Romance in Rapid

by Kari Trumbo

  “Frances, you have nothing to be afraid of. Have you worked on it today? Are you nervous because you didn’t get as much done as you’d like?”

  She let the pages loose and sighed deeply. “I guess you could say I have. I rewrote the hero and the heroine, once I changed the one, I had to also change the other. You can’t make a relationship work between two characters that don’t fit.”

  There was truth there. He’d often imagined how well they’d fit… He held his breath and tried to force his eyes to stay on the pages and failed. “No, I would suppose you can’t. How did you change Steve and Maxine so that they would fit well together?”

  Frances blushed a pretty rose. “Well, you can’t make them fit all at once, or that would be no fun. They’ve got to start out at odds, with something that draws them together.” She stopped her pacing and caught his glance. “Something big. A problem or…” She bit her lip, then released it. “A struggle.”

  Every word was right. They both had started out at odds. If he’d been asked about Frances on that first day, he’d have called her a pretty waste of his time. But in the space of a week, she’d wound herself right down into the heart of him.

  “So, how are you going to bring these two doves together?” He reached for her hand, unable to stop himself from touching her, needing the contact. It trembled as he covered it. “You don’t have to be embarrassed with me Frances. This is your story and I agreed to help you make it better and even try to get a publisher to look at it. I wasn’t lying to you, but I can’t do my part if you don’t want to talk to me.”

  She pulled from him and clutched her hands in her lap, refusing to look up. “It might be best if you just read the new first chapter. I just finished it before you came.” She stood and strode to the window, pulling back the curtain.

  “Are you hiding from me, Frances? What are you so afraid of?” Would she open up and tell him? She was so skittish, so afraid. Nothing like she’d been that first day. Would she ever be that woman again? The one who’d slid her manuscript across his desk without a thought to how others would react? Had he ruined that forever? Too many questions and Frances wasn’t answering a single one.

  He laid the papers down in front of him.

  Thunder raged outside the wagon as Maxine Wellengood clutched her wool blanket around her shoulders.

  Well, that was a more promising start than the dark and stormy night he’d read before... He read further.

  Steve Harmsway ducked his head into her wagon and asked to come in. He shouldn’t be anywhere near her, but that hadn’t kept him away. He was good at his trade, too good for the likes of her. His steely eyes burned down to her soul. “I need your help, Harmsway, but I don’t need you busting your way in here whenever you please.”

  Frances had changed the character’s completely. Before, Maxine had been plucky, taking over the story from the very beginning, while Steve had been a pushover. He’d never believed for a minute there was anything between them, but now the tension was there from the very start...or was he just reading what he hoped was brewing between himself and his heroine?

  The first chapter flew by and he stopped, not wanting to give away to her that he’d finished. Steve was brilliant, he liked him from the first... But Maxine, Maxine was too close to Frances. What would Frances reveal about herself as she wrote the character, and could he handle reading her thoughts? If he critiqued her character, would it hurt her further? She was opening herself up to him and to the world, perhaps unknowingly.

  “I think you’ve come a very long way, Frances. You’ve added feeling and depth. It’s good, really good.”

  Her face lit under his praise. “And, what do you think of Steve? You didn’t like him before.” She flushed with a radiant smile, the excitement in her voice was contagious.

  “Steve was a much more real character this time, and Maxine, she is excellent. You’ve made her strong yet flawed. I think women readers will relate to her.”

  “Maxine? Oh...” She flinched. “I did make a few changes to her, but she’s much as she always was. I’m afraid I don’t know how to make her better. You’ll have to let me know if I go astray.”

  He wouldn’t say a word. She didn’t know, couldn’t know, she was writing about herself. “Don’t change her, she’s perfect,” he breathed the words before he could stop himself.

