by Renee Ryan
Thankful for the interruption, Callie gathered up the leather briefcase Reese had given her and exited the carriage.
Mrs. Singletary’s butler met her just inside the front entryway. Thick threads of silver encroached on the few strands of red left in his hair, but his broad, welcoming smile erased at least ten years from his heavily lined face.
“Mrs. Singletary is waiting for you in her office, Miss Callie.”
“Thank you, Winston.” She smiled in return. “I’ll head right up.”
Leather satchel pressed against her heart, she hurried through the cavernous foyer with its mile-high ceiling and expensive chandelier hanging from the center. The sound of her heels striking the imported marble reverberated off the richly decorated walls, where several oil paintings had been strategically placed for optimal effect.
Callie paused at the foot of the winding stairwell to study a portrait of Mrs. Singletary and her now-deceased husband. The two looked beyond happy, yet Callie felt a wave of sadness as she stared into their smiling faces. They’d had so little time together, barely fifteen years.
It should have been a lifetime.
Sighing, she mounted the stairs. At the second-floor landing, she turned left and worked her way through the labyrinth of corridors that led to the back of the house.
As the butler had indicated, she found Mrs. Singletary in her office. The widow sat in an overstuffed chair, her head bent over a book, Lady Macbeth spread out on her lap.
Neither the widow nor the cat noticed Callie’s arrival. She took the opportunity to glance around the room. Bold afternoon sunlight spread across the empty stone hearth. Bookshelves lined three of the other four walls. The scent of leather and old book bindings mingled with Mrs. Singletary’s perfume, a pleasant mix of lavender and roses and...
Callie was stalling, though she couldn’t think why.
Squaring her shoulders, she rapped lightly on the doorjamb to gain the widow’s attention.
Mrs. Singletary lifted her head. “Ah, there you are.” She closed her book and set it on the small, round table beside her. “I trust everything went according to plan.”
What an odd choice of words.
Had Mrs. Singletary sent her to Bennett, Bennett and Brand with a purpose other than business in mind?
That would certainly explain Reese’s initial confusion when she’d stepped into his office.
Then again...
He’d been buried in legal briefs prior to her arrival. He’d recovered quickly enough and had given Callie a stack of papers to deliver to her employer. Papers contained in the leather case she now held.
Papers his law clerk could have delivered, as was usually the case.
Realizing her steps had slowed to a halt Callie resumed moving through the room and addressed her suspicions directly. “I must say, Mr. Bennett appeared genuinely surprised to see me in his office this afternoon.”
The words had barely left her lips when her foot caught on the fringe of an area rug and she momentarily lost her balance. In her attempt to right herself, the satchel flew from her hands.
Callie rushed forward. Unfortunately, she picked up the briefcase at the wrong end and the contents spilled out.
“Oh, oh, no.” She dropped to her knees and began picking up the papers as quickly as possible. “I’m not usually so clumsy.”
“Not to worry, dear.” Mrs. Singletary set her cat on the ottoman in front of her chair and joined Callie on the floor. “These things happen.”
Together, they retrieved the strewn papers, placing them in a neat pile between them.
Lady Macbeth, evidently sensing a new game afoot, leaped on top of the stack and plopped her hindquarters down with regal feline arrogance.
The widow laughed. “Move aside, my lady.” She playfully poked the cat in her ribs. “You are in the way.”
The animal lowered to her belly, her challenging glint all but daring her mistress to protest.
Wrinkling her nose at the ornery animal, Callie carefully pulled papers out from beneath the furry belly. She managed to free the bulk of them when the cat gazed at the new pile with narrow-eyed intent.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Callie snatched the papers off the floor and placed them on the table next to Mrs. Singletary’s book.
Not to be deterred, Lady Macbeth went after a lone sheet of paper that had landed farther away than the rest.
Callie moved a shade quicker. “Ha.”
Swishing her tail in hard, jerky movements, Lady Macbeth stalked off toward the fireplace and curled up on a rug near the grate.
Disaster averted, Callie glanced down at the paper in her hand. There was a crease in the center of the page, indicating it had once been folded in two. Written in a bold, masculine hand, it looked like a record of some kind, an inventory perhaps.
The third item from the top captured her notice. Loves children, wants several, at least five but no more than seven.
Beneath that odd statement, was another equally confusing entry. Must come from a good family and value strong family ties.
Callie frowned.
What sort of list had she stumbled upon?
Realizing it was none of her business, she pressed the paper into Mrs. Singletary’s hand. “This is clearly meant for your eyes only.”
The widow scanned the page in silence then clicked her tongue in obvious disapproval. “That man is going to be my greatest challenge yet.”
At the genuine look of concern in the woman’s eyes, Callie angled her head. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No, dear. Not just yet.” The widow refolded the paper at the crease and stowed the list inside a pocket of her skirt. “Later, perhaps, once I consider my options I shall ask for your assistance.”
Her tone invited no further questions.
Shrugging, Callie searched the floor around her. She found no more papers. “I think that’s all of them.” She sat back on her heels. “Would you like me to leave you alone to review the papers Mr. Bennett sent over?”
