A Reluctant Melody - Will she risk losing everything … including her heart?

by Ardoin, Sandra

  The two men strode in silence down Cleary Street. They waited for a two-wheeled cart to pass before crossing to the other side of Broad and turning left.

  “When that last deal went sour, we lost a lot of time, Kit. We need to be ready to open the mission in just over two months. If we don’t find a place soon—”

  “I know what’s at stake.”

  He and Ben had ridden by the house soon after arriving in Banesville and noted its perfect size and location. They were told the structure needed wide-ranging repairs, inside and out. Kit wasn’t convinced they could finish in time, yet the real estate agent assured him it was a perfect fit to house those requesting physical and spiritual assistance to break their dependence on alcohol.

  Regretting his sharp response, Kit rested a hand between his friend’s shoulder blades. “I didn’t mean to bark at you. The Lord provided this opportunity, so I believe we can count on Him to work everything out, don’t you?”

  Ben snorted with humor. “You’re preaching to me now, son?”

  Kit laughed at the former pastor, his elder by a mere five years. “I prefer it to the other way around, old man.”

  Their pace slackened as they walked down Seventh Street and up the steps of the Hotel Ambrose.

  I can do all things through the Christ who strengthens me.

  Kit wanted to believe the Apostle Paul’s words with his whole heart, mind, and spirit, but he couldn’t brush away the nagging sense of trouble to come.

  ***

  The brougham stopped under the porte-cochere in front of Joanna’s house. She didn’t wait for Liam to help her from the carriage, but threw open the door and jumped to the ground, then rushed up the porch steps.

  The screen door stuck when she tried to open it. She yanked on the pull until the door scratched an arc in the porch planks. She’d add planing the bottom of the door to Liam’s growing list of repairs to the 1850s structure. The sooner she sold the place, the better.

  But never to Kit Barnes.

  She hurried through the house and beyond the spiral staircase. Behind her, Rose called her name, but she ignored her friend and burst into the music room, seeking solace in the only place she’d known to find it since childhood.

  Joanna dropped onto the seat at the grand piano, ripped off her gloves, and tossed them toward the nearby davenport. She closed her eyes and savored the cool and sleek ivory beneath her fingertips. Calling forth memorized notes, she strived to retreat into another world where time ceased to exist. There was nothing but the present moment, and in that moment she could be whomever she wanted. She longed to be Joanna Cranston at eighteen with the ability to see into her nineteenth year and how her silly and shallow character would affect her future happiness. She would prevent all the mistakes she had made and the hurt she’d caused. She would never relive the greatest sorrow of her life over and over.

  Her hands crashed on the keys, but the calm she sought refused to take hold. Her every thought centered on Kit, his impact on her past, and the damage he could unleash on her future.

  “You rushed through the house like your backside was on fire.”

  Joanna twisted on the piano stool. Trying to fool Rose McCall with a phony smile was useless. They knew each other too well. “I assure you it’s not.”

  “Funny, I was certain I smelled smoke as you rushed by me.” Rose crossed her arms. “Is Perry pressuring you again?”

  “No.” Joanna grimaced at the memory of his hands running down her arms. “No more than usual.”

  “Then what’s upset you?”

  Less than a handful of people knew the darkness of her sin. Only her friend Rose knew everything it had cost her. She hadn’t planned to say anything, but the words “He’s here” spilled out before she could catch them.

  “Who’s here? Perry?” Rose glanced around the paneled room.

  “No.” Although, if Joanna hadn’t put her foot down, Perry would have escorted her home. As it was, he’d insisted she stay and eat something before leaving. Half the ham sandwich remained on the plate when she crept out of the office. The other half sat like an iron ball in her stomach.

  “Then who?” Confusion saturated Rose’s voice as she studied Joanna’s face. After a moment of silence, Rose hiked her strawberry-blonde eyebrows. “You don’t mean ...?”

  Joanna nodded.

  “In town?”

  “Worse. He came to Perry’s office today.” She explained the reason for Kit’s unexpected and untimely entrance.

