Morrow Creek Runaway

by Lisa Plumley

  “Like I said, I knew about your secondary plan. I knew about Bouchard, too—enough to know that he deserves what he got. And I’m acquainted with Mrs. Corwin, remember?” Bonita went on, sounding defensive and a little pugnacious. “We have more than a few things in common. She didn’t mind helping me.”

  Rosamond couldn’t believe it. “You sent that telegram?”

  Arvid Bouchard was going to get his just retribution.

  Rosamond forced her attention from that startling news.

  “I was on my way to Mrs. Corwin’s adjunct station just as soon as I saw Bouchard try to take down Judah.” Bonita smiled fondly at the memory. “That boy did prove himself, didn’t he?”

  “He did.” For that, Rosamond was glad. But she still didn’t understand. “You and Savannah were working together?”

  “Together to watch over you.” Bonita gave her a warm look. “When I found out for sure that Mr. Callaway had gotten a telegram from Bouchard, I wanted to tell you straightaway. But Mrs. Corwin disagreed. She made me wait. She said there was probably another reason Callaway was here—something we didn’t know about.” Bonita shook her head. “She’s a mite more trusting than I am. She’s a real romantic, that one. Probably because of that husband of hers. The way they met—it was darn unlikely.”

  Rosamond couldn’t consider Savannah and Adam’s courtship just then. She was too busy remembering Savannah’s uncharacteristic lack of detail about the telegram she’d relayed to Morrow Creek from Mr. Bouchard. At the time, Rosamond had been too relieved to know she hadn’t seen Arvid in Morrow Creek to pursue the matter any further. But now, she understood.

  “Mrs. Corwin thought that, whatever Callaway was up to, he must have had a good reason for it—a reason he’d tell you, sooner or later.” Bonita looked unconvinced. “She thought you probably knew him better than all of us did, and if you were ready to trust him, we could do the same.” A pause, followed by a frown. “All we ever wanted was for you to be happy.”

  Unaccountably touched by Bonita’s concern for her, Rosamond looked toward the fireplace. She hadn’t trusted Miles. Not at first. At first, she’d hired Dylan Coyle to watch him, certain that Miles was in Morrow Creek on behalf of the Bouchards.

  But after Dylan had been unable to turn up any evidence of wrongdoing on Miles’s part—and after time had worn on and Rosamond had gotten closer to Miles— Rosamond hadn’t cared. All she’d wanted was to be with him. Then. And now.

  No matter how foolish that might have been.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t see what was going on.” Rosamond shook her head. “I’ve been more distracted than I realized.”

  “I suppose that’s a fact,” Bonita told her sympathetically, cutting off the self-pity Rosamond had been prepared to indulge herself in. “For instance, you haven’t even guessed why I’ve been so keen to have you do some account work today.”

  Come to think of it… “That was unexpected.”

  Frowning, Rosamond glanced at her account book.

  “So is the big bunch of money you’re going to find in there.” Bonita nodded at it. “Go ahead. Take a look.”

  Confused, Rosamond did. She picked up her familiar, worn, leather-bound account book. As she did, she accidentally turned the whole caboodle upside down. Greenbacks fluttered from the pages. They fell to the floor like overeager autumn leaves.

  “What is all this?” Astonished, Rosamond transferred her gaze from the money to Bonita. “You knew about this?”

  “I did all that.” Her friend looked unusually pleased. “You don’t know how long it took me to arrange each bill between the pages like that. I wanted it to be a big surprise for you.”

  “But I—” Still stunned, Rosamond picked up a note. “I’ve never seen so much money in all my life! At least I haven’t—”

  Since I saw all that money in Miles’s valise.

  Rosamond finally understood. “This is from Miles.”

  Aside from Bonita, Miles was the only one who knew about Rosamond’s money troubles at the mutual society.

  “It’s from an anonymous donor,” Bonita maintained primly.

  “Do you think I was born yesterday? I know Miles took money from Mr. Bouchard. He took it to find me. He said so!”

  “This money is earmarked for the maintenance and upkeep of the Morrow Creek Mutual Society.” Bonita appeared to be trying not to grin as she petted Riley. “That’s all I know.”

  “I don’t want money that came from Arvid Bouchard!”

