His Precious Inheritance (Inspirational Historical Romance)

by Dorothy Clark

  “Well, what have we here?”

  She jumped, jerked her gaze to the man standing at the top of the stairs. Her stomach knotted. “Good morning, Mr. Willard.”

  “It is now.” The reporter grinned, tossed his hat on his desk and strode down the room toward her. He swept his gaze over the stacks of letters covering the table. “What’s all this?”

  She held her uneasiness in check and answered in a calm, polite tone. “The CLSC letters I’m going to answer.”

  “All of those?”

  She noted his shocked expression and nodded. “And many more. This whole bag, in fact.” She indicated the bag leaning against the wall.

  He let out a long, low whistle. “It looks like you’re going to need a lot of help to get all of those letters answered.” He gave her a wolfish grin. “I’d be happy to volunteer.”

  She gave him a cool look to discourage his flirting and cast another look toward the stairs. They were all alone. A shiver slipped down her spine. “Thank you for your considerate offer, Mr. Willard. But I am managing fine by myself. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a great deal of work to do.” She scanned a letter, added it to the grammar stack and picked up another.

  “Ah, don’t be like that, cu—”

  “Is there something you needed from the reference shelf, Willard?”

  Mr. Thornberg. The tension left her spine and shoulders.

  “Just saying good morning to Miss Gordon, boss.”

  “We still need a lead story for tomorrow’s edition, Willard. Have you one?”

  “Not yet.”

  “The annual Chautauqua Assembly is important to the economy of this city, and I’ve heard rumors of a substantial amount of construction going on. Why don’t you go to Fair Point and see what you can find out?”

  It was clearly an order, given in a tone that left no doubt of Mr. Thornberg’s opinion over the reporter’s waste of time. She looked up, stared at her boss’s taut face. The reporter wasn’t the only one Mr. Thornberg was displeased with. Surely, he didn’t think she had invited Mr. Willard’s attention? The knots in her stomach twisted tighter. She plunked the letter in her hand on top of the definition-of-words stack and grabbed another from the heap.

  Boyd Willard walked away, the strike of his shoe heels against the wood floor loud in the silence. Mr. Thornberg took the reporter’s place across the table from her. She pressed her lips together to hold back the urge to explain. She’d done nothing wrong. She slapped the letter she held onto the mathematics pile and snatched up another.

  “What are you doing, Miss Gordon? What are these different piles?”

  She glanced up. There was a slight frown line between Mr. Thornberg’s straight dark brows and a glint of curiosity in his brown eyes. The discomfort in her stomach eased a bit. “I am sorting the letters into different classifications. These—” she indicated the first stack on her right “—have questions about words...their pronunciation or definition. And these—” she moved her hand to the next pile “—have queries about science. And then there are grammar and mathematics stacks. And those—” she gestured toward the smallest stack at the edge of the table “—are the ones directed to Dr. Austin or specific teachers at the Chautauqua Assembly.

  “When I’m finished sorting, I will answer one stack of letters at a time. As they will all deal with the same subject, I won’t have to keep switching reference material if I don’t know the answers.” She couldn’t stop herself from putting a slight emphasis on the word if. He didn’t seem to notice. He picked up and scanned letters from each stack, his head nodding slowly.

  “This is an excellent idea, Miss Gordon.” He put the letter he held back on its stack and smiled. “Your work is most efficient.”

  The smile took her aback. Her lips curved in response. “Thank you, Mr. Thornberg.”

  “Yes. Well...” He coughed, cleared his throat. “I’ll leave you to your work. Don’t hesitate to ask for my help—though you seem to have things well in hand.” He dipped his head and walked back into the composing room.

  She tamped down her pleasure at his compliment of her work and returned to her task.

  * * *

  “I appreciate your zealous approach to your work, Miss Gordon, but it’s time for your afternoon meal break.”

