by Annie Boone
Max shook his head and pulled out his handkerchief, noting his friend was lighter. His frame was becoming more shrunken. He walked Mr. Hightower to his large leather chair and sat him down. The old man lay back, closing his eyes.
“We need to call for the doctor,” he said.
Mr. Hightower waved him off.
Max straightened, placing his hands on his hips. A war of indecision erupted in his mind. Mr. Hightower had often brushed off his idea of seeking a doctor’s help, but now a paleness seeped across the old man’s face. A glassiness entered his eyes. Something was not right. Something that sent fear slicing through Max’s heart.
He spun on his heels, and raced to his desk, swiping his coat off his chair. Slipping it on, he rushed down the hall, taking the stairs of the building that they shared with many others. Once outside the cold air slammed into him, making thoughts of Montana filter through his mind. He had met his ice princess during a snowstorm. The snow had added a nice backdrop for her blonde hair and bright blue eyes.
He brushed past others, ignoring the sidewalk vendors selling salted fish, well-ripened fruit, vegetables, or stale bread. Words in different languages called out to him. But he barely had a chance to glance at the wooden signs with ads written in several different languages. New York, the land of everyone.
He had often wondered if his parents had been one of those who had come from a far-off land to find opportunity and seek their fortune. He would never know. All he remembered was being alone and cold until Mr. Hightower had found him as a young boy and brought him home, hiring a nanny to nurse him back to health and then raise him.
He spotted the door with the doctor’s name written on it and rushed into the building. He saw the nurse with light brown hair at her place in the front. He often talked to her while waiting for Mr. Hightower when he had an appointment. Miss Markson looked at him and smiled, a blush crossing her face.
“Please get the doctor. Mr. Hightower has collapsed.”
Her eyes widened. “He’s not here.”
“He’s not? Oh, no.” Max banged the desk.
Miss Markson flinched.
Max closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He straightened and raised a hand. “Sorry.”
The blush returned to her face, and she batted her lashes. “I understand. You’re worried.”
She stood and went to him, laying a hand on his arm. He looked at it, before looking back at her.
“Would you like to wait?” she asked tipping her head to the side, making a brown curl lay across her cheek.
Wait? No, he needed to get back to help. He shook his head and turned away. He couldn’t believe she’d ask such a silly question. “Please send the doctor to Hightower Publishing as soon as he arrives back.”
He rushed out the door, slamming it behind him. Thoughts of the young nurse filtered through his mind. He had seen that look. Seen it often in a young woman’s eyes, but for some reason he usually ignored it. Until he’d seen the look from Lana.
Why had she captured his imagination? Was it her sweet charm? The fact she had a secret passion that matched his own—a need to create worlds and characters? He needed to put her out of his mind for now. He had to concentrate on Paul Hightower. The man needed him now.
Once back at the office, he found Mr. Hightower sitting in his seat, facing the window. A slight snore poured from him, as he propped his feet up on a stool. He rested. Max walked over to a leather couch and picked up the old man’s coat, feeling the fine strands before laying it over his body. The short rising and falling of his chest caught Max’s attention. His breathing was labored.
A sigh escaped him. His friend’s health was failing and if they didn’t do anything about it soon, he feared Mr. Hightower would meet an early death.
Chapter 4
Lana pulled her scarf tighter around her neck and peeked from behind the building. She giggled quietly to herself so they wouldn’t notice her. Mrs. Adele Miller stood in front of Prater’s Haberdashery with the store’s owner, Mr. John Prater. They talked animatedly to each other and Lana could hear their laughter. A small blush crept over Mrs. Miller’s face, making her look more youthful. She’d been a widow for several years and it was rare to see her laugh.
Her sneaky suggestion seemed to be working well. Mr. Prater’s daughter, Nancy, had needed a woman’s influence and Mrs. Miller had been the perfect choice for the job. She just knew Mr. Prater would fall in love with the dear sweet woman. Just like in Emma. She sighed contentedly and leaned back against the wall. It seemed all anyone needed was a good matchmaker.
