“I believe I understand,” she said carefully. “As somebody whose heart and entire life’s work was recently pillaged unmercifully, I know how much it can hurt.”
Tom winced as if she’d struck him. “I’m sorry, Claire. I’ll never do such a thing again.” He looked at her closely. “Claire, I didn’t know your background. It never occurred to me that you might have been trying to overcome problems in your own past. If I’d known, I might have felt less betrayed.”
She stiffened, and he hurried on, “I did feel betrayed, Claire. I had taken you into my life, and when you didn’t trust me enough to tell me about those books—and even let me continue believing my uncle had written them—it was like a slap in the face when I learned the truth. I know it was wrong of me to jump to conclusions, but if I’d known Uncle Gordon didn’t write those books, I’d have felt more kindly toward him.”
This time Claire winced.
“I didn’t know then about your father.”
Claire dropped her gaze. “No, of course you didn’t, because I didn’t tell you. I understand. I—I’m sorry, Tom.”
Thank God! She was back to calling him Tom. His heart soared, although he knew it was too soon to celebrate. “Can you tell me about it, Claire?” he asked softly.
She hesitated for a moment, then sighed deeply. “I take it you know by now that I grew up in a medicine show. What you may not yet understand is that my father is a gambler and a confidence man and a terrible, cheating, awful, miserable, thieving scoundrel.”
She paused and Tom squeezed her hand for encouragement. “It was bad enough when I was little. In almost every town we passed through, the other children laughed at me and made fun of me. When I grew up, it was even worse because he made me dress up in lewd, hateful costumes and made entice unsuspecting men into his trap.”
Tom’s heart gave a sudden twist.
Claire’s composure began to crumble. “He never even let me wear my spectacles!”
Tom was stunned. He didn’t know what to say. Memories of Claire pleading with him not to think of her as a strumpet washed over him, and he could only be ashamed of himself for not offering her marriage in the first place. Good God. His childhood problems were nothing compared to Claire’s. And he’d undoubtedly done exactly the wrong thing in making her his mistress.
“The medicine show—cheating and conniving and running from the law—that was the only life I ever knew as a child, and I hated it. When I was seventeen, I ran away from my father and applied for a position at Partington Place. Mr. Partington took me in, even though I didn’t know a thing about housekeeping. He was so good to me, and he taught me how act like a lady and be proper and gracious—and to have friends. I made friends there for the first time in my life. I’ve tried so hard to live up to his expectations of me. I’ve tried so hard!”
His heart hurting for the girl Claire had been and the woman she’d become, Tom said feelingly, “Believe me, Claire. In a million years, I wouldn’t have guessed your background. Nobody would. I even asked Jedediah Silver, and he didn’t know. He said you just showed up at Partington Place one day and he never did know anything about you except that you were very genteel and took better care of the Place and my uncle Gordon than anybody else ever could have done.”
“Truly? He really said that?”
Tom could plainly see how Claire valued Jedediah’s opinion. “Yes, Claire. He really said that. And he was right.” Taking a deep breath and a daring chance, he said, “Will you marry me, Claire? Will you marry me and make me the happiest man in the world?”
Claire hesitated for so long, Tom’s heart began to shrivel in his chest. He was sure she was going to refuse him, even though he knew she loved him. Used to love him. Until he’d gotten mad at her.
He was on the verge of begging—and continuing to do so until he wore down her defenses—when her tiny, “Yes,” kissed his ears.
“Yes?” He sucked in a ragged breath.
After a much shorter pause, Claire said more firmly, “Yes.”
Relief crashed through Tom with monumental force. She’d said yes!
“You mean it, Claire?” he whispered.
She peered at him so searchingly, it was difficult for him to hold her gaze, but he did it and was proud.
“Yes.”
Fearing to take anything for granted at this point, he asked carefully, “Then, may I kiss you, Claire?”
She ducked her head shyly and whispered another tiny, decorous, “Yes.”
