Barnabas reined in the team and set the brake. “Edward Cooksey, I presume?”
The photographer finished adjusting his equipment, then turned, a smile stretching his bushy mustache across his upper lip. “Yes, sir.” He strode toward the carriage. “And you must be Mr. Ackerly. A pleasure.” He gave Barnabas’s hand a firm shake. “I hope you don’t mind me setting up early. The cloud cover that recently rolled in makes the lighting ideal. No glare off the windows or undesirable shadows. I wanted to start taking photographs before the conditions changed. One never knows what the weather will do in Texas.”
“True enough.” Barnabas twisted on the seat and gestured to Phoebe. “This is Miss Woodward, owner of the Kissing Tree Inn.”
Mr. Cooksey tipped his hat. “Honor to meet you, ma’am.”
Phoebe dipped her chin. “We appreciate you taking time out of your schedule to make these photographs for us, Mr. Cooksey.”
Had she just said we? And us?
Don’t panic. You and Barnabas have been working together on this project. We isn’t too big a slip. Even if the we she’d accidentally implied had expanded their current temporary partnership into a more permanent personal version. At least in her mind.
“That’s one of the things I like best about the photography business, ma’am. The chance to get out of the studio and see new places.” He turned back to the inn and waved his hand toward it. “I’ll take a photograph of the front of the inn where the sign is visible, as you requested, but I also think an image should be made with that magnificent tree at the heart. The inn will be partially out of frame, but the result will make for a more compelling shot. People have seen quaint inns before. What they haven’t seen is a tree like that.”
Phoebe smiled. “I see why you came so highly recommended, Mr. Cooksey. You have the eye of an artist and the mind of a merchant.”
“You’re too kind, miss.” He gave a small bow, then met her gaze, his eyes glowing with respect as he turned his full attention to her as the owner instead of defaulting to Barnabas as the nearest man. “My business relies on the satisfaction of my clients. It is my job to find the best possible image and capture it for your use. Before the day is out, I’ll present you with at least four high-quality photographs to choose from. If none of them are to your liking, you are under no obligation to purchase.”
“I have a feeling that finding a suitable photograph will not be a problem. Selecting only one will present the true challenge.”
Mr. Cooksey tipped his hat again. “I will endeavor to perform up to your high expectations, Miss Woodward. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get to work. If you and Mr. Ackerly would be so kind as to remain out of frame over here until I signal?”
“Of course.” She smiled at the photographer as he hurried back to his camera, only then catching a strange look in Barnabas’s eye. One that looked decidedly grumpy. Perhaps even . . . jealous?
Because she’d been exchanging professional courtesies with the photographer they’d hired?
Or because she’d been smiling and complimenting a man—someone an ill-informed suitor might consider a rival? An artistic type who surely understood romance and emotional renderings better than a stodgy man of practicality?
Phoebe turned her smile on Barnabas, then scooted closer to him on the bench. She’d developed a definite fondness for stodgy practicality of late, and no artistic fellow, or gossipy busybody, would change her mind—or heart—on the matter.
“You did it again, Barnabas.”
A furrow creased his brow. “Did what?”
“Brought the inn exactly what it needed. I hate to think what the Kissing Tree Inn would be without your influence.” What I would be without you in my life. “I needed you more than I ever imagined.” And not just for the inn.
Embarrassed to have said more than she intended, she pulled away from him and set about disembarking from the carriage. Barnabas hurried around to assist her, reaching her just in time to fit his hands to her waist as she set her shoe on the step. He lifted her down, his hands strong and secure about her, his gaze searching. Her feet touched the ground, but she paid the earth little mind. How could she, when her heart was taking flight?
“All right!” Mr. Cooksey called from behind his camera. “Nobody breathe!”
An easy order to obey, seeing as how Barnabas had stolen all the air from her lungs.
The photographer’s voice broke the spell, however. Barnabas dropped his hands from her waist and took a step back, creating a proper distance between them. A distance she no longer wanted, even if it was necessary.
The photographer removed the cap from the lens, waited several heartbeats, then replaced it. “Done!”
