Worth the Wait: A Ladies of Harper's Station Novella

by Karen Witemeyer

  Ben . . . Mr. Porter . . . grinned at her, a grin that implied he knew her answer only told half the story. He leaned close and spoke in a low voice that rumbled in her ear. “Mrs. McPhearson wasn’t the only one to notice how taken Lewis was with that scrap of fur. Your heart was breaking right along with his when he set the pup aside and bravely ordered the tiny thing to stay when he thought it was time to go.”

  She wanted to deny it, but he was right. And since Mr. Porter had proven himself immune to her demurs anyway, there really was no point in trying to hide behind such a flimsy barrier of politeness. He’d just call her out on her truth-bending—like he had last time.

  “You’re right,” she said, careful to keep her gaze directed on the road rather than on the man beside her. Openness was one thing, actual connection was far more dangerous. “When the poor little thing ran after him, yapping as if he were losing his best friend . . .” She shook her head and let her words trail off as her heart clenched in her chest at the memory. Thankfully, Hazel had chosen that moment to offer the animal in exchange for the second length of fabric, and Tori had been able to rein in her weakness and focus on business. “I’m glad it worked out.”

  “You might change your mind if Hercules decides to christen your crates.”

  Tori’s gaze flew to the freighter. He nodded with a tip of his head and a quirk of his lips toward the wagon bed behind them.

  Hercules staggered about on shaky legs sniffing suspiciously at the crate that held her scented soaps and bath salts. Was that back leg inching upward?

  “Lewis!”

  The boy jumped and spun around. “What?”

  “Keep that animal away from my crates.” Tori drew in a breath and deliberately calmed her voice. “Have him play on the other side of you, dear, where there’s more open space for him to explore. And if you think he might need to . . . um . . . water the flowers, let me know at once and we’ll—”

  Masculine laughter cut off her words. “Water the flowers?” Ben tipped his head back and laughed all the harder. It didn’t take more than a heartbeat for Lewis to join him.

  “Your ma’s sure got a way with words.” The freighter wiped at his eyes, and for the first time Tori found herself envious. Envious of his unfettered emotion.

  She used to laugh like that, so hard tears leaked from her eyes. She missed it. Missed the innocent girl who saw the world as full of possibilities instead of threats.

  Lewis picked Hercules up and dutifully moved him to the other side of his sprawled legs to keep the pup away from the crates. “Aw, she just don’t like talkin’ about—”

  “Lewis.” Tori gave him a stern look, her warning tone eliciting a pair of irritating male grins.

  “Womenfolk are like that,” Ben said, turning back to face the road, but not before he winked conspiratorially at her son. “My ma used to say, ‘answerin’ the call of nature.’ And she always blushed when she said it.” He aimed a sideways glance at Tori, and her cheeks immediately heated. Traitorous things.

  “Well, I don’t think Hercules will need to water the flowers any time soon.” Lewis snickered. “He watered the porch steps at Sarah’s house before we left.”

  Tori bit back a groan. She better find a way to turn the discussion in a more appropriate direction. “I like the name you gave him,” she said, pouncing on the first thought that came to mind. “Very classical.”

  Lewis scrunched up his nose. “What does classical mean? It sounds like school.”

  She’d been teaching him his letters in the evenings and called it their class time. He caught on very quickly for one so young, but he hated having to sit still at the table when there were forts to build and popguns to fire at invisible invaders.

  “Anything related to Greek or Roman culture is considered classical,” Tori explained. “Hercules was a hero from Roman mythology.”

  “Mr. Ben? I thought you said he was one of them Greeks, like your horses were named after.”

  Tori waited for Mr. Porter to contradict her. After all, men rarely admitted to being wrong, especially if they considered themselves an expert on the subject. She’d prove herself correct when they returned home. She knew exactly where the book was that had the Roman and Greek mythology chart inside. It would be a simple matter to—

  “I think your ma’s right.” Ben’s brows drew together as if he were truly pondering the question. No cockiness. No condescension. “The Greek and Romans stole stories from each other all the time,” he said, “so the same heroes are in both, they just go by different names. The Greek names are usually more famous, but not always.” He turned to Tori. “What was the Greek name for Hercules? I can’t recall.”

