by Kari Trumbo
He stepped closer and forced himself to take back control of his feelings. He couldn’t look away. She opened her eyes and gasped, leaning forward and wrapping her arms about her waist. He draped the blanket around her. “I was wrong. Turner went to get the carriage.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Where is Constance?”
Would she be frightened if he told her the truth? He couldn’t lie. Constance wouldn’t have just stayed back there alone. “She walked back with Turner.”
Frances pulled the blanket closer around her shoulders. “I should’ve expected that. She’s acted so different from her letters. I’m not even sure why she agreed to let me come and stay. I think she thought I wasn’t serious about who I was and where I come from. Like my life was a lark, just waiting to be revealed.” She bit her lip. “This puts us in a bit of a compromising situation. While I could go back home, you would have to bear the brunt of the gossip. I’m sorry, Clive.”
She was so utterly different from any woman he’d ever met, and especially so near the contrast of her friend. Constance was her complete opposite. “Think nothing of it. As long as Turner and Constance say nothing, we’re fine. I have no intention of letting anything happen.”
Frances turned her face back to the lake, and it was as if the sun had set, taking its warmth with it.
“Why are you suddenly so kind to me? You wanted me to leave your desk before I even sat down that first day. I guess that nose for news must work, you knew there would be nothing of note in talking to me.”
Her trembling lip left him speechless. How could she think about failure at this moment? “I didn’t want you to sit because I thought you were some unknown woman ruined by Dunworthy. And I was about ready to go searching for a story. I haven’t been able to do my job since meeting you.” He laughed at the irony. He hadn’t had the time to do what he’d done before, but he also hadn’t thought it quite so important since meeting her either.
“Well, it appears I won’t be taking you away from your work anymore.”
“Don’t give up. With Constance and I there, he can’t get too familiar with you. If you relax, you might have a good time.” He swallowed the bile pooling at the back of his throat. What a terrible schemer he was. “If...you really don’t enjoy your time with Turner, perhaps...” No, he couldn’t. He was already too filled with thoughts of her. If he allowed himself more time, he’d be sunk and so would his career. He was the youngest chief news reporter the Union had ever had. He couldn’t fail his boss.
“Perhaps what, Clive?” She faced him, her soft white cheeks begging for his hands and lips bright with the chill from the lake. He couldn’t let himself get pulled in, but how he wanted to.
“I was going to say, that perhaps I could take you, but that would never work.”
First surprise with a hint of joy passed over her eyes, then disappeared.
“I suppose you’re right. You have feelings for Constance, and I would never hurt her. She does have a soft spot for you. Then there’s also the fact that you don’t believe all those feelings exist, the very same one’s I want to feel so desperately so that I can portray them. You can’t exactly show any of those things to me, if you can’t—or won’t—feel them yourself. Wasn’t that the whole point of what you told me that very first day?”
Was it? He couldn’t remember. She’d completely ruined him with her honesty and had turned him down to boot. Why did this woman always take the unexpected path? He was beginning to think that the only way he’d ever be sure all that mush was real, was if she proved him wrong. That was a lesson he’d sit at the front of the class for.
Chapter 9
He couldn’t stop picturing Frances, even the next day sitting in his office, attempting to get work done. She’d left an indelible impression with her strands of golden hair falling damp down her back, drying in the sun as they’d waited for Turner to bring the carriage. Then, when they’d arrived and Dunworthy had been with them... He’d had to make a few promises to keep that dolt from printing Clive’s supposed indiscretion with Frances all over the paper—as if they were some juicy bit of gossip his admirers would gobble up. He hadn’t bothered to tell Frances how close she’d come to being the topic of whispers all over town, but she wasn’t a fool. Just that morning, after their meeting, he’d had to direct her out of the building and away from his desk, just in case Dunworthy was still around.
After convincing her to give Turner just one more chance, he’d had to take a handful of bicarbonate tablets. Just picturing the two together left his stomach roiling. He told himself that it was just one more night, then Turner would have to give her up. He wouldn’t push her again. Her recent experiences with Turner should be enough to add feeling into her story. And Clive was still willing to help her write, if she wanted him to.
That evening, the livery didn’t have a rig big enough to carry the three of them to the hotel, which meant he had to wait until they could find, clean, and hitch up something they dug out of the barn. Now, he was late picking up Frances and Constance. He clicked to the aged horse, but the poor thing had one pace, walk.
Frances and Constance waited outside in the garden as he pulled up, their gowns like huge butterflies fluttering on the breeze. Frances was a vision in a blue dress. He gulped down the obstruction in his throat and climbed from the old rig, forcing himself to look away from her for a moment to remember his purpose. He was only there to keep her safe, nothing more.
As he strode toward them, he took his wayward thoughts in hand. “Frances, Constance.” He nodded to each one. “We’re running a bit behind, but I have a minute to talk to your father. I wouldn’t want him thinking there’s anything going on. We’ll be in a very public place.”
Constance shook her head hard enough to loosen pins and glanced behind him. “I already told him where we were going. Let’s go before we’re too dreadfully late.”
Even he noticed the cool air between Constance and Frances. If they were no longer friends, would Frances ever return to Rapid City? Would anything else make her return?
