My Heart's Desire

by Jo Goodman

  Jarret picked up a towel and began drying dishes.

  Rennie had never seen a man help with the dishes. Mr. Cavanaugh never assisted his wife. Jay Mac would have never considered it. She doubted Hollis would know what to do with a dishtowel if she submitted a plan for it. Jarret's help was so incongruous with her expectations that the sight of him nearly made Rennie forget how irritated she was.

  "You're going to lock me in?" she asked.

  "Mm-hmm."

  "What if there's a fire?"

  Trust her to bring up the very thing that worried him. "There won't be." He slid a plate into the cupboard and picked up some of the silverware. "Listen, if it bothers you that much, you can have the bed and I'll just take the floor."

  "Put out a guest like that?" she asked. "I wouldn't think of it."

  They finished the remainder of their task in silence. When they were done Jarret excused himself and retired to the library, checking on Rennie's whereabouts periodically. For her part Rennie stayed in the kitchen, working at the scarred table, the site of so much affectionate fussing with her sisters as she was growing up. She had a map of Colorado in front of her and the plans for an upgraded trunk line from Denver to Queen's Point. Northeast Rail was slowly outgrowing its name as it moved with the new directions of the country. It was good to be part of it and frustrating that she couldn't do more.

  At ten o'clock she closed her books, folded the maps, and pulled all the stray and misplaced pencils out of her hair. She stretched, rolling her neck three hundred sixty degrees as she worked out the kinks. Taking several deep breaths, calming her nerves in the face of her anxiety, Rennie got up from the table and made a pot of coffee. At twenty minutes past the hour she was serving it to Jarret.

  "Aren't you going to have any?" he asked, taking the cup she offered.

  "Of course." She raised her cup in a mocking little salute, swallowed a mouthful, and then placed it back on the tray. "Reading?" she asked, watching Jarret sip his drink. Rennie bent and picked up the book that was lying beside his chair. "John Stuart Mill. On the Subjection of Women." She looked at him oddly. "One of your favorites?"

  He shook his head. "I thought it might be one of yours. It was well thumbed."

  "Actually I like Mill, and I like what he has to say about women; but if it's well thumbed it's because Mary Francis or Michael committed it to memory." She took the book back to the shelves and slid it into place. "Here's his Essay on Liberty. Have you read that?"

  "Several times."

  Rennie turned back from the wall of books. "I'm sorry, you were done with the book, weren't you? You looked as if you were when I came in."

  "I was." He pointed to her cup on the tray. "Your coffee's getting cold. I'm already done with mine."

  "Would you like more? I suppose I should have brought in the pot."

  "It's all right. Finish yours first."

  Rennie sat on the high-backed chair opposite him. She had fond memories of sitting in just such a manner with Jay Mac. He drank Irish coffee and she sipped hot cocoa. They would both have whipped cream mustaches, and Jay Mac would speak of the railroad while she absorbed every word. Sometimes, regardless of her best intentions, she would fall asleep still curled in her chair, and he would carry her to bed.

  Jarret caught Rennie's empty cup just as it would have clattered to the floor. He took the saucer from her other hand and carefully replaced the cup, setting both aside. Her lashes curved in a dark fan against her pale skin. The burnished colors of her hair were subdued in the library's dim light. Without knowing that he was going to do it, Jarret's fingers slid across her temple and into her hair. She didn't stir.

  "The next time you put something in my drink, Mary Renee, you should make certain I don't switch cups."

  Bending at the waist, Jarret slipped his arms under Rennie's still form and lifted her against his chest. With as little jostling as possible he carried her to her room and put her to bed.

  Chapter 4

  Rennie yawned. She stretched lazily, snuggling back into the thick comforter even as she tried to throw off the dregs of sleep. It was late; she knew that by the slant of sunlight filling her room, but she didn't want to get up. Her toes curled. She turned on her side. She saw Jarret Sullivan.

