by Kari Trumbo
He could get someone else to deal with the ridiculous manuscript, but this might be his ticket to helping Misty get her story written properly and get him out of following around some rich buffoon, leaving him to chase real stories.
Frances appeared out of nowhere and sat before him, her striking lavender eyes pinned him to his chair and, for a moment, every thought he’d just put in order flew out of his head. How did she manage to sneak up on him?
Her words poured forth before he could prepare. “I know I was supposed to wait until you sent for me, but I just couldn’t. Have you read my story yet? Do you like it?” She sat near the edge of the chair, her blond hair piled neatly on her head. Though the clothes she wore looked more suited to a schoolmarm than an author, her face was bright and fresh, and an expectant smile tugged at her soft pink lips, making them rather appealing.
Her excitement poured off of her in waves. Only someone with no heart could destroy that. How could he tell her just how bad it was without crushing her? He sighed and put on his “business” face. “Do you want the truth?”
Her shoulders fell and her excitement drained like a cork pulled from an upended bottle.
Please don’t cry. Not here at my desk.
“Yes, I suppose I would.” She slid back in her chair, her gaze locked onto his top button, nowhere near his face. Despite his profession, he hated to be the bad guy. Hated that she might not like him much after he told her what had to be said. Maybe she’d never come back if he did, and despite the bother she was, he also felt compelled to help the budding author like Marksman had helped him.
If he chose his words carefully, he might not lose her. “I don’t think you do. You see, Miss Arnsby, you haven’t lived enough life to write romance. How old are you? Seventeen?” She couldn’t be much older than that. She didn’t even have a womanly curve to her cheekbones.
She gasped. Her neck might just snap if it sat any straighter on her shoulders. “I don’t think my age is any of your concern, Mr. Davidson.”
He leaned back and took her in, crossing his arms over his chest. She wanted to know, he’d tell her. “Fine, so you’re young. I can see that in your writing. There are many things you can learn by reading about them, such as English and poetry. Fine things. However, other things take doing. For instance, I can teach you the rules of baseball, but you would never be able to tell me what a game feels like, until you were there, bat in hand.
“I can tell you with certainty that none of the…intimacies…you describe are anything like that in life.”
Sweet color bedecked her cheeks. “What, exactly, are you saying Mr. Davidson?” Frances wrapped her arms around her middle and gripped her elbows as if she were trying to block his view of her. It rankled. He rather liked the scenery.
“I’m not telling you to go out and be a trollop. I’m telling you to go out and do more than read. All that woosey-floosey stuff. It isn’t real. Men and women don’t ever really feel that way. Kisses…don’t feel that way. Go on walks. Talk to a few men. Let your little heart pitter-patter. But you need to feel something. The man in your story is about as lunk-headed as they come.”
Her face crumpled but she didn’t go for her handkerchief. At least he hadn’t made her cry. But he had just stepped on, not only her dreams of becoming an author, but her fantasies about men. As disillusioned as they were, he almost wished some of what she’d said was true, just so he wouldn’t have to dash it all away. Such was life in the print business. Even romance authors had to check their feelings with their coats.
“I don’t see it that way.” She sat up and reached for her folder, her breaths coming too deep. He’d seen that tactic with his aunt, when she was doing her best not to cry. Her eyes glistened.
“Miss Arnsby, wait.” He reached for the folder and held her in place. She couldn’t leave just yet, not when there was still hope. “You may not, but there’s no way this is getting printed like this.” Though if she submitted it to the right place, maybe. He couldn’t imagine anyone choosing to read that drivel.
“Then I’ll thank you for your time and be on my way.” She yanked the folder from his grasp and tucked it under her arm with a delicate sniff.
“I guess you aren’t interested in improving then?” There was only one way to deal with a woman who sniffled like that, give them something to fight about. He laced his hands behind his head and propped his feet up on the desk, waiting to see if she’d take the bait. Being in control of a situation was one of his strengths, and his aunt had helped him hone it. If he could maintain control, she’d never know she was about to do his job for him and that he’d never let her manuscript see the light of day. At least at the Union anyway. Her writing would be better for it, though, and she might eventually get published if she had the heart to keep trying.
