Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 (12 page)

But you don't want Darla to trap Zane, do you?

No, she admitted. She didn't want anyone to trap him.

Oh, what nonsense!
Why should I care?

Yan Li again poked her husband in the ribs, then dropped her head to hide her expression.

Of course she shouldn't care!

But she did.

Oh, for mercy's sake, her thoughts were tumbling like dry leaves in a stiff breeze. She must still be feverish.

She retreated to her bedroom with the volume of Milton's poems and read until she fell asleep with the book open on her chest.

When she woke the sun outside the window painted the hills a soft gold and someone was tapping at her door.

“You want tea, missy?” Yan Li's soft voice brought her fully awake.

“Yes, thank you, Yan Li. I'll come downstairs. Where is Rosemarie?”

“In piano room with Mister. Bring tea there.”

Winifred patted her disheveled chignon into a semblance of respectability, smoothed down her skirt and descended the stairs. Not a sound came from the “piano room.” Usually Rosemarie gurgled and crowed her incomprehensible little words with such volume you could hear her all over the house; but not today, it seemed.

She stepped into the library and stopped short. Zane lay stretched out on the carpet, his baby daughter clasped belly-down against his chest. Both were sound asleep.

Winifred's heart gave a queer little thump. She tiptoed in and settled herself in her favorite green velvet wingback chair and opened the Milton. Seven poems later, Zane's voice startled her.

“What are you reading?”

“Milton,” she whispered, afraid to wake Rosemarie.

“Ah.” One hand caressed his daughter's back. “Sabrina fair,” he recited. “Listen where you are sitting, in twisted braids of lilies knitting—” He broke off as the baby stirred.

“Do you like poetry, Zane?” It had never occurred to her that any physician would have an education other than medicine. But then Zane wasn't just “any physician.”

“I like Milton,” he answered. “And Tennyson, and—”

Rosemarie woke up, immediately scrambled off Zane's chest and launched herself at Winifred's knees.

“Well, hello, little one. Did you have a nice nap with your papa?”

“'Infred,” the child announced. She tugged at Winifred's blue dimity skirt and raised both arms to be picked up.

She lifted the child onto her lap, noting that she wore the ruffled pink dress she had sent at Christmas. “Shall I read you a story?”

The child snuggled against her bosom and began playing with the mother-of-pearl buttons on her blue-striped shirtwaist. Winifred picked up her book, paged to the middle and spread it open as if finding a story.

“Once upon a time,” she began. “In a land far, far away, there lived a—”

Yan Li entered with the tea tray, set it down on the small oak table at Winifred's side and handed Rosemarie a cookie.

“'ookie,” the baby squealed, crumbling it in her small fist.

Yan Li bent to hand Zane a cup and saucer, which he absently set on the floor beside him. He wasn't looking at his tea; he was looking at Winifred.

“Go on,” he said. “I want to hear the story.”

She swallowed back a burble of laughter. “It isn't about Sabrina,” she cautioned.

He grinned. “Make it about you,” he suggested.

“Me! No child wants to hear a story about the storyteller.”

“I do,” he said quietly. “Go on, I'm waiting.”

Yan Li laughed softly and offered to take the baby, but Winifred shook her head. Rosemarie sat perfectly still while cookie crumbs rained onto Winifred's skirt. She pointed her sticky forefinger at the open page.

“Very well. Once upon a time there lived a little girl who loved to eat cookies.”

“Did you?” Zane broke in.

“Well, yes, I did as a matter of fact. Chocolate ones in particular. I left my handprints on every piece of furniture in the house and most of the curtains.”

“And then what?”

“Why, I grew up, of course. Zane, one day you will look back on afternoons like this with Rosemarie and cookies and tea and it will make you...” She caught a flicker of something in his gaze that stopped her breath. Pain, mixed with a hungry longing. “...it will make you glad.”

Zane laid his arm over his eyes. “Is there more to the story?”

Winifred caught Rosemarie's waving, crumb-coated hand in her own. “No. There is no more to the story. The girl grew up and attended conservatory with her sister and embarked on a career as a pianist. And that is the end.”

“But it's not the end,” he said. “It has not been enough, has it? That was why you wanted to raise Celeste's child, was it not? You want to give your own life meaning beyond what you have clung to all these years.”

“No, Zane. You are quite wrong. I felt that I owed Cissy...”

Slowly he sat up and looked at her. Something zinged between them and she couldn't look away from his accusing gray eyes. Suddenly she found herself wondering all sorts of things, about him. About Cissy.

About herself.

“Winifred,” he said, his voice quiet. “Would you care to play some whist this evening after supper?”

“But you don't play whist. I heard you tell Darla this morning...”

He held her gaze and a smile tugged at his mouth. “I do play whist. Just not with Darla.”

She nodded but could not think of a thing to say. They drank their tea in silence, Zane cross-legged on the floor and Winifred in the chair with Rosemarie on her lap until she began to fuss.

“Not another tooth, I hope,” Winifred said.

“More likely she wants another cookie. Or,” he said with a low chuckle, “maybe she feels left out and wants to play whist, too.”

