Caught in the Middle (19 page)

Allowing herself to appreciate the luxury of his thick hair, Anne paused before answering. “You were strong for me after the train robbery, and you’d do it again if I needed you.”

Nicholas turned his face up to hers. “Can you forgive me for leaving you at Ophelia’s mercy? You won’t do her bidding again.”

“I never did.”

Nick released her. Anne stepped away, not sure what should happen next. After a hug like that she would’ve kissed Sammy, patted him on the backside, and sent him to his toys. Nicholas wasn’t as easily dismissed.

“Tomorrow I vote.” He stood, once again in control of his destiny—and a mite too close for comfort. “The consequences are in God’s hands.”

The masculine scent of his shaving lotion teased her, re
minding her that Nick was no child. She stepped back. “Are you going to expose their plot?”

“Not without further proof. Confronting a judge based on one incident of eavesdropping would be reckless, possibly dangerous, and you mustn’t get involved.”

“Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.” Until she looked into his eyes. No longer was he only her employer or another dandy on the street. He’d sought her. She was someone to him, and the thought pleased her.

He stepped toward her. Anne clasped her shaking hands. She’d promised to stay with him. She couldn’t run now. Brushing against her collar, Nicholas lifted a curl and tugged it gently. “Thank you, Anne. I cherish your friendship all the more knowing how poorly I deserve it.”

Anne’s pulse raced. If he pressed his head against her chest now, he’d be pounded by her leaping heart. She gave him a cocky grin, hoping to exude a lightheartedness that was far from natural. “I’ll be waiting to hear from you, and if you don’t show by noon, I’ll track you down.”

“We’ll hope you’re the only one hunting for me, but it’ll be after supper.”

“Another business meeting?”

“No, it’s a campaign dinner the Stanfords planned weeks ago to show their support.”

Anne didn’t think it was as humorous as he did. “And they are still going to have it?”

Nick shrugged. “After the vote tomorrow, it might be a lynching.”

 17 

Judge Calloway entered the small meeting room and took his seat. Nick was surprised to see he hadn’t gone through the formality of donning his robe. Perhaps he didn’t consider the five commissioners worth the effort. He greeted them, his expression impassive, considering what was at stake. Then again, Nick, not the judge, stood to lose everything.

“Commissioner Prater, yea or nay?” Judge Calloway slid a paper before him and took his pen in hand.

If only the unadorned room felt more significant. Nick was sacrificing his career. Was it too much to wish for a suitable venue? A coliseum would be nice. Padded chairs at the least.

“Nay.” Prater chomped at his cigar as if crushing the bridge between his teeth.

“Commissioner Anderson, yea or nay?” the judge asked.

David sat opposite of Nick at the square table. He folded his hands before him.

“Yea.”

Two precincts to go before reaching Nick’s. His head throbbed. Maybe Ian Stanford was throwing empty threats.
Why would the man ostracize him when he was on the brink of winning the election? Wouldn’t Ian have more to gain by working with Nicholas rather than opposing him? While he couldn’t base his decisions on their wishes, it might happen that they’d agree on the next issue. But his arguments did nothing to slow his racing pulse.

“Commissioner Reynolds, yea or nay?”

“Yea.”

Who was he fooling? He wouldn’t place his fate on vain hopes. No, Nick would make this vote in full recognition of the consequences. From here on he would have a powerful enemy, but he wouldn’t falter. Nicholas sat a bit taller and nodded when he met Anderson’s gaze. The people of Blackstone County wouldn’t be inconvenienced to serve his agenda.

“Commissioner Hill, yea or nay?”

“Yea.”

“And finally . . . Commissioner Lovelace, yea or nay?”

Nick swallowed. One word and his life was changed.

“Hold up a second.” David Anderson leaned forward. “What’s the vote?”

Judge Calloway consulted his paper. “Three votes yea. One vote nay. We only await Commissioner Lovelace’s vote.”

David rapped his knuckles on the table. “Then I make the motion to call it. There’s no reason to cast any more votes. The bridge passes no matter what Commissioner Lovelace does.”

The judge’s eyes slid from David to Nicholas. A sly smile appeared. “If Commissioner Anderson would like to call the vote, I’d approve. No use in beating a dead horse. Is the board in agreement?”

Eyes shifted, feet shuffled, but eventually assent was mumbled.
Nick’s jaw dropped. Around the table papers were gathered and chairs were pushed away from the table.

What had happened? Had God spared him this test? Nicholas stood, not yet able to believe his good fortune. He’d been reprieved from crossing Ian and Ophelia. They would honor their contract and he could keep his conscience. Everything had worked out perfectly.

But then he thought of Anne.

Ophelia’s demands. Ian’s threat. How could he pretend to play their game any longer? Never again would he count himself blessed to share in their success. He had to destroy any path that might lead him back into their fold.

“Wait!”

Conversation ceased. Startled faces turned to him. Judge Calloway’s knuckles turned white on his fountain pen.

Nick cleared his throat. “I’m a commissioner. It’s my duty to cast my vote.”

“It’s not necessary,” David said. “The bridge has been approved.”

Judge Calloway shook his head. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but why don’t you save it for the next battle.”

Nick met the judge’s gaze. “Because the next battle will come, and I’ll be too weak to fight if I cower at this one.” From where had this strength come? His voice sounded firm even to his own ears. “I’m voting and my vote is yea. Please record it with the others.”