  “I reckon that’s what the anonymous donor thought, too. That’s why the anonymous donor wanted to get rid of it, maybe.”

  “Your ‘donor’ is Miles.” Rosamond wasn’t fooled. “What I don’t understand is why you took it. You don’t even like him.”

  “That would give me a problem with taking his money from him…how, exactly?” Bonita did smile. “You know…hypothetically.”

  “I still don’t want Bouchard’s money. It’s tainted.”

  “It’s for love. It’s for making sure love keeps going.” Bonita gave her a straight look. “That’s what the donor said.”

  Exasperated, Rosamond threw up her hands. “Just tell me it was Miles! You clearly think his giving us that money was a good thing. Do you want me to forgive him or not?”

  “I do.” Bonita hesitated. “But I’m not sure you ever will, given the state you’re in.” A frown. “Also…there’s more.”

  “There can’t possibly be more.”

  “There is.” Scooting to the edge of her chair, Bonita set down Riley. She gave the puppy a little push to persuade it to scamper away. Then she looked at Rosamond. “I hired Dylan.”

  Rosamond frowned. “I hired Dylan.”

  “I hired him, too. To find out about your past,” Bonita confessed. “Then, after I knew everything I needed to, I wired that Bouchard character and brought him here to Morrow Creek.”

  Gobsmacked, Rosamond froze. “What?”

  “I thought that if you saw Bouchard, you’d blame Miles. I thought that you’d quit being with him.” Bonita shifted again. She cast Rosamond an anxious look. “I wanted things to go back to the way they were! I knew if you married Callaway, everything would change around here. The mutual society would close. You would move on…” Bonita drew in a breath. “I’d be alone.”

  “Oh, Bonita. I would never leave you alone.” Rosamond felt full of confusion…but commiseration, too. “For you to bring Arvid Bouchard here, though…that was an awful thing to do.”

  “I know. I’m so sorry.” Bonita nearly burst into tears. “I never meant to hurt you. Can you ever forgive me?”

  At her friend’s outright regret, Rosamond had only one choice to make. “Of course I can, Bonita. Yes. I forgive you.”

  Her friend whimpered. “Truly? You can?” A sniff. “You do?”

  Touched, Rosamond nodded. “Of course! You didn’t mean it. You were acting out of desperation and confusion and some misguided notions. You should have talked to me first, that’s all, so we could sort it out. But I can’t hold what you did against you.” She shook her head. “After all, if Arvid Bouchard hadn’t come here, I never would have had the satisfaction of confronting him. I never would have broken free at all.”

  “Yes.” Another mighty sniffle. “That’s what I thought.”

  “Don’t cry, Bonita! It’s going to be all right.”

  “Yes, it is.” Suddenly, Bonita raised her head. Incredibly, she was dry-eyed. Chipper, even. “Because I didn’t hire Dylan. I didn’t contact Bouchard. I didn’t bring him here.”

  “What?” Rosamond felt bewildered. “You just said you did.”

  “I fibbed. I’m afraid it’s true, may the Lord bless my soul. You’ll have to forgive me for that, but I had to know how you felt about things.” Bonita looked savvier than Rosamond had ever seen her. “I had to make you see the truth.”

  “What truth? That my best friend is a lunatic?” Rosamond pondered everything. “Did you truly send that telegram?”
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br />   “Yes. That I did, I can promise you.” Bonita smiled, then went on. “And the truth is that you were ready to forgive me immediately. You didn’t even have to think twice, did you?”

  Rosamond felt too hungry, too uncommunicative, too sleepy and too out-and-out flustered for all this confusion. “So?”

  “So you might want to think about who you’re really mad at,” Bonita said. “Is it me? Is it Callaway? Or is it yourself?”

  “Honestly?” Flustered by Bonita’s abrupt “confession” and subsequent staggering turnaround, Rosamond couldn’t think straight. “I don’t know anymore.”

  “Because it seems to me that you’re more mad at yourself for trusting Mr. Callaway than you are at him for accidentally ‘betraying’ you. It seems to me you know full well that man never meant for Bouchard to follow him here.”

  Rosamond pressed her lips together, suddenly not interested in continuing this line of thought. “You don’t know that.”

