Inheriting a Bride

by Lauri Robinson

  Startled by the male voice, she grabbed the branch, securing her balance as a lump formed in her throat. Of all the wishes she’d made in her life, this would have to be the one that came true, wouldn’t it? She rustled up a smile. “Hello, Mr. Hoffman,” she said in greeting. “What are you doing here?”

  He blocked the sun with one hand as he peered up at her. “I think I asked you first,” he said. “What are you doing up there?”

  There may have been a slight bit of humor in his tone, but she couldn’t be sure. “I’m catching Frenchie,” she explained, inching her way toward the cat.

  “Frenchie doesn’t need your help. Get down before you fall and break your neck,” he insisted.

  No, there was no humor in his tone. A groan rattled against the back of her throat as Kit glanced to Liza Rose, who was tugging on Clay’s shirtsleeve.

  “He’ll eat the babies if Kit doesn’t get him, Mr. Hoffman,” the girl explained.

  “What babies?”

  “Baby birds, of course,” Kit said. “What else do cats eat?”

  “Just about anything they want,” he said, talking up into the tree. “Mice, fish, bugs, whatever they find.”

  “I suspect you’re right,” Kit answered. “Now, please be quiet. I don’t want him to go any higher.” Frenchie had turned around, as if following the conversation. Sitting in a V of two branches, he eyed her curiously with a pair of light gray eyes.

  “Haven’t you ever seen a person climb a tree before?” she asked the cat as she scooted along the branch. With Clay watching, her courage was waning, and getting back to the ground was becoming imperative.

  Frenchie meowed.

  “Yes, well, I can’t say I do it very often anymore,” she whispered to the cat. “But if my gramps was here, he’d lay a bet that I’ve climbed as many trees as you.”

  The cat cocked his head and then, as if bored, lifted a paw, licked it and wiped it along his cheek.

  She giggled softly, and scooted close enough to hold out a hand for him to sniff. His little nose, pink and cold, touched the back of her hand. “Are you going to let me carry you down? Or are you going to scratch me?”

  Slowly, as if he was quite exhausted, Frenchie stood, stretched and then walked straight to her, brushing her cheek with his upon his arrival. Gathering him into one arm, she noticed the nest beyond the V of branches. The empty nest. “Oh, you naughty, naughty boy,” she whispered into the cat’s ear.

  He meowed and then started to purr while snuggling closer. “Oh, you are a precious one, trying to sweet-talk me into not being angry.” She nudged his head with her chin. “I must warn you, it won’t work. I’m very upset with you.”

  He purred louder, quite unaffected by her sentiments, which was just as well, since she held no ill will toward the cat. It was his instinct. Nature’s law. A natural principle Gramps had explained to her years ago. Cats eat birds, birds eat butterflies and so on. Everything had a predator, no matter how beautiful.

  “Are you going to sit up there conversing with a cat, or are you going to climb down before you both fall?” Clay asked.

  “Don’t worry, cats always land on their feet,” she assured him. Another one of Grandpa Oscar’s insightful teachings.

  “Yes, but do women?”

  Kit stiffened. For a moment she’d forgotten her age. Forgotten how inappropriate it must be for her to be climbing trees—in a new dress at that. Sucking up her dismay, for there truly was nothing she could do about it, she inched her way along her former path. It wasn’t until she reached the lowest branch, the one holding the swing, that she wondered how she would get down with Frenchie snuggled in the crook of one arm.

  “Stand back, Liza Rose,” Clay said, guiding the child farther away from the swing with both hands. “You stay right there.”

  Still contemplating her options, Kit watched as Liza Rose nodded, and Clay returned to the tree. He climbed onto the seat of the swing, keeping his balance with a grip on one rope. His nose was even with her knees, and the slight glimmer of amusement in his blue eyes sent Kit’s heart racing to the point she wobbled.

  His reactions were swift. Before she really comprehended what was happening, his hands had grasped her waist and he was jumping off the swing. The next instant her feet were on the ground, but thankfully, his hands still held her waist, because the world around her was spinning. Not so unlike when he’d lifted her off the horse a couple days ago.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Though her legs felt almost useless, she nodded. This man certainly had a knack of showing up just when she needed him.

