by Kari Trumbo
Clive drove the rig to the Harney hotel where the grand carriage waited. A footman stood by the door. It was a shiny, large black enclosed carriage, with a colorful crest on the side. The crest was a bird, somewhat like an eagle with fire surrounding it. It had to have come with Mr. Turner all the way from England by boat.
When they came to a stop, Clive climbed down and helped Constance first, then she tugged his arm. “Oh, do introduce me! It’ll only take a moment. Frances won’t mind.” She glanced over her shoulder with a wink, leaving Frances perched up in her seat to find her own way down as Constance dragged Clive away. Frances stood and clutched her skirt, gripped the seat, and descended the wheel with as much grace as she could muster, muttering under her breath. There was no such thing as friendship with Constance when a man was involved.
Turner, Clive, and Constance stood by the carriage waiting for her. She slowed her steps, prolonging her time without Turner. His eyes sought her out and landed on her, sending ice down her back. Her soul ached to run in the opposite direction. She flattened her lip and squared her shoulders. This was her profession, her whole life depended on these outings. She could do this. He reached out his hand as she approached, and she laid her hand in his just before he brought it to his lips and pressed them a little too firmly with his kiss.
“Franny, you look lovely this afternoon. Blue is definitely your color.” She swallowed her flinch. She’d never given him permission to call her anything, much less that name. His footman opened the carriage and she cringed inside, waiting for Turner to reach for her. Manners dictated that he assist her in, despite her hesitancy to touch him at all. While the trip down to the lake was a long one, it could be done, and she’d hoped Constance’s complaining would assist her purpose.
“I thought we were walking. Why are we leaving in the carriage?” The hair on the back of her neck prickled.
“Oh Frances, do stop.” Constance and Clive passed her, and Clive handed Constance up into the carriage, then climbed in after her.
Mr. Turner reached for her again and, this time, he didn’t wait for her. He took her arm and drew her past him to the carriage, brushing her against him and up the short stairs. He followed her in and sat next to Clive. Her skin burned with the heat of embarrassment. He’d had no call to lay his hands on her. Now she was sure there would never be anything between them. His touch brought feelings, all sorts, that she had no trouble putting a name to. Anger, revulsion, and disdain. This was the last evening she would spend with Mr. Turner. Clive would just have to find someone else she could spend time with, or she would just give up on writing until she was older. She glanced at him to find him in rapt conversation with Constance. Of course he would be, he was soft for her. Though the carriage was full, she felt dreadfully alone.
For the whole ride along the bumpy trail, Mr. Turner feasted on her without saying a word. She’d tried to focus on Constance and Clive, but they spoke of people she didn’t know. Once the carriage came to a stop, Mr. Turner helped her down then waited for Clive and Constance to join them. The sun sparkled through the shiny leaves of the cottonwood trees that spread down a long, cut path. The footman approached Mr. Turner and bowed slightly.
“We’ve come a little more than halfway, sir. The lake sits three or four miles down this path. McGillicuddy has done a lot of work down the path and at the lake to make it a pretty place. Not many people live out there. Should be nice and quiet.”
Mr. Turner nodded and held out his hand for her. She didn’t take it, but fell into step with him, Clive and Constance following behind.
Sunshine warmed her skin and she fought the urge to turn as Clive spoke behind her. “Turner, you know that McGillicuddy is hoping you write glowing reports of his lake and coming resort. He’s been petitioning the railroad to make a track right on this path. Been lobbying for it for years.”
Turner frowned and searched ahead. “Hmmm, so far, all I see is a row of trees. This isn’t a resort to my mind, so I’ll consider it a hiking trail.” At least he had a good attitude about it. She could hear Constance muttering about her feet already. Three miles there and another three back and Clive would be carrying the poor city girl. Her own feet itched to be bare and walk through the grass. A soul-deep longing to be back at the ranch between Deadwood and Lead struck her. She missed Lula, now sixteen and coming into her own, Nora fourteen, and little Daisy just thirteen and spoiled in every way, a little like Constance. Frances held in a giggle at the thought.