  Clarice jumped, looked from the letter in her hand to Mr. Thornberg standing on the other side of the table and blinked to adjust her vision. “Thank you, sir. I didn’t realize—” The splatter of rain against the windows burst upon her consciousness. “It’s raining!”

  “Yes, for over an hour now.”

  “Oh, dear.” She breathed the words, placed the letter on the science pile and stared at the water coursing down the windows.

  “Is there a problem, Miss Gordon?”

  “What? Oh. No. Well...” She moved to her desk, opened the bottom drawer, pulled out her hat and gave a rueful little laugh. “I suppose under the circumstances this qualifies as a problem.” She lifted the small felt hat to her head, snatched the pin from where she’d tossed it on her desk and jammed it into place. Her imagination was already making her shiver as she started for the stairs.

  “You’re going out in this rain with no waterproof or umbrella?”

  His tone was one of utter disbelief. He obviously thought her either insane or foolish in the extreme. She stopped and turned to face him. “There are times when we are left with no choice in matters, Mr. Thornberg. For me, this is one of those times. My mother is bedridden and depends upon me for her needs. When I came to work this morning, I did not know it would rain today and thus did not wear my waterproof. Nor did I make other arrangements for my mother’s care.” She gave an eloquent little shrug of her shoulders. “Thus...no choice.” She started again for the stairs.

  “Wait!”

  The command in his voice raised her hackles. She’d had enough of that from her father and brothers. But this was her boss. She made her feet stop walking, tensed when he strode up beside her.

  “Come with me, Miss Gordon. I’ve an umbrella in the office.”

  * * *

  The rain beat on the umbrella, hit the walkway with such force it splashed almost as high as her knees. The hem of her long skirt was sodden, the short train so heavy it felt as if she were dragging one of the large baskets of wet laundry from her childhood behind her. The wind gusted, blew the rain straight at them. She shivered, thankful Mr. Thornberg held the umbrella. She was having difficulty enough making progress against the wind.

  “Stop!” He leaned down to put his mouth near her ear. “Hold the umbrella.”

  She didn’t question his command. It was his umbrella. She took it into her two hands and raised her arms to hold it high enough to clear his head, tried to keep it from shaking from her shivering. “What are you d-doing?” She gaped as he shrugged out of his suit coat. Now who was insane?

  “What I should have done before. You’re shivering. Lower your arms.” He draped his jacket around her shoulders, held it there with one hand, took the umbrella into his other and straightened.

  The warmth from his body clinging to the suit coat seeped into her. She stared up at him too astounded to speak, let alone protest.

  “The jacket is much too large for you. Hold it tight or the wind will whip it away.”

  “But you—”

  “No argument, Miss Gordon.”

  She nodded, grabbed the edges of his jacket, twisted her hands to the inside and held it close against her. A gust of wind swept down the street and she staggered backward. His hand slipped to her lower back, steadied her against the force of the wind as they moved forward.

  The blowing rain formed large wet blotches on his shirt. He must be icy cold. She looked down at his suit coat enfolding her in its dry warmth and a band of tightness squeezed her throat and chest. She stared dow
n at the splashing rain and fought back the unexplainable urge to cry.

  Main Street was deserted in the storm. The unimpeded wind whipped her skirts into a frenzy. His arm tightened. She could feel its strength angling down her back to where his hand supported her as they crossed to the walkway at East Second Street and continued down the block. She fought the tightness in her chest for breath and watched the houses they passed, slowed her steps then unlatched a gate bearing a sign that read Smithfield Boardinghouse. “This is where I live.”

  He escorted her up the stone walk to the deep porch. Large rhododendron bushes growing in front of the railing blocked the wind and rain. She stepped behind their protection and slipped off his suit coat, shivering in the cold, damp air. “Thank you for seeing me home in the storm, Mr. Thornberg. I’m sorry you have gotten soaked and cold. I would ask you in to get warm, but—” She could manage no more. The constriction of her throat choked off her words. She looked down at his suit coat in her hands.

