Romance in Rapid

by Kari Trumbo

  It should matter. His job had been the world to him, but now, he couldn’t scrub together enough feeling to care. Clive went to his desk and looked it over. Other than the wood placard with his name, there wasn’t much on it he could claim as his own. The ten years he’d spent in that chair were easily tucked under one arm, and nothing but a desk ready for the next reporter remained.

  There was nowhere for him to be midday. He could go home or go to his mother’s and see if Frances was comfortable. How would she feel, given the space in his room? Would she run away, or would she enjoy the space he’d lived in for most of his life? Would she find it comfortable, or distasteful? He’d originally offered his mother’s home to build trust, a place they could meet with a ready chaperone. Only later had he realized he desired her to be where she would be perfectly safe, near him without ever being in his private dwelling.

  His mother’s house was only a few blocks away, and though he wasn’t proud of the turn his life had taken, he would make it right and stop hiding things from her. She was his mother, ever faithful. She would offer to pray over him, then send him on his way. It’s what she always did, and he prayed she’d never change. Though, perhaps over the years, he’d let her fervent prayers replace his own. That was something he needed to work on. He couldn’t rely on her forever.

  The front of his mother’s house was as welcome as a smile. He glanced up to his room. The lamp on his desk was lit and a soft shadow of a profile reflected through the curtain at the window. She was at his desk. Writing. His heart sang as the image burned itself deep inside him. He wanted to see that lovely head bent over his desk for the rest of his life.

  As he opened the front door, the scent of his mother’s mushroom soup filled his nose. Every piece of furniture, each picture on the wall, was a memory. “Mom!” he called into the house. “I know you aren’t far, or your soup will burn.”

  His mother laughed from the sitting room at the back of the house, the room just below his own. He followed the sweet noise and found his mom, sitting in her rocker, knitting socks.

  “You’re here early, Clive.” Her eyes danced. “Couldn’t stay away, could you? She is such a nice young woman.”

  As true as that was, he couldn’t let his mother know the extent of what he felt. Frances was too hurt for him to push himself at her now. He planned to offer to take her back to Deadwood and apply for a position with the paper there. She was too precious to let go, and if it took his whole life to make up for what he’d done to her, he would.

  “Marksman let me go.” He held up his small sack with his few belongings in it. “Looks like I’m in the ranks of the unemployed, at least for a while.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing you took your father’s advice and paid cash for that house. All you need to worry about is eating.” She nodded and smiled. “That’s a fine girl you have. What do you intend to do about her?”

  It had taken him all day to come up with a reasonable angle to tell his mother. He glanced at the floor then back to her. When he’d come straight over that morning to talk to her after meeting with Frances, Mother had pestered him about her.

  “I don’t know. She’s had her name dragged through the mud and worse, something did happen between her and Turner. I don’t know if she’ll ever trust me again.”

  “She’s here, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, but only because I promised to believe in her and help her finish her novel. She isn’t here because she wants to stay.”

  “She mentioned that she wished she’d gone back to Deadwood...right before she started talking about you and got all dreamy-eyed.” She laughed.

  “I know you want me to find myself a woman, Mom, but don’t push this. If she gets hurt again...” He shook his head, not wanting to even finish the thought.

  “There’s one sure way to apologize, son. You’ve known it since you were knee high to a grasshopper. Don’t think that just because she’s pretty, it won’t work.”

  Now Mom would make it right with a little prayer, as she always did. He waited in anticipation of the comforting feeling. She stood and tossed her knitting onto the chair, then reached for his hands. She would pray and then everything would be fine. It always was. “Clive, I’ve led you along for almost thirty years. You need to be a man now and do what men do. It’s time for you to be the spiritual leader of your home. I’ll pray for you, but I won’t pull you along anymore. This is the day that the Lord has asked me to step back so you can stop walking in my shadow. Step into the sun. Ask of Him what you hope in your heart and let Him lead and speak to you.” She patted his shoulder as she walked past.

  No. That wasn’t what she was supposed to do. It wasn’t as she’d always done. How could his rock walk away when he needed her most? He turned, but she was already in the kitchen, humming over her soup. She seemed content with her decision, so why couldn’t he be?

  How could he even begin? It was as if his lips didn’t know where to start. His glance wandered to the stairway. He could go and knock on Frances’s door, bring her down to the sitting room, and they could talk. His mind was muddled, the peace he’d been expecting flowed further away—just out of reach. He stood in the middle of the room and couldn’t make his feet move.

  Blast it! Lord what should I do?

  Chapter 15

  Laughter. Soft and rumbling. Though, in Clive’s head, it was almost like that of his father’s, now thirteen years’ gone. The Lord was laughing at him? Though mirth at his expense would normally make him furious, in this instance, he could only laugh right along.

  “What is so funny?” Frances stood on the stairway just a few steps from the bottom. Her eyes were still tinged in red, but she looked glorious in his home. Comfortable. He ached to stride over and take her into his arms, but he held back. Hadn’t she asked him just earlier that day to stop? She’d been through too much and he wouldn’t push her further.

