Caught in the Middle (Ladies of Caldwell County Book #3)

by Regina Jennings

  9

  Anne squatted to peer at the ground growing dimmer in the waning light. The carpenter’s wagon and his tools had vanished. Nicholas had told him to skedaddle on to his next job, which must have been on a tall building, for he took the ladder with him.

  “There’s no way on earth I’ll spend the night with you here,” she said. “I’ll jump first.”

  He didn’t protest.

  She studied the wall that the staircase would be built into. Just siding. Nothing to hold on to. The frame the carpenter had built for the staircase was lying on its side, unattached.

  “Do you have any rope?” Anne asked.

  Nicholas leaned against the wall, crossing his leg at the ankle. “This is an office, not a toolshed.”

  “If you held my wrists and let me dangle, I might be able to drop the rest of the way.”

  “But I won’t. I’m already responsible for one employee’s injuries. I’ll have nothing to do with yours.” He straightened and yawned. “Feel free to gather attention using any means at your disposal. I have work to do.” And he left her to her office on the back of the building.

  The alley beneath her window contained no traffic. The only people Anne had seen all day were those coming specifically to Nicholas’s office—the carpenter and Mrs. Stanford. Anne leaned her arms on the sill and watched as a cat slunk from shadow to shadow, careful lest it get trapped by a stray dog. Night was falling and she was hungry.

  The thought of Sammy’s sitting next to her empty seat at the dinner table caused a pang of regret. Did Sammy miss his mother? Did he realize Tessa wasn’t coming back? Even though it’d be impossible for him to be attached to Anne already, would he realize she was gone and miss her? She wouldn’t have him long, but until his father came, she wanted him to have a measure of security.

  If only she could be sure that Mrs. Puckett would send someone to check on her, but she probably wouldn’t, trusting that she was in Nicholas’s safe hands.

  Again she could see him swinging the hammer, driving nails flush into the boards with one strike. And she could see his fist smashing into the train robber’s face, his nose flattening before his feet flew up and he was laid out. Nicholas did not have safe hands. Not for her. Not for anyone.

  She straightened. No one would wander down that alley. Nicholas’s window was street side. She’d have more luck there.

  The door was closed. Anne took a deep breath. He was surly today, but she preferred that over prying. She needed to get out before he was struck by a better mood.

  She knocked. He didn’t answer. She knocked again.

  “I’m working.”

  She cracked the door open. “You said for me to get attention. It’d be easier from the front window than the alley.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “All right, then. Go ahead. Just keep in mind, I really do need to finish this paper work. If I can’t eat supper, I might as well—”

  “I know. I know.”

  Anne walked behind him, sliding between the back of his chair and the window. She unlatched the frame and slid open the pane. The collateral broker below them had already closed his doors with the rest of the businesses on the block. The tinny music of a saloon wafted over the streets. Voices, low and guttural, could be heard from the building that shone brighter the darker the street became.

  Anne spotted two men on the boardwalk across the street making their way toward the den of iniquity.

  “Excuse me,” she yelled. “Hey, up here.” They didn’t respond. She whistled.

  Nicholas spun his chair around. “Must you bellow in my ears?”

  “Can you hear me?” she wailed. But it was no use. The men continued their trek toward cheap entertainment and rich drink. In vain she searched the road. This part of town didn’t have any eating establishments or hotels. After hours it was pretty much deserted.

  “You couldn’t get an office with a better location?” She craned her neck as far out the small opening as prudence allowed.

  “I think my office shows refined taste, unlike your wardrobe.”

  Suddenly aware of her posterior, Anne straightened. “I thought we’d kicked that topic until it’d given out.”

  But Nicholas wasn’t dissuaded. “Not at all. You wore dresses back in Prairie Lea. I saw you only a time or two, but I think you looked nice enough.”

  “Mind your own business.”

  “You are my business if you are representing Lovelace Transportation Specialists.”

  “But I’m not. I represent myself.”

  “I don’t know if I can stomach seeing those same ratty clothes every day. It’s a blight on the atmosphere I’ve cultivated here.”

