An Improper Situation (Sanborn-Malloy Historical Romance Series, Book One)

by Baily, Sydney Jane

  He appeared as startled at that as she felt, then they both laughed. He stood up, too, and suddenly the porch seemed to be much smaller. Standing so close, she could feel the heat from his body, and absurdly, she wanted to be enveloped by that warmth. He made her feel as if something special was always happening.

  It was probably just the strangeness of having an adult male in the house who wasn’t her father or her brother. But now she couldn’t take her eyes from his blue gaze that seemed to be looking at her so earnestly. She didn’t know enough about Reed Malloy to guess whether he was affected by her presence, too, but he did have a curious expression on his usually confident face.

  “And do the pressures of your career mean you cannot go to a barn dance, Miss Sanborn?”

  So that was what was on his mind. She smiled crookedly. “No, I believe I can manage one dance, much better, in fact, than I can manage two children.” Or one man, she added silently, needing to escape before something foolish came out of her mouth.

  But just as she would have moved, he startled her by placing one steady hand on the porch post above her head. She craned her neck to look at it, then looked at him to see his own gaze riveted to the throbbing pulse point she’d exposed on her slender neck.

  “Mr. Malloy.” Neither query nor statement, her whispery voice sounded strange to her ears. It was more a plea for mercy, she thought. It brought his eyes up to lock on hers.

  He was silent a moment. She could almost see the struggle waging within him. She had the feeling then, as she’d had before, that he wanted to kiss her, but he was torn by something, something just powerful enough to restrain him.

  He raised his hand to her neck, and stroked down the side of its white column with a slightly callused thumb, before lightly caressing her unyielding jawline. Once, twice.

  “Miss Sanborn,” he said at last, his voice a deep timbrous sound that vibrated with the rhythm of her heartbeat. “I believe it’s time we went to bed.”

  “Bed,” she repeated, her eyes widening as the porch floor seemed to slip out from under her.

  Chapter Six

  Charlotte lay awake far into the night. She burned over the blamed ninny she must have appeared to Reed, blurting out the word bed, just as he had dropped his hand from the post and moved to let her pass by. Clearly, he had meant nothing untoward by his statement.

  She’d bid him good night hurriedly and gone inside, but she plainly heard through the door his deep voice, “We’ll see, lady writer, we’ll see.”

  About the children, she’d assured herself, was all he meant, but in her gut she knew they were now dancing around another subject altogether and that he was as affected by her as she by him.

  It was more difficult that night to accept being a twenty-four-year-old virgin than it ever had before. She felt hot and prickly, as she thought of Reed’s face and his hands and those muscles in his rear end, perfectly displayed when he wore his jeans. It was a long night, indeed.

  The next morning, Charlotte not only acknowledged that her visitors were all staying through another week, but that they were all going to a dance. And she was looking forward to it, until the questions started popping into her mind: Was Reed her escort or was he going to dance with every woman there, including Eliza Prentice? And what was Charlotte going to wear?

  True, it was only a barn dance, but all her clothes were hopelessly outdated; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone to Miss Finney’s in Denver or even to their own small “house of fashion” located in one corner of Jeremiah Webster’s piece goods store.

  Occasionally, Mr. Webster had some factory-made clothes that were, if a little plain and pragmatic, at least decently priced; she’d bought a few blouses there over the years. However, most of the women in Spring City relied on their Sears Roebuck or their Montgomery Ward catalogues, or made their own creations.

  From what Charlotte had seen, they were quite adept at dressmaking.

  For her part, she could barely sew on a button, let alone create a dress appropriate for an evening dance, even if there was time. Regina Sanborn knew only the art of needlepoint and found that too tedious to teach her daughter. Her mother’s dresses had always been made by seamstresses when she lived in Boston, and Charlotte remembered overnight outings to Denver when her mother needed something new.

  Charlotte’s own dresses had been bought at Miss Finney’s until she was fourteen, and then . . . Charlotte frowned.

