by Tracy Sumner
Conversely, his room in his home in Richmond was practically naked of any furnishings except a bed. The house had been decorated by a man with preferences contrary to his own. On the day of his return from an arduous assignment in the West, Adam had walked into an exquisite home that repelled him. He had no one to blame but himself. The decorator, Pierre Janvier, had repeatedly asked for his opinion, but he had been busy...and hell, a thousand miles away.
The ladies in Richmond loved his home—Mr. Janvier was the crème de la crème of the society circle. Simply put, he was the most expensive. Adam could hardly believe—considering how much how he had despised his father’s home—that he was once again residing in a palace teeming with furniture he could not sit upon. One night in an inebriated frenzy, he had stripped his bedroom of everything but the necessities. His housekeeper, Mrs. Beard, had nearly had a seizure when she looked out her window the next day to see the lawn littered with the consequence of his overindulgence.
He grinned and skimmed his hand through the shadow staining the bed, remembering the expression on Widow Davis’ face when he stumbled in this evening. He should go to her bedroom, knock on the door and explain he drank very little—he had been inebriated only four or five times since Eaton’s death, in fact. But he feared a trip down the narrow staircase would end with him resting in a broken heap at the bottom. How could he explain to an old woman that sometimes it was essential to feel numb?
To distinguish absolutely nothing from absolutely nothing?
Women in high-heeled shoes and silk stockings comforted him.
Women in patched day dresses and ugly black boots did not.
He sighed and shifted, crossing his feet at the ankle and throwing his arm over his eyes, blocking the moonlight streaming through the window. If only he could block his thoughts.
“Dammit, Stokes. Couldn’t you find another lackey to run this paper?” Although, it was no use complaining now—and to himself in a dark room, no less. He had accepted the position. Temporarily, thank God.
He had to get the Sentinel on its feet. Return to his life in Richmond...his job at the Times, his home. A sharp flash of regret surged through him, pain he seldom felt—or seldom let himself feel. The same damn emotion had blown through him today, making him react so crazily with Charlie Whitney.
Imagine grabbing her wrist like he had done?
It was only...the past had the power to surprise him. He would forget for a month or two. Maybe six, if he was lucky. Then, one night he would awaken with his mother’s voice ringing in his ears and Eaton’s blood slick upon his fingers.
Eaton. After all this time, still so painful.
A few drinks, and I’m going to feel sorry for him...feel sorry for myself.
What more could he want? The opportunity to become a full-fledged editor was within his grasp. A beautiful home overlooking the James River was waiting for him, and a few very alluring women found his company quite pleasing. One in particular shared his...tastes.
He betrayed the pleasant thoughts as his hand clutched the coverlet. It was so hard to think about his brother. Laughing blue eyes and sandy hair, dimples so like his own, Eaton had been his protector.
Adam had been a small boy, and he had done his best to fight when he had to. Eaton had always been there. To fight with him—or for him—or grab him and run.
He sat up and dropped his face to his hands. His chest felt tight and heavy, and, oh...what was the use in thinking about it? Eaton was lost. Everyone was lost. With trembling fingers he reached into his pocket and located a crumpled cheroot. He scrambled to find a match on the bedside table. As the flame flickered, shadows bounced along the wall.
Adam’s mask of indifference melted, replaced by raw anguish. He prayed for a release from the memories. Haunting. Memories were forever haunting him.
He dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling. A few chips of paint were missing, he noted, as he suppressed the urge to cry. He had cried once, as he held his brother’s rapidly chilling body against his own.
He was a shell. He knew it. Hell, for all Adam cared, everyone knew it. Outside he was strong, charming. Inside he was empty, sullen. His brother’s death had killed two in Adam’s heart, for he had stopped loving his father the very moment Eaton drew his last breath.
All the love in his body had poured out of him like the blood from his brother’s.
Love. Bitterness welled inside him as the word circled his mind. His cheroot dropped to the coverlet. With a muttered oath, he grabbed it, but not before a black-edged hole appeared.
He cursed and stood. With an angry twist, he threw the smoking stub out the window. He rested his hands on the frame and gazed over open fields awash in silver moonlight.
He needed to get this assignment finished and leave. Soon. This town—the serenity it evoked—was going to make him restless. That would make him think. He did not want to think. There were too many painful memories chasing him.
It was all he could do to stay ahead of them.
Maybe a woman would help. Maybe the blond in the Four Leaf Clover. But there was no quickening of his blood at the thought of bedding her.
A vision jumped into his head, and he immediately experienced a warm response.
Oh, no, Chase. No way, no how.
Charlie Whitney was too bold for her own good.
Surely, she had a husband to keep her in line. Although what man would let his wife go into a saloon? Adam’s hands tightened on the window frame as he scowled.
Please, God, let her have a husband.
2
Anger
A strong feeling of displeasure and belligerence aroused by a wrong.
Charlie increased her pace, humming a tune her mother had sung to her as a child. She was a little late for Sunday dinner with Kath and Miles. They lived a mile away, on the main road that led past her house and into the hills.
But she had taken her time, because the walk was lovely.
