by Annie Boone
“Not today, ma’am.”
Lana’s heart dropped. There was no letter. How could there not have been a letter in two months? Lana swiped her package from the desk and rushed out of the office. She clamped her eyes closed as tears slipped down her face and her heart shattered. Max no longer cared for her. That had to be it. Surely one letter being lost could happen, but two?
“Miss Garrett.” She stiffened as the sound of Oliver’s voice.
She turned to the front of the room and stared straight ahead, focusing on the large gray mountains as she looked out the window. Oliver came around the counter to her side.
“Miss Garrett.” His dark brown eyes looked filled with sympathy. “I’m sorry he hasn’t written.”
Irritation niggled through her.
“He.” She bent her head to the side, planting a hand on her hip.
“Miss Garrett, I mean no offense.”
She gripped her manuscript to her chest and looked at the busy sidewalk while a tear slipped down her face. Was she being a fool waiting for him? Waiting for a love that was never going to be?
“I’d like to take you for some tea or a ride. I know I’m no finely polished rich man. But I ain’t one to dally with a girl’s heart. So, please give me a chance.”
Lana looked up, taking in the details of his face. He was handsome with high cheekbones, and light brown hair that had a slight wave to it. And he worked at a newspaper. Granted, they focused on town gossip, but it still involved in writing. Did he have a passion for it? For writing?
She thought of the way Josh looked at Felicity and how much she longed for Max to look at her like that. It was never going to happen, so perhaps she should find some way to forget about him. Maybe another young man could replace the image of Max and his refined smile and the memory of his rich voice.
She gave a slight nod of her head, and turned away from him, walking towards the mercantile store.
“You will? When, Miss Garrett?”
“Come by tomorrow.”
Lana made her way to where the wagon was parked and climbed in, closing her eyes. Max's warm smile filled her mind, making a deep pain ricochet over her heart. She sniffled but the tears still poured down her face. She had been a fool. A fool to hope that a young man who didn’t just see her pretty face actually existed.
She must have just been someone for him to dally with while visiting town. He must have met someone more interesting in New York. Maybe he already had someone when he came to town. He would certainly only be interested in someone with refined city ways.
Well, if Max could move on, so would she. And she would start with an outing with Oliver Johnston.
Chapter 8
Max leaned his forehead against the cold glass of the window while a slight drizzle rained against it. The message boy walked away, flipping a coin in his hand. Dark clouds filled the sky, blocking the sun, giving the cobblestone walkway and bushes a gray tint. Thunder echoed through the sky, followed by flashes of lighting.
How poetic that the weather matched his mood and the mass of confusion swirling in his mind. Why hadn’t Lana written him? Didn’t she know he lived for her letters? Max closed his eyes, as a small pain etched across his heart. He had sent her five letters over the last week. He’d poured his heart out to her again telling her how badly he wanted to see her. He even got bold and told her he couldn’t wait to hold her in his arms.
For some maddening reason, she had not written back. Had some rancher enticed her heart away? It couldn’t be that. She had promised to be true. Max banged his hand on the wall and turned away as pain ran up his arm. He clenched his hand into a fist and clamped his eyes closed.
Why did the world seem to be falling apart around him? His mentor’s health was failing fast, and the chord that kept him bound to the girl he loved had somehow been broken. He needed to get to Cutter’s Creek. Fast. He needed to find answers, even if the one he received was that Lana had moved on. At least he would know, and he could let go of the hope he clung to.
He knew as long as there was still hope, he would hold on tight. Lana was a treasure he wasn’t willing to give up on. He had always been that way. Loyal. Just like how he hung tight now to his mentor.
A hacking sound pulled him from his morose thoughts. His gaze snapped up and he focused on the red rose patterned wallpaper. He listened as Miss Markson rushed from the kitchen and then he saw her race up the stairs carrying a small cast iron pot.
He left the foyer, stepping around a table with a marble nymph placed in the center. His mentor had a fondness for the little woodland creatures who liked to play tricks on unsuspecting victims. They filled the parlor, almost clashing with the brown leather furniture.
He walked up the curving staircase, following the coughing. He stepped just inside the room and leaned against the doorway. He watched his mentor lean over the steaming pot as Miss Markson pressed a warm cloth against the back of his neck.
The large sturdy frame was no more. He was thin and frail now. It seemed to have happened overnight. Every day, his face seemed to grow paler. The dark, masculine drapery of his canopy bed with matching bedding made his ashen skin seem even more stark. He had always wondered how a man with such a jolly nature endured such dark colors surrounding him each morning.
But now the dark colors seemed appropriate. Death waited just around the corner for his mentor.
The hacking stopped, and soon a wheezing sound took over. Miss Markson dabbed at the sweat on his brow and gave him a cup of tea with peppermint. Soon the wheezing died down, and Paul fell back against the bed, closing his eyes. Misery was written all over his face.
Though he wanted to run off to Cutter’s Creek, Max knew he couldn’t abandon the man who had rescued him from such poverty and raised him as if he was his own son. Perhaps it was for the best. Maybe God was using circumstances to keep him from making a disastrous marriage. Surely two people lost in the worlds of imaginary characters didn’t belong together since there would be no one to keep them grounded. And he knew he needed to be grounded.
