Debra Holland (15 page)

“Sounds interesting.” Harriet’s voice sounded wistful. “I still think you should write a book.”

“Writing books is for fuddy-duddy college professors.”

She playfully shook her head. “You’re definitely not fuddy-duddy.”

“At least you didn’t say, I’m definitely not dashing.”

She swatted his arm.

“Sorry, Harriet, I’m not interested in writing a book.” Yet even as he said the words, a faint memory came to him, of the joy of creating stories and writing poetry before his stepfather had beaten that nonsense out of him. He wrenched his mind back to the here and now.

 
“Why don’t you start a newspaper? We could certainly use one.” She drew herself up. “I could contribute.”

He seized on the idea as a way to get away from the thought of writing a book. “You could, could you?” He made his voice sound teasing. “What?”

“My poetry.”

“No poetry!” Just the idea brought back bad memories.

Harriet shifted away from him, a look of fear on her face.

Ant cursed his sharpness. A man had violated her today. She needed gentleness from him. Instead he stomped on her suggestions like they were cockroaches. He wanted to reach out and take her shoulders, drawing her closer, but he didn’t dare touch her. He couldn’t bear to feel her flinch under his hands. “What if you wrote a column?” He made sure to keep his tone mild.

Curiosity banished the fear from her face. “Maybe the doings at the school?”

Ant shook his head. “I can see the headline now,” he said, careful to sound teasing and not critical. He moved his hand through the air as if framing a headline. “Sweetwater Springs Students Recite Shakespeare.”

Harriet placed her hands on her hips. “I’ll write columns that will appeal to women.”

Ant’s amusement became genuine. He couldn’t resist. “Housekeeping tips?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Perhaps, but women are interested in more than housekeeping, although keeping a family fed and clothed takes up most of a woman’s time. Then there’s shepherding the education, morals, and values of her youngsters. Making her home, no matter if it’s a hut or a mansion as attractive as she can contrive, tending the garden and livestock....”

He reached out and tweaked her nose. “I’m sure you’re quite capable of writing something that will appeal to my female readers.”

“Then you’ll do it? Start a newspaper?”

His expression sobered. “I’ll do some thinking on it. See how it goes with David over the next days.”

“Wonderful! I hope you give the school a free subscription. Perusing the newspaper may appeal to some of the students who aren’t very interested in reading books.”

Ant wanted nothing more than to saddle up Shadow and head the horse toward New York and his familiar life. Yet he’d given up that life two years ago to find David.

Harriet gave him an understanding smile.

He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. “Thanks for being my wise counselor.”

She looked away, and then slowly pulled her hand back, an adorable look of confusion on her face.

There might be some benefits of staying in Sweetwater Springs, after all.

“Anytime, Ant. Anytime.”

She tucked her shawl tighter around her. “I’d better go say good-night to David and thank Mrs. Murphy for dinner.”

As Ant escorted Harriet back into the house, he couldn’t help wondering if he was considering staying in Sweetwater Springs because of David or because of one attractive schoolteacher?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Ant awoke with a sharpness that took him from sleep to fully alert.
David!
He rolled over to check on his nephew, who slept between him and the wall. Last night David had scooted as far away from him as possible, resisting sleep to watch Ant with wide, wary eyes.

Ant had pretended to read a book by the lamplight, hoping that David would relax if he thought his uncle’s attention was elsewhere. But it didn’t work. The boy had fought to stay awake. His battle revealed as much to Ant as if David had begun talking and told him the whole story. Ant knew David hadn’t slept in safety since his mother died, and, knowing how Lewis abused Emily when in a drunken rage, perhaps not even then.

Ant could only pray that Lewis had only used his hands on the boy. Just the thought of anything worse turned his stomach.

He raised himself on his elbow to better see David’s face in the faint light of dawn. David was still tucked into the corner, his arms and legs tight together. His sleeping posture had changed from the little boy sprawl he remembered. Even while asleep, David had to protect himself. The ache in Ant’s gut hardened.