“Franny, are you coming?” Mr. Turner’s voice pulled her back to the row of shade trees.
“Yes, sorry. I was just overwhelmed by feelings of homesickness.”
Clive increased his pace. “Why don’t you tell us about it, Frances? I feel like I know nothing about you.”
She turned as Constance swatted his arm. “You don’t want to know about that dusty ranch. She lives out in the middle of two mining towns. She was so lonely, she had to exchange letters through the newspaper to find friends.”
Frances seethed. Constance had been just as lonely and had reached out in just the same way.
Clive ignored Constance. “So, you two became friends because of one of my assignments. It’s almost like I brought you to Rapid City, Frances.”
Mr. Turner reached over and took her hand, placing it on his arm in a tight grip. “I’m sure the ranch where you live is lovely but, look around you. The trees, the foothills, the birds, even the glorious sun feels like you could reach out and touch it.” He smiled down at her. “Especially when you’re used to the fickle sun in England.”
They fell silent and made the remaining hike to the lake.
Once there, they found that the owner had left them a picnic basket on a large blanket, anchored with a few rocks, about twenty yards from the shore of the lake. The breeze off the water cooled Frances’s face. Constance sat immediately and tucked her feet under her. “I don’t think I could walk another step. If he does put a resort in, he’ll have to finish that rail. There’s no way that any of my friends would ever find that walk relaxing.” Her lower lip thrust out and she patted the blanket next to her. Clive glanced to Frances first, but dropped down next to Constance with a bored sigh.
Frances strode to the edge of the water. It glistened in the sun and the lapping waves calmed her tense muscles. She sighed and let the sounds drown out Constance. Crystal Lake, caused by the flood of 1872, pooled and became a scenic spot—or constant reminder—depending on who you talked to. Frances had heard all about it. The old men in the coffee shop brought it up often and if you sat long enough, you’d hear the tale. But she didn’t care today. She wanted to let the soft waves lap at her toes, but she didn’t dare take off her shoes in front of the Englishman. Even that would be too much skin on display.
As if conjured by her thoughts, Mr. Turner came to stand beside her. His hand touched her back. “It certainly is lovely here, both the lake and the company. Thank you for joining me. It wouldn’t be half as delightful without you.” While his words were kind, a stealthy undercurrent lay behind it, a calling that said he wasn’t who he claimed to be.
She smiled at him and hoped it didn’t look as fake as it felt. “Thank you for bringing me here. It’s beautiful.”
He took her hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles. She held her breath, waiting for the flutters she’d read about, and had to contain her immediate disappointment. She felt nothing.
Clive sat on the blanket behind them, with Constance, still deep in conversation. Frances couldn’t understand how she could respond so readily with Clive yet feel nothing for Mr. Turner. Were her senses really that fickle? Was that how it worked?
“Don’t worry about them. They seem to get along quite well. Why don’t you come for a little stroll with me?”
No! She didn’t want to, but how could she tell him she didn’t trust him? “I’m rather tired from walking all the way here. Couldn’t we just sit for a little while?”
His lips flattened, but he recovered a momen
t later. “Of course, your feet aren’t used to walking such distances. I expected too much, knowing you lived on a ranch.”
Was he testing her? “Well yes, but I don’t usually wear such impractical footwear.” She lifted her hem just enough to show her half-boots. Though they were sturdier than the one’s Constance wore, they’d still rubbed her feet sore.
“I see. Well, let’s go join them on the blanket then, shall we?” She nodded and let him lead her back toward the safety of Clive.
Clive looked up and smiled at her from his reclined position on the blanket. “Did you feel the breeze off the water? Isn’t it wonderful?” Clive leaned forward, raising until he was propped on one elbow, with his sleeves rolled up, his knee bent. If she had to write him into a novel—and she fully intended to—she wasn’t sure how she’d describe him. And that just proved that he was right. She had no business writing until she figured out men and life.
He arched an eyebrow at her, and she realized he’d either caught her staring or had been talking to her and she’d totally missed what he’d said. Turner looked fit to burst.
