My Valentine

by Sheridon Smythe

  "Father has decided on the winning valentine,” she announced with a smile.

  Rosalyn held her breath, as she suspected everyone in the room did. There wasn't a sound to be heard.

  "The winner is, the valentine entitled Simple Pleasures!"

  Ear-splitting cheers erupted. Rosalyn was shoved forward in the direction of Mr. Howland and her employer before reality had time to sink in. Stunned, she held still as Miss Howland pinned a satin blue ribbon onto her shirt front.

  "Rosalyn Mitchell, Father says you have a rare talent.” Beaming, Miss Howland patted her shoulder and whispered, “Callie would be proud."

  The statement brought tears to Rosalyn's eyes, and she feared she would embarrass herself by wailing like a babe. She'd never won anything in her life, least of all such an honorable contest as this. She turned, half-afraid the others would be jealous and resentful. Instead, they smiled and clapped harder, each and every one of them.

  "What will you do with your money, Rosalyn? Unless it's a secret.” Laughter broke out at Miss Howland's teasing tone.

  Rosalyn blushed, feeling unnaturally shy. “Well, I plan to donate the money to the Davidson family.” At her announcement, the cheering grew louder. Rosalyn met Mr. Howland's benevolent gaze, warmed by his kind regard.

  She should have been happy. She should have been content with her good life. Instead, all she could think about was how much she wanted to share this moment with Chris—Christian. She wanted to see his eyes light with pride at her achievement.

  But she had to admit, even if he wasn't who he claimed to be, they were doomed from the start. Christian Garret-Brown didn't believe in love at first sight, or love at all. He was a cold man who thought everything had a price, and nothing was important if it didn't.

  Such a sad waste, she thought as the girls rushed forward to congratulate her.

  Chapter Eleven

  Did You Steal My Heart While I Looked Away

  As You Grow More Heartless Every Day?

  Keep it Then and Be on Your Way

  For it Seems I Know...

  Quite a crowd had gathered for the auction by the time Christian arrived, having walked from Callie's house since there wasn't a single cabbie available. The reason, Christian saw at once, was that all the drivers appeared to be squeezed into the workshop.

  Along with everyone else in Worcester.

  His gaze moved over the room, searching for Rosalyn. He found her among a circle of women, looking fresh and lovely in a forest green gown that outlined her curvy figure to perfection. Hell, she'd look delicious in a flour sack. And she didn't look the least bit upset, he noted, studying the flush of good cheer on her cheeks, and the wide smile on her face. He had worn a path in the carpet of the hotel sitting room worrying about their fight, and she appeared unmarked by the battle. Women.

  Removing his gloves, he found a spot along the back wall and made for it, squeezing between a heavy-jowled man who smelled strongly of shoe leather, and the baker, whom Christian recognized.

  The baker recognized Christian, as well, offering a hearty smile that seemed to be a small town trademark. Christian decided he could grow accustomed to such friendliness. Inhaling the distinct aroma of cloves and yeast—which he definitely preferred over shoe leather—he bent his head in the baker's direction and asked, “Has the auction begun?"

  "Nope. Should be any time now. Hope they raise enough to do that poor family good, what with that sick youngin’ and all.” The paunchy, middle-aged baker shook his head sadly. “Weren't right of Patrick to leave ‘em the way he did."

  A jolt of familiarity thrummed through Christian at the baker's innocent remark. He stilled, taking his time before answering. If he didn't, he knew his cold anger would show and this man couldn't possibly know the reason. “You knew Jamy's father?” Mrs. Davidson had not mentioned a husband, and Christian assumed she was a widow.

  Snorting in disgust, the baker jerked his head. “Yep. Like I said, weren't no call to leave'em, just because he lost his job. Patrick was the foreman at the paper mill—and a damned good one, too—but he wasn't the only one who lost his job when the mill closed. Lots of folks did."

  Christian stuck his gloves in his pocket, then shoved his hands inside as well. He calculated each move, hoping to get a handle on his temper. “And why did the mill close down?” he asked as casually as he could.

  The baker must have sensed his tension, for he shot Christian an odd look. “The owner—Royce Tiber, he gambled his money away, didn't have enough to keep it runnin'."