  “But boardinghouses do not lend themselves to such amenities. I quite understand, Miss Gordon. I’m no stranger to boardinghouses. I lived in my share when I was a roving reporter.” He took his suit coat from her, shrugged to settle it on his shoulders and picked up his umbrella. “Please do not try to return to work in this storm. My regards to your mother. I hope her health improves soon. Good afternoon, Miss Gordon.” He dipped his head, trotted down the steps and hurried out through the gate.

  She wrapped her arms about herself and stared after him until he disappeared into the rain, waiting for that strange urge to cry to go away so she could go inside.

  * * *

  Charles scooped the last spoonful of soup from his bowl, picked up his coffee and walked into his study. The clink of dishes and clatter of flatware followed him as Mrs. Hotchkiss cleared the dining room. He scowled and closed the door, unreasonably irritated by the normal sounds of his daily life.

  It had been a mistake. One he couldn’t avoid—he could hardly have let Miss Gordon walk home in the storm with no protection whatsoever—but a mistake nonetheless. He had hated leaving her standing there on the porch when she looked so defenseless and—

  Thunderation! How was he to get the picture of her out of his head! And why, in the name of all that was sane, should it make him feel lonely? The new house he’d found such comfort in suddenly felt like an empty tomb.

  He slammed his cup down on the mantel and wished there were a fire on the hearth so he had a log he could kick. He hadn’t felt so—so alone since his mother had shipped him off to boarding school when he was five years old.

  He shook his head, jammed his hands into his pockets and stared out at the rain. He’d thought he was over all those old, worthless emotions. There was nothing more useless than self-pity.

  He frowned, buttoned the coat of the suit he’d changed into and headed for the entrance hall. Getting out a newspaper couldn’t wait for good weather.

  She was caring for a bedridden mother. No wonder Miss Gordon was prickly. That was a heavy load for a young woman to shoulder. The shadow of it had been in her eyes when she’d looked up at him. And surprise. No, something more than surprise...shock had filled them when he’d put his suit coat around her. As if no one had ever taken care of her.

  Something twisted deep in his gut. He pulled on his mackintosh and hat, grabbed the wet umbrella from its stand and stepped out onto the porch. Taking Miss Gordon home had been a mistake...one that, in spite of his better sense, he would willingly make again.

  * * *

  The radiant warmth of the late-afternoon sun chased the damp chill from the editorial room. Clarice leaned the umbrella she had brought with her in the corner by her desk and removed her wrap.

  “I didn’t expect you to return today, Miss Gordon.”

  She spun about. Charles Thornberg stood in the doorway to the composing room a sheet of paper in his hand. She took a breath to calm her racing pulse. “There is still almost two hours until quitting time and the storm has passed.”

  He nodded, glanced toward the umbrella. “I see you don’t intend to be caught unprepared by a rainstorm again.”

  Was he displeased with losing work time by walking her home? Had she ruined her hope of being employed as a columnist on the Journal? She hastened to assure him it would not happen again. “Once was forgivable. Twice would be shoddy carelessness.”

  “And you would not be guilty of such a thing.”

  Father’s quick hand taught me the folly of that. She turned and draped her wrap over the chair. “I learned when very young it was not wise to make the same mistake twice.”

  “Mr. Thornberg, sir!” Footsteps pounded on the stairs. A young boy burst into the room, braced his hands on his knees and sucked in a long breath.

  Charles Thornberg pivoted and hurried toward the boy. “What is it, son?”

  “Fire...sir...”

  The breathy gasps drew her forward. Perhaps—

  “Fire! Where? What is burning?”

  “Steamers...at the dock...”

  “Carry on, Miss Gordon!” Charles threw the paper he held toward his desk and clattered down the stairs, the boy close on his heels.

  She ran to the front window, peered down—Charles Thornberg and the boy burst from the building and ran down the street. She clenched her hands and started back toward the table holding the piles of letters. Carry on, Miss Gordon. Charles Thornberg would probably have had her come along if she were a man. Carry on, indeed!

