Flora's Wish (17 page)

A lost love. Or a missed appointment. Perhaps a broken heart. Generally Violet went on like this until Flora changed the guessing to something less romantic. Something such as the color of his eyes or whether he would be leaving at Natchez or going on farther north to St. Louis.

Flora shrugged off the silliness and opened the book she'd brought along. Violet had shared their mother's love of Jane Austen even before she left the schoolroom. Flora, for her part, was still working through the books on her sister's recommended list. When
Emma
failed to entertain, she'd turned to
Pride and Prejudice
. And though Elizabeth Bennet's antics served to amuse, tonight Flora seemed to be reading the same few pages over and over without recalling any of what was there.

With books as in life, it never failed that while the elder sister daydreamed of sweet drama, the younger craved detail and fact. Perhaps like her beloved Jo March in
Little Women
, she would have taken up literary work or followed in the footsteps of the intrepid Mrs. Gladden in
The Female Detective
to sign on as an investigator had she not been burdened with the requirement to produce a Brimm heir.

If only the Lord would solve that problem for her. Tonight.

Flora closed her eyes, emboldened.
I don't need love, Lord. I've had that more than once and what happened? All four of them died. So choose any man for my husband and send him my way, but please hurry. A husband in name only is fine. Just let him live long enough to fulfill the terms of Grandfather's will.

Oh, that sounded awful. As if she might only use the poor fellow until the heir made an appearance.
Let him live a long life,
she amended,
though it doesn't have to be with me.
She breathed a sigh as she decided she was giving God far too many instructions. It was a particular fault of hers, this ordering the Lord around as if she and not He knew what was best.

All right, Father. Just please send me the perfect husband. And it would help greatly if he might announce himself that way just to make things simpler.

“Amen,” she whispered.

“A pretty lady like you should never be without one essential thing.”

Flora jerked her attention from the page to find a most lovely pair of storm-gray eyes staring down at her. Up close his shoulders were much broader, his smile impossibly wonderful. And the concern on his face almost made her wonder if this fictional Mr. Darcy that Violet was so enamored of might have taken on flesh and now stood before her.

The fair-haired man from the window gestured to the chair nearest hers. “May I?” he asked. “Or am I intruding on your solitude?”

“The only things intruding on my solitude at the moment are a nasty headache and the inability to recall what I am reading.” Flora folded down the cover of the book and regarded the stranger with emboldened curiosity. “Now, what's this about essential things, Mr…”

“Tucker,” he said with a tilt of his head in her direction. “Will Tucker. And the essential thing, at least in my estimation, is a smile.” He shook his head. “Alas, you have none. So I thought I would offer you one of mine.”

Then he smiled. “I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow,” he added as he gestured to the book in her lap. “That would be a direct quote from your Mr. Darcy there, though I must say it also applies to you very well. A lovely shade of blue, those eyes of yours.”

She gave him a sideways look, unable to tell whether he was serious or still making a joke so as to cause her to smile. When he quirked a brow as if waiting for her reaction, the man got the smile he so obviously sought.

“I am Flora,” she said, keeping her last name private for the moment lest he recognize it. “You've read this?” Flora indicated the book as she pondered his motives.

He shrugged. “I've known women who were fond of it. Myself, I have other preferences. What about you?”

“The same, I'm afraid. And yet you quote the hero beautifully.”

Her challenge caused no reaction other than to broaden his smile. “A blessing and a curse. Anything I read, I can recall. No quote, conversation, or date on a calendar escapes me.” He gave another self-deprecating shrug. “My mother once told me the skill would make me the perfect husband someday.”

Her heart thudded against her chest as the words she'd only just prayed were reflected back to her. “What did you say?”

“Just that I've been told I'd be the perfect husband.”

The sound of thunder jolted her, and Flora's recollection of that first meeting with Will Tucker slid back into the place where she kept her memories. She glanced at the letter on the table before her and cast it aside for a fresh sheet of paper. Now she knew what she would write.

Dear Violet, tomorrow I am to be married. I know in my heart he is the perfect husband. As your Mr. Darcy would say, “I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation…I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.”

And now she was, Flora hoped, at the end. Tomorrow things would be different.

Better.

Resolved.

T
he rumble of thunder drew Flora's attention away from her task. Leaving the letter unfinished, she set down the pen and moved toward the open window. Halfway there, the electric lights failed, leaving her in complete darkness.

She could have looked for a candle or rang for someone to bring up a light, but something compelled her to keep moving toward the window. Lightning zigzagged across the night sky as the wind lifted the edge of the curtains, the air heavy with the promise of rain.

