Romance in Rapid

by Kari Trumbo

  Constance stomped her foot. “You’re so selfish Frances. You were the one who begged me to come out with you, even though I didn’t want to. You were the one who said I needed to let go of Reginald and start over. Well, I did. And now you owe me.” She laced her arms in front of her stomach and glared at Frances. “You’ll do this for me, or I’ll tell Dunworthy about Misty Raines.”

  Frances felt her insides cramp. If that ever got out, she’d never be able to submit that story under that name. Depending on how chatty Clive had been with Constance, she may never be able to submit the story at all anyway. It would ruin everything she’d worked on for over two long years. “I don’t care, I’ll submit under another name.” She turned to continue packing.

  “Fine. I’ll write to your family and tell them all about your escapades the last few days. How you’ve been prancing around with an Englishman you don’t even know, the very same week you let yourself be alone with another man for a couple hours. And when you were found, you were both sopping wet from a dip in the lake.” Constance drummed her fingers against her arm. “Still don’t care?”

  She glanced once more at the ticket. If she left, Constance was still here to destroy everything she’d worked for. But it also meant that she’d never have to watch Constance with Clive ever again. Not that it mattered. When it came down to it, he hadn’t shown her that much attention. She’d somehow given him a hero status he’d probably never live up to.

  There was no other option. She’d cave to Constance this one last time and then she’d leave right away in the morning, before Constance could ask more of her. “Fine. I’ll get it arranged. If Mr. Davidson agrees, I’ll go out one more night. However, I’ll pack my things and prepare to leave tomorrow morning.”

  Constance stepped forward with her arms wide. “Thank you so much, Frances!”

  Frances turned away. “Yes, well, now we’re even. I need to get ready.”

  The door clicked shut and Frances threw her brush at the trunk with a loud clatter. Storybook heroines didn’t get blackmailed and they didn’t have selfish friends. They also weren’t real and had experienced authors behind them, not some gutless inexperienced hick. Her thoughts rubbed salt in the wound. She plucked her one nice walking suit from her closet. It wouldn’t be difficult to pack, as she hadn’t worn her own clothing since arriving. But she was sure Constance wouldn’t lend her one today, or tonight. She’d have to figure something out for that. At least she’d get to talk to Clive at the office, assuming he was in. If she left in the morning, it would be their last chance to speak together alone.

  A niggling fear crept up her spine. What if Clive was out doing what he was supposed to? Reporting? She’d always gone to see him in the morning. It was now nearing the noon hour. He might already be out and about. She shoved her feet into the circle of her petticoats and yanked them up her legs, tying the string tightly. Oh bother, I’ll have to do something with my hair, too.

  She plopped back down in front of the mirror. Her face was red and puffy from her night of tears, and even a cool cloth couldn’t fully take away the signs. Now she needed to set about fixing her hair as best she could. At the ranch, she rarely did more than toss it back into a braid. She finally settled on a roll, secured with combs and pins, then shrugged into the jacket that matched her blue gored walking skirt. No hat, parasol, or gloves today, she was just plain Frances Arnsby. A woman who never should’ve changed. If she hadn’t let Clive convince her she needed to be who she wasn’t, her ambition wouldn’t be dead right now. She might still be living under a dream, but it was preferable to a broken heart.

  “Ready or not, Clive, here I come.” She dashed out her door to avoid any more questions from Constance.

  Clive stuffed his hat on his head and shoved his papers into his desk. It was almost the lunch hour and he had nothing to show for the day. His mind wouldn’t focus on anything but soft shoulders and bright lavender eyes. Mostly how watery they’d looked in the moonlight, barely holding back the tears he’d caused. Oh, he’d tried to convince himself it was Turner’s fault. But after he’d found them and stopped Turner’s ardor, she hadn’t spoken to anyone, not that he’d given her much of a chance. He’d been the northbound end of a southbound horse and he had to see her to make it right.

