by Jane Shoup
“I CAN’T RUN A FARM BY MYSELF. BUT MAYBE . . . WE COULD DO IT TOGETHER.”
He nodded. “Yeah, sure. I’ll help all I can.”
He’d misunderstood. “I’m proposing a partnership,” she said solemnly.
He drew back slightly, clearly stunned by the suggestion.
“A business partnership,” she added. She paused, giving him a chance to speak, but he didn’t. “You and I would own the farm and work it together.”
“I don’t know if I can do that,” he said hesitantly.
She felt a crush of disappointment that made her want to cry. In fact, the backs of her eyes felt the pinpricks of tears. She looked at her hands and willed herself to be calm and as emotionless as possible. “Because you don’t want to leave the Triple H?”
“No, I wouldn’t care about leaving.”
She looked up at him quizzically. “Because I’m a woman?”
“No,” he exclaimed.
“Then . . . what?”
He shook his head and color crept into his face.
“Please,” she said. “I really want to know. Don’t . . . don’t worry about hurting my feelings. I just need to know.”
“It wouldn’t hurt your feelings. I’m just not the kind of man you become partners with.”
Now, she drew back, because the notion was so wrong. “You are exactly the kind of man I’d want to be partners with . . .”
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DOWN IN THE VALLEY
JANE SHOUP
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
“I CAN’T RUN A FARM BY MYSELF. BUT MAYBE . . . WE COULD DO IT TOGETHER.”
BOOK YOUR PLACE ON OUR WEBSITE AND MAKE THE READING CONNECTION!
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Teaser chapter
Copyright Page
Chapter One
July 2, 1881
Richmond, Virginia
The petite maid brushed aside a rogue wisp of hair from the back of Emeline Wright’s slender neck and clasped the necklace. Miss Wright’s chestnut brown hair wasn’t exactly unruly, but there was a lot of it and it had a soft, natural curl, so there was always this tendril or that escaping the pins. Plus it blew ever so slightly from the airflow caused by the two-blade ceiling fan. Each suite on the floor had a ceiling fan, powered by a stream of water, a turbine and a belt—or so she’d been told. She stepped back with a, “If that’s all, miss?” since it was one of the few lines she was allowed to speak to Miss Wright.
“Yes,” Miss Wright replied, since it was one of the few words she was allowed to speak. “Thank you, Jenny,” was added out of sheer defiance.
Jenny contained the smile that wanted to break through, curtsied and then left the suite, quietly shutting the door behind her before turning the key in the lock. She always felt a qualm about doing so, more than a qualm, really, but she unfailingly locked it because she was required to. An employee did not cross Mr. Peterson and keep one’s job. It was rumored that one did not cross Mr. Peterson and keep one’s life, although that might have been exaggeration.
As she started back to the east wing to see to her other duties, it occurred to her what an irony it was that someone as powerful and ruthless as Wilson Peterson was called Sonny. Sonny sounded sweet and harmless, while he was anything but. He didn’t just own this place, The Virginia Palace, the largest, grandest hotel in Richmond; he had power. City officials existed quite cozily in his pockets and eagerly carried out his bidding.
Poor Emeline Wright. Even in the unlikely event she managed to get free of the hotel, it wouldn’t matter. She could strip naked, run into a street full of people and scream at the top of her lungs all the things Sonny had done to her—and no one would say one single word against him after she was dragged back inside and probably beaten half to death.
The Palace was not just a hotel. The elegant, four-story stucco structure, fittingly built in the palazzo style, took up half a block. It housed a refined restaurant at one end and a lavish saloon, brothel and gaming facility at the other, where big money was made. Without question, Sonny had charm, and yet everyone knew he was little more than a thug at heart, having acquired every red cent of his fortune through deviousness and utter heartlessness. Take away his stature and confidence, and he was a plain-looking man, six feet tall, with wheat-colored hair. Not thin, but nor was he muscular. He hired muscle; he rarely had to use his own anymore.
Everyone, at least everyone within the confines of The Palace, knew about Miss Wright, as well. Like most every other possession Sonny had ever set his sights on, she had been wooed, lured and then trapped. Tenderly wooed, cleverly lured and then fatally trapped. Jenny had seen her arrive the first day of what Miss Wright had thought was to be a brief visit, all bright-eyed, kind and polite. How quickly things had changed, including Sonny’s loving
demeanor.
