His protruding stomach sucked in flat. “You’re not welcome here. Get your things and get out.”
“I’ll even leave the dress, but you’re going out while I change,” said Anne, “and drop your keys on the table.”
He tossed his keys and stomped out the door. Anne rushed forward to latch and lock it once again. She holstered the pistol and moved the belt away from the sleeping child.
Once again she’d been denied a safe haven.
She’d give Anoli one more day to contact her. After that she’d head to Pushmataha with the kid. She didn’t know what else to do besides flee to the only safety she’d ever known.
Once dressed, Anne eased the door open and carried the sleeping child into the hallway. Up the stairs came an unlikely couple, the woman wearing a dress similar to the one she’d left behind. Her cold eyes looked Anne over from head to toe.
“I’m just leaving.” Anne leaned against the wall to let them pass, but the man stopped.
His expensive suit didn’t belong in the cheap establishment. His finely groomed appearance spoke of money in an intangible way Anne couldn’t pinpoint. Or maybe it was his confidence and his silver-streaked hair.
“I hope you’ll be back. I think I’d enjoy the novelty of a frontier lass.”
“Come on.” The woman tugged his arm and with a laugh he followed, allowing Anne to escape.
Even the streets didn’t feel safe. Too many people to watch. No refuge from curious stares or prying questions. After stopping at the store to buy provisions for the night, Anne trekked out of town to the thickest stand of trees she could spot. She’d wait the night out there and check with the telegraph office the next morning. She placed Sammy on the ground and tore off a piece of bread. His chubby, eager fingers pinched for it in a way that was almost endearing.
She tossed her knapsack to the ground, eased his bag with the glass bottle to a safe place, and settled in to wait.
The lightning tore across the sky. Anne didn’t breathe until the thunder rumbled, shaking the ground. With the next strike she saw that the baby was still asleep, but he wouldn’t be for long. Rain was on the way.
She pulled her hat over her curls and put on her duster. If she were alone she’d hunker down and ride it out, but she couldn’t do that with a baby. Could she? Stomach-down he slept with his seat bumped up in the air. Finn wouldn’t know what to do with him if he caught cold, so she’d better keep him healthy, if possible.
Anne had him bundled in his blanket about the time the first drops fell. Her hat and duster protected her from the growing onslaught, but the splashes on Sammy’s head made him squirm. With him stowed inside her coat, she couldn’t get along very quickly.
They were drenched by the time they reached town. The only lights shining belonged to the saloons. Anne’s arms tightened around Sammy. They’d be better off on the street.
The next flash of lightning illuminated the deserted city. Shutters latched. Wet, shiny doors locked. Sammy’s struggling became urgent. He got a handful of her wet hair and pulled. Anne almost dropped their bags in her attempt to get free.
“No, no!” she scolded, but Sammy howled back at her.
No wonder he screamed. She was out of sorts, too.
Without another lightning flash she couldn’t read the sign on the building, but a large covered porch beckoned to her. She ducked beneath the roof. Her foot slid on the slick wooden platform, but she caught her balance before her knee hit the ground.
“Listen, kid. You need to be still,” she said. “Swinging all over like this is going to get us both hurt.”
He cried even louder. Anne paced the porch wishing someone, anyone, could alleviate his suffering. And hers. Naturally she was worried about the kid, but if there’d been a safe dry barrel to stash him in, she’d do it in a blink.
At least his lungs were as strong as bellows.
She found herself bouncing him and it seemed to work. He rubbed his eyes and voiced a few angry complaints but soon lost his enthusiasm. His forehead dropped against her chest, and he drifted back to sleep.
Anne stood at the edge of the porch. He’d quieted. How did she know to do that? In gusts, the rain reached beneath the roof to splash her face. She headed back toward the dry center of the porch, hoping to sit and doze until morning, but when she stopped walking, Sammy stirred.
“I guess I don’t have it all figured out, then.” And she never would. She’d do what she could to make it through this miserable night, but she couldn’t take anymore. She needed help.