  “Good, then give Frenchie to Liza Rose,” he said.

  Nodding again, she managed to whisper, “Thank you,” as his hands twisted her about. Before kneeling down, she placed a kiss upon Frenchie’s head. “You silly old cat,” she whispered, though in some ways she was talking to herself. Then she held the animal out. “Here you are, Liza Rose.”

  As the child took Frenchie, Clay knelt down beside them, patting the cat’s head.

  The frown on his face may have appeared stern, but there was no anger in his eyes. “You could have broken your neck,” he whispered in Kit’s ear as one hand rubbed her back, as he had yesterday.

  “Nonsense.” His concern had her insides flipping, and she had to concentrate to keep from toppling against him. “I think you should take Frenchie into the house, don’t you, Liza Rose?” Draped over the child’s folded arms, sharing the space with Mrs. Smith, the cat looked fully content. “He’s had quite a day already.” Fingers crossed, Kit hoped the child wouldn’t ask about the bird’s nest. “He’d probably like a saucer of cream and to curl up someplace with the sun shining on his back.”

  “Liza Rose!”

  A slender, tall woman had the hem of her paisley print dress and a long white apron hitched above her ankles as she rushed around the corner of the house. Kit stood, bracing to finally meet the highly esteemed Clarice.

  With little more than a shy nod toward Kit, the woman knelt down in front of Liza Rose. “I looked all over for you, young lady.” Though her words were harsh, her tone was soft and held a hint of relief as she cupped the girl’s tiny shoulders with both hands. “Where have you been?”

  “Frenchie followed Miss Clarice out the door this morning, Momma. I had to find him.” Liza Rose turned her magnified eyes toward Kit. “She got him out of the tree, Momma. Kit got him so he couldn’t eat the babies.”

  Dread rose in her stomach, and though she tried, Kit couldn’t keep it off her face.

  “Hello, Mrs. Wurm,” Clay said. “May I introduce you to Kit Becker?”

  “Kit Becker?” the woman questioned. “As in Oscar’s Kit?”

  “Yes,” Kit replied. “Oscar Becker was my grandfather.”

  “Kit, this is Adeline Wurm.” Clay completed the introduction.

  Recalling the name, Kit reached out a hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Wurm. My grandfather was very saddened to hear of your husband’s death.”

  Adeline Wurm took her hand in a gentle grasp, and the flash of pain in her eyes made Kit wish she hadn’t mentioned the terrible accident Gramps had been informed of not long before his own death. She folded the woman’s hand between both of hers. “My grandfather thought highly of your husband.”

  Adeline bowed her head shyly. “Thank you, and it’s nice to meet you, too.” She lifted her face as she added, “The entire town was filled with grief when we heard of Oscar’s passing, and his wife’s. The carriage accident.”

  Maybe the shimmer of sadness that swirled around her heart was intensified by Adeline’s words, or maybe because Clay squeezed her elbow with understanding. Either way, Kit took a moment, acknowledged the angst her grandparents’ passing had created inside her. The shock of their deaths—a spooked horse had toppled their carriage while they were returning from an engagement—had been sudden and left her numb for weeks. The pain had lessened over the months, but she doubted it would ever go completely away. Hope
d it wouldn’t in some ways. It reminded her how precious they had been, how important family was.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Wurm,” Kit managed to reply. “Your sympathies are sincerely appreciated.” Gramps’s voice appeared in her head, telling her once again how nothing was gained from wallowing in the past. A smile forced upon her lips, and a glance at Liza Rose and the notorious Frenchie brightened Kit’s heart considerably. “I’m sorry you were worried about Liza Rose. I assure you she was never in danger.”

  Adeline turned to her daughter, and though she shook her head, affection shone in her gaze. “The other children have already finished their chores. You’ll have to hurry to get yours done if you want to attend the matinee.”

  “I’ll see to them right now, Momma.” Liza Rose turned toward the house, and then swung around and rushed toward Kit.

  Kit knelt down to accept her one-arm hug. The other arm held both the cat and the doll. “Thank you for rescuing the birds, Kit,” the child whispered.

