Jane Goodger

by A Christmas Waltz

  She heard Paula calling and realized that Boone must have gone out and locked the store. Thankful to be pulled away from her domestic chores, she went through the house and opened up the store, smiling as she let her friend in.

  Strangely, Paula was smiling, too.

  “I’m just brimming with gossip,” she gushed.

  Since Amelia’s marriage, Paula had spent quite a bit of time in the store, especially when Boone was out on calls. She would follow Amelia around as she floundered about her new chores, offering advice and some help, though she had almost as little experience with domesticity as Amelia did. Paula had grown up with servants, and as the wife of a banker, she had live-in help. Amelia would have liked to have said this didn’t bother her one whit, but she was terrifically honest, and had to admit it did niggle at her a bit.

  “Let’s go out to the courtyard,” Amelia said. “Would you like tea?”

  “Just a glass of cool water is fine.”

  The two women settled themselves before Paula said another word. She leaned forward, her eyes shining with excitement. “Do not tell a soul, and I do mean everyone, but a Dallas businessman has been meeting with my husband and it looks as though we’re going to have us an oil drill right here in Small Fork.”

  Amelia shook her head, not quite knowing the significance of such a thing.

  “Why, goodness, that means schools, a church, electricity, and a theater are sure to follow,” Paula said, her lively blue eyes dancing with excitement. “Henry Wilfred was drilling for water on his ranch and he found oil instead. That was ten years back or so and nothing much ever came of it. This Dallas man has been going around looking for good places to drill for oil, and he’s heading here next month.”

  “So it’s not definite that he’ll find oil.”

  Paula’s eyes lost a bit of their glitter, and she looked at Amelia as if she personally was responsible for whether or not the man stayed and found gallons of the stuff. “No, but at least it’s hope,” she said sullenly. “In Nacogdoches County they found oil, and within just a few months they had to build a school.”

  “I hope that does happen,” Amelia said, feeling strangely detached from this discussion of future schools and theaters. She still hadn’t wrapped her mind around the idea that Small Fork was her home forever.

  “Hello, ladies.” Boone walked to the fountain and splashed water on his face, and Amelia couldn’t stop the sudden desire coursing through her. My goodness, the man simply walked in front of her and she could picture him doing all sorts of shockingly wonderful things to her.

  Paula gave her a warning look for Amelia to keep mum about the oil, and Amelia nodded, hoping her friend would assume her flushed cheeks were from the warm afternoon.

  “We were just talking about all the marriages in these parts lately,” Paula said with forced cheer.

  “Were you,” Boone said, sounding a bit strained, studying Amelia’s face carefully.

  “Why first you two, then your brother. I was telling Mr. Brentwood just last night that if we’re going to have so many weddings, we should see about having a proper church and a regular preacher. Baptist, of course.”

  Amelia stopped listening after Paula said the word “brother,” and she noticed that Boone had become extremely still. “I’m sorry,” she said, plastering a pleasant smile on her face. “Who did you say got married?”

  Paula looked at her as if she were crazy. “I know it’s only two, but still…”

  “Boone and I, and…” Amelia prompted.

  “Why, Dulce and Carson,” she said, as if Amelia had gone quite daft. “Of course, I’m not sure if we can count Carson and Dulce because they didn’t technically get married in Small Fork, but they’re both from Small Fork, and…” She stopped, looking from one to the other, finally realizing that she was the only one excited about the news.

  “Have I spoken out of turn?” she asked, looking mortified.

  “Not at all,” Boone said smoothly.

  “I mean, I had heard rumors about…” Paula clamped her mouth shut, her cheeks flushing. “Certainly you knew they got married,” she finished weakly.

  “Of course, we knew,” Amelia said, her smile still intact, and Paula brightened immediately, making Amelia question the other woman’s intelligence. “In England, you see, elopement is simply not the thing, not at all. I must say, if I were to elope, my family would cut me off entirely. You have far more liberal views about such things in America, and I shall have to get used to that. I know they’ve held a tendre for each other for quite some time. We’re happy for them, truly.”

