by Lily Cahill
“An inspiration?”
“Yes. It occurred to me today while I was staring out my window at work. I noticed there’s an empty shop across the square.”
“Oh?”
He had to present it to her delicately. It would be difficult to convince her regardless, but doubly so if he didn’t select his words with the utmost care.
“And it made me realize there’s a void in this town. We have the general store and the butcher. The Belvins do dairy deliveries, but we’re still missing something.”
“What?”
“A bakery. You should open a bakery, Cora.”
She shifted away from him, looked up at him like he was crazy, but didn’t say a word.
“Just hear me out. That shop’s been empty for as long as I can remember. Mr. McPherson owns that building. He’s been looking for a tenant for years, but every business who’s considered it has either been too large for the space or so small they couldn’t justify the rent.”
“Clayton—” She drew further away and tucked her knees close to her chest so she wasn’t touching him at all anymore.
“I know I could negotiate a good deal with him. Any sum would be better than it standing empty, right? As it is, he has to pay someone just to keep it clean so it doesn’t devalue the other shops in the building.”
She frowned. He could see that he was losing her, but he kept on.
“Don’t you want to know the best part?”
“All right,” she said.
“The best part,” he continued, “is that there’s an apartment above the shop that’s part of the lease. It’s not much, just two bedrooms and a single bathroom, but there would be enough room there for both you and your sister.”
“Oh, Clayton,” she said. But her eyes looked so defeated now. It was a look he hated. Couldn’t she see how much potential she had? Couldn’t she see that she could do anything if she set her mind to it? It was infuriating.
“Just think about it. It could work.”
She stood and walked away from him a few paces. “Opening a bakery takes money. Lots of money. It’s not just the lease. It’s the ovens and the display cases and the ingredients and other tools. Not to mention packaging and window dressing and advertising. Do you know how much an industrial mixer costs? Because I do, and it’s more money than I’ve made in the last two months.”
“You have thought about this,” he said, standing to join her. If she was looking into industrial mixers, then she hadn’t just thought about it, she’d researched it. She knew it was a good idea. So why was she giving him such a hard time? Hadn’t he made it clear that any money she needed was at her disposal? At least this way she could have a part in earning it back.
“Of course I’ve thought about it. But that doesn’t mean it’s possible. Where am I supposed to get that kind of money? You might as well be telling me to just go out and buy a house.”
He knew she would reject the next words out of his mouth, but he had to try. He took her hands in his. “I’ll give you all the money you need. Just say the word, and it’s yours.”
Cora dropped his hands and drew herself up to her fullest height. That’s when Clayton realized how large of a mistake he’d made.
“I don’t need charity,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”
“For Christ’s sake, Cora. It’s not charity.”
“What else would it be? I can’t afford it on my own, and you’d be doing it solely to help me.”
“And you don’t think I have anything to gain? I need you in my life, Cora. And I will do whatever it takes to make sure you’re safe.”
“Well, this is too much. I couldn’t possibly ask that of you.”
“You’re not asking, I’m offering.”
“I can’t allow you to do it. That’s a ridiculous amount of money.”
He didn’t want to insult her, but the kind of money they were talking about was nothing to him. He could do it out of the profits he expected from his most current investment and still have more than enough to live on for the year. Or he could sell his boat. Or his car. Not to mention his upcoming trust fund. It would barely make a dent in that. But he knew saying so would only upset her more.
It was a strain to keep his words even. “It wouldn’t even be a mild inconvenience.”
“No.”
Her words were so firm, her body language so closed that he knew she would hear nothing more about him supplying the money. Which meant he had to propose the next option—the one he already knew was a long shot.
“Then what about a loan from the bank? We could do it through my new community loan program. Banks give out loans to new businesses all the time.”
“Not to unmarried women, they don’t.”
Clayton stopped, silent. Truthfully, he hadn’t even considered this. All he’d been thinking about was how to get his father to sign off on it. But she was right. His bank—all banks—required women to have their husband cosign for any loan. He hadn’t ever thought about how difficult it must be for an unmarried woman to obtain financing. She would need someone to vouch for her—a family member or a trusted friend. He’d never even seen a single woman try. How was someone like Cora supposed to change their situation? Sometimes it felt like every card in the deck was stacked against her.
“And I’m not just an unmarried woman,” she continued, “I’m a Murphy. I have no collateral, no money to put in whatsoever, and I’m the daughter of one of the most untrustworthy men in town.”
“I’ll sign for you.”
“I won’t let you be financially responsible for me, Clayton. I just won’t.”
He didn’t understand it. What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she let him do the simplest thing to help her?
Then another thought crept into his mind. Could there be more to this than she was saying? Perhaps it wasn’t the money that was the problem. Perhaps she was unsure of her feelings toward him. Maybe she’d felt pressured to tell him she loved him back after he had declared his love. Maybe she didn’t want his help because she didn’t want to attach herself to him. He felt all his muscles tense, stiffen.
“I’m not trying—” he said. “I don’t want to force you to do something you don’t want to do. If you don’t feel as strongly about me as I do about you, then—”
“No. That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what do you propose? We need a solution.”
