Caught in the Middle (6 page)

“I wish you’d rest, Mrs. Tillerton.”

She bristled at Mr. Lovelace’s voice. A memory stirred. There was a baby. She’d come with a child who had made this man mad, and then when she wasn’t looking he’d clobbered her. Her stomach lurched. If he was that angry, what had he done to the baby?

“Where’s Sammy?” Anne tried to roll onto her knees, but fell back on her seat when dizziness erupted. “What have you done with him? Did you hurt him, too?” Her voice rose over the shocked room.

“I say, Nicholas, this young woman doesn’t appear to be in her right mind. Is she some relation of yours?”

“The ceramic pot fell and landed on your head. I didn’t hit you.” Mr. Lovelace sounded patient, but she couldn’t get her eyes to focus and see if he meant it or not. “Sammy’s all right. He’s over there shredding my business files, happy as a lark.”

On cue Sammy squealed and peeked around the desk, waving crumpled papers. Mr. Lovelace took her arm, helped her to her feet, and guided her to a chair. At least he seemed unconcerned with the cache of dirt falling from each wrinkle of her clothing. She’d made a mess and then accused him of violence. What a fool she was. “Are you sure you don’t want to hold me out the window and shake me off?”

The twinkle in his eye was worth the effort.

“What is the meaning of this?” The dirty rug muffled the sound of the woman’s stomp. “I demand an explanation.”

“I apologize for my inattention. How reckless of me to neglect you when you came all this way to call,” Mr. Lovelace said.

Anne almost grinned at his sarcasm, but the icy glare from the woman made her think better of it.

“Mrs. Stanford, allow me to present to you Mrs. Tillerton. She’s an acquaintance from home—a friend of my sister’s.”

One severe eyebrow rose higher the longer she evaluated Anne’s choice of garments. “Your sister? I’m astonished.”

Poor Mr. Lovelace. Anne had come asking for a favor—never intending to leave his office in shambles and his employer in a tizzy. She hadn’t meant to cause him trouble. Sammy crawled to her and tugged on her pant leg. She helped him scramble into her lap.

“I’ll leave . . . just as soon as my head stops spinning enough to make it down the staircase.”

“Stay where you are. Mrs. Stanford won’t mind conducting her business while you recover and Harold cleans up.”

But she obviously did. The woods of Ohio had heightened Anne’s powers of observation. A broken twig, droppings, scraped bark—little signs had meanings, and Mrs. Stanford’s
reaction was based on something more than impatience and a busy schedule. Perhaps she had a daughter hoping for a marriage to Mr. Lovelace. He could be engaged already, for all she knew.

Mrs. Stanford refused to take a seat. “I merely wanted to leave this report with you, as promised, and to discuss your recent appointment to the commissioner’s court, but Mrs. Tillerton’s needs are more pressing. I suppose I don’t need your attention until they are met.”

But she wouldn’t leave his office until Anne did.

Mr. Lovelace bowed. “Then if you’ll allow me to escort Mrs. Tillerton to her lodgings, we can meet again tomorrow.” He dropped his Derby hat on his head and took Sammy from Anne. “You’re coming with me, mister. We must give Mother some time to recover before she attempts to carry you again.”

Mother? He knew better, but Mrs. Stanford didn’t.

She got to her feet and exited the office with Mrs. Stanford and Mr. Lovelace. What did it matter? As soon as Anne found Finn Cravens, she’d leave Garber behind and never come back. Until then, Sammy was her responsibility. Unmarried mother sounded better than husband killer. What harm was another mark on her already soiled reputation?

 6 

Anne followed Nicholas down the walkway of finely chopped gravel. He stopped and turned to her once again. “I wish you’d let me carry Sammy. He must be heavy.”

“You have our bags, and I’m getting used to him.” Anne flicked a bug off of the child’s shoulder as they brushed by rosebushes lining the walk. She wasn’t getting used to him, but dealing with the boy gave her an excuse to keep mum. After demolishing his office and accusing him of striking a woman, Anne was ready to call it quits. Once she found a place for her and the child to stay, she would do her best to avoid the unlucky Mr. Lovelace.

The houses they had passed occupied the back half of spacious lots, giving the owners a cool distance from which to judge the pedestrians. The manicured lawns intimidated her. Too perfect. Obviously, she’d never belong in a place like this.

“Do you ever think of living in town?” Nicholas asked.

Anne shrugged. She’d had a house once—perfect from the outside, but what happened on the inside was nothing like she’d imagined. Maybe that was why she didn’t want one now.