  The paper Charles had thrown had missed his desk. She scooped it up off the floor and scanned the report beneath Boyd Willard’s name. It was about a proposed public water system the city council had discussed at their last meeting. A dull, colorless report. Some descriptions of the councilmen’s attitudes would have brought it alive...

  She sighed, carried the paper into the composing room and glanced over the partially finished layout for the next edition resting on the tables. Where was he going to— There. No. The report was too small for the empty space on the large piece of white paper. There was a sizable gap left. She glanced over her shoulder at the page layout on the table behind her. It couldn’t go there. That page was finished.

  Fillers!

  She riffled through the items in the basket, frowned and sorted through them again. None of them were large enough to fill the gaping space. Perhaps two... Yes. If she slid the paper holding the report on the council meeting down a bit and added a filler at the top and another at the bottom. Or she could move the item at the top of the page over, put the report in its place and change that filler... Her fingers flew over the piece of white paper, rearranging the layout. A smile curved her lips. Perfect! But she’d best put them back as they had been and get to work, lest Mr. Thornberg find out she had—

  “Miss Gordon? Where are you?”

  She gave a guilty start at the impatient hail and hurried into the editorial room. The clerk from the office downstairs stood on the stairs peering over the railing. He looked irritated. “What is it, Mr. Warren?”

  “I need you to come down to the office.” The man turned and headed back down the stairs.

  “Wait, Mr. Warren! What—” She swallowed the rest of the question as he disappeared from view, shot a look at the composing tables, then lifted her hems and followed after him to the office. She’d arrange the page back the way it had been when she returned.

  “Mr. Warren, I’ve work to—” A wave of his arm directed her gaze across the room. A small, well-dressed boy of perhaps two, at the most three, years old, sat huddled on a wooden chair. There were tears in his eyes and on his cheeks, and his lips were trembling, but he didn’t make a sound beyond soft, shuddering intakes of breath that clutched at her heart.

  “The boy can’t stay here. You have to take him.”

  “Take him!” She jerked her gaze from the boy, gaped a
t Mr. Warren. “What are you talking about?” She swept her gaze around the room, lowered her voice. “Where are his mother and father?”

  The office clerk shrugged his thin shoulders, picked up an envelope and handed it to her. Mr. Charles Thornberg. She frowned and offered it back to him. “This isn’t for me. It—”

  “It goes with the boy.” The clerk shot a look in the tot’s direction then fixed his gaze on her. “Here’s the way of it, Miss Gordon. A man come in here with the boy and asked for Mr. Thornberg. I told him Mr. Thornberg wasn’t here, that he’d have to wait or come back another time, and he said that was impossible, that he had a train to catch. He said he’d been hired to deliver the boy and the envelope to Mr. Thornberg and that his job was done.” A scowl drew the clerk’s brows down. “I tried to stop him, but he walked out and kept going. So you have to take the boy.”

  “Me?”

  “Well, he can’t stay here! And you’re a woman and all...”

  She stiffened and gave him a cool look. “Being a woman doesn’t come with instructions for caring for children, Mr. Warren.” She looked over at the huddled-up little boy and her heart melted. He looked so afraid. “What is his name?”

  “The man only called him ‘the lad.’ Those are his things.”

  The lad. As if he were no more important than the large leather grip sitting on the floor! She shoved the letter in her skirt pocket and walked over to kneel down in front of the chair. The boy pressed back and stared at her out of fear-filled eyes. She tamped down a surge of anger at whoever had treated the boy so callously and smiled. “I hear you’ve had a journey on a train. That must have been exciting!” There was no response, only those blue eyes staring at her. “But riding on the train can be tiring. And you can get very hungry, too.” The boy’s eyes flickered, and another surge of anger shook her. Had the man not fed the child? Concern pounced. How would she—