Romance in Rapid

by Kari Trumbo

  And he had. He’d broken Frances’s trust time and again, had led her to the wolf’s den. He’d asked her to share a meal with the head of the pack. But the consequence hadn’t fallen on him, it had fallen on her. “Mr. Charity will never let you take her. Though she isn’t his daughter, if he’s worth his salt as her guardian, he’ll have you tossed out on your ear.”

  Turner laughed and Clive’s nostrils flared, the blood pumping loud in his ears. “Did you think having Dunworthy here tonight was an accident? You can only be in one place, Davidson. Either you’re at the Union preventing Dunworthy from printing the story that will ruin Frances’s reputation forever and seal her to me, or you’ll make it to Charity House to talk to Mr. Charity. You can’t do both, so decide. Her virtue, or her?” Turner made for his carriage as Clive reached for him. Dunworthy yanked him back and spun him around.

  “You won’t stop him, Davidson.”

  Clive cut him off with a wave of his hand. “You? You’re going to stop me?” He rolled his sleeves to his elbows. “You standing in my way? You worthless piece of horse fodder.”

  Dunworthy puffed up his chest then dashed out from between the carriages.

  Clive grunted as Dunworthy disappeared, the coward. He turned back to where Turner once stood and panic struck him. He had to get to Charity House before Turner got there.

  A boy stood with a horse just out of the way, Clive tossed a coin as he grabbed for the reins. “I’ll have him back in twenty minutes.”

  “You better mister! That horse belongs to Mayor Sterns!”

  Clive didn’t care as long as he was fast. He’d have only a minute, maybe two, to tell Constance’s father, Jacob Charity, one of the most influential people in Rapid City, that the rich man from England couldn’t be trusted.

  He sent his mount careening down Seventh Street and through back lawns to the edge of town to beat Turner. When he arrived, Mr. Charity sat beside his house on the patio, smoking a pipe.

  Clive flipped the reins around the gate door and waited, though he wanted to push his way inside and shake the man. Why hadn’t he protected Frances? Even from Clive? It was his duty and he’d done a horrible job. “Sir, may I come in and speak to you?”

  Mr. Charity looked at him lazily and sighed, motioning him into the enclosed garden. “You’re the one who’s been taking Constance and Frances out on the town the last few evenings, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.” He ground his teeth against the urge to yell.

  “Strange, then, that this is the first we’ve met.” Mr. Charity pursed his lips. “I have only one daughter, and she’s trouble enough on her own. I don’t need any outside help for her to find it.”

  If he’d taken the few minutes that first night, he wouldn’t have Mr. Charity’s anger now. He’d thought about it but had been worried they’d be late. The poor judgment didn’t solely lie with him. Mr. Charity was at least equally to blame. His breath lodged painfully in his chest for a moment and he swiped the sweat from his brow.

  He hovered near the gate, unwilling to come in further. “It’s a long story, sir. I met Frances at the Union.”

  “Ah, you work for the paper?” He puffed slowly on the pipe and spoke out of the left side of his mouth.

  “Yes, sir.” He didn’t have time for the small talk he was sure he heard hooves in the distance. “It is a rather detailed story, but Frances has been spending her evenings with a landowner from Europe. His name is James Turner. My boss wanted us to make sure that the Englishman thought highly of Rapid City so he might bring his wealthy friends back with him on his next visit. He’s on his way here right now to convince you to let him take Frances to England.”

  Mr. Charity laughed and plucked the pipe from his mouth. “You have yet to even introduce yourself to me, so I shouldn’t be surprised that you would assume so little of me. I have no intention to let Frances go anywhere except home, and sooner rather than later. This behavior is unbecoming and now she’s dragging my daughter further down a path we’d already dealt with before Frances came—or I thought we had. I’ve done my best to curb her social appetite. I only hope that this doesn’t further mar the Charity name.” He frowned and tapped the pipe against his palm. “Now, get off my property and don’t ever come near my daughter again.”

