by Caroline Lee
“Just thinking.”
“Let me guess.” She sat back and gave him a calculating stare, and he was a disconcerted at her attention. “It’s about a woman. You don’t understand her.”
Nate narrowed his eyes. Mrs. Gardner was still beautiful, even after a lifetime of hard work, but there was no way she could have known that about him. Was there? “How’d you figure that?”
Her bark of laughter was more of a guffaw, with none of Eve’s tinkling falseness. “Because, honey, the only reason a man drinks alone is a woman. And there’s not a man alive who really understands us.” She threw back the whiskey, and poured herself more. It came from her liquor cabinet, after all. She stared at the bottle for a moment, lost in thought. “But for some reason, you keep marrying us.”
“You were married.”
She blinked, and tossed him a smile that wrinkled the skin around her eyes. “Two and a half times, darlin’!”
“And a half?”
“Well, that last time he didn’t really do right by me, did he? But after almost twenty-five years with Mr. Gardner, I didn’t need another husband.”
Nate couldn’t help but be drawn to the woman’s frankness. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Another laugh. “Don’t be! He’s still alive and kicking, out in that God-blessed land of Utah.” She smiled down at the liquor in her glass. “He and the rest of those Mormons didn’t really approve of my lifestyle, and he never gave me any kids.” She shrugged and took another drink. “Not from lack of trying, which I figure means it’s my fault. So I gave them all a fond farewell, and headed south with someone new. Then when he died, I came back this way—I was born and raised here, you know—to open this place. I like it, because after half a lifetime in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a bunch of other wives and their kids, it’s nice to meet new and interesting people.” She reached across the small table between them, and patted Nate’s leg. “And here I don’t have to share.”
The twinkle in her eye caused Nate to burst into laughter. It felt good. He saluted her with his glass, and she smiled in response.
“Now that I’ve dragged you from your melancholy, tell me what’s troubling you. Maybe I can help.” She winked. “I have had quite a lot of experience, you know.”
He smiled, the laughter having eased some of the tightness in his chest. “I told you I was here to try to fetch my sister-in-law home.”
“Back to Wyoming?”
“Yeah.”
“But that’s not the whole truth, is it?”
The woman must really know a lot about human nature. Or be a good guesser. “No.” He sighed, and took another sip of the whiskey, liking the way it burned on the way down. “No, and she’s my sister-in-law’s sister, really. We grew up together, I’ve known her for years. And somewhere along the way, I went and fell in love with her.”
“Ah. But she’s here in St. Louis, and now you are too.”
“She quit writing home. All of us have been worried about her. And I…”
When he didn’t finish, Mrs. Gardner did. “And you missed her terribly, didn’t you?” Nate didn’t have to answer; she patted his knee again. “Love isn’t always easy. You came to find out why she stopped writing to you, and if she loved you back?”
“I came to figure out if she’d ever even considered loving me.” He couldn’t help the scorn that laced his words. Hearing it, he took another drink, and wondered if he was trying to get drunk. Drunk enough to forget the taste of her and the way she’d run afterwards.
“You don’t think that’s likely?”
“Look at me, Mrs. Gardner.”
“I am looking, sugar. You’re a fine-looking man.”
“I’m an Indian.” He spat out the word like it was a curse. Maybe it was. Maybe if he’d been a different man, Wendy would have stayed in Wyoming. Wouldn’t have left him… twice.
“Not with those eyes, you’re not. I’m guessing you’re only half-Indian. Am I right?”
“Quarter.”
She peered at him, and Nate was suddenly glad for the shadows the fire threw. “Really? Your father wasn’t…?”
The thought wrenched a burst of ironic laughter from him. Unlike earlier, though, it didn’t make him feel better. Maybe she was right. He hadn’t known his father; maybe the man was an Indian. Wouldn’t that be just peachy, to find out that he was actually three-quarters Indian? He jerked his shoulders and tried to tamp down on the rise of bubbling dread in his stomach.
“I’m sorry, Nate.”
“Don’t be, ma’am. I never knew my father. Just had my mother’s claim that he was an Irishman. Could’ve been anyone.”
