Weeping Angel

by Stef Ann Holm

  Frank slipped his hands from his pockets and grabbed his rag. “Neither do I.”

  “Then you better set the record straight. Those ladies are in my parlor this very minute, thinking the worst. The last time something like this happened to Amelia, she almost didn’t live it down. She’s just started to get on with her life this past year.” The mayor’s brows pulled into a frown. “I trust you’ll not make any false implications to the contrary of what transpired between you two. You can be smart with me and try and get me to think the worst, but I don’t believe it of Amelia. She’s not a loose woman. And I’ll admit it, I’m glad Jonas Pray ran off. He didn’t deserve her and—” He sliced his words short.

  Frank finished Dodge’s thought with a question to his tone. “And neither do I?”

  The mayor stepped down. “I don’t know, Mr. Brody. You tell me. Are you worthy of a woman good to the bone? Would you do the honorable thing to protect her? If not, then you’re not the right man for her. If so, then I suggest you act quickly. Once this gets around—and you can count on it—Amelia is not going to be able to hold her head high. The rumors will send her running. Think about that,” Cincinatus said, then walked away with a brisk gait.

  Exhaling, Frank grabbed the railing with both hands. The muscles of his forearms hardened beneath his sleeves from his tense grip. His heartbeat sped through him; his breath burned in his throat. The rumors will send her running. The thought froze in his brain. He didn’t want to be the cause of Amelia hiding behind her door. Though he couldn’t imagine her cowering. But he hadn’t been here before when Pray had walked out on her; he hadn’t been here to see her shamed and jilted. And he knew how biting the tongues of those gossiping women could be.

  Frank pushed away from the rail and straightened. He went inside and threw his rag on the bar as he passed by. Dammit, he should have known if there was a dog around, the boys weren’t far behind. Stupid! He’d been stupid to let things go too far yesterday.

  He stopped at the end of the bar, hooked his boot heel over the brass railing, and hung his head. A wedge of sunlight lit the floorboards. He’d opened the front doors to air the place out. “Dammit,” he whispered in a dull and troubled voice. He had a lot to figure out in a brief amount of time. A painful knot twisted his gut. He wasn’t keen on rushed decisions, but he had some heavy trouble. The kind of trouble he couldn’t just ride away from or pay cash to get out of. The kind of trouble he wasn’t good at figuring out and usually had Pap think it through for him. Only this time, he couldn’t talk to Pap.

  He had to keep in mind that Amelia’s integrity was what counted. If he came to her defense, his strong testimony opposing what the boys thought had happened might work to his disadvantage. Firm denial of the incident could possibly make things more suspicious and make the boys’ story look all the more convincing.

  Ideally, if he said nothing at all and made no comment to the contrary, there could only be speculation. But those boys did see Amelia and knew Frank had seen her in her corset. Just that fact alone was scandal enough for their meddling mothers.

  “Mr. Brody?”

  Frank lifted his head and turned around. Daniel Beamguard stood behind him, his hands stuffed into the hip pockets of his overalls.

  “Not now, kid. I’m busy.”

  The boy hung his head low. “Oh . . . It’s just that me and the boys . . . we were wanting to play some ball . . . I was hoping I could, that is, well . . .”

  Frank rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What? You want to borrow my bat?”

  “Yes, sir. Seeing how that bat’s lucky for you, and all.”

  “I wish I could make it lucky for me, but the lady’s not on my side.” Frank looked into Daniel’s expectant face, seeing a bit of Harry in the boy’s expression. “Yeah, sure. You can borrow it,” he said, then strode to his bedroom.

  Daniel followed him and Frank crouched down to rummage through his leather-bound, brass-trimmed trunk. Finding the Spalding, he handed it to the boy. Daniel touched the smooth wood grip, but Frank didn’t let the bat go. “Sit down, kid.”

  Daniel slumped onto the bed, his expression riddled with guilt. “I . . . Are you mad at me, Mr. Brody?”

  Frank straightened his legs and scratched the back of his head before shaking the hair from his brows. He absently put the bat over his right shoulder and began to pace the short length of the room.

