Replacing the glass, she leaned closer to study him. Purple bruised the skin near one temple. A cut on his chin scabbed over in a jagged line. But he was alert. Aware. And all the more handsome because of it.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Been better.” He reached to finger his bandages, and did such a poor job of concealing a wince, she couldn’t help but smile.
He reached for her. “You’re here.”
“I am. I—” Her voice cracked, and the dam broke. Elation, gratitude, sorrow, grief—too many emotions bubbled up and flooded her eyes, running down her cheeks and over his fingers.
“I was so afraid!” she cried.
“Shh.” He fumbled his thumb across her cheek, wiping away tears. “Help me sit.”
She sucked in a shaky breath. For his sake, she had to pull herself together. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she took his hand in both of hers, lowering it to his side. “You’ve only just awakened. Do you think it wise?”
“Wise or not”—he grunted as he tried to push up on his elbows—“I must.”
Stubborn man. Beautiful, stubborn man whom she could not live without. Fighting a fresh round of tears, she tugged up the pillow behind him and helped him settle upright. Seeing his gaze, soaking in all the love she read in those brown depths, she blurted out everything that’d been bottled up inside.
“Oh, Joseph, I’m so sorry I jumped to conclusions. I didn’t expect the best out of you, but instead ascribed the worst.” She pressed her knuckles against her mouth, stopping a cry.
“All’s forgiven, love.” Battered and beaten, likely in pain, he used such tenderness that it hurt deep inside her. “You didn’t know.”
“But neither did I trust! I let self-pity blind me. I couldn’t see that you weren’t trying to thwart me. You were merely working on a more urgent plan than mine. I treated you abominably, without waiting like you asked—” She froze as a stunning realization hit her. Hard. Her mouth twisted into a rueful pinch. “Just like I do to God.”
“God knows I’ve done the same, yet He’s always there to pick up the pieces.”
She shook her head. How could such goodness, such kindness be understood? “I don’t deserve it. Nor do you deserve how I treated you.”
“You may not think so when I tell you everything.” He reached for her hand again. “I have much to say.”
His face paled.
Was this too much, too soon? “Joseph, please rest. It can wait.”
“No, I’ve waited long enough.” He entwined his fingers with hers. “Too long.”
The warmth, the intimacy of Amanda’s palm pressed against his was as right as finally telling her the full truth—more right than the agreement he’d made with his aunt.
“As you know, I own the Grigg house,” he began. “Or did, until the day you discovered the deed.”
“You … you don’t own it anymore?”
He shook his head. Bad idea. The dull throb beat harder, pounding against the inside of his skull. Shifting on the pillow, he pushed up a bit more, easing the ache and allowing him to continue. “I transferred the title to my colleague, Reverend Bond, in Chicago. When you first came to me about the Grigg estate, I knew you’d be successful at sleuthing out who it belonged to, for such are your keen abilities.”
A pretty red flushed her cheeks, deep enough to shame a spring rose.
“So I unloaded the deed.” Two beds over, a fellow patient moaned—and the sound resonated deep in his gut. How to explain this? “It’s all so complicated. I hardly know where to begin.”
Amanda patted his hand. “Let me help. Your friend Henry filled me in on most everything, but not all. He told me about your plan to help women escape Hannah Crow’s—which, I might add, is quite a reckless and noble thing for a city attorney to do.” Sunlight slanted in through the window above his bed, creating a golden halo around her head. Her smile shined even brighter. “But the thing I don’t know is why? Why take on such an endeavor in the first place?”
“Elizabeth,” he breathed out, then clamped his jaw. Could he do this? Of course he should, despite his aunt. But how to say the words that would blight his sister’s memory in the eyes of the woman he loved and tarnish his family’s reputation?
Amanda’s brow puckered. “Your sister? What has she to do with this?”
He stood on the edge of a riverbank—the wild, raging river of the past. It was either step back now or jump in whole and possibly drown from the truth.
He jumped. “While it’s true that Elizabeth died in California, the circumstances are not what my aunt allows everyone to believe. My sister didn’t die in childbirth. She died in a brothel. Elizabeth was a woman of ill repute.”
He expected the gasp. The look of horror. But when Amanda’s face softened and she rested her palm against his cheek, he never predicted such tenderness in her gaze.
“I am so sorry. For you. For her. She must have been desperate, indeed.”
“Desperate?” He grimaced, then winced from the pull of scalp against bandage. “That and more.”
“What happened?”
“There was a man—Peter Gilford. Elizabeth loved him, yet Father would not grant his blessing. He went so far as to forbid her to ever see the man again. It was an ugly affair. Peter ran off to California. Elizabeth followed, headstrong to a fault.” He deflated against the pillow, awful memories weighing heavy, wearing his spirit to the bone. “Father was right about Peter. He was a shiftless fellow, leaving my sister penniless on the streets of San Francisco.”
“How awful!”
The clack of heels on tile entered the far end of the ward. Amanda glanced up at an attendant who rolled in a cart on wheels. The smell of some kind of stew spread throughout the room. “Looks like lunch. You must be famished. Finish your story later. I promise I will not leave your side.”