  Pinching her lips together, holding in the truth about the empty nest, Kit planted a little kiss upon the girl’s head. “You’re welcome.” When she stepped back, Kit gave Frenchie’s head a little scratch. “You see he stays in the house the rest of the day.”

  “I will,” Liza Rose promised. With the cat and the doll bobbing, the child ran for the house.

  Warmth pooled in her stomach as Kit stood. The innocent affection from the child was like none she’d ever experienced. Glancing toward the tree, she swallowed. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Wurm, but I’m afraid I was too late. The nest was empty.” Grief hovered in her throat. “I didn’t have the heart to tell Liza Rose.”

  “Oh, goodness. That will upset her.” Adeline shook her head. “She’s such a caring child and has already had a difficult week.”

  “Why’s that?” Kit asked.

  Adeline shook her head sadly. “She was punished at school and lost Mrs. Smith’s glasses.” The woman gestured toward the house then. “I need to get inside and see to the children. It was nice to meet you, Miss Becker. Mr. Hoffman,” she added with a nod.

  “Nice meeting you, too,” Kit replied, but her attention was drawn back to Clay. His hold on her elbow had tightened.

  She had to take a fortifying breath before turning to peer up at him.

  Clay’s insides were slamming together with the power of stampers back at the smelter. Those big brown eyes, looking somewhat sheepish as she stared up at him, had him wanting to give her a smile a mile wide. Now that she was safely on the ground, that was. After leaving the schoolhouse, he’d remembered the satchel in his pocket. Mimmie Mae had said she’d seen Kit following Liza Rose up the street. He’d found Mrs. Smith’s glasses in the trash can beside the teacher’s desk, and they were now in his pocket, but he needed to repair them before giving them to the child. Not that he’d recalled them until now. Seeing Kit in the tree had made him forget just about everything else. “I thought you were afraid of heights,” he finally said.

  “Not trees,” she said with a grimace. “I’ve climbed them my whole life.”

  He dug in his pocket. “Here,” he said, pulling out the satchel. “Ty Reins found it in the caboose.”

  “Oh, goodness, I didn’t even realize I’d lost it. Thank you.”

  His jaw was hardening, even while his heart was softening. If Oscar had told her about Joseph Wurm, surely he’d told her about Sam and her mother.

  “Did you hear back from Sam?” she asked. “Will he meet me?”

  “No, not yet,” Clay replied. There were too many questions he needed answered before he was going to arrange that. “Did you run away from Chicago?”

  The dread in her eyes said he’d hit the nail on the head, as did the way his stomach hit the ground.

  Chapter Six

  Back in his office, after stopping to check on the new boiler, Clay repaired and cleaned the tiny glasses until they sparkled as brightly as the day Liza Rose had received Mrs. Smith. Then he wrapped the spectacles in a soft cloth and tucked them in his breast pocket. He’d deliver them at supper, since he usually dined with Clarice and the children on Saturday nights.

  A stitch built in his chest and he forced the air out, cleansing his lungs, and hopefully his mind. It didn’t work. The sting was still there. Smack-dab in the center of his torso, where his heart all of a sudden had appeared again. The past couple of years it had pumped his blood, and on some occasions, such as while he was thinking of little Liza Rose or even Clarice, it warmed, let him know he wasn’t completely without feelings. But for the most part, it had been just an organ, kept him alive. That’s what happened when you gave it away. You got it back damaged. Too destroyed ever to work properly again.

  But today it had kicked back in—with full force, and he really didn’t like it. His gaze went to the window, and beyond, to the bright blue sky. He pushed back from his desk and walked across the room. From this side of his office, he could see most of Nevadaville. The other window, the one behind his desk, displayed the stamping mill, where the steady pounding of the crushers echoed over the hills. At regular intervals they pulsed, stamping the ore into pebbles and sand, the sounds as familiar as his own breathing. He no longer heard them, which was how his feelings had been—so habitual they really didn’t matter.

  Kit had done this to him, and that was the problem. He should have marched her straight to the train station from Clarice’s, but he hadn’t, and didn’t exactly know why. She claimed Mr. Watson wouldn’t tell her who Sam was and that’s why she’d run away. That was what bothered him. Would she run away again? As soon as she had met Sam? Women were known for that—running away—and he didn’t have time to be chasing after one. Especially one that was making him feel things he hadn’t felt in years.