The laughter in Clive’s voice thrilled her senses. “Are you feeling all right, Frances, or does this place just make you miss home?”
She sat down on the far corner of the blanket and dropped her gaze to her lap. “I’m sorry. I have a lot on my mind and not much time left to do it.” Let him think she was worried about her story. It was partly true. She’d never learn how to write if she didn’t have the capacity to feel the things her characters were supposed to feel. Hadn’t Constance said that some of her friends never did feel those things?
Turner opened the picnic basket and her stomach rebelled. It no longer made sense to be there. Not if she’d never learn anything, anyway. It wasn’t as if she wanted Turner’s attention. Watching Constance cozy up to Clive should’ve made her happy for her friend after Reginald had been so horrible, but she couldn’t quite execute the feeling. And Turner, as long as he kept up his decidedly immodest perusal of her, she wanted nothing more to do with him.
She stood. “Excuse me. I’ll be back in a moment,” she mumbled as she rushed toward the lake once again. How could she get away? Where could she go? Even Constance wasn’t an ally when Clive was around.
She stumbled over the rocks and her ankle twisted painfully in her boot, but she pressed on. Stepping over one rock, she slipped, and her foot wedged between two others. Her heart skidded to a stop as she lost her balance. She heard her name, just before her head sank under the water.
Terror. She’d had a look of absolute terror on her face before she’d turned and stumbled away. He’d shoved to his feet and gained some ground. Constance was still shrieking his name like a harpy from back on the blanket. Heaven forbid she’d get up to check on her friend. Frances twisted her ankle on the uneven ground but kept right on going. In fact, she seemed to speed up.
“Frances, stop!” She’d had too much of a start on him.
She had to stop when she reached the rocks unless she were going to throw herself in the lake. As if he’d shared thoughts with her, she wobbled, her arms stretched wide. She screamed, then fell.
Water splashed up to his waist as he ran into the lake. Swirling skirts. A bit of ankle. Her foot caught between the rocks. He wrenched her free and reached for what he hoped was her waist, yanking her up from the water. His stomach wedged firmly in his throat. She sputtered and coughed, but she was breathing. How could she be so light even drenched to the skin? He picked her up and carried her to the grass along the lake, cradling her close to his chest. The protectiveness that had been planted the day before shot forth from the fertile soil of his heart. Was she crying or was it just rivulets of water from her hair?
He set her down and cupped her cheek. A bolt of fear slashed its way from his thoughts to his very soul. If he hadn’t followed, she’d have drowned. “Frances?”
Her violet eyes darted up to him and then away. “You shouldn’t be here with me. Constance will miss you.” She turned away.
Didn’t she realize how close she’d come to dying? Didn’t she care? “Don’t say such things. Your foot, is it injured?”
She shook her head wildly, her hair clinging to her face. “Please, go back.”
“And just how are you going to get back to the carriage? You haven’t even tried to walk on it yet.”
Her eyes flashed at him. “I’ll find a way. I’m more worried about what Mr. Turner will...see.” She blushed a deep crimson, crossing her arms over herself. Her shirt and the jacket of her walking suit clung to every soft curve. Why hadn’t he thought to wear a jacket? A hike wouldn’t require one. But if he had, he could’ve covered her with it. “I’ll go get the blanket for you to cover with. Can you stand for me, show me you can walk?”
She glared at him and pushed off the ground with an unladylike growl. His laugh died in his throat as she yelped and fell back down into the grass, clutching at her foot.
“That’s what I was worried about. You can’t walk on it. Even as tiny as you are, I can’t carry you for miles. Someone will have to walk back to the carriage and come get you.”
Her eyes widened and she sacrificed propriety to reach for his arm. “Don’t leave me here alone with him. Please, Clive. I know you care for Constance and I know what you asked of me, but please, don’t.”
He didn’t want to leave her alone with the cad either, but he also doubted Turner would offer to walk back for the carriage. “I’ll leave Constance here with you. He won’t try anything with her here.”
She nodded. “This is the last outing. I’m not going again.” She pierced him with her eyes. “I don’t care if I never publish a story, I don’t want to do this again.”