When Tom swept her into his arms and crushed his lips to hers, both of them were startled by the tremendous cheer that sailed out from the door of the coffee room. Embarrassed, with Claire blushing furiously in his arms, Tom turned to discover everybody who had ridden in the Wells Fargo stagecoach with Claire, including Mrs. Finchley, applauding. Several beaver hats flew into the air, Mrs. Finchley waved her handkerchief, and the bearded gentleman stomped his feet in approval.
The cherub-faced minister was the first to approach them. He strode toward Tom and Claire with his hands outstretched.
“May I offer you my heartiest felicitations as well as my services, sir and madam? I am an ordained minister of the Southern Methodist-Episcopal persuasion, and I would be more than happy to perform the nuptial ceremony, should you desire to take care of the matter immediately.”
Tom and Claire exchanged a glance. Tom cocked his brow. Claire smiled. Then they both stood, hands entwined.
“We’d be happy if you were to perform the rites, Mister—Mister—” Tom felt foolish when he realized they didn’t even know the man’s name.
“Montenegro, sir. My name is Cyrus Montenegro.”
The bride and groom laughed until tears ran down their cheeks.
# # #
By three o’clock that morning, Claire had become Mrs. Thomas Gordon Partington. She had no bridal bouquet, no veil, no wedding gown, no bridesmaids, no three-tiered cake. What she had was a jovial minister, a supportive group of near-strangers who stood witness, a man she loved almost beyond endurance, and a happiness in her soul so great she was afraid she’d burst with it.
Tom had behaved like a perfect dithering bridegroom, too. He’d spread money around like salt, fumbled his lines, blushed scarlet, and even wept at one point. Claire thought his conduct was so sweet she could hardly stand it. Then he’d invited all their impromptu wedding guests to a celebration of their nuptials at Partington Place and took all of their names and addresses so they could be sent invitations when the event was organized.
After that, he booked them a suite at the Marysville Golden Fortune Hotel and sent two telegrams, one to Partington Place. The other, he told Claire, was a secret.
She batted her eyelashes in mock dismay. “But, Tom, how do I know you’re not sending a wire to another woman?”
“You’ll just have to trust me, Claire,” he told her with a wink as he yanked off his vest and opened his arms wide. “Come here.”
With her cheeks warming and her heart full, Claire went to him.
“I love you, Claire,” Tom said when he wrapped her in his arms. “I love you and I won’t let you leave me again.”
“I’ll never leave you, Tom.”
“I was so scared, Claire.”
She knew he was telling her the truth, because she heard his voice catch and felt his heart thunder in his chest. She thought about apologizing, but decided an apology would be poor strategy.
She, who had never thought about strategy in her entire life, had learned something very important today. She didn’t have to stand for anybody treating her poorly, not even the man she loved above all others. It was a valuable lesson, and one she planned to keep at the forefront of her mind at all times.
When Tom kissed her, however, she decided there were occasions when her newly perceived lesson could be relegated to the background. She kissed him back with all the enthusiasm in her heart.
There was something incredibly sweet about making love to her husband, Claire discovered that n
ight. She felt a freedom to express herself in passion that she hadn’t felt when she’d believed herself to be participating in something immoral. When Tom drove her to rapture, she surrendered to her climax with wild abandon, sending Tom over the edge in an instant.
For a long time, they lay in each other’s arms, neither speaking. After a while, Tom admitted, “It’s never been so good, Claire.”
“Mmmmm.”
Another several silent minutes ticked by before he said softly, “I’m sorry I didn’t ask you to marry me weeks ago, Claire. It wasn’t very noble of me to ask you to share my bed and not my name.”
She snuggled up against him, glorying in the feel and scent of him and their recent love-making. “I understand how you felt about marriage, Tom. If I’d grown up as you did, with your mother and father, I’d probably have felt the same way.”
He hugged her tightly. “That’s kind of you, Claire, but I was selfish. It never even occurred to me that in making myself comfortable I might have been wounding you.”
