A Worthy Pursuit (15 page)

Closing her eyes, she let her fingers hit the keys. Chopin. Her fingers needed to fly, and her mind needed the challenge. The dark tones and unconventional chords of the “Prelude in G Minor” told her story. Trapped. Helpless. Questions that had no answers. But the short piece ended too quickly. Her emotions still churned for release. So she chose another piece, one in F sharp minor. Her agitated spirit accepted the frantic pace, stealing her breath as her fingers sprinted over the keys. But it wasn’t enough. Chopin challenged her, pushed her, but his music didn’t speak to her soul. Not like Beethoven. “The Tempest”—that’s what she needed to play.

Lifting her hands away from the keys, Charlotte straightened her posture and let her gaze rest on an indistinct space on the wall over the sofa until the melody of Beethoven’s “Sonata No. 17 in D Minor” sang through her mind.

Wait.

She could hear her father’s instructions.
“Don’t touch
the keys until the music is in you. Until your
heart is one with the song.”

Wait.

Her fingers hovered above the piano. She breathed. In. Out. Felt the storm build.

Now.

It began gently. Like she had. Wanting to trust. Wanting to believe that Stone Hammond wouldn’t betray them as so many men in her life had done before. But in less than two bars, the doubts rained down. She didn’t really know him. Why would he forfeit Dorchester’s payment? Why would he care?

Yet he’d taken on a wildcat for Stephen without a thought to his own safety. The music slowed again, like a ray of sun peeking through the clouds just long enough to give hope before the gray storm blotted it from the sky. This time the storm raged
longer. Her right hand warred with her left as the lighter tones tried to press their way through the roiling seas of the lower hand like a mermaid calling to a sailor caught in a maelstrom, urging him not to give up, not to be afraid.

Unlike the Chopin preludes, Beethoven’s sonata stretched long before her, allowing her to fully immerse herself in the swells and currents of the song. Up and down she went, over and over. To trust or not to trust? If she did and Stone betrayed her, what would she do next? How could she protect Lily?

The music became a prayer, the groans of her spirit that were too complex for words. She poured herself out until exhaustion claimed her, the tempest building to its thunderous conclusion before finally giving way to peace. Her spirit gave up the fight as well, spent from the frenzy of worry. She couldn’t control Stone or his motives. She had to give that over into God’s keeping. He could be trusted even if Stone couldn’t. The Lord would show her what to do when the time came.

So why did the thought of Stone riding away from her leave her so bereft? Something beyond concern for Lily stirred in her breast. Something she didn’t want to acknowledge. Yet something her heart couldn’t keep quiet as her fingers moved to the soft, aching melody of another Beethoven sonata: No. 14. “Moonlight.”

Stone sat on the front porch steps, afraid to move. Scared that if a stair creaked or a floorboard moaned beneath his weight the music would stop. He had no idea how long he’d been sitting there. Fifteen minutes? Twenty?

When he’d ridden in from town, he’d barely been able to hear the piano, it being closed up in the house. He’d assumed John was playing again. Until he’d unsaddled Goliath and
noticed that the wagon was gone and recalled the afternoon fishing trip the kids had been chattering about that morning at breakfast.

It had to be her.

Charlotte.

Lily had mentioned something about her playing being different than John’s, but he hadn’t grasped her meaning. Not until he’d strutted up to the front door and been walloped by a raging storm. It had stopped him in his tracks. Never had he heard such music.

He’d sunk to the steps and braced his back against the side railing. If he tilted his head back just enough, he could make out her face through the window glass, between the half-drawn curtains. That’s when his breath had left him. The serene expression she always wore had fallen away like the mask he’d suspected it to be, leaving her true self exposed. She grimaced as if in physical pain as she bent over the keys, the motions of her body adding emphasis to the turbulent tones. Then, when the music lightened, her face would turn toward the sky as if she was begging the Lord for guidance, searching for the hope she’d somehow misplaced.

She doubts me.
Stone closed his eyes and let his head drop back against the railing. He couldn’t blame her. He
had
come here intending to rescue Lily. Rescue. Ha! As if the girl needed rescuing from the woman who had sacrificed so much to keep her safe.

Hearing Charlotte’s turmoil through the piano cut him to the quick. He wanted to go to her. To reassure her that he’d not betray her. That he’d made his choice, and it didn’t include Dorchester. But trust couldn’t be demanded; it had to be earned. And he sensed that Charlotte’s trust would come at a higher price than most.

She took such pains to lock her inner self away from the world. For protection. Someone had hurt her long before Dorchester. And before that fool, Sullivan, and his closing of her school. A suitor? Her father? Stone hadn’t dug very deep into the old scandal surrounding her parents. He’d been focused on uncovering properties Charlotte had ties to, not fifteen-year-old gossip. Yet now he wished he’d taken the time to find out.

The music changed.

Stone opened his eyes. That song. The one John had played for Lily. Yet while the notes sounded familiar, the effect was staggeringly different. Stephen had said the song made him feel lonely when his teacher played it. Stone had to agree. Hearing it reminded him of nights alone on the trail, the wind soughing through the trees, creating its own lonesome lullaby—the kind that made him question the future he’d mapped for himself. Would the cabin and property he’d worked his whole life to claim bring him fulfillment or just isolation?

He shook off the melancholy as he’d trained himself to do, yet the music continued to woo him back. Why? Why did it affect him so strongly?

His gut clenched. It wasn’t the music. It was the musician. The song drew him to his loneliest place because that’s where
she
was. Alone.

Unable to stop himself, Stone rose to his feet and crept toward the right side of the porch. Then to the parlor window. Her eyes were closed, her lashes dark against her pale cheeks. He peered closer. Something glittered on the skin beneath those lashes. Tears? The back of Stone’s throat constricted.
Charlotte.
Always so strong, so controlled for everyone else. They leaned on her, depended on her.
Who do you lean on?

