by Renee Ryan
Her transformation awed him. Her beauty stole his breath.
“If you will give me a chance—” she pulled her hand away from his arm “—I believe I can be of great assistance in your search.”
Hadn’t he already arrived at that same conclusion? “That is not the point.”
“What is the point?”
He couldn’t remember.
“I need a day or two to think this through,” he said, grasping for any reason to make his exit before he said or did something he couldn’t take back.
“By all means.” Politeness itself, the widow stepped aside to let him pass. “In the meantime, Callie will draw up a list of suitable young women who meet your requirements.”
Another list. As a man who lived his life by them, he was growing to dislike them immensely.
He cast a final glance in Callie’s direction.
Smiling serenely, she twined her fingers together in front of her. The slight tremble in her clasped hands told its own story. Callie wasn’t as confident as she appeared.
Good. He liked knowing he wasn’t alone in his discomfort.
“I will be in touch in the next few days.” He nodded to the widow. “I will see myself out.”
“Oh, no, that simply won’t do.” Mrs. Singletary nudged her companion toward him. “Callie will escort you to the door.”
After only a slight hesitation, Callie shifted to a spot beside him. “I’d like nothing better.”
* * *
Beatrix Singletary watched the two young people exit the room. Both so erect in their posture, their shoulders rigid, their spines straight and unbending as their minds.
Her beloved companion. Her trusted attorney. Two wounded souls, refusing to live life to the fullest, tortured by secrets they kept hidden deep within themselves. It was really quite sad.
Neither would admit to needing the other.
Oh, but they did. They needed one another greatly, and would be far better together than apart.
Beatrix looked forward to watching them fall in love. She knew the exact dress that would look best on Callie at their wedding.
Satisfied she’d set them on the proper path, Beatrix knew better than to become complacent. Any number of complications could arise to foil her plan. Thus, she followed behind at a reasonable distance, her steps as silent as her cat’s.
Stealth was hardly a necessity tonight.
Determined to show the world they were in control, neither Mr. Bennett nor Callie would look over their shoulders to see if she followed.
They kept a respectable distance from each other, looking neither right nor left nor at one another.
Beatrix narrowed her eyes in frustration.
Such discomfort in Mr. Bennett’s strides, such awkwardness in the way Callie held her shoulders. Such a battle the two were going to put up to reach their happy ending.
Ah, but Beatrix Singletary refused to be disheartened, nor did she have any intention of giving up.
The good Lord had put Callie in her home for a reason. And that reason was walking stiffly beside the young woman, his chin in perfect parallel alignment with the floor.
When two people were meant to be together, as her dear companion and stern attorney were, they eventually found their way. Especially with a little nudge or two from an older, wiser matchmaker.
* * *
After seeing Reese out, Callie returned to her room instead of rejoining Mrs. Singletary in the parlor. Her nerves were too raw, her thoughts in too much turmoil to match wits with the clever woman.
Besides, Callie wanted to be alone while she read her sister’s letter. Settling in an overstuffed chair, she carefully placed the pages on her lap. A mere half hour ago, she’d been eagerly anticipating this moment. She’d desperately wanted to read what her sister had to say.
So why wasn’t she unfolding the pages?
Why was she hesitating?
Fear, she realized. She was afraid of what she would discover.
Sighing over her cowardice, she turned her head and looked out the window beside her. The Rocky Mountains stood guard, their mighty peaks clearly outlined in the deep purple sky. The rain had moved on. Now, pale moonlight cut shadows across the land while tree branches scratched eerily at the glass windowpanes.
Callie sighed again, pressed her lips tightly together and ignored the letter a moment longer. Something far more troubling weighed on her mind.
Why had she agreed to help Reese find his future bride?
Then again, how could she have not agreed? Mrs. Singletary would have taken over the task if she’d refused. And unlike Callie, the widow wouldn’t stop presenting eligible women until Reese was happily settled.
Callie groaned. She didn’t object to him getting married, as long as he married Fanny. Anyone else would be intolerable. But how was she to create a list of suitable woman who weren’t actually suitable?
What a disaster.
The quickest, most expedient route to fixing this mess was to convince Fanny to return home immediately.
No easy task.
Not if Jonathon Hawkins was to be believed.
Did Fanny have any regret over leaving Reese behind? And if she did, would she put on a brave face, fearing she couldn’t come home now that she’d made her initial, hasty decision to leave town?
There was one sure way to find out what was in her sister’s head. Read the letter Mr. Hawkins had personally delivered.
Callie looked down at the folded paper in her lap.
What if her sister didn’t regret leaving town?
What if she did? What if she wanted Reese back?
For a dangerous moment, Callie wished—oh, how she wished—that Fanny was through with Reese once and for all.
Then Callie could... She could...
Find him someone else to marry.
The thought brought on such despair she nearly choked on her own breath.
No more stalling.
