He set the basket gently on her knees.
Mrs. Dillon didn't move for a long moment. Rosalyn darted a quick glance at her, saw the shimmer of tears in the woman's eyes, and quickly returned her gaze to the cooing baby in her arms. What would it be like, to be loved as Mrs. Dillon was loved? She couldn't begin to imagine, but the pain squeezing her heart told her it was something she yearned for. To be a part of a cozy, simple home like this, warmed with love, laughter, loyalty and honesty. Yes, she yearned for it with all her heart.
And she knew why. Christian Garret had awakened this yearning with his thrilling, smooth talk and hot but gentle touch. It was all Christian's fault. Before she met him, she had been perfectly content with working at the factory, earning tuition money for college, and anticipating a career in teaching.
The baby fell asleep, lulled by the hypnotic swaying of her arms. Rosalyn gazed at the serene, puckered little face and sank slowly onto a chair opposite Mrs. Dillon's. She settled the sleeping baby comfortably in her arms and watched the heart-warming scene unfold.
Mrs. Dillon took her time accepting the gift, turning the basket this way and that, oohing and ahhing over the pretty ribbons. Finally, she lifted the silk scarf, her eyes wide as she slid the smooth fabric through her hands. “It's beautiful, Audrey, just beautiful."
Mr. Dillon's ruddy cheeks turned even redder as he blushed.
Rosalyn chuckled inwardly, knowing the items in the basket were as much of a surprise to him, as they were to Mrs. Dillon.
Placing the scarf around her neck, Mrs. Dillon removed the heart-shaped box of chocolates and cautiously lifted the lid, as if she expected something to jump out. From across the room, Willis smothered a laugh.
Rosalyn explained. “It's chocolates, come all the way from New York."
Sara looked up. “New York?"
"Yes, New York."
With a dubious frown, Mrs. Dillon lifted a square-shaped piece of the dark confection out of the box and sniffed it.
"Go ahead, try it,” Rosalyn urged.
Sara nibbled a tiny bite. A surprised look came over her face. She popped the whole piece in her mouth and chewed vigorously. Finally she swallowed and reached for another. “Oh, this is absolutely delicious! I've never tasted ... this is the most...” She couldn't finish because her mouth was once again full.
Audrey reached out and attempted to try one for himself. Sara smacked his hand. “Oh no you don't! You'll spoil your lunch. Everyone can sample a piece later.” Ignoring his crestfallen face and the fact that she might have spoiled her own lunch, she lifted the box and placed it on the table by the chair, firmly replacing the lid. She then unfolded the beautiful baby quilt, her eyes once again going wide with delight. “Oh, Audrey, would you look at this? The stitching, the fabric—is that satin?” She rubbed her finger over a shiny square, smiling at her husband. “If we're not careful, our little Anthony will get spoiled.” Then she clasped Audrey around the neck and hugged him tight. “If you're not careful, I'll get spoiled,” she whispered in a tearful voice.
Rosalyn wiped her eyes and pretended a great interest in tucking the covers around the sleeping babe. Such devoted love was enough to humble anyone, she thought. How could Christian witness such a powerful truth without believing it? She lifted the infant and nuzzled its feather-soft cheek gently, inhaling its unique baby smell, and as she did, she couldn't help but wonder what kind of father Christian would make. Softly, she ran her hand across the light, fine baby curls. If this was Christian's baby, the curls would be thick and black...
* * * *
Christian felt the air slowly and thoroughly leave his lungs as he watched Rosalyn with the baby. She looked so natural holding the infant, and the expression on her face would rival that of the virgin Mary looking down on Jesus, he was certain. From her yearning expression, it wasn't difficult to imagine what she was thinking. He was positive she imagined herself the mother.
And who as the father? he wondered jealously. Certainly not himself. Dragging his gaze from Rosalyn and the babe, he looked around, thinking how simple the furnishings, how simple the house, how simple the life.
And how desperately he envied Mr. Dillon. With a silent, harsh laugh that burned his stomach, he wondered if anyone was ever truly happy with their lot in life.
His gaze fell on the Dillons. Mr. Dillon, on his knees professing his continuing love to a woman he'd married years ago. Mrs. Dillon, looking at her husband with her heart in her eyes, clearly loving him fiercely. The children, all happy and sheltered, loved and secure. They'd never think of their father walking out, walking away from them without a backward glance, because the Mr. Dillon's of the world did not give up. They nurtured and repaired, but never abandoned.