David’s face, relaxed in sleep, was still the one Ant remembered, although not as childish. The plump cheeks and rounded jaw of a seven-year-old had been replaced by that of a narrow high-cheekboned youth, even though David was only nine.
Aged before his time.
He wanted to brush the hair out of the boy’s eyes, but didn’t dare risk waking him.

Ant was so damned grateful he had found the boy and didn’t have to murder Lewis. At the same time, he felt as if a huge burden had settled on his shoulders. Far greater than he’d expected.

Ant rolled to his back and stared at the beams of the ceiling, wondering what in the hell he was going to do now. Should he start a paper, as Harriet had suggested? He had the funds from the inheritance from his grandfather. Not the fortune it had been in his grandfather’s day—thanks to his stepfather getting his greedy paws on some of it—but it was more than enough to establish himself in Sweetwater Springs. Although he would have to make the paper a going concern because the money wouldn’t last forever.

His mind raced, puzzling out how to make it work, where they’d live. Dozens of important decisions.

Weighty decisions
. Time to seek the advice of someone who must know this town inside and out—Reverend Norton. Ant had never been one for church-going, although he’d trailed Isabella to Mass because it made her happy. But, in Ant’s opinion, that didn’t count. A service in Latin, with the sermon in an unintelligible foreign language, wasn’t the same as one in English—providing, of course, the sermon was a good one.

In spite of the Reverend Norton’s Calvinist preacher looks, Ant suspected the minister wasn’t the fire and brimstone type. At least that’s what he hoped. He and David would be sitting in a pew every Sunday, regardless of how Ant felt about it. His nephew had to wash off the taint of his father. He wanted David to grow up to be a solid citizen. Religion should help that. Plus, social life in a small town often revolved around the church. He needed to be part of it all … for David’s sake.

With an unhappy exhale, Ant inched back the covers and eased out of bed. David still slept like the proverbial log, no doubt worn out from yesterday, and would probably do so for several hours. He hoped Harriet also found comfort in sleep and wasn’t tormented by nightmares.

Dressing in silence, except for his boots, Ant tiptoed out of the room, slowly closing the door behind him. He would have liked to leave a note saying where he was going and that he’d be back soon. David had learned to read a bit before his kidnapping, but how much the boy had retained was a mystery he’d solve later.

Ant tiptoed downstairs and into the kitchen. Although he wished he could linger in the quiet kitchen, boiling some coffee and toasting some bread, he wanted to be back before David woke up.

Yesterday in a brief after-supper visit, Reverend Norton had assured Ant that he was an early riser and had welcomed him to drop by whenever he felt the need. As Ant hiked down the street, he saw the town start to stir to life. A few people waved, and he realized how many names he already knew. Not that that was uncommon. He got acquainted right quick when he was turning a place upside down in his hunt for David. But in this town, he felt more of a connection to the people he’d met, probably because this was where he’d found David, or because he thought the two of them might put roots down here.

Because you’re sweet on a little schoolmarm,
whispered a chiding voice in his head.

I’m not sweet on her,
he argued. Then he reconsidered
, well, maybe I am. But that doesn’t mean anything. I’ve been attracted to women before.

You’re sweet on her. That’s different.

Maybe a bit,
he conceded.
But I’m not making a decision to stay here because of a kitten of a woman with fine gray eyes. I have to think about what’s best for David.

The argument had carried him down the street and around and behind the church to the tiny parsonage. With relief, he saw Mrs. Norton sweeping the front porch.

She noticed him coming and set aside her broom, wiping her hands down the apron covering most of her dark blue dress.

“Good morning, Mrs. Norton. I hope I’m not too early to call.”

“Not at all, my dear Mr. Gordon.” She beamed at him, making the wrinkles on her face crinkle. “I’ve been thinking of you and David. Woke me up early. Apparently Reverend Norton felt the same. We’d welcome a chance to talk to you further. Won’t you come in?”

