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

by Regina Jennings

  “You aren’t talking about my job?”

  “No, ma’am. I offended you and I was wrong, but that’s only the beginning of my trouble.” He ran his hand through his hair, now curly in the night’s humidity. “Tomorrow we vote on the bridge—the day I finally perform my duties as commissioner—but Mr. Stanford introduced the topic on the way to Caddo, and he made it exceedingly clear that there would be consequences if I voted for the construction.”

  Anne could feel her hackles rise. “How dare he interfere? What if you turned him in? He could get in trouble for trying to sway your opinion.”

  “I couldn’t understand why I was appointed commissioner. I had no experience, few connections. Now I know. I overheard Ophelia and Judge Calloway in his chambers. I don’t want to believe it, because if what they said is true—”

  “The judge is dirty.” Anne’s throat tightened. Trusting those whose duty it was to uphold the law did not come easy for her. “Please overlook my lack of surprise.”

  He closed his eyes. “I’m such a fool. I thought I was appointed to this office because of some talent I possessed, some quality that put me above my peers. Instead, they thought I’d be easily manipulated. They set the trap and I walked right into it.”

  “I know a thing or two about traps, Nicholas Lovelace. You aren’t trapped.” However much she might fight with him, she was even more willing to fight for him. “With your money and contacts—”

  “Anne, that’ll all be gone. I have a business, but my only customer is the NTT Railroad. My contacts come through the Stanfords’ good recommendations. Even their competitors won’t cross them. I’ll be finished.” Nick sank onto the bench, resting his elbows on his knees. “I know what I have to do, but it feels like I’m ripping my heart out and serving it to them on a silver platter. If there was some other way . . .”

  Anne found herself at his side, her hand on his shoulder. “They’ll try to tear you apart, Nick, but you have to be stronger, or at least strong enough to take it. But you won’t be by yourself. If it’s any comfort, I’ll be here with you. You won’t go through this alone.”

  With a swiftness that startled her, he turned to her. Nick wrapped his arms around her waist, pulled her between his knees and hid his face against her side. Anne stood with her arms raised above the rippling fabric of his white shirt. His strength had always frightened her, but this was different. His bowed head reminded her of Sammy when he looked for comfort. Could she care for Nick in the same way? Could she love him? The fierce protectiveness erupting in her heart told her that she already did.

  Timidly, she lowered her arms, allowing her hands to rest on his shoulders, surprised by the tension bristling there. Working one hand to his neck, she threaded her fingers through his hair, cradling his head against her. Her heart welled with unfamiliar warmth, hardly believing this tenderness could be for the man she’d fought with every day since she arrived in Garber. When had she grown to care? Looking at the broken man before her she knew the answer—she’d been waiting for Nick to need her as badly as she needed him.

  His back stretched as he took a long breath. His voice was muffled, but easily understood. “I don’t want to let go, mostly because I’m afraid to see your face. No doubt you’re laughing at me for being a weakling.”

  Allowing herself to appreciate the luxury of his thick hair, Anne paused before answering. “You were strong for me after the train robbery, and you’d do it again if I needed you.”

  Nicholas turned his face up to hers. “Can you forgive me for leaving you at Ophelia’s mercy? You won’t do her bidding again.”

  “I never did.”

  Nick released her. Anne stepped away, not sure what should happen next. After a hug like that she would’ve kissed Sammy, patted him on the backside, and sent him to his toys. Nicholas wasn’t as easily dismissed.

  “Tomorrow I vote.” He stood, once again in control of his destiny—and a mite too close for comfort. “The consequences are in God’s hands.”

  The masculine scent of his shaving lotion teased her, reminding her that Nick was no child. She stepped back. “Are you going to expose their plot?”

  “Not without further proof. Confronting a judge based on one incident of eavesdropping would be reckless, possibly dangerous, and you mustn’t get involved.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.” Until she looked into his eyes. No longer was he only her employer or another dandy on the street. He’d sought her. She was someone to him, and the thought pleased her.

