by Beth Ciotta
“I can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
She snatched back the letter, pushed out of the chair. Without a word, she strode past him and reorganized a shelf of books.
He stepped in behind her, replaying everything she’d said to him over the past two days, factoring in her personality and quirks. Tawdry. “Whatever it is, I’m not easily shocked.”
She gripped the shelf, lowered her head. “You’re asking me to reveal extremely personal information, Poet. I’m not comfortable doing so. Why should I?”
“Because Paris is worried about you.”
“A good reason. But not good enough. I told you I’d talk about the blackmail situation and I did. If you’re truly my friend, you won’t press.”
Well, hell. He jammed his hand through his hair. Rolled a cramp out of his neck. Damn. “All right.”
“You mean that?”
Her voice, a scratchy whisper, raked over his heart like barbed-wire. “Sure.”
She surprised the hell out of him. She turned and hugged him. “Thank you.”
In that moment Seth fell in love with Emily McBride.
The breathtaking plunge set his pulse back a spell, a couple of skips and then it settled on a lumbering pace. He’d loved plenty, many, but he’d never been in love and he never imagined it would happen like this. He thought it would be at first sight, if ever. Thought it would be an earth-rocking sensation, like someone buffaloing him with the butt of a six-shooter. But this was quiet and gentle. Achingly sweet and refreshing.
Like Emily.
Her grateful embrace was so brief that, when she walked away, he was left to wonder if it had truly happened. His only evidence--rubber knees and a hard-on.
“I forgot the yarn,” she said.
His mind raced and grappled.
The front door opened and closed. “Emily. Mr. Pinkerton.”
“Mrs. Frisbie.” Seth smiled kindly at the woman who’d championed her employee during the social club fiasco. She’d also defended erotic, or rather exotic, fiction. Backbone, intellect, and heart. He admired her vibrant spirit and smile.
“It’s Saturday, dear,” she said to Emily. “What are you doing here?”
“I . . . I . . .”
“My fault,” Seth said in a sugar-sweet drawl. He pulled a book from the shelf and strode past the senior librarian. “I had a fierce hankering for Lord Byron.”
“The man or his works?” She covered her mouth, smothered a smile. “Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.”
“That’s what Byron said when he was caught seducing one of those Mediterranean boys.” He winked at the snickering woman while escorting a blushing Emily out the door.
“She didn’t mean any harm,” she said in defense of her employer.
“No, I don’t expect she did.” The majority of the town might be conservative, but the librarians, women usually noted for being straight-laced, were outspoken liberals. “I like her.”
She looked up at him, graced him with a small smile. “You’re a good man, Poet.”
He felt like a bastard. He was earning her trust. He could see it in her eyes. He wanted to come clean, admit his identity. He’d had the same urge this morning. But for sure and for certain, she’d resent him and shut him out. As it was, he’d agreed not to press for more information on the blackmailer. Right now he needed to quietly observe, investigate, and protect. And hope she’d break down and ask for his help.
He also needed to telegraph Fox as this might take longer than he’d anticipated. Hell, he hadn’t even broached the subject of the widowed Garrett with Emily. All he had was the man’s word she was fond of him and his kids. He knew straight-out she was infatuated with Rome. His own feelings couldn’t enter into this. He’d given his word. And truth told, out of the three of them, she was best off with Athens. Like Rome, Seth didn’t have it in him to remain faithful to one woman. He didn’t figure being in love would change that. After all, he was his father’s son.
They walked side by side toward the mercantile, Seth wrestling with the absurdity of his situation. The difference one day, one person, could make in a man’s life. With every step, he shoved his troubling affection for Emily deeper into the crevices of his heart. Denial was fast becoming his new best friend.
They entered the lively general store and Seth gave thanks for the absence of Mary Lee. He figured Emily had taken about all the upset she could handle for the day. She peeled off, heading toward the dry-good section and a cherubic saleswoman, probably the shopkeeper’s wife.
He instantly recognized the owner, Ezekiel Thompson, and the stick-up-his-ass cobbler, Frank someone-or-other. They stood in the hardware department, pouring over a newspaper with another man, a burly, ugly specimen chomping on an unlit cigar.