Ant stepped into a shallow hall.

“Come into the kitchen, Mr. Gordon.” She waved a hand to the door on the right. “Mr. Norton is praying in his study. Let’s just give him a couple more minutes.”

“Of course.”

“Would you like some coffee, Mr. Gordon?”

“I think that’s an answer to my prayer, Mrs. Norton.”

She swatted his arm. “I’m sure having
your nephew
safe is the answer to your prayer.”

“Most definitely. Perhaps, I should say that coffee is the answer to the wish I made when I tiptoed through the kitchen this morning.”

“A wish I am able to command.”

They entered the small kitchen, dominated by the big black cast iron stove and a plank table. Ant didn’t pay attention to his surroundings. His nose drew him to the scent of coffee and baking, and his stomach rumbled. He’d been too unsettled last night to do justice to Widow Murphy’s stew. Embarrassed, he pretended he didn’t have a drum beating in his middle.

“Would you like some hot biscuits to go with your coffee?” Mrs. Norton chirped.

“I think my stomach’s given you the answer to that question, ma’am.”

She looked amused, then deftly took the tin coffee pot and poured some coffee into a cup. “Good thing I made an extra batch of biscuits this morning. I had a feeling we’d need them. A man of your size will take some filling up.”

“Don’t worry about the fillin’ up part, ma’am. Mrs. Murphy will have breakfast for me. Just something to take the edge off will be mighty fine.”

Mrs. Norton handed him the cup and saucer, then motioned him to take a seat at the table. With deft motions, she slid the biscuits into a round Indian basket with a napkin inside, handed him a plate, utensils, and another napkin, and then set the basket in front of him, followed by a tiny crock of butter and a jar of some purple preserves.

“They’re still warm. Eat up, Mr. Gordon.”

He did just that. The preserves turned out to be saskatoon, and the light rolls, dripping with butter and preserves, went down with as much speed as was polite. He spared a thought for David and how the boy would probably like a similar breakfast, although, judging from the last few days, it would be porridge—filling, but not like this. He made a mental note to see if the mercantile carried honey. If not, he’d bring the widow some brown sugar.

He heard the sound of the study door opening, and then Reverend Norton walked into the kitchen. Clad in a worn gray sack coat and vest over a white shirt and black trousers, he seemed more approachable without his old frock coat on.

“Mr. Gordon.” He shook hands with Ant. “I’m particularly glad to see you. You and your nephew have just figured into my prayers.”

In spite of not being a church-going man, Ant couldn’t help but feel a warmth in his gut at the preacher’s words. For so long, he had been the only one concerned about David. And there was no family left who’d care about him either. He’d cut his ties with his friends and colleagues...not really cut so much as left them behind, assuming he would pick them up again when he returned to New York. Yet the genuine caring in the minister’s voice unfurled a heart root that planted itself in the soil of Sweetwater Springs. Ant almost snorted at the fancy analogy.
Shades of Kathleen Pickering, the societal columnist. I never could abide the woman, and now I sound like her.

“When you finish eating, why don’t you come into my study, Mr. Gordon?”

Ant swallowed another bite. “Have you had anything to eat yet?”

The reverend gave his wife a loving smile. “My helpmate encouraged me to break my fast before my prayers. As always, I followed her wisdom.”

Mrs. Norton’s withered cheeks turned pink. She made a shooing motion. “Get along, you two. I’m sure Mr. Gordon is anxious to return to his nephew.”

Reverend Norton nodded. “You finish your food, Mr. Gordon. I’ll be in my study.”

Ant swallowed the last few wonderful bites and thanked Mrs. Norton, then left the room. Inside the book-filled study, Ant found Reverend Norton sitting at a big wooden desk that took up much of the room, loose papers and some tracts scattered around him. He perused a paper that looked like a letter.