“You daydreaming about that Yankee?”
Lana flinched, and then laughed, spotting friend and sister-in-law, Felicity, in front of her. A bright smile crossed her friend’s face despite the dark circles under her eyes. Dark circles that almost matched the color of her hair. In her arms, she held baby Colton wrapped tight in a wool blanket, sucking on his fist. For once the little sweetheart was being quiet.
Lana straightened. “No, I wasn’t. Just checking on the progress of my handiwork.”
Felicity stepped around her and peeked at Mrs. Miller and Mr. Prater. “I won’t be surprised if they announce they’ll be getting married soon.”
“Won’t it be wonderful? They’ve both been so lonely.”
Felicity shook her head, a strand of hair peeking out from her green bonnet. “I swear you’ll have all the single folks in town married off. You’re a wonderful matchmaker! But what about yourself?”
Lana turned and stepped onto the wood plank of the storefront, gripping the basket in her arms tighter. Yes, what about her? That was all her family worried about. Finding her a suitable husband. Almost as if they wished to be rid of her. Well, they could get the deed done if they’d just give her a train ticket to New York. But she knew her overprotective brother would have a fit if she suggested that.
“What’s got you all huffy?” Felicity asked.
She stopped and listened to the patter of her friend’s feet as she rushed to catch up. She turned to her, noting the concerned in her eyes.
“Nothing is bothering me. It’s just...”
She looked off at the snowcapped mountains, with traces of clouds floating over them. The bright blue sky was a stark contrast to the cold temperatures that surrounded them and seeped into her core. She turned back to her friend, raising her hands in the air. “Maybe I don’t want to get married.”
A chuckle escaped her friend. “Girl, you fib worse than that old drunk, Whitley. You want to get married, just not to Matthew Thompson.”
Felicity couldn’t have spoken truer words.
“Let’s talk about something else.”
She turned, heading to the small building that served as the post and newspaper office. The perfect place, since it seemed all the Cutter’s Creek Weekly did was print gossip to the point where she wondered if the editor went through everyone’s mail. They had to walk past the boarding house to get there and every part of her tensed. She worried they’d run into Matthew since he often had lunch there. He’d most likely be covered in soot, since he normally didn’t even try to brush himself off before going outside of the blacksmith shop. That really bothered her.
She listened to Felicity blather on about every coo, snort, and wiggle of her baby, making Lana want to grind her teeth together. How she hoped she’d never monopolize a conversation with mundane details if she ever had a baby!
She walked into the office building, the scent of ink filling her senses. The place brought sweet, but lonely, memories of Max. He had often told her he loved smelling new books that were just delivered from the printer. Piles of papers lay around the small gray room with stacks of crates.
The editor’s son, Oliver Johnston, looked up from the large metal machine he knelt behind. A swishing sound filled the air, as the machine began spitting out copies of the next edition.
Oliver wiped his hand against his sweaty brow, and a full smile crossed his face, as his gaze locked on her. Another
one of her secret admirers, she presumed.
“Is there any mail for us?” she asked.
“Not today.”
Disappointment filled her. Shouldn’t he have written another letter by now? It had been over a month since she had received her last. She was getting worried.
“Thank you,” she whispered, turning.
“Miss Garrett.”
She listened to the shuffling sound as he came towards her. This man never did learn to pick up his feet.
She turned back to him, ignoring Felicity’s smile the best she could, though it felt as though it burned through her.
Oliver’s large brown eyes took on a soulful look, almost like a lost puppy, as he nervously wrung his hands. “Miss Garrett, I was wondering, if you might like to see the printing machine. How it works, I mean.”
The printing machine? It was right there in plain sight. She could see it just fine from there. It had been running when they came in, so there wasn’t much mystery to how it ran as far as she was concerned. “Maybe another time. I must get Felicity back to the ranch before the bundle of joy we call Colton throws a fit and gets us thrown out of town.”