  He was actually asking her for input. Openly admitting that she might know more than him about his own pet subject. And without a hint of shame. As if he fully accepted the fact that a woman’s intellect could equal a man’s. The novelty of the situation stunned her so completely it took a moment for her to remember the question he’d asked.

  “Heracles,” she blurted, thanking God for allowing her to retrieve the name before it flew from her brain with the rest of her thoughts.

  Ben nodded. “That’s right. Heracles.”

  “It’s almost the same,” Lewis said, “but I like Hercules better.”

  Tori stretched her arm along the bench to relieve the pinch in her back that ached from her facing backward and ordered herself to get a grip on her scattered wits. Hoping the man beside her couldn’t see how much he’d rattled her, she asked, “How did you come to pick that name?” The pup really was a handsome little thing. Black fur on his back and face, accented with touches of brown around the edges. White paws and belly. Big dark eyes that were impossible not to melt over when he tilted his head just so.

  “Well . . .” Lewis scooped up the puppy when the little adventurer tried to crawl across his legs to get back to the crates. He plopped Hercules into his lap and stroked the animal’s soft fur. “Since he looks so much like Hermes and Helios, I figured he needed a name to help him fit in with the family. Hercules starts with an H and matches the stories Mr. Ben tells, so it just seemed right.”

  Ben turned to look at her. She saw the motion out of the corner of her eye and felt his gaze upon her, but she didn’t glance his way. She couldn’t. Not when everything inside her had frozen at the words that slipped so casually from her son’s mouth.

  Family.

  Oh, heavens. Did Lewis think of Ben Porter as family? As a father? Panic pounded through her breast, restricting her chest, closing her lungs. She’d told him over and over that the freighter was just a friend. Nothing more.

  But what had Mr. Porter been saying? He’d made no secret that he wanted to court her. Had he been planting ideas in her son’s head to use as weapons against her?

  ———

  Ben felt Tori stiffen. He wasn’t sure how he felt it since her body sat a good foot away and no part of her actually touched him, but he was aware of the change nonetheless. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw her fingers curl into a fist and crush the fabric of her skirt as she slowly turned to face forward. He adjusted his grip on the driving lines and tried to act as casual as possible, hoping by some miracle the storm brewing beside him would blow over. But he knew it was wishful thinking. Tori had to be truly furious to display her anger in so overt a fashion.

  What had her so riled? Ben hadn’t missed the kid’s untimely wording—he’d secretly rejoiced over the fact that Lewis thought of him in family terms—but surely that little slip wasn’t enough to get Tori this bent out of shape.

  “How dare you use my son as a pawn,” she ground out between clenched teeth, her voice low and shaking with rage.

  Ben jerked around. “What are you talking about?” He matched her volume, not wanting Lewis to overhear whatever it was they were discussing.

  Her eyes flashed blue fire as her delicate brows formed a tight vee of disapproval. “I’ve made it abundantly clear that I have no intention of ever marryi
ng. You or any other man. Yet instead of accepting my word on the matter, you skulk around like an underhanded snake and use my son as a pawn in your stupid game. Do you think that if Lewis begs prettily enough that I’ll bring you into my home like that pup of his? I’m not some weak-willed female ruled by her emotions. You’ve miscalculated if you think I’ll be herded like a blind sheep into a pen of your making.”

  The words spilled out of her like a flash flood rushing through a dry creek bed, stirring up dirt and debris as it rushed heedlessly on. Stirring Ben’s temper. He clamped his jaw closed and gripped the lines so tight Hermes missed a step. But the woman wasn’t done.

  “And what happens when I turn down your suit? After you build up ideas in my son’s head of having a father, a family—you leave. What happens to Lewis then?”

  Ben glared at her, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “I already care about that kid as much as if he were mine. I’d never hurt him. Ever.”