  He couldn’t blame the man. He could’ve just as easily brought a foul reputation to the Charity House, but Constance had been the only one of the group to stay out of the way, completely missing Dunworthy’s pen and Turner’s attention. He’d have to rush back to the hotel restaurant and get Constance, she’d be waiting for him. He gathered the reins as Turner’s carriage came to a stop. The footman climbed down and assisted Constance from the carriage.

  “I’m glad to see you were able to find a ride.” Constance would have no trouble understanding sarcasm. He stopped in front of her as she reached to slap him. He easily caught her wrist, stopping her. “I think you’ve done enough harm.”

  She gasped, pulling against his hold. To her credit, she didn’t look frightened. She knew men well enough to know he’d never hurt her. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  His anger seethed to the surface once again and he squeezed a little tighter on her wrist. “Don’t you? Don’t you see this is all your doing?”

  She yanked away and strode off to her father.

  Turner backed out of the carriage carrying Frances. He turned and growled at Clive. “So, you chose to meddle in my affairs, yet again?” He stopped, as if contemplating if he should just dash her into the carriage. Clive flexed his fingers. Turner wouldn’t know what hit him and he couldn’t do a thing to stop the momentum. He drew back his fist, only holding for a moment so Turner could sense the full impact. The satisfying crack pulsed through his hand and up his arm.

  Turner fumbled Frances and Clive snatched her from his arms. “Get out, you weak little English toad.” He backed away as Turner seethed, groping for Frances as he squeezed his gushing nose.

  “You’ll pay for this Davidson. See if you don’t.” He turned on his heel, climbed into his carriage, and slammed the door behind him.

  In that moment, Clive winced with the knowledge that his newspaper career was over. He couldn’t come back from this. It was Frances or his career and she was more important. There was no other way Turner could get to him, but it didn’t matter. He’d always lived in Rapid, but there had to be a paper in Deadwood looking for a good reporter. He glanced down at the beautiful crescent of her closed eyes and prayed she would awaken. Prayed that his sacrifice would be worth it. He carried Frances to the garden gate and saw Constance sitting with her father.

  “I know you didn’t want to see me again, sir. But Mr. Turner, the man I spoke of, has hurt Frances.” He gazed down at her lovely face. Blank. Emotionless. Turner had done it, but Clive had put her in the man’s path. Clive held her close as Mr. Charity motioned for someone from the house.

  Mr. Charity’s footman arrived and took Frances from his arms. He didn’t want to give up the comforting weight of her. But, in the end, he didn’t stop the man from gathering France into his capable arms. Where could he take her to care for her?

  “We’ll take care of her from here.” Mr. Charity’s gravelly voice rattled through him. He couldn’t help but feel like he was missing something that would change his life, perhaps his last chance to see Frances. His fingers flexed as the Charity door slammed, taking Frances out of his reach.

  Chapter 13

  Charity manor was dark as Clive passed it the next morning. The house was out of his way on the way to the office, in a much nicer part of town than where he lived, but he’d hoped to catch a glimpse of Frances before she set out for Deadwood. Assuming she was still planning to leave that morning. Though the hour was early, it was darker and quieter than it had ever been at that hour in the past. As if even the servants were remaining cloistered. And why shouldn’t they? Over the past month, first Constance’s name had been dragged through the muck and now Frances’s, as well.

&nb
sp; His boss had let the article run, as Turner was now on his way back to England. He’d tried to go in to stop it right after he’d left Charity House the night before, but the damage was already done, the article drafted and placed. Dunworthy had also finally mentioned Turner was some distant cousin and Marksman, his boss, had jumped at the lurid tale Dunworthy told.

  There was Frances’s name for all to see in the society pages. The embarrassing proposal in the middle of dinner, leaving the table to lure Turner alone... Dunworthy had twisted every word, every action, into a sickening falsehood. And to sink the knife in deeper, he’d made it seem as if there had been something going on between he and Frances. The whole town would be a flutter about a love triangle. Clive had been furious, but what could he do? For the first time, he wasn’t in control of what others knew about him, and the people who’d been hurt were those he directly cared about. Dunworthy didn’t concern himself with Frances’s feelings and neither did the people of Rapid City. Dunworthy had hit him with a well-aimed flaming arrow, straight to the heart.