5
Skipping every other step on his way up, Nicholas reached his second-story office quickly. True, the façade wasn’t as fine as the storefront of the collateral broker’s beneath it, and the outdoor staircase gave his acquaintances fodder for harassment, but once inside the doors, no one could fault his taste. Someday when he moved to a better location, the oak desk, Persian rugs, and glass-enclosed bookshelves would go with him, but he wouldn’t waste money on high rent until he was ready to announce to the world he’d arrived.
Nick stepped inside and dropped the newspaper, messing Harold’s organized desk. Even though Harold’s hairline was retreating prematurely, it didn’t prevent him from keeping a dapper, trim moustache. Harold squared his notepad and continued his perusal.
“You’re looking over my notes, I see,” Nick said. “What’s your assessment?”
“I agree with you. A steam engine would be the best option for our second mill. We’d have more flexibility on where we locate the mill, because we wouldn’t be tied to a waterway.” Harold bent over a sheet of paper, bringing into sharp relief the shoreline of his forehead. “And when we’re finished with Stanford’s line, the equipment would be easier to relocate.”
Nick slapped Harold on the back, forgetting to rein in his enthusiasm. “I’m glad we’re in agreement. I’ll look over the different sizes of engines and see what will work for us. In the meantime we could start putting a crew together. Perhaps run an ad in the paper.”
Nick closed the office door behind him and within minutes was lost somewhere between the paper before him and the figures crowding his head. The speed with which Ian Stanford wanted to lay out the new NTT line was hard to fathom. He might need to work weeks ahead of the graders. He’d need to have his crew getting the mill together soon if they were going to stay ahead. He scratched his forehead. Was Vernon Springs big enough to hire locals, or would they need to ship in some lumberjacks? How many railroad ties an hour could they produce working with a new crew?
When the door swung open, Nick didn’t even look up.
“Someone to see you,” Harold said.
“Send him in.”
He tallied the numbers in the column, getting a preliminary figure on the bid. The dark blur in the doorway alerted him that he was not alone, but the man would just have to wait. Nicholas couldn’t be interrupted—
A gurgle. A happy gurgle like his nephew made. Nick lifted his head. No, his ears hadn’t deceived him. A man with a baby stood in his doorway.
“You said to find you if I needed help.”
Nicholas rose when he heard her voice. Her appearance hadn’t changed since the train—if he didn’t take into account the fact that she was drenched. But somehow here in his plush office she didn’t look as quaint. Instead of intriguing, Mrs. Tillerton looked a little . . . well, dangerous. Maybe it was the way she held the child as though she feared becoming contaminated by it.
“Come in. Here, have a seat.” He motioned to the chair. With long strides made uneven by the weight of the child on her hip, she crossed the room and seated herself. The baby squirmed. Without hesitating she deposited him on the rug and fell back into the chair like a prisoner released from the stocks.
At least the leather chair wouldn’t be hurt by the moisture.
“I need a place to stay,” she said.
He blinked. Their parting hadn’t exactly been cordial, at least from her end. “As a bachelor there’s not much by way of�
��”
Anne sank further into the seat and pulled the drawstring on her collar tight. “A boardinghouse. Do you know of one that accepts children?”
The infant pulled up to his feet but stood about as steady as a drunk on a barge during a hurricane. A child? Mrs. Tillerton was a widow, but Nicholas didn’t remember any children from her marriage. How long ago had Mr. Tillerton died, and where had the child been while she was in Pushmataha? He cocked an eyebrow and tried his hand at guessing the baby’s age. Less than a year. Not nearly old enough. Maybe he needed to change his impression of Mrs. Tillerton. Perhaps she was friendly to some men, just not him.
He didn’t realize he was staring until she pulled her coat around herself. He felt his ears burning.
“Last I heard you were looking for a cook. I’m no expert on infants, but I don’t think he’ll be much help in the kitchen.” Falling into conversation came so naturally to him, his discomfort faded. Especially as he watched hers grow.
“I found the cook I was looking for . . . and her son.” Anne lowered her eyes. “Not only did she refuse to come to Pushmataha with me, she also skipped town and left Sammy in my care.”
“Sammy?” Nicholas stepped around his desk to smile at the child. “So now you’re a mother?”
