His Precious Inheritance (Inspirational Historical Romance)

by Dorothy Clark

  “What brover?”

  Help me, Lord. Give me the words so he’ll understand. “It means we’re a family.” There was no change in Jonathan’s expression. Clearly, that word meant nothing to him. Anger surged. He tamped it down, searched for the right words. “And being a family means I belong to you, and you belong to me.” That truth hit him hard. Saying it aloud made it...real. He cleared the lump from his throat. “And since I’m the...biggest, and I have this house, you are going to stay here with me always, and I’m going to take care of you.” The blue eyes, so like his own, studied him. The furrows in Jonathan’s little forehead deepened. Please, Lord. Help him understand.

  “Me be here?”

  He nodded, curved his lips into a smile. “Every day. From now on. For always.”

  There was a soft exhalation. Jonathan’s blue eyes shifted to the bed, came back to rest on him. His small right arm lifted and one pudgy little finger pointed at the bed. “It too big. Me fall.”

  The breath trapped in his lungs released. It was going to be all right. Jonathan might not have understood the family concept, but he knew what staying in one place meant. The rest would come. He nodded, held back the smile tugging at his lips and treated the information with all seriousness. “I’ll take care of that today. Now, shall we get you washed and dressed and go get some breakfast?” He rose, waited, unsure of what to do if the little guy said no.

  Jonathan nodded, reached up and grabbed hold of his hand.

  The touch was like nothing he’d ever experienced. His heart swelled, pushed the air from his lungs. His throat constricted. It wasn’t the clutch of the little fingers or the smallness of the hand in his; it was the absolute trust. He blinked hard, scooped his little brother into his arms and carried him into the dressing room.

  * * *

  “Hmm, coffee. Smells good.”

  “Mr. Thornberg!” Clarice gasped and whirled, pressed her hand to her chest. “I didn’t hear you coming.”

  “Obviously.” His mouth slanted in a lopsided, teasing grin. “Be careful or you’ll stab yourself with that fork.”

  He looked so different... “Hardly.” She shifted her gaze to the toddler riding on her employer’s arm and her heart melted. His baby face was clean and shiny, his curls were combed, and he was dressed in the blue sailor suit. The socks that covered his chunky little legs to his dimpled knees left a little to be desired in cleanliness, but the buckled shoes she’d removed last night had a new gloss to them. Mr. Thornberg had been busy. No wonder she’d heard him moving around upstairs. “Good morning, Jonathan.”

  “Me Skipper. Me ’portant.”

  “Oh?”

  “The outfit.” She looked up and her gaze clashed with the proud, albeit amused one of her employer. Her stomach quivered to life. “I explained about captains on ocean liners.”

  “Oh.”

  “You said that already.”

  The words and the wry look that accompanied them brought the memory of the day he’d employed her to answer the CLSC letters sweeping into her head. She took refuge in thoughts of her work. Would he remember to bring home the letters for her to work on, as he’d promised? Was he even going to work? He didn’t look it. Not in that blue shirt. Without his starched white shirt and high stiff collar and tie, he looked relaxed...handsome. Heat stole across her cheekbones.

  “Him my brover. Me be here.” Jonathan’s blue eyes studied her. “Who you?”

  Brover. Mr. Thornberg had done some explaining. She smiled, ignored the tug on her heart to step close and touch the toddler, to hold him again. It was better to stay uninvolved. She was here for only a few days. “I’m the lady who cooked your breakfast.”

  She turned back and slid the sizzling bacon to the cooler part of the stove. “I have Jonathan’s porridge ready, Mr. Thornberg. If you would please take him into the dining room, I’ll bring it right in.”

  She lifted the pan of cooked oats staying warm at the back of the stove, scooped them into the bowl she had waiting on the work table and added a pat of butter and a drizzle of the molasses she’d found in the pantry.

  “I’d rather he eat here in the kitchen, where he won’t be alone.” A chair scraped along the floor.

  “But I’ve—”

  “Yes?” Charles sat Jonathan on a chair, turned from the small eating table against the wall and looked at her.

