by Kari Trumbo
“You have talent, Frances. And if you don’t believe in romance anymore, what about other genres? Life is full of stories to tell. I don’t believe your words are infantile. Don’t let Constance have the last word on your dreams.”
She tilted her head away from him. “Why do you persist? You didn’t think I had talent a week ago. You still don’t. Don’t tell me it’s a lie. You meant it. Did spending so much time with skirts weaken you?”
If only she knew just how much. He’d gone from thinking of her as a pretty annoyance to thinking about her all the live-long day. This particular woman had made him take a good long look at his life, and he knew, deep down into his soul, she was worth giving up everything for. “Let’s just say that my eyes were opened. Please, Frances?”
Another tear followed the trail of the first. “You ask too much, Mr. Davidson.”
There was that wedge again. He’d just have to break it down with a chisel, a sledge would be too harsh.
“I will help you with your story and I’ll even help you to submit it to someone. I believe in you, Frances. Can you believe in you again?”
Her lip trembled and he held back from touching her, from tarnishing the trust she was building at that very moment. “Please, Frances. I’ll even let you stay with my mother, if that would help you trust me.”
She closed her eyes and whispered, “I’ll give you a week to get the story in order, if that isn’t enough to do it, then it isn’t worth working on.”
It was a start, but could he barter for more? “How about we talk about it at the end of the week?”
“No. You’ve got one week, Mr. Davidson. No more.” She slid off the seat and climbed down, disappearing as quickly as she’d appeared. Clive sighed and stared at the empty seat. His workload just doubled.
Frances tucked her head as she walked back to the hotel. The only saving grace of the entire last two days had been that while everyone wanted to know who Frances Arnsby was, no one did. Though, many had seen her dressed in Constance’s finery when she was with Turner, none could pick her out in a plain walking suit with her hair in a bun. She was even staying at the International Hotel under Jacob Charity’s name, so no one could connect her to the name in the paper.
Clive had asked that she stay on for one week. Then, she would go home. And, as long as her family never read the paper, they would never know all those lies Dunworthy had printed. Even thinking on it made her cheeks flame. They’d accused her of being worse than her sister, Hattie, who’d been taken and sold into prostitution years before. Thank the heavens that no one in Rapid knew about that, or it would add credence to what Dunworthy had engineered.
While Mr. Charity had been generous in getting her a room, he hadn’t been so generous in providing her with a way to eat. On cue, her stomach rumbled. She wasn’t accustomed to missing meals. Her sister, Ruby, always made sure all seven sisters ate well, even the married ones.
There was very little she could sell to get the money for food, besides her stage ticket, and she couldn’t do that. Ruby’s husband, Beau, provided well for them, but he couldn’t just pay for another ticket. And if she sent a request for money, they would all wonder why she didn’t just return home. That was a question she couldn’t readily answer. This last week, she’d let herself get pulled back and forth in the name of friendship and her story, but was it all worth it? It seemed to be at the expense of her own self, and her story was no better for it. Would staying here and learning from Clive help her feel like she was worth something again?
She wanted to stay, to spend every minute with Clive that she could, to savor every moment. He was forbidden because he didn’t believe in love, didn’t live near her, and she could never accept affection from the man whom her closest friend desired. Even if that friend had utterly betrayed her. Years of letters and shared secrets had been tossed into the fire, gone for good. She’d supported Constance through her long and often sappy letters regarding Reginald and other men. Frances had learned all about boarding school and had even read about fashion. Looking back, Constance must have been terribly bored by Frances’s ramblings about the ranch, writing, horses, and her seven sisters. Her life must have been dull in comparison to Constance’s, yet they’d remained friends until men entered into the equation.
Frances made her way up the stairs to the room Mr. Charity had secured. He’d wanted her on the first stage, which meant that she had to pack and get her things out soon. She hadn’t done much more than open her trunk to pluck out some clothes. There was no way to look fresh and pretty, no matter how hard she tried, so why bother.
There was a light rap on her door, and she turned as it gently swung open. A squat woman with bright silver hair and soft familiar blue eyes, Clive’s eyes, smiled at her. She gasped and turned to fully face the woman.
“I inquired at the desk where I might find the young woman checked in under Mr. Charity’s name. You must be her. Clive has told me all about you. Briefly, and quickly, as he usually does.” She held out her hand. “Marissa Davidson, Clive’s mother.”
Frances stepped toward the short woman, a strange pull drew her in. Mrs. Davidson chuckled, and her face warmed to what Frances would assume a grandmother would look like. She’d never had one.
Frances stepped forward and bowed her head slightly. “Yes, you’ve found me.” Here was a woman she could trust. She knew it right down to the tips of her too-tight boots.
“Good, you come with me and I’ll give the hotel the address where they can deliver your things.”
Frances scanned the bed and the floor, but nothing was left. She closed the trunk, latching it shut, and grabbed her reticule with her ticket and few remaining coins.
“I would be happy to. Every time I turn around, it feels like I’ve got eyes on me. It’s a horrible feeling.”
“I don’t doubt it, child. Come, it isn’t far.”
Frances’s stomach took that moment to announce itself.
