Courting Miss Adelaide

by Janet Dean

  “You’ve always been strong.”

  “I get my strength from God, from His word, from worshipping in His house. I can’t marry a man who won’t trust God and I won’t settle for a loveless marriage, even for a child.” Her voice broke. “E-even for Emma.” She squared her shoulders. “I won’t end up like my mother.”

  “I wouldn’t leave like your father did.” He took her hand. “If you’ll marry me, I’ll be committed to our marriage.”

  “I believe you. You’d stick by me. You’d fill a seat at the table, take care of the hundreds of details a husband would. And day by day I would die in tiny increments, waiting for the words that might never come.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  As if he didn’t know. “I want more than a commitment. I had that much with my mother.” She softened her voice. “I want your love, Charles. I’ve spent a lifetime without it. I know now what it’s like to feel it. And you…you still don’t understand how important love is.” She bit her lip, determined not to cry, and pushed him away. “Please—go.”

  He hesitated, took a step forward.

  “You don’t have to worry about me anymore.”

  He stood, looking bereft, but saying none of the things that would have changed her mind.

  She lifted a palm to his cheek, seeking one last touch. “You deserve a lot more than you think. One day, I hope you’ll believe that and find peace.”

  Her hand fell away. “You know the way out.”

  Addie deserved love and Charles didn’t have it to give. He left by the back stairs, too tired to move with any speed. Every muscle in his body ached, and his brain was numb with fatigue.

  But he still had enough presence of mind to go to The Ledger by an indirect route, in case some night owl would see him and spread the story, hurting Addie.

  As if he hadn’t hurt her enough. She’d asked only one thing of him—to love her.

  She had no idea what she asked.

  His mother had loved his father and look where that had gotten her—years of demeaning treatment and pain. He’d even loved his father once, always hoping Adam Graves would change, but he never did, and Charles’s love had withered and died. Replaced with fiery hot anger at his father and, yes, at himself, for being unable to handle the situation he called his family.

  Everyone he’d ever loved had hurt him or let him down, even Sam, getting himself killed in a barroom brawl. He believed Addie was different. But what if he didn’t have that kind of giving love in him? What if his capacity to love had been destroyed in the place he’d once called home?

  Charles entered The Ledger’s office. His steps, hesitant, unsure. He walked like an old man, probably from the beating he’d taken and given. The printing press sat silent, the energy gone from the room, along with the appeal of the place.

  In the back, he knelt before the safe and removed the bullets in the cylinder, then laid the gun and belt inside, shut the door and twirled the lock.

  He might have saved Addie from Drummond, but he’d let her down tonight. Just as the selection committee had let down the Grounds children.

  Well, there was one thing he could do for Addie, for Emma and William. Tonight. He headed out the door.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Within minutes Charles had dragged John Sparks and Thaddeus Paul from their beds. Morris Wylie lived too far out to get tonight, but if he needed to, in the morning Charles would be knocking on his door, too.

  Once he explained the evening’s events, the two men agreed to accompany him to Frances’s bedside.

  At Doc Lawrence’s they found William looking dazed, sitting in the outer office. Mary sat nearby, calm and competent as always, doing what she could to comfort the boy.

  Charles gave her a weak smile.

  Mary gasped. “What happened to you?”

  He looked at William. “I’ll tell you later.”

  Mary nodded, studying first Charles and then the somber faces of his companions.

  “How’s Frances?” Charles asked.

  “About the same. Daddy wrapped her ribs, set her arm and stitched her up.” Mary lowered her voice. “He’s not sure about her organs.”

  “Is she conscious?” Mr. Sparks asked.

  “Yes, amazingly, she is.” She looked at the boy and smiled. “I’ve been telling William, Frances is a strong woman.”

  Sparks and Paul went inside to see Frances. Charles lagged behind. He hoped Frances had the strength to tell the men what they needed to know. He couldn’t do anything in there. But maybe, like Addie once said, he could help the boy.