  He was still asleep, folded uncomfortably in the armchair. His head was tilted at an awkward angle against the back, and he was sitting on one of his legs. The afghan that was supposed to be covering him was lying uselessly on the floor while his arms crossed his chest protectively for warmth. There was a shadow of beard along his jaw and heavy weariness in the slumped, contorted lines of his body.

  Rennie was without sympathy. She rose silently from her bed and walloped him across the face and chest with her pillow.

  Jarret's reflexes were surprisingly quick for a man who had been waked from a hard and heavy sleep. Before Rennie could dance away her wrist was caught, and she was yanked off the floor and onto Jarret's lap. He tossed the pillow on the floor and growled huskily, "What burr's got under your saddle this morning?"

  Rennie merely gave him a tart, knowing look.

  He had to smile. She was sprawled awkwardly across his lap, her gown hitched around her knees and twisted at the waist. The bodice stretched tautly across her breasts so that a deep, satisfying breath was out of the question. Her thick, curly chestnut mane of hair was the worse for sleep, curved in an unnatural wave near her temple and spilling across one cheek in a ratty tangle.

  "By God, you could stop a man's heart first thing in the morning," he told her.

  The blush had already begun to color her cheeks before she realized he hadn't meant it as a compliment. Rennie pushed at his chest and he let her go. She slipped to the floor with the ungainly support of her arms and legs. Tossing back her head and raising her chin, she said, "It would be a service to women everywhere if I were to stop your heart."

  Jarret rubbed his coarse beard and pretended to think about that. "You could be right. It'd keep me from breakin' theirs."

  Rennie was of a mind to slam him with the pillow again. The look he leveled at her, as if he knew her intention, stopped her. She picked up the afghan instead and pulled it around her shoulders. "How did you know about the coffee last night?" she asked.

  "So you do admit it?"

  She shrugged. "It seems silly not to. Did you suspect right away?"

  "When you brought in two cups and no pot, it made me wonder. When I tasted it I had a pretty good idea what you'd done. It was a little too bitter, even compared to the usual brew you make."

  "There's nothing wrong with the coffee I make," she said sharply, taking offense.

  One corner of Jarret's mouth curled in a baffled smile. He shook his head slowly, bemused. "A month of Sundays wouldn't serve for figurin' you out. You have no remorse about trying to poison me, yet you get all prickly when I tell you your coffee's too strong."

  "One has nothing to do with the other. If I'd known you felt that way about my coffee, I'd have given you the powder in something else. I hadn't meant for it to taste bad. And it was only a sleeping draught that Mama sometimes takes, not poison, as you know very well. Anyway, you had no compunction about turning the tables on me."

  She was actually taking him to task! "Lady, when it comes to pure, wrongheaded stubbornness, you could teach new tricks to a jack"—he caught himself—"to a mule."

  Her innocent smile also conveyed a certain hint of smugness. "You were saying..." she prompted.

  What had he been saying? he wondered. She definitely had a way of sidetracking his train of thought. "I switched the cups when you put the book away and let you drink what was intended for me. End of story. You fell asleep almost immediately."

  "I didn't think the coffee was too strong," she said, feigning hurt.

  Jarret leaned over the side of the chair, picked up the pillow and flung it at her head. Laughing, Rennie dodged the missile.

  She had a husky, hearty laugh, he thought, infectious in nature, not the trilling, musica
l, and sometimes forced laughter he often associated with the women he knew. He watched her straighten, hugging the pillow to her midriff, and was caught by the becoming wash of color in her face and the spirited challenge in her eyes. The corners of her mouth lifted in a wide, beautiful smile.

  She stopped his heart.

  Jarret drew his stiff leg out from under him and leaned forward. He was frowning now, and when he spoke his voice was edged with threat. "Don't flirt with me," he said. "You won't like the consequences."

  Rennie's eyes widened, but the light in them was smothered. Her face drained of color and her features froze. "Go to hell, Mr. Sullivan," she said quietly, with dignity.

  Jarret stood. He almost groaned as blood rushed to his leg, sweeping his skin with prickling sensation. He hobbled a little uncertainly out the door, and once it closed behind him, he leaned against it. The ache in his leg was nothing compared to the ache in his groin. He thought of Rennie's smile. It had been a narrow escape.