She turned briskly, rushing out the door. Heat burned in her cheeks, despite the fact the bitter cold air bit into them.
“Nice job of using my son to get you out of a tight spot, Lana. Now he’s probably going to have a reputation as a troublemaker before he’s even in school! And slow down, would you? The door almost slammed into us when I had to run after you!”
“I’m sure Oliver Johnston doesn’t spread gossip about newborn babies. Though you never know what kind of embellishments might end up in that paper. If it’s a slow week for useless prattle, then please accept my apologies in advance if Colton makes the paper.”
She rushed to the wagon and jumped in. Felicity handed her little Colton long enough for her to get in.
“Won’t you give my arms a break and let me drive?”
Lana nodded and scooted over. She looked at the mountains as Felicity picked up the reins and flicked them, sending the two old mares off on a slow trot. Dried leaves crunched under the wheels and horses’ hooves. Trees with bare branches stood as a stark contrast against the light blue sky.
Movement caught her attention and she looked down at the baby whose black eyes roamed over her face. A small smile pushed back his chubby cheeks as he waved his hand in the air. A longing filled her as the baby molded into her arms. He was quite a sweet baby, despite the fact he thought he could control the world with his piercing cries.
In moments like this, she often wondered if she’d ever have a child with Max. She sniffled as tears gathered in her eyes and threatened to spill over. The mail system wasn’t reliable. Letters get lost all the time, so why did the fact she hadn't received a letter in a while bother her? She usually only received a letter about every three weeks. It had been four since she’d received the last one. Well, almost five, if she was honest.
Surely there was a logical reason for his silence. She prayed he had not grown tired of her. She prayed that he had not had a terrible accident of some sort.
“Perhaps you should give Oliver or Matthew a chance,” Felicity said, breaking into her thoughts.
Lana wiped a tear that slipped down her face. Christmas was soon. That would mark the one-year anniversary since she met Max. “I thought you were on my side.”
“I am, it’s just...” Felicity’s eyes took on a faraway look, as she bit down on her bottom lip. “It’s just I don’t want to see you hurting. A nice man could make you happy.”
“Jane Austen never married, and she had a happy life.”
“Well, she was a writer. She had all kinds of stories in her head to keep her warm at night.”
And so was she. A writer, that is. Maybe she ought to put those thoughts of Max aside and pursue her novels more diligently. There was just one problem. He made up the image of every hero.
“Lana, I need to tell you something, but don’t you get all mad at me.”
“What’s that?”
“Josh’s already invited Matthew to supper tonight. He said yes.”
She groaned loudly. Supper tonight with Matthew? Maybe she could just go home and rough up her hair and spill some tea on her dress. That would send the fool running. Who wanted a wife who looked like a loon? No, they all wanted a pretty little thing without a thought in her head.
“I told Josh it wasn't a good idea,” Felicity continued. “But he said, if you hadn’t pushed us together, we would still be miserable.”
“All right then. I’ll come up with some sort of plan. I need to give Matthew something he’ll never forget.”
Chapter 5
Max stood outside the bedroom door of his mentor, watching as the doctor leaned over him, placing a stethoscope on his chest. The sharp rise and fall of Mr. Hightower’s chest showed that he still struggled for air, though he tried to deny it.
The slight patter of feet caught his attention. He turned to see Miss Markson walk down the hall carrying a mug of tea. The fresh lemony scent wafted to him. She flashed a shy smile across her face. The long brown dress she wore with the white apron made her almost blend in with the walls due to lack of light. He had wanted to light the wall sconces, but the doctor advised to let there be as little light as possible.
Miss Markson walked into the room, laying the mug on the nightstand just as the doctor, a tall man with a bald head, stood, grimacing. He shook his head and walked towards Max, motioning with his head to the door. Max followed the doctor down the hall, noting how firm the doctor’s eyes looked. Whatever he told him, it wouldn’t be pleasant.