  "And nobody's bothered to reopen the mill?” A note of incredulity crept into is voice. “Was it not profitable?” Being the shrewd business man he was, he couldn't comprehend the waste of a good mill, not if it was operable.

  The baker shrugged his chubby shoulders. “Ain't nobody got the funds to get it goin’ again. The city owns it now, Tiber didn't pay his taxes, you know."

  "I see.” Christian relaxed, the baker's quaint choice of words reminding him of Rosalyn. His gaze found her again, laughing at something someone said. Instant desire chased the last of the chill from his bones. Damn, he'd made a mess of things, which wasn't his usual style at all.

  "Damned hot in here, ain't it?” the baker grumbled, pulling at his collar.

  With his gaze on the slim column of Rosalyn's exposed throat, Christian mumbled, “Yes, it is.” Although he wasn't talking about the warmth of the room, but the one burning inside of him.

  Suddenly, the man who smelled of shoe leather blocked his vision as he leaned over and addressed the baker. “You gonna bid, Merl?"

  Merl, who didn't look like a Merl at all, rubbed his chin. “I reckon I will, Boots. If I don't, the missus will have my hide."

  Christian coughed to cover a laugh. Boots, was it? Well, it wasn't hard to guess what Boots did for a living, just as it wasn't hard to guess what the baker did, if he hadn't already known.

  His amusement vanished when both men said in unison, “How about you, Mr. Brown?"

  Well, the baker he knew, but the shoemaker he didn't. But then, he supposed not much remained a secret in this small town. Christian made a mental note to check on having shoes fitted for his newly adopted family. “Yes, I had planned on it."

  Boots exchanged a knowing look with the baker. “You look like a man of means, if you don't mind my saying so."

  Normally, Christian wouldn't dream of responding to such a personal question, but curiously, he discovered he didn't mind. “I'm not a beggar, if that's what you mean."

  Boots and the baker nodded. The baker patted his pocket. “The missus and me were saving for one of those new-fangled gas cook stoves, but I reckon we can wait.” He didn't sound the least disappointed about the decision, winning Christian's admiration.

  Not to be outdone, Boots puffed out his chest and stroked his whiskered sideburns. “I figure a couple of boards and a dab of tar will hold that leaky roof of mine, too."

  "Say—Mr. Brown, would you want to join us for a drink at the Club and Grub after the auction?"

  "You can be our guest."

  Christian was too surprised to speak for a moment. He couldn't get the words past the strange lump in his throat. Finally, he nodded. “Thank you, I'd like that."

  The loud blaring of a horn shushed the hundred or so people crowded into the workshop. Conversation ground to a halt until Christian could hear the rustling of calico, silk, and satin. He was amazed at how fast the auctioneer rattled off figures, announced the taker, and slammed his gavel down. Each valentine was introduced by the creator, the title, and the opening bid, much to Christian's relief.

  He intended to bid on Rosalyn's, no matter what the cost. It was the first of many things he intended to do to atone for his transgressions against her. While wearing the carpet through to the floor boards, he had come to the unsettling conclusion that Rosalyn did not have the rubies.

  But he waited in vain as one by one the auctioneer sold the valentines for as high as thirty dollars, but never l
ower than ten. Worcester's business men rallied to raise the money, taking the ribbing and teasing of their fellow comrades with good-natured cheer.

  Finally, the thin, balding auctioneer raised the last one high above his head in a dramatic show. Christian held his breath, thinking this had to be Rosalyn's.

  It wasn't. He mumbled a curse beneath his breath and wondered what happened. Hadn't she taken the beads? Had he mistaken her excitement over the fund raiser? Or ... was she so shattered over learning his identity she didn't have the heart to enter after all?

  Christian frowned. No, he couldn't believe it. Rosalyn wasn't a quitter.

  "Now for the climax of this rewarding and profitable fund raiser—which, I might add—I've donated my time for.” The auctioneer waited for the applause to die down, bowing and grinning and plainly enjoying the limelight. “I will now start the bidding for the winner, who received a blue ribbon, and one hundred dollars donated by The New England Valentine Company. The winner is Miss Rosalyn Mitchell—also known to most of us folks as Cupid—for her valentine entitled, Simple Pleasures."

