by Renee Ryan
No children would fill this rambling old house with laughter if he didn’t find a woman to marry soon, which would never happen if he didn’t get on with the business of drawing up his new list of requirements.
In her cheeky, impertinent way, Callie had pointed out the flaws in his original approach. He had, indeed, been too vague.
She’d won that battle fairly, extracting his promise to dedicate a full week to his new list. A week that had come to an end yesterday afternoon.
He’d delayed long enough.
Lips pressed in a grim line, he swiveled back around and pulled out a blank sheet of paper. He would approach the new list as he would any other assignment, with ruthless efficiency and rigid attention to detail.
He stared at the blank page a full five minutes.
What did he want in a wife?
He thought he knew. Now...he wondered. Perhaps he should start with personality. She should be kind and fiercely loyal. Excellent. He wrote those down.
What else?
He shut his eyes, sorting through possibilities. She should have a soft, feminine manner and know how to talk to frightened children, using the same amount of gentleness as Callie had with Gabriella Velasquez.
Reese opened his eyes and wrote down soft, feminine manner then added patient, gentle and nurturing.
She should smile often. Yet another image of Callie materialized. Reese liked all her smiles, the sweet ones, the teasing ones, but he especially liked the one she’d given him on the back porch of Charity House. His future wife should also know how to build him up, rather than tear him down. When Callie had praised him for his efforts on Daniel’s behalf, Reese had been ready to conquer the world.
He wrote down pretty smile and full of encouraging words.
A familiar knock on the doorjamb had him turning the paper over, facedown.
His father stepped into the room. “You’re up and at it early this morning.”
Rising to his feet, Reese glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, noted the time. Half past eight. “No earlier than usual.”
“It’s Sunday, son.”
Because he wanted to avoid a lengthy dissertation on the importance of honoring the Sabbath—the same argument his father presented every Sunday morning—Reese kept his face blank. “I know what day it is.”
“Then why are you already hard at it?” His father’s gaze flicked across Reese’s desk, narrowed over the stack of contracts he’d brought home with him Friday evening. “The Lord set aside this day for rest.”
“I took most of yesterday off. I am sufficiently refreshed.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
Reese opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. His father was a brilliant attorney, best known for his litigation skills. Further discussion on the matter would only turn into an argument, which would eventually end in a stalemate.
“You work too hard, son.”
Feigning boredom, Reese leaned back against his desk, folded his arms across his chest. “No harder than you did at my age, or the subsequent twenty-five years following.”
“My point, precisely.” Remorse shifted in the other man’s eyes. “I don’t want you ending up like me.”
“It would be an honor to follow in your footsteps.” Reese uncrossed his arms. “You took what grandfather started and built Bennett, Bennett and Brand into a prestigious law firm with a reputation for honesty and integrity.”
“That may be true.” Eyes full of unspoken regrets slid past Reese, brushed over the stacks of papers on his desk, then shot back. “But there’s no pleasure in a lifetime of hard work if all you have to show for your efforts are a large sum of money in the bank and a stellar reputation.”
Hearing the underlying message beneath the words, Reese realized his father was lonely. Why had he not noticed that before?
Would he welcome grandchildren in this house? Would that be enough to fill the void in his life? Surely, it couldn’t hurt. “You will be happy to know I plan to marry by the end of the year.”
His father stilled. “You are courting a woman, someone in particular?”
“Not yet, but I will be in the foreseeable future.”
“Do I know her?”
Reese wasn’t sure how to answer that question. Both he and his father could very well already know the woman Reese would eventually marry. Or they may not. Best to skirt the question altogether.
He could, however, offer a bit more information to assuage the older man’s curiosity. “I have enlisted Mrs. Singletary’s assistance in my search for a suitable bride, at least originally, however—”
“You what?” His father stared at him, mouth gaping open. “Have you gone mad, allowing Beatrix Singletary that much control over your life?”
“She isn’t in control of anything.” Reese clenched his jaw so tight he felt a muscle jerk. “In fact, she has handed over the task to her companion.”
His father looked at him for a long moment, his face perfectly stunned. “Callie Mitchell is helping you find a bride?”
Reese bristled at the shock in his father’s voice, ready to defend himself—and Callie—until he noted the hint of delight in his father’s gaze and the twinge of some other emotion that bordered on...satisfaction?
“Why Callie is, she’s—” his father gave a small, amused laugh “—the perfect choice.”
Perfect? Reese begged to differ. Bossy, pushy, entirely too feisty? Absolutely. “I trust she’ll steer me in the proper direction.”
“No doubt, no doubt.” The echo of a smile filled his father’s voice and, for once, he let the matter drop without giving his opinion in agonizing detail.
“I had better be going, or risk arriving late to church.” He pulled out his pocket watch, made a grand show of checking the time, then glanced back at Reese. “Will you come with me?”