Her lower lip jutted out. “I’m only here for three more weeks, Mr. Davidson. I can’t live a whole life in that time.” Her jaw quivered.
He popped forward in his chair and forced a look of excitement he didn’t feel onto his face. “I don’t expect you to live a whole life. But you can learn a lot in a week. There’s an Englishman coming to Rapid tomorrow, looking to add a little rustic Americana to his list of vacations. You could go to dinner with him, keep him company. Go on walks. Talk. Go out afterward to dance or see the theater. Not only can you enjoy the best Rapid City has to offer, then, you can tell me everything about him and I can teach you how to write that into your story to make it better, more compelling. Something women will want to read.”
Her hands were white with how close she held the folder to her chest. “So, you didn’t cry when you read it?”
Couldn’t she understand he didn’t want to go into specifics about it? He sighed and forced his eyes to remain on hers and not roll like he wanted to. “Don’t ask a man a question like that. It’ll only lead to hurting your own feelings. Don’t ever hand a man the power to hurt you unless you want him to dash you over the head with it. There’s your first lesson. Men aren’t dashing. Most of the time, we’re just men.”
She hid her look of horror quickly as she pulled her lip back in between a row of straight white teeth and sat up straight.
“Good. Get out your notebook, kid. I’ll tell you how to start. Then, I can introduce you to him tomorrow. I think you’ll do great.”
“Do you really think I can learn this so quickly? How long will he be here? I don’t even know his name. You haven’t said.”
There was the little go-getter that had demanded he print her book just the day before. “His name is James Turner. He is, perhaps, a year or two older than I, and he likes cricket.”
“I don’t know anything about games, cricket or otherwise.”
Clive laughed and tapped her paper. “Bravo, at least you knew it was a game. And, as I said, I’ll help you. Now you’re asking the right questions. Let’s get started.”
Chapter 3
What would a woman wear to go about town with an Englishman? Frances sat outside the Reeves Mercantile on Seventh Street waiting for Constance. It was a huge, two story high brick building, taking on the new style of architecture, with huge brick blocks in the Roman style. It was more intimidating than the older false-front design she was used to. The heat poured off the bricks and a droplet of moisture ran down her neck, collecting just under her shirtwaist. The day had turned hot, and her silk fan did little to help the dry, suffocating summer air. Constance had been carrying the parasol and had taken it in with her inside, leaving Frances at the mercy of the sun.
Mr. Davidson strode toward her from a few blocks away. He was easy to pick out in the assorted groups of unknown faces to her. His desk had mostly blocked her view of him on her previous visits to the Union and he’d, frankly, annoyed her. Well, that wasn’t true, he’d wounded her pride. Pride cometh before a fall and she’d fallen into a pit at his words. She’d been so sure her story was perfect.
Out in the daylight, Mr. Davidson had a swagger to his walk. Confidence, not arrogance,
that drew her eye and that of many other women on the street. He had perhaps a rather average build, and hair as dark as night beneath a gray wool page-boy that gave him an innocence she hadn’t attributed to him before. And those steely blue eyes—she’d recognize them anywhere. She fanned harder, hoping her face was not turning red with too much sun, or too much Mr. Davidson.
“Good day, Miss Misty.” He tipped his hat to her and bowed slightly as he stopped at the edge of her bench.
There wasn’t much room on the seat, but she moved to the side and allowed him space. “Why must you torment me so? What have I ever done to you?” She fanned harder.
He laughed and her stomach fluttered strangely.
“This coming from the young woman who demanded I deliver her story to the head of the paper, post haste?”
She burned under his comments, suddenly glad of the sun so he wouldn’t realize it. His face was a little too close. Before, he’d been across the desk, a sort of wall between them. Now there was nothing there and he was too personal. It was easy to ignore him when he was feet away and hurling stinging words at her. His presence next to her on the bench unnerved her.
