Romance in the Rain
Page 1
Romance in the Rain
A Seattle Anthology
Splendor in the Moss © Charlotte Russell 2012
Final Approach © Marianne Stillings 2012
Love Phantom © Dawn Kravagna 2012
Shelter From The Storm © Clare Tisdale 2012
What’s Wrong With Mr. Perfect? © Sherri Shaw 2012
Aftershocks © Kristine Cayne 2012
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9849034-4-3
Book cover design by Scarlett Rugers Design 2012
http://www.scarlettrugers.com/
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
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Romance in the Rain
A Seattle Anthology
From the pioneer days of Seattle through the smoke-filled clouds of WWII and into the present, Romance in The Rain takes readers on a journey with four generations of the strong-willed and passionate Caldwell family. The anthology of six novellas is a collaboration of the Seattle-based Rainy Day Writers group.
Splendor in the Moss by Charlotte Russell—By the spring of 1853 Englishman James Caldwell has traveled thousands of miles in a quest to find a place to call home. Newly settled Seattle isn’t that place and he’s ready to move on again when widowed Mattie Jensen marches into his life as somber as a cloudy day. But James can see through the solemn haze to Mattie’s strength and passion. Now he has a reason to stay, if he can just convince Mattie to take a second chance on love—and him. (22,000 words)
Final Approach by Marianne Stillings—With the world at war, Women’s Auxiliary Ferrying Service pilot Lt. Charlene (Charlie) Thompson faces personal battles as well. Pearl Harbor left her a widowed bride, certain love would never come again – but battle-scarred Capt. Joe Caldwell has other ideas for the beautiful lady flyer, if he can just keep her safe from the secret saboteur who’s already taken the life of Charlie’s best friend. (18,000 words)
Love Phantom by Dawn Kravagna—University of Washington, 1983: A great place to get an education and meet single men. Drama major Kara Caldwell prefers to hide behind the characters in her plays, yet feels pressure to live up to the example set by her brave and witty grandmother, a veteran of WWII. Can she learn to overcome her reticence and prejudices to discover which guy truly cares for her—and who is just putting on an act? (17,000 words)
What’s Wrong with Mr. Perfect? by Sherri Shaw—No sooner did Chef Ivy Turin wish to meet the perfect man than Sam Rockney walked into her restaurant. But is the sexy Seattle quarterback for real or is there something wrong with Mr. Perfect? (17,000 words)
Shelter from the Storm by Clare Tisdale—Seven years and one broken heart later, JD Caldwell returns to Seattle to pick up the pieces of his old life, never imagining he will fall for Maya—the mysterious woman who lets him into her house and bed but keeps the door to her heart tightly closed. When their summer fling takes an unexpectedly serious turn and Maya gives him his walking papers, JD has to decide whether their love—and his legacy—is worth fighting for. (21,000 words)
Aftershocks by Kristine Cayne—When Seattle is struck by a devastating earthquake, technical rescue firefighter Jamie Caldwell must save his estranged wife and daughter from the wreckage of a collapsed building. He’s defied the odds hundreds of times, but will his luck finally run out for good? (24, 000 words)
Table of Contents
Splendor in the Moss
Final Approach
Love Phantom
Shelter From The Storm
What’s Wrong With Mr. Perfect?
Aftershocks
Splendor in the Moss
By
Charlotte Russell
Chapter 1
Seattle, Washington Territory, May 1853
“Tilford, are we alive?” James Caldwell did not open his eyes, but the absence of the sound of raindrops plopping onto the canvas roof caused him to think he’d died and gone to a dry afterlife. He shifted on his straw pallet, which poked and pricked him enough to prove he was indeed alive.
“Aye, sir. We are alive and well on this fine day.” Tilford’s cheery voice came from the far side of the tent—all of eight feet away.
By James’s calculations—and granted he had never had the mind for mathematics his oldest brother did—he’d grown up in a house at least one hundred times the size of this tent. With quarters this small, it was a good thing he liked Tilford. Of course, he wouldn’t have asked the manservant to follow him from England if he hadn’t, but still, their adventure had thrown them much closer together.
“By alive, do you mean we are still in this godforsaken place and not in heaven? And by fine, do you mean it hasn’t rained yet?” Just because it wasn’t raining now didn’t mean it wouldn’t start again soon. It always did.
“Open your eyes, sir, and observe the fair skies. I think we might escape the rain for today. Shall we set to work on the cabin?”
Tilford, ever the optimist. James saw it as his duty to keep the man from dying of happiness. “I don’t care if the sun shines for the next ten days. We are leaving this wet, moss-covered piece of land as soon as possible.”
He sat up. Sunshine limned the entire tent, giving it an ethereal glow. “Ahhh! My eyes are burning.”
Tilford turned his back and let out a frustrated sigh.
“I’m jesting, Tilford. Of course we’ll start on the cabin; it will give us something to do until we leave. I’m certain the next claimant will appreciate the dry shelter.”