“Can’t.” Reese pulled a stack of papers forward, feigning a need to get back to work. “I have several contracts to review before tomorrow morning.”
“Attending church is expected of a man in your position.”
Reese set down the paper, very slowly, very deliberately.
Getting married was expected. Attending church was expected. He was sorely tempted to behave in a manner that was decidedly unexpected.
He stifled the urge, as he always did. “You know why I don’t attend church anymore.”
“I do. And I understand your reticence.” He gave Reese’s shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. “What Reverend Walton said to you at Miranda’s funeral was unforgivable.”
Reese held silent, irritation burning hot. He shrugged out from under his father’s grip and prowled the length of the room with clipped, angry strides.
Reverend Jeremiah Walton had started out as expected, giving Reese familiar platitudes and pat words of condolence. Miranda was with the Lord, safe in Jesus’s arms, living in a better place where there was no more pain or sorrow.
Reese had heard it all before, had even prayed there was truth in the rhetoric. But when the man pulled Reese aside at Miranda’s funeral and suggested she’d brought on her own death with her reckless behavior, Reese had walked out of the church. Either that, or punch the pompous, self-righteous man in the mouth.
Though he knew Jeremiah Walton was only one preacher, and had left town years ago, Reese had avoided church ever since.
“You’d like Beauregard O’Toole’s sermons. They’re inspiring without being overly preachy.”
Perhaps he would get something out of returning to church, especially if he attended Beau’s church. He liked the man, respected him, enjoyed debating complicated theological matters with him. In truth, Reese had been feeling empty lately. Perhaps he could use some Godly inspiration and sound, Biblical direction.
Was today the day?
With Mrs. Singletary’s financial backing, Hawkins would soon expand his hotel empire into major cities beyond Denver, Chicago and St. Louis.
“Son? Did you hear what I said?”
Reese had nearly forgotten his father was in the room. “I’ll attend church with you soon.”
“You say that every Sunday.”
He dismissed the perfectly compelling argument with a flick of his wrist. “Perhaps I mean it this time.”
His father persisted. “Mrs. Singletary and her pretty companion will be there.”
Reese didn’t want to see Callie this morning. She would no doubt ask him about the dreaded bride list.
“I’ll attend Beau’s church with you in the next few weeks,” he said again, more firmly. “It is a promise.”
His father went to the door and spoke without looking back. “I’m going to hold you to that.”
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
Chuckling, his father left the room. Reese moved around his desk and turned over the new list he’d begun for Callie.
He’d made a good start, but was it still too vague?
Perhaps.
Rationally, he knew finding a woman to marry wasn’t going to be as simple as creating a string of qualifications and then plugging in the most suitable candidate. But he had to start somewhere.
He fished out his original list from a drawer, read through it, his gaze returning several times to the line about children.
He wrote his desire for children on his new list. No use pretending he didn’t crave a large brood of happy, healthy offspring. His children would never have to wonder whether their father loved them or not, something Gabriella and Daniel Velasquez had never experienced.
The twins touched Reese in ways he couldn’t explain, urging him to do something about their situation, even knowing there was little he could do. They were in good hands.
Callie understood his sense of helplessness. He’d seen it in her eyes, those bright, deep green catlike eyes. There were times when she seemed open and available, transparently vulnerable yet full of inner strength and grit.
She was also full of mischief, as evidenced by her sassy opinions over his bride list. Opinions that rang a bit too true. He couldn’t afford another mistake. One failed engagement was bad enough.
Two, unacceptable.
Callie claimed she needed specifics? Well, Reese would give her specifics.
He picked up a fresh sheet of paper and went to work.
* * *
Bright and early Monday morning, Callie stared in disbelief at her closet, her incredibly bare closet. No more oversized, ill-fitting dresses, no more ugly frocks or aprons or bonnets or coats or wraps, nothing but the two gowns Mrs. Singletary had loaned her.
The widow had followed through with her threat. She’d gathered up all of Callie’s dresses and taken them away, presumably to donate to charity.
Callie felt violated.
Why, why must Mrs. Singletary insist on making her into a new creation? Why was it so important that Callie stand out from the crowd?
There was no reason for people to notice her, no need to garner unnecessary attention.
Her past mistake with Simon had taught her a hard lesson. It was best to remain quiet and small, easily ignored. The Bible supported her position on this in several places. Clothe yourselves in righteousness. As well as the command from the Apostle Peter, Do not let your adornment be merely outward, rather let it be the hidden person of the heart.
Sage words to live by.
She blinked at her closet, reached out, let her hand drop. This was terrible, another blow, as shocking as the one Fanny had dealt Callie by not responding to her most recent letter requesting she return home at once.
How long was Callie going to be able to stall Reese’s bride search? More to the point, what was she supposed to wear today?