Thompson glanced up, bug-eyed. “You ain’t gonna believe it, Emily. Wells Fargo suspended Rome and Boston. It’s got something to do with I. M. Wilde’s latest tale.”
Seth registered her reaction with curiosity and confusion. She turned a whiter shade of pale, managed two shaky steps then promptly wilted, knocking over a display of canned beans.
CHAPTER 11
Emily came to with a groan. She shoved a green glass bottle of smelling salts away from her nose, squinted up at the circle of blurry faces looking down at her. “What happened?”
“You fainted,” Frank Biggins said.
At least she thought it was Mr. Biggins. She fingered the bridge of her nose. “Where are my spectacles?”
“Broke,” another man said. “Went flying when you swooned.”
“I’m afraid I stepped on them in my haste to get to you with the smelling salts,” said Mrs. Thompson. “I’m sorry, Emily.”
“Not your fault,” she said, feeling increasingly foolish. She’d fainted. In the mercantile. More fuel for the gossip-mongers. Although Rome and Boston’s suspensions would surely overshadow her spill. She couldn’t believe it. She knew every one of Wilde’s tales by heart and couldn’t imagine what would cause the riff with Wells Fargo. Were specifics noted within that newspaper article? Woozy, she pushed herself up on her elbows. “Where’s Mr. Pinkerton?”
“Right here.” The sea of blurry faces parted as he crouched and maneuvered her into his arms. He pressed a cool, damp cloth to her throbbing forehead. “How are you feeling?”
Like she was burning up with fever. Like she had taffy limbs and apple butter for brains. She’d never been held by a man, not like this--all tender and protective. It riled her romantic nature, wrecked havoc with her chaste upbringing. She wondered if this was how Miss Sarah Smith had felt when Rome had revived her after the blow to her head. Had Pinkerton given her the kiss of life? Had she missed it? The notion made her plumb dizzy with regret. Surely being kissed by a friend was better than never being kissed at all. “What was the question?” She blinked up at the green-eyed poet, wondering how she could so clearly see the worry on his handsome face when all of the other hoverers were out of focus.
“Cracked her head good,” Mr. Biggins said.
“Gonna have a goose egg,” someone else piped in. Boris. Oh, no. Not Boris.
“Ezekiel’s fetching Doc,” Mrs. Thompson said, at which point her husband and the wiry physician burst on the scene.
Doctor Kellogg squatted down, dragged his hand over his sparse white hair, and clucked his tongue. “I swan, you two are doing wonders for my practice.”
“She fainted and hit her head,” Pinkerton supplied without humor.
The older man peered under the folded cloth, whistled. “I can see that.”
“Beaned by beans,” Mr. Biggins joked.
She wished he’d disappear and take the bully owner of the Moonstruck Hotel with him.
As if reading her mind, Pinkerton addressed the gawkers. “I say, do you think you could afford Miss McBride some breathing space?”
“Fancy talkin’, ain’t he?” Boris said with disgust.
“Told you,” Mr. Biggins said.
The innkeeper spoke around
his fat cigar, nudged his skinny friend. “Why don’t we finish readin’ the newspaper? Leave the fussing to Doc and the women.”
Emily wanted to come up swinging in Pinkerton’s defense. Dang him for holding her down.
“Sticks and stones,” he said close to her ear as the other men trailed off.
Meanwhile Doc pinned her with a chastising glare. “You haven’t been eating properly, Emily. You’re skinnier every time I see you, and that’s a fact.”
Mrs. Thompson nodded. “We’ve all noticed.”
And no doubt speculated on the matter, she thought. “I . . . I haven’t had much of an appetite.”
“Awful thing what happened to your ma and pa, but you’re mourning yourself sick.”
“And crazy,” someone mumbled from across the room.
She felt Pinkerton tense. “Sticks and stones,” she whispered.
