by Delynn Royer
Remembering his manners, Ross offered Phares a smile and climbed up into the ladder wagon. He doubted the farmer would understand his very personal reasons for wanting to leg it to town, and it wouldn’t do to spurn a neighborly offer.
Phares released the hand brake and snapped the reins, commanding his old mule, Wilma, into sluggardly forward motion once again. “Phoebe was by the house day before last. She sure does like what you done to the old place,” Phares said.
“It’s not that much, just some paint on the porch and a few flowers out front. The vegetable garden’s coming along pretty well, though, and I finally got a chance to fix the door on the springhouse this past Saturday.”
Phares nodded. “Ach, yes. The place started to run down soon after Mother died. Kept after it best I could, but what with planting and Phoebe expecting a new little one and all, I just couldn’t keep it up.”
Ross knew the story. When he answered the young farmer’s advertisement for a tenant, he learned that the family farmhouse had been empty for months following Mrs. Hockstetter’s death. Prior to that, the couple had sold off most of their farmland when Mr. Hockstetter grew too ill to work. As for Phares, he’d married the only child of a land-wealthy farm family and now owned a hundred-acre farm of his own.
“I expect to fix the handrail on the front staircase this week,” Ross said.
“Ain’t now? Well, that’s good. Appreciate it.”
As Wilma towed the clattering wagon along the rutted pike, they fell into a comfortable silence. Ross liked Phares. He was the kind of man one could sit with and not feel awkward as the quiet stretched out between them.
Ross also liked his weekends and evenings spent alone in the old stone farmhouse. While it was true that he would live and die by his pen, he took a certain visceral satisfaction from effecting routine repairs and restoring Mrs. Hockstetter’s yard and gardens to their once well-tended state. He liked working with his hands. He liked seeing the results of his efforts, clear and unarguable and tangible.
“Still looking to sell, you know.”
Ross looked up. “Sell what?”
“The house,” Phares said, not taking his eyes from the road. “Ain’t much land that comes along with it. Only the woodlot and that patch around back of the springhouse. No farmer will want it, but it sure does seem like just the thing for a man with a town job to support him.”
Phares had made this offer once before, and Ross had been sorely tempted to take him up on it. “I’d like to, but Johanna has her heart set on living in town.”
“Hmm. Miz Davenport.”
“Uh, Butler, you mean.”
Phares just chuckled. “Sorry. I keep forgetting she married that horse’s ass before the war.”
Ross absorbed this dryly, deciding that it wouldn’t be good form to speak ill of the dead. Still, he could think of a few other less-than-flattering descriptions of Johanna’s late first husband.
Phares left him off at the corner of King and Queen Streets with a half hour to spare. There was plenty of time to stop by the bank and take care of the problem that had nagged at him all weekend. Ever since Emily had stopped by the house.
Ross hurried past the Davenport building, then crossed the street to the national bank. As he waited for a teller, he had time to ponder the question Emily had asked him on Saturday. Can’t you just trust me?
It was a question that had needled at his conscience all weekend. He had vowed to make amends for the past, to win back her friendship, and trust was an important element of that friendship.
Ten minutes later, when Ross entered the Davenport building, a banker’s envelope plumped an inside pocket of his coat. The wall clock read nine-ten. Emily would already be at work in the second-floor business office.
Waving to one of the job pressmen, he passed through the printing department and took the stairs. The last thing he wanted was to run smack-dab into Malcolm. His future father-in-law came barreling down the hall with all the delicacy of a charging bull.
“Ross!” he boomed, stopping to pluck a Corona Ducal cigar from his mouth. “I left this morning’s wires on your desk. You can dole them out however you like, but Governor Curtin has the list of Pennsylvania soldiers who died at Andersonville. I thought you’d want to handle that one yourself.”
Impatient to keep moving, Ross nodded. “Thanks, I do.”
Malcolm pointed with his smoking cigar. “And there’s that city council meeting this afternoon.”