For the next twenty minutes, Phoebe and Barnabas watched the photographer position and reposition his camera in search of the perfect angle. No words passed between them. Sidelong looks were another matter, however. By the time Mr. Cooksey finally moved to the Kissing Tree, Phoebe was fairly certain her heart rhythm had been permanently disrupted by all the erratic dips and surges thrust upon it from the silent, charged atmosphere encircling her and Barnabas.
Mr. Cooksey carried on, completely oblivious to the undercurrents afflicting his clients. He made his first photograph of the tree but grew agitated over something as he searched for the perfect final shot.
He came out from under the canvas flap at the back of the camera and waved his hands about in frustration. “No, no, no. This just isn’t right. It doesn’t say Kissing Tree.” He paced around the yard, mumbling to himself, before glancing up and spying Phoebe and Barnabas looking on. All at once his face cleared. “Yes. That’s it. Come.” He gestured toward them, his movement growing more frantic and urgent by the second. “Come! Hurry! Before the lighting changes.”
Phoebe looked at Barnabas, who did little more than shrug before responding to the call. Mr. Cooksey met them before they’d made it halfway across the yard and circled around behind them, pushing on their backs like they were children who were late for dinner.
“What are you . . . ?” she sputtered.
“This is a romantic retreat, is it not?” the photographer asked while continuing to usher them forward.
“Yes, but—”
“Then we need a romantic image to capture its essence. Without kissing, this is just a tree.”
“What?” This from Barnabas, who finally decided to balk.
Mr. Cooksey waved their concerns away with an impatient hand. “Don’t worry. You’ll be in silhouette. No one will recognize your faces. Think of it as treading the theatrical boards. Just a bit of playacting. That’s all.”
Without pause, he placed Barnabas and Phoebe precisely where he wanted them, arranging her hand on Barnabas’s shoulder, his hand at her waist, scooting them closer together until almost nothing separated them. With a frown, the photographer snatched the spectacles from her face, leaving Phoebe blinking and blushing.
Barnabas’s hand squeezed her waist. “For the inn,” he whispered.
Her eyes met his. Her nerves quieted a bit at his calm demeanor. If he could endure this embarrassment with dignity, so could she. “For the inn.”
Mr. Cooksey stomped off to his camera and ducked beneath the flap. An instant later he popped back out. “You’re too stiff,” he called, thankfully without marching forward to try to fix the problem himself. “Pretend you actually care for each other. Look into her eyes, Ackerly. Hold her as if she’s the one true love of your life.”
“She is.” Barnabas’s murmured words nearly buckled her knees.
Phoebe’s eyes found his, thankful he was close enough to be in perfect focus. “Barnabas?”
“I love you, Phoebe.” His hand slid up from her waist to her back, pressing her even closer to his chest. His other hand settled at her cheek, his fingers delving into the hair at her nape. “So much.”
He tilted her face up toward his. Her gaze fell to his mouth.
“Yes, that’s it. Hold it right there!”<
br />
But she didn’t want to hold it right there. She wanted to kiss him. To pledge her love in return. To hold him and never let him go.
She did none of that, however. Not until Mr. Cooksey gave the all-clear signal. As soon as he did, she lifted up on her toes, intent on claiming the kiss she craved, but Barnabas’s hand fell away from her face, and he set her away from him.
Disappointment stabbed her heart, dimmed only slightly by the regret she saw in his eyes.
“Did you get what you needed?” Barnabas called, striding away from her.
“Yes, indeed. I’ll just require some time in a dark room to get the images developed. Your cook mentioned a large pantry that might prove suitable.”
“I’ll show you the way,” Barnabas said.
He never looked back. Just focused on the photographer and left her standing beneath the tree. Alone.
Phoebe pressed a hand to her stomach, surprised at how much it suddenly ached.
For the inn. That was what he’d said. For the inn.
He needed the inn to be successful for his career. He’d admitted as much to her. He said her father had given him no choice about taking on her project. Was that why he’d said what he had? To seduce her into creating a romantic image suitable for promotion? Had it just been playacting? Nothing more?