  “No, I reckon I don’t.” Bonita stood. She studied the scattered money and Rosamond’s baffled face. “But you do. You know what the truth really is. You know if it’s Callaway or yourself you’re trying to punish by hiding away in here. So I think I’ll just leave you alone to ponder that idea a while.”

  Then, sashaying out, that’s exactly what Bonita did…leaving Rosamond with no excuses—and nothing but a big pile of cold hard truths—for company.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Miles Callaway was a man who believed in second chances.

  He had to be. By the time he made it from the livery stable to the unobtrusive street where Rosamond McGrath Dancy’s house was situated, Miles didn’t have much choice except to hope for a second chance. To have faith that she would forgive him. Because he wasn’t entirely sure he could make it back to the stable again. Not while hobbling along on his temporarily rickety, no-good, kicked-up legs. Not while squinting through his one good eye and keeping the other puffy, bruised eye closed tight.

  Thanks to Arvid Bouchard’s men, Miles was a broken-up man.

  But thanks to Rosamond, he was a hopeful one, too.

  No other woman could have inspired Miles to make that trip. It had been arduous and painful. It had joggled his broken ribs and his sense of pride alike. Townspeople had stared as he’d made his way through the streets; people he’d come to know and like as friends and neighbors joked with him that he belonged at home with old Doc Finney by his side to make him whole again.

  But Miles knew that only one person could make him whole.

  Rosamond.

  He’d thought of little except her since…well, since as long as he could remember. But especially since he’d awakened in his lonesome bed with a sore head and bashed-in ribs and assorted bumps and bruises. He’d thought of how enchanting Rosamond had been. How challenging. How brave to have loved him at all.

  He didn’t have much to give her, Miles knew. Only a fierce heart and a sense of hope and a pair of sheltering arms. But if Rosamond still wanted any of those things—and he dearly hoped she did—then Miles wanted desperately to give them to her.

  He wanted that so much that he didn’t even care, as he careened down her street and spied two of Rosamond’s security men at her gate, if he got beaten to hell and back again.

  It was entirely likely that she’d left orders with Judah and Seth and even Dylan Coyle to wallop Miles on sight, he knew. Rosamond didn’t fiddle around with half measures. Not once she’d made up her mind. So it was with a thimbleful of trepidation and an ocean full of heroism that Miles ignored his various banged-up limbs, midsection and head, then swaggered up to the gate.

  He was going to see Rosamond or die trying.

  He was going to see her through only one good eye, granted. But by God, Miles swore as he girded his courage, he was going to make sure that Rosamond knew exactly how he felt this time.

  If he had to, he’d shout it to her between thumpings from her young, dumb, brawny protectors. That’s how all-fired certain Miles was that he needed to make things right with Rosamond.

  Feeling ready, he jutted his chin. His stuck out his chest.

  He winced, because sticking out his chest hurt like the devil. But then Miles gritted his teeth and did it again. Because he was fearless. He was fearless in the face of needing love. Needing to give love. Rosamond deserved that…and more.

  “I need to see Mrs. Dancy,” Miles said firmly.

  In unison, Seth and Judah turned their backs to him. With a marked degree of casualness, they started up a conversation about Griffin Turner and the outrageous lady architect he’d had brought in from the States to work on designing his new hotel.

  “You don’t have to tell her I’m here,” Miles said more loudly, baffled by their behavior. “I’ll go straight in.”

  Neither man acknowledged him. Had they been deafened?

  No. They were talking to one another, so that wasn’t it.

  “If Mrs. Dancy isn’t at home,” Miles shouted. “I’ll wait.”

  Still no word from Judah or Seth. But the former leaned an inch or two sideways. Nonchalantly, Judah kicked open the gate. It swung into the yard with an unwelcoming creak. Wide open.

  Miles frowned in bewilderment. He didn’t know what was wrong with these two. But he did know that he had a limited amount of strength for standing at his disposal. His insides ached like the dickens. He was starting to get that familiar lightheaded feeling that told him he’d overexerted himself.

  Determinedly, Miles stepped through the gate. He half expected Judah and Seth to wake up, realize there was an intruder in their midst and start delivering sockdolagers.