“Very good, sir.” Tilford’s face, lean and framed by dark wavy hair, beamed once more. “I will step outside and build the fire for our breakfast.”
James nodded. Once the manservant was gone he washed up and donned a fresh shirt, trousers, and boots. Muddy boots. The rain had fallen every day since he and Tilford had arrived at this new, sparse settlement named Seattle after the chief of the Duwamish Indians.
The United States government was offering new settlers a land grant of three hundred and twenty acres and James had staked a claim to this hilltop meadow surrounded by trees. Most of the settlers who had arrived in the last eighteen months had claimed the land along the shores of Elliott Bay. He, however, had chosen a plot farther east, about two and a half miles from the water, thinking he might be able to sell it as the settlement expanded. Unlike the others, he had no need to strip the land of its trees and sell the timber, so the plot could be quite valuable in a few years.
The tall evergreen trees were a sight to behold and the hills made for an interesting landscape, but after spending eleven days here, James had found nothing that begged him to stay and quite a few things urging him to jump back on a ship to Baltimore. Most of them being raindrops.
He raised the flap on the tent and stepped outside. The bright blue sky hovering over the green trees and even greener meadow captured his attention.
“Magnificent.”
The word slipped out unbidden. He glanced around, hoping Tilford hadn’t heard him. The other man had lit the
fire, but wasn’t tending to it. Instead, James saw his tall, thin figure on the other side of the tent, staring off into the distance.
“For God’s sakes, man, you can take one of your photographs if you must, but we are not going to fawn over the scenery just because of a little sunshine.”
Instantly he regretted his petulant words, for Tilford didn’t deserve them. In truth, James was frustrated with himself. He’d left England four years ago to strike out on his own, to make a life away from his family. But ever since, he’d felt as if he were chasing an elusive star. Three years in Baltimore, another four months sailing around the southern tip of the Americas, a few months in San Francisco, none of it had brought him peace or a measure of happiness or any idea of how to survive on his own without running through his inheritance.
And now he’d landed in this bog.
“Sir, I think you should see this.” The awe in Tilford’s voice drew his curiosity.
James strode to the back side of the tent, stopping short at the corner. “My God.”
He was facing southeast now, where there was an opening in the trees surrounding their clearing. A majestic, snow-draped mountain towered over the evergreen trees, as if it were sitting on a throne overseeing its kingdom. One small cloud hovered over the peak like a crown. It was beautiful.
“I would like to correct myself, sir,” Tilford whispered. “I believe we have died and gone to heaven.”
Seeing the rapturous joy on the other man’s face, James didn’t have the heart to play the grumbletonian. “It’s marvelous. Why don’t we eat our breakfast on this side of the tent?”
Tilford grinned and set about cooking eggs, bacon, and trout while James retrieved their only seating, two stools, from inside the tent and situated them to face the white, craggy mountain. He sat down and lifted his face to the sun. The morning was refreshingly pleasant, though a little cool. With no cloud cover it should warm up nicely.
“Do you remember what Mr. Denny called the mountain?” Tilford asked as he handed James a sturdy metal plate. Mr. Denny was one of the original settlers and now one of the nascent town’s eminent leaders.
“Mount Rainier, though I think the natives call it Tahoma. I had begun to think Mr. Denny spun the tale about the mountain so as to keep our spirits up.” The aroma of his breakfast distracted him from the view for a few minutes. “I am forever grateful you can cook, Tilford. I would have wasted away to nothing if not for you.”
The manservant looked him over, but astutely didn’t comment on how far away James was from ‘wasting away.’ “Thank you for catching the fish.”
“Today would be a perfect day to fish,” James mused. “Nothing like that dark, gloomy day I spent huddled beneath a tree, begging the fish to—”
A vision of beauty caught his eye. Was there no end to the splendor of this day? She emerged from the trees on the west side of the clearing, a basket slung over her arm and a large straw hat covering most of her dark brown hair. The breeze tossed her patterned dress about her legs, shapely legs that James appreciated more than the sunshine. There was nothing he’d missed more on this journey than women.
A black dog raced out of the same copse, barking and circling the woman. She walked on, unmindful. Another woman stepped out of the woods, also carrying a basket. This one noticed James and Tilford. She ran to catch up to the other woman and pointed them out.
As the women approached, James grinned at Tilford.
“Indeed, sir,” the other man sighed.
At last the ladies drew up before them. The second one smiled, her blue eyes merry and bright. A snug yellow dress showed off her gentle curves, though a shawl tied around her shoulders kept it from being too revealing. “Good morning, gentlemen.”
The dog rushed past them all and pounced on James’s discarded plate, licking it clean. James laughed, as did the others, except for the first woman.
“I’m terribly sorry,” she said in a flat accent that told him she hailed from the middle of the country. “We don’t mean to intrude.”
She looked at Tilford, then at James, and then past them both. Her eyes were brown, a light golden color that should have sparkled in the sunlight. Instead, bleakness clouded any vivacity, making her look sad—and out of place on this bright day.
