by Kristin Holt
“Let’s talk of something more pleasant, shall we?” For the briefest of moments, she rested her cheek against his shoulder. He wished she’d linger, wished she’d show him as much affection as he tried to lavish on her. “The plans for Founders’ Day are coming along nicely.”
She’d kept him well-informed over the past many months. Her work on the committee for the twentieth anniversary had been interrupted by the pastor’s illness and passing, but she must’ve met with the ladies again. That was good. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“The parade will be bigger and better than ever before. Donations for fireworks are nearly half again more generous than last year. It will be quite a show.”
Naturally, she expected him to accompany her. He wouldn’t miss it. One of the benefits of a courtship like theirs.
He nudged the swing into motion as she filled him in on the plans, the developments, and for several minutes, the pall of grief lifted. She smiled and laughed and he remembered adoring her.
Uh oh…remembered adoring her wasn’t the target he aimed for.
He rolled his nearly empty glass between his palms and savored her warmth against his side.
See? His determination to focus on Temperance and Temperance alone was working…mostly.
At last she finished sharing all the details, rose, and took his glass. “I’ll refresh your drink.” Her smile reflected the old softness, the gentleness of her sentiment.
She really was the sweetest of young ladies.
She entered the house and he toed the swing back and forth, wishing for a bit of a breeze. Insects hummed and buzzed and worked over the blossoms in the flowerbeds. A mother, somewhere on the block, called to her children to come inside. An older couple strolled along the walk just beyond the picket fence, arm in arm, evidently comfortable in their decades together.
That’s what he wanted—longevity and contentment and joy in marriage. Permanence and domestic bliss, conjugal felicity—
Not just felicity, as in happiness. But Felicity. The woman.
He wanted…Felicity.
Feh!
How many times had he thought of her that very hour? Ten? Twenty? Even while courting his future wife?
Chapter Seven
“Whenever possible, courtship should occur in the home, with the blessing of and complete oversight of the young lady’s mother.”
~ The Gentleman’s Guide to Courtship and Marriage
As if Rocky’s yearning conjured Felicity, she appeared.
Strolling up the walk, she greeted the elderly couple, a ready smile upon her lips. Her gaze locked onto his and she sucked in a draught of air.
As if she were as inexplicably drawn to him as he was to her.
No, no!
No unwelcome infatuation. No disloyal division of affection. His focus should be wholly upon Temperance.
It was entirely on Temperance.
The front door shut with the squeak of a hinge. “Darling, your lemonade.” She pressed the cold glass into his palm even as he forced his attention from the forbidden and to his chosen love.
His expression surely betrayed him, though he infused as much devotion and tenderness into his smile as possible.
But guilt surged high, drowning his good intentions.
The Reverend Cartwright would have been disappointed—not to mention Mrs. Cartwright, whose approval of Rocky’s courtship had meant the world to him. She’d trusted him with her daughter, her greatest prize.
He must regain his composure and his loyalty. He would.
The moment Temperance noticed her half-sister just beyond the garden fence, her posture stiffened. The light he’d managed to rekindle in her sky-blue eyes extinguished.
Guilt gave way to self-loathing.
He prayed Temperance hadn’t sensed that his thoughts clung to her unwanted sister.
He must fix this. Now.
Still, beyond the white pickets, Felicity waited. Rocky sensed her longing, her craving for all she saw—but it wasn’t covetousness. Just abject loneliness. A need too big to contain. A need to connect with family, to belong, to sip lemonade and be with people who welcomed her.
He comprehended the need in his marrow, soul-deep.
Had she come here intentionally? Seeking companionship or the opportunity to speak to her sister? Yet he’d witnessed her surprise as if she hadn’t known which house belonged to the Cartwrights.
No way could he invite the young woman to join them—that was Temperance’s choice. Time slipped past and Temperance behaved as though she hadn’t seen Felicity.
