by Gina Welborn
Pa put a hand on Isaak’s shoulder. “You clearly love this woman. I’ve never heard a more eloquent proposal, so—”
“It doesn’t matter.” Isaak rubbed the back of his neck. “She’s returning to Denver, and I can’t leave my job or obligations here to chase after her.” Which she wouldn’t want, anyway. She’d already said she’d never trust a man who broke his commitments.
Pa chuckled. “Now you sound as daft as I was before deciding to court your mother.”
Isaak swiveled his head to look at his father.
“When a man is determined not to love a woman he’s already in love with, he uses excuses to shield his heart. I know, because I did the same thing. In my case it was fear.” Pa smoothed his mustache. “In your case, it’s more of your pride. You think this town, the Widows and Orphans Committee, and even I can’t function without you.”
The loving rebuke burned inside Isaak’s chest. “More of my benevolent arrogance?”
Pa squeezed Isaak’s shoulder. “Yes, but all men are afflicted with some measure of it. And all men are fools in love, so you’re in good company.”
Isaak bowed his head. Lord, cleanse me of my pride. Teach me to walk humbly before You.
“Let’s go home, son. You need a bath and some food.”
With a big slice of humble pie as the main course.
Ninety minutes later
Isaak removed his bowler and stepped inside Hale’s law office. The double doors between the parlor and office were wide open.
Hale looked over the pile of work littering his desk. “Isaak. A pleasure to see you. Come in.”
Isaak crossed into the cluttered room, amazed, as always, that Hale knew the subject matter of every stack and could locate whatever he needed without wasting time searching. Knowing that didn’t keep Isaak from testing his friend once in a while by pointing to a mound and demanding the subject matter of each.
Today wasn’t the time for games, however, so Isaak sat down in an empty wooden chair, ignoring the one next to him except to place his hat on top of the paper heap occupying it. “I’ve come to convince you to run for mayor.”
Hale sat back and touched his finger to the bridge of his wire-rimmed glasses. “If this is about today’s . . .” He spread his hands but didn’t finish his sentence.
Isaak’s lips twitched. “It comforts me that a skilled lawyer who forms arguments for a living and reads the dictionary for fun can’t find a word to describe this morning’s . . . whatever it was.”
“Debacle?”
“Too benign.”
“Fiasco?”
“Too insipid.”
Hale grinned. “Whatever it was, it doesn’t disqualify you from running for mayor. As I told you before, voters have short memories.”
Isaak shook his head. “This isn’t about the voters or anyone else. This is about me stepping away from something that’s feeding my pride.”
A long, considering look. “I see.”
Had Isaak needed further proof of his besetting sin, those two little words would have provided it. “I need to withdraw, but Kendrick needs to be defeated. The only man who can do it is you.”
Hale pursed his lips.
Isaak gave him a moment to come to the same conclusion. “You know I’m right.”
“Says the man trying to overcome pride.”
Isaak snorted. “Oh . . . you don’t know how much I needed to laugh.”
Hale looked at the corner of the room, took a deep breath, and returned his focus to Isaak. “I don’t want this. I’ve never wanted this.”
“Which is why you’re the man for the job.” Isaak let that settle. “At the risk of being put in my place again, I repeat, you know I’m right. No one else has the skill, the reputation, and the political backing of a territorial judge.”
Hale glowered. “I hate nepotism. It would gall me to win an election because of my uncle’s connections.”
“Is that what’s held you back? Because you do yourself a great disservice in thinking that.” Isaak leaned forward and put his forearms on the slender line of space between the edge of Hale’s desk and one of his stacks of paper. “You’re an excellent lawyer, you have good ideas about what to do and how to go about it, and we’ve discussed the campaign multiple times. All that’s needed is to switch the man running. Nothing else changes.”
For another five minutes, Hale came up with excuses and Isaak rebutted them. Hale took longer and longer to formulate each argument. He stared over Isaak’s shoulder for a full thirty seconds before releasing a sigh. “This isn’t a good time.”
