Courting Miss Cartwright: A Sweet Western Historical Romance Novella (Rated PG) (Six Brides for Six Gideons Book 2)

by Kristin Holt

  Felicity didn’t know whether to feel relieved or exhausted. Or both.

  “Now that wasn’t so hard,” Mr. Rocky Gideon said, the set of his jaw and the spark in his brown eyes drilling holes in the attorney, “now was it, Mr. Stuart?”

  The lawyer muttered something unintelligible. He, too, looked anywhere but at her.

  No skin off her nose. She didn’t need or want anything further from Cartwright’s man.

  She glanced away from the attorney and met Mr. Gideon’s gaze quite by mistake.

  Something flickered in his eyes, brief, but powerful. He knew something! About the timing of Cartwright’s ordination? About Felicity’s mother?

  Mr. Gideon couldn’t yet be into his thirties. Not a contemporary of Cartwright’s, so whatever he knew, or thought he knew, wasn’t gained by personal observation.

  He glanced away, breaking eye contact.

  Oh, he definitely knew something.

  Desperation made her bold—she’d ask him, outright, but sensed the man had good reason for remaining silent. Loyalty to Miss Cartwright, certainly, and a desire to safeguard the minister’s reputation from further damage.

  The interview had outlived its usefulness.

  Shaking with anger, awash with questions that wouldn’t subside, she pushed to her feet and when the attorney finally deigned to look at her, she met his gaze squarely. Seconds ticked past, marked by the clock on the mantle. “Mr. Stuart, I must respectfully decline the terms of Mr. Cartwright’s last will and testament. I want nothing from the man who cavalierly dismissed my mother and me.”

  She picked up her carpetbag, clenching her fist around the handle, then forced herself to meet her half-sister’s eyes. “I won’t be troubling you, Miss Cartwright. Good evening.”

  Goodbye and good riddance.

  “I’m proud of you,” Rocky told Temperance as he escorted her through the attorney’s front door. “Your father would be proud too.” She’d skated close to the edge a time or two, but given the unwelcome news, she’d done better than anyone could expect.

  “Thank you, Rocky.” Her voice sounded small, fragile, as if the light had fled her soul. She accepted the arm he offered but the spring was gone from her step. “I wasn’t prepared for…” she waved her gloved hand as if to indicate the unwelcome news. “What am I to do?”

  Outside, the air proved at least ten degrees cooler than in the office. He drew a deep lungful and tipped her beautiful face up. “We’ll figure it all out. Together.”

  A little nod, a weak smile. Seeing her like this broke his heart.

  Cartwright owed his daughter better. He clamped his jaw rather than say so.

  One thing was certain, he’d never withhold important information from his sweetheart. She could count on him.

  Temperance looked up. “Thank you for attending the reading with me.”

  “I’m honored to be at your side, no matter what comes.” He covered her hand upon his arm with his own. “I believe the worst is behind us.”

  Strolling at his side, she sighed. Exhaustion mingled with grief in that single huff. “I hope so.”

  Mrs. Pettingill and Mrs. Whipple conversed on the boardwalk between their establishments, the tailor shop and bakery. Both women swept dust into the street.

  “Evening, Mr. Gideon, Miss Cartwright.” Mrs. Pettingill leaned her broom against her shop and, with a quick glance both directions on the street, crossed the dirt track toward them. Mrs. Whipple followed. “How are you getting along, my dear?”

  Temperance smiled and took their hands in her own, assured them she was well. Engaged by the women, she didn’t notice Miss Felicity Percival exit the train depot at her back.

  But Rocky took note.

  He saw.

  Boy, did he.

  Desperation darkened Felicity Percival’s eyes and rounded her narrow shoulders.

  In that briefest of moments, the gist of the woman’s plight crystallized.

  With no train coming through until tomorrow, she was stuck in Mountain Home overnight. But her simple calico, old shoes, and mostly empty carpetbag made him suspect Temperance’s half-sister couldn’t pay for a night’s lodging and meals, much less passage back to St. Louis.