  He stepped toward her. Anne clasped her shaking hands. She’d promised to stay with him. She couldn’t run now. Brushing against her collar, Nicholas lifted a curl and tugged it gently. “Thank you, Anne. I cherish your friendship all the more knowing how poorly I deserve it.”

  Anne’s pulse raced. If he pressed his head against her chest now, he’d be pounded by her leaping heart. She gave him a cocky grin, hoping to exude a lightheartedness that was far from natural. “I’ll be waiting to hear from you, and if you don’t show by noon, I’ll track you down.”

  “We’ll hope you’re the only one hunting for me, but it’ll be after supper.”

  “Another business meeting?”

  “No, it’s a campaign dinner the Stanfords planned weeks ago to show their support.”

  Anne didn’t think it was as humorous as he did. “And they are still going to have it?”

  Nick shrugged. “After the vote tomorrow, it might be a lynching.”

  17

  Judge Calloway entered the small meeting room and took his seat. Nick was surprised to see he hadn’t gone through the formality of donning his robe. Perhaps he didn’t consider the five commissioners worth the effort. He greeted them, his expression impassive, considering what was at stake. Then again, Nick, not the judge, stood to lose everything.

  “Commissioner Prater, yea or nay?” Judge Calloway slid a paper before him and took his pen in hand.

  If only the unadorned room felt more significant. Nick was sacrificing his career. Was it too much to wish for a suitable venue? A coliseum would be nice. Padded chairs at the least.

  “Nay.” Prater chomped at his cigar as if crushing the bridge between his teeth.

  “Commissioner Anderson, yea or nay?” the judge asked.

  David sat opposite of Nick at the square table. He folded his hands before him.

  “Yea.”

  Two precincts to go before reaching Nick’s. His head throbbed. Maybe Ian Stanford was throwing empty threats. Why would the man ostracize him when he was on the brink of winning the election? Wouldn’t Ian have more to gain by working with Nicholas rather than opposing him? While he couldn’t base his decisions on their wishes, it might happen that they’d agree on the next issue. But his arguments did nothing to slow his racing pulse.

  “Commissioner Reynolds, yea or nay?”

  “Yea.”

  Who was he fooling? He wouldn’t place his fate on vain hopes. No, Nick would make this vote in full recognition of the consequences. From here on he would have a powerful enemy, but he wouldn’t falter. Nicholas sat a bit taller and nodded when he met Anderson’s gaze. The people of Blackstone County wouldn’t be inconvenienced to serve his agenda.

  “Commissioner Hill, yea or nay?”

  “Yea.”

  “And finally . . . Commissioner Lovelace, yea or nay?”

  Nick swallowed. One word and his life was changed.

  “Hold up a second.” David Anderson leaned forward. “What’s the vote?”

  Judge Calloway consulted his paper. “Three votes yea. One vote nay. We only await Commissioner Lovelace’s vote.”

  David rapped his knuckles on the table. “Then I make the motion to call it. There’s no reason to cast any more votes. The bridge passes no matter what Commissioner Lovelace does.”

  The judge’s eyes slid from David to Nicholas. A sly smile appeared. “If Commissioner Anderson would like to call the vote, I’d approve. No use in beating a dead ho
rse. Is the board in agreement?”

  Eyes shifted, feet shuffled, but eventually assent was mumbled. Nick’s jaw dropped. Around the table papers were gathered and chairs were pushed away from the table.

  What had happened? Had God spared him this test? Nicholas stood, not yet able to believe his good fortune. He’d been reprieved from crossing Ian and Ophelia. They would honor their contract and he could keep his conscience. Everything had worked out perfectly.

  But then he thought of Anne.

  Ophelia’s demands. Ian’s threat. How could he pretend to play their game any longer? Never again would he count himself blessed to share in their success. He had to destroy any path that might lead him back into their fold.

  “Wait!”

  Conversation ceased. Startled faces turned to him. Judge Calloway’s knuckles turned white on his fountain pen.

  Nick cleared his throat. “I’m a commissioner. It’s my duty to cast my vote.”