  * * *

  Rennie and Jarret skirted one another for three more days. She was always aware of his presence in the house even though she never spent more than a few minutes with him in any one room. She carried her own meals to her room and ate alone while he shared his meals with the Cavanaughs. He read in the library, helped Mr. Cavanaugh in the garden, or cleaned his gun under the cook's watchful eye in the kitchen. Rennie made a point to work in the solitary confinement of the parlor and discovered that avoiding him was nearly as difficult and unsettling as being in his company.

  When Jarret appeared in the doorway of the parlor Rennie was so certain she imagined his presence that she didn't respond right away. It was the incongruity of him cradling a large stack of papers and files in his arms that made her realize his form was no apparition. He walked in and dropped the stack beside her on the sofa. The papers slipped sideways, fanning out like a toppled deck of cards.

  Rennie recognized the files immediately. "Wait," she said, calling him back as he turned and started to go. "How did you—"

  "I asked Mr. Cavanaugh to go 'round to the Worth building and fetch things you might need." He started to go again.

  Rennie stood. She started to reach for him, realized what she was about to do, and dropped her hand quickly to her side.

  Jarret saw the aborted gesture out of the corner of his eye. He stopped, turned.

  "I... well..." Her eyes revealed anxiousness, and her fingers curled in the folds of her plain hunter green gown. "Thank you."

  "You're welcome."

  They stared at one another for several long seconds, the silence uncomfortable. The stacks of files began to slide again, this time off the sofa. Simultaneously they made a grab for them, nearly knocking heads.

  Rennie laughed uneasily, straightening the pile. "It appears he cleaned out my desk and a few other desks besides."

  "I told him to get everything. There was only the night watchman to help him locate your office, so I hope you really got what's important."

  "I'm sure it's all here. Sam Whitney would have directed Mr. Cavanaugh properly. He's seen me working late on more than one occasion." She hesitated. "I take it there's been no word on Houston or Kelly."

  "None. But I felt it was safe to send Cavanaugh last night. He wasn't followed."

  "I didn't mean anything by it," she said almost apologetically. "I wasn't questioning your judgment."

  Jarret shrugged as if it didn't matter. "You should. It's your life that's in danger."

  Rennie sat down, shaking her head. "No, it's Mary Michael's. God, I wish it were me. The waiting's interminable. I can't imagine how she's coping with it."

  Jarret propped his hip against the arm of the sofa, half-sitting, half-standing in a manner that was not so relaxed as it was indecisive. "Your sister's not gone back to the Chronicle yet. I know that much."

  "You've been to see her?"

  He shook his head. "No."

  "But how—"

  "I briefly renewed my acquaintance with Logan Marshall. He told me. They're sending work for her to the hotel. I thought if Ethan had surrendered that much, it wouldn't hurt me to do the same."

  "Thank God for Ethan," she said feelingly.

  "Not many husbands would let their wives work. Your sister's very fortunate to have found someone like him."

  Rennie preferred to reserve judgment. "You'll understand if I think it's the other way around."

  Jarret's brief smile was indifferent. "Suit yourself." He glanced down at the papers splayed across the coffee table and the maps littering the floor. "What are you doing?"

  Rennie couldn't tell if he was genuinely interested or interested because he was bored. The Cavanaughs were used to keeping to themselves; they couldn't have provided much company in the last few days. He had probably sought out Logan Marshall just to hear the sound of another human voice. She wondered if he'd met Logan's wife Katy? The former actress was without question one of New York's most beautiful and celebrated women. He probably regretted he was not sworn to protect her.

  "Where does your mind go?" Jarret asked, watching her drift away in front of his eyes. Her furrowed brow and flattened, serious mouth were something to behold.

  Rennie registered his voice, looked at him blankly for a moment, and then came out of her reverie. "I'm working on some possible routes for a trunk line," she said, answering the only question she really remembered hearing. She began gently patting the papers and maps on the coffee table with the flat of her hands. Under one ridge she found her spectacles and slipped them on. "Here, I'll show you."

