by Tracy Sumner
Miles sighed. “You were right,” she heard him say as he approached the wagon, which she could just make out in the darkness.
“As expected,” came Chase’s cool reply.
Guilt raced through her as she observed Chase painstakingly step from the wagon, Miles able assistance steadying him. The guilt departed as his face came into view. She took a fearful step back. He looked terribly angry, as angry as the other night in the cornfield. It seemed she had witnessed his anger one too many times. She must be the lucky woman who brought it out in him.
If only anger had marked his face, she would have won the battle.
But he looked bone tired. Deep crescents lounged beneath each eye, and the bruise surrounding the injured one had faded to a hostile yellow. And his skin was much paler than usual. It was obvious to her that he should still be abed.
“You look like hell,” she said without thinking.
He halted at the threshold, his gaze constant. “Collect your belongings.”
“No.”
“Now.”
Charlie was startled and infuriated by his demand, yet she gathered no courage from his ever-tightening lips and icy, distant stare. Her hand lifted, her fingers fidgeting at her throat, as she debated what to do.
Adam wedged his shoulder against the frame, looking as if it were helping to keep him on his feet. “You have a count of ten. Only worry about enough for tonight. One...”
“What happens when you get to ten?” she managed through gritted teeth.
“You remember those whippings with a switch when you were a child?”
She turned, her faded brown skirt whipping, and stalked into her bedroom. She cursed as she threw a dress into the scratched, leather case that had been her father’s. She’d never really had any use for it before.
Of all the low, domineering—governing her like a child. Who did he think he was?
“Seven...”
“Oh, hush up, I’m coming!” She flipped the clasp on the case with a furious swat and walked from the room, right past him and out the door. She didn’t turn to look as she heard him close up her house.
After a few fruitless, inane attempts—by Miles—at conversation, they rode the mile between the Whitney and Lambert homes in silence.
When the wagon stopped in the Lambert’s front yard, Charlie was prepared for flight. She pulled the case to her side and managed a quite adroit vault from the back of the wagon to the ground.
“Always the lady,” Adam muttered.
“She’s a pistol, ain’t she? Thank heaven Kathy hasn’t the stubbornness of that one.”
Adam’s gaze traveled the distance, to the petite, dark-haired woman banging on the Lambert’s door like there was no tomorrow. “Yes. Thank heaven for that.”
“Do you need help getting down?”
Adam shook his head. “No. I’m used to the dull ache. Although those sharp, swift pains are still a surprise.” He couldn’t suppress the groan that slipped out when his feet hit the hard-packed earth.
As they walked to the house, Miles glanced at him with a frown. “You should be in bed, not out here like this.”
“No time. I can’t ignore what happened the other day. The only solution is a meeting with Stokes, in Richmond. That bastard needs to see who he’s dealing with.”
“He hired you. How can he not know?”
Adam paused, perching his hip against the railing. Telling Miles he might not be able to make it to the house probably wasn’t a good idea. “He didn’t hire me. Stokes wanted a good editor, my editor agreed to let me go for the summer. I didn’t have much choice.” He smacked his fist against his open palm. “Does he think I would let him do this to me? That I would let him threaten her?”
Miles’ gaze searched Adam’s face. “Those men, they threatened Charlie?”
“They said I was vulnerable” —Adam glanced at the house, feminine laughter luring him— “because I employed a woman. She wants to run this newspaper, and with a bit more training, she could do it. That mind of hers, you cannot believe.” Digging in his shirt pocket, he extracted a crumpled cheroot and matches. “To let this go unpunished, leave her here with this mess. No. Stokes has to understand this is not going to happen ever again. Not to me, not to her, not to your father.”
“They brought my Pa into this? I’ll go with you. We’ll beat the shit—”
Adam grasped his friend by the shoulder, his cheroot dangling from his lips. “I need you here. Helping Gerald run the newspaper in my absence.”
Miles nodded, although it was clear he would rather solve the problem his way. “When are you leaving?”
“As soon as I can ride a horse comfortably.”
Miles was silent a moment before he asked, “What about Charlie?”
Adam exhaled a wisp of smoke into the summer night. “What about her?”
Miles looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “Do you want her working at the Sentinel while you’re gone?”
“Absolutely not.”
Miles’ look changed to one that plainly stated, and you think I can stop her?
Adam returned a look only two men could share and understand.
Miles gestured to his house. “I can’t stop her from doing what you know she’d be hell-bent on doing. Just think what you’re asking. Just think about her.”
Adam tapped ashes from the cheroot, refusing to consider what Miles was suggesting, and none too subtly. “Oh, no. I have another life in Richmond.” As if that explained everything. But it did. He could not take Charlie—
No. It was an impossible suggestion. An impossible idea.
“Another woman, is that it?” Miles’ grin flashed in the darkness.
“I don’t have another woman.” Not really, he didn’t.
“Well, then?”
“Why do I feel like a horse being led to the watering trough?” Adam stubbed the cheroot out against the railing, harder than required. “Charlie’s my colleague.”