  His desk reflected the gaslights above them like a mirror. The rugs were thick enough to be luxurious and short enough to be practical. Even the deep colors of the walls and curtains complemented each other so that no random hue could be introduced without upsetting the balance. Like she did.

  “You have work to do,” she said.

  “You’re raising such a racket as to make it impossible.”

  Anne looked out the window one last time and, seeing no one, returned to her office.

  With a clatter, Nick rose out of his chair and followed. “Why don’t you buy a new dress? I’ll give you the money if it means I don’t have to look at this dreary ensemble every morning.”

  Retreating behind her desk, she buried her head in a file. He was no better than the saloon owner, wanting to deck her out to amuse his clients.

  “Doesn’t that interest you?” He rested both hands on her desk and leaned forward. “What woman doesn’t want to look beautiful?”

  Anne slammed the file down, sending loose papers flying. “Me. I don’t. It’s not that I don’t know how to dress. It’s not that I’m lazy. It’s that I do not want attention from you or any other man. Do you understand?”

  Nicholas stepped back, mouth slightly open. Well, good. He needed to believe her. He needed to go back in his office and leave her be. If they were stuck until the Pucketts came looking for them, she wanted him as far away as possible.

  When he left, she was relieved. When he returned, wrestling the leather armchair through the doorway, she was horrified. With a thud he set it opposite her desk and planted himself squarely in front of her.

  “The waiting-room benches aren’t comfortable, and I plan to sit here awhile. I can’t concentrate with you flouncing around.”

  “I’ve never flounced in my life.” Her pen nib dug a hole in the balance sheet.

  “Since we have the time, how about you explain your objection to dressing like every other woman in Texas?”

  Anne dropped her pen and ducked her head behind the paper she held before her. “Why? To satisfy your curiosity?”

  She could feel his eyes burning through her paper shield.

  “For reasons I can hardly fathom, I do find myself curious.”

  Anne lifted the paper higher until she could no longer see him, but neither could she make out the words printed before her, her thoughts too jumbled to string the characters together.

  “Let me tell the story and see if I get it right,” Nicholas said. “After you dissected me to the marrow, it’s only fair. Let’s see . . . you grew up playing with the boys, never thought you were any different. Maybe you even made fun of the girls from town. They weren’t tough; they weren’t fun. But then you grew up.”

  The mocking tone disappeared. He spoke with a kindness that was unwelcome.

  “What made you grow up? Was it a country boy—best shot in the woods—and you were trying to catch his eye? Or maybe the parson’s son? You had to dress up for church—”

  The paper that shielded her face shook. “Why are you doing this? You, with your storybook childhood, the favored son, you wouldn’t understand.”

  He slowly pushed her paper lower. “But I want to.”

  The concern in his eyes surprised her. Ever since their parting on the train he’d seemed like the fickle man she remembered f
rom home. This intuitive, perceptive man was hidden behind social prattle and economic maneuvering, but when he made an appearance, she wanted him to stay.

  Warily, she watched for the first sign of ridicule or annoyance. She would regret it, but she couldn’t help herself. No one had ever asked so sincerely. Besides Mrs. Puckett no one else had asked . . . period.

  “It wasn’t a boy,” she said. “It was a man.”

  “Jay Tillerton?”

  She nodded and buttoned her duster up a notch against the evening chill seeping into the room. “My teacher. He said I was a good student, had a lot of promise. He told me stories of fine ladies and opportunities. Talked sweet. None of it was true. The only opportunities he gave me . . .” Why was she telling him? It sure didn’t do her any favors. “I was just a stupid girl.”

  Her heart pounded, whether from the memories of the horror she’d lived through or from Nicholas’s gentleness, she didn’t know.

  “Do you feel like your beauty made you vulnerable?”

  Beauty? Anne wouldn’t go that far, but neither could she deny that she was vulnerable. Even now, knowing how fickle Nicholas was, knowing how he regretted ever seeing her and fought against hiring her, even now she could see how he could win her trust if she wasn’t vigilant. Nice enough to get close, strong enough to hurt her.

