by Dorothy Love
“I thought Mr. Heyward was going to help you.”
“He said he had an idea, but he never said what it was. And I haven’t seen him in over a week. Too busy at Blue Smoke, I imagine.”
“I saw him at the post office yesterday,” Caleb said. “He was with that tall, dark-haired fellow. They seemed mad as two old roosters.”
Sophie nodded. So Julian Worth, whoever he was, was back in town. Or maybe he never left. At any rate, maybe that explained why Ethan had not stopped in to see her.
Caleb loaded a stack of newsprint onto the press. “Might as well get this first page printed up before I head home.”
Sophie shook her head. “It’ll keep. It’s late. Go home and get some rest.”
“You’re not sore at me about leaving?”
She mustered a smile for him. “Someone else gave me a chance to learn this business. I can’t very well stand in the way of your taking your chance.”
“I’m real happy you understand. But please don’t say anything to Gillie about—”
“Would I steal your thunder on something as important as your future?”
Caleb grabbed his cap off the hat tree and went out the back door, whistling.
Sophie lit the lamp against the November gloom and took a seat at her desk. She sorted through the mail, setting aside a stack of bills, a couple of subscription payments, and a thick letter from Ada, which she tucked into her pocket to read later. Then she opened the bag of mail addressed to the Answer Lady, picked up her silver-handled letter opener, and slit open the first envelope.
Dear Answer Lady,
When was Daniel Webster born and where did he grow up? Why did he rite a dictionary? Please anser in next Monday’s Gazette. My report is due Thursday. Thank you.
Sophie smiled at the misspellings and the nature of the question. It wasn’t the first letter she’d received seeking a shortcut to a school assignment, but it was the most honest.
She opened another envelope and took out a single sheet written in pencil.
Dear Answer Lady,
My baby died. Why does God allow suffering like that? Thank you.
Sophie closed her eyes. Why indeed? Just last Sunday Robbie had preached a sermon on suffering. He spoke of the suffering of Job and the trials of the apostle Paul and reminded his flock that God didn’t promise a shield from suffering, but rather spiritual sustenance in the midst of it. Ada often said that suffering made one stronger. Maybe it did. But such an answer seemed inadequate, a pale thing to offer this heartbroken mother.
Footsteps sounded outside, followed by a sharp knock on the door. Sophie lifted her lamp and went to answer it.
“Miss Caldwell?”
Julian Worth stood in the doorway, backlit by the streetlamps just coming on, a leather pouch tucked under his arm. He wore neither a coat nor gloves. “I apologize for barging in like this, but I need your help. It’s about Ethan Heyward.”
Her heart lurched. “Is he all right?”
“He isn’t sick or hurt, if that’s what you mean. But the truth is, Ethan hasn’t truly been all right since we were children. I’ve been trying to fix that ever since June, but he’s too angry with me to listen.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t see how I can help.”
He leaned forward, his ice-blue eyes bright in his dusky face. “Until my first trip here a few months ago, I hadn’t seen Ethan since he was twelve years old. So I can’t claim to know him very well.”
The wind caught the door and sent it crashing against the wall with a sound like gunfire. Mr. Worth shivered in the deepening chill. “But the one thing I do know is that he loves you.”
Her stomach dropped. Ethan loved her? She hoped with all her heart it was true. But perhaps Mr. Worth’s claim was a ruse to get inside. Should she trust a perfect stranger, especially one Ethan so clearly disliked? Despite her apprehension, something in those eyes convinced her to hear him out. She motioned him inside, set the lamp on her desk, and took her chair, keeping the desk between them.
Mr. Worth indicated the other chair. “May I?”
“Please.”
He sat, holding the leather pouch on his lap, and studied her intently. “I remember seeing you outside Ethan’s office the night I visited Blue Smoke.”
“I remember you too. Ethan was furious that you’d turned up, but he wouldn’t tell me why.” She toyed with the letter opener, watching it catch the lantern light. “To this day, he still hasn’t. But then, whatever is between you is hardly my business.”