The house loomed to his left. It wouldn’t take but a minute to talk to Mr. Charity and confirm that he had, indeed, been told. It could save a mess later, but they were already late and if Constance hadn’t told him and he refused to allow them to leave, it would be too late to find someone else. He ran his hand through his hair and offered each woman an elbow. “In for a penny, in for a pound. I guess.”
First Constance, then Frances wove their hand around one of his arms, and while Constance’s grip was much firmer and assured, Frances’s light touch was like lightning up his arm. He glanced to her and her wide lavender blue eyes told him she’d felt the shock too.
“Strange weather we’re having. Collects static,” he mumbled.
Constance laughed. “I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Davidson. We’ve had more damp lately than usual.”
She was right, but that didn’t explain the tingle that still drove up his arm in pleasant waves right where Frances’s fingers lightly gripped him.
Constance eyed him and a smile played at her lips. “What are we going to see tonight? It’s been so long since I’ve been to the theater.”
What had he gotten tickets for? He had to think hard to remember and he’d just bought them that afternoon. “Shakespeare, I believe.” He handed Constance up and she sat on the front bench. It was where she belonged as his partner for the evening, but his thoughts pictured Frances sitting beside him. He offered his hand to Frances to help her up into the bench seat in the back. She paused before laying her palm over his. If the electricity happened again, he missed it completely. They both stood for a moment, hesitating to make the connection. Her eyes widened then locked with his. A tinge of pink colored her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Mr. Davidson. I’m afraid I’m a bit out of sorts this evening. You’ll forgive me?”
“Of course.” Though she’d barely touched his hand, he gave in to the urge to rest his hand on her waist as she climbed up but releas
ed her as she situated herself and her skirts. He strode around the back of the carriage to his own seat and climbed up. Just what was he getting himself into? How could he pay any attention to Constance when Frances was quickly taking up every thought he had? He picked up the lines and Constance wove her hand under his elbow once again, sidling up to him. She was pretty, but he felt nothing for her other than pity over what she’d recently gone through so publicly with Reginald, and mild disgust at how she treated Frances.
“I think tonight will be a lively evening. How late will we be out?” She batted her lashes at him, and his distaste grew. She wouldn’t have given him a second glance if not for these odd circumstances.
He flicked the lines and set the horses in motion. “That all depends on Mr. Turner. If he decides we should stay out after the theater, then we will. Though, I hope he doesn’t ask us to stay out too late. I start work at four in the morning.”
Constance gasped and clutched at her neck. “Oh my, Mr. Davidson. That is early. I don’t think I’ve ever been out of bed at such a time. How about you, Frances? You do live on a farm, don’t you? That means you must get up terribly early.”
He waited for Frances to respond to Constance’s rude comment. She was the plucky sort, but Constance was her friend. Perhaps friends could get away with saying more than others could.
“Why yes, Connie. I do get outta’ bed powerful early,” she drawled, mimicking the way socialites made fun of working folk.
Constance gasped next to him, and this time it was real shock. He choked back a laugh. She’d deserved it.
Frances continued in her normal voice, “I do get up early on the ranch, though, four is particularly early. I commend you your work ethic, Mr. Davidson. I do hope we get you home and in bed in time.”
Clive sucked in his breath and held it. A man shouldn’t have to hear about his bed from such beautiful lips. It conjured images he had no business thinking about. “I’m sure I’ll be just fine, Miss Arnsby, thank you.” He took a cue from her to return to the formal and wondered why she’d suddenly relegated him back to the unknown.
Constance scooted closer to him until it was difficult to drive. “Oh, we’re almost there. I’m so excited.”
As usual, Turner stood outside his giant carriage, waiting. He smiled and approached the rig to help Frances down as they pulled to a stop. Clive had to remind himself things were as they should be. Frances was here with Turner. Why was he suddenly so stuck on Frances? She was lovely, like the first flowers of spring after a long harsh winter, but that was no reason to lose his mind—or his career. Constance waited for him and he offered her help to descend the side.
“Look at all the people here. Is that Dunworthy? Oh, hide me, Mr. Davidson.” She dashed behind him as if her mountainous dress could be hidden.
“He’s under strict orders to leave our party alone, but Dunworthy never misses the theater.” He’d also never miss the chance to dig up more on Frances. Dunworthy was like a prospector and Frances was his promising vein. He waited for Constance to come out of hiding as he searched the crowd for Turner and Frances. In the time he’d turned to help Constance, they’d disappeared. Again, Turner had managed to slip away. “Let’s see if we can find Frances, shall we?” He held out his arm.
Constance attached herself to him once again like a fly. The evening would be long indeed if he had this to look forward to. All the more reason to be happy Frances had adamantly said no more. By the end of the evening, he’d be bruised by Constance’s grip. He reminded himself that she was jilted and lonely. She’d been fodder for the society page so recently, that no one would court her until the dust settled down. He’d just have to let her have a little fun, convince her she was better than ol’ Reggie deserved, and maybe help her to get back in the swing of things.
His eye caught on a blue dress and a lovely delicate arm laced under Turner’s and something ugly reared up inside him. Maybe giving Constance a nice time would be more difficult than he’d reckoned.