The woman laughed. “You don’t have to worry about people watching you anymore. Let’s get home and get you something to eat. For a man named Charity, he wasn’t charitable enough to make sure you were taken care of. He agreed to watch you for the time you were here. You’re still here,” she pointed out with a dour frown. “Shame on him. I have half a mind to write him a strongly worded letter.”
Frances smiled at the diminutive woman’s spunk. She couldn’t disagree with Mrs. Davidson, but there hadn’t been a stage last night or she would’ve been on it back to Deadwood. Groggy or not. And if she had, she never would’ve talked to Clive. The time between leaving him and meeting his mother had been full of what he’d said, played over in her mind. If he really cared nothing for Constance, and wanted her to stay, did that leave the door open for her? Could she walk through if he opened that door? It was all nonsense, just hopes of a heart far too romantic for its own good.
“You can call me Rissa, most all my friends do. And if you’re important enough for my son to tell me about, well, that means we’ll be friend’s soon enough.”
Frances had to stop that notion right away. She wasn’t important to Clive. He might feel some guilt over what he’d put her through, but nothing more. She reached out, stopping Rissa on the stairs.
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I’m important to him. I would say that he owed me a favor and didn’t give me much choice in how he would return it.”
Rissa’s eyes crinkled in a wise smile. “You call it what you want, dear.”
Rissa stopped by the front desk and spoke to the man standing behind it. He nodded as she handed him the key to the room and wrote something down. Frances held back, still too wary of people to engage in social pleasantries. Rissa turned and led her out into the sunshine.
“Now, I walk most everywhere, but it isn’t far. Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself to pass the time?”
The first would be to get the unpleasantness out of the way. Rissa needed to know that she was Frances, the Frances from the tawdry
article from that morning. If, as she’d said, Clive had told her about the woman checked in under Jacob Charity, she might not realize who she was allowing under her roof. It was only right to tell her.
She took a deep breath. “I’m Frances Arnsby, from Deadwood, and I am a writer. Or at least, I thought I was.”
“Well, that much Clive told me. He said that hogwash in the paper was a lie, but what in the Heavens were you doing outside with that man, assuming even that much is true?”
It would be so easy to tell her the truth, to say that she hadn’t wanted to be there at all, that she never would’ve chosen to go at all if Clive hadn’t asked her to, hadn’t told her that her portrayal of men needed help. If she told Rissa the truth, would she be disappointed with her son? As much as she wanted to tell the truth, Clive had done his best to fix the situation. If she brought turmoil between mother and son, it wouldn’t help her, and she only had one week.
“I didn’t want to be there at all, but Constance asked me to be. Turner followed me outside when I went out for some air. It was a mistake I’ll not make again.”
Rissa nodded and directed them down a side street lined with rows of modest homes, all quite similar to one another. “So, how does my son fit into all of this? I can always tell when he’s hiding something from me. He has a sharp glance to the right, but it’s only brief. Don’t think he even realizes he does it. But every time I asked him why you couldn’t stay where you’d been staying, he did that.”
“You read the paper, right? So you know why I can’t stay with the Charitys.”
“No, I don’t. I think it’s just dreadful that he turned you out like that. Their daughter has been accused of naught worse just a few weeks ago via the rumor mill, or maybe he’d thought we’d all forgotten by now. You’d have to have your head firmly planted in the sand not to know that one’s trouble.”
“I never knew.” And she hadn’t. Constance had been her only friend outside of her sisters. She was one of the middle children, too young for the older sisters to accept as a friend, and too old to play with those younger. She’d been so desperate for companionship that she’d resorted to letting the newspaper find her a friend.
Rissa directed her up the front walk to a modest, salt-box home. She opened the front door and strode inside, leaving it open for Frances to follow. Once inside, the warmth and small touches of needlework, the small rooms and warm fire, reminded her of the little home she’d left in Deadwood. It felt like so long ago now.
“Oh, Rissa. I wish I hadn’t agreed to stay. I wish I’d have just insisted I go home.” The loneliness hit her and weakened her down to her knees.
“Well, child, now that begs the question. Why did you agree to stay?”
Chapter 14
Rissa couldn’t possibly expect Frances to share something so personal so soon, could she? Frances still didn’t understand how that one question got down to the whole heart of what was wrong. And it was wrong. She shouldn’t have feelings for the man her friend desired. It would be an awful thing for a heroine to do. So it would be a horrible thing for her to do, but oh, how difficult he made it! When he’d spoken with her in the livery on that silly cart, it had felt as if he wanted her to stay. Not because of his guilt, but because he wanted to spend time with her. Her heart was such a fanciful thing. She’d known from their very first meeting he wanted nothing more than to get rid of her, so why was she so quick to search the inflection in his voice for something, anything, that might lead her heart to truth?
She closed her eyes, remembering Rissa was waiting for an answer. “I stayed to finish my story. Then I’m going home.”
“But, my dear, what if this week is only the beginning of your story?”
Frances turned away. That would be too much to hope for. To have something pleasant come from the two weeks she’d spent in Rapid City, even if it wasn’t the dream she’d set out to fulfill, would make the pain worth it. But how could she even think that way?