  Clive made it early to his desk and sat, waiting for Marksman to come out of his office. It was only a matter of time before the man appeared to fire him, and he couldn’t make himself care about it like he once had. His job and the story had cost him more than he was willing to spend. He shuffled papers around his desk. Feeling eyes on him, he glanced up to the doorway.

  Frances peered into the newsroom, holding back, hovering by the door. He couldn’t help the warmth that flowed to his chest at just the sight of her. Her face was pinched, her shoulders bent under some unseen weight. She carried a large knit market bag with her. Her hair, instead of the lovely intricate designs he’d grown to love, was pulled back in a simple harsh bun. She looked to have aged a decade since the night before, but at least she was up and walking. She approached his desk slowly and sat on the other side, head bowed.

  “Frances?” He clenched his fingers to keep from reaching for her. “I didn’t expect to see you again. I was under the impression that I wasn’t allowed anywhere near you or Constance.”

  She took a deep breath and the eyes that met his were not only red rimmed, but glistening. He thrust his hand into his pocket for his kerchief, but she turned her face from him and closed those lavender-blue pools he’d never see the likes of again. Locking herself away from him.

  “Constance? Always Constance. Why don’t you just tell her how you feel about her before her father marries her off to some stranger. I’m here to tell you I’m leaving, Mr. Davidson.” Her voice quivered and he had to strain to hear her. “Not that you care. I debated whether to bother or not.”

  He could feel the wedge of formality she’d shoved between them. He’d never cared about Constance, other than as cover to spend more time with Frances. He opened his mouth to rebuke both notions, but she cut him off once again.

  “Mr. Charity has asked that I pack my things and leave on the first stage back to Deadwood. I am here...” She took a deep breath that shuttered through her, “To tell you that you were right. I didn’t want to believe it, but romance is a lie. There’s no such thing. People don’t feel anything. At least, I don’t, not anything good, anyway. I’ve wasted the last two years of my life on this rubbish of a story and it will never be true.” She dug into the bottom of her market bag and flung the folder holding her manuscript at him. It landed on his desk and slid into his hands. She’d always proudly carried it in the open, not shoved away, hidden in a bag, or manhandled.

  “Frances, please. I think you should know by now that I care.” But did she? Had he ever really let her know? His stomach clenched. He couldn’t let her escape back to Deadwood without understanding that it was never about Constance and always about her, only her. “Let’s go outside and talk for a minute.” He stood, coming around his desk for her. He had to get her out of the newsroom. She would make easy pickings for Dunworthy in her current state.

  Her lip hardened into a solid line. “No, I don’t want to talk to you. Don’t you understand? You were right. That means nothing you can teach me is going to make my writing any better. It will always be wrong because it’s not true. You said the very same after you read that drivel the first time. My life has been horrible since I brought my story out into the world. It’s better that I go home and stop this foolishness. I’ll go back to the ranch and burn it...and never look back.”

  He took her arm and she yanked away from him. How had he failed her so miserably? He’d wasted so much time forcing her to learn what he’d wanted to teach her all along, and it had extinguished her dreams in the process. In the last five days, she’d convinced him that what she wrote was real, how had that fact escaped her? Because he’d never taken the time to tell her. He had to make it right before she left. He’d never have another chance.

  He leaned and put his arm around her waist, lifting her from the chair as he whispered, “Don’t fight me just now. I need to get you out of this room before you end up in the paper for a second day in a row.”

  Her face paled and she meekly followed his lead. Though it was what he wanted, it proved even more how destroyed she was. Frances was a fighter, not a follower. He led her down to J. E. Belknap’s livery where the newspaper kept the horse and chaise he’d been using. It was set apart from the large masonry buildings of town, it’s older false front with tall letters reminding the town of its roots. The men were all busily doing work around them, and not a one would care what he had to say to Frances. But the men provided a good wall between Clive and Frances and the rest of the world. He held out his hand for her to climb up into the chaise.