  Miss Percival was in a fix.

  Nothing made him as antsy as a woman in need.

  If he didn’t help, where would she turn?

  To W.W. Stuart? The man who’d brought her to town for the reading of the will, scolded her, and let her walk out of his office without escort and nowhere to go? The shmendrik. Useless excuse for a man.

  Miss Percival blinked and that spare second passed.

  Temperance must have heard the footfalls sounding on the boardwalk for she turned, and finding the source of her recent distress, nodded in acknowledgment. Ever the proper Christian lady.

  What had Felicity said in the agitated exchange, not ten minutes earlier? Her certainty that Cedric Cartwright had seduced her mother?

  That told quite a tale. People could be downright mean to women who bore children alone, even in the West. Folks like that tended to let their pious venom seep onto innocent children.

  He may have been born to married parents but he knew, far too well, what self-righteous attitudes cost a child. In Miss Percival, he witnessed another like himself. An outcast, an invisible, one who’d suffered much. She’d learned to cope with the rotten hand dealt her.

  A curt nod in his direction, and she strode with purpose down the walk, probably to Ihnken’s boardinghouse. He wouldn’t be surprised to learn she’d asked after lodgings upon discovering herself stranded in Mountain Home.

  “Wait.” Rocky took an unconscious step after Miss Felicity—only to come to himself, Temperance’s gloved hand tucked into the crook of his arm.

  Felicity halted, turned back.

  He removed a dollar from his pocketbook and extended it to her. “For lodging and a meal.” He glimpsed her intention to refuse. “Take it.”

  He felt Temperance’s gaze on him, silently full of questions.

  Felicity lifted her chin. “I don’t need your money, Mr. Gideon.”

  Maybe she’d brought a little gelt—money—with her. Maybe Stuart had given her funds to cover a night’s lodging and meals until she returned home.

  Maybe he hadn’t.

  He waited, the dollar so much more than a peace offering. He needed to ensure this woman’s comfort.

  “No, thank you. I can take care of myself.” With a brisk shake of her head, Felicity departed.

  Rocky owed his allegiance to Temperance. So why the desperation to see to Miss Percival?

  With a force of will, he ignored his conscience, stuffed his dollar back in his pocketbook, and gave his sweetheart his full attention.

  “Thank you.” Temperance smiled at the older women. “You’re both so thoughtful.”

  “Goodnight, Mrs. Pettingill,” he added, “Mrs. Whipple. It’s good to see you both.”

  Temperance seemed content to stroll in silence at his side without conversation.

  They waved at friends, spoke briefly to neighbors, and by the time they’d rounded the corner and the church came into view, the Cartwright home on the adjacent lot, he knew what he had to do.

  Tomorrow, he’d pay Miss Percival a call, make sure she had the funds necessary to see herself home on the train.

  It was the least he could do.

  Chapter Three

  “Whenever possible, see you do not disappoint your intended. Ensure you are at her side when she needs you most.”

  ~ The Gentleman’s Guide to Courtship and Marriage

  Temperance wanted nothing more than to go home and shut herself away from the public eye.

  Hot tears threatened and her throat filled. Betrayal, sharp and insistent, clawed at her resolve.

  At last they reached home. Rocky opened the back door and ushered her inside.

  She drew a deep breath, savoring the fragrance of Mother’s yellow roses blooming beside the stoop.

  Sh
e wanted Rocky to go, to leave her alone to peel off the layers of clothing and bathe. She wanted to retire and rest. Or maybe she wanted him to stay.

  “Sit down, sweetheart. I’ll start tea.” He worked the pump and filled the kettle. “Are you hungry?”

  “Just tea, thank you.” She untied her bonnet ribbons.

  He fueled the stove, set the kettle on, and watched her with gentle kindness. Concern etched his features in the fading daylight. “Are you well?”

  “Very well, thank you.” It wouldn’t do to let him see her so shaken. After all, everyone complimented how well she’d held up.

  “You suffered a shock.” He sat beside her, the warmth of his presence her anchor in the storm. Always, her anchor.