Max pushed from the wall and walked further into the room. Miss Markson looked up at him, as a faint blush crept across her face, contrasting against the sweat that glistened her skin and soaked her hair.
He nodded at her, walked to the other side of the bed, and sat on a wooden chair, taking his mentor’s frail hand. Mr. Hightower’s eyes didn’t even flutter open, nor did he acknowledge him in any way. He must have slipped into sleep, which was what he needed.
How much longer would he linger? It almost seemed as though he was waiting for something. If that was the case, what could it be? Did he still fear that Max would marry a girl who would only want him for his fortune? Maybe when Mr. Hightower next awoke, Max would tell him about the absence of letters, and that would give him the peace to slip away to Heaven. Because he needed to. This last month was nothing but torture for the man. It was time.
Max stood and left his mentor’s side, making his way down the hall to the office. He had taken over the space, choosing to do as much work as he could at home, to be near in case Paul needed him or to at least hear his last goodbye.
Max sat in a fine leather chair and pulled it close to the oak desk. Lying in front of him was a well-written typed manuscript from one of their established authors. All he needed to do was read through it and mark mistakes. He picked up a pencil and pressed it to the paper, but as his gaze ran over the words, nothing made sense to him. He couldn't remember anything about the well-constructed phrases and descriptive imagery.
He threw his pencil against the desk and leaned his head back. If the world was going to fall apart, perhaps he should let it, including the publishing house. It was his livelihood, but what was the use? What would he have to live for, if he had in fact lost Lana? He closed his eyes as tears gathered. He didn’t know which caused the sharpest pains to cross his heart—his mentor’s eventual death or the loss of the only girl he had ever loved.
“Are you all rig
ht?” said a soft, feminine voice.
He opened his eyes and saw Miss Markson standing in the doorway. Two nymphs sitting on tables on either side of the door made her look like an apparition that they had conjured up. In her hand, she held a small platter with tea and cookies on it.
He noticed her hair had been swept back, and not one brown strand was out of place. A youthful, pretty look seemed to be painted on her face as she smiled brightly. She walked into the small office and came straight to the desk. Scooting aside a pile of paper, she lay the small platter down and set the teacup in front of him. The scent of lemon and earl gray floated up to him, making his stomach rumble.
“I thought you might need a little something.” She looked him straight in the eyes as she nodded to the snack she’d brought in.
“Thank you,” he mumbled. Picking up the teacup, he felt the warmness spreading through his fingers. As he raised the small porcelain cup with lavender roses painted on it, the steam drifted up to his face, hopefully hiding the tear that had slipped down.
He took a small sip and the richness filled him. He did need some nourishment.
“I know this must be hard,” Miss Markson said.
He looked up, catching the roundness of her huge brown eyes, eyes that looked at him with such admiration. Though no feelings for Miss Markson filled him, an unfulfilled longing made him desire her tender comfort. The tender comfort only a woman could provide. He took another sip, as a chair scraped across the floor.
She sat near him at the corner of the desk. “When my mother was sick, I felt such pain at her impending loss. I found that the best way to deal with it isn’t to bury yourself in work or lock oneself away from the world. But to seek out companionship.”
He took another sip of his tea. There was such wisdom in her words, and he had a feeling what she said was also an open invitation. Max set his tea cup down and stood from his desk. He turned to the window, noticing the dark clouds had dissipated and the sun rose high in the sky.
Was this a sign? A sign to take comfort in her comfort? He turned back to her and studied the way Miss Markson’s black dress and white apron flowed nicely over her shapely form. She had an elegant nose and her black lashes highlighted her rich brown eyes. Did she ever find herself getting lost in other make-believe worlds? Worlds that were hard to leave behind? Probably not. But she just might be what he needed to help him forget about Miss Lana Garrett.
“It might be nice to leave this stuffy office. Perhaps we could take a small stroll around the garden. I’m sure one of the maids can come for you, if needed.”
A brightness entered Miss Markson’s eyes matching her full smile. “I’ll go ask her.”
She rushed out of the room.
Max looked back at the desk, noticing a half-written letter to Lana. He picked it up, crumpled it in his hands before dropping it in a waste basket. It was time to stop yearning for Cutter’s Creek, Montana, and find some way to put his world back together in New York.
Chapter 9
Lana pushed a blonde curl from her face, ignoring the wetness on her cheeks. She curled up on her bed with her head propped on her a pillow. She lifted the last letter she had received. She focused on the long neat strokes and beautiful penmanship. Then she inhaled the still fragrant ink smell. A warmth trickled through her while at the same time a dull ache throbbed.
She read it again. Max’s words were full of encouragement, love. In the letter she sent before receiving this one, she had written letting him know she had received another rejection from a publisher. Once again, he had offered to speak to Mr. Hightower about publishing her novel, but she refused.
She didn’t want Max to doubt her love for him, so she wouldn’t give him any reason to believe she was just using him to get her work published. But maybe she should have since she lost him, anyway. At least she would have gotten something out of the heartbreak.