“Got it.” Ross said, growing irritated. They both knew that as assistant editor it was Ross’s responsibility to cover city government—even if he didn’t like it. Most of the men on the city council were still old-style Democrats. Of all the subjects Ross had been assigned to cover since coming to work for the Herald, he found city council meetings not only the most dull but also the most difficult to write about without offending Malcolm’s political sensibilities. His articles inevitably came out sounding like meeting minutes.
But that was beside the point. If it was his job, Ross would make sure it got done. He resented that Malcolm apparently felt it necessary to remind him of his duty.
“I’ve got a meeting with my lawyer and some other business to attend to,” Malcolm said, pulling out his pocket watch. “I’ll be back after one. You can man the ship until then.”
“Will do,” Ross said.
As usual, Malcolm was too self-absorbed to take notice of a subordinate’s discontent. He clapped Ross on the back. “Good! Looking forward to supper tonight!”
Supper. At that moment, Ross couldn’t imagine a more tedious way to pass the evening. As he watched Malcolm vanish around the corner, he struggled against a flare of resentment.
More and more often, it seemed, he had to remind himself that it was Malcolm who held his future in the palm of his hand, that it was Malcolm who even now still dangled his lovely daughter like a carrot before Ross’s hungry eyes.
“You will, of course, be married in the Episcopal church.” Malcolm had said this two months ago, the evening Ross came to discuss the idea of marriage to his daughter.
“I see no problem with that,” Ross had replied, sitting forward in a richly upholstered wing chair. It was perhaps ironic that he’d survived hair-raising battles and the horrors of Andersonville only to be experiencing a rush of nerves at a time like this. It seemed incredible to him that he was sitting in Malcolm Davenport’s plushly furnished study, that he was actually having this conversation with the man who, four years before, had unilaterally cut off his relationship with Johanna when it had threatened to become more than casual flirtation.
“Have you considered joining the congregation?”
Ross was caught off guard by this question. He’d assumed the religion issue had been dealt with. “What?”
“Ross, let me be candid.” The older man rose from a leather armchair and moved to a side table to pour himself a second shot of bourbon. “You acquitted yourself well during the war, rising to the rank of sergeant in three years, and you already show exceptionally bright promise as a writer and a journalist. You’re a fine young man with a bright future ahead, but,”—Malcolm turned to face him—“I won’t stand for any grandchildren of mine being raised Catholic.”
Ross didn’t flinch beneath the older man’s steel gaze, but he was nevertheless temporarily caught short of words. He hadn’t set foot in a Catholic church in years, not since he’d left the orphanage in New York to come live with the Brenners, yet something inside him dug in its heels. He had to fight an almost overwhelming impulse to tell Malcolm Davenport that he could take his assistant editor’s job and his beautiful daughter and go straight to hell.
“That will be... fine.”
Malcolm’s lips spread in a slow smile of satisfaction. He raised his glass. “Then an Episcopalian wedding it is.”
Left alone in the hallway, Ross had to take a moment to rein in his prideful emotions, to call on his more pragmatic side to remind him that he was much too close to attaining h
is goals to chance messing things up now. How many years had he dreamed of success? Of gaining respect? Of possessing the elusive Johanna? Too long to throw it all away for the fleeting, admittedly sweet satisfaction of telling Malcolm what he could do with his job.
Ross reached up to massage the stress-corded muscles in the back of his neck. It wasn’t even nine-thirty, and he wanted to go home. Ever since Emily had come back to town, it seemed he couldn’t think straight anymore. He was being constantly bombarded by memories of the past, of where he’d come from rather than where he intended to go, and that was no good for his career. No good at all.
He took a deep breath. The sooner he took care of the money matter, the sooner he could get his head straight and get to work.
Continuing down the hall to the business office, he paused in the open archway to make sure Oberholtzer’s office door was safely closed. The business manager had been vehemently opposed when Malcolm had hired Ross and still made no bones about his feelings on the subject.