  “Do you think he knew you owned this house and has some plan to discredit you? Please don’t tell me he mentioned your previous ... relationship ... in front of Perry.”

  “No, he didn’t. And one time does not amount to a relationship, Rose, especially when the other party despises you afterward.”

  The brows lowered and compassion replaced the surprise on Rose’s face. “I’m sure Kit Barnes never despised you, Jo. After all, it takes two.”

  Joanna wandered to a window and leaned into a panel of the heavy brocade curtain. On the other side of the glass, a stand of pine trees blocked her view past the north side of the house and the neighbor a block away. A white butterfly flitted past, its path meandering as its wings beat against the air. She touched the window as if her hand could pass through the glass to caress the blithe insect.

  “I hid my face and pretended to be ill until Kit went away.”

  Rose released a heavy sigh. “If you hid from him, I’m not surprised he didn’t realize it was you. I’m sure his being there was a coincidence. That would be a blessing, wouldn’t it?”

  A blessing? Perhaps. If Joanna believed in such things anymore. “What if he did catch a glimpse of my face and didn’t recognize me? Have I aged so much in seven years? Or maybe he’s forgotten all about me. Maybe I’m just one in a hundred who ...” A sob clogged her throat.

  The shame still turned her stomach. At nineteen, she’d lost everything—her future with a good man, her virtue and self-respect. Even her family deserted her when her father pronounced her beyond redemption and condemned to eternal judgment from God.

  Why had she allowed herself to fall in love with a drunken cad?

  “Isn’t being forgotten by Kit Barnes no more than I deserve?”

  “Shh ...” Rose stepped behind Joanna and squeezed her shoulders. “Don’t work yourself up into a tizzy.”

  “I can’t see him again, Rose.”

  “Then tell Perry he’ll have to handle the sale without you.”

  Joanna sniffed and pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “I don’t care if the walls crumble around me. I won’t sell this place to a man who treated me like a harlot and promptly forgot me, not after all I’ve been through.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Kit and Ben sat at a table in the hotel dining room. Quiet voices droned around them in soft, drawn-out syllables. Outside, dusk covered the land in shadow, and low light from gas lamps on the walls flickered across the faces of Kit’s two companions.

  Stewart leaned back in the chair across from him and sipped the golden liquid of the brandy in his glass. Kit ran his tongue across his bottom lip and shut his eyes. His gut grew warm with the remembered taste of an expensive cognac. The man couldn’t realize the temptation Kit faced simply by being near alcohol.

  Over time, he had learned to deal with the momentary urges like this—the demons that tried to convince him one glass couldn’t hurt. Those moments were a personal thorn in the flesh, but intruded less and less into his life. Rather than give in, he used it to strengthen his faith and remind himself he was a new man.

  That was the basis of their work—showing men they could become new creations, both in Christ and in the world. They provided the spiritual tools to help inebriates cope with the difficulties of withdrawal and remain sober. It was their calling.

  Stewart pointed to the letter he’d handed Kit. “Jo asked me to deliver that in person. Under the circumstances, she felt obliged to put h
er decision in writing.”

  Kit leaned forward with his arms crossed on the table. “Her decision? Your wife decides about the house?”

  “My wife? I’m afraid you misunderstood, Kit. I hope you don’t mind if I call you Kit.” Stewart smiled as if they were old friends.

  “Not at all. And I’ll call you Perry.”

  The man nodded. “To be clear, Joanna is not my wife.” He added something under his breath that sounded like “not yet.”

  “Then I don’t understand her role in the sale of the house.”

  “Jo inherited the property from my father. She’s my stepmother.” Perry’s lip curled on the last word, the smile long gone. “And before you ask, yes, she was much younger.”

  The disgust in the man’s voice prodded Kit to recall the embrace he’d witnessed that morning. Obviously, Perry preferred a different relationship to exist with Joanna Stewart—one that had nothing to do with stepmother and stepson. Did the widow return his feelings?

  Every time he heard the name Joanna, Kit’s mind raced back seven years to the night he betrayed his brother’s trust. God had forgiven Kit’s past but had his Joanna found …? His jaw clenched. Not his Joanna. She should never have been his.