While Turner was busy chatting away with some wealthy banker from Rapid, Frances glanced behind her, searching for dark hair and steely eyes. The banker bragged about the Pennington County bank and how it was the largest one in the Dakota Territory. She’d held her tongue at that bit of information. Dakota had been a state for a number of years, yet many refused to acknowledge the change. Turner hadn’t suffered her a glance yet, but as soon as the banker moved on, he had managed to whisk her away, and Clive was nowhere to be found. Turner stopped walking and his eyebrow rose as he finally angled his head toward her.
“I’m sorry I prattled on. I’m sure the subject of building construction and banking probably bore you to tears. Do forgive me. I’m so glad you agreed to come again this evening. How is your...ankle?” He gazed down her body to the hem of her dress.
His gaze was like ice over her skin. “Fine.” She pulled back but his hand held her in place. “I was able to put it up when we got home and I’m fine now.”
“Good. And did you have a pleasant time with Mr. Davidson? He seemed to be under the false impression that I don’t care for you. Isn’t that strange?”
Her neck tingled with alarm. Turner was inching her steadily away from the crowd. “Yes, strange.” She didn’t think he cared for her in the slightest. “We seem to be moving away from the entrance. I was looking forward to the theater with Constance. She did so want to see it. I’d hate to miss her. Shouldn’t we wait and find our seats together?” Constance had been wearing a tangerine colored dress, which should’ve been easy to spot, but the crowd was so thick outside the theater, it seemed a rainbow had erupted.
He yanked her hand from his elbow and threaded it into his clammy hand. “Don’t worry. Our seats are right next to your friends. We’ll see them soon enough. Let’s go for a little walk. We’ll make it back in plenty of time and it’ll be easier to find our seats once everyone else is already seated.”
Every muscle in her body protested. “But I’d really rather wait, please.” Her heart thudded against her stays. Nothing good could come of finding herself alone with him.
His smile wavered into a scowl. “I do so love to hear you beg. But now is not the time to enjoy it. Later, my pet.” He pulled her along as people stared. She notched her head down to avoid their eyes. If rushing off, dragging someone behind you, was considered normal behavior in England, she didn’t want to find out. Turner directed her around the building and into a vacant alley. Her heart leapt into her throat and she yanked at her hand, but he held her fast as he stopped and grasped for the other, tugging her toward him. He moved too quickly for her to respond, and she trembled from head to toe. All her books had mentioned that particular symptom, but every one of them had made it sound pleasant. This was anything but.
“There, now,” he whispered, “we have a bit of privacy. I’ve been thinking about you all day, Franny.” He lowered his head to her ear and the smell of whiskey soured her stomach.
Her hands went numb as he pressed them tight to her side. No! Stop! The words lodged in her throat. He backed her toward the side of the theater building, the brick scraping against her shoulders.
“I hope I’ve been on your mind as well.”
Certainly not in the way he was obviously thinking. “Well, I did have to consider what to wear...”
He released one of her hands as he drew one finger up her arm and along her shoulder. The slight touch was frightening. She couldn’t breathe, her heart raced so.
“Please, I’d like to go back now. The show will be starting soon.” Frances tried to step away, as far as the wall would allow, flattening herself against it.
“You’re such a tease, Franny.”
She bit down on her tongue to keep from lashing out at him for calling her that awful name. But he was a wealthy man who always got his way, and he was supposed to teach her about romance. Perhaps that was lesson number one, a pet name, and fighting her way through the instinct to run. She should be happy he was calling her something s
pecial. If she could just get her body to calm down for a moment. Hadn’t Clive insisted she try to enjoy herself? Turner wouldn’t hurt her, would he?
Turner nuzzled her once again, pushing her shoulders into the wall of the theater. Her first kiss wasn’t supposed to be like this. She wasn’t supposed to be trapped. Could Clive really think there was any possibility of enjoying such awful treatment? Reason dawned. Clive wouldn’t understand, because he didn’t believe any of it existed…
Turner ran his fumbling hand down her arm and wrapped it possessively around her waist. She wanted to scream, not submit. This wasn’t like all the good and giddy things she’d read about. Where was Clive? He’d said he wouldn’t leave her! Turner’s mouth found hers. Her stomach protested and she pressed her lips tightly together to keep him out and the bile at bay.
Clive’s harsh rasp interrupted Turner’s onslaught. “Mr. Turner, Miss Arnsby, so glad we finally found you. Shall we go inside?” Turner sucked in his breath and expelled a curse at Clive’s timing. Frances couldn’t have been more thankful. She wanted to dash away from him, but Turner held her pinned. Her gaze found Clive’s around Turner’s shoulder. He stared at her, his eyes cold. What could she have possibly done wrong? Turner took a few steps back from her and sighed.
“You’ve got mighty poor timing, Davidson,” he mumbled as he yanked her out of the alley.
Frances rubbed the bits of rock stuck into her shoulders and off the back of her gown, praying it wasn’t ruined. Constance dashed in behind her and fluffed out the back, adjusting the wrap sleeves up to cover the angry redness where she’d been plastered to the wall.