  Amelia refused to look at Boone, absolutely refused. For it was quite apparent that he hadn’t been surprised by this news and had allowed her to be blindsided.

  “I didn’t know that about England,” Paula said, leaning forward, glad to be getting a bit more gossip. If ever there was a woman oblivious to the rather obvious nuances going on around her, it would be Paula Brentwood.

  “Dulce and Carson have loved each other for years, or so I’ve heard,” Amelia said, as if telling the other woman something in great confidence. “I really don’t know Carson well at all, you see.” This was true, at least. “My stop here was intended to be brief, if you recall, and if I hadn’t been waylaid by my thieving maid, I never would have been forced to stay until my brother arrived.” She hoped Boone caught the rather unsubtle anger in her tone.

  Paula beamed at the two of them, apparently oblivious. “And what a good thing you did, for you fell in love with our doctor. So romantic.” There was absolutely nothing but sincerity in those words. “Speaking of husbands,” she said, standing up, “I believe I need to go home and feed mine. And also rescue him from our son, who no doubt is begging that he be allowed to count all the money. Like father, like son.”

  “I’m so glad you stopped by,” Amelia said, standing as well and walking with her friend to the front of the building. As soon as Paula started walking across the dusty street to the bank, Amelia whirled around, only to find herself staring directly at her husband.

  “I was going tell you.”

  Amelia lifted her skirts and stalked by Boone without a word, her face set. Then she turned. “Do not follow me.” Of course, he did.

  Boone didn’t know what to do or what to say, but he followed his angry wife anyway. He’d known the news that Carson had married Dulce was going to upset her and was waiting for the right time to tell her. Like when they were old and gray.

  She was in a right tizzy right now, stalking away from him, her skirts lifted just enough so he could see her ankles, which made him smile. He knew he shouldn’t be thinking about ankles, or how pretty they were, or anything but how mad she was that Carson had gone off and married another woman just days after claiming he never wanted to get married. She ought to be angry, and he wouldn’t be surprised if she stomped around in a snit for a while.

  He couldn’t help it—he felt glad Carson was married—and he wasn’t going to apologize for that. He’d expected her to be angry, but he truly, stupidly hadn’t expected the tears he saw running down her face.

  “How could he?” she asked him, her blue eyes huge and filled with a sadness that struck him like a hard blow to the gut. “He told me he didn’t ever want to get married. He told me that was why he couldn’t marry me. And then…” She swallowed, and stopped, as if knowing what she was saying was like a knife to his heart. Boone truly hadn’t thought she still loved Carson, had thought his brother’s mean treatment of her had made Amelia, if not love him, at least hate Carson. Apparently, he’d been wrong. She still obviously loved Carson, and damn if it didn’t hurt.

  Amelia sat down at the edge of the fountain, overcome by grief, and buried her face in her hands. Something in Boone came to a grinding halt, that hope he didn’t even know he’d been holding on to that she would ever love him. Oh, he could please her. He could make her scream in pleasure. He could make her come.

  But he couldn’t make her love him.

&n
bsp; “I’m sorry, Boone,” she said, her voice muffled, and as always, kind. But at that moment, he didn’t want her kindness. He wanted her to stop crying, to stop loving a man who didn’t deserve her love. “It’s just that it was such a surprise. I hardly expected it, you see.”

  He thrust a handkerchief into her hand.

  “Thank you,” she said, still not looking at him, her voice watery. “You must think me a proper watering pot.”

  Boone just stared at her, not feeling sympathy or love or even anger. He felt nothing. Or at least, please God, help him not to.

  When she glanced up at him, she must have seen something in his eyes, for she looked away.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, her voice wooden.

  “I suppose it was because I didn’t want to know the truth.”

  “What truth?”

  “That you still love him.”

  She started to protest, but stopped. And he wasn’t sure if she stopped because he was right or because she’d realized there was no point in arguing. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me. Tell me. He could hardly breathe from the cruel hope that still stirred inside him.