“We’ll talk tomorrow morning. Come to my office when you’re dry and have had a night to think. Can you do that?”
“I won’t change my mind, Clive.” Her quivering upper lip was from the chill turning her lips a faint blue, not from lack of decision. He couldn’t really blame her.
If he didn’t find a way for her to continue, he’d have no reason to see Frances again. As much as he didn’t want to see her in danger, he’d backed himself into a corner. Now, he’d either have to finish the job himself or have a conversation with Turner. Selfish as it might seem, he had to see her again.
“Be that as it may, will you still meet me tomorrow?”
A smile touched the edges of her lips. “If you want me to, I will.”
How had he managed to convince such an obstinate woman to be so biddable?
Leaving her behind on the grass felt like abandoning her to the wolves. He strode back over to the blanket to find Constance leaning in to Turner, gushing over his every breath. The two didn’t even have the care to wonder what was the matter with Frances. They hadn’t even noticed her distress. He cleared his throat. “Frances turned her ankle and had an unfortunate accident in the lake. I’ll need the blanket to wrap her in and one of us will need to walk back to fetch the carriage.”
Constance frowned and thrust out her rounded lower lip. “Are you sure it’s as bad as that? We were having such a good time. I’m sure if you let her be for a bit, she’ll be fine. Just come sit with us, Mr. Davidson.” She patted the blanket next to her again and smiled at him. How had he ever worried about Constance? Her cold, calculating look said she cared for no one but herself.
“Yes, I’m quite sure it’s that bad. She cannot walk.” He looked to Turner, who hadn’t even glanced up at him yet, still slavering over Constance’s attention.
Turner finally met his eyes with a slight smile that turned his blood colder than the lake. “Why don’t you take Constance with you to the carriage and I’ll stay here with Frances to keep her company. Poor thing.”
So, he had at least been listening. It was more than Clive had given him credit for.
Constance perked up. “Oh yes, you and I could have a few minutes alone. It would be quite nice.” She fluttered her lashes at him as if she hadn’t just been kindli
ng a spark with Turner. He had no desire to spend another moment with Constance, And, her plan was completely against what Frances wished.
“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be a good idea. Frances shouldn’t be left alone with Mr. Turner.”
Hot anger poured from Turner’s face. “And just what would you know of propriety? She was dry when she left, yet now both of you are wet. Did you both decide to take a dip together?”
He couldn’t let Turner get to him. “No, I happened to be there when she fell in. If you’d cared enough to follow her, you’d be the one wet right now. Or maybe not. Would you be willing to get a little damp to save someone you care so deeply for?” Turner didn’t care. He desired, and Clive could see the difference on Turner’s face. That was the end of the story.
“You don’t believe I care for Frances?” He stood and patted invisible dirt off his immaculate trousers.
“I don’t think care would be the proper word.” The cad didn’t even look contrite. “Even now, I asked for the blanket to cover her and you’re still standing on it.”
Turner stepped off the blanket and waited for Constance to move to the side. He shook it out and handed it to Clive, holding on for a second longer than necessary. “I’ll not be bested by the likes of you, Davidson.”
Turner released his hold and held up his chin as if he were a king speaking to lowly subjects. “I’ll walk back and get the carriage, since the depth of my feelings for Franny are in question.”
Constance laid her hand on Turner’s arm. “I’d be happy to keep you company.” She tilted her pert little nose in the air and they made their way for the trail. Frances had gotten what she’d asked for, but now they were alone in a wooded glade. He said a quick prayer that Dunworthy kept his promise, or both he and Frances would have more to answer for in the morning than he cared to think about.
He folded the blanket over his arm and turned back to Frances. She’d been out of sight where she’d perched on the ground. When he reached the slope down to the water, she took his breath away. She’d somehow moved the few feet over to the sun and spread her skirt out wide and flat over her legs to dry. Her head was tilted back, face to the sun, a look of lovely relaxation transformed her countenance to almost angelic. Why women were told to stay out of the sun became crystal clear. She was radiant. He’d been so busy being annoyed by her direct manner that he hadn’t taken the time to really notice her.