  Frances gave him a strange look but took his hand and climbed up. She arranged her plain blue skirt around her as he followed and sat next to her.

  “Mr. Davidson, I think I made myself clear. You need not waste your time on me any longer. I regret wasting it, more than you will ever know.” Her voice that had started so strong, was hardly a whisper by the end.

  “Tell me what happened, Frances. This can’t be just from Dunworthy or Constance. You know I can still help you with your book. I thought you trusted me?”

  She flung a glare at him. “I did. Before you gave Turner leave to do as he pleased to teach me a lesson on love.” She stood and he reached around her waist again, pulling her back into the seat. If she left now, he’d never get the truth from her nor could he tell her what she needed to hear. She made an indignant sound in the back of her throat and, wrapped in his arm, he had to fight not to smother the sound in a most pleasurable way.

  “Whoa there. I never told him any such thing. In fact, I told him on numerous occasions to keep his hands to himself. He had no business touching you.”

  She scoffed and, though her lips trembled, she didn’t cry. “You must not think very much of my intelligence, Mr. Davidson. Why would you set me up to learn romance from someone and then tell them to leave me alone? I’m not daft.”

  He’d never thought any such thing. “I wanted him to talk with you, take you about town. I wanted you to learn how men act. I…” He couldn’t admit that she made him question his thoughts on frivolous romance. That he felt drawn to her just as she’d written about the hero in her book.

  She scoffed and shook her head, dragging a handkerchief from her sleeve. “Well, let’s just say there’s no need for any more of your coaching. I am fully versed in romance and how men act. I’ve no desire to ever relive it again, nor to speak of it, and certainly not to write about it. There was no beauty there. Those stories were all lies.”

  Anger, hot and potent, built in his chest. “No, Frances, no. Please tell me Turner didn’t… Not when it was my fault you were with him at all.” He reached for her hand. How could he have placed her in such a precarious position?

  She pulled from his touch, putting as much space as possible between them on the narrow seat. “Please do not pretend to care. Constance told me what you said, that my writing was infantile and the only reason you joined us was because Turner required it. You h
ad much better ways to spend your time than chasing around a few skirts.” She flung the words at him through clenched teeth, a tear tread boldly down her cheek.

  His own words clanged in his ears. How stupid he’d been to trust Constance. He’d never meant for Frances to hear those words and he should’ve known better than to say them.

  “You’ve been hurt by me and my actions. Please, give me the chance to make it up to you. I said those things so Constance wouldn’t think I wanted to be with her. I didn’t. Never. You have to believe me.”

  “No.” She shook her head but wouldn’t turn to him. “I don’t believe you. All those times when I needed you to look at me, to understand after Turner got too close. You never did! You ignored me and turned to Constance. How can I possibly believe you? I’m not welcome at Charity House any longer. In fact, Constance’s father sent me to stay at the hotel last night once I woke, and he’s already made sure my stage ticket was transferred to leave two weeks early.”

  He had to find a way to keep her in Rapid City. If she left, he’d never see her again. His writer’s intuition told him so. “Let me pay for your room. Stay. Please?”

  Anger flashed from her eyes and she moved to stand. He reached for her arm. “Release me!” Her words, powerful and strident, drew the attention of those around her. He let go of his hold, but not of her gaze. She lowered her voice. “Is that what you think of me? That because I would do as you’d asked with Turner that suddenly now I can be a kept woman? I assure you, I won’t. I never agreed to it with Turner and I won’t let you, either.” He opened his mouth to reason with her and she held up her hand. “Stop. I won’t be swayed.”

  He had no cards left to play. She didn’t want him, and her story wasn’t of value to her anymore ... or was it?

  “Please, Frances. Don’t let Misty die.”

  Her breath came shallow and fast, if he didn’t get her to calm down quickly, he’d be carrying her back to her hotel room and that would never do. Especially not after the news about her.