The day had turned out to be a beautiful one; the sun shone as bright as a brass lamp and there was a glorious breeze that cooled the skin with ease considering the heat. It felt wonderful to escape her house. She had been lonely, and bored, without the newspaper to occupy her this week.
For the first time in months, an emotion close to happiness filled her. She knew it was foolish to delight in a trifling dinner at Kath’s, but there were so few things lately to rejoice about. She had decided to wear her new green dress and, to suit her whimsical mood, had twined matching ribbon through the handle of the basket she held in her hand.
The pale-yellow ribbon binding her hair had fallen out as she walked, allowing strands to tumble about like long, flowing banners. The ribbon now lay in the bottom of the basket, between two jars of preserves.
As she reached the house, she took the porch stairs two at a time and burst through the door without knocking.
“Hello,” she called from the entryway.
Charlie liked the home Miles and his father had built. They had planned for a family when designing it.
She walked to the kitchen, heading for the best feature of the house: the pantry. It was large enough to hold food for the entire winter. Charlie stored her preserves there, when her tiny cupboard got too cramped. “Kath, thank goodness Sunday finally got here. I’ve been absolutely crazy in that house. I brought peach preserves, which I hope turn out better than those god-awful others.” She plopped the basket on the kitchen table. “And look at this gorgeous basket I got from the Yankee trader who traveled through on Friday. Imagine, I swapped a sketch of his wagon for the basket and two spools of thread.”
Kath turned from the stove with a weak smile. “Charlie.”
Charlie followed Kath’s gaze, an apprehensive tingle raising the hairs on her neck. She backed out of the kitchen and crept along the hallway, tilting her head to the side as she advanced upon the sitting room, which she had passed during her mad rush inside. Her steps slowed.
If she was careful, she could just
peek in.
Lean, long legs. Muscular brown arm thrown casually along the settee’s back. Whiskered face. Deep, deep brown eyes, open wide and crinkling at the corners.
She stepped back and spun around, her skirt flipping out behind her. So that was what he looked like. Tall. An inch or two over six feet. And lean. But not stringy. No, he looked...sturdy. A bit wild. Kind of like the sky right before a thunderstorm.
Eyes narrowed, she retraced her steps to the kitchen. “What is he doing here?” Anger, hot and heavy, pulsed through her. She couldn’t stay here. She couldn’t eat with him.
“Please, Charlie, do this for me. Just a simple dinner. Miles likes him and, honestly, so do I. I promise, I had no idea he was coming. Miles invited him, and it was too late to do anything about it.”
Charlie glanced toward the sitting room. She heard Miles’ deep laughter. He needed a friend, and there really was no reason to hurt anyone’s feelings. She sighed. “For you, I would do almost anything. If tonight isn’t proof.”
Kath gave her a quick hug. “Thank you.”
As the men entered the kitchen, one of them in particular seemed to suck up all the air until Charlie felt as if she couldn’t breathe.
Adam followed Charlie's movements about the kitchen. She was a very petite woman. And, for a hoyden, moved with a majestic grace—an elegant, self-confident ease. He had to admit she looked quite fetching in her simple gingham dress. But what shocked him the most when she’d blown through the door like a small tornado, was her hair, wild and free, flowing about her head and down her back like a black demon.
He was sure she would be angry to know her eyes betrayed the capable countenance she wrapped like a heavy coat about her. Emotions flowed into those shockingly beautiful eyes, causing them to darken quicker than ink on paper. He did not particularly like the woman, with all her brashness and bluster, but she was interesting.
“Right?” Miles clapped him on the back and ejected a hearty laugh.
Adam nodded and joined in the laughter, having no idea what the question had been.
The women flitted and fluttered about the small kitchen, placing bowls and baskets, plates and cups, upon the table. The air was heavy with a mixture of sweet scents and gentle conversation. He felt surrounded by things foreign. He felt at once out of place and as if he belonged.
“Pa said the new press was delivered yesterday,” Miles said, clear out of the blue.
Adam tensed and straightened in his chair. He shifted his gaze to Charlie, whose step had halted mid-motion. Kath had stopped in place as well and was staring at her husband.
“Yes, it was delivered yesterday.” Adam paused and swept his glass in a circle on the table. “Um...it should be up and running by the end of next week.” A breadbasket landed in front of him with a healthy slap. He turned to find Charlie standing above him, her mouth stretched into a tight line.
“Money can buy anything, it seems,” she whispered, before striding back to the stove.
He turned to look at her. “Come again?” It was not his fault he had landed in this godforsaken town. With the responsibility to right a sinking ship.
“You heard what I said.”
“Dinner’s ready,” Kath announced.
“Explain to me what you meant then.”
Charlie turned, a dishrag crumpled in her fist. “I would find it repugnant to sell myself to the highest bidder, is all.”
Anger flared in his chest. “Listen, sweetheart, I’m a damn fine editor. And everything I know about newspapers I learned the hard way.” He grasped the back of the chair, the muscles in his arms bulging. “I’ve set type and hand-inked presses, things so old and worn the impression was illegible. I’ve worked as a foreman, junior editor, staff correspondent and chief confidential clerk—not in that order. I’ve written stories about everything from the ladies’ garden club to the economic state of countries abroad, most written on location. So save your snide looks for someone deserving of them.”