When he didn’t elaborate, Isaak prompted, “Why not?”
Hale tilted his head and stared Isaak in the eye. “You’re really going to drop out.”
It wasn’t a question, it was acceptance . . . and an excellent change of topic. “And you’re really going to run.” Isaak picked up his hat and stood. “Be at the . . . Sorry. Would you be amenable to announcing your candidacy at the The Import Company’s grand opening a week from tomorrow?”
Hale came around the desk to walk Isaak toward the door. “You’re going through with that?”
Isaak nodded, his throat tightening. “With The Resale Company gone, I’ll put my effort into making The Import Company a success.” Because he needed to work and keep working until the void in his chest went away.
They reached the front door, and Hale opened it. “You’re sure about this?”
“That you’re the right man for the job? Absolutely.” Isaak fit his bowler on his head. As he crossed over the threshold and walked into the street, he called over his shoulder, “I can’t wait to see Uncle Jonas’s face when he hears you’ve agreed to run.”
Hale responded by slamming his door closed.
Isaak’s good humor lasted until The Import Co. came into view. This was going to be a much more difficult sell. He and Jakob had twenty-two years of sibling rivalry to overcome. They also had twenty-two years of practice at making up after fights. They ought to be good at it by now.
Isaak rehearsed his apology as he covered the remaining distance.
Jakob was standing by a window waiting. He opened the door and swung it wide. He’d also cleaned up since the fire. “I’m glad you came.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t?”
Jakob’s expression froze.
“Sorry.” Isaak took off his hat and held it with both hands. “Humility is going to be a learned skill. Let me try that again. I’m glad to see you, too.” When Jakob cocked his eyebrow, Isaak chuckled and stepped into the store.
It smelled of milled pinewood, lemon oil, and fresh paint. Unlike The Resale Co., where an eclectic array of goods was displayed according to category, here they were placed with an eye toward showing each piece as it would be used. A mahogany dining room table set with china, crystal, candles, and linens, as though waiting for a Christmas feast. A sofa and two wingback chairs framed a coffee table holding a stack of three books and a pair of reading glasses. The accompanying sofa tables were set with matching Tiffany lamps. Behind them was a carved-wood grandfather clock, the pendulum swinging and the hands at the correct time. Farther back, a four-poster bed with slippers on the floor and a dressing gown laid over the quilted bedspread. Paintings were grouped on the walls so they didn’t overwhelm but rather helped create the illusion that each designated space was its own room.
Isaak had helped uncrate a number of items, but he hadn’t been around to help with the display. “This is incredible, Jake. I never imagined it would look this good.” He sucked in a breath and turned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to sound like—”
“I know you meant it as a compliment.” Jakob pointed at the living room display with an open palm. “I thought we could sit while we talked.”
“Good idea.” Isaak chose the wingback chair and waited long enough for Jakob to sit on the sofa before he said, “I’m at fault.”
Jakob took a moment before settling back against the brown leather and cr
ossing his legs. “All right. I’m listening.”
Isaak began as he’d rehearsed. “I was born with an inflated sense of duty and responsibility. Because my diligence, organization, and planning have always resulted in success, I’ve viewed myself as superior to you.”
“To everyone,” Jakob corrected.
Isaak grimaced. “To everyone.” He opened his mouth to continue, but Jakob held up a hand.
“Wait.” The corner of his mouth indented. “I’d like to relish this moment a bit longer.”
Isaak grinned. “Please, relish as long as you need. I deserve it.”
The amusement faded in Jakob’s eyes. “You don’t deserve it. Not really.”
“I do.” Isaak tugged his shirt collar away from his neck. “Every time you got in trouble for doing something impetuous, I determined to plan more. Every time I was rewarded for doing the responsible thing, it stoked the fire of my pride. Your failures reinforced my belief that I was the better son, the better person, the better man.” He paused for Jakob to nod his assent. “I’m sorry for that, Jake. Truly sorry.”