A knowing grin crossed Miles’ face. “You think I look at Charlie the way you do? You’d punch me in the face if I did.”
Kath’s entrance onto the porch halted his rebuttal. “Miles, Adam, I’ve made a huge supper, so come in while it’s hot.” She leaned forward, squinting to see them clearly. “Good gracious, Miles, bring him in, he looks dead on his feet.”
Dead on his feet.
Adam pushed off the railing, realizing that wasn’t a bad way to put it.
He sat at the Lambert’s kitchen table later that night, reading through his mail. The house was as still and quiet as a hidden pond. It was good to be alone. No need to struggle to make conversation with a woman who was, at the moment, indignant and confused, or try to calm the nerves of friends who had only best intentions at heart.
He rubbed the back of his neck, stiffening when the stretch caused a sharp hitch in his chest. With a sigh, he turned his attention to the letters on the table before him. There were two from his solicitor in Richmond—the same one who had handled his father’s affairs—apprising him of the gains and losses of his many investments. Mostly gains, it seemed.
There was also a short note from a colleague who had recently been hired as a correspondent for the Richmond Examiner. Adam had worked with the man years ago during his tour of the West. He recalled a jovial man, tall and lanky, a bit of a drinker, but all in all entertaining. Adam slid the note, with the man’s Richmond address, into the saddlebag at his feet.
He straightened slowly—his injuries pained him more than Miles’ potent mash could disguise—and picked up the last letter, staring at the flowing script a full minute before turning it in his hands and breaking the seal. A scented page drifted from the envelope. Adam sniffed derisively as he picked up the sheet of yellow parchment. Her neat, familiar script reached out to him.
* * *
Adam, dear,
How dreadfully boring Richmond is without you. Don’t laugh, but with Father gone, this entire month has been nothing but one trial after ano
ther! The only joy is the look on men’s faces when they realize they must deal with a woman. You know, I may become a proponent of women’s rights yet.
* * *
Adam smiled. He missed her. Only, neither of them missed the other in any way that mattered.
* * *
How is the newspaper in your small town doing? I hope, for your sake, that it is more exciting than you had imagined. Certainly, there are women and saloons, no matter the size of the place. And a newspaper. What more do you need?
* * *
He chuckled and filled his glass with Miles’ potion, which he was afraid he was developing a fondness for.
* * *
There has been a flurry of activity here since the last time I wrote. A new hotel is being built at Franklin and Third streets. There is also talk of the city buying some property on the western edge for development for a state fair park. Land covered with scrub pines and blackberry bushes! Lucky devil that owns the property. William Clifton Thomas, if I’m not mistaken.
* * *
He doubted Marilyn would overlook any issue involving money.
* * *
I wish I had more time to put what I am thinking to paper, but until Father returns, I won’t find time to purchase a new gown. Also, the words I want to say may not be appropriate for a lady to record for others, perhaps, to see. So I shall leave you with what I assure you are benevolent thoughts. Be sure to drop a note when you return to the city. Maybe your busy schedule will allow for a short letter to me as well.
With warmest regard,
Marilyn
* * *
Adam dropped the letter to the table, his gaze going to the window and the vast fields surrounding the farmhouse. He should have gone back to Mrs. Wilkin’s tonight, but he and Miles hadn’t finished discussing the predicament until well past midnight. Besides, they had extra bedrooms, and what was one bed versus another when neither was you own?
It scared him to realize how attached to Charlie he had become in these last weeks.
And how responsible he felt for her.
Their passionate encounter in the cornfield had only intensified the attraction between them. How could it not, when he knew how perfectly she fit him? Knew how sweet the skin beneath her ear tasted, how silky her hair felt wrapped around his fingers. Knew how damned erotic the scent of roses was, clinging to his skin.
How, how, could he not want more?
He shook his head, trying to conjure Marilyn’s beautiful face, but the image that leaped into his mind was one of Charlie—sitting by the window, her head bent in deep concentration as she helped Kath mend clothing. Shimmering moonlight from the window streaming down upon her, bathing her in pale radiance.
He groaned, scrubbing his hand over his face.
He and Miles had decided Charlie should go to Richmond. There was no other way. She would get into trouble if he left her behind, and his fear about the temptation she presented was less than his fear for her safety. At least this way, he could keep an eye on her.
And if he was honest—which he had not been with Miles—there was a part of him that wanted to take her. To show her his home on the James River and his office at the Times. To share in her excitement as she watched paper fly through what would be the largest press she had ever seen. To witness her excitement as she encountered the bustling, noisy streets of Richmond.
In the morning he would tell her. She needed time to pack, time to prepare. They would be gone for two or three weeks. There was also the dilemma regarding a chaperone—a dilemma that was, as yet, unresolved. It was out of the question to travel alone with her. Her reputation would be utterly ruined.
And...he did not want any more temptation than he could handle.
The train, thankfully, would be fast and spacious. With enough room for him to avoid being in her immediate proximity.