“As boys, we were very close, but he hates me now. He thinks I’m responsible for the worst thing that ever happened to him.” Mr. Worth tapped the pouch. “I have proof that I’m not to blame. Ethan won’t hear me out. But he might if you ask him to.”
“I see.”
“Miss Caldwell?” The man bent forward, elbows on his knees, until his eyes were level with hers. “Just answer me one thing. Do I look like a man who would murder his own father?”
Ethan slid into his chair and pressed the button on the floor to summon O’Brien. A ten-hour round trip to Nashville earlier in the week had put him behind on his paperwork. It would take the rest of the afternoon and half the night to catch up, but in the long run, it would be worth it.
He opened his desk drawer just to be sure the pale blue jeweler’s box was still there. Ever since their kiss at the infirmary that day, he had thought of little else but Sophie. He loved everything about her—not only her considerable beauty and poise, but her passion for her work, her belief in the importance of it. Her determination to keep the paper afloat despite Horace Blakely’s petty interference.
At least he had solved that problem. Coupled with the increased subscription orders in the wake of her Answer Lady column, the money Blue Smoke would pay her to write stories about and for the resort would more than compensate for the loss of her advertising accounts. Horace had given Ethan the task of increasing the public’s awareness of Blue Smoke before the start of the next season. He would have to hire someone to write articles and stories, so why not Sophie? She was a good writer and someone he trusted. He’d commission the pieces, and soon her work would appear in newspapers and magazines around the country, with Horace none the wiser.
Ethan couldn’t help feeling his plan would right a wrong. Horace had caused Sophie’s problem. Now, however unwittingly, he would fix it.
Ethan’s only worry now was whether Sophie’s feelings for him were as tender as his were for her. She’d kissed him as if they were. But secrets still lingered between them, and secrets were a perilous foundation for a marriage he hoped would last a lifetime.
He shuffled a stack of papers on his desk, too preoccupied to concentrate. Half a dozen times he’d been on the verge of telling her about the day he’d stumbled from his parents’ room, half-mad with terror and powerless to do anything except hide and wait for death or rescue. But shame had silenced him—that and the fear of letting go of the careful fiction he’d created and believed about his own life.
O’Brien knocked once at the door and entered, carrying a stack of mail and the latest issue of Scribner’s Monthly. “Here you go, boss.”
The secretary pointed to the magazine. “There’s a good article in there about Geronimo’s surrender. They sent him and the others to Florida, you know, but General Miles says they might be moved to somewhere out west before too much longer.”
Ethan hid a smile. O’Brien knew Ethan preferred to discover the magazine for himself rather than receive a synopsis, but sometimes the Irishman couldn’t help himself. Ethan flipped through the mail, setting aside a couple of letters for later. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll be sure to read that piece.”
O’Brien blushed. “Sorry. I meant to read only the first couple of sentences, but I got caught up in the story and couldn’t stop.” He shook his head. “Somehow I can’t imagine old Geronimo and all those Apaches living in Florida. Doesn’t seem natural, if you ask me.”
Ethan nodded. “Anything going
on around here that I should know about?”
The Irishman shrugged. “Not especially. Mr. Rutledge says one of the Blue Smoke horses is sick—colic or something.” He shook his head. “That man sure sets a lot of store by those horses. He’s planning on spending the night with that horse, walking it around and such and making sure it doesn’t go down.”
O’Brien crossed the room and lit the lamp. “It’s getting dark in here, boss. You don’t want to strain your eyes.” He set the lamp on the corner of Ethan’s desk. “Li Chung is making fresh-caught trout and wild rice for the staff tonight. I imagine it’s done by now.” He eyed Ethan’s cluttered desk. “From the looks of things, you’re going to be here awhile. Shall I be askin’ one of the cooks to bring you a tray?”
“I’d appreciate it. I want to get this cleared away. I’m thinking I might take tomorrow off.”
“Seein’ Miss Caldwell, are you?”
“Maybe.”
“Ha! You’re smitten, and you know it.”
