by Peggy Gaddis
“What is it, darling? Did you see a snake?” he asked. But Lynn was looking straight toward the wall of low-growing bushes from which the rustling had come. It was as though she did not even hear Wayde’s anxious question. And then she smiled toward the bushes and called softly, “Is that you, Bert?”
There was a moment of dead silence broken only by the song of the birds and the scolding of a startled squirrel. And then the bushes parted and Bert stood there, poised for flight, his worried, frightened eyes on Wayde.
“It’s me, Miss Lynn,” he said awkwardly. “I wasn’t doin’ no harm.”
Lynn moved away from Wayde to reach a hand out to Bert and draw him out of his screen and into the open beneath the giant beech tree.
“Bert, you know Mr. McCullers, don’t you?” she said gently.
Bert lifted worried, frightened eyes that glanced at Wayde and away.
“Yes, ma’am, I know Mr. McCullers, but he weren’t here that day. Weren’t nobody here but Larry, same’s I done tole you and that policeman,” he blurted.
“Of course he wasn’t, Bert,” said Lynn in the gentle tone one uses to a frightened child. “You told the truth, Bert, and so Mr. McCullers wants to thank you.”
Once more Bert turned his harried, anxious eyes to Wayde.
“You ain’t mad at me, Mr. McCullers?” he asked.
“How could I be, Bert?” Wayde offered his hand in a gesture of friendship, and Bert slid his palm down his ancient overalls before he touched Wayde’s hand for just a moment. “I’m very grateful to you, Bert. If it hadn’t been for you, I might never have been able to prove my innocence of Larry’s charge. I’ll always be grateful for that.”
“I jes’ tole the truth, Mr. McCullers,” Bert insisted.
“I know, Bert,” Wayde said quietly, deeply touched by the humility of the pathetic creature. “I want to do something to prove how grateful I am, Bert. So I’m going to fix things so that nobody can ever bring a gun into these woods again, so that all your friends here will be safe.”
Bert’s slow mind took in the enormity of the thing Wayde was promising, and a light of almost unbearable joy spread over his big moon-face. He could not speak; his emotions were too much for him. But the look on his face was enough to attest the depth of his joy as he turned and plunged away from them once more into the bushes.
Lynn watched Wayde’s face, and there was a mist of tears in her own eyes.
“That was a very kind thing to do, Wayde,” she said softly.
“Kind? After what he did for me?”
“After what he did for us!” Lynn corrected him firmly, and linked her arm through his.
Wayde said quietly, “I don’t mean only what he told the chief about the Larry Holland shooting. It began way before that, my reasons for being grateful to Bert.”
Lynn looked up questioningjy.
“When you came up to the Hill to ask me to post this property — remember?” he pointed out. “You’d never have come near me if it hadn’t been for your concern about Bert and his friends. You were too busy hating me.”
Lynn nodded soberly, her eyes thoughtful.
“I guess I would have stayed clear of you,” she admitted after a moment. “I came to see you that day because of Bert and his ‘little folks.’ And I left, still convinced that I hated you.”
Wayde studied her curiously.
“There was a while there when I thought you were about the snootiest, most unpleasant gal I’d ever had the misfortune to meet,” he admitted, and Lynn gasped with outrage. “Oh, I thought you were beautiful.”
“I’m not and I never was.”
“Be quiet,” Wayde ordered sternly. “To me you were beautiful, and you’ve grown more beautiful every time I’ve seen you. I still can’t quite understand when or why you stopped hating me, now that I come to think of it. Why did you?”
Lynn laughed and said softly, “Oh, Steve told me that you can’t hate someone as furiously as I hated you — or thought I did — without running the risk of being in love with that person. So I decided to see if he was right. And you know something? He was!”
Wayde said sternly, “Now don’t tell me I’m going to have to grateful to Steve as well as to Bert!”
“Would you mind that so much? After all, if he hadn’t dropped those few words of rather acid wisdom, I might never have discovered that I didn’t hate you after all.”
Wayde nodded. “Then I’m grateful to Steve. I don’t have to like him, do I?”
“Well, no, I guess not,” Lynn said slowly. “Matter of fact, I’m having a little trouble liking him right at the moment. But I’m sure his intentions were good all along.”
“Nice epitaph, I must say. You know what good intentions are for, don’t you? They’re reputed to make excellent paving stones in Hades!” Wayde told her. And before she could protest, he went on, “Let’s get the rest of this job done so we can have some time for ourselves. I’ve got to persuade your mother that a formal wedding, and a month’s delay for trousseau and parties and the like of that, is a waste of time.”
“You’ve got a nice job cut out for you,” Lynn warned him. “I’ve been trying to accomplish the same thing, with a spectacular lack of success, I might add.”
“Well, we are of age,” Wayde pointed out. “We could elope.”
“Oh, no, I’d never play a dirty trick like that on Mother!” Lynn said firmly. “She’s got her heart set on seeing her only daughter married with a big splash, and she’s going to have it.”
“My wishes don’t count for anything?”
“Darling, don’t sound pathetic!” Lynn laughed at him. “After we’re married, your wish will be my law! I faithfully promise that. But let’s give Mother this big thrill that she wants so much! Please?”