  Finally, was Christian's first, elated thought. Then he froze, a silly grin spreading across his face. She'd won the contest. She'd won the ribbon. His Rosalyn had won. He felt as proud as a new father.

  Quickly, he scanned the crowd until he found her again. He laughed at the sight of her flaming face, missing the opening bid.

  "The man says thirty dollars. Anyone else?"

  Christian quickly raised four fingers.

  "Forty dollars to the man in the back. Do I hear forty-five?"

  Without hesitation, Christian raised five fingers in the air. Suddenly, he had competition as the crowd caught his fever. Even the baker and Boots joined the bidding.

  When the gavel finally ended the bidding, Christian was two hundred dollars short and a whole lot happier. He didn't even mind when Merl slapped him on the shoulder and said to the baker, “Told you the man was richer than chocolate cake."

  Laughing, they pushed him forward to claim his valentine. Christian waited until he drew even with Rosalyn, and although a few people separated them, he fancied he could smell the fresh scent of lemon and honeysuckle. Their eyes met, his crinkling with a smile; hers cool and dismissing.

  He didn't let this put a damper on his mood. Whatever it took, he would charm his way back into her good graces and then ... Well, who knows? Maybe he'd reconsider his self-imposed bachelorhood. If ever he was tempted, it was now, with Rosalyn.

  Sweet, unconventional, big-hearted Rosalyn.

  Someone placed the contest winning valentine in his hands. Christian shook the fog from his head and thanked the auctioneer, his gaze falling to the card. Unconcerned with the curious onlookers pushing and shoving around him, he traced the lace outline of the couple on the front of the card, seated at the table with their hands clasped in a romantic twist. Delicately fashioned snow flakes hung suspended in the wintry background. Bringing the card closer, he saw a miniature valentine on the table between the couple. A row of red glass beads formed an oval around a bigger bead in the center of the tiny valentine.

  "She's talented, isn't she?” a warm, cultured voice commented at his elbow.

  Christian looked up from his engrossed contemplation of the valentine, surprised when he didn't feel foolish. Soft gray eyes regarded him.

  "I'm Esther Howland."

  "The owner—"

  "Yes.” She smiled and held out a gloved hand.

  Christian shook it, admiring her quiet elegance. Not flashy, like a lot of wealthy women he knew. Although he knew from Mr. Toombs that she must be in her late forties, he couldn't find a single wrinkle in sight. Only the silver hair betrayed her age.

  "Chris—Christian Garret.” Damn, he hadn't figured on having to reintroduce himself to everyone and explain why he'd given a false name to begin with. He was supposed to be gone by now. At least he and Esther Howland had never met before.

  She dropped her hand and pointed to the card, her voice unmistakably proud. “She had a unique idea, making the miniature ruby valentine—see? Those little glass beads represent the rubies on a valentine I made for Callie Garret—"

  She gasped.

  He cursed.

  "You're Callie's step son! I can't believe I didn't catch—"

  "Are you saying Callie had the rubies put onto a valentine?” Christian interrupted harshly. He saw the answer in her expression and breathed another savage oath. How blind could he be? Rosalyn had mentioned the valentine more than once, but he had ignored the obvious.

  "It wasn't Callie.” Esther sounded agitated—bewildered, no doubt due to his violent reaction. “Henry commissioned the valentine. Your father. Have you never seen it, then?"

  Christian's furious gaze fell to the card in his hand. He stared at the tiny, miniature replica of the valentine Miss Howland spoke of until his vision blurred. No, he couldn't say he had seen the ruby valentine, but he was damned certain he knew where he could find it.

  In the hands of Worcester's very own Cupid, Miss Rosalyn Mitchell.

  * * * *

  Rosalyn's stomach did a queasy little flip-flop. Miss Howland was talking to Christian, talking and pointing to the front of the card where ... She sucked in a sharp breath. Where she'd pasted the miniature ruby valentine! Oh, Lord, would he notice? What was Miss Howland saying to him?

  Trying to appear casual, Rosalyn edged closer. If she could get close enough, she might hear what they were saying—

  "Miss Mitchell?"

  Rosalyn jumped at the sound of her name so close and loud. She didn't want Christian to know she was edging near, and here was someone calling her name! Swiftly, she turned, pasting a brittle smile on her face. Darn Christian Garret anyway, for ruining her day. “Yes?"