“The Pucketts are my closest friend’s parents,” he continued, “my surrogate family. Joel acts gruff but only because his mother refuses to cut the apron strings. She won’t forgive him for getting a place of his own.” Nicholas bounced his hand over the top of the pickets as they passed.

“Are you sure these people want lodgers? This doesn’t look like a neighborhood for boarders.”

“I’m not sure, but Mr. and Mrs. Puckett are very hospitable. It won’t hurt to ask.”

Sammy pulled at her hair, sticking his wet fingers in her ear. She grimaced.

“You might want to keep ahold of him.” Nicholas stared at the child. “If he repeats his earlier performance you’ll be on the street.”

How could she know whether the situation she was bringing him into was any better than the one Tessa had provided? Would these people be any safer than the crowd at the saloon? Anne squeezed Sammy against her. If he got loose he might destroy the Pucketts’ house, along with their chance, and although she didn’t want to stay with strangers, neither could she camp with an infant. The unforgiving perfection of the lot worried her. It evidenced a meticulous, exacting personality that Anne was only too familiar with.

Growing up, she thought nothing was worse than her father’s neglect. He didn’t notice her. He didn’t care. And then she married someone who noticed every movement, every expression that crossed her face, and nothing he noticed pleased him. Were these people the same?

Nicholas halted at an iron gate and turned toward Anne.

“What?” She was surprised to find herself shielding Sammy.

“I’m holding the gate open for you. Nothing sinister.”

The brick path from the street led to a wide verandah, complete with porch swing and potted pansies.

“Funny these customs,” she said. “You treat the ladies by making them walk into unknown territory first?”

He pulled the gate “closed” with a bang. “You don’t have to go first. We’ll go together.” Taking her arm he dragged her down the walk without waiting for her consent.

Anne was more comfortable with the looks Nicholas was giving her now, as they waited before the brass door knocker. He seemed frustrated, impatient, and ready to wash his hands of her. Good. They’d part ways soon. Let him leave with no fond memories or curiosity—no reason to follow up on her progress.

The woman who opened the door didn’t appear exacting. Her mobcap slanted over gray hair and above merry blue eyes . . . until Anne’s appearance turned her joy into confusion.

“Hello, Mrs. Puckett,” Nicholas said. “I apologize for not sending word that I’d be calling.”

“No apologies necessary, Nicholas. You are welcome anytime.” Her doughy face creased into pleasing lines. “And who have you brought to see me?”

“These are some friends of mine from back home—Mrs. Anne Tillerton and Master Sammy. They are new to Garber.”

Friends? If he was calling her a friend then how well did he really know these people?

“Won’t you please come in? I’d offer refreshments, but supper is on the stove. You might as well stay.”

He really should be going. The Stanfords were waiting on his report from his trip and his bid on the new project. If
he stayed with the prickly lady any longer, he was bound to agitate her again, and he’d already caused her enough grief.

Then he thought of his wrecked office and took a seat.

Nick passed the bowl of mashed potatoes to Mr. Puckett, who still sat in shocked silence. He’d probably never thought he’d have a wild she-cat sitting at his table. Nick’s eyes flickered down her grungy getup for the last time. Her appearance begged him to slap her on the back and provide her with a spittoon, but the manners embedded into him by his exacting mother wouldn’t allow him to do so, even if Mrs. Tillerton would prefer it.

So the best he knew to do with her was to hand her off to someone else. Mrs. Puckett and her Esther Circle at church could think of some way to help the vagabond. As much as he’d like to further their acquaintance, to do so would risk the displeasure of his largest . . . and only . . . contractor. This was for the best.

“So tell me about yourself, Mrs. Tillerton. When did your husband pass away?” Using her fork, Mrs. Puckett smashed some carrots in a saucer and handed it to Anne.

Anne took them but looked confused. Good grief. What was she going to do with that baby?

“He died four years ago.” Anne bent over the carrots and missed the significant look that passed between Mr. and Mrs. Puckett. The lady placed her hand on her husband’s arm and with a slight twitch of her head dissuaded him from the words on the tip of his lips.

“How awful—to be widowed so young. Was it an illness? Accident?”

Anne paused with the spoonful of carrots midair. Sammy grunted, mouth opened, trying to reach it.

“No, ma’am. Neither.” She gave the boy the bite and kept her head lowered.

Nicholas spread a generous amount of butter on his roll. She’d drawn the short straw when it came to conversation skills. If she wasn’t careful, she’d ruin her chances of getting to stay. Intervention was needed.

“Mrs. Tillerton and my sister Molly grew close after her husband’s passing, and then she left Prairie Lea. We lost track of her until recently, when she intervened in a train robbery.”