She unfolded Fanny’s letter with fumbling fingers. She couldn’t help but remember Jonathon Hawkins’s expression right before he’d pressed the papers into her hand. He’d looked quite confident he was doing Callie a favor by giving her this missive from her sister.
Until tonight, she’d only thought of him as that odious man who’d given Fanny a reason to leave town. But as he’d stared into her eyes, she’d seen a man with nothing but good intentions.
Perhaps she’d misjudged him.
Callie coiled her fingers around the unread letter in her lap. The stiff feel of the paper reminded her that the answers to her dilemma could be right here, beneath her hand.
She lifted the letter until the moonlight illuminated the entire page. The beautiful looping scrawl definitely belonged to Fanny, but appeared much neater than usual, as if she’d taken great care with each word.
A sob worked its way up Callie’s throat. How she missed her sister. Taking a deep breath, she smoothed out the pages and began reading....
My Dearest Sister,
I scarcely know where to begin. If you are reading this letter, I can assume Mr. Hawkins has kept his promise and has delivered this to you personally. I am so sorry I haven’t answered any of your letters until now. I ask for your forgiveness. It seems a poor substitute to do so in writing, rather than speaking to you in person.
In answer to the question in your last letter, no, I do not regret leaving town. Nor do I regret breaking my engagement with Reese. I should have never agreed to marry him, at least not until I knew more about myself. Though not his fault, Reese proposed to an image I had created, not the woman I am, deep down, and that is solely my fault.
I have happily played a role all my life. The pretty, frivolous young woman. The adored sister. The treasured fiancée. But who is the wo
man beneath the various masks I wear?
I don’t know. However, I am determined to find out. Until I do, I have no business marrying any man.
Please do not hold my departure against Mr. Hawkins. Had he not offered me this job, I would have found another way to leave town.
I close this letter with a single request. When next you see Reese, will you tell him I am doing well and wish him nothing but happiness for the future?
I love you, dearest Callie.
Yours most faithfully,
Fanny
Callie read the letter again and tossed it on the nightstand, only to pick it up and read it one more time. And then another.
Heart pounding, throat burning, she tried to remain detached, but she couldn’t. Fanny didn’t regret leaving town, but her reasoning for breaking her engagement with Reese was something Callie had never considered. Her sister had been hiding behind a mask, of sorts. No different than Callie herself.
While Callie had buried her true nature behind dull clothing and severe hairstyles, Fanny had been doing much the same with her fashionable dresses and sparkling personality. The difference, it seemed, was that Callie had always known who she was beneath the facade.
Apparently, Fanny did not.
Callie read her sister’s letter once again.
Nowhere did Fanny mention she didn’t still love Reese.
The battle wasn’t over, then. Fanny could one day change her mind and want Reese back. Despite his assurance otherwise, how did he know he didn’t want the same until he was actually faced with the choice?
Cold, hard resentment surged. For a treacherous moment, Callie allowed the dark sensation to fill her. After the pain Fanny had caused, she didn’t deserve Reese.
Callie shoved the traitorous thought aside. It wasn’t her place to judge her sister so harshly. The Lord’s glorious, redemptive love called for mercy and forgiveness.
Besides, she’d agreed to help Reese find a wife, with the express purpose of keeping him from moving on until Fanny could make one final bid to win his heart. Her course was set.
Callie moved to her desk, dipped her pen in the inkwell and began the letter that would hopefully bring Fanny home.
She worked into the wee hours of the night, revising her words until she had them exactly as she wanted them.
The next morning, with very little sleep behind her, she woke groggy and out of sorts. Born on a ranch, she’d never been able to sleep past dawn. She rose with the sun and dressed for the day in her olive-green muslin gown. Thankfully, Mrs. Singletary hadn’t raided her wardrobe completely.
Glancing down at herself, Callie admitted the color was drab, the fit unnecessarily large, and for the first time in years, she felt uncomfortable in her own clothes.
She missed wearing the bold colors the widow insisted she don, the ones that brought out the color in her skin.
This sense of dissatisfaction was the widow’s doing, as was the wave of rebellion that urged Callie to dress in clothes that highlighted her assets.
Ah, but today was her day off. She planned to spend most of it in the kitchen at Charity House, the orphanage Marc and Laney Dupree had created for children of prostitutes. Boys and girls no other institution would take were welcomed into a loving, safe home and given a solid Christian upbringing, thereby breaking the cycle of sin in their lives.
Callie loved spending her free time with the orphans, many of whom weren’t strictly orphans but rather children with mothers who worked in the local brothels. Though indirectly, Callie had a personal connection to Charity House. All three of her older brothers had married women either raised in the orphanage or formerly employed there. Megan, Annabeth and Molly were kind, God-loving women.
Her brothers had chosen well.
Exiting her room, she nearly toppled into Mrs. Singletary. “Oh.”
Hands on hips, the widow lowered her gaze over Callie’s dress. “You are determined to defy my superior sense of style.”