She continued to stare at him, her eyes wide, not a flinch or a blink coming from her. He applauded her fortitude, even if her motives were misguided.
What the hell had he said all that to her for, anyway? What was he trying to prove?
She looped the dishrag around her hand and pulled. “Mr. Chase, I...I don’t know what connection you have to Oliver Stokes, but he isn’t going to be satisfied until he owns this whole town. He already has the hotel and the restaurant. My uncle is fighting to keep the bank. Mr. Whitefield fears losing his general store, and he has five children to feed and hardly two pennies to rub together.” The rag fell to her side. “Mr. Chase, I’ve also hand-inked presses—because that was all we had. And, taken them apart and put them back together. I’ve written about everything I could get my hands on to fill a couple of pages of the cheapest newsprint, and I’ve read everything to stay current in an area that is severely obsolescent.”
“What would you have me do, Miss Whitney? I wasn’t given a choice about propping up this newspaper. Far from it.”
Charlie slapped the dishrag against her leg. “Don’t you realize he wants to commandeer the Sentinel for his own political advantage?”
Adam quelled the urge to laugh. Charlie Whitney had done well to learn anything about the business in this place. “My, you are naïve,” was all he said.
“I don’t expect you to understand. My father was a good man, and we did the best we could.”
“I can do better.”
Kath groaned and dropped her head to her hands.
Adam watched as Charlie struggled to speak. “Mr. Chase, you can go to hell,” she finally said. Then, she threw the dishrag into his face. He pulled it from his eyes in time to see her walk out the back door.
“Mercy.” Kath wrung her hands in her apron.
Adam braced his hands on the table and stood. “Honestly, I came here tonight in part to explain my reasons for working for Oliver Stokes and encourage Miss Whitney to remain with the Sentinel.” Damn. He had made a mess of things.
“She is a little...excitable.” Miles braved a smile.
Adam shook his head. “No, this was entirely my fault. I was trying to provoke her. Maybe I should go after her.”
Miles coughed and glanced his wife’s way.
“No.” Kath grabbed Adam’s sleeve. “Probably better to let her cool off.”
Adam stepped forward, rubbing the scar on his wrist. He glanced out the window, searching. A flash of green gingham was visible in the distance. He could see her inky hair bobbing along, too. The silly woman probably did not own a bonnet.
Tomorrow, the charming Adam Chase would explain the situation. And make her see reason.
3
Acceptance
The act of taking or receiving something offered.
Charlie stood in her kitchen, surrounded by sunlight streaming in the windows. She mentally outlined the chores on her list and decided the first order of business was to weed the vegetable garden. She poured a glass of lemonade and walked outside, muttering to herself about the thickness of the humid air.
Her house sat on a healthy plot of land a mile outside Edgemont’s town center. It was a modest dwelling, comfortable and natty. Not too much, not too little, as her mother used to say. She perched her glass on top of a wooden wash bucket sitting upside down on her back porch. Her father had added the porch three summers ago. There was no door connecting it to the interior of the house, but it was a wonderful place to do laundry or snap beans on a cool evening.
She had dressed for comfort for her chores. Actually, it was her favorite outfit: a pair of men’s trousers—which she had fashioned from a Godey’s pattern—and a faded, yellow cotton shirt. She could wear the outfit here, in the relative privacy of her home.
Banishing idle intentions, she knelt and began to pluck weeds from the dew-coated soil. She loved the feel of the earth beneath her fingertips, in sharp contrast to the heat that penetrated the air. Even if you could only immerse yourself to the first
knuckle, the chore was welcome relief.
After an hour or so of weeding, her muscles began to cramp and protest from the imposing position. She paused and stretched, working her lower back with dirt-stained fingers.
And noticed him.
Her hands fell to her sides, her mouth parted. For one honest moment, the full, potent impact of seeing him struck her.
He was leaning against the porch railing, his feet linked at the ankle, his hand wrapped around her lemonade glass. His hair was damp and ruffled, as if he had just drawn impatient fingers though it. He wore what she recognized as his uniform: conforming trousers, mud-caked Hessians, cotton lawn shirt—unbuttoned two buttons at the top. A bit of skin shown through the open neck, she noted, and she shivered despite the extreme heat.
Trying hard to maintain her poise, she rose and brushed her hands on her shirt, inwardly cringing as she imagined how she must look. His expression was calm as she walked toward him, but his gaze was inquiring. She stopped in front of him. A drop of perspiration slithered from one very high cheekbone to the corner of his mouth. A beautiful mouth really...firm and full. She quelled the urge to wipe the bead of sweat from his face.
Feeling rather defiant, and still angry over the way he had run her off from the Lambert’s dinner, she took the glass from him, swallowed the last of the lemonade, and turned, needing to hide the flush crossing her cheeks.
She rounded the porch and entered the house without a word. Of course, he was there when she turned with a glass of fresh lemonade in each hand. She passed him his without comment, wondering what he expected from this visit. An apology? He didn’t look like the apologizing type, leaning against her kitchen table like he owned the house.
