head.
Ruby leaned her hoe against the wheelbarrow. “Jasper’s here.” She waved at their oncoming visitor.
The man waved back.
Shading a palm over her eyes, Annabelle studied the stranger. Tall. Young. And friendly if the smile he’d plastered across his ebony face proved any indication. “Who’s Jasper?”
“Jubal’s brother. And Mista Brennen’s jist hired him to take care o’ things ‘round here.”
Ah, yes…the new groundskeeper. “So he works with livestock, too?”
“Livestock, handyman, carpenter, he does it all,” she said on a snort. “Yes’m, ol’ Jasper’s a this-and-that’er, for sure.”
Annabelle laughed as she watched Jubal’s brother prod the herd with deft precision to keep the lumbering mass moving. A this and that’er, for sure. Ruby’s dialect and homespun references always made her smile. “Well, he’s exactly what this place needs.”
Contentment bubbled through her as she stared at the oncoming collection that undulated across the meadow. At the edge of the herd a pair of Shepherd dogs, darting in and out in a blur of brown and white, kept order.
She narrowed her gaze and smiled.
The tell-tale bleats of a dozen sheep with lambs, and at least five prancing goats filled the air. Blending with their ruckus were the disgruntled moos of four black cows, a brown-and-white calf, and one dairy Guernsey whose orangish-red and cream hide looked as though the sun had retired early across her back.
Annabelle reached the garden’s edge just as Ellie poked her head through the open doorway.
“What’s all the racket?” the cook hollered, slinging a towel across her shoulder. She stepped from the summer kitchen, then gasped. “Saints preserve us, what’ve we got here now?”
Ruby laughed as she sidled up beside Ellie. “Mista Brennen tol’ Jubal he was gettin’ tired o’ totin’ your groceries back from town, so he’s decided to bring a few o’ the things you use here.”
On a gleeful chortle, the cook clapped her hands. “I knew I liked that man when I first spotted him. And will you look at that…a milkin’ cow. Now I can make me own butter, too. Glory be, he is a saint among men.”
A saint among men? Apprehension dulled Annabelle’s excitement, and she eased out her breath. To glorify the self-focused merits of a gambler whose sole intent was to leave them around the excitement of churning milk fat seemed ludicrous. And yet, with each addition to their little household, Annabelle could not help but agree. “Yes,” she muttered. “Monsieur Benedict is our paladin.”
Perhaps, Brennen had come to care for this place.
Hope ignited, spun wondrously through her…until the mooing of a cow splintered her revelry.
Imbécile!
Pain arrowed through her veins.
Stop dreaming…a scoundrel never changes.
Chin lifting, Annabelle stared at the advancing herd, yet her thoughts remained focused on her decision.
To save the tatters of her heart, she’d make that ride in to Owensborough tomorrow morning after Brennen and Jubal left for the kilns.
* * * *
The tick-tick-tick of the entry hall case clock perfectly matched the beat of Annabelle’s heart. She skimmed the room void of color, expecting a more inviting office for the only doctor in town. A pair of heavy curtains draped the window, and dust motes floated in the sunray from a split where the material allowed in a smidgen of light. The wooden planked floors were so dark they more resembled charcoal, and the shelves lining the back wall revealed an array of vials and bottles crammed onto equally dark-stained wood.
Annabelle quirked her lips. The inventory process seemed as deficient as the lack of lighting. If she were hired, her first tasks would be a better organization of supplies, add a few decorative paintings, and the placement of an airy swath of linen at the windows.
She sighed.
Save for a framed medical document, the entire outer office looked as bleak and grim-faced as the scowling matron who sat behind the desk.
A bong from the weathered clock sporting a layer of dust on its brim announced the half-hour.
“Perhaps I should return at a more convenient time,” Annabelle said, clasping her gloved hands in her lap.
The administrator peered over low-perched, wire-rimmed spectacles. “Do as you wish, Miss Swan, but he’s only interviewing for the position today.” She pursed her lips and cut a scornful glance to the inner-office door. “He’s got Mabel in there now. She’s a regular.”
Annabelle nodded, surprised at the disclosure. Regular Mabel? Another candidate for the job, or perhaps the doctor’s patient? “All right, I’ll wait a bit longer.”
“Your choice,” the matron grunted, setting aside the clipboard securing the form Annabelle had filled out earlier.
The sun’s ray shifted, penetrating the Chantilly lace veil that spilled in fashionable disarray from her fanchon. Annabelle thinned her lips. In haste, she’d chosen this particular hat and veiling to protect her face from the dust as she rode into town. Perhaps she should’ve worn something a bit more sedate than the stylish chip hat with its abundance of peacock feathers. She smoothed her hands across the lap of her turquoise-colored gown. And maybe a drabber colored day dress, too.