  In his current state, Miles wouldn’t be able to fight back. He wasn’t a man who ordinarily backed down, but even the best man had his limits. For now, Miles was temporarily a pacifist.

  Oddly enough, it didn’t come to that. Because even as Miles looked around to make sure he’d actually landed on the inside portion of the fenced yard—and hadn’t accidentally hallucinated it on account of the pain—he saw someone hurrying to him.

  “I knew it!” a woman cried out. “You’re here!”

  Miles blinked. Blinking hurt, too, he discovered. “Rose?”

  “No, Mr. Callaway. It’s Miss Yates.” She took his arm, all but exuding warmth and charm. “Just let me help you, all right?”

  Her voice was as sweet as honey, her smile as enchanting as an angel’s. Vaguely, Miles realized that Bonita Yates could be a captivating woman. She’d just never tried to be one with him.

  “I need to see Mrs. Dancy,” he said urgently. “Right now.”

  Instead, Miles found himself bustled inside the cool interior of Rosamond’s household. Today, there were no dance lessons. There were no literary meetings or social events.

  There was only Rose, nearby somewhere, needing him.

  “I’ve got to talk to Rose.” Miles said it more directly, feeling a little of his vigor return as he realized how close Rosamond was. “You’ve got to take me to her! It’s important.”

  “I know it is.” Miss Yates shushed him gently. Her skirts swished as she led him by the arm down the hall. “There, there.”

  “This is the wrong way,” Miles protested. “I need to go to Rosamond’s parlor! That’s where she always is.”

  “Yes, yes. Soon enough, you will. Well, maybe you will.” Miss Yates stopped in front of a closed door. She faced him, looking authoritative and determined. “First, there are some people here who would like a word with you. I don’t think they’re in any mood to take no for an answer, either.”

  Miles wasn’t in an especially benevolent mood himself. Not now that he was being delayed from seeing Rosamond. But since he didn’t have the strength to spare for arguing—since he needed that strength to convince Rosamond to let him love her and take care of her and make sure she was happy forever—he nodded.

  “Very good.” With a mysterious smile and a showy flourish, Miss Yates opened the door. “Go right on in, please.”

&nbs
p; Miles glanced in. He gave an inward groan.

  He’d thought he’d tackled every barrier.

  In that moment, Miles learned, he decidedly hadn’t.

  *

  The trouble with having a personal catchphrase, Rosamond had learned over the past few days, was that pretty soon, folks started expecting you to live up to it. They started chiming in saying it to you, irksomely, when they passed you in the hallway or sold you a newspaper or brought you your milk delivery. They started behaving as if you were capable of doing it.

  When your personal catchphrase ran along the lines of, I’ll master this eventually. I will, that tended to be problematic.

  Especially when you were trying to avoid trying at all.

  Because that’s what she’d been doing, Rosamond realized as she stared out her parlor window while letting her coffee grow cold. She’d been trying to avoid trying to do anything—anything that had to do with not being safe, not being sure, or not being in charge of the outcome. Rosamond liked being in charge.

  When it came to love—to Miles—she couldn’t be in charge.

  Not really. That didn’t mean Miles was in charge, either, she reckoned as she glanced at her abandoned coffee cup. He wasn’t. Love made fools and bumblers of everyone. Even Miles.

  The lucky fools and bumblers—the ones who went on to live happy lives together—well, they just welcomed the risk, that’s all.

  Heaving a sigh, Rosamond stood. She paced. She thought.

  She thought about Miles…and how best she could approach him. She needed a grand gesture. She needed to prove to Miles, beyond a doubt, that she’d made a mistake. She shouldn’t have blamed him for bringing Arvid Bouchard to town. Miles hadn’t meant to do that. And she shouldn’t have made Miles leave, either, trudging away in the path of Arvid’s cowardly footsteps.

  Those two men could not have been more different, Rosamond reminded herself assuredly. Why she’d let herself forget that, even for an instant, she couldn’t imagine. She could only blame fear and impulse and desperation for it. She’d made a mistake.

  Just like Miles, she was fallible. She was human.

  She was vulnerable and she was afraid. Sometimes. Sometimes she was brave and silly and ambitious, too. But that was part of what it meant to be human, wasn’t it? Taking chances. Reaching out. Trying to find love even when it appeared faraway.