Debra Holland (5 page)

Then she indulged in mentally consigning most of the expensive clutter to the shop, simplifying the decor.
When I have my own home someday...
But even her favorite daydream about her own little house failed to lift her spirits or ease the ache in her ankle.

A cup of willow bark tea was close at hand on a marble-topped side table. Harriet took a reluctant sip. Mrs. Cobb had been pouring the bitter brew down Harriet’s throat all morning, and she was sick of the drink, tired of being in pain, and bored. Even perusing the pages of
Gulliver’s Travels,
normally a pleasant occupation, couldn’t hold her attention. She would have even welcomed papers to grade and lesson plans to formulate.

A sigh escaped. Her long-awaited summer vacation was off to a most unpleasant start.
I haven’t even begun my project yet.

Everyone was at church listening to a visiting politician, who was breezing through town on his way to the bigger votes of the city. Mrs. Cobb had stayed behind to mind the store and monitor Harriet. She suspected that as soon as the speech ended, a horde of visitors would descend on her. She didn’t know which was worse, boredom, or having to tell her embarrassing story to the curious and endure their scrutiny of her bruised head.

Thoughts of a dark giant continued to loom in her mind almost as strongly as Anthony Gordon had done in person. She tried to shove the images away, but they slithered just out of reach, dancing around the edges of her brain, taunting her with memories of being held in his arms. The recollection alone evoked a feverish feeling in her body. Although she kept chiding herself for her weakness, the memories refused to properly confine themselves to the past. Her experience yesterday and her injuries today must be contributing to her failure.

 
As she remembered Ant carrying her to bed the previous evening, her cheeks flushed. After settling his affairs, he’d swooped into the Cobbs’ kitchen like a dark knight, scooping her up from the chair where she’d been brushing out her damp hair before Mrs. Cobb could even protest. Harriet had smothered a laugh at the horrified look on Mrs. Cobb’s face.

Then she had flushed with embarrassment, yet, being clad only in her sleeping attire—night shift and robe—had made the experience more exciting. A sensual awareness had penetrated her exhaustion and pain. The intimacy of being in his arms had even managed to drown out the sound of Mrs. Cobb’s scandalized clucking as she labored up the stairway behind them.

Will Ant call on me today?

In response to her thoughts, a knock on the door connecting the parlor to the store heralded the first of her visitors. She smoothed down the skirt of her second-best summer dress, a gray calico scattered with tiny pink rosebuds, and made sure her bandaged ankle was covered.

Anthony Gordon ducked through the door. In the light of day, he appeared clean and dry, but no less imposing. He’d slicked his shoulder-length brown hair into a neat tail and wore a leather vest over a crisp white shirt tucked into black pants. He held his black hat in one big hand, a book in the other. Broad shoulders, slim waist, wider hips, long muscular legs....

Harriet realized she’d cataloged him in the same way as one of her nature specimens, and heat rose in her cheeks. For heaven’s sake, he wasn’t a butterfly or a pinecone. Her gaze darted away, before returning, fascinated by the sheer magnitude of the man. By her estimation, he must be six-feet, five inches. No, certainly not a butterfly.

Ant trod across the room, a slight hitch in his gait, and held out the book. The worn leather cover testified to the volume being well read. “I thought instead of flowers you’d prefer something more...stimulating.” His right eyebrow crooked in that wicked upside down
v
. A half-smile pulled up to match.

Her answering grin started in her chest and bloomed on her face. “You’ve judged rightly, Mr. Gordon.”

He handed her the book. “Call me Ant. After all we’ve been through in our short acquaintance, I don’t think we need to stand on ceremony.”

“Then you must call me Harriet.” She turned away from his gaze, smoothing her finger over the faded gold letters of the title.
The Count of Monte Cristo.
A sudden burst of joy cut through her low spirits. She paused, allowing some of her happiness at the gift to ease enough to talk. “What a delightful gift, Mr. … I mean, Ant. I feel like it’s Christmas.”