The judge blinked once, and then with the same deliberation he used to sign a death warrant, his pen moved over the page. Nick watched as congratulations were shared by some and whispers by others, mostly as they looked his direction in wonderment. Commissioner Reynolds picked up his satchel
and exited with Prater. Judge Calloway shook hands, made arrangements for future dinner appointments, and left. Suddenly exhausted, Nick wanted to leave, but his legs refused to obey. Thankfully, David stayed behind.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Nicholas pried his hand open and dropped his sweaty pen on the table. “Ian was right about one thing. The vote wasn’t about the bridge. It was about loyalty. Whether or not the bridge would pass, I had to choose a side.”

“So where do you go from here?”

Nick rubbed his brow. “I suppose first I need to let Harold know that his employment is tenuous, then I’ll do my daily correspondence with my crews on the line, make sure I’m honoring my end of this partnership for as long as it’s in effect. Then tonight . . . tonight is a fund-raising gala given in my honor by the Stanfords.” He grunted. “I’m guaranteed a warm reception, don’t you imagine?”

“Warm?” David whistled. “You might as well douse yourself in kerosene and carry a flint.”

The needle jabbed into Anne’s finger. She jerked her hand away, bouncing the striped material off her lap and onto the floor.

Mrs. Puckett peered over her own stitching as Anne waved her hand, trying to shake the sting off the much-abused finger. “Slow down, dear. Instead of stabbing the material, try easing the needle through.”

Anne bent to pick up her dropped work. Sewing Sammy a new gown wasn’t distracting her as much as she’d wished. She shouldn’t have promised Nicholas she’d wait for him at
the house after work. For the hundredth time, she searched the portion of the street visible from the window at her side. The Stanfords’ dinner probably hadn’t commenced yet. He could be gone for hours, but she couldn’t keep herself from watching for him.

The afternoon had stretched like a tortoise’s neck. She’d polished the brass and trimmed the wicks, but besides sharing a picture book with Sammy, she’d noted every second of her wait.

“Watching at the window isn’t going to bring him home any faster,” Mrs. Puckett said.

Anne felt her face grow hot, wondering what else Mrs. Puckett had surmised. “I can’t help it. If only there was something I could do.”

Sammy pulled up to the window and tapped at it, grinning at his reflection.

“Pray for him. He’s in God’s hands.”

That’s what they said, all these cherished women who lived in quiet houses with their decent men. But didn’t she want it to be true? Hadn’t she decided to believe there was a God who could handle all her hurts? Either there was one or there wasn’t—her belief wouldn’t change the facts. If He existed and she refused to acknowledge Him, then she’d be guilty of a terrible offense.

Sammy babbled to her, banging his fist against the glass. Of all the futures Sammy could’ve had—living with his mother over a saloon, being neglected by his outlaw father, being forgotten in a children’s home—he’d been given the best possible option. Anne loved him and cared for him. Mr. and Mrs. Puckett had both expressed their desire to be a family for him. She might need to find work, but as far as she could tell, Sammy was safe.

And so was she. The more Anne saw of the stable relationship between the Pucketts and even Nick’s gentle patience with her, the more she could believe there was a God who was responsible for this good. And maybe there was more good than she’d ever imagined. Maybe women gathered in houses everywhere and prayed for their families. Maybe men worked gladly to provide for their kin. At least she could acknowledge that the evil she’d experienced wasn’t a product of God’s Kingdom, but of her enemy’s. And if there was an enemy, well then, whose side would she take?

She lifted her stitching and began again with gentler movements. “I will pray and trust Him.” She didn’t lift her eyes, but she felt Mrs. Puckett watching her.

“That’s right, honey. Be willing to listen and He’ll let you know what to do.”

Willing to listen? Willing to do what He wanted, even if she didn’t know what that would be? If only she could keep a bullet in the chamber, an escape if this Jesus thing didn’t work out the way she wanted.

The row of neat stitches on the seam lengthened with her efforts. She’d halfway expected the Stanfords would cancel his fund-raising event, or Nick would decide not to attend. She knew she’d have a hard time accepting the hospitality of people who’d vowed to ruin her.

Or had they? She tied a knot and bit off the thread. Nick had confessed that he might not be strong enough to go through with the vote. Had he changed his mind? What if in the end he’d compromised?

Sammy took a fistful of material out of the scrap bag and waved it over his head. She gave him the smile he sought before pulling out another wad. She couldn’t believe that Nick and
Mr. Stanford would find common ground. Come to think of it, she couldn’t believe he’d sit across a table from Ophelia Stanford and make small talk.

Had Anne once again misjudged a man?

The back of a tightly laced satin gown was all Nick had seen of Ophelia thus far. Although she was everywhere in her gilded salon, their paths never crossed, and she was too polished to cancel a social event and abandon her guests, even if she despised the guest of honor. Judge Calloway must have reported the vote to them immediately, and if there was any detail left in question, the judge was clarifying it now behind the oak doors of Ian Stanford’s study, where a handful of influential men had disappeared more than half an hour ago.

Nicholas smiled warmly and shook the offered hand. But not everyone knew . . . or cared. Ian Stanford would get to vote once, just like the rest of the men. Ophelia, based on her sex, wouldn’t even get that. His campaign would chug along with or without the Stanfords. He’d advertised. He’d canvassed. Four days—that’s all the time they had to disparage his character. The weekly newspaper wouldn’t even run before then.

Amid the introductions and the well-wishes, he spotted Joel and his freshly trimmed beard. Joel’s quizzical expression rested on the entryway, where a couple was just arriving.

Philip Walton. Nick’s opponent.

Philip helped his wife out of her coat and handed it to Theo, evidently on good terms with the Stanfords’ butler.