  She opened her mouth to argue. He stopped her with a look.

  “No, ma’am. You had your turn to spout unfounded accusations. You’ll sit there and listen to my side without interruption.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, but her mouth snapped closed. He’d count that a victory. She probably would have stomped away in a huff had they been back in Harper’s Station. The woman had a talent for avoiding uncomfortable situations. But praise be, he had a captive audience this time, and by all that was holy, he was going to have his say.

  “I’ve never said a word to him about the future. Never called him son even as a figure of speech. Never mentioned my feelings toward his ma in his hearing.” Feelings that were rather heated at the moment but plenty strong.

  Ben took a breath and forced a level of calm into his low-pitched words. “I know what it’s like to grow up without a father, Tori. To envy other boys who had a pa to teach them how to fix a leaky roof or hunt pheasant for Christmas dinner. To feel a weight of responsibility press down on my shoulders that I was too young to understand. If it weren’t for Marlow Hutchins, the old livery owner in Seymour, I doubt I would have made it to manhood.”

  Childhood memories swamped him.

  “Ma had taken a job in the café after my pa died, cooking meals to all hours just to keep the mortgage paid and food in our bellies. Without her supervision, Bart and I ran wild. Skipped school, played pranks, caused all kind of havoc. Until old Marlow caught us shearing the mane off his best mare.”

  Ben chuckled. “He was livid. Demanded we work off our crime by shoveling manure for a month. Hounded us about goin’ to school, too. Even went so far as to escort us there every day and check with the teacher every afternoon to make sure we did our lessons. If we didn’t, he’d pile on extra chores and make us work past supper. We thought he was the devil incarnate.

  “Then we reached the end of the month, and he paid us wages. Honest-to-goodness wages. The first we’d ever seen. I wanted to run to the general store and spend it on candy and a ten pin set. But Marlow told us to use the money to buy our ma something special. Said she deserved it for puttin’ up with our shenanigans.”

  He slanted a look at Tori. “That one statement opened my eyes. I’d been so wrapped up in my own anger and loss, I hadn’t noticed what my ma was going through. Not only had she lost the man she loved, but she’d been left to support two boys who couldn’t see past the end of their noses. Yet she’d done what needed to be done without a word of complaint. And how had I thanked her? By adding to her burden.

  “In that moment, I changed. I vowed to do whatever I could to lighten her load instead of adding to it. I begged Marlow for a permanent job, for me and my brother, promising I’d never pull a prank again. The old man agreed. He taught us everything we know about horses, freighting, and running a business. He helped us become men.

  “That’s what my friendship with Lewis is all about. Mentorship. Not manipulation.”

  Tori’s posture relaxed slightly. Lines continued to mar her forehead, and her lips continued to press against each other in an angry line, but the vee of her brows eased and the fire in her gaze dimmed to mere coals.

  “I admire you, Tori. I have for a long time. You’re strong and beautiful and the best doggone businesswoman I’ve had the honor to meet. But you’re not the reason I spend time with Lewis. He’s worth my attention all on his own.”

  CHAPTER

  5

  “You’re not the reason I spend time with Lewis. He’s worth my attention all on his own.”

  Tori couldn’t get the words out of her head. Or the earnestness with which they’d been spoken. They haunted her the rest of the morning as she and Ben stopped at house after house.

  She dutifully went through the motions, smiling at the people she met, conversing, selling. She collected orders for future supplies, sold a few small items from her wagon stores, and in two cases, graciously accepted the owners’ wishes not to be visited in the future. She’d known such requests would come. It would be unrealistic to expect success at every stop. Still, she couldn’t help feeling a small ding to her pride each time her business was rejected.

  The one request that truly got her dander up, though, came from the rather odiferous bachelor farmer at their last stop. He’d been more than willing to allow her to deliver goods to him if she left her boy at home and drove the wagon herself. The leer accompanying his words left no doubt as to what he intended to buy. She’d briefly fantasized about shooting the lecher with her pocket pistol strictly on principle but decided that having a mother in jail would not be good for Lewis. So instead, she’d marched back to the wagon, ordered Lewis inside, and waited for Mr. Porter to return to the wagon and whisk her away.