Just as he would do, if he ever married. When he married, it would be for good, forever until death do us part. His children would be like these children, well-adjusted, confident they are loved. Secure. In order to hold by these self-imposed vows, he would have to make certain he married a woman he could trust.
His thoughtful gaze returned to Rosalyn. If not for the rubies, he could almost believe she was the one. If not for the rubies, she would be the perfect wife and mother. The fierce attraction he felt for her would be an added boon.
But he couldn't trust her. He had trusted her, and discovered she had tricked him. She'd had the blasted rubies all along, knowing he searched for them ... or did she? Did she know? She'd tried to tell him about the valentine, yet when he finally asked about the rubies, she deliberately lied to him. This, he might understand eventually, for she was angry—and had every right to be—about his duplicity in not revealing his true identity. But the theft ... to steal from an old woman, now that he couldn't understand.
Unless Callie had given her the valentine. If so, why didn't Rosalyn just say so? Pride? Possibly. Christian grunted. He understood pride better than most.
The rubies were becoming less and less important to him, he realized. In fact, he wished his grandmother had never mentioned them to him. Without the jewels, he was convinced he and the magnificent Cupid would be ... very close by now. Just watching her with the baby heated his blood, creating astounding images of Rosalyn swelled with his child. These images pleased him, and made him yearn for something he'd never thought to want; a wife and a family.
Christian shook his head hard enough to make his neck creak in protest, hoping to shake some sense into his brain. By lying to him about the rubies, Rosalyn had admitted her guilt, hadn't she? Why would she try to hide the fact that she had them in the first place, if it wasn't because she wasn't supposed to have them? No, he wouldn't be fool enough to think Callie had given them to her, although he might concede Rosalyn had taken them after Callie's death, believing they wouldn't be missed.
Was this so terrible, if it was true? Christian rubbed his chin, watching Rosalyn rock the baby gently as Sara continued to exclaim over the articles in the basket, pausing to hug her husband and kiss his flaming cheek periodically. They reminded Christian of a newly married couple.
He waited for the cynicism to come, both startled and a little alarmed when it showed no signs of surfacing.
So what if Rosalyn had taken the ruby valentine after his step-mother's death? According to Mr. Toombs, Callie had attempted to leave provisions for her orphaned ward yet had been unable to. What if he had been in Rosalyn's position, with no home, no job, no family? Wouldn't he have done the same thing?
Possibly. Poverty and fear provoked many unsavory characteristics in people—even in good people. So, was he being unfair?
"Mr. Garret, is it? I'd like a word with you out in the barn, if you don't mind."
Christian jerked his head up at the sound of Mr. Dillon's whispered request. “Certainly.” He rose from the chair, glancing once to note Rosalyn and Sara engrossed in an animated discussion. Willis remained seated, content with his cider and his place by the kitchen fire. With a nod at the driver, Christian followed Mr. Dillon. He had things to discuss with Mr. Dil
lon, as well.
The barn wasn't as warm as the house, but its thick, solid walls held the wind at bay. As Mr. Dillon opened the massive door, a dog barked once, a sharp yelp of greeting. This was followed by a series of tiny yaps—puppies, imitating their mother, Christian deduced.
Mr. Dillon confirmed his guess. “It's just me, Speckles,” he called. Another bark, then silence. Mr. Dillon glanced at Christian. “She's a good dog, keeps the fox from my chickens. Faster than a speedin’ bullet when she's runnin’ a rabbit to ground.” He shook his head. “Just wished she wouldn't have so many pups—too many mouths to feed.” He lit a lamp and led Christian to a small enclosure away from the stalls. Bridles, saddles, and other implements crowded the small space. It smelled of horse sweat, leather, and manure.
Christian breathed deeply, finding the combination not unpleasant. “Nice place you've got here.” He meant it. What Mr. Dillon had, money couldn't buy.
Mr. Dillon agreed without hesitation. “Thank ya. I almost lost it the year the mill closed, but God takes care of his own.” The farmer cleared his throat. “I brought you out here because I couldn't very well ask Miss Rosalyn to come."