Not having a clue what to say but determined to let her know she wasn’t alone, Stone pulled his hat from his head and strode
into the house. He halted in front of the sofa and stood there, praying she could see his intention in his eyes.

She didn’t jerk away from the piano as he’d expected. No, her hands simply hovered over the last notes before slowly lifting to brace themselves against the wood casing. Her lashes lifted. She turned to face him, tears flooding her eyes.

“You came back.”

15

Charlotte stared at the silent man who had thrust himself into her parlor. Into her life. She should feel relieved that he’d not run back to Dorchester. Or perhaps angry that he’d lingered in town so long and caused her to worry. Maybe even embarrassed that he’d caught her playing, or shamed that he’d seen her weakness. Yet none of those emotions flared in her chest. In truth, she was so wrung out from the music, all she could do was stare silently back at him.

Their eyes held for a long moment, and something in the way he looked at her gradually imbued her with renewed strength, as if she were a wilted garden, scorched by the summer sun, and he a gentle rain. She’d been on her own for so long, no one to depend on except herself and a God who too often felt far removed. Yet Stone was there. His arms strong. His shoulders sturdy. What would it be like to lean on him? For just a little while?

Fanciful nonsense—that’s what it was—conjured by a heart too weary to protect itself against old dreams that had never fully died. Still, she couldn’t quite shake the thirst. The yearning
to be loved by an honorable man, one
worth his salt
, as Stone had called it. She licked her lips, almost expecting to taste the tang, but of course there was nothing there. Just spinster skin and foolishness.

Stone must have recognized her lack as well, for he suddenly cleared his throat and shifted his weight. “Of course I came back,” he grumbled. “I told you I would.” His gaze flitted from her to the ceiling to his boots to the window before alighting once again on her.

Charlotte did smile then. His fidgeting, the hint of insecurity in a man so thoroughly capable, restored a measure of the control she’d lost in Beethoven’s sonatas. She straightened her posture and slowly rose from the piano bench. “In my experience,” she said, feeling more like her usual self, “a person saying he will do something is not necessarily a guarantee that it will be done.”

All signs of awkwardness vanished from Stone’s countenance in a flash. He pinned her with a look that stole the breath from her lungs. “I’ll make you a deal, teacher. You start judging me by my own actions instead of those of the sorry yahoos who let you down so many times
in
your experience
, and I’ll judge you by yours instead of lumping you into the same category as the tight-laced, sour-faced, switch-whacking schoolmarms of
my
past that I always loathed.”

The comment brought her up short. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t realize . . .”

Had
she been unfair? Life had taught her to be cautious of men, but being cautious didn’t give her the right to assume all men were guilty of poor character and then treat them as such. A man, or woman, should be presumed innocent until proven guilty. Hadn’t she asked Stone to give her the benefit of the doubt before spiriting Lily away? And he had. He’d listened to
her, examined her documents, written letters on her behalf, all in the face of evidence that proclaimed her a kidnapper.

Charlotte lifted her chin and forced herself to hold his gaze. “Forgive me, Stone. I’ve done you a disservice. I . . .” She swallowed. “I can’t promise it will never happen again.” Habits formed over half a lifetime rarely disappeared overnight. “However, I can promise that I will make every effort to stop viewing your character through a tainted lens. You’re right. You deserve to be judged on your own merits.”

The lines of his face softened, and he stepped closer. So close she could touch him if she simply lifted her arm. Naturally, she kept both appendages firmly at her sides.

But he didn’t.

Stone reached his hand to her face and stroked a fingertip lightly along her hairline then traced the curve of her ear. Tingles coursed over her scalp, and for a moment she feared her knees would buckle. Never had a simple touch shaken her so completely.

“I’m not perfect, Charlotte.” His low voice rumbled over her like river water plunging down a cliff in a spectacular fall. “I’m bound to make mistakes, but I swear to you here and now, that I will do everything in my power to keep you and Lily safe. Do you believe me?”

She wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to. Yet she couldn’t quite silence the suspicious voice that clawed through her mind.

He knows
you’re a lonely spinster. That’s why he’s
touching you, looking at you with such intensity. It’s
a manipulation to gain your cooperation. It’s not real. It can’t be trusted.

But what if it wasn’t a manipulation?

Charlotte examined his face, the lines of his mouth, the strength of his chin, the sincerity in his eyes. Either Stone Hammond was the finest actor ever to tread the streets of Texas, or
he was, in fact, a man of integrity. A man worthy of trust. Could she afford to send such a man away when he’d just declared his intention to keep Lily safe?

His hand dropped to her shoulder then slid gently down her arm, coming to rest a couple inches above her elbow. His grip tightened just a little, enough to remind her that he was waiting for her answer.

“Yes,” she blurted. “I believe you.” Her belief might be reluctant and cautious, but she’d chosen her path, and she’d not turn back unless he gave her cause.

Stone didn’t grin in triumph or sag in relief. No, he held her gaze and stroked his thumb in a comforting swirl atop her sleeve. “Thank you, Charlotte.” His hand fell away from her arm, and she immediately mourned the loss of the connection, the warmth of his touch.

He turned to leave. Panic flared in her breast.

“Wait.” She grabbed his arm. He glanced back, a brow raised in question. Thankfully, his eyes held no spark of irritation, only curiosity.

Charlotte released him and fought to organize the churning thoughts in her head. She needed to sound intelligent, controlled, when she made her plea. Rambling like an idiot would undermine her position. Yet trust would never bloom between them without honesty, and she couldn’t demand a full dose from him without offering a helping of her own.