Had she not stayed up so late compiling her list of suitably unsuitable women for Reese, she would have taken the time to lay out her clothes before she’d gone to bed. Had she been her usual, efficient self she would have made this shocking discovery the previous evening.
She moved aside the borrowed dresses—they were not hers, regardless of what Mrs. Singletary said—thinking perhaps the widow had missed one of Callie’s more suitable gowns.
She came away empty.
With profound reluctance, she stepped back and shut the closet door.
Resentment filled her. She was the widow’s companion, not her current project. Not some doll to be dressed up and paraded out into the world.
“Meddlesome, interfering, intrusive woman.”
“Who would that be, dear?”
Callie whirled around. Mrs. Singletary stood in the doorway, brows lifted, eyes twinkling with good humor.
More than a little miffed at her employer, Callie couldn’t find it in her to feel embarrassed over her softly muttered words, words meant for her ears only. As her own mother always said, eavesdroppers never heard anything good about themselves.
Still...
Callie shouldn’t have spoken so plainly. The widow meant no harm, even if her tactics were a bit heavy-handed. “What have you done with my clothes?” she asked, proud that her voice came out calm and mildly curious.
“We discussed this, Callie.” The widow moved deeper into the room. “I have sent the bulk of your wardrobe to the Home for Destitute Widows and Orphans. Though, I must say, I felt a little guilty doing so.”
“As well you should,” Callie muttered.
The widow lifted a delicate shoulder. “Your clothing was beyond ugly, ghastly really. Those poor women deserve better.”
Outrage had Callie sputtering. “That, why that is just—”
“True?”
“Mean.”
“And yet, also true.”
With no ready comeback, Callie paced through her room. Back and forth, back and forth. She ended up at her closet again, threw open the door and scowled at the two gowns hanging there. “What am I supposed to wear today?” She touched the crimson grown. “This one is too fancy and the blue is too...”
Fetching, she nearly said. Thankfully, she refrained. Too telling and, depending on her tone, could be misconstrued as ungrateful.
Though she didn’t appreciate the widow’s tactics, she knew Mrs. Singletary had acted out of kindness rather than ill will.
Nevertheless, Callie would have to visit a local dress shop as soon as possible, or perhaps Neusteters department store. She could not do so in her nightgown. She would have to wear the blue dress, after all.
“Not to worry, Callie.” Mrs. Singletary drew alongside her and linked arms. “I have made an appointment with my personal seamstress. She will be here tomorrow morning at nine o’clock sharp.”
“I am quite capable of shopping on my own.”
Mrs. Singletary laughed in delight. “We both know my fashion judgment is far superior to yours.”
At the widow’s teasing tone, Callie felt her own laugh work up through the layers of frustration and anxiety. She pressed her lips tightly together.
“In the meantime, I have found several other dresses in my wardrobe that will suit you.”
“But of course.”
“What did you say, dear?” The widow asked the question while motioning someone into the room from the hallway.
“It was not important, Mrs. Singletary.”
&n
bsp; The widow hummed in response, even as she guided one of her maids into the room.
Callie didn’t recognize the petite black-haired girl. No more than seventeen, maybe eighteen, she held two dresses draped over her arms, one in a rich emerald-green and another made in the most beautiful shade of lavender Callie had ever seen.
She eyed both creations, her gaze hovering over the lighter of the two. “I thought you said no pale colors.”
“Lavender is the exception.” The widow led Callie to her dressing table, pressed her gently into the chair. “Julia, could you please come here.”
The maid carefully set the two dresses on the bed and did as Mrs. Singletary requested.
“Callie, this is my newest maid, Julia.”
The two women greeted one another with a smile.
“Julia comes highly recommended by Polly Ferguson and is considered a wonder with hair.”
Knowing where this was headed, dreading it all the same, Callie held silent. What could she say, anyway? My hairstyle is perfectly acceptable, Mrs. Singletary.
The widow was a force to be reckoned with in this mood. Runaway freight trains could learn a thing or two from her.
“I trust my friend’s opinion, of course,” Mrs. Singletary said to Julia. “But, alas, before I allow you to work your talents on my hair, I wish to test your skills on my companion.”
“Yes, ma’am, perfectly understandable.” Julia turned her attention to Callie. Picking up a small clump of hair, she studied the curling blond locks with squinted eyes. “You have beautiful hair, miss, the color is extraordinary.”
“Thank you.”
“You are in good hands, Callie dear. I shall be off.” The widow beamed at her before heading to the doorway. “I have much to do before my attorney arrives.”
Callie didn’t bother sighing at the way her heart lifted at this pronouncement. She was actually growing used to the sensation.
Mrs. Singletary paused at the doorway then turned back around and moved toward the bed.
In silence, she considered the newest two dresses, bouncing her gaze between Callie and the bed. At last, she picked up the lavender dress. “You will wear this one today. And this one—” she fingered the green gown “—when we attend the theater this evening.”