  He worked his tense jaw muscles back and forth. At this moment, his only concern was obtaining the house and grounds for his work, not the immorality in which he’d participated with Joanna Cranston, the woman his brother had hoped to marry.

  Kit held the envelope away from his body, preferring to hand it right back. “This is what I think it is then?”

  He and Ben exchanged pained glances. They had prepared for bad news as soon as Perry asked to meet them here rather than in his office, but the idea of starting their building search over at this late date churned his stomach.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Kit opened the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper. He scanned the contents and read the words out loud to Ben. “‘Dear Mr. Barnes. I have decided not to sell my home at this time. Joanna Stewart.’” He turned the paper over. Blank. “That’s it? No explanation?”

  Ben stirred a spoon through his coffee. “Short and to the point.”

  “There isn’t even a ‘Sincerely.’” Kit regarded Perry. “Did she disclose to you why she won’t sell?”

  “I’m sorry. She told me nothing.” Perry’s pleasant facade slipped and his lips compressed. “I only know that, once she makes a decision, she can be stubborn.”

  “Yes, well, it was my understanding she’d decided to sell.”

  Ben cleared his throat and raised one brow with a silent warning to be more circumspect. But really, how stubborn could she be if she changed her mind within eight hours?

  Kit folded the paper and slipped it back in the envelope, holding in the desire to rail against the woman’s fickleness. The only thing that stopped him was his belief that God had a plan, even if He kept it to Himself for the time being.

  “Why couldn’t she tell us in person? You said she no longer felt ill.”

  Perry examined his well-manicured fingernails, running his thumb over the rounded edges. “Jo is somewhat reclusive. She rarely goes out.”

  “The home Ben and I established in Pittsburgh three years ago has helped a number of men battle alcoholism, Perry. With the right place and the financial donations we’ve been promised, we can accomplish the same good here. We’ve worked hard with town officials and your local temperance group, especially Mrs. Lucinda Brockhurst. She insists we open our doors by August twenty-second, the anniversary of her son’s death, or the group she leads will rescind an offer of monetary support. That leaves us only two-and-a-half months. Will you speak with Mrs. Stewart again on our behalf?”

  “As I said, I’m as much in the dark about her motive as you, gentlemen, but she was adamant.”

  Ben slumped in his chair. “What if we talked to her and explained our purpose?”

  “As I mentioned, she’s reclusive. I doubt she’d see you.” Perry dropped his hand and frowned. The chair screeched across the floor as he pushed away from the table and rose. “Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I have plans for this evening.”

  Kit waited until Perry walked out of the dining room before he turned to Ben. “Something isn’t right with the situation—or the woman.”

  “It bothers Stewart, too. I could feel it.” Ben gulped the rest of the coffee in his cup.

  Kit left the table and the dining room. That same disturbance swathed him from the moment he’d walked inside the man’s office at the Stewart Broom Factory. A sense of mystery surrounded Joanna Stewart. It had piqued his interest earlier and even more so now. She acted secretive, not even allowing him to glimpse her face. Why? Because she withdrew from people? If that were the case, perhaps she deserved more pity than censure.

  Ben followed Kit into the lobby. “Guess we should head upstairs and get some sleep. It’s a long trip back to Pittsburgh.”

  “You go ahead and take the train. I won’t be leaving tomorrow.”

  “Kit—”

  “We have to find another building.” He slapped the hat on his head and started for the door.

  “Surely not right now. It’s after eight.”

  Kit checked the clock in the hotel’s lobby, ambled back to his friend’s side, and covered his embarrassment with a grin. “No. I guess not.”

  “You plan to see Mrs. Stewart yourself?”

  Ben knew him well. “Maybe.”

  “You read the letter and heard Stewart. She’s made up her mind. What good will confronting her do?”

  “Probably none.” But what choice did he have?

  ***

  Morning heat warmed Joanna’s face, and a bright light pierced her shuttered eyes. She threw off the sheet and blinked several times, fighting to keep her eyes open. Eventually, she won the battle with sight, but her body protested the command to rise.