  “You are mad at me, I know it.”

  Frank stopped in front of Daniel, lowered the end of the bat, and dropped the top in between the spread of his legs. Leaning on the handle, he asked, “Why do you think that?”

  “Because of yesterday . . .” he mumbled. “I didn’t tell my mother anything, I swear. But Jakey, Coney Island, and Walter and Warren did. I said we ought to keep it to ourselves. I mean . . . we didn’t really see nothing. We didn’t mean to . . . I mean we were just looking for General Custer.” He lowered his gaze.

  Laying the bat on the bed next to Daniel, Frank sat down and put his forearms on his knees. He drew in his breath and looked at the tips of his boots.

  “I’m not allowed to come here anymore for piano lessons,” Daniel confessed dejectedly. “I don’t mind the not-having-lessons part, but I’d miss coming to the saloon to belly up to the bar and have you horse around with me and the boys.”

  Frank made no reply.

  “My ma told my pa if she ever caught him in the Moon Rock again, she’d go live with my grandmother.” He cocked his head. “And she said she’d make sure none of the other fathers could come here anymore either.”

  Right now Frank didn’t care if he lost the business. But the scandal would cost Amelia hers. He could still see the look of devastation on her face in the church when she lost the piano. Word of their so-called indiscretion was going to ruin her unless he did something to halt the rumors before they started.

  Daniel glanced at Frank. “What are you going to do, Mr. Brody?”

  Frank turned his head to gaze at the boy. “I’m going to marry Miss Marshall.”

  Daniel swallowed, his tiny Adam’s apple bobbing. “Gosh, you are? Do you like her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you love her?”

  Frank inhaled slowly. “I think so.”

  Daniel meshed his fingers together, the nails soiled. “Then I guess you could marry her. You’d have to kiss her though, but I don’t think she’s ugly.”

  “Me neither.”

  They were quiet a moment before Frank asked, “Have you ever taken anything from your father’s store without him knowing about it?”

  “I’ve never stole from him,” Daniel defended in a rush, then hastened to add, “Well, at least not real merchandise. Lickerish shoestrings and bellyburners don’t count. Do they?”

  “I reckon they wouldn’t to a boy.”

  “Why do you ask, Mr. Brody? Do you want me to get you some candy?”

  “No.” Frank sat up. “But I would appreciate it if you could buy me something without your parents knowing about it.”

  “Why can’t you come in and buy it?”

  “I’d rather no one know about the purchase just yet.”

  Frank rose, went to the low bureau, and retrieved his wallet. He counted off some bills. “I want you to pick out the best ladies’ ring in the store and pay for it with this. Put the money in your father’s cash box. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, sir.” Daniel took the money and stuffed it into his pocket. “What kind do you like?”

  Frank thought a moment. “I’ve always fancied opals.”

  “My father has a real nice opal ring with diamonds around it.”

  “That’ll do.”

  The boy nodded. “When do you want me to bring it back?”

  “Give me thirty minutes.”

  “Okay.”

  Frank picked up the bat from the bed and handed it to Daniel. “I’d appreciate it if you kept this between me and you. Man to man.”

  The boy stood. “I will.”

  “Good.”
Frank put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “And no surprise frog this time. You do this favor for me, and you can keep the bat.”

  “W-What did you say?” he stammered.

  “You can keep the bat.”

  “Holy smoke . . .” Daniel breathed. “You mean it?”

  “Yeah. I mean it.”

  Grasping the Spalding in his hand, Daniel put the bulk of the wood in the crook of his arm. “I don’t care what my mother says. I don’t think you’d ever do anything bad.” He gave Frank a sheepish gaze from underneath the locks of sandy brown hair. “You’re my hero, Mr. Brody.”

  Then he ran out of the bedroom, the heels of his plow shoes clopping over the floorboards.