  “I just had my life shift under my feet.” He couldn’t stop staring at her face. Her narrow eyes that gave her the look that she was smiling all the time, the soft upturned nose...

  “You don’t look like a man suffering,” she whispered.

  Did she know the direction of his thoughts? Because he was far from suffering at the moment. “I’m not, at least, not yet. I’ve had some time to think on your predicament a bit since we spoke this morning. I hope you’re comfortable here.” He resisted the urge to remind her she was in his room—one of the few places he could fully relax—and he prayed she could as well.

  She flushed slightly. “Yes, the room is more than accommodating. You’re home early. I hope that thinking of my situation didn’t prompt you to leave work?”

  There would be no hiding it and he wouldn’t lie to her. “No, the editor didn’t appreciate my recent work or the secrets I kept about you and how you came to be with Turner. I’ll need to find employment elsewhere.”

  Her lovely eyes widened, and those beautiful lips matched, a perfect ‘O’. “Oh no. I’m so sorry, Clive.”

  There, finally. His name on her lips again. He’d waited two whole days to hear it and it was like sun peeking through the clouds on a rainy day. “It is I who should be apologizing to you. I never should’ve put you in that horrible role. I should never have trusted Dunworthy would keep his end of the deal, and I shouldn’t have asked you to put yourself in the position to have such a story written about you. It wasn’t my intention.”

  She descended the last few steps and her eyes pierced him. “And now that I’m here, I’d like to know, just what is your intention?”

  He’d moved across the room before he’d even realized his feet were moving. Now she was right there, close enough to touch, but he dared not. “I intend to help you with your novel, then I intend to board a stage with you back to Deadwood, where I’ll make sure you get home. Then I intend to see if the paper in Deadwood needs another reporter.” So many more words vied for attention on the back of his tongue. He intended to take her in his arms, to erase what Turner had
done, to hold her close and never let go.

  She drew a step nearer, he could smell the lavender of her hair soap, more intoxicating than anything he’d ever smelled before. “And what about Constance?”

  Constance? He shook his head and took a step back. Hadn’t he made it clear that he’d never wanted to see Constance? He whirled from her and took a moment to think, but the words spilled free. “Constance is a spoiled little brat. I’ve told you before, I didn’t want to see her. I know you think I’ve got a soft spot for her, but it just isn’t true. After Reginald’s story in the paper, I felt sorry for her. I no longer do, as I can see now that it was most likely true. Score one for Dunworthy, he got one right.”

  Frances gasped and he turned to face her. “But she wanted you. She told me so.”

  The little socialite didn’t care for him. But if the rumors were true, she’d be desperate. “So, she hadn’t wanted you to say anything? It was rather obvious that she was on the hunt for any man that her father would hate. It’s one of the reasons she never really tried to get Turner’s attention. He was exactly the type of man her father would want for her. Not to mention, they both need more attention than either is willing to give. Two needy people can’t fulfill one another.”

  To his chagrin, she tipped her face away from him. “I thought she left him alone because I was supposed to be with him.” Would she recoil if he lifted her chin? She’d been forced into too much already. As much as he wanted to, he wouldn’t force her to look at him if she chose not to.

  “She never respected you, Frances. I began to suspect she was saying things to turn us against each other. I think she realized you and I were...friends...and that would never do. Constance has never played second chair to anyone.”

  Her gaze swung back to him, burning him. “Is that what we are? I’ve realized recently that I haven’t been all that good at picking friends.”

  A slash of truth ripped through him. He wanted to be so much more. “I think it would be safe to use that designation, for now.” He couldn’t—no he wouldn’t—push her, he reminded himself. He had to back away before she saw the dawning truth in his expression. How had it escaped him until now? How could he call himself a reporter when he hadn’t even been able to ferret out his own feelings?

  She nodded. “So, I guess we do have a whole week then. Shall we get started?”

  There was no comfortable place for two, with some place to write, in the sitting room. It afforded two rocking chairs and one small couch, but no flat surface. And if he got her on the couch, right next to him… No, he needed a table, something sturdy between them.

  “Mother is in the kitchen. I know we’ll have to sit there smelling that soup cook all day, but the table would be the best place.”

  Frances nodded and moved to go back up the stairs. Unable to stop himself, he reached for and grasped her wrist. “I just want to say, thank you for trusting me. I know you wanted to go home and that this was the harder choice.”

  For the barest of moments, she smiled and glanced at his hand on her wrist, but he couldn’t let go. Not until she answered.

  “It was difficult to agree to stay. I wanted to get on that stage and forget all about Rapid City.” She glanced up the stairs. “But I couldn’t do that.”

  It was a far cry from an admission, but his heart would take it. She couldn’t leave him. There was still hope. He let her free and went into the kitchen. Mother waited for him by the stove, a gleam in her eye.

  “See, a little forgiveness goes a long way.” She tapped the wooden spoon on the rim of the pot.

  There would be no denying his mother the pleasure of listening in on them. It had been the whole reason he’d chosen this place. But could he stand the desire to wait and the pull of the attraction, coupled with his mother’s push? She’d stayed in the kitchen much longer than she’d needed to, just to give him a minute of what he’d thought was privacy. “You heard the whole thing?”