“I don’t know, all right?” she said. “I don’t know what to do.” She walked over to him. “Can’t we just—for now at least—enjoy each other?”
She slid her hands over his chest, looked up into his eyes with those big blue ones of hers. How could he help himself when she was looking at him like that?
He held her cheek in his palm. “I love you. And that’s not something I take lightly. I’ve never said that to anyone before.”
“Neither have I.”
“Don’t you understand how difficult it is for me to let you go back to that house every night? It’s killing me, Cora.”
“I know,” she said, pulling away. But everything about her—the frustrated tone in her voice, her darkened brow—told him that she didn’t. He could feel his ire rising, strong and hot.
“I don’t think you do,” he said.
“I told you I needed time.”
“What part of this situation is going to change in the next two weeks?”
“You’re the one who insisted on two weeks, not me,” she said.
Was she going back on her word? Anger boiled in Clayton’s chest.
She continued, “I’m perfectly happy waiting until I save enough money to leave home on my own. Why can’t you just be happy with that?”
“That could take years! Why in God’s name would you do that when you know perfectly well I can solve all of this for you tomorrow?”
She whirled on him. “How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t want your help?”
Clayton’s nostril’s flared. He was risking everyt
hing for her, going to his parents like that. He hadn’t told her. Couldn’t tell her. If he had any hope of being with her in any real way she could never know how his parents were betting against her. Still. All he was asking was for a little bit of cooperation on her part, and she seemed downright unwilling to budge.
“Don’t you trust me?” he growled.
“Of course I trust you.”
“You don’t. If you did, you’d be trying, even just a little bit.”
“Don’t turn this into something more than it is. It’s just money. Why do you have to let this come between us?”
“You have no solution, Cora. I do. You’re the one letting this come between us, not me.”
“Your solution isn’t a solution! And you’re right, I don’t have a plan. Not yet. But I know I’m not going to be indebted to you.”
“Why the hell not?”
“You can’t understand this, Clayton, because you’ve always had everything you ever needed.”
“Yes. I have. And that’s what I’m trying to give to you,” he roared.
“Have you ever had to go through the church donation boxes for shoes, or stand in line for soup, smiling the whole time to show how grateful you are even though you’re dying inside? Because I have. And it changes something between people. It ruins things.”
“I know the world hasn’t been fair to you. But I’m trying—”
“Oh, yeah? When did you learn that lesson? While your daddy was paying off your fancy college not to expel you?”
Something inside him snapped, any control he had over his anger now gone.
“You’re right,” he shouted. “I was born with a silver spoon.”
He stomped over to the picnic basket and pulled out the envelope he’d stashed there earlier, just in case. There was enough cash inside to make every single one of her problems disappear. He held open the envelope to show her its contents.
“I brought this to give you today and I’ll barely notice it’s gone. I have money, Cora. I have lots and lots of money, and that’s not going to change anytime soon. But it’s damn useless to me if you don’t take it and use it to make both of our lives better. I don’t want it if you’re not safe. I really don’t. So take it,” he said, thrusting the envelope toward her.
But instead of taking it, she turned away from him and stomped back up the trail.
This was insanity. He’d had enough. He grabbed her hand, shoved the envelope into it. “For Christ’s sake. Just take it, Cora!”
For a moment, her face seemed to freeze in an odd mix of shock and pain. Clayton didn’t understand. He’d been forceful, yes, but he hadn’t grabbed her hand hard enough to hurt her. He would never, ever do that.
Suddenly there was a buzz in his chest, a warmth in his palms.
Then he heard her scream. Really scream.
At first he thought she had lost her temper—that he’d made her so frustrated and angry that it finally pushed her over the edge. Then he looked into her eyes and realized what was happening.
He was pulling from her—pulling her energy.
She looked pale and drawn, pain etched across her face. There was an unnaturally blue hue to her skin. And he realized, with a start, that it was coming from the orb forming above his other hand.
He wrenched himself away as she crumpled to the ground.
What had he done?
Oh, God, what had he done?
He could feel her—part of her—pulsing in his hand. It was larger than anything he had ever pulled before—huge and electric like a beach ball on fire. And more intense too—stronger and brighter and more intoxicating than anything he’d felt before. He didn’t want to let go this time.
He wanted to hold her, hold on, keep her there in his hands. He wanted more of her, and he hated himself for wanting it. His own desire made him sick. He blinked, tried to clear his mind.
It was wrong.
So wrong.
Everything was wrong.
The energy was infecting him, making him greedy. He had to stop it. Had to stop himself.
He threw the orb. Hard. As hard as he could.
The blue sphere crashed into a tree and felled it instantly.
The trunk shattered to ash.
The branches went flying, sending a clatter of loose rocks crashing around them.
He lunged to cover her body with his. And that’s when he heard her breath. It was faint. Too soft and too quiet—but it was still there. For how long, he didn’t know. How much had he taken from her? He had to get her to Dr. Pinkerton. He had to move. Now.