“Try to keep it under your hat, will you, O’Brien? It’ll be awfully embarrassing if she doesn’t return my affections.”
“Sure, sure. But I’m guessing she’s about as besotted as you are.” O’Brien glanced around the room. “If there’s nothing else you’re needing . . .”
Ethan waved a hand. “That should do it for now.”
The secretary left, whistling. Ethan drew the lamp closer to his work and quickly dispatched a stack of bills. He signed the weekly payroll report and the bank draft to pay the maintenance crew and approved Li Chung’s weekly order from Pruitt’s mercantile. He finished his report for Horace and signed off on an elaborately worded request from Miss Swint for a stack of warm blankets to be delivered to her photo hut.
Though the resort was closed, a steady stream of curious tourists with time to kill between trains still made the trek to the ridge. Any day now cold weather would shutter the operation until spring. But in the meantime Miss Swint was eager that her customers should not catch cold while posing for her camera.
At last Ethan closed his ledger, surprised to find it was already past eight o’clock. By now the Blakelys would be seated for dinner, enjoying Li Chung’s trout and wild rice and anticipating the chocolate pastries the Chinese cook baked fresh every afternoon.
Ethan’s stomach rumbled. Where was his dinner? He was partial to those pastries too. In another ten minutes he’d simply help himself to a plate in the kitchen. The cooks and the Blakelys’ staff were for the most part a congenial bunch, mostly locals, and Ethan enjoyed their company.
He rose from his chair just as a huge stone crashed through the French door leading to the terraces. Shards of glass flew across the room.
“Heyward!”
Ethan’s shoes crunched on the broken glass as he crossed the room. The shattered door flew open, and Lutrell Crocker stood swaying in the doorway. Ethan saw at once that the man was half-drunk. It took a bit longer to realize that he carried a gun. And it was aimed straight at Ethan’s heart.
TWENTY-THREE
Was Julian Worth a murderer?
Sophie peered into his face, her heart thudding, her mind racing to make sense of the question he had just asked. Had she been foolish to trust him? She surreptitiously slid the letter opener into her lap, her fingers curling around the handle. It wouldn’t be much protection, but it was better than nothing.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand Ethan’s concern for whatever might have happened between you and your father.”
For several moments, his eyes held hers. “I think you do.”
Except for the ticking of the office clock, the room was silent. Far off, a dog howled.
Julian Worth whispered, “Look at me.”
Her whole world tilted. She sucked in her breath. The truth was staring her in the face, plain as day. It was there in the man’s strong, even features and his blue eyes. “Ethan is your brother?”
“Half brother.”
“And he thinks you killed his father?”
“And his mother. But I can prove it isn’t true, if he can get past his hatred long enough to listen. I need you to go up to Blue Smoke with me and prevail upon his better instincts. I know I have no right to ask, but—”
Sophie’s mind reeled with the irony of the situation. All this time, as she’d walked around guilt-ridden and ashamed, berating herself for deceiving Ethan, he’d been deceiving her too. And when she confessed her fears about her past to him, fearing his rejection, he had never once hinted at the connection between Mr. Worth and himself.
She should have felt angry, but instead her heart ached for Ethan. She’d grown weary of hiding a part of herself from him. Maybe he was weary too. “Very well, Mr. Worth. We’ll go first thing in the morning.”
“I can’t wait till morning.” He took a yellow sheet of paper from his pocket and slid it across her desk. “This wire came just an hour ago. My son has fallen gravely ill. I’ve booked a ticket home on the morning train.”
He leaned forward in his chair. “It isn’t only because I want to get this monkey off my back. I think it will help Ethan. He blames himself for what happened. I’d like to relieve him of his burden too.”
Sophie nodded. Now Ethan’s reticence to talk about his childhood in Georgia made sense. His parents had been murdered. Who could bear to repeat the details of such a tragedy, even one that had happened years ago? Some wounds never healed.
“Miss Caldwell?” Julian Worth stood, fanning the flame in the lamp. “May we go now?”