  She had probably bought two plain dresses in the past ten years—everything else was recycled from her mother’s wardrobe. She did not mind in the least wearing her mother’s clothing, but had worn out most of her dresses, not to mention finishing her growth at about three inches taller than Regina.

  Her eyes refocused on the work at hand. The article in front of her was supposed to be on the problems between the farmers who were cordoning off more and more land with barbed wire and the cattlemen who were running out of places to drive their cattle. She had barely begun it as she couldn’t keep her mind on the task at hand.

  “Blazes!” She looked around guiltily, which only made her madder. This was her home, and she could curse or daydream if she wanted, but, by God, she would not be daydreaming if it weren’t for that infernal lawyer who had somehow got the upper hand.

  They should have been gone by now, Charlotte fumed, only she wasn’t driving them out. Instead, she’d been polite and caring and almost . . . motherly. And worst of all, she was enjoying their company too much by half!

  She still didn’t know how to answer Reed’s question from the night before—how could she help him work out the problem of what to do with young Thomas and Lily? She only knew she wasn’t getting any work done. She might as well make a good showing at the one and only town dance she was ever likely to attend.

  She gathered up her blue beaded purse, making sure she had enough money inside before she hung it on her wrist, and placed a well-worn, favorite bonnet on top of her head. Reed was outside with the children. They were good about being quiet when she was writing—or supposedly writing. They all turned to her and she felt a brief moment of panic.

  How would she explain abandoning her work for a silly whim? Reed was already looking at her with that quizzical gaze. She didn’t want him to know that she didn’t have anything proper to wear or that it mattered to her that she did. Then she had a stroke of brilliance.

  “Come along, Lily. We need to get you a dress for the dance.” She watched as three mouths seemed to drop open at once. “Well?”

  “But I already have a dress, Aunt Charlotte.”

  “Oh. You brought it with you from Boston?”

  The little girl nodded and Charlotte saw a smile spread on Reed’s face. But she wouldn’t give up.

  “Well . . .,” she faltered. “And what about you, Thomas?” She would prefer to have the little girl with her but any port in a storm, at this point.

  He just shook his head. Then Lily’s face brightened. “I need a new pair of stockings. White ones,” she added for emphasis.

  “Well, there you are,” Charlotte said gratefully. “How could you get slicked up for a dance without white stockings? Come along, get into the wagon. Mr. Malloy, I trust you’ll look after Thomas.”

  “As a matter of fact, I need a new tie, myself. We’ll all go into Spring City together.” It was Charlotte’s turn to be caught open-mouthed.

  “Really, Mr. Malloy, . . . you went to town yesterday. Why don’t you just let Lily and me choose one for you?”

  She was determined not to have Reed Malloy there while she picked over the clothes at Webster’s. She couldn’t ask Lily to keep silent about it, but she could at least stop Reed from seeing it for himself.

  He looked as though he might argue but then, to Charlotte’s surprise, he acquiesced.

  “All right. I’d like that.” He stooped down to the little girl. “You mind your aunt, and pick me out a handsome tie.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his billfold. He handed the little gi
rl some money and gave her a quick kiss on the top of her silky blond head.

  “A V-spot,” Lily exclaimed, her eyes as big as saucers at being given the responsibility of minding five dollars.

  Charlotte, feeling victorious, drove old Alfred, her only horse, harder than usual to town. Lily held on tightly beside her with one hand, the other still clutching the money. The only conversation between them was when Charlotte turned to ask if the little girl’s finger was bothering her today.

  Lily turned her face to Charlotte, who saw immediately that the girl was delighting in the fast ride. They smiled at each other.

  “I’d almost forgotten my cut,” was all she said. Then after a pause, she asked, “Can I drive the wagon one day, Aunt Charlotte?”

  Charlotte considered at what age she had first held the reins. “Perhaps on the way home, you can try it for a bit, sitting here on my lap.”

  She wasn’t sure if that was the motherly thing to do; perhaps she should have just told her that she was far too young. But looking at Lily’s widening smile, she didn’t care a hang if it was the motherly thing or not. They said nothing more until they pulled up into town.