Acknowledging the truth of Tom’s confession silently, Claire smiled. Rather than rubbing his nose in his transgressions, she graciously—and honestly—murmured, “You had no way of knowing, Tom. I didn’t tell you about my past because I was ashamed of it.”
“You have nothing to be ashamed of, darling.”
He squeezed her again, and Claire sighed in ecstasy.
With a chuckle, Tom said, “And someday, I’d be curious to hear some stories about your life in the medicine show, too. After all, I’ve told you about life on the prairie.”
“Never!” Claire shuddered. “I’d love to hear about how you first discovered Appaloosas, though.
So Tom talked about horses on his wedding night, and gradually drifted into stories about his youth. Claire listened avidly. She didn’t realize how clever he was at drawing her out of her shell until she discovered herself, safe in his embrace, actually telling him a tale from her own childhood
In spite of her recent resolve never to speak of her early life, as she lay in the arms of her husband with the late winter sunshine beginning to creep over the windowsill and splash onto the hotel carpet, episodes she hadn’t spoken of for years began to spill from her lips. With Tom chuckling in real amusement beside her, the stories didn’t sound merely sordid. Thanks to the softening effects of time and love, even Claire managed to find humor in some of them.
She was giggling so hard, in fact, when she recounted the tale of Claude Montague and the Widow Casey’s errant pillowslip that she nearly fell out of bed.
Catching her and pulling her back to his side, Tom said, “You mean to tell me she actually paid him to give her back her own pillowcase?” He had to wipe his eyes on the sheet because he was laughing so hard.
After she caught her breath, Claire said, “Yes. And I felt sorry for the poor woman because nobody in the world would ever believe that she and my father had done anything indiscreet. Why, she must have weighed more than two hundred pounds, Tom! In those days, she would have outweighed him! And Father never favored plump women, you know.
“The poor thing was quivering with trepidation, though, worried that her neighbors might get the wrong idea. And all because the wind had blown her laundry into our camp and my father was mad at her for having had us driven out of town. My father is—was—such a convincing old sinner, he could have corrupted the pope.”
“I believe it,” murmured her husband.
“You know,” she confided, “I used to hate it when he bribed people like that. But Mrs. Casey was so mean to us, I didn’t mind that time, even if I did feel a tiny bit sorry for her.”
“She actually had you driven out of town?”
“Yes. And she wouldn’t let her granddaughter play with me.” Claire winced when a spurt of pain clutched her heart even after all these years. To counteract it, she said lightly, “She was a nasty old biddy. She and my father deserved each other.”
“Oh, Claire. I promise I’ll make it all up to you.” Tom hugged her hard, driving the pain right out of her and replacing it with love. “What a life you’ve lived. What a life we’ve both lived, for that matter.”
“Yes indeed, Tom. But yours has been elevating. Mine was only illegal half the time. Not to mention uncomfortable.”
“Well, you’ll never be uncomfortable again if I can help it, Claire,” Tom vowed, punctuating his declaration with tiny kisses.
“I love you, Tom.”
They proceeded to show one another how very much they meant their words until, sated, they fell into slumber.
Chapter 21
They slept until shortly after noon. After dragging themselves out of bed and consuming a hearty wedding breakfast, Tom rented a carriage to drive them back to Pyrite Springs. Claire bade Mrs. Finchley a tearful farewell and promised to send her a copy of Tuscaloosa Tom and the River of Raging Death as soon as she got home.
“I’ll see you at your reception, dear,” Mrs. Finchley sang out as the carriage pulled away. She waved her hankie furiously.
“Oh, Yes! And I’ll be sure you get a copy of the last book in the series, too, when it’s published,” Claire called out of the carriage window.
Patting her foolish tears away, she settled back into the carriage seat and found Tom gazing at her, an uncertain expression on his face. She knew why.