She didn’t say anything, but after a long moment poured more whiskey into his glass. Downing it, Nate wondered if she was trying to get him drunk. Wondered if he cared.
“So…” Mrs. Gardner refilled her own glass. “Judging from the way you spit out the word earlier, you think that she doesn’t love you because you’ve got mixed blood.” She didn’t wait for a response, which was good, because Nate couldn’t bring himself to agree aloud. “But you said you’ve known her for a while, and even though I just met you, I think you’re smart. Too smart to fall in love with someone so close-minded as to judge a man by his skin.”
He toasted her ironically, appreciating her faith but not confident in it.
She tut-tutted him in response. “I’m right, you know. I have a lot of experience in love.” She looked down at the whiskey in her glass, and Nate could tell from the faraway look in her eyes that she wasn’t really seeing it. “And experience not being in love, just being comfortable and afraid that nothing better is going to come along.”
She blinked, and looked up at him again. “But one thing I’ve learned, Nate, is that it’s better to be happy than comfortable and safe. If you’re happy, you can work to be successful. If you’re successful and comfortable, but not happy in your life, then it’s never going to get any better. No matter how hard you wish it.” She sighed. “Trust me on this. I lived twenty-five years as the wife of a respected man, but never quite content. I married him because I was tired of scrabbling, and I liked the idea of being taken care of. I stayed with him because I was afraid of what would happen to me if I left. Then I stayed longer because I had to take care of another wife’s kids after she died. I realized that I wasn’t happy, and I wasn’t going to become happy, staying there… so I left.” She took a long drink, and smacked her lips. “And I’d be lying if I said it’s been easy. I’ve worked hard to get to this point. But I’m happy.”
Her expectant look told him that he was supposed to say something. “Well, I’m glad you’re happy.”
She laughed at that. “It’s kind of you to let an old woman ramble on like that. But I mean it, Nate. Don’t settle for something comfortable, when you could push yourself to find something that makes you happy.”
“Sorry, ma’am. I don’t follow.” Hell, he was getting drunk, wasn’t he?
“This sister-in-law’s sister of yours is comfortable and safe and you think you love her.” Nate opened his mouth to tell her that he did love Wendy, but she interrupted him. “Okay, you do love her. But maybe you only love her because you know her, because she’s been there.”
“But she hasn’t been there.”
“In the time she’s been gone, have you thought about other women? Have you been pining over her, or did you go out and meet other women? Think about the way other women made you feel?”
“Yeah. I did.”
She hadn’t been expecting that answer. Her brows went up. “Really? And how did they make you feel? Compared to her? What’s her name, anyhow?”
“Wendy.” Nate shifted forward, his elbows on his knees, the whiskey in his hands. He stared at the fire. “And other women… they’re just not her. She knows me, the real me. The others didn’t seem to care to find out about the real me. I was just some Indian to them, for better or worse. And they all seemed so fake. Wendy… Wendy’s real.”
&
nbsp; “You’re not just talking about whores here, are you?”
He grinned. “Well, not all whores, ma’am.” She chuckled lightly. “Wendy’s best friend lives in Cheyenne, and keeps inviting me to all of these events to meet people. The women there are all interested in marriage, but none of them are particularly interested in me… or interesting enough to interest me. You know?” Getting drunk? Shit, he was drunk.
Still chuckling, she took another sip. “I think I do, Nate. I think I do. And…” she saluted him with her glass, “And I think that you might be right about her. Sounds like you’ve got it bad for this Wendy. But how does she feel about you?”
Nate flopped back in the chair, his breath exploding from him. That was the real question, wasn’t it? “When she quit writing, I figured I didn’t mean anything to her. But then today…”
“Tell me.”
So he did. He sat there in her parlor, with the cheery fire and the soft snow falling outside dark windows, and the too-good whiskey on the small table between them, and told her everything about the day. About how being with Wendy had been like old times, and how much fun they’d both had. About the way she’d touched him, and then confounded him with that claim she’d cut herself out of his life because she wasn’t worthy of him. About that kiss, that incredible kiss that he’d been dreaming about for years, and that still made him hot to think about. About the way she’d left him.