“Thank you, yes.” The widow nodded distractedly. “I would.”
“I’ll be in my room if you need me.” Callie rose to her feet and started for the door.
“Not so fast, dear.”
She pivoted back around. “Yes, ma’am?”
“About the dinner party I have planned for Friday evening. I should like for you to attend as one of my guests.”
Callie felt her eyes widen in surprise. In the entire month of her employment she’d attended precisely none of Mrs. Singletary’s parties. “You wish for me to attend as...as...a guest?”
“Quite so.” The widow moved back to her chair and began spreading the legal papers across her lap. “Now that one of the ladies has declined her invitation there will be too many men at the table. Your presence will even out the numbers.”
A hard ball of dread knotted in Callie’s stomach. In the span of a single day, her perfectly ordered world was no longer so perfectly ordered. But aside from direct insubordination, Callie saw no other recourse than to agree to her employer’s request.
“If you wish for me to attend your party then, of course, Mrs. Singletary, I am happy to oblige.”
“Excellent. Most excellent, indeed.”
Again, Callie turned to go.
Again, Mrs. Singletary called her back. “One final thing, dear.”
Forcing a bright smile, she turned around a second time, preparing herself for the rest. Because, of course, there was more. With Mrs. Singletary, there was always more. “Yes?”
“When Jane and I were cleaning out my closet this afternoon we came across a lovely crimson gown that isn’t at all the right color for my complexion. The garment would look far better on, say, a woman with—” the widow pinned Callie with a sly look “—flaxen hair.”
Wasn’t that convenient? Callie thought miserably, as she smoothed her hand over her light blond flaxen hair.
“I should like for you to wear the dress to the party.”
Naturally.
Callie suppressed a sigh as yet another piece of her ordered life chipped away.
“Is there anything else?” she dared to ask.
“That is all for now.” The widow waved a hand in dismissal. “You may go.”
This time, when Callie stepped into the hallway, the widow did not protest her departure. A small victory, to be sure. But with the day she’d had, one she gladly claimed.
* * *
Despite a last-minute meeting with a new client, and the onset of a thundershower just as he left the office, Reese arrived at Mrs. Singletary’s home a full minute before the designated time on the invitation. He stepped into the foyer at the precise moment a large grandfather clock began chiming the top of the hour.
As he shook off the rain, the widow’s butler stepped forward and took his hat. “Good evening, Mr. Bennett.”
“Good evening, Winston.” Reese handed over his coat and gloves next. “Am I the first to arrive?”
“You are one of the last,” the butler informed him. “The other guests are gathered in the blue sitting room.”
“Has my father arrived yet?”
“Twenty minutes ago.”
Twenty minutes? That seemed pointlessly early. Or had Reese read the invitation incorrectly? There was one way to find out. “Thank you, Winston. I’ll see myself to the parlor.”
“Very good, sir.”
Reese spared a glance at the grandfather clock in the foyer as he passed through. One minute past seven. Certain he’d arrived on time, he nonetheless increased his pace.
Pausing at the threshold of the blue parlor, he took in the scene. He counted eight people in the room already.
His father stood near the fireplace, where a small fire had been lit presumably to offset the damp air created by the rain. A woman in a red dress stood beside Reese Bennett Sr., her back to the entrance. The deep, rich color of her gown offset her pale blond hair. Twisted in one of those complicated modern styles with several tendrils hanging loose, the resulting effect was mesmerizing.
For reasons unknown, Reese could do nothing but stare in muted wonder. Then, the woman turned slightly, presenting her profile.
His stomach rolled in recognition.
His throat burned. His heart pounded. And still he continued staring, unable to look away. With the firelight brazing off her, Callie Mitchell reminded him of a lighthouse beacon calling to him, promising shelter, as if he was a floundering sailor in need of a safe haven.
Reese swallowed.
He should not be this aware of Callie. Nonetheless, a new alertness spread through him, a sublime shift from one state of being to another.
The sensation rocked him to the core.
He looked away, at last searching the large parlor.
Mrs. Singletary held court on the opposite end of the room, conversing with one of Denver’s most prominent couples, Alexander and Polly Ferguson.
Their son Marshall, a man Reese considered a friend, was here tonight as well, as were two of his seven sisters. The young women were beautiful, with golden, light brown hair and cornflower-blue eyes. He was certain he’d met them previously but at the moment found it difficult to tell them apart. To further complicate matters, he recalled each of their names started with the letter P.
Both were in their early twenties and fit most of his requirements for a bride.
Were they here for his benefit?
If so, the widow had wasted no time in presenting viable candidates for his consideration.
One of the Ferguson daughters turned her big blue eyes in his direction. Reese shoved away from the door.
He’d barely taken two steps when Mrs. Singletary broke away from Mr. and Mrs. Ferguson. “Ah, Mr. Bennett, you have finally arrived.”
At the hint of censure in her tone, he wondered again if he’d gotten the time of tonight’s gathering wrong. “I hope I haven’t kept everyone waiting.”
“Not at all.” Smiling now, the widow closed the distance between them and captured both of his hands. “There is still one more guest yet to arrive.”