Lana sat up and scooted back to lean against the headboard fumbling with the aging yellow paper in her hands. Several wrinkles creased it, a sign of how much she had read it. Of all the letters he had written, this one was her favorite because his feelings for her shone through.
She closed her eyes. Though it had been almost a year since she last saw him, Lana could still picture Max’s boyish dark blue eyes in her mind. She could smell the inky scent that always surrounded him—and sometimes blotted his hand. Whenever she tried to sleep, his laugh would fill her mind, making fresh tears flow down her cheeks.
One day at a time. She needed just needed to remember that. She’d start letting the young men of Cutter’s Creek court her, and she’d find another hero to fill her stories. Once she did that, Max’s memory would fade away. Maybe one day she would no longer recall the Yankee who had captured her young, naive heart.
A timid knock sounded at her door before it pushed open and her best friend walked in wearing a light green dress. Her pretty dress was slightly wrinkled and was wet on the shoulder—sure evidence that Colton had an upset stomach.
Felicity never waited for her to answer when she knocked. But she guessed that was what happened when two childhood best friends lived together. They never let anything separate them. She liked it this way.
Felicity sat on the bed, looking at the pile of letters she had collected in a brown wooden box. She raised her gaze. Her coal black eyes were filled with sadness. Max said her eyes reminded him of black pearls. Now she couldn’t even look at her friend without thinking of the man who had dropped her. Lana hung her head, wallowing just a bit in her misery.
“I’m sorry,” Felicity said, reaching for her hand and squeezing it.
Lana sniffled. “It’s not your fault. You and Josh both warned me this might happen. In fact, Josh hated our relationship from the start.”
“But I’m still so sad about it. And Josh just loves you. He only wants good things to happen for you. That’s all.”
Lana smiled weakly and nodded. “I know.”
Lana laid the last letter in her wooden box on the top of the stack. She stood up and picked up the box as she closed the lid. Walking over to her desk, she placed it almost reverently next to the box containing her manuscript.
She never did send it off. Maybe tomorrow she’d go into town and put the plan in motion again. She looked back at the box of letters. She should destroy them, but she couldn’t bear the thought of destroying the last link to Max. Her first true love. No, she couldn't do that right now, though she prayed that someday she would be able to.
She had spent all night praying that God would remove all traces of Max from her life. Surely, He could do that. He was God. He could do anything. If He could create the world in only six days and teach the birds how to fly, He could surely purify one simple girl’s mind of the man who had invaded it. She believed it could happen.
Lana took a deep breath and turned, crossing her arms over her chest as she leaned against the rickety old chair in front of her desk. “I’ll be all right. There are other beaus around here. It’s not completely the middle of nowhere. I don’t have to go all the way to New York to find a man who will be attentive and true. If you get right down to it, the one I did find in New York is turning out to be not so attentive, after all.”
Felicity bit her bottom lip, chewing on it. She nodded solemnly and then looked down at the bed covered by a vibrant red checkered quilt. Something seemed to be bothering her. Lana could read the girl better than Josh could even though he was married to her.
“What’s on your mind, Felicity? Apparently, you have something to say. It’s written all over your face.”
“What about your stories?” Felicity whispered.
Lana stiffened. She knew. “What are you talking about?”
Felicity stood and then knelt at the side of Lana’s bed, and pulled out her long dress box, with yellow flowers painted on the side. She flipped the lid off and revealed the pile of journals. Motioning her hand over it, she said, “You won’t give this up, will you.”
Lana raced
over to the box, throwing the lid back on the box, trying to hide her secrets away. She shoved the box under the bed and then turned a sharp gaze to Felicity. “How did you know?”
“You used to do this when you were younger. Remember?”
She did remember, though she hadn’t believed Felicity did. She was quickly taken back to the tales she had scribbled down while the schoolmarm taught their lessons.
“Remember how the stories would feature you and me on some adventure? But you stopped it when you were nine,” Felicity said.
She had stopped when her father said that a girl shouldn’t be daydreaming so much about fantasies. A young lady should focus on learning to be a proper wife and mother like your mama, he’d said. She wasn’t even sure he knew about the stories she wrote, but still his words had caused her such fear. She really wanted her father’s approval.
She didn’t know if Josh knew about all this from when they’d been children. Had Felicity told him she spent so much time creating these novels? What would he do if he found out?
“Lana.” Felicity took Lana’s trembling hand. “I’m glad to see you started writing again. I don’t know if Max inspired the stories or what, but please promise me you won’t give it up.”
Surprised, Lana stood to her feet and smoothed out her skirt. “Have you told Josh?”
“No, but listen. Don't be fretting about him. If he has a problem with it, I’ll make him understand.”
Lana nodded. She had no doubt Felicity could accomplish just that. “Life is so uncertain right now. Isn’t it?”
Felicity walked up to her and flung her arms around her pulling her into a tight hug. “Yes, but I’m sure the Lord will work everything out for you. Just like He did for me.”
How she hoped so. Another knock made her flinch. “Yes,” she said.
Josh pushed open the door and looked in with a slight smile on his face. “Oliver Johnston’s here. Pa just gave him permission to take you for a ride.”