  After he looked over the pages once again, he smiled. She was giving him a treasure and didn’t even realize it. “Let’s take a look at a few scenes and see if we can make them even better. I’m impressed.” He’d hoped his word would erase some of the wariness in her eyes, but it didn’t. Something held her back from acting with him as she had before. She wouldn’t relax or speak as she always had. Perhaps losing his job was the best thing that could’ve happened. It would give him many more hours to spend with Frances, and he could find out why she held herself so far away. It was just a little further he had to draw her in.

  Clive was so caught up with silly Maxine that he hadn’t seen what she’d done with Steve. Or, maybe she hadn’t written him well enough for Clive to notice? There would be time. It was only the first chapter. Maybe he would understand. And if he didn’t, at least Frances could go home knowing she’d tried to tell him how she felt. If only she could just tell him. Her face burned at the very thought. She couldn’t do that—Maxine could, but not Frances.

  Supper was almost ready, and Rissa joined them in the kitchen again. Frances couldn’t talk about her story with anyone else in the room, even Rissa, who’d been nothing but sweet to her all day. Sharing with the lovely woman’s son had been difficult enough. Frances would just die of embarrassment if she had to share the book with Rissa too. Not until it was finished, because now she had hope it would be.

  The older woman strode into the room and squeezed her son’s shoulder. “’Bout time you gave that gal a break. Help me get the soup on the table.”

  Frances stood. She hadn’t been allowed to help with anything at Charity House, but she certainly could here. She scrambled to get her marked up pages cleared off the table so it could be wiped down. Rissa took care of cleaning the table and Clive set the bowls and spoons. Frances had never seen a man help in the kitchen. She stared at him and he stopped to glance up at her, smiling. “I know my way around a kitchen. A man’s got to eat when he doesn’t have a woman around.”

  He was alone. The thought pierced deep. She would go home to her family of sisters and brothers in law, but Clive would return to his lonely house. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I’ve just not seen a man set a table before. I have seven sisters, too many to ever need the help of the men in the kitchen.”

  “Oh, I’d bet the men help a little, splitting the wood for the stove, making sure there’s water in the stove reservoir, providing meat to put on the table...”

  While, he’d proven her wrong, it didn’t feel like it. If Lula had teased her and been right about something, her face would’ve burned in mortification. She should know more than her sister, two years younger. But it held no sting from Clive. “I’m sure they do, but I’ve never seen my brothers in law set a table. I’m not even sure they know where to find the bowls.”

  Rissa laughed and set a trivet on the table with a ladle next to it. “Well, my kitchen is not very big. Even a man could find his way around in my small area.”

  Clive poked his mother in the side and she laughed again, dodging away from him. “Make yourself useful, Clive, and bring that heavy pot over.”

  The two were close, as close as she’d ever seen a parent and child. It had been almost six years since she lost her pa in a fire. She’d only seen Ma a few times since she, Ruby, Beau, and her sisters left their ma behind in Cutter’s Creek, but they exchanged letters. She’d loved her ma, but they’d never had that bond she could see between Clive and Rissa. Maybe because she’d been too young when they’d left?

  Clive reached across the table toward Frances, and the warmth of his palm spread over her. Rissa’s voice raised a prayer
over the food and the people at the table, then the heat of Clive’s hand disappeared as quickly as it had come. She glanced around the table, but Clive was busy with the ladle, scooping the luscious-smelling soup into each bowl. She’d shared supper with him the last few nights, but this one made her nervous. There was no one else to talk through the silences. Silence had always bothered her.

  Rissa picked up her spoon. “So, Frances, tell us about Deadwood. I’ve never been there.”

  Frances closed her eyes and the city appeared in her mind. Home. “It’s a bustling town, full of people. It’s had its share of trouble, but there are good folks there, too. Like most other towns up here in the hills, it’s situated in a valley. We don’t really live in Deadwood, though, closer to Lead, really. The ranch is situated on a hill. My sister Ruby and her husband Beau work for the ranch owner, as do two of my brothers in law, Aiden and Hugh. They’re brothers. My other sister, Eva, is in Lead. Married three years now to her husband, George. They have a little one on the way.”