He pulled at his bare chin. “And I look just like Saint Nicholas.”

She laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far.” She traced her fingers over the letters again. “I’ve always wanted to read this book. No one in town has it though.”

His gravelly voice softened. “Now you do.”

“A book is a present beyond price. I must tell you, my small personal library is one of the pleasures of my life
.
”
Pleasures. I’m discussing pleasures with this man.
She tried to rein in the conversation to a logical pace, lest her feelings run away from her like a bolting horse. Who knew what else she’d blurt out? “Are you fond of other writings of Alexandre Dumas?”

“At home I have all of the three Musketeers novels.”

“I envy you. John Carter, one of our ranchers, has those books. He’s allowed me to borrow them.”

“I couldn’t help noticing the shelf of books in your room.” He shifted his weight, speech hurrying on. “Not that I was studying your room, just that books always catch my eye.”

The heat returned to her cheeks. She hoped he couldn’t tell. She rushed into conversation to cover herself. “Only a small collection. I’m like Abraham Lincoln. I’ve borrowed books from everyone in town. I doubt there’s one I’ve missed.... Well, not Doctor Cameron’s medical texts, or Reverend Norton’s religious treatises.” She was babbling worse than a brook. She made herself dam up the flow of words, change the subject. “I’m forgetting my manners.” She waved at a wing chair covered in crocheted doilies and placed at right angles to the sofa. “Won’t you please sit down?”

He nodded, giving her his crooked smile. “You have quite a spectacular bruise on your head. How are you feeling?”

She wrinkled her nose. “I’ve always taken the ability to walk for granted. Today, I’ve had to remind myself to thank the good Lord for the usual soundness of my limbs, and that this is only a temporary affliction.”

The twinkle in his eyes vanished. “I’m afraid we take life and health for granted.”

Harriet discerned a touch of bitterness in Ant’s voice. She wanted to ask more, but didn’t want to presume on their short acquaintance, no matter how intimate.

Ant reached into his vest and pulled out a small leather folder. “I’m afraid I have an additional purpose in calling on you.” He opened the folder, which she could see contained a photograph, seemed to hesitate, then reached over and placed it in her lap.

She picked up the photograph. A fashionably dressed woman sat on a wide bench, her sweeping skirt a backdrop for a boy—perhaps five years old—standing beside her. Without needing to be told, Harriet knew the boy was Ant’s son. The child possessed the same big dark eyes, prominent cheekbones, and wide mouth. Although he held the stiff pose required by the photographer, something about the unnatural posture of his small body made her think the minute the sitting was finished, he took off to do handsprings or some other boyish activity.

Harriet couldn’t help a pang of disappointment that the only other man besides Nick who’d drawn her interest was married. She transferred her attention to the woman in the photograph. Tall, shapely, and dramatically beautiful, with brown hair and eyes and dressed in the height of elegance; she made Harriet feel dowdy in comparison.

Why is he showing this to me? Does he think I was throwing myself at him? Perhaps he wanted a tactful way to tell me he was married.

The thought stung her pride, making her want to throw out quick words, distancing herself from him, from any idea that she might be thinking romantic thoughts of him.
If he only realized my heart belongs to another, he wouldn’t think I was being forward.

Caught in her embarrassed dilemma, Harriet could only pretend to examine the photograph. The only way to preserve her dignity would be to somehow hint that her affections were already engaged.
But I can’t tell him. My love for Nick is my shameful secret.
 

* * *

Ant watched Harriet Stanton scrutinize the photograph, hoping for a sign of recognition to cross her pretty face. While he waited, he drummed his fingers on his knee.

The walls of the over-furnished parlor threatened to close in on him, and he resisted the compulsion to retract his arms and legs like a turtle, lest he knock over some of the bric-a-brac crowding the room. Nor did he give in to the mischievous urge to make a face at the trio of portraits—two unattractive couples and one elderly gentleman—who glared at him from the oval frames over the settee. He was a thirty-three-year-old man, not a boy David’s age.

