by Stacy Gail
“Ah, that must mean you’re the conservation architect hired to rebuild Thorne Mansion, right? Sorry.” The woman laughed when Parker’s brows went up. “But your arrival hasn’t exactly been kept a secret. About a month back the Herald did an article on you and the many successes you’ve had in restoring old or damaged buildings. I did have the impression, though, that you were a man.”
“I hope you’re not disappointed.”
“Far from it. Just don’t be surprised that your arrival has been expected for some time. I’ve discovered that small towns like Bitterthorn don’t see a lot of excitement, so they have a way of making a big event out of everyday occurrences.”
The way she said it made Parker give her a closer look. “I take it you’re not from this town?”
“Dallas, actually. Born and bred.”
“That had to be a culture shock. Bitterthorn doesn’t even show up on most maps.” She thought of the massive sprawl that was the Dallas-Fort Worth area, commonly known as the DFW Metroplex, and cast an eye around the peaceful square. “What brought you here?”
“Love. Marriage. Happily ever after.” Again the woman smiled. “I’m Deborah Pruitt, by the way. If you happen to keel over from heatstroke, my daughter Payton is the local doctor. I promise she’ll take excellent care of you.”
“Parker Radclyffe, and here’s hoping I never have need of your daughter’s services.” She smiled at the other woman as she joined her on the shaded bench. “I hope you’ll forgive my nosiness. I’m a hopeless history junkie. Part of the job, I’m afraid.”
“If my husband were still alive, he would have been the one asking you all the questions, believe me. He was the town’s librarian and unofficial historian,” she added when Parker’s brows went up. “He was obsessed with the creation of this town and its founding family, the Thornes.”
“I don’t suppose you’d have anything your husband may have collected about the mansion?” Parker forgot all about wilting in the heat and straightened up with a surge of excitement. “The owner has no blueprints or building-material lists from when the mansion was originally built. He swears there never were any, at least as far as he knows. Considering this was the equivalent of a castle in the wild frontier, I find that hard to believe. Most of the gentry from that time period did all they could to get the best and brightest that money could buy, then put it on display for the world to see. Yet for some reason that didn’t happen here. There’s no mention of an architect, not even a cornerstone that usually has the name of the architect and date that the stone was originally placed. There’s just...nothing.”
“Really?” Deborah cast an assessing eye on the ruin across the street. “From what I know of Declan Thorne Senior, he was one of the brashest men in Texas. I think he’d be the type to make all sorts of announcements when it came to building Thorne Mansion.”
“I figured as much, considering he thought it was totally appropriate to place an Italianate palace in the Wild West. There’s got to be an amazing story behind its creation, yet I don’t even know who built it, and it’s driving me nuts. I mean, you’re talking to a woman who drools over historical architects the same way a rabid sports fan can tell you the name of every college football player who’s won the Heisman.”
“I don’t know if it’ll help, but there are scads of boxes I put in storage after my husband passed away. I have no clue what could be in them.” Deborah fished into her purse and came up with a card. “Feel free to let me know when you have time to drop by and dig through the collection. Just wear work clothes and gloves—those boxes haven’t been touched in years.”
“Thank you so much.” Trying not to let loose an undignified squeal, Parker instead took the card as if it were a priceless treasure. “Anything dealing with the original building would help tremendously. Even if it means simply getting a better understanding of the people who built it.”
“My husband once said the Thornes were exactly what the frontier needed for that time in history—arrogant rogues who knew how to make impossible dreams an unquestioned reality.”
“What forceful characters they must have been.” Parker glanced toward the offices of the Bitterthorn Herald before she could stop herself. “I wonder if they were all like that.”
“All I know is that if your face gets any redder, I’m going to have to call in my daughter, and believe me—Payton’s quite a forceful character herself.” With a smile, Deborah pushed to her feet. “The local diner, Mabel’s, makes the best glass of iced tea you’ve ever tasted. Or, if you’re in the mood for something sweeter, the homemade ice cream over at Pauline’s is my idea of heaven.”
“Now you’re talking.” But as they said their goodbyes and Parker made a beeline for the sweet-smelling shop she’d noted earlier, the question lingered. Just how much did that old rogue’s blood still thrive in today’s descendants of the Thorne family? Though she knew it wasn’t professional, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d get the chance to see if the current generation was just as fiery when it came to taking what they wanted.
* * *
“It’s been over a year since Thorne Mansion burned down. You’d think the good mayor would’ve gotten accustomed to the town wanting it back.” Busily cutting and pasting the Classified segment together, Doris Hanks didn’t take her eyes off the monitor casting a bluish glow over her round face and half-glasses. “Do we have to publish her Op-Ed?”
Chandler bit back a sigh and checked an incoming email on his phone. “Patricia Weems is the town’s mayor, Doris.”
“So?”
“So, as the town’s weekly paper, we have a duty to print the mayor’s Op-Ed. If we didn’t, she could scream bias. And she’d be right.” It was amazing how indifferent his tone was, as if he didn’t give a crap about the latest spit-in-the-eye stunt Weems was pulling. He’d had no idea he was such a good actor. “Technically speaking, it’s news. She’s proposing new initiatives for the town council to vote on.”