  Rissa’s face broke into a smile. “My, you have a large family! Poor Clive has never had siblings to keep him company.”

  Clive flattened his lip and calmly changed the subject. “So, now that you’ve been here for a few weeks, what do you think of Rapid City?” Clive asked as he stared into his bowl. She wanted to see his eyes, to see what he was really asking her.

  “I think it’s a beautiful town, much more open than what I’m used to. Rapid City’s hills are farther apart, more rolling, you can see farther. There’s a busyness about it that I like. You could learn anything you wish to, right here.”

  He pegged her with those steel gray eyes. “You think so? Anything?”

  Those eyes made her insides swirl. “I didn’t mean to step on your toes, Clive. I’m sorry about your position at The Union.” She picked up her spoon and pushed the soup around in her bowl.

  “I wasn’t talking about my job.” He didn’t make any move to elaborate further.

  Rissa clicked her tongue. “Now, that is the truth. I always hoped I’d see the day when a woman could be more than a schoolteacher. Why, I’ve heard that in some of the bigger cities, there are even women doctors and lawyers. If that don’t beat all.”

  She’d never entertained a passing fancy to be either one, but she did want to be an author—a trail blazed by a few women before her, but not many. There were some she suspected were women but wrote under a man’s name— She gasped and Clive almost dropped his spoon.

  “Frances, is anything the matter?”

  “No, something is brilliant. I’ve just figured out my problem. I won’t write under Misty Raines, I’ll take a man’s name! If I do, I have more options to publish!”

  His spoon clattered to his empty bowl and she realized she’d hardly started. “A man’s name? Whose?”

  Clive seemed agitated all of a sudden. Frances took a bite of her soup, but it wasn’t pleasing cold and she pushed it away. “I don’t know. I haven’t made up his name yet. It wasn’t like the name Misty was real, either. And frankly, I’ve never liked it.”

  Clive shook his head. “I don’t like the idea and I don’t think you should. How many of those dime novels are written by men? Romances…by men. It’s absurd.”

  She sat up straighter in her chair. “Quite a number of them, especially the Westerns. Would you like to read some? They have them down at the bookstore.”

  Nothing would take that edge from his eyes, the pent-up anger flexing through his hands. “No, I wouldn’t like to read any of them. It just seems to me that if you’re going to work so hard, you should put your own name on it. Be proud. I work hard for each and every byline, I would think you’d want the same.”

  Where had this bubbling anger come from? Was he really so vexed with her? “Well, it’s a little different. You write fact, I write fiction. It isn’t that I’m not proud of my work, it’s that I’m worried about what people will think. I don’t think it’s even possible to use my own name after it was smeared all over the paper.”

  He stood slamming his hands on the table, his nostrils flaring. “Will you hold that against me forever? I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have been there.”

  After a day of worry, his anger hit her like a slap. She pulled back from the table and stood. “I meant nothing of the sort. I was only stating that my name is sullied, and a publisher may not want to use it. Misty has no history, nothing anyone can say about her.”

  Clive strode across the room and leaned against the counter. His head hung between his shoulders. “You blame me, and I should take the blame, but I hope at some point you’ll let me make it up to you.”

  A sliver of fear pierced her, making her bold. “I thought that’s what you were doing this week. I thought we were already done with chapter one and heading for chapter two after supper.”

  Resignation laced his sigh as he shook his head. “Why don’t you write? I’ve got to get out and take care of a few things.” He grabbed his hat and pulled it over his head, never turning to face her as he let the door slam behind him.

  Rissa stood and collected his bowl.

  “Don’t mind him, dear. He’s dealing with a load of guilt that he hasn’t figured out where to unload yet. I gave him the reins this afternoon, but he’s got to hit a few ruts before he figures it out.”