His heart squeezed at the loneliness etched on Felicity’s features. He raised a hand in greeting and smiled at Felicity.
He turned back to Temperance, his objective solid. Disgust with himself kicked hard. How had he become so divided, so torn between the two women?
He sipped, hiding behind his glass. “Delicious as always.”
Temperance smiled, but light failed to reach her eyes.
Despite the public space they occupied, he took his love’s hand in his, gave her slender, shapely fingers a squeeze. She adored holding hands, and he used this knowledge to his advantage, even as Felicity retreated.
“Do tell us about Miss Percival.” Caroline Finlay’s interest seemed ladylike as always.
Temperance didn’t feel gracious. “I had no idea she existed until Father’s lawyer introduced her.” She still hadn’t forgiven W.W. for that. She pursed her lips, focusing her attention on the tiny stitches she wove into the quilt’s double wedding ring design.
The seven other women paused, glanced to one another, then to Temperance.
“No!”
“Oh, darling.”
“He didn’t!”
“It’s true?”
Shock, surprise, dismay—emotions Temperance had already battled—registered on her friends’ faces. Most satisfying and endearing. She’d known attending their sewing circle had been the right thing to do.
“Why is she still in town?” Ann Abbott had been the first to marry from their circle of friends. Her outspokenness had blossomed since.
Enjoying all eyes on her, Temperance lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Who’s to say? She came by last night to get a look at my home while I sat on the porch with my fiancé.”
“No!”
“Brazen!”
“What did you do? How did you get through it?”
“Oh, you poor dear.”
Celia Jones ran her hand over the bright blue and yellow pattern she’d chosen for the quilt top. This beautiful project was slated for her trousseau. “Mrs. Pettingill said she strongly resembles…” Celia looked up, met Temperance’s gaze, and the compassion there blended with something a whole lot like fascination. “Our beloved minister, The Reverend Cartwright—well, it’s just so hard to believe.”
Temperance pierced her needle through the fabric and woolen batting with more force than necessary.
Father may have chosen to reveal his past to his parishioners, but hadn’t he cared what talk would do to her good name?
Murmurs of agreement circled the quilt in Celia’s parlor. Morning sunlight spilled through east-facing windows and a lovely breeze ruffled the sheer curtains at the windows. Opposite, the door stood open to allow free movement of air.
She ought to defend her father, reinforce his goodness in light of this tragedy, shouldn’t she? “Miss Percival is twenty-five years of age.” She couldn’t bring herself to say more, but hoped they understood his…mistake…occurred before his marriage or ordination. “I’m confident my father meant well and acted in keeping with his conscience.” If only she understood.
“Are you sure?” Ann asked, doubt still evident in her tone. “How do you know Miss Percival is your, um…” As if hesitant to employ the term sister, she struggled to find a suitable alternative. “…father’s daughter?”
“I don’t know. Except for Father’s word.” An itty-bitty white lie.
Because, unfortunately, she did kn
ow.
Not only had she seen the letter on W.W. Stuart’s desk, in the strong, confident hand she would know anywhere, she’d had far too much time to study the woman’s physical appearance on three separate occasions. By late evening light both indoors and out. By the direct light of midday sun, her features so closely resembled Father, she couldn’t justify denying Miss Percival was indeed her father’s daughter.
Pain lanced through her chest, yet again, and she prayed her mother never knew, never so much as wondered.
“We are ever loyal to you, Temperance.” Caroline Finlay, also married, was always the voice of reason. Perhaps motherhood had contributed to Caroline’s wisdom and compassion for she seemed more level-headed and reasonable every year. “We stand by you.”
Murmurs of agreement buoyed Temperance’s flagging spirits.
“Thank you, dear friends.” She couldn’t help the overwhelming rush of affection for these seven closest confidants. They’d been through school together, joys and heartbreaks and challenges. There would be more weddings in the coming months, perhaps three more within the upcoming year, including her own. “Your association has helped me through this trying time.”