Seeing that the coast was clear, Ross scanned the room. Like the clerks and the pressmen downstairs, the advertising and accounting department was busy. Emily sat at her desk writing copy, her head bent in concentration.
A shaft of morning sunlight played off the sleek ebony lines of her hair, and Ross found his eyes tracing not only the delicate, graceful line of her neck but also the soft, undeniably feminine nips and curves of breasts, waist, and hips beneath her clothing.
With a start, he jerked his attention back to her face. What was wrong with him? Hadn’t he learned anything from the past? There was no surer way to get into trouble than to begin thinking of Emily as a woman. Again. Oh, hell...
Ross wasn’t sure how long he stood immobile in the archway before realizing that Freddy or one of the other fellas was bound to look up and notice something was wrong.
Wrong? Ridiculous. Nothing was wrong.
He crossed the office and stood beside Emily’s desk until she was forced to look up at him. She donned her usual expression of subtle annoyance.
“Here,” he said, shoving the envelope into her hand before she could speak.
She looked astonished. “What...?”
“The matter we spoke of on Saturday.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The money,” he said, lowering his voice.
She stared at him.
Ross glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was paying attention to their exchange. “Just take it.”
“Ross, I... I mean, can you afford to—”
“I’m fine. I’ve already gotten some back pay, and there’s still more coming. Besides, in another month, I’m—” He cut off. In another month he’d be marrying into the Davenport family. Money would be the least of his worries.
Emily looked away, fingering the envelope indecisively, then she opened a desk drawer and extracted her handbag. “I’ll pay you back,” she said quietly, “with interest.”
“I don’t take interest from you. We’ll talk later if you want.”
She stuffed the envelope into her handbag and closed the desk drawer, still not meeting his gaze. “Why?”
“Because you were right. I should have trusted you. You wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t important.”
She looked up at him, and for the first time in a long while, the sweet, vulnerable spirit he remembered behind those magnificent sea blue eyes was left unguarded. “Thank you, Ross.”
Ross. Not Mr. Gallagher.
“You’re welcome.” Sucking in his breath, he turned away. As he crossed the hall to the city room, his hands were clenched into fists.
He’d set out to make things right between them, to see her look at him with something other than distrust and disapproval, but now he wondered if he’d just opened both of them to consequences he hadn’t foreseen. Was it wrong to try to rebuild bridges that he himself had burned long ago? He was no longer so sure of the answer.
Chapter Twelve
Friday came as a welcome relief. Ross had suffered through not only one town council meeting, but three Davenport family meals. Consequently, he had found little time to work on house repairs or his novel. The few attempts he’d made to put words on paper had been hampered by thoughts of Emily.
He’d hoped that lending her the money would ease the tension between them, and it had. Some. Her wariness had diminished, but she hadn’t explained what the money was for. Also, in contrast to her first two weeks on the job, she now seemed scattered and distracted. Every day, without fail, at barely one minute past five o’clock, she rushed from the office, buzzing down the hall like a bee on a mission.
Ross was worried. What could she need a hundred dollars for? Where was she rushing to after work? He was convinced that her sudden need for a loan and the dark circles under her eyes were connected. There were rumors that Emily and Karl Becker had been seen walking arm in arm down the street. Could her problem have something to do with Karl?
Ross had snapped more than one pencil at this possibility.
He glanced at the wall clock near his desk in the city room. Ten to five. Quickly, he put the finishing touches on an article for Saturday’s first edition and signaled to one of the copyboys, a gangling adolescent named Ignatz Metzger.
“Take this to the composing room. Tell Mr. Davenport I’ll be in tomorrow morning to sort through the wires. I’m leaving early tonight.”
The boy’s forehead wrinkled with concern. “Not feeling good?”
“Uh, that’s right.” Ross felt a twinge of guilt for lying to the lad. Iggy was earnest and hardworking. He reminded Ross of the bugle boys in his regiment. Too intense, too idealistic, and possessed with the same sort of burning, blind patriotism that had sent so many underage volunteers scurrying to swell the ranks of both armies.