  “Indeed.” Again, unwelcome tears threatened. “I pray Mother never knew.”

  “I doubt he told her. His example proved him better than that.”

  “He was a good and loving husband.” And father. “Why did he bring her here?”

  “I expect it’s just as the will states. He wanted you to have a chance to know your—” He winced. “Sorry.”

  Sister.

  The thought, so repugnant, so…shameful.

  With elbows propped on the tabletop, she hid her face in her hands.

  Rocky’s gaze lingered on her, she could feel his regard. But the seconds ticked past and eventually he stood, prepared the teapot, brought out sugar, and fetched cream from the icebox.

  Her hankie was soiled. She needed a dry one…but that would require standing, climbing the stairs…

  “Why would Father flaunt sinful behavior before his flock?” She fought to control her breathing, to slam the flood gates shut.

  “I don’t know, sweetheart. I don’t know.”

  Water splashed into the teapot as he poured from the kettle.

  She didn’t deserve him.

  The tea steeped as she stared out the window at vivid colors awash in sunlight.

  “For your sake,” he said at last, “I wish your father had told you himself. Face to face.” Bitterness hardened his words, but Rocky’s love and respect for Father were there too. “W.W. Stuart should have warned you.”

  Why hadn’t W.W. told her about this development? They were friends, weren’t they? He’d had the opportunity. But professional men kept their word and never spoke out of turn.

  “You’re so good to me.” She smiled at him, loving his protectiveness. “I think Father did try. Oh, he never told me he had…about that woman…”

  Her throat filled again, the tightness making it impossible to speak. But Rocky, bless his generous heart, didn’t rush her. “Near the end, when Father somehow knew his time was at hand, he told me—”

  This time the tears fell, too easily, and she resented her weakness. Her hankie, sopping and useless, was no good. Rocky was quick to fetch a stack of clean hankies from a dresser drawer in Mother’s upstairs room.

  Without saying a word, he set his offering before her and turned to the teapot.

  She really didn’t deserve him.

  “I’m not suggesting you should do anything differently,” he said, his back to her as he poured tea. “If circumstances brought one of my brothers into my path, we’d be strangers with no connection other than scraps of memories and a blood tie. Yet I’d want to know him.”

  Contrition immediately swamped her. Rocky was as alone in the world as she. All they had was each other and the realization compounded her guilt. She truly should remember to care about him.

  “You might regret not speaking with her while you have the chance.” He spooned sugar into the teacup, just the way she liked it.

  Strong, callused hands set cup and saucer on the table before her, then settled on her shoulders. She loved it when he touched her this way, as if they faced the world and all its challenges, side by side.

  He squeezed, gently massaging the tight muscles of her shoulders. “I imagine she’ll leave town on the next train.”

  “I know.” She tasted the steaming tea. Even in the heat of the July day, the beverage soothed from first sip.

  “I want her to leave.” Not her finest moment, admitting to the uncharitable, gut-twisting refusal to do what her father asked.

  Rocky’s gaze rested on her profile. Horrified, embarrassed, shocked at her own behavior, she couldn’t look him in the eye.

  She’d done the one thing she’d never imagined possible.

  She’d disobeyed her father.

  Felicity had never been so angry in her entire life. She might not want a monetary inheritance from her father, but she did want answers.

  The father she’d wondered about, made up stories about, excused upon occasion, waited for, was a preacher?

  Let him suffer the fires of Hell.

  He’d sent his attorney to fetch her here, after he was conveniently dead and wouldn’t have to face her, hear her list of grievances, nor answer questions.

  And that Mr. Gideon, who’d offered her money for room and board. He’d looked her squarely in the eye. A decent man. He’d been the diplomat, plying the answer about Cartwright’s ordination from Temperance and the attorney.

  The memory of him extending a dollar to her, urging her to take it, proved his mettle.

  All wool and a yard wide. Quality. Best there was. Shoulders broad and sturdy enough to bear the weight of the world.

  She didn’t want his money, either.