“Has the Englishman arrived, or how will you contact me?” She glanced to the inside of the store where Constance stood, eyeing confections she shouldn’t indulge in.
“You’re staying with the Charitys, yes?” He glanced up and down the street, all hint of fun gone from his face.
“How could you possibly have known that? I didn’t tell you.” Had he been spying on her? She’d never told him anything about herself, not even her real first name.
His smile lifted every angle of his face, and her mouth went impossibly dry. “I’m a reporter. It’s what I do. How is Miss Constance after that farce of a reporter posted that drivel about her beau?”
“What do you mean? Dunworthy claims to have seen Reginald with another woman. He even approached us about it yesterday. Constance didn’t deny what he accused her of, though there did seem to be more to the story than just what was printed.”
Mr. Davidson put his finger to his lips and glanced at the faces around them. “Careful what you say out loud in a public place, dear. You never know who’s listening.”
Of course, he’d think the whole world were spies. It probably made him feel important. No one even turned their head or stopped near them. “She isn’t doing well at all. Especially since we saw Dunworthy. She’s been crying and eating everything in sight.”
He shook his head and his lips drew together in a flat line, ruining the fine inverted peak he normally had. “Miss Arnsby promise me you’ll keep her out of the public eye for a bit. Dunworthy is ruthless and if he finds out what you just said, people will make of it what they will.”
“I don’t understand what you mean, nor why you care so much. You hardly know her and, even though we spoke of you yesterday, she doesn’t know you.” The sun had to be getting to her. Why wouldn’t her brain work? Was he insinuating something had already happened to Constance? Or, was Mr. Davidson sweet on her, and why did that leave a burr under her bonnet?
He patted her hand on the bench and a hint of sensation, like the brush of rose petals against her skin, danced up her arm. “Of course you don’t. As I said yesterday, you haven’t lived quite enough to ever think such tawdry things about your friend. Now,” he glanced up and down the street and pulled his cap a little lower, tilting his face to shield it, “you’ll meet with Turner tonight just before supper. I’ll pick you up and bring you there. Look your best. I’d suggest you get out of this sun or you won’t feel well or be at your most charming. After your evening, I’ll bring you home and you can tell me all about it.”
Her belly did a flip, but it wasn’t pleasant as it had been when Mr. Davidson had smiled. She’d never been out alone with a man. “What of Dunworthy? Won’t he be following us around? Isn’t he the social reporter?” She couldn’t keep the harsh gravel from her voice on the final word. With what Mr. Davidson had said at their first meeting, he’d feel just the same about Dunworthy. A shallow connection formed between them, built on the mutual dislike of one awful man.
“For now, you’re safe from the pen of that dolt. He’s been told to stay away from Turner for fear of insulting him. We want this man to rave about Rapid City and bring all of his English friends back for a visit. His wealthy friends.”
She nodded, fanning harder. It was so hot out near the street. If only Constance had left the parasol.
“Go, get inside and convince Constance not to get that sweet roll.” He winked, his hand brushing hers as he stood and strode away. Though she watched him, unable to tear her eyes away, he quickly disappeared into the throng of people. Mr. Davidson seemed to flit in and out of her life so easily. Yet, no one had seen her with him. He was like those illusionists she’d read about, disappearing into thin air. As long as he didn’t disappear too quickly that night and leave her alone with Mr. Turner. Then she’d have to be an escape artist and get herself out of an impossible bind.
The door jangled and Constance plopped down on the seat he’d just left. “I don’t know why I try. Really, I’m going to fail. I wish he’d just marry me off and get it over with.”
Frances refused to take the bait. Mr. Davidson had just warned her about speaking in the street. That—coupled with their meeting with Dunworthy—and she wasn’t taking any chances. No matter how silly and self-important it sounded. “Come, let’s get away from this store and home where we can have a cool lemonade and speak more freely?”
Constance gave a placid nod, then frowned. “Why haven’t you pressured me to tell you about what Dunworthy accused me of? I know the curiosity must be killing you and I can’t talk about it at home. You know what he printed about Reginald, but that would only build support for me with my friends. Aren’t you even curious to know what he was talking about? Don’t you care?”