  Head down, William drooped in the chair, the slump of his shoulders telling Charles plenty. His hair and clothes were disheveled and stained, probably from Frances’s blood. Hands clasped tight in his lap, he didn’t look injured, at least not on the outside.

  Charles sat on his haunches and laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. William flinched. Charles should have known better than to touch him. “I’m Charles Graves, William, a friend of Emma and Miss Crum.”

  Frightened eyes turned to him and then darted away. William seemed to shrink into himself, trying to be invisible.

  Charles’s heart tumbled. He knew the signs. Charles removed his hand, giving the boy some distance. “I’ve been in a bit of a fight, but I’m fine. And Mr. Drummond is in jail.”

  William turned solemn eyes on him. “He is?”

  “Yes. And that’s where he’s staying.” Charles patted his stomach. “I’m starving. Are you hungry?”

  William shook his head.

  “How about some milk? I bet Doc even has a cookie or two.” Charles put out a hand. “Come on. Let’s raid the icebox.”

  William hesitated, his gaze sliding from Mary, to the closed surgery door and then to Charles. His gaze caught, held there and then he rose and stepped beside Charles.

  Mary blinked damp eyes. “I’ll check on Frances.”

  Charles and William walked down the hall to Doc’s kitchen. Dishes, glasses, half-full cups of cold coffee covered every surface. Addie would have a heyday in here. Nice to know another bachelor in town would fail Addie’s neatness test.

  Charles found two clean glasses in a cabinet and filled them with milk. Then pulled out a chair for William at the small drop-leaf table and sat beside him. For the second time today, Charles had no idea what to say.

  If only he could find the right words, the words he would have wanted, needed to hear as a boy. “I’m sorry about Mrs. Drummond. She’s a good woman.”

  Turning his glass in his boy-size hands, William nodded.

  “It took courage to get her to the doc’s.”

  William’s lips pressed in a tight line, but he kept his eyes averted. Still, Charles could see tears well up in pools, though not a single one dropped onto his tanned cheeks.

  Charles pushed his untouched glass aside and leaned his chin on his hands. “I know what it’s like, William.”

  The boy didn’t look at him, didn’t speak.

  “I know the fear, the anger. What it’s like to try to keep the peace…and fail.”

  “How?” he said softly, head down, spirit wounded.

  “I grew up in a home with a pa like Ed Drummond.”

  William’s head snapped up. Charles waited, letting the words connect them, seeing the moment the boy understood.

  “I remember how the hair on my neck would rise, how my gut would knot.” Charles swallowed against the old familiar lump in his throat. “How I wanted to run, but knew running would only make it worse. It was the same for you, wasn’t it?”

  Slowly, William nodded.

  Charles lifted William’s chin with a palm. “I want you to know something else.”

  The boy’s tear-filled eyes, the color of the sea on a cloudy day, met his.

  “It wasn’t your doing. None of it was your fault, William. You were never the reason for what was said or done. Never.”

  Charles said never again and again until a sob tore from William’s thr
oat. The tears spilled over now, slipping down William’s cheeks in little rivulets, leaving trails on his dirty face. As he wept, William’s breath came in gulping hitches.

  Charles rose and knelt before the boy, pausing only a second, and then pulled William tight to his chest. For a moment, William held himself stiff, his heart knocking against Charles’s torso, and then he burrowed into Charles’s arms.

  “I was afraid.”

  “I know. I know.” Charles clutched the boy and swayed to the rhythm of remembered pain that branded the mind and spirit.

  “I didn’t know how to make him stop,” William spoke into Charles’s shirt.

  Old feelings of inadequacy and helplessness roared through him. “Stopping Ed wasn’t a job for a boy. It was a man’s job.”

  “I…I always made him angry.”

  Ah, familiar words from his past. “Ed Drummond’s sick. Sick in the head and in the heart. Like my pa. His anger had nothing to do with what you did or didn’t do. It was him.” Charles shifted William in his arms and caught his gaze, then repeated, “It was him.”