Chapter Twelve

T
hey played whist until almost midnight, when the clang of the doorbell startled them. Zane heaved himself out of his chair and went into the hall to answer it, returning within minutes. “I've got to go out. Ellie Johnson is in labor.”

“The schoolteacher?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Married women aren't usually allowed to teach school in Oregon. They made an exception for Ellie when she became pregnant. Matt, her husband, wants her to continue, but even a federal marshal can't order the school board around.”

Winifred began gathering up the playing cards.

“Maybe it's just as well,” he said. “I haven't lost this many hands playing cards since my medical school days.”

“I'll wait up for you and make some coffee.”

“Don't. Might be gone all night and tomorrow, too.”

“Is Mrs. Johnson at the hospital? I could bring—”

“Nope. I'll take a horse and ride out to their place. Go to bed, Winifred. Get some rest. Tomorrow is Rooney and Sarah's wedding. Four o'clock at Rose Cottage. I'll try to be there.”

She watched him step into his office for his black leather medical bag, then heard him move through the kitchen and out the back door to the barn. No sooner had the door closed than Sam appeared.

“Boss go out?”

“Yes. A baby is on the way.”

“Work too hard,” the houseboy observed.

“A physician has no choice, Sam. Medicine is his chosen calling.”
Just as music is mine.
But I
do
have a choice. I haven't sworn a sacred oath, as Zane has
.

She packed the deck of cards into the walnut holder and stashed it on the bookshelf between Wordsworth and Sir Walter Scott. Sam disappeared into the kitchen and, she supposed, back to bed with Yan Li. How wonderful it must be to have each other, to talk to each other every day and be with each other every night for the rest of their lives.

Upstairs, she undressed and crawled into bed to find her cheeks wet. Just fatigue, she told herself. Fatigue and...and what? Well, she had been quite sick with pneumonia; perhaps she was not yet fully recovered. Perhaps her nerves had been affected by her illness. Or perhaps winning so many hands of whist had tired out her mind.

Still, the last time she had wept was at Papa's funeral, when she had felt overwhelming emptiness, the aching loss of someone she loved. And she had felt so terrible, so guilty, when she couldn't be at Cissy's funeral. She lay down on her narrow bed and swiped her hand across her eyes.

* * *

At a quarter to four the following afternoon, Zane had not returned. Winifred walked down the hill to Rose Cottage for the wedding of Sarah Rose and Rooney Cloudman, sending a silent prayer for Ellie Johnson's safe delivery. Sam had unearthed a blue lace-trimmed parasol of Cissy's, for which she was grateful; the sun was scorching.

On the front porch of the boardinghouse, which Sarah ran, Winifred folded the parasol, then walked through the wide open front doorway and gasped. Huge bouquets of roses, crimson, yellow, even lavender, sat on every available table and swathed the fireplace mantel. Smaller vases of orange zinnias and black-eyed Susans decorated the dining table in the next room, surrounding a spectacular many-layered wedding cake. Oh, it was so beautiful she wanted to cry.

Dr. Samuel Graham, Zane's partner, greeted the arriving guests. “Zane isn't back yet, I gather?” the graying physician asked.

“Not yet. I hope everything is all right.”

“It will be. I've never known Zane to lose a mother, except for—” He snapped his mouth shut and took her hand. “I beg your pardon, Miss Von Dannen. I recall now that Celeste was your sister.”

Winifred nodded and moved on into the parlor. Jeanne and Wash Halliday were there with their young daughter, Manette. Winifred guessed this was the girl who had fallen out of the tree some months before. Leah MacAllister stood with them.

How lovely she was, with her almond-shaped gray eyes and alabaster skin. And such cheekbones! Her husband, Thad, was deep in conversation with the groom, Rooney Cloudman, who looked rigid as a department store floorwalker in his dark suit and tie.

Rooney looked up and started across the room toward her. “Glad yer here, Miss Winifred. Thought ya could give me some advice about my nerves. Stage fright, I guess you'd call it.”

She grasped the hands he extended toward her. “Why, Rooney, you're not nervous, are you?”

“Never been so scared in all my life, not even fightin' Indians with Wash Halliday. Never been really married, ya see. My first wife was Cherokee. Indians don't go through all this...” He gestured to the milling townspeople in the room. “Fol-de-rol, I guess you'd call it.”

“Don't think about the crowd, Rooney. Just take a deep breath and keep breathing in and out, nice and slow. Think about Sarah.”

“Hell's bells, Miss Winifred, that's what got me so scared. I'd do most anything for Sarah and I surely want her to be happy. With me, I mean. I mean married to me.” He wiped his tanned face with the handkerchief he snatched from his breast pocket.

Winifred patted his arm and smiled at him. “She will be happy with you, Rooney. I know she will.”

With a grateful look, he moved off.

Reverend Pollock, his cherubic countenance beaming, made his way to the front of the room and tapped on the mantelpiece for attention. When the crowd quieted, Sarah Rose descended the staircase wearing a lovely lavender dimity afternoon dress and carrying a bouquet of dark purple clematis. Even from where she was standing, Winifred could see Sarah's hands shake. The crowd parted for her and she heard Rooney suck in his breath.