“Thank you.” Jakob uncrossed his legs and shifted on the sofa. “Truth is, I’ve made plenty of mistakes through the years. I do need to think through consequences a little more and stop thinking every suggestion you give is a criticism of my character.” Jakob gripped the V-shaped opening of his vest. “You have to agree my idea to bring Zoe here wasn’t all bad.”
“I’ll concede that point.” Isaak scooted forward on the chair. “Do you love her?”
Jakob inhaled and held the breath before exhaling with a whoosh. “I’d like to love her, but it’s not the same thing as actually being in love with her.”
No. It wasn’t. “I never wanted to love her, but I do.”
A twinkle lit Jakob’s eyes. “I caught that.”
The band of tension around Isaak’s ribs loosened an inch. If Jakob was already finding humor in his loss, they were going to be fine. Isaak rubbed the knuckles of his right hand and looked around The Import Co. stocked with items from all over the United States and the world. He knew—was almost certain he knew—why his brother had chosen to send for a mail-order bride, but he was uncertain how to balance his God-given talent for recognizing it with respect for Jakob as a man who had the right to come to his own conclusions.
Pa said Zoe had exposed faults. Had she done the same for Jakob?
Isaak looked his brother in the eye. “What is it about her that you find most attractive?”
Jakob jerked backward. “What?”
“Please, just answer.” Isaak gripped his hands together. “I’m curious.”
The room was silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock. Jakob’s attention swirled around the room, as though he was searching for inspiration. His eyes settled, and Isaak looked to see the painting of Notre-Dame Cathedral beside the Seine River. “I loved that she didn’t grow up here, that she didn’t know me as Isaak Gunderson’s irresponsible twin.”
“So you threw yourself into work and pushed Zoe to the side.”
Jakob scratched an earlobe. “Told myself I was doing the mature thing—the Isaak thing, so to speak.”
“Is that why you proposed?”
Jakob shrugged. “I care for Zoe a great deal, and the thought of her with you stings.”
Isaak swallowed against the tightness closing his throat. “I don’t want to lose you, Jake. Not over Zoe.”
Jakob was silent for long moment before he leaned forward, his expression sober. “What if I said you had to choose between her or me?”
Isaak’s heart tilted sideways. What would he do? “I want to say I’d choose you, but”—he looked his twin in the eye—“I can’t. Not if she’ll have me.”
Jakob grinned. “Good answer.” He sat back again. “We sure made a mess of it. If I were her, I’d never speak to either of us again.”
Isaak rested his elbows on his knees. “How do I win her back?”
“I don’t know, Iz,” said the man who persuaded people to jump into raging rivers using nothing but his charm.
A skill Isaak had underestimated until now.
Jakob touched his stomach. “But you might start with that young man who punched us both.”
Ten minutes later
Isaak left The Import Co. intent on one more apology . . . the most humbling one yet.
The walk to the red-light district only took five minutes, but with the late afternoon sun providing no cover, he endured enough stares to last a lifetime. Last year, when Emilia and Yancey avoided people for fear of censorious glances after the article about Finn was published, Isaak told them to put on a brave face and look people in the eye. To make them back down.
Maybe he was right to offer them such wisdom, but it was equally likely he was wrong. He’d never walked that proverbial mile until now. Nevertheless, he followed his own advice. He kept his chin high and his shoulders straight. Yes, he was Isaak David Gunderson, and yes, he was walking straight to the Maison de Joie, Madame Lestraude’s brothel.
He stopped at the door. Was he supposed to walk in or knock? When in doubt, err on the side of being a gentleman; he lifted his hand and knocked.
A massive Chinese man opened the door. He didn’t speak. Or move. Or even blink. And he was looking down at Isaak.
Intimidation was a new sensation. Isaak usually inspired that emotion in others. Evidently, God was pulling out all the stops for this lesson. “I’m here to speak to Nico.”
A feminine “Let him come in” moved the wall of muscles out of Isaak’s way.