  She’d made a mistake. Well, she’d know better tomorrow. “I’ve set a place for you in the dining room, as well.”

  “For me?”

  She nodded, wiped her palms down the skirt of the apron she’d found hanging on a peg by the stove. “You needn’t sound incredulous. It was a perfectly understandable mistake given the situation. We’ve not yet discussed my duties.”

  His eyes took on that dark, clouded look she was beginning to recognize as a prelude to full-blown annoyance. “I told you last night you are to take care of Jonathan, not act as a maid or washerwoman.”

  She splashed a bit of milk on the prepared oats. “And that is what I am doing. I thought, perhaps, Jonathan would like your company at his meals. But since that offends your stated wishes—”

  “Me hungry.”

  She snatched up the bowl and hurried to the table. “Here you are, Jonathan. Just let me get the pad I made for you to sit on from the dining room and then—”

  “I’ll get it.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but Charles had pivoted and headed for the dining room before she could speak. She lifted Jonathan into her arms. He leaned against her as if he belonged there. “It will only be a minute—”

  Charles returned with the folded throw she had covered with a dish towel, placed it on the chair and fastened his gaze on her. “The pad is very clever.”

  His gaze, his praise were disconcerting. “It’s necessary.” She settled Jonathan on the pad and handed him a spoon. “He’s too small to sit on a chair.”

  “Or to get out of that bed upstairs by himself. I intend to buy him a crib today.”

  “Or you could get him a set of bed steps.” The suggestion was out before she thought better of making it. His raised eyebrows spurred her on. He’d asked for her help; she would give it. “He will soon outgrow a crib. And he is able to take care of his...personal needs himself. The steps would allow him to do so safely.” She sniffed the air and hurried back to the stove. The bacon was nicely crisp, not that it mattered. She slid the pan aside.

  “That looks good.”

  She froze, glanced over her shoulder. He was standing behind her, a cup in each hand.

  “The coffee smells too good to resist.” He set the cups on the table, snagged the coffeepot and poured them full.

  She stared, pressed her lips together but couldn’t hold the words back. “You’re giving Jonathan a cup of coffee?”

  He chuckled and put the coffeepot down. “Even I know better than that.” His long fingers tapped a cup. “This one is yours.”

  Her jaw dropped. She stared at the dark brew in the cup, grappling with the idea that he had poured it for her.

  “Do you fry eggs? I like your idea, and I’ve decided to have breakfast with Jonathan.” His smile made it an apology.

  She nodded, pulled the griddle back over the hot plate at the front of the stove, slid the bacon to one side and reached for the bowl of eggs she had waiting. “How many do you want?”

  “Two. And one for Skipper.”

  Could his tenderness with Jonathan be real? She stared at Charles Thornberg trying to believe it was so.

  “And fry some eggs for yourself, Miss Gordon.” His gaze swung back to her. She looked down at the bowl of eggs. “We’ll discuss what Jonathan needs while we eat.”

  While we eat? No. That was a family thing. She shook her head, broke three eggs into the hot bacon grease and set the rest aside.
“Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

  He frowned, swept a hand toward the windows over the sink cupboard at the end of the room. “It’s not yet fully light, Miss Gordon. And I lived in boardinghouses long enough to know you eat when the meals are scheduled and at no other time. You have not yet eaten.” He shoved the bowl of eggs back toward her. “Fry yourself an egg. And plan to eat all of your meals here with Jonathan. That will be part of your care of him. You know that, as a newspaperman, my hours are dictated by events. I may have to miss a few meals, and I don’t want him eating alone.”

  The clock in the sitting room gonged. He’d be leaving for the newspaper soon, and she had to find out exactly what her care of Jonathan entailed before he left. She didn’t want any more mistakes like this one. She pushed aside her uneasiness, broke another egg into the grease and watched him carry the two steaming cups of coffee to the table.

  * * *

  “Him squirrel.” Jonathan pointed up at the mass of gray fur sitting in the tree with its bushy tail twitching.