  Frances wrapped her arms around herself to keep herself together. While she wasn’t frightened of Rissa, she was too new to trust with her deepest feelings. Like the fear that she wasn’t good enough for Clive, that he’d never notice her. Even if he never really had an eye for Constance, Frances was nothing in comparison.

  “That was like a dam bursting. I didn’t see it coming until it hit me. Why would it bother him if I use a man’s name?”

  “He might not even be able to fully tell you that, dear, but if you look back at this conversation in a few weeks, I think you’ll know why. Just hold tight and pray, dear. Hold tight and pray.”

  Chapter 17

  The moonlight didn’t calm Clive like it usually did. The sparkling stars reminded him of her eyes, the soft light of the lamps angling down in a soft sweep were like her skirts. The rushing of the creek, like her sweet laugh...if only he’d heard it recently. But he wouldn’t hear it again if he didn’t stop doing things to make her jump away from him.

  What had gone off like dynamite in his head? He couldn’t even explain it. The thought of her taking on a man’s name, any man’s name, even if the other man didn’t exist, had made him so angry he couldn’t contain it. Even now, he wanted to run or punch something or work himself into a lather to forget. He shook his hands to relieve the tension building in his arms. A giggle drew him up short and he dashed from the path behind a tree, not wanting to share his angry walk with anyone.

  Constance pulled a man along the path closer to the river. As they angled under the light of a streetlamp, she giggled again. The man looked thoroughly bored, as if he’d rather be doing just about anything else than walk with Constance. Clive could relate.

  “We have nothing to worry about, Reginald. Father is out for at least another hour, so no one will know. Frances made your little indiscretion look like nothing. Now we can be together. Father wants his household back to normal and this will do it. It’ll show all of society that we were a good match.” She drew him closer to her and flounced her skirt a little, then drew Reginald’s hand to her waist. Reginald glanced around, searching the shadows as if he wanted to bolt.

  “Constance, you don’t understand. My parents, they want me to have nothing to do with you anymore. You were fun, but now it’s time for me to find someone serious. I’m sorry about what happened in the garden, it shouldn’t have. But we both need to forget it. You need to settle down, stop trying so hard. You’re a pretty sort, but you’re not the type of girl a man wants to wed. We would never work. I need to find someone I can trust to run my home and not rush out on me as soon as I’m off to work for the day.”

  Clive held his shock in check. No one had
ever been quite so blunt about Constance, yet she didn’t disagree. She shoved him and he grabbed her arm.

  “There’s no call for that, Constance. If you want one last bit of fun under the tree, I’ll join you, but that’s it. You aren’t welcome to come around my house anymore.” Reginald snaked his arm lower, to her hip.

  Clive flinched. He hadn’t thought Constance had gone quite that far. So, Dunworthy had smeared Reginald’s name and not Constance, when they both had been equal partners.

  “I’m not welcome to come around your house? What about when your brat is born, Reginald?”

  Reginald’s hands moved at lightning speed. He grabbed her wrist and shoved her against the lamppost, making it sway. Clive stepped from behind the tree. He wouldn’t just stand there and let Constance get manhandled, even if she’d been cruel to Frances.

  Reginald bent forward and yelled at her. “You can’t prove it’s mine. You’re little more than a high society sheet-scraper. If you ever try to take me down with your stories, I will tell your father everything.”

  She slapped him hard enough to send him reeling. The bloke deserved it and Clive could find little compassion for him. If he was willing to have fun with Constance, he should have to follow through. Clive stepped from the shadows. “Stop right there, Reginald.”

  Constance shrieked, then dashed behind Clive’s back. “Take care of him, Clive. He’s smearing my good name!” A name that she couldn’t have realized he already knew was beyond help.

  It was his last desire, the one furthest from his heart at the moment, but he couldn’t leave Constance alone in the park. “Move on, Reginald. I’ll make sure she gets home.”

  He shrugged and glanced at Constance. “Don’t come back, Constance. I won’t let you in and no one else will, either. Whoever the brat belongs to, get money from them.”