Mrs. Gardner just sat and listened, nodding sometimes, other times staring out the window. When he was done, she was quiet for a moment and then, turning eyes bright with tears on him, smiled. “Ma’am?”
“I think you’re right, sugar. You’ve spent three years missing the woman, and I’m glad you’ve come after her. You love her, and it sounds like she needs you.”
“Are you…?”
She blinked, and smiled again. “I’m fine. I was just remembering… and you’re a sweetheart, Nate. If I was thirty years younger…”
He managed not to roll his eyes. What was it with old ladies?
She noticed, and laughed. “I mean it, you know. Any woman would be pleased to have you court her. But sounds like your heart is already taken, and unless your Wendy is the world’s best actress, she’s still feeling something powerful for you. It’s a good thing you’re here to figure that out.”
Deliberately, Nate put the glass down on the table, and waved her away when she went to pour him more. He’d had enough. “So what do I do? She ran off. She ran off from me in Cheyenne three years ago, and she ran off from me today. You don’t think that sounds like a woman who wants to be free of me?”
“No, I think that sounds like a woman who isn’t sure of her own mind. Like she’s hiding something, or isn’t sure what she wants. But,” she pointed at his chest with her glass, “she wants you. I guarantee that.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“She kissed you back, didn’t she? In public? You said—you said it!—that she ‘melted’. Oh yeah, she wants you. Besides, honey,” Mrs. Gardner patted his knee again, “you’re a fine man, and she’d be a fool not to want you.”
He still wasn’t sure he believed her. “So what do I do?”
“You said she’s a private tutor? She probably is free by dinner time. Send a note to her and tell her you’ll be by to pick her up for dinner on, oh, Wednesday. That’ll give her a few days to think about what happened and what she really wants. Then take her out someplace nice and use all of that charm.”
“Wh’ charm?”
The way she smiled at him told Nate that he was missing parts of the conversation. Damn. Why’d he only drink when he thought about Wendy?
“For now, though, you’re not fit to hold a pen, much less compose an invitation. Write her tomorrow.” Mrs. Gardner stood up, smoothing her skirts and offering him a hand up, which he gladly accepted. “I’d best be putting you to bed, young man, if you expect to be able to stand tomorrow.”
Hell, he wasn’t as drunk as all that. Pulling his hand free from hers, he affected a decent bow, which made her laugh again. Then with all the dignity he could muster, he carefully said goodnight and climbed the stairs, thinking about what she’d said.
Later, lying in the small bed with his hands stacked behind his head, Nate listened to the gentle sound of flakes falling on snow outside his window. Maybe it was the whiskey talking, but the sound reminded him of home, and made him feel safe. Like he was under a thick blanket or something.
What would Wendy say when she got the invitation? Would she accept? Would it matter? Nate was going to see her again, and if she didn’t agree to dinner, he’d just show up in the Blakelys’ foyer again.
He and Wendy belonged together. That kiss had proved it, and he’d do anything he could to convince her of that.
“You look wan, Miss Murray. I do hope you’re not ill.”
Wendy smiled tightly, sure that Mrs. Blakely’s concern had absolutely nothing to do with her son’s tutor’s health. “I’m fine, thank you. I just slept poorly last night and am rather tired.”
‘Slept poorly’ was an understatement; Wendy didn’t think she’d slept at all. She’d tossed and turned all night, listening to the gentle hiss of falling snow outside her third-floor window. It reminded her of home, of the mornings she’d woken knowing there was a fresh blanket of snowfall just from the sounds of the night.
The memories confused her. The city was her home; she’d been born and raised in Chicago, and spent the last three years here in St. Louis. The few short years she’d lived in Wyoming shouldn’t have mattered enough to call it ‘home’. But somehow, they had, and she had lately found herself getting terribly homesick for Cheyenne.