“There’s only one more book left in my contract, Tom, and I plan to finish it. I won’t break my contract.”
“No. Of course not.” He sighed, though.
“It’s the last Tuscaloosa Tom book I’ll ever write. I promise.”
He grinned. “I know.”
Claire wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but she let it pass this time. If he tried to prevent her from writing books in the future, however, he’d get an earful. She might have agreed to marry him, but she’d be boiled in oil if she’d give up her writing career. She’d learned her worth, and would never forget it again.
The rest of their trip back home was spent in deciding what to do about their respective parental problems. They batted ideas back and forth, ultimately settling upon a valid scheme for taking care of Tom’s mother and father.
“I truly believe that you can’t forsake them, Tom,” Claire told him. “I know you’re worried—for good reason—about their being unable to handle finances themselves, but if you were to hire a supervisor whom you trust, I’m sure that will mitigate the problem.”
“I suppose so.”
He didn’t sound entirely satisfied. Claire understood. “You know, darling, you simply can’t hold yourself responsible for their instability. All you can do is set up an income for them. If they can’t manage, even with somebody overseeing their needs, there’s not much you can do about it.”
“I know. It just drives me crazy to watch them fritter their resources away.”
Peering at her gloved hands, Claire said gently, “If you give somebody something, it belongs to that person. If he or she chooses to fritter it away, I suppose that choice is his or hers to make.”
When she glanced up, it was to find her husband staring at her as if she’d just spouted an eleventh Commandment. After a moment, he said, “You’re right. By God, you’re right.” Then he grinned. “You’re right, Claire! They’re not my fault!”
She shook her head and smiled. She loved him so much. And it was just like him to take on the cares of the world—or even those of his parents—and to consider himself at fault if the world—or his parents—decided to go to the devil in spite of him.
“And as for my own dear father,” Claire said, her smile fading, “I suggest you do absolutely nothing. He deserves nothing.”
“I don’t mind providing a small income for him, Claire. Truly I don’t.”
She scowled. “Well, if I knew he’d use it for something besides gambling and drinking, perhaps I wouldn’t mind. I don’t trust him, though.”
“Remember what you just told me? About giving something away and it’s not being yours any longer?”
Vexed at having her philosophical words flung back at her, Claire muttered, “Touché.”
“It would make me feel better to know we’re at least giving both our parents a chance. If they waste it, that’s their choice.”
Claire actually glared at her beloved husband for a full minute until he chuckled, she realized she was being inconsistent, and finally relented. “Oh, all right, Tom. But I think you’re being much too kind to a beastly old man.”
“Well . . .” Tom hesitated, obviously unsure how his spirited spouse would take what he wanted to say. Then he seemed consciously to fling caution to the wind. “Actually, I found him to be an amusing old scoundrel that night in the saloon. He’s got a million stories, and he’s quite a raconteur. I know he treated you badly, and I don’t blame you for not forgiving him for it, but some people aren’t cut out to be parents, I reckon. It’s a shame your mother had to die so young.”
A hot retort leapt to Claire’s lips, but it cooled before she could scald Tom with it. He was right. Blast it, he was right.
Her father was about the most entertaining man she’d ever met in her life. In black moments given to deriding her talents as a dime novelist and wishing she were able to pen great, boring literature of the type Sylvester Addison-Addison wrote, she even owned—to herself—that she had inherited her story-telling skill from Claude Montague.
She didn’t like knowing it. Her innate honesty made her admit, rather sourly, “Oh, all right.” She sat and sulked for another five minutes before she sat up and said, “But he’d better not settle in Pyrite Springs! I’ll die if he does that.”
Laughing, Tom reached for her hand. “My dear, if that’s what will happen if he moves to town, I’ll make sure he doesn’t. I don’t think he’s very fond of Pyrite Springs, though. When we chatted that evening—what I remember of it—I got the distinct impression he considered our little town too small an arena for his large talents.”
Claire said, “Humph.”
Secret Hearts Page 31