Rissa rested her hand on Frances’s shoulder. “I’m not going to push you, dear. You’ve had enough of that the last few days. Your trunk will be here this afternoon. I’ll show you to your room upstairs and you can freshen up a bit while I make a little something for you to eat. How does that sound?”
A little rest and food sounded wonderful, she had to admit. And just being out of Charity House and the hotel was relaxing. Her shoulders ached from the tension of continual worry about what to say and do, how to carry herself, and whether she looked perfect. “Thank you, so much.” A tear trailed its way down her cheek, and she swiped at it.
“I know this time in your life has been a strain, child, but the Lord doesn’t set us to walking through a fire unless our scars can lead us closer to Him. You might think this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to you—and it just might be—but that doesn’t mean something good can’t come of it.”
Frances nodded, unable to speak. At some point, far off in the distant future, she might be able to look back on this and see what possible good came out of this, but right now it was too jagged a wound. Rissa led her up the stairs and through a small open area, that she used as a sewing room, to a bedroom the same size as the living room below it.
“This is the only other room I have in the house besides my own. It was Clive’s. I told him this was the only place I had for you and it didn’t seem to bother him.”
It might not bother him, but it had her senses in knots. His very scent lingered there, not the parts that were changeable, but the scent of the man himself. A heady aroma. She’d never be able to sleep there. The furniture was large to accommodate what would’ve been a growing boy while he was there. On the walls, he’d nailed his accomplishments, awards for writing and storytelling. So, he was a writer, too... But of course he was, she just hadn’t considered it since he wrote fact, and she fiction.
“Rissa, how long has it been since anyone has stayed here?” The room didn’t feel as if it had been sitting alone, but more like Clive could walk in any moment and ask for his space back...or to share it with her. Her cheeks flamed at her thoughts.
Rissa laughed. “He doesn’t sleep here often. Only if I have work for him to do and he’s too tired to walk back to his own place. Neither of us have bothered with horses or the like because we live in town. He’s got use of the horses The Union owns, should he ever have need.”
Frances nodded, her mind temporarily at ease. While it had been a flippant accusation that he’d treat her as a kept woman, the truth was, romance authors were not highly thought of. It was another reason she’d chosen to use the name Misty and not her own. And, her name didn’t need further soiling.
“Rissa, may I beg one more favor of you?” She glanced to the woman still standing in the doorway.
“Of course, what is it?”
“Can you keep the name Misty a secret? It is the only thing I ask.”
“Clive already told me. Your secret is safe here. Once you rest and have eaten, he has a desk over in that far corner. He suggested maybe you start working on that hero. If you don’t have a chance to, he’ll be here after work. He said to forget everything about Turner unless you needed to use him for a villain.”
Her belly did a gentle flip. Her hero would be here to help her develop the hero in her story. Her hero... Suddenly, everything that was wrong with the man in her story made complete sense.
“I know what I need to do!” She squealed and Rissa laughed.
“Good. Let’s get you fed, and you can get right to it!”
Editor Steve Marksman wasn’t a man to be trifled with. Clive knew that working for his paper was an honor and he’d wield that prestige like an ax. Clive had known that even that first day, ten years ago, when he’d demanded a moment of Marksman’s time and had pushed a sub-par story across the desk to him. Marksman had known it wasn’t worth spit, but he’d told him how to fix it. He’d chased that story until he had every detail, then brought it back. Marksman had been paying him ever since.
> Clive forced himself to look Marksman in the eye as he sat in that same seat, knowing Marksman held his job in his hands. It wasn’t an easy task. Marksman knew him better than any man in town. He’d been a good, fair, and honest boss, but the twitch in Marksman’s mustache said that his reign as chief reporter was officially over.
“Davidson. You’ve been following Turner around for a week, yet you missed the fact that Dunworthy was his cousin and that he was seeing this Arnsby woman? What do I pay you for? Your last three pieces have been garbage, thrown together, not your usual work.”
“Arnsby was my fault, sir. I set her up with Turner.”
“Well, if that’s the case, why wasn’t she more a part of your stories? I should’ve put Dunworthy on this, at least the people would care.”
“Dunworthy lies. You and I both know it.” Clive slammed his fist on Marksman’s desk. That man shouldn’t even hold the position he did.
“Lie or not, he’s not going anywhere.”
Clive’s heart sank. “But I am, aren’t I?”
Marksman’s chin rose and his lips disappeared in a harsh line. “I don’t want to do this, Davidson. You’re the best reporter I’ve seen in a long time. But I need to be able to trust that I can hand you anything and it’ll come back to my desk finished. Until a week ago, I could count on that. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but this isn’t what we pay you for. If you can find some story in the future, something worthy of making up for this mess, bring it to me. Until then, go home.”
He’d lost his job. It had been foolish to bring Frances into the situation, not only had it been unprofessional, it had hurt her. He should’ve just taken Turner to the main tourist places, written a story about when East meets West, and gotten back to the real work. But something had compelled him to get Frances involved. His reporter instinct had gone wrong in so many ways. Why couldn’t he just let Frances go? How had she drawn him in even that very first day?