He squeezed her shoulder and the bond strengthened twofold. Again she likened their friendship to hers and Paris’s. Sticking up for one another, sticking together. “I’m all right,” she said, easing the compress from her forehead. She allowed Pinkerton and Mrs. Thompson to help her stand.
“I confess I skimped on the last few meals, missed lunch completely today,” she told the doctor. “I’m weak is all. And now my head hurts. Oh, and I can’t see very clearly.” She managed a self-deprecating smile. “I’ll take better care.”
“See that you do. Best medicine I can offer is kindly advice. Get on with your life. Hitch yourself to a strapping, secure man like Cole Sawyer and have a few babies. It ain’t too late to have a normal life.”
A normal life had been the source of her mother’s misery. Her blood boiled and this time it had nothing to do with the poet’s touch. “I appreciate your concern, sir. As for your advice--”
“Miss McBride’s spectacles,” Pinkerton said to Mrs. Thompson, “might we be able to fix them?”
“Not unless you’re a miracle worker. I not only bent the rims but crushed the lenses. Me and my big clodhoppers. I feel terrible, Emily. I think we have a few pair of spectacles locked in the display case with the silverware. I’d be pleased if you’d give them a try. No charge.”
That solicited a grumble from Mr. Thompson, but his wife shushed him and moved in behind the counter.
“I’ve done my bit.” Doc Kellogg shook his head and chuckled. “Be seein’ one or the both of you soon, I reckon.” Medical bag in hand, he lit for the door.
Before she could comment, Pinkerton steered her to Mrs. Thompson. A few pair of spectacles equaled two pair and neither suited her vision needs.
“Spectacle peddler should be passing this way in a week or two,” Mrs. Thompson said.
Emily palmed her throbbing head. “Problem is, I need bifocals.”
“You’ll have to travel to Napa City for those. Zeke Karn’s Jewelry and Optical Shop.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Pinkerton said, pressing a firm hand to the small of her back.
Emily willed her knees and mind steady. A gentlemanly offer of support, she told herself, nothing more. Her skin flushed with awareness nonetheless. “Closed weekends,” she croaked.
“Monday then.”
“I work at the library on Monday.”
“Difficult to catalog and such if the words are blurry,” he said sensibly. “I’m sure Mrs. Frisbie will understand.”
“I suppose.” She squinted over her shoulder at the news-hound trio, wondering how she could get a peek at that article. Not that she could read it. She worried her lower lip as she mused. She knew Boston wasn’t fond of the mounting attention he and his brother had been attracting due to being featured on several dime novel covers. Said it hampered their ability to circulate incognito. Rome didn’t mind the fame, but he would mind something awful about a scandal. His work was his life. If Wilde had truly contributed to their suspension, there’d be the devil to pay.
“You best get Emily home, Mr. Pinkerton. She looks right peaked.”
That brought her head around. “I’m all right.”
Pinkerton looked as if he wanted to counter, but directed his attention to Mrs. Thompson. “Before we leave,” he said with a friendly smile, “could I trouble you for a few skeins of yarn?”
“How many’s a few? What color?”
Emily answered then listened in wonder as Pinkerton requested several food items. She tried to intervene more than once, but each time he gently hushed her. Nor would he allow her to put the total on her store credit. He settled in cash. Mr. Thompson, who turned right cheerful when Pinkerton paid his bill in full, insisted on fetching her buggy from the stable while Mrs. Thompson boxed their wares.
By the time they exited the store the sun was setting. Pinkerton loaded three boxes of supplies in the buggy and bid the storekeeper a pleasant farewell.
“I’ll drive,” he told Emily after helping her up and maneuvering her to the passenger side.
“Do you know the way?”
“I do.”
Her head hurt something awful and her stomach felt all fluttery. No wonder, given the events of the day. “In that case I won’t argue.”
“Wouldn’t matter if you did.”
“Are you angry with me?”
“Why would you think that?”
“You sound sort of angry.”
“I’m not angry.” He released the brake and gently slapped the reins to Guinevere’s rear.
Emily relaxed against the seat, grateful that traffic on the street and boardwalk was at a minimum as they exited town.