Stumbling deeper beneath the branches of her beloved tree in a less-than-graceful manner—Mr. Cooksey still had her glasses—she made her way to the branch where her parents’ initials were carved. Uncaring what it looked like for a grown woman to scramble across limbs like a hoyden, she hiked up her skirts and straddled the branch where it dipped close to the ground, then scooted her way to where her father’s carving lay. Wrapping her arms around the branch, she lay flat against the bark as she had as a young girl and let the tears fall.
Her head insisted that Barnabas was too honorable to say love words without meaning them, that he could have teased her into relaxing, had that been his true purpose. His apparent coldness after the fact was simply a measure to protect her reputation. With Esmerelda Clovis priming the pump, townsfolk would be all too eager to believe a traveling photographer’s tales of how a pretend kissing pose had turned all too real.
Yet even with that solid logic to lean on, her heart wavered. Other potential suitors had viewed her as a rung on their career ladders. Maybe Barnabas did too. After all, she was no catch. A spinster past her prime, possessing an odd temperament and an atrocious sense of style. Peculiar. That was what the school children had called her in their taunting singsong voices. And it had been true. She was peculiar. Always had been. Always would be.
She closed her eyes and squeezed the limb tighter. “Mama. I wish you were here.”
To hold her. To comb her hair with her fingers and assure her that everything would be all right. To impart words of wisdom that would help Phoebe determine truth from fiction.
But Mama wasn’t here. To comfort. To advise. To hold her while she cried.
Phoebe’s eyes cracked open. But there was another. One who offered all she sought and more. She released her grip on the branch and slowly pushed up into a sitting position, her gaze lifting to peer past the canopy of leaves into the cloudy sky above.
I need your help, her spirit whispered to the God who could see into the hearts of men—into her heart, into Barnabas’s heart. The God who could fathom all mysteries. Show me what is true. Please. I don’t know where to go from here.
ten
He should have kissed her. Barnabas’s gut clenched as he silently backed away from the tree after searching Phoebe out when she didn’t return to the inn. He’d hurt her. The way she clung to her parents’ branch like a child seeking comfort shouted that truth so loudly that it deafened him to everything but self-recrimination.
He should have kissed her. Heaven knew he’d wanted to. He still wanted to. He wanted to walk up to that tree branch, take her into his arms, and kiss her until she forgave him for being the least romantic man on the planet.
Only an emotionally stunted man would tell a woman he loved her and then immediately give her reason to doubt his declaration by acting as if he couldn’t get away from her embrace fast enough. Yes, he’d been thinking of her reputation, but he should have handled that better. Much better.
Afraid to make things worse by interrupting Phoebe when she obviously wished to be alone, Barnabas crept back to the inn.
Some magician he was. Instead of inducing Phoebe to fall under his spell, he’d made her disappear.
Barnabas kicked at the gravel in the newly installed path that led from the tree to the inn’s back porch. He had to make this right. To convince her of the truth of his affection. Perhaps some kind of grand gesture. Something he couldn’t mess up with ill-timed words.
The drawing!
His chin lifted at the thought. Yes. The drawing. He’d intended to give it to her tonight anyway. He’d just retrieve it earlier than planned. Perhaps he could even make it back before she returned from the tree.
“Mrs. Roberts?”
He burst through the back door with such force, the cook gasped and spun away from the stove with a wooden spoon poised in sword-like readiness.
Upon recognizing him, she lowered her weapon and pressed a hand to her chest. “Land sakes, but you gave me a fright.”
“Sorry.” He didn’t have time for a longer apology. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m running back to town. I need to grab something from my room, but I’ll be back to help Phoebe with the photographs.”
Mrs. Roberts eyed him suspiciously. “Don’t take too long. That camera fellow has them pictures hangin’ up like clean laundry on a line in my pantry. He said they’d be dry soon.” She stepped closer and lowered her voice. “Did you find Miss Phoebe? Is she all right? It ain’t like her to run off for no reason.”