  William’s gaze tumbled away from Charles. “I hate him.”

  “I know about hate.” All too well. Hate lived in him still, gnawing at him, dumping the past on his every today. As surely as he held William, hate held Charles in its clutches.

  Suddenly, he knew what else needed to be said to the boy, to himself, the boy he used to be. “When we can, you and I need to forgive. Hating eats us up inside, keeps us from trusting all the good people.” Good people like Addie.

  The harsh lines in William’s face eased, leaving his expression solemn, but perplexed.

  He ran his hand through the boy’s silky strands. “Forgiving won’t be easy.”

  Though Addie had told him he should, until that moment, Charles hadn’t truly comprehended the importance of forgiving. He had to forgive his mother for staying, and then his father for inflicting wounds that might have mended on the outside, but underneath festered still. Until he could forgive, he’d be stuck, unable to move beyond his past.

  And so would William.

  “What Ed did was wrong, bad,” Charles said, “You’ll never forget, but you can forgive him because he’s ill.” His words an echo of what Addie had tried to tell him about his own father.

  William swiped at his eyes. “Why’s he sick?”

  “That’s a tough one. I don’t know.” Would he ever know? Did it even matter?

  “Will I…will I be sick like him?”

  Charles remembered that first day at the schoolhouse, how William had taken Emma’s hand and comforted her. This very night, the boy had rescued Frances instead of running. Everyone started out in life with the capacity for good and evil. Some people, like William, served good, while others, like Ed Drummond, served evil.

  “No. You’re going to be your own man. You can choose what kind of man that will be.”

  As William clung to him, tears ran down Charles’s cheeks. Together they wept for two innocent boys, for William and for the boy Charles had once been. They’d both faced an enemy far bigger than them.

  “You’re a good boy,” Charles crooned, cradling William in his arms. “A good boy.”

  The words resonated in Charles’s head. He had been a good boy, no matter how much he’d heard otherwise. He and William had both done the best they could. And they both could choose a new future.

  Not only must he forgive his family, Charles knew he must make things right between him and God. Because he knew without a doubt God had saved him—then and now.

  Charles turned his gaze upward.

  God, I’m hoping You can forgive me for my anger at You, for questioning Your will.

  Forgive me for trying to kill my father, for holding on to bitterness, for not worshipping.

  Help me make a fresh start. A fresh start with You.

  The dark oppressive load slid from Charles’s shoulders and in its place came a long-awaited sense of peace. It filled him with surging hope, warm acceptance, calming certainty. And then, he knew without a doubt. He, Charles Graves, a man who didn’t deserve it—

  God loved, truly loved him.

  God had heard. God had answered. God had forgiven.

  Charles awakened to someone calling his name. He groaned. His entire body throbbed, his throat burned. Then it hit him.

  Last night before stumbling into the closest bed, the sagging cot at The Ledger, he’d battled Ed Drummond, proposed marriage to Addie and spoken with God.

  No ordinary evening.

  The rest struck him full force, like an uppercut to his aching jaw. Addie had turned down his proposal. Was it too late to make up for causing her nothing but pain?

  And if so, what would he do without her? No other woman measured up to Addie. The most amazing thing of all—she loved him.

  A spark of understanding exploded in him. His pulse tripped and his heart raced in his chest. With every speck of his being, he grasped the truth. He loved her, too.

  I’m in love with Addie.

  “Charles?”

  Clutching his ribs, Charles rose with a groan from the cot and staggered to the door. Roscoe Sullivan took one look at him and blanched. “Charles? You okay?”

  “Yeah.” Charles crumpled into his desk chair and sucked in his breath. That hurt. Everything hurt, as if he’d been run over by a wagon and three teams of horses. “What time is it?”

  “Almost nine-thirty.”

  Addie would be awake, getting ready for church. He’d get cleaned up, then make amends. He started to rise. “I’m sorry I can’t talk now, Roscoe.”

  “Wait!” His gaze took in Charles’s face, the bruises on his neck. “Ed did that. Those are his fingerprints.”