Along with friends of Mother’s, this circle had prepared the repast for the visitation and funeral goers. The wake had seen nearly everyone in the surrounding county paying their respects.
Father had been well-respected and dearly loved. Now, if only that goodwill continued, despite the crisis.
Jennifer Kennedy threaded her needle, intent upon her task. “I saw her out walking last night.”
Ah, yes. Strolling by the Cartwright home—the house promised to the usurper if she’d live in harmony with Temperance.
Decidedly un-Christian thoughts paraded through Temperance’s head. What did Miss Felicity Percival want? To see Temperance securely wedded to Mr. Rocky Gideon so the home that had been Temperance’s all of her life—with her father and her mother—would be forfeit to her greedy hands?
Or did Miss Percival take after her mother and wish to cause Temperance more pain…by luring Rocky into sinful paths?
Oh, she’d witnessed his interest and curiosity, his wave and smile in acknowledgment. She’d wanted to scream. Or pull him by both hands into the house and plant him on the sofa with his back toward the street-facing windows. She’d keep him under lock and key if doing so would make one iota of difference.
But Rocky was a headstrong man. She could no more force him to bend to her will than she could leap over the moon. He worked hard and always achieved his end goal. She should trust him. He’d chosen to court her and always kept his word.
Feminine voices murmured agreement. In this uncommon heat, it seemed everyone had been outside in the shade, seeking relief from stifling indoor heat. Must Miss Percival parade herself about when every eye in town sought a glimpse of her?
The conversation around the quilt had turned to the upcoming Founders’ Day Celebration and their sewing circle’s plans to enter picnic baskets in the raffle. Temperance couldn’t follow the conversation, not with her mind awhirl.
“Temperance?” Jennifer placed a gentle hand upon Temperance’s arm. She must’ve spoken once, already, for the concern in her pale green eyes radiated intense worry. “Did you know,” she spoke softly as to not draw attention from the others, “Mr. Gideon escorted Miss Percival from the boardinghouse to Whipple Bakery for luncheon, day before yesterday?”
Panic seared Temperance’s insides. She shook her head, mute.
Jennifer’s china complexion splotched pink. “I’m sure he’s just being kind, for he’s such a gentleman. But then he…oh, dear. He uh…escorted her on his arm to his office, the one here in town, not up at the mine. I only tell you this because it wasn’t two minutes and he’d shooed everyone out of the building so he might have a private interview with your, um…Miss Percival.”
Temperance couldn’t speak. Her face flushed, hot and surely reddened. She averted her gaze, fighting to regain her equilibrium.
Her tongue might have seized, turned to granite, but most unladylike epithets rolled through her thoughts. Mother’s admonishments followed close behind: Ladies do not speak profanities, Temperance. You have a delicate position in Mountain Home, and all you say and do reflects upon the minister.
Bitterness raced through her. What about the minister’s actions reflecting upon her?
Jennifer remained intent upon Temperance. “I’m sorry.”
Oh, please, let her mortification remain hidden!
Jennifer sighed. “I shouldn’t have spoken. Your Mr. Gideon’s character is above reproach.”
With her throat still obstructed, she nodded and returned to her stitching. Rather, pretended to, because tears blurred her vision.
Jennifer was right, of course. Rocky’s character was stellar. Everyone knew he had no vices: never gambled, did not imbibe, did not associate with loose women, and always—always—conducted himself befitting a gentleman. Mother had been certain of his devotion and suitability as a husband.
So had Father.
To doubt him now seemed faithless and hysterical.
Irrational.
Pointless, as she was the one who’d been less…well, less rational. Grief had robbed her good sense these past many months since Mother’s passing, stole time and attention and affection away from the goodhearted man her parents approved of.
A desperate urgency to speak to W.W. Stuart arose. She needed him. She needed answers.
The attorney had worked closely with Father to manage the estate, prepare the will, arrange for Miss Percival to be present. He’d know Father’s state of mind in those last weeks and months. He might understand why Father had left such important, personal revelations to his last will and testament.