Ahh, but that was good to hear. Aunt had said no respectable woman would have him if the truth of their family was known. For the first time ever, he wondered what other false views Aunt had convinced him to adopt, but with the attendant approaching nearer, he’d have to save that line of thought for another time.
“I am nearly finished. Elizabeth wrote, asking for money. Father refused, telling her to find her own way home. She did the only thing she could to earn her fare—and it was the death of her. She was trying to get back here, that’s all. She just wanted to come home.” Grief and guilt burned his throat, leaving a nasty taste at the back of his mouth. The smell of the stew turned his stomach. “If only I’d known at the time, but I was off at school. I failed her, Amanda. I failed my sister.”
“Ahh, love, in your own words, you didn’t know.” She squeezed his fingers. “And you came up with a way to save others like her. She wouldn’t think you a failure. She’d be proud of you, as am I.”
The admiration heating her gaze burned straight to his heart, and he squeezed her hand right back. “You were wrong, you know.”
Her nose scrunched up. “How’s that?”
He lifted her knuckles to his lips. “I am the one who does not deserve you.”
Epilogue
Two weeks later
A few stubborn oak leaves let loose and skittered to the road in front of the carriage. Amanda admired the way the horse high-stepped along the cobbles, then turned her face and admired the driver even more. The bruises had faded to a faint shade of yellow around Joseph’s eye, hardly distinguishable now, especially in the twilight. The cut on his chin still stood out, though, and would leave a scar, but the mark would ever remind her of how close she’d come to losing him.
“You study me as if I might vanish.” Pulling his gaze from the road, he grinned down at her. “Go on. Ask me again. You know you want to.”
She flattened her lips. Ought she be annoyed or thrilled that he knew her so well? She peered closer, and concern won out. “Are you certain you’re up to this? Maggie will understand if we don’t make her house party.”
“I’m far be
tter than Tam Nadder. That poor fellow has a long haul of it, learning to walk with crutches for the rest of his life. I’ve got a banger of a headache still, but that’s all.” Reaching his arm along the back of the cushion, he tucked her closer to his side. “And besides, we won’t stay long. I don’t want you turning into a pumpkin, and I promised your father I’d have you home at a decent hour. I’m surprised he allowed me to take you unchaperoned in the first place.”
She leaned back, resting her head against his arm. She’d never tire of the feel of him. “I think Father’s changing, in a good way. Not that convention isn’t still important to him, but I’m starting to think I might be important to him, as well.”
“Why the change?”
Exactly. Why? She’d turned that question over like a furrowed plot of earth these past two weeks. “While he didn’t lose any close friends in that explosion, he did know some of the men who died and many who were injured. I really thought that my position as chairwoman would be the thing to impress him, but turns out my simple act of continuing to visit those men even after your release impressed him more. And in a smaller way, perhaps he realized how empty the house will be without me when we marry.”
“‘When we marry.’ I like the sound of that.”
So did she. She closed her eyes, soaking in the blessing of the man beside her. For a while they drove in the silence of naught but the wheels on the road and the occasional rattle of branches in the wind. Any time now and she’d hear the crunch of the Turners’ drive—but the carriage lurched sideways onto crackling twigs and weeds.
Her eyes flew open. “Hey, this isn’t the way to—what are we doing here?”
Joseph flashed her a smile as he guided the horse up the overgrown Grigg drive. “Close your eyes.”
She narrowed them. “What are you up to?”
“I’ve got one last secret to reveal.” He tapped her on the nose. “Now close your eyes.”
With a frown, she obeyed. The carriage halted, then canted to the side as Joseph hopped down. His footsteps rounded the back, then stopped. A warm hand engulfed her fingers, and he guided her to the ground. What was he up to?
Ten steps later, he stopped. “All right. You may look.”
She blinked open her eyes. There, in the fading light, a freshly painted sign hung on the weathered post of the Grigg front porch. Black letters spelled out: Carston Blake Academy.
Her jaw dropped, and she turned to him. “What’s this?”
“Here is your building for your new school. There’s no need for a safe house anymore, now that Hannah Crow’s has been shut down for good. Not that other brothels can’t open up, I suppose, but with Craven run out of town by the angry wives of club members, I don’t think that will happen for a very long time. And besides”—he flashed her a smile—“I couldn’t very well let you go to that Ladies’ Aide Society meeting on Monday and take yet another beating from Lillian Warnbrough, could I?”
The tenderness in his voice, the depth of emotion in his brown eyes, the warmth of his mouth as he pressed a kiss to her brow turned the world watery. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she nuzzled her face into his chest. “You know what I love about you, Joseph Blake?”
His chuckle rumbled against her ear. “That I always do the right thing?”
“No.” She shook her head, loving the strong beat of his heart. “Everything.”
Michelle Griep has been writing since she first discovered blank wall space and Crayolas. She seeks to glorify God in all that she writes—except for that graffiti phase she went through as a teenager. She resides in the frozen tundra of Minnesota, where she teaches history and writing classes for a local high school co-op. An Anglophile at heart, she runs away to England every chance she gets, under the guise of research. Really, though, she’s eating excessive amounts of scones while rambling around a castle. Michelle is a member of ACFW (American Christian Fiction Writers) and MCWG (Minnesota Christian Writers Guild). Keep up with her adventures at her blog “Writer off the Leash” or visit www.michellegriep.com.