James could coax a smile out of her. Everyone said he had inherited his father’s charm, his mother’s artistic eye, and nary a useful thought from either. If even he could be cajoled out of the dismals on a day like today, so could she. “We are always happy to have visitors, especially pretty ones.” He sank to his haunches and scratched the dog’s ear, saying in a loud whisper, “I’ll give you all the bacon you want if you’ll bring these lovely creatures back every day until we leave.”
The blue-eyed one laughed, Tilford probably just refrained from rolling his eyes (James couldn’t see his face), and the brown-eyed one stared past him at Mount Rainier.
Well.
He rose and bowed. “I’m James Caldwell and this is Tilford. We are pleased to make your acquaintance. At least, I am. Perhaps I shouldn’t speak for Tilford.”
Tilford shot him a wicked look. “I’ve found many reasons to love this area, but I can only look upon the acquaintance of these two ladies as further blessing.” Then the old fox winked at the one in the yellow dress.
Tilford, flirting? The sun had gone to his head surely.
She smiled back at him in a way that clearly approved of his appreciation. “I’m Miss Stover and this is Mrs. Jensen.”
Mrs. Looked like James would be better off wooing the dog. Even an unhappily married woman—for she must be with such a desolate expression—was forbidden.
“Miss Stover,” Tilford said, his voice as smooth as butter, “I cannot get enough of this view. Would you care to stroll to the top of the hill with me? I do believe the prospect from there will be even more admirable.”
Tilford was putting him to shame, but James wasn’t going to compete for Miss Stover’s affections. They weren’t going to be here in Seattle long enough for more than a mere flirtation.
Miss Stover set her basket down and took Tilford’s arm. With the dog bounding beside them, they walked away. James crossed his arms over his chest and eyed Mrs. Jensen. Her skin was pale but unblemished and her full lips might possibly look sensuous if they’d only unbend from that grim line. All in all, he couldn’t deny she was pretty. Not that it mattered. She clearly didn’t appreciate his admiration and neither would Mr. Jensen.
Looking all the more wretched at being stuck with James, she said, “You’re the lord, aren’t you?”
She’d finally spoken and her words mystified him. “I beg your pardon?”
“The aristocrat? The Lord Caldwell everyone’s been talking about.” Her disdain could have filled a bucket faster than a sudden rain shower.
He managed not to speak through gritted teeth. “My father is Lord Kensworth, a viscount in England. I am simply Mr. Caldwell, wherever I go.”
The breeze lifted a lock of hair off her forehead. She smoothed it back under her hat. “And you are leaving, yes?”
James rocked back on his heels, stunned. He had never put off a woman this quickly. At least not since his boyhood days when he was habitually caked in mud and kept frogs in his pocket. “I am sorry if my presence here offends you, Mrs. Jensen. I wasn’t aware that Englishmen were prohibited in the Territory of Washington.” His hardened tone should tell her he wasn’t sorry at all.
Her cheeks flushed pink, whether from embarrassment or anger he didn’t know, but the color only made her prettier. Which in turn maddened James. Such a crosspatch had no right to be pretty.
“You implied you were leaving,” she said, her sharp tone stinging him. “You remarked that perhaps my dog would lead us back here ‘every day until you leave.’” One indignant eyebrow flew high. “And, I am fully aware only American citizens may stake a claim.”
When were Tilford and his agreeable woman coming back? James looked up the hill and saw the two
of them enjoying a comfortable coze. He turned back and smiled at his own companion, feeling more awkward than charming. “Forgive my manners, Mrs. Jensen. Would you care to sit?” He waved at one of the stools.
“No, thank you.” She too eyed her friend and Tilford.
Well, they had wanting to part company in common.
“Let me at least take your basket.” James lifted it off her arm, noting the leaves and roots inside. His politeness had got him nowhere and now his irritation returned. “Just so you are even more fully aware, I am allowed to make a land claim if I promise to become an American citizen. However, Tilford and I do intend to leave soon. The climate doesn’t suit me and I would prefer to leave before I’m grown over with moss.”
She looked James up and down with nary a hint of a smile at his quip. “Is the weather not the same in England? I’ve often heard it said so.”
She might as well have added the appellation “you ninny” to the end of her question, for her contempt was clear. James almost gave in to the cowardly temptation to call Tilford back. After the last five minutes he shouldn’t care whether Mrs. Jensen liked him or not. Nonetheless, it bothered him that she didn’t.
“I suppose I can’t say for certain, having only been here for a short time, but it seems to rain even more here. In England I lived in a house. A large house. Not a tent. And I could ride. There isn’t a single carriage or wagon for miles around here. I don’t even have a horse. What is an Englishman without a horse?”
God, he did sound like a ninny. A spoiled one, at that.
He should bow to Mrs. Jensen’s brilliance—she’d got him to agree with her disparaging assessment of his person.
At any rate, from this moment on, he would take the oft-repeated advice of his brothers: Just smile and look handsome, James.