  He stood, grabbed his coat from his chair, and took two steps for the door before stopping. In the doorway, waiting for him, was just the person he wanted to see. Her small hands clutched a long drawstring bag. Her lips wore a wavering smile as if she might cry, and her teeth held her bottom lip captive. The same lip he’d thought about nibbling the night before. Right before she’d dashed from him for being just like Turner.

  Cautiously, she approached his desk, as if he might impart some violence upon her in the middle of the newsroom. “Frances, I’m a little surprised to see you here.” He steered her around and out the door, away from all the newsroom’s prying eyes and sensitive ears. She allowed herself to be shuffled along as they exited out into the street, but she was nowhere near relaxed with him. “What brings you to see me? I thought our acquaintance might be drawing to a close after last night.”

  She tipped her head and gripped her bag tight to her chest. “I promised Constance I would go for one more evening. Would you please set up an event with Turner one last time?” Her voice faltered and she refused to look him in the eye.

  She wanted him to ask Turner for another night out? No, no he wouldn’t. Not even if she begged him. If he found the cad trying anything with Frances again, he wouldn’t be able to hold himself back.

  “I can’t do that, and I won’t. I told you that already, last night. Don’t you remember? Besides, it’s already too late in the day.” It was a lie. Turner had been furious that morning and threatened to find out where Frances lived. Just more proof that he couldn’t put her in that situation.

  Her face paled, the sparkle gone from her eyes. “Please, Clive.” She stopped and gripped his wrist, the gentle touch sending his heart pounding a rhythm unfamiliar, yet welcome. “Constance believes you are the man for her, so I agreed to do this one last time. It would give you the chance to tell her just how you feel. Perhaps start to open a door you thought closed?”

  She was doing this for...him? His stomach turned and every thought he’d had of lunch fled. “After all Constance has done to you...”

  “You don’t know the half of it.” She pulled her hand back and wrapped her arms around her waist, closing herself off from him.

  “So, tell me.” He reached for her, needing that contact, but her flinch reminded him that Turner hadn’t been the only one who had gone too far last night. She’d run from him, too.

  Frances shook her head almost imperceptibly. “It doesn’t matter what was said. I just need to do this one last thing and collect my manuscript back from you. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  No, she couldn’t leave quite yet. It was too soon. He hadn’t even had a chance to help her put her story to rights.

  “Don’t you think you could stay for a little while longer? Your manuscript still needs help.” He offered her a smile, but his grin seemed to have the opposite effect on her. Her eyes shuttered and her back stiffened. “As I said. I need my pages back from you. They are no longer your concern.” She kept walking ahead of him, her spine too straight, steps rigid.

  Something wasn’t right. She’d never held him at such a distance. “Frances.” Her short strides didn’t take her far, and he wasn’t above running after her. She paused and he caught up to her again, gripping her elbow. “Walk with me,” he whispered.

  “I can’t.” She pulled against his touch.

  He wanted to turn her toward him, cup her face to see if his hands fit as well as he supposed they did, then test his lips the same way. He wanted to weave his fingers into her too perfect hair and pull out every last pin holding it hostage.

  “I’ll set up this evening, but not for Constance.” She glanced at him over her shoulder. He took that as his cue to continue. “But I
’ll do it for you.”

  A tear coursed down a perfect pale cheek. “Don’t waste your time on me.” She clutched her skirt and disappeared into the throng.

  Chapter 12

  Frances held her tongue as Constance fluttered her lashes and tried for the fifth time to engage Clive in conversation. She’d reached for his arm, asked about his job, even blatantly adjusted her neckline, to no avail. To his credit, he seemed uninterested. But she knew the truth, had always known. Constance had been so bothersome. Frances had even wondered just how rude it would be to jab her foot into her leg under the table. Clive was aloof, cold, treating Constance with the same rejection she’d given Frances the night before. At least Clive had sent her manuscript over to her earlier in the day after they’d spoken, apparently for the last time.