She shifted, her corset pinching. The bustled crinoline beneath the spread of watered silk forced her to perch closer to the edge of an already uncomfortable wooden chair. “So,” she said with a forced smile. Any conversation seemed better than listening to a ticking clock. “I heard at the mercantile that Doctor Jordan served in the Great War.”
The woman raised her head, gaze narrowing. “That’s right. For the Union Army.”
“From what I’ve read they lacked field surgeons on both sides of the great disturbance.”
“Disturbance? Is that what you gossiping fools over there think?” The administrator’s eyes darkened. “For being on the battlefield ‘stead of working in a safer hospital my son took a bullet in the leg. And now, Miss Busybody, he’s got a permanent limp.” The scorn in her voice radiated with damning intensity.
A wave of embarrassment swept up her neck to settle into two hot spots upon her cheeks. Never had she been called a gossipmonger. Good heavens, who in their right mind could work with this acrimonious shrew? Lips sealed, Annabelle stared at the medical degree.
She’s Doctor Jordan’s mother?
No wonder why, save her, the room sat empty of potential applicants. The clock’s incessant ticking stretched into a long, unbearable strain as Annabelle reclasped her hands. The entire trip into town she’d envisioned the man as some elderly, white-haired physician. Portly built, or stooped beneath age and caring. She glanced once more at the ogress. If her age were any indicator, Doctor Jordan was much younger than she’d expected.
On a groan, the door to the inner office cracked open.
A bedraggled woman wearing checkered gingham slowly backed into view.
“Thank you for stopping by, Mrs. Chambers,” said a rich-timbered voice from within the room.
Panic swept the woman’s face. “B-But…I’s capable of carin’ if’n you’d just give me a dang chance, Doc.”
The stench of cheap cologne slammed full-force into Annabelle’s nostrils as she scanned the pitiful soul.
“I-I need your help real bad,” Mrs. Chambers continued, “’cause Buster won’t take me back at his saloons. Says I’m too old to work ‘em. Nobody wants to buy my…favors.”
“Just use the money I gave you to buy a decent meal, and don’t forget to take your medicine, Mabel. The burning won’t stop unless you do. If Buster won’t keep you on, then check with the sheriff. I hear he’s looking to hire someone to deliver evening meals from Cleo to his prisoners. He’s tired of toting the grub across the street himself.”
“I can be a courier, Doc. I like to tote ‘n fetch. I’ll just go check with the sheriff straightaway ‘bout that job. And thank you kindly,
sir. I thinks you’re a real fine man.” She shoved the bills into her grimy reticule, turned and flounced from the office.
As the front door slammed behind her, Annabelle glanced toward the inner office. A second ticked by.
And another.
The shuffle of steps, then Doctor Jordan filled the opening.
She stifled a gasp.
An albino!
Nearly as tall as Brennen, the comparison between the men stopped there. Where Brennen was somewhat tanned from weeks of working outdoors, the absence of color in this man’s hair and skin stole her breath. Curls as white as a blinding snowstorm adorned his head and spilled down his face into thick mutton-chopped side whiskers. The ghost anomaly –the oldest infirmity recorded in medical books. Annabelle had seen the lightness disorder in fish, amphibians, and birds, but until this moment, she’d never encountered a human who bore le blafard…maladie pâle.
His red-eyed gaze met hers.
No wonder the room’s so dark – bright light hurts his eyes.
She looked away, then forced her gaze toward him as he stepped from the doorway.
He glanced at the matron a split-second before his eyes met hers. He arched a brow. “So tell me, mother,” he queried, walking toward Annabelle. “Who do we have here? Is this striking beauty a patient, or my new nurse?” His mannerism and questions seemed so easy-going and direct, she could not stop her chuckle.
He flirts -- the pale-faced rascal.
Smiling, Annabelle rose to meet him. Yards of watered silk settled into a turquoise-colored pool against his boots. With her next intake of breath, she completely relaxed. “Well, ma bon docteur,” she replied. “I’m here in pursuit of the later.” Her palm slid against his in a handshake.
“Mon Dieu,” he proclaimed, placing his other palm atop the clasp. “And you are?”
Her heart lifted. “Miss Annabelle Swan. A new arrival to the area.”
“I see.” He softly pulled her along with him toward his office. “And do you plan on remaining long?”
At the scrape of wood against wood he halted and Annabelle nearly bumped into him. She glanced over in time to see the matron surging upward into a pillar of glowering disapproval.