  All the fear and anger Charles had stowed during Addie’s narrow escape slammed into his lungs. “Yes. Your nephew broke into Addie’s home and tried to kill her.”

  “I know.” Roscoe dropped into a chair, his head drooping between his shoulders. His face looked haggard, as if he’d aged ten years. “Is Miss Crum all right?”

  Charles pulled back from his anger, realizing Roscoe had also suffered. “Yes, just shook up. Ed splashed kerosene all over the shop. He planned to set it on fire after he’d…” Charles couldn’t finish, couldn’t bear to consider what would’ve happened if he hadn’t gotten back.

  “Thank God she wasn’t harmed. I should have seen…what Ed had become. I should have known Frances couldn’t be that clumsy.” Roscoe’s voice quavered and his eyes filled with tears. He swiped them away with the back of his hand and took a shaky breath. “I’ve been over at Doc’s. Frances made it through the night, but she’s got a lot of healing to do.”

  “I hope she makes it.” Frances had shown a passel of courage and, thanks to her husband, had endured more pain than a human being should. “I can imagine how tough this is for you, Roscoe. I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. If only I’d listened to you, somehow I could have stopped this madness.” A faraway look came into Roscoe’s eyes. His lip trembled. “Ed was the cutest little tyke. I used to take him fishing. We’d sit on the bank along White River and he’d chatter like a magpie. I’d say, ‘Little less talking and a little more fishing, boy.’” As he spoke, Roscoe mopped at his tears with his bandanna. “Eddie’s death must’ve made him snap.”

  Roscoe stuffed his handkerchief into his pocket. “I came to tell you something else. Frances asked the committee to give custody of William and Emma to Miss Crum. The committee agreed.” He gave a wan smile. “Those poor kids have been through enough. Staying with Miss Crum will give them stability. I figured you’d like to tell her.”

  Charles could well imagine the look of pure joy the news would put on Addie’s face. Soon as he could get Roscoe out of here, he intended to put another look of joy on her face. That is, if she’d have him.

  “I’ll try to undo the damage I did to the paper and her reputation.” Roscoe hauled himself to his feet. “I’m headed over to the jail
to see Ed. I despise what he’s done, but I’m all he has.”

  Charles walked Roscoe to the door. He clamped a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.” The words sounded hollow, but he couldn’t find better ones.

  Roscoe left and Charles’s gaze swept over the printing press, the narrow drawers of type and reams of newsprint. Because of his father, he’d come to this town, fulfilled his dream of ownership. How strange Adam Graves had done that for him after all those years of misery.

  Stranger still, by making Addie a co-owner of the paper, Adam had put Charles and Addie together. Addie had been right. His father had reached out to him from the grave. And this time he had thought of someone besides himself.

  Charles checked the clock. Nine forty-five. If he hoped to win Addie, he’d have to make sure she didn’t doubt his love. She might even make him eat a little crow. He grinned. If so, he deserved a huge helping. And he knew just where he’d find her this bright Sunday morning.

  He hadn’t shaved, had fought and slept in his rumpled clothes, but he had to do this. Now.

  He half ran, half stumbled the three blocks down Ninth Street and skidded to a stop outside the First Christian Church. Worshippers, shocked looks on their faces, parted like the Red Sea to let him pass. Snatches of conversation told him people had heard about last night.

  A man Charles didn’t know but recognized clapped him on the back. Another hollered, “Good work, Graves!” A third shook his hand. “I’ll be taking the paper again, especially if you keep Miss Crum’s column.”

  But he paid no attention. Instead he searched the crowd. Then, he spotted her at the top of the steps, talking to the pastor. Addie. A vision in a blue dress and hat—no birds on this one, he thought with a chuckle, just a simple rose festooned ribbon encircling the crown. Hands resting on Emma’s and William’s shoulders, her face radiated serenity. His heart lurched in his chest.

  “Mr. Graves!” Emma yelled, catching sight of him.

  He waved at her, searching for another welcome.