  “I learned that I can take care of myself. I could’ve all along, but escaping Jay proved it. I see no reason to pretend I’m the helpless girl he wanted.”

  Nicholas placed his hand palm down on the desk. “Heaven help the person who thinks you’re helpless.”

  She met his eyes, drinking in the understanding she read in them. Could it be that he disguised even more than she did?

  She looked away. What was behind this mask of compassion? What was he trying to get from her? How could he understand her when she didn’t understand herself?

  “Nick! Are you up there?”

  Nicholas slapped the desk, bounded to his feet, and pulled open the door.

  “Joel! Am I glad to see you!”

  “How did you manage to get caught high and dry?”

  “It’s a long story, but Anne and I are hungry. Can you find a ladder?”

  Anne. She stiffened at the sound of her name on his lips.

  “Roberts has one,” Joel said. “Sit tight.”

  His horse backed up the narrow alley and turned when it reached the corner of the building.

  Nicholas winked, rushed to his desk, and hurriedly gathered papers into his portfolio. “There’s something about knowing I can’t leave that makes me impatient. If we had stairs, I’d probably work all night, but now I can’t wait to get back on the ground.”

  Anne leaned against the doorframe. He didn’t seem the least uncomfortable with her. Not embarrassed by her story or faking an affectation of sorrow on her behalf. Maybe he’d already forgotten all about it.

  “Nights are pretty quiet at the Pucketts’. I could take some work home if you’d like, Mr. Lovelace.”

  He looked up. “I called you Anne, didn’t I? In front of Joel.” He rubbed his forehead. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Tillerton. I hope I didn’t embarrass you. Molly always called you Anne, and since then, when I’ve thought of you, that’s how I imagined you. You’re Anne to me.” He placed the portfolio in a larger case and snapped it closed. “If it offends you, I won’t say it again.”

  “It’s fine,” she said and then wondered what bothered her more—that she wasn’t offended or that he’d been thinking of her at all.

  “I knew I shouldn’t worry.” Mrs. Puckett’s knitting needles clicked cheerily. “Nicholas wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

  Rebuttal was on the tip of Anne’s tongue, but then she remembered the birdie lady from the train. At least one incident that spoke in his favor. Anne sat on the floor and didn’t resist when Sammy climbed into her lap. He babbled at her, swinging his arms, so she handed him two empty spools to beat together.

  Mrs. Puckett continued in her singsong voice. “I prayed for you today. Every time I wondered how you were doing, I’d send a quick request to the Lord to watch out for you, help you learn what Nick was teaching you, help you feel safe. I also prayed for Sammy’s father, that he’d be reunited with his son soon.”

  Anne absently combed Sammy’s thin blond hair with her fingers. She didn’t like someone talking to God about her. Shouldn’t Mrs. Puckett have asked her permission first? Maybe Anne didn’t want her plight brought to His attention. Whenever God looked her way, it seemed that trouble followed hard behind.

  “You are certainly quiet,” Mrs. Puckett said. “Probably worn out. If you’d like to go on up, I can bring Sammy in later. He took a late nap.”

  “I’m not tired, just run out of things to say.”

  “I can imagine. You worked all day long, and I feel awful about it. We don’t need any money. That Joel should tend his own affairs and leave us be.” The needles paused as she let out more yarn. “Having you and Sammy here has been a joy to my heart. My own daughters have carted my sweet grandchildren plumb out of reach, leaving only Joel, and he’s been nothing but a disappointment.”

  The pronouncement dripped with indulgence. Clearly, Mrs. Puckett would forgive her son anything.

  A luxury Anne couldn’t imagine.

  “So tell me about your own family,” Mrs. Puckett urged. “Robert goes to bed so early that my evenings have been quite dull of late. I hope you don’t mind a tête-à-tête.”

  “My family . . .” What to say? There was her father, who dragged home from the stone quarry to cradle his jug and sit on the porch. Many nights, long after her brothers had come in from their adventures in the woods and gone to bed, Anne lingered, hoping that her pa would notice the black-eyed Susans she’d arranged by the washbasin, or that he’d have a kind word for the dinner she’d cooked. But he didn’t. And asking him if he noticed felt too needy, too pathetic.