Her stare could turn boiling water into ice. Or it could amuse him.
“I can’t hunt buffalo with a baby. There’s no point in going back to Pushmataha until I find his father. In the meantime, he needs to be somewhere safer. Last night we had to sleep in the rain . . . or he did at least. I didn’t sleep a wink. And I don’t know how much I can afford. If Finn is hard to track down, I might need a paying job to make ends meet.”
A house, a nursemaid, and a job? At least she wasn’t asking for much.
“What exactly can you do?”
“I can shoot, skin, and tan. And although I won’t admit it to Anoli, I’m a decent cook—nothing fancy, but I work hard. I’ve worked with horses a fair bit—can groom them, trim their hooves. I’m not above working for my keep. I don’t know of any other skills that are worth paying for, but I’ll try about any kind of work.”
Her soft gray eyes held a challenge, daring him to laugh at her skills. Just how well did he know Mrs. Tillerton? Not at all, actually. He knew his sister held her in high regard, but everyone else from home thought her odd.
Nicholas sat on the edge of his desk. Introducing Mrs. Tillerton into his society would cause a sensation, but she wouldn’t appreciate the attention. Come to think of it, her presence in Garber could be awkward for him, as well. Better find somewhere for her out of the way—not one of the boardinghouses, definitely not one of the hotels that the socially mobile haunted. A private residence would be ideal. He had just the place.
“I recommend the Pucketts. Their son is a friend of mine, and they have room in their house. I’m not sure about the baby, but my guess is they’ll be delighted.”
A sudden movement over Anne’s shoulder caught his attention. The Boston fern waved wildly, and then with a crash it disappeared. Both he and Anne scrambled toward the howling baby. Anne pulled him upright and brushed the soil off him—right onto the Persian rug.
Nick wrinkled his nose. “Please . . . let’s carry him to the window and dust him off there.”
“You’re not going to hold a baby out a window, are you?” Her reproachful eyes made him squirm, but his property had to be protected.
“The more you clean him the more dirt you’re getting on the rug. Let’s take him out to the landing.” But the rug was already buried under a thick layer of black loam. The clumps falling out of the child’s thin blond hair weren’t enough to do any more damage. “Oh, never mind. I’ll get Harold. Harold!”
Harold peered around the corner. His chin dropped at the sight of the disaster on the carpet. “Mrs. Stanford is coming today. She could be here any moment.”
“Then help me sweep this up. We have a broom, don’t we?”
Harold’s eyes widened. “Of course not. You pay to have the office cleaned.”
“Stars and bars!” Anne thrust the crying child into Nick’s hands, almost releasing him too soon. “You surely have a clothes brush for your coat. Bring me that and a newspaper. We can tidy this up.”
“And then who’ll tidy me?” Nick walked to his desk with outstretched arms, keeping the slobbering child well away from his satin vest. He sat the baby in the middle of his desk and bent to retrieve his clothes brush from the bottom drawer. “Wonderful! Now he’s smearing my figures.” The tears and spittle had mixed with the dirt, creating a thin mud that must have been delightful to spread over columns of numbers. At least the brat was acting like it.
Giving up on his clothing, Nick cradled the baby in the crook of his arm, igniting new screams when he was removed from his muddy masterpiece. What a disaster. She had no idea how much time he’d spent on that spreadsheet—a lot less than she’d spent saving his life. Maybe he owed her no further. Put a bullet in his head before ransacking his office.
“Thanks.” Anne took the brush without looking at him. She had stuffed the fern back into its pot with the majority of the soil. Besides sitting cockeyed, it looked like it would survive.
Harold dropped the newspaper next to her as she knelt on the ground. “I just saw Mrs. Stanford out the window. She’s turning the corner off Oak Street.”
Heaven help him. Nick picked up the fern, barely able to palm the heavy pot with one hand. “Delay her. Tell her I’m busy.”
Harold wagged his head. “And let her gnaw on me? No thanks.”
When had Mrs. Stanford got her bluff in on Harold? Nick set the potted plant on the narrow stand and surveyed Mrs. Tillerton’s progress. Not bad. Maybe Ophelia wouldn’t notice the rug, although the baby in his arms would make for an interesting conversation. Nick turned toward the desk, and as he did, the little boy grabbed a handful of fern again.