  Turner was the only member of the party who didn’t seem to notice. He’d been attentive to her every movement, staying stiflingly close to her. He’d tried to keep her hand in his and her knee close enough to touch. She backed away from the table a few times just to stave off the sense of foreboding every time he came near her.

  “Oh, Franny.” Turner reached for her hand once again, and by force of her will, she didn’t jump out of his reach. Instead she made to check her hair, leaving him empty handed.

  He pursed his lips then smiled as his eyes fixed on someone behind her. “There’s Paul. You remember? We met him down by the lake when you had your unfortunate accident. Don’t you, Franny? Ah, he’s headed this way.” Mr. Turner held up his hand and waved as Frances’s heart sank and Constance turned an odd shade of gray. Clive was the only one who didn’t seem to care if Dunworthy joined them.

  Mr. Dunworthy strode to the table and bowed slightly. “James,” he glanced around the table until he landed on Clive. “Davidson, I see you’re making your way around the table. First with Miss Arnsby and now with Miss Charity. I had no idea your social calendar was so full. However have you managed to stay out of my column?”

  Clive glared at him. “We had an agreement, Paul.”

  Dunworthy smirked. “We had an agreement, and now you’re out of favors.” He laughed and his glance fixed on Turner. “How good to see you again, James. I was hoping you’d have a spare minute before making your return trip.”

  Mr. Turner smiled slightly. “Yes, well, I did receive a telegram from Mum today. She’s ready for me to start my way back home. Seems that whole estate mess has been cleared up and Donald, may he rest in peace, won’t get his final wish of making sure I didn’t inherit.”

  Dunworthy’s eyes gleamed. “Is that so? Congratulations. And what do you think of our Rapid City?”

  Mr. Turner’s lip curled slightly. “The city itself is bustling, much bigger and bolder than I would’ve expected a western town to be. I have only one complaint.” He turned his cold eyes on Frances, and she hid her shudder. “It would’ve been grand to bring home a fresh plucked flower to show off.” He glanced at Dunworthy, then back to her. “Do say you’ll come back with me, Franny?”

  She gasped. Even with her life far removed from society, she knew how rude it was to put such a question to her at a table full of people. Her bodice was suddenly far too tight to take a proper breath. Dunworthy yanked a chair from the nearest table and plopped down into it, his eyes boring into her.

  Dunworthy licked his thin lips. “Yes, she would make a lovely offering for Aunt Margaret to pull apart.”

  Turner laughed. “I wasn’t going to tell anyone we were related. I don’t know that I want to claim I’m blood with you.” He turned those calculating eyes back on her. “Frances?”

  If only the floor would open under her and swallow her whole. “Mr. Turner. I must beg you to excuse me. I need a breath of air.”

  Constance gripped her arm tight enough to leave marks. “He’s asked you a question. Don’t you think you owe him an answer?”

  Clive closed his eyes and her world died. He didn’t care. He’d been the one to introduce them but since she’d asked this last favor of him for Constance, he didn’t care.

  “Excuse me,” she blurted, dashing from the table. Her glance remained pegged to her feet to avoid the curious stares she could feel crawling over her. And they would be curious. Who wouldn’t be? The maitre’d opened the front door and let her out. Her eyes burned with unshed tears and the air she desperately needed just wouldn’t fill her tight lungs.

  A hand spun her around and she came face to face with evil. Turner was furious. His lip raised in a snarl as he gripped her arm.

  “How dare you treat my offer as if it were nothing? As if you may someday get better? You dare trifle with me?”

  She jerked away from him and tried to take a step, but he was faster. His hand wrapped around her arm and yanked her down the line of waiting carriages outside the hotel. Soon, she found herself between two small carriages, trapped between two thick arms. The noise of horses, traces and wheels filled her ears. Would anyone hear her scream?

  “I know everything, Franny. I know about your little book and about how I was supposed to teach you the ways of romance. I was told to do as I pleased to teach you. And so I will. This will be a most pleasant lesson.” He pulled a comb from her hair and one side tumbled down her back.

  She pushed against him. “No! I didn’t even want to come tonight. I’m only here because Constance asked me.”