Flora held back the fabric and leaned against the window frame as once again lightning teased the distant mountaintops and lit up the hotel entrance below. Tomorrow she would be leaving Eureka Springs behind. The thought of just where she might go had not occurred until now. Perhaps the best thing for everyone would be to return to Natchez, where she could hide behind the comforting walls of home until the surprise of her hasty marriage died down. She could claim many things in regard to Mr. Tucker, but love at first sight was not one of them.

Perhaps a brief wait before attempting to produce the heir the will required was in order. Flora let out a long breath and leaned against the windowsill. Should a woman anticipating her wedding day feel such relief at the prospect that the marriage would not include a pregnancy for some time?

And yet a baby was the reason for the wedding.

Reason folded back against reason to form a confusing circle of promises and excuses that tightened around Flora's heart. “It's all so complicated,” she whispered.

“There's nothing complicated about a rainstorm, Miss Brimm.”

Flora jumped and turned to face the direction from where the voice had come. Seeing Mr. McMinn was impossible until another flash of lightning gave a brief glimpse of the lawman leaning against the door frame, his hat slightly askew and his arms crossed over his chest.

“You gave me a fright!”

A chuckle. “I guess that means you can't change your name to Fearless Flora after tomorrow's big event.”

“Big event indeed. I'm sure you'll be glad to have all of this resolved.”

“You think that's going to happen tomorrow?”

“I do, but from the sound of it, you don't. Why is that?”

“Experience. My gut's telling me things are rarely as simple as they appear.” A thud and a few choice sounds let Flora know he was making an attempt to move toward her.

“Trouble?” she asked sweetly.

“With you, Miss Brimm, there seems to be nothing but trouble.”

“Are you having a problem? I can come and help you.”

“Thank you.” A shuffling sound followed by the creak of wooden furniture told her the Pinkerton agent had found a suitable resting spot. “But no, I'm just fine over here.”

She couldn't resist a little teasing. “Are you sure you don't want to join me at the window? The view is beautiful when the lightning is just right. You can see all the way to town and beyond.”

“I'll take your word for it.”

“So what brings you in here? Were you worried about me?”

“I thought the weather and the power outage might have scared you.”

“Thank you for your concern, but storms are something I rather like. It's odd, I know, but I find there's nothing more soothing than a stormy night.”

“I don't understand that, but you're entitled to your opinion.”

Silence fell between them until once again lightning flashed. She spied her companion sitting in a chair near her writing desk, his frame dwarfing the chair and his elbows resting on his knees. He looked anything but fine.

“You don't like rainstorms?”

“I'm not particularly fond of them,” he said slowly, “though that's probably because I've spent way too many of them looking for shelter under a horse blanket or inside a cave somewhere. I can't say as I can complain about having to spend this one in the dark indoors.”

“Well, I can.” Flora moved away from the window. “I'm starved and I've just realized it. Do you think we can order up a meal?”

“I'm not sure that's such a good idea. Even if someone down in the kitchen could manage to cook it, how are we going to see to eat it?”

“So it's ‘we' now?”

“I could eat something if it were offered to me, but I don't know if I'm willing to go to all that trouble.”

“I am.”

Flora felt her way to the settee and then waited for the next bolt of lightning to illuminate the parlor. When it happened, she ran half the distance to the writing desk before her shin hit something hard.

“Ouch!” she said as she knelt down to rub her leg.

“What happened?”

Mr. McMinn must have intended to jump into action and rescue her. Instead, he slammed into her. The collision sent both of them tumbling. The next flash of lightning found them both scrambling to stand. Unfortunately, his foot got caught on a table leg, and he went down again along with the contents of the table.

“Ouch!” he yelled as something thudded against what Flora assumed was his head. Or the floor. Either was just as hard.

Then all went silent.

“Mr. McMinn? Are you harmed?”

“No,” he said with a tone that told her otherwise. “I'm just fine, but this little Cupid statue has seen better days.”

“Where are you exactly?”

“I'm not sure. I don't think I got very far before I was tackled.” A crunching sound and then a groan. “I think that is a table,” he said. “Or was.”

She reached out in the direction of his voice. “Here, take my hand, and let's see if you can stand.”

When her fingers hit skin, Flora froze. “Sorry,” she said softly.

“Not half as sorry as I'm going to be by the time these bruises show. Not that the little guy's arrow hit me where any proper folk would get a look.” He punctuated the claim with a chuckle, giving Flora reason to believe he was just fine.