He stepped inside and stopped in his tracks. It looked like a regular home with a huge parlor and grand staircase leading to a second floor. Six women sat on sofas and chairs dressed in plain, high-collared dresses reading what looked like school primers.
Not how he’d ever imagined—or tried not to imagine—a brothel.
Madame Lestraude looked up from where she was bent over a pretty blonde’s shoulder. “Ah, Mr. Gunderson. What a pleasure to see you here.”
He should return her greeting, but his tongue refused to come down from the roof of his mouth. He dipped his head in a polite bow only because his neck muscles remembered on their own that they were supposed to greet women with that courtesy.
“You’ve caught us at our lessons, as you see, but we were just finishing. Ladies”—she clapped her hands—“if you would give us the room, please.”
“Yes, ma’am,” was spoken in unison. The women rose, gathered their books, and filed up the stairs. They greeted Isaak with polite nods and an occasional, “Sir,” but didn’t flirt or . . . or anything.
After the last woman left, he swung his gaze back to Madame Lestraude and was taken aback by the fury in her brown eyes. She glanced at his forehead. Heat flooding his face, he swiped off his hat. “I beg your pardon, ma’am.”
“I see Mac never told you that I give my girls lessons. This group is new, so we’re starting with basic reading, writing, and arithmetic.”
Isaak didn’t know what to think. It had stunned him when he learned the madam was rescuing girls from prostitution. It was almost as shocking to see her teaching lessons like a school marm. “I, uh, guess . . . I mean, I think that’s . . . admirable?” His voice lifted of its own accord.
She laughed, though it lacked mirth. “Oh, Mr. Gunderson, you are a delight.”
It was said like a compliment, but it wasn’t. And yet it was. Which reminded him of how conflicted he was over Zoe and brought him back to his purpose. “I’m looking for Nico.”
The fury she’d masked earlier flickered in her eyes again. “Why?”
“I need to ask him a question.”
“What kind of question?” Her voice hardened.
Isaak looked at her more closely. She’d been beautiful once, but now she wore too many regrets for the term to fit. Her dyed blond hair appeared brittle, the skin at the corners of her eyes was crosshatched with thin wrinkles, and the lace around her high collar was unabl
e to disguise the deep creases in her neck.
And she was afraid of something.
It pricked him the same way Zoe’s discomfort had when he greeted her that first Sunday morning. He didn’t brush past it this time. “I haven’t brought law enforcement with me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
She didn’t appear mollified. “That doesn’t tell me why you need to speak with Nico.”
Isaak gripped his hat brim tighter. “I need to ask him a question regarding Miss de Fleur.”
Nico pushed through a door to Isaak’s right. “What d’ya need to ask about my sister?” Belligerence filled his face and his question.
“Nico,” Madame Lestraude bathed the two syllables with censure. “I told you to wait until I called for you.”
“But he said this was about Zoe, not the—”
“Hush.”
As if Isaak didn’t already know illegal activity went on upstairs. “Madame Lestraude, might I have a word with Nico in private?”
“No.”
He blinked at her rudeness.
Before he could think of a suitable response, Nico said, “It’s all right, Miss Lester. I can handle Mr. Goon-der-son.”
Isaak vacillated between astonishment and irritation at the names rolling off Nico’s tongue.
Madame Lestraude remained rooted for another moment before speaking to Nico. “I’ll be in my office. If you need anything”—she slid a meaningful glance at Isaak—“call me or Mr. Lui. Do you understand?”
Nico nodded.
Isaak checked to see where Mr. Lui had hidden himself, but the mountain of flesh had somehow slipped away unnoticed.
After squeezing the boy’s shoulder, Madame Lestraude swished out of the room using the same door Nico had earlier.
Nico fisted his right hand and pounded it into his left palm as though he was imagining punching Isaak in the stomach again. “Why’re you here?”
“Because I need to apologize for the way I’ve treated both you and your sister.”
Nico’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You think wearing a fancy suit is going to make me forgive you just like that? I’m not a jellyfish, Mr. Goon-der-son, and neither is my sister.”