  “Yet, you said yes. Here you are.” He pulled the second comb and tossed them into the street. His hand ran a line from her hand through her hair and he left a trail of kisses down her shoulder. She needed to run. Had to get free. She stomped his foot. Turner hollered in her ear but coiled his hand in her hair and wrenched it to him. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  Her legs shook under her and she was sure she’d fall in the street. Her mouth had gone so dry she couldn’t speak. Dunworthy appeared at the end of the carriage. “Well, well, well. As soon as this appears in the paper, you’ll have yourself a flower under glass.”

  Frances shook her head and croaked out, “No, I won’t go. I’m going back to Deadwood, where I belong.” She shoved against him, but his bulk wouldn’t move, and every breath brought him closer to crushing her. She shouldn’t have come. Where was Clive when she needed him? He’d rescued her the last time. Of course, he was busy with Constance, probably enjoying themselves now that she was gone. A whimper escaped her throat. Would she ever escape? Would Clive and Constance even notice her missing?

  Turner nipped at her exposed neck and she tried to recoil, to back further into the carriage wall, but to no avail. “I say you’ll come with me, and I always get what I want.”

  She closed her eyes tight and said a prayer that he wouldn’t ruin her, neither her virtue nor her name. She sucked in a huge breath and screamed as she aimed for his face with the only weapons she had at her disposal, her nails. Dunworthy ran as Turner’s hands bit into her shoulders and slammed her against the carriage.

  Clive searched the room once again. Dunworthy had left just after Turner had followed Frances and he was itching to follow, but that would leave Constance all alone at the table. Dare he risk it? He didn’t have a choice. They’d been gone far too long.

  “Excuse me, Miss Charity. I really do need to go check on Frances. She didn’t want to be here tonight, and I don’t like her being alone with Turner too long.”

  She pouted. It wasn’t pretty anymore. “Mr. Davidson, or have I become close enough to call you Clive yet as I’ve heard Frances call you?” She paused, infuriating him even more. Couldn’t she tell that he wanted to leave?

  “If you must.” He tried not to glare, but she gasped and clutched the neck of her gown.

  “Well, that really isn’t an invitation at all. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you didn’t want to be with me. You’ve been silent all night long. Please, sit back down and tell me what’s bothering you?”

  Clive could barely contain his anger. He squeezed the back of the chair. “Miss Charity, I do apologize for the way Dunworthy wrote about yo
u, or rather about Reginald and insinuating about you. However, I’m not here tonight because of you. I don’t want to be here. I thought I made that perfectly clear last evening when we spoke. Excuse me.” The time for manners had expired and he prayed his dear mother wouldn’t hear of it. He dashed out the door before the maitre’d could even move from his place. He’d just made a quick glance of the area when he heard a scream and saw Dunworthy run out from between two carriages.

  Burning fury flared through him. Clive ran to the spot and the anger he’d felt at Constance paled in comparison to the rage bursting within him at what he found. He clenched his fists into tight balls as Turner knelt over a pile of lemony fabric and golden hair.

  “Turner, what have you done?” He rushed over as Turner pulled Frances to his chest. “You stay out of this, Davidson. I’m going to take her back to Charity House and get her things. We can be on our way before she even knows what’s going on.”

  Clive stepped closer, his fists ready at his sides. “Is this the only way for you to find a woman? By force? Will none have you by choice? Because I know Frances would never choose you.”

  Turner stood up to his full height, holding Frances close. It was the nearest he’d come to protecting her all week with her head tucked beneath Turner’s chin. Nothing was more important than getting her out of his arms. He stepped forward, and Turner’s words stopped him cold.

  “And do you think for a moment she’d choose you, paper boy? Constance told me how you arranged this whole thing. You’re the ringleader. But at least you can still have Constance. She isn’t even a bad second choice. Go, have a good evening with her, pretend like this never happened. Enjoy the company of someone you’d never catch if you hadn’t manipulated the rules.”