  “My mother died when I was born,” Anne said, “so my father and brothers had to put up with me.”

  “You poor thing. I bet you were the apple of your father’s eye.”

  Anne wedged her finger into Sammy’s grasp alongside the spool. “You could say that . . .” Because you weren’t there.

  “So you married and moved to Texas? I can’t seem to recall exactly how your husband passed away.”

  Anne’s mouth went dry. Mrs. Puckett was tying off her knitting, not even looking her way, but she couldn’t fib, not even to keep a roof over her and Sammy’s head.

  “I shot him.”

  Mrs. Puckett dropped the yarn, sending it rolling to Anne’s feet with a trailing line. She gave a nervous chuckle. “I’m sorry. I thought you said that you shot him.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I did.”

  Mrs. Puckett’s mouth trembled. She set her needles down firmly on the side table with a clatter. “Well, I’m sure he had it coming.”

  Without thinking, Anne pulled Sammy against her and buried her nose in his sweet-smelling hair. “I had reason enough for two years, but when he attacked my neighbor lady, I knew I couldn’t stand by and watch. You can tell your son if you need to. The judge cleared me.”

  “I won’t tell him if you’d rather me not, although he would be interested.”

  “It doesn’t matter too much. Mr. Lovelace has surely spilled the beans by now.”

  Mrs. Puckett’s eyebrows rose. “Nicholas knows? You were acquaintances then?”

  “Not really. His sister befriended me after Jay died.”

  Anne looked over her shoulder. Speaking his name aloud couldn’t summon him from the grave, but it did resurrect a hopelessness that had nearly destroyed her. While in his grasp she never knew whose hand would take her life—his or her own.

  “What you must have gone through.” Mrs. Puckett continued her words of comfort, but they fell unheard as she gathered the ball of yarn.

  Jay had stolen everything from her, and he was still destroying. She had no peace, she had no relationships, she had no safety. Eve
ryone was suspect, and if she didn’t learn from her mistakes, it could happen again.

  “I apologize for bringing up painful memories. Is there anything I can do?” Mrs. Puckett’s sweet face was furrowed with concern.

  “I’m fine.” Anne didn’t lift her eyes from Sammy, and from the pause, she guessed Mrs. Puckett didn’t believe her.

  “If you aren’t busy Sunday, we’d be honored to have you accompany us to church. My friends dote on Sammy, and they’d love to meet you, too.”

  Anne grunted her approval. Anything to speed the coming of the night. She wanted to know what nightmares she’d be fighting. Mrs. Puckett was only delaying the inevitable.

  “And, Anne, I want you to be assured that you are safe. At least here in my house you are. Mr. Puckett won’t lay a hand on you—he doesn’t even speak harshly. Joel acts gruff, but he’d never hurt a woman. And Nicholas . . . well, how could anyone be afraid of him? He is courtesy and charm personified.”

  Anne wished she could believe her. The charming ones worked the hardest to hide what they really wanted. Nicholas might not even know what he was capable of—but she did.

  There’d be no sleep tonight. Not for Anne.

  The rock building with the sweeping arches and honey-colored pews was the finest structure in town, much nicer than the simple wooden church Nicholas had attended in his childhood. Sundays were his favorite day of the week. Fine manners, spiffy suits, languid lunches at the hotel—everyone gracing the church lawn was on their best behavior and at their most presentable.

  At least that’s what he thought until he saw Anne.

  “Is that the woman from the train?” Miss Walcher spread her fan over her lips while exchanging significant glances with her companions. “I don’t think she’s changed clothes since.”

  “She has,” Nick said. “Those trousers are canvas, not buckskin.” And she wore them to church.

  “Must be her Sunday best.” Miss Walcher’s fan fluttered under her eyes.

  “Well, I’m glad she’s here.” Nick’s back straightened. “Don’t forget, she saved my life . . . while I was saving yours.”

  Chastened, Miss Walcher clasped the gold locket at her neck, hopefully thinking of how her attempt to save it had put them all in danger. “You’re right. I must insist on an introduction. Would you do the honors?”