Oh? And just why would he want to invite Rosalyn to the barn? Christian was ashamed of his suspicions as soon as he thought them. Mr. Dillon was a happily married man, and any idiot would realize that if those were his intentions, then Christian wouldn't be his second choice. Disgusted with himself, he waited for Mr. Dillon to continue.
"I know those things cost more than what I paid Miss Howland, and it ain't much, but I want you to give this to Miss Rosalyn after you leave."
Christian stared at the folded bills held out to him. He made no move to take it, knowing Rosalyn would chew him up and spit him out if he did, and he wouldn't blame her. “I believe those were gifts from Miss Howland.” He was guessing. Hell, they could have been from Rosalyn, for all he knew.
"All the same, I'd like to pay for them.” Mr. Dillon thrust a determined chin out, no longer the happy-cheeked farmer. He was a man with his share of pride. “I don't take charity."
"I doubt—” Christian broke off, a sudden idea coming to him. He took the money, suppressing a grin at Mr. Dillon's surprised look. Stuffing the bills in his pocket, he said casually, “I'd like to take a look at those pups, if you don't mind. Might be interested in taking one off your hands."
Mr. Dillon closed his mouth. Hope flared comically in his eyes. “Sure, sure! Right this way. That Speckles is a fine dog, I swear to that, yessiree! If it weren't for her, we wouldn't have no chickens. She makes a fine litter, too. Mostly males, which is good. The missus, she won't let me get rid of that dog, no sirree! Speckles pulled Mae from the fire when she was a tot, and ever since, Sara dotes on that dog.” He opened a stall door and stepped aside, brandishing his hand with a flourish.
They were by far the ugliest pups Christian had ever had the misfortune to look upon. Greyhounds, he realized, eying the mottled grey pattern. Ten in all, milling about playfully. The mother was sleek and muscled, narrow of face and body, but the pups ... well, they looked like scrawny rats. Scrawny hairless rats. He'd never seen greyhound pups, so he guessed they were supposed to look this way, yet ... Hell, they were so ugly it hurt his eyes!
Leaning a casual shoulder against the stall door, Christian narrowed his gaze at the pups, forcing himself to look interested. “How much?"
Mr. Dillon stuttered. “H-How much?"
Christian purposely frowned. “Well, I know they're expensive, but I won't give more than ten dollars for one, and that's that."
"T-Ten dollars?"
"You look like an honest man, Mr. Dillon. Surely you can make me an offer I can't refuse? Otherwise, I can wait until I get back to New York, where I know I can buy them for eight dollars a piece.” It's working, Christian thought. I've got him fooled into thinking I really want to buy these damned ugly mutts—
"I can't do it,” Mr. Dillon declared suddenly.
Christian tensed. What the hell did he mean, he couldn't do it?
"I can't charge you the full price of ten dollars. I'll tell you what, I'll let them go for a dollar a piece."
Damn. Christian didn't bother looking delighted. How much money did the man hand him? Three ... four dollars? He groaned silently, rubbing his forehead as if thinking about the man's offer. What the hell would he do with four of the homeliest puppies he'd ever laid eyes on?
He wrenched the words from his mouth, trying his best to sound excited and suspecting he failed miserably. “Well, at that price ... I'll have to take...” he swallowed hard, “Four of the beauties."
Mr. Dillon beamed and grabbed his hand. “You won't be sorry, no sirree, best damned dogs in the state, I'll swear it!"
Christian pulled his hand away, wondering if he looked as sour as he felt. He fished the bills Mr. Dillon had given him out of his pocket and unfolded them.
Two. Two lousy dollars! He could have bought two dogs, instead of four. Christian bit his lip to keep from cursing aloud, avoiding Mr. Dillon's gaze. If he looked up and saw laughter in the damned farmer's eyes, he'd likely knock him into the next county. He'd been had, had by a farmer from Massachusetts. Him—Christian Garret, successful business man—which reminded him. He had other things to discuss with Mr. Dillon.
"What did you do at the mill?” he asked, handing him the bills, plus two more from his wallet.
Mr. Dillon tucked the money away and crossed his arms, suddenly alert and serious. “I ran the Fourdrinier."
Christian nodded, recognizing the name for the screen used in the making of paper. The big screen was hand-dipped into a vat of pulp, then lifted out and shaken. Shaking removed the excess water and melded the fibers together before they were pressed into a big roller. Ancient, but still effective.