  “I’d be a fool to love him.” She sounded bitter.

  “Then I guess you’re a fool.”

  Amelia sat for a long time at the fountain, staring at Boone’s clean shirts blowing in the breeze. She’d hurt him again and felt sick, for if there was one person on this earth she didn’t want to hurt, it was Boone.

  She ought to tell him she was sorry, that she loved him, and she would hope he’d believe her and they could go on with their lives. It shouldn’t matter that she did not love him, not quite, not yet. In truth, she didn’t know how she felt. She should love him. She wanted to love him. But she knew in her heart she didn’t. Not yet.

  Amelia did not know if there was something missing in her, some sensible bit that would guide her in the right direction when it came to men. Carson did not deserve her love, and yet she’d given it to him. And though she was quite, quite certain she no longer loved him, the pain she’d felt upon hearing he’d married Dulce was unexpectedly stunning.

  Why should it matter if he married a dozen women?

  The only answer made her seem rather childish. Because he clearly didn’t love her enough to marry her. She knew that if he were to come back and beg her to marry him, she wouldn’t.

  Then why had she felt so hurt when she’d found out he’d married Dulce?

  “Because you are a bloody fool,” she said, disgusted with herself.

  Gathering her courage, she went in search of Boone so she could properly apologize. She didn’t know what she could say to make amends, but she’d think of something. Amelia searched the house and store before giving up and deciding to wait until supper. She was planning to cook one of his favorites, a dish shown to her by Agatha, of pork and potatoes and some spicy peppers the older woman grew in her garden. Next year, perhaps, she’d have her own little kitchen garden and grow some of the peppers Boone liked. She’d do everything Boone liked if it meant he never looked at her again as he had at the fountain.

  Feeling a bit guilty, Amelia made sure the store was locked and then headed to Julia’s. She’d come to think of Julia’s house, and Julia herself, as a bit of a refuge from her life in Texas. There, she could talk about Meremont without worrying she was hurting someone with her happy memories. She could cry about her cousins, who were surely growing up without her, she could describe the cool sea, the winter fogs, the snow in wintertime. Whenever she discussed such things with Boone, he became silent and thoughtful, as if she were somehow blaming him for her sadness.

  Huge, puffy clouds gathered on the horizon, and Amelia wondered if she were going to experience one of the violent storms that sometimes hit Small Fork. Some rain would feel wonderful.

  She stepped high in the tall grass, watching as little grasshoppers jumped in front of her, whirring as they did, making her smile even though she didn’t realize she still had any smiles left. Julia was like that, too, silently listening to her complain or reminisce, giving no judgment or even counsel, making her smile when she least expected it. In some ways, Amelia wished she could be more like Julia, with her calm strength. Amelia had a habit of saying or doing exactly what came into her mind before good sense told her not to.

  She knocked on Julia’s door and announced her presence, listening for the sound of her friend’s voice bidding her to come in, but hearing nothing. On a few occasions, Julia had been out back working on her pottery, and her friend had directed her to go into the house and wait for her. Julia was a bit temperamental, like many artists, and didn’t like anyone to watch her work.

  Amelia opened the door, and knew immediately that something was terribly wrong.

  Chapter 16

  “Who the hell are you?” came a gruff male voice.

  If Amelia was startled, she barely showed it, pausing only in the act of removing her hat before dropping her hands to her sides. She knew instantly who the man was simply by the way Julia cowered on the bed, looking not like the proud woman she was, but the beaten wife this man had made of her.

  “I am Lady Amelia Wellesley, a customer of Mrs. Benson. And you are, sir?” She was all haughty English lady, her chin high, her blue eyes icy. From the corner of her eye, she saw Julia shift slightly on the bed, almost as if she were cocking her ear to hear better. All the hanging glass mobiles that had made this tiny house magical had been ripped from their anchors, and her boots crunched slightly as she stepped into the room.