  “Yes.” Clarice picked up an acorn and tossed it at the branch the squirrel was on. “Hear him chatter?”

  “What that?”

  “Chatter is the way squirrels talk.”

  “What him say?”

  How eager he was to learn. She loved answering his innocent questions. “I think he is telling us he would like us to move along so he can come down and gather acorns to eat.” She bent, picked one up and showed it to him. “This is an acorn. Squirrels like them, but they’re not good for little boys, so you mustn’t eat them. They’ll make your tummy hurt.”

  He thought that over a moment. “Me won’t.” He pointed again. “Bird.”

  “Yes. A blue jay.” His little brow furrowed, and she hastened to explain. “That’s his own special name—because of his color. See, his feathers are blue like your sailor suit.”

  “What he special name?”

  She looked in the direction of Jonathan’s pointing finger. “That is a goldfinch. And that friendly little bird on the bush is a chickadee. You can sometimes coax them to say their own name. Listen...” She imitated the bird’s call: “Chick-a-dee-dee... Chick-a-dee-dee...”

  The tiny black-and-white bird hopped along a twig of the bush, tipped its head and answered her.

  “Him did it!”

  She laughed at Jonathan’s delight and called again, but the bird flew off.

  “Him go away.”

  The disappointment on his face pierced her heart. “I think that was a mama chickadee and she is returning to her nest to feed her babies.”

  “See nest?”

  She smiled and, unable to resist, rumpled his curls. “The birds build their nests high up in the trees, and they are hard to find.”

  He looked up at the branches over their head. “Me fall down. Birdies fall down?”

  “No. The babies stay safe in the nest until they grow up and can fly.” She clamped her lips closed on a promise that he would be safe in Mr. Thornberg’s home until he was grown. She hoped it was so. But she didn’t know.

  “What that?”

  She glanced where Jonathan’s pudgy finger pointed. “That’s a stable. I don’t think Mr. Thornberg has a horse in the stable now, Jonathan. But, if he permits, it may be a nice place to play. Let’s go see.”

  She rose and took his hand, led him to one side of the double doors. “You stand here until I see if everything is all right.” She lifted the latch, opened one of the doors a crack, peered inside then pushed the door wide. Sunlight streaked across a plank floor littered with what she fervently hoped was dirt and bits of hay. Her heart sank. Jonathan had only one outfit to wear. The rest of his clothes Mr. Thornberg had taken to the laundry. She would have to keep his exploration short.

  “Come along.” He ran to her. She took his small hand in hers and stepped inside. Though it bore the stale odor of horse and hay, the stall was empty, as she suspected. “Oh, look, Jonathan! A carriage.”

  “Me drive it!” He tugged free of her grasp, ran to the open two-seat buggy standing with the shafts resting on upended chunks of log and pulled at the iron step.

  “Wait, Jonathan! Don’t pull on it.” She rushed over and scooped him into her arms. “Let me help you.” She scanned the front seat for telltale droppings or rips and tears that could provide a home for a mouse. It looked safe enough—only dusty. She balanced Jonathan on her hip, grabbed a rag hanging over the stall wall and wiped the leather clean. “Now you may drive the buggy.” She smiled and lifted him to the seat. “Where are you going, sir?”

  He scowled down at her. “Me not sir. Me Jonathan.”

  She looked at his serious little face and her throat tightened. “So you are. Where are you going, Jonathan?”

  A smile curved his mouth, deepened the dimple at its edge. “Me go get brover.”

  The words struck straight at her heart. She watched the toddler, his black curls bobbing as he bounced on the seat laughing and calling to a pretend horse, and fear for him rose in a choking wave. He was all alone. He had no mother to protect him as she’d had. Don’t let Mr. Thornberg hurt him, Lord. He’s only a baby and men are cruel. Please don’t let Mr. Thornberg hurt him.

  Her face tightened. Begging God had never stopped her father from striking her. It had not protected her mother from her father’s cruelty. But even though she didn’t believe it would do any good, she couldn’t stop the prayer.