The doctor stopped at the base of the stairs and turned to Max. “I’m going to leave Miss Markson here for the night to help care for Mr. Hightower.”
Max nodded. He’d have one of the maids make up a room for her. “Is he going to be all right?”
The doctor lay a hand on his shoulder, a sadness filling his eyes. “I’m afraid he probably has tuberculosis.”
Tuberculosis. The word sunk deep into Max, turning his worst fear into reality. He took a deep breath and began shaking his head. He was going to lose him. Lose the man who had raised him. The only father he had ever known. And when he did, he’d have no one. Images of Lana’s sweet smile flashed across her mind. He pushed the thought away and refocused on what the doctor said. He needed to pay attention so he’d do the right thing and make sure Paul got the best of care.
“I’ve been urging him to go to a resort in Colorado that specializes in tuberculosis care, but he keeps telling me he’s not ready to stop working.”
“He’d rather die with a pen in his hand than relaxing while watching a mountain spring,” Max said. “I don’t understand that at all.”
The doctor nodded and patted his shoulder. “Maybe you can talk some sense into him. He loves you like a son.”
“I’ll try.”
“We’ll talk tomorrow about next steps and what we need to do for him.”
Max nodded, the look on his face glum and dejected.
The doctor took his leave and Max walked into the room where Paul Hightower sat up in the bed, looking out his window. The nurse tried to encourage him to drink the tea she held out to him, but he ignored her and just gripped a manuscript in his hands.
Max looked at Miss Markson and held out a hand for the mug. She handed it to him, their fingers brushing together, but not one jolt of excitement entered him. Not like when he and Lana had first held hands while she desperately tried to teach him a jig. At that moment, pure pleasure had filled every part of him. A pleasure he didn’t realize existed. And when she had started telling him her story ideas about Jane Austen novels with a Western flare, he knew he had found the woman for him.
“I need a moment with him,” he whispered to her.
The nurse nodded and walked out the door, shutting it behind her. Max raised the mug to his face, sniffing, scrunching up his nose. A harsh metal scent mixed with lemon filled h
im. No wonder Paul wouldn’t drink this. He imagined not even a drunk man would find it appetizing. He scooted a wooden chair over the Persian rug and sat, placing the tea on the nightstand. His chest almost looked deflated. His shoulders were stooped. Did he know the end was probably near?
“Whose work is that?” Max asked, pointing to the manuscript.
“My own,” he said, his voice sounding rough. He looked down at it, running his fingers over it. “A work I never did anything with.”
Weary tears filled the old man’s eyes.
Max leaned back into his seat and folded his hands in his lap. He had never heard of Paul Hightower writing anything of his own. Why didn’t he do anything with it? He had all the resources he needed at his fingertips. “What’s it about?”
“A robber baron and his biggest mistake.” The man set the manuscript aside and turned to him, folding his hands in his lap. “What will you do when I’m gone?”
The question hit him like a ton of bricks, the air rushing from him. He jumped to his feet and turned away, crossing his arms over his chest. He just couldn’t imagine life without the man. But the possibility seemed ever closer. What would he do with his friend, mentor, and father gone? “I guess continue your work.”
“What about Miss Garrett?”
“What about her?”
“Max.”
He turned back towards Mr. Hightower.
“I...” The old man looked down at his wrinkly thinning fingers. “I didn’t go back to Cutter’s Creek because I feared she might only be interested in your money.”
Max bent his head to the side and took a step closer to the bed. Mr. Hightower’s brows were furrowed as if something troubled him, something beyond his sickness and directly connected to Lana. The old man’s shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath before he leaned his head against the thick oak headboard with angel carvings. “I want to protect you. Once I'm gone and you inherit my company and estate, women will seek you for your wealth. Please be careful.”