  “It’s not necessary,” David said. “The bridge has been approved.”

  Judge Calloway shook his head. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but why don’t you save it for the next battle.”

  Nick met the judge’s gaze. “Because the next battle will come, and I’ll be too weak to fight if I cower at this one.” From where had this strength come? His voice sounded firm even to his own ears. “I’m voting and my vote is yea. Please record it with the others.”

  The judge blinked once, and then with the same deliberation he used to sign a death warrant, his pen moved over the page. Nick watched as congratulations were shared by some and whispers by others, mostly as they looked his direction in wonderment. Commissioner Reynolds picked up his satchel and exited with Prater. Judge Calloway shook hands, made arrangements for future dinner appointments, and left. Suddenly exhausted, Nick wanted to leave, but his legs refused to obey. Thankfully, David stayed behind.

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  Nicholas pried his hand open and dropped his sweaty pen on the table. “Ian was right about one thing. The vote wasn’t about the bridge. It was about loyalty. Whether or not the bridge would pass, I had to choose a side.”

  “So where do you go from here?”

  Nick rubbed his brow. “I suppose first I need to let Harold know that his employment is tenuous, then I’ll do my daily correspondence with my crews on the line, make sure I’m honoring my end of this partnership for as long as it’s in effect. Then tonight . . . tonight is a fund-raising gala given in my honor by the Stanfords.” He grunted. “I’m guaranteed a warm reception, don’t you imagine?”

  “Warm?” David whistled. “You might as well douse yourself in kerosene and carry a flint.”

  The needle jabbed into Anne’s finger. She jerked her hand away, bouncing the striped material off her lap and onto the floor.

  Mrs. Puckett peered over her own stitching as Anne waved her hand, trying to shake the sting off the much-abused finger. “Slow down, dear. Instead of stabbing the material, try easing the needle through.”

  Anne bent to pick up her dropped work. Sewing Sammy a new gown wasn’t distracting her as much as she’d wished. She shouldn’t have promised Nicholas she’d wait for him at the house after work. For the hundredth time, she searched the portion of the street visible from the window at her side. The Stanfords’ dinner probably hadn’t commenced yet. He could be gone for hours, but she couldn’t keep herself from watching for him.

  The afternoon had stretched like a tortoise’s neck. She’d polished the brass and trimmed the wicks, but besides sharing a picture book with Sammy, she’d noted every second of her wait.

  “Watching at the window isn’t going to bring him home any faster,” Mrs. Puckett said.

  Anne felt her face grow hot, wondering what else Mrs. Puckett had surmised. “I can’t help it. If only there was something I could do.”

  Sammy pulled up to the window and tapped at it, grinning at his reflection.

  “Pray for him. He’s in God’s hands.”

  That’s what they said, all these cherished women who lived in quiet houses with their decent men. But didn’t she want it to be true? Hadn’t she decided to believe there was a God who could handle all her hurts? Either there was one or there wasn’t—her belief wouldn’t change the facts. If He existed and she refused to acknowledge Him, then she’d be guilty of a terrible offense.

  Sammy babbled to her, banging his fist against the glass. Of all the futures Sammy could’ve had—living with his mother over a saloon, being neglected by his outlaw father, being forgotten in a children’s home—he’d been given the best possible option. Anne loved him and cared for him. Mr. and Mrs. Puckett had both expressed their desire to be a family for him. She might need to find work, but as far as she could tell, Sammy was safe.

  And so was she. The more Anne saw of the stable relationship between the Pucketts and even Nick’s gentle patience with her, the more she could believe there was a God who was responsible for this good. And maybe there was more good than she’d ever imagined. Maybe women gathered in houses everywhere and prayed for their families. Maybe men worked gladly to provide for their kin. At least she could acknowledge that the evil she’d experienced wasn’t a product of God’s Kingdom, but of her enemy’s. And if there was an enemy, well then, whose side would she take?

  She lifted her stitching and began again with gentler movements. “I will pray and trust Him.” She didn’t lift her eyes, but she felt Mrs. Puckett watching her.

