Chapter 137
She made an effort to respond in kind. "My lord, the livery stable is across the street and to the right. Then there's the blacksmith shop, then the bathhouse. Mrs. Murphy's boarding house is across the street."
"I'll take my time, give you a chance to soak in a warm bath. Stop those s.h.i.+vers."
She unwrapped the blankets, her movements heavy, as though her body contained only sand.
He reached out to help, taking the burden from her. Balling up the bedroll, he nodded. "I'll return soon." He turned and strode out, taking the warmth of concern with him.
Mr. Cobb wrestled the tub in from the pantry tacked on to the kitchen, setting it next to Harriet's chair. He grabbed a bucket from next to the door and proceeded to pump some water into the pail to carry to the tub. After several trips, he lifted the big copper pot off the stove, pouring the steaming water into the basin, and then filling the pot again to heat up.
In uncharacteristic silence, Mrs. Cobb added the boiling water from the teakettle, and then refilled it. She waved her hands, shooing her husband from the room. "Go wait in the parlor until we're done. Then you can chip some ice off the block in the icebox to place on Miss Stanton's ankle."
Harriet balanced on one foot, clutching the back of the chair, and allowed Mrs. Cobb to undress her. The subdued air the woman wore from being chastised by Ant soon wore off. She began to cluck at the condition of Harriet's sodden clothes and chatter about the day's gossip. "Did you hear the news? Mrs. Sanders is expecting a baby come Christmas."
Harriet closed her eyes, wis.h.i.+ng she could also shut her ears. Her stomach cramped. For the first time since Ant had miraculously appeared in the darkness, Harriet remembered Nick Sanders. How could I have forgotten? Fleeing to the mountains had been foolish. All she'd done was bring her more pain and trouble. She couldn't run away from reality. She was doomed to live with Nick and Elizabeth's happiness.
The next day, Harriet perched on the brown velvet sofa in the parlor, her foot wrapped in a tight bandage and propped on a footstool in front of her. The Cobbs' sitting room was crammed with too much ornate furniture and all the little luxuries Mrs. Cobb thought necessary to display both the Cobbs' merchandise and their monetary success. Vases, pictures, porcelain statues, and several music boxes vied for s.p.a.ce on the marble-topped tables. Tufted and fringed pillows overflowed the settee and chairs. The decor was the epitome of bad taste.
Just being in the room twisted Harriet's stomach and set her on edge. At least the Cobbs weren't present, and she had some quiet time. She tried to work on her poetry, but with the ever-present throb of her ankle distracting her, everything that came to her mind sounded like drivel. She'd given up in disgust.
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 on 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 embarra.s.sing 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 brus.h.i.+ng 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 embarra.s.sment, yet, being clad only in her sleeping attire--night s.h.i.+ft 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 b.u.t.terfly or a pinecone. Her gaze darted away, before returning, fascinated by the sheer magnitude of the man. By her estimation, he must be about six-foot, five inches. No, certainly not a b.u.t.terfly.
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 t.i.tle. 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
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 s.h.i.+fted 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 fas.h.i.+onably 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 embarra.s.sed 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 photograph 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 Sweet.w.a.ter Springs, and then that you were the schoolteacher, I hoped you would know David."
"I'm sorry, I can't help you. Perhaps his father is tutoring him at home."
"Lewis was never 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 a.s.sure 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.
Mrs. Cobb looked up from behind the counter and gave him a smile that didn't reflect any warmth in her squinty brown eyes. She straightened a stack of jam jars that were already perfectly aligned. "Good afternoon, Mr. Gordon."
"Afternoon, Mrs. Cobb."
She fingered a gold foil box in front of her. "We've just received a s.h.i.+pment of chocolate from Europe. I set aside several boxes for Wyatt Thompson. I believe you rode out to his ranch yesterday. His fiance was raised in Germany and fancies their chocolate."
Ant smiled, willing to charm, even though he didn't like the woman. He stepped closer to the counter, enjoying the aroma of coffee from the bags of beans stacked next to the grinder. "I've spent time there myself. Candy, pastries, nothing better."
She sniffed. "Then you haven't tried some decent American cooking. Many women in this town have a light hand with cakes and pies."
Put his boot right into that one. Best shy away from the subject. "I'll take a box." He pointed to some peppermint sticks. "And several of those."
She harrumphed, but tore off a piece of brown paper to wrap around the peppermint sticks.
"How's Miss Stanton doing? Has she recovered from her accident?"
"Bruise still looks nasty. She can walk though. Hobbles around holding on to the furniture." The shopkeeper jerked her head toward the door to the living quarters; the loose skin on her fleshy cheeks fluttered with the movement. "She's in there. Holding court."
Ant grabbed the box of chocolates and the parcel of peppermint sticks. "Then I'll just step inside and pay my regards."
Mrs. Cobb shrugged. "Makes no difference to me."
As he opened the door, he could hear the murmur of feminine voices. He recognized the two women sitting on the sofa, each holding a cup and saucer patterned with roses. Elizabeth Sanders and Pamela Carter. After his forays around town and to the neighboring ranches, Ant reckoned he already knew half the population. Too many people knowing his business.
To Ant's practiced eye, both women's silk dresses appeared to be the latest fas.h.i.+on, not that he'd paid much attention to such things in the last few years. Chasing Lewis and David across the country had rubbed some of the sophisticated edges off him. But he couldn't miss how the sapphire of Elizabeth Sander's dress made her eyes bluer than the sky outside, while Pamela Carter's maroon s.h.i.+rtwaist lent some color to her plump-cheeked, plain face.
Across from them, Harriet perched on the edge of the wingchair. As he entered, she looked up. A smile crossed her face, but he could detect signs of strain in her gray eyes. The bruise on her forehead had faded from purple to a greeny-yellow, but was still too vivid to hide.
"Mr. Gordon. How nice to see you."
He removed his hat. "Miss Stanton." He nodded at the other two ladies. "Mrs. Sanders. Mrs. Carter. Good afternoon."
He handed Harriet the box of candy. "To help speed the rest of your recovery."
Pink floated into her cheeks; a glow replaced the strained look in her eyes. "Why, Mr. Gordon. I don't believe anyone has ever given me chocolate. This is a rare treat. Thank you so very much."
Pride swelled in Ant's chest. His gift had made her happy. He backed off from the feeling, striving for deflation. "I always brought candy for my sister." He gestured toward the box. "She loved European chocolate."
Elizabeth Sanders' blue eyes sparkled with interest. "Your sister was very lucky. I wish my brother had been half so attentive," she said, speaking in a Boston accent.