  * * *

  Amelia had gone to Narcissa’s house right after her breakfast, but when she saw the ladies converging on the stoop of the Dodge residence, she’d turned around and gone home. She longed to tell Narcissa about yesterday. A disclosure of this importance was a private matter between her and her best friend. She could never blurt out how she was feeling about Frank with the others sitting on the edges of their brocaded chairs, hanging on her every word. Though they wouldn’t say so outright, most likely they’d think her foolish to become involved with the very man who laid claim to her piano; not to mention, he was a server of alcoholic refreshment. They’d started to gun down Frank Brody’s occupation during their card games, despite having once stuffed him with finger sandwiches and candies. She feared the newness of Frank’s arrival in town, and their inquisitiveness being sated about his showplace, had begun to ebb. Their acceptance of him and his establishment was dissipating, and it angered her they could be so fickle.

  Since Amelia hadn’t been able to readily talk with Narcissa, she’d spent the morning ironing, took her lunch in the wicker settee on the back porch, and was now weeding the flower bed on the side of the house.

  Humming a bright melody while the sun warmed her back, she felt a bottomless satisfaction and contentment as she worked. Last night she’d been so wrapped up in her cocoon of euphoria, it had taken her awhile to fall asleep. When she’d finally drifted into a light doze, she dreamed about Frank . . . about his arms around her . . . his firm lips on her own. She’d relived their kiss dozens of times in her sleep, and when she awoke at dawn, she was embracing her pillow. She’d stared romantically at the downy plumpness through half-closed eyes, imagining what it would be like to wake up and see Frank lying there next to her instead of a lump of feathers stuffed into a pillow slip.

  A month ago she never would have thought such a thing, much less put a face to a man she was pretending to be sleeping in her bed. But now, things were different. She was different. She no longer projected her life to be lived in solitude as a withering raisin on the vine. Frank had made her feel pretty and desired. He’d given her hope, and in that, she’d found joy in his company, in his kisses.

  She had fallen headfirst in love.

  She wondered when she would see him again . . . be able to touch him again. Raking a dandelion with her weeder, she dropped it in her bucket. Amelia sighed, stood, and took her bucket of weeds to the rear of the house, where she put them on the porch steps. Then she reached for her watering pot and went to the pump to fill it. That done, she began to sprinkle the petunias growing along the walkway.

  Immersed in her thoughts, she didn’t hear Frank until he said her name. Looking up, she broke into an inviting smile as he walked toward her. He looked especially handsome in his black trousers, silk shirt, and blue vest. He’d combed his hair away from his forehead, his panama hat giving her a marginal view of his inky black hair.

  His stride was purposeful as he shortened the distance between them.

  “Hello, Frank,” she greeted warmly. “I wasn’t expecting you, but I’m glad—”

  She was unable to finish her sentence. Frank slipped his hands around her waist, pulled her close, and kissed her hotly on the mouth. The sudden passion of his gesture caused her to drop her watering pot. At first she did nothing, but as his mouth worked over hers, as the heat of his lips melted her shock, she wrapped her arms around his neck and settled into the kiss that was divine ecstasy.

  He parted her lips, his tongue seeking hers with tantalizing persuasion. She felt a quickening start in her ribs, spreading and warming her with delightful shivers. Her knees weakened; her pulse beat erratically. His arms tightened around her midriff, and he pulled her roughly against him. She felt the press of his shirt buttons on her collar, the solid muscles of his chest and the length of his long legs as they tangled in the soft gathers of her skirt.

  His tongue stroked the inside of her mouth, and she melted into every rugged curve of his body. Her breasts were crushed, and a tingling radiated from her nipples as they tightened into peaks beneath her chemise. Groaning into his mouth, she slid her hand to the nape of his neck. His hair was silky cool, and she sifted the fine locks with her fingers.

  “Marry me, Amelia,” he whispered on her lips.

  It took her a moment before the words sunk into her mind. “What?”

  “Marry me.” Brushing her open mouth with hungry kisses, he left her reeling. His lips caressed her along her jawline, and he breathed hotly into her ear, “Marry me and you won’t be sorry.”

  She shivered as his deep voice vibrated through her, making her heart drum wildly. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing and had to ask, “You’re proposing?”