Once the trap was sprung, Miss Wright was informed they’d be married just as soon as she learned to behave as the perfect wife. It was simple, Sonny stated. If she chose, theirs would be an exceedingly pleasant life. If she resisted, as he suspected she initially might, she could expect her “training” to be harsh. No matter what, she would be his and she would make him proud, or she would pay the price.
Oh, and had he ever been right about her resisting. She had entirely too much spirit, but Jenny suspected that was one of the reasons he’d chosen her in the first place. After all, he could have had his pick of any number of impressive young ladies from Richmond. Docile, obedient creatures who’d been raised to be perfect wives. Instead, he’d chosen Emeline—a young woman attending college. A young woman without anyone in the world to come looking for her once she abruptly and unexpectedly withdrew from school and the society she’d chosen.
Naturally, Jenny and the other maids saw more than most. While Em was paraded around almost every day on Sonny’s arm, presented as his lovely, fortunate fiancée, dressed in the finest fashions and glittering jewels, the casual observer didn’t see the evidence of Sonny’s “training.” They saw. Some even believed that Emeline had finally learned a certain level of submissiveness, and that there would be a wedding announcement before long. In Jenny’s opinion, what Miss Wright had “learned” was to become a master at subduing and concealing her emotions. She couldn’t possibly be naïve enough to believe that Sonny bought the act entirely, but she’d performed flawlessly of late. There had been far fewer marks and bruises.
As a door opened just up the hallway, the door to Veronica Peterson’s room, Jenny dropped her gaze and picked up her pace, hoping to pass without having to acknowledge the woman. Veronica was Sonny’s aunt and one of the most formidable, joyless people she had ever had the misfortune to encounter. Luck was with her, for Veronica’s back was to her as she passed.
Indeed, Em wasn’t naïve. She’d withdrawn so far within herself, she often felt nothing at all, but she wasn’t naïve. After Jenny left the room, she rose from her vanity table and walked over to the full-length mirror. The pale blue gown she wore was form-hugging and beautifully made, the design straight from Paris. The bustle had all but disappeared and a short train had been added. It was highly flattering and yet there was nothing she would have liked better than to rip it off. To rip it to shreds.
Perhaps it was her lack of expression or the rigidity of her body, but she was suddenly struck by the memory of the porcelain doll she’d had as a girl, because she resembled that doll. The thought was so bizarre, she shivered. She blinked and the impression intensified. She was nothing but a doll, whose arms and legs could move, sometimes at her bidding, sometimes at his, but a lifeless, dressed-up doll just the same. That was what she had become.
“Barbara Jean,” Em whispered as she recalled the name of the doll. How funny; she hadn’t thought of the doll in years. She moved closer to the mirror, gazing fixedly into the eyes of her reflection. No, she was not quite a soulless doll yet, but she had to master her fear, find the right opportunity and get away from this place. There had to be a way to make it happen, especially since she’d managed to stash traveling essentials in a soft-sided bag in the basement. In it was clothing, a train ticket, and money—the exact same amount she’d possessed when she’d come to Richmond. She didn’t want anything that belonged or had ever belonged to Sonny.
Everything she’d accomplished so far had been difficult and dangerous. In fact, purchasing the ticket to Green Valley, West Virginia, had been a risk she’d barely gotten away with. She’d been on a shopping excursion with Veronica, an infrequent and only recently granted privilege, when, in a milliner’s shop, Veronica became involved enough in conversation with an acquaintance that Em was able to duck out of sight. Rushing to the railway station to purchase a ticket had been so nerve-racking that the station attendant had inquired whether she was ill.
She’d stammered that she was perfectly well, and, with badly shaking hands, she’d stuffed the ticket into her reticule and hurried back toward the milliner’s shop, arriving just as Veronica emerged. Red-faced with fury, the older woman latched on to Em’s arm with a brutal grip. “Where were you?”
“I just stepped out for . . . for air,” Em replied shakily and much too quickly. She needed to calm herself. “I was feeling faint,” she added. She was suddenly gripped with fear that Veronica would search her reticule. She should have hidden the ticket in her bodice or up her sleeve.
“I will never take you out again,” Veronica swore as she led the way back to the carriage. “You can rot in that room for all I care.”