“When you look at me like that, and use that tone, there’s nothing in the world I wouldn’t promise you,” Wayde agreed, and heaved a sigh as he walked with her through the woods and to the cleared land that marked the beginning of the Estes farm.
As they walked across the back lot and toward the house, Jed came up from the barn and Mamie appeared on the back porch.
“Wayde, this is Mr. Estes,” Lynn proffered introductions. “Mr. Estes, Mr. McCullers.”
“Well, sure, I know Mr. McCullers,” Jed said briskly, and added, “mighty glad to know you come out o’ all your trouble, Mr. McCullers.”
“It was entirely through Bert that I did, Mr. Estes, and I want to show my appreciation, if you will allow me,” said Wayde, and held out an envelope.
Jed drew back, affronted.
“Reckon we ain’t lookin’ for no reward, Mr. McCullers.”
“It’s not money, Mr. Estes,” Wayde told him quietly. “It’s a deed to this property here. I very much want you to have it, and I would not attempt to set a money value on what Bert did for me.”
“Reckon Bert didn’t do nothin’ but what his Maw and me have allus tried to teach him, to tell the truth,” said Jed, eyeing the proffered envelope with wide eyes. “A deed to this property, Mr. McCullers? You mean the whole three hundred acres?”
“Of course, Mr. Estes,” Wayde told him. “And if there are any improvements, a new house, barn, anything you like, have them done and send me the bill.”
“Why, Mr. McCullers!” Jed still had not accepted the envelope. “This here property is worth maybe fifteen thousand dollars, if you was wantin’ to sell it.”
“I’m not, Mr. Estes, I couldn’t now, even if I wanted to. The property is yours. The deed has already been recorded and the year’s taxes have been paid,” Wayde assured him, and once more extended the envelope.
Jed took it hesitantly and looked down at it and then up at Mamie who was standing at the top of the steps, her face pale beneath the old-fashioned sun-bonnet thrust back from her eyes.
“Mamie and me been tenant-farmers all our lives, Mr. McCullers,” he said awkwardly, his voice hoarse. “Reckon we never thought there’d be a time when we’d own our own farm!”
“Well, you do now, Mr. Estes and Mrs. Estes,” Wayde smiled up at Mamie and went on earnestly, “I want to do something for Bert himself; Lynn here has told me what he’d like most. I’ve already contracted for a woven wire fence eight feet high that will enclose the woods and make the whole place a sanctuary. Nobody will ever be able to hunt there again!”
“Oh,” gasped Mamie, her hands twisted together against her lean middle, “they ain’t nothin’ in God’s green world my poor boy would like more. Mr. McCullers, givin’ us the farm is a mighty kind thing we ain’t never gonna forget. But givin’ my boy pertection for his ‘little folks’—nobody could do a kinder thing or one more appreciated. We’re thankin’ you, Mr. McCullers — we’ll be a-thankin’ you the longest day we live.”
Somewhat abashed by the fevor of their gratitude, Wayde turned to Lynn, and they said good-bye, leaving the overcome Estes family with some difficulty. As they walked back toward the woods, Lynn was very thoughtful.
“Was it the way you wanted it, darling?” Wayde asked when the woods enfolded them and she had not spoken.
She looked up at him with shining eyes misted with tears.
“I think,” she said huskily, “that you’re the finest, kindest, most decent …” Her voice broke and tears slipped down her face as Wayde’s arms enfolded her, cradling her close.
“Well, I didn’t ask you what you thought they’d like,” he said. “But I wanted to do something to show my gratitude and — well, I knew better than to offer them money. After all, the place should belong to them, not to me. And a stout, woven-wire fence around the woods seemed to me the best protection for Bert and his little pals. Maybe I should have asked your advice.”
“You blessed idiot,” she stammered, smiling at him through her tears. “I’d never even have thought of giving them the farm or the fence. It would take somebody like you, generous as you are …”
“Now wait a minute,” Wayde protested, scowling in embarrassment. “You trying to make a heroic philanthropist out of me? I’m not. I’m just trying to prove I’m grateful.”
“Stop tearing yourself down!” Lynn ordered unsteadily. “It’s just that I’ll never get to know you — not the real you. There are so many of you. But just so long as all of them are in love with me …”
“They are — the whole legion of them!” Wayde assured her firmly.
“And I’m in love with all of them,” Lynn laughed shakily. “Let’s go back and see what we can do to persuade Mother to change her plans.”
“Oh, by all means, let’s!”
“Don’t count on it too much, though,” Lynn warned him. “She can be pretty stubborn when she makes up her mind.”
She glanced up at him, and the vagrant dimple danced beside her mouth. “I’ve been told I’m very much like her, by the way. Maybe I should warn you.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Wayde answered, and his voice deepened as he looked into her eyes, “and be almighty glad to have a chance!”
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 1960 by Peggy Gaddis
ISBN 10: 1-4405-7416-2
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7416-0
eISBN 10: 1-4405-7415-4
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7415-3
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © istock.com/Yuri
Return to Love
Peggy Gaddis
Avon, Massachusetts
To the People of
“Midvale”
Who have not forgotten the lovely meaning of the words:
“Friend and Neighbor”
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Copyright
One
“OH, MISS, you do look beautiful,” said Hulda, who had been Carey’s nurse and who was now her maid.