On cue, there was a movement in the doorway.
“And here he is now.” The widow stepped away from Reese to greet her final guest. “Mr. Hawkins. I’m so glad you could join us this evening.”
Jonathon Hawkins was back in town?
This was the first time the new owner of the Hotel Dupree had returned to Denver since he’d offered Fanny a job in his Chicago hotel.
By giving her the position, Hawkins had provided Reese’s ex-fiancée a way to start over when the gossip over the broken engagement had become unbearable. Reese held no animosity toward the man. Fanny’s departure had been good for everyone.
Callie seemed to have a differing opinion.
Her shoulders stiffened, her chin lifted at a haughty angle. When her gaze locked on Hawkins, the barely banked anger in her eyes gave Reese a moment of hesitation. He’d always sensed Callie had a large capacity for emotion hidden deep within her. But this...
He almost felt sorry for the hotelier.
Then he remembered his last conversation with Callie and her admission to missing her sister greatly.
With this new piece of information, he absorbed her reaction with a wave of sympathy. She and her sister had been close. He wanted to go to Callie, to offer his support, but her expression shuttered closed, as if she’d turned off a switch. A slow blink, a quick steadying breath and she wrenched her attention away from Hawkins.
Her wandering gaze landed on Reese.
A moment of silent understanding passed between them. Everything in him softened, relaxed, urging him to continue in her direction. His father said something and she turned to answer.
The moment was lost. And Reese immediately came to his senses.
Tonight wasn’t about Callie Mitchell. The Ferguson daughters had likely been invited here for his benefit as the first candidates in his bride search. Reese would be remiss not to take this opportunity to know them better.
Chapter Six
Bracketed by Reese’s father on her left and Marshall Ferguson on her right, Callie would be hard-pressed to find more pleasant dinner companions. Both men held a vast knowledge on a variety of topics and never let the conversation lag.
Under normal circumstances, she would consider tonight’s dining experience a pleasant respite from what would have been a solitary supper tray in her room.
These were not normal circumstances.
As evidenced by the unexpected presence of the man sitting diagonally across the table from her.
Jonathon Hawkins.
Why had Mrs. Singletary invited the hotelier to this particular dinner party? True, the widow was in the process of expanding her business association with the man. Did she have to socialize with him, as well? On a night Callie was in attendance?
Swallowing a growl of frustration, she narrowed her gaze over Mr. Hawkins’s face. In the flickering light of the wall sconces, his features took on a dark, turbulent, almost-frightening edge. A man with many secrets.
She supposed some women might find his mysterious aura appealing. Not Callie. She didn’t like brooding, enigmatic types. Besides, with his glossy brown hair, steel-gray eyes and square jaw, he reminded her entirely too much of the man who’d deceived her and broken her heart.
In fact...
If she narrowed her eyes ever-so-slightly and angled her head a tad to the right, Jonathon Hawkins could pass for Simon.
Was the hotelier as equally duplicitous as the famous actor? Did he spout well-practiced lies to unsuspecting gull
ible women?
She knew the comparison was unfair, and based solely on her own prejudice, yet Callie felt her hands curl into tight fists. She briefly shut her eyes, battling the remembered shame of her own actions. Before her experience with Simon, she’d lived a life of unshakable faith. She’d lived with boldness, gifted by the Lord with utter confidence in her own worth.
But now, now, she had no such confidence. She felt lost, afraid and, worst of all, alone.
She had no one to blame but herself, of course. She’d made her choices and must forever live with the consequences.
Refusing to wallow over a situation of her own making, she willed Mr. Hawkins to look at her. He turned his head in the opposite direction and listened to something Mrs. Singletary said.
His rich laughter filled the air.
Callie battled a mild case of dejection.
How could the man be so blissfully unaware? Had he no shame? Did he not know—or care—about the pain his actions had caused? Were it not for his untimely job offer, Fanny would have stayed in Denver and worked things out with Reese.
Reese.
What must he be suffering? Surely, Jonathon Hawkins’s presence here tonight had to be a physical reminder of the woman he’d lost.
Callie shifted her gaze to where Reese sat wedged between the Ferguson sisters. He skillfully divided his attention, speaking to both women at well-timed intervals, taking in every word of their high-pitched chatter. He didn’t look upset. In fact, he was smiling. Smiling!
“Is the fish not to your liking, Miss Mitchell?”
She dragged her gaze away from Reese and focused on Marshall Ferguson.
“On the contrary,” she said, picking up her fork. “It’s quite wonderful.”
“Such certainty, and yet...” Marshall dropped an amused gaze to her plate. “You haven’t taken a single bite.”
“Oh. Right.” She filled her fork. “I sampled some in the kitchen before everyone arrived.”
His mouth quirked up at one corner. “Ah, well, that explains it, then.”
She took the bite on her fork, studied his handsome face as she chewed.
Still holding her gaze, Marshall sampled his own fish. Only when Reese’s father said his name did he break eye contact and answer a question about railroad stock. Which soon segued into a lengthy discussion on water rights.