  Ben had lingered behind, however, waiting until she and Lewis were out of earshot. Then he had a few choice words with the foul fellow. The freighter’s back had been to the wagon, so she couldn’t gauge his expression, but she could certainly gauge the effect his conversation had on the farmer. The man’s expression transformed from one of bawdy amusement, to outrage, to blanching panic. He visibly flinched when Ben raised a hand to tip his hat, obviously expecting a much more violent intent from the motion.

  Neither she nor Mr. Porter said a word about the incident as they made their way back to the road. Truth was, they hadn’t spoken much at all since her earlier recriminations. Somehow that made his actions all the more heroic.

  He’d defended her. Even after she’d lashed out at him, he still protected her. Whether it was because he cared for her personally or just for women in general she couldn’t be sure, but either way, his actions spoke well of him—further proof that she’d been out of line with her accusations. She’d let her prejudice influence her judgment, allowing her distrust of men to overshadow the truth she’d gleaned with her own eyes over the last year. Ben Porter was a man of honor.

  Dependable. Kind. Trustworthy. He’d done nothing to deserve her censure.

  “I’m sorry.” She blurted the apology as the wagon dipped into a rut. The jarring motion squeezed the end of the statement into a high-pitched squeak.

  Ben glanced her way, his brows lifted. “What was that?”

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated, taking care to enunciate each word, wanting him to hear her sincerity. “For the things I said earlier.”

  He made no response, just kept looking at her with an unnerving level of intensity.

  “I . . .” She swallowed hard then forced herself to form the words. “I’ve learned to be guarded around men, and sometimes that guardedness leads me to suspect dishonorable motives where there are none.” She dropped her gaze to her lap, his attention too unnerving. “Over the past year, you’ve been nothing but kind to Lewis and to me. I had no reason to accuse you of deception and trickery.”

  He remained quiet for a long time. Even turned his attention back to the road. Tori bit her lip. Was he still so angry that he’d refuse to accept her apology? Or had her unthinking words injured him more than she’d thought possible? The man was so la
rge, it was hard to imagine anything as puny as a few words inflicting damage. Yet she knew better than anyone how barbed comments could zing past one’s defenses to slice into the tender places inside.

  Contemplating whether or not she should try again to gain his forgiveness, she nearly missed the quiet offering that rumbled between them.

  “Thanks for that. The words, I mean. I’ve . . . waited a long time.” He glanced her way, and the raw emotion in his gaze obliterated her well-constructed shield as if it were no more substantial than papier-mâché.

  He’d waited a long time for what? Not an apology, surely. She hadn’t wronged him like that before. Recognition of his kindness, perhaps? She shifted uncomfortably on the bench. Had she really never expressed appreciation to him? Surely, she’d commended him on his timely deliveries or thanked him for his efforts in opening new markets for her goods at the very least. Hadn’t she?

  Good heavens. Shame lashed her. All this time, she’d been so set on protecting herself, she’d never once considered how prickly her armor made her. Politeness wasn’t the same as kindness. Over this past year, Benjamin Porter had repeatedly bent over backward to help her—offering protection when their town had been threatened by outlaws, seeking new customers when her largest account refused to do business with her after Harper’s Station agreed to take in Stanley Fischer’s runaway mail-order bride. Time and again Ben Porter had gone the extra mile for her, and what had she offered in return? A smattering of porcupine quills in the face every time he came too close.

  Why in the world did he wish to court her? He should brush her aside and find a woman who wasn’t so emotionally barren.

  An odd moisture gathered in the corner of her eyes. She almost didn’t recognize it. She never cried. Ever. Tears were a weakness that failed to solve problems. But this wetness felt different. The tears blurring her vision hadn’t emerged in response to something that had happened to her, as the pointless tears she’d wept in her youth had done. No, these had spawned from contrition, an altogether different source. And one that apparently had not been drained completely dry within her.