  “Yes.” His arms tightened around her, and he bent her back against his arm to kiss her once again. His possessive grip took her wits away. Her head whirled as she gave herself over to his kiss, aware she hadn’t answered him.

  Amelia couldn’t think; she couldn’t breathe. Every fiber of her being was focused on Frank—his body hard and firm against hers, his lips tasting and pleasing her to her toes.

  “Marry me,” he asked once again, the words fluttering over her kiss-dampened mouth. “Say yes.”

  “I . . .”

  “Say yes.”

  “I want to.” And she did want to! Her head was swimming; her gaze was locked with his. The startling intensity of his eyes told her he was serious.

  Her frivolous side wanted to shout yes. But her reasonable side, the side she knew best, couldn’t help wanting to know why he wanted to marry her. Did he love her? Did he feel the same things about her as she felt about him?

  He must have sensed her hesitation because he said, “Don’t think about reasons. Seize the moment, Amelia. Take it. You want to be happy. You can be happy with me. Marry me. Now.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.” His palms slid seductively down her back, his touch evoking a shower of exhilarating tingles across her skin. “Let’s go see the Rev.”

  “I . . .”

  “Christ, Amelia. Don’t make me keep asking.” His hold on her tensed. “I want to marry you now, but if you keep making me ask, I’m going to—”

  “You’re unsure then,” she interrupted.

  “No, I’m not. I’m just impatient.” His hands lingered at her waist, and he pulled her flush against him. The way he held her was indecent, but she wasn’t shocked or repelled. Something deep inside her screamed for him to go further, to take her further. She wanted him to kiss her again, to touch his tongue with her own and feel her body respond to him.

  Amelia closed her eyes and thought of her bed—the vacant place that was cold on winter mornings; the vacant place that had only been filled with her musings of a husband, and all the while knowing she would never have one. This was her chance. Her last chance. She’d taken the risk before with Jonas. She’d put her hopes into a wedding ring, but he’d tricked her. His deceit had hurt so bad.

  But Frank wasn’t like Jonas Pray.

  Frank wouldn’t lie about marriage. He wouldn’t ask unless he truly wanted her to be he wife.

  Opening her eyes, Amelia smiled tenderly at him. His face, the face she would grow old with, was looking down at her. She lifted her hand and put her palm on his cheek. Turning his
head, he caught her fingers in his and brought them to his mouth for a kiss. “Yes,” she said. “I’ll marry you, Frank.”

  “Let’s do it now.” He sounded as if he had trouble getting the words out of his mouth, and he cleared his throat. “I’ve already talked to the Rev about marrying us.”

  “You spoke to Reverend Thorpe?” she said in disbelief.

  “Yes. He’s waiting for us at the church. I told him we’d be there in fifteen minutes.”

  Startled by his confession, she gasped, “You were that sure I’d say yes?”

  “I hoped to hell you would.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “I would have convinced you even if you said no.”

  She didn’t doubt that. The touch and expertise of his lips could make her do crazy things—things her aunt and mother would have disapproved of. But they’d gone with the angels, and though her love for them was strong in her memories, she had to live her life without them. She had to ask herself what she wanted.

  She wanted Frank.

  She wanted him more than she’d ever wanted anything. Even more than that New American piano.

  “Fifteen minutes?” She heard her voice go unnaturally high. “I can’t get ready in fifteen minutes.”

  “You’ll have to be.”

  Her mind was awhirl. She didn’t have a wedding dress. She had nothing in her wardrobe that was all white. All her clothes were suitably drab, and those with color were in darker shades. She had shirtwaists in white and natural linen . . . perhaps if she put one with her Henrietta skirt. Glancing at Frank, she asked, “Why can’t we wait until I can make suitable arrangements for a dress?”

  “Because”—his head dipped and he kissed the side of her neck—“I don’t care what you wear.”

  “But—”

  He silenced her protest with his mouth on hers. She felt her resolve slipping, snuffed out by the heat of his kiss. “Oh, very well,” she said in a wispy tone. “I don’t care either.”