  A short, rotund man stood before her, blushing furiously. His worn overalls and flannel shirt proclaimed him a farmer. Rosalyn recognized him, for he came into town nearly every Saturday, and she often saw him loading supplies at the feed store across from the factory.

  "Pardon me, ma'am, but I—” He paused to grin an endearing, bashful grin. “My lady wife just had a baby, and I wondered if you could deliver something nice and pretty for her. I got money, and I know it's a long way out to my place, but I'm willing to pay extra for that. She's had a hard time of it, and what with the other four youngin's to care for, I just want her to know how much I—I love her."

  "Well, we don't...” She trailed away as the farmer's face revealed his disappointment. Squirming, Rosalyn looked around, trying desperately to catch Miss Howland's eye. Her employer still conversed with that rat. This was one problem she would have to solve alone. “Mr—"

  "Dillon, Ma'am. Audrey Dillon. You see, I came with the intention of bidding on one of those fine cards, but the bidding started so high...” His face continued to redden, this time with embarrassment. “She deserves the best, I know, but we didn't have a good crop this year and with the baby—"

  "I understand, really I do,” Rosalyn said with a sincere note of regret. “But none of the cabbies will take me that far, I'm afraid, unless I have an escort—"

  "I'd be more than glad to tag along,” a deep voice interrupted.

  Rosalyn stiffened, an icy chill traveling down her spine. Christian ... She didn't turn. In fact, she intended to ignore him, but she soon discovered he wasn't alone.

  Miss Howland moved into view at her side, smiling politely at the blushing farmer. “Mr. Dillon, we met at the door earlier. How did you like the auction? Did you find anything to your liking?"

  Mr. Dillon looked as if he'd swallowed a brick. His appalled gaze darted from Christian to Miss Howland, then back to Rosalyn. Rosalyn couldn't stand it. She had to save the poor man from further humiliation.

  Studiously ignoring Christian, Rosalyn smiled to put the farmer at ease. “Mr. Dillon was just telling me that he was hoping to find something more useful, like a basket. His wife's just delivered, you see, and she could use a basket to keep baby items in.” Her s
mile blazed at the farmer. She winked at him when she was certain they weren't watching. “Isn't that so, Mr. Dillon?"

  Mr. Dillon was a quick study. His face brightened with understanding. “Yes, yes it is. Thank you, Miss Mitchell, for explaining for me. I'm not so good with words, least that's what my wife tells me."

  "Well,” Miss Howland said, “I'm sure we've got a basket you'll like, and a nice appreciation card to go with it.” Her warm smile included Christian. “And Mr. Garret is kind to offer to go with you, isn't he Rosalyn? Have you met our Mr. Garret? Of course, you probably know each other—after all, he's Callie's stepson!"

  Rosalyn flinched and lifted her gaze. Oh, yes, she'd met him, and wished she hadn't. But she couldn't say these things to Miss Howland. The kind lady wouldn't understand, and Rosalyn had no intention of explaining it to her. She shuddered inwardly at the thought. “Actually, we have met recently, but I don't remember him ever coming around when Callie was alive.” Beside her—too close—Christian inhaled sharply, catching the hidden barb. Humph! That would teach him to stick his nose where it didn't belong, as if she would consent to ride with him anywhere—

  "Then it's settled.” Miss Howland beamed in satisfaction, oblivious to the raging undercurrents. “I'll show Mr. Dillon our collection of ready-made baskets so that he can choose one before he leaves, and tomorrow you and Christian can deliver it to Mrs. Dillon.” She followed her conclusion by clapping her hands, a motion Rosalyn once thought charming. “I'll even add a surprise gift to the basket—something for the baby."

  Mr. Dillon appeared to have lost his tongue. He watched Miss Howland with wide-eyed amazement. Finally, he scrambled for words of thanks. “I can't thank you—this is too much—I've heard of your generosity, Miss Howland."

  Miss Howland waved a hand in modest dismissal. “Nonsense. I'm no kinder than anyone else."

  She held out her arm to the farmer, who grinned and took it like the gentleman that he was. They turned in the direction of the shop at the front of the building, but Miss Howland had one last thing to say. Her twinkling gaze fell on Christian, and Rosalyn resisted the urge to glance at him.