In the carriage, Em kept her face turned away from Veronica and her reticule clutched at her side until the hotel was in sight. The tall arches that led to the portico had once seemed awe-inspiring; now the sight made her stomach ache with tension. Beyond the entrance was a lobby of grand scale with a marble floor strewn with thick, Oriental-style rugs, yet the path to the stairs was all marble and the sound her shoes made when she walked up was ominous and hollow. She hated the sound. She swallowed hard, knowing she was nearly out of time, and something else had to be said. “I only wanted a breath of fresh air,” she said as tears sprang to her eyes.
“Not without my permission,” Veronica uttered through clenched teeth.
“It won’t happen again,” Em replied quietly. Beseechingly.
Seconds of agonizing silence passed before the older woman gave a stiff nod. “We will neither of us mention it,” she warned.
Em looked back out the window again, nearly light-headed with relief that the crisis had passed. Not only that, but, with the ticket in her possession, freedom had finally become a real possibility. All she needed now was a window of opportunity.
“Emeline,” a dry female voice said, startling her back to reality.
Em turned to find Veronica standing in the doorway. As Em started forward to retrieve her fan from the vanity table, Veronica raked her over from neckline to hemline, her gaze full of resentment. They walked without speaking, Em taking a slight lead as if she were in control of her destination. As always, Veronica followed nearly the entire way to the private salon on the second floor where Sonny and his guests had gathered.
The doors were opened for her and Em entered the salon, prompting heads to turn and a chorus of accolades regarding how lovely she looked. She smiled and murmured her thanks with all the hypocrisy she could muster.
“You’re a lucky man, Sonny,” one of the guests murmured, setting her teeth on edge.
As Sonny acknowledged the comment with a self-satisfied smile, Em took a breath and exhaled discreetly, forcing herself to relax. One day soon, very soon, she would be free of him, and once free, she would never allow a man to touch or control her again. It was a good thought.
Chapter Two
By ten o’clock, Em sat at her vanity wearing nothing but a white silk dressing robe. She brushed her hair distractedly until she froze at the sound of the lock turning. Dread seized hold, but she focused on her face in the mirror. Her eyes were not the eyes of a doll. She was not a doll; she was pretending to be one, but with a mind he knew nothing of.
Sonny stepped in carrying a drink, having left his jacket, vest and cravat behind, and nudged the door shut behind him. He sauntered toward her, set his drink down on the vanity and pulled the front of her robe apart. Watching her mirror image, he cupped her breasts. “You looked mighty fine tonight,” he said, “but you look even better like this.”
She watched his hands so she didn’t have to see his face. A doll feels nothing. Nothing. A doll feels nothing.
He pulled her up and around to face him, untied the belt of her robe and looked hungrily at her body before he pulled her against him and his mouth closed in on hers. There was no tenderness in the intrusive, alcohol tinged tongue or the grip on the back of her neck. He tugged down the straps of his suspenders, his jaw set in anticipation, and she began unbuttoning
his shirt with stiff, slightly trembling fingers. He liked things done in a specific way and she knew the order. She’d learned her cues. He stepped back and removed the long silver chain with the key to her room from around his neck and set it aside. Reaching for his drink, he said, “Middle of the bed. On your back.”
He swallowed the last of his bourbon, emptied his pockets and moved toward her. As always, she had to fight her instinct to turn away or close her eyes. He climbed atop her, pinned her hands and bent to kiss her neck, but a knock on the door surprised them both. He got up and moved toward the door, scowling with irritation, while she sat and tugged the robe together to cover herself, thankful for the distraction. But how foolish, she silently chided herself, when he would be right back.
He jerked open the door.
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Peterson,” a man said quickly, “but we just learned the President was shot.”
Sonny drew back. “What?”
“Shot,” the man repeated. “Today. In Washington. The newspaper man, Harper, he received the telegram and came right over to tell you.”
“Is he dead?”
“No, sir. He was taken back to the White House. Least, that’s what the telegram said.”
“Who did it?”
“Uh, some lawyer. Funny last name. The telegram’s downstairs.”
“I’ll be right down,” Sonny replied, already shutting the door.
He turned and looked at Emeline, but his mind was obviously busy evaluating all possible aspects of the matter. Her head was spinning, and not just because the news was shocking. Sonny was a creature of habit, and his routine had just been interrupted. “It’s terrible,” she murmured. As he began to button his shirt, she experienced a chill at the irony that President Garfield had been in office just about the same amount of time she’d been Sonny’s prisoner, six months or so. Did it mean something? Her body and mind felt on sudden high alert. She was an animal ready to spring from a trap.