“Some new initiatives.” Oliver Ragan’s head popped up over the modular wall separating his workspace from Doris’s, his lipless mouth drooping in disapproval more than ever. It didn’t surprise Chandler that Oliver listened in. The rail-thin, big-eared, middle-aged human-interest editor was the worst gossip known to man. It was what made him so good at his job. “I heard Her Honor bragging to Buddy over at The Dirty Duck that she’s deliberately targeting the council members’ various pet projects in order to get them to agree to allow her to make a grab for the funds you’ve spent a year raising to rebuild Thorne Mansion.”
“There’s no way she can do that.” With a sniff, Doris clicked on the mouse with more force than necessary. “Those are private funds.”
“Not the matching funds coming from the Recorded Texas Historical Landmark Commission,” came the snippy reply. One thing about Oliver—he never took well to being corrected. “And if you’d read the initiatives in their entirety, you’d see that Mayor Weems’s intent is to use a little-known clause in the town’s bylaws to legally appropriate all the government monies coming into Bitterthorn. In times of emergency, any state or federally granted funds may be redistributed at the mayor’s discretion, with the town council’s approval.”
Chandler made a sound of annoyance. “Where’s the emergency? The criteria outlining those emergency parameters are well-defined in the town’s charter. No one has been left homeless. No one is starving due to drought or famine. Neither plague nor pestilence has hit. In fact, other than it being a scorcher of a summer, we’ve have it downright easy compared to past years.”
“But what about the poor homeless kitties suffering heatstroke, dehydration and malnourishment? That’s why the no-kill animal shelter was listed first on the mayor’s list of initiatives.”
Doris loosed an unladylike curse. “There hasn’t been one reported incident of heatstroke or dehydration at the current shelter, tho
ugh I know they’re running low on supplies. I’d hardly call that an emergency.”
“You assume the town’s bylaws were talking about human beings who were in need of immediate financial support.” Oliver shrugged a thin shoulder. “But it never specifically states this emergency can’t also include animals, such as livestock.”
“Good Lord, Oliver, what planet are you from? Cats and dogs aren’t livestock.”
“But they are animals, and that means they could be covered, if that’s how the council wants to interpret the law.”
“I don’t think anyone in their right mind would be able to vote for that.” Doris glanced at Chandler as she closed out the various windows on her screen. “I just sent you the Classified section for this week’s edition. Be warned—one of the Brody boys put in an ad to be a gigolo with an affinity for spanking. Satisfaction guaranteed. He must have lost a bet.”
Chandler stifled another sigh. Two days before deadline usually included a lot of sighing, plus pain medication for headaches and the need to kick someone’s ass all the way to Mexico. “Okay, I’ll take a—”
A flash of unmistakable red beyond the Herald’s etched-glass front doors cut the rest of his words off as neatly as a scalpel.
Parker.
He took two steps toward the door before he realized what his feet were up to. Mercilessly he pulled their emergency brake and forced them to stay where they were. He’d been doing that a lot since she’d hit town. This morning it had taken most of his self-control to stop from driving over to the Nooner to see if she was ready to get the hell out of there. He’d enjoyed the Nooner enough times to know what the place sounded like when the lights went out. If a headboard wasn’t banging against the wall in a marathon display of stamina, then someone was calling out to God or Jesus or whatever higher power they held dear. Not exactly the most peaceful way to spend a night. No doubt she was ready to throw in the towel.
But he hadn’t driven over. He’d held back. Not because it was a creepy thing to do—and wanting to know if all the high-octane sex at the Nooner had bothered her was definitely creepy. No, he stopped himself because he’d wanted to see her again way too much. There was nothing wrong with enjoying a woman with flame-red hair, luscious curves in all the right places and a temper hot enough to spark a fever in his blood. That was par for the course with him. It was also normal for his libido to perk up when someone new came along to shatter the monotony of seeing the same faces day in and day out.
But this eager burning to see Parker wasn’t about the novelty of something new and shiny he wanted to pass the time with. Nor was it about a physical attraction that had him hungry to touch her in ways that would get his face slapped and junk kicked.
The fact was, he didn’t like the urgency pulsing behind the need to see her. It was something he hadn’t felt in years, and it pissed him off that he felt it now. The last time he’d reacted this way, he’d wound up proposing to someone who was the worst possible choice for a man rooted to small-town life. No way was he going to dance his feet into that bear trap again, even if everything in him clamored to get near her. To breathe in her scent. To make that devilish smile flash. To let her laughter caress over him until his stomach muscles tensed and his flesh hardened. To know how her smaller, slighter stature would fit against him.
Or under him.
Or over him.
Or gloving him.
His jaw tightened. That pathetic desperation had halted him dead in his tracks like nothing else could. Attraction this hot and heavy was fine—astounding, even. But no way was he about to be a slave to a hard dick. At least not with someone who didn’t belong in a small town.
Professional, you idiot. Keep it fucking professional.