  “It’s so much smaller than home,” Lily observed.

  “Yes, I’m certain it is.”

  Charlotte had, of course, seen artist’s renderings in newspapers, even the occasional daguerreotype, of eastern cities, such as Boston and New York. She knew they had to be ten times more impressive in reality, actually to walk along the broad paved avenues and witness the sights and sounds.

  She took the little girl’s hand in her own and they headed straight for Mr. Webster’s store. Charlotte nodded to some passersby and greeted others. Her visits to town were frequent, to the restaurant and to the general store to send off her articles and to get information wired to her from far and wide as she researched her stories, but this excursion was out of the ordinary.

  When she approached the ready-made clothing, Anna, Webster’s teenaged granddaughter, appeared out of nowhere to help her, eyeing her unlikely customer with her unknown companion.

  “This is my niece, Lily, from Boston,” Charlotte explained. “She needs some white stockings for the dance on Saturday.”

  “We can suit her up, over here.” Anna led the way to a shelf of stockings and proceeded to pull out an assortment for Lily—some plain, some with a little flower pattern.

  Charlotte had only a vague idea of what was appropriate for a little girl and had one eye on the rack of dresses in the corner. She started toward these, saying, “Whatever Lily wants is fine. I’m sure the two of you know more about this than I do.”

  They weren’t even listening to her at this point, and she lifted her skirts and fairly scurried over to the dresses, hoping she could pick something out quickly and with minimal attention. But she had barely begun to look through them when Mr. Webster appeared.

  “Ah, our famous writer,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes.

  Charlotte smiled at him. “That’s kind of you, Mr. Webster.” Charlotte remembered how she’d always adored coming to see him with her mother. He used to have sweets in his pockets for her and Thaddeus, and always a pleasant word. Lord, he must be as old as the hills, but he still looked the same.

  “Well, is our biggest frog in the puddle looking for something special?” His voice was kind but Charlotte wondered a moment if he, too, thought her strange.

  “Oh, not particularly, just a dancing frock, nothing too flashy.” She tried to sound casual as she continued to paw through the meager assortment, but she could tell already that there was nothing here exactly as she’d hoped.

  “There’s nothing there,” he echoed her thoughts, “that will suit, I reckon.” He said this without artfulness, studying her detachedly and looking over the dresses himself. “But let me think a minute; I may’ve got something upstairs.” He yelled over to his granddaughter, “Anna, go get that dress in my office.”

  “What dress, Pappy?”

  “The one from Denver.” He turned to Charlotte. “It was routed here by mistake and I was fixin’ to return it.” He looked back at Anna who hadn’t yet moved. “Bring it here, girl, quick-like.”

  Just what she’d hoped to avoid, thought Charlotte, as Anna hustled up the stairs—Mr. Webster was making a big fuss over her. How embarrassing! Just then, Lily came running up, smiling broadly.

  “I’ve found the perfect pair, Aunt Charlotte. Look.” In her hands were a pair of the sheerest, palest white stockings that Charlotte had ever seen and up each side was a row of faux pearls.

  “Oh, my. I hardly think . . . do you . . . I mean, is that what you normally wear?”

  Lily dissolved in laughter and Charlotte thought how good it was to see the little girl looking genuinely happy. She imagined it had been a sour time the past few months. She hated to have to tell her no, but those stockings!

  “Not for me, Aunt Charlotte, for you, for the dance.”

  “Oh.” What more could she say? How did Lily know that she longed to have all the feminine finery necessary to make it one memorable evening. “Oh,” she said again. “That’s different. Let me take a look then.”

  Secretly, she was thrilled at the thought of the gossamer fine material with the rows of tiny pearls stretched up her legs. She felt tingly just thinking about it. And the fact that Reed Malloy’s face kept entering her mind had nothing to do with it, she told herself firmly.

  “I’ll take them. But what about you, Lily?”