"You thinkin’ about opening the mill?” Mr. Dillon asked.
Staring at the frolicking puppies, Christian slanted a scowl at the wise farmer. “Maybe.” He looked back at the dogs, not really angry. After all, hadn't he tried to pull the wool over the farmer's eyes first? “Just put the pups in the carriage, will you?"
Mr. Dillon grinned hugely. “Sure will! My pleasure, Mr. Garret."
"I'll bet,” Christian grumbled. But a reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. A chuckle soon followed. Before long, he and the farmer were making the cows moo with their laughter.
Chapter Fourteen
Some Things You Do So Very Sweetly
Wrap My Heart Up Well And Neatly
But Can You Ever Love Me Completely?
How Shall I know?
Rosalyn collapsed onto the carriage seat with a sigh. Christian climbed in beside her, and Willis, wearing a sturdy hat loaned to him by a considerate Mr. Dillon, set the wheels in motion.
She sighed again, lustily. “What a wonderful stew Mrs. Dillon—” The rest of her words strangled in her throat as something moved at her feet, scraping her ankles. Shrieking, she jumped up, bumping her head on the carriage ceiling. She bounced back onto the seat, quickly drawing her legs beneath her as she searched the carriage floor.
Christian's laughter kept her from total panic.
That, and the excited yapping of a puppy. This was quickly joined by a second, then a third, until Rosalyn began to doubt her sanity.
"What kind of—of dogs are they? And what are they doing in here?” Her shrill demands held lingering fear and the beginnings of anger. She peered at the floor of the carriage, telling herself she did hear puppies, although they looked nothing like puppies. They reminded her of—of rats, and she hated rats, was terrified of them.
Christian steadied her with a hand around her shoulder, still chuckling. “Greyhounds."
"Greyhounds?” she squeaked. “But what are they doing in the carriage?” Certain there had been a mistake, she thumped the carriage ceiling, still crouched on the seat. “Willis! Go back—"
"No.” Christian rapped the ceiling with his fist. “Never mind, Willis. Continue on."
What? Why? Surely it wa
s a mistake! Rosalyn tired not to flinch as one of the puppies jumped up, trying to reach her lap. His little skinny tail flew rapidly back and forth. He whined pitifully up at her as if to question why she wasn't picking him up to cuddle. She noticed he shivered. Poor little critter.
"But—"
A finger at her lips stopped her protest. Christian breathed close to her ear, “I bought them from Mr. Dillon."
Rosalyn jerked her head around, nearly colliding with his mouth. Heat flared, freezing the words in her throat. Their faces were inches apart. So close, so close ... She sucked in her breath and scooted away from temptation. “But, why on earth would you do that?” Wasn't he going back to New York eventually? He hadn't mentioned staying, but then, that didn't necessarily mean he wasn't.
Christian shrugged, and Rosalyn narrowed her gaze, detecting a trace of embarrassment in the movement. “Christian? Why did you buy four ug—dogs from Mr. Dillon?"
He stared out the window and didn't answer.
Rosalyn poked his shoulder with a gloved finger. “Christian? You might as well answer. I can be every bit as stubborn as you, you know."
He growled low in his throat. On hearing the threatening sound, the puppies at her feet immediately dropped to their bellies, whimpering. Finally, he mumbled, “He made me an offer I couldn't refuse."
Rosalyn instinctively sensed he wasn't telling all. Oh, no. Christian Garret did not buy four puppies—four of the ugliest, scrawniest puppies she'd ever seen—just because of an irresistible offer. She softened her voice, hazarding a guess, remembering how easily he'd handed Mrs. Davidson money. “Did you buy them because the Dillon's needed money?"
He faced her, his jaw tense, his gaze warning her. “I wanted the damned dogs."
"Oh.” Rosalyn felt her eyes burn and knew she wouldn't be able to keep the laughter inside. “Oh, no!” She let it go, laughing until her sides hurt. All the while, he continued to stare at her with that stony expression. Rosalyn finally wiped her streaming eyes and gingerly lifted one of the pups onto her lap. Soulful brown eyes stared intently up at her. An energetic pink tongue lapped her hand. They weren't so ugly once she got used them, she decided. Another clambered onto her lap. Soon, all four puppies slapped each other with their slick tails as they fought for her attention.
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