Sarah looked up at him and when he stepped to her side, Winifred's heart kicked. The woman's happiness was luminous.

Sarah's grandson, Mark, took his place beside her and Wash Halliday stepped up to stand with Rooney. Sarah handed her flowers to Mark and clasped Rooney's offered hand.

“
Dearly beloved
...”

In the next instant Zane was beside her, breathing hard as if he'd been running. “Girl,” he murmured in her ear.

“...
this man and this woman
...”

He stood close enough that she could feel the heat from his body and catch a whiff of his spicy shaving lotion. Surreptitiously he took her hand, brushing their entwined fingers against his light flannel-covered thigh.

“...
to have and to hold from this day forth
...”

Zane moved his shoulder to touch hers and stood gazing straight ahead at the couple as they exchanged their vows.

Winifred's breath grew ragged. She was going to cry. Was crying. Oh, dear God, this was so beautiful.

Zane pressed her fingers.

“
You may kiss the bride
.”

She couldn't watch. It seemed so private, joining one's life with another. Instead, she dropped her gaze to the floor and felt Zane's hand squeeze hers again. He understood. Of course he did. He knew what it was to love someone, to pledge to honor and cherish her. He knew because he had loved Cissy.

Ever since her sister's death she had felt envious of what Cissy had had with this man. Perhaps she, too, would have done what Cissy had; set aside everything to be with Zane. She had never really understood it before, but she did now, at this moment.

Zane offered his handkerchief. She snatched it, feeling more unstrung than she ever had in recitals or concerts, even when she was just starting out on her performing career. She mopped at her welling eyes and tried to control her breathing.

The room erupted in cheers and began moving into the dining room for refreshments. Zane steered her in the opposite direction, out onto the honeysuckle-draped front porch.

She couldn't seem to stop crying. Zane settled her into the porch swing. “Gets to you, doesn't it?”

“Y-yes, it does. I think I will never attend another wedding after this.”

He gave her a long, unsmiling look. “I'll bring us some cake and lemonade.”

While he was gone, Winifred tried to calm herself down. Goodness, her nerves were disintegrating! She hoped someone would add some hard cider to the lemonade.

Zane stepped out the front door, one hand balancing two plates of wedding cake and the other clutching two tall glasses of lemonade. Two forks stuck out of his jacket pocket.

Winifred took one look at him and again burst into tears.

“I don't know what's the matter with me,” she sobbed.

“I do. You've kept yourself away from things like this, away from life.”

“No, I haven't. My life is very full. I'm so busy with my music, with teaching and performing, I can scarcely keep up.”

He thrust a glass of lemonade into her hands. “Take a big swallow, Winifred. Now take a deep breath.”

A choked laugh escaped her. “That's exactly what I told Rooney before the ceremony, for his nerves. I suppose wedding jitters are l-like stage fright.”

Zane set a white china plate of wedding cake in her lap and pulled a fork out of his pocket. “Want to hear about Ellie Johnson's baby?”

She nodded and stabbed at her cake.

“Beautiful baby girl. Lots of dark hair. Big blue eyes. Matt has fallen in love all over again.”

She sniffled. “I felt just like that when I first saw Rosemarie.”

“Ellie and Matt's wedding was a bit unusual,” he said after a moment of silence. “Matt got tired of waiting while the flower girl and all the bridesmaids sashayed down the aisle, so he charged down, picked Ellie up and carried her up to the altar himself. People talked about it for weeks.”

Winifred laughed. “No stage fright, I guess.”

“None,” Zane agreed. He studied the plate before him. “Good cake.”

Suddenly she realized he had successfully gotten her to stop crying. “You're a good doctor, Zane.”

“Not very good at whist, though.”

“Maybe not, but you're good with hysterical females, good with pneumonia cases, good with mothers having bab—”
Except for Cissy.

She closed her eyes in anguish. “Oh, Zane, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

He said nothing, just forked bites of cake into his mouth and washed them down with lemonade. When his plate was clean, he set it on the floor of the porch and turned toward her.

“I am good with women having babies, Winifred. Celeste didn't die in childbirth. But she hemorrhaged afterward, and I couldn't stop it. I have never felt so helpless in my life.”

“Oh, Zane. I—”

“Now, let's go inside and congratulate Mr. and Mrs. Cloudman.” He took her plate and the empty lemonade glass, set them on the floor and stood up. “Damn, I could sure use a shot of whiskey.”

“Oh, so could I!”

They walked home slowly in the cooling dusk, the air soft and scented with roses and honeysuckle, the evening song sparrows audible over the neighborhood sounds of children's hopscotch and piano practice.

“Do you like Smoke River?” Zane asked suddenly.

“Yes, I do. It's a pretty town. The people are friendly.”

“Do you think—?”

“No,” she said quickly. “I don't.”

Zane lifted his eyebrows at her over-fast response, but he didn't argue or challenge. He merely took her hand and kept on walking.