“Did I embarrass you? I caused an awful scene, I know. I’m not prone to the vapors. I just . . . it’s been a trial of a day.”
“That’s a fact.”
“So, did I?”
“What?”
“Embarrass you?”
Pinkerton glanced sideways. “Can’t imagine that’s possible.”
She wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so she didn’t. She closed her eyes and tried to relax as they rolled further from town, closer to home. Nature’s sounds came into play. The musical chirping of crickets. The sporadic hoot of an owl. Guinevere’s hooves clopping gently on the well traveled path. She knew the sounds, the path, well. She’d traveled this way many a time with her parents. Church, socials, errands--personal and professional. Except for Sundays, once in town, the McBrides parted ways. Emily always ended up with Paris and the Garretts. Her parents didn’t mind. Mostly she thought they were relieved.
So much for relaxing.
She shifted and focused on the colorful sunset in an effort to stave off dark thoughts. Pinkerton seemed lost in his own musings. She couldn’t shake the feeling that he was irked. For all of his tenderness back at the mercantile, just now he was quiet and hard as a stone wall. Was he contemplating her breakdown in the library? Her collapse in the mercantile? She couldn’t bear it if he contacted Paris with news that she was falling apart. The news would worry her friend ill.
“What Doc Kellogg said. It’s not true,” she said, grasping at straws. “I’m not mourning myself sick. I’m capable of accepting harsh truths.”
He didn’t comment so she rambled on, needing to fill the strained silence.
“I just . . . I don’t want you to think I’m weak. Just because I fainted--”
“I don’t think you’re weak. I think your life’s in turmoil. You lost your parents and gained a tormentor. Upheaval like that’s bound to vex your appetite.”
Her heart swelled at the depth of his understanding. Emotions and words jerked free of her tight rein. “Losing Mother, and soon after, Father, I confess, it was hard. And confusing. I felt so alone, and yet I felt free. I know that sounds awful. I just, they always, they wanted me to behave in a certain manner, to go against my nature. My mother went against her nature and I think she was one of the saddest people I’ve ever known.”
“What was her name?”
“Alice McBride.” The name scraped her throat raw. He thumbed up the brim of his hat, angled her a lo
ok. Again, she marveled that she could so clearly see his expression when everything around them blurred. Or maybe she was sensing what she thought she saw in his eyes--interest.
He worked his jaw. “Favor her, do you?”
“I do.”
“Then I reckon she was uniquely arresting.” Her skin burned head to toe. “You think I’m . . .” She couldn’t say it.
“Inside and out.”
Self-conscious, she looked away, tamed the curls that had escaped her braids, fingered the knot on her forehead. She wondered if it had purpled. “I don’t remember ever being paid such a kindly compliment.”
“That’s a shame, and that’s a fact.”
He concentrated on the road and she grappled with what was happening between them. The bond. If his interests were that of a normal man, she might be concerned. After all, they were sleeping under the same roof. She reminded herself that she considered Athens Garrett attractive inside and out, but she didn’t harbor lustful or longing thoughts about him. She considered Paris beautiful inside and out and she certainly didn’t, well, she wasn’t like Pinkerton. She was attracted to the opposite gender--specifically Rome Garrett. Trying to analyze the peculiar connection between herself and the poet was making her head throb harder, so she gave up and picked up the conversation a few sentences back.
“My mother, she’s the one who opened my eyes to the wonder of words,” she said, her nerves jangling like the buggy’s rigging. “Whenever she could, she’d steal away to lose herself in a book. Once in a while she’d read a passage aloud to me. In those moments, she sparkled. But then Father would interrupt with some need and her eyes and manner would dull.” Emily embraced and shunned those memories. Mostly, she remembered the vibrancy in her mother’s tone when she read about treasure hunts and jousts and damsels in distress.
“I wanted to sparkle like her. I wanted to feel what she felt when she escaped to those far off places, so I learned my letters early and advanced my skills with fervor. Read everything I could get my hands on. The more I practiced, the more it greased my imagination and soon I was spinning my own tales.”
“That must have pleased your ma.”