“What is it?” Iggy persisted. “Not the ague, I hope?”
“Uh, no,” Ross said, trying to put the boy’s mind at ease. “Just some indigestion.”
Iggy was not put at ease in the least. He looked horrified. “Stomach trouble! Flux! My uncle was down with it last week.”
“It’s not that bad.” Ross glanced at the wall clock again and stood, reaching for the suit coat he’d draped over the back of his chair. Three minutes to five. He didn’t want to miss Emily tonight. He was determined to find out what was going on.
“Don’t go wastin’ money on them pain and indigestion pills. Get yourself some of that ginseng tea. That’s what my ma says. Ginseng tea for stomach distress.”
“I’ll do that.” Ross started across the city room, heading for the door.
“Ginseng plus black cherry plus yellowroot makes a good tonic,” Iggy called after him. “’Specially when you add some whiskey. That’s what my ma says.”
“Thanks, Ig. See you tomorrow.”
No sooner did Ross pull open the door than he caught a glimpse of Emily’s dark skirt disappearing around the corner.
That was close. One more home remedy from Ignatz’s mother and Ross would have missed her. He waited for her to clear the stairs before following. Upon emerging on the street, he spotted her heading west toward home. Could he be wrong? All these evenings when she’d rushed from the office, was she simply eager to get home after a hard day’s work? Then she entered Wilkerson’s Hardware and Farm Implements Store. Hardware?
She emerged a few minutes later, crossing the street and heading back in the same direction from which she’d come. As Ross followed at a distance, she turned on the corner of Queen and headed north. But this wasn’t the way home, this was the way to—
When she stopped at her father’s old print shop, she pulled a key from her handbag and threw a quick glance over her shoulder. The furtiveness of this action, the implicit guilt, was not lost on Ross. Maybe that was because he knew her too well.
After the door closed behind her, Ross took up a post across the street, folding his arms and leaning up against the front of a furnishings store. Ten minutes passed before he pulled out his pocket
watch. It was clear that whatever she was up to these days was happening inside that shop.
Stuffing his watch back into his pocket, Ross swore under his breath. The shade was still pulled on the door glass, and the window shutters remained closed. Of course, he could be wrong, but he was already getting a bad feeling, like maybe he knew exactly what she was up to but wished he hadn’t poked his nose into it.
“Emily Elizabeth,” he muttered, “for once, please prove me wrong.”
He crossed the street and tried the front door. The knob turned easily and he stepped inside. An unnatural quiet greeted him when he closed the door.
Intellectually, he’d known what to expect, but emotions were not governed by intellect. Although Emily was nowhere in sight, she had pulled open the shutters in the back of the shop. There was enough light to illuminate a scene that instantly and profoundly depressed him.
With no windows open for ventilation, the heat and humidity was oppressive. The place smelled like an old attic. Some of the furniture and equipment had been moved out, and there was dust everywhere, thick coats of it on the empty desk tops. On the floor, a flurry of crisscrossing feminine footprints only served to accentuate an impression of abandonment.
No pulse, he thought as he started through the shop. He remembered what it was like when he worked here as an errand boy and, much later, when he served his short stint as a reporter.
He imagined the office as it had once been, teeming with conscientious employees. He could almost see Jason Willoughby standing before his composing desk, setting type and chatting with his coworkers. He could almost hear Billy O’Leary’s barreling laugh over the scrape and groan of the double-cylinder press. He could imagine Nathaniel clenching his white meerschaum pipe in his teeth and crumpling a sheet of paper to send it hurtling into a wastebasket. And he saw Emily, nearly all grown up, ebony hair streaming smooth, dazzling lines down her back, a pencil tucked behind her ear, and her flounced skirt bouncing as she followed on her father’s heels to his office. “Papa! If we order from out of town, we can save three percent. I have the figures right here, see?”