Frances searched the swarming faces for the brown tweed Dunworthy wore, but he’d never make it that easy. “It would be even worse to talk about it in the street. Of course, I’m curious. But I assume you’ll tell me when you have a mind to.”
Constance swung the parasol up and opened it, finally shading them. Frances kept her fan going. It had been well over three years since she’d lived in town, and the lack of trees surrounding her made the air stifling. Her shirt clung to her back above her stays and below her neck, sticking to her cleavage in a most unladylike way.
“It’s just, for as well as I feel I know you after sharing correspondence with you for so long, I find it difficult to share some things. This is one of those things. This…really could ruin Father. He may not ever want me around again.”
Unable to spot Dunworthy, Frances searched down the street for any other suspicious characters listening in, just as Mr. Davidson had done. If Dunworthy could happen upon them without them knowing by the river, anyone could.
“Don’t forget what happened on our walk just yesterday. We thought we were alone talking then too.”
Constance nodded and her jaw clamped shut.
“I do want to hear what happened, but not now. We’ll have to find a quiet place when you’re ready.”
“It won’t matter. Soon the whole world will know. Then my shame will be complete.”
Chapter 4
Constance tugged Frances’s hair into submission. Frances bit back the flaming arrows filling her head as Constance yanked. Those words would only send Constance further into herself instead of drawing her out. “It’s never going to stay that tight. No sense pulling my hair out.”
Frances turned away and a few locks tumbled down her back, reminding her this was turning into a pattern with them. “What’s the matter, Connie? You’ve been scowling at me in the mirror the whole time.”
Constance swished away in a half-circle. “It’s just...this isn’t why you came. Going out to dinner with some stuffy Englishman? This is never going to get your story published. Especially if that awful Dunworthy sees you. He’ll rip you to pie
ces. He already saw you with me, you might as well wear a scarlet dress and painted lips. It’s what people will assume.”
“Dunworthy hasn’t printed anything about you yet, Constance.” Frances chilled at her own words. “It’s just not true.” Now she had to either find out what Dunworthy might print or what Constance had done. What would the whole town know that would make them assume such things? She hadn’t told Constance about meeting with Mr. Davidson in the street, nor the whole story about how she ended up as Turner’s date for the evening. It had all seemed too personal, admitting she was a failure at writing was just too hard to voice yet. It was much easier to let Constance think everything was happenstance, that she’d been in the right place at the right time.
“Did you sign up for some escort service, Frances? It really is unseemly and if my father finds out, he’ll send you home so fast it’ll make your head spin.”
“It isn’t like that at all! I just happened to...” Oh, how she hated lying to her closest friend. “I heard a conversation at the newspaper discussing how Mr. Turner’s friend was going to be busy this evening, and how Mr. Turner was distraught. Since I know so little about courting, I offered to go. It’s all for research. Nothing more.” She pasted on a smile that felt as rough as burlap.
Constance frowned and went back to Frances’s hair, more gently now. “I guess I’m also a little jealous. I love going out to parties and dinner. Reginald was so good about taking me out on the town and showing me off, draping an arm around me, sweet stolen kisses in his carriage...”
Kisses, why hadn’t she thought of that? This was the perfect opportunity to give it a try, with someone she’d never see again. Her heart leapt. Yes, tonight she could come home and edit her manuscript with the real feelings, things she’d only dreamed about until now.
The past few days, her dreams had taken an odd romantic bent. The man poised to kiss her, to fulfil her desire to be an author, was Mr. Davidson. She’d have to be careful or she’d blush every time she saw him. If his tender kisses in her dreams were anything like a real one, she’d prove Mr. Stuffy Senior Editor wrong. There was romance, tingles, wooing, heart-racing romance that left women weak in the knees. She’d show him—if she got the courage to kiss Turner. Did women outside of romance novels kiss men? Or must she wait until he tried? That was one more thing she didn’t know and would have to find out.