Last night was no different. She missed her sisters, missed Serena, missed her nephews, wanted to meet her niece. She even missed Ash and the horses. But most of all, she’d missed Nate. And now he was here, here with her, and she’d spent a beautiful, amazing day with him, and shared that beautiful, amazing kiss.
The kiss she didn’t deserve.
It was about that time that Wendy had groaned, and moving the pillow off of her head, gotten out of bed to write. She’d written for hours, because it was better than lying in bed thinking about Nate’s touch. She’d tried to write about the Count and Sophia, but kept coming back to her Hero story. She threw herself into it whole-heartedly, and enjoyed crafting new characters. Most of her heroines were strong and independent, but this one—who she still hadn’t named—needed rescuing, which was why the Hero was so important. Wendy wondered what that said about her current frame of mind; she certainly didn’t need rescuing. At least, she didn’t deserve rescuing.
Mrs. Blakely’s skeptic “harrumph” brought her back to the hall outside the nursery. “Well, just make sure that’s all it is. Winter colds are the absolute worst, and God forbid you’ve brought the influenza into this house, after spending all day out among the populace with who knows what.” The way she narrowed her eyes told Wendy that she meant Nate, and Wendy felt her spine stiffen in an effort to keep herself from defending him to her employer. “Jeremy absolutely cannot afford to get sick at this time. He is delicate, and weak—”
“I will have to disagree with you, Mrs. Blakely.” Wendy hated it when the boy’s mother coddled Jeremy, knowing that she was doing him irreparable harm by treating him like an invalid. “Jeremy is as hale and hearty as any seven-year-old boy, despite his inability to hear.” And you would know that if you bothered to spend any time with your children.
The older woman’s lips thinned at the interruption, but she’d learned over the last year that Wendy could hold her own in an argument when it came to Jeremy’s welfare. “Still, if he’s to go off to school soon, then he can’t afford to get sick now.”
Wendy nodded regally, her back still stiff. “I agree entirely.”
Mrs. Blakely’s eyes narrowed, but she nodded imperiously as well. Then, an uneasy truce between two strong-willed women, they bid one another ‘good day’, and parted company.
; Wendy entered the nursery, still tamping down her irritation at her employer’s inability to give Jeremy the kind of credit he deserved, when she was met with the seven-year-old’s exuberant greeting.
*Good morning, Wendy!* She returned his hug gladly. Although she insisted on being called “Miss Murray” when they were in company—not that anyone else in the household could understand his signs, but she was trying to instill some sense of decorum in Jeremy before he left for school—she allowed him to call her “Wendy” in private. He saw it as a kind of quiet conspiracy against propriety, which made him happy. And to Wendy, the simple rebellion made her feel like part of Jeremy’s family; a trusted friend who happened to be teaching him what he needed to be successful in the wider world. Like she had Annie.
“Good morning, Jeremy.” As always, she spoke aloud when she signed. Jeremy was even better at reading lips than he was at signing, and from Serena’s letters, Wendy knew that it was an important skill. The school the Blakelys would send him to—she wasn’t privileged to know which one they’d chosen—would almost certain be an oralist school. Oralism was all about teaching deaf students to actually speak, which still amazed Wendy. Her own sister Annie was apparently now speaking more often than not; to Wendy, who’d taught the girl to sign at four years old, that sounded like a miracle.
“Why are you so excited this morning? Did you have particularly good oatmeal?” It was a tradition for her to tease the boy about his breakfasts, which she knew he hated.
*No!* His smile didn’t need translating. *Did you know? My brother is coming to visit!*
She tried not to let her alarm show in her expression. Instead, she swallowed, and pretended minor interest. “Which brother?”
*Steven!*
Her heart sunk, although she wasn’t surprised. Of course it would be Steven. Ellis was still in school in Chicago, but Steven visited from Salt Lake once every other month or so at his mother’s insistence. His last two visits had been nightmarish for her; both times she’d pretended illness and stayed in her room. She just couldn’t stand to see his smug grin, or watch him flirt with the downstairs maid. And once he’d had the audacity to talk about inviting himself to her room later that night… well, it was a wonder she hadn’t slapped him then and there, in his parents’ foyer.