“Do I, Hulda?” Carey’s voice was full of anticipation, her smoke-gray eyes shining a little. “It’s terribly important that I look very beautiful tonight, Hulda. My dearest enemy and best hated rival is making a pass at my man.”
“As if you cared about one man more or less, Miss!” scoffed Hulda. “You that’s got dozens of ‘em hanging around you all the time.”
Carey laughed and turned away from the mirror, reaching for the white fox jacket that Hulda was holding. She carried it in a careless hand as she went out, saying over her shoulder:
“Ah, but it’s the man the other girl wants that I always like best, Hulda!”
As Carey reached the head of the stairs, she heard the front door open and saw her father come into the house. The butler was waiting to take his coat and hat and that of the man who accompanied him. One glance told Carey the man was young, shabby, and a stranger to her.
Silas Winslow looked up at the sound of his daughter’s footsteps on the stairs and his tired, rather haggard face brightened a little as it always did at sight of her.
“Hello, baby,” he greeted her. Then a little of the warm eagerness went out of his face as he saw her silver-sprinkled tulle frock, the luxurious fox jacket she was trailing so carelessly. “Oh, you’re going out?”
“Well, naturally,” Carey answered glibly. “Being a debutante of the current season — I’d be an awful drip if I were sitting home twiddling my thumbs, and the season just three weeks old. Now wouldn’t I?”
She felt the dark eyes of the tall stranger on her. There was something in his cool, steady regard that made her oddly uncomfortable. Perhaps it was the complete lack of admiration. She wasn’t accustomed to a coolly critical regard in the eyes of otherwise attractive young men.
“Of course, baby, of course,” her father agreed, kissing her cheek lightly. “I was hoping you were dining at home because I’ve brought a guest I wanted you to know. Joel, this is my daughter, Carey. Joel is the son of my old friend, Doctor Hunter — you’ve heard me speak of him, Carey.”
“A couple of thousand times at least,” Carey returned, meeting the young man’s critical gaze with her pretty chin tilted at a slightly defiant angle. “How do you do, Mr. Hunter?”
“It’s Doctor Hunter,” her father corrected. “Joel is following in his father’s footsteps. He’s just completed some special work here at Bellevue and is leaving for the old home-town tomorrow.”
“How nice,” Carey said politely, but with such a complete lack of interest that Joel Hunter’s eyes glinted a little.
“Beg pardon, Miss Carey,” said the butler politely. “The car is here.”
“Thanks, John.” Carey turned to her father, who was frowning a little.
“You’re not going to a party alone?” he protested.
“Of course not, Pops,” laughed Carey and stood on tiptoe to drop a butterfly kiss on his cheek. “I’m picking up Ronnie at his place. He hasn’t a car and it’s snowing like the dickens outside. It would be pretty silly for him to call for me.”
Silas nodded. “I suppose so,” he admitted reluctantly. “Of course I don’t suppose it would make a lot of difference if I said that I don’t care a lot for Ronald Norris?”
“Afraid not, Pops,” Carey assured him blithely. “He’s really a lot of fun — you’d be surprised.”
She turned towards the door and, to her start
led resentment, Joel Hunter said, “I’ll see you to your car, Miss Winslow.”
Carey stared at him almost haughtily. “That’s not at all necessary — ” she began.
But Joel had slipped his hand beneath her elbow and was steadying her down the snowy steps, saying, “I suppose not. But let’s just say I’m an old-fashioned guy who believes that chivalry isn’t quite dead.”
As the chauffeur swung open the car door and a soft gush of warm, perfumed air swept out to them from the car’s interior, Joel held Carey back a moment to say, “This isn’t exactly the opportunity I hoped to have for a serious talk with you, Miss Winslow — ”
Carey looked her amazement. “But what on earth?”
“The state of your father’s health, of course,” answered Joel. “Surely you have stopped long enough, even in the excitement of your debut year, to realize that your father is on the verge of being a very sick man?”
Carey, who adored her father, felt a little clutch at her heart. “I — I — don’t believe you,” she stammered helplessly.
Joel’s hand dropped from her elbow and he took a backward step. “Sorry. My error,” he said grimly. “I thought you might be just a bit human under that surface glaze. But I see I was wrong.”
He turned towards the steps and Carey cried out sharply, “Come back here! Don’t you dare say a thing like that and then just walk away. What’s the matter with my father?”
“Overwork — nerve-strain — business worries — the pace at which the average successful New York business man drives himself!” Joel’s eyes were cold and accusing. “His heart is in bad shape. If he doesn’t ease up on the strain, he’s going to pieces. Is that explicit enough?”
Carey’s face was as white beneath its artful make-up as her frivolous dress and the soft white jacket. “What — what can I do about it?” she whispered.
Joel looked her over from the top of her dark curls, held in place by a spray of gardenias, to the tips of her gold-strapped sandals with their amusingly jewelled heels, missing not one iota of the cost of her loveliness.