  If she knew where to find him, she’d ask him to explain whatever he knew about the man who’d fathered her.

  Aggravated, she wandered the deeply rutted streets of Mountain Home. Though relatively dry now, the hard-packed roads showed evidence of heavy runoff from snow melting in the impressive Rocky Mountains shielding the valley.

  The town proved larger and more established than she would have imagined. Nothing like St. Louis, true. But most businesses and residences were frame constructs, many had two stories, and plenty were built of brick. Shops of every kind, industry supporting the mining business, a sawmill, gristmill, liveries and blacksmiths, schools and churches. Two hotels, spaced some distance apart.

  She wandered past residences with gardens in full bloom, vegetables ripening and fruit trees showing promise of an eventual harvest.

  She bypassed the Catholic church and noted a white steeple visible between rooftops and eventually found herself a good distance behind her father’s white clapboard church, punctuated with stained glass windows.

  In the cemetery.

  Late morning sunlight heated the vegetation and birdsong floated on the breeze as she wandered and eventually found an expensive and large headstone identifying Mrs. Annelise Cartwright’s grave. A double headstone stood sentinel to the left of Mrs. Cartwright’s, and a single, fresh grave to the right bore a simple wooden cross lashed together with twine.

  He’d died only six days earlier. No doubt, a fancy stone with his name carved into it would mark this place when the stonemason completed it.

  Nothing but the best for this couple. Had her father married for his wife’s money? Was that why Mother had been good enough to compromise but not good enough to wed?

  Grass had been carefully trimmed about the tombstones. Not all plots were tended and lovingly cared for, but the Cartwrights’ were. Bundles of freshly cut yellow roses, tied with blue ribbon, rested on each of the four graves.

  The double headstone next to Mrs. Cartwright’s remembered eleven-year-old twin sons, Radford Dunmore Cartwright and Cedric “Ricky” Dunmore Cartwright. Twin brothers. Beloved sons. Together in life, united in death. They’d perished in 1874, just five years ago, one day apart. The marker bore four lines of poetry expressing the love of parents.

  Why had she been surprised to find Cartwright had married and raised a family? Meeting his daughter had been a shock. Seeing the resting places of his sons and wife made them real.

  Cartwright had loved his other children deeply.

  The realization shouldn’t hurt.

  Pain seared through her breast, lo
dged in her throat, and stoked her anger.

  After twenty-five years, nothing about the man should have the power to wound her.

  She’d never met him. He’d not so much as seen her, at least not that she knew of. And until the attorney fetched her from St. Louis, she hadn’t so much as known his name.

  Regrets swelled. “Why didn’t you contact me while you yet lived? Why?”

  The breeze teased through the trees at the edges of the graveyard. Birds twittered. But no answer came.

  In the near distance, a woman approached, carrying a watering can in one hand and a parasol in the other. Blocking the sun from her eyes with a hand, Felicity recognized Temperance headed directly for her, glowing golden and fair by morning’s harsh light. The woman evidently took after her mother.

  Or perhaps their father. How would she know?

  Felicity had no desire to remain. “I’ll go.”

  Temperance’s approach faltered, less than fifteen feet away. “Please.”

  Please…what? Please go?

  With a brief nod, she glanced once more at the earth covering Cedric Cartwright’s remains and turned toward the gate.

  “Please—stay.” Temperance’s voice trembled.

  Felicity hesitated.

  “You shouldn’t have to leave.” Temperance rushed on, “All are welcome to pay respects.”

  No matter how circumspect she kept her behavior, no matter she and Mother had been model citizens of their community, church ladies had never been friendly.

  Yet Temperance’s simple statement was devoid of malice.

  Felicity met the younger woman’s gaze and nodded. She’d stay. A few minutes more, to show she wasn’t afraid of this half-sister.

  Temperance knelt beside Cartwright’s grave. She tugged off her pristine white gloves and brushed fingertips over the damp earth—an odd gesture.

  This unknown sister had lived with him, had his guidance, protection, and support. Jealousy crowded in.