Unquestionably, when they arrived in Richmond, he would be far too busy to do much more than tour her around the city for an afternoon or two. A pile of correspondence as high as his head was no doubt waiting for him, plus household affairs to organize, investments to monitor, meetings to attend. He was not going to neglect those things to play nursemaid to a woman who could not seem to keep herself, or him, out of trouble.
He smiled. For the first time in weeks his life was back in his control.
23
Awareness
Having knowledge; consciousness.
Richmond, Virginia
Charlie lifted her hand to her mouth and yawned behind it. Even in the privacy of her bedroom, she could not infringe upon Mrs. Mindlebright’s teachings.
She glanced at the ceiling above her bed, amazed by the decorative scrolls painted in bursts of green and yellow. Actually, it wasn’t her bed—better to say the bed in Chase’s guest bedroom. No, that wasn’t right, either. He had six or seven bedrooms. If you had that many, were they all for guests? She had no idea. Even Lila’s house—the biggest in Edgemont—only had two to spare. They called theirs guest bedrooms.
Her gaze searched the ceiling. No chipped paint, no spider webs. She didn’t think she’d ever seen a ceiling without a single spider web. And the bed, why it was so big, she could stretch out full length and her feet would not hang over the edge. She did it then, just because she could, stretching as completely as Faustus did on the comforting wood of her porch. She hoped Miles wouldn’t forget to go by and feed him. Faustus could certainly survive on his own on field mice and a bird or two, but she didn’t want him to think he’d been abandoned.
Her gaze lit on the four-poster bedstead rising high above her head. Surely, all the furniture in this room couldn’t be mahogany, but she knew that it was. The dark wood gleamed and glistened, dim reflections layering its surface. The entire house shone like a new penny. Neat and orderly—without a trace of character or personality. Her own home was dingy in comparison, small and cluttered, everything looking very...homespun. But, it had a personality all its own. You could tell a lot about her by looking at the sketches hanging on her wall or the trinkets sitting on her shelves.
Chase’s home was just the opposite. It was tastefully decorated—for all she knew of furnishings, which wasn’t much. Yet, it was stylish to the extreme, furnished with pieces too daunting to actually sit upon.
The second floor—where she was—consisted of four large bedrooms and a small parlor with windows overlooking the river. The third floor had more bedrooms, modest ones, for the household staff, she guessed. There were also two vacant rooms tucked into the corner of the top floor. Sealed boxes and furniture covered with white sheets occupied those.
The room she assumed was his was at the far end of the hall. Her own was at the top of the stairs, as far away from his as possible.
What did his bedroom look like? She would love to know, but she couldn’t just snoop. He'd locked the door, anyway.
If she were writing an article on his home, an exact description would fail her. It just lacked...feeling. Whoever had decorated it didn’t know Chase well, she’d be willing to bet. The house looked nice, elegant and attractive, but it felt indifferent and cheerless.
Charlie pulled a fat feather pillow to her chest and hugged it, discarding the homesickness plaguing her. She wanted to be here. In Richmond. In Chase’s home. To see a new city, a different part of the country, excited her. So, why was she homesick? They had only arrived on the train this very afternoon.
She simply had not expected to feel so alone.
She would stay busy, of course. Chase told her they would go into Richmond proper in a day or two, after he had concluded his meeting with Oliver Stokes. Charlie had asked to go with him, but his negative response had brooked no argument.
Her chaperone, Mrs. Peters, had pleaded exhaustion from the trip and gone directly to her room upon their arrival. The older woman had complained much of the time they were on the train, but every aspect of their journey had enthralled Charlie. She wasn’t sure when Chase had come up with the grand idea of asking Mr
s. Peters, who had recently moved from Richmond to open a millinery shop in Edgemont, to accompany them.
Mrs. Peters claimed the trip would be a perfect opportunity to gather the few personal items left behind during the move.
The only doleful element of Charlie's journey north was her interaction with Chase. She blew a frustrated breath toward the ceiling. An adventure, like one she had always dreamed of—the chance to travel beyond South Carolina’s borders. The chance to experience life. Except, he was crushing her hopes as flat as a flower beneath his stiff heel. Just like his damn house: cool and impersonal. Why, he had not looked at her closely, not so much as touched her with his little finger.
Not once.
Most of the trip had consisted of reflective musing, absorption in the landscape and people they encountered, and reading Jane Eyre. She had tried to thank Chase for the book, but he’d only shrugged it off with a casual flick of his wrist. So like him that damn gesture was.
Charlie honestly didn’t know what to think of his behavior. He was distant and detached, yet he seemed to be acutely aware of her. For the first time in her life, she felt spoiled. Pampered.
Although, it presented a problem when the person doing the pampering was barely speaking to her.
A soft knock on the door drew Charlie from her restless slumber. She had tossed and turned all night, tangling the sheets about her. Foolish dreams, feverish and unattainable. She shook her head and turned to her back. A quick glance at the window showed the sun was up, high and bright in the sky.
“Miss Whitney? Are you awake?” Mrs. Peters asked from the other side of the door.
Charlie sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest. The dutiful chaperone come to wake her recalcitrant charge. “Yes, Mrs. Peters, I’m awake. You may come in if you like.”