  Jarret was fascinated. First by the spectacles that crept slowly down the bridge of her nose until they rested on the tip, then by the intensity of feeling in her expressive eyes as she explained her plans. She mapped out the lay of the land to him and spoke of gradient curves, fixed arched bridges, rail joints, spring washers, switch points, and splice bars. She rummaged for a pencil, found one under a map, and sketched a trestle that would span a narrow tributary of the South Platte River. She showed him where crews would have to work day and night for weeks to tunnel through rock. She explained about hauling in the proper ballast to support the ties and spikes on the winding mountain trails, about the switch signals and slide chairs that would be necessary to allow for freight trains to be sidetracked while lighter passenger cars climbed the steep passes in the Rockies. When the line was completed Northeast Rail would have a lucrative track from largely untapped silver mining country to the heart of Denver.

  Rennie absentmindedly slid her pencil into the coil of hair at her nape. She looked at Jarret expectantly over the rim of her spectacles. She was aware that he had long since abandoned his sitting-standing position and was hunkered beside the coffee table, giving every impression that he was engrossed. He was also looking at her oddly, as if he didn't quite know what to make of what he'd heard. Self-conscious, Rennie slipped off her spectacles and carefully folded the ear stems. She remembered her habit with pencils and plucked it out as well. "Well? What do you think?"

  Except for the slight furrow of Jarret's dark brows, his face was expressionless. "You're an engineer," he said.

  His voice was so flat, so matter-of-fact, that she couldn't tell if he was astonished or accusing. "Well, yes," she said, bewildered. "I thought you knew that."

  "Know?" He stood. "How would I know that? I asked you what you did several days ago, and you mentioned working for the director of new projects. I said you were a secretary, and you didn't argue."

  "I told you I had more responsibilities than scheduling appointments." She began organizing the scattered papers. "The truth is, I don't get to do a lot of engineering. Mr. Tompkins—he's the director—doesn't let me."

  "Then, he's a fool."

  Rennie's fingers stilled over the maps. She looked up at Jarret, some of her own doubts surfacing in her eyes. "You really think so?"

  "I really think so."

  She didn't question the lightening she felt in her chest, the easing of a pressure that
had been there so long she had become used to its existence. It seemed perfectly in keeping with the natural order of things to accept Jarret's opinion as fact. "Jay Mac wouldn't like to hear that. He has the greatest trust for Mr. Tompkins."

  "And not so much for you?" He shifted the files on the sofa so that there was enough room for him to sit down.

  "Perhaps it's not so much a matter of trust as it is confidence. Mr. Tompkins has been working for my father for years, and he has a veritable battalion of engineers at his disposal. That kind of experience and expertise inspires confidence."

  "In this case it may be misplaced."

  "I'm not sure I know what you mean."

  Jarret took away the topographical map that Rennie was folding. He spread it out on the table and pointed to where she had penciled in the path of the trunk line. There were other smudges on the pages that also indicated where tracks might be laid, but they were not set down in her sure, deft hand. "You've set your track along this mountain pass, here at Queen's Point. The grade appears to be a little steeper there; it would have to be leveled out in just the way you described. Surely that's a lot more work and expense than taking this slowly rising, but more circuitous route proposed by your colleagues. So why did you choose it?"

  "I don't think their route will support the trestles and tunnels they've proposed. This map indicates—at least to me it does—that this river valley changes shape with alarming frequency, as if the sediment keeps shifting, creating temporary ridges and gorges."

  "And how did you arrive at that?"

  "I looked at a succession of maps completed by different surveyors in the last fifteen years. The early ones are especially crude, but I believe there's enough evidence to suggest my conclusion."

  "But no one else saw it?"

  "They saw it," she said, "because I pointed it out, but there are alternative explanations that satisfied Mr. Tompkins that the correct route's been chosen."

  "The cheaper route."

  "That, too. It has to be a consideration."

  "Yet you're still pursuing something else. Why?"