  The room’s single chair was upended, a long rifle lay across Julia’s tiny table, and the floor was strewn with bits of broken glass, evidence of a violence that was terrifying. It was all Amelia could do not to run to Julia’s bed and hold her friend tight, but she instinctively knew such a move would anger her husband and perhaps put both women at greater risk.

  Sam Benson eyed Amelia up and down, making her skin crawl, but she maintained her haughty demeanor and looked back at him as if he were no more than an insect. She raised an eyebrow, and his rheumy brown eyes finally shifted away.

  Amelia turned to Julia. “Is my vase ready?” she asked, her voice sounding amazingly normal. “You did say it would be. I suppose I could wait another day.” She tugged on her gloves impatiently, and put on the beleaguered expression of an aristocrat disappointed with the lower classes. Turning to Benson, she said, “Your wife does make the most lovely vases. I ordered one for my mother, who simply adores rustic American art.”

  “That so?” Sam grumbled. “Well, she ain’t got it.”

  “Oh, dear,” Amelia said. “I’ll simply have to come back tomorrow then.” She forced a tight smile at the man and Julia, and turned to the door, praying he couldn’t see that her entire body was shaking nearly uncontrollably. Just as she reached for the door handle, the man spoke.

  “What the hell are you doing in Texas, anyway? You got kin here?”

  Amelia took a shallow breath, the most air she could get into her lungs at the moment, and turned. “Goodness, no. My husband thought it would be rather diverting to explore the wilds of North America on our wedding trip,” she said. “When the train stopped here, he thought it looked wonderfully American and insisted we stay at your saloon.” She shuddered dramatically. “I do indulge the man.”

  “You don’t know anyone in town, then?”

  “Hardly. We’ve been here but two days.”

  “Then how you know Julia makes those pots?”

  Amelia nearly panicked, and her cheeks flushed pink, as no quick answer came to her.

  “She saw one of ’em in the mercantile,” Julia said, and Amelia nearly cried with relief until she saw the look of pure violent hatred the man gave her friend. He looked at Julia the way a man would look at dog excrement on the bottom of his boot. It suddenly became even more urgent that she escape Julia’s home and find Boone.

  “It’s been lovely meeting you, Mr. Benson. I’ll stop by tomorrow for the vase, shall I, Mrs. Benson?�
�� She tried to send Julia a silent message, but the woman’s head remained bowed.

  Julia gave her only a jerky nod, and this time Amelia made it to the door and calmly opened it, stepping out into the blazing hot sun of midday. Never had she been so happy to feel that sun beating down on her. Aware that Julia’s husband might be looking out the window, Amelia took her time, pausing even to pretend to examine a flower as she sauntered back toward the hotel. She wanted nothing more than to lift her skirts and run as fast as she could to the store and Boone, but she couldn’t risk such a move. It seemed to take forever to reach the shaded alley between the hotel and the bank, and as she did, the sound of gunfire cut through the air.

  Amelia jerked violently at the sound and let out a small desperate sound before she lifted her skirts and ran to the store, groaning in frustration when she found it was locked. She banged on it hard, making the “closed” sign vibrate against the window, and nearly stumbled into the store when Boone suddenly opened it. She fell against him, clutching his shirt and shaking him.

  “What is it? What’s happened?” Boone said, staring down at her.

  “Julia’s husband,” she gasped. “He’s in her home. There was a gunshot. Oh, Boone, she looked so frightened. I shouldn’t have left her there with him but I knew I had to get you.”

  Boone clutched her forearms, his gray eyes like flint. “Did he lay a hand on you?”

  Amelia shook her head wildly. “No, no. I pretended I was there to buy a vase. I simply walked out. Boone, what can we do?”

  Without hesitation, Boone walked behind the counter and grabbed his rifle, efficiently loading it, a grim look on his face. “You stay here,” he said. “I know you’re worried about Julia, but Benson’s an evil man and he’d just as soon shoot you as shoot a dog.”