Win, Place, or Show
by Erica Vetsch
Dedication
To Katie Gardner, her crew of amazing young students, and all the horses and ponies at Otteridge Farm. Your devotion to excellent horsemanship inspired this story.
And to Peter, as always.
Chapter One
Hudson River Valley, New York
June, 1899
Beryl Valentine snatched an apple from the bowl of fruit decoratively arranged on the table in the hall and hurried toward the front door, hoping to get outside before anyone stopped her. As she passed the vast mahogany pocket doors to the parlor, voices drifted through the opening.
“Beryl is twenty years old. It’s time she realized her responsibility.” Her father, Wallace Valentine, railroad tycoon and financial genius, had a voice better suited to a baseball stadium than a boardroom. “There’s her fortune and her future at stake, and she doesn’t seem to care.”
Beryl stopped with her hand on the front door.
“I’ve got things under control.” Rosemary, Beryl’s mother, had a well-modulated voice … that could still slice through the air like a razor blade. “If you’d butt out of the process, I could have her engaged before Christmas.”
“You have things under control? With that parade of wimps you marched through the house all winter? Every one of them weak as chamomile tea and sniffing around Beryl just to get at her money. There isn’t a one of them I’d give two cents for. She’s our only child and heir, and she has a duty.”
Beryl closed her eyes, her heart sinking to her heels. While her parents could and did argue about everything from the household help to national politics, their latest disagreements all seemed to center around one goal: finding Beryl a husband. The odd thing was that they were united in the notion that she needed a husband but definitely divided on the method and the candidates.
And neither one seemed to think Beryl should have a say in the matter. She took a calming breath.
“They weren’t wimps. They were perfectly presentable young men, the sons of some of the best families in New York Society. Any one of them would make a suitable match for Beryl. I don’t care how much money a man has if he has the right breeding, the right connections.” Mother could put more starch in her voice than you could find in a hotel laundry.
“Not a one of them knows how to do anything useful.” Something impacted wood, and Beryl knew her father had smacked his fist on a table, a familiar gesture when he warmed to a subject. “All they know how to do is inherit money and spend it. Not a man’s man out of the lot.”
You tell her, Father.
“I suppose those ancient cronies of yours that you bring home are better? Men more than twice her age? It’s disgusting, and I won’t have it.”
Thank you, Mother. In that we are agreed. The wimps are bad enough, but the cronies are worse. Beryl stifled a sigh, weary of the topic and knowing they could be at it for hours.
“At least they’re men, not obsequious boys. And they know how to run businesses and accumulate wealth instead of squandering it and then looking for an heiress with a healthy bank account to replenish their coffers. I don’t care where a man comes from as long as he’s got the brains and ambition and ability to make something of himself. I have found just the man for Beryl. He’s coming over this afternoon—”
“Wallace, sometimes I think you have rocks for brains….”
Beryl had heard enough, but before she could escape, the parlor maid hurried by with a tray, bobbing her head. “Good morning, Miss Beryl. Will you be joining your parents for tea?” she asked, her voice loud in the echoing foyer.
Beryl made shushing noises, but it was too late.
“Is that you, Beryl?” her mother asked. “Come in here.”
The parlor maid shot her a silent apology as they entered the parlor.
The maid set the tray on the low table in front of Mother, checked that everything was in orde
r, and dropped a curtsy. “Should I fetch another cup?” She addressed the question to Mother.
“Yes, please.”
“No, thank you.”
Mother and Beryl spoke at the same time.
“Mother, I can’t stay. I have an appointment.”
“You have time for tea.” Her mother’s placid voice set Beryl’s teeth on edge. But she took the tea her mother handed her, blowing on it to cool it.
“Sit down.”
“I’m in a hurry.”
“It takes just as long to drink a cup of tea standing as it does sitting down.” Mother regarded her with dark brown eyes, demanding good manners.
Beryl sat.
Father leaned on the corner of the desk, arms folded, tweed coat straining across his big shoulders. “We haven’t been here twenty-four hours and you’re already headed to the stables?” He raised his eyebrows. “I have someone coming to the house today whom I want you to meet.”
She brushed her hand down the front of her riding habit. “I cabled ahead our arrival date, and I have a lesson scheduled this morning. I’m eager to see how Lacey traveled.” Her beloved mare, Lacey, hated train travel, even for the relatively short distance from New York City. “I’m also looking forward to seeing Avila again.” Avila Schmidt had been Beryl’s riding instructor the past few summers, though the lessons often took the form of long rides together where Avila became more of a mentor and confidant than teacher.
“You coddle that mare. Coddling makes them soft. You might be interested to know I had another offer for her this week. Cal Brightman was looking over my stock, wanted a mount for his wife and a possible broodmare for his farm.” He ran his hand down his right sideburn, pursing his lips. “I told him you’d spent a lot of time working with the mare and that he wouldn’t find a gentler mount.”
Of Rags and Riches Romance Collection Page 34