He lifted her off the ground. He hated touching her, hated the fear coursing through him right beside the vile sickness of his own desire. But who else was there? He couldn’t leave her here and waste the time of going to get help. It had to be him.
He cradled her in his arms and raced back up the trail, leaving everything else behind: the blanket they’d been huddled together on just ten minutes ago, the picnic basket he’d prepared just for her, and the envelope of cash, its flap fluttering in the breeze.
Clayton banged on the door of Dr. Pinkerton’s clinic, Cora in his arms. It was after hours and the door was locked, but he had to get in. Cora’s body—once lush and vibrant—now hung limp against him.
But it wasn’t Dr. Pinkerton who answered the door. It was his grandson, Dr. Porter.
“Help. Please help her,” Clayton struggled. It felt as though he hadn’t taken a breath since it had happened. But getting her here, through these doors—he suddenly felt the rush of adrenaline race through his veins. He started to shake.
“Over here,” Dr. Porter said, motioning to an open room across the hall. “What happened?”
Clayton laid her on the bed, suddenly realizing his dilemma. “She’s—it was an accident.”
Dr. Porter didn’t know what Clayton was capable of. Only Dr. Pinkerton. But he couldn’t take any chances. If there was any possible way to save her, he couldn’t waste a second. He had to try.
“It was me. I hurt her. I—”
“What’s going on in here?” Dr. Pinkerton was at the door, taking in Cora’s weakened state. He looked between Clayton and Dr. Porter. “I’ll take over here, Henry.”
“There’s no one else in the clinic. Nurse Patrice already went home. Let me help.”
“Out. Right now,” Dr. Pinkerton commanded.
Dr. Porter obeyed, shooting worried looks at both of them. Dr. Pinkerton closed the door behind him and turned to stare at Clayton. Clayton felt like he shrank three feet under his stare. And he deserved it. He deserved every bit of Dr. Pinkerton’s mistrust.
“It’s my fault. I lost control.”
Dr. Pinkerton was already leaning over Cora, his stethoscope to her heart.
“How long?”
“I don’t know. Fifteen minutes?”
“No. How long were you touching her?”
“Just a moment. I didn’t—I didn’t mean to hurt her.” He hated the words as they came out of his mouth. He was making excuses. He was a miserable bastard making excuses for himself.
“Of course you didn’t, boy,” Dr. Pinkerton said. “No one’s blaming you.”
At that very moment Cora’s eyes fluttered open.
“Cora?” Clayton asked.
“Clayton?” she asked. Her voice sounded so weak. So small. It nearly broke him all over again. He gripped her hand.
“Good. That’s good,” Dr. Pinkerton said.
“It hurts,” she said.
Guilt coursed through him. This was his fault. He had done this.
“I’m going to give her something for the pain,” Dr. Pinkerton said.
Dr. Pinkerton opened a cabinet and pulled out a vial of something, then plunged a needle into its center. He lifted Cora’s arm—God, had her arms always been so tiny, so fragile?—and injected her.
Just as quickly as her eyes had opened, they closed. Panic gripped him again.
“She’s—is she going to be okay?”
&nbs
p; “I believe so, yes. But I’d like to keep her overnight.”
“Whatever she needs,” Clayton said. “I mean it. Whatever she needs. I’ll pay.”
Pay. It was just like him to throw money at his troubles. Like that could fix anything.
He could never fix this. He could never undo what he had done, the line he had crossed. There was only one thing he could do, one way he’d ever know she was entirely safe.
He took one last look at Cora. Dr. Pinkerton was right—she was looking stronger already. Her lovely face was flushed pink instead of the terrifying gray it had been when he’d brought her in. But that didn’t mean he’d risk hurting her again.
He wanted to kiss her goodbye, wanted to taste her lips one last time, but he wouldn’t allow himself to do it. He couldn’t trust himself to touch her. He didn’t deserve her kiss and he didn’t deserve her love.
“It’s best if you go home now, son. Get some rest. You can come and check on her tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” Clayton said. But he knew he wouldn’t be back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Cora
Cora’s eyes opened to the face of Dr. Pinkerton peering over her. He looked tired, drawn.
“Good morning, dear girl. You’ve given us quite a fright.”
“Where’s Clayton?” she asked. Her mind felt fuzzy, wrong. What had happened to her?
“I sent him home. There was nothing he could do to help.”
She moved to sit up, but everything swirled in her vision. She couldn’t put her finger on why, but she knew she had to see Clayton. Now.
“Relax. You need to rest, get back your strength.”
She felt so weak—like she hadn’t eaten a proper meal for ages. Fear struck her heart. Was it finally happening? Was she finally following in poor Jan Clarkson’s footsteps?
“Can you tell me what happened?” Dr. Pinkerton asked.
Cora tried, but she couldn’t remember. Everything in her memory felt cloudy, like peering through smoke. The last thing she remembered was a picnic. Clayton had made her the sweetest picnic. So why did the memory of it hurt so much?
For a moment, she wanted to confide in Dr. Pinkerton about her powers, but she decided against it. She hadn’t spoken to him since Clayton had told her he was trustworthy, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for anyone but Clayton to know.