Instead, as Harriet studied the picture, he studied her. She’d attempted to hide the bruise on her forehead with a few artful curls of her chestnut-colored hair. But he could still see the purple-green lump marring the pale skin above her arching brown brows.

With her hair pulled back in a bun, instead of straggling in wet strands around her heart-shaped face, she appeared demure. Yet, he sensed an interesting woman lay beneath her conventional appearance.

His fingers tapped out a beat. To his disappointment, Harriet didn’t seem to recognize David. Her expression remained serene. Then, as if a painter dipped a brush in the faintest of rose colors and brushed the tip across her face, she blushed. She looked up at him, her gray eyes troubled.

Hope uncurled in his heart. He prompted her. “As the schoolteacher, I thought you might know my nephew, David.”

“Your nephew.” She looked down at the photograph; her lashes lowered to hide her eyes. “Oh, I thought perhaps he was your son.”

“He looks very much like I did at that age. That was taken four years ago. Of course, my sister, Emily, and I have the same coloring.”

“Your sister is very attractive.” Harriet handed the photographed back to him.

He could see the question in her eyes. Why had he showed her a picture of his sister and her son? Not the usual way to begin a new acquaintance. “You don’t recognize him?”

Her brow creased. “No.”

He released his breath in a long sigh, settling back in his chair. “I’ve been searching for David and his father for two years.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Very,” he said in a wry tone. “I was in New York when my sister...died. Her husband, Lewis, took David and left before I returned home. My sister and I were...very close. I want to have contact with my nephew, to be part of his life. When I’d heard they’d...settled in Sweetwater Springs, and then that you were the schoolteacher, I hoped that you would know David.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you. Perhaps his father is tutoring him at home.”

“Lewis was never was one for education.”
That’s an understatement.

“If the children don’t come to school, or the families to church … I don’t really get a chance to know people who don’t live in town. It’s one of my goals this summer.” She gave her ankle a rueful glance. “I want to travel around to meet some of the families—encourage them to send their children to school.”

“An admirable goal.”

“But you can ask the Cobbs if they’ve seen David. They know everyone who frequents the mercantile. I can assure you that they never forget a face.”

“They’re next on my list.”

“Reverend Norton and Doctor Cameron travel around to the homesteads in the mountains and to the various ranches. They’d be able to tell you more.”

“Then perhaps you can tell me where to find them.”

While Harriet gave him directions, an odd reluctance to leave her presence tethered Ant to the seat of the wingchair. He had an urge to confide in her, tell her the whole sordid story of Emily and Lewis.

Lest he find himself softening, he stood. Harriet had given him some good leads. He had a search to conduct, a nephew to find.

A brother-in-law to kill.

Tangling with this schoolmarm, no matter how winsome she was, would only slow him down.

CHAPTER FOUR

Three days later, Ant found his footsteps taking him toward the mercantile. While he walked, the dust of the main street puffed around his boots, and he was conscious of fatigue of body and soul weighing him down. The brilliant sun directly overhead had him squinting against a bit of a headache. He tilted back his hat, rubbing his forehead.

He’d spent the last three days questioning everyone in town and riding out to the Carter, Sanders, Payne, Hart, Addison, and Thompson ranches. No one knew of David. Now he needed to start tackling the isolated homesteads scattered across the mountains. He didn’t think Lewis would hide on the prairie. Too exposed. Yet, there might be one possibility on a farm he should check out.

From his search, he’d compiled a list of probable places. He’d told himself that maybe the schoolteacher could shed some light on the most likely ones to check out.

He strode up the steps of the mercantile and pushed open the door. He inhaled the scent of pickles in the crock by the entrance, overlaid with the earthy smell from the bins of potatoes, turnips, and carrots. Bags of sugar and flour beckoned to eager bakers. He eyed the jars of candy on the oak counter, wondering which was Harriet’s favorite.