“Watch out!” he said.
This time it didn’t fall on the rug. It fell on Anne, smashing the ceramic pot into shards.
With a hand on her head, she turned horrified eyes on him.
“Why did you hit me?” she asked. And then fainted dead away.
For crying aloud. “Take the kid.” Nick thrust the child into Harold’s arms and rolled her over, the dirt sticking to her wet coat. He patted her cheek urgently. “Come on. Be a dear and wake up. We have to get you out of here.”
“Before what?” a chilling voice intoned. “Before your employer catches you in a prickly situation?”
Anne tasted dirt. She slid her jaw from side to side, testing the pain and the grit between her teeth. She turned her head and knew immediately when she’d rolled onto a tender spot. Why had Jay hit her this time? She tried to remember what had precipitated the encounter, but her memories were too foggy. Nothing came to mind.
She forced her eyes open, expecting the next blow, but instead she saw three concerned faces bending over her.
Pushing off the ground, she raised enough to send sharp pulses through her skull and into her eyes.
“Don’t get up.” Nicholas Lovelace pressed against her shoulder, preventing her from rising any higher.
“You have yet to explain to me this person’s identity,” the woman was saying.
“I barely know myself,” he answered.
“Yet you are caring for her child? If I weren’t so generous, I might suspect a closer relationship than you’re acknowledging.”
Between the two of them? If her head didn’t hurt so, Anne would’ve snorted. She covered her eyes, blocking out the light. She had to get her wits about her. Remaining supine in a man’s office wasn’t an option. What had happened?
Determined to fight through the throbbing, she managed to sit up, dirt tumbling into her eyes, her hair falling until it brushed her shoulders. The rug beneath her hands felt silky but soiled. Her fingers searched it until they found her wet hat. She wouldn’t breathe easy until her disguise was in place again. A moan escaped as the hat touched
her sensitive skull.
“I wish you’d rest, Mrs. Tillerton.”
She bristled at Mr. Lovelace’s voice. A memory stirred. There was a baby. She’d come with a child who had made this man mad, and then when she wasn’t looking he’d clobbered her. Her stomach lurched. If he was that angry, what had he done to the baby?
“Where’s Sammy?” Anne tried to roll onto her knees, but fell back on her seat when dizziness erupted. “What have you done with him? Did you hurt him, too?” Her voice rose over the shocked room.
“I say, Nicholas, this young woman doesn’t appear to be in her right mind. Is she some relation of yours?”
“The ceramic pot fell and landed on your head. I didn’t hit you.” Mr. Lovelace sounded patient, but she couldn’t get her eyes to focus and see if he meant it or not. “Sammy’s all right. He’s over there shredding my business files, happy as a lark.”
On cue Sammy squealed and peeked around the desk, waving crumpled papers. Mr. Lovelace took her arm, helped her to her feet, and guided her to a chair. At least he seemed unconcerned with the cache of dirt falling from each wrinkle of her clothing. She’d made a mess and then accused him of violence. What a fool she was. “Are you sure you don’t want to hold me out the window and shake me off?”
The twinkle in his eye was worth the effort.
“What is the meaning of this?” The dirty rug muffled the sound of the woman’s stomp. “I demand an explanation.”
“I apologize for my inattention. How reckless of me to neglect you when you came all this way to call,” Mr. Lovelace said.
Anne almost grinned at his sarcasm, but the icy glare from the woman made her think better of it.
“Mrs. Stanford, allow me to present to you Mrs. Tillerton. She’s an acquaintance from home—a friend of my sister’s.”
One severe eyebrow rose higher the longer she evaluated Anne’s choice of garments. “Your sister? I’m astonished.”
Poor Mr. Lovelace. Anne had come asking for a favor—never intending to leave his office in shambles and his employer in a tizzy. She hadn’t meant to cause him trouble. Sammy crawled to her and tugged on her pant leg. She helped him scramble into her lap.
Caught in the Middle (Ladies of Caldwell County Book #3) Page 5