Callie wasn’t in the mood to defend her clothing choices this morning. She gave a tight, and slightly embarrassed, sigh. “It’s my day off. What does it matter how I dress?”
Mrs. Singletary released her own aggravated puff of air. “You are proving most difficult, Callie Anne Mitchell.”
“That is not my intent.” With exaggerated dignity, she lifted her chin. “I’m helping out Laney Dupree in the Charity House kitchen today. We’re teaching a few interested girls how to bake pies. It’s a messy business and I don’t mind getting wayward ingredients on this particular gown.”
“That explanation is perfectly—” Mrs. Singletary shook her head in amused annoyance “—reasonable.”
Callie swallowed a triumphant smile. “I know.”
“I had hoped to discuss Mr. Bennett’s requirements for a wife with you at some point today. Perhaps together we can make some sense out of his list,” Mrs. Singletary continued. “I find his preferences are really rather—”
“Uninspired?” Callie suggested.
“Completely.” The widow gave a little shake of her head. “Why, any number of women in town could fit his requirements.”
Callie nodded in agreement. If she thought this would end the discussion, she was wrong.
Mrs. Singletary seemed determined to say her piece. “Although the bulk of the task will fall on your shoulders I believe my input will increase your success. Especially as you design your initial list of suitable candidates for him to review.”
“You have suggestions?”
“A few.”
Callie remained silent for several seconds. If she refused the widow’s input would Mrs. Singletary make a few suggestions to Reese on her own?
Perhaps. Perhaps not. Callie didn’t dare take that risk. “We could discuss this when I return from my afternoon at Charity House.”
“That will be fine.” The widow started down the hall then quickly turned back around. “I am determined to see Mr. Bennett happily settled before Christmas.”
“As am I.” Finally, something they agreed upon, and probably the last for many days to come.
Chapter Nine
As he did most Saturday mornings, Reese exited the ridiculously large house he shared with his father and turned in the direction of Charity House. At this early hour the sun hung low, a big, fat orange ball against the blue, blue sky.
The sweet, lilting music of birds singing from their tree branches accompanied him on his short journey to the orphanage, a leisurely stroll that amounted to the equivalent of two city blocks in town.
Alone on the streets, Reese’s mind wandered over several pressing concerns, eventually landing on last night’s conversation with Mrs. Singletary and her companion. He’d meant what he said when Callie had pressed for a reason behind his bride search. He wanted children. As many as it would take to fill the house and turn the rambling old mansion into a home.
Growing up, Reese had secretly craved a large family. He would have settled for just one sibling, either a brother or a sister. Unfortunately, a week after his seventh birthday, his mother had succumbed to a fever and then died a week later.
His father had never remarried.
Looking back with the benefit of age, Reese wondered if he’d married young with the idea of filling his nursery as quickly as possible. Even at eighteen, he’d been ready to start a family. Miranda hadn’t been quite so eager. The one time he’d brought up the subject, she’d laughed the idea away, claiming it was far too early in their marriage to talk about children.
Dark memories threatened to drag him into the past where only hopelessness and sorrow resided. He refused to surrender on this beautiful Saturday morning. The story of his life with Miranda, and the crippling grief he experienced after her death, belonged to his younger self. The man he was now had his entire future ahead of
him.
Endless possibilities abounded.
The rewards of marrying again far outweighed the risks. Of course, he still needed to find a suitable woman to marry. A tiny, little, insignificant detail he’d put in Callie Mitchell’s care.
He stopped at the street corner and inhaled slowly.
Had he made the right decision? Handing over such an important task to the sister of his former fiancée instead of relying on Mrs. Singletary’s guidance?
The widow’s arguments for the switch had certainly been sound. Though he didn’t fully understand why Callie had agreed to help him find a bride, she had agreed. The deed was done.
The course set.
Instead of second-guessing his own actions—or Callie’s—Reese crossed the street and focused on the moment, the here and now, prepared to enjoy his day at Charity House.
He passed through a sunbeam warming the cobblestones at his feet. The temperature was perfect for playing outside. Perhaps he would talk some of the children into an impromptu game of baseball, a favorite of the orphans.
One block later, he arrived at the orphanage. Charity House was an uncommonly grand structure, even for this posh neighborhood. Puffy white clouds moved rapidly through the sky above the sloping roof of angles and interesting turrets, the Colorado blue a perfect backdrop for the three-story structure.
With its stylish modern design and perfectly manicured lawns, Charity House looked nothing like an orphanage. Fitting, since many of the children weren’t true orphans. Laney and Marc Dupree had created a safe, loving home for the abandoned boys and girls whose mothers often chose their unholy professions over their own offspring.
Did the children realize they lived in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in Denver? That the gas lamps sitting atop poles at every street corner were of the highest quality? That the other mansions marching shoulder to shoulder in elegant formation along the lane housed some of the wealthiest families in the West?
What did it matter, as long as they were happy and safe?