Mr. Puckett leaned forward. His white moustache twitched. “Now, there’s a story I’d like to hear.”

Anne looked like she’d just found half a worm in her apple, but why wouldn’t she want her heroic story told? Much better than waiting for them to ask more questions about her late husband. Well, if she wouldn’t tell it, he would.

“I was coming home on the NTT line after scouting out the lumber sources around the Antlers area. Mrs. Tillerton and I had only just renewed our acquaintance and were having a word in the luggage—”

Anne’s eyes widened. Nicholas raised his glass and gulped a mouthful of tea. “We were talking when the train stopped, and an armed man got on board. Next thing I knew, they were harassing some of the ladies. I couldn’t endure to see a lady in distress, but as usual I was unarmed—”

Sammy blew raspberries unceremoniously, bringing laughter from around the table. Nick grinned. “You’re right, Sammy. I’m turning this into a fish story, aren’t I? The short of it is that I jumped in over my head, and if it wasn’t for Mrs. Tillerton and her quick draw, my last breath would’ve been filled with train soot and the dust of Indian Territory.”

Mrs. Puckett pressed her napkin to her lips. Her blue eyes fell on Anne. “You carry a gun on you?”

Anne wiped the carrots from Sammy’s chin. “Yes, ma’am. Usually there’s one in my knapsack when I travel.”

The gun hadn’t been in the knapsack on the train, and he’d felt hers beneath her duster when he’d knelt at her side after the accident with the fern. A crafty reply that avoided an outright lie. He’d have to remember that in dealing with her. No, he wasn’t going to deal with her again. As soon as she found Sammy’s father—

“Where are you lodging, Mrs. Tillerton? Do you have family in town?” asked Mrs. Puckett.

“No, ma’am. I don’t know where I’m going to put up.” She held a little tin cup for the boy to sip from.

“I see.”

It was Nick’s turn to focus all his attention on his plate. Now they understood why he’d brought Anne to them. How would they respond?

“I hate to think of that little fellow in a boardinghouse,” Mr. Puckett said.

“And we have an empty room,” Mrs. Puckett added.

Anne had stopped feeding Sammy, as his grunt reminded them.

“How long do you plan to stay in town?” Mr. Puckett cleaned his fork and reached for the pumpkin pie on the sideboard behind him.

“Just until I find his father.” The room went silent. Anne looked up. “This isn’t my baby.” Her lips went firm. “His mother left him with me.”

Mrs. Puckett exhaled. She turned to her husband and waited for a silent verification to pass between them before
speaking again. “Perhaps this is where God wants you to stay. You know the Good Book says to entertain strangers. You just might be an angel in disguise. We’d be honored for you to stay with us.”

“I intend to pay.” Anne set down her spoon. “Once I find Finn, Sammy’s father, I’ll return to Pushmataha and will send you the money. I didn’t bring enough with me. I really thought I’d be headed back by now.”

The pumpkin pie was passed to Nicholas. He took a thick slice. The most beneficial negotiations occurred when the other party came to your conclusions without any directing.

“You know,” Mrs. Puckett said, leaning forward, “Joel is being downright stubborn about providing us with grandchildren. I think it’d do me some good to have Sammy to play with during the day. If I took him on my rounds, calling on my friends, why he’d be the life of the party. He’d have more grandmothers than any child—”

He was just inhaling the warm spiciness of the pie when Anne shot to her feet.

“I’m going.”

Anne swooped Sammy up from his chair and plopped him on her hip. Pulling Sammy’s napkin out from his collar, she tossed it on the table.

“Thank you for the food. It was right nice of you.” And without another word she strode out of the room toward the front door.

With a groan Nick dropped his forkful of pie on his plate and chased after her, only catching her before she reached the gate.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m leaving. I’ll find somewhere else.”

He stepped in front of her, blocking her way. “No you don’t. You’re staying here.”

“I can’t. Those people are crazy.”

“Who’s calling whom crazy?”

Anne winced as Sammy tugged on a handful of her hair. “They are too eager. The room—it’s not right. Everything seems so nice. So safe. It isn’t real. Why would they let me, a stranger of questionable reputation, stay in their home? Did you hear that talk about angels? And can anyone honestly think that watching an infant all day would be fun?”

“They are compassionate, God-fearing folk. They know you don’t have any other choice, and they are trying to help you. And many women Mrs. Puckett’s age enjoy young ones—especially since she doesn’t know what a mess he is.”

“Then let him stay. I’ll come back and get him when I find Finn.”