Unfortunately, she had a reason. Him. A situation he aimed to rectify as soon as possible. “She’s spending some time at the tree,” he said as he straightened his hat. “If she returns before I do, let her know I’ll be back shortly.”
Before the cook could do more than nod, he was off. He commandeered the carriage and dropped it off at the wagonyard where he’d contracted storage space for it, then hustled the few blocks to the Woodward home and the small guesthouse at the back where he’d been staying.
Barnabas retrieved the framed drawing from under his bed, glad he’d had the forethought to wrap it in brown paper a week ago. He blew away the thin layer of dust that had accumulated on top of the package, then stripped out of his wrinkled coat. A man should look his best when trying to convince a woman of the sincerity of his love.
He eyed himself in the dresser mirror, picked up his comb, then halted, arm in midair. Frowning at his reflection, he dropped the comb and ruffled his hair with a vengeance. No more veneer. His desire to preserve appearances was what got him into this mess. Baring one’s soul demanded vulnerability. So he’d leave his armor behind. No suit coat, no combed hair. He wouldn’t even take his hat.
Feeling exceptionally daring in his bare head and shirtsleeves, Barnabas tucked Phoebe’s gift under his arm and marched out the guesthouse door.
And nearly plowed into his boss.
Hollis Woodward had come home early.
Hollis raised a brow as his gaze raked his employee from head to toe. Barnabas’s fingers itched to straighten his hair, but he resisted the impulse and simply lifted his chin.
“Mr. Woodward.”
“Ackerly. You look . . . changed.”
“I am changed, sir. Thanks to your daughter.” Heart pounding, Barnabas faced his mentor with respect and a touch of defiance. “Phoebe’s a remarkable woman.”
Hollis crossed his arms and widened his stance like a warrior ensuring his footing before battle. “That she is.” His frown darkened. “It’s about time you noticed.”
Barnabas faltered. What?
Hollis stalked forward one step. Then another. Until his face loomed mere inches
in front of Barnabas. “The question now is . . . what are you going to do about it?”
Was he implying what Barnabas thought he was implying?
“I, ah, planned to speak with you tomorrow about that, sir.”
“I’m sure you did.” Hollis grinned. Not a comforting sort of grin. More the type reserved for cats playing with trapped mice. “But since we’re both here, why don’t you speak with me about it now?”
It wasn’t a question.
Barnabas swallowed. He’d hoped to have time to compose his thoughts. Create a list of the benefits he could offer as Phoebe’s husband. Figure out whether or not he should try to keep his job with Woodward Land Development or offer his resignation. Which would be more compelling to a man of Hollis Woodward’s stature? Barnabas needed a way to provide for a wife, after all. And he didn’t want his future father-in-law to think he was trying to take advantage of Phoebe by assuming he’d step in as inn manager. Phoebe was more than capable of handling that on her own. So what should he—
“Quit thinkin’ it to death, son. Just speak from your heart.”
That comment severed Barnabas’s thoughts with the skill of a master swordsman. Nothing remained but raw truth.
“I’m in love with her, sir.” Barnabas met his mentor’s gaze, unsure of what he’d find there. “I haven’t quite figured out what that means for my job with Woodward Land Development, but I know I don’t want to live the rest of my life without her by my side. There are men with better pedigrees than mine. With more to offer when it comes to wealth and security. But I assure you, there is no man alive who loves her the way I do, who will work his fingers to the bone to provide for her should hardship arise, who will put her needs above his own, work by her side, respect her, honor her, and cherish her above all other women. If you see fit to give your blessing, I intend to ask Phoebe to become my wife.”
A grin split Hollis’s face before he tipped his head up toward the sky. “You hear that, Laurel? The boy’s finally come to his senses.” He slapped Barnabas on the back. “I’d nearly given up on you, Ackerly. I’ve known for ages that you and Phoebe were perfect for each other. You’ve always gravitated toward each other at social events despite being complete opposites in temperament. My Laurel and I were the same way. From two different worlds, yet made for each other.”
The Kissing Tree Page 15