  It had been the woman—Katherine, the one she’d pretended to be—that had started things flowing again, and for some reason, his heart couldn’t grasp the difference between Katherine and Kit. Not the way his mind could. Yet even there, it was all such a twisted tale he felt as tightly braided as a new rope. When he looked at her, he saw Kit—but he also saw Katherine.

  He gave his head a shake and told himself she was here to see Sam, and that’s what he needed to be concerned about. The kid had had enough losses. Meeting Kit, only to have her up and disappear, wouldn’t be right, yet there wasn’t a whole lot Clay could do. He couldn’t keep them apart.

  There was still no word from the Chicago solicitor, and Clay was now thoroughly questioning her tale of wanting to meet Sam. The will stated the lawyer had to approve any man she chose to marry, and Clay had to wonder if that’s what had happened. That Watson had disapproved of a man she had her heart set on, so Kit was here to gain approval, and would use Sam in her scheme. She was forbidden by the will to marry before she was twenty-one, and, if Clay recalled right, that was still several months away.

  He shifted, bearing more weight on the palms he’d planted on the windowsill, wondering where the man she’d chosen was, and if he was the one who had put her up to all this.

  A knock sounded, and before he could respond the door opened.

  “I see the new boiler’s up and running.” Jonathan Owens, the land agent whose office was below, strolled into the room. “She looks good, too.”

  Clay moved to his desk, sat casually on one corner, glad to engage in a conversation that would take his mind off Kit. “You stopped by, had a look at her?”

  “Sure enough did.” The man took a seat in one of the padded-leather seats along the wall. His gaze grew thoughtful, a bit furrowed. “You never mentioned Oscar’s granddaughter was coming to town.”

  Tension landed on the back of Clay’s neck like a hawk on a field mouse. He stood, twisting his shoulders at the tightness. “You’ve met her?”

  “Yes, I had supper with her last night.”

  Clay rotated his head, making his neck pop, and then rubbed at the spot. “You did?” Jonathan was a close friend, apt at his job, and he was a gentleman. Most every woman in town considered
the man a dear friend—including Clarice.

  “She’s as adorable as Oscar always claimed.”

  Clay’s back molars met, and it took a conscious effort to relax his jaw. Adorable and conniving, no doubt. Rounding his desk, he took a seat and shuffled a stack of papers. “Did you have something you needed? I’ve a lot of work to get to.”

  “Here.” Jonathan stood and handed a folded slip of paper across the desktop. “Ted Musgrove stopped me, asked me to deliver this to you. He said it just came in.”

  Clay ripped open the telegram, hoping it was from Watson. Frustrated, seeing it was from the mint, he absently stuffed the paper on top of several others beneath a chunk of fool’s gold. The pile was growing, but his assistant, James Otto, would go through them. Both the Denver smelter and the mint sent telegrams regularly confirming the arrival of the latest load of ore or a deposit, and James entered each receipt. His bookwork was meticulous, and something Clay grew more grateful for every day.

  Jonathan frowned, but then a smug smile creased his lips. He rested an elbow on the arm of the chair and scratched his temple. “Is there something I should know about?”

  Clay ignored the tingles on his spine. “No, not that I know of.”

  Rubbing his chin, as if contemplating the greatness of the world, the man said, “I mean between you and Kit.”

  His first instinct was to tell the man to stay the hell away from her, yet Clay couldn’t. If there was one man in town Kit would be safe seeing, it was Jonathan. The man was head over heels in love with Clarice; the entire town knew that. Clarice was in love with her society house, and even Clay found himself rooting for Jonathan to be able one day to make her see that wouldn’t always be enough. An odd thing, a man who didn’t believe in love wanting others to find it.

  The air left Clay’s chest with a huff as he shoved himself to his feet. “I have to go check on the new boiler.” He grabbed the stack of telegrams off his desk. “As soon as I drop these off to James downstairs.”

  “Kit was asking a lot of questions about Sam.”