  Propped on her elbows, Joanna squinted at the clock on her bedside table and groaned. She thrust her arms to the side, and her head fell back onto her pillow. After nine? She should have been up hours ago.

  She rubbed her eyes and crawled out of bed. Not even splashing with the tepid water from the basin on the washstand roused her. She dressed as if under the effects of a sleeping powder.

  Once downstairs, Joanna padded toward the kitchen, expecting to hear Rose’s singing or Annie’s sweet giggle. She paused at the dining room.

  Quiet. Too quiet.

  Rose was a cheery bird most mornings, singing and capering around the kitchen. They often teased one another about how she trilled while Joanna snarled.

  In the kitchen, her friend sat at the table near the wall with her back to Joanna, head bowed. Oddly, Rose’s russet hair still hung in the nighttime braid running along her spine rather than pinned atop her head.

  “I’m sorry I slept late.”

  Rose’s shoulders stiffened. She lifted her head, but didn’t turn around. “After yesterday, I’m sure you needed it.”

  The muffled words sent apprehension skittering through Joanna and shook off any remaining fatigue. She inched closer. “Where’s Annie?”

  Rose stood and shuffled to the stove, still keeping her back in view. “Sleeping.”

  “Please, look at me.”

  Rose hesitated. When she twisted to face Joanna, her dainty chin quivered beneath a lower lip twice as large as normal. A gash snaked out from the right corner of her mouth, and an ugly bruise surrounded it.

  Joanna stood rooted to the floor, wide-eyed and heart thundering. “How …?”

  Rose ducked her head. Her shoulders shook with noisy sobs.

  “Oh, Rose.” Joanna wrapped her arms around her friend. “What are we to do about this?”

  A tempest swirled inside Joanna. Men. Did God not make one who was better than a selfish brute?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  After Ben’s train left the depot, Kit wandered the streets of Banesville. Overnight, his temper had cooled, and he’d agreed to Ben’s request to a
pproach Mrs. Stewart again only if a meeting with the real estate agent provided no other possible properties.

  Kit started across an alleyway on Lee Street not far from the Crossroads Bar. The sound of a snore slowed his pace. He peered into the alley to find a man slumped against a brick wall. Memories of Kit’s own past drunkenness assaulted him.

  There but for the grace of God …

  He wandered into the alleyway and hunkered down next to the sleeping man. The stench of sour liquor overwhelmed the space between them. Stubbles of graying whiskers dotted the middle-aged man’s face. Stains and dust clung to the worn and wrinkled suit.

  Kit jogged the man’s arm. “Wake up.” Once more. Harder. “Wake up, sir.”

  When his efforts produced nothing more than an indiscernible mumbling followed by a growl, Kit gently slapped each side of his face. “Come on. Wake up.”

  Quick as cannon fire, the man’s fist crashed into Kit’s jaw, sending him sprawling backward onto the dirt. Pain radiated throughout his head. He massaged the battered and throbbing side of his face, thankful his jawbone remained solid.

  Kit eyed his semi-awake attacker. The crooked and flat nose, old scar running along his right cheek, and quick reflexes boasted of a background as a fighter—either by profession or temperament.

  “Nice move.”

  More mumbling before the man fully opened his eyes and slid upright. “Who’re you?”

  “Kit Barnes. Who are you?”

  “Donovan. O’Connor.” He rubbed his eyes and ran a hand down his face. The lines of confusion creasing his forehead softened. “Yeah. Donovan O’Connor.”

  Kit’s aching jaw slipped. “As in bare-knuckled-fighter ‘Dynamite’ O’Connor?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed before he sighed. “No more. Those days are long over.”

  Kit had attended one professional fight in his life, ten years ago between “Dynamite” O’Connor and “Lefty” Lloyd. It ended in two minutes with a knockout blow from the man in front of him, and bestowed on Kit an aversion to fisticuffs. Unfortunately, his work with men in their cups led him to break up amateur bouts from time to time, but until today, he’d never been the victim of a punch.