“So that’s what a redheaded beet looks like,” he said when she pushed her way into the small, empty area that could be construed at the Herald’s lobby. “Are you sure the Texas sun isn’t too much for you?”
“Oh, I’m fine. I’ve just got weird skin.”
“It doesn’t look weird from where I’m standing.” From where he was standing it looked like it needed one thing—to be explored in detail by first his hands, then his mouth. A heavy throb in his sex had him sucking in a silent breath and looking away before the rest of his body betrayed him. “What brings you by?” If she was here out of that same crazy desire to be with him, maybe there’d be no need to hold himself back...
“I was wondering if the Herald had a morgue I could look at?”
Thud.
Goddamn it. Reentry back into the land of reality hurt like a bitch. “Yeah, we have a morgue. Just because we’re a small-town paper doesn’t mean we don’t have every ambition to be as professional as possible.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean—”
“Follow me. I’ll see to it that you get everything you need.”
Chapter Four
Parker barely had time to nod hello to a couple of curious Herald employees before Chandler led her down a narrow wooden stairwell in the back of what she could see had once been a kitchen, but was now a break room with all the modern amenities. The thought of apologizing for stepping on hypersensitive toes came and went without her bothering to hail it down. If her new client was the mood-swingy type who had a penchant for taking a polite query the wrong way, the last thing she’d do was set the tone for the rest of their relationship by apologizing for it. If he wanted to play the role of delicate flower, so be it. His prerogative. She wasn’t here forever, just a handful of weeks. She could handle anything for that amount of time.
At least, that was usually what she told herself when confronted with a snippy client. For some reason, though, Chandler’s less-than-cheery mood spawned a hot ball of distress in the pit of her stomach.
“I figured this building had a basement. Most century-old buildings in this area don’t, thanks to the hard clay that’s just a foot or so below the topsoil. But one look at this Federalist-style brick building, and I knew it had to have once been a bank. And banks from the frontier days had a habit of burrowing down to protect their vaults.” Good grief. When was the last time she’d been so unsettled by a man she’d been reduced to outright babbling? “The one thing I didn’t expect was the light. Usually morgues are so dim I go half-blind trying to find what I’m looking for.”
“You’re right, this used to be the town’s bank at the turn of the last century. When I moved the Herald in, I wanted to lighten things up. The specially ordered windows are covered with UV protection, as is the lighting overhead. And this is probably the only place for miles where you’ll find almost no humidity.” Despite the abundance of diffuse light pouring in through the high windows covered in frosted glass, he still reached over to flick on the overhead lights. “Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”
There was a conciliatory note in his voice, and it loosened the knot of nebulous anxiety she’d been trying to overlook. “Only the history of everything, at least as it pertains to Thorne Mansion.”
“Have at it. Mi morgue es su morgue.”
“And what a morgue it is.” Abandoning her preoccupation with Chandler’s mood, Parker ventured deeper into the large, low-ceilinged space that was the resting place for every copy of the Bitterthorn Herald, or so she hoped. Row after row of file cabinets containing photos, clips and artwork were sorted by year. Massive flat-drawer chests containing back issues occupied an entire end of the room nearest the stairs, along with a long worktable providing ample room to lay several papers out flat, if the need arose. At the center of the room was a more modern workstation, complete with a desktop computer and a microfiche machine.
The Library of Congress couldn’t have done it better.
“You’re going to have to go old school with the microfiche if you’re researching anything before World War II,” Chandler said from behind her as she ran a reverent hand o
ver the cabinet of collected microfiche disks. “Getting the Herald’s archives scanned into the computer system is always something we plan on getting around to, but no one ever actually does it.”
“Old school is sexy-talk for a conservation architect. Just the sound of it...” She shivered and shot him a teasing grin, turning a deaf ear to the little voice cautioning her to play it like the professional she was. Though she knew it was ridiculous, his moodiness had bugged her in a visceral way. Now all she wanted to do was see him smile. “You have no idea how irresistible it is.”
“Trust me. I have an excellent idea about what’s irresistible.”
Without warning, her heart pulled off its version of the Texas two-step. Though it might have been her eyes playing tricks, she could have sworn he looked at her as if she were the world’s last piece of candy and he was jonesing for a sugar high. “Yeah, but do you get jazzed when you get close to a microfiche machine?”
“Maybe.” He seemed to wrestle with himself a moment before some internal decision was reached, and he lifted his gaze to clash with hers. “If you’re standing next to it.”
The two-step rhythm of her heart went into triple-time. So her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her, after all. “Prepare to get jazzed then, because what I’m looking for goes all the way back to when the mansion first came into being.”
“That would be near the end of the Civil War in 1865, to when it was completed in 1866.” He nodded once while his eyes held hers captive. “That was around the time Declan Senior bought the Herald and kept it running for a decade or more.”
“And here you are, his descendant, keeping the tradition alive. Was that always the plan?”
“It was more of an obsession than an actual plan,” came the surprising reply. “From the time I was a kid and learned about Declan Senior running the Herald, I burned with the ambition to make this paper as important to the town as it was when it was first established. Even when I was living in Chicago getting my degree, I was never tempted to put Bitterthorn behind me. Never.”