  “Of course. Wasn’t that the reason you asked her to stay here and not at the hotel? So that I could enjoy every word and be the chaperone you hardly need?” She flashed a smile at him.

  Part of the reason. The other was that he was realizing that he couldn’t trust his feelings. If he were alone with her for hours on end at a hotel, the temptation would be far too great. “There were many reasons this was a better option than the hotel. The main one being that if I lost my job, I wouldn’t be able to pay for it. And I knew she couldn’t and shouldn’t have to. Not after I asked her to stay.”

  “She mentioned you all but insisted she stay. That’s very interesting.”

  He laughed. His mother wanted so much for him to find someone to love him, lest she leave him alone to wallow in that loneliness until he died. “I didn’t quite insist. But she didn’t quite say no, either.”

  Pages of her first chapter were scattered all over Clive’s desk. She gathered the old version and the new together. Her hands shook as she shuffled them into order. While the hero in her story had not changed names, everything else about him was now Clive. Would he recognize what she’d done? It was a gamble but might be the only way for her to ever make him realize the way she felt. And what would it matter if he did? Could she do that to Constance? Could she ever let Clive love her knowing that Constance wanted his attention? Her heart sang a chorus while her head chided her choice.

  Constance never would’ve let such a thing stop her. She knew that now, but could she be like Constance? It didn’t bear thinking about, and she was getting too ahead of herself. Friends. They were friends. That’s what he’d said. He’d also said, ‘for now’. And how those two words had thrummed through her, right down to her toes. Even just thinking about them made her pulse race.

  It wouldn’t do to just mirror the hero after Clive, she’d also changed the heroine, Maxine Wellengood, to be more like her. Not just like her, though, because Frances was boring. Maxine was how Frances wished she could be, if she were her very best. Maxine would have no trouble attracting the dashing Steve Harmsway. She hated the way the names were expected to be a description of the character, as if the story were a joke, but the dime novel publishers expected it. So that was how she’d named them. Maxine was a horse breeder and ranch owner. Steve was a lawyer defending her against a wicked ne’re do well who wanted her land.

  The closer she got to the kitchen the more her nerves crackled beneath her skin. What if he saw right through her and found her to be silly? He’d already called her writing infantile, would the changes she’d made solidify those thoughts in his head? While she needed his help, it would be so much easier if she weren’t sitting with him while he gave it. Then again, when would she ever again get the chance to spend time with him? This week and a few hours on the stage to Deadwood. Then she would return to life on the ranch. Even if he got a job in Deadwood, which wasn’t guaranteed, it didn’t mean he’d want to spend time with her.

  She strode down into the kitchen where Clive sat at the table and Rissa stood at the stove. They were laughing together, but he stopped as soon as Frances entered the room. He stood and ushered her to a seat. Rissa turned to her with twinkling eyes. “Might I get you two something cool to drink or should I just get back to my socks?”

  Clive smiled at his mother briefly, then looked to her. “Would you like anything?”

  A shot of whiskey to calm her nerves? The internal scolding came even before she finished the thought. She’d been the daughter of a man who brewed moonshine. Though he was long dead, the shame he caused remained. Her stomach protested, and she couldn’t put anything in it, not until she was sure that Clive wouldn’t realize what she’d done. Or he did. What had she gotten herself into? Using the only hero she’d ever known had seemed like such a good idea earlier. Now it was the most foolish thing she’d ever done, and Clive would soon see it.

  The words were silly, he couldn’t see them. Not until she fixed the hero again, somehow. She gripped the pages to her chest. “Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea. May
be I should go through the whole story before you waste your time looking at it again. You’ve already spent so much time reading through it.”

  How could that slight bending of his lips melt her? She couldn’t tell him no. “I’m here to help you.” His steely eyes warmed something deep within her. He turned to Rissa. “I think we’ll be fine, Mom, thank you.”

  When he sat down and waited for her to give up the pages, she stood to pace in front of the stove. He reached out as she neared him and gently grasped her hand, the tenderness shocking her to a stop. Turner had always groped and clasped. Clive’s thumb rubbed over the pad of hers. It wasn’t fear she felt, but her heart raced just the same.

  “Don’t be nervous. I can feel the tremors of your heart under my thumb. You don’t have to be frightened of me.” He paused and she wasn’t sure if he was talking about her story, or them. He tugged her gently toward the table. “I’ve already read the story, remember? Our story can only get better from here. Sit and read with me.”

  Our story? Her mouth went dry. She couldn’t tell him no, didn’t want to. But her hands needed to do something. Nervous energy coursed through her. How could she stand the torture of sitting there while he read through the first few pages?

  Clive glanced up and the side of his mouth quirked into a sly smile. “Trust me?”

  Chapter 16

  He wanted an endearment for her, something to let her know she’d nestled herself in his heart. Turner had called her Franny and tarnished the sweet nickname. Clive had every intention of taking every slight and turning it around. Even her fear to release her story might stem from the fear she had of the hero Turner hadn’t been. She clutched the pages as he tugged them from her hands. Her fear clawed him deeper. He’d done that to her, put her there, and he’d wipe that fear from her face. Someday.