She rose, fighting the apprehension building inside her. It was foolish to go off into the night with a stranger, especially one suspected of murder. But something told her he was trustworthy. And if she could help Ethan . . .
“I’ll get my wrap.”
She doused the flame and locked the door, and they left the office, crossing the quiet, darkened street. Wind tore at her cloak and a swath of frosty stars blanketed the sky. She glanced toward the infirmary, barely visible through the trees lining the shadowed road. Lights glimmered in the windows on the first floor. No doubt Gillie was still there, making preparations for the opening.
“I paid the supply-train driver to take us up.” Mr. Worth’s breath clouded the cold November air. “It isn’t much of a conveyance for a lady like yourself, but it’s faster than taking a horse and rig up the mountain at night. And safer too, I expect.”
Sophie pulled her cloak around her and hurried to keep up with his long strides as they passed the shuttered shops and headed for the supply train. She watched him from the corner of her eye. He seemed sincere, and the reason for his haste seemed believable enough, but he was still a stranger. She was grateful for the train and the engineer.
They reached the station and hurried to the supply train. The engineer, his face illuminated in the weak lantern light, nodded a greeting. Mr. Worth helped her aboard and made room for them on a wooden bench. The engine hissed and groaned, and they clattered up the mountain.
Sophie shivered in the unheated train car, too stunned for conversation. For once, her reporter’s instincts and her curiosity had deserted her. She could think only of Ethan, of the deep hurt lodged in the very marrow of his bones, and her affection for him grew even stronger.
She folded her hands in her lap and stared out the window at the darkened landscape. As the train labored up the track, she caught glimpses of farmhouses, their windows aglow with lamplight, and an occasional sliver of moon riding the bare branches of the old oak trees. A wave of uneasiness moved through her. Assuming Julian Worth’s story was true, could she persuade Ethan to hear his brother out? Suppose Ethan got angry with her for coming with a man he clearly despised. Suppose he wouldn’t listen to her at all?
At last the train slowed and, with a screech and grinding of wheels, lurched to a stop. Mr. Worth rose and helped Sophie to her feet. “This won’t take long,” he said to the engineer as they left the car.
“I’ll be here.” The engineer pulled his hat lower
over his ears and blew on his knobby hands. “Got nowheres else to be.”
Mr. Worth took Sophie’s arm and they crossed the railway tracks. Skirting the horse barns, where a solitary lantern burned, they walked up a gravel path to the side lawn bordering the terrace and the garden.
“We’re in luck,” he said. “Ethan’s still at work. The lamps are burning in his—”
A gunshot cracked the air above their heads. Sophie yelped and threw up one hand. “What’s going on?”
“No idea. Stay here.”
He raced across the lawn, his leather pouch tucked tightly to his chest.
“Mr. Worth, wait!” Sophie clutched at her skirts. Keeping to the shadows, she hurried after him. She rounded the corner, spotted Ethan, and stopped short.
He stood in a circle of yellow light from the terrace lantern, his hands loose at his sides. His shirt was untucked, his cravat askew. In front of him stood Lutrell Crocker, so full of alcoholic spirits she could smell it from where she stood. The barrel of his gun wobbled in the lambent light.
Desperate to help Ethan, she looked toward the heavy doors leading to the ballroom. Surely someone—Mr. O’Brien, Mr. Blakely, or one of his staff—had heard the gunshot and would come to his aid. Where was Mr. Worth? She strained to catch a glimpse of him, but he seemed to have vanished.
Then everything happened at once. Mr. Worth emerged from the shadows, shouting Ethan’s name. Ethan’s head jerked, and he turned just as Crocker stumbled toward them and fired again. A bullet whined past her head, cracking a small tree branch that crashed into her shoulder as it fell. Sophie screamed and fell to her knees. Oh, dear God, please save him. Please don’t let him die.
Then Ethan was beside her, folding her into his warm, strong embrace, his lips in her hair, whispering her name. Over his shoulder she saw Julian Worth lying in a widening pool of blood, the crimson stain seeping into the cold stone terrace.