The moment she could slip away, she’d go directly to Mr. Stuart.
Chapter Eight
“Permit no disagreement nor offense to come between you and the lady you have selected to become your wife.”
~ The Gentleman’s Guide to Courtship and Marriage
Early Thursday afternoon, three days after the reading of the will, Rocky returned from The Peerless. He loped into Mountain Home on horseback, covered in mining dust. He rounded the corner to a sight that yanked him up short.
Temperance’s sewing circle—not all seven of ‘em, but four or five, surrounded Felicity on the side of the road, one block from the boardinghouse. Menacing postures. Raised voices. A shove. Felicity fell onto her tuches. Bottom.
Temperance? Couldn’t find her blond head in the melee.
The corseted predators closed in. Were they mad?
In that moment, he was a boy again, tormented by anyone bigger or stronger. Lack of decent clothing. Lack of obvious parents. Simple lack painted a target on his scrawny back.
Ill-fitting hand-me-downs billowing in the wind, blood flowing from a busted nose, he screamed at the bullies, “I do have a father. And a mama! Just ’cause I don’t know where they are don’t make ’em less real!”
Long buried abandonment and helplessness erupted, resurged, engulfed him, squeezing air from his lungs. This pack of she-wolves reduced him to that undersized, underfed, unloved pass-around boy no one wanted.
Today, he owned a profitable business, a fortune in the bank and real estate, well-tailored clothing made to his measurements, and ten-dollar boots sturdy enough to last two decades.
He was not helpless.
He whistled sharply, expecting the fight to break up.
Instead, the pack of petticoated raiders pounced.
He touched his heels to Mars’s flanks and charged into battle.
Only two skirted sentries remained standing. Felicity had to be on the bottom of the mob beneath lace-trimmed petticoats, button-up boots, elbows, and feminine shrieks. A squeal preceded a fancy hat rolling away.
Rocky dismounted while Mars was still in motion, grabbed two women by flying arms and yanked them back.
One shrieked, black curls falling out of pins
and covering her face.
“Mrs. Abbott.” Rocky growled and set the balabusta aside. Satisfaction surged as he noted a swelling eye. She thought herself untouchable—and that drove him mad. She was trouble. “Fancy meeting you here.”
The scuffle seemed to cease all at once. Finally.
Half of them stood, half remained prone in the dirt. Felicity, at quick glance, seemed relatively unharmed and madder than a wet hen.
Six females glared at him.
Including Felicity.
He noted a few scratched faces and one woman holding her nose. Several ladies’ hair hung askew, pulled from pins. He tried to tamp down his gratification at the sight. Felicity was a fighter. Like him.
“What got into you?” he demanded, glaring first at bossy Mrs. Abbot, then her cohorts in crime. “You think it’s a good idea to fistfight in public, ladies?”
Lightning struck, sudden and brilliant, and he knew.
Oy gevalt!
Temperance.
She might not be in their midst, but somehow, she’d started this.
His adorable, gentle-hearted, Christian woman, who never passed judgment on a soul had somehow informed her friends that Miss Felicity Percival was to be ostracized…and beaten?
Disappointment doused the double-helping of reality.
He offered Felicity a hand and glared until she accepted. He pulled her to her feet.
“Start talking.” His thunderous expression worked on his miners and it worked on nutty Ann Abbott.
“Don’t pretend,” Mrs. Abbott said, somehow looking down her nose at him though he stood a full foot taller, “you don’t know what this…person…has done to your intended.”
Ay-yay-yay. Mishegas. Craziness!
A round of feminine assent sounded in grunts of approval. The five of them now stood, facing off, their expressions devoid of embarrassment. “Whatever she did or didn’t do, vigilante justice is against Colorado law.”
Celia Jones had the good sense to look away, finally shamed, but Mrs. Abbott stepped closer to jab a finger into his face.