  * * *

  Charles finished the sentence, tapped the period key and rolled the cylinder to free the paper. A quick glance showed abundant mistakes. More than before. He wadded the paper, threw it in his wastebasket with the others and shoved to his feet. Using the typewriter was harder than it ought to be. Especially when he couldn’t concentrate.

  He could feel her absence. Odd how quickly Clarice Gordon had become a part of the editorial room. Though why that should be, he couldn’t say. She just read and sorted the CLSC letters until it was time for her to go home and eat her dinner with her mother—then she returned and did the same. She’d even demanded he bring those letters to his house for her to work on. A real career woman. How did she expect to care for Jonathan and do the work required to answer those letters, too? At least he’d been able to take the care of her crippled mother off her for the week.

  That had been a surprise. When Miss Gordon had told him her mother was bedridden, he’d assumed it was a temporary condition due to illness. It had brought him up short to see the frail-looking woman propped up in bed with Miss Gordon’s writing case resting on the quilt spread over her outstretched legs. And they’d never moved a bit...not even a twitch while he’d talked to her. It was sad. Yet she was a charming, intelligent woman. Caring, too. It had shown in her eyes when he’d explained about Jonathan. And she’d been quick to say she would be fine, that her daughter should care for his brother. A pity Clarice didn’t share her compassion.

  He shoved the fingers of his free hand through his hair and walked toward the back of the room. He’d put her desk there where she wouldn’t disturb him or Boyd. He gave a disgusted snort. That had worked well—he couldn’t stop thinking about her. It was probably because she was at his home caring for his brother. Yes, that was it. Her absence was disturbing because he knew she was with Jonathan.

  He checked the clock on the wall. It was almost time for dinner. Now he’d be able to see how Jonathan was doing under the cool and prickly Miss “Career Woman” Gordon’s care. Though to be fair, the woman seemed to know what to do to care for a young child. It was her help that had gotten him through last night. And she knew how to cook. An image of her standing at the stove wearing pink cheeks and Mrs. Hotchkiss’s too-large apron over her brown dress flashed into his head. She’d looked—

  No, looks could be deceiving. Miss Gordon was a career woman through and through.

  Dict
ionary...thesaurus...lexicon... He put the reference books she might need in the bottom of the bag then carefully placed the first stack of letters on top. A Bible? No. He had two of them at the house, and Mrs. Gordon had one. He’d seen it on the table by her bed. A concordance? She might not have one of those. He laid the heavy book atop the letters, twisted the bag down snug to hold everything in place and headed for the stairs.

  Chapter Seven

  A faint smell teased his nose. Charles closed the door and walked to the staircase, set the bag down and headed for the murmur of voices coming from the kitchen. The smell grew stronger. He sniffed. Beef...and something else... He sniffed again. Biscuits? His stomach welcomed the idea with a quiet rumble.

  “Him am green.”

  Jonathan’s voice stopped him in his tracks. He sounded different...contented.

  “That’s right. And do you remember what color this one is?”

  And the prickly Miss Gordon sounded different, too. He could hear a smile, a softness in her voice.

  “Him am red.”

  “Yes! Very good, Jonathan. Be careful...”

  Be careful? What was he doing? He hurried down the short hallway and edged up to the door, halted at the sight before him. Jonathan, his little brow furrowed in concentration, was kneeling on the braided rug in front of the step-back cupboard placing a toy building block atop a short, unsteady tower of them. Clarice Gordon was kneeling in front of him in a puff of her long skirts with one hand poised to help and a soft smile curving her lips. The tension that had been building all morning eased. The emergency plan for Jonathan’s care he’d put in place was working out, even if Miss Gordon was a reluctant participant. He rolled his shoulders and exhaled a long breath. He could stop worrying.

  “And this one?”

  Jonathan reached over his shaky tower for the one Miss Gordon held. “Him am yellow.”

  “That’s right.”

  Pride surged. Charles grinned and stepped into the room. “It looks like someone is learning his colors. Good work, Skipper.”