  The little girl didn’t answer. Her gaze had gone past Charlotte and her mouth and eyes had opened wide. “Ooh,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

  Charlotte turned to see what had captured Lily’s attention, and her own breath caught in her throat. Who would have thought, right here in Spring City, in Webster’s store? There stood Anna, holding the most beautiful dress Charlotte had ever seen, in the most captivating shade of vivid emerald green, trimmed with darker green lace.

  She knew in an instant why Mr. Webster had thought of that dress for her; Charlotte remembered that, when she was little, her mother had bought her a dress in nearly the same color to set off the red tones in her hair. Her father had called her “his angel girl,” and everyone in town had raved over how pretty she looked. That was about the last time Charlotte could remember that happening.

  Wordlessly, she took it from Anna and held it up against her body, turning to take in her reflection in the full-length mirror Mr. Webster kept by the dress rack.

  The dress made the reds and golds in her hair come out in warm dazzling highlights and her skin took on a clear, delicate glow. Even more surprising to her was that her eyes matched the sparkling green shade of the dress, and she’d always thought of them as ordinary.

  It was Mr. Webster who finally spoke. “Do you want to try it on?”

  Charlotte nodded.

  “Anna,” he continued, “absquatulate yourself out of here and tell Beatrice we’ll need her sewing services. She can make any adjustments before Miss Sanborn leaves town today.”

  Charlotte was well aware that Beatrice had the first and only sewing machine in Spring City, but, as it turned out, little in the way of alterations were needed. They picked out a pair of white stockings for Lily with one flower sewn on either ankle—slightly daring for a little girl, but Charlotte thought it wouldn’t hurt. Then they thanked Mr. Webster and headed out to purchase shoes for Charlotte.

  They were just pausing over a cup of tea and a glass of milk at the Fuller Hotel’s dining room when Lily exclaimed, “Uncle Reed’s tie!”

  “Oh dear, it wouldn’t do to go home without that, now, would it?” They headed over to the only men’s clothing store in town.

  After bypassing the overalls and flannel shirts, they came to the smaller section of the store with fine cotton shirts and worsted wool pants, doctor’s clothes, bang-ups, and Hessians, and then, to Lily’s delight, a very small selection of silk ties.

  “I’ll leave this entirely to your judgment, Lily.
I haven’t a clue,” Charlotte admitted and she didn’t want to be blamed for whatever they chose. Coward, she told herself, but Reed Malloy seemed to be an exacting man who would rather stand naked than let a female choose his clothing. She still wondered why he’d given in so quickly.

  As it turned out, Lily had as excellent taste in men’s cravats as in women’s stockings, and Charlotte wondered just what the little girl’s life had been like in Boston. Could she have already been in high society at the tender age of eight? Was all this boring and provincial to her niece?

  And what about Reed Malloy? Would he find the barn dance as tame as she feared? Charlotte almost reconsidered the purchase of the dress, except that Lily was so enthusiastic when they went to pick it up.

  Her only black cloud was running into Eliza Prentice who was purchasing a bolt of lace to add to the dress her own mother was just finishing for her. Mrs. Prentice was known far and wide as an excellent seamstress.

  In school, though two years younger, Eliza had been a torment to Charlotte, who had always been painfully shy except when reading aloud, and their relationship hadn’t improved they’d grown up. Even now, Eliza had to raise her eyebrows at the idea of Charlotte attending a dance, and nearly demanded to see what she’d bought.

  Charlotte hugged close to her the large box wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, noting Eliza’s smirk. Evidently, she’d already looked through the rack and thought she knew exactly what it contained.

  Charlotte was almost goaded into showing her, but it was Lily who brought her to her senses, saying it would be better as a surprise.

  Of course, the little girl was right—a devastating, hopefully nasty, surprise to Eliza. And not the only one, Charlotte thought, as they said their farewells, thinking how proud she’d be to show up with Reed and the two children.

  For the sake of all that lived, wasn’t Eliza happy with having already caught and engaged the most handsome young man in Spring City? Everyone knew as soon as her fiancé obtained his medical license, Eliza would be a doctor’s wife. What more could she want?