  “That’s right, honey. Be willing to listen and He’ll let you know what to do.”

  Willing to listen? Willing to do what He wanted, even if she didn’t know what that would be? If only she could keep a bullet in the chamber, an escape if this Jesus thing didn’t work out the way she wanted.

  The row of neat stitches on the seam lengthened with her efforts. She’d halfway expected the Stanfords would cancel his fund-raising event, or Nick would decide not to attend. She knew she’d have a hard time accepting the hospitality of people who’d vowed to ruin her.

  Or had they? She tied a knot and bit off the thread. Nick had confessed that he might not be strong enough to go through with the vote. Had he changed his mind? What if in the end he’d compromised?

  Sammy took a fistful of material out of the scrap bag and waved it over his head. She gave him the smile he sought before pulling out another wad. She couldn’t believe that Nick and Mr. Stanford would find common ground. Come to think of it, she couldn’t believe he’d sit across a table from Ophelia Stanford and make small talk.

  Had Anne once again misjudged a man?

  The back of a tightly laced satin gown was all Nick had seen of Ophelia thus far. Although she was everywhere in her gilded salon, their paths never crossed, and she was too polished to cancel a social event and abandon her guests, even if she despised the guest of honor. Judge Calloway must have reported the vote to them immediately, and if there was any detail left in question, the judge was clarifying it now behind the oak doors of Ian Stanford’s study, where a handful of influential men had disappeared more than half an hour ago.

  Nicholas smiled warmly and shook the offered hand. But not everyone knew . . . or cared. Ian Stanford would get to vote once, just like the rest of the men. Ophelia, based on her sex, wouldn’t even get that. His campaign would chug along with or without the Stanfords. He’d advertised. He’d canvassed. Four days—that’s all the time they had to disparage his character. The weekly newspaper wouldn’t even run before then.

  Amid the introductions and the well-wishes, he spotted Joel and his freshly trimmed beard. Joel’s quizzical expression rested on the entryway, where a couple was just arriving.

  Philip Walton. Nick’s opponent.

  Philip helped his wife out of her coat and handed it to Theo, evidently on good terms with the Stanfords’ butler.

  Beaming, Ophelia weaved her way toward them. She slowed at the sight of the beautiful Mrs. Walton, a young lady whose poise rivaled her own, then with determined
steps took both of them by the arms and escorted them into Ian’s office.

  Heads turned toward Nick, but his smile didn’t waver. There was relief to be found when an adversary showed his hand. No more dreading the strike, no more wondering if you were truly at odds. The first shot had been fired, and he knew the enemy. While he wasn’t prepared to expose the corruption, he was ready to fight it. Winning this election was a moral imperative. The issue had grown to encompass more than a bridge. It was about ruthless, self-serving men being at the helm, steering the populace for their own profit.

  “What’s he doing here?” Joel took a pastry from a silver tray that floated past. “I can’t believe Walton would talk to Stanford, much less bring his wife to Ian’s house.”

  “He’s the new favorite son.” Nicholas shrugged. “It’s a long story, but I can’t squander my time tonight talking to you.”

  Joel nodded, not the least bit offended. “Whatever you did wrong, you did it thoroughly.”

  “As if I know any other way,” Nick grunted.

  “Find me when you have the time.” Joel tossed the pastry into his mouth. “I can’t wait to hear.”

  But Joel’s curiosity would have to wait.

  Wanting to view the disaster firsthand, people gathered around Nick as though he were a tightrope walker, but he wouldn’t stumble with an audience. He answered the concerns of the businessmen eager to facilitate transportation. He took suggestions from the local doctor about the proper setup for a lunatic asylum that was overdue for the county. With a local minister he discussed the amount allocated for pauper burial.

  Then the office doors opened and the men spilled out.

  “Good evening, gentlemen.” Ian pulled his coat back, exposing the chain of his gold watch. “I want to thank you for your attendance and your attention to your civic